I am biased, as most daughters should be, that my dad is the best in all the land. In all honestly though he ranks at the very top of them all. He is the most giving and caring man ever. And let's face it, having to put up with me, he has to be one of the most patient men on the planet.
My dad has always been my best friend. That isn't to say we have never had arguments, all best friends have arguments. The very best ones figure a way to settle them and move on. My dad and I are no different. I always felt bad for him that he never had a little boy to go and play catch with and with which to talk the "boy talk". So I decided that I would be his little buddy. He was a football coach and athletic director and I was his sidekick. I loved to go and golf with him, mostly because I liked to be able to drive the golf cart. He even got me my own set of clubs so we could play. He would get on the men's tee and drive the hell out of the ball and I would get on the Misty tee (about 20 yards in front of the shortest one) and I would play whack a mole. 20 shots later my ball would make it to the green (I told you he was patient).
My dad loved to hunt and fish. On one sad occasion he took my sister and me with him to go deer hunting. I had no idea he was actually trying to kill the animals until I got there. I mean, I thought I knew what deer hunting was, but seeing it firsthand really made me realize the little guys might get injured. It was cold, we were in the woods, a deer appeared on the horizon and there was blood about to be spilled. I had to hatch a plan and hatch it quickly. Luckily we had healthy southern snacks in the form of Snickers Bars and Coca-Colas with us. I grabbed the candy bar and made as much noise as possible with the wrapper and thus saved the deer's life. After that day, my sister and I never darkened another deer stand with my dad.
I hung out with my dad so much I guess I thought he and I had the same authority. I was "helping" him at a track meet when I was about 9 where the realization of my actual status of "kid" came to me. There I was in my trusty Puma cleats, wearing my whistle with my mouthful of sunflower seeds. I sidled up to a senior boy on the track team and plainly told him I wanted to sit in the seat he was occupying. He looked at me, gave me a sideways look and said, "I'm not sure you realize it but you aren't the coach... your dad is." For me, it was like a scene out of a movie where the person's face is really clear but seems to be moving to the far end of a tunnel. It was a good lesson, and one I am happy I figured out at the tender age of 9 as opposed to possibly being in high school and having the same scene repeated.
My dad taught me how to drive and again, had the patience of Job. I was so afraid of driving my standard rule was drive at least 5 miles UNDER the speed limit. Holy hell. Thankfully, we lived in a pretty rural area and had a lot of back roads. I was terrible at driving at night and even worse at parking. My favorite times were when we would have to go to a game to scout or for my dad to be the administrator and we would get to take the magical Driver's Ed car, the one with an extra brake on the passenger's side. I LOVED riding on that side when my dad was driving. That little pedal called my name and I would choose the most inopportune times to mash it down. I got to learn lots of new curse words and had a giggle all at the same time.
When I finally was able to drive on my own, I struggled with the concept of needing gas. Actually, I struggled with time management. I would never leave our house until the absolute last minute to get anywhere. It drove my dad nuts. Poor guy was my principal in high school and my time management skills meant I had a few extra tardies first hour. That is until I figured out if I came in just late enough I could pull the tardy slip off the door before it got to the office. I was just doing crisis management for him. The gas crisis was actually a bigger issue. Somehow it always seemed that I would run out of gas with less than a mile to go to the school. On about the 7th time I had to traipse to a nearby place to call him (this was a bit before cell phones), things got testy. My dad finally sat me down and said, "Misty, there is no easy way to tell you this, but it is not possible to wean a car." Hmm. I listened and nodded as if I heard him. And then promptly ran out of gas again the next week.
Poppa Ron. Giver of givers. He would give you the shirt off his back and then some. I remember in college when I would be running low on funds, I would drive down to his office and wait patiently in the outer room as he was scolding one kid or another and then go in to ask for extra funds. My dad was born and raised in Arkansas and as such has a slower cadence to his speech than say someone from almost any other state. I would tell him the plight of my sad bank account and he would look at me, lean back in his big office chair and put his hands behind his head, and slowly, ever so slowly, give me his decision on fund distribution. At some point he decided he would use the inquiries for money as a way to gauge the college education I was receiving. He would ask me things like, who was Harriet Tubman? How did Western Civilization form? Recite the Kreb's Cycle.
He got so tired of giving me gas money he gave me his gas card. Silly, silly man. I know his thinking was that the card would only be used for gas, and honestly, how much gas could a person use just driving to and from class? Well...... gas stations in Arkansas, although only recently carrying alcohol, had plenty of other stuff to purchase. My college roommate and I would regularly go grocery shopping in the local Shell Station. Such good prices! My dad finally, after many, many expensive charges, called me to ask if I had started my own trucking company or possibly a taxi service for the homeless. I had those gas cards for years. They even came with me on my trips to Maine. We came up with a mnemonic for remembering which stations we could use Poppa Ron/Momma Linda Bucks.. STEM.. Shell, Texaco, Exxon, Mobil. So many gallons of gas, so many bottles of beer. When I was about to turn 30 I said to my dad that I would hand the gas cards over to him as a sign of age and independence. We were having my 30th birthday lunch with many friends and my parents and I waved in a grand gesture and said, father, here are your gas cards back, my independence is upon me. About 5 minutes later my mom turned to me and slid them back to me under the table and instructed me that my delivery was good but my content needed work. I still have one gas card to this day. Damn you dependence on oil!!
My dad is my hero to this day. I still call him to ask the silliest questions. He always has just the right answer and always makes me feel better. He has recently learned the art of texting and will send me the sweetest little nuggets and usually signs off with his name.. Poppa.
I am so thankful for Poppa Ron. He is the best. And I am lucky to call him Dad. :):):)
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
"Bosoms"
After my marathon, my right foot was a bit hobbled, I think due to carrying the weight of water filled shoes around for almost 5 hours. I was back at school the next week and my foot was killing me so I decided to go see the school nurse for a bag of ice to help with the pain.
As I was walking down the hall I heard a familiar voice ask me what had happened to my foot. The voice belongs to a very kind woman that works here at school named "Mary." Mary is one of those people I am just drawn to. She is a little kooky, sometimes says things that are not entirely appropriate for a particular setting, but she just has a heart of gold and it shines through. I think Mary used to be a runner herself, too, if memory serves me correctly. She too struggles now to get around as well as she once did.
When I told Mary I had hurt my foot recently running a marathon she just squealed and hugged me and gave me a peck on the cheek. It was as if my own grandmother had been transported into the hallways of the high school and was giving me praise! I was grinning from ear to ear.
As we continued down the hall Mary and I discussed the conditions of race day with me telling her about the rain and the cold and the flash flooding. She was so intrigued by the whole event. She then asked me if that had been a bucket list item for me, running a marathon. I informed her that no, actually it had been my third and that I really just enjoyed running.
At that point we had made our way to one of the main entrances where students tend to congregate when Mary's eyes got very wide and her eyebrows seemed to dissappear somewhere close to her hairline as she exclaimed, "Wow I wouldn't have thought you a runner because you have such large bosoms!" As she said it she made this gesture with her hand arcing across the front of her own bosoms and I found myself awkwardly repeating the same gesture and nodding as I did it. I was so taken aback at the question and quite frankly the use of the word "bosoms" that I was literally unable to come up with any words.
If you have ever seen the movie "Sixteen Candles" it was oddly reminiscent of the scene where Molly Ringwald's character got her boobies pinched by her own grandmother. Actually it was a toss up between that movie scene and the scene of my own mother giving me the "period talk" in 6th grade. My mom: "You see because you are a girl and might someday have kids you are going to have your period once a month for the next 30-35 years at which point your hormones will dry up and then you will start overheating on a daily basis and become marginally insane. Here is a box of Kotex. Enjoy."
Mary continued... "I mean, do you wear a special apparatus? Do you tape them down before you go running?" And my own awkward head maneuvers which vascillated between nodding quizzically to shaking my head from side to side continued. By that time in the exchange I believe I had also begun to make a sort of mewling sound without any actual words being produced. I pointed haphazardly at my shoulders and "bosom" area trying to pantomime where a sports bra fits as if that would answer the question of how I am able to carry such un-runner-like anatomy. Mary continued to speak and said bosom at least 3 more times but I think I missed some of the conversation as my gaze skipped from the faces of one student to the next who were stopped and staring blankly at us in the hall.
I finally just started meandering down the hallway hoping that would be the signal for the whole incident to be complete. Mary congratulated me on my marathon efforts as I hobbled quickly away and I waved saying thank you for the kind words and gave her a smile.
As I arrived at the nurse's office I realized there was a substitute nurse was there for the day. I politely asked for a bag of ice for my foot. Her first question, obviously, was to inquire what had caused the foot pain and swelling. I said that I had just run a marathon and as I was speaking her facial expressions started to resemble that of Mary's and I thought, oh, hell just give me the bag of ice....
As I was walking down the hall I heard a familiar voice ask me what had happened to my foot. The voice belongs to a very kind woman that works here at school named "Mary." Mary is one of those people I am just drawn to. She is a little kooky, sometimes says things that are not entirely appropriate for a particular setting, but she just has a heart of gold and it shines through. I think Mary used to be a runner herself, too, if memory serves me correctly. She too struggles now to get around as well as she once did.
When I told Mary I had hurt my foot recently running a marathon she just squealed and hugged me and gave me a peck on the cheek. It was as if my own grandmother had been transported into the hallways of the high school and was giving me praise! I was grinning from ear to ear.
As we continued down the hall Mary and I discussed the conditions of race day with me telling her about the rain and the cold and the flash flooding. She was so intrigued by the whole event. She then asked me if that had been a bucket list item for me, running a marathon. I informed her that no, actually it had been my third and that I really just enjoyed running.
At that point we had made our way to one of the main entrances where students tend to congregate when Mary's eyes got very wide and her eyebrows seemed to dissappear somewhere close to her hairline as she exclaimed, "Wow I wouldn't have thought you a runner because you have such large bosoms!" As she said it she made this gesture with her hand arcing across the front of her own bosoms and I found myself awkwardly repeating the same gesture and nodding as I did it. I was so taken aback at the question and quite frankly the use of the word "bosoms" that I was literally unable to come up with any words.
If you have ever seen the movie "Sixteen Candles" it was oddly reminiscent of the scene where Molly Ringwald's character got her boobies pinched by her own grandmother. Actually it was a toss up between that movie scene and the scene of my own mother giving me the "period talk" in 6th grade. My mom: "You see because you are a girl and might someday have kids you are going to have your period once a month for the next 30-35 years at which point your hormones will dry up and then you will start overheating on a daily basis and become marginally insane. Here is a box of Kotex. Enjoy."
Mary continued... "I mean, do you wear a special apparatus? Do you tape them down before you go running?" And my own awkward head maneuvers which vascillated between nodding quizzically to shaking my head from side to side continued. By that time in the exchange I believe I had also begun to make a sort of mewling sound without any actual words being produced. I pointed haphazardly at my shoulders and "bosom" area trying to pantomime where a sports bra fits as if that would answer the question of how I am able to carry such un-runner-like anatomy. Mary continued to speak and said bosom at least 3 more times but I think I missed some of the conversation as my gaze skipped from the faces of one student to the next who were stopped and staring blankly at us in the hall.
I finally just started meandering down the hallway hoping that would be the signal for the whole incident to be complete. Mary congratulated me on my marathon efforts as I hobbled quickly away and I waved saying thank you for the kind words and gave her a smile.
As I arrived at the nurse's office I realized there was a substitute nurse was there for the day. I politely asked for a bag of ice for my foot. Her first question, obviously, was to inquire what had caused the foot pain and swelling. I said that I had just run a marathon and as I was speaking her facial expressions started to resemble that of Mary's and I thought, oh, hell just give me the bag of ice....
Friday, September 7, 2012
They don't make 'em like they used to...
Childhood Memories
We all have memories from our early years of life. I would say the ones who had a childhood in the 70's such as myself have the market on crazy stories and unique experiences. But actually I think nostalgia is all relative. Kids who grew up in the 80's or 90's have just as many things to be embarrassed about as the rest of us. I mean there was a period of parachute pants and a little band called NKOTB.
Our experiences shape us for sure. I grew up in a time of Easy Bake Ovens (those magical light bulbs!) and sweaters with my initials monogrammed on them. My parents were ahead of the game though, and named my sister and I with the same initials. That way, hand me downs with the letters MLB worked just fine for BOTH girls. I do think growing up during that time period definitely afforded us more freedom. I routinely left my house at 7 am in the summer time not to be expected or seen again until noon and then again maybe at 8 pm. If a child today were to do that an Amber alert would most certainly be called. We rode big green bikes with baskets and were never tethered to a cell phone or the Internet. I spent my days with my neighborhood buddies making mud pies, riding bikes, playing hide and seek and swinging. Not once in my early years did the idea of sitting indoors staring at the TV or a video game come into play. I wanted to be outdoors.
The 70's produced a myriad of products that would raise an eyebrow or two today. Such is life. We live. We learn. We progress. Which does not remove the scars that are left from a childhood of bell bottoms and the occasional bread sacks tied around your feet to help protect you from the one dusting of snow the south got every 2 years. Yet we evolve somehow.
One of the most memorable articles from my childhood seemed so innocuous at the time for me. I would go to take my nightly bath and, like any other girl, would have my barbies dutifully lined up around the tub ready to be cleaned. Luckily for me, my mom had a handy dandy Barbie shower hanging from the shower spigot. It was green in color and was basically a plastic pouch with a long tube and then a "shower head" at the end. You had to dip it in the water to fill it and then could undo a clip and the water would start to flow. Every night I would take my barbies and lather their hair with suds and then use the magical shower wand to rinse them off. One fateful evening, my mom happened to come into the bathroom as I was in the progress of rinsing Skipper. She walked in, noticed what I was doing and stopped dead in her tracks. She took a long drag off of her smoke and said, "Misty, what are you doing?" I said, "um it's barbie shower time." She gave me the most quizzical look that slowly turned into one of horror as her eyebrows moved closer and closer to her hairline. What I realize now, is that here was a woman, standing in a bathroom, watching her daughter use her feminine hygiene apparatus as a shower head to wash her barbies' hair. My poor mom. I probably would have smoked too. Or just had more boxed wine.
We all have memories from our early years of life. I would say the ones who had a childhood in the 70's such as myself have the market on crazy stories and unique experiences. But actually I think nostalgia is all relative. Kids who grew up in the 80's or 90's have just as many things to be embarrassed about as the rest of us. I mean there was a period of parachute pants and a little band called NKOTB.
Our experiences shape us for sure. I grew up in a time of Easy Bake Ovens (those magical light bulbs!) and sweaters with my initials monogrammed on them. My parents were ahead of the game though, and named my sister and I with the same initials. That way, hand me downs with the letters MLB worked just fine for BOTH girls. I do think growing up during that time period definitely afforded us more freedom. I routinely left my house at 7 am in the summer time not to be expected or seen again until noon and then again maybe at 8 pm. If a child today were to do that an Amber alert would most certainly be called. We rode big green bikes with baskets and were never tethered to a cell phone or the Internet. I spent my days with my neighborhood buddies making mud pies, riding bikes, playing hide and seek and swinging. Not once in my early years did the idea of sitting indoors staring at the TV or a video game come into play. I wanted to be outdoors.
The 70's produced a myriad of products that would raise an eyebrow or two today. Such is life. We live. We learn. We progress. Which does not remove the scars that are left from a childhood of bell bottoms and the occasional bread sacks tied around your feet to help protect you from the one dusting of snow the south got every 2 years. Yet we evolve somehow.
One of the most memorable articles from my childhood seemed so innocuous at the time for me. I would go to take my nightly bath and, like any other girl, would have my barbies dutifully lined up around the tub ready to be cleaned. Luckily for me, my mom had a handy dandy Barbie shower hanging from the shower spigot. It was green in color and was basically a plastic pouch with a long tube and then a "shower head" at the end. You had to dip it in the water to fill it and then could undo a clip and the water would start to flow. Every night I would take my barbies and lather their hair with suds and then use the magical shower wand to rinse them off. One fateful evening, my mom happened to come into the bathroom as I was in the progress of rinsing Skipper. She walked in, noticed what I was doing and stopped dead in her tracks. She took a long drag off of her smoke and said, "Misty, what are you doing?" I said, "um it's barbie shower time." She gave me the most quizzical look that slowly turned into one of horror as her eyebrows moved closer and closer to her hairline. What I realize now, is that here was a woman, standing in a bathroom, watching her daughter use her feminine hygiene apparatus as a shower head to wash her barbies' hair. My poor mom. I probably would have smoked too. Or just had more boxed wine.
My friend was recently going through some of her relatives things and happened upon one of these exact models. She knew my story and was kind enough to save the item for me, box included. The box lists the item as "a combination between a douche, enema and water bottle." And the sticker says eight dollars and thirteen cents. What a bargain for the multiuse item.Think how much money they could have made if they had only thought outside the box, literally AND figuratively.
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