I am terrified of fire. Not just afraid of it. Terrified. Some people might find that hard to believe, as when it is nice weather, Erich and I like to sit by our fire pit and enjoy a bon fire. The difference is that in our fire pit, the fire is contained. We have this metal chimenea. It's like a pot bellied stove with a chimney on top. There is a door on the front, and the fire is contained in this small area. It is controlled. I am terrified of fires that are not controlled, such as wildfires or house fires.
I can trace most of this fear back to 1988. I was 12 years old, in 7th grade. One night in late October, I heard the fire siren go off. It went off several times, signaling mutual aid. I heard the truck sirens head north out of town. The next morning on the radio, they said there had been a fatal house fire in Petersburgh. Petersburgh is the town to the north of my hometown. It was alarming to hear, and we knew there was a good chance we would know the family. We got ready and went to school, my sister to the elementary school for fifth grade, me to the 7th grade school. For many years, 7th grade in our district had their own school. It was an old two story school building. It was in Petersburgh, and had served as the village school before several towns joined together to form the school district. My class was the last class to experience this separate world. They built a new jr/sr high school, and the following year grades 6-12 were put into one building.
When I got to school, there was a solemn mood over everything. Some students were crying. The teachers told us that one of our classmates and friends, Jolene, had died in the fire the previous night. Her house was not even a mile from the school, and all day we watched fire apparatus go up and down the road. Counselors were brought in, parents were called, and there was no learning that day. It devastated our little school. It has stayed with me all these years. I still see Jolene's smile; hear her laugh. She is buried in the same cemetery that my my Grandmother's family is buried in. When I go through the cemetery, I take a walk to Jolene's grave. I know part of my fear of fire stems from this loss.
Part of it. I honestly think the rest of it stems from something that happened long before I was around. Yet I've heard the story so much, I can almost picture it. 'It' is the propane truck explosion in my hometown in 1962. Or, as the locals call it, 'The Disaster'. It was July, 1962, just about dinner time. A truck driver hauling propane lost his brakes coming down the steep mountain into Berlin, my hometown. People still aren't sure how he ended up on this road. Some say he took a wrong turn in Poestenkill, others say he was given incorrect directions. The road he ended up taking, Plank Road, is really too steep for trucks. It is a 2 mile descent into town. When you come down this mountain in a car, you gear down to hold the engine back, and even then, you are on the brakes a lot. There are actually two mountains- as you descend you first hit the 'big hill'. It is a steep grade that takes you from the top of the mountain to about 2/3 of the way down. As you drive down the hill, you see the entire village of Berlin nestled in the valley below. There is a little plateau, and then you go down the 'little hill'. At the bottom of the little hill, you are in the middle of the town.
On this summer evening, the truck lost its brakes coming down the mountain. It crashed, just before the little hill, and sent a fireball over the little town. My grandparents lived at the bottom of the little hill. Grandma heard a loud noise, and went outside to see what had happened, and was met with a face full of fire. She came in and called for my grandfather. They ran out, trying to help anyone. My mother was not quite 9 years old. Grandpa gave her a hose and told her to keep the water aimed on the house. Mom tells of seeing her neighbors come through the yard, both on fire. My grandparents tried to extinguish them, and then bundled them into Grandma's car. She rushed them to the town doctor, not even a block away. She had a brand new mercury, and in the chaos that erupted in the minutes following the crash, someone hit her car trying to get to the dr. They started apologizing, and she told them not to worry about it, they might all be dead tomorrow.
Mom said they thought the world was ending. The whole town was on fire. It took days to fully extinguish the blazes. Fire departments came from all over NY, Vermont, Massachusetts, and possibly New Hampshire. Years later, we found out my dad's father had been in town with his fire department. My Grandparent's house was saved, thanks to mom's efforts with the hose and the slate roof on the house. Many houses were destroyed. I grew up in a house maybe a block from where my mom lived, and some of the houses on our street were destroyed in the Disaster. 10 people died, including the truck driver. He died at the hospital a couple hours later. They said he begged for forgiveness from the people of Berlin. He left a wife and young children in Pennsylvania.
The Disaster is a tragic event that is part of the history of Berlin. It is also part of the history of my family. The first casualty was my great-grandmother, Mabel Wager. She was crippled with Rheumatoid Arthritis, and confined to a wheelchair. As she watched her beloved hometown burn around her, she was filled with panic because she relied on other people to transport her. It was more than she could take, she had a fatal heart attack. At the time, the news of this incident was spread all over NY and into Canada. My Grandma's sister and her husband were headed to Canada, and they heard about the Disaster on the radio. The news report incorrectly identified the first casualty as 'Mrs. Lewis Wager'- which was my grandmother, not my Great-grandmother. They turned the car around and sped back to Berlin. They had to park the car and walk in, because people weren't allowed in town unless they were firefighters. When the door opened and Grandma stood on the other side, her sister just about fainted (or maybe she did... this is one of the tidbits of the story that isn't as clear).
If you have lived in Berlin for any amount of time, you know the story. Some people in town talk about it a lot. My grandparents never did. My mother rarely does. And when she does talk about it, she doesn't talk for long. People who didn't live through it ask her about it. My sister and I have asked her about it a lot. In 1992, they held a memorial service. A monument was erected in the community cemetery to the victims. There was a program at the fire house, and people stood up and talked about their experience. They created a video of it, which my mom bought for Grandma and Grandpa. I now have it, and mom refuses to watch it. I have pictures of the town right after The Disaster (they were in all the boxes of things from Grandma's house). Mom didn't want to see them. They were hard to look at, even for me, but I feel we need to keep them. I have often heard my mother say 'I just can't talk about it now'. On the rare occasions she does talk, her voice is always quiet and full of emotion. She still says, almost half a century later, that on a hot day she can still smell it- smell the burning of trees and buildings and flesh.
I think mom's experience left an impression on me, and is part of my fear of fire. Even though I have a clear mental picture of it, I didn't witness it. I wasn't 8 years old, watching my world go up in flames. You have to understand what she saw to understand how some things affect her. Like last night, I went to the Albany newspaper, and saw the headline 'Propane Tanker Burning in Rensselaer County' . Immediately I thought 'OH NO!' and opened the article to find out where. It was in Hoosick, about 15 miles up the road. My parents were in no imminent danger. I emailed mom this morning, because I wanted to check on her. I didn't ask 'are you ok?' . I am pretty sure the news of this caused her to flash back to that hot July day. I just asked her what the status was (they were trying to let it burn out). We talked about a couple of other things, and she said when she heard about it yesterday afternoon, her first question was 'where?' . The county had to keep the local highway garage staffed all night in case of evacuation, and to provide fuel for the fire trucks. She said she was glad she didn't have to staff it. I know she is struggling with it, as are any lifelong residents of Berlin. They are words you just don't want to hear. Because even though it was nearly 50 years ago, for those who lived it, the pain and trauma are as fresh as if it were yesterday.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Guard Dogs
My dogs. They provide stress relief on long tiring days. Their antics are a nightly comedy routine in the house, better than any show that comes on after 11:30pm. They are cuddly, sweet, and lovable. And sometimes, they do things that make me look like a very bad beagle mom.
They are great guard dogs- as long as you are outside. The beagles sit on top of the couch in the window, watching the comings and goings of the neighborhood. They watch dogs of all sizes walk up the street with their parents: Shih Tzus, Poodles, Akitas, Labs, and the biggest Great Dane you've ever seen. Then they watch these same dogs walk back down the street with their parents. The beagles serenade this dog parade with the vocal stylings unique to the beagle. Plenty of Arroos and barks. An occasional growl for the stray cats.
When people come to our house, Onyx has an alarm bark. It is a short, repeating yip. This bark sets Cobalt off. His alarm bark is a deep yelp. People are not supposed to walk past our house, and they most certainly are not supposed to walk up to our house and ring the door bell! If people make the mistake of ringing our door bell, they are often frightened off by the loud barks of the Beagles. When we order pizza, I watch for the delivery driver and step outside when I see him. The beagles then go into an even bigger frenzy, because they think Mommy is being hurt. I have seen men 6' tall turn pale at the sound and ask in a trembly voice 'what kind of dogs ARE those?' They never seem to believe me when I tell them 'Beagles'.
The beagles, when they are barking full-force, sound vicious. They sound like dogs you don't want to mess with. They actually scared off potential burglars a few years ago. I came home from work, and started to put up the garage door. I saw too much daylight coming under the door, so I quickly put it down and came in through the front door. The door to the house was partially open, the back door from the garage to the patio was wide open, the gates on the patio and the fence were ajar. Erich nor his parents had been in that way, so we called the police. The dogs were incredibly agitated. The police took a report, but nothing was missing. We think the burglars got to the kitchen door and heard the dogs and decided to find another victim.
Yes, the dogs are wonderful guard dogs. Until you get inside the house and pet them. Then they are putty in your hands. The beagles, especially Onyx, love to be petted. Most people reach out to the dogs when they come in the house. Which is what you should do when meeting a strange dog. Hold your hand out to the dog so they can sniff you. Let them accept you. When you hold the hand out to my beagles, they will sniff it, and then likely lick you. Once they do that, you are allowed to enter. And because beagles are adorable, people want to pet them. Petting my dogs is a good way to win their favor. The other ways are to bring them toys or preferably, beef.
We woke up this morning to find the furnace wasn't working. Erich was on the phone with the repairman as I left for work. When I came home for lunch, he said they were still chasing down parts, and the guy would be back. He came back while I was home, and the dogs at first barked, as he walked up to the house. Once he was through the door, they climbed all over him. This was his third trip in the house today, so by this point the dogs knew it was ok for him to be here. He happens to like dogs, and he leaned over to rub ears and offer full body pets. And that's when it happened. Onyx climbed up onto the arm of the couch to reach him better, stood on her hind legs, and licked his ear!
That is a move she normally reserves for her pack: Erich and I, his parents, my parents, the staff at the Vet clinic. It's different when it's family (or at the Vet's, where they expect dogs to behave like this). When it's the furnace repairman that you don't know, it's kind of embarrassing. I felt like a very bad doggie momma for allowing my dog to climb all over strangers. My face turned beat red. I reached over and tried to pry her off him while apologizing profusely. He actually laughed and said 'it's ok! I love dogs!'.
My advice to people wanting to visit me is that you better like dogs. My dogs are part of the family. They are allowed on the couches. Their preferred seat is on a human's lap. There is dog hair on the furniture. And my dogs will climb up your arm and lick your ears. They like people. As long as you're inside the house.
They are great guard dogs- as long as you are outside. The beagles sit on top of the couch in the window, watching the comings and goings of the neighborhood. They watch dogs of all sizes walk up the street with their parents: Shih Tzus, Poodles, Akitas, Labs, and the biggest Great Dane you've ever seen. Then they watch these same dogs walk back down the street with their parents. The beagles serenade this dog parade with the vocal stylings unique to the beagle. Plenty of Arroos and barks. An occasional growl for the stray cats.
When people come to our house, Onyx has an alarm bark. It is a short, repeating yip. This bark sets Cobalt off. His alarm bark is a deep yelp. People are not supposed to walk past our house, and they most certainly are not supposed to walk up to our house and ring the door bell! If people make the mistake of ringing our door bell, they are often frightened off by the loud barks of the Beagles. When we order pizza, I watch for the delivery driver and step outside when I see him. The beagles then go into an even bigger frenzy, because they think Mommy is being hurt. I have seen men 6' tall turn pale at the sound and ask in a trembly voice 'what kind of dogs ARE those?' They never seem to believe me when I tell them 'Beagles'.
The beagles, when they are barking full-force, sound vicious. They sound like dogs you don't want to mess with. They actually scared off potential burglars a few years ago. I came home from work, and started to put up the garage door. I saw too much daylight coming under the door, so I quickly put it down and came in through the front door. The door to the house was partially open, the back door from the garage to the patio was wide open, the gates on the patio and the fence were ajar. Erich nor his parents had been in that way, so we called the police. The dogs were incredibly agitated. The police took a report, but nothing was missing. We think the burglars got to the kitchen door and heard the dogs and decided to find another victim.
Yes, the dogs are wonderful guard dogs. Until you get inside the house and pet them. Then they are putty in your hands. The beagles, especially Onyx, love to be petted. Most people reach out to the dogs when they come in the house. Which is what you should do when meeting a strange dog. Hold your hand out to the dog so they can sniff you. Let them accept you. When you hold the hand out to my beagles, they will sniff it, and then likely lick you. Once they do that, you are allowed to enter. And because beagles are adorable, people want to pet them. Petting my dogs is a good way to win their favor. The other ways are to bring them toys or preferably, beef.
We woke up this morning to find the furnace wasn't working. Erich was on the phone with the repairman as I left for work. When I came home for lunch, he said they were still chasing down parts, and the guy would be back. He came back while I was home, and the dogs at first barked, as he walked up to the house. Once he was through the door, they climbed all over him. This was his third trip in the house today, so by this point the dogs knew it was ok for him to be here. He happens to like dogs, and he leaned over to rub ears and offer full body pets. And that's when it happened. Onyx climbed up onto the arm of the couch to reach him better, stood on her hind legs, and licked his ear!
That is a move she normally reserves for her pack: Erich and I, his parents, my parents, the staff at the Vet clinic. It's different when it's family (or at the Vet's, where they expect dogs to behave like this). When it's the furnace repairman that you don't know, it's kind of embarrassing. I felt like a very bad doggie momma for allowing my dog to climb all over strangers. My face turned beat red. I reached over and tried to pry her off him while apologizing profusely. He actually laughed and said 'it's ok! I love dogs!'.
My advice to people wanting to visit me is that you better like dogs. My dogs are part of the family. They are allowed on the couches. Their preferred seat is on a human's lap. There is dog hair on the furniture. And my dogs will climb up your arm and lick your ears. They like people. As long as you're inside the house.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Cats and Dogs and Grandparents
Most children find a way to tell their grandparents apart. Perhaps one set is Nana and Papa, and one is Grammy and Grampy. Sydney calls my parents MeMe & PopPop. We don't know how she came up with it, but she came up with it on her own and the names stuck.
Laura and I called both of our Grandmothers "Grandma" and both Grandfathers were "Grandpa". It got a little easier once my moms parents moved to Florida, because if we were talking about them, we could say the ones in Florida. Neither set of Grandparents had a last name that was easy for children to pronounce: Primeau (pronounced Premo- long e, long o) and Wager (way grr not wager like a bet). So we found another way to distinguish them.
My mom's sister lived with their parents. When Mom and Dad got engaged, my mom bought a beagle puppy for her sister. (Now you know why I like beagles!) The beagle was named Rusty, and my Aunt had him for 10 or 12 years before he got very sick and had to be euthanized. Rusty was a funny beagle. He would not chase bunny rabbits. He preferred to curl up with them and nap under a tree. Rabbits were not afraid of Rusty. He loved to eat, and my grandparents and Aunt indulged that. He was one of the fattest beagles I've ever seen. He loved ice cream. So they would go for a soft serve ice cream, and everyone would get a cone- including Rusty.
Rusty was a great guard dog. If you left the house and left him alone, he wouldn't let anyone in the house. Not even you, unless you brought him a hamburger. I think he preferred McDonald's hamburgers to Burger King. He liked the hamburgers from one of the fast food places and not the other. When we went out to dinner, no matter where we went, we always had to swing through the drive-thru to get a plain burger for Rusty. I remember that we forgot the burger a couple of times, and he wouldn't let us in the door. We had to go back out and get his burger.
Rusty was protective of my sister and I. If we were napping on the couch (or davenport, as Grandma called it), he curled up on the floor in front of us. We put hats on him, went through purses with him, and of course, fed him. He was our furry friend. We associated Grandma and Grandpa Wager with Rusty, so they became Grandma and Grandpa Rusty.
Dad's parents had dogs too. I remember at one time there were 8 dogs. I assumed they had one dog for each child. There was always a Shep running around. I can't count how many incarnates of Shep they had through the years. Even this past December- when Grandma was in the nursing home, someone had brought her a stuffed dog. She named it Shep. Their dogs were outside dogs, and I don't have any warm memories of them. But I remember the cats!
Grandma Primeau had a soft spot for strays. I think my love of animals must come from her. I hate to see animals in distress. I can't watch the shelter commercials, or the ASPCA commercials. They break my heart. Grandma was like that too. They lived in a rural area, and people were always dropping off cats near Grandma's house. Grandma put out food for the cats. So of course, the cats stayed, and multiplied. I know at one point, Grandma and Grandpa were buying cat food by the 50 lb bags for cats they didn't even own! One day, when I was about 17, I went to visit Grandma & Grandpa in the summer. I drove my mom's old car, which had been handed down to me. The Primeau license plate was gone, but it was replaced by a sticker that said "I brake for Teddy Bears". You knew it was my car. I remember getting out of the car and seeing the cats, and thinking 'I hope no one drives by who recognizes me'. I know that is terrible. My Grandmother had become the crazy cat woman! Their house is built into a hill. There is a deck that covers one side of the house. If you pull into one end of the driveway, you walk up the stairs on the hill to the house. If you come in on the upper level, you can walk right onto the deck. The cat population had been growing for a couple of years at Grandma's. On this particular day, cats were all over the house. They were on every stair leading up the hill. They were all over the deck. And there were even cats walking across the peak of the roof!
It was about a year or two later that Grandpa had had enough of the cats, and the cats were rounded up. The total count was in the 40s or 50s. I don't remember the exact number. I do know that was the end of the cats. Grandpa said 'no more!' .
The cats were how we identified Grandma & Grandpa Primeau. Early on, they became Grandma & Grandpa Meow. And so, we distinguished our Grandparents by their pets- although actually, the pets weren't theirs!
Laura and I called both of our Grandmothers "Grandma" and both Grandfathers were "Grandpa". It got a little easier once my moms parents moved to Florida, because if we were talking about them, we could say the ones in Florida. Neither set of Grandparents had a last name that was easy for children to pronounce: Primeau (pronounced Premo- long e, long o) and Wager (way grr not wager like a bet). So we found another way to distinguish them.
My mom's sister lived with their parents. When Mom and Dad got engaged, my mom bought a beagle puppy for her sister. (Now you know why I like beagles!) The beagle was named Rusty, and my Aunt had him for 10 or 12 years before he got very sick and had to be euthanized. Rusty was a funny beagle. He would not chase bunny rabbits. He preferred to curl up with them and nap under a tree. Rabbits were not afraid of Rusty. He loved to eat, and my grandparents and Aunt indulged that. He was one of the fattest beagles I've ever seen. He loved ice cream. So they would go for a soft serve ice cream, and everyone would get a cone- including Rusty.
Rusty was a great guard dog. If you left the house and left him alone, he wouldn't let anyone in the house. Not even you, unless you brought him a hamburger. I think he preferred McDonald's hamburgers to Burger King. He liked the hamburgers from one of the fast food places and not the other. When we went out to dinner, no matter where we went, we always had to swing through the drive-thru to get a plain burger for Rusty. I remember that we forgot the burger a couple of times, and he wouldn't let us in the door. We had to go back out and get his burger.
Rusty was protective of my sister and I. If we were napping on the couch (or davenport, as Grandma called it), he curled up on the floor in front of us. We put hats on him, went through purses with him, and of course, fed him. He was our furry friend. We associated Grandma and Grandpa Wager with Rusty, so they became Grandma and Grandpa Rusty.
Dad's parents had dogs too. I remember at one time there were 8 dogs. I assumed they had one dog for each child. There was always a Shep running around. I can't count how many incarnates of Shep they had through the years. Even this past December- when Grandma was in the nursing home, someone had brought her a stuffed dog. She named it Shep. Their dogs were outside dogs, and I don't have any warm memories of them. But I remember the cats!
Grandma Primeau had a soft spot for strays. I think my love of animals must come from her. I hate to see animals in distress. I can't watch the shelter commercials, or the ASPCA commercials. They break my heart. Grandma was like that too. They lived in a rural area, and people were always dropping off cats near Grandma's house. Grandma put out food for the cats. So of course, the cats stayed, and multiplied. I know at one point, Grandma and Grandpa were buying cat food by the 50 lb bags for cats they didn't even own! One day, when I was about 17, I went to visit Grandma & Grandpa in the summer. I drove my mom's old car, which had been handed down to me. The Primeau license plate was gone, but it was replaced by a sticker that said "I brake for Teddy Bears". You knew it was my car. I remember getting out of the car and seeing the cats, and thinking 'I hope no one drives by who recognizes me'. I know that is terrible. My Grandmother had become the crazy cat woman! Their house is built into a hill. There is a deck that covers one side of the house. If you pull into one end of the driveway, you walk up the stairs on the hill to the house. If you come in on the upper level, you can walk right onto the deck. The cat population had been growing for a couple of years at Grandma's. On this particular day, cats were all over the house. They were on every stair leading up the hill. They were all over the deck. And there were even cats walking across the peak of the roof!
It was about a year or two later that Grandpa had had enough of the cats, and the cats were rounded up. The total count was in the 40s or 50s. I don't remember the exact number. I do know that was the end of the cats. Grandpa said 'no more!' .
The cats were how we identified Grandma & Grandpa Primeau. Early on, they became Grandma & Grandpa Meow. And so, we distinguished our Grandparents by their pets- although actually, the pets weren't theirs!
Saturday, March 12, 2011
A Side of Emotion
Grief is a funny thing. I am learning this. I know all about the five stages of grief, but sometimes life doesn't seem to fit into that neat package. And while we all have to handle it in our own way, it's those little moments that knock you off your feet.
My dear Grandpa Wager has been gone 11 years now. Every time I see that yellow sweater in my closet, I feel a tug on my heart. Some days I still can't listen to 'Angels Among Us', even though it is one of my favorite songs. When I read a book about the Civil War, I fight the urge to call him and talk to him about it. And the family history- that is the hardest. I would love to ask him questions about some of the road blocks I've encountered.
Grandma Wager has been gone almost two and a half years. She loved the TV Show The Golden Girls. She really loved Betty White. She died her hair "Betty White Blond" around 1987. We always talked to my Grandparents on Sundays. This one particular Sunday Grandpa said he woke up with Grandma but went to bed with another woman. We had a speaker for the phone- it was a little box mounted to the wall, so we had to gather around it. My parents, sister, and I all looked at each other trying to figure out what Grandpa was talking about. Mom was a little confused at first, and was trying to decide whether or not to send my sister and I outside so she could have this conversation with her parents. Then my Grandma said 'Oh, Lewie' and explained that she had colored her hair the previous day, and the white was replaced with blond. She said 'like Betty White's hair'. Grandpa's sense of humor was always so dry- he'd come out with a zinger when you least expected it. After Grandma passed away, I couldn't watch Golden Girls. I've been able to watch Betty White in all her recent adventures, but I haven't been able to watch Golden Girls. Last night I flipped to a channel, and it was on. I was able to watch about five minutes. That's more than I've done in 2 1/2 years, so I think that's a sign of healing.
Then there is the most recent loss, Grandma Primeau. With her passing, I no longer have a Grandma. There is something comforting about a Grandma, and now I don't have one. My readers who have lost parents or spouses may think I'm being a little dramatic. So far, in my life, this has been the closest family loss. It also did bring my parents' mortality more into focus, something I still don't want to think about. I remember when Grandma Wager died, my mom said 'Now I'm an orphan.' Even though we knew she wasn't truly an orphan, that is what she felt. So what are you when you have no Grandmas?
Grandma Primeau's death brought back all of the memories and grief of Grandma Wager's death. We didn't have a funeral or even a memorial service for Grandma Wager. She didn't want one. She had outlived her siblings, her husband, and most of her friends. She felt there was no point. So we honored her wishes. But it was hard on those of us who were left. We had no mourning period. One day she was there, one day she wasn't, and life continued on without a blip. As I went through the mourning rituals with my family last month for Grandma Primeau, I felt I was mourning both Grandmothers. It was, at times, overwhelming.
At the funeral, they played Grandma's favorite hymns. I was surprised to learn one of her favorites was 'How Great Thou Art', which is my favorite. My Aunt Terri (married to Dad's brother Ray) and Lori (married to my cousin Scott) sang this song, and it was beautiful. Yes, it was in-laws singing. The Primeaus are notorious for being very bad singers. I remember one time we were in Grandpa's church- a whole passel of us. In the middle of the service the Priest asked the Primeaus to stop singing! There are a few exceptions- my sister is one. Her Senior year of school she was in show choir. She had a solo during the final concert, and Grandma & Grandpa Primeau came. As my sister stood in front of the mic, this beautiful voice filled the auditorium. Grandma and Grandpa looked at us, and we were just as surprised as they were. Grandma said 'she doesn't get that from the Primeau's'. And yet, as bad as we are as a family at singing- my Grandmother's pastor rivaled us. I had not been to a church service with this pastor (other than Sunrise Service on Easter, and we had the outdoors as a buffer of the voices). As the funeral service started, and he started singing, I couldn't stop laughing. I looked to my right, where Laura was standing, and that was a mistake, because she was trying just as hard to stay composed. I looked to my left towards Mom, and she was struggling too. Finally I buried my face in a tissue and let the laughter shake my body.
Grandma's church is a small church. It was actually built by her Grandfather, shortly after he moved to the area from Germany in the 1860s. The ceilings are high, and the support beams are hand made. Everything in that church has his signature. I always felt so connected at that church. Because it is an old church, the pews are close together. The church was full for her funeral, but not packed. My dad's cousin Bruce sat with us in the pew. Bruce and Brian's mother was Grandma's sister, and they have always been close to Dad & his siblings. Bruce and I shared a hymnal during the service. When they played 'Old Rugged Cross', I lost it. I had been doing ok all week until that point. Then the tears flowed like a dam had burst. The Old Rugged Cross was my Grandma Wager's favorite hymn as well. I spent hours playing that for her on my aunt's organ. I had no idea until that moment, sitting in Taborton church, that it was also my Grandma Primeau's favorite hymn. I handed the book to Bruce, I had lost the ability to hold it. He actually set the book down, and was as inconsolable as I was. He gave me a big hug, which I needed and appreciated so much. Since I live so far away, I haven't seen Bruce in years. But that is the beauty of a big family- there is always someone to give you a hug.
When the service was over, and it was just family left in the church, I walked to the back of the church. I couldn't stand there and watch the rest. Friends say I am a strong woman, but at that moment, I felt as weak as an infant. My sister was able to stay. Most of my cousins were. But I wasn't. I was at the back of the church, wanting to be anywhere else. All kinds of people gave me hugs. Then my Dad came and wrapped me in his arms. He said 'if you want to leave, come with me now' and he grabbed me by the hand, just as he did when I was a little girl. We went out onto the porch, and stood outside. I thought maybe I wasn't so weak, because here is my big Dad, and he can't stay in there either. But he was stronger than I was, because he did stand on the porch to watch them carry Grandma out. I couldn't even do that, and climbed into the back seat of the car. If it had been a nicer day, I would have walked across the road to the lake and stood at the side of the lake, but everything was covered in snow and ice, so I stayed in the car.
Cemeteries usually do not bury people in the winter in NY, and this year is no exception. So we knew there would be no burial. I hadn't realized though, we'd have to follow the hearse. One of Dad's brother's drove my Grandfather's van with Grandpa, and then my Dad was the second car behind the hearse. The church sits on a mountain, and there is one road. We followed the hearse all the way to the cemetery entrance, then we went on. All I could think about was the song 'Will the Circle Be Unbroken' and the line 'undertaker, please drive slow.'
After that, I have been ok. Going to Grandpa's house a couple days later, and seeing just Grandpa at the breakfast table didn't upset me. Entering Grandma's date of death into ancestry.com wasn't upsetting. I have been ok. And that's when the grief gets you! Just when you think you are fine, something simple and routine can bring back all the emotion. Erich and I ran a couple errands today, and then decided to grab an early dinner at Cracker Barrel. We were there around 3:45pm, and were joking about eating with the senior citizens. Kenny Rogers has a new CD of hymns at Cracker Barrel, and they were playing it over the speakers. Even though it was 4pm, the restaurant still had that din of many people having conversations. Then I heard it. Kenny Rogers was singing 'Will the Circle Be Unbroken'. Instantly, I was in the backseat of Dad's Explorer, following the hearse down the winding mountain road. The emotions rushed forward, and I tried to keep the tears from falling. Then I thought of the breakfasts I shared with Grandma and Grandpa at Cracker Barrel. Every time I was home, they wanted to go to breakfast, and it was always Cracker Barrel. Suddenly, our peaceful Saturday afternoon meal became a minefield of emotions for me.
Somehow, and I have no idea how I did this, I kept it together. I didn't really talk very much, but Erich didn't seem to notice. By the time we got home, I was back to normal. I even shopped around the store, and considered buying the CD. It was a beautiful CD, it just caught me off-guard. And it's those little moments that will continue to get me, even years from now.
My dear Grandpa Wager has been gone 11 years now. Every time I see that yellow sweater in my closet, I feel a tug on my heart. Some days I still can't listen to 'Angels Among Us', even though it is one of my favorite songs. When I read a book about the Civil War, I fight the urge to call him and talk to him about it. And the family history- that is the hardest. I would love to ask him questions about some of the road blocks I've encountered.
Grandma Wager has been gone almost two and a half years. She loved the TV Show The Golden Girls. She really loved Betty White. She died her hair "Betty White Blond" around 1987. We always talked to my Grandparents on Sundays. This one particular Sunday Grandpa said he woke up with Grandma but went to bed with another woman. We had a speaker for the phone- it was a little box mounted to the wall, so we had to gather around it. My parents, sister, and I all looked at each other trying to figure out what Grandpa was talking about. Mom was a little confused at first, and was trying to decide whether or not to send my sister and I outside so she could have this conversation with her parents. Then my Grandma said 'Oh, Lewie' and explained that she had colored her hair the previous day, and the white was replaced with blond. She said 'like Betty White's hair'. Grandpa's sense of humor was always so dry- he'd come out with a zinger when you least expected it. After Grandma passed away, I couldn't watch Golden Girls. I've been able to watch Betty White in all her recent adventures, but I haven't been able to watch Golden Girls. Last night I flipped to a channel, and it was on. I was able to watch about five minutes. That's more than I've done in 2 1/2 years, so I think that's a sign of healing.
Then there is the most recent loss, Grandma Primeau. With her passing, I no longer have a Grandma. There is something comforting about a Grandma, and now I don't have one. My readers who have lost parents or spouses may think I'm being a little dramatic. So far, in my life, this has been the closest family loss. It also did bring my parents' mortality more into focus, something I still don't want to think about. I remember when Grandma Wager died, my mom said 'Now I'm an orphan.' Even though we knew she wasn't truly an orphan, that is what she felt. So what are you when you have no Grandmas?
Grandma Primeau's death brought back all of the memories and grief of Grandma Wager's death. We didn't have a funeral or even a memorial service for Grandma Wager. She didn't want one. She had outlived her siblings, her husband, and most of her friends. She felt there was no point. So we honored her wishes. But it was hard on those of us who were left. We had no mourning period. One day she was there, one day she wasn't, and life continued on without a blip. As I went through the mourning rituals with my family last month for Grandma Primeau, I felt I was mourning both Grandmothers. It was, at times, overwhelming.
At the funeral, they played Grandma's favorite hymns. I was surprised to learn one of her favorites was 'How Great Thou Art', which is my favorite. My Aunt Terri (married to Dad's brother Ray) and Lori (married to my cousin Scott) sang this song, and it was beautiful. Yes, it was in-laws singing. The Primeaus are notorious for being very bad singers. I remember one time we were in Grandpa's church- a whole passel of us. In the middle of the service the Priest asked the Primeaus to stop singing! There are a few exceptions- my sister is one. Her Senior year of school she was in show choir. She had a solo during the final concert, and Grandma & Grandpa Primeau came. As my sister stood in front of the mic, this beautiful voice filled the auditorium. Grandma and Grandpa looked at us, and we were just as surprised as they were. Grandma said 'she doesn't get that from the Primeau's'. And yet, as bad as we are as a family at singing- my Grandmother's pastor rivaled us. I had not been to a church service with this pastor (other than Sunrise Service on Easter, and we had the outdoors as a buffer of the voices). As the funeral service started, and he started singing, I couldn't stop laughing. I looked to my right, where Laura was standing, and that was a mistake, because she was trying just as hard to stay composed. I looked to my left towards Mom, and she was struggling too. Finally I buried my face in a tissue and let the laughter shake my body.
Grandma's church is a small church. It was actually built by her Grandfather, shortly after he moved to the area from Germany in the 1860s. The ceilings are high, and the support beams are hand made. Everything in that church has his signature. I always felt so connected at that church. Because it is an old church, the pews are close together. The church was full for her funeral, but not packed. My dad's cousin Bruce sat with us in the pew. Bruce and Brian's mother was Grandma's sister, and they have always been close to Dad & his siblings. Bruce and I shared a hymnal during the service. When they played 'Old Rugged Cross', I lost it. I had been doing ok all week until that point. Then the tears flowed like a dam had burst. The Old Rugged Cross was my Grandma Wager's favorite hymn as well. I spent hours playing that for her on my aunt's organ. I had no idea until that moment, sitting in Taborton church, that it was also my Grandma Primeau's favorite hymn. I handed the book to Bruce, I had lost the ability to hold it. He actually set the book down, and was as inconsolable as I was. He gave me a big hug, which I needed and appreciated so much. Since I live so far away, I haven't seen Bruce in years. But that is the beauty of a big family- there is always someone to give you a hug.
When the service was over, and it was just family left in the church, I walked to the back of the church. I couldn't stand there and watch the rest. Friends say I am a strong woman, but at that moment, I felt as weak as an infant. My sister was able to stay. Most of my cousins were. But I wasn't. I was at the back of the church, wanting to be anywhere else. All kinds of people gave me hugs. Then my Dad came and wrapped me in his arms. He said 'if you want to leave, come with me now' and he grabbed me by the hand, just as he did when I was a little girl. We went out onto the porch, and stood outside. I thought maybe I wasn't so weak, because here is my big Dad, and he can't stay in there either. But he was stronger than I was, because he did stand on the porch to watch them carry Grandma out. I couldn't even do that, and climbed into the back seat of the car. If it had been a nicer day, I would have walked across the road to the lake and stood at the side of the lake, but everything was covered in snow and ice, so I stayed in the car.
Cemeteries usually do not bury people in the winter in NY, and this year is no exception. So we knew there would be no burial. I hadn't realized though, we'd have to follow the hearse. One of Dad's brother's drove my Grandfather's van with Grandpa, and then my Dad was the second car behind the hearse. The church sits on a mountain, and there is one road. We followed the hearse all the way to the cemetery entrance, then we went on. All I could think about was the song 'Will the Circle Be Unbroken' and the line 'undertaker, please drive slow.'
After that, I have been ok. Going to Grandpa's house a couple days later, and seeing just Grandpa at the breakfast table didn't upset me. Entering Grandma's date of death into ancestry.com wasn't upsetting. I have been ok. And that's when the grief gets you! Just when you think you are fine, something simple and routine can bring back all the emotion. Erich and I ran a couple errands today, and then decided to grab an early dinner at Cracker Barrel. We were there around 3:45pm, and were joking about eating with the senior citizens. Kenny Rogers has a new CD of hymns at Cracker Barrel, and they were playing it over the speakers. Even though it was 4pm, the restaurant still had that din of many people having conversations. Then I heard it. Kenny Rogers was singing 'Will the Circle Be Unbroken'. Instantly, I was in the backseat of Dad's Explorer, following the hearse down the winding mountain road. The emotions rushed forward, and I tried to keep the tears from falling. Then I thought of the breakfasts I shared with Grandma and Grandpa at Cracker Barrel. Every time I was home, they wanted to go to breakfast, and it was always Cracker Barrel. Suddenly, our peaceful Saturday afternoon meal became a minefield of emotions for me.
Somehow, and I have no idea how I did this, I kept it together. I didn't really talk very much, but Erich didn't seem to notice. By the time we got home, I was back to normal. I even shopped around the store, and considered buying the CD. It was a beautiful CD, it just caught me off-guard. And it's those little moments that will continue to get me, even years from now.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Winter's Chill
A friend sent an email to me in January, about cold being relative. The email compared two locations at various temperatures. One of the locations was always Upstate NY. Since Upstate NY remains 'home', I found the email incredibly amusing. And oddly accurate! I'm sure it has gone around with other locations (such as Chicago perhaps or St. Paul,Minnesota) as the colder of the two locations. But I'm not from either of those places, and didn't see such an email.
Some of the gems in this email:
Some of the gems in this email:
~65 Above Zero: Floridians turn on the heat, people in Upstate NY plant gardens.
~50 Above Zero: Italian & English cars won't start, people in Upstate NY drive with the windows down.
~35 Above Zero: NYC landlords finally turn up the heat, people in Upstate NY have one last cookout before it gets cold.
~20 Above Zero: People in Miami all die, Upstate New Yorkers close the windows.
~Zero: Californians fly away to Mexico, people in Upstate NY get out their winter coats.
~10 Below Zero: Hollywood disintegrates. Girl Scouts in Upstate NY are selling cookies door to door.
~40 Below Zero: All Atomic motion stops. People in Upstate NY start saying 'cold enough fer ya?'
~50 Below Zero: Hell freezes over. Upstate NY public schools will open 2 hours late.
~50 Above Zero: Italian & English cars won't start, people in Upstate NY drive with the windows down.
~35 Above Zero: NYC landlords finally turn up the heat, people in Upstate NY have one last cookout before it gets cold.
~20 Above Zero: People in Miami all die, Upstate New Yorkers close the windows.
~Zero: Californians fly away to Mexico, people in Upstate NY get out their winter coats.
~10 Below Zero: Hollywood disintegrates. Girl Scouts in Upstate NY are selling cookies door to door.
~40 Below Zero: All Atomic motion stops. People in Upstate NY start saying 'cold enough fer ya?'
~50 Below Zero: Hell freezes over. Upstate NY public schools will open 2 hours late.
I know we are emerging from our winter cocoons, and want to think of warm days, not bitter cold. Yet I am just now trying to get caught up on my blogging for the winter. I have a list of things I wanted to blog about. Although, some of the things on the list have been crossed off, because I have no idea what I meant. So I hope my readers will indulge me. Oh, and for my non- US readers, these temps are in Fahrenheit.
I am not a jacket person. I own plenty. I just don't wear them all the time. I do wear my winter one all winter, once it gets cold enough. For me, cold enough is below freezing. I will wear a fall jacket when it gets below 50, down into the 40's. I hold out wearing a winter coat as long as I can. People often joke that they know it is cold when I finally bring out the winter coat. So of course, I found the part about jackets coming out at 0 hilarious! I'm not quite that bad. But I do run around with my coat unzipped ALL the time. It has to be extremely cold and blustery for me to zip my jacket, and even then, I usually just hold it closed across my chest and walk a little faster.
I remember selling Girl Scout cookies in the dead of winter. Cold never stopped us. Cold didn't stop us from having recess outside either. I got frostbite in 4th grade. We had been outside playing, and no doubt my friend Drew and I and Angela (maybe even April) were playing the Purple Glove Gang- one of us girls would drop a purple glove as we left the scene of a bank robbery, and Drew- the Sherlock Holmes of Stephentown Elementary, would use the glove to figure out who the bandit was that day. I remember when we came back inside and started working at our desks, the teacher kept looking at me. Then she went and got the school nurse, and I was pulled out of class. They kept asking if I felt ok, and I told them I did. Turns out, I had a touch of frostbite on my cheeks. (I wasn't really good at wearing my scarves or hats either, and of course, the gloves came off to play our game!).
Our school district had three elementary schools. One in the north part of the district, one in the middle, and one in the southern portion. We lived about five minutes from the middle elementary school, but my parents chose to send us to the one in the southern portion. Many of the kids in our town went to that school- in fact, our whole neighborhood did. So we had an hour bus ride. Our bus was old, and in the winter the heat did not work. On the coldest days, those actual temperature of 20 or 30 below zero days, our bus driver encouraged us to keep moving. When we were on the main road, we had to stay in our seats. But once we were on a back road, she let us get in the aisle and move around. Jumping jacks, hopping up and down, anything that kept us moving and kept the blood flowing. Her rule was that the smallest children had to be between the bigger ones, so that we could protect them a little better. As we neared the end of the road, we all knew to take our seats before she got on the main road again. She was one of the strictest bus drivers, but on those cold days, we loved her.
I have a theory about the cold. You feel 0, and you feel 10 below. You feel 20 below too. But anything below -20 is just COLD. Your body cannot distinguish that this is another level of cold. You just know you are freezing. You add another layer of clothes from head to toe, you consume another thermos of hot beverages. My dad used to take three thermoses on the coldest days- two with coffee and one with soup for lunch. My parents have a one car garage, and when I started driving, we had two cars, plus Dad's work truck. He had to plug his truck in at night so the fuel line would not freeze. We backed my car between the house and the garage, so the buildings would break the wind off the vehicle. Dad put an old blanket over the hood, to keep the engine a little warmer. In the morning, I went out to start the car and hoped the key would turn over. If it didn't, we had to catch the bus, or Mom had to run us to school before she left for work. I'm sure some scientist would like to argue with my theory. It's just my personal theory, based on my personal experiences.
As much as I like winter, I am glad we are leaving the long cold days behind. And in about 4 months, I'll be begging for -20!
I am not a jacket person. I own plenty. I just don't wear them all the time. I do wear my winter one all winter, once it gets cold enough. For me, cold enough is below freezing. I will wear a fall jacket when it gets below 50, down into the 40's. I hold out wearing a winter coat as long as I can. People often joke that they know it is cold when I finally bring out the winter coat. So of course, I found the part about jackets coming out at 0 hilarious! I'm not quite that bad. But I do run around with my coat unzipped ALL the time. It has to be extremely cold and blustery for me to zip my jacket, and even then, I usually just hold it closed across my chest and walk a little faster.
I remember selling Girl Scout cookies in the dead of winter. Cold never stopped us. Cold didn't stop us from having recess outside either. I got frostbite in 4th grade. We had been outside playing, and no doubt my friend Drew and I and Angela (maybe even April) were playing the Purple Glove Gang- one of us girls would drop a purple glove as we left the scene of a bank robbery, and Drew- the Sherlock Holmes of Stephentown Elementary, would use the glove to figure out who the bandit was that day. I remember when we came back inside and started working at our desks, the teacher kept looking at me. Then she went and got the school nurse, and I was pulled out of class. They kept asking if I felt ok, and I told them I did. Turns out, I had a touch of frostbite on my cheeks. (I wasn't really good at wearing my scarves or hats either, and of course, the gloves came off to play our game!).
Our school district had three elementary schools. One in the north part of the district, one in the middle, and one in the southern portion. We lived about five minutes from the middle elementary school, but my parents chose to send us to the one in the southern portion. Many of the kids in our town went to that school- in fact, our whole neighborhood did. So we had an hour bus ride. Our bus was old, and in the winter the heat did not work. On the coldest days, those actual temperature of 20 or 30 below zero days, our bus driver encouraged us to keep moving. When we were on the main road, we had to stay in our seats. But once we were on a back road, she let us get in the aisle and move around. Jumping jacks, hopping up and down, anything that kept us moving and kept the blood flowing. Her rule was that the smallest children had to be between the bigger ones, so that we could protect them a little better. As we neared the end of the road, we all knew to take our seats before she got on the main road again. She was one of the strictest bus drivers, but on those cold days, we loved her.
I have a theory about the cold. You feel 0, and you feel 10 below. You feel 20 below too. But anything below -20 is just COLD. Your body cannot distinguish that this is another level of cold. You just know you are freezing. You add another layer of clothes from head to toe, you consume another thermos of hot beverages. My dad used to take three thermoses on the coldest days- two with coffee and one with soup for lunch. My parents have a one car garage, and when I started driving, we had two cars, plus Dad's work truck. He had to plug his truck in at night so the fuel line would not freeze. We backed my car between the house and the garage, so the buildings would break the wind off the vehicle. Dad put an old blanket over the hood, to keep the engine a little warmer. In the morning, I went out to start the car and hoped the key would turn over. If it didn't, we had to catch the bus, or Mom had to run us to school before she left for work. I'm sure some scientist would like to argue with my theory. It's just my personal theory, based on my personal experiences.
As much as I like winter, I am glad we are leaving the long cold days behind. And in about 4 months, I'll be begging for -20!
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
The Name Game
Readers of my blogs know that my father is one of eight children. Well, really, he is one of ten, but two died as infants. There are 15 grandchildren, 12 great-grandchildren, and too many in laws to count. It gets hard to remember every one's name. Grandma did a good job, but there were times that she did the 'Diane,Sylvia,Roberta,Ray,Mark,Sue,David,Tim whatever your name is'.
My own mother has done that too, and she only had two names to keep track of. It usually occurred when one of us was in trouble. She would start with her sister, Arlene. Then knowing that wasn't right, she tried her own name, Kathy. She went through the family, somehow missing the name she was searching for. We stood there giggling, and when she got to my Aunt's dog who had been dead for a few years, we told her our name. Which seemed to frustrate her even more. My sister and I tease her that it's a good thing she didn't have more children-she'd have never known who we were.
My dad gets my sister and I confused, too. Most of the year he has no problem. But if I'm visiting NY, or my parents are visiting here, Dad calls me Laura. The day I leave, he stops. My sister and I look enough alike that you can tell we are sisters, but unless I'm wearing my hair curly (which is a recent development- for 33 years my hair was stick straight, in the past year or so it has gotten curlier and curlier); we still look different enough that you can tell us apart. I think my Dad is so used to my sister being the daughter he's around all the time, that he just gets us confused. The funniest incident was in December. I was sitting in the Detroit airport, waiting for my connection to Albany. I had called him to tell him my flight was on time. I got his voicemail, so I left a message. When he called me, I didn't get to the phone fast enough, and it went to my voicemail. We played phone tag for a couple of minutes- I called him back, he didn't answer fast enough, and then he called me back. When I answered he said 'Oh crap, Laura! How did I get you? I'm trying to call Amy'. My response was 'It is Amy, Dad. You're starting before I even get there.' On the phone, my sister and I sound the same, so I have to give him that.
I used to think my mother was nuts because she couldn't keep track of two kids, and called us the wrong name. I'm starting to understand her a little better. When I am with Sydney, I end up calling her Onyx. Yes. I call her by my dog's name. I don't mean to. In my house, when I'm talking to a little girl, it is Onyx. If I'm talking to a little man, it's Cobalt. Sometimes I'm able to catch it before I get 'Onyx' out. I get the 'ah' sound, and then realize it is Sydney I'm talking to. So I say 'Ahh...Sydney'. I don't know how I will turn Cobalt into Drew. I need to start figuring that out, because I know I will call my little Bruiser by his canine cousin's name. I won't mean to, but I do.
I also do the reverse. The first couple of days after I have been in NY, I call my dogs by the kids' names. I pet Onyx and call her Sydney. I snuggle with Cobalt and coo about my little Drew-boo. The difference is, in my house, no one hears me. At my sister's house, there are others to hear me.
It went to a new level with this last trip. We were all at my sister's, and she was trying to get Sydney to leave the kitchen. I said "Sydney, come here girl" as I patted my leg and made a kissing sound- yes, just as I would if I were calling the dogs. I didn't realize what I had done, until the room erupted in laughter. Well, what can I say? My dogs are my children, so my mind gets them confused. No doubt Sydney will just think her Aunt Amy is crazy.
My own mother has done that too, and she only had two names to keep track of. It usually occurred when one of us was in trouble. She would start with her sister, Arlene. Then knowing that wasn't right, she tried her own name, Kathy. She went through the family, somehow missing the name she was searching for. We stood there giggling, and when she got to my Aunt's dog who had been dead for a few years, we told her our name. Which seemed to frustrate her even more. My sister and I tease her that it's a good thing she didn't have more children-she'd have never known who we were.
My dad gets my sister and I confused, too. Most of the year he has no problem. But if I'm visiting NY, or my parents are visiting here, Dad calls me Laura. The day I leave, he stops. My sister and I look enough alike that you can tell we are sisters, but unless I'm wearing my hair curly (which is a recent development- for 33 years my hair was stick straight, in the past year or so it has gotten curlier and curlier); we still look different enough that you can tell us apart. I think my Dad is so used to my sister being the daughter he's around all the time, that he just gets us confused. The funniest incident was in December. I was sitting in the Detroit airport, waiting for my connection to Albany. I had called him to tell him my flight was on time. I got his voicemail, so I left a message. When he called me, I didn't get to the phone fast enough, and it went to my voicemail. We played phone tag for a couple of minutes- I called him back, he didn't answer fast enough, and then he called me back. When I answered he said 'Oh crap, Laura! How did I get you? I'm trying to call Amy'. My response was 'It is Amy, Dad. You're starting before I even get there.' On the phone, my sister and I sound the same, so I have to give him that.
I used to think my mother was nuts because she couldn't keep track of two kids, and called us the wrong name. I'm starting to understand her a little better. When I am with Sydney, I end up calling her Onyx. Yes. I call her by my dog's name. I don't mean to. In my house, when I'm talking to a little girl, it is Onyx. If I'm talking to a little man, it's Cobalt. Sometimes I'm able to catch it before I get 'Onyx' out. I get the 'ah' sound, and then realize it is Sydney I'm talking to. So I say 'Ahh...Sydney'. I don't know how I will turn Cobalt into Drew. I need to start figuring that out, because I know I will call my little Bruiser by his canine cousin's name. I won't mean to, but I do.
I also do the reverse. The first couple of days after I have been in NY, I call my dogs by the kids' names. I pet Onyx and call her Sydney. I snuggle with Cobalt and coo about my little Drew-boo. The difference is, in my house, no one hears me. At my sister's house, there are others to hear me.
It went to a new level with this last trip. We were all at my sister's, and she was trying to get Sydney to leave the kitchen. I said "Sydney, come here girl" as I patted my leg and made a kissing sound- yes, just as I would if I were calling the dogs. I didn't realize what I had done, until the room erupted in laughter. Well, what can I say? My dogs are my children, so my mind gets them confused. No doubt Sydney will just think her Aunt Amy is crazy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)