Go!

I finally managed to pack the car, and we got on the road. The trip was unremarkable. Everyone's trip - we had folks coming from central and eastern and northeastern Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Baltimore - was unremarkable. But this? Was not always the case. Let me take you now, to Family Trip circa 1991 from Reading, PA to Ocean City, MD. According to Google maps, a trip that should take 4 hours, 4 minutes.

At this time, I was 13 years old, that magical age when nothing is fun because I was either too young or too old for most activities. Sister #1 was 11, Sister #2 was 6, and Brother was 7. My parents, who had apparently chosen to ride in a minivan for 4 hours, 4 minutes, with 4 kids, were insane.

It was a HOT day in mid-August, and since minivans at the time did not come equipped with "stow and go" storage, we had to put the obligatory "turtle shell" on top of the car in order to pack all our many many many belongings. Packing at the last minute, as I did yesterday, is a long ingrained family tradition, and so even in 1991, we were packing at the last minute. After a few hours of manuevering the turtle from its normal position (hoisted in the garage) to its final position (bungeed, tied, and double bungeed to the roof of the minvan), we loaded the luggage, and we were off. As usual, we doubled back so someone could run inside to grab that quintessential item which they couldn't live without for an entire week. Then, we were off. Again. About 11 minutes after we started, the air conditioner stopped working. We cracked the rear windows of the minivan as far as they would go - which did nearly nothing to cool us. About sixteen minutes after we began our trip, someone surely had to pee...and we finally stopped an hour later at a Wawa.

Mind you - under no circumstances would my father allow purchases at said Wawa. We were there for the potties, a brief basking/drying out in the fabulous fabulous convenience store A/C, and that was it. However, when we were all back in the car and buckled into place, my father tried to start the car. The little engine turned over and over, but to no avail. A few construction workers who had been on their lunch break suggested that the car should be pushed backwards while Dad tried to start it. Three men pushed us as the engine sputtered. But start, it did not.

My father called Triple-A, who said they would send someone over as quickly as possible. Belted into the car as the temperature rose to 92 degrees, we sat. This time, we did not have even the minuscule window crack to supply air circulation. Forty-five minutes later, we called Triple again. Where were they? What was the plan? My father was assured that his call was important, that they would arrive shortly. That if the car refused to start again, they would tow it to a nearby Ford dealer. Unable to stand the heat, we piled out of the car and sat on the sidewalk, begging for some treat from the store. We were hungry. We were thirsty. We were hot. My father relented, and allowed us to purchase two large tootsie rolls and a fountain drink. To share.

We waited another hour. At some point, the lady who worked at the Wawa took pity on us, and brought more drinks outside to the sidewalk. My father called Triple-A again. The temperature soared to 95 degrees.

About two and a half hours after the call was made, Triple-A arrived. Perhaps we should have yelled at the man, scolded him for making us wait so long. But we were so happy to see him, we crowded around him as if he were royalty. Alas, he did not start the car. This was expected, and all we wanted was to get to the "nearest Ford dealer" as soon as possible so we could be on our way after a quick pop of the hood and tightening of some bolts.

At this point, it becomes appropriate to describe the neighborhood. First, we have the Wawa. Next door, one of those lonely residential holdouts, obviously grandfathered in, living in an area zoned commercial long after the house was built. The house was run down, and a lone tree stood in the front yard. This was no landscaped dogwood or pretty little maple tree. It was a 60-foot tall pine tree which towered over the house...and completely blocked the large sign advertising the presence of the next business over. Had the tree been just a tad shorter, or placed just a hair to the side, we would have read "F-O-R-D" on that sign. Oh yes. We had waited two and a half hours for a tow truck to tow us one hundred and fifty feet. In fact, the tow truck guy decided it would be more of a hassle to hook up the car to his rig than to simply push the mini van to the adjoining property.

Bristling with the injustice of it all, we march over to the dealer, following the tow truck. It is now about 3pm on a Saturday, and the mechanic is just getting ready to leave for the day. I suppose we looked pathetic and desperate enough, because they did agree to do something for us. I am not sure what. All I know is that was again set about the business of waiting. Only this time, we were in a dealership waiting room with air conditioning. And a candy machine where we were not allowed to purchase anything. It was bliss compared to the Wawa sidewalk. We waited 45 minutes, until we were told we would have to rent a second minivan for the week.

In the parking lot, we had to transfer the contents of one car to another. Only now, the bodies of both cars were literally scalding to the touch. One could not very easily reach up to the turtle for the baggage without touching the vehicle. Sister #2, age 6, was hoisted up inside the turtle, and lifted each bag down to us. She was not very happy with this decision. Then, we had to un-bungee and un-tie and un-double bungee the turtle from the car, and hoist it onto the rental. Sis was again hoisted into the turtle, and we lifted the bags high overhead, trying hard not to touch the car.

At 4:30pm, approximately 4 hours and 4 minutes after we started, we got back on the road. WE had maybe 3 hours, 3 minutes to go. The rental had air conditioning!! And perhaps in a fit of heat stroke, my father agreed to allow us to purchase an item from the vending machine to share. Life was good.

And then we hit the traffic. For some reason, the radio reception in the rental was poor. And for some reason, the only station which did come in clearly was stuck in a loop. It played two songs: "Blue Moon" and "Rockin' Robin". For the entire time we sat, unmoving, on a bridge to Ocean City. It took another hour to cross that bridge.

Meanwhile, the rest of the family - my cousins and aunts and uncles - had been pulling into the house all day. They had no idea where we were, and were beginning to worry. This was before cell phones, mind you. Around 8pm, nearly 11 hours after we started, we pulled into the driveway in our fabulous rental car.

How would this trip happen today? We'd stop at the Wawa, call Triple-A. In the meantime, we'd play on our I-phones, maybe check out the local Ford dealer locations. We'd find out it was next door. The mechanic would take a look, having several hours before closing time. He'd fix the car and the air conditioning too. We'd play Tetris on the phone in the waiting room. We'd watch "Secondhand Lions" as we drove to OC. We'd be there by mid afternoon. The family would have full updates throughout as we texted our predicament. Kids today. They just don't know what they are missin'.

Dang Kids!

One of my fellow bloggers just posted a rather disheartening entry about apathetic teenagers. No doubt, there are unfortunately a number of apathetic teenagers who will, more than likely, grow up to be apathetic adults. But I feel obligated to post my own entry in order to point out that not all teenagers fit into this mold. My youngest cousin, Jamie, and her friends get together to go shopping, see movies, go to the high school football games, and...watch the presidential debates. In fact, Jamie has been volunteering for her local Obama campaign. The last time we spoke, she had registered 14 people to vote, despite the fact that she can not vote herself.

I am totally impressed. When I was her age (1994):

• NAFTA was signed
• Loraina Bobbit was found not guilty for her insane act
• Tonya Harding's ex-husband pleaded guilty for his insane act
• The Rwanda genocide began
• Ronald Regan announced that he had Alzheimers disease
• Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman were murdered

I was aware of each of these events as a teenager - because they were all skits on Saturday Night Live. I guess there is some hope for the apathetic teenagers of the world after all.

Sad, Part ?

My sister just called.

She said Gromom passed away.

I feel....so...empty. Mostly, I feel sick, as though the apple cider I had a few hours ago might make a reappearance. Not sad. Certainly not happy. Just....

So maybe I should call someone. Someone who knows her and would be interested to know that...well, to be updated on the events of the evening. That would be productive, I suppose. In fact, I have my second cousin's phone number and address sitting here on the desk right in front of me. The last time we spoke, my cousin told me how my grandmother had been like a second mother to her. But, it is late. I don't even know how she died. Or when.

We were away for the weekend, and this blog entry is supposed to be about tailgating at Penn State. It is supposed to be witty, yet insightful. I was going to mention how I wish I had spent more of my time in college enjoying life, as I do now. But in an amusing way. Now, I wonder why I hadn't even thought about Gromom. She was where she always was, just a phone call away, watching movies for all hours of the day.

For once, I had figured out what to buy her for Christmas because one of the last times we talked she had told me how she enjoyed watching music DVD's, and they were actually cool ones - Eric Clapton, and a George Harrison Tribute one. I planned to add to her collection, and perhaps watch a few with her. I was thinking Neil Young. I think she'd like him. Goodness. My tense is all screwed up. I am confusing past and present. They are melding into one, and I am realizing that it is all past. No more present tense.

She already bought me my Christmas present. She told me about it the last time we talked. It was just two weeks ago, actually. She told me I probably wouldn't like it. But she knew I would. I haven't seen it, but I know that it is pottery, made by Lester Brienninger. She has been buying me this pottery for years. As I sit typing at a desk she gave me, I look up and see a Christmas tree by the potter. It is not too "Christmas-y" and I like to keep it out all year. It is dated 2000. I am pretty sure she has been buying these things for me for longer.

Almost every conversation with Gromom has been about her death. She was not afraid of dying. I would say that this made most people uncomfortable, but not so much with me. Her words were usually negative, and she would often be heard to remark, "I'm so sick of livin'." Most people would tell her not to talk like that, but I never did. If I allowed her to talk a bit longer, she would explain that what she meant was that she had a good life. She had done all she wanted to do.

I am feeling better in the stomach now. I've had a bit of water, to get the taste of apple cider out of my mouth. I am having trouble seeing the screen though. Tears.

I am still not exactly sad. Words are so inadequate.

This entry is getting long. Should I call it "Sad, Part I" and begin anew with "Sad, Part II"? I cannot. I write this blog for myself. I try to make it amusing to others, and I love to hear that people enjoy it. But, of course, that praise is for me. I always wanted to be a writer, but I was afraid to reveal myself, and have people read my work, criticize it. That last sentence? Not really grammatically correct, was it? Guess what? I'm ok with that. There is no right answer in writing. My engineer-brain worries about the right answer, and my writer-brain worries about the right words. Sometimes, words must bend to my liking, for they do not express my grief. Or whatever I am feeling. My angst? Bah. Words.

My earliest memories are of Gromom. My sister and I spent countless hours at her house. We played "Red Light Green Light" which basically meant she walked, and we ran ahead as she yelled out Green Light, then skidded to a halt when Red Light was called. We did Yellow Light too, walking in slow motion like Frankenstein. We colored. Gromom did not hand us coloring books and begin making dinner. She colored too. She always picked the weird colors for Holly Hobby's dress, like avocado green and brown. Very drab in our opinions, but she was very good at staying in the lines. We played her favorite game, Sorry. It is a pretty fun game - I played it with her almost every time I went to visit, and she still never let me win. She is a ruthless Sorry player - she sends you back to start with a keen eye for position, as she sings the "Sorry Song." Words on the screen do not do it justice, but my siblings and cousins will surely hear her singing it: "Sorry, sorry, sorry-sorry-sorry." (She wasn't sorry.) I told her I remembered how my brother would cry when we played this game. "You kids all cried," she said, "But I never let you win." We also made Christmas balls, went to the movies, went shopping, went out to eat. And lately, we play a game of Sorry and watch a movie on TV instead of leaving the house. These may be considered mundane pastimes, I suppose. But somehow, they were always fun.

I hope she can read my blog now. I made her a button on her computer, and showed her how to click it. But she said she was too stupid to learn the computer. Yet she was a whiz at Solitaire. She learned what she wanted to learn. But she wouldn't admit it. And for all her grumbling (and she grumbled a lot) I truly believe she's been at peace for a long time, just enjoying passing through life.

Hankering for a Hunk O Cheese

I just saw a public service announcement encouraging children to play. The slogan "Get Up and Play (at least an hour a day)" is endorsed by LPGA golfers, pro-footballers, and Shrek characters, just to name a few. Apparently there are several versions of the commercial.

Geesh, the public service announcements sure have changed. When I was a kid, a yellow blob named "Timer" told me that when I was really really hungry, I should go get a hunk of cheese, or make orange juice popsicle sticks. Then again, I do not remember being allowed to stay indoors and play video games or watch TV all day. It was my mother who encouraged me to "Get Out and Play", not the TV. My sister recalls being forced to do chores if we chose to stay inside. I do not remember this, but that is probably because I never wanted to go inside. I have memories of being about four or five years old, and pooping in the yard because I did not want to go into the house. (I have since amended this preference - though my bowels have not always cooperated.)

My fondest memories of childhood were outside - sledding on the toboggan, taking nature walks in the woods, playing "red light, green light" with my grandmother, playing volleyball with my Dad and his friends, playing house with my brother and sisters in a big tree down by the creek, and swimming at the pool all day. It is sad that there are so many kids out there missing out on these experiences that the government has decided to spend money telling them to go outside.

I did go to the government site shown at the end of the "Play" commercials. It includes a lot of good information for those of us struggling to be healthy in an unhealthy world. Check it out here. I especially liked the part on portion control, one of my arch nemeses.

Uncle Chappy

On Monday, my great Uncle Chappy, suffering from Alzheimer's disease, living in a hospice center, and having recently broken his shoulder, passed away. My father's email about Uncle Chappy was nicely written, listing sweet memories of him, and I thought I should pass it on:
Our family participated in pretty many family get-together picnics at Uncle Chappy's home in Honeybrook.
He is the one who made the shelves for your tea-sets that are still in my attic, waiting for you to have room to hang them.
He is the one who traveled more than fifty miles to present his views about WWII and Pearl Harbor survivorship, (along with Pop Pop Schrack) to Brandon's boy scout troop.
He is the one who played Santa Claus at our family gatherings when I was young. At that time he had dark wavy hair, and was a handsome fellow.
He was the one who helped his children and their cousins (me included) make home-made root beer and sassafras -- not exactly a success.
When I was young, we would often get together at his old apartment in Modena for Thanksgiving dinner.
The sight I remember, is Chappy always helped with the dishes, after those meals.
He worked in the steel mills of Modena for Lukens Steel, a hard life for sure.
He was a good father to his children, John, David, and Joel.
He was the husband of Aunt Gertrude (Trudy). I am her "favorite" nephew.

Uncle Chappy did not talk much with me, but I always remembered that he held the record as the largest baby born at Reading Hospital for some time. This impressed me as a child because it was hard for me to think that someone old had once been a baby. But of course at that time, I thought 10 was a very old age to be. I know that Uncle Chappy will be missed.