jubyred

High on the High

When I was in high school, my dad came home from a business trip with a gift for me.  he bought me Linnea in Monet's Garden, the book and the doll.  And even though I was too old for them, he said it reminded him so much of me that he had to get them for me. 

For years, I had them basically in pristine condition until my daughter came along.  And, like my Barbies and some other girly toys I had hung onto, I gave her the doll and read her the book and they became hers.  Linnea's hair recently was loved off and had to be hot glued back on.  Her hat has been lost.  Her pinafore is stained and tattered.  But she has loved it in a way that has meant a lot to me. 

This weekend, the Monet exhibit opened at the High, on loan from the Louvre, and we went so she could see the paintings from her book up close.  She brought Linnea and dragged her around by the foot as we wandered around the museum.  Now I'm dying to take her to Paris to show her the gardens for real. 

Scorpions On A Stick

In 1996, The Olympics came to Atlanta.  For years, our local news centered around the preparations.  We built new facilities and revamped some old ones.  Traffic was a nightmare.  And we were all very concerned with how the city would be viewed internationally.  Oh, and what was it going to be like with thousands of new people suddenly in our space.  there were some up moments, like Muhammad Ali lighting the torch.  And there were some down moments like the pickup trucks at the opening ceremonies, and oh, and that bombing thing.

But in terms of actually being here and hosting it and living through it, it was actually pretty amazing.  I guess it helped that I was 25 years old and happened to be awake at 2 am at a bar when the torch ran by.  The Olympics came to me, essentially.  Nowadays, I'd sleep through that.  It also helps when the parents of the guy you're dating sign up for tickets to every event and give them to you.  And it's nice when your boyfriend is working at a bar right in the heart of it all so you get to do some shots with wrestlers from Germany and pole vaulters from Africa.  We even scored some Opening Ceremonies tickets for Drew's parents.

We got to attend some track and field events, soccer in Athens, some baseball, diving, and some gymnastics.  I'll have to post some video if I can find it of some of the festivities.  It was a really fun two weeks. 

Check out the latest blog from my pal Scott who just trekked it over to Beijing for the Summer Olympics with his wife.  He's an accomplished photographer as you'll see.  And, according to this blog, it looks like they are planning on making this their thing-London in 2012 and TBA in 2016. 

One Time...

...Drew and I went to Puerto Rico and, since my foreign language classes consisted of Latin and French (read: useless), I was a bit worried about the prospect of Spanish.  He assured me that he was On It.  His extensive training in high school and college Spanish would fare us well.

Flash forward to our vacation...going through the drive through line at Burger King (again). 

-What do you want?

-Uh, gimme a medium Coke, please.

-They don't have Coke. How about a Pepsi?

-Ew.  No.  Don't they have Dr. Pepper?

-I don't know how to ask for Dr. Pepper in Spanish.

-Uh.  I thought you said you knew Spanish.

-I do.  Sort of.

Then he turns to the drive-thru speaker and orders...

-Dos Grandes Pepsis, por favor.

-No, no...medium, not large.

-I only know "grande."

To summarize-I drank a lot of Pepsi I really didn't want on that vacation.

For my bilingual husband...

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Lost

When I was 6 years old, my family moved to Orange Park, Florida.  I had started first grade in another state and moved mid-year to Mrs. Lanham's class.  As I would soon grow accustomed, my mother walked me into the front office and brought all the necessary documentation.  We met the school principal and took a tour of the school.  And then, together, they walked me to my new classroom and introduced me to my new teacher.  I was to take the school bus home from school that day.

At the end of the day, class was dismissed and we were escorted to a huge bay of school buses.  At some point, I guess, someone told me what number bus to get on.  But my memory is of me standing there, looking at all those kids, all those buses, and swallowing hard so I wouldn't cry.

I sat halfway back on the bus and watched as we would come to a halt and kids would get off very confidently, knowing exactly where they were going.  We kept stopping. And more kids would get off the bus.  This continued until I was the last one left.  I sat there silently, alone in the seat looking out the window for anything familiar.  Again, willing myself not to cry.  I didn't cry in front of strangers. 

I'm not sure the bus driver even knew I was there at first.  But eventually, she looked up in the huge rear view window, saw me there, and said that was her last stop. 

-Did you get on the wrong bus?

-Uh, I don't know.

-Where do you live?

-I don't really know.  We just moved here.

She asked me to walk up to the front of the bus.  I sat down on the first seat near the door.

-Do you know of anything that's near your house?

-Uh, no.

-Okay, well, let's see...let's just drive around a little and see if we can find your house.

-Ok

She drove me around for a good 10 minutes until I recognized a grocery store I'd been to with my mother the day before and knew that our neighborhood was not far.  She knew exactly where I was talking about.  From there, we were able to find my street, and even my house.  She wrote down the number of the bus I would take the next day and pointed to the spot where it would pick me up.  I hopped off her bus, completely relieved, and never mentioned it to my mother. 

Since then, I have had ongoing dreams of getting on the wrong bus.  I had another one last night.  Probably because I was reading The Kite Runner before I fell asleep, this dream was a bit more ominous.  My bus was in Afghanistan and the driver was a member of the Taliban.  It was dusty and dirty and I couldn't understand anything he said. 

Sometimes I am young.  Sometimes, I am my current self.  But it's always that same feeling of sitting there alone in the seat, trying really hard not to be scared, feeling like I might start crying any second, but forcing myself to be brave.  No idea where I'm being taken and no way to communicate where I'm supposed to be.  I'm not sure if I found my way home or not because I woke up from the dream. And there I was in my bed.   

Thanksgiving 1997

Ten Years Ago on Thanksgiving.

The Big 4-0

Happy 40th, Babe.

I was thinking earler about how Drew turned 30 just weeks after we got married and moved to Seattle.  We had this master plan in 1997 to start a new life together, figure out what we wanted and do it all on the other side of the country.

Ten years later and it only now feels like the master plan is coming together.

Here we were in 1997 having dinner in our little apartment with my new Seattle family, both of Drew's sisters and their husbands.

The Faint Pink Line

Sunday was Drew's Sixth Father's Day.  I was watching him this weekend with the kids, thinking of all the ways he's such an amazing Daddy.

The following moments come to mind:

1. Standing there in our Seattle kitchen with him after the oven timer had gone off, staring at the pregancy test.  April 2000.  Having no idea what that faint little pink line meant.  Then later that night (5 tests later), sitting there watching TV and one of us looking over at the other and saying, "We're gonna have a baby!" then just going back to watching TV.

2. Telling him I thought I was having contractions at 6 a.m. and him telling me that I'd better go back to sleep and rest up. 

3. The insane drive to the hospital with GirlChild.  She was born an hour after arriving.

4. Watching him walk around and around the living room in a big circle holding GilrChild for hours until she finally fell asleep.  He had this very elaborate system that only he could pull off. 

5. Watching him sleep on the couch with infant BoyChild on his chest, head thrown back. 

6. Him heating water on the stove and adding it to my bath when our apartment ran out of hot water. Then sitting there and talking to me while I was in the tub, huge and pregnant.

7. Watching him sit on the floor and play checkers with BoyChild. And pointing out to him that he could double jump.

8. Singing You Are My Sunshine to BoyChild for three hours straight in the Subaru on a roadtrip to visit Grandad.  We had perfected the harmony.  He never complained once.  And that child finally fell asleep.

9. Him walking in the door after a 13 hour work day only to greet me at the door holding a screaming infant, me in tears, handing him the baby.  He'd manage to get the baby settled and have dinner ready by the time I got out of the tub.

10. Me asking him, when BoyChild was about a year old if he would be upset if we only had one child.  I told him I couldn't imagine dividing up my love among other kids.  He expalined that its not dividing, it's multiplying.  He said I'd know when I was ready.  And he was right. 

For all the things that drive me crazy about him (and there are plenty), he gets the main one right.  Righter than anyone I've ever known.  He knows how to love so perfectly and absolutley.  There's never any question about it.  Never any qualifiers.  never any meaness or sarcasm.  He gives it without judgement and genuinely with nothing expected in return.  Which just makes me love him even more.

Happy Father's Day, Drew.  I adore you.

One Time...

Do I look like I know what I'm doing?

...when I was about thirteen years old, I was visiting my dad in Indiana just like I did every summer, when I ended up with a farmer in nothing but overalls pointing his gun at me and screaming that he was going to shoot my fucking brains out.  In his defense, he didn't know I was a thirteen year old, 85 pound girl. 

I was spending the night at my Aunt Ruby's farm.  My cousin Sam was (and still is) a few years older than me and always leading the way when it came to trouble.  So, we had stayed up late, me, Sam and his cute friend David who I had a big ole crush on, watching Saturday Night Live.  Everyone in the big farm house was fast asleep, tuckered out from a day of feeding chickens and rounding up the cows. 

I always loved visiting them in Indiana.  They had about a million acres and a creek and cows and horses that we would ride around on.  They woke up and had actual chores.   Like, Little House on the Prarie chores.  It was a whole different world than the suburbs where I was from.  Plus, I adored Sam.  We had been known to put on the Grease  double album soundtrack and he would sing all the John Travolta parts and I would sing all the Olivia Newton-John parts.  You don't have moments like that with someone and not trust them.

So, when Sam said they were going to sneak out to go egg a teacher's house, of course, I knew would be a great idea if I went, too.  There was a lot of, "No...it's too far for you to walk, " and "No, you're just a kid," which just made we want to go more.  So, in the end it was unanimous that I would be initiated intot he world of sneaking out and egging houses. They grabbed three eggs (one for each of us.  Didn't seem like much of an egging, but whatever) and we set off on our little adventure.

Ok, here's what you don't realize about rural America...when they said they were going to walk "into town", that really meant we were going to be gone for hours and hours because "town" was like 7 miles away in the pitch black dark through a whole lot of farm land.  Ain't no street lights on gravel farm roads.  Plus, walking through a crop of summer corn by the light of the moon with two teenage boys constantly jumping out to scare you will cause you to drop your egg pretty quickly.

I knew this was a bad idea right away, but when has that ever stopped me?  My mama didn't raise no quitter.  I was not going to pussy out, so I kept on.  And on.  And on.

When we finally reached the road into town, I was informed there was a 10:00 curfew.  That meant that on the rare occasion that a car rode by, we'd have to jump down in the ditch so we weren't seen and subsequently arrested or hauled home in cuffs. 

The first time, that plan worked famously.  A car rode by and we emerged from our ditch unscathed and feeling a little overly confident that we had fooled the authorities.  But the next time, there wasn't a ditch to jump into.  We were "in town" which meant houses ran all along the street.  So when the next car drove by, we ran in three different directions.  I dove down in the tall grass.  Sam ran over in the side yard of a small white house.  And I have no idea where David went.  When the car had passed, Sam ran over to me and said we need to get out of there because someone in the house had heard him and yelled something from inside.

The next thing I knew, a very large man with a long brown beard (think Grizzly Adams) came barrelling out of the front door with a shotgun aimed in my direction.  Sam took off and I jumped back down in the grass.  The angry man started yelling and making all sorts of threats about shoving parts of my body down my throat.  All I knew to do was to lie very still.  He was about 80 feet away and I was covered by the grass, so at least he couldn't see me.

His wife came out next.  Then the son.  The whole kuntry family standing there in the front yard with the dogs barking and little Shannon cowering in the grass wishing I was back home in bed where I should be.  This was sooo out of my league.  Then a police car showed up with lights flashing.  A police man got out and I could hear some muffled conversation but had no idea what the actual words were.  He got a flashlight and began to search around  in the tall grass calling out to whomever would listen, "We know you're out there!  Come on out and there won't be any trouble."  I was too afraid to lift my face out of the dirt to see if he had his gun drawn. 

This continued for what felt like an eternity, but probably more like 3 minutes or so.  The next thing I heard was, "Hey, what's that over there?" and the flashlight started coming my way.  I was terrified that someone would trip over me and would be so startled, they's start shooting immediately.  So, I did the only thing I knew to do-

I jumped up, arms in the air, and screamed, "Don't shoot!  I'm only thirteen!  Please please please don't shoot me!  I 'm so sorry!"  And then I started sobbing uncontrollably. 

I have a distinct memory of the expression of the big farmer's face as he saw me.  His shoulders dropped, he put his gun down, and looked just like a Dad with his head cocked to one side.  He motioned with his hand, "It's okay, Honey.  Get over here." 

I...just...cousin...egg a teacher's house...and ...so ...scared....shoot me.....sob sob sob

He told his son to take me around back and calm me down.  We sat down on the picnic table and he kind of sat there with his arm awkwardly around me and I was still sobbing so badly that I ended up hugging him and crying on his shoulder.  He was in Sam's class and knew all about the teacher we were going to visit with our one remaining egg.  He said someone had been siphoning gas out of their tractor and that's why his dad went ballistic.  But the whole time he's telling me this, I am seriously, a complete wreck and I'm still hugging him and crying. 

Now I'm wondering how weird it must have been to be a sixteen year old boy, woken in the middle of the night to hear your dad grab the gun and minutes later, you've got some wailing thirteen year old girl in muddy Jordache jeans and an argyle sweater hugging you tightly around your neck and snotting all over your ear out back on the picnic table.  A girl you've never seen before in your entire life. 

The police officer left and I went inside the hosue and the family offered to take me back to my Aunt's farm, but of course, I had no idea where I was or where I was supposed to be.  They yelled outside for Sam and David, "Sam!  You can come ut now!  We have your cousin!"  But no one showed.

After about a half an hour, I had to find my Aunt's phone number in the phone book and call her to come and get me.  "Uh, Aunt Ruby?  It's Shannon...uh...I know I'm supposed to be int he hosue right now, but the thing is, we snuck out and...I need you to come and get me.  I don't know where Sama nd David are."  Then Ihad to put the farm mom on the phone to give her directions. What a nightmare.

Sam showed up a few minutes later and was visably pissed that his mom was on the way to get us.  Let's just say it was a silent ride home.  Totally silent.

We never did find David.  I guess he just ran home to avoid the wrath that Sam was going to have to deal with the next day.  My Aunt Ruby said it was up to me to tell my dad about it.  I never did.  But Sam got in a whole heap of trouble and to this day, gives me shit about how I pussied out and should have just stayed right there until it all blew over.  Something about shitting with the big dogs...

one time...

...when I was pregnant (both times actually), I  was like most expectant mothers, and I worried a bit about the health of my unborn child.  All the various prenatal tests resulted in normal findings, so unlike "normal" folks, I didn't worry about "normal" issues.

Some mothers dream about giving birth to alien children and dogs.  I never had that.  Some worry about children with malformations-a missing limb or cleft pallette or an incorrect number of fingers or toes.  We counted everything in the ultrasound so that wasn't so much an issue.

Legitimate concerns like Down Syndrome, Cerebral Palsy, and Multiple Sclerosis seemed to pass me by on the long list of fears.  No, I went straight to the most far-fetched condition I could think of.

Me, I was convinced I was going to give birth to albino children.

Now, I don't know much about Albinoism, but if it's a condition that runs in families, we are not among the most vulnerable.  Not only do I not have any albino members in my family or my husband's that I'm aware of, I've never even known one personally.  In fact, my mother's family is of American-Indian decsent and they tend to be a little darker in skin color on that branch of the family tree.  Where I came up with this, I have no idea.  But I really worried about it.  Like, (I'm so embarassed to type this), I think I might have shed some very hormonal tears over it. 

Never ever, under any circumstances, underestimate the power of hormones. 

p.s. Incase you can't tell from the photos posted, both children were born and remain to thrive with normal pigmentation.

one time

...the summer after my first year of college, I sang at Morrison's cafeteria in the mall on Wednesday nights.  I was the scheduled "entertainment" that was written in chalk on the little blackboard that stood on an easel beckoning the folks to take a break from the raunchy gifts at Spencer's for a little wholesome fun. 

Dine to the musical musings of **Shannon** 

Next to my name was also listed the specials and the 10% discount that seniors received as further incentive to enjoy some overcooked macaroni and cheese with us. Really.  Who could resist?

I had already done my time in retail at this mall back in high school hocking distressed leather bomber jackets and mock turtlenecks with Velcro shoulder-pads.  But this time around, I had moved on up to  the food court.  And we're not talking Wok's Happening.  We are talking about a serious restaurant with its own four walls, smoking and non-smoking options, and booths. 

Tuesday nights, we'd rehearse as they were closing up and marrying the ketchups.  And then Wednesday nights we would TEAR IT UP. We had a snazzy electric piano on loan from the organ shop down the way (with a little cardboard tent sign that stood atop it indicating such.) They'd roll it down the mall corridor once a week for us then roll it back come Thursday morning. Plus, the requisite tip jar with a five-spot planted precariously half in and half out as "bait" sitting suggestively on one side.  I don't mean to brag, but there were nights that we cleared ten bucks (well, five if you subtract the bait loot.)

Tickling the ivories was a friend of mine from high school who turned the pages for our chorus teacher during my rivoting performances in West Side Story and Sweeney Todd.  She could play the notes, but lacked any artistic interpretation which is really what the occasion called for.  It's hard to belt out The Fist Time, Ever I Saw Your Face with an accompanist who plays it like a march. 

Nonetheless, we managed to get through an impressive set that included:

My Funny Valentine
Download 01_my_funny_valentine.mp3

I Get Along Without You Very Well
Download 06_i_get_along_without_you_very_well.m4p

Misty

and even a catchy rendition of Let's Call the Whole Thing Off  (I Say "Po-tayto" you say "Potah-to") with another chick.

I did about 10 songs then took a break to enjoy a starchy vegetable in a plastic institutional bowl on a tray.  Washed it down with some sweet iced tea.  Then got them fired up all over again.  Let's just say the Salisbury steak never went down so smooth.

I was told it boosted business by about 30%.  But, alas, the summer was over and I had a scholarship to get back to so my gig was up come August.  I'll have you know, however, I'm still very big with the suburban Georgia, mall-walking,  over 72 crowd.