It’s Not A Tie

When I was a kid, and Father’s Day or his birthday rolled around, I would buy my Dad a tie.   Or a wallet.  I wasn’t very creative back then.  At Christmas, people would get something from the craft-fair at school.  Nothing with glue or dried macaroni on it, because I thought that was a waste of food.  But if my Grandparents needed a magnet or a bookmark with a purple tassel on it, they knew I would hook them up at Christmas.

The big decision for my Dad was whether the tie would have stripes or zigzags on it.  Or how many photo slots would be in the wallet.  Would this year’s shirt have one of those little green alligators on it?  Who knew?  Ask Grandma.

My father doesn’t like surprises.  Back then he would use sneaky tactics such as the Alphabet Game to find out what I saved up my allowance to buy him.

‘Does it begin with a T?’

I looked at him sideways.  Because I could.  ‘Yes.’

‘Is it tiger?’

‘Yes, Daddy.  I broke into the Zoo and got you a tiger.  Because six year-olds can do that.  Real guesses, please.’

‘Is it a tie?’

‘Yes!  How did you know?  Oh, no.  Now you know.  I’ll have to switch it for a wallet.’

This happened every year.  One year, I was particularly devastated.  I had kept THE SECRET for two whole days.

Since he knew about the tie, I also got him a heart sticker.  Which he put on the dashboard of his Blazer.  I have never been a hearts and flowers kind of girl, but I loved that heart.

These days, I ask for a list of books he wants to read.  One year I found him a not-so-tiny model car.  And the year I surprised him with The Sopranos box set, Sarge and I watched it first.

I’ve always known it’s not about the stuff.  I like gifts people will appreciate.

For the past few weeks I’ve been going to spend Tuesdays with Dad.  Watching old movies or tennis after his radiation.  I’ve always loved hanging out with my Dad.  I appreciated him before he got cancer, and I still do.  I cherish all my time with him.  But I wish we didn’t have to share this time with 24 different medications.  And even though this stuff will make him better in the long run, I wish he didn’t have to take it in the first place.

The only thing I want to give Dad for his birthday in a few weeks is, ‘Dad, you are cancer-free.’  That and a six-month supply of his favourite rice pudding, as it’s the only thing he can eat right now.

That’s it.  And it’s not a tie.

Well, there is one more thing I’d like to give him.  I figure Sarge and I can work on that next year.

Proof that Dad and I have kept up the sappy-but-still-true magnet tradition.

A Birthday Card From Dad

And click here to see the second thing to make me cry happy tears today!

Thanks, Dad.

Confessions of a Girl Scout Reject

Sharon at Hyperactive Inefficiency and Susan at LostnChina have given me the Versatile Blogger Award.  This means a, you really, really like me or b, my ramblings are truly aimless or iii, I am Waffley Versatile.  I can take all three.  Thanks a bunch.

In the name of blogging community, I’m going to share yet more random factoids about myself.

Here goes:

I used to think that I was born in the wrong era.  I have since made peace with this one.  My favourite musicians are still old or dead.  I can name that tune in one note and it’s usually More Than A Feeling by Boston.  Don’t ask, because I don’t know.  And that ‘s OK.

I get high on life, the smell of books and paint and gasoline and cigars.  But not intentionally.  It just happens.  In related news, I smoked pot at University, but I wasn’t co-ordinated enough to do it more than once.

When I ‘graduated’ from the Brownies, the leader suggested I ‘might not want to move up to the Green Uniform.’  So I didn’t.  I’m a rebel from way back.  I guess she doubted my commitment to Sparkle Motion.

I’ve said before that I quote my favourite movies in everyday conversation.  I’ll say now that most of the time, it makes sense.

Wine gives me heartburn.  This is probably a good thing.

I don’t like chocolate, either.  Unless it’s expensive.

The stack of books by my side of the bed keeps threatening to hit me in the head as I sleep.  Currently reading:  Fante, The Tiger’s Wife, and Two For The Dough.  Because I’m versatile.

More random factoids can be found here, here  and elsewhere within my posts.

I’m supposed to tell other bloggers to do this.  You can, if you wish.

What I will do now is mention some folks who I think should start a blog.  Because I would read it.

My Dad:  Everyone needs his philosophy on life and baseball.

Sarge:   He wants me to write lyrics to go with his music.  And because I want even more insight into the workings of his brain.

My cousin Karin:  I want to be like her when I grow up.  And I told her so.  Yes, I am that corny.

Nina Simone Was Not A Man

Image via Wikipedia

Because Broadside and Oh My Words! wanted to know, here are 10 random, or maybe not-so random facts about moi:

1.  When I was a kid, I thought Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton were married.  Because everyone who sang duets were married to each other.  Obviously.  I also thought Nina Simone was a man.   Because, well, just because.

2.  I was born in Dallas, was a kid in New York, and grew up in the Highlands of Scotland.  My accent is mine, and according to Sarge is ‘under several influences.’  Except when I’m on the phone with my mother, at which times it is back on Long Island.

3.  I have CP.  I am, by choice, a pretty-much-permenant wheelchair-user.  Unless there’s a party going on upstairs.

4.  When I was seven, I had various bits medically broken and stretched, all at once.  I have  ten scars that are so much a part of me; I don’t see them anymore.

5.  I lost all four of my grandparents within five years.  How and when they died has coloured the way I look at life.

6.  Growing up, my mental age was 40.  Now that I am 30, I feel that I’m actually my true age.

7.  I used to laugh entirely through my nose.  Now I laugh out loud.  I blame Sarge.

8.  I can have entire conversations using only movie quotes.  I cannot blame Sarge.

9.  One of my nicknames at Uni was Phoebe.  As in The One From Friends.

10.  I once fell off a toilet in Pisa, Italy.  I was not drunk.  This incident has since been dubbed ‘The Leaning Toilet of Pisa’.

100 Books Or Bust: Words And Wisdom

‘I enjoy books.  No room is fit for occupation without a lining of books.  They contain the condensed experiences of humanity.  To live fully, one has to read widely.  I do not intend to face a man-eating lion in the African veld, fall from an aircraft into the Arabian Sea, soar through outer space or march with the legions of Rome against Gaul or Carthage, yet books can take me to these places, to these predicaments.’

– A Very Private Gentleman (filmed as The American), Martin Booth

When I was a kid and would announce to anyone who would listen that I was bored, my Nana would say, ‘Go read a book!’  So I did.

You should, too.

 

Back To My Roots

I am a natural blonde.  No, really.  I have proof:

 

Little me with my Reading Face on. I still have the face.

 

 

It got lighter in the summer and darkened in the winter.  By the time I was eight it no longer changed with the seasons, no matter how much lemon juice my Nana squeezed on my head.  Maybe that’s why I felt such infinity with fish as a child.

My favourite doll was a redheaded kilt-wearing thing of beauty from the ‘International Collection’.  I wanted her hair.  When I was ten, I called my own hair ‘the definition of non-descript’.  The ‘blonder highlights’ my cousin put in when I was eleven just looked fake to me, and actually fried my hair.

I moved to Scotland and wanted red hair, wanted the hair my Grandma had in her graduation photo.  I’ve since been told that it was painted over using ‘artistic licence’.  But it was still my Holy Grail of Hair.  Grandma and my old kilted doll.

So began my relationship with the box/gloves/various hairdressers I really miss.

I’ve always liked the red side of the colour wheel.  Being red has always made me feel more confident.  If I needed a pick-me-up, I would make an appointment to ‘brighten up’.  Four hours later, I emerge from salon with hair that should come with a UV warning.

I’ve been every colour on the chart from chilli to plum and other food colourings, to ’54’ and ‘63’.  Like I said, red shades to me equalled confidence and brightness, easy laughter with an air of mystery.  It also meant £80 and four hours of salon-time every six weeks.  Or two boxes of store-bought colour, gloves, and the help of friends who now know my hair is indeed as thick and stubborn as it looks.

I’ve always thought the time and money and stories and blackmail photos were a good investment.

But I’ve forgotten what my actual colour is.  The one after the roots.  Sarge asked me once, and I couldn’t tell him.  And then I got curious.

And  so, I’ve let my hair go.  This may not be the time to do such a thing, with holiday photo opportunities around the corner.  I’ve decided I don’t care, and I don’t want to chop my hair off and make the roots less ‘noticeable’.  They’re my roots, I like them.

I think I should turn 30 knowing what colour my hair really is these days.  I can be confident and full of laughs no matter what my hair colour is.  However, considering I’ve just written a bunch of words about the state of my head for all to read, I should perhaps work on that air of mystery!

You talkin’ to me?

I went to an interview type thing today.  This involved wearing something that isn’t a sweatshirt and getting on the bus.

Now, regular readers will know that I am newish to this city.  And not the best with directions.  I travel with people so I don’t get lost.  I choose not to get lost.  I choose to have a PA, or Sarge, with me when I don’t know where I’m going, or even when I do.

I do go places on my own.  These days, such places must be seen from my flat windows.  If I can see it, I know how to get back.  I am not confined to my house, or my chair.  Nor am I afraid of the world.  Quite the opposite.

It’s just that more often than not, the world is physically inaccessible to someone on wheels.  And therefore, I choose to have someone help me with steps and traffic and buses that don’t stop, even when I have hit the stop siren.  Because I want to get off the bus.  Maybe I have an interview to go to, or the rest of my life to get on with.

I should say at this point that as well as a people-watcher, I am an eavesdropper.  And sometimes I hear strangers talking about me.  If people feel the need to voice their opinions and pass judgement on me, the least I can do is remember it to record later.  Perhaps on a blog.

This is what I heard on the bus today:

Lady (term used loosely) 1:  Is she on her own?

Lady 2:  No, of course not.  How could she be?  That other one is in charge of her.

Excuse me?  The only one in charge of me is me.  Just because I choose to have someone with me does not mean I am not in charge of myself.  It isn’t my fault that the world is inaccessible to my wheels.  The wheels I need to live my life.  The life that I am in charge of.

I wanted to wave my CV in these ladies’ faces.  Because I happened to have it with me.

Hey girls, see these Universities?  These offices?  That’s where I’ve been.  All by myself.  Uphill both ways, to use your lingo.

But I didn’t.  I learned from a young age to pick my battles.  Because I’ve had more of them to pick from.

I used to tell people I fell off the back of a motorcycle.  The people who would look at me walk and then ask my parents what was wrong with me.

Nothing, they’d say.

And then I would tell them I fell of the back of a bike.  It’s not that I’m ashamed of the CP, but when I was younger I liked to watch people’s faces as they tried to picture a kid on a motorcycle.

Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer.

When I was about 7, I was walking up the incline in a movie theatre, in front of these whispering old ladies (not unlike the ones on the bus today); who must have thought it was interesting to see this not-too-short person walking with crutches.  And I fell.  On purpose.  It was perfect, as if in slow motion.  I fell backwards and made it look like I hit my head, which I didn’t.  All of a sudden these three faces were staring down at me, and I smiled.  I got myself up and went out with my Dad, who till then wasn’t sure what I was doing.  Behind me I heard:  See Barb, I told you she was going to fall!

I turned and said:  And I heard you, too.

I said no such thing today, just got off the bus and on with my life.  Laughed about it, even.

I’m even allowed to write about it.  Because I said so.  And I’m in charge.

Dear You

I spent all day Saturday looking for a particular piece I wrote on September 11^th, 2001.

I couldn’t find it, but in the search I found all my old journals and other writing that goes back pretty far.

Some things are the same.  A lot is different.  I want to give that kid/younger twenty-something a hug, and tell her to stop worrying.  We’re not in Back to the Future, so I can’t.

But I can do this:

Dear you,

Relax.  Things will get better.  Your view will change.  Look out the window and savour what you see right now, because that view will change, too.  And you’ll miss it.  Yes, you will.  Wave to the cows.

Now close your book and call your Nana.  Hug your Gramps.  Sit by Grandma’s tree even more than you do.  There will be a time soon this is all you’ll want to do, but you won’t be able to.  Do it now.

Take more pictures and less bullshit.  He’s not that into you.

Yes, your braces will come off, eventually.  You will learn to like your teeth, eventually.  No, having your wisdom teeth out will not make you dumb.  Enjoy this time, because it really won’t last forever.

Go to Uni and stay there.  But please do keep all those poems in the drawer.  Do not leave all your work til the last minute.  Consider that Honours Philosophy offer.  Have as much fun as you will and then have more.

Be a coffee snob.  Be a music snob.  Do not listen to radio call-in shows at 4 o’clock in the morning.  Please don’t use your CDs as coasters.

Dry your hair so it doesn’t freeze on the way to class.  Well, let it go the once, so you’ll have the memory.  Take better notes when you get to class.  Light the candles in your room, but keep writing in the dark.

Send your writing away.  Don’t waste it on the wrong people though, they’re not worth it.  Some people are worth it.  Some people are.

Don’t change.

Those wishes on stars will come true.  Yes, they will.  The third star on the left will be particularly useful.  Songs will come true, too.  Sing the happy ones.

Lighten up.  Have fun.

Now get off the damn computer.

Love, as ever,

Me

Words and Wheels

I’ve been away from the computer for the last few days.  Away from the computer, but not without my notebook.  I started writing the lines that make up this post while on the train to Glasgow on Thursday.  I like trains, and I love writing while in transit.  Something about the rhythm of the journey colours the words, knowing that that there will be some sort of evidence of change from beginning to end.

I’ve loved notebooks for as long as I can remember.  Lined ones, because my hand-writing without them was, and still is, a bit wayward without them.  My childhood heroes were:  my Dad, my Grandmothers, and Harriet The Spy.  After I read the book, I started recording my life in notebooks of my own.

The first journal I remember keeping started on another train journey, in Norway, when I was seven.  The home for that journal was a green and white marble composition book that I still have.  It was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen in my long years.  In it wrote about my first fishing trip, and a dance, and a pizza with too many vegetables on it.  At the start of that trip, I was a kid.  By the end, I knew I was someone who wouldn’t be happy unless she was writing, or travelling.  Preferably both.

I moved on from marble composition books to college-ruled notebooks.  But for awhile I thought you actually had to be in college to use them, and that the ‘Notebook Police’ was coming to get me, that I would be ratted out during the ‘Notebook Checks’ we had in elementary school.

Back then I wrote about TV shows and carnivals and the summer I left sleep-away camp too early.  In school, while my friends were handing in writing compositions on rainbows and puppies, the third grade me wrote about black roses and wind-storms and lone violinists playing at midnight.  I’ve lightened up since then.  A little.

The notebook I’m using these days is a small Penguin Books one that Sarge gave me.  Written evidence that I have indeed lightened up.  It was this notebook I took to Glasgow, where I was going to get a haircut.   Dad picked me up afterwards, and when I got in the car he put only one of my wheelchair tires in the back seat.  Leaving the other one propped up against his mode of transport, and driving off without mine.  We discovered there was only one in the car when I needed both to get out of the car.

I called the hairdresser’s and asked what sounded to me like an odd question.  Have you seen a wheel without a chair attached to it?  I’m looking at it right now.  Are you able to see that it hasn’t been wrecked by passing cars?  I’m looking at it in the shop.  We brought it in.  Oh, great, lovely, yes.  (Although, ‘great, lovely, yes’ can be filed under ‘understatement’.)

So we went back and got it, and life was good.  A wheel can now be added to the list of things my father has forgotten on the roof of/around his car and driven off without.   He lost a kilt and kilt shoes, by the same means, on different occasions.  I also seem to remember a carton of milk going the same way.  I am quite amused and a little honoured that something of mine could have been carted off into family legend.  I am equally pleased the wheel was saved.  This time.

Even though I will never forget it happened, I wrote it down.  I know I said before that every journey brings change and transformation, but losing the wheel would have been pushing it, even for me.

And not every journey has to involve going across the world.  You could go across the street, as long as you bring something back with you.  A memory, some words.  Or in my case, all required wheels.

Hopefully, everything.