Tag: memories

And just like that, he became the rainman of puzzles

Loyal readers (you’re still here, right?) may recall when we went through a period of doing jigsaw puzzles at The Compound. Tom’s parents sent us one this past Christmas, and one Saturday morning, Tom started it, getting the entire outside of the circle and the innermost center part done before I even dragged myself out of bed. It stayed that way about a week, and each time I passed it, I’d think, Hey, I should do some of that puzzle. On one of those occasions, I walked by it about an hour later, and the thing was completely done. Tom’s like a puzzle savant!

For some reason, that rapid puzzle thing made me think of tests, and how I never do well when asked to figure out shit like this:

If + =

then

+ =

a.
b.
c.
d.

Whatever. Or word tests that say things like: refrigerator is to food as wallpaper is to
a. llama
b. tooth
c. taxi
d. astronaut

One time I had this roommate who was getting her degree in some education field and whatever class she was taking, she needed volunteers to take IQ tests. And even though I hate these kinds of tests with every fiber of my being, you do stuff for your friends even when you know you shouldn’t. At least this one wouldn’t end up with police questioning or an empty bank account. Not that I have any experience with those consequences.

I took my test and I scored about what I thought I should score and nobody was going to give me any Nobel prizes for physics but who cared because I could use physics correctly in a sentence and I was the Supreme Ruler of Apostrophes. How much glory can one person handle?

However, I made a fatal error. I also let her test my mother. What was I thinking? Because then, of course, I was consumed with the desire to know how my mother’s score compared to mine. Therefore I began a campaign of roommate torment that would only end if she would JUST TELL ME ALREADY, I CAN TAKE IT.

Moral of the story: No children, unless they are born to Marie Curie or Susan Sontag, need to hear that their mothers got a higher score than they did on an IQ test.

Christmases Past, No. 4: A brush with the past

I know Christmas is over, but this is actually a post-2010 Christmas story. I believe I’ve shared on here before this photo of Lynne’s Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus:

Back in the day, ceramics were a big activity for people who wanted to be creative, and Lynne’s sister and her mom went to a ceramics class, where Lynne’s mom fired and painted that Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus set as a gift for her. My first fall back home after I graduated from college, Lynne’s mom died. I spent a lot of time with her family during those months, especially over the holidays. That was the year I learned from them how to make cheese straws, rum balls, and brownies from their secret family recipe–all the goodies that have long since become part of my holiday traditions.

That Christmas, Lynne’s sister Liz gave me my own Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus as painted by her, which I photograph each year and share here on LJ.


2005

The set is even more special to me because Liz died in 2000, and putting up the workshop makes her a part of our holidays. Every Christmas, I add a new item to Santa’s workshop, even if it’s just a tiny toy or ornament for their little tree. But for many years, something’s been missing. At some point, my Santa’s paintbrush broke off and vanished.

In the most recent holiday season, I was in fix-it mode for many decorations that needed a bit of paint or glue. I asked Tom if he could use some craft clay to fix it. He thought it would be easy enough, and I found this Sculpey Bake Shop Clay at Jo-Ann’s. Tom shaped a paintbrush, baked it, and painted it. I went after it with the hot glue gun and touched it up. And voila!

Tom is what oilfield elves call “a good hand.”

Sometime Last Century, No. 1

Sometimes when I’m feeling a little full of myself, I like to think back to the day I took Daniel to a mall to buy a baseball. He kept playing with it and putting it down and generally being a boy. I said, “Keep your hands on that baseball or you’ll go off and forget it.” 

Then I shrieked, “AIIIIIEEEEE,” grabbed his arm, and raced back to JC Penney, where I’d left my Canon AE-1 on the shelf in the bathroom stall. Fortunately, some kind soul had turned it in to the office.

Remember the days when you didn’t know your photos were crappy/blurry until you got your film developed? Then it was Sorry, sucker, you’ll never get that Kodak moment back. Digital cameras: the Ultimate Do-Over Machine.

 

Just like that Cat in the Hat…

Mattel’s Birthstone Beauties are back, representing every month, to wish you abundance in health, prosperity, and love in 2011. They also remind you to party responsibly, and please don’t drive under the influence.


(View larger version of photo on black.)

On a personal note, thank you to all of you who have supported me in my creative endeavors in 2010. Thank you for buying my books and art and offering encouragement. Thank you for visits and phone calls and mail. Thanks for playing nice with me on LiveJournal, Facebook, Flicker, and Twitter. Every year has its challenges, but mine have always been buffered by the kindness, love, and laughter of family and friends.

Onward!

Christmases Past, No. 3: Our cat, the legend

One Christmas both my father and my brother were stationed overseas (different countries), and we were a household of women. Well, except for the dog and my sister’s cat, Joe Willie. Here’s Joe Willie as a TV-obsessed youngster:

He got his name because of his four white feet. Quarterback Joe Namath, who led Alabama’s Crimson Tide to a 29–4 record over three seasons and later had a stellar career with the New York Jets, was known for many things, including his white football shoes when the rest of the Jets wore black. Joe Namath also had a reputation as a ladies’ man, and our Joe Willie was as legendary in our neighborhood.

These were the days before we knew to spay and neuter our pets, and therein lies a cautionary tale.

I’d like to think my sister took this photo because she was feeling the Christmas spirit as Mother and I decorated the tree. But I suspect she was documenting that once again, I’d robbed her closet for something to wear, because that’s her wool shorts-and-sweater set. Thanks, Debby! It’s probably about the last time I could fit into your clothes.

Once our tree was decorated and all the presents tucked beneath it, we decided to go with Mother to a party at some friends’ house. As we were leaving, we encountered a female cat on the porch, crying at Joe Willie in the window and begging him to come outside to…play.

“Nope, he’s staying in tonight,” my mother said. “You’ll have to find another boyfriend.”

What she failed to consider was that Joe Willie wanted to go out and…play. We came home to a tree all askew, ornaments scattered around it. Even worse, we had to get a new tree and my mother had to rebox and rewrap all the gifts. This Christmas is always referred to as “that time the cat peed all over everything.”

May your Christmas be cat urine-free.