Seasoned Travelers.

Alex and I decided to get out of town today, destination Canada.  Although the plan was to go around 11am, we didn't get out of town till around 2pm (booster seat issues).  One tension bridge and a smooth customs experience and we found ourselves cruising down the Canadian highway.  Kingston, Ontario was the plan.

I love Canada for dumb reasons.  A few being:

• When an ambulance has its lights and sirens on, everyone takes pulling over very seriously, no one seemed to capitalize on the fact that the person in front of them was slow reacting and used that to gain a few car lengths by speeding around them before they decided to resume their journey (which drives me crazy).
• McDonald's happy meals have really cute little tiny yogurts in them.  We discovered this when Alex dipped his hand into his happy meal box and came up with a spoon, to which he proclaimed "uh oh, I think I got the wrong order".
• Can we say no litter?
• In Kingston there are more sailboats in the water than there are cars on the road.  On a beautiful day like today, it is a super duper sight!
• Wolfe Island (which is rather close) has a gazillion windmills, no one seemed to mind what they look like, and there was not one sign that demonized harnessing the wind. (I, personally, love the look of windmills)
• The parking meters didn't seize up when I put American change in them, even better they registered as money and gave us time on the meter.
• Guess what?  My awesome sauce little prius has a button that you can push that changes the speedometer to kph in mere seconds :)

Alex and I had five possible places in mind that we could visit depending on how interesting they looked.  The most interesting (surprisingly to me) was the Canadian Penitentiary Museum.  I could see how this would appeal to Alex.  He loves Army things, guns, bad guys, good guys...the whole idea of being a policeman.  So, after lunch we head to the Canadian Penitentiary Museum.  This place is huge and on the water, there are look out towers at every corner, barbed wired fencing, and free parking (wooot!).  Alex and I are getting excited about how much there could possibly be to explore (I am thinking about all the steps I am going to fit in on my fitbit, he is probably fantasizing about locking his mom in a cell).  We pull in the parking lot and it strikes me how they are going all out to make this look real.  There is a sign that says they can search your car at any given moment...and a sign that says 'authorized personnel only'.  The only thing I cannot find is the freakin' entrance.  Alex and I are walking around the structure looking for an in.  We start trying handles and knockin' on doors, pretty much nothing.  I am kind of getting irritated at the lack of guidance (clearly poor customer service here).  We have one more door to knock on when I nab a grandpa looking passerby to ask for his assistance finding the entrance.  He just looks at me and starts laughing.  He says "Lady...this is a maximum security prison.  The museum is across the street.".  ooooops.

We high tail it back to our vehicle (parked in the prison parking lot), drive across the street to the REAL museum only to find that it closed 45 minutes before.  At this point I say to Alex, "honey, maybe we should head home and come back next week....", his reply was "ooooh mom, I'm not ready to go back to America.".  We drive around a bit more and then head to Gananoque.  In Gananoque, we buy Chinese food and books, by this time Alex was ready to go back to his home land.  We are trying for the Penitentiary Museum next week :)  wish us luck.

The Secret Keeper.

When I was growing up, I always had the innate desire to do the right thing.  I loved my childhood, my family, and school.  I never wanted to be in trouble and I never wanted people to be upset with me.  Which brings me to this tale, a dilemma between doing what was right and doing something that would please my dad.

Christmas in our house was a regal affair.  My parents pulled out all the stops, only to be outdone by themselves (and only themselves) the next year.  We had a huge living room in my childhood home and it would be completely wallpapered with gifts from floor to ceiling.  It was our holiday, completely magical.  My parents also included us children in the purchasing of gifts for each other, making us feel special to be in on the secret.  They would try to bring the element of surprise into their relationship with crazy Christmas presents that would be filled with humor and love.

It was in 1979 (I believe), when my mother purchased my father a sword for Christmas   This very medieval looking sword in a blue velvet sheath.  It was curved and pretty darn cool.  This sword was so long and so strangely shaped, that my mother had to create a customized box (made of several boxes taped together), and then she wrapped it and put a big bow on it.  I tried drawing this out and this was the best I could do:

This was such a big deal in our house.  My mother hemmed and hawed over this present, making sure everything was just right.  She loved the anticipation of my dad wondering what was in the box and having something to hold over him for the last five days prior to Christmas.  I, personally, loved being in on the secret and was just as excited as my mom.  So, a few evenings left before the eventful day, my mother set the box out under the tree.  As expected, my dad carried on and on about the strange looking present and what could it possibly be?  My mom just laughed and walked into the other room.  At this point, dad and I sat looking at the present, looking at the tree.  He turns to me and says, "Bridgie, what is it?  What is in the box?", I am playing this back in my mind in slow motion (my voice sounds like Andre the Giant) "It's a swooooorddddddddddd.".  My dad blinks, kind of dumbfounded that I actually spilled it so easy.  He grins and says something along the lines of the secret would be between us.

EXCEPT, it hits me the next evening when we are sitting down to dinner.  I start to have an anxiety attack.  I tell my mother I don't feel good and make up some excuse about hurting my thumb or something along those lines, something to cover up the true reason that I am teary eyed.  Finally I just say it... "I told him.".  My mother says "Hm?", and I say it again, "I told him.  I told dad his present.".  Now dad just sits there looking bewildered and somewhat innocent.  My mother starts to have a bit of a meltdown, "WHAT?!?!?!?  You told your dad about one of his presents?!?!", and then she follows that with something that only my mother would do.  She starts listing off everything she bought dad for Christmas  one by one... "The monopoly game? The robe?  The backgammon set?...", I just keep shaking my head no.  Mom spills the list in it's entirety and then, the very last thing she says...in a quiet voice.."The sword?", and I shamefully nodded my head.  In this moment, this interrogation period, my anxiety level fizzled like a balloon slowly losing air.  I felt better, my mother at some point traded her June Cleaver look for something a little bit more Cruella De Vil.  

I don't recall whether or not my mother was cautious about including me in on future "secrets", but the lesson was learned.  The only other recollection of this I have was walking into a conversation my dad was having with his brother on Christmas morning, laughingly describing my confession and my mother's spilling response.  That was my first experience with guilt.  It felt like crap.

taking the wheel.

I bought my first car before I got my driver's license.  It was an 85 Plymouth Reliant, four door, beige...a grandma car.  Luke is talking about getting his license a lot lately, he has six months or so before he turns sixteen, I still got time to mentally prepare myself for a new breed of worry.

My Aunt Linda taught me to drive.  When I turned sixteen, she and I worked together at a vending company.  We went on "route" everyday, collecting quarters, stocking cigarette's, and changing 45s on jukeboxes.  It was a ton of fun, I loved it.  She had the patience to teach me how to drive the work van.  It was a tricky standard, but I got the hang of it.    Every morning, we would meet at the garage, pack up the van and head out for the next eight hours of route.  If I got there before her, I would try to get as much done as I could, before she got to work.  One day, I got to the garage early, I managed to get everything ready before Linda got there so I decided to start the van and wait.  It could have been 10 minutes or so, maybe more... I didn't hear her come in, but there she was with a bizarre look on her face.  I say "Hey!   Mornin',...I was just about to take a nap....", she says "I bet you were.  Next time you turn the van on, you oughta open the garage door.".

I am so glad we don't have a garage...the apple doesn't fall far from the tree and I could totally see Luke doing the same thing.  :-/  Maybe I should find him a 85 Plymouth Reliant for his 16th birthday... haha.

a one woman party.

Tracy says she is renting out an entire bar next year for her 35th birthday.  She is renting out the bar and hiring a band, all on a Friday night.  I say to her, "how much do you think that is gonna cost?".  She says, "don't know...don't care...I'll pay for it with my tax refund."  She is being especially particular about the location.  All I know so far is... it won't be at Joe's, Fatboys, Micks, any legion, firehall, or VFW...it won't be outside in a field, or pavilion.  The location seems to be as much a fantasy as the entire idea itself.

She says she might not invite anyone.  She may just keep it all for herself.  The funny thing is... I can see this.  I can see the band playing, Tracy standing there with a cigarette between her middle and pointing finger, eyes closed, shifting on her feet side to side,.... just listening.

The reality is, she will rent the bar, hire the band, make a list of friends...then spend the entire night manning the door, kicking people out of "her party".

She has threatened me with her "one woman party" if I keep putting the idea down.  I was thinking that there is no way this is going to happen...dad'll be there.

Here you go Tarcccccy (that is not a typo)

 

sister love.

I know i'm posting a lot about Danielle lately, I don't know why.  But here goes another...story.

ok so....our relationship, growing up, is always extreme.  Either extremely close, or extremely fighting.  If you ask me my earliest memory, I might be able to recall stuff here or there, but one thing I do recall is the first time Danielle felt the first pangs of anger, frustration, and possibly hatred for her loving, devoted sister....me.

The word worship doesn't quite encompass how I felt about my older sister.  I WORSHIPED her, in a stupid, ridiculous, stalkerish, kind of way.  I would do anything for her attention, and as she got older, the lesser interested she was in cultivating a sister-friend relationship with me.  I was the annoying younger sister.  This sparked a panic in me, a panic for her love, then approval, then just....any kind of attention.  The quickest way to get any kind of attention is just to tick her off as stealth and quick as possible.  She has a boyfriend over?  I will find pictures of her cuddling a doll to show him.  She wants to go somewhere?  I will pout and produce tears to force myself along.  I never stop and analyze her growing annoyance, anger, and sometimes hatred for my existence...

This is a short story.  I am recalling the first time I betray my sister.  I am four (I think...?), and I have developed a great idea and just want to test it out and see if I can get away with it.  Danielle and I are playing on the kitchen floor, mom is floating around cleaning or something.  I turn my head, drag up my sleeve, and sink my teeth into my forearm.  Not enough to draw blood (cause that would hurt, wouldn't it?), enough to produce a perfect, crescent shaped, row of crevices in my skin.  The tell tale signs of a bite mark, slightly red from the bit of suction I applied when producing the evidence.  Phase one...done.  Next, I start to imagine my mother saying that I can never swim in our pool again...really, if I want to cry I have to go for my own gut.  Good, plush, full tears fall from my lids.  Phase two....done.  Last, I walk up to my mom, tears in tow, and hold up my arm.  I didn't even have to say anything.  "DDAaaaNNIEeeelllLELLLLEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!".  oh goodness.  Scuffle, scuffle, slappppy-dapppy, Danielle is now sitting in timeout with her back to me in the kitchen.  I sense Danielle's surprise at a punishment undeserved.  She actually had no clue what was going on, but sitting there in that chair, I see the back of her head begin to rotate towards the side of the chair, then her face peers out in my direction.... for the first time ever, I witness, Danielle's evil, I totally hate you, face.  It surprised me!!!!  Didn't she know I didn't know any better???  Her eyes were slits, she could have been Asian to on onlooker, her mouth pursed into a perfect circle, and her face red....a special red that can only be born of betrayal.  It was the first time...not the last.

Milestones

A milestone in childhood, when I was a child, was figuring out how to get your hot wheel going fast enough to be able to slide it to a grinding 180 degree halt when you pulled up the yellow brake.

A milestone in childhood, when I was a child, was digging around in the house and outside of the house to find enough change to purchase a small paper bag full of candy from Guardino's Neighborhood Market.

A milestone in adolescence, when I was an adolescent, was slipping into Danielle's room without her noticing and managing to completely get ready using her hair products, her crusty curling iron, and her makeup without her noticing.  

A milestone in adolescence, when I was an adolescent, was manipulating the situation so that Danielle manages to get into trouble right before spending the night at her friend's house so mom forces her to bring me along as punishment.

A milestone in young adulthood, when I was a young adult, was realizing that you are incapable of failing because my definition of failure was not being me.  I loved realizing that I was the one that got to define failure.

A milestone in young adulthood, when I was a young adult, was realizing you don't need high school to find a true circle of friends.  True friends are everywhere, in every stage of life.

A milestone in adulthood, since I've been an adult, has been realizing that people are around you for a reason, people are teaching you things everyday.  Even when your heart is ripped out when they are taken away, you learn how to learn from their experiences and be thankful for the gifts they are awarding you in their absence.

A milestone in adulthood, since I've been an adult, has been learning that hope will be with you for the rest of your life.  There is always something to hope for, something to aspire to, you can always change, learn, grow and improve who you are and become the best person you can be.

In the milestones, there are keywords that show your growth:

Childhood - Figuring out, Finding

Adolescents  - Manipulation

Young Adulthood - Realizing

Adulthood - Learning, Changing, Growing

I am a thankful person for my life.

a star is a star.

Debbie said a boy that she used to teach called her.  He said he would sing at my dad's funeral.  His name did sound familiar but was a common name, so I didn't think much about it.  We sit in the front pew, the microphone is set up, and it is time.  This young man steps up and begins to sing the sweetest and most beautiful rendition of Ave Maria that my ears have ever witnessed.  It was intense, it was soft, his voice... angellic.  He is amazing.  My thoughts of my father have evaporated and we are in his world for a few, beautiful, heavenly, minutes.

I did know this boy's father.  His father was an essential part of my childhood.  He was a teacher, a teacher I never had.  He was a coach, but never coached me.  He coached volleyball at Watertown, I played volleyball for Carthage.  I hate to toot my own horn, but, at 4 foot 11, I was a great volleyball player.  I didn't know my potential, I just knew my passion.  I had an intense love for volleyball because it was a sport that I excelled at.  On the court, I was needed, I was a contributor, I was strong.  In the ninth grade, we had a match against Watertown.  It was junior varsity, I played hard.  During game, my mantra was to do anything and everything to make the unimaginable happen, go the extra step, get the balls that others wouldn't even try for.  I never had fear, I threw myself in front of anything and made things happen.  After the game, I was sitting on the floor watching Varsity, drinking my water, and the coach from Watertown came over and went out of his way to tell me how well I played.  I acted nonchalant and thanked him, but inside it validated something for me.

Now what I am telling you here is this... I, by default, was lacking something that I relied on others to provide to me.  I did not believe in myself.  I could sing, but I didn't believe in myself enough to do it.  I could play this sport, but still lacked the confidence that assured me that I wouldn't fail.  I always looked forward to the Watertown matches because I knew that he was there, and he believed in me and it made me believe in me.

As a Senior I was chosen to play on the all-star team.  The schools each contributed two players to be on two teams that would compete against each other.  The Watertown coach was the coach for my all-star team.    The match ends at 15 points, but our team had to win by two, so if it was 14-14, the game would have to go to 16 for a win.  We are playing our 5th match, the tie breaker.  It is 11-14, our team is down.  I am on the sidelines and the coach is putting me in, he winks, I can barely contain myself.  I'm like Mike Tyson before a fight, i'm pumped, hopping from foot to foot.  I go in, it's my serve.  First serve...ace.  12-14, second, third, fourth, it is now 15-14, we are up.  I serve one more...ace.  We win.

I want to tell the coach how much he taught me.  I want to tell him that a short conversation between us 4 years earlier kept me going so many times when I felt like nothing.  I want to tell him...he is responsible for so much more than he would ever know...but I don't.  I say nothing.

He is Mark Taylor.  His son, also Mark Taylor.  I could not imagine having a dad like that.  It is no surprise that his son is so amazing.  It has been three years since my father's funeral and tonight I get to witness that voice of angel once again.  A beautiful rendition of "The Phantom of the Opera", he sings, I cry.  I cannot wait to see where this person goes in his life, the possibilities are endless.