Josh is a creative, sensitive child. He sees things in a different light. He shares a room with his older brother, Jon. Josh was 5 years old at the time and Jon was 16. Jon was not thrilled about sharing a room with his younger brother. I was hoping that some of Jon's he-man attitude would spill over onto Josh who was more prone to being concerned with the room's decor than with boy stuff.

Josh was out in the front room with me watching Trading Spaces. It was early afternoon and Jon was still sleeping. At least that is what we thought.

Crash bam swear word swear word JOSH!!!
we heard Jon screaming from their room.

Josh looks over at me innocently and says, "Well, mom, I just really didn't like my bed over in the corner. It just didn't get enough light and it looks so much better in the middle of the room under the hanging light."

Jon comes storming out, demanding that I do something about him. "He cannot be moving furniture around in the room when I am sleeping! I almost broke my neck tripping over a bed in the center of the room. This is not natural. He has to stop rearranging MY room. He is lucky that I have agreed to let him exist with me there...do something!"

Josh looks over at me. "But mom, really the lighting is much better right over my bed instead of in the corner."

I sigh, and say, "Josh, the next time you want to move something, you have to talk to Jon about it first. Please. We cannot have Jon with broken bones due to your rearranging of the furniture."

That seemed to calm Jon down and gave Josh hope.

Urania was in kindergarten. She had a wonderful patient teacher. Urania often found it hard to sit still. Her teacher told her that she had better sit still. Urania thought and thought. She came up with a solution.

That day, she brought home a note. It read:

"Susan, your daughter was told to sit still today. She took her whole bottle of glue and emptied it onto the seat of her chair then sat in it. When asked why she did that, she said that way she would be stuck and couldn't move. She would be sitting still."

Being the ever image of a parent, I didn't know whether to commend her on creative problem solving or chastise her for wasting the glue. I ended up laughing, which I am sure was not the best choice.

My best friend when I was in high school was Mary. She lived down the street from me. We did everything together. Looking back I don't remember who had the Great Flamingo Roundup idea.

The Great Flaming Roundup idea consisted of us going around Galesburg and confiscating pink flamingoes and placing them in the front yard of our art teacher who DETESTED pink flamingoes. We thought this would be a hoot.

Soon the night came that we were going to do this. I had my parents' big old Buick LeSabre. We had taken the light out of the trunk so when we would open the trunk to put the flamingoes in, there would be no telltale light showing what we were doing. From house to house we drove. Quickly snatching the offending birds, often times ending up with rain water trailing down our bodies. The large trunk of the car got filled quickly with pink bodies and metal stick legs. The last house we visited was this lady who was crazy about the color purple. She wore only purple. She rode a purple bike. Even her hair was tinted purple and this was at a time before punk. Anyway we grabbed two of hers and went over to our art teacher's house. We filled his front yard up with these pink fiends. Giggling the whole time.

We could hardly wait until Monday's art class. Finally we were sitting in his class. Our teacher came in. Sat down. He was a large man. Tall and body shape wise. He had longer black and grey hair. He wore a goatee before it was the thing to wear. He had a pair of black glasses.

He surveys the class. Slowly his eyes sweep over the class, landing on me. Slowly and deliberately he moves his glasses down to the tip of his nose so that he can peer over the edge of his glasses.

In his deep deep voice he says quite pointedly...
"Someone... has thrown up pink flamingoes all over my front yard. Someone... had better clean their mess up before I arrive at my adobe this evening. Imagine my surprise when I opened my front door to collect my Sunday paper and I am greeted with this horror. I clutched my heart and staggered backwards. I could hardly retrieve my Sunday news. I shut my door to this monstrosity which had better be removed should that someone... want to pass my class and that someone's... father not be notified of this caper."

Barely able to stifle my laughter, I was only able to nod in understanding.

Mary and I went after school to collect the flamingoes. We hid them in her garage. A couple of nights later there was in the paper under lost and found, the purple lady had placed an ad requesting the return of her flamingoes. Perfect. Mary and I made two tags that said "We are sorry we ran away. We hope you don't mind but we have brought some of our friends home with us" and attached them to two of the flamingoes. Later that night we put those two in the front and the rest of the flamingoes behind them in the purple lady's yard. What a surprise she would wake up to in the morning!

My current husband, Jack is the ying to my yang. He is my stabilizing force. We compliment each other. Where I am wild, he is calm. Where I have lofty ideas, he is earth bound. He doesn't ever discourage me and my ideas. He will allow me to dream then will bring up other aspects that I hadn't considered.

We met back when I was 18. I was smitten immediately but he was married at the time. I had thought she was his sister but no such luck. I could listen to him for hours tell me stories. He was so intelligent and wise. Time passed (about 20 years, 2 husbands ) when I moved back to Galesburg.

I had put my information on classmates.com when I was living in Chicago. My profile basically said that I had 5 children and worked in human resources. I hadn't updated any information since moving to Galesburg.

One day when I was at work, I received an email saying that John wanted to talk to me. John? I wondered if this was Jack. I had always known him as Jack. I took a chance and wrote back to him. It was my Jack. This began a wonderful email relationship. His wife had recently died and I was involved in a crazy relationship with a Nicaraguan Sandinista loon. Soon I was free of the loon and Jack and I began seeing each other. He bought a Harley. We decided to go to Sturgis.

Little did I know how that would test our relationship. Jack had this idea that we would drive straight through to Sturgis....972 miles. Looking back, I realize that this was good that we did this early in our relationship because there is no way it would have happened later. We were still in the polite stage with each other. Considerate to a point.

Now I am a good passenger on a bike. I love to be a passenger. Just not for 972 miles straight. We drove and drove and drove. Getting on and off of the bike became a feat of stamina in itself. Every bone, muscle in my body ached. We had started out wearing leather jackets. By the time we got to South Dakota it was so hot I was pouring bottles of water down myself. We saw bikers pulled over by Do Not Pass signs, standing in the shade from the sign. The wind would blow hot sand/dirt at us. There was no breeze when we stopped.

We finally arrived at the campsite. Now, I remember a time when my parents had rented a camper to take us kids camping. We had gone not too far from my grandmother and grandfather's house in Griggsville. We went to set up camp and when dad handed us a shovel and told us that this was to dig our bathroom spots with...well, we ended up back at our grandparent's house in their yard camping.

So it is safe to say that my camping experience was about nil. Jack told me clear out a spot so he could set the tent up on it. We had a small tent. I didn't truly understand what he was saying so I looked on the ground for broken glass or something. I didn't see any, and yes, I did see the sticks and pine cones but I didn't think that was what he was talking about. We set the tent up...it was starting to get dusk. We did have an air mattress (thank god, I am way too old to sleep on the ground) but I didn't have a pillow because when you are packing things to take on a motorcycle, you have to be conscious of everything you pack. And there is limited room.

It may have been the next night. We went to bed and about 5 in the morning (the sun was up), Jack and I were laying there when all of a sudden we hear psssssssssssss. I looked over at him and he looked at me. psssssssssss and then we started sinking. Slowly. Ever so slowly. Jack says to me in his wonderful deep voice, "Susan, I thought you cleared out the spot under this tent."

"Well, I thought I did. Well. What do you really mean, clear out the area?"

Jack looked at me as if he was regarding a child. A really young child.

"Did you move the branches and sticks out of the way?"

"Oh, those. Well, I didn't find any broken glass or anything. I didn't really think you were talking about the sticks."

"That would be why we are now on a deflated air mattress."

"oh." I said, sorry that I didn't understand.

Truly understanding the consequences of my not clearing out a spot when we slept that night with no air mattress. Didn't know that I could feel so many of my bones through my ample body. The next day we went and bought another air mattress. The small things in life mean so much.

We rode all over in the beautiful Black Hills. Unbelievable. It was wonderful. One time it rained horribly while we were on the bike. Poor Jack. We had our Frogg Toggs on (lightweight rainsuits) and I thought I was helping him by putting my hands into his pockets on his jacket and pulling it down. I thought I was keeping his hood on but rather I find out later, I was actually pulling the hood over his eyes which is why he pushed my hands out of the way. Oops.

Soon, too soon, it was time to head home. By this time, the camping, the not being home, was taking its toll. I was dead tired and cranky. Jack wasn't much better. And he had stopped taking his Zoloft which then affected his personality. He changed into this person that did not care that he was pushing me beyond my physical limits. Riding riding riding. At one point, I thought there was a hitchiker standing next to us as we traveled down the road and was asking us for a ride. That was when I realized I had fallen asleep. Not good. And Jack was driven. Not wanting to stop except for gas. Accusing me of sipping my cappucino longer than I should because I didn't want to get back on the bike. It was truly that the cappucino was hot and I hate drinking hot liquids but he thought it was because my body was screaming in agony each time I got back on the bike. We stopped at the rest stop in Iowa. I just started crying. I don't know if you can appreciate the pain of riding that long on a bike. My entire body had every nerve inflamed in pain. It was all I could do to pull my pants up after using the bathroom. I truly didn't care if he left me there at that rest stop. I just wanted to lay down on the wooden slatted bench. And yet he still pressed on.

We arrived at home and he looked at me and said if we just rode to Peoria and back we would have completed over 1000 miles straight of riding.

Boy, I thought. It is in his favor that this was early in our relationship. I looked at him and said that he was more than welcomed to do that. I was going to just crawl into bed and sleep. And sleep. And sleep.

All in all it was a fun great trip. Getting there and back wasn't so fun but South Dakota is a beautiful state by the Black Hills. And I was glad that we went. Jack was already talking about going again the next year. I knew then there was no way I was going to be able to go straight through ever again in this lifetime.

I must have been about 21 when I fell in lust with my oldest's father. He was younger than me. Looking back, too young but I didn't think about it at the time. Actually we were both too young.

Johnny and I lived together in a nice neighborhood, in an apartment on the third floor that had purple carpeting running throughout it. We hadn't been living there long. I was working the third shift at Denny's as a waitress. I had worked about 4 hours of my shift when two girls on days called in. My manager asked me if I would be willing to go home for a couple of hours then return for the breakfast rush hours. Sure I said. It was a Saturday night and Sunday mornings were really busy and I could make some good money. I went home.

I arrived at the apartment in the wee hours of the morning. I put my key in the door and turned it. I went to open the door and I couldn't open it. I pushed harder. I managed to get it opened, sliding what I could see was our wing back chair that had been put under the doorknob. And the chain lock was on. I could hear a girl's voice come from the back of the apartment where our bedroom was. Instantly I was beyond anger.

"Johnny!!! Who is in there with you? Open this door!!" I screamed totally unmindful of the other apartment dwellers.

Johnny says like he is calming a wild animal (maybe he was)..."Just a minute. Calm down. I am coming."

I see his face appear in the small space between the door and the frame, his chin right above the chain lock. I promptly grab some of his beautiful curly hair in my fingers. I jerk his head/face hard towards myself.

"Wait, Wait! I can explain." Johnny wails.

"I bet you can." I let go of his hair. Some of his curls remained entwined in my fingers. He pulls back with two red lines from the edge of the door and frame going down his face.

"Really. It isn't how it appears." he says. " Go downstairs and give me a minute and I will come and we can talk." he reasons.

Suddenly a cold calm comes over me.

"Sure, Johnny. Sure. Whatever you say."

I turn and go back down the stairs. I calmly walk over to the trunk of my car, open it and take out a wooden baseball bat. I then walk over to his/our other car which was a wonderful blue Trans Am complete with louvers and a big black bird on the hood.

First, I rip off the louvers. Next I begin to hit the windshield with the bat. Bam Bam Bam. It is actually harder to break a windshield with a baseball bat than one might think. It looked so easy on television. Crack....finally the bat did its duty. I then begin to systematically go around the car hitting every side panel, quarter panel, door, and window that I can. I briefly look up at our apartment's window and there is Johnny's face peering out and him hollering to please quit it.

Right. Stop. No way. Finally I guess I ran out of anger. Then in horror I observed what I had done. My stomach sunk. I had gone too far. I went to my car and drove to a friend's house ( a friend that later ended up being the other woman and eventually marrying Johnny, but that is another story).

I called Johnny and now what he had done (screwed another girl in our bed) didn't seem so bad compared to the damage that I had done. He agreed not to call the police and I agreed to let it all drop. Odd looking back on it now. But a solution at the time that worked for awhile. It was only a matter of time before the relationship between Johnny and I ended. I learned that I had an anger that I couldn't control which changed me at some level.

First grade.


I went to a nice grade school. My first grade teacher was a wonderful small spinister teacher.I used to have a crush on three boys. Peter, David and Kurt. I thought they were great. Peter sat next to me. He wasn't very good in math. He asked if he could copy my answers. Of course I said yes. There was this other boy named Izzy. Izzy was a tattle tale. He told on anything and everything that he could. So of course when he saw Peter copying my answers, he raised his hand to let our teacher know what debauchery was going on. Our teacher came over and promptly took mine and Peter's math papers. Mine was done and Peter's was only partially finished. I felt that she could see that I knew how to do the math and I was simply helping a fellow classmate out. Far from that. She told both of us that we were going to have to stay after school and re-do the papers.

What?!! I couldn't stay after school. I had just gotten the privelege of being able to walk home alone. I didn't have to wait for mom and my brother to come and get me. I didn't have to hold anyone's hand crossing the streets. I was pratically grown up. I knew that if I didn't arrive at home exactly in the 7 minutes it took me to walk, there would be punishment. Big punishment. My father was strict. Very strict. If I caused my mother undo worry, I would get it. Which would be a spanking coupled with being sent to bed early and I bet I would also lose my right to walk home by myself. I couldn't stay after school.

Time passed slowly that afternoon. Finally the bell rang. My teacher passed out the math papers. I looked. Ahhhh. 36 problems. I was good in math but not good enough to complete 36 problems in 2 minutes. (I had figured that if I walked faster I could maybe save 2 minutes, maybe long enough to do the math paper.) I took a deep breath and then began to scribble numbers like mad under the addition line.

There. Finished. I handed my paper over to my teacher who started to say something but I had already flown out the door. I walked fast. (I couldn't run on sidewalks. Every time I would run on a sidewalk, I would invariably fall and scrape my knees up and make them all bloody. My father had instilled the fear of God himself if I was to ever run on sidewalks again. Which I didn't run on a sidewalk again until 7th grade and sure enough, I fell and got my knees all bloody again!) I made it home just as my mother and brother were starting to head towards the school. Whew. I told my mother that I had had to go to the bathroom which was why I was a bit late. She looked at me odd but didn't say anything.

That night I began to plan the revenge I would extract on Izzy for what I thought was getting me into this mess.

The next day, we got our papers back. An 'F' screamed back at me. Burning in red ink. My eyes began to tear. I had never gotten a bad grade before. I was actually fairly intelligent. This strengthened my resolve to get Izzy. I thought about it all morning. It was soon time for recess. That is when it hit me how I would get Izzy. We all lined up to go outside for recess. I snuck back into our classroom. I went to the teacher's desk. I slowly opened her middle drawer where our milk money was collected. I took the money and put it into Izzy's desk. I knew that when our teacher came back it would be time to take the milk money to the office. She would open the drawer and lo and behold, there would be no milk money. This would then require her to question our class as to who took the money or did anyone know who took it or what happened to it. I knew also that I wasn't going to say anything and for once Izzy wouldn't be able to say anything. I was doing this not only for myself but for the good of the class. Our teacher would then tell us to put our heads down and if someone knew anything they would simply stick their thumb up on their hand and she would take that person out of the class and talk to them in the hallway. Ha. I knew no one would stick their thumb up. Then would come the search. (Obviously back in the days where teachers had full carte blanche to do what they wanted and the parents would support the teacher). She would have us empty our pockets and search our desks. And then would come my glory.

Sure enough I was right. I almost giggled in glee thinking about how Izzy was going to react. He would be dumbfounded. He would deny, deny, deny. Our teacher wouldn't believe him. The evidence would be right there. Soon after having our heads down for what seemed forever, the search began.

"Izzy, what is this?"

"I, I, don't know" stammered Izzy.

"Now this money didn't appear here by magic. Did you really think you would get away with this?" our teacher would ask cleverly she believed.

Red faced, Izzy was led protesting his innocence out of our classroom to the principal's office.

Feeling quite accomplished, I joined in with the rest of the class expressing amazement and wonder at Izzy being the thief. I was not one to be crossed, I learned quite early.

Now that I am older, I am not proud of this. I have been told that I am such a nice person. I just smile and say that I am so nice now because I have many things to attone for...little do they know that the things I am attoning for began way back in first grade.

Thanksgiving

Back in April, for some reason, we bought 25 baby turkeys. Not wild turkeys, but rather the typical Pilgrim feast turkeys. By Thanksgiving we were down to one magnificent tom turkey with full plummage and 3 large female turkeys. We were going to my parents' house for Thanksgiving.

Urania was about 4 years old. I was telling her we were going to go to Grandma's and eat turkey. Her eyes got big. "Eat turkey?" she asks.

"Yes, we are going to have turkey."

"Like our turkeys?" she again asked.

"No, honey. We are going to eat dead turkey." I respond.

Her eyes got huge. "We are going to eat dead turkey?" she asked incredulously.

Suddenly a light goes on in my head and I picture what she must be picturing in her head.
Ick.

"Sorry Urania. I don't mean truly a dead turkey but rather a turkey from the store." Hoping that would erase the mental image of a dead turkey like one of ours, dead on a platter.

"Oh, ok. A store turkey is much better than a turkey like one of ours."

Whew. That was a close one. Could have scarred her from Thanksgivings for the rest of her life.

Chickens.

Such a farm word. You picture a farm, and invariably you will have automatically placed chickens in the picture. Along with a cow or two. Some hay, a tractor and maybe even a small pond. But that is where it ends. You do not picture the chickens playing any sort of important role in the farm. They are more of an accessory. We have several chicken stories, but I think I will start out with one of the most bizarre.

We have chickens. We have had many odd chickens. We are currently down to 2 big golden retriever colored roosters, and 2 black, white, irridescent bantam roosters that have feathers on their feet. My son, Chris, works at Hardee's. One night he returns from Hardee's and actually enters the house and sits with my other son, Jon, and myself in the family room. This is odd in itself since Chris is usually pasted in front of the computer playing some involved virtual life video game.

I look over at him. He says, "I think I took a chicken to work with me."

Silence.

Jon says, "All of our chickens are here, Chris. You didn't take a chicken to work with you." (At this time we may have had 6 - 8 chickens waiting to be coyote bait...ha.)

Chris shakes his head. "No, I took a chicken to work with me."

Now, I am sitting there trying to even formulate what he is alluding to. Could it be possible that a chicken held onto the car for 15 miles, reaching speeds of I am sure over the speed limit of 55, survived several passings of cars (and no one honked to let him know there was a chicken attached to his car?) and then waited for Chris to finish working his 5 hours, hopped back onto the car (front? back? underneath?) and rode home because inside the chicken was truly a daredevil soul?

"Chris, what do you mean you took a chicken to work with you?"

Silence.

"Well, mom, this lady comes in and says that there is this chicken outside in the parking lot hanging around a green car. So I go outside, and sure enough, there is this small chicken hanging around our green car. So I go and pick it up and put it inside on the back seat. I finish my shift and come home."

Wow. First off, we have all of our chickens here. They are conveniently roosting on our front porch. Second, what are the odds of a chicken being in Hardee's parking lot, choosing a car of a person that doesn't know what all of his family's chickens look like, so he assumes it is one of his, and getting a ride to a new home?

Jon asks, "So where is the chicken now?"

Chris shrugs as if he wasn't sure he wanted to be part of this oddity. "I took him out of the car when I got home. He is probably still by the car."

Jon grabs a flashlight. We go outside. Sure enough, there is a small chicken sitting on the hood of the car, all huddled down for a good night's sleep. Jon approaches slowly. We examine it from a distance of maybe a foot.

"Do you think I can touch it?" Jon inquires.

"Shoot, I don't know. Sure, go ahead. I will be ready to bean it with the flashlight if it attacks you." I offer quite confident of my flashlight beating skills.

Jon slowly reaches out and touches the chicken. The chicken looks up, non-plussed. Jon begins to pet its back. The chicken is still ok with this. Jon then picks the chicken up with both hands. "Quick, open the basement door!"

I trot ahead and open the basement door. Jon enters with chicken in hand. He finds his way through the maze of junk I have collected (another story in itself) and plops this chicken next to where Chris is now sitting, glued to the computer screen, playing a game. Jon announces that this is now his (Chris's) responsibility.

Chris just stares. Jon and I retreat back upstairs.

How totally bizarre. Jon has noted in the brief time he held the chicken that it is a rooster, a bantam (small breed of chicken) with long silken feathers. Almost like a show rooster. It has longer claw dillies on the back of the legs so that indicates that it is an older rooster. Where it came from, we have no idea. It is almost like the coke bottle in the movie, "The Gods Must Be Crazy" and we are the aborigines that get this "gift" from the gods.

4 am. I hear the chicken crowing in the basement. Chris of course has just left it there. "Good," I thought, "he deserves to be wakened by it. He should have put it outside with the others."