I Once Knew A Girl

I once knew a girl. 

She had long curly blonde hair and a tall forehead. 

When she was young, her face was sprinkled with freckles. 

As was my own. 

We had the same name and we were friends from an early age. 

As our age progressed, we became distanced. 

New friends and new hobbies took up our time. 

But, during high school we always had time to say hello to one another. 

Our friendship continued into college. 

We could always sit and chat about life. 

The two Jennifers were always friends, if not close friends in the end. 

In the end. 

In the end she was murdered. 

Jennifer and I met in grade school. 

And we went to junior high and high school together. 

I went to state college while she went to a private college. 

But the private college was five minutes from my school. 

She was, by far without a doubt, the smartest person I have ever known. 

She didn't have the best common sense, as would be shown in the end. 

Her common sense persuaded her to be friends and lovers with some people who weren't always the best influence on her. 

She would be found alone in the end. 

Well, not quite alone. 

Her two cats saw the whole thing. 

The violent end to a brilliant life. 

A violent end that shocked her friends' world. 

An end that dissolved her parents' world in an instant. 

An end that haunts me to this day. 

The Netflix documentary Making A Murderer has been on every media platform lately. 

Everyone has been debating whether or not Steven Avery is guilty of murdering a woman. 

Or if he's sitting in prison when he should be at home. 

It's funny, as I'm writing this blog post I'm not remembering the name of the victim. 

I remember the name of the accused. 

And as I remember my friend Jennifer, it seems her accused killer became a sort of star himself. 

Because the man who was accused, tried, and sent to prison for committing heinous acts to her is not in prison. 

Not anymore. 

He's at home. 

Because of many factors...sloppy police work and a group of lawyers who like to free people that they think got an unfair trial. 

They call themselves the Innocence Squad or something like that. 

Yet, Jennifer is still in the ground. 

Her grave sits in the cemetery next to my house. 

And while I enjoy a good true crime story, I don't think I want to watch Making A Murderer. 

Because what's a story to some people is real life to others. 

Real life to the victim's family. 

Real life to those who go to their friend's funeral, where you stop and think "this doesn't happen in real life."

Jennifer was found strangled and stabbed on an August morning in 1993.  

She hadn't been seen at class. 

The fall semester had started and she had transferred from the private university down the street to finish her journalism degree at Illinois State. 

My cousin had called me that weekend because she had seen a report on the local news that a body had been found in an Illinois State apartment. 

I had a semester left in college. 

I had an apartment at Illinois State, but  was visiting my parents that weekend. 

We were having a 50th wedding anniversary party for my grandparents the next day. 

My cousin was calling to see if I was okay. 

Some of my friends were having a party at Illinois State that night, so I called to see if everyone was alive. 

"Yep, we're all here and kickin'!" was the response I got when I called. 

It wasn't until the next afternoon when the call that forever changed how I viewed my world came through. 

A friend, who was very close with Jennifer as we had all grown up together, had become curious about this news report and went to see if she was okay. 

My parents phone rang and I answered. 

There was no chit chat from my friend. 

Instead, hysterical screams reverberated through the line. 

"It was her!"

"It was Jennifer who was murdered!"

She had walked up to Jennifer's apartment only to find police standing outside and yellow tape covering the door. 

I immediately drove away, to be with our group of friends. 

I don't remember much after that call.

The funeral was observed by the police. 

A camera taped everyone as they silently pushed their shocked bodies slowly down the funeral home carpet to pay respects to Jennifer's parents.

Her mother had no idea who anyone was.

She seemed to be heavily sedated, yet still was somehow standing. 

The Catholic church service was hard to sit through. 

I had been to funerals before. 

A boy had killed himself during high school and I had gone to the funeral home to say goodbye to him. 

But this was different. 

I couldn't get past the fact that my friend was lying in the box that was at the front of the chapel. 

I couldn't get past the fact that she had been brutally killed. 

How she had been violated. 

I sobbed openly during the entire service. 

But, the one thing that WAS noticed, was who was absent. 

He was absent. 

The boy who said he loved her the most. 

The boy who had often come to our beloved 916 Hovey home at Illinois State looking for Jennifer. 

Looking for her in a drunken, drug induced stupor. 

Looking for her as if she belonged to him only. 

Even when we would tell him to "get out of our house, she's not here, she doesn't even live here" he would try to push his way in. 

He wasn't there to say goodbye to her at the cemetery. 

And the police noticed. 

And we thought justice had been fulfilled.

It later all fell apart. 

I moved to Chicago after college. 

I married and had two children. 

I returned to my hometown with my new family. 

I inherited my grandparents' house which has a cemetery right next door. 

A cemetery where my friend Jennifer forever rests. 

I put flowers on her grave every Memorial Day. 

I used to see her dad at the library. 

He was a proud patron there and he greatly valued education. 

He donated money and items to the summer reading program. 

We would pass in the parking lot. 

Or I would see him leaving as I was shuttling my little kids up the stairs to the children's floor of books. 

Me, the other Jennifer, with her two daughters. 

He would smile lightly to me. 

But never stopped to talk. 

I don't know if he remembered me. 

Or if he did and was trying not to remember. 

Thinking of his own Jennifer. 

Who wouldn't have children. 

I thought of it. 

And I had a sense of guilt during brief these meetings. 

Guilty somehow that I was alive and had gotten married. 

Had children. 

Had the life his daughter could have had. 

If it hadn't ended that summer in August. 

I once knew a girl...

Our Beach

We cancelled cable a few weeks ago.

At first the kids were distraught. 

Distraught as in "NOOOOO!"

But we were paying so much money and we would flip through the Direct TV directory and find that there was absolute nothing on that interested us. 

So, Chad called and cancelled. 

The first few days, the girls didn't even seem to notice the tv. 

They played in their room. 

They played in the dining room. 

They played Minecraft on their iPad. 

They played piano without any coaxing from me. 

They realized, without even knowing it, that they didn't even need that tv. 

What they needed was each other. 

There was still arguing amongst the two sisters. 

That's not going to ever go away. 

Needing "things" got me thinking about my last post. 

And about the homeless who lived at the lake when we resided in Chicago.

And about a specific homeless man whose name I never knew...

Chad and I lived a block and a half from Lake Michigan when we had an apartment in Chicago. 

The neighborhood was East Rogers Park.

The beach was Loyola Beach. 

Named for Loyola University that shared the neighborhood. 

It was a very expansive beach. 

But secluded enough to be more of a community type beach as opposed to a tourist type beach. 

Tourist beaches in Chicago amount to Oak Street Beach and North Ave Beach. 

Those that sit along Lake Shore Drive and are shadowed by skyscrapers. 

Our beach was at the far northeastern end of the city. 

Loyola Beach is where Zoe started walking. 

And eating sand. 

Where our dog Madison loved to run unleashed in the surf.

He didn't like water, he would only wade in up to his ankles. 

But he dug digging holes in the soft, pebbly sand. 

This beach became "our" beach. 

I'm sure many people in the neighborhood felt the same way about it as we did. 

We went to the beach in every season. 

When it was finally hot enough to swim at the end of July. 

And when it was frozen over during January, the wind biting at our noses. 

It was always so beautiful. 

After the September 11th attacks, I remember being at the beach. 

Looking up into a planeless sky. 

One of the fun things about Loyola Beach and our apartment was that we were under a circling flight path for O'Hare airport. 

We saw many planes over the years, but in the weeks following 9/11, the air was vacant. 

Ghostly quiet. 

All we heard were the gulls cawing at one another. 

And once, a rare fighter jet high above the clouds that we could hear, but not see. 

I was on the beach when the fighter jet was heard on September 12th. 

A man who lived in an apartment with a great view of the lake came running out to me. 

He had heard the jet as well. 

He was terrified. 

"Did you hear that?!" He exclaimed. 

"I thought that planes weren't allowed to fly!"

I suggested it was probably the military, up so high we couldn't see them through the clouds. 

That they were keeping us safe.

He agreed and hurried back into the safety of his home. 

Right back to CNN, I suppose. 

During warm weather, the park and beach were alive with people. 

People would drag their charcoal grills to the grass. 

Kids would be riding their bikes. 

Hula hoops were twisting around waists. 

Boxing matches were seen. 

East Rogers Park had a large Bosnian refugee population. 

Those fleeing Slobodan Milosevic during his terror found Chicago to be a welcoming home. 

These children flocked to my dog, seeing him as a safe friend. 

Ice cream vendors whose carts were on bicycles pedaled around ringing their bells to announce their frozen goods.

Hare Krishnas who had a temple in our neighborhood would sing and dance down the sidewalks. 

Lifeguards in boats kept those in the lake safe. 

And the homeless sat amongst the crowds. 

You didn't know who they were during the busy afternoons. 

Unless you were one of those that came to the beach early each morning like I did. 

Madison loved spending his mornings speeding around in the green grass. 

Smelling amazing things left on the ground.

I enjoyed the quiet, the most noise coming from the waves of Lake Michigan hitting the rocky shoreline.  

The homeless would be there tucked under blankets beneath trees or on the many benches. 

If Madison ventured over to see what the pile on the grass was, a quick whistle from my mouth would steer him away. 

As they awoke from their sleep, which was probably never a peaceful sleep, they would go about their morning routines. 

Some brushed their teeth at the drinking fountains. 

Some gathered what few possessions that they had and started walking around the neighborhood. 

One man in particular always stood out to me. 

I saw him most days sitting on a park bench. 

A bench just inside the confines of the park boundaries where my street ended and the park began. 

He was a heavy set guy and once it became cold outside, I never saw him at the bench. 

But on warm days, he was there. 

Gray hair that I always thought may have been dark blonde in earlier years. 

In a shirt that was always too small. 

With shoes on his feet that were barely hanging on. 

My dog Madison rarely walked on a leash while at the park. 

If the police were doing their daily drive through, I would snap his leash onto his collar. 

But on most days, Madison just glided down the open park paths next to me. 

He never went up to anyone. 

Never got into anyone's business. 

Whenever we passed the homeless man in the too small shirt, he always said "I like your dog."

And Madison would go up to him. 

And he would pet the spotted dog and smile. 

We would chat about something. 

The weather. 

Madison's good dog manners. 

Then we would say goodbye and I would continue my walk. 

Anytime we saw him, the same conversations would commence. 

He never asked for anything. 

I never offered anything. 

We were just two people living within this huge city having a talk in a park. 

Being acknowledged by someone, I think, was what he wanted most of all. 

It's what kept him coming back. 

Watching life and being able to still interact in life. 

I'm sure he needed what most of us take for granted. 

But, contact with a dog and a lady on warm days in the park helped ease things for a few minutes. 

It would help me if I were in his shoes. 

Our beach was his beach too. 

What we all need in life is to feel purposeful. 

And if that alone means being able to have meaningful, coherent conversations with strangers in a park...

that can be more than enough. 

Just Whistle

If you got caught stealing an ice cream bar, my Great Uncle Dale would stop you in your tracks. 

And talk to you until your pocket became a soggy mess. 

Talk to you until that ice cream bar you thought you were getting for free became nothing but a puddle in you pocket. 

If you skipped school, like my cousin Bill did, you had to work extra hours sweeping the floors. 

The smell of fresh meat being butchered wafted through the store. 

Rows of staples like flour and canned beans were within easy reach. 

Candy was situated by the checkout girl. 

Gneckows Grocery store. 

The grocery store that my Great Uncle Howard and his brother Harvey owned after buying it from a fellow named Emery Gneckow. 

A grocery store that was never visited by me. 

Gneckows Grocery has become a shop of memories for me. 

Memories that were told to me by my dad and his family. 

My dad worked in Uncle Howard's store as a kid. 

Uncle Howard was a butcher. 

By the time that I came around, Uncle Howard was a butcher elsewhere. 

Because Gneckows had closed. 

Harvey dropped dead in the store. 

And that was the end of it all. 

I remember going to see him at the new market. 

He wore a long white apron and, as I sit here typing this, I can see him standing behind the meat counter. 

Tall, slim, and white haired with the biggest grin on his face. 

Always the big grin. 

And always doing that thing butchers do with their hands. 

Wiping the fronts and backs of his tools onto his apron. 

His tools being his hands that held the knives that dissected the animal into something you would take home to eat. 

In my memories as a child, there were only small groceries in town. 

Where everyone knew you when you walked in. 

People said hello to one another and there were only six aisles to go down. 

Standing at the big meat counter. 

The counter that soared over my head. 

But one that had a large clear viewing window. 

I could press my face against it and listen as my grandmother ordered chuck roasts, pork chops, and pounds of beef from her brother in law. 

And I would get some candy at the checkout counter. 

The days of the family grocery store are over for my family. 

But I have a piece of it in my house. 

Whistle Orange Soda was made by the Vess Soda Co in the late 1900s. 

Produced first in St Louis, then distributed in other Midwest towns. 

This clock used to reside in Gneckows Grocery. 

Telling mothers how much time they had before the kids got home from school. 

Better hurry up with your purchase, the Whistle clock says its 2:45. 

My dad got this clock from his Uncle Howard. 

And it hung in his garage for many years. 

I don't remember if it was plugged in while resting in my dad's garage. 

But I took it and used it as a source of both nostalgia and as a time piece in my apartment in Chicago after college. 

And it was working well until maybe ten years ago. 

Then it went backwards. 

The dials started turning counter clockwise. 

Was the clock was trying to go back?

Trying to go back to the past when it was vibrantly colored and full of new life. 

Was Whistle remembering its own past when it hung over the chubby checkout lady who was shoving money from the register into her pockets?

Was it remembering how useful it had been and now it just sat in a young couple's apartment collecting dust?

We unplugged it. 

But it's always moved with us. 

Around to different Chicago apartments. 

To the suburbs. 

And finally back to it's hometown.

Once my husband and I found a Whistle soda bottle at an antique fair. 

What a thrill that was.

We have since found two other bottles to add to our collection. 

I think Uncle Howard would be tickled to see Just Whistle hanging in our home. 

The home his wife, my Great Aunt Marie, grew up in. 

The home that Uncle Dale grew up in.

The home that helped raise my dad, Bobby Dale.  

The home that has stayed while everything else has gone. 

Nothing exists where Gneckows Grocery once stood. 

An alley is still there, but an empty lot surrounded by derelict homes is all that remains. 

My dad has his memories. 

His memories of stocking shelves and sweeping floors for Uncle Howard.

I'll get Just Whistle moving again. 

I'll find a clock repair shop. 

I hope. 

Those may be as hard to come by these days as are smiles from the checkout lady at the super mega grocery store. 

Aunt Gee-Knee

An Elvis song came on the radio a few days ago. 

"Aunt Jeanne saw Elvis in concert once", I told my kids. 

"Yes, you tell us that every time you hear an Elvis song", they bemoaned. 

"I do?"

"Well, did I ever tell you that she also had a major crush on Tom Jones?"

"Who?"

"Tom Jones!  Come on!  You know, what's new pussy cat whoah, whoah, whoooah-oh!"

Now I've got them...

"Oh Yeah!"

"What else did Aunt Jeanne like?!"

 

And the stories begin. 

About my favorite Aunt. 

My mom's oldest sister. 

Who helped open my eyes and heart to musical theater.

Who fed my love of dance with live performances of Swan Lake and Seven Brides For Seven Brothers. 

Who my daughter Zoe and I inherited the strange habit of hair twirling from. 

She had the largest collection of return address labels and stickers from all of the subscriptions she had and from the charities she supported. 

I think she had lifetime subscriptions to Readers Digest because if they sent a bill, she paid it. 

Over and over and over again. 

And there was never a bigger donor to the Cherokee National Youth Choir than that lady from Central Illinois. 

She was a voracious reader. 

Who, I swear on my still beating heart, read 7 books a week. 

Cheesy romance novels about pioneer women and men with dusty chaps who hadn't shaved or showered in 4 years. 

My Aunt Jeanne. 

Pronounced "Gee-Knee". 

A woman who never married. 

Who never had children of her own. 

But who had a deep yearning to be with children so she spoiled her nieces and nephews and became a foster mom to kids who had no one. 

She traveled everywhere in the U.S.

And had countless stories to tell. 

And she always ended her sentences with her signature laugh. 

Her "Ernie from Sesame Street" snicker. 

That we often recreate at home. 

Because she isn't here to perform live for us anymore. 

She had a rich and full life. 

I know she wished it had turned out differently, though. 

She was a smoking diabetic who suffered greatly because of these two things. 

She lost toes.

She suffered from congestive heart failure. 

She became someone she didn't want to be. 

And she cried. 

Especially when she had to leave her home for a senior center. 

And she died alone. 

Because she contracted something that the doctors said we couldn't be near. 

And that's not fair. 

It wasn't fair to her at all. 

I believe my children marvel at the Aunt Jeanne stories I tell because they don't remember that. 

They remember the lady who couldn't walk very well. 

Who had dark bruises on her arms from her medications and bumps into walls. 

But who always had candy and stickers for them. 

And hugs. 

Lots of hugs. 

She wanted to be cremated when she passed away. 

So, that's what happened. 

And she has no marker to show the world she existed. 

Which I guess she wanted as well. 

Our family has a strong ancestral hold in the Cherokee Nation. 

She wanted to be spread back into the earth and so my cousin helped her to do that. 

Deep in the woods of Southern Illinois. 

I have her rocking chair on my porch now. 

The chair she sat in for hours and hours.  

Watching her soaps and PBS documentaries. 

Because she had no where to go and because it was too hard to get up. 

She scraped the wood off of the arm. 

Scraped it with her fingernails as she sat. 

Day after day. 

Something she probably didn't even realize she was doing. 

Rocking.  

Scraping. 

Rocking. 

Scraping. 

Going through her return address labels. 

And thinking of Elvis.

 

Talking To Hazel

Ever since I was a little girl, my family has put flowers on our relatives' headstones at the cemetary next door to my grandparents' house on Memorial Day. 

The house that is now my house. 

And today we are cutting fresh flowers from around the yard. 

To take next door to the cemetary. 

For Grandma Dorothy and Grandpa Vern.

Aunt Marie and Uncle Howard. 

Aunt Mary and Uncle Delmar. 

Uncle Dale. 

Baby Rachel who no one got to meet because she left the world before she was brought into it.

Cousin Bill. 

Minnie and Charles. 

Grandma's first husband Harry who died in the war. 

W.E., the uncle who built our house at the turn of the century. 

And Great Grandpa Walter and Great Grandma Hazel. 

Hazel died in our house. 

In our living room in 1953. 

She was 57 years old. 

18 years before I was born. 

Right there where my couch sits. 

And my youngest, Gigi, knows this. 

And she's been talking about Hazel a lot lately. 

"Hazel said she likes my shoes."

"I think Hazel would want this for dinner."

A five year old is fascinated by things from the past. 

Well, my five year old is. 

She's always asking how she is related to so and so. 

"Who is that holding my Grandpa Bob in that picture when he was a baby?"

"Do I remember Great Great Grandpa?"

"Right here?  Hazel died right here?"

Fascinating. 

It's all fascinating to her.

And maybe she has been talking to Hazel. 

I hope she's telling Gigi to be a good girl. 

She needs all the advice she can get...

Movies, Dance, & Music

Part four in the series "Music Mondays in May" from my blog group

Homesteaders and Homeschoolers.

This week I'm going to give you some randoms about me and music.
My love of visuals and music in perfect combination.
Dance and music.
A bit from college and what I can remember.
Here it goes...

I love the movies.
It's why Chad and I got married, really.
I understood his geekiness about movies and he let me introduce him to A Room With A View and Out of Africa.
Music plays such a vital role in film. When a really good film has hit you full force and you feel like the wind has been knocked out of you, the music within the film probably played a bigger role than you imagined.
It can set the mood, the scene.
One of my all time favorite movie scenes is from an above mentioned film.
A Room With A View is my very favorite movie EVER.
Makes me smile just writing about it.
And my favorite scene in the film contains zero dialogue.
Let's go into the movie now...
Lucy Honeychurch is in the Italian countryside and George Emerson (he's just one of many others in their group who made the afternoon trip to the countryside) is there with her.
He's standing on a hill taking in the amazing scenery.
The wildflowers and barley fields are tall and waving in the breeze.
Lucy finds him in the field.
It's very hot out, but Lucy is dressed as a proper lady at the turn of the century should be.
Parasol and all.
George turns and sees her.
The song playing begins to get bigger.
The song is called "Chi el Bel Sogno di Doretta" by Puccini and is sung amazingly by New Zealand Soprano Kiri Te Kanawa.
He begins to walk toward her.
Then he walks with more purpose.
Quicker.
Kiri Te Kanawa is hitting her high notes now.
The music begins to crescendo and at it's climax and as Kiri hits THE note, he runs to her and plants the most amazing kiss ever.
He steals his kiss, which Lucy happily and shockingly gives to him, and then he runs off.
Sigh.
Swoon.
I love that scene.
And that song.

I studied dance in college.
Music was a part of my everyday life.
Classical, new age, jazz, rock.
All of it enveloped my head from my first class to my last.
My homework usually consisted of choreography.
More music.
It's easy for me to "see" a song and what choreography could be thrown into it.
To make the song come alive even more.
It's easier for me to see the results in my head than to actually execute them now.
I haven't really danced since probably 1996.
But I still cut a rug with my kids in the living room.
And as I'm driving I can hear a song and envision it on the stage.
With dancers moving to and fro.
It's a part of me that will never go away I think.

College.
I don't remember too much sometimes.
It wasn't like I was drunk during my entire college experience.
Far from it.
As I said before, I was a dancer.
I couldn't take a nap during my second class of the day.
No one could get away with napping after a long hard night of drinking if they were in Advanced Modern Dance or Pointe.
I just have a bad memory for specifics sometimes.
I remember a few things about music outside of classes.
When we lived in the dorms there would be lively productions of "Annie The Musical" in the halls by me and my friends.
And there was Laura's infatuation with Patsy Cline our sophomore year.
I think it really freaked Rose out.

When I discovered dancing at The Gallery (and was old enough to get into the bar) I spent most weekends there dancing.
Dancing to U2, INXS, and whatever obscure group/song the DJ threw out.
It was the place to be if you were an artist.
The dance, theatre, and art students converged at The Gallery Thursday-Sunday.
The Frat guys and Sorority girls went to the two bars next door, Shannigans and Rockys.
Except when it was Retro Wednesday.
Then we would wander into Rockys to dance to old school disco.
Our group was always the first to hit the dance floor.
People in the arts don't mind being looked at by strangers on a stage.
It's our thing.
It's our element.
It's who I am...

Viva Las Vegas

Part one in the series "Music Mondays in May" for my blog group Homesteaders & Homeschoolers.

Music has always been a big part of my life.
My father is one of those young dads.
He was twenty when I was born in 1971.
Because of his young age, my young life was submerged in the music that he loved.
One of those music loves was Elvis Presley.
My mom's sister, Jeanne, was a huge Elvis fan as well.
She even saw him live in concert not too long before he died.
Something I was always jealous of...come on, ELVIS! She saw THE Elvis!

In college my group of girlfriends were huge Elvis fans as well.
We knew the words to all of his songs and weren't afraid to belt them out at large decibels from our house on 916 Hovey Ave.
Graceland has been visited by all of us.
Las Vegas has been a travel destination for many of us since it's the land of Elvis Impersonators.
It's always fun to ride in an elevator next to a guy with huge sideburns and extra wide, dark sunglasses while trying not to snicker because Elvis is standing next to you.

I met Chad in the Fall of 1999.
We had a quick courtship and knew we wanted to do something out of the ordinary for our wedding.
We didn't have a lot of money so we knew we wanted to combine our wedding with a honeymoon.
A two for one deal.
Las Vegas sounded like the right place for us.
And when you think of Las Vegas and weddings you usually also think of Elvis.
It was decided.
We would get married in July in Vegas by Elvis.

Why we decided on July is beyond me.
Wait, I do remember...
my mom kept telling me "this date and that date won't work for me because of work."
Sigh...
So, the middle of July in the desert it would be.
I later remember declarations of "MY EYES ARE BURNING OUT OF MY HEAD!" from wedding guests because of the intense heat of the day.
Don't get married in the desert in July people.

This being the era before smart phones, we had to use a fax machine to get copies of restaurant menus from various places in Vegas for our "after the ceremony dinner."
We called and emailed a few different Elvis wedding places.
We picked the right place.
It was off of the strip and seemed like a real genuine place.
It was family owned and as I sit here and write this, I know we picked the very best spot.

Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel was where our wedding was held.
Thirty members of our family and friends made the trip to Las Vegas to be with us on our big day.
My niece was five years old at the time and since I wasn't going to have a flower girl, she instead became the camera girl.
She was in charge of handing out disposable cameras to each guest...remember this was before smart phones.
My girlfriend Tina stood up with me and Chad's brother Chris stood by his side.
I wore a black dress, 'cause I'm unconventional like that, and Chad wore shorts.
Elvis was great! (Elvis was the owner, Ron, and a super great guy.)
He sang three or four songs ( I forget the exact number now since it went down in 2000 and the heat of that day melted some of my brain away.)
He ended the ceremony with Viva Las Vegas and had the arm swings, lip curl, and leg lunges to go with it.
His white sequin suit filled the room with sparkles and was only overshadowed by the large amount of laughing, singing, and cheering by our guests.

It was a fantastic day and the start to a great journey with my hubbie Chad.

My best friend.
My source of support in what has become a difficult journey in our days as parents.
He makes me laugh and doesn't care when I fart in bed.
Well, he may care about that.
But all I have to do is starting singing Viva Las Vegas and all is forgiven...

Read more "Music on Monday" from...
Carla
Melissa
Laura

Keeping Our Lives Upside Down

Part Two in a series from my Homesteaders & Homeschoolers group blog topic..."When and Why to Start a Family--Highlights and Lowlights"

We were only going to have one child.
It's easy to get around with just one child.
We could drive a small car.
Vacation would be that much cheaper.
Zoe was such a good kid.
No problems ever.
Then it happened.

I was so tired the spring of 2008.
I would tell Zoe (who was 3 years old) that mama was just going to close her eyes for a bit.
Two hours later I would wake up.
Remember, I said Zoe was a good kid.
She completely kept herself busy while I was zonked out on the couch.
Something felt "off" and I told Chad to pick up a pee stick for me on the way home from work.
Silence.
"Just do it!" I bellowed.

I peed on that stick, ate dinner, then went to check on the pee stick's status.
Sigh.
Positive.
I didn't want to be pregnant.
At all.
When did this conception even take place for gosh sakes?
Well, if I was going to be pregnant it had better all be for another girl.
Since I was over 35 years of age (another reason I didn't want to be pregnant) I had to go to a Maternal/Fetal Specialist.
The ultrasound tech that day was a man.
As was the doctor I saw.
Manness was ripe in the air that day.
They both declared that the fetus within my over 35 aged body was a male.
WHAT?!
I called Chad as I was leaving my appointment.
I paused on the skywalk when he answered.
"Thanks a lot."
He knew by those three words that there was a boy in my belly.
He knew that the sperm determines the sex of a fetus and he apologized.
Again and again.

I did come to terms with the fact that a wee penis was forming in my body.
I bought boy type clothing.
I bought boy type bedding.
We even discussed names and after some thought we decided our son would be named Oliver Ash and that he would grow up to be a MLB player.
I was good with things now.
I had conceded and had accepted that I would have a daughter and a son.
Zoe and Oli.
I had no morning sickness...again.
I received zero stretch marks...again.
It looked like a super-duper, extra-large pumpkin was stuffed under my shirt.
All was good.

Another planned c-section.
I was not going to do that VBAC crap (vaginal birth after cesarean) that the OB was pushing on me.
I had never felt a labor pain and was fine going to my grave having never felt one.
We picked the date of November 14th.
I had a real gung-ho doctor and she scheduled things bright and early.
So, Zoe went to grandma and grandpa's house for breakfast and Chad and I headed to the hospital to welcome our new son to the world.

So, as I'm strapped down in the crucifix position with painful gas bubbles rising up into my shoulders and a barf bucket next to me when it happened.
The baby was plucked from my uterus and the nurse standing behind me declared "that's not a boy."
Well then what in the hell was it?!
I'm supposed to be having a boy!
Was it really a cat this time?
Or was his hardware so mangled that he was going to need surgery to repair his stuff and he may look more like a mangled her?
The doctor then said "Nope that's a girl!"

After much explaining to my parents, the new big sister, relatives and friends whom Chad called, we were elated to have another daughter in our family.
We had to come up with a name quickly.
Oliver then became Gigi.
That's not short for anything, folks.
Just Gigi.

I'll never forget for as long as I live what my girlfriend Kelly told me later on..."I never knew anyone who could will away a penis like you did."
"If you want something bad enough, you can make it happen" was my response.
And I'm very thankful toward Chad's sperm.
I'm not mad at him anymore...

Check out my fellow Homesteaders & Homeschoolers "second in the series" blog stories on motherhood...
Laura @ Where Love Starts
Melissa @ Teach Academy
Carla @ Our Happy Chaos

Starting Life Upside Down

Part One in a series from my Homesteaders & Homeschoolers group blog topic..."When and Why to Start a Family"

Starting a family is something some girls dream about from childhood.
I was not one of those girls.
I didn't play with dolls.
During my early 20's I would emphatically state that I was NOT going to have kids.
I met my husband and we had a fast courtship (10 months).
After 5 years of hanging out with just him, traveling, enjoying each other's company, it happened.

I was in my early 30's and we were at Ravinia in Highland Park.
An outdoor music venue where you can sit on a blanket, drink beer, eat goat cheese and listen to Lyle Lovett, Elvis Costello, Peter Paul and Mary, or whoever happened to be making music that summer.
I don't remember who we were there to see, but I do remember what Chad said.
A young girl, probably 5 years old, ran by us on the sidewalk.
Chad said "isn't she cute?!"
And at that moment I knew that we needed to have a child.
And I hoped it would be a girl. 
We didn't have to try too hard.
We easily got pregnant (I now think I am one of those ladies that could get pregnant if my man looked at me and I wasn't on birth control.)
Pregnancy was easy, too.
I had an infatuation with Sour Tangerine Altoids.
I would eat them by the tin full.
I didn't get morning sickness (I think I barfed once or twice only at work, much to my co-worker Sarah's disgust!).
I didn't get stretch marks.
My skin looked FABULOUS!
The only issue occurred in the last trimester when Chad said I snored so loudly that he thought the neighbors were going to start complaining and he was forced to sleep in the other room.

Then about three weeks before my due date, I was told by the doctor that she thought this baby girl, still residing firmly up against both my lungs and my bladder, was upside down.
An external version was briefly talked about...briefly because once my OB started talking about trying to turn the baby around from the outside of my belly and that it had to be done in the hospital in case of trauma and they would need to get the baby out stat, I firmly said nope.
So a c-section was scheduled for February 11th.
Great.
Now I had to go back into my baby books and read about c-sections because I had skipped all of those chapters!
We arrived around 11:00 or noon and then proceeded to patiently wait until about 5:00 to go into surgery.
When you have a scheduled c-section you get bumped back when those ladies who are trying to vaginally deliver a baby suddenly can't.
So after the emergency c-sections were taken care of, it was our turn.  
I was getting super hungry since I hadn't eaten anything all day.
It was an easy procedure.
She came out kicking, really she did.
My doctor declared, "she just kicked me!" as she reached in to get her from my uterus.
I thought she sounded like a kitten mewing when she stared crying.
All I knew at that point was cats and dogs.
Now I had a person who sounded like a cat. 
I was beyond overwhelmed that a person had just been pulled out of my body.
And even more overwhelmed when we had to take her home and do this human rearing ourselves.

We named her Zoe.
Zoe is a Greek name that means LIFE.
And she is our life.

We have had to help save her life.

We have had to watch her little body and mind endure so much stress and trauma in this short life she's only begun to live.  

We can't wait to see what her life holds for her.

To be continued...

My interweb group of friends (Homesteaders & Homeschoolers) and I decided to do some posts together.
This month's theme (the rest of April anyway) is about our journey into motherhood.
Check out their stories, too.
Laura
Carla
Melissa

Pushing Forward While Looking Back

I was looking through old photos and thought I would share with you what our farm has been and what it's becoming.

Just like off-the-shoulder sweaters, Biz Markie, and Manhattans....what's old is new again.

Our home's first owner, W.E.

Same porch, different rocking chair

This farm used to be a dairy operation.

Then it was just a family homestead.

That's what it is today.

My children are the 6th generation of my dad's side of the family to live on this land.

I've heard stories (and seen a few photos) of days when sheep grazed in the front yard, when the road out front was dirt and not paved, when the barn housed cows and pigs, and the silo was full of grain.

 

My dad and his grandfather Walter

From my own memory, my grandfather and my great uncles Howard and Dale had enormous and elaborate gardens on our property.

Pumpkins, the sweetest sweet corn imaginable, peas, eggplant, beans to snap, rhubarb.

Anything you can imagine, they grew it.  

We had a garden for a few years.

Nothing as grandiose as theirs, though.

I'm happy to report that my cousin Ellen and my father are keeping up with that part of our history at their own homes.

Ellen grows sweet potatoes that are as big as her own head and my dad is an expert asparagus, strawberry, onion grower.

But, our garden area is now enclosed in a horse pasture.

Gardens would have been seen here, to the left, and
straight ahead on the other side of the fence.

My dad recently stated that maybe we should build some raised beds for the garden.

Great idea retired guy!

A goal I've had for quite some time is to get bees on the property.

I took a class, before Zoe got sick, at the local community college and it was all about beekeeping.

Totally awesome stuff.

And we want to introduce chickens again.

Now, I'm not a big fan of the cluckers, but I am a big fan of eggs.

My dislike for them stems back to the great chicken attack of 1980.

Short version of that story goes like this...me on the porch, eggs under a bush about 50 feet away, disgruntled hen coming around the corner, disgruntled hen on my head pecking away, me running around shrieking with said chicken still on my head.

Hence, I'm not a fan of fowl.

But, that wasn't as bad as the guinea hens that lived on this property when I was young that would roost in the trees and then jump down at us as we walked through the yard.

Awful beasts, really.

I won't even get started on my cousin Ellen's fear of cows.

Another day perhaps.

Anywho, I can tolerate chickens much better now that I'm a grown up.

I would love for my dad and Chad to build some nesting boxes/roosting areas in the barn for some cute and fuzzy egg layers.

Bees would be beneficial to my plants (for their pollinating properties) and for my love of honey.

I do worry though that my honey may have a slightly salty taste to it because of our salt water swimming pool.

Every summer the pool deck becomes a honey bee bar as they line up for a drink from tiny pools of saltwater on the deck.

What a bee eats a bee regurgitates and that's what honey is.

Bee barf.

Nice, huh?

Anyway, enjoy these pictures of our farm's history along with some pictures of what life is like here today.

My grandmother Dorothy and Ellen's grandmother Marie 
with the original second story.
This was probably in the 1920's.

I love this picture:

a party under the trees on the lawn in the heat of summer 

 

The original kids of this farm...
Dorothy, Marie, and Dale
May, 1931

The current kids of this farm...
Zoe and Gigi
July 2012

This is a lovely photo...the past emerging again

An aerial photo taken in the 1980's

  

I hope we are making them proud...