wnywoman blogs - Too Homegrown For Harvard

Hospitals Should Hire The Man, But Sometimes He Makes Me Sick

nospam@example.com (Karen Lewis) — Tue, 08 Jun 2010 10:22:30 -0400

Five hours, that’s how long my husband took to power wash our backyard deck. Every single space between the wooden planks had to be flushed out, why I don’t know. Believe me, most dentists don’t drill out the decay in a tooth’s cavity as meticulously. I tell ya, that deck would have to stretch from here to eternity for me to spend that long cleaning it. Which is where he might have landed, in eternity, if he hadn’t finally shut that darn thing off. That machine sounds like a jackhammer and it bores a hole in your scull, so now I have one to match the hole in his head.

“Who spends that much precious cleaning a deck?” I annoyingly asked him.

“Somebody who takes pride in his work,” and he could hardly spit the words out he was so pooped. But wouldn’t you know, he was still able to utter more? Darn. He even struggled to stoop down to hand me the hose.

“ Here, wanna use this thing for the inside of the house?”

“Inside?! Won’t it strip the paint right off the ceilings and walls?” I gasped.

“Along with the dirt,” he sarcastically added. “Come to think of it, I’ve never seen you spring clean.”

“And you never will, because by your ridiculous standards, I could never do it throughly enough. Much to your chagrin, I’m into cleaning with something bigger than a cotton swab. Who beside you cleans with a Q-Tip? An otologist, that’s who, Stick that in your ear and see how you like it. And by the way, I do spring clean all right, but in the wintertime while you’re so engrossed with your sports on T.V. Haven’t you ever felt me whipping the cushions out from under your rump, and scrubbing the armrest in your chair?”

“Is that why when I get up my pants and shirt sleeves are all wet? I just figured I spilled my beer.”

“And that’s another thing,” I ranted, “if you profess to be so fastidious with everything around here, how can you, a man who uses a fingernail brush everyday, justify wearing the shirt and pants you’re wearing today, wearing them tomorrow, the next day, and possibly the next, and then having the gall to tell me, someone who changes her clothes several times a day, that I’M the slob? That hurts, ya know.”
He surprised me when he sadly shook his head.

“Maybe….maybe I sometimes put you down, so that I can feel good about myself.”

I was stunned. It takes a real man to admit his insecurities. “Do you mean that?” I softly stuttered.

“Hell no! Just thought that’s what you wanted to hear. Quit bawlin’, will ya? If you don’t know by now that I don’t mean half the BS of what I tell ya, we’re never going to make it.”

“I certainly won’t miss our garage that’s cleaner than our house,” I sniffled. “Or those razor sharp creases that you iron into your pant, and when my leg barely touches them, it feels a blade grazing my shin.”

“How about if I only hug you while I’m wearing my boxing shorts? That sounds safe, doesn’t it?”

He always ropes me in with his sweet talk, but so far he’s wearing those should-be-registered-as-a-weapon ironed pants 24/7. Such is married life---our married life.

To read more of Karen’s previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com

In Praise Of Parents

nospam@example.com (Karen White-Walker) — Wed, 14 Apr 2010 15:40:35 -0400

By: Karen Walker-White

With both Mothers Day and Fathers Day coming up, I think it would be very appropriate to write about parents. Wanna hear about my two? Theyre going to kill me because although theyre both incredible people, they werent perfect parents. Thats right, imperfect parents; have you ever heard of such a thing? They made a few mistakes and mainly with me because Im the oldest and their learning experiment. Dear God, dont think that wasnt a trip! Thank heavens we all turned out all right, not perfect, mind you, but all right, because there arent second chances with raising kids.

Everyday after work Dad would hightail it out to his cherry orchard to putter around and wed never see him again until evening supper.

Do you even remember Dad growing up? asked my sister Mary Paula.

Of course I remember him. I was his favorite, probably still am, so I always got special attention.

You always think youre everybodys favorite in the family and it.

Look, Miss Put A Damper On Your Sisters Dream, this isnt about me, its about two desperately in love people coping with raising five kids on the threat of, Just wait until you have children of your own!

By todays standards we were extremely innocent, but like many children, very headstrong. And because we were raised in a home with a very loving but hysterical mother, there was always that perpetual sense of the sky falling down at any given moment. Everything was such a huge production and big deal. I remember one visitor once commenting that just having lunch in our home was more exciting than attending the fourth of July fireworks.

And God help us kids if we were at a friends house and we called to ask if we could stay overnight. The phone ringing any later than that ridiculous hour of 9:00 P.M., and Mom had us in an accident, intensive care unit being administered the Last Rites because we were almost dead and buried! Dad on the other hand, would be the calming force---so much so that Mary Paula doesnt remember him, remember?

In their younger years, were my parents compatible? Its not for me to say, but Ill take a wild stab---heck no! So how do you explain that theyve stuck it out for almost 68 years in December? Thats not another column, thats for Ripleys Believe It Or Not to tackle. But how did they ever know at such a tender age to fully honor their responsibilities to marriage, kids and home?

We didnt, winked Dad. I didnt so much as have an extra dime to take your sweet mother out back then. Okay, so Dad didnt say sweet, because thats not his style. But Mom would sure love hearing that.

About us not having money to go out; you kids needed it all, smiled Mom.

Dad, take Mother out now, I suggested.

Are you kidding? Were in bed at 8:00 P.M. and even though your mother is still a pretty little thing, (yes, he did say that) pushing her around a dance floor would feel like pushing around the Empire State Building. No, we both just dont have the strength anymore.

Strength, you kids took it all, nodded my mom.

And guess what? There wasnt a trace of bitterness or resentment in her voice and we kids dont feel guilty. Now those are real lessons in love.

To all you parents out there---God bless and enjoy your day---enjoy your life.

To read more of Karens previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com

All Thats Elementary Is Not Easy

nospam@example.com (Karen White-Walker) — Tue, 23 Mar 2010 13:50:28 -0400

Some people never know when theyre well off---mainly me. I mean, I enjoy an exceptional rapport with teenagers, and theres never a hint of blood on the classroom walls whenever we leave. Isnt it exciting that my students know enough to keep their hands to themselves, their tempers in check and all seem to have an infinite tolerance for a teacher who in a few years may be too old to see or hear them, but who has no intentions of hanging up the chalk. I believe an educators enthusiasm offsets being blind, deaf and dumb, because exuberance is highly contagious. Unfortunately, so is a depressing down attitude.
I tremble with excitement when I teach Death Of A Salesman and Of Mice And Men, so why did I ever accept a subbing position in the elementary school? They dont teach the classics there, but oh those worksheets!

Its amazing that winter didnt turn into spring considering the time it took those very short people to discard their winter gear. There outta be a law---no more than 15 pounds of clothing per child. By the time they straggled into the classroom I was eyeing the rescue window for a quick escape. But they had their problems too when they discovered that I didnt do things EXACTLY like the young, pretty Ms. Johnson. Soon they were all begging to go see the school nurse complaining of headaches, diarrhea and the urge to throw-up.

How was I to know that when distributing worksheets the yellow group gets theirs first, red group second, and the blue section last. Hands were waving, lower voices became sopranos, and the faint-hearted ones flung themselves on to the floor, looking like victims of a plane crash.

My carnal sin was when it was time for them to line up for lunch and silly me, didnt know theres always a designated line leader. I pointed to a forlorn little lad to lead the way. Suddenly a freckled little face was plastered with tears.

Ms. Johnson said IM the line leader, he wailed, so I had to do some rearranging---fast. But I wasnt finished---not by a long shot. Did you know that those little darlings should be filed in line according to the lunch menu? First cheeseburger, second, hot dogs; third, PB&J and finally those who brown bagged it. I snatched, from one packer, a brown bag to breathe into. Hey, whats a person to do when suffering from a panic attack?

The best thing about high school is that there arent perpetual water fountain and bathroom breaks. Why havent administrators caught on that theres a correlation between drinking and bathroom visits and, to eliminate the former would probably cancel out the other, then all day long you wouldnt be missing half the class.

But look, what do I know? Im simply a sub who can teach iambic pentameter and iambic trimester in Shakespearean works, but I cant decipher a crummy second grade worksheet. Its true because that rotten worksheet had pictures on it depicting the things we had just read about in a short story.
Write the names of the pictures that have an X in them, the instructions read. No problem---wanna make a bet? There was a sketch of a boy and a bold black arrow pointed directly to his head. Immediately biology terms pertaining to the head flooded my brain---cerebral cortex, prefrontal cortex, choroids plexus and neocortex.

But werent these words far too advanced for second grade? I was totally stumped, but not those second grade geniuses. All that crummy, lousy arrow at the boys head meant was to label his name---Max!

Sometimes the simplest things are the hardest to understand. Like who would ever be a kindergarten teacher?

To read more of Karens previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com

The Turkey Wore White

nospam@example.com (Karen White-Walker) — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 17:45:47 -0500

By: Karen Walker

He seemed like a heck of a nice guy, this stranger who my husband brought into our home for me to meet. Seems they were out in the garage shootin the bull about what NOT to do while turkey hunting. Both had gotten up at 4:00A.M. and both had returned fowless. Im surprised because my husband is such an expert shot.

Ya gotta see one to shoot one, was my husbands flimsy excuse. If I sound impatient and slightly bitter its because the man would never, I mean never, get up at 4:00 A.M. for anything I wanted to do. Come to think of it, he wouldnt go to bed either for anything I wanted to do. I really better be careful with what comes out this mouth, because I did say hes an expert shot, didnt I?
Well, in treks his turkey hunting buddy with a pleasant smile, an unassuming manner and when I offered him a chair, he was very considerate of our humble furnishings. Funny how wrong we can be with first impressions.

No thanks, he softly replied, as he refused to walk on our carpeting with his muddy boots, or sit on our couch with his less than fresh smelling camouflaged clothing.

Dont be silly, I insisted, I still have to do my spring cleaning.

For which year? roared my husband, and because he thought that was so uproariously funny, he had to take out his hunting handkerchief to blow his nose and wipe his eyes. Thats when I noticed something very strange, even for him.

Why the florescent orange colored handkerchief? I asked. I thought all you owned were monogrammed white and red bandana ones?

Thats how much you know about me, he flippantly replied. Sometimes when other people are around I dont like him very much, because he speaks to me differently than when were alone. He accuses me of the same thing and you know something? He could be right.

Ya never wave a blue, red or especially a white handkerchief while out in the fields, because other hunters can easily mistaken you for a turkey and bang! he whispered.

Boy, what a come-back I could have with that remark, but because I really am such an exceptional wife, I decided not to embarrass him in front of his new found friend. That man should really appreciate me more than he does. I turned my attention to this stoic stranger who resembled a decoy and again, I pointed to the chair and uttered those two little words that unleashed his ire---Please sit.

You women never listen to us men like youre supposed to, he blurted out.

Thats the damn trouble with this world, the women wanna be the boss.

So help me, girls, I almost choked on my saliva. Like were supposed to? I gasped. If that ignoramus had even dared to sit down to make himself comfortable, I would have called the Border Police because clearly, he had over-stepped his boundaries. I might have taken my husbands feelings into consideration, but not this strangers.

My husband mentioned to me how youve been married and divorced more than once. Im shocked you attracted anybody at all! I snapped.

Immediately I felt guilty and ashamed for having stooped so low as to retaliate. But Im only human, so to appease my conscience I packed this Turkey the Terrible a lunch to take with him hunting the following morning. But because Im only a woman, inferior to men by their assessments, and I dont know any better, I slipped a gleaming white handkerchief into the bag. The man might sneeze, God bless him--- hell need it.

To read more of Karens previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com

Michaels Gift

nospam@example.com (Karen White-Walker) — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 11:14:12 -0500

Years ago at 192 pounds, I would corner my brother Michael and ask, Do you think Im fat? Hesitantly he would reply, Well, you can afford to lose a few pounds, Karen. Of course I would become all huffy and hurt, that isnt the reply I wanted from the one who was considered the best one of the lot in our family of seven.

Michael got all the brains, looks and that incredible mix of both strength and gentleness. When youre the only brother amongst four sisters, youre put in the position of being the king. Michael wasnt a self-ordained or self-righteous idol. We unfairly placed him there and he proved he could handle such a lofty position.

Youd think we girls would be seething with jealousy, but our family has never experienced that useless, destructive, wasted emotion. We lived in a three-bedroom home and Michael had his own room. I repeat, a family of seven, three bedrooms and Michael had his own room. He also had one of the five-bed pillows when; actually, our family desperately needed seven. Whoever went to bed first got a precious pillow, but seldom when you awoke was it there because it was swiped from under your slumbering head. You couldnt steal Michaels pillow though, because hed tie it to the bedpost and attach a cowbell to it so that the slightest movement would signal that a thief was about to attack. Hey Ma, Michael asked years later, Why didnt you just run out and buy two more pillows?

I tell ya, you cant throw curves at the women in our family. You know, honey, I never even thought of it, she replied.

In Mothers defense she had a hectic life raising five kids and my father. It was fun being raised in an active household with a highly dramatic mom and a Hollywood handsome dad. Michael seemed to roll, but I didnt fare as well.

Michael went on to eight years of college but stopped short of his doctorate.

Why? we asked.

I dont like titles and I want to do it all on my own.

Do what? we pressed on.

Escape from this funny farm, he winked.

I ask you, how many go from janitor (in his college years) to senior executive at a huge company? He never once boasted, or even mentioned when he got a promotion or a raise, but when you swap flannel shirts and jeans for suits and silk ties, you sorta can tell its no longer mop and bucket. But no matter how high Michael climbed on the corporate ladder, the farm remained in his blood, and during summer vacations, hed toiled The Good Earth.

When you lose a loved one in a tragic farming accident you seriously doubt your ability to cling to your sanity. When you cant scream loud and long enough to purge yourself from the deep pain, you must seek other ways to cope.

Its been 11 years now since I started walking. A day doesnt go by when I dont step briskly to divert my mind and dispel the energy I would otherwise use for mourning. Michael, my Michael, I want to cry out, I can easily now slip into a size 12, and when the tag is mismarked, a size 10. Am I getting too thin?
I can almost hear him say, Well, you can afford to put on a few pounds, Karen.

And if I could have him back, I would so willingly do just that. My brother gave me the gift of health---physically, that is.

To read more of Karens previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com

Black Sheep, A Few Shades Lighter

nospam@example.com (Karen White-Walker) — Thu, 18 Feb 2010 10:00:56 -0500

By: Karen White-Walker

Like payments on an expensive purchase, this is the last installment on my writings about Uncle Giuseppe. If theyve bored you I havent done Biggie justice, because you never yawned when he was around, more like you got a migraine because he always operated on high C.

Papa, my gentle grandfather, had to wait till almost the very end of his life to witness his sons goodness. To think, Papa worried all those years, and for what? Giuseppe passed the final test---scoring points that can only be calculated in heaven.

In his 86th year, Papa suffered a debilitating stroke that left him bed-ridden. Mama kept wringing her hands and sobbing, Get-up, get up, Papa, we-a only had 62 years-a together, thats-a nothin, nada. Im-a selfish-a pig. I wanna more. I know I gotta bigga mouth and drive-a you crazia in the head, but I love-a you. And if-a there was no-a God, no-a children, you would be-a first.

Papas failing body cringed at the sound of no-a God, that could never ever be. Family and friends came and went and paraded passed Papas bed. Just because the dear man couldnt talk, they assumed he couldnt hear, too.

Hes gonna die! wailed my aunts, and my uncles smacked their smothering hands over their sisters blubbering mouths. Yes, many people came and went, but only one stayed---one. And he stayed around the clock with his mouth and hands going every minute.

If you think Im going to just sit here and watch you rot, Pa, youre wrong, warned Uncle Giuseppe. Theres still life left in you and Im giving you a jump-start at getting it going again. Hey Pa, all men need a jump-start once in a while, huh? he devishly grinned.

Uncle Guiseppe gave Papa three vigorous rubdowns every day. Biggie couldnt sing a lick, but he belted out arias that would have made Enrico Caruso cry, not from joy, but from regret at how an Italian could crucify such majestic music. Papa tried to smile, but he looked pained, and pretty soon he was struggling to speak, if for no other reason than to say, Giuseppe, shut-up-a your face!

Strength slowly came back into his limp arms and legs and suddenly, there was bold Biggie, leading Papa around the backyard. He became his fathers human walking stick, and Papa never stumbled. Papa eventually learned to talk again, but it was difficult for them to reminisce about the good old times, because after all Giuseppe had pulled in the past, things were best left unsaid. Besides, Papa believed you dont go back, only ahead. For Mama it wasnt so easy.

I used to no trust-a you this-a much, and she measured less than half an inch with her thumb and forefinger.

Youre not bringing THAT up again? and Giuseppes eyes rolled back into his head.

You were like-a snake, son. I pray-a for saints and what do I-a get?

You get a snake, Ma, mumbled her son.

I pray-a for saints and I get-a sinners AND a snake, shame-a shame.

Leave-a the kid alone, begged Papa.

Please Pa, Im 60 years old; I dont need my father fighting my battles for me.

Whos-a fighting? asked a surprised Mama. I was just-a remembering when---that reminds-a me, dont remind-a me.

Giuseppe gave his father his last shave and Papa gave his son his final smile that reflected true love, gratitude and inner peace. Papas waiting was over.

To read more of Karens previous articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com

The Black Sheep, Italiano Style

nospam@example.com (Karen White-Walker) — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 16:54:40 -0500

My five foot one inch Uncle Giuseppe, also called Biggie, would strut around town like a big shot and a Casanova with just a few pennies rattling in his pockets. Poor Papa worried incessantly about Giuseppes soul.

It no look-a so good, hed say to Mama, I wanna to meet ALL my-a children in the next-a world.

Let us first get-a through this-a world, sighed Mama. No you-a worry, Papa, he-a come from-a good, sturdy stock.

Giuseppe would almost have to for all the dalliances he supposedly had. A man couldnt work if hehey, come to think of it, Biggie did only work sporadically. Oh, he had his own crew of men who worked construction with him and sometimes he would be high up on a scaffold when out of nowhere, a car would pull up, honk and Biggie would practically break his neck scrambling down the ladder and disappearing into the back seat of the car with a. You never saw him again until a much slower, tired man now ascended the scaffold, and with his face and forefinger practically up his workers nostrils hed begin with his spiel.

Ya didnt see nothin, ya didnt hear nothin, you dont know nothin, got it gang? he threatened. Hey Tony, whatd ya see?

Nothin, Big B.

Phi, whatd ya hear?

Heard nothin, Giuseppe.

Lou, what do ya know?

Know nothin, Boss.

Good! Remember, one word out of your stinkin mouths and youre all fired! And Ill see to it ya never work in this area again! Hed then slap them all on the back. Nice havin you aboard, boys.

Tell me my uncle wasnt a character---you cant. Its not like you have to condone what a skunk does, but you have to look at the whole picture of a person to get it into proper focus. Yes, he could be a lying scoundrel like when he pretended to be in college studying art. Papa senthim tuition money but he squandered it on wine, women and the horses. Yes, Uncle Giuseppe embarrassed the family, but theres a true story that he probably even made the Blessed Mother blush, that is, if she was in human form. You see, Uncle Giuseppe was commissioned by the Catholic Church to touch up the saints delicate faces in our areas churches altars. He had a skilled hand when he painted intricate things because he was articulate with detail. How a hyper shrimp could funnel such patience when working was a mystery to all. He certainly was a contradiction in character. He also couldnt work without a cigarette constantly dangling from his mouth. Of course you couldnt smoke in church, but Big B altered the rules to suit his needs and wants. Beside, Mass wasnt going on and the church was empty. Nobody would know except God, and Giuseppe always bargained with Him anyway. Off to the side was a statue of the Blessed Virgin holding the baby Jesus. Two of her fingers were positioned in the shape of a V, and while he needed two hands to mix his paint, he had to find a place for his cigarette. You guessed it, he propped it in between the Blessed Mothers two fingers, and the smoke encircled her head like a crown. Just then Monsignor walked in and paled at the sight.

You leave her alone! ordered Giuseppe, Shes old enough to smoke!

Incredibly Monsignor didnt fire him, it was like a miracle. There was something about the little twerp everybody liked. That something? Just wait till you hear what he did for Papa. (to be continued)

To read more of Karens previous articles, please visit
homegrownharvard.blogspot.com

Black Sheep Add Color To Ones Family

nospam@example.com (Karen White-Walker) — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 15:32:11 -0500

By: Karen White-Walker

Do I dare? Oh, why the heck not. Everybody has at least one, but nobody likes to admit it because they might, God forbid, be a reflection on them. But youd have to be mighty insecure not to survive a smudge on ones familys fabric. Im referring to the black sheep in the family who, incidentally, have the biggest hearts and sometimes the biggest mouths, too.

Uncle Giuseppe, fully grown, was a mere five feet one, 120 pounds, but had a voice that could rival a megaphone. Just ask the survivors who may have attended the Passion play back in the early 1920s. There probably nobody left, but the familys offspring still talk about it. At the time, seven-year-old Giuseppe (they called him Biggie) with an angels face was playing our Lord in the play. Sister Mary Martha pulled rank because she wanted her student nailed to the cross. Thats what the Passion play, you know, re-enacting the Stations of the Cross. Little Biggie shouldered the heavy wooden cross and the entire family was captivated by the sudden transformation in the little tykes demeanor. Surely this couldnt be their smart-alect, street-wise, dirty mouth little guy?

Mama, thats our-a son, whispered a teary-eyed Papa.

Shut-up-a your face, warned Mama. Hey Papa, you tink we should kiss-a-his First Communion ring when he come-a home tonight?

The plays climatic moment was approaching but unfortunately, not fast enough. Our Lord lay on the cross while Herods men drilled nails into his hands and feet. They hoisted the cross upright and the audience gasped at the scenes authenticity. People felt the little boys, I mean, our Lords pain and there wasnt a dry eye in the place. Some people had to use their sleeves to wipe their eyes and even their noses, and suddenly the sacred scene definitely lost something. The re-enactment had been going on for hours---much too long to test a hyper, restless, little imp. Biggie began twitching and squirming, and that should have tipped off Sister Mary Martha had she been on the ball. A kids kidney can only dangle so long, you know. Suddenly his angelic expression turned distorted, mean, hateful, and ugly.

Hey you guys, he shouted out to the audience. If one of you damn dummies dont get me down from here, therell be hell to pay!

There was Mama snorting smelling salts, and the whole family never fully recovered from the humiliation. Had Giuseppe not been the product of such a highly respected family, this seven-year-old would have been run out of town. If the Vatican had gotten whiff of the Passion play gone awry, excommunication proceedings surely would have been started. Sister Mary Martha said a million years in purgatory would never absolve him from his sin of blasphemy. Maybe deep down Mama felt the same way because years later when Biggie sought his parents approval and blessing for the woman he wanted to marry, Mama led the naïve girl to the kitchen window. Rosalina, you say you love-a my-a son?

Very much, Mama, very much, the timid thing answered.

My-a dear, look outta the window and tell-a me what you-a see.

The canal? she stammered.

Good, you see-a the canal. Do your-a self a bigga favor, Rosalina. Go down-a to the canal, tie-a bigga cement block around-a your-a neck and jump-a in! Believe-a me, you be-a better off.

And THIS is the blessing the poor girl received from the family. She still married my Uncle Giuseppe, but out of respect for the sacrament of marriage, well leave it at that---for now anyway. In later years this midget of a man turned out to be a giant in the family, but first I must tell you, if you thought he offended our Lord, (unintentionally, of course) wait till you hear what he did to Gods mother!
Its very comforting that God doesnt hold a grudge, so why do we? (continued)
To read more of Karens previously articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com

Elvis Straightened My Eyelashes

nospam@example.com (Karen White-Walker) — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 10:32:38 -0500

By: Karen White-Walker

1950s---We came of age on the swivel of his hips and that sexy sneer that was supposed to break down all our defenses of remaining pure and innocent. Speaking from the pulpits were the religious zealots warning parents not to allow their young impressionable daughters to tune in to the Ed Sullivan Show. I could clearly see why. Ed Sullivan was a terribly unattractive man and the way he moved his mouth, it was enough to scare any young girl. Oh, that wasnt it? No, he was introducing a young performer whose nickname was Elvis the pelvis, and this devils advocate was in danger of corrupting our morals. Back then parents believed everything the priests preached, so there would be no 13- inch black- and- white screen for me that evening. I tell ya, if anybody ever tells you those were the good ole days, they werent for Elvis fans forbidden to see his gyrations. Come Monday morning the news reported that the cameras only showed the singer from the waist up, a decent exposure and Mom and Dad looked so remorseful you would have thought somebody had died.

Will you ever forgive us? Mom tearfully sniffed.

No, absolutely not, never! I quickly replied.

How can we ever make it up to you? she tenderly asked.

I sensed that I had my mother right where I wanted her and for a 13 year old, that was a very heady feeling.

You cant. Some things can never be undone.

Unfortunately my dramatic snippy attitude dissolved my dads remorse---in a hurry! I didnt have him where I wanted him. You better change your tone, young lady, or that Elvis character will NEVER be allowed in this house!

Dad spoke as if the most popular person in the world would personally enter into my life. Well

1972---My parents eventually became an Elvis fan too, believing that he wasnt a threat to anyone, enjoying his beautiful mellow voice, and recognizing a shy, humble streak in his demeanor.

A giddy girl transforms into a woman when marriage, pregnancy and responsibilities knock her off her feet. She regresses for a moment when her parents present her with an Elvis live-in-concert tickets in their attempt to make retribution for not allowing her, 25 years ago, to see a certain Ed Sullivan Show. They didnt realize that the orange section of the mammoth arena was the worst in the house, so far up, my ears began popping and, being nine months pregnant, I couldnt handle my fear of heights, so I began stumbling down closer to land. A policeman spotted my bloated belly, grabbed a folding chair, and there I was, so close to the stage, to the star, to a dream.

Remember, no jumping, screaming, fainting, or going into labor, he weakly warned.

Youd have to be comatose not to have felt the excitement and electricity in the air when Elvis appeared. It was thrilling when he sang but, for him, a little on the thirsty side because he gestured for a glass of water and, after taking a few sips, he unexpectedly flung the water over his shoulder and wham, right smack in my face! It was just a few sprinkles, but enough to straighten my curled eyelashes. For a fleeting second, our eyes met and Id like to believe the gaze lasted longer than it did. And to think, my parents worried about from the waist down. Trust me, its all in the eyes.

To read Karens previous columns, please go to homegrownharvard.blogspot.com

Driving Me Toward Divorce

nospam@example.com (Karen White-Walker) — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 12:26:22 -0500

By: Karen White-Walker

The real reason most families own at least two vehicles is not to flaunt that theyre rich enough to buy all that gas, but that husbands and wives should never ever be allowed in the same car at the same time. Is it just us, or do other couples start fighting even before they back out of the driveway? On very rare occasions Im allowed behind the wheel, but heres the kicker---its MY car. My husband not only buckles up his seatbelt, but the second I turn the key, he immediately puts a death grip around the strap thats dangling from the side door thats just inches from his head.

If this strap was any longer and could fit around my neck, it could dub as a noose, he mutters to himself, but loud enough for me to hear. Already the mood and desire has been set---to commit murder! If I dont turn the wheel while the car is still in motion as I back out, he claims Im ruining the tires. Turn those wheels! hell yell, and already theres potential for an accident, because my nerves are shattered. Hey, I dont profess to be a great driver, Im only saying that Im not the one responsible for our insurance rates to go up, up, up, and the faith in my husbands driving to go down, down, down. To soothe our nerves and deflate our hostility, Ill turn on the radio for some of that universal language---music. But I guess music cant compare to what my husband wants to hear---Tradio. Its on a local station where people phone in to sell their wares or business services and potential buyers have a few minutes to call in and buy. Were in a moving car, dont own cell phones, pay phones are obsolete, we cant call in, so whats the point?

Its better than listening to your Canadian station that plays the same old songs over and over, talks about Canadian news and gives the weather forecast in Celsius, he gripes.

I sure wish I was the type of woman who could keep my mouth shut, and not disgustingly roll my eyes back into my head. One must conserve all her energy for what lies ahead. The frightening experience for when he gets to drive safely home. Im not saying that when hes steering and looks to the right, thats the direction the car veers---hello mailboxes and ditches. Or, God help us if he notices something to the left, were practically kissing the on coming traffic. Its far worse when its raining, not because of slippery roads, its because the man has an aversion to turning on the windshield wipers.

I cant see anything, Ill cry.

You dont have to see anything, because Im the one driving, hell snap.

Is that what you call it? Ill tease, still trying to figure out why hes afraid to wear out the windshield blades. Is it because we cant afford to buy new ones, having all our money go on higher car insurance?

Hey, why do you brake on a green light and speed up on red? I innocently asked. And do you realize you drive faster in the parking lot than you do on the highway? Look, be careful, whats that car ahead of us doing?

The mans a maniac. He pulled over to the side of the road, whipped out his drivers license and shoved it under my nose.

Do you see a family portrait on this damn thing? he demanded. No! Only my picture and that means Im granted clearance to run these roads. And listen, no article about what goes on in this vehicle. Got it?

Of course, I softly replied.

I sure wish I was a woman of my word.

To read more of Karens previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com