The Heart Breaker

My mother’s photo albums from her high school years and young adult life were disintegrating. I salvaged them by creating one archival scrapbook, keeping the style and sequence the same as her original albums. As you would expect of a teenager’s album, her pages contained family, friends, school activities, and beaucoup boyfriends, or suitors, as she would have called them!!! It is shocking how many boys were “sweet on her!” I wish she had identified more of them, or that I had listened more intently when she told me stories! These are some of the names that are identified in her albums, but many are nameless: Bob Almy, Bill Ries, Francis Bartoo (I knew him and his family well), Art Smith, Walter Stubble, John Walburn, Richard (“Ritchie”) Chamberlain, Jimmy Waldock (He was my ophthalmologist), Warren Crisjohn, Paul Shoots, Dee Goodrich, Paul Wolf, Howard La Fever, “Alabama,” Neil Laurence, John Jr., Jess (“Jesscuss”) Maitland, and Mel. A set of pictures I find amusing is a group of eight boys posing in a professionally pleasing style under a tree in her front yard. The second photo has my mother is in the center behind them with her arms around those next to her. What a queen bee!

While pouring over the photos, I learned many things about my mother. She was extraordinarily limber doing splits and yoga style positions with her foot to her head. A stunning revelation was that Mom made the decision to marry Dad suddenly! I knew that he had told her on the day they met in 1932, “You don’t know this now, but you are going to marry me someday.” Every time he saw her, he asked when she was going to marry him. What I was not aware of is that she was seriously dating other men mere months before her marriage! In April 1933, she went with the Bartoo family on a trip to Washington, DC. Then on April 21, 1933, there is a picture of her hugging an unnamed boyfriend! It was probably May when Dad asked her his standard question again. She shocked and delighted him by responding, “How about this summer!” On June 11, he gave her a diamond ring, and July 25, 1933, they were married!

When dispensing of my mother’s belongings after her death in 1988, I gave my daughter, Karin, a box of love letters. She was especially close to her Grandma and cherished having the letters. I didn’t have the time then. If they yielded significant information, I knew that Karin would tell me. Now that I have the mournful chore of sorting through my daughter’s belongings, I brought the box of letters home. There are thirty-some letters, all written between 1927-1928, when she was only 15 to 16 years old! The authors included a couple of the beaus in the list above as well as new names: Harold Lehman from Andover, NY; Harold Miller from Warren, Ohio; Bob Gray, a student at the U of P, from Philadelphia, PA; Ron H. Campbell from Olean, NY who sounds like he is a married man; Richard Chamberlain and Paul de Paul, both from Cuba, NY. How did she meet these men when she lived in tiny Richburg, NY? She carried on amorous correspondence with several simultaneously. Most of them came to visit her regularly as they were able, according to their letters, and all of them vowed their love to her in English, French, or Latin.

My mother’s handwriting was uniquely unique! It might be termed a Leaning Tower of Pisa Font as her letters slanted at a forty-five degree angle to the left. She wrote very slowly, forming each letter flawlessly every time. She was a perfectionist, which may account for some of Karin’s and my behaviors. As a child, I was embarrassed that it took her so long to write a check at the checkout counter of a store. I had always assumed that she had developed that style of penmanship while learning to write. The stack of letters contains none written by her. There is a draft copy on scratch paper. The penmanship is not hers as the words are stretched with the letters squished fairly flat. It wasn’t until I reread the draft and noted that the author said that yesterday was her birthday, and the letter was dated June 18, 1928. My mother’s birthday was June 17! She had written this letter! Here is what she scribbled in haste and fury:

“Paul, You haven’t got the brains God gave an angleworm!! Just what do you think I am, a simpleton???? I ought to sue you for breach of promise – but you aren’t worth the room you take up!!!
“Well, to get down to business! Just what do you think you are, a sheik? You think you can catch any girl you want to – you big flirt --- Liar! Do you realize that yesterday was my birthday and you didn’t even send a card or come over with ‘Jas.’ Or send word, or even send a letter! Well I should worry!!! Listen, Big boy, you must think I am crazy about you! Paul, you are just a poor sport! I was good to you – In fact, too good – and look now how you appreciate it.
“Oh well – we used to be good friends, Paul de Paul, but those days are over – I’m afraid. They are crumbled and shattered. Those joys that we knew and the cobwebs we spun with are beaded with dew!
“Enclosed you will find the money to pay for the “C.” So sorry you think it part my fault but…. ”

There is a photo in her album of a boy wearing a sweater with a large “C” on it and the notation reads, “Paul’s mad, and I’m glad.” The next letter from Paul contains the check signed by Etha for $1.25 which he returned to her saying that she was not to blame for the “C.” “I guess I shouldn’t have brought it over for you to wear, too.” Later he says, “I don’t think I’ll get a new letter for my sweater because it’s getting too old and worn out.” The best he could do at an apology was, “I don’t think I’d better come over with Jas. after the way I’ve done. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to see me and I don’t imagine anyone else in Richburg would.”

I think she was more interested in Ritchie than Paul, as I remember hearing about Ritchie. After the row with Paul, his buddy Ritchie wrote that he didn’t think he should come to visit any more and that her mother would probably agree.

The photos verify that she continued the flirting, dating game until 1933, likely breaking a few hearts along the way.

Bleeding Hearts

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My attempt at creative floral shots. ha!
Which do you like best?

Driving Dramas

I needed to drive to North Carolina to visit my grandson and to bring home some things I had left at their house which could not come on the plane. Grant did not have the time to make such a long trek, and I really did not want to make that drive without Guinness accompanying me as my bodyguard. Karin was not fond of Guinness and never wanted him to visit. But Steve's attitude is more lenient, and he welcomed Guinness saying that Kevin would love him.

My route took me south of Erie, Pennsylvania, on 79. I noted a big rig ahead of me driving erratically, sashaying from lane to lane. Then I noted an SUV attempting to pass the truck. The trucker jerked into the left lane cutting off the SUV. The SUV moved to the right lane and tried to pass again. The monstrous truck took his half of the road out the center. The SUV couldn't win at this game, so slowed down, moving back from the truck. Now that the rig had trumped, he drove more sanely. I was now close enough to see the license plate -- PT0068ON. I sped on past the truck praying he wouldn't be mad at me. I noted that his ugly dark blue devil cab was barreling down behind me, so I went faster. I thought -- if I am stopped for speeding, I will tell the cop to go after this wild trucker. As long as I stayed twenty miles over the speed limit, I increased the distance between us. Eventually, he was off my horizon.

On the way home a week later, I was headed to an college friend's house in the panhandle of West Virginia sandwiched between Ohio and Pennsylvania. My GPS guided me off the Interstate in Ohio and onto a small, scenic river road. At first, it was only two lanes, but it eventually became four lanes. Cruising my usual ten miles over the speed limit, I passed an ugly, old black car with three guys in it. The driver pulled out of the right lane and started tagging me. I assumed that he perferred that I be stopped for speeding instead of him. After a while, he was not just following me, but was tailing me. I considered touching my brakes to make him back off, but didn't which may have been fortuitous. I was becoming annoyed with his tailgating, when Guinness awakened and stood up. Immediately, the car passed me, not to be seen again.

When I told Grant the story, he thinks the car was stalking me. These red necks saw a Lexus from Canada with an older woman -- an easy target and one who likely had money. The usual technique is to bump a vehicle, causing it to stop, giving them the opportunity to rob or worse. After he planted that idea, I remembered that the car had passed me at one point, then pulled into the right lane allowing me to pass them again. They were probably getting a good look at their prey. Thank God for Guinness!!!

Does AAA mean The Amos and Andy Auto Show?

Last night, I returned Aunt Donna to her retirement complex at 9:30 after having spent a delightful day together. As I drove out of her parking lot, something was definitely wrong with my son's Honda Odyssey I was driving. As I pulled onto the street, I again felt the unusual sensation that the car was not right. At the next entrance, I drove back into the parking lot, then noted that there was a yellow caution light on the dash. I pulled out the manual to see what it could be: low tire pressure. I got out of the car to see if a tire had a visual problem. The driver’s front tire was flat to the rim! I pulled under a street light where no other cars were parked and called AAA. They said it would be 45 minutes before they could get there. First, I awakened my son to tell him I had a flat and would not be back to his house until late. He said he would come help me if I needed him, but I assured him he could go back to sleep as AAA was on their way. I asked him where the spare was and he explained how to get it out. Then I awakened my husband, Grant, 1500 miles away. He wanted me to call him back when it was fixed and again when I reached Greg’s house. I told him I would only call if I had more trouble, because I wanted him to sleep! He was leaving early in the morning to catch a plane to come here.

I did not want to disturb Aunt Donna; she was probably crawling into bed by the time I finished my phone calls. I had no book to read, except the vehicle manual. I looked up how to get the spare tire out, then snoozed until the phone rang at 10:20 to say they were on the way. Shortly before 10:30, I saw a very long flatbed tow truck barreling down the street with its lights flashing. It zipped right past me, plus it was so large that I assumed it was not my rescue vehicle. A minute later, it returned racing past me again. This time, I saw it turn in down the street a ways, and knew that they couldn’t find me. My phone rang. I answered with. “You can’t find me; can you? You have sped past me twice now.” I explained again where I was and they were beside me in seconds.

The passenger jumped out of the cab – a short, nerdy-looking guy with glasses whom I will call Amos. I showed him the tire and told him where to find the spare. He had trouble figuring out how to get into it, so I offered him the manual turned to the right page, which he accepted gratefully. I would have assumed that a tow truck person would know how and where to find the spare in every type of vehicle! Meanwhile, the driver, whom I will dub Andy, appeared – a huge African-American. Greg later told me that there always is a bouncer type of guy on a tow truck team, because their clients usually are in a very bad mood as result of an accident or major malfunction, having their vehicle impounded, or other situation where they might need to be aggressive with a belligerent client. Andy thought the tire looked just fine and that they should try to pump it up. Amos didn’t agree but went along with Andy. Amos tried to attach the air hose and held it in place. Andy said, “You don’t have to hold it. Here,” and showed him how to attach it. Amos was impressed. Andy asked Amos to sit behind the wheel to tell him when the dash light went off indicating the tire was full. I told them that I doubted that would happen, because we had to take my Lexus to the dealership to have them turn off the tire pressure light after adding air. I was envisioning the tire exploding due to these goons. When it was full, Andy asked Amos to drive the car backwards bit by bit so that he could check for the leak. He was sure that it was a slow leak and that it would be fine to drive on, back to Fort Worth – 30 minutes away on the highway. I was becoming a bit uncomfortable with that thought! Fortunately (if that is the right word), the tire flattened again within minutes. Amos told me to the side that he wasn’t going to let Andy send me home with a defective tire on. Then Amos was going to jack up the car, but had difficulty with the jack, so Andy had to do it. I asked, “How long have you two worked together?”
Amos replied, “He’s my brother-in-law! He married my sister. On their wedding day, I kept telling him, ‘Just say I do; just say I do.’”
They switched tires, and Amos couldn’t figure out how to let the jack down without Andy’s help. They finished at 11:00.

I thanked them for their assistance, and they were polite and gracious in their responses. They indicated that I was the nicest client they had had in a long time. Greg had told me the same thing – that their normal client would not treat them with any respect. I was home at 11:30. Grant called as soon as I was home – not happy that I had left him hanging. But I wanted him to sleep!

I am always grateful for God’s benevolent care. The flat happened at the most convenient spot possible, and the entire fiasco was uneventful.

My Vision of Karin

In the first month after Karin’s death, I had nightmares about her. Like my mother, my dreams often include my deceased relatives, but not Karin yet. Before awaking this morning, I dreamed that Steve had emailed me several files of journals which Karin had written that he found on her computer. I was thrilled to receive these, but before I read them, I had more of a vision of Karin than a dream. She appeared before me wearing a purple floral dress similar to a Laura Ashley one she had in high school. We hugged tightly as I sobbed and sobbed. She comforted me saying it was OK. I asked how she was, and she told me not to worry about her, that she was fine. While hugging, I could see her indistinct face in a mirror. She said that she was no longer in pain, and, to prove it, she bent, twisted, and twirled her body around before leaving me.

Maybe my brain is ready to introduce her into my pleasant dreams. And I did dream about her again last night (Ap. 8). She was helping to plan her funeral -- not particularly pleasant, but very Karin. She wanted a white hearse, so we blew that one.

Grant received my email about my dream, called, and said the HE dreamed about Karin for the first time that same night! She had just become engaged to an unknown person. We were very happy and excited for her. Greg came in; she told him; he made a typical snide comment, then hugged and congratulated her. :-0 And we are not together! He is at home and I am in Texas.

Borderline Stress Test

Early Tuesday morning, May 2, I left home with Hershey, my constant companion, to spend a few days with my family in Michigan. While driving, I called my sister-in-law. Her granddaughter answered. We had not talked in ages, so we gabbed a long time, then I had my usual lengthy chat with my sister-in-law catching up on each other’s activities including my current trip. After we said goodbye, I realized that the 401 had narrowed to two lanes on each side, thus I had not even seen London plus missed my exit for Sarnia. I was on my way to Windsor, and stuck with driving through Detroit.

As I pulled up to the US customs booth, the agent said, “Hello. How are you today?” I thought that was a rather cheery greeting especially at the Detroit border crossing where they are known for their officious inflexibility. I replied, “Fine.”

He took my passport. “Do you know your license plate number?”

“1 N..,” I hesitated because my husband had bought new personalized plates for me in April using my middle initial instead of maiden name initial, so I had to think. “MW, I think. They are brand new.”

“Have you seen a doctor recently?”

“Yeeeees,” as my mind was swirling with outrageous thoughts: Good grief! Why would he ask that? Is my health record connected to my license number? Is Big Brother watching? Were the results from my SPECT Cardiolite stress test yesterday so bad that they think I may have a heart attack while driving and have notified the authorities to watch for me on the road?

“Did you have a bone scan?”

“Yeeeees.” Then I added, “My bone density is very good for an old lady of my age.”

“I am sure it is.”

Another agent walked up to me. “Have you had a stress test lately?”

“Yeees, yesterday.” Unsettling thoughts were exploding in my brain! “How would you know that?”

“You are radioactive. Would you please pull up to that man over there. You will need to fill out some paperwork inside.” The indicated individual waved me in his direction as the second agent walked my passport over to him. I was directed to drive between two posts and make a tight circle around back to him. I still had not figured out what was going on. After completing the loop, I joked, “I can do it faster. Do you want me to drive around again?”

“No. That was good enough. Will your dog bite me?”

“No, but he will lick you.”

After he directed me to accompany the second agent into the building, I confessed, “My stress test yesterday was very stressful, but this is too.” They concurred. As I walked in, he drove my vehicle between the posts. Later I deduced that they were verifying that it was me, not my vehicle, which was radioactive.

Inside, they offered me a chair as three agents surrounded me, one with a Geiger counter-type machine which he held close to my body and backed away. I asked how long I would be radioactive. “Usually about three weeks.”

“Three weeks! I have to cross the border again on Thursday! Aah, but the Canadians don’t care. They usually don’t even ask my citizenship.” The female agent explained that Canadian border agents receive the same training that they receive. I remarked, “I guess I don’t look much like a terrorist threat to them.”

One of them questioned where I was going and why. I explained, “I am on my way to my brother’s in Rochester Hills, and my dog is going to see my nephew who is a vet. He is the only vet who understands his allergies.”

The door opened, and the agent returned my car keys, stating, “You were right.”

“You mean he licked you?”

“He sure did.”

I was then given my passport and released. The female agent continued chatting about dogs and canine allergies as she escorted me to my car.

I wonder what my blood pressure was during that episode.

Three days later, while driving toward the Port Huron/Sarnia crossing, I was feeling unsettled about what might happen at the border as I recalled an incident from the previous month. It was blizzard conditions as I approached Customs. The Canadian officer asked for my license number. “I don’t know it!”

“Why don’t you know it?”

“Why should I? No one ever asks for it.”

“Then get out and tell me what it is.”

“If I do that, I will have to pull either forward or backward. Which would you like me to do?”
In a huff, she stormed out of her booth, and went to look. “Is the storm preventing you from seeing my plate with your cameras?” No answer. But she released me.

I pulled into the stall at Sarnia. The customs officer queried where I live and how much I was bringing back. Period.