Head Bump

My kids and I were in a cabin in Big Bear.  We were having a fun family vacation and I was proud that I was able to take them there by myself, find the cabin, take them snowboarding and enjoy their company by a cozy fireplace along with my home cooking every evening. 

I liked to get up early so I could exercise, shower and get breakfast started before anyone awoke.  Standing under the shower that morning, I leaned over for the wash rag.  The tub was slippery and before I knew it, I was pitching forward, arms flailing for balance.  I try to imagine what I must have looked like:  naked, wet body, feet flying out from under me, arms waving spastically. Not pretty.  I grabbed the shower curtain which crashed down with me as I fell face forward, smacking my forehead with a sickening thud against the closed toilet lid.  Ouch.  This seemed bad.  Was I dead?

After writhing in pain for some time, I stumbled out of the tub and looked at my face in the mirror.  You know those cartoons where someone gets hit on the head and a huge lump immediately appears?  Well guess what?  It really happens.  A large, red lump was swelling before my eyes right in the middle of my forehead.  Very attractive.  Oh yeah, and it really, really hurt.

It seemed serious.  Was I going to die?  What if I blacked out?  I was the only parent, the only one in charge.  What would happen to my kids?

Over the next few hours, my face sprouted annoying patches of jaundice yellow and festive black and blue circles around my eyes.  I looked like I’d been beaten.

Later, my sweet, sensitive son said, “Yeah I heard you fall.” 

“Well why didn’t you come check on me?” 

“I was tired.”

The Blob

It all started out so innocently, just a group of coworkers sitting around a large conference room table which served as our lunch break area.  An assortment of brown bags and lunch pails was strewn before us as we politely munched on sandwiches and discussed a variety of subjects. 

One 60ish gentleman was talking animatedly about something when he paused to blow his nose.  He honked noisily into his handkerchief, then wadded it in a ball, stuffed it in his pocket, and continued his speech, engaging eye contact with everyone around the room.  The rest of us sat there in frozen horror.  None of us knew what to do, for there, on the tip of the man’s rather large nose, was a perfectly round, large blob of something that had somehow missed his handkerchief. 

It was so large it couldn’t be missed, and seemed to take on a life of its own, bobbing up and down with every movement of the man’s head.  Clearly he thought he had our undivided attention, as we were all too stunned to move or look away, and he talked on and on for what seemed like an eternity.  I’m sure we all wanted to say something to stop this embarrassing display, but we were too shocked or revolted to do anything other than stare at the blob at the end of the man’s nose.  It was round and white and glistened in the sun shafting through the window.  I had no idea what the man was saying and could no longer focus on anything except the large, gelatinous blob dancing around the room.  Was the man still talking or had the blob taken over the conversation? I’m not sure, but this happened over 30 years ago and still sticks (ick) in my mind.

OLD RECORDS

A stack of old records in my office is a constant reminder of my dad and his music.    They are all perfectly preserved in their covers with colorful, bold pictures of the artists.  He loved big bands, classical, jazz, and Latin music. 

Dad was an accomplished trumpet player and even played with the Harry James Band a few times.  He was a member of the Reno Municipal Band and formed his own jazz group called the Dixie Cats.  On a typical evening at home,  Dad would flip through his collection, carefully stack several records on the hifi turntable, lift his trumpet out of its velvet case, and play soulfully along with the music.  Percy Faith’s Viva and Malaguena were particular favorites and this music stirs old memories, sights and smells.  Mom would be in the kitchen cooking dinner, sending wonderful aromas wafting my way and all seemed right with the world.

After the Christmas bustle, I treated myself to a record player so I could finally play these treasures of days long gone.  My sister was here for dinner and we both turned dreamy and nostalgic at the sounds of Harry James and Montovani.  

Miss you, Dad.

A Norco State of Mind

Photos by Peggy Jones

We had been hearing how horse friendly the town of Norco is (Horsetown USA) and wanted to check it out for ourselves, so we trailered there on a Friday afternoon.  First we rode in a residential area and were impressed with the wide bridle paths on every street.  The main street in town also has bridle paths on both sides and a special crosswalk button at rider’s height.  We decided to go shopping at Thrifty Horse which has a corral in the parking lot with hitching posts.  We tied up our horses and moseyed on in to shop. Our transportation remained surprisingly calm, switching their tails and standing contentedly, even with cars whizzing by on the street.

Next we rode to the Saddle Sore Saloon which also had a designated horse area.  It seemed like we had gone back a hundred years or so in time.  What a thrill to sit in a “saloon” with a Margarita, watching your horse look at you through the window!  

Flashback

I was driving down 9^th Avenue in Escondido the other day, when sirens screamed from behind and police cars screeched past me with lights flashing.  Up ahead, traffic slowed, narrowing into one lane, and I cursed myself for always being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  How did I always end up being stuck in bad traffic?  As I crept forward behind the line of cars, I was startled to see a plume of dark black smoke appear ahead on the left.  Oh no, that has to be a house fire, I thought with dread.  My body cringed instinctively as we drew near the catastrophe.  I tried to keep my eyes on the street while stealing glances out the side window as we approached the fire.  There it was, a nice two story house with a tile roof. Orange flames erupted furiously from the garage roof and I prayed they would contain the fire before the house burned too.  There was also a car in the driveway and I hoped they would move it before it exploded.  God bless, God bless, I whispered as I drove, concern flooding me for the owners of the house.  Hopefully nobody was hurt.  Did they know their house was on fire or were they away at work?  Suddenly a wave of sadness overwhelmed me and I began to sob.  I know all too well what it is like to lose your home and everything you own, and how life changing such a disaster can be.  God bless you, home owners, God bless. 

Split Stops

Definition:   Stopping for a picnic halfway through a horseback ride with a split sized bottle of Champagne.

Photo by Peggy Jones

Champagne Sister Peggy recently coined this phrase and I would like to enter it in our dictionary.  Seems appropriate as this has become a ritual.  We look for a bench somewhere along the way, preferably with a water view, where we can sit and enjoy a picnic.  There is a particular spot in the Grasslands that has become our favorite split stop spot.  A picnic table sits on a little knoll under a shady tree in front of a tranquil pond.  This has become our favorite restaurant because it’s outside, has a great view, and our horses can come along.  Fine dining at its best – granola bars and Champagne!  Carrots for the four legged ones.  Even our horses race toward this spot in anticipation.  It is so peaceful sitting in the sunshine, listening to the ducks splash and quack.  The horses take it all in with their big, soulful eyes as we clink our mini bottles together and toast the day.

ALL GIRLS XMAS PARTY

This past Sunday, December 11, I had my 27^th All Girls Xmas Party.  It started in the mid 1980’s when I invited friends and coworkers to my house on a December afternoon for appetizers and champagne.  It’s an interesting, different dynamic with girls only parties.  I don’t know if it makes us more carefree, a little less worried about things we say and do, but it seems to be a freer, more open atmosphere.  It must be enjoyable because people keep showing up!  The cast of characters has changed over the years.  Some have moved away and new friends were added when I changed companies.  After leaving the office world with the birth of my daughter, the parties became my connecting link with people I otherwise would never see again.  Every year is different and I’m never sure who will be there or not due to unforeseen circumstances.  People get the flu or have trips or obligations that interfere with the chosen date. 

There was one very memorable year which my core–group friends will remember, when a special guest made an unforgettable appearance.  My dad called to tell me he and Mom were coming down for Christmas.  Their arrival date coincided with the day I had planned my party.  Everyone knew and loved my dad.  He was a talented musician and artist and had a wicked sense of humor.  He was the kind of person everyone respected and wanted to be around because he was so much fun.  I told Dad jokingly that he was welcome to come but he would have to dress like a woman since it was an all girls party.  Given his sense of humor, I should have known he would do just that.  He went to Sears and bought the biggest blue party dress he could find and even donned hose and heels.  Mom did his makeup and provided him with a wig and a pearl necklace and earrings.  Dad was not a small person; not a man who could easily transform into a woman.  He was tall and big boned with large hands and feet.  With perfect comedic timing, he waited until the party was in full swing, then made his entrance by descending the staircase, slowly swishing his hips and holding his hand out for balance in a feminine way.  I heard one of my friends whisper behind me, “Who is that ugly old woman?”  and I tried to keep from laughing.  With an affected, high voice, he announced, “Hello, I’m Ima Laflame!”  My friends, always polite, tried to engage ”her” in conversation.  You could see the wheels turning as they tried to puzzle out exactly who “she” was.  Dad was able to keep up the charade for a full hour before someone finally figured him out.  Then there was much laughter and inappropriate grabbing at his fake boobs.  Dad ate it up, laughing with everyone at his own joke and posing for pictures with them.  I don’t think any of us ever laughed so hard as we did that year.  The event has become legendary; something those who witnessed it speak of fondly. 

There have been some years when only a handful of friends showed up, allowing me to give each person more attention,  and years when my home is vibrant and alive with the voices and laughter of my brilliant and wonderful friends.   I am always thrilled, no matter how many show up, to see my friends, and honored that they want to keep coming and keep the tradition alive year after year.  New champagne sister friends have been added through the years and seem to enjoy it too.  If I didn’t have this party every year, most of these dear friends would disappear from my life forever.  It is just too easy to lose touch with people when you no longer see them on a daily basis.  Life and hectic schedules get in the way and ruin the best intentions.  This party is a way of connecting with old and new friends, keeping old memories alive and creating new ones as well.  Thank you, dear friends.  It’s a pleasure and an honor to have you in my home at Christmastime.