60 Years

My dad's high school yearbooks stayed in the third drawer of the cherry secretary in the living room. When I was a little girl, I used to love to get them out and look at them, searching through the black and white pages for pictures of my dad as a young man. There were some, but not many, and my sisters and I were amused by the amount of dark hair on my dad's head. He was always smiling, with a twinkle in his eyes, which while gray in the photograph, were crystal blue in real life.

There was Dad as a freshman, all knees and elbows, with bushy eyebrows and a shock of black hair on his forehead. There was Dad as a sophomore, more confident looking, but a boy yet. There he was as a junior, becoming the man we will love one day. And, finally, Dad as a senior, off to face the world and all of its challenges. Dad as a young man, ready for anything.

In the senior yearbook, we would read autographs from his friends, these young men about whom we knew nothing, and we'd wonder what they were like. Did Dad get into trouble with these guys? Did they play sports together? Did they gripe about the cafeteria food like we did? Did they miss home? Talk about girls? Complain about teachers? What were they like, and why didn't Dad keep in touch with them?

My sisters and I would study Dad's classmates and decide who was cute, who looked nice, who was athletic. We laughed at their hair, all the same style, slicked back with Brylcream, shining for the camera. We marveled at them all in suits and dress shoes, all the time except in the gym. We'd wonder what they looked like now, and if, like Dad, they'd lost their hair too. We'd try to read the messages written in blue ink, fading with time, and thought it was cool that Dad had a nickname, "Fitz."

Dad lost touch with these guys once life set in. It's hard to maintain friendships over time and miles, and with a wife, three little girls, and a mortgage, some things just got put aside until later. "Later" came and went. Dad attended his 25th class reunion and his 50th, and a friend or two stopped in over the years on his way from one place to another, but that was the extent of his connection with his old classmates from Campion. There was something there, though, under the surface that told us that his experiences in Prairie du Chien, while difficult, had been some of the best times of his life, and that he missed his old friends.

When my mom died, Dad's circle, always small, closed even further. He withdrew into himself, and except for church, pinochle, and the Red Cross, he was with my sisters and me or home alone much of the time. Rarely did we see Dad interact with men his age, and even more infrequently did we see him smile.

This summer, amidst the uproar of moving Dad from his house of 42 years to a place 3 doors down from me, Dad got the invitation to his 60th high school reunion. Sixty years! My sisters and I were amazed that folks would want to get together after all those years, but I guess it spoke to the fondness we saw in Dad's eyes whenever he talked about Campion and his friends there.

Dad can no longer drive on the interstate, and there was no way he could fly alone, so Colleen offered to drive him to St. Louis so that he could join in the festivities. I thought it would be a great opportunity to get away with Dad for a weekend, and when Colleen proposed it to him, he literally jumped at the chance.

Once Colleen and I had worked out our home details, we began to make plans for the reunion. I called Charlie Meehan about adding Dad to the list, made reservations at the hotel, and ordered our vegetarian dinners. Dad called me several times during the week to check on the status of things, "Did you get the reservations made?" "Have you talked to Charlie? Are you sure it's okay if I come?" I could tell he was very excited.

Friday arrived, and we picked Dad up a little after 1 and headed to St. Louis. The drive was nice, just the 3 of us, and it brought back memories of trips long past. We arrived at the hotel around 4 p.m.

As we headed up to our rooms, we began to see older guests walking past, and Dad would regard each one closely to see if they were friends of old. The two men would look at each other trying to match the man they saw before them with the boy they remembered. All of a sudden, one of them would say, "Johnny Fitz?" and they would laugh and shake hands and the reunion would begin.

Dad would introduce Colleen and me immediately, and the friend would always thank us for bringing Dad and comment on what a nice kid he had been and how glad they were that he had come. The whole weekend, Colleen and I were looking for stories about Dad and any questionable scrapes he might have gotten himself in, but the whole time, all we heard was how nice Johnny was and what a gentleman he had been. (Nothing we didn't already know!)

It was interesting to watch Dad that weekend. He was still the very quiet man I have always known, but he seemed to come out of the shell he had built around himself since Mom died. He smiled more. He laughed more. He talked more. The twinkle returned to his eyes.

As the weekend passed, Colleen and I remarked that it was almost spiritual for us. We felt an instant connection to Dad's old friends. It was incredibly moving for us to watch the care and commitment they had for one another, even 60 years after graduation. "Here, let me help you with that." "No, please, you go first." "Really, it's my pleasure." Over and over again, we witnessed kindness after kindness, from Charlie Meehan's door to door shuttle service for Dad to others giving up a chair for Dad to sit down to someone bringing him a cup of coffee.

We were honored to be included with the wives in receiving corsages for Saturday's dinner. Camp's kind words about us being examples of filial piety were so moving that they brought me to tears. In fact, it was our pleasure to bring Dad to the reunion, and a small repayment to him for all that he has done for us over our lives.

I really enjoyed attending mass both Saturday and Sunday mornings. The intimacy of each celebration was so nice. I loved the fact that former teachers and classmates, now priests, were celebrants. It just made everything so much more meaningful.

As the weekend drew to a close, I found myself looking to make one more connection with one of Dad's classmates. One more hug. One more smile. One more minute with these guys I'd grown so fond of over the course of the weekend. Colleen and I both said we felt like we'd inherited about 30 new godfathers that weekend and how blessed we were for it!

I can't begin to thank these men enough for opening up their circle for my sister and me. We felt instantly welcomed and part of the Campion family. And what a wonderful gift it was for us to see Dad in such a different light! It was a weekend I will cherish for the rest of my life, and I hope that I am one day blessed to spend time with these men again even for a moment. It was an honor to get to know each and every Knight. Thank you for sharing your weekend with us!

September 11, 2010

I woke this morning with the date heavy on my mind. September 11 always takes me back. I remember driving home from Holy Trinity. I was sitting at the light at Brownsboro Road and Zorn Ave. when my brand new cell phone rang. I was 8 months pregnant with Emily, and the cell was new in case I needed Kirk at the last minute. What did we do before cell phones?

Anyway, it was my sister, Colleen. "Sharron, are you watching the news? A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center!"

I wasn't really sure what the World Trade Center was and had no idea where it was, so she filled me in. "Turn on your radio," she said.

I drove the rest of the way home listening to the news. It was on every station. When I got inside, I turned on the television and watched in horror as smoke and flames poured out of the North Tower. I called Colleen. Shock like this had to be shared.

"Those poor people!" I said. "Can you imagine? How are they going to get down?"

"What if your husband worked on the top floors?" she replied.

"Those poor people," I said again.

We sat in silence on the phone together, watching different stations in case one had some news that the other didn't, answering the other lines when someone would beep in to make sure we knew what was going on. Then the second plane hit and fear set in. Her channel showed someone falling. Mine did not. My channel was the first to report on the Pentagon. We watched the towers fall and wondered if anyone could survive. We learned about Flight 93. It was like that all morning, and together we watched in horror as our world changed. I knew my baby would be born into a different time...life after 9/11.

Each year, I relive those events in my mind and turn on the tv to watch the memorials and the replays and see us before we were what we are now, when every plane crash or explosion wasn't first considered to be an act of terrorism.

There wasn't much on yesterday. It has been nine years after all. People have moved on, life has continued.

So I was sitting on the bleachers at football practice yesterday morning looking out across the field when a big Southwest Airline plane came into view. Then another plane flew by. At first, I thought it was odd that planes were flying today. I thought it was odd that anything was going on today, on the anniversary of such a horrible day, but there we were...at football practice or work or shopping or flying to another place...continuing on with life. Cars were driving by on Poplar Level Road. Fans were coming into the stadium for a soccer game later in the afternoon. I even read in the paper that some folks were getting married today. And that is how it should be. That is what makes us strong. We remember, yes, but we move on. I like that about us.

For Sale

For Sale:

Nice three bedroom house on a quiet street. Master bedroom has two big closets perfect for hiding in or storing family treasures. One large bedroom excellent for sharing with siblings, dogs, or cats. Smaller room perfect for a studious type with just enough room for a twin bed, dresser, and a desk. Two full baths. Large hall bath can hold up to four adult women and a cat comfortably. The double sinks and large mirror allow for excellent opportunities to preen. Tub holds three small children and several toys at one time and makes a fabulous swimming pool, checkout lane, or pet wash.

Large living room has four nice corners perfect for holding toys on Christmas morning. Triple windows allow for beautiful display of lights and decorated tree during the holiday season. Wood floors underneath carpet are great for sock skating. Dining room makes excellent venue for holiday parties, birthdays, and showers. Holds eight people comfortably and ten if you push it, but crowds make everything more fun.

Good size family room with fireplace. Very cozy in the winter with a roaring fire and cookies on the hearth. Fireplace big enough for Santa to slide down on Christmas Eve. Nice eat-in kitchen allows for large congregations of people to stand around and help prepare dinner. Stove near the back door welcomes guests with wonderful aromas at Thanksgiving and other special occasions. Extensive counter space gives plenty of room for pot luck dinners with several dishes. Open bar area to family room allows those watching ball games to interact with those cooking the food.

Large basement, formerly a roller rink, now perfect for parties, movies, and sleepovers. Space for pool or ping pong table as well as television, record player, and speakers. Plenty of room for dancing and dramatic performances. Area in storage room makes excellent school with space for desks, chalkboard, and bookshelves. Laundry room shelves are great for storing canned summer produce such as green beans, pickles, okra, and jams. Deep freezer, large enough to hold frozen strawberries, peaches, blueberries, corn, jellies, cookies, apple pies, zucchini bread and leftovers, to remain.

Two car garage can hold two cars or one car and a lot of stuff or no cars and a whole lot of stuff. Plenty of room for old roll top desks and/or upright pianos. Makes excellent concert hall or pretend office. Garage is cool in the summer and cold in the winter. Perfect for that almost-frozen canned soft drink in winter months.

Large corner lot allows for mingling with neighbors on two streets. Fenced yard is nice for holding dogs, kids, swimming pools, swing sets, and any number of other play items. Space in the yard for an extensive garden in which to grow delicious tomatoes, green beans, peppers, zucchini, squash, green onions, and gourds. Also excellent place for composting coffee grounds, banana peels, and egg shells.

Huge yard great for games of whiffle ball, spotlight, frozen catchers, machine gunners, snowball fights, forts, and tree climbing. Not good for push mowing. A riding mower is highly recommended.

Well-loved home is ideal for young family with small children looking for a wonderful place to grow up. Guaranteed to create lots of happy memories and special moments.

Call today to schedule a viewing.

The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

The alarm went off this morning at 6 a.m., and I hate waking up that early.

I had bad dreams last night so I wasn't rested, and I started the day out with a headache. I hate headaches.

The kids got into a fight before school, and I really hate fights in the morning.

The fight made us late for carpool and then we were stuck in the bad traffic, and I hate traffic. It was starting to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

We didn't find the snake at Dad's, and I accidentally broke my parents' honeymoon wine bottle, the one covered with wax from years of anniversary candles. I hate not finding the snake, but I really hate breaking the bottle.

I got stuck by a train and was late picking up Emily for her doctor's appointment. She either has a staph infection or a strep infection. I hate infections. We had to rush to get there on time, and I hate rushing.

Our new insurance company didn't have our doctor as our primary care physician. I had to wait on the cell phone for 40 minutes while they figured out their mistake. It was somehow "not their mistake," and we'll end up having to pay for it. I hate paying for other people's mistakes.

"Today is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day!" I said.

"I'm sorry," the insurance man replied. "It's not our fault."

My kitchen's a wreck. My laundry is piled up. My furniture is dusty, and I haven't made my bed in weeks. Most of my basement is in the garage in boxes. I hate chaos.

Our street is getting seal coated, and I couldn't park in the driveway. To get to my house, I had to walk across wet tar, and my shoes got messy on the bottom.

I was taking Claire to dance class and thinking about the missing snake and the possible infections and I rear-ended a Volvo. I hate accidents.

"Today is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day," I told the lady in the Volvo.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Some days are like that."

I didn't get to make dinner again, and I miss cooking.

I had a meeting and church, and I hate meetings.

I didn't have enough wine for my bath, and while I was sitting here typing about my day, a mouse ran across my kitchen floor, and now we can't find it.

It is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I'm going to bed.

Snakes in the Basement

From the basement came a blood-curdling scream. "Oh my god! Oh my god!" shrieked my sister, Colleen.

I was upstairs in the kitchen at Dad's old house, and Colleen was in the laundry room sweeping up the lint from under the dryer. We'd found a few mouse droppings in the storage room, but no recent signs of any mice, so I figured that she had finally seen a live one. But the screaming didn't stop, and it sounded more serious than a mouse. Maybe a nest of them, I thought.

"Colleen," I hollered. "What's wrong?"

She replied with the unthinkable..."THERE'S A SNAKE IN THE BASEMENT!" and she bounded up the stairs and into the kitchen.

"What? NO WAY!" I replied. "Where?"

"Under the dryer in the laundry room. I almost put my hand under there!!!" And she had. It was at the last minute that she'd decided to use a broom instead.

I asked how big it was without considering that it really didn't matter. There was a SNAKE...ALIVE...IN THE BASEMENT.

If there is anyone on earth more terrified of snakes than me, it is Colleen. She doesn't even like to go in her backyard for fear of them.

"Holy crap!" I replied. "What are we going to do? I'm not going back down there!"

"But we have to," she said. "We have to get the basement cleaned out. Can you kill it because I can't."

Okay, I thought. I can do this. I HAVE to do this. Kirk is in Frankfort. John is downtown. Kyle is at school. It was Colleen and me versus the snake, and by God, we were going to win.

"I'll try," I replied. "Let me get a weapon out of the garage."

I went into the garage to get the shovel only to be reminded that we had taken all of Dad's tools to his new house yesterday. The only thing with a long handle was a sponge mop and a push broom. I grabbed the mop, and we headed back downstairs.

We tiptoed gingerly to the laundry room, both of us standing in the doorway waiting for the other to go first. Colleen spotted a plastic milk crate.

"I'll get on the milk crate, and you look under the dryer," she said.

Just then, Dad came in the back door, and we hollered up at him, "There's a snake in the basement!" He came down with the push broom and walked into the laundry room.

"It's under the dryer," Colleen said.

She was standing on the milk crate and had started lifting the dryer up when it occurred to me that she was raising the side facing me. If there was a snake still under there, it would slither out in my direction.

"Wait!" I yelled. "Let me get the other milk crate first." So Dad slid the other milk crate over to me, and the two of us, armed with a mop and a broom, lifted up the dryer to see a black snake, about 18 inches long, crawling along the wall behind the dryer.

"There it is!" we yelled. I wondered how we were going to kill it with a mop and a broom, but I figured I would just bash it with the back of the mop head. Then Colleen got the idea to go in the garage and get the tree loppers off the wall. It is about an 8 foot long pole with a curved saw at the top. We figured it would at least be something metal to hit it with.

I stood there on the crate with the mop in my hand watching the snake watch me. It crawled one way down the wall and then the other. It stopped between the wall and a dusty can just as Colleen came down with the loppers. I reached back to get the tool, not taking my eyes off the snake. "How am I going to kill this thing?" I thought. The loppers were too tall and got caught in the rafters. I looked up to untangle them, and when I looked back down, the snake was GONE!

"It's gone!" I yelled.

"WHERE?" said Colleen.

"I don't know!!!" I replied.

I thought maybe it had crawled into the can, so I took the loppers and pushed it around. It was a can of WD-40, so there was no way the snake could have gotten into it. Then I thought maybe there was a crack in the wall and the snake was in there. I took the broom and swept along the floor/wall area. Nothing. We looked under the dryer again. Nope. Under the upright freezer. Not there either.

Mind you, we were standing on milk crates this whole time, lifting up old pie tins and dryer sheets with our broom and mop, with a snake loose in the basement and no way to find it or really kill it once we did.

We looked for that damn thing for an hour and did not find it. We both refused to take any boxes home in our vans today in case it slithered into one of them. That's all we'd need is to be driving 65 miles an hour down the Snyder Freeway and have a snake crawl across the brakes!

Tomorrow we go back, armed this time with a rake and a shovel. I'll let you know how it goes...

Saving Time in a Bottle

In the corner of the garage in crumbling plastic bags sat hundreds of seashells from Sanibel Island. My sisters and I had collected them over the course of two, week-long trips, one in 1973 and the other in 1975.

I remember those trips like they were yesterday. We stayed in a cottage right on the beach. Mom had to bring all the linens, pots and pans, dishes, food, clothes, beach toys, and anything else we might need while we were there. I'm sure it wasn't much of a vacation for her, but for us, it was paradise.

We'd wake up every morning and head to the ocean. Dad liked the Gulf because it was calm, and Sanibel was even gentler than Pensacola or St. Pete. We could wade out for several yards and not be any deeper than our knees. The sandbars were excellent at low tide, and there was a shallow "pool" of ocean that we girls could safely play in pretty much by ourselves.

Our favorite pastime by far, however was to kneel in the water where the waves hit the shore and search for shells. Colleen and I would take our buckets and our sifters and scoop up load after load of shells. I can still see us kneeling there with our backs against the ocean, and our sun-kissed cheeks covered with Coppertone.

"Look, Sharron! I found a cat's eye!" Colleen would cry and drop it in her bucket.

"I found an olive," I'd say, and we'd look harder to try and find the next perfect shell.

We'd collect bags of shells. Back then, nobody really worried about "over-shelling" by tourists. Shells were the calling card for Sanibel. We even got plastic shelling bags from our hotel that we filled up with our treasures to take home and study back in Kentucky and remember and plan for our next trip.

We sorted them after one trip. The turkey wings in one bag. The sailor's ears in another. The conchs in yet a third. The other visit, we just dumped them all into a box, and that's where they stayed, on a shelf covered with dust and cobwebs, until today.

Today was the day we were cleaning out the garage. The dumpster had been delivered, and it was time to let them go. I pulled the box of shells out to the patio for one last look. I had called Colleen and Jennifer, and neither one of them wanted any shells for a keepsake. I wasn't so sure. I wanted to see them again. To study them. To remember.

I put a blanket down on the patio and reached for the old Sanibel Island bags. They were crumbling plastic by now after over 30 years in the heat and cold of the garage. Some sand dusted out onto my leg, and I brushed it off, remembering days at the beach when it would get stuck to my skin and scratch when Dad rubbed the suntan lotion on my legs and shoulders. I picked up the biggest conch that we'd ever found. It was always in my mind to pour hot wax into it and make a candle out of it like I'd seen in the gift shops. I saw the tiniest shells down in the bottom of the pile, and I remembered how I loved finding the perfect baby olive or cat's eye.

I started to put a few of these tiny shells off to the side for old times' sake. Then I remembered a small, glass spice bottle that I'd packed up an hour earlier. I got it and began dropping the tiny treasures into it. The whole time, I was picturing two little girls, one tow-headed and sunburnt, one dark haired and tanned, kneeling in the water side by side looking for shells. I found myself singing, "If I could save time in a bottle, the first thing that I'd like to do..." I couldn't get past that line. I just kept repeating, "If I could save time in a bottle..." over and over in my head because I felt like that's what I was doing.

One of the bags had some sand in the corner of it, so I dumped it into the bottle and shook it down. I kept placing shells in one by one, and when the bottle was full, I put the cork in it and set it aside. Then I picked up the blanket, carried the rest of the shells over to the dumpster and dropped them in. I picked up my spice bottle full of memories and went back to work.

Playing Dress-Up

This will be my third weekend in a row dressing up for Locust Grove. Two weeks ago, the girls and I were in character for the grand re-opening of the house after its remodel. Last weekend, Emily and I were in character for the free Fourth of July festivities. This weekend is the Jane Austen Festival, and I'm in the style show.

All of this got me to wondering, "What does it say about me that I dress up in Regency Era clothes and pretend to be someone else? What must 'regular' people think of my weird hobby?" If I look at myself from an outsider's point of view, I think I seem pretty odd! To me, it's totally normal to do this. I love the theatrical part of it. I love pretending to be someone I'm not, living in a time that is totally foreign to today, thinking on my feet and pulling it off. It is a big rush for me. Whenever someone comes in to my room and engages me in conversation, I feel a surge of adrenaline and my neurons start firing, and I'm "on."

But then I look at the folks who attend the Jane Austen Festival, say, with a different lens. I think they are odd because they dress up for fun and fun alone. I find myself putting me on a higher, less-weird plane because I do it for a reason (or so I tell myself). I reenact to teach and inform and educate others about life in the olden days and about the Clarks and the Croghans and life in Louisville 200 years ago. These JA fans are just weird grown ladies parading around the grounds of Locust Grove as if they were living there.

They are not much different than the men who dress in Revolutionary War or Civil War clothes and pretend to do battle. But really they are not so different from folks who dress like pirates or gangsters at Halloween and play like they are someone else.

I guess all of us, if we'd admit it, have a secret desire to dress up and become another version of ourselves. To escape from the stresses of today and slip back into the days when things seemed easier, slower, more relaxed. It's the lucky one of us who actually puts on the costumes and caters to our inner child who cries out, "Let's play!"