Scissor Sins
I saw my best friend Debbie’s brother maybe twice in my life. He was nearly 15 years older, and away at college. But I did notice that one of his eyes seemed different than the other, and I remarked on it to my mother. “Don’t say anything about it,” my mother said. “It’s a glass eye. When he was little, he was running and accidentally put his eye out with scissors.” So, HE was the guy! All this time I thought the kid who ran with scissors was a fictional character created to throw a scare into kids (like the thought of having a pair of scissors stuck in your eye wasn’t enough). Not only was he real, he was my best friend’s brother! Personally, I couldn’t remember ever having had the urge to run while holding a pair...
I Would’ve Finished It Too, If It Weren’t For Those Meddling Kids
It just shouldn’t be this hard. But somehow, it always is. I try to enjoy decorating the Christmas tree, I really do. After all, it’s really important to the kids. They love gathering around the tree, carefully placing heirloom ornaments on the tree while Christmas music plays in the background, a cup of hot cocoa waiting in the kitchen. In my dreams. That’s the only place that scene has ever existed. I realized this a few days ago when I attempted to engage my children in the family tradition of putting up ye olde Christmas tree. The first order of business — getting the tree. Oh, what fun. In my dreams, the kids would clap with delight as I exclaimed “Hey, let’s go get the Christmas tree!” My son Tony would eagerly hunt down...
For Better or Worse, Every Christmas is Memorable
I was asked to share my most memorable Christmas a few weeks ago — a gift or a memory — and I just couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t narrow it down. When did I realize that Santa Claus wasn’t real? It was at age two if you believe my mother, and I do. She had spent money that my parents really didn’t have to buy a Santa suit so my dad could provide their firstborn with a private audience with St. Nick. Although technically, Santa would visit my sister Marla, too. At four-months old, I doubt they anticipated that a visit from Santa would generate much of a response from her, beyond a burp. I doubt they had anticipated my response upon seeing Santa for the first time, either, which was … “Daddy!” They had the suit, the...
Thanks for the Free Parking
I used to love Monopoly. My sister Marla and I would play all day and half the night. We weren’t just addicts. Monopoly fiends, that’s what we were. We fought over a lot of things, but we never fought over who would be banker, who would count out the money, who would put the game up, who would get the game out from under the bed. We were professionals. I’m not sure that a $500 bill exists in real life, but if we had ever been asked to break one down, it wouldn’t have taken us 30 seconds to count it out — and to include bills from every denomination down to $1. But we did have our little quirks. Marla, aka, “the Quitter” would get “tired” whenever it became apparent that she was going to get strummed. Sharla, better...
Grandmother Leopard
Families have a tendency to cast each other in roles. When I was a kid, I was generally my sisters’ cheerer-upper. If my sisters were crying for any reason, it was generally thought that I, as the oldest, was somehow involved. Even if I weren’t involved, I “should have known better” than to let happen whatever it was that had happened. Crying meant something bad had happened, so I felt it was in my best interest to cheer up and make my little sisters quit crying in times of trouble. At least while my parents were around. But to be honest, we were a family who could stand trouble, but not sadness. The epitaph on my Grandmother Leopard’s headstone reads “She was always laughing,” and she was. A lot of people might have...
Daddy
I never thought that I had much in common with my dad. As one of four girls, we did not have much interaction with Daddy growing up. To be honest, we didn’t have much interaction after we’d grown up, either. In fact, I estimate that were I to take a trip listening to a recording of every conversation I’ve ever had with Daddy, I wouldn’t make it past Houston. Or possibly Cleveland. A 10-minute conversation could be excruciating. A 45-minute conversation? Unthinkable. What did we have to talk about? We just didn’t have that much in common. I was a journalist. He was a mechanic. I had a college degree. He had no interest in college. I had lived most of my life in the city and had traveled all over the country. He lived most of his life...
Karla Jo
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