Pollution, Pollution, What's The Solution?

I entered the 4-H Public Speaking Contest back in the early 70's and won County (Carroll County, Maryland) with a speech titled: Pollution, Pollution, What's The Solution.  I competed with the other County winners for State, but did not win.  I don't remember much about the speech other than the catchy title.  Fast-forward to October 2017 and I'm still waging war on pollution.

When Daniel and I started our daily walks last month, I couldn't help but notice all the trash in my neighborhood and decided to carry along a bag and grabber.  Every day, I'd collect a bag of trash.  It's the usual stuff thrown from car windows and dropped from busy hands: cans, plastic bottles, candy wrappers, cigarette butts, and the many containers and bags that once held fast-food.  From what I can tell, litterers (especially my neighbors) are unhealthy eaters.  I've yet to find a hummus container or an apple core.  I suspect my neighbors secretly call me the crazy trash lady.  Come to think of it, maybe they throw trash in the street to keep me busy, so I don't try to engage them in conversation or borrow a cup of sugar.

I've never understood people who throw trash anywhere but in a container made for that purpose.  If you do, please don't tell me.  I'd still love you, but I'd probably nag you and tell you the world is not your garbage can and stop being trashy.

I will continue to pick up trash as long as my neighbors continue to throw it.  It's not all bad, so far I've found a dime, a nickle and four pennies!

Pollution, Pollution, What's The Solution?  Come to find out, it's me...at least in my neighborhood.  Don't be trashy people.     

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

I started smoking when I was 14.  Since her parents were out of the country, a relative was staying with us for several weeks, waiting to start college.  I stole one of her cigarettes and smoked it behind the barn.  That was my first cigarette and by the time I was 16 I smoked daily.  My dad quit smoking when I was 5 and my mother never smoked.  They did not allow me to smoke so I hid my habit from them.  It was many years after I had left home before I would smoke in front of them.

In my high school, there was a "smoking area".  Students could smoke there if they were 18 or with parental permission if they were younger.  Since I turned 18 right before graduation, I smoked in the girl's bathroom.  When a teacher would walk into the bathroom, cigarettes went flying because unless they caught you with one in your hand, they could not prove it was yours.  We'd get stern looks as we shuffled out, until the next cat-and-mouse game.  I got caught once.  I was smoking alone between classes that day and my HomeEc teacher walked in.  Our eyes met and my heart sank.  If she turned me in and my parents were notified I'd be dead (well not literally dead, but I'd wish I was), but she didn't.  She told me to get to class and never spoke of it again.  I was thankful, but kept on smoking.

I was a heavy smoker; almost 3 packs a day.  It was the first thing I did when I woke up in the morning and the last thing I did before I laid my head down at night.  Bob smoked too, but not nearly as much; a pack a day perhaps.  I'd buy at least two cartons a week.  I remember when cigarettes were 50 cents a pack and I'd say when they got to be $1 a pack, I would quit.  Liar.

I smoked through all 3 of my pregnancies.  I am very ashamed of that and still feel guilty for having subjected my children to that.  Heather suffered the most since she was 13 when I quit; Bobby was 5.   When Bob was preparing to retire from the Navy, he suggested we quit smoking before he retired.  At the beginning of 1999 we made a pact and I promised him I would quit.  He left on a 6-month cruise and he would be separating from the Navy when he returned so I had 6 months.  I wasn’t sure I could do it.  I had tried in the past, but had never made it more than 3 days before I’d give in to the cravings.  I had made a promise and since I always kept my promises, I quit before he returned.  I am an all or nothing type of person so I knew I would not be successful tapering off, so I quit “cold turkey”, not one cigarette since June 1999.

It still amazes me that I was able to quit after smoking 28 years.  I’m thankful Bob made the suggestion.  I’m thankful my children have forgiven me choosing my selfish indulgence over their health.  I’m thankful it appears I quit before any lasting damage was done.  For several years after I quit, I would dream I was smoking and wake up terrified, it seemed so real and I never wanted to smoke again.

She Works Hard For The Money

I've been thinking about work lately.  I started working in 1972 at age 15.  I've had 14 paying jobs. Here are some work memories:

Rus Joy Inn, Waitress.  I made 60 cents an hour plus tips.  Working weekends and some evenings I saved enough money to pay cash for my first car, a used grey Mazda for $2,000.  I sold it before I moved to Virginia to a young guy who saw the "for sale" sign and said God had told him to buy the first grey car he saw.

Manchester Sewing Factory, Sewing Machine Operator.  I sewed pockets on the outside of men's leisure suits and disposable clothing used in hospitals.  It was piece-work meaning you were paid for the amount you sewed.  Most of the other employees were middle-aged ladies with bee-hive hairdos. One girl was my age (18).  She was deaf and taught me sign language.

Westminster Shoe Factory, Sewing Machine Operator.  I sewed shoes, mainly the seam down the back.  This job was also piece-work. My fingers would crack open and bleed because the leather and suede dried out your skin. Bee-hives ruled here too.  To this day I can't buy a pair of shoes without looking at the sewing.

Fleet Accounting & Dispersing Center, File Clerk.  Civil Service!  This was a temporary job I knew would only last 4 months, but I took it in hopes of securing a full-time position.  This was my first job in an office setting.  I sat at a desk and pushed buttons and a file drawer would come out of the wall on tracts until it reached me and I would either file documents or remove them for other workers.  In those short 4 months I learned Government work was probably not going to be a good fit for me when my supervisor pulled me aside to tell me to slow down because I was working too fast and making the other workers look bad.

Colonial Chevrolet, Executive Secretary.  I was hired as a Title Clerk and later was promoted to Executive Secretary.  This job was pivotal for me.  Up until this time I had mostly worked in factories.  I wanted an office job and I knew I could do it, but without experience it was hard to get your foot in the door.  I knew the girl who was leaving as Title Clerk (she was my future step-mother's, sister's, step-daughter - ha, ha...I can't make this stuff up!).  She put in a good word for me so when I went in for my interview with the Vice President he told me usually he wouldn't hire without experience, but since I was recommended he gave me a shot.  I will never forget him and what he did for me that day.  I worked for Colonial when I met and married Bob.  When Bob got orders and I had to give my notice I cried, I really loved that job.

Warrington Baptist Church, Secretary.  This was the first job I took after Ricky died.  I had not worked for several years and wanted to find something that wasn't stressful.

Jerry Pate Turf & Irrigation, Service Coordinator.  When I interviewed for this position with the Service Manager in 1995, I didn't receive a call back and after 2 weeks figured they hired someone else.  I did receive a call 3 weeks later asking if I had found a job yet and when I said no, he offered me the position.  He had hired another girl, but she only stayed 2 weeks. He told me later that I had been his first choice, but he was leery to hire me since I had worked for a Church and was afraid I'd try to save his soul.  I spent 22 years there.  So many stories that I'm sure will be the subject of future blogs.  I'd still be there if it wasn't for a higher calling.  These people are my second family and I love them.

Now I'm Granny and I can't think of anything I'd rather be doing.  I'm humbled at the opportunity.  "Already knows, these are the good times."    

Home Is Where I Hang My Heart

When someone new asks me where I am from, I hesitate.  I don't really feel like I'm "from" a particular location.  My answer depends who is asking and how much time I have.

My Dad being career Marine and Bob career Navy I've moved quite a bit.   My locations from birth:

Danville, VA
Jacksonville, NC
Buford, SC
Charlottesville, VA (1st grade)
Jacksonville, NC (2nd grade)
Sandusky, OH  (3rd grade)
Manchester, MD (4th grade)
Oceanside, CA  (5th grade)
Manchester, MD  (6th-12th grades)
Norfolk, VA
Patuxent River, MD
Pensacola, FL
Carrollton, VA
Pensacola, FL

I was born in Danville, VA, but have no memories of it since we left before I was 2 so it seems odd to say I'm "from" there.  My parents were both from Carroll County Maryland so that is my usual response when trying to explain my origins.  I always seem to throw in that Carroll County borders Pennsylvania and that the majority of my relatives live in either MD or PA.

I've always considered myself a "southern" gal, having lived in the south until 3rd grade when we moved to Ohio.  My school promptly placed me in speech class because I "talked funny".  Bob calls me a Yankee because my family is from Maryland, regardless of how many times I explain Maryland is BELOW the Mason-Dixon line.  I remind him I was born in Virginia, but since he's from South Carolina, even Virginia is "north" to him.

I feel so very blessed to have seen so much of the U.S. and met so many different people.  I cherish the friendships I've made along the way and love reconnecting with them through Facebook.  I'm thankful my Mother always made sure we had a "home" wherever we were stationed.  Even though Dad was transferred every year, Mom unpacked every box, hung every picture, made every house a home for us.  We may not have been "from" there, but I always felt at home.  I continued that tradition with my family.  We did not have to move every year, but when we did move I made sure to set up our home quickly.  

I've lived in Pensacola, FL (27 years) longer than anywhere, almost half my life.  When Bob first received orders in 1987, I had never heard of Pensacola, but I had been to Fort Meyers as a child and remembered I loved everything I had seen there - lots of hot sunshine, palm trees, alligators, oranges you picked in your backyard!  Bob was sent to C-School so just Heather (not yet 2) and I drove from Norfolk, VA to find our new home.  As I turned off of Interstate 10 and headed to the Navy Lodge aboard NAS Pensacola, our new location didn't look like the Florida I remembered.  If you're not familiar with Pensacola, we're as far west as you can be without being in Alabama.  Locals fondly refer to Pensacola as "LA", Lower-Alabama!

Even though Pensacola didn't look exactly like the Florida I knew, I fell in love.  When Bob retired we could have moved anywhere, but Pensacola was home.  Bob said I had followed him wherever he went and now it was my turn, and I chose to stay.  I have lived here long enough that I usually see someone I know everywhere I go.  That's a novel feeling for a quasi-nomad and I love it.

I may have trouble explaining where I'm from, but I always know when I'm home.

Dance Hall Days

Ask Bob how we met and he will tell you we met in a bar.  He says that mainly because he knows it will get a rise out of me, but since alcohol was served there, I guess he's not far off.  It was a club.  It was 1982 and we had disco fever.

The evening started innocently enough.  I was relaxing in my bachelorette pad with my roommate, when she suggested we go dancing.  I initially balked, reminding her the next day was a work day, but without too much arm twisting we were on our way to the Portsmouth, Virginia Enlisted Club. We liked going to the Navy Base clubs because there were always young men ready to dance and they were generally more polite and respectful than the non-military area honky-tonk crowd.  We found a table and got ready to dance the night away.

It wasn't long before a handsome man approached and asked if I'd like to dance.  Tall, dark hair, handsome.  He was dressed the part; silk shirt, flared polyester pants, side-zipped ankle boots. This guy had style.  This guy had class.

There on that dance floor in Portsmouth, VA, as we danced our first dance to Ebony and Ivory, our story began.  Chapter One, Page One.  Some chapters read like a mystery while others are more horror-filled.  There is drama, comedy, adventure, romance, and we continue to write.  It may never make the Times Best Seller list, but it's our story...and we're sticking to it.

Just Say No To Donuts

I could tell by the story headline in yesterday's newspaper, "Doughnut Flakes In Car Test Positive For Meth", it was going to be an interesting read.  A 64 year old man was arrested during a traffic stop when officers spotted four tiny flakes of donut glaze on his floorboard and thought they were pieces of crystal methamphetamine.  The man told police he had eaten Krispy Kreme donuts in his car, but somehow the flakes tested positive for meth in the roadside drug tests.  I'm not making this up.  He spent ten hours in jail before being released and three days later the charges were dropped.

Whoa, hold the phone! I have inhaled my share of glazed Krispy Kremes in my car and to think that could get me a stint in the pokey is unreal.  I tried to tell you people I had an addiction! 

If you've ever had a glazed Krispy Kreme donut when the "Hot Now" neon sign is flashing, you know where I'm coming from.  For those of you poor souls without a KK, there is a conveyor belt that carries the lushious lovelies through their sugar glaze bath.  Once you score your fix, the melt in your mouth, hot, gooey goodness is dangerous.  A half dozen can disappear in an instant and before you know it you're on a sugar high and as if that's not bad enough, now you have to be on the lookout for the Fuzz?!?!  I've heard of the food police, but since there is no such thing as pig-out prison or junk-food jail, I didn't really worry about it.  Now that arrest is actually possible, I'm going to have to give up the junk or resign myself to a life of crime.

It looks like I'll have to give up the Krispy Kremes for good.  I'm not cut out for the thug life.   

Buttercream Dreams

I'm a dreamer.  No, I'm not walking around with my head in the clouds, wearing love beads and singing Kumbaya.  I dream when I sleep.  Vivid, realistic dreams.  Not every night, but often.

I still remember dreams I had as a teenager.  Once I dreamt I was at my town's swimming pool.  It was a place where I spent lots of awake time, so it wasn't odd I would dream I was there.  Except in my dream I had on a full length fur coat.  Everyone one else was splashing and swimming and tanning; and there I was, walking around in my coat.  In my dream it was not odd or unusual.  It just was.

For a good while now my dreams revolve mainly around food.  Not just any food.  Decadent, sugary, sinful, forbidden food.  In my dream I'm eating cake, or cookies, or some sweet treat.  I'm not sad or glad; not wallowing in guilt or giddy with excitement, just methodically eating.  I am aware of the taste of it.  In my dream it tastes just like it does in reality. 

When I wake up for a moment I'm confused and a little panicked.  Did I really just eat that cake?  It seemed so real.

Perhaps you're thinking I should just eat the cake, or cookies, or whatever, and maybe these eating dreams would stop.  It's not that easy.  If you know me, you know sweets are my kryptonite.  Sweets are my addiction.  Sweets are to me as alcohol is to an alcoholic, as heroin is to an addict.  It's my drug.  I'd mainline it if I could, and not weigh 300 pounds.  There is no such thing as a bite or a sensible portion of a sweet to me.  It leads to a binge and that is no dream, it's a nightmare.

So let me sleep as sugarplums dance in my head.  My buttercream dreams are delicious sleep.  Sweet dreams.