School Bus Stories, Part 1

“Cool,” I thought to myself as I stepped onto the bus one morning, 10ish years old, hair in pigtails, my Charlie Brown lunchbox clutched in my hands. “An empty seat.”

My exact lunchbox. Well, not MY exact one…but exactly the one I had! I bought it on Ebay a few years back.

I sat down, scooted to the window, smiled.

Only then did I realize that there were words all around me. Words jeeringly flung into the air. Words aimed at me.

“EWWW!! You sat in the throw-up seat!”

I didn’t. I did not. Denials rushed through my mind and my own sudden nausea soured my stomach. I looked wildly around at the seat. It looked clean. Much cleaner than usual, actually. This is not a throw-up seat. They’re just being mean. I remained seated, hoping to goodness they’d just leave me alone.

“You’re in the throw-up seat, you’re in the throw-up seat,” voices chanted all around me.

“I am not,” I muttered, redder than the beets Mom served at dinner.

“Are too, Freddy’s little sister threw up there right after we picked her up. And you’re sitting in it.”

So that’s why the bus was late today. Shoot. I AM sitting in the throw-up seat.

“Cleaned it up,” grunted the bus driver, Mr. Faff, a cap-wearing, denture-sporting, laid-back man who doubled as the school janitor during the day. Sometimes he took out his dentures to make us laugh. Mostly he just minded his own business and left us to mind ours.

“He cleaned it up,” I whispered in my defense. “He did. He cleaned it up.”

But he couldn’t clean its reputation.

Mount Saint Helens Exploded 33 Years Ago this Week – My Dad Was There the Next Day – And Here are Some of his Photos

I remember the boom that Sunday morning, May 18th, 1980 – 33 years ago this week – as we were getting ready for church on Orcas Island, Washington. It was 8:32am – or however long it takes for sound to travel 300 miles. My oldest sister was off at college, my Dad was down in Oregon at work with the Air Force, and my other sister, our Mom, and I were slipping on our Sunday shoes and just about to head out the door when we heard it.

“Oh, they’re dynamiting on Buck Mountain,” Mom said dismissively.

But Jenny and I said, “No! It was Mount Saint Helens!”

“No,” Mom disagreed. “We couldn’t hear it this far away.”

“It was the mountain, Mom,” we said again. “Turn on the radio.”

Sure enough, Mount Saint Helens – which had been steaming and belching and threatening to explode for weeks – had finally blown her top. The mountain – the entire skyline of southern Washington State – was no longer the same. The north face of the mountain was gone.

And so were 57 people with her.

My father, LTC David K. Wendt, was a rescue helicopter pilot for the United States Air Force Reserve, based out of Portland, Oregon. Here’s what Dad had to say about May 18th:

“I was the duty officer that Sunday – in the RCC (Rescue Control Center) which was a madhouse!! We were getting calls from everybody – including the President of the United States (or the White House office, anyway, to set up a visit for President Carter.) I didn’t get to fly until Monday morning – when I found the Moore family. Lienau’s rescue was a week later.” (The following photographs will fill-out the stories of these people a little more.)

These are some of his photographs, taken over the next several days following the event on May 18th.

The cauldron!

It’s like a photo from you-know-where.

These were trees. The explosion – firing at several hundred miles per hour – killed every living thing within a 230 square mile radius. All within a time period of 5-9 minutes. The orange smudge in this photo is a flare. (See links below to verify this information.)

Blasted trees on the surface of Spirit Lake. Spirit Lake was made famous even before the explosion because of a long-time resident, Harry Truman, who refused to evacuate prior to the explosion they KNEW was coming. His body was never found.

Steam vents – filled with logs from the blast.

Steaming waterfall.

Devis Valley

A 200 foot hover, while a parajumper is hanging on the end of a 200 foot cable as he works to make a rescue.

Flying toward a lake on the mountain.

Micheal Lienau, rescued by Dad and his crew. Several years ago they saw each other again as they were both asked to be a part of an NBC production on “Disaster Survival”. Here’s what Dad had to say about Lienau: “He made a video of the whole ordeal – saying how they looked back up the pass they’d come through and saw a volcano-blasted tree in the shape of a cross – just showing in the narrow slit of overcast volcanic cloud and the pass. He told the others with him – after seeing that cross – that he truly felt they were going to be saved – and a few minutes later we flew over the pass! I was hover-tracking them by their trail left in the ash and mud.” Otto Seiber, another guy rescued by Dad and his crew, was a filmmaker from Seattle, who went with his film crew to document the destruction on May 23rd. Their compasses freaked out in the volcanic atmosphere and they got themselves lost in a hurry. The mountain then erupted again on May 25th, and Dad and his team rescued them. By the way, Wikipedia has proven its reputation for inaccuracy by reporting that they were rescued by the National Guard…but it was NOT the guard, it was the Air Force!

A helicopter-view of another Huey.

Steam vents

They searched for the Moores – and they found them. Alive. Mother, father, and two small children.

The Moores.

Heart Lake

Reid Blackburn’s car. He was a photojournalist for a Washington newspaper as well as for National Geographic magazine. His body was eventually recovered from the car.

Chemically-altered pools. All sorts of weird stuff in that ash and lava!

Dad didn’t send me this photo because he’s not one to brag – but I wanted to include it! Details of the rescue of the Moores. This is the nomination form that was turned in, nominating them for the Helicopter Heroism Award that year.

Amazing what the ash in the air will do to a sunset!

Forever changed.

Here are several interesting links:

A very informative video put out by the USGS – the United States Geological Survey.

The USDA/FS site (United States Department of Agriculture / Forest Service)

Mount Saint Helens.com

A USGS summary of the event, including right before it and several years after it.

There are many, many more sites – I just choose a few which seemed especially good.

My Dad has had his photos used by the USGS, the Mt. St. Helens Interpretive Center, and this book, Fire Mountain. I have many reasons to be proud of my dad. The things he did during his Mount Saint Helens rescues are definitely some of them.

Copyright Notice: Unauthorized use and/or duplication of any material in this blog without written permission from the blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

Copyright May 14, 2013 by Gretchen Anne O’Donnell and Col. David K. Wendt, USAFR

Reblogged from The View from Birchwood Hill:

Ok, I have to "reblog" this post because it is so marvelous. "Clyde of Mankato" is a fellow-Minnesotan. This post about a chaplain visit he made to a nursing home is full of humor, pathos, and humanity. I practically began weeping in the café as I read it. Luckily no one looked at me weirdly as my eyes were full, that's for sure. Please read this and experience it with me. - Gretchen

Stockings: The Best Part of Christmas Morning!

A few years ago I entered a holiday writing contest, hosted by my local newspaper. The theme of the contest was “Holiday Traditions” and from the moment I saw it advertised, I knew exactly what I needed to write about.

Stockings.

We don’t have a mantle…so they hang here until being stuffed!

In our family, Christmas stockings are the highlight of our Christmas traditions and, ultimately, of our Christmas day. There is no other part of Christmas that is so…sacred. (I probably shouldn’t use that word in the context…I mean… “sacred” is the whole point of Christmas…but setting that aside for the time being, let’s take “sacred” to mean – for the duration of this post – “THE MOST IMPORTANT THING ABOUT CHRISTMAS”!)

Okay, that being said, everyone looks forward to presents, right? I mean, when kids write letters to Santa, they don’t say, “Please bring me lots of tiny things that will fit into my stocking.” No, they say, “Please bring me a ball or a doll or a new bike.” Or, as in many of the letters from first graders that were printed in the paper yesterday, “ipods, ipads, computers, and a queen-sized bed”. Apparently kids are far more optimistic than they were in my day. Either that or more greedy.

My much-loved sock!

In our family, as in any other, presents such as these under the tree are anticipated with great joy. BUT…it is the stockings, full to over-flowing with fantasticness, that inspire the most glee. They are the first things to be opened on Christmas morning and they tide us over through breakfast as the presents beneath the tree continue to beckon.

Why is it that our stockings are so admired?

Because they’re magical. And they’re huge.

Way back when my father was a boy, his mother began the family tradition of knitting these wonderful stockings for her family. My father’s – knitted with wool yarn and still in working condition – was joined by a new stocking in 1958, again knitted by Grandma, when my mom married into the family. When my sister was born a few years later, Grandma got to work again. And so the tradition continued up until the time when Grandma could no longer remember how to work her needles and my sister – that first-born grandchild – took up the needles for the family. In 2013, we’re anticipating that she’ll have to knit two. Horray!

It’s not right that mine is so much smaller than my son’s. It’s the fault of wool vs. cotton yarn, I think…

What is it about reaching into a bulging sock that is so marvelous? Why are the lumps and bumps and glimpses of things sticking out of the top so intriguing? I think that part of the thrill is the hinted-at-mystery – you get snippets of what’s inside, unlike with pristinely-wrapped gifts that reveal nothing of the contents within. Your imagine soars with a stocking! And, to top it off, you get to reach into a dark hole – something your mother cautions you against in normal life (“It could be a snake’s hole! Leave it alone!”) with no fear of what lies within. No biting, scratching, or hissing will send you running, squealing in fear. Squeals of delight are all that await the inquisitive hand on Christmas morning as it reaches down, down, down into the sock of wonder.

And what does that hand find at the bottom? What awaits you at the rounded toe?

An orange, of course.

My kids don’t get the orange. “Why do I want this?” one of them asked one year, holding the tangerine with furrowed brow.

“Because when your great-grandmother was a small girl in Scotland, an orange was a rare and expensive treat and having an orange in the toe of a stocking was a wonderful Christmas surprise!”

My child was unconvinced.

“Just eat it,” I said. “And be thankful. It’s tradition.”

Okay, even with huge stockings, sometimes we get a little carried away…

Holiday traditions. They can be strange and they can be wonderful. Our stockings fit both of those descriptions. Filled with everything from new socks (hey, they’re huge and need a few big things to take up space) to toys, candy, toothbrushes, books, novelties, ornaments, ties, hats, mittens and scarves.

Oh, and sometimes babies.

The best stocking stuffer ever!

Yes, they’re expensive to fill. But they’re marvelous to unpack.

I can’t wait ‘till Christmas morning!

Trying to make little sister happy with the jingle bells on her stocking…

P.S. – Though I won the contest, I can’t find the original story…sorry! It’s been several years and two computers since then. I have it in a physical file somewhere…in other words, it’s in some box under some bed which I’ll probably find when my kids are grown up and clearing out this house because they’re sending us to a retirement home.

Rudolf the Smooth-Nosed Reindeer

Our tree in all its glory.

A few of my favorites. The bird was my grandmother’s, I believe. I made the polka-dotted ball a few years ago…

My grandmother’s Lifesaver clown. I’m guessing the candy is…oh…about 35 years old!

I love unpacking our Christmas things. I don’t even mind the mess, when, for a few days, boxes and storage tubs fill the living room and I can’t get the tree sap off of my elbow. I love unwrapping the tissue from each special ornament – and, truly, each one is precious to me. The ones I’ve had since childhood, the ones my grandmother or mother or sisters made, the ones my children created, the ones that carry memories of places and people – some who are no longer with us – that speak to me of family and friends and love…

The tree was a Grandma creation – the fabulous gingerbread man was made by my niece, years ago. My five year old daughter said, “This is kind of a weird ornament.” I said, “I love it. Hang it up.”

Okay, enough schmaltz. But, really, I do love them. I just am not usually so gushy about it. I’ve told my husband – more than once – that if we ever have a fire, getting out the Christmas boxes is his number one priority. After the kids, that is. And my computer. And my Cutco knives.

Boo made the white “bell” this year. She was attempting to make a snowflake and then decided that it was actually a bell.

I love taking every day things and making them ornaments…like this antique cookie cutter!

My son has picked up my tendency to use non-ornaments as ornaments. Though, to be sure, I wasn’t aware that the Death Star from Star Wars was very Christmasy…still, it’s quite marvelous!

Well, the knives can be replaced. But not so the Christmas decorations. There are some which should be replaced, probably. Like the Rudolf which came as a gift tie-on when I was a kid from one of those cheese-sausage-and-petit-four companies. I loved that Rudolf. I played with him so long that his fuzzy, sprayed-on red nose rubbed off and even my kids think he’s hideous but I won’t ditch him. “Mom, why don’t you throw him away?”

“Because he’s part of my history!” I replied, shocked, as I held him gently the other day. And then I put him back in the box rather than in the “to be put on the tree” pile.

Okay, now do you see why he’s not on the tree?

“Aren’t you going to hang him up?” the kids asked.

“Nope,” I said. “I’ve seen him. That’s enough.” They shook their heads at the unexplainable ways of their mother. I smiled to myself as I remembered making Rudolf run across piano keys and the branches of the 15 foot Christmas trees my dad would cut down from up the mountain behind our house. Those trees – so tall that they had to be tied to the beams across our cathedral ceilings – were part of my childhood too. Tossing Rudolf would be like tossing the memories. And, really, how much room does one four-inch Rudolf take up in the box? Please don’t answer that question.

This is Oscar. I’ve had him since I was wee. I’ve had to replace his shell a few times…

My husband’s aunt recently gave us this – it was his grandmothers. A lovely reminder of a lovely woman.

So many of our ornaments were made by loved-ones. My grandmother would make us all a felt, sequined ornament each year. As she aged, they became increasingly less fancy and also increasingly…odd…but that was okay. I love the tassel octopus just as much as the others. Though, admittedly, if I’m hanging the ornaments it will possibly be placed strategically at the back of the tree. The back needs covering, too!

Two of my grandmother’s creations, made in her prime.

The stocking was made by my aunt years ago. The marvelous snowman is one of my favorites made by my mother.

My kids, of course, have been notorious for hanging ornaments on one branch. I think I counted 13 on one tiny twig one year. The older two don’t really do that anymore, but Boo, at age five, still does a little bit. I love it, though. But, yes, I admit that I tend to spread the love a bit after they go to bed. 13 is just a few too many for two inches of twig to handle. But I’m not nuts about moving their stuff. I want it to be their tree…not some magazine-perfect, untouchable thing.

A couple of my newer Swedish finds. I love these, too!

I always thought our tree was beautiful. Then I looked back at photos from previous years and suddenly it occurred to me that, possibly, it wasn’t as gorgeous as I thought it was. But who cares? I love it as it is and that’s what matters, yes?

The snowflake my middle sister made, the heart our oldest sister made. The blue ball is my son’s work of art, the girl on the swing is from Okinawa in the 60′s and the wonderful candycane rocking horse was another of my grandmother’s amazing creations.

More of my sister’s handiwork.

My oldest sister’s work again. Oh, to have her sewing machine!

And my kids love it, too. All three of them. They corrected me several times when I mistakenly identified certain ornaments as belonging to so-and-so but really they belong to someone else entirely. They know. And someday, when they head off to homes of their own, they’ll have a stash of their very own ornaments to decorate their trees with and I’ll be stuck with the tassel octopus.

Oh, and Rudolf of the rubbed-off nose.

This was from 2009 – looks pretty much the same from year to year, only with a few new ornaments hanging from its evergreen branches.

The obligatory night shot.

Tiny Doors of Mystery

A very old Advent calendar kept by my mom. Isn’t it wonderful? There are angels…and also Santa inside, sitting at his desk, checking his list. So fun!

“Guess what?” I said to Boo, age 5, in an attempt to distract her grumpy self from the fact that she HAD to finish her toast, brush her teeth, and get dressed because the daddy-school bus would be leaving in 7 minutes.

“What?” she asked, frowning as she struggled into her shirt.

“Saturday is the first day of Advent!” I said, mustering all the excitement I could into my tone as I shoved her legs into her pants.

Boo’s Advent calendar from school. Each day she gets to color in a “button”. It’s awesome.

“What’s ‘Advent’?” she asked, a little curious despite her mood.

“It means that something important is coming,” I explained as I forced her feet into her shoes. “In this case, Christmas!”

“Advent calendars!” Boo exalted, remembering.

“Yep! Now stand up, let’s do your hair.”

Boo dutifully stood, and I looked at her feet.

I had put her shoes on the wrong feet. I had. Not her. me.

“Sit down,” I said, already ripping out the knots.

“I thought you were doing it wrong,” she said.

“Then why didn’t you say so?!” I asked a little crossly.

“I didn’t want to interrupt.”

As we somehow got her into the car along with her siblings, I wondered how on earth we’d be able to fit Advent calendar time into our morning routine. I mean, I might have to wake up a few minutes earlier in the mornings. Heaven forbid.

My Nativity drawing, circa 1975. How fun is this?!

But, the truth is, we love Advent calendars. Though, to be sure, our main one is rather non-traditional. A few years back I bought a felt banner of the Nativity scene – not just a picture, but rather many individual felt characters – wisemen, shepherds, Mary and Joseph, baby Jesus et al – and we began using that as our Advent calendar. I separated them out into little numbered bags, and each day they add to the scene, counting down to the day when the last image of all – Jesus – is placed into his manger.

And yes, in case you’re wondering, we have to keep careful track of who placed Jesus from year to year, otherwise it becomes a fight. Over baby Jesus. Not good.

Little by little, day by day, we count down to Christmas as we add to the picture.

This is what it looks like when it’s finished!

We love this “calendar” of ours…but we love the more conventional calendars with their tiny doors of mystery as well. I think it appeals to the love of all things miniature that is alive and well within me. Just as I loved my doll house as a child, I love the little numbered doors of the Advent calendars, the wee little pictures of jolly Christmas things hidden behind each opening.

Several years ago my kids made their own Advent calendars and I kept them – now rather ragged –because I couldn’t bear to part with them. My son actually spent quite a bit of his saved-up allowance money last year to buy a Lego Advent Calendar. It was pretty cool, though kind of humorous, too. As I said to him, “What says ‘Merry Christmas’ more than Darth Maul?”

My kid’s homemade Advent calendars from several years ago…not very fancy, but they had fun!

Last year we spent Christmas out in Washington State with my family. As we were unpacking parts of my sister’s German LGB train that runs around her Christmas tree, my mouth dropped open in surprise at something I found in the bottom of the box.

The box had come from our parent’s house and there, wrapped in tissue, was a picture I had drawn probably more than 35 years ago, and, along with it, two advent calendars that had been mine when I was a child.

Yes, I come by this love of Advent calendars honestly.

One of the old Advent calendars kept by my mom.

Today my aunt sent us an Advent calendar app for my computer. And, while it won’t ever be found, years from now, at the bottom of a box, it continues the tradition that my family loves: counting down the days to the celebration of Christ’s birth.

Thanks, Aunt Sandy! And Happy Counting to you all!

A couple “real” Advent calendars that I’ve kept over the years.

Tunisian Turkey: A Feast to be Thankful For

I love this photo. A typical street in Kairouan, Tunisia, scene of my Thanksgiving, 1987.

My final Tunisian post…the Thanksgiving conclusion of a pilgrim in a new land.

We’ve all read books (or blog posts, or magazine stories), or seen movies about Americans in foreign lands feeling horribly homesick at Thanksgiving. They go to the local markets, search for turkey (settle for partridges), substitute breadfruit for potatoes and learn that they can be thankful even without cranberries. Right?

My Thanksgiving in Northern Africa didn’t even come close to such menu approximations.

And that was just fine.

I think of this as “Tunisian Blue”.

As we entered the hotel restaurant – a hotel which was far more Tunisian than Hilton – we harbored no expectations that there would be any reference to Thanksgiving. Five days in Tunisia had taught us that anything American was verboten.

A street in Sousse, Tunisia.

Having just come in from a stroll through town, where the inexplicable phrase, “between the sheets,” was shouted at us by giggling teenaged boys, we also harbored no expectations that the waiters would be overly sympathetic to our plight.

We chose to be away from home for Thanksgiving: our expectations had been changed the day we signed up.

“So,” I figured, “if I’m not even bothering to recreate the pilgrim’s meal, how about I go for something local? Something totally different; something unforgettable.”

I learned that when there is no roast turkey to be had, you opt for paella.

It came: a platter of aromatic saffron-colored rice, peppers, mysterious meats and vegetables, and several whole, baby octopus.

I wasn’t prepared for the octopus.

My traveling companions had ordered ordinary things, like French Onion Soup. I had ordered Northern Africa on a plate.

And I ate every bite.

There are many things in my life to be thankful for. Many experiences I wouldn’t trade for the world. Thanksgiving Paella in Tunisia is one of those things.

A Thanksgiving feast, indeed.

A friend of mine, along with her family, fixed a paella feast out on Orcas Island, Washington, last summer. I wish I’d been there! Isn’t her paella pan marvelous?!

“Clementine, Mandarine!”

This is the first of a few posts about my African Thanksgiving, 1987. I hope you can smell the Sahara and taste the mandarins as I did…

Many moons ago, when I was 17 years old and still fondly dreamed that someday I’d be a famous opera singer, I took a trip to Tunisia with my best friend, her mother and aunt, and another friend. That’s right: five women (three of them still in high school) headed to Africa for Thanksgiving. Don’t you always think of Northern Africa when you think about Pilgrims and pumpkins? Okay, I didn’t either, but it was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.

Lest you’re imagining us on a many-hour journey across the world, I hasten to inform you that I was living in West Berlin at the time, so really it was just a small hop south.

We arrived, along with a German-speaking tour group, in Sousse, Tunisia. From there we drove to Kairouan, where we spent most of our time. I remember seeing a sign along the route: “Libya, 10 kilometers” – perhaps not that exact distance – and thinking, “Oy! That makes me a little nervous.” Quadafi was causing a bit of a ruckus in those days and I had one of those, “I’m not in Kansas anymore” moments.

Those moments continued as we began to explore the town. We ditched the tour group (as none of us spoke adequate German to understand anything anyway) and struck off on our own. I was not accustomed to shops that sold hookas as casually as if they were tea pots. Nor was my friend. “Are those lamps?” she asked, curious as to the purpose of the curvy pottery. “No,” our other friend replied. “They aren’t.” We left pretty quickly after that.

This is the Mediteranean Sea from Tunisia, though not the exact beach I was on. Photo from http://www.panoramio.com.

We walked past that shop and headed to the Mediterranean Sea, no more than a block away. It was beautiful and almost empty, that beach. Sometimes we were the only people there. We collected tiny shells that we left in our hotel room to dry and which, by morning, had a residue all around them and on the counter beside them. I couldn’t figure out what it was. “Salt,” my friend’s mother said, and sure enough, as I rubbed it with a finger there it was: the Mediterranean, condensed on our countertop.

The thing I remember most is not the scent of the sea or the feel of the sand or the temperature of the water. What I remember is the Clementine seller. His was a constant presence every time we went to the beach. “Clementine, mandarine!” he would call with a sing-song tone, making both words rhyme. You could hear him coming from way down the shore. He would come up to us with a basket of mandarins, their tangerine-colored skins warm from the sun, and for a few cents we would buy them from him, choosing our favorites from amongst the dozens. Then he would shuffle off, calling his song to whomever could hear.

Even now, 24 years later, when I buy tangerines from the grocery store, I think of that man and I sing his lilting song. I can hear it as clearly as if he were here beside me now. “Clementine, mandarine, clementine, mandarine!” I taught my kids his song and we sing it as we peel and pop the juicy segments into our mouths.

Minnesota is a long way from northern Africa. But even here the memory of the soft sand in my toes, the aroma of the shops, the desert heat, and the clementine-man’s song, all conspire together in my mind, leaving my mouth watering for more than just fruit.

Belonging is Identification Enough: I Vote in a Small Town

In light of the voting bonanza going on across the United States today, I couldn’t help but post on this election day about a voting incident in my past. I think of it every time I step into a room to vote. Every time.

Picture this: it’s a chilly autumn day. The birch trees of Northern Wisconsin are rustling in the wind off of Lake Superior. Traffic on Highway 2 mosies past. No one rushes around in this town of 300 people, not even the cars hailing from Duluth. After all, the speed is 30 mph, don’ cha know.

It’s too warm for a winter coat, but too cool for just a windbreaker. You compromise with a University of Oregon sweatshirt over a t-shirt and a cozy hat, just in case. Layers are the answer.

The designated polling place – a building you have never been inside of before – beckons you with its sandwich board out front: Voting Here. It’s succinct, but serves its purpose.

You get out of the back seat of the car. Your parents get out of the front. Your tennis shoes crunch on the gravel as you approach the white door.

Your mother enters first, you second.

Dad brings up the rear, having held the door politely for you both to enter.

The room is overly warm, with that usually-unused-and-suddenly-full-of-people feel to it. It’s musty. And a little too dark.

You hear the cozy sound of conversation as the door closes behind you and you move forward into the room, looking around expectantly, albeit a little shyly. All of a sudden – and when I say “all of a sudden” I mean INSTANTLY – all conversation ceases, every head turns to stare, and all of your insecurities come to the fore as every person in the room stares at the three of you as if you are aliens who just invaded this small Wisconsin town from the planet YOUDON’TBELONG.

It takes a moment for the voting judges to swallow their shock and stammer, “May we help you?”

You want to say, “Well, duh!” But you refrain.

All of the voting public (all one of them) have, by this time, pulled their heads out of their voting cubicles to stare as well. It’s like a staring fest.

You are, at this point, certain that horns must be growing out of your head. Your mother stammers (at least she stammered in your memory, though, honestly, you can’t ever remember your mother stammering in her life), “We’re here to vote?” With a question mark at the end, as if conceding that, possibly, she entered the wrong room through, really, she knows perfectly well that she’s at the right place and everyone else is freakish.

“Oh, well then,” the judges say nervously, “you’ve come to the right place.”

There is a small pause, as if everyone is waiting for everyone else to acknowledge that everything is okay and you aren’t the weirdos they thought you were.

Instead they say, “Do you have some ID?”

Mom, Dad and I (excuse me, “you”) grasp on to this question like it’s a lifeline to drowning victims.

“Yes, yes!” We all shouted like maniacs, rustling in our purses and pockets like the people in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade when Harrison Ford asks his fellow blimp passengers if they have their tickets just after he threw someone out of the window and claimed it was because he didn’t have his ticket.

We pulled out our identification and brandished those little blue folders like flags of surrender.

The people in the room – if it was possible – looked at us with even more consternation than they had before. As if no one in the history of that town had ever come to vote with US Passports as their forms of identification. Okay…possibly no one had.

My mother held out her passport, picture page open, as if showing it to East German border guards. It worked for them: why isn’t it working now?

“It’s a passport,” she said carefully, and I half expected her to spell it out: P-A-double ‘S’-P-O-R-T”.

Still the blank looks. Still the suspicion.

Now, to give us credit, we had good reasons for using our passports as identification. It hadn’t been that long since we’d lived in West Berlin, where identification cards and passports were god. One time Dad had to drive me back across the entire city – no small feat – because I’d forgotten to bring my ID to lunch at Templehof Airbase. ID means you exist. You are allowed. You have permission. ID gets you through doors. But not in Wisconsin, apparently.

Now back to the story…

Time seemed to stand still for a moment as everyone in the room contemplated what to do. I half wanted to turn away, murmur “forget it” and be a bad citizen. But then came Mom’s – or was it Dad’s? – magic words, “We’re living at the Anderson’s farm place.”

It was as if heaven itself had opened the floodgates of blessing.

“OH!” Comprehension dawned. “We heard about you.”

“So you’re the people at Anderson’s place.”

“I heard there were strangers there,” someone said, nodding to her neighbor sagely.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?”

“Oh, well, then,” the judges said. “Come on over and vote already.”

I don’t think they even looked at our passports. Belonging was identification enough.

Wa Hoo! They Like Me, They Really Like Me!

I have a confession to make (it’s been awhile since I’ve confessed anything on here, so it’s about time): My e-mail inbox has 4042 messages in it.

Now all of you efficient/non-procrastinating/tidy people can pick yourselves up off the floor (or pat yourselves on the back) and know that I wish I was you.

It is possible that, were my inbox emptied on a regular basis, I’d have noticed the lovely e-mail hidden in all the clutter much sooner. As it was, upon checking my blog on Saturday morning, I noticed something rather extraordinary: I’d had over 50 views already that morning and it was only 9:00.

“What does this mean?” I asked myself. “How can this be?”

I “refreshed” the page again. Just to make sure.

“Yes! It’s true! And I have a bunch of “likes”, too! What’s going on?” I said not a word – barley even acknowledged the thought – as I clicked over to WordPress’ homepage.

“Could it be? Really?”

YES! IT IS!

I shouted to my husband, sitting not two yards away, “I’m FRESHLY PRESSED!”

His blank look did nothing to deter my happiness.

“That means that I‘m featured on WordPress’ homepage! It means they like me! They really like me!” (Yes, I was channeling my inner Sally Field.)

(By the way, I’m on page two now, if you want to joy of seeing my photo and link in person.)

THANK YOU SO MUCH and WELCOME to my new readers. I am so glad to have you along on the journey! I am still working on visiting all of your pages so thanks for being patient!

I also have to say THANK YOU SO MUCH to all of you who’ve been along for awhile, too! I love getting to know you all.

Here’s a fun stat: WordPress chooses TEN new blog posts a day to add to their homepage. This is out of 31.7 million new posts a month. Here’s the link to prove that. And here’s another useful link: So You Want to be Freshly Pressed.

But here’s the truth of the matter: This post was not my best-written post, not my funniest or most emotional or most educational, interesting or sentimental. It’s just that it happened to get noticed. They do say that a catchy title is hugely important so I guess I had that going, at least. (Note, however: my previous post had the same title…and it didn’t get chosen! So titles aren’t everything…it’s a group effort!) Interesting photos are good, too. They also say that having links included in the post is good as it emphasizes the fact that blogging isn’t all about you, the blogger, it’s about world-wide connections.

I find this to be both encouraging and discouraging. Encouraging because ANYONE can be Freshly Pressed. It doesn’t take a perfect writer or an impeccable blog. Discouraging because hard work on a fabulous post does not necessarily equal “success” – if being Freshly Pressed is a measure of success. I think that the encouraging trumps the discouraging in this scenario.

I know that I have found with my other blog – the one that is through my local newspaper – that they are more apt to print (in their physical paper) timely/seasonal/human interest posts. I know I have seen that play out on the Freshly Pressed list, too, which is another thing to remember if striving after such a thing. For the Love of Vinyl wasn’t any of that, however! They liked it because it was nostalgic.

And, in this day of hurricanes and political stress and terrorism, people like to be reminded of simpler times. So, if you have a turn table, “go, put your records on….” You’ll be glad you did.

PS – my inbox now has 4050 messages. Time to get to work.