Who's on First

Sometimes when you get to be my age you begin to believe all the hype that you are too old to ever do something you’ve never done before.

This thesis was supported when a Friend posted one of those lists on Facebook where you are supposed

to choose the activities that you haven’t tried.  There were only seven of the 24 listed that I hadn’t tried, because I’ve tried some things in my life. I also realized those seven things were things that I was never going to try.  Things like scuba diving, or sky diving or skinny dipping have always been on my list of things to successfully avoid doing until I die.
Then came my magical week of firsts.

It all started when  my husband and I ate outside at a restaurant on purpose.  You see, we don’t eat

outside. There are bugs and weather and wind and pollen there. But it was an exceptionally nice night, and I remarked casually that if there was ever a night for eating outside this was it.  Next thing I know my husband was asking the host if we could be seated outside, and there we were having a perfectly lovely dinner experience on the sidewalk of the restaurant.

During that very meal a second first occurred for me.  I ate the drippy grilled cheese sandwich I ordered

without spilling anything on my shirt.  This was more than just a first. It might have been a last. I sometimes, rarely, manage to eat a meal without spilling anything on my shirt, but it never happens when there is any drippy food on my plate.  

The streak continued the next day when I went into Target and only bought the item I went to the store

to purchase.  Yes, you heard me correctly. I did not purchase even one extra item. I don’t even have to tell you what an accomplishment that was.

Later that week, I was going to a work-related meeting in Turtle Creek.  I’ve been to Turtle Creek before

but I never went there from Allison Park, where my office is located, and the GPS took me on an entirely unfamiliar route.  When I left the meeting, I said to myself, “That was a pretty straight shot; I am sure I can get back without putting the GPS on.”  

Mind you, saying this was not new to me.  I say this kind of thing to myself all the time.  Then, I inevitably

take a wrong turn on my way back, and have to turn on the GPS after all. This time I really did drive back to my office by reversing the directions without turning on the GPS, or taking a wrong turn.  Another first.

But the best, brightest first of the week was still to come.
I sang “Lean on Me” backed up by the North Hills Harmony Line Chorus, a men’s barbershop choral group,

in a fundraising concert they were putting on for the non-profit organization for which I work.  It was an arrangement written by my husband, a Harmony LIne Chorus member.  

It was the first time I ever sang an a cappella solo  backed up by an entire chorus. I was the first woman

to ever sing with the Harmony Line Chorus. I never aspired to front a choral group, and I never, ever thought I would be the first woman - or person, for that matter- to do, well, anything.  

Sure, I was pretty terrified.  I didn’t want to let down the Chorus, or my husband, or my non-profit. 

As it turns out, the entire process was more rewarding than I thought possible.

I had the opportunity to work with a gifted conductor, and the kindest group of guys with whom you’d

ever hope to make music on a piece of music arranged by the talented Mr Rip.  They could not have been more welcoming and accommodating to me. I can't vouch for me but the chorus sounded great, and I sang the right words and notes at the right time. It was a thrill and an honor.

I can’t wait to see what new opportunities 2020 holds.

The Key Word Here is "Dodge"

So now there’s a Canadian study that says dodgeball is “a tool of oppression used to dehumanize others”
and shouldn’t be played in Physical Education classes.*

Is it, though?  How is it different than, oh, I don’t know, football or boxing or wrestling? I abhor
dehumanization and oppression as much as the next person, but dodgeball was my salvation in PE class. 

I may not be able to tell you what I had for dinner last week, but I do vividly remember high school
PE classes.  Like it was yesterday. Let’s just say it wasn’t my best subject, and would in fact have
been my worst if not for a little thing called Math.

I was clumsy.  Much later, as an adult, I took a test that verified that I had absolutely no inherent
eye-hand-foot coordination, but as a teenager, we all just knew I couldn’t put one foot in front of the other
without tripping.

I was slow.  I much preferred Hide ‘n Seek to Tag as a child playing with the other kids in the neighborhood. 
You’ve heard the old saying, “You can run but you cannot hide?” Well, they didn’t know me. I could hide
but I could not run.

I lacked any semblance of a competitive spirit.  I didn’t care if I won or not, in athletics or anywhere else. 
I was happy if everyone did well.

So, generally I hated almost everything about PE class.  The actual activities - you know, sports-like things.
The gym with its unfinished roof that dropped asbestos on our young heads.  The ugly gym uniforms.
Having to play on teams. I didn’t mind being chosen last for a team (which I often was) because honestly
I understood.  I would have chosen me last too if I were the team “captain” (which I never was). My fantasy
was to not to have to play on the team at all.

The only thing I actually liked about PE class was my teacher.  Mr. Ralph Compagnone was a great guy,
and a hell of a basketball coach, taking the team to  states a few times. Despite my total lack of skill or
interest in his subject, Mr. C. liked me.  He teased me a lot, but it was all in good fun. I’d been bullied,
and I knew the difference between bullying and friendly ribbing.  

Recognizing that I wasn’t an athlete, he celebrated any little win that I made in class.  Once we had to put
together an exercise routine, and lead the class through it. I put together what in my humble opinion was
a pretty kick-ass routine to Carole King’s  “I Feel the Earth Move.” When I finished, Mr. C. was
uncharacteristically quiet for a minute, then said, clearly surprised, “That was very good,” then quickly
added, “and...you are the only person I know who can project your voice throughout the whole room while
lying flat on your back.”  I am sure that was a compliment.

Mostly though, Mr. C. has us play kickball and dodgeball in class.  Kickball favored coordinated people
who could run, so it wasn’t exactly my sport, but it was better than softball where you had to hit a ball
with a bat.  I could sometimes kick the ball, although Mr. C. said that I was the only person he knew who
could strike out in kickball. Maybe that’s why he liked me - I was unlike any other student he had ever seen.

Oh, but dodgeball?  Dodgeball was my favorite.  In case you are unfamiliar with the game the goal is to
throw a ball at each other.  When you get hit by the ball, you are out. The last person standing is the
winner.  

Because I was a better academic than I was an athlete, it didn’t take me long to figure out that once I was
hit by the ball, I no longer had to play the game. So then I put a strategy into place.  I purposely put
myself in line with that ball so that I would be the second or third person out.  Never the first - that
would be too obvious - but neither my classmates nor Mr. C. would doubt that I was too slow to do
well in dodgeball.  Once “out,” I sat in the bleachers and watched the rest of them running around
trying to hit each other with a ball.

It was kind of like The Hunger Games without any actual death.

* 

https://www.washingtonpost.com/sports/2019/06/07/dodgeball-is-tool-oppression-used-dehumanize-others-
researchers-argue/?fbclid=IwAR1zZWlm29jeqnYOzZD94kDoPRvigSkYeIVV0kZT6fFkxxDKxJmZc2pqXLk&
amp;utm_term=.5f5e97072336 

On This Day My Child Was Born

It was February 13^th.  I was 8 ½ months pregnant and returning to work after my weekly gynecologist appointment.

My doctor said he thought I may come a little earlier than my February 28^th due date.  That was okay with me. I had had enough of the whole pregnancy thing- the tremendous weight gain, the sharp pain in my abdomen they called “heartburn,” the inability to sit, stand or sleep comfortably.  I really did Ache All Over. I was more than ready to have my baby.

Snow was beginning to fall as I headed back to work, but I wasn’t worried.  The roads weren’t bad yet, and my workplace was just four miles from my house.  Nonetheless, I was pretty happy when I arrived at work safely, just in time for lunch.

When I stood up after lunch, I felt an unfamiliar sensation.  I realized with a shock that my water was beginning to break.  I calmly called the doctor’s office, and they advised me to return to the hospital immediately.  I wasn’t able to reach my husband, who was making deliveries for his family’s business in a time before cell phones.  I left the message with his mother that I would go home and pack my bag and he could just meet me at the house.

I let my boss and my friend and co-worker Joan know what was going on and left.  I got in the car, turned the key and…the car wouldn’t start.  I had turned the headlights on when I was on my way back to work in the snowstorm and left them on.  My car battery was dead.

Okay, so now I was beginning to panic.
  

I found Paul, my co-worker with jumper cables.  Paul felt strongly that a woman in labor should not be driving herself anywhere, especially in the snow.  He refused to jump my car.  I explained that I just planned to drive the few miles to my house, and probably wasn’t even technically in labor.  Paul didn’t care.  He offered to drive me anywhere I needed to go.  I explained to him that this was my only car, and I could not leave it there, dead, especially if I actually had the baby.  Paul was adamant.  We argued for several minutes.  I was getting desperate.  I begged.  I cajoled.  I cannot swear that I didn’t at one point grab Paul by the lapels and yell “Jump the damn car, Paul!”   Finally, Joan,  a very persuasive person, intervened and Paul grudgingly agreed to jump my car.

I drove home and packed my suitcase but hadn’t heard from my husband.  I called the doctor’s office.  “WHAT??!!!,”  the nurse said, “You mean you haven’t even LEFT yet?”  The last professional I saw get this excited was the whitewater rafting guide after I fell into the Youghigheny River.  I thought better than to mention the dead car battery.  She asked how long it would take me to get to the hospital.  About 30 minutes when it wasn’t snowing, I told her.   “Oh honey,” she said, “You need to get here RIGHT NOW!”

I called my mother-in-law to tell her that I was leaving for the hospital and to tell my husband to meet me there.  She offered to come pick me up, but after my conversation with the nurse I didn’t think I should wait. 

My mother also offered to drive me, which was very sweet but not really feasible.  My mother was terrified of driving in the snow, and lived in Swissvale, which was just about an hour away from my home in Washington, PA.  It would have taken my Mom 2 hours or more to pick me up and take me to the hospital in the snow, and I was certain that Mom would not want to drive in the snow and deliver her grandchild herself, at least not on the same day.

It was snowing a lot harder now.  When I finally arrived at the hospital, I told the doctor that aside from my water breaking and driving 30 miles in the snow, I was feeling fine.  He examined me and informed me that I was indeed having contractions and I was “officially” in labor.  Perhaps I was in shock as I drove to the hospital in the snow, and therefore numb to the contractions, or perhaps I had unknowingly been employing those breathing exercises they taught us in Lamaze class.

Meanwhile my husband had arrived back at the shop.  He arrived in the birthing room about an hour after I got there, in plenty of time for the birth.

I will not share all the minute details of the labor and delivery, because I hate when women do that.  However, I will tell you that I had to have a Caesarian section because the baby was large, and my birth canal was small.  I only mention this because I want everyone to know that there is actually a body part of mine that is too small, ironically located inside my body where nobody can see it.

At 10:15 p.m. on February 13, 1985, my beautiful, brown-haired, brown-eyed baby boy was born, 8 pounds and 9 ounces despite coming 15 days early.  When they put him into my arms, I was smitten- crazy about the kid from the start.  Every bit of the pregnancy and that day had been worth it.

That baby turns 34 today, and is the father of a beautiful, happy, active 2-year-old brown-haired, brown-eyed son of his own.  Here’s wishing my son a wonderful birthday full of celebrations with his family, and better weather than the day he was born.