Wedding Bell Views

Chelsea Clinton’s decision to keep her wedding private was totally understandable. She never asked to be in the public eye, and has chosen to live a private life. It was certainly her prerogative to refuse to have her wedding videotaped and broadcast live to a worldwide audience.

I must admit that I do like to watch when certain famous people get married. Take the wedding of Princess Diana and Prince Charles, for instance. Now THAT was a wedding! No private, simple affair for those two. I happened to have the day of the wedding off work (complete coincidence, I swear!), and I got up at 5 a.m. to watch the wedding. Armed with lots of coffee and Kleenex, I watched every bit of that coverage. Sadly, that union ended badly, but the wedding was spectacular.

I also like to watch weddings of obscure strangers who happen to get lucky when applying to be on a reality show. I’m the person for whom they created all those wedding shows on cable. The first one I watched, and still my favorite, was “A Wedding Story” which was on TLC. It was very simple. They interviewed the couple who gave their back story, and then the cameras followed them around for a couple of days before the wedding. I absolutely loved it. I don’t think it is still in production, but “Whose Wedding is It Anyway?” (from the viewpoint of the wedding planner), fills my need to watch the wedding plans of total strangers.

I would say that how Chelsea Clinton conducted her wedding was none of my business, but the Clintons and I go way back. I’m practically an old family friend – I once saw Hillary and Bill speak in person in Market Square in Pittsburgh. You know, I did have some small part in contributing to their success. Heck, I’m STILL supporting Hillary for President. Come to think of it, I’m surprised that I didn’t make the guest list for the wedding of their only daughter. But it WAS a small affair – just 400 of Chelsea and Michael’s closest friends- so I was okay with staying home that day, just like Barack and Oprah did.

Nonetheless, if I couldn’t actually watch the ceremony I was still really, really happy to see some photos of Chelsea Clinton’s wedding. Chelsea looked lovely, didn’t she? The dress, her hair, the makeup all looked just perfect on her. I liked the fact that it was an interfaith wedding and that the groom wore a tallis and a yarmulke. And they looked SO happy. I was a little disappointed that I didn’t get a better look at Hillary’s dress, but it WAS Chelsea’s day, and given her penchant for privacy, I was just grateful for the glimpse I did get.

For the record, my interest in weddings of political figures and their children is totally bipartisan. I got pretty excited when Jenna Bush announced her engagement- I hadn’t seen a good White House wedding since Tricia Nixon got married so long ago. Imagine my disappointment when Jenna decided on a simple, private affair at the family’s ranch in Texas. Again, I was very happy and satisfied to see their pictures.

The truth is that I just love to look at wedding pictures- anyone’s wedding pictures. The wedding photos themselves are something to see nowadays. The photographers are suddenly doing all kinds of fabulous, creative, artistic photo shoots. Honestly, though, the pictures don’t have to be fancy to please me, and I don’t even have to know the people involved. I just like to see the dresses and the cake and the ceremony and the party, and all the smiling faces.

Seeing all these photos and watching “Say Yes to the Dress” does keep me up on the latest trends in wedding fashions, which interest me a great deal even though they are of no importance in my everyday life. For instance, it seems like nearly every bride must have a strapless gown nowadays. Some people benefit greatly from a well-placed strap, and don’t the brides today want some individuality? I do like that some bridesmaid dresses now are shorter and/or more individualized in style to each individual woman. Let’s face it, the bride’s dearest friends come in all shapes and sizes, and you really CAN wear some of these dresses again.

Personally, I believe that the best weddings are the ones where the couple do it their way and make it their own. And the best pictures are those where the happiness of the couple outshines everything else in the picture. So my advice to those planning their weddings: Wear the burgundy dress with straps and eat the cake made of cookies, if that’s what gives you pleasure. Remember to relax and have fun!

Oh, yes, and please don’t forget to post those pictures in Facebook so that I can see them.

A Back Breaking Performance, or, The Show Must Go On

It seems that Melissa Gilbert was performing on tour in “Little House on the Prairie- the Musical” with a broken back. Her back had been bothering her, but she put off seeing a doctor, because she knew that the show must go on. When she finally saw the doctor, he said that her back was broken, and had been for months. Now, THAT’s spunk! Melissa obviously thinks she really is that plucky little pioneer girl that she portrayed on “Little House” all those years. Or maybe it’s just that strong work ethic that Michael “Pa Ingalls” Landon instilled in his little protégés on the set. Whatever, she’s a rock star in my book.

Not that she’s the first performer to work hurt. A lot of us who perform, both as amateurs and professionals, take that theatrical expression “Break a leg!” far too literally. In fact, I got into theater as a hobby because of a broken pelvis. I decided to take an acting class to give myself a diversion during what was going to be a long and painful recovery period.

My husband once performed in a musical revue despite having shattered his ankle early during the rehearsal period. One of the first calls he made from the emergency room was to his director. A fellow cast member was nice enough to give him a ride to rehearsals, and the director choreographed the “Smokey Joe’s Café” number so that he was in the center and everyone danced and moved around him. By the time the show went up, he was using a cane, and he was able to use his prop rifle like a cane in the “Les Miz” medley. It’s all about being innovative.

The appropriately named “cast” of “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat” put on by Stage 62, a community theater in Carnegie, PA, a few years ago took this “show must go on” thing to an extreme. Four of the cast members in a show with 29 performers and a children’s chorus performed with an injury, and those were just the ones we knew about.

I had auditioned for the show and was “cast” as assistant stage manager, an important behind-the-scenes "role," and one I accepted because I knew I would be working under the tutelage of an experienced stage manager. It was a Murphy’s Law kind of show from the start- everything that could go wrong did. The director exercised the patience of Job as we faced one obstacle after another, obviously taking his inspiration from another Biblical story. He became very adept at keeping his head when all about him was losing theirs. First, he had to replace Joseph before the show even began rehearsals, but during the rehearsal process we lost and replaced the music director, the choreographer, and the costumer.

When I returned to rehearsals after a few days off while we determined that we did in fact have the rights to do the show, the director matter-of-factly told me that I had been promoted from assistant stage manager to stage manager. The actor playing Reuben had to drop out, and the stage manager was now Reuben.

Did I panic? Well, as a matter-of-fact, I did, but the promoted stage manager pledged that he would continue to mentor me, and he did. My friend Marilyn, who also had no stage management experience, agreed to help me, mostly because we bonded when we played Pick-a-Little Ladies in “Music Man” a few years earlier and had been show buddies ever since. It was a very young cast, and they started referring to us as the “Stage Moms,” but I am sure there was nothing but affection in the term.

Ah, but I digress. About those injured cast members….

One of our children’s chorus members had broken her thumb prior to the show, and was sporting a colorful cast when she showed up for rehearsal. Luckily, the children’s chorus members were wearing colorful t-shirts, and we just made sure to put her in a shirt that matched her cast.

One of Joseph’s brothers was also working as a camp counselor that summer, and had had an unfortunate freak accident where he cut the area between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand with a knife when opening a large cardboard box full of camp supplies. He was also a pianist, and so it was especially important that he heal completely and properly, and he was fitted with a metal contraption that held his hand together while elevating it. This contraption was decidedly new-age, and definitely would have been out of place in ancient Eqypt, but the young actor just took it off before taking the stage and put it back on when exiting.

During the dress rehearsal, one of Joseph’s brothers' wives sprained her ankle, but went on to perform in the show with some slightly modified dance moves. When I was giving her a ride home that night, she let it slip that Potiphar/Jacob had broken his foot but hadn’t wanted to mention it to the director or me. I asked him about it opening night. He explained that he had gone to the doctor but his options – a cast or surgery- would have meant that he wouldn’t be able to continue in the show, so he was putting them off until after the show was over.

Anyway, the show was just as glorious and joyful a production of “Joseph” as there ever was. I’m sure that the audience never even noticed the cast, or the strangely elevated arm, or the modified dancing. The director didn’t even know about Jacob until months after the show closed. I have seen many amateur and professional productions of “Joseph” since, and it is still my favorite- Donny Osmond’s nephew and company had nothing on this cast. Since I have seen all the productions of “Joseph” that I think I need to see in this lifetime, it will undoubtedly remain my favorite.

I don’t know about anyone else, but I now wish actors “Good show!” instead of a “Break a leg!”

A Semi-Rural Suburban Area

Buying the house was like being swept up in a huge whirlwind. When we landed we were living in this great house, dazed and happy. And then we opened the door and found ourselves in a brand new bright, shiny land called Oz! Well, actually, it’s Franklin Park. We never specifically set out to live here. It’s just where the house was when we found it. I must say that we couldn’t have accidentally landed in a lovelier spot for happily “ever-aftering” than here, but it was different kind of place than any we had ever lived in before.

While we are now just about 10 or 12 miles north of our former home on the North Side, which was within the city limits, my husband quickly noted that we weren’t in the city anymore. Well, that is certainly true. There isn’t anything even remotely urban about this place. Technically Franklin Park is a suburb, as it was clearly designed with residential living in mind (it is dotted with planned housing communities, including ours) but it doesn’t feel “suburban.” Those wandering through who don’t know better might mistakenly think they are in the country. There are lots of trees and other green areas everywhere, and we are literally within walking distance of two farm markets and within easy driving distance of several others.

But I’ve been to the country, and this definitely isn’t it. The easiest way to tell this is that if you are lost in the country you can go for miles and miles (and sometimes hours) without seeing one landmark or business to help you find your way back out. In the city, on the other hand, even if you are lost in the seediest neighborhood you will shortly come upon a gas station, or a convenience store, or some shady character, or possibly some entirely different neighborhood to help you find your way. In Franklin Park, you can’t drive far without coming across some sort of landmark, although that landmark is more likely to be a church or the sign of a housing community as it is to be a convenience store.

Our welcome packet from Franklin Park arrived in the mail one day and cleared up the confusion. Franklin Park describes itself as a “semi-rural suburban area.” Well, now that’s it – exactly the right description for the area. This place combines the best features of the suburbs and the country, while still being convenient to the city and all its amenities. We are minutes away from the highway, McKnight Road or the Cranberry Township shopping areas, Wexford, and all our old shopping and dining grounds.

There are nearly 12,000 residents and 14 churches in Franklin Park, according to the 2000 Census and Franklin Park’s promotional materials, including a Universalist Unitarian Church. No synagogue, but the nearest one is just 6 miles away in Allison Park. There are lots of activities available to residents, including a monthly ballroom dance and movies in the park. What Franklin Park does not have is a post office of its own; instead residents share a zip code with one of the three neighboring communities of McCandless, Wexford and Sewickley.

While we are close to our former home, we have had a whole new area to explore and discover. And we are delighted with what we’ve found, even within a mile of our new home. There is T-Bones, a tiny grocery store with great prepared foods and pastries, located conveniently off the 79 exit. We like Soergels’s Farm Market and Kaelin’s Farm Market, with their fresh produce and greenhouses. And there’s Bella Frutteto, which has quickly become one of our favorite restaurants. It’s a wonderful little Italian place with good food and interesting décor that is perfect whether you’re having lunch with a friend, or a birthday party for 15 people. Whether or not you live nearby, Bella Frutteto is worth the trip. (http://www.bellafrutteto.com)

Now, I would like to take a moment to give a shout out to the Wexford Giant Eagle, my new favorite supermarket of all time. It’s not just one thing about the place that I like – it’s everything. The people who work there treat their customers with the utmost courtesy and respect. They act as if they are happy to work there and to assist you. No, really! They are concerned that you are finding everything alright. True story- I’m at the deli one day, and I ask the person working there for some ham-off-the-bone. “Very good, ” she said, “and while I am preparing that for you, would you like to try a sample of our pork loin?” When my husband was looking for rye flour, just to discover they didn’t carry it, an assistant manager asked him what brand he liked and said he would look into ordering some. It’s just a very pleasant place to buy food.

Speaking of “finds,” you won’t believe what I found in Cranberry Township, in addition to two Burger Kings, a Perkins Restaurant and a Dress Barn Woman (reason enough to move). A job in my field, just about 5 miles and a 10 minute drive from my new house! This place really is too good to be true.

There’s one big difference between Dorothy in Oz and us in Franklin Park. Dorothy spent all her time in Oz trying to get back to where she came from. We on the other hand aren’t going anywhere.

Coming Home

Our house is a very, very, very nice house…life used to be so hard, now everything is easy ‘cause of you. ~Graham Nash

You probably think that I haven’t written lately because I was so busy recuperating from my fantasy birthday party. As exhausting as entertaining people in my mind was, I didn’t really understand exhaustion until we moved into our new house last month.

My husband and I had always had some vague plans to move into a new house, one that we picked out together, “someday.” All we really knew is that we wanted something that provided one-story living. We were also pretty sure that we wanted to stay in the North Hills of Pittsburgh. Occasionally we would window shop online – looking at condos and other suitable properties in the North Hills in our price range, even though we were in no position to buy.

We thought we found THE place when we fell for this funky little modern condo in a converted schoolhouse, but the financing didn’t work out – it turned out to be a little too avant garde for a conventional mortgage. We were crestfallen, and thought that we would never find a place we liked as well. Ah, but you know how infatuations can be. You think you found the perfect one and when it doesn’t work out, you think you’ll never find another one quite as good, but there is invariably something so much more special and perfect for you out there.

Pat, our friend and real estate agent, realized this. She took the liberty of sending us the listings for some properties that fit our admittedly short “wish list.” One of the properties was a duplex condo unit very close to where our choir rehearses. It looked more like a house than a condo in the pictures but the living area was all on one floor, and it was well within our budget, so we thought we would take a look at it.

When we walked in, we found ourselves in an expansive living room with a cathedral ceiling and a beautiful wood-burning fireplace. With a second-story loft off the living room that provided some unique and interesting architectural detail to the room without actually revealing the loft itself, the total effect was, well, kind of breathtaking.

As we went from room to room, we got more and more excited. The kitchen was a decent size with a very functional layout, a pantry, and was open to the dining room. And the dining room opened onto a large wooden deck. For people who didn’t care at all about outdoor space, we got pretty jazzed about that deck. The two bedrooms were large with lots of closet space.

And- are you ready?- there were two full bathrooms AND a coat closet in the little foyer when you walk into the house AND an attached one-car garage large enough that we could actually park the car in it. None of this might excite you, but, trust me, after living in a house with the coat rack in the living room, a garage that was too small for the car, and just one bathroom, I was practically teary-eyed at the thought of these features. Heck, the last time I lived in a house that had a powder room was in 1988, and I don’t ever remember living anywhere with two full bathrooms.

Before we left that day, we were starting to decorate the house in our minds. We’d have to buy a grill for the deck. We chose bathrooms and which side of the closet we would each have, and my husband thought that the spare bedroom would be a great place for the piano.

Anyway, we bought the house. If anything, it has turned out to be more perfect than we ever imagined it would be. The house and we belong together. What has been most amazing is how all our stuff- an eclectic mix of things that my husband and/or I have purchased or inherited along the way- all just have found their places in this new house. Sometimes I just look around and can’t believe it’s ours.

Of course, home isn’t a place or a building. It’s people. It’s family. I am at home whenever I am with my husband, or my son, or our families. But we are grateful to have such a beautiful house in which to make our home together.

The Great March 25 Birthday Dinner Party

They say it's your birthday
It's my birthday too, yeah
They say it's your birthday
We're gonna have a good time
-Lennon and McCartney

I have always been intrigued by the famous (and sometimes infamous) people who share my birthday of March 25th. Sir Elton John, rock royalty. Gloria Steinem, feminist icon. Aretha Franklin, Queen of Soul. Anita Bryant, right winger and anti-gay activist. Howard Cosell, legendary sportscaster. Sarah Jessica Parker, Sex in the City. Marcia Cross and Brenda Strong, Desperate Housewives.

An eclectic bunch, to be sure, but they’re not as dissimilar as they might initially seem. They are all people with strong personalities who like to express themselves. They march to the beat of a different drummer. They are originals who do things that millions of others have done- e.g. singing and acting- in a completely unique way. They are extreme and loud, and often controversial. They evoke strong, and not always positive, reactions. But, like them or not, it is hard not to notice them.

I am unspeakably proud to share a birthday with this gang, but I often wonder what might happen if they were all together in one room. It’s a long-time fantasy of mine to invite them all over for a nice birthday dinner. The Great March 25th Birthday Dinner Party.

Yes, I know some of them are dead, but that won’t matter. This is a fantasy, folks, and it is MY fantasy. In it, I drop them all a nice little handwritten note, explaining that we all share a birthday and I think it might be nice if we got together to celebrate. And they all come, some returning from the dead to do so. This won’t seem so unusual to Brenda, who plays Mary Alice on Desperate Housewives. Mary Alice died in the pilot but now narrates the happenings of Wisteria Lane from the Great Beyond.

Naturally everything has to be just perfect for this soiree. The woman who plays Bree Van de Kamp will be attendance. Marcia may not be anything like Bree in real life, but they sure do look a lot alike.

“An Aries born on March 25 is naturally shy, even though they possess the ability to shine at any gathering,” according to Jill M. Phillips, astrologer. (http://entertainment.howstuffworks.com/march-25-birthday-astrology.htm ) Well, I fully expect this get-together to be so shiny with personality that one will barely be able to stand the brightness. I am guessing that there will be lively and spirited conversation. It may even get a little too lively and spirited. Maybe we could just kick off the evening with Aretha singing about “R-E-S-P-E-C-T" to set the tone.

I'll make up a seating chart. Frankly, I’m worried about Anita. Will she annoy the rest of the guests? Will anyone want to sit next to her? Should I seat Elton and her at opposite ends of the table, or near one another to keep things interesting? Howard always seemed like an amenable guy, maybe if I put him between them he could mediate. I know that I can put Sarah Jessica anywhere – she seems to have pretty good social skills.

That brings us to the menu. Of course, Gloria is a vegetarian. I’ve got it! Lasagna. My one and only culinary specialty. I have a great recipe for white vegetarian lasagna made with broccoli, spinach and zucchini, or we could offer traditional meatless lasagna. Add a nice salad, and some fresh Italian bread, and you can’t go wrong. I’ll ask Bree, I mean Marcia, to bring the wine- I wouldn’t want to make a misstep there.

I don’t suppose I have to worry about what to wear and I can be as colorful and outlandish as I want. This group is known for their interesting, bold fashion choices. Think about Sarah Jessica’s outfit at the Oscars, or Aretha’s hat at Obama’s inauguration, or everything and anything that Elton wore in the 70’s.

We could wrap up the evening with a nice sing-a-long at my husband’s upright piano. I just hope that everyone isn’t intimidated by Elton and Aretha. I, for one, would love to hear Howard’s version of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” or hear Gloria belt out “I Am Woman.”

At the end of the evening, everyone will reluctantly leave, but not before we all embrace, exchange contact information, and agree to become Facebook Friends so that we can keep in touch and like each other’s statuses.

The Story of Zero

As you know if you read my last blog my son was born one snowy February day, but he wasn’t the first treasured family member to come to us in the dead of winter.

One bitterly cold January night, friends of ours saw a black object ahead of them on the country road they were driving. After watching a van drive over it, they stopped and discovered that the object was actually a small black dog, frozen solid and unable to move. They took him home. As he started to thaw, he went into convulsions, but with the advice of one caring local vet who took their call at 11 p.m., they were able to help him to survive until morning. Because it was 17 below zero that night, they named him Zero. When he thawed, they realized that he also had a broken leg.

Zero came to live with us about a week and a half later. He was still very traumatized and withdrawn when we took him in. He never barked and walked with difficulty. We had to carry him up and down the back steps when we took him out, because he couldn’t manage steps with his broken leg. Mostly he just liked to be on the couch with us, either on a lap, or snuggled next to us.

When we took him to the vet, we found out that he was a Terrier “mutt” and that he was probably about 7 months old, still a puppy. The doctor said that his broken leg was partially healed and the only way to fix it would be to re-break it and set it again. He said that this wouldn’t be necessary unless we wanted to show him. Show him? Where, we wondered. At the Terrier Mutt Show?

In a month or so, Zero was fully healed, with a vengeance. In fact, he blossomed into one of the most tenacious, incorrigible little terrier mutts you’ll ever know. Not only was he walking, he was running - he was, in fact, a perpetual ball of energy. His favorite toy was a bandanna with a knot tied in it, and when he held it in his mouth he was so strong that you could hold him in the air by the bandanna. It was his best and only trick. And barking? He had one of those shrill yippy barks that terriers have and he could bark without a break for hours, if he was so inclined.

Zero wasn’t exactly what most would consider a handsome dog. One friend said that he looked like a Brillo Pad with legs. He was covered in wiry, black hair and he was about 12 pounds, sopping wet. The vet was concerned that he was underweight, but actually he was the only one in the family with a high metabolism. At the vet’s recommendation, we tried putting fatty acid supplement on his dog food, but then he wouldn’t touch the stuff at all, defeating the purpose entirely. He was the only dog I ever knew who ate and loved broccoli.

He loved to run free, and lived to sneak out of the house. This wasn’t too much of a challenge, as he was much faster than the sluggish people he lived with, and could slip through the tiniest open crack in a door. Attempts to catch him were futile. He would terrorize the neighborhood- ripping up flower beds and bothering other neighborhood pets, returning when he was good and ready. The full extent of his infamy became apparent when I was voting one day, and one of the poll workers asked where I lived on Fern Street. When I described the house, her eyes narrowed and she asked, “Wait a minute! Do you have a little black dog?” I didn’t think quickly enough to deny it.

He was a ferocious little watchdog- territorial and absolutely loyal to and protective of us. He didn’t seem to know that he was very small. He would attack visitors unless we held him until they were in and seated, but would run after them, biting their ankles, if they presumed to move around the house.

This fierce protectiveness led four well-meaning doting grandparents-to-be to practically stage an intervention with my husband and me when I was pregnant. We were having a baby now, they explained, and they were very concerned that Zero might try to hurt the baby. While we couldn’t positively guarantee that Zero would not try to harm the baby, we couldn’t possibly think of getting rid of him, either. He was a member of the family, and we loved him. Besides, who in their right mind would take him? After a few frantic days of circling and sniffing when the baby was born, Zero decided that the baby could stay and became just as protective and territorial of him as he was of us. He actually put up with more from the kid than he did from anyone else.

Well, Zero did bite the child once, but it was only because my son, who was three at the time, playfully and happily jumped onto the dog when he was sound asleep. Yes, that’s right; he did not let a sleeping dog lie (that’s a proverb for a reason). Zero woke up and bit – and it just so happened that my son’s lip was there. It was a superficial bite, and my son was initially upset but essentially unharmed. Zero on the other hand was despondent. He slunk around after me the rest of the day, dejected and apologetic, which was impressive mostly because it was unlike Zero to show remorse of any kind for his misdeeds.

The night he was found by our friends was not the last time that Zero would defy death. He ran free on busy streets, and he once ate more than half of a chocolate Sarris candy bar without incident, despite the fact that chocolate can be dangerous for dogs. We would joke that he was part cat, because in addition to having nine lives, he could walk along the back of the couch, and whine like a cat if unhappy.

As Zero aged, he also mellowed. He played less and slept more and even let people enter the house without much of a fuss. One night when he got loose he didn’t come back, which was not like him. We found him a few streets away. While we couldn’t know for sure, we think he passed away from natural causes. He was 18 years old. We buried him in the backyard, and mourned him. We really did love that cantankerous little dog.

I understand that at least one author has written a best-selling book about his bad dog that was made into a hit movie starring Jennifer Aniston. There was never a better bad dog than Zero – the least I could do was pay tribute to him in this blog.

On This Day My Child Was Born

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

According to my doctor, everything looked fine. He also thought I may come a little earlier than my due date of February 28. That would be okay with me, I told him. 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.

The 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 got to work without incident, just in time for lunch with my co-worker and friend Joan.

When I stood up after lunch to return to my work area, 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 Joan know what was going on and left. I got in the car, turned the key and…the car wouldn’t start. It seems that 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 was flabbergasted, as he did not think that a woman in labor should be driving herself anywhere especially in the snow. He initially refused to jump my car. I explained that I just planned to drive the few miles to my house, and I 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, dead, in the parking lot at work, 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, who was pretty skilled at the power of persuasion, intervened and Paul grudgingly agreed to jump my car.

I drove home and packed my suitcase but my husband was not yet back from making his deliveries. 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 decided against sharing the story of the dead car battery. She asked how long it would take me to get to the hospital. It was 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 back 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 come to pick me up, 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. I estimated that it would take 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 when I was driving to the hospital. When I finally arrived, I told the doctor that aside from the fact that my water had broken and I had just driven about 30 miles in the snow, I was feeling fine. He examined me and informed me that I was 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 instinctively, unknowingly been employing those breathing exercises they taught us in Lamaze class.

Meanwhile my husband had arrived back at the shop, and was so upset at the news, that his parents did not trust him to drive himself to the hospital. His family accompanied him, and his father drove. He burst into the birthing room about an hour after I got there, in quite a state, I might add.

I will not share with you with 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 25 today. One word always comes to mind when I think of him- proud. I am so very proud of the fine young man he has grown up to be. Here’s wishing my son a wonderful birthday, and hoping that the weather today is better than on the day he was born.