Once Upon a Time in the West: a birthday that took 1,248 miles to celebrate

April 22, 201338 Comments

In the month of April, so many years ago I can’t remember, I was born in Wichita Falls Texas.

Here is how it all went down:

Dad was stationed in Texas at Sheppard AFB. Mom was stuck in Southern California with my anticipated birth to be sometime SOON. Now my Mom didn’t want to be alone when I came, so she hopped the bus at eight and one half months into my grand arrival, and we traveled 1,248 miles to be where Dad was!

That was in 1953 before air conditioning. So you know that was a LONG and stressful ride in her condition.

What was she thinking?

Well, I was born almost as soon as we arrived. Now Dad was living in base housing, and suddenly he has to come up with someplace for all of us off base! Then, two weeks after I showed up Dad got shipped out to March AFB Which is right back in good ol’ Southern California!

Do you sense some irony here?

This month I turn 60, and for the first time in my life, I don’t believe I am really into the swing of the whole birthday thing.

Not really.

But hey, check back with me in say another 20 to 30 years, and then maybe I will be so happy to still be here I will want a party, complete with a ~~bonfire~~ er, birthday cake and a party with all my friends around to cheer me on!

~*~*~*~

BTW, Bob asked me what I wanted for my birthday this year, and all I could come up with was the deed to the Mountain Farmlet.

~*~

It really is all I could ask for!

😀

Once Upon a Time in the West: a new years resolution kept

January 2, 2013April 27, 201633 Comments

Many years ago I was a smoker. My parents smoked, my brothers and sister grew up to smoke, and eventually, so did I.

I remember smoking my first cigarette. It was on my eighteenth birthday and it was a day of firsts for me…

I ditched school, and while my parents and siblings were out of the house I locked myself in the bathroom where I stood in front of the mirror and proceeded to drink a beer and smoke a cigarette. I remember thinking all my friends who were brave enough to defy their parents looked pretty cool. Not me. I stood there looking at my reflection I thought,

“You look like a jackass.” and “This is not cool.”

I never touched a drink or a cigarette again until I went into the Navy, where once again I was surrounded by those who did. It started out as smoking only one or two cigarettes when I went to dance clubs with friends, but this quickly and easily became an everyday habit. A habit I would continue, and that would escalate over the years.

Smoking, I would soon find out, was no less addicting than we are told drugs or alcohol are, and very hard to quit. Perhaps no one else has told you this, but I believe it is difficult to quit because it’s socially acceptable. You can go to any store or gas station to purchase them, and simply put: It is a habit that is nearly impossible to quit. From personal experience I can tell you that quitting nicotine will drive you to the jitters and give you fits of temper that only a saint (or my husband) could survive!

Many years later, I was smoking three packs a day, Camels, no filter, and didn’t realize how many I actually smoked until my father got cancer.

Now I had previously tried to quit, at least four or five times, and never succeeded until Dad died. No gory details folks, just know that it gave me the resolve to finally commit to that old New Years Resolution to quit for good!

Here is how I succeeded.

First, I got a small, spiral bound pocket notebook.

In this notebook I made a hash mark for each cigarette I smoked in a day. Let me tell ya, I had not a clue that I was up to three packs a day! This and my father’s passing were a real wake up call!

I sat there and tried to imagine how I could successfully quit such a deeply entrenched habit. I finally reasoned that I hadn’t started out smoking all three packs in a day, and therefore I wouldn’t expect myself to just give them all up in one day.

Each day I kept track in my little pocket notebook with hash marks, and each day I smoked one less cigarette. It took a long time, but by cutting out just one a day it didn’t seem to hurt at all! Well, until about the halfway mark. Then I found moments in the day when I realized I needed to pace myself or run out before bedtime. (I know, can you believe it?)

So during these times of no cigarettes I would send up a quick prayer.

“God, just get me through this moment, Thank you!”

The less I smoked in a day the more I repeated my prayer, and it became my mantra to get me through the day,

“God, just get me through this moment, Thank you! God, just get me through this moment, Thank you! God, just get me through this moment, Thank you! God, just get me through this moment, Thank you! God, just get me through this moment, Thank you! God, please just get me through this moment!”

This went on until one evening when I was sitting on the couch watching TV with Bob, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open for the stress. I was down to seven cigarettes a day and still had three to go, but all I really wanted to do was go to bed and sleep. I turned to Bob and said,

“I have three cigarettes left to go, and I’m ready to just quit now. Would you do me a favor? Would you take all the ashtrays out of the house and put them into the garage, and would you please help me out by smoking outside from now on?”

Now the old me would not have been so gracious, but he said, “YES!” As I lay in bed I heard him go from room to room and take all the ashtrays away. What a sweetheart! He spent the next year smoking in the garage or on the patio until he made the decision to quit, and I was so proud of him too!

I think it was at least a year before I realized I was cured. I was sitting on the couch absently reaching for something on the coffee table when it hit me, and I thought,

“OH, Yeah! I don’t do that anymore!”

~*~

If you smoke here are some things to consider…

What’s in that cigarette?

Some Kills (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

NOTE: I am sorry that the wording is lacking in this graphic, but it still makes a point.

Smoking doesn’t make you look grown-up.

Smoking doesn’t make you look sexy. In fact, it ages you beyond your years!

So my point in telling you all this isn’t to shame anyone who smokes, nor to tell you that you should quit. I am simply relating to you my personal experience and sharing what worked for me.

**~*~**

If you have decided that one of your resolutions for 2013 is to finally quit, then I wish you every success in your decision!

**~*~**

This post was inspired by the Daily Prompt: Resolved. Wherein they asked this question, “Have you ever made a New Year’s Resolution that you kept?”

NOTE: There are some excellent anti smoking adds HERE
Hard-hitting TV ad to urge smokers to stub the habit out in the new year (menmedia.co.uk)
The Top Ten New Year’s Resolutions – Will You Make One? (betterbodyjournal.com)

Once Upon a Time in the West: honesty is the best policy

November 27, 2012November 29, 201225 Comments

Many years ago my father helped me to choose and buy my first car. He tried to talk me into getting a little boxy looking, sensible Toyota. It was tan in color, had good gas mileage, four doors, the engine was sound, and did I mention sensible? The list went on, as my dad tried to convince me, but I wasn’t listening, because the tomboy in me wanted a fast car.

We shopped every day after dad got home from work. It took a whole week, and then I spotted it…

It was a 1967 Pontiac Firebird

Mine was silver, but this is the only picture I could find of the late 60’s car! Rare as hen’s teeth as they say…

My Silver Bullet I called her and she had a straight 6, 3.8 liter engine, with an overhead cam. I read this morning that it wasn’t as muscly as the Camaro of the same vintage, and therefore not as fast, but the concept was right out of race car technology, and driving it made me feel I was all that and a bag of chips!

I suppose it was just as well that the car wasn’t as fast as the V8 Camaro, or I might have found myself in bigger trouble than I did at 2:30 in the morning…

The following, though a bit embarrassing, is true. I include all the particulars because otherwise you wouldn’t understand my urgent need for speed, and besides, you just can’t make this stuff up.

~*~

I was working a graveyard shift at a plastics factory and had already been given a warning about being tardy. So that night when I took my lunch break, I was devastated to find that I had gotten my period and needed to go home. Finding the foreman I explained my problem, and said I would need to go home to change. To which he replied:

“You should have been prepared. If you are late, then you are fired.”

Not exactly the empathy I was expecting or looking for! Running for the door and out to my car, I got in and sped for home. Now I grant you I knew I was going too fast, but I needed that job. Checking for the police in my rear view mirror I suddenly realized there actually was one behind me! I took my foot off the gas and tried to coast down to a more reasonable speed. After all, I didn’t want to be obvious about it. Well, it all took too long. I hadn’t decreased my speed sufficiently, and so it was, that when I pulled into the left turn lane to stop for the light…

MY CAR SKIDDED ON SOME WATER AND INTO THE INTERSECTION.

Still trying to “be cool,” I back up into the turn lane and notice that although the Policeman was still there, his lights were not on. Far out! I thought, He’s gonna let me go!

Not so fast. As soon as the light changed, I pulled forward, and on went his lights. Completing my turn, I did the only reasonable thing I could do, I cruised up to the curb and stopped. Suddenly, I realized that there was another patrol car in front of me going the wrong way on the street. It pulled right in front of me and blocked my path! I was terrified. I was going to be arrested!

I quickly turned off the engine, rolled down my window, and waited for the officer. In a very cool voice, he said:

“Do you know how fast you were going?”

Me: No, but I know I was going too fast but my speedometer is broken and it was broken when I purchased the car and I have been back three times to get it fixed only they won’t fix it and I am on my lunch break and I got my period and I had to get home to change and if I am late one more time I’m going to get fired! (Need I mention that I was crying at this point?)

The Officer: Well, I clocked you at 110 miles in a 50 MPH zone. I have already called for backup, because I didn’t know the particulars, and therefore I will have to give you the ticket. However, since you have been so honest with me, I will write it for 65 in a 50 MPH zone, and I won’t have to take you to jail.

I was mortified.

Well, my court date came and I was prepared. I had my paperwork from the purchase of my car, and the repair tickets that were denied by the car lot stating they wouldn’t fix my speedometer or my squeaky breaks, because I purchased the car “As-is.”

When the judge called my name I went forward, knees knocking, answered his questions, told him my story, and then added the bit about trying to get the car dealer to fix the speedometer and brakes. I held up the receipt for the purchase of the car, and the work orders they had repeatedly denied.

He asked the bailiff to bring the paperwork to him. Quickly reading it over, he looked up and said:

“This is clearly a safety issue! Your ticket is dismissed, and I am ordering the Dealer to fix your car!”

To which I heard several exclamations from the men in the room, but I didn’t care. Not only was I not fined, but my car was going to be fixed!

I grew up a little bit after the incident, was always “prepared” at work, and have since taken a less reckless approach to driving. I also realized that whatever the circumstance, it is always best to tell the truth when you get pulled over. No matter how embarrassing it is!

~*~

A special thank you to Julie of Wings and Things for her post that inspired me today.

~*~

NOTE: For the gearheads, car historians, or just the just plain curious souls in the group, you can read more about the genesis and evolution of the straight 6 overhead cam engine HERE . Apparently, it was the brainchild of John DeLorean. Who knew? I didn’t till this morning. 😉

Pontiac Firebird – American Muscle (motortrend.com)
Virtual Velocity – Cover Story (motortrend.com)

Once Upon a Time in the West: the trick pie

August 16, 2012August 16, 201227 Comments

My husband made me a lemon meringue pie once.

With meringue a mile high it was the most beautiful looking pie I had ever seen! I was so excited that he had baked it for me, because it is my favorite pie in the world.

Later that night after dinner, we served it up… took a bite, and for an instant we were in heaven…mmmmmm…

Then suddenly, and with a simultaneous “GaaaACK,” we spit it out. (You see, the pie tasted perfect at first, but then a vile and bitter taste burst into our mouth.) Both of us where prune faced, and he said, “I don’t know what I did wrong!” We looked over the recipe and talked through the steps together trying to discover his mistake. The instructions said to add the zest of one whole lemon. He had added the whole lemon peel!

Now you need a bit of back story here…

I loved my mother but she had a few bad habits. One of which was to help herself to anything good in the refrigerator. She would walk in and just go straight to the refrigerator and help herself! No “may I?” or “Is this for later?” or “Are you saving this for someone?” She just got it out and ate it!

So, after laughing heartily we decided to keep the pie, and placed it back into the refrigerator for mother’s visit the next day.

Do you think me evil? 😉

As predicted, Mom came the next day, walked in and put her purse down, chatted a bit, and then hit the refrigerator. From the living room we could hear her little squeak of delight at seeing that perfect looking pie in the fridge. The silverware tinkled, a desert plate clinked onto the counter, and all the while we were dying of stuffing back our guffaws in the living room.

Mom came back, pie in one hand, fork in the other, sporting a look of delicious anticipation, and sat gingerly onto the couch.

She took the first bite…

We soberly watched as a smile of perfect delight radiated across her face, which was suddenly replaced by one I can only describe as abject disgust. She swallowed, shuddered, and then meekly asked, “What’s wrong with this pie?”

By this time we were laughing so hard we had tears rolling down our cheeks. Quickly recovering we told her the whole story, with only a little fib at the end about not wanting to throw it away because it was so pretty. This got her to laughing too, and from then on the incident was spoken of more than once in the family, and was referred to as, “Bob’s Trick Pie.” Not surprisingly, for a long while afterward, she would always ask before eating pie at our house…