COVID-19 Diary - She's Gone

The hardest part of any writing assignment is how to begin. When the writing assignment is your mother’s obituary, it might be best to work backward.

Rosie Hewitt was special. A daughter, sister, wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, aunt, cousin, elected official, administrative professional, 4-H leader, home-ec club member, community volunteer, and friend. She’s been described as sweet, caring, encouraging, and kind.

To know Rosie Hewitt was to know her smile and her laugh. She loved to crack a joke.

An avid reader of mysteries, a watcher of cooking shows, a fan of the Cincinnati Reds, Rosie had the most beautiful penmanship I ever saw. She enjoyed quilting, crossword puzzles, and watching Rick Steves’ Travels on PBS. She loved taking drives as long as the road wasn’t too curvy because she was prone to motion sickness. But that didn’t usually stop her from going along for the ride anyway.

A few years ago, she was itching to get out of the house and volunteered to be my lookout as I drove around the countryside taking photos of barns. We had a nice drive through Switzerland and Jefferson Counties and stopped in Madison for lunch at the Key West Shrimp House. It was a lovely day. I’m grateful for the memory. I lived away from the area for many years and couldn’t spend much time with my parents, so these moments mean so much to me.

Mom loved food. She enjoyed cooking and baking and still possessed the same Good Housekeeping cookbook she used in the 1970s. Even so, she loved trying out new recipes and her Pinterest account was full of recipes to try. (Oh, how she took to social media once she got started!) She made delicious fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy. Her Texas Sheet Cake was legendary, especially when served with Dad’s homemade vanilla ice cream.

Rosalie (Rosie) Anne Lawson met Paul Hewitt at the Frisch’s Big Boy in Aurora in 1958. They were married on March 19, 1960, in Rising Sun, Indiana. Rosie followed Paul to France where he served in the Army. There they lived in Orleans until Rosie left in 1961 to return to the United States to give birth to their first daughter Denise.

Two other children followed – Lisa and David.

Rosie went to work outside the home in 1970 as Ohio County (Indiana) Recorder, an office she held from 1975 – 1978. She followed that position with four years as the Ohio County Auditor after being elected in 1979. Later she was the Office Manager and Bookkeeper for Paul H. Rohe Co. in Aurora, worked for the Dearborn County Division of Family and Children and served as the Executive Secretary to Rising Sun Mayor Mark Guard from 1995 – 1999.

Rosie was involved in her community and wanted the best for her adopted hometown. In addition to working at City Hall and for the County, she served on several committees throughout the 1980s and into the early 2000s. She was the leader of the Lucky Charms 4H Club in the 1970s and 80s and directed some of the best Share the Fun skits to ever happen in this corner of Indiana.

After retirement, Rosie spent time with her husband Paul catching up on all those years when they were both working and so busy. They enjoyed getting together with the graduates of Aurora’s Class of 1956 for monthly lunches. Early in retirement, they traveled. More recently, they stayed closer to home, but still enjoyed drives to Vevay for ice cream at Shell’s and trips across the river for lunch at Jewell’s on Main. And while Dad stayed home, Mom took part in her Home-Ec Club activities and loved a day out with her sisters Jan and Nancy.

Rosie pushed us to do better, be better. She wanted each of us to reach our potential. For me, that meant forcing me to enroll at Ball State against my wishes. I told her many times how much I hated her then, but how grateful I was for the push. Because of my mother, I got to see, do, visit, try, and be things I never would have imagined.

In 2019, our family suffered an unexpected tragedy when David died as a result of a car accident. He was 49. Watching one’s parents survive a child’s death is impossible to describe. But Mom and Dad endured and although I know they suffered privately, they put on a brave face and got on with it.

And now our father, Rosie’s companion for over 60 years, will do the same. It’s been hard to lose someone during the COVID-19 Pandemic because we’re not able to grieve or give comfort as we know it. My sister couldn’t spend some last moments with Mom. She has a chronic condition that leaves her compromised. The required physical distancing meant that Dad and I could individually see Mom for 15 minutes before she died. While I could be with her, it meant that I had to leave Dad alone in the car. It was bizarre and sad and frustrating. While we are not the most demonstrative family, it’s been hard to not at least give him a hug during all of this.

The staff at Highpoint Health in Lawrenceburg, Indiana, could not have been kinder. They gave me the opportunity to talk to Mom on the phone while she slipped away. For that, I am grateful, too. There are so many people who won’t have the chance to say one last I love you to their dying loved ones.

I had a text from a friend who recently experienced the death of his father in this time of quarantine. He wrote that it will seem as if Mom won’t have the funeral she deserves. For someone who touched lives the way she did and who provided a kind word whenever she could, it seems a shame that we can’t truly celebrate her life.

This is my small offering.

Here are the standard details….

Rosalie (Rosie) Anne Lawson was born August 3, 1938, in Milan, Indiana, to Carlton and Gertrude (McMullen) Lawson. She was welcomed home by brother Carly and sister Jan. According to an interview conducted by my daughter Sophia Golden a few years ago, she was named Rosalie after the song by Vera Lynn. Her brother Dan and sister Nancy came later.

Rosie graduated from Aurora High School in 1956 and went to work for a small bank.

Rosie married Paul Hewitt in Rising Sun, Indiana, on March 19, 1960. They had three children Denise (Russell) Taylor, St. Leon, Indiana; Lisa (David) Williams, Rising Sun, Indiana; and David (Donna) who preceded Rosie in death.

Rosie is survived by her husband and daughter, her sister Jan (Wade) Turner, Rising Sun, and Nancy (Bill) Parks of Aurora, and sister-in-law Betty Burgess.

She is also survived by her grandchildren: Kenny Orem, (Rising Sun, Indiana; Clay Orem, St. Leon, Indiana; Chloe Golden, Bedford, New Hampshire; Nathan Golden (Kade), Rising Sun, Indiana; Sophia Golden, Euharlee, Georgia; Olivia Hewitt, Vevay, Indiana; and Drew Hewitt, Vevay, Indiana.

Rosie was also blessed with bonus grandchildren. Also missing her will be Zach (Nichole) Taylor, Harrison, Ohio; Nick (Andrea) Taylor, Fairfield, Ohio; Haley (David) Core, Pueblo, Colorado; and DJ Williams, Rising Sun, Indiana.

A prolific bunch, she also had one great grandchild: Samson Golden, Rising Sun, Indiana; and great stepchildren Anna, Sadie, Oliver, and Ziggy Taylor.

Others who will miss her include a long list of nieces and nephews: Connie (Denny Baldwin), Doug (Cindee) Scott, Karen (Jeff) Chase, Andy (Theresa) Scott, Ed Turner, Lori Turner, Todd (Denise) Lawson, Curt (Amanda) Lawson, Megan (Charles) Dunn), Danielle Lawson (Ken) Miller, Chris (Brooke) Lawson, Bill (Michelle) Parks, Jr., Cindy Collins, Michael Parks, Veronica Foster, Douglas Parks, and Jeremy Parks.  And many great nieces and nephews.

In addition to her son, Rosie was preceded in death by her parents Carlton Lawson and Gertrude Lawson Heitmeyer, stepfather Horace Heitmeyer, brothers Carlton (Carly) Lawson and Daniel (Lynelle) Lawson, brothers-in-law Wade Turner, Jimmy Burgess, sisters-in-law Linda Lawson.

Donations in Rosie’s name can be made to the Ohio County Public Library in honor of Rosie’s love of reading.

 

 

COVID-19 Diary - Life During Wartime

We're all thinking about and talking about the Coronavirus. We can't help it.

On top of the worry about the virus, we're watching our economy come apart at the seams as people are forced to stay home and not work. Restaurants and bars are closed or are only serving food via delivery and carry out. Many states have banned large gatherings. Houses of worship are closed. Shows and concerts are canceled. Tradeshows, conventions, and conferences aren't happening. Schools are shuttered. Colleges and universities are closed for the year. People are told to not travel. Most stores are closed. Casinos across the country have shut down. College and professional sports seasons aren't happening or are postponed.

March Madness did not happen. The 2020 Summer Olympics have been postponed until 2021.

These are hard times.

I'm one of the lucky ones. I still have my full-time job and continue to work from home the same as I have since 2014. Our entire staff team is now working from home which requires some adjustment for those who are used to working in the office at least three days a week.

To combat that isolation some are feeling, we're doing creative things like having a virtual happy hour every Thursday. We all log in to Skype for Business, fire up our webcams and cut loose. I mean, cut loose as much as one should in a work environment. We're a pretty careful bunch.

From many conversations, I'm learning that I am not alone in what I thought were my weird and over-the-top concerns and newly-acquired habits.

We wonder how to handle the mail deliveries. Spray it with Lysol? Let it sit for 24 hours before handling?

We have detailed conversations about how long this sticky virus lasts on surfaces. We Google for answers.

We tell tales of madness involving bags full of takeout food, what amounts to a decontamination procedure with clean dishes, hand sanitizer, and a group effort to not bring potentially virus spreading Burger King bags into one's home.

The dirty hands/clean hands swap.

We whisper about wearing latex gloves in public.

The pushing of Clorox wipes onto loved ones and strangers.

A dog who got a bath because a neighbor petted it right after returning from a trip.

It's only been two weeks.

On the flip side, this struggle is also showing us some extraordinary acts of kindness. People are pulling together while keeping their physical distance. Social media is full of stories about people pitching in, helping out, and doing good.

I had my own taste of that last night when I walked into my parents' house to find that they were Facetiming with all three of my children. My kids never had the chance to live near their grandparents so this was especially touching.

My dad marveled at the fact that they were right there - dialed in from New Hampshire, Georgia, and from across Highway 56. Mom and Dad can see the roof of Nate's house from their front windows, a fact that still rocks me back in wonder. Who would have ever guessed that would happen?

My grandson Samson gained control of his mom's phone at one point. He displayed his new phrase "night night." Chloe turned into a frog, a mouse, a giraffe, a monkey, a rabbit, and a chicken.

"And she's the educated one," Dad said.

Yep.

Be well. Stay home if you can and especially if you're sick. Wash your hands. Tell someone you love them.

COVID-19 Diary - Physical Distancing

I saw somewhere - Facebook? Twitter? Instagram? - that perhaps we should call what we're doing physical distancing instead of social distancing. 

I like this. 

I like this because what I'm seeing on social media tells me that we're finding ways to remain social while practicing the physical distance to slow the spread of the Coronavirus. And much of that social interaction is positive. People are sharing links to free online access to the arts. Music. Museums. Books. People are sharing original content, photos, ideas for keeping busy, recipes, etc.

This is a refreshing break from seeing the same meme shared 28 times in a day.

Like the canals in Venice clearing, because the sediment has settled, and the Nitrogen levels over China decreasing, we're adjusting, too. Even if it's in small ways.

Over the last few days, I've talked on the phone more than usual. I've Facetimed with my friend Amy. I video-chatted with my daughter Chloe who is in New Hampshire. And Sophie who is in Georgia. I talked to Grandma Bea. I've talked to my sister. I've talked to my mother who relays my strongly-worded admonishments to my father, as necessary. (Still struggling!)

Everyone is well, but worried. You can just hear it in their voices. 

All this communicating. Talk about having to change habits.

Chloe had a puzzle delivered from Amazon. I dropped it off at Mom and Dad's today so they can stay occupied while they're stuck in the house. I stood across the room from them and tried to touch nothing as we talked about what's happening and how they're feeling.

They have concerns. Like most of us, they're trying to grasp just how long this time of physical distancing will last. I've worked from home for over five years. There have been times when I had to think really hard to remember the last time I'd left the house, apart from walking the dog. I'm good at this. 

But for most people who are used to being able to decide at the spur of the minute to go out to dinner or who remember what day of the week it is because of their weekly scheduled hair appointment, doctor's visit, or lunch with old friends, this is hard. This is habit changing. It's confusing. And, by extension, scary.

At the other end of the age spectrum, we're also trying to stay physically distant from Nathan, his wife Kade, and their one-year-old son Samson. We're taking the stance that the fewer contacts we have, the better. It also means I have fewer names to write on my list of daily contacts. I wasn't kidding in my last post. I'm keeping a list. It might be an Excel spreadsheet. I will neither confirm nor deny.

Because we're being extra careful, this means I can't get my hands on Sam. It's hard. I want nothing more right now than to have his soft cheek smooshed against mine. Instead, I have to settle for seeing him through a window. I'll take it.

Be well. Stay at home as much as you can. Wash your hands. Let's fight this thing.

You went away without saying goodbye

A song reminds you of someone in particular.
It might be a single phrase that does it.
Or was it a shared moment?
A time captured?
An idea?
There might be no explanation for it at all.
You just know when you hear the song, that person won't be far from your mind.

Hey, Jack Kerouc. I think of your mother.....

<End>

Blended

Love multiplied.

This happened two weeks ago - a new marriage with bonus family. My one regret from the day (because let's be clear - I'm 50% regret most days) is that Chloe couldn't be there with us because of work.

I'd like to introduce you to my new blended family....

I've gained a husband, a daughter, a son-in-law and a son. The wedding was simple and casual and we had a small group of friends and family there to share in our happiness and cupcakes.

Mathman, ever the wonderful friend and man he is, sent a text of congratulations and good wishes the morning of the wedding.

My cup totally runneth over.

Wedding day selfie.

Cupcake Cleans Up

Once upon a time....

And now....

Junior Prom 2016

Yeah, I'm still trying to wrap my head around this. It's not like I haven't already watched two children grow up and move out. It's just - - - I don't know. Even though I'm no longer there, Sophie's age seems to define the end of some era. She has one year left of high school. One year.

And in case you're wondering, she still texts me that she's dying from some thing or other and should probably leave school so as not to traumatize her peers. So much for our family has changed, so it's weirdly nice to know that some things probably never will. 

Paybacks are coming though. One day I'll be the one texting her from the home they stick me in. "Come get me. Pleeeeeeaaaaase!"

On appropriate attire

What is it about this month?

Death.

A childhood friend's mother. David Bowie. Alan Rickman. And now Glenn Frey.

Recently my parents and I had a conversation about death and how people my age are handling the deaths of their parents and how social media seems to be creating a place for grief that didn't exist before.

That conversation was in the abstract. I've watched my friends and cousins losing their parents from the safe distance of knowing that I can scoot down the road and visit my parents who are comfortably and relatively healthily watching TV at home or out on the town.

But I also know my time is coming. Their time is coming. They're pretty clear about expectations.

We're old.
We're going to die.
We're not happy about it, but there it is.
You're going to have to deal with our deaths.

Less abstract, my mother has instructed my father that if she dies in her sleep, he is to change her out of the ratty old t shirt she sleeps in and put her into something decent before calling the EMTs.

Priorities.

Daily Journal #6 - Not so daily after all

January 11, 2016

Recently I listened to the novel Brooklyn by Colm Toibin. I selected it because it was on one of those lists of books you should read before you see the movie. Not that I'll actually ever see the movie unless I stumble across it on Netflix a couple of years from now, but I thought I'd give the novel a try. It's a small break from the cozy mystery vortex I've recently inhabited.

I wasn't crazy about the book at first. It wasn't awful. The dialog (usually a deal breaker for me) was fine. The characters were well-sketched. It wasn't full of action, rather a telling of a life. A part of a life. I think it's what people might call a quiet story.

Told from the perspective of Eilis, the main character, the writing was straightforward and almost mundane. Was it lacking detail? I couldn't put my finger on it. Eilis seemed a little hard to get to know. She only told you the bare minimum about herself and there seemed to be a paucity in the sharing of her emotions. Sometimes I wanted to cheer her for her ability to hold it together and other times I wanted to throttle her for her naivete. True to most of my own life, she was a little late to understand things. By the time she had a full grasp, the consequences had already engulfed her.

As you have probably figured out, Eilis maybe bothered me most because I was seeing myself. I suppose that's a common reaction to many stories, but this one, in particular, struck me as Eilis went back to Ireland after having established a life in Brooklyn. When she returned to her home, she experienced the same feelings I have every time I visited my parents' home after I left for college. That feeling of being a guest in your own home. It's also the feeling I get now when I visit the kids in Georgia and stay with MathMan and Sophie.

I starting writing this from the spare bedroom of my former home. I was there visiting. We celebrated Sophie's birthday on the 7th. It was wonderful and loud and crazy and fun and sad to spend time with Nathan, Sophie, Nathan's girlfriend Kade and Doug. I couldn't help wishing that Chloe had been there, too.

But visiting there is hard. I AM a guest in my old home.  A new dynamic fills the house as it is just Doug and Sophie's home now. Three of us - Chloe, Nathan and I can only be guests there. When I am not there, I don't have to think about that reality. I prefer not thinking about it.

It takes me a day or two to adjust to the feelings of weirdness. I have to check myself. I can no longer act like a human bulldozer, cleaning and commanding while everyone rolls their eyes behind my back. I'm the person who gets to have things done for them as if by magic. I'm not entirely comfortable in this role even if it is kind of nice to get what you wish for once in a while.

By the time I've adjusted, I'm contradicting myself by feeling an itch to head home and be in my own space. Domestic Queen of my domain. I tell myself each visit that the next time I come, I will get a hotel room or insist that Sophie visit me in Indiana instead. It's not that the visits are unpleasant. It's just - - - - it forces me to take a good look at what I left behind and how our family has changed. While necessary to own the situation since I was very much the engineer of those changes, I think it's unhealthy to revisit my old life every couple of months. I never get beyond the guilt and regret before the reset happens.

But back to the novel. The thing I am most struck by now is how Toibin unravels the story in a way that's natural. Most of us aren't information dumps of self-knowledge. Hell, most of us struggle with self-awareness. Eilis doesn't spend large amounts of time puzzling over her own behavior. She's more interested in observing the actions of others and only occasionally assigning intent. It's only in short bursts of enlightenment that Eilis identifies some profound trait or value held by herself or another character that gives her some clue as to what may be not morally right or wrong, but right for her or the other character.

After a while, Eilis began to feel at home again in Ireland and began to question her life in Brooklyn. From Ireland, the time she'd spent in Brooklyn seemed like a dream. The life she'd had - school, work in a shop, her rooming house, the man she'd fallen in love with - it didn't seem real anymore.

And I can see how this happens, too. Having straddled two lives since 2013, I recognize the opposing tugs of the familiar and the unknown, sometimes being unable to know the difference between the two.

Grow

2007

I had to visit my past to prepare for my future. Call it what you will - closure, curiosity. I needed to visit that place one last time.

It had been six incredibly long and impossibly short years. Almost to the day.

When I dream of places from my real, not imagined, past, I am often standing in the garden of 451 John Kay Road.

Sophie and I drove by our former home on Sunday. It stands empty. Again. Three families. Three foreclosures. Is the house cursed?

We peeked in the windows. They painted over the soft green walls. Tan. Not bad, but not green. Our green. The Frank Lloyd Wright inspired light fixtures were gone. I knew we should have stripped the place inside and out when we left in 2009.

2015

We explored the yard. It seemed smaller, encased in more fencing than was there when we lived here. Funny, too, how not pushing a mower can shrink a yard.

Here is what we learned - we left our mark on the place.

I stood where our garden had been. It had been lush, abundant, verdant. Then overgrown and drying out. Ever changing.

"I dream of standing in this spot."

The only thing that remains of the vegetable and herb garden is a bedraggled rosemary bush. It retains some of its green, holding firm at the edge of the slope.

2007

"This," it says, "is where the herb garden mingled with phlox and roses, rescued holllyhocks, and Johnny jump ups. Where turf wars between basil, tarragon, sage and thyme raged under the blazing sun. This is where the zinnias encroached. Unstoppable. Here were the boulders brought up the hill by wagon as you pulled and reluctant children pushed. There. Oh, right there, was a glorious clematis climbing its trellis toward the vast, blue sky. Reaching for nothing but show."

Next to the house was a dry creek. I'd gathered hundreds of small stones from the field in front of our house and created the bed. I planted foliage. Anchored by a butterfly bush there were sedum and grasses. Liriope. Lambs ears. Hostas, a bleeding heart and columbine. Ivy to spread out under the back deck. I'd attempted one small, spreading evergreen.

Unchecked, that small evergreen became a monster threatening to overshadow the entire side of the house, everything else struggling to grow in its shadow and most things now long gone.

2015

Variegated privets, planted because I thought they were pretty and because I could afford them, had grown massive and now stand sentry next to the driveway. Others crowded out the neighboring ferns, heuchera and hostas and now obscure the kitchen's bay window. Still more privets (they were on sale), planted in the former, fruitful compost heap (the best watermelon and cantaloupes I ever tasted grew directly from it) sucked up those nutrients and tower over what was once the outermost edge of the vegetable garden.

"I wonder if any of the self-sewing zinnias ever make an appearance?"

The apple and peach trees are gone. Who would do that?

The wisteria that I'd been warned against planting seeks revenge, pulling at the back deck. The railroad ties, once the perch for pots drifting riotous color, now suffer the indignity of supporting a makeshift deck at the bottom of the stairs, gray paint peeling and forlorn.

I stood where the garden once spread across the ground.

"I dream of this spot. I stand here and look toward the house."

This is now.

For a moment they are there. In the kitchen. I can see them through the bay window. Three children watching the small TV mounted up on the wall and munching some snack they put together without my help.

A swallow swooshes by and I look away.

When I look back the vision is gone. The house is a blank slate again. Another family will come. More lives will be lived here. But not our lives. Our lives have shifted and fractured and we have scattered. We are scattering. Life is change and we are changing. This change is good and we each welcome and fear it.

I snap off a bit of the rosemary bush and carry it away with me.

Damp Violets

That day started out like any other in my recently turbulent existence. I was back in Indiana for job interviews, working from the apartment and had hit pause for breakfast. The scent of sauteed mushrooms lingered as I forked the first bite of omelet into my mouth.

A text notification broke the silence. "Can you check on Kay? She didn't show up for work."

Kay is my neighbor. She's also The Electrician's aunt. The text was from her twin sister.

Sometimes you just know. Call it what you want - premonition, a sense, foreboding. I just knew. It made sense based on all the things you read, hear, see. Patterns mean something.

I knew.

I knew as I strode through the yard still damp with dew. I knew as I dragged the emptied trashcan up the driveway toward the silent house, I knew as I introduced myself to her friend who had been asked to check on Kay by another of the sisters.

Our banging on the doors and windows went unanswered. A phone rang inside. Over and over. Kay's friend called the landlord and got his voice mail, asked him to come by with the key. We knew.

We did what we had to do. We found a way in.

I climbed through the window and my first impression was that the room was empty. My sense of relief was overcome by reality as I stood up straight and looked over at the bed.

I knew.

Kay's friend knew.

Even though we knew before we saw, it was not enough to blunt the shock. Kay's friend wailed. I went numb. My hands shook as I dialed 911. It was the easiest call I'd make all day.

*************

The Electrician comes from a large, close-knit family. Even with blending, there's still a sense of belonging that comes with the connection. They take you in, almost absorb you. There are distinctions made. Favored, not favored, most favored. I've known these people most of my life. They know my family. It's a small place where we come from.

Grandma's farm became the hub of activity. Family converged, some flying in to be there. Arrangements were made, food arrived, like magic, at the farmhouse.

A mother cat and her baby boy appeared, mama cat hiding, her boy winding among the feet and legs to -ing and fro-ing from house to car, car to house.  He was undaunted by the activity.

*****************

The services were held, memories shared, meals eaten. We even attended church. Took up two entire pews in that country house of worship. It was both expected and appreciated. The minister mentioned during Kay's funeral - how happy it made Grandma to have us all there.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd been to church. I'd been living as an agnostic Jew since 1988. I whispered to The Electrician, "What should I do about communion?"

"Have you been baptized?"

"Yes."

"Then take it. That's what I'm going to do." Like me, he doesn't believe, doesn't know how to believe.

We shrugged at each other when it was over. We didn't choke. The church didn't come crashing down around us. There were no flames. My agnosticism was reinforced.

We were there for Grandma, I told my own astonished parents later. It was about family, community. We were there for The Electrician's father and his sisters, siblings now minus one. Grandma was doing the unthinkable.

**************

Mama cat died last week. Her little guy was still hanging around Grandma's house but she was afraid he'd get hit by a car. The Electrician, not a fan of cats, worried about what would happen when it gets cold. I mentioned how interesting it was that the cats showed up just after Kay died.

While he smirked at me, I could see the glimmer of what if on his face.

I'm not saying the cat is Kay, I explained. It's just that sometime animals appear at the right time. Are you sure Grandma doesn't need this cat right now?

"You don't know Grandma if you think she'd ever take an animal into the house. "

I nodded.

The Electrician knows I struggle with being alone so much. I went from a life bursting with people and things that needed to be done to the very stillness of this apartment. And he knows it's only going to get worse as he looks at new jobs on the road, even further from home and for longer periods of time.

Like the quiet of my life weighs on me, my loneliness weighs on him.

****************

I've learned a thing or two about non-cat lovers.  1. Let them name the cat and 2. Conversion is possible.

Meet Sonny Crockett, named by the man who wore a Miami Vice jacket for his senior picture.

Them what made me

Spotted in their home away from home.

I am a casino orphan.

Allow me to explain.

One of the reasons I moved back to Indiana was so that I could be near my parents who are, like the rest of us, getting on in years. To make good on my scheme to make their entire lives uncomfortable (just ask them), I am compelled to check in with them at least once a week to say hi and see what's in the refrigerator.  Here's what that looks like...

I pull into their driveway in my disaster on 4 wheels and assess the situation.  The closed garage door should be my first clue that they might not be at home, but I'm an optimist.

Press nose against the back door to see if Mom and Dad are sitting in their designated chairs. Seeing no signs of life, ring bell just for good measure. Press nose against the window again. Note that the lamp next to Mom's chair isn't on.

Good thing I know where to go next.

Drive the 1.4 minutes to the riverfront casino where my parents are part of a gang of hopeful hangabouts who wait for their names to be called so they can win something. Anything.  For the love of all things good and holy, let them win!

I park in the middle of nowhere because I don't want anyone to see me getting out of that wreck of a car and make the long schlep toward one of the grimmest places in the tri-state area for anyone under the age of 50.

After a visual sweep of the pavilion and sensing no parental vibes, I make my way onto the tethered riverboat through a wide, enclosed gangplank that reeks of what can best be described as Malboro Kotex.  Whoever thought you could mask cigarette funk with the flowery, powdery scent of a deodorant maxi pad is wrong. Dead wrong.

Once on board,  I head straight for the slots.  I know my parents. They like their pain a penny at a time.

I weave through the machines careful not to be distracted by the lights and dings and cha-chinging surrounding me. I glance at each person facing a machine, staring intently as the vision before them changes from an offering of  hope to a sad reality.  Another penny, quarter, dollar, fiver gone.

At that time of day, it's clear that at 48, I am bringing down the average age on board that boat by a couple of decades. I try to ignore the obvious - my hair color matches that of the oldest patrons inserting their gaming cards with quivering hands and willing the machines to do them a solid.

I forget that I should look first in the non-smoking area so I end up touring the entire facility with a visit into the games room just for good measure. Despite the cigarette smoke I've inhaled, I consider this time well-spent healthwise.  Steps taken, calories burned.

This method of parent tracking is hit or miss. Sometimes I find them later in the pavilion, tucked into a corner, strategically situated so they can watch the Reds game on the wall-mounted television, monitor the screen showing the names of the most recent prizewinners, listen to the music provided by some duo with a guitar and keyboard, and, most importantly, keep a sharp eye on the ebb and flow of the casino's patrons.  While it's true that the place has the feel of a disco nursing home, it's great for people watching.

Sometimes I never do find my parents, but am instead rewarded with chance encounters with various people from my past.  My first and sixth grade teacher.  The mother of the first boy I kissed. Another woman to whom I introduced myself, hand extended like a goon, only to discover that I once babysat for her boys while she attended a homemakers' club meeting with my mom.

Have I mentioned it's a little odd to come back here after being gone so long?

So this is new for me, the fact that my parents just hang out.  The fact that they hang out together is even more confounding.  As a kid, I thought they did so little together what with both of them working, my dad often on swing shifts at the factory, Mom working, but also volunteering and herding us from place to place. Who knew they might actually find contentment in one another's company? Contentment being open to interpretation, of course.

Yesterday I found them after clocking a few laps around the casino and took a seat at their little table in the corner. It was then that I discovered a few things:

1.  My dad makes up nicknames for everyone and doesn't seem to note the least bit of irony about dubbing someone else "Big Belly."

2.  My mother categorizes me as a cat person.  Imagine that.  When she introduced me to one of her friends, she mentioned that we had "that" in common.

3.  I'm really lucky to have this time to spend with my parents while we're all adults (mostly).  I know many people who never got that chance with their parents.

4. If the guy in the motorized wheelchair is wearing a Harley t-shirt and has a gleam in his eye, just do yourself a favor and step aside.

It won't be long now before those reparations are a reality

May 2009

That was then.

 This is now.

The President, Faculty, and Board of Trustees Of Brenau University announce that Chloe Francesca Pamela is a candidate for the degree of Bachelor of Arts in Liberal Arts during the Graduation Exercises Friday, May third, Two Thousand Thirteen At Four-thirty in the afternoon at Brenau University Front Lawn Gainesville, Georgia.

Congratulations, Chloe, on this achievement. It looks like next fall she'll be heading up to the University of New Hampshire to attend their School of Law. I'm so proud I can barely stand myself. And I may just say phew! One down. Two to go.

A Cat's entitled to expect, These evidences of respect

England has Maggie Smith. We had Daisy.

Rescued from the Chicago Humane Society in July of 1998, after Chloe had begged endlessly for a cat, she became part of our family and moved with us from Illinois to Georgia in 2003. 

Even so, she never lost her Chicago accent.

She endured the addition of a baby in 1999 and a parade of interloper cats, but she never lost her sense of feline entitlement, her, pardon my French, top-doggedness. 

She was the Gateway Cat, after all.

As President for Life of the Pussies for Peace, Daisy led the charge against the war in Iraq before dissing that war was cool. She always said she didn't want people to die for a lie, even though she didn't hold silly humans in high regard.

Writing under the pseudonym Maureen Dowd, she offered her unique take on current events and occasionally provided the catlike voice overs for several cartoons. Uncredited, of course. Because she was all about the art. 

Sophie, that brave, strong girl, was home alone with her when Daisy took her last breath. She called each of us to let us know that the Q was gone.

I thought it fitting that Daisy died on Edward Gorey's birthday because I can't think of his art without thinking of cats.

To Daisy, we raise a glass, or dip our paws in it.

To Daisy - 

Who liked the children best when they were sleeping, and....

Who never let us forget who was in charge.

Daisy Q. 1998 - 2013

Rest in peace, Daisy. We were better having known you, at least according to you.

(Title is a line from T.S. Eliot's The Ad-dressing of Cats)

Growth

My husband stopped sugarcoating his thoughts as they transformed into words. The problem is, he forget to tell me.

Last week, I drove along performing a soliloquy about how I didn't feel like writing because I don't write the way I once did. The honesty for which I was once praised, has gone from my writing. It's a common problem among people who draw material from their lives.

I hold back, worried about my job, our family. My relatives on Facebook. The cats. If I wrote the way I once did, who or what could be hurt? I'm hesitant to write about the kids because now that they're getting older, telling their stories seems like more of a violation of their privacy.

MathMan messed with his phone while I erected my tower of excuses and then, with a single sentence,  brought that tower of bullshit down.

So what you're telling me is that you've grown a conscience.

Ouch. Wow.

I processed that for a moment. (Process isn't a word I use all that much because I'm more react than reflect.) It felt like a blow. A physical blow.

And before I could stop them, tears fell.

That may be the meanest thing you've ever said to me.

A bit of perspective - if you stack that statement up next to all the mean things I've said to MathMan over the last twenty-five years, it's nothing. If you were to create a pie chart of ugly comments exchanged between the two of us, his statement wouldn't even make a big enough sliver to require a fork.

But when you stack it up against all the mean things he's ever actually said aloud to me? It doesn't leave much room in the pie for anything else.

He apologized. I didn't mean it that way. I just meant -----

Don't apologize. It's true. We both know it's true.

Sniff!

This marked the first time he'd ever mentioned that he thought my writing about the family and our relationship was out of line. I chewed over that revelation for the rest of the drive.

What? You didn't think I was going to quit the GIFs so soon, did you?

Far be for me to let go an opportunity to milk a good line. This martyr is all over it. A week later and I still haven't let it go.

Damn it, some cat puked on my conscience.

One sec, let me set my conscience aside so I can help you.

Do these earrings go with this conscience?

Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to grow a conscience?

I don't know if I can go. I have to wash my conscience that night.

Does this conscience make my butt look bigger?

You're standing on my conscience!

Now where did I leave my conscience?

Step aside! Lady with a conscience!

So what do you suppose is the standard gestational period for a conscience?

I may have been late to the conscience party, but don't let me slow you down.

A few more days of this and I'll reel it in. There's no point to taking that joke too far.

Of one thing you can be certain. If he doesn't kill me for being such an unconscionable bore and I do decide to write again, I won't be telling MathMan my pen name.

By years, by inches

Euharlee, Georgia
January 7, 2013
4:44 p.m.

Dear Sophia,

So now you are fourteen. As you reminded me this morning, this time next year you will be pestering Daddy and me to take you to the Department of Motor Vehicles to apply for your learner's permit. But before we plunge into the future, please give me a minute to savor the past. Your past. My past as your mother.

When you were little - oh, three and four years old - I called you boots because you wore nothing but dresses and tights and cowgirl boots. I wasn 't working outside the home so we spent so much time together. You called them our Mommy/Sophie days.

I can still see you sitting at the dining room table in the tiny house in Illinois, eating chicken soup with rice. You insisted on it nearly every day because you loved the Maurice Sendak book. When  you finished, you jumped up and raced around the house singing "hoot hoot zoo pals" and laughing until you were ready for a nap. Or, more truthfully, when I was ready for you to nap.

Back then, we spent an extraordinary amount of time in our minivan where we listened to Jan Brett's The Owl and the Pussycat, rewinding over and over when the piggy says "I will" over and over because it made you laugh. And that made me laugh.

And then when I wasn't looking because I was distracted by cleaning or gardening or running away from home or working or, ahem, blogging, you grew up and up and up until you were taller than me.

And now you're this person who asks tough questions and who makes me think about what it means to be creative and how it feels to find your place in the world. You are witty and draining and manipulative and gentle. Emotionally, you are far more demanding than your siblings. Chloe has a much larger personal bubble and Nathan is a guy. I should neither oversimplify nor compare the three of you, but there is the truth unvarnished and impossible to ignore.

The older you get, the more I go back to my memories of you as a little girl so that I can hold on while you move away to become your own person, independent and confident, intelligent, creative and beautiful.

Recently, we were working together in the kitchen.

"Remember how I used to have to stand on a chair to reach the counter?" You asked.

I remember.

Happy birthday, Sophia.

Love,

Mom

Holidoze

Hanukkah came "early" this year. Too early for us to prepare.  Late nights and early mornings. Swim practice and meets. Sports conditioning. Academic finals for students and teachers. Coughs and colds and trips to the doctor to avoid the truancy fine. Make up homework. Long commutes in short daylight hours. No time means no latkes, no matzo ball soup, no geldt.

The Menorah, relegated to decorative status, held up two Christmas stockings. Accusing.

Chastened, we offered our oldest to the Holy Land and tracked her progress via social media. She sent the occasional text to stem the tide of maternal worry. I was a stone's throw from Gaza and survived. I was not amused by the stone's throw comment.

I developed an affinity for Grumpy Cat thanks to my bossfriend.

In the middle of the holiday ramp up, perfectly centered in the parties and decorating, the world went red and thus began the rage at the machine gun. We've become  a horrible caricature of ourselves. Social media has enabled us to put a megaphone to the microphone. Deafening.

I retreated a little, seeking refuge in inappropriate, but mostly private humor.

Short of gift ideas for the children, I made tasteless jokes about purchasing guns, ammo and whiskey to protect them from lurking danger. If adding more danger to dangerous situations is the answer, then I'm all for providing them with the means to protect themselves. Give them STDs or give them death! Don't tread on their need to text and drive! Bike helmets are a slippery slope, I tell you what.

Or to misquote one of my favorite movies Brighton Beach Memoirs "If Wayne LaPierre taught logic in school, this would be one fucked up and heavily-armed world."

Not that it isn't already.

Christmas was a simple affair. Small, practical gifts for Nathan and Sophie. Chloe's absence felt a foregone conclusion. One day our family would likely scatter, too. We ate. Fudge, chocolate kisses and stars, clementines, cinnamon rolls, Chinese takeout.

Turns out the best gift of all really can't be purchased at a Walmart, ordered on Amazon, wrapped in a big red ribbon in the driveway or exchanged for store credit. It can't be loaded with ammo, requires no batteries,  isn't made by slave labor in Asia and doesn't take up space in the basement when the novelty wears off.

Time.

A long break from the routine. Several days off from work. Days to spend doing whatever I want, some of what needs to be done. Scads of uninterrupted time with the family, enough to understand the true meaning of the holidays phrase "Proximity breeds hostility."

Enough to realize that each comes by their quirks and diagnoses honestly. Have I ever mentioned how my husband eats his meals in sequence, finishing one item on his plate before moving on to the next? All the broccoli must be eaten before he takes a bite of chicken.

I've made my contribution, as well. Too bad none of the children inherited my need for order, instead opting for anger management issues and anxiety.

Thankfully, we have something that brings us together. Something upon which we can agree. Dr. Who. A Christmas Story. Harmony, a sweet interlude between revoking driving privileges and explaining again why dishes must be unearthed from bedrooms and delivered to the kitchen.

And the only thing I required besides my reading glasses, a burrowing deep into the covers. Read, sleep, consider writing, consider cocktails. Reject both. Netflix, Acorn TV. Eat more chocolate. Promises to myself that after this long winter's nap, I'll take this store of energy and do something with it.

A Squatch by Any Other Name

Early in our life together, MathMan wasn't so comfortable saying the word vagina. True, it wasn't something I dropped into casual conversation either. Thinking back, vagina didn't come up that much. What was there to say really? Besides, we're creatures of our time and culture. Those days were different.

Back in the modest 1990s, the media, when met with the need to report on sexual matters, took the careful route. Anchors referred delicately to Monica Lewinsky's stained dress and made oblique references to cigars.

Oh and remember when the nation got all oogey about references to Clarence Thomas's artistic placement of a pubic hair on a Coke can?

Different times.

It's quite easy to see why MathMan felt compelled to invent his own word.

What's questionable perhaps is the word he invented.

The word, the origins of which remain a mystery to all but the most distinguished etymologists, is squatch. It's a weird word that has caused me to wonder on more than one occasion what in the hell must be wrong with my vagina to have inspired it.

Stop being such a narcissist, I tell myself. MathMan has seen more than one vagina. Maybe this word - squatch - is an homage to some other vagina.

Lord I hope so. I mean squatch? Is that an onomatopoeia? Or commentary on one's need to deforest?

Having daughters increased, if only slightly, the need to use the V word. I distinctly remember one such occasion when one daughter, at the age of three, lay on the floor after a bath. Her hands wandered and she proclaimed "Hey, there's a hole in me!"

My first opportunity to teach her the proper word and what did I do? I told her that was her squatch. I may have also mumbled vagina, but it got lost as she tried the word on for size. Squatch? My squatch? My squatch!

The word stuck. Became a part of our family's lexicon forever and ever.

Today American society appears less twitchy about certain words. Now it's all vaginal probe this and erectile dysfunction that. Ashley Madison, a website used by people seeking to have "discreet affairs," advertises on the radio and has its own jingle about sleeping around to "save one's sanity."

Different times.

Now even The Goldens have become more comfortable discussing vaginas and penises and the like. Put a little vodka in me and you're likely to hear me imitate my high school sex ed teacher with the lateral lisp saying vas deferens.

And yet we revert back to that word. Cling to it. Yes, we're all growing up, but we still say squatch.

Which explains why this show strikes us as so damn funny.

 

Adventures in Real Parenting: What comes around

When I was a teenager, I was full of ideas about what my life would be like. My mother would glance up from her novel and listen as I laid out my plans for a beautiful life unmarred by children or husbands or society's silly, oppressive rules.

A perfect apartment in a city wonderland. All white furniture, white carpet. No clutter. No avocado appliances. And for the love of god, no Early American decor.

As I got a older my plans shifted to include a husband with a great job. Travel. Fabulous careers. Eventually plans for children - two, perfect in every way - sneaked in. By the time my first college boyfriend and I had secretly moved in together, we'd already picked out names for our future children - a boy and a girl.

Naturally, I became a pre-child, child-rearing expert and I took a sick pleasure in listing how I would be a different kind of parent. I'd never spank, yell at or nag my children. Furthermore, my life would be so much better, so much more organized and enviable.  My house would always be clean, my emotions in check and my attention unwavering.

Most of the time, my mother's response to my prattling on remained unchanged. She gave a little smirk, a chuckle perhaps, a slight shake of her head. She wasn't taking the bait.

But every once in while, she couldn't help herself. Uh huh, she'd say. We'll see how that turns out. Later, I imagine, when she was alone with my father, she said something like "That Lisa is a piece of of work....."

Now the smirk is on the other face.

Sophie has suddenly started talking about her fabulous future. Her family is going to have traditional holidays. They're going to dress in matching outfits and take photos for holiday cards. Big dinners. Vacations. Game night. Okay, I made that last one up, but it's only a matter of time before she says that.

Like I was a mildly OCD sufferer bucking against my mother's laissez-faire attitude toward housekeeping, Sophie plans to rebel against the way we've moved away from family and let go of so many of our traditions. You practically have to hold a gun to one of the cats heads to get me to decorate for Hannukah/Christmas. The decorating and the extra activities - they become just another thing I have to do. Funnily enough, my invitation to the other family members to go crazy with the tinsel never spurs them to elvish activities.

So I don't blame Sophie for feeling the way she does.I understand it. So as she lays out her Five Point Plan for a beautiful life, I make an effort to be attentive and supportive. If I feel my eyes about to roll, I look away. A sigh about to escape my lips is swallowed.

I look around my rented, uncluttered split-level with the falling apart dark, faux leather sofa, the stained carpet and the colorful, framed travel posters (I haven't been to any of those places) on the edge of a tiny, rural Georgia village, that I share with my husband of twenty-four years, three kids and four cats and try not to laugh.

Midnight blue

My sister said midnight blue and I didn't know what that meant. There was blue. Dark blue and light, like the sky. What shade was midnight blue?

Like our car.

The Ford Galaxie 500. Running my finger over the pattern pressed into the back of the seat, that No Man's Land between me and my sister. Clicking my fingernail over the ridges in the clear plastic knob you used to roll down the window. I always sat behind Dad, Denise behind Mom. Baby David sat in between them on the front bench seat. He would turn around and look at us and we responded as if he'd committed a crime against humanity.

Mom! Make him stop!

Do you remember the sound when the windows were rolled up, but the wings were open?

I threw up once on the floor of that car. Was it car sickness? Something else? I can't remember, but I do remember that my father wasn't happy. A stickler about his vehicles, the last thing he wanted was a car that reeked of sick. I cried and then he felt bad.

When I overreact to my children, I see my father in me.

The Summer of '69.

That Ford took us to movies at the Starlite Drive-In on Highway 50. The speaker hooked over the window rolled to half-mast. The sound of ice cubes rattling in fluorescent plastic tumblers because we brought our own drinks. Pepsi and Big Red and Dad's Root Beer. David climbed up into the back window and fell asleep.

To keep the dust down, the gravel was oiled. The smells of petroleum and popcorn, french fries and sickly sweet snow cones hung in the air as we watched the movies and the people coming and going from the cinder block concession stand, an oasis of light and treats in the middle of the parking lot. The teenagers were of particular interest to me.

We sat in the car at the Big Boy under the awning and ate our cheeseburgers with tartar sauce and drank cherry cokes. I preferred the squishy crinkle fries. The carhops weren't on rollerskates, but I was fascinated by the silver coin dispensers they wore at their waists.

I don't know why my parents sold this car, but I know that my father is sorry that he did. The last he heard, the person he'd sold it to resold it to someone in Michigan, which is, I suppose, somehow fitting.

Your turn. What is the first car you remember?

Take a good look around

The trip to Cincinnati was more than a business trip, more than meetings. It was a quick trip to the past, a visit to my childhood. A return, but with the knowledge I have today. Which, when you're playing penny slots, isn't much.

During the meeting, we stayed at the Hilton Netherland Plaza, a Depression era hotel that has been restored to its original opulence. I loved it, not only for its French Art Deco design, but for the history, the sense of stepping back in time. Until you realized you had to Instagram the shit out of the place.

Which hardly does the place justice, I know.

Then I posted this photo and what I'd been thinking and what my colleagues had been thinking was confirmed by tweets.

What? No twins?

The room corridors are reminiscent of The Overlook Hotel. At fourteen, I saw The Shining at least twice in movie theaters in the Cincinnati area. I loved it for its psychological thrill. I'd enjoyed a steady diet of slasher films, but this movie frightened me in a much deeper way.

One evening, my boss, another coworker and I skipped the optional group activity, had pizza in my room  and watched The Shining. It didn't frighten me like it used to - that exciting, fun kind of scared, but I confess - when I went to bed, I conveniently forgot to turn off the closet light.

The Netherland has its own ghost story. A woman in a green ball gown appears in the elevators, the guest room corridors and The Hall of Mirrors. Many of us joked about hoping to see her.

One afternoon I stepped onto the empty elevator and pushed the button to my floor. 28. At the mezzanine level the elevator stopped and a man from another large group meeting at the hotel got on. He smiled a hello as he fumbled with his tote bag of meeting goodies and pushed number 23.

On the seventh floor, the elevator stopped. The doors opened, but no one got on. Both the man and I leaned forward and craned our necks to see if we should hold the door for someone. There wasn't anyone there. The doors slid closed.

I could feel the man glance at me. Once, twice.

"Do you think she's on here with us?" I asked him.

He laughed. "I wondered that, too."

We both looked around at the gleaming wood, the Art Deco details. There was no green ball gown, no rush of cold air one might expect during a ghostly encounter.

We chatted about how pretty the hotel was as the floors ticked off. At floor twenty-three, he gave me a wink and said "Maybe she'll show herself on your way up to twenty-eight."

I laughed as the door closed behind him. Alone, I gave a shiver and pressed my back against the paneled wall. If the ghost was going to appear, I didn't want to be taken by surprise. I was in serious need of a pee as it was.

I never did see the ghost, but I did get to relive another part of my youth. Our group went to the Great American Ballpark to watch the Reds play the Mets. It was a great game with far better seats than I ever had in Riverfront Stadium back when the Cincinnati Enquirer gave free tickets to straight A students. We had a gorgeous night for it and the Reds were in fine form.

After the meeting, my brother collected me and deposited me at my parents' house in Rising Sun where there was homemade ice cream and Texas sheet cake waiting.

For a day and half, I wasn't a wife or a mother. I was simply a daughter again.

Before my brother arrived at the hotel, I mentioned to my colleagues that I was a little worried that the time would drag. My parents and I don't see each other very often. We don't have much in common. They don't have internet service. How would I survive?

My boss said that her parents were coming for a two week stay one day after she returned home from this trip. My coworker noted that she only wished her parents were still around to visit.

Ah. Perspective.

After the traditional family meal at the Big Boy, where my brother, sister and I reminisced over cherry cokes about eating there when it was a drive-in with carhops, I returned home with my parents. Now what would we do? I was stuck there - no car, no internet. I looked at my phone longingly.

Dad turned on the Reds game and I asked Mother if I could look through some of her boxes of photos.

The rest of the time flew.

We drove around town so I could see what had changed. And what had not.

Over coffee and donuts, they told me about their adventures with private health insurance and doctors visits. Without a lick of irony, Moter mentioned I should really take better care of myself. And I know she's right.

She helped me identify people in old family photos. It's become a project of mine to know these people ever since we accidentally got the Ancestry.com account.

My father called me Liza Jane, his pet name for me. He helped me find some photos of our former family cars. I've had an obsession with them since going to some car shows this summer.

I dragged them to the library to use the wi-fi to show them all the cool things I'd found on Ancestry.com. There they were - listed on the 1940 census. Their parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, some going all the way back to the 1850 census.

In retaliation, they dragged me to the casino on the riverfront.

My mother and I split a twenty on slots. I played for pennies and she suggested I'd become quite the skinflint. I remembered the story my friend told me about watching a guy over the security cameras. The guy masturbated and ejaculated onto one of the machines.

"It's your turn," my mother said.

"No, that's okay. You go ahead."

When the twenty was gone, we retired to the pub to watch baseball and wait for the Friday night drawings for cash prizes. I tried not to dwell on the fact that the casino was one of the most depressing places I've been in years. And that's coming from me, who for the last two years spent at least one day a month at the Department of Labor with all the other unemployed and desperate.

I ordered a beer. My parents drank water. We ate baked potatoes and watched the Reds game on the big screen overhead. A duo played music on a keyboard and guitar. People came and went. My parents knew many of them. My former gym teacher and her husband, once the high school basketball coach and sports director, took a seat in a booth near us. I wouldn't have recognized Mr. W. if his wife hadn't been with him.

It's hard to see these once lively and physically fit people aging. I ordered another beer. My mother wondered aloud if I might have a drinking problem.

I offered the teetotalers a taste of the Blue Moon beer. It took some wheedling. When I finally threatened to hold my breath until my face turned blue, they tried it. Dad didn't hate it. Mother pulled a face and said it tasted like vinegar. This coming from people who willingly drank Fresca.

Or maybe they were clever - they knew their children wouldn't drink it. Not even on a dare.

"Some Baptist you are," I crowed to my mother. "Gambling and drinking!"

"If I weren't so arthritic, I'd be dancing, too," she shot back.

Without elaborating, I mentioned that when she comes to the casino, she should bring hand sanitizer in her purse.

At 10 p.m. sharp, we headed back to their house where I took as many photos of their family photos as I could before I finally tumped over, tired and happy to have had a chance to hang out with my mom and dad. It didn't matter what we did, it was just nice to be there.

Besides, coming from these party animals, what could I expect?