As far as I can remember, we only celebrated Christmas once in the house on Euclid Avenue, but as Christmases go, it was a doozy. I was six years old and I got the greatest tricycle anybody could ever ask for. It was tall, it was bright green, and it was loaded. The handlebars sported a basket to carry my stuff in, a horn to keep stragglers out of my way, and cool streamers to, well, look cool. Also, all of the red reflectors had covers shaped like rockets. It was my Rocketmobile and I loved it.
Mother gifted each of us with our first pair of slipper socks that year, which she thought were the greatest things since footed pajamas, and which, to the horror of her four daughters, became a tradition in our household. I still flinch when I see a pair, but that first year, the slipper socks were a treat. I just wish I could look back at the pictures of the excitement and happiness on all of our faces on that really special Christmas morning and smile, but I can't. Um...they didn't bother to take any.
And speaking of pictures, I really wish they had taken a shot or two of that cute little white house while it still stood there at the end of Euclid Avenue, because right after that fantastic Christmas, everything changed. The plans for the state of Virginia to extend and connect Euclid Avenue to the Gate City Highway meant that they were going to take our brand new little house and they were going to tear it down. I was a broken-hearted kid. I didn't care so much about the damn house, but what I did care about was my teacher. I loved her and I didn't want to leave her. Oh, and my boyfriend. I didn't want to leave him, either. My protests fell upon deaf ears, and we were summarily shuffled off to a house on the Tennessee side of town, with just the memories (and hardly any fucking pictures) of our life on Euclid Avenue to sustain us.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Euclid Avenue, Part II
I have a lot of happy memories from our family's Euclid Avenue era, but the most significant, by far, was finally getting to join my sisters on the short walk to Stonewall Jackson Elementary School. Being the youngest, I was the last to go, so that left me stuck in the house all day with Mother, which I found to be extremely dull and boring, and very lonely. Also, I was convinced that they were having the times of their lives, since my only two experiences with school had been so much fun. The first was the Maypole dance (an old, discontinued tradition) that my sister's first grade had performed the year before. Mother and I had gotten all dressed up to witness the spectacle spectacular, and it was all so festive and pretty that I couldn't wait until I was in first grade so that I, too, could hold the end of a ribbon and dance around a pole. My second school experience took place after school had closed for the summer. I can only describe it as a kind of "activity day" that was held in the cafeteria there at Stonewall Jackson. My sisters took me with them (because Mother made them, I'm sure) and we spent the entire day doing various arts and crafts projects and playing games. I had the time of my life, but I think they (whoever "they" were and I'm guessing it was the city's Parks and Rec department) only did it that one time, which was a shame because it was such a wonderful event.
But finally, it was my time to start school, and since I had colored enough pictures in my Dale Evans coloring book to last me a lifetime, and memorized every word to every song on my sister's 45's that she had expressly forbidden me to touch, it was long overdue. There was just nothing left for me at home. I needed school. And school was everything I'd hoped it would be. I loved the work, the play, the teacher, and all the kids, especially the little boy who held my hand every morning during show and tell. I truly loved it all, which is why it sucked that I happened to start school at the exact time that the school system decided to implement a "newer, more progressive" half-day schedule for all first graders. I still wonder who came up with that brilliant idea. Half of the class would come in the mornings and go home at lunchtime, the other half would come after lunch and stay until three. We never got to eat in the cafeteria (translate: no revenue for the school) which is why on the one day that my mother sent me to school early, armed with money and instructions to eat lunch with my teacher, I simply stood in the middle of the hall, paralyzed with fear. Even though she had phoned ahead to let Mrs. Bray know I was coming, and had given me explicit instructions, when I walked into that school, I FROZE. UP. SOLID. I was saved from certain death by a sixth-grader who deposited my sorry, humiliating ass into my sister's classroom, so she could deal with my catatonic state. She took me down to my first grade classroom, where my teacher was waiting for me. Mrs. Bray couldn't understand why in the world I hadn't just opened the classroom door and walked in on my own. She tried to talk to me about it while I was attempting to eat my first-ever school lunch, but both efforts were futile. I was too nervous to eat and since anxiety attacks wouldn't even be invented for another thirty years, there was no explanation for my behavior. Anyway, the new half-day schedule called for our class to switch out the morning and afternoon groups every six weeks, which ended up being as disruptive for the students as it was inconvenient for the parents, so they discontinued that progressive misstep after only one year.
But finally, it was my time to start school, and since I had colored enough pictures in my Dale Evans coloring book to last me a lifetime, and memorized every word to every song on my sister's 45's that she had expressly forbidden me to touch, it was long overdue. There was just nothing left for me at home. I needed school. And school was everything I'd hoped it would be. I loved the work, the play, the teacher, and all the kids, especially the little boy who held my hand every morning during show and tell. I truly loved it all, which is why it sucked that I happened to start school at the exact time that the school system decided to implement a "newer, more progressive" half-day schedule for all first graders. I still wonder who came up with that brilliant idea. Half of the class would come in the mornings and go home at lunchtime, the other half would come after lunch and stay until three. We never got to eat in the cafeteria (translate: no revenue for the school) which is why on the one day that my mother sent me to school early, armed with money and instructions to eat lunch with my teacher, I simply stood in the middle of the hall, paralyzed with fear. Even though she had phoned ahead to let Mrs. Bray know I was coming, and had given me explicit instructions, when I walked into that school, I FROZE. UP. SOLID. I was saved from certain death by a sixth-grader who deposited my sorry, humiliating ass into my sister's classroom, so she could deal with my catatonic state. She took me down to my first grade classroom, where my teacher was waiting for me. Mrs. Bray couldn't understand why in the world I hadn't just opened the classroom door and walked in on my own. She tried to talk to me about it while I was attempting to eat my first-ever school lunch, but both efforts were futile. I was too nervous to eat and since anxiety attacks wouldn't even be invented for another thirty years, there was no explanation for my behavior. Anyway, the new half-day schedule called for our class to switch out the morning and afternoon groups every six weeks, which ended up being as disruptive for the students as it was inconvenient for the parents, so they discontinued that progressive misstep after only one year.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Euclid Avenue, Part I
When I was five years old (several decades ago) our family of six moved into a brand new, fully-furnished model home at the end of a dead-end street, a block away from Stonewall Jackson Elementary School in Bristol, Virgina. It might have been an idyllic setting, except for a few key issues, number one being that it was actually too small for us. It was supposed to be a two bedroom house with a "walk-through". If you're familiar with those houses from the 1950's, a "walk-through" was a room (usually by the kitchen) that could be used as a den, a dining room, or in our case, a bedroom. There were doorways (two), but no doors. Thus, the name. My sister (she was six) and I shared a twin-sized bed in one corner of that room, but for the life of me, I can't remember what else was in there. All I know is that when I was lying in bed at night, I could see straight into the kitchen, which allowed me to keep tabs on everyone, and I loved that.
The furniture that came with the house was all very typical 1950's-style: blond wood, sectional sofa, Formica kitchen table. Of course, the house also had the nondescript basement with the concrete floor, (later on they would refer to those as "unfinished") which was the perfect spot to house our old furniture, as well as provide space for my teen-age sister's "loud" parties. That brings us to a second issue, which was the close proximity to our next-door neighbors, the GodAwful's, who apparently had the police department on speed-dial (rotary-wise) for any time teeny-boppers started showing up en masse. Granted, the powerful sound coming from the 45's playing on my sister's little record player in the basement could very well have violated the city's noise ordinance, but I think the GodAwful's were just looking for an excuse to ruffle our feathers. It was always right about the time the party would get going good that Bristol's finest would show up to shut it down. In which case, the GodAwful's hadn't just ruined it for the teenagers, they had ruined it for the rest of us, too. The ones who were perched on the top steps to watch and learn, were shooed off to bed when the party broke up. I'm still pissed.
Across the street from our house, there was a vast expanse of red clay dirt. I have to think that the builder's initial plan was to build another row of houses along that side of the street like the ones he built on our side, but they never materialized. So the empty lots with their giant (I was five) mounds of dirt became the neighborhood playground. It was on that hallowed ground that I learned to shoot marbles and that I first contemplated jumping off of something high enough to get hurt just to see if Jesus really would save me, like they said he would in church. Actually, Jesus may have stepped in to save somebody there one day, but it wasn't me. It was a nine year old boy who was ordered by his friend, the older GodAwful boy, to hold one end of an electrical wire while he (the god-awful idiot) did something stupid and dangerous with the other end. We had just sat down to have our usual summer fare of bologna sandwiches for lunch when we heard the loudest boom I could ever imagine. To this day, I have never heard a sound quite like it. We all jumped up and ran out the screen door to the vacant lot where the GodAwful boy was still holding onto his end of the wire, and the other boy, who was lying face down in the dirt, wasn't moving. We all thought he was dead. Luckily for him, he was wearing rubber-soled shoes, which may have saved his life; that is, unless Jesus really did intervene. All I know is, the GodAwful boy arrogantly denied any wrong-doing, which gave not only my family, but the entire neighborhood (especially the injured boy's parents) a whole new reason to hate the GodAwful's. As if we needed one.
The furniture that came with the house was all very typical 1950's-style: blond wood, sectional sofa, Formica kitchen table. Of course, the house also had the nondescript basement with the concrete floor, (later on they would refer to those as "unfinished") which was the perfect spot to house our old furniture, as well as provide space for my teen-age sister's "loud" parties. That brings us to a second issue, which was the close proximity to our next-door neighbors, the GodAwful's, who apparently had the police department on speed-dial (rotary-wise) for any time teeny-boppers started showing up en masse. Granted, the powerful sound coming from the 45's playing on my sister's little record player in the basement could very well have violated the city's noise ordinance, but I think the GodAwful's were just looking for an excuse to ruffle our feathers. It was always right about the time the party would get going good that Bristol's finest would show up to shut it down. In which case, the GodAwful's hadn't just ruined it for the teenagers, they had ruined it for the rest of us, too. The ones who were perched on the top steps to watch and learn, were shooed off to bed when the party broke up. I'm still pissed.
Across the street from our house, there was a vast expanse of red clay dirt. I have to think that the builder's initial plan was to build another row of houses along that side of the street like the ones he built on our side, but they never materialized. So the empty lots with their giant (I was five) mounds of dirt became the neighborhood playground. It was on that hallowed ground that I learned to shoot marbles and that I first contemplated jumping off of something high enough to get hurt just to see if Jesus really would save me, like they said he would in church. Actually, Jesus may have stepped in to save somebody there one day, but it wasn't me. It was a nine year old boy who was ordered by his friend, the older GodAwful boy, to hold one end of an electrical wire while he (the god-awful idiot) did something stupid and dangerous with the other end. We had just sat down to have our usual summer fare of bologna sandwiches for lunch when we heard the loudest boom I could ever imagine. To this day, I have never heard a sound quite like it. We all jumped up and ran out the screen door to the vacant lot where the GodAwful boy was still holding onto his end of the wire, and the other boy, who was lying face down in the dirt, wasn't moving. We all thought he was dead. Luckily for him, he was wearing rubber-soled shoes, which may have saved his life; that is, unless Jesus really did intervene. All I know is, the GodAwful boy arrogantly denied any wrong-doing, which gave not only my family, but the entire neighborhood (especially the injured boy's parents) a whole new reason to hate the GodAwful's. As if we needed one.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Old Dog, New Cat
Our dog, Fred, is gettin' really old, and in terms of deafness, senility, bladder control, and disposition, he's on par with an 85 year old man. The worst part is that lately he shits when the urge hits him, no matter where he happens to be standing. But apparently doggy elder care wasn't enough of a challenge for this household. We needed just a tad more to deal with, so we did what any self-respecting gluttons for punishment do....we adopted a kitten. Now, what was once home sweet home, has gotten dangerously close to becoming an insane asylum. First of all, Fred isn't at all thrilled with the pint-sized "intruder" that we call Dolly. And Dolly is more than a little intrigued by the shaggy mess that lies in the floor in the den all day snoring loudly, but never moving. She usually gives him a wide berth, except when she wants to play "the game". You know that game that kittens play - where they pretend they're in a brawl with other objects (animate or inanimate) and they skulk and crouch and pounce. Yeah, Dolly was all into playing that game with Fred, until Fred stood up just as Dolly pounced, and he barked at her. Loudly. That was, "Game over, I win, now leave me the hell alone." Since then, Dolly has given Fred even more respect. She sticks to pouncing on the end that has a tail instead of the end that has a head. Poor Fred, he just wants things to go back to the way they were before the terrorizer came on the scene. And Dolly, being the normal crazy kitty that she is, loves to tear through the house like a chicken with its head cut off. But when necessary, she knows where to go to take care of business (litter box), while Fred doesn't know where he shit last.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
A Letter To Our Doctor
Dear Doctor M_________,
You've been our family physician since that time in 1979 when I schlepped my ex-husband to the emergency room at Park West Hospital with what appeared to be a bad case of stomach flu and you were the doctor assigned to his case. You sent him home with some anti-nausea medicine and instructed him to drink plenty of fluids. Brilliant! Three days later, I called your office to report that his condition had worsened and that nothing, not the meds, not the fluids, and certainly no food, was staying down. Your nurse told me to bring him in. When we got to your office, I had to go in and tell you that he was too sick to get out of the car. One look out the door and you knew that he needed to be in the hospital, which is exactly where we took him. Turned out he had a little more than stomach flu. It was PANCREATITIS! But he was fine after a few days in the hospital, and even though you hadn't diagnosed him correctly when you first saw him in the emergency room, we forgave you and our relationship continued from there.
Several years later, while I was in your office getting treated for bronchitis, I asked you about a particular mole on my leg that I thought looked a little strange. I think my exact question was, "Do you think I should be concerned about this ugly mole, Dr. M?" And you said, "No, it looks fine to me." Not long after that I happened to be in the office of a leading Knoxville Dermaologist because PhillyTwo had suddenly developed a severe case of hives, the likes of which the Derm said he hadn't seen before. Never one to pass up an opportunity, I said, "Hey, while we're here, what do you think about this mole on my leg?" It was at that point that PhillyTwo's hives took a backseat to my MELANOMA! Now, Dr. M, I know you're not a Dermatologist, but I think an average person could have seen that there was something abnormal about that mole. I was just lucky that PhillyTwo came down with that god-awful case of hives when she did, because my Melanoma was still in a very early stage. And those hives? Well, they vanished as quickly as they appeared, which is why to this day I call PhillyTwo my guardian angel, and I call you a lot of other names.
But as they say, what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger, and you're making us all very strong, Dr. M.
As you know, Ron comes to see you several times a year for his upper respiratory illnesses. A few years ago, he had a bad reaction to one of the medications you gave him and it turned out he was allergic to CODEINE. Here's what I'm wondering, Dr. M: did you make a note of that, and if so, where? 'Cause every damn time he comes to see you, you write him a new prescription for a medication that's laced with (what else?) CODEINE! Every damn time! Luckily, Walgreen's has that info and they inevitably have to call your office back and have you change his prescription to one without the ingredient that might kill him.
PhillyTwo came to you a couple of years ago because she was suffering with a lot of anxiety. You immediately prescribed an anti-depressant, which only left her feeling tired and lethargic. Nice trade-off, Dr. M. Maybe if you had spent a little more time gathering pertinent information from the patient and not been so quick to throw her into that generic you-need-to-be-on-medication category where you put most of the anxiety-ridden people who come to see you, you might have realized she was probably just having a life-altering allergic reaction to goddamn caffeine.
In conclusion, Dr. M, through it all we have remained your loyal patients. But I may be losing my patience. May I suggest a refresher course? Some continuing education classes? Hell, read a fucking medical book. We really hate to have to go looking for another doctor, and please don't take this the wrong way, but one more bonehead mistake on your part and this relationship is over.
Love,
Philly
You've been our family physician since that time in 1979 when I schlepped my ex-husband to the emergency room at Park West Hospital with what appeared to be a bad case of stomach flu and you were the doctor assigned to his case. You sent him home with some anti-nausea medicine and instructed him to drink plenty of fluids. Brilliant! Three days later, I called your office to report that his condition had worsened and that nothing, not the meds, not the fluids, and certainly no food, was staying down. Your nurse told me to bring him in. When we got to your office, I had to go in and tell you that he was too sick to get out of the car. One look out the door and you knew that he needed to be in the hospital, which is exactly where we took him. Turned out he had a little more than stomach flu. It was PANCREATITIS! But he was fine after a few days in the hospital, and even though you hadn't diagnosed him correctly when you first saw him in the emergency room, we forgave you and our relationship continued from there.
Several years later, while I was in your office getting treated for bronchitis, I asked you about a particular mole on my leg that I thought looked a little strange. I think my exact question was, "Do you think I should be concerned about this ugly mole, Dr. M?" And you said, "No, it looks fine to me." Not long after that I happened to be in the office of a leading Knoxville Dermaologist because PhillyTwo had suddenly developed a severe case of hives, the likes of which the Derm said he hadn't seen before. Never one to pass up an opportunity, I said, "Hey, while we're here, what do you think about this mole on my leg?" It was at that point that PhillyTwo's hives took a backseat to my MELANOMA! Now, Dr. M, I know you're not a Dermatologist, but I think an average person could have seen that there was something abnormal about that mole. I was just lucky that PhillyTwo came down with that god-awful case of hives when she did, because my Melanoma was still in a very early stage. And those hives? Well, they vanished as quickly as they appeared, which is why to this day I call PhillyTwo my guardian angel, and I call you a lot of other names.
But as they say, what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger, and you're making us all very strong, Dr. M.
As you know, Ron comes to see you several times a year for his upper respiratory illnesses. A few years ago, he had a bad reaction to one of the medications you gave him and it turned out he was allergic to CODEINE. Here's what I'm wondering, Dr. M: did you make a note of that, and if so, where? 'Cause every damn time he comes to see you, you write him a new prescription for a medication that's laced with (what else?) CODEINE! Every damn time! Luckily, Walgreen's has that info and they inevitably have to call your office back and have you change his prescription to one without the ingredient that might kill him.
PhillyTwo came to you a couple of years ago because she was suffering with a lot of anxiety. You immediately prescribed an anti-depressant, which only left her feeling tired and lethargic. Nice trade-off, Dr. M. Maybe if you had spent a little more time gathering pertinent information from the patient and not been so quick to throw her into that generic you-need-to-be-on-medication category where you put most of the anxiety-ridden people who come to see you, you might have realized she was probably just having a life-altering allergic reaction to goddamn caffeine.
In conclusion, Dr. M, through it all we have remained your loyal patients. But I may be losing my patience. May I suggest a refresher course? Some continuing education classes? Hell, read a fucking medical book. We really hate to have to go looking for another doctor, and please don't take this the wrong way, but one more bonehead mistake on your part and this relationship is over.
Love,
Philly
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