What I am

I have a list of things I love...things that currently contribute to making me me.

1. Linen...white
2. Cashmere...preferably grey
3. Pralines...not soft
4. Nikon...all things
5. Radiant Peony from Avon...I feel pink & sparkly
6. #2 Light blonde from Natural Instincts
7. Wildflowers on the side of the road
8. Soft worn jeans
9. Pink
10. Cathedral setting for my diamond
11. Moscato wine
12. Cafe con leche...my Cuban heritage is showing
13. Indian food...no explanation
14. Worn Oriental rugs
15. Green glass
16. Cubbyholes...hence the lovely cubby hole shelving in our kitchen
17. Our house
18. Porch swing weather
19. Books that pull me in and don't let go
20. New Orleans
21. Snow cones laced with sweetened condensed milk
22. Beach combing combined with picture taking
23. Art on my walls

This is, of course, not a comprehensive list. As I can't remember most things all at once. And I purposely didn't include people or pets in this list. This is just a list of stuff.

My cars...

It all started with a '50 Chevy that is still my favorite. What I wouldn't give to have the Gray Ghost back. She was dependable and durable. Like a tank. Comfy. Better than sitting on couch. And she had that smell. No. Not the new car smell. She had the old, I've been around, smell. We bought her from a big Mexican guy that Dad worked with. It think maybe $350. When we left South Dakota, I had to sell her. Dad said she couldn't make the drive all the way to Illinois. Broke my heart.

My 1st love

The next story is sad and short. Dad was big on gas mileage. And he was hot for Renaults. Therefore, I got a brand spanking new Renault. Sweet little car. Kinda green. Tan interior. (very European) And by golly, she was all business. She got me where I wanted to go with the least amount of gas. After all, gas prices was climbing up. I think they were up to $.35/gallon. So, you can see my Dad's urgency to get me in a economical car.

I had this little car about a month. Then one night, after a long shift at the truck stop, I was came home and went to bed. I was feeling sick. Lonnie, sensing my weakness, preyed on me and I didn't put up much of a fight. I just wanted him out of my face so I could sleep. I handed over the car keys. He immediately got in the car, and not more than 5 minutes later took a swan dive with it into a little creek between Marine and the Interstate. He probably would of drowned had someone not seen him go in. He knocked his fool self out and was underwater.

Didn't get to know you well.

I think after Lonnie wrecked my Reanult, I got the Goat. A '66 or '67 GTO. Lonnie had her for a bit, and decided that he didn't want her anymore. So Dad thought the price was right and I should take her off his hands. (I'm seeing a trend here with Dad and my cars.) She was a huge, red, loud, fast, sexy machine. And she made me feel funny. I wanted to drive fast. I wanted to rev my engine. And dang. I wanted to be sexy. At least I was loud.

The Goat

I don't know why, but in retrospect, I'm guessing Dad had a hand in this, I sold the Goat, and bought yet another car from Lonnie. This was a little Sunbeam Alpine. Black with red interior. Convertible. And it had a hard top that snapped on like a suitcase. I had a ball with this car. It was, hands down, the funniest to drive. FUN FUN FUN!!!! It was snappy, responsive, and quick. Little four on the floor. Zip, zip, zip. Well, one sad day I was taking a trip into St. Louis, and not being a big city driver, I immediately rear ended another car, which in turn rear ended another car, which, well...you get the picture. In the car ahead of me was a guy named Jimmy Stewart. And his wife was very worried about me. Remember I told you the hard top snapped on like a suitcase? Well, I hit my head on one of the latches and laid it right open. I had blood everywhere. That is why I have that scar on my forehead. The place I rub when I'm stressed. Anyway, that ended my little Alpine. She was totaled :-(






My next car was cool. A '68 Mustang. It was what the 60's was all about. Being unpretentiously cool. Hip. With it. And in that car, anyone could be all of that and more. My Mustang ended up staying in South Dakota, when I had to leave. It was a little thing called Nicole Lynn that changed my plans. So, I sold my Mustang and flew to Colorado Springs!






That's the last car I'm going to talk about. After that it became a barrage of Pinto's and Dodge Darts. No one wants to relive that rolling horror show.

Of course, none of these images are of the original. But just a little visual aid to give you an idea of my fun cars. Damn. They just don't make them like this anymore.

Why 'Hey Jude' makes me on edge

Lordy. I have some quirks. Hey Jude by the Beatles is only one in a long line of dysfunctional behavior modifications. (Not sure if that is a real term, but I'm sure Freud would approve.) As Bumble found out recently, 7-Up...the un-cola...is another quirk. Don't like it. Makes me feel sick. Why? Because as a child whenever I got sick, the only thing Mom would let me drink was 7-Up. So now when I drink it, I feel sick. Sprite is OK most of the time. And 7-Up is OK if it has cherry flavoring in it. But. I digress.

Which brings us back to Hey Jude. This was back when my Dad, bless his heart, decided that I needed myself a college education, and he was going to make it happen. And the college he chose, because it was the only one on our end of South Dakota, was South Dakota School of Mines (Mimes as Bumble says) and Technology. Wow. They had some real brains going there. I was not one of them. I didn't know what I wanted to do, but I did know that going to college was not one of them. I did pass a couple of classes, which paid off later in life, but for the most part, I had FUN!!! OMG, it was 1969 and I was in my groove. (We said things like that back then. Groove and groovy...not OMG.)

Most memories were fun. And as much as I had, it was all very innocent. Makes me smile now to think about it. I really was naive. Anyway, like I said...most memories were fun. Except for this one.

There was a dance at the school. I didn't have a date, so I must of went with another girl. But, for the life of me, I can't remember who. Maybe I went by myself. How pathetic. But, I was a free thinking girl, and things like that didn't concern me.

So here I was at the dance. I can only recall one thing about this dance. Hey Jude. Here is why. A tall, skinny, somewhat pimply-face guy named Roy liked me. The feeling was not reciprocated. I felt sorry for him and tolerated him at best. The last song had ended. And I saw him coming towards me. "Would I like to dance with him?" I thought, what harm can one dance do? One little dance. So, I said yes.

Then the music started. I cringed after the first few notes were played...it was Hey Jude, only the LONGEST song in recorded history. There I was on the dance floor with poor ole Roy. I remember his sweaty hands and the fact that he kept trying to pull me closer and I kept pushing away. Push...pull...push...pull. It was a strenuous dance at best. I don't remember if we talked or not. All I remember is trying to keep my distance, and those sweaty hands.

And that is why Hey Jude makes me on edge. I have other stories about my little college experience. George White and seeing my first naked man comes to mind. If anyone really wants to know, I will write about it.

The Man in Black

Tell me. When did this happen? Exactly when did I start loving Johnny Cash? When did hearing his voice worbble out a tune bring goosebumps to my skin, tears to my eyes, a smile to my lips, my knees get shaky? Just exactly when?

I remember as a child my parents listening to Johnny. I thought 'how could they?' This is not music. And yet, here I am. Did it happen when I got those God awful jowl things on my face. (Which, by the way, I'm NOT happy about.)

On a side note, apparently on Pandora, Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson are closely tied. One Johnny, one Willie. Which lead me to my connection with Willie. I feel a kinship to him. Why, we were almost best friends. Here is how that came to be. Ages ago, while married to my ex, we would take vacations to Texas. (Feel sorry for me later. Just read for now.) On these trips I met his extended family. One of these was Ronnie, his cousin. We got along very well, Ronnie and I. As it turned out, Ronnie was always invited to Willie's famous 4th of July shindigs at his place. So, it would of only been a matter of time, had I pushed the issue, that I would of been passing the time with Willie on his ranch. See how that works?

My Guest Blogger!

I have a guest blogger today, and she doesn't even know it. How did this happen? I was rummaging through old emails looking for some pictures and came across this from Nikki. Lord, that girl isn't right.

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The Flying Scooter

How old was I when the fun was brought to an end? I think I was about twelve or thirteen years old. Oh, I remember… I was “old enough to know better.”

When I was a kid my family had a scooter. It wasn’t the funky “retro” scooters you see now with their sherbet colors and funky wheel wells. This scooter was quite functional and, built more like a moped minus the actual pedals, slightly reminiscent of the old scooters I saw in the war movies Dad & Grandpa watched. Despite the “luxury” of owning 2 cars, the family income hovered near the poverty line and this scooter, for a year or two, got more road time than the second car. Twenty-eight miles round trip, my father drove it almost daily to work. Eventually that grew tiresome and it was parked in the shed, teasing and taunting me every time I had to go in for the bicycle tire pump or maybe my dad’s toolbox. Oh how I wanted to ride that mean machine! Deciding he needed something from the shed, Dad would move the scooter out to the yard. I think he did it to torture me because, looking back, he never really used anything he so desperately needed from the shed anyway. Jeremy and Jason, my younger brother and cousin, would take turns “driving” it but I was too old to play such silly games. Well, not always. Now and then I would get on and pretend I was driving, imagining cruising around town and picking up my friends for a spin, racing past all the mean kids and laughing at them because I have cool wheels and they’re stuck riding their brother’s ratty-ass hand-me-down 10-speed and just wishing they were half as cool and lucky as me. Ahh, blissful ignorance.

For some reason Dad decided to teach me how to ride. Unable to believe my sweet stroke of luck, my brother and cousin were speechless. He told them once he taught me I could take them for rides. We were beside ourselves with joy. Were we really this lucky? Yes, yes we were. Dad put me on back and showed me how to shift and brake. Then it was my turn. At speeds topping nearly 10mph, I was careening down the yard behind the wheel of 49cc’s of raw power. Unbelievable! My brother and cousin were shouting and jumping for joy. It was official, this was going to be an awesome summer!

Some basic ground rules were laid out for us. No driving the bike on the roads and no friends riding on the back, only Jeremy & Jason. We lived next to the school so it was the perfect place to ride; there was a huge blacktopped playground, a massive grassy area that was larger than a football field, and even a baseball diamond. We would ride over the little hill in the yard and cut through the bushes, quickly cutting across the side lawn of the school into their backyard. That’s how we spent most of the summer. Some days I would ride alone and decide it was ok to go on the road for just a while. Before I knew it I had made it to my friends house and given her a ride to the school. I did eventually ask my parents if I could pleeeeeeeeeease give my friend a ride and, after talking to her parents it was decided that would be ok but only in our yard or the school. So, to the park downtown we went!

It was a fabulous summer filled with adventure and more excitement than a white bread girl, such as myself, could handle. The end of it all began accidentally, but doesn’t it always? When it was time to go home we would cut across the schools’ side lot, between the bushes (be sure to dodge the large tree), and zip up over the little hill. As my driving skills improved I began to drive faster with more confidence; I was quick to speed up and take chances. I was one with the scooter. One day, with Jeremy on back, we took the hill a little to fast coming into the yard. For the briefest moment after hitting the top of the hill our butts left the seat. It was incredible! Stopping the bike I asked Jeremy if he felt that. Laughing and ready for more he said he had felt it. No longer content to park the bike for the night, we took it back out for more runs over the hill. That sealed the deal. To guarantee that stomach-falling feeling from that day forward I would gun it at the hill to get that air.

The last time truly was the best. Jeremy was the lucky rider for the last run. We decided at the school that I would just drive as fast as I could, cut into the bushes without slowing and take the hill at full speed. He seemed to think it was a great idea, even offering some tips and pointers, and he had only led me wrong with the scooter one other time in his four years on Earth. That’s when we took the scooter to the lake and he and I went down to the water for a ride. That sand looked pretty soft but he assured me it would be totally cool. Why would I question the four year old? Needless to say, the bike got stuck and we had to walk back to camp to get Dad to pull it out. But I digress. We were picking up speed leaving the school and all looked good. Drop off from the rock driveway to the grass. Cut around the back of the music room. Open ‘er up and really build up speed. There’s the bushes, lean to the left and straighten out quick. Lean right, dodge the tree! Here comes the hill! Holy cow, we’re airborne! Tacky but true, time really did seem to stand still. Clinging to the handle bars, I could feel Jeremy hanging on to me for dear life as our butts came off the seat, what felt like, a foot and we were both laughing and yelling at the top of our lungs. From the looks on my Mom and Grandma’s faces I think we easily had a foot of air. That’s when my laughter stopped.

Mom asked the usual questions that parents ask but really don’t want to hear your answer too. I was made to get off the bike and walk it to the front yard so she could put a “For Sale” sign on it. There was no more sitting on it and pretending to drive, no more quick runs around the yard or to the school. It was over. Nothing had ever sold so quickly in our front yard as the flying scooter. She meant to teach me a lesson about being responsible and safe. That’s not the lesson I took away from the experience. I DID learn to check and see that the coast is clear before I follow the advice of a four year old.

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Oh, by the way. This is her main mode of transportation today. Obviously the fun has been resurrected and thriving in Bermuda.

Loverboy!!

OK. We all have woke up with a song in our heads, so don't judge me. My song this morning is one from the soundtrack of Dirty Dancing. [SIDE NOTE: Attention all men...if you want to get your girl all randy, stick that in the DVR. Oh, my gosh. All of the grinding hips, sweat, provocative looks and grinding hips. Oh. I said that.] The song that invaded my sleeping mind this morning? Love is Strange.

When I hear this song, I can't help but see Nikki and Jeremy acting it out on our living room floor. And they both had it down perfectly. Dead serious, crawling across the floor towards each other singing the chorus. It was probably the funniest thing I ever saw. And wrong in so many ways. But they did it with such commitment and gusto. You might ask yourself how they got it so perfect? Simple. My sister, Barb, and I had a few days of watching it over and over and over again. So, I guess they just picked it up.

This song now makes me think of my loverboy, Bumble. He is all that loves musicals, Patrick Swazye, show tunes and Dirty Dancing. Yes. Especially musicals.

Here is the chorus that Nikki and Jeremy sang so many years ago, revised for me and Bumble:

[BUMBLE:]
Sharon...

[ME:]
Yes Bumble?

[BUMBLE:]
How do you call your loverboy?

[ME:]
Come 'ere loverboy!!

[BUMBLE:]
And if he doesnt answer?

[ME:]
Ohh loverboy!

[BUMBLE:]
And if he STILL doesnt answer?

[ME:]
I simply say
Baby,
Oohh baby
My sweet baby
You're the one



My sweet baby...Bumble

First Memory

I suppose all memoirs should start at the earliest memory. At least that is my feeling on it. So, my memoir shall be no different.

My first memory is from about three weeks after my third birthday. It must of been on February 20, 1953...give or take a day. Everything prior to that was apparently uneventful. Copasetic. At the time we lived in a small house...just blocks from the house I was to raise my family in about twenty years later...give or take a year. West Division. I think it was probably West Division all through time. Or, when out of Marine city limits, it became Route 143.

Living there in the early '50's must of been idyllic. I have no idea what the population of the town was then, but by 2000, according to the census, it was only 910. During this timeframe my dad was building a gas station next door, which leads to my second memory. More about that in a moment.

First memory. The living room. Small and dark. It was day time because there was a window letting in a few rays of sunlight. Furniture? I'm sure there was a couch. I remember a chair. I think. But, what I clearly remember is my mother standing in the middle of this room. Looking tired and disheveled. Hair not quite as coiffed as normal. Face looking pale. Tired. She was wearing a navy dress with white polka-dots. And in her arms she held a tightly wrapped bundle. A baby. My little brother, Lonnie.

My little world was forever changed. I was no longer the baby. I was now the big sister. Who saw that coming? No one asked me my opinion on this whole subject. I was not consulted. This role was thrust upon me. But, none the less, there I was. Loving my little brother.

Apparently is wasn't exactly love at first sight on my end. I was found a few days later stretching my chubby little arms through the crib slats, attempting to cram my stuffed bunny's ear down his throat. Did I plan and plot this devious act? Waiting for the opportune moment? Or, did I simply see my chance and jump on it? Either way, I had a purpose. I wanted my perfect pre-baby world back.

The second memory I spoke about? It had to do with the construction of the gas station. I feel this probably occurred shortly after the arrival of baby brother. Mom was probably too busy with him to worry about, or even think about getting shoes on my feet. I'm sure I looked upon it as an opportunity that didn't happen everyday. I remember running in my bare feet across the parking lot to visit my dad. Just happy as a lark that it was possible.

I don't think he shared in my joy. I got a stiff scolding from him for running without shoes through the broken glass, nails, wood and debris from the construction site, as he picked me up and carried me home.

A scolding was the most severe discipline I ever received from him. I don't ever recall him spanking me. And this was during a time when it was politically correct...even encouraged, to do so. Truly, I know that if he were to ever spanked me, it really would of hurt him more than it did me.

My baby brother, Lonnie. May 30,2003