My Father

I love my father.  I'm a lot like him, so I can relate to where he's coming from, most of the time.  It's when we don't understand each other that we fuss and argue and it becomes dangerous territory.  But really, we get along a whole lot better than we used to.  There was a time that our visits to Florida with my parents always ended in a huge explosion between my father and I.  I think he was basically angry with me for letting him down all those years and he expressed it in explosions.  I, being the kind of person to never back down from a fight, always reciprocated with my own explosion, with my kids and mom looking on from a distance.  I'm glad that doesn't happen anymore.  It's too exhausting.

He critiques the meals I prepare him for lunch and dinner.  He does the same thing with my mom, so I really don't mind.  For breakfast, he always has the same thing, so there's nothing to critique.  For lunch and dinner, he will either say, "This is very good, sis," or "This is good, sis," or "This is ok (no sis)"  I think he rates them from very good, good to just ok.  So far, thank God, he has never said, "Yuk! I can't eat this - this is terrible!"  If he ever does say that, I'm going to tell him that this is not a restaurant and he has to eat it.  Of course, I will never say that, but it's fun to picture it in my mind.  That would get him really riled up, and in some ways I still fear him, so we won't do that.

He calls me either "Sis," "Sweety" or "Sharon."  "Sis" and "Sweety" are when I'm either waking up, going to bed or during his meal critiques.  "Sharon" is when he is serious or I've done something wrong.  "Sharon Penny" hasn't been said since I was a kid and did something really wrong.  Which is good because I hate my middle name. 

My mother must have been delirious when I was born, because she named me Sharon Penny Schwartz.  (Maybe that’s why I’ve always had a problem with finances -- it must have somehow been a deep, psychological barrier for me.)  I was the second child born to my parents.  Richard Paul was their first, being born in November, three years before me.  Daniel Mark would be born in September, three years after me.  (Notice that my brothers have strong, biblical names.  In my opinion, “Penny” should have been reserved for a dog or a cat.)

The only recollection I have of my very early life, is what I have viewed on a video my mother made from old 8mm filmstrips.  It’s difficult watching the video my mother made, generally because the majority of people on it are now dead, and it’s very depressing to see how my parents have aged.  It brings tears to my eyes to see my dad sitting on a black couch (covered with see-through plastic, which is the same couch in his house today) with me on his lap and feeding me with a bottle.  I think it makes me cry because I never knew my dad to be affectionate, and seeing that shows a different side of him that I never knew.  I suppose he raised us the way he was raised, and that was without any affection.  When he kissed me hello or goodbye, it was on top of my head.  I guess that was safer than anywhere on my face.  In addition, he was in the Marines, and generally ran his family like we were his little “troop.”  My father always seemed angry and bitter and didn’t do a lot of talking.  I think he basically was, and is, a very unhappy man.  He has mellowed out, though, as he's aged.  He doesn't lose his temper as often or to the intensity as he used to.  And I know he loves my brothers and I and his grandchildren and great-grandchildren - he just doesn't know how to show it.

I've learned a great deal from my father and have inherited a lot from him.  I have his temperament, arthritis, spinal stenosis, neuropathy and the list goes on and on.  What I wished I would have inherited from him, are his skinny legs.  No - I had to inherit that from my mother.  Let's suffice it to say that they remind me of strange tree trunks with 10 toes.  Even if I were to lose a hundred pounds, my legs would still look like tree trunks.  It's so totally unfair.  But I guess you gotta work with what you have, so tree trunks it is...

 

Getting Old

My mom is doing much better.  She's actually walking with a walker now, with help, but moving about slowly, and hopefully at this rate, she'll be ready to come home soon.  She's still in a great deal of pain, but that's partially because she still needs surgery on her left hip.  She broke her left hip several months ago, she had surgery and it (putting in pins) didn't work.  Then before her scheduled re-surgery on her left hip, she broke her right hip and had emergency surgery on that hip.  After THAT surgery, it didn't go well and they had to go back in and replace the thing they put in her hip in the first place.  That's what she is recovering from now, but she still has to have surgery again on her left hip eventually.  She has really been through it. 

I found out today that Jason and the kids are coming to visit on Monday - I'm very excited!  He has the kids and the week off, so he wanted to come and see his grandparents.  I haven't told my mom - I want it to be a surprise.  She will love to see her great-grandchildren, and this will be the first time she's seen Jade.  And I can't wait to see my grandchildren!  I only wish my Ashanti was coming too.  But I'll see her in a few weeks at the end of July and I look forward to that.

I find it odd when I look in the mirror and I don't recognize who it is looking back at me anymore.  I remember what I looked like when I was young and somehow the person looking back at me now looks so unfamiliar.  It seems like it just happened one day and it's a very unusual feeling. 

I have these ugly red blotches on my face that I'm told is Rosacea. I mean, it looks like I have the measles or something. And then there is a vacant circle the dermatologist froze off which was some sort of skin cancer, right next to my nose. It's white but there are tiny red spots around it so it looks like ringworm. Of course it's not, but it does look strange. Where did my clear complexion go?  Albeit, that was over 40 years ago, but why couldn't it have stayed that way? And these awful brown spots on my arms just send me over the edge. They used to look like freckles, but now they're merging into one another and I have brown blotches all over (mostly) my right arm. I don't know why it's being selective, but I'm told they are "age spots." Great. Just another indication that I'm truly getting old. I could deny it as long as I want, but your body eventually shouts it out loud and clear.

But then, growing old isn't all bad. For me, it means I don't have to work any longer, it means that I have wonderful grandchildren to enjoy and not have to worry about supporting or raising, it means that I have friends and family I now have time to spend with, it means I can relax and choose to do whatever I want to do every day, and it means that I am just one step closer to heaven.  Yeah, getting old can be a real blessing as well.  I suppose it's all in the way I look at it...

Riveredge Hospital Part 2

I began to write poetry during the time I spent in the hospital.  I would sit in my room and look out the huge window that overlooked the Des Plaines River and I would think a lot about life, God, death and the meaning of it all.  I’ve always had to “figure everything out” and I’m still that way.  It frustrates me when things don’t make sense.
 

I made many friends in the hospital.  In fact, funny as it may seem, I was popular in the mental hospital, which certainly says something about my personality.  I was the “head” of a gang that would go after girls who were picking on other kids, and would threaten them if they didn’t stop.  I wouldn’t tolerate anyone like that and made it very clear to the others on the ward. 

 

Back in those days, contrary to today, the workers they hired who were not medical personnel, were definitely not qualified to be in those positions.  One worker, who we called “Hambone” brought us liquor and drugs on an ongoing basis.  He was always high, in fact, when he came to work.  Another worker, was always having sex with the girls on our ward.  He once came on to me, but I didn’t trust him, so I didn’t let him get any further. 

My temper was so uncontrollable back then, that they had to put me in the “quiet room” which was solitary confinement, strap me down to the bed and shoot me up with Thorazine, a powerful tranquilizer that actually knocked me out until late the next day.  When I finally came to, it was like a real bad hangover and lasted for a couple days.  They did that to me a few times when I lost my temper.  It was such a drag, so I learned to put a lid on my anger, for the most part. 

One of the girls on the ward who was in there because she was pregnant and using drugs, had a boyfriend who brought us liquor one day and we got very drunk in her room.  I ended up vomiting all over the bathroom.  She told me her father had sex with sheep on his farm and I thought she was kidding until I found out it was really true.  And she was the one in the mental hospital? What a weird world, and the older I was getting, the weirder it became.  One boy was a schizophrenic who drew pictures of faces inside of faces inside of eyeballs, on and on in such detail.  He was really an excellent artist, but very disturbed.  One boy considered himself a “white witch,” and was strung out on drugs.  Most of the kids there were either on drugs, suicidal or really mentally ill. 

I took my whole junior year of high school at the hospital, but cheated most of the way through it, as the teacher of our very small class didn’t pay much attention.  We were required to attend “group therapy” in which a large group of us sat in a circle and told, or yelled, at each other how we felt about ourselves and others.  It was always a very intense situation, and some people even had physical fights during these sessions. 

One positive thing I did acquire during my stay in the hospital, was to acknowledge my feelings and emotions and to express myself to others.  I also learned to listen and to listen with my “heart,” which I still consider to be most important of all.  I learned to “see beyond” what another person was saying -- see the intent rather than what was being said, as many times is totally different.  In other words, I learned a lot about people in this place, which has helped me tremendously during the course of my life.  However, the purpose I was admitted there in the first place, was not resolved until many years later. 

My mother had me come home on a pass for my 16th birthday, and she had a surprise party for me with a few of my friends.  We had a lot of fun that day, in the basement of our home, carrying on the way teenagers do.  My friends all pitched in and bought me a wonderful picture book of Andrew Wyeth’s prints, which I loved.  My parents had purchased a German Short-Haired Pointer puppy around that same time, named him “Satan” of all things, and he eventually lived up to his name, becoming a very mean and ornery dog.  I loved him and would talk to him like a person all the time.  I guess I felt like he understood me on some level, where no one else obviously did.

When my parents came to visit me, I treated them terribly and hurried through the visit as I didn’t want to be with them.  One time, my mother had come to do my laundry, and I saw her briefly in the laundry room and made a snide comment to her and walked away with a group of kids.  I realized I shouldn’t have said what I had said, and returned to the laundry room, only to see her with her head in her hands weeping.  I said nothing, turned around and walked away, but I never forgot the way I felt that day.  I wanted so much to apologize to her, but for some reason, couldn’t bring myself to do it.  To this day I don’t know why I hated my mother so much, and I have no explanation for the way I treated her.  I guess I felt like she was never “there” for me the way I wished she would be, and so I closed myself off from her.  Even today, we have awkward moments because our relationship has always been a bit estranged, but it is getting better since I've been down here and working so close with them.  God has a way of healing relationships when you put forth the effort and let Him.

My experience in the hospital is one in which I will never forget.  I learned a lot about myself.  I learned how to love deeply and I learned how to be honest with myself.  I learned that life is a total drag in a lot of ways, but there were so many good, caring, and honest people to get to know, that it made the difference between living and dying for me.  The most beneficial thing I learned during this time, was the monumental importance relationships were in my life.  That revelation would be the precursor to my evolving relationship with God.

Riveredge Hospital Part 1

My dad and I got into an argument this morning; not the kind we used to have - big blow outs with guns drawn - but a small one, as we are both pretty pig-headed, but more mellow now.  No one won but that's okay; we both spoke our opinion, rather loudly, and sometimes you just have to do that: blow off steam and give your unsolicited opinion as we both tend to do.  And then we carry on like it never happened.  "What do you want for lunch, dad?"  "Uh, I'm really not hungry right now."  "Ok," and I continued to work on my laptop.

I've thought a lot about temperament and how one releases their frustrations or anger and I've come to the conclusion that it's far better, in most cases, to express how you feel (hopefully in a mature way), rather than keeping it all inside.  When you keep emotions inside like that, they seem to fester and one day, they will eventually come out one way or the other.  My feeling is that it's better to let it out now, deal with it and move on.  Of course not everyone shares in my philosophy.  And not everything should be said out loud.  Like I wouldn't tell a friend who's having a bad day that "You're a lousy friend and right now I really can't stand you."  I may think it, but it wouldn't prove beneficial to me or them if I spoke it.  My father and I argued about his grandchildren and I felt he was totally wrong, so we both voiced our opinions with zeal, but then we were both able to move on from there after we finished.  I think people who hold back on expressing their feelings, get sick or depressed or angry and then that could turn into bitterness.  That is my psychological opinion for the day.

I do actually have quite a lot of experience in the psychological realm, as it were.  I was a pretty screwed up kid, did a lot of drugs and drinking and was very angry and depressed.  (No, I didn't repress my feelings; I was very verbal about how I felt, so I was an exception to the rule about what I said above.)  During the summer of my sophomore year, my parents took me to a psychiatrist who turned me off immediately.  He tried his best to talk to me but I trusted no one and I certainly wasn’t going to pour my heart out to some old, Jewish guy who thought he knew all about me.  He had a condescending manner about him that just aggravated the situation, and I was, to put it mildly, very rude and obnoxious to him.  I cussed him out and would not cooperate with all his little tests he wanted me to complete.  (I told him his ink blots looked like ink blots.)   At the end of our session, he informed my parents that I needed to be immediately put into a psychiatric hospital, otherwise he feared I would kill myself.  I really didn’t think they’d do it, but the following week I found myself in the Intensive Care Unit of Riveredge Hospital, a psychiatric hospital in Forest Park, Illinois.

I was 15 years old when I was admitted to Riveredge.  Everyone that is first admitted goes to ICU, then placed in a different ward, if you behave.  I remember the first evening I was there, a worker who eventually became my friend (I used to draw his hands), locked my door behind him and left me alone in my room.  It was a very creepy feeling.  All that was in the room was a bed and a little table.  I remember looking out the window and crying, but not really knowing what I was crying about -- I just didn’t have the desire to live anymore. 

ICU was an interesting ward.  When I thought of being in a hospital, I thought of lying around all day watching TV or something.  On the contrary!!  The nurses on this ward must have come from the Army because they ran the ward like an army troop!  They woke us up early in the morning, and from the time we were up until the time we went to bed, we were on a strict schedule, which included cleaning, schoolwork, therapy and quiet time.  On this ward, there was NO PHYSICAL CONTACT as they yelled out occasionally to remind those of us who forgot.  They assigned me a “shrink” who I considered a real idiot, and would not cooperate with.  They tried switching shrinks on me several times, but there wasn’t one I liked or would trust.  There was one teenage boy on this ward, who would stay there probably the rest of his life because he had “fried” his brain on acid and he had no idea what was happening around him.  There was an autistic boy, Charles, about 8 or 9, who I grew to love on this ward.  I didn’t know what autism was, I just felt like he needed someone to love him, so I did.  Back in those days, kids or people who had disorders like autism were placed in psychiatric hospitals because they didn't have a clue how to treat them.

One time, another teenage girl called one of the female workers a “nigger” and when I heard it, I came flying out of my room to beat her up.  In the process, I slammed my finger in the door and they had to take me to the emergency room to get it stitched up.  Mrs. Tolbert, who this kid called a nigger, calmly ignored her which made me even angrier.  I couldn’t understand why she didn’t slap her up or something.  Mrs. Tolbert rebuked me and scolded me instead of her for losing my temper and reacting in such an immature way.  She explained that it’s inappropriate to act that way toward people, and that you can’t change them, but you certainly can control yourself and the way you respond to others.  I learned a valuable lesson that day, and the scar I still have on my finger, which is now arthritic, is a constant reminder of that.

After awhile, I learned how to “get around” on this small ward, and do the things that would eventually move me to the adolescent ward where all the kids wanted to be.  The shrink had me on Valium, I guess because he thought I was too volatile.  That was ok with me, because I would save them up and then take several at one time and get high -- right there on the ward.  During “group therapy” we would toss a medicine ball back and forth to one another (which was a big, leather, very heavy ball), and I would try to deck the girl who called Mrs. Tolbert a nigger.  Back then, I was very strong (from my tomboy days) and that combined with the pent-up anger inside, I had the ability to do some damage.  I couldn’t stand her, and I tried my best to nail her, although I couldn’t get very far with workers and nurses constantly watching every move I made. 

I finally “earned” my way off of ICU and was relocated to the adolescent ward, which was much more relaxed and without all the rules and schedules I had to abide by before.  I had a larger room, with a roommate and our own bathroom.  There was a large “dayroom” in the center of the ward, where there was a TV, pool table and card tables.  I became a very good pool player, as well as proficient at Pinochle.  I stayed on this ward the remainder of the time, (with the exception of a short period of time that I relapsed and was sent back up to ICU) and I was in the hospital for approximately 10 months.  It got to the point that I was having so much fun, I didn’t want to leave. 

Hair and Borsht

So I noticed yesterday, that my mom is growing a pretty heavy mustache.  Yikes.  That's what I have to look forward to at that age.  I wanted to take a razor and shave it off for her, but alas, none was around. She probably wouldn't be too keen on me doing that anyway.  This hair thing is crazy.  She's growing a mustache and I'm growing a goatee.  Tell me it's not true!  What did we do to deserve this?  I mean, we've been females all our lives, so why does this have to change now?  Is it part of the curse or just God's sense of humor?  Probably neither; more than likely, it's our ridiculous hormones, and the older you get, the more hair you grow (uh, not in all places though).  Men don't have weird changes in their bodies like we do, do they?  Well, maybe I don't want to know the answer to that. 

In any event, I pluck each long brown hair, and some of them are actually gray to further mock me.  I guess I need to find someone who waxes all this stuff off, because I don't want to walk around with a mustache and a goatee.  I mean, gravity has taken ahold of the rest of my body, so give me a break here.  Pretty soon everything will be hanging down where they once were standing at attention; I don't want facial hair to add insult to injury.  On the other hand, the hair on my head keeps getting thinner and shorter each day. It all comes out in my brush and I quietly freak out because I don't want to be bald when I'm 60.  I guess I could order some wigs from Paula Young just in case, but why can't the hair be growing on my head instead of my chin?  Speaking of hair, I saw a chain that was made a few hundred years ago, of human hair, attached to a small picture as a momento, on Antiques Roadshow.  I suppose I could braid up all the hair that comes off my brush, but then who would want it? 

I watched as the nurse changed my mother's dressing from the surgery.  Boy, I, in no way, could have been a nurse.  It totally grossed me out.  I mean, there are actual staples holding her skin together - staples like you use at the office.  These are heavy duty ones, I'm sure - but staples nonetheless.  So I can see the doctor tell the nurse, "Stapler, please," and she hands him (or her) a stapler they just picked up from Office Depot, and he begins to staple her skin together like a 30-page report.  And I guess when her skin heals shut like it's supposed to, the doctor goes in there with a giant staple puller and yanks them out.  They probably have to take a clerical class in med school to do this daunting task.  The whole thing blows my mind.

Tonight when we visited mom, her roommate had visitors.  She's from New Jersey and her sons came to visit her.  I thought Chicago people were loud.  These people were obnoxiously loud.  They probably drive crazier than Chicago drivers too.  I want to go to New Jersey one day because the Cake Boss has his shop in Hoboken, New Jersey and I really want to visit there.  I want to order all kinds of Italian baked goodies that I've seen him and his crew bake on his show.  I could never work in a place like that - I would become the Goodyear Blimp - but boy, would it be fun.  Baked treats are definitely my downfall - that and pasta.  And rice.  And ice cream.  And, well, I guess just about everything except liver, tongue and borsht.

When we were comin' up, my mother would make liver or tongue and force us to eat borsht - which is beet soup.  Some little Jewish bubbe (grandma) long ago, in some faraway place perhaps sat down one day and said, "Oh! Some beets I have here. Soup we should make out of them!" (And it's been a staple in Jewish homes ever since.)  I gagged on the borsht and refused to eat it until she finally relented and didn't make me finish it.  And when I found out that liver was a real cow's liver and that tongue was actually his tongue, it grossed me out so much that no punishment would get me to eat them.  Back in those days, you ate everything on your plate, and my mother would announce, "This is not a restaurant," so you couldn't get any substitutions.  If you didn't eat it, you didn't eat.  Period.  There were plenty of nights I went to bed hungry, because of the weird dishes she made or just the way my mom cooked the meal.  She doesn't believe in salt or salted seasonings, so BLAH would be a good way to describe her cooking.  In the past several years, she's done very little cooking, which is a good thing because then my dad won't expect much from me.  And I've been putting it off, but I have yet to figure out what's for dinner tonight, so I should probably go and stare into the freezer for some inspiration...

The 60's

I had a hard time falling asleep the other night, and memories flooded my mind.  The brain is an amazing machine.  It can take you to the furthest reaches of your mind and makes it feel like you're re-living the experience.  Sometimes that's good; sometimes, not so good.

I went to Thomas Edison Elementary School in Morton Grove, Kindergarten through 7th grade.  I must have had bad feet when I was little, because my mother made me wear black and white “saddle shoes” which I hated, and all the other kids would make fun of.  In those days, the girls had to wear skirts or dresses to school -- never slacks.  In fact, it wasn’t until I was a freshman in high school that they changed that dress code and began allowing the girls to wear pants to school. 

A teacher I remember at this school was Mr. Johnson, who my brothers and I all had for 5th grade.  His breath always smelled of coffee, he wore a crew cut (which my brothers always had to wear also), and he had this weird enjoyment of making me write definitions out of the dictionary like “run,” when I was caught talking or something equally annoying to him.  Unwittingly, I would actually write the whole definition out of the dictionary (not realizing he couldn’t possibly be checking it), as it is a really long definition -- and I would make sure I would get every comma, semi-colon and period correct.  How ridiculous.  That never did stop me from talking when I wasn’t supposed to.

Mrs. Stephens, my third grade teacher, used to tape our mouths shut with masking tape, when we were caught talking or laughing.  Sometimes, she would pass us by at our desks and spray us with water, or slap our hands with a ruler.  I remember vividly being in her class when the principal made an announcement over the loudspeaker that someone had just shot President John F. Kennedy.  Mrs. Stephens began to cry and we all just sat there feeling numb and not knowing what to do.  The school then sent everyone home early that day, and when I got home, the news of the assassination was on television, with actual footage of the president being shot. 

It seemed that the whole country was in a state of shock.  I remember seeing on television, Lee Harvey Oswald, who was the accused assassin, being whisked through a group of officers and FBI personnel, and all of a sudden Jack Ruby reached out in front of everyone and shot and killed Oswald.  It was so strange that it was actually captured on television.  Of course Ruby was then apprehended, but I don’t recall what happened to him after that.  It was like total bedlam.  It seemed like the whole country stopped what they were doing for this, and the tremendous funeral which would follow.  I remember trying not to cry, watching the president’s son, John, a little boy, standing on the steps of the White House, waving good-bye to his father as the hearse drove slowly in the procession.  It was very sad.

Soon after that, Martin Luther King, Jr. was murdered and I remember my dad telling my mother something about the fact that “the blacks” will be in an uproar because of it -- and sure enough, riots broke out all over the United States because of his murder.  It was a time of racial tension anyway, but that just added fuel to the fire.  I remember feeling very angry and not understanding why a man would kill another man because of the color of his skin.  I never have figured that out, except to reason that people are basically evil, without the power of the Holy Ghost in their lives, anything is possible.

Looking back on it now, it seemed that hell let loose all its demon spirits to cause havoc on an already confused world.  The war in Vietnam was very ugly -- “hippies” protested against it and the servicemen who fought there felt like they had to defend themselves as well as their country. It was soon after that, that Robert Kennedy was also murdered, and again the country went into shock -- three famous people being murdered during the space of a short period of time. The 1960’s and 70’s were a strange, turbulent time. Rebellion and drugs were promoted and “the establishment” was scorned. My brother Richard was drafted during that time, but never did have to go to Vietnam, which I’m sure he was thankful for.  Night after night, on the evening news, graphic footage of the war was televised, forcing a portion of this tragedy directly into our living rooms.  No matter what one’s views were about the war, it was clear that countless human beings were tortured, suffered and died as a result.  If there was a positive resolution for the meaning of this war, I have yet to hear what it was.....

Despite the fact we owned a television, my mother did not allow us to watch it very often.  She referred to it as “the box” and would only let us watch certain programs at certain times.  I remember when I desperately wanted to watch the television premier of “The Wizard of Oz,” (even though the witch scared me to death and I always closed my eyes when she appeared on the screen), but that same evening, Ed Sullivan was to have the "Beatles," a new singing group from England, on his show, and my mother insisted on watching them!  I was so disgusted.  As we sat there and watched them, all I could think of was “big deal.”  They didn’t do a thing for me at the time, but that’s probably because I was such a “tomboy.”  No doubt my father made snide comments about them, as I’m sure to him they looked like “sissies.”  Any boy with hair longer than an inch was too feminine for him!  Young women were actually screaming and crying in the studio audience, reaching out to touch these guys!  It wasn’t until a few years later that I understood the reason for all that, although rock stars never had that same affect on me...

Sticks and Stones

The pool was wonderful, as usual.  As I moved around, I remembered when I was a freshman in high school.  I joined a group of swimmers that made pictures in the water - water synchronization.  It was called Aqua Sprites.  I loved to swim so this fit perfectly with what I thought I wanted to do.  We prepared hard for the program coming up.  It looked easy, but it wasn't.  It took a lot of strength as well as flexibility and gracefulness in the water.  My mom came to see the program and I was proud she was in the audience.  We started the program, the bleachers were filled and it went really well.  During the middle of our routine, I happened to look up into the bleachers and there were two high school boys pointing at me and laughing.  At one point, they actually yelled out something about how fat I was and kept laughing.  I don't know if my mom heard or saw it, but I did.  I was mortified, but kept swimming the routine, even though I wanted to go under the water and never come back up.  When we were done, I left there feeling so crushed because instead of watching what I was doing which was incredibly difficult, they were laughing and making fun of me.  The ironic thing is that I really wasn't fat - I wasn't thin, but I had a strong body because I was tomboy when I was young.  I never forgot that, and it's been over 40 years ago.  Some things really stick with you, for good or bad.  My mom used to say, "Sticks and stones may break your bones but names will never hurt you."  That's simply not true.  Sometimes names hurt more than any stick or stone. 

I'm learning a lot from the Military Channel!  My dad narrates each show and he also reminices about his term in the Marines.  He told me tonight that he was thrown in the brig for a week, and I can believe it!  He was a wild young man.  He told me that he was in a Jewish gang when he was a teenager because the non-Jews would kick them out of the parks where they grew up.  They lived in Humboldt Park in Chicago.  So, my dad being a rabble-rouser, was part of a gang that fought the non-Jews.  He also told me he was expelled from high school because he pushed a teacher out of anger.  I think I get my temperament from him. 

I was a tomboy growing up and would go every day, rain or shine, to Austin Park, to play basketball, softball, football or ice skating in the winter.  I lived at that park.  I would go there early in the morning during the summer, and wouldn’t come home until suppertime, and then go back again after supper.  I would head up there after school and join in with the other “guys” who were already there.  The boys were generally older than I and seemed to tolerate my presence, even though I was a girl.  I actually got very good at basketball and used to beat them in games we would play, and they included me as “one of the guys.”  I had a “crush” on a couple of the boys at the park, but never let them know it, as it even embarrassed me; and truthfully, it was more fun just to be there and play sports than to have their individual attention as a “girl.”

My dad and I picked up dinner and a little cake and brought it to the nursing home tonight. It's my parents' 62nd anniversary today and I thought we should have a little celebration. My mom looked good tonight. She's on a stronger med and I think that it's helping her move a little easier. Hopefully now she'll be able to help herself get up and do more in physical therapy. I know she wants to come home, but she has to be able to help herself up because I can't lift her. When that happens, I think she'll be ready.

My mom asked me to take a little old lady home from the nursing home before we ate. Her name was Beulah and she was 99 years old. I always find it amazing to talk to someone who is so old. I can't imagine living that long. She must have seen a whole lot in her lifetime. I have a lot of respect for the elderly - they've been through things we can only imagine and I believe they deserve our honor and respect.

Today was a good day - a peaceful day, even remembering about the past.  The older I get, the more I think about the past, which I suppose is natural.  I think as we get old, like perhaps Beulah, we reflect on our memories more than anything else - we rely on them.  That's probably why my dad can remember what happened to him 70 years ago, but has a hard time remembering what he did yesterday.