Holiday story

Tis the season and all that. So here is a story from my childhood.

One year my Grandma came to stay with us for Christmas. By that point in her life she slept maybe five hours a night. So she was in bed by ten and up by three or four in the morning.

So naturally she was up by the time myself and two of my sisters were awake. (At this point there were only two official Sisters of Professor Matthew. The Youngest was yet to join the party).

Somehow we convinced ourselves that rather than waiting the relatively reasonable amount of time for our parents to wake up that it would be acceptable for us to begin since with the presence of Grandma we had an adult observer. Surely that is all that is required on Christmas morn.

And somehow we convinced Grandma this must be true.

Shortly after we began opening the offerings under the tree, our mother struggled halfway down the steps. Not surprisingly, she was in no way full of Christmas cheer.

We were ordered to re-wrap all of our presents and then to return to our beds until released.

Let us just say that I was particularly ... enthusiastic that year about the unwrapping. And in case you were wondering it is a huge pain in the ass to try to cover presents when all that is left is scraps. It took a lot of time and tape just to get them up to half-assed.

Once my parents actually got up they took extra time preparing coffee before we were summoned from our rooms.

To this day I am still not sure how we decided that it was okay for us to unwrap without our parents there. And I am really not sure how we managed to trick our Grandma in to this (pretty shitty that we took advantage of an old lady like this).

So happy holidays to y'all.

And I'm sorry Grandma.

I've got a pain in my ass.

Literally.

When I was a child, one winter they plowed the street I lived on and it left a huge snow mound in the middle of our cul de sac. Well, huge in relation to a skinny boy in the fourth grade. And I had a great time climbing to the top and leaping off, sliding down the sides.

It started getting late. I realized I should head home for dinner. One more jump, just one more leap before I had to abandon the fun.

I landed, straddling something hard and frozen. The pain and shock knocked the wind out of me. It shot up my spine. Breathing hurt. Trying to stand was impossible. I have trouble still finding the right words to describe what it felt like but try to imagine pain so bad that it feels like everything above the waist is being driven away from everything below the waist. And remember what I just wrote about having trouble breathing? So I couldn't make enough noise to yell for help.

What could I do? I could crawl. Combat crawl that is, on just my elbows and forearms. Forget using my legs. I mean I could feel my feet and legs and all. But my spine hurt so anything that required using it or my legs was out of the question. And my house was the distance equivalent of a city block and a half away.

I crawled across the frozen road till I got to yards and then I crawled through snow. I can't remember how long till I could put weight on my knees, let alone get through the front door.

It was bad but for some reason my parents didn't take me to get x-rayed till the next morning. At the time I was told the x-rays were negative for a break, just a really bad bruise. I sat on foam padding for days. If I wasn't already developing a reputation for being a freak this might have hurt my social standing.

This summer the pain came back. A few days have been bad and sometimes when I sit on the wrong type of seat or in the wrong position it comes back. Never as painful as that first time but a nuisance. So Wife finally talked me in to getting it checked out.

New x-ray revealed that all those years ago I didn't bruise it after all. I broke it. Not that they could have done anything really back then besides hope for the best. There is a small piece in my tailbone not connected to anything anymore. I'll probably develop arthritis in it as I get older. I could get surgery to have it removed. Which would take a long time to heal up.

But the fun thing is it is not bad enough to really demand that path. It is just going to be this thing that I have for the rest of my life. Unless it gets worse. Most days it doesn't bother me. Till I get reminded. Because I sat wrong.

Do you realize how much time we spend sitting?

I know what it means to leave New Orleans

Just got back from a conference in New Orleans.

It was a strange mix of work, fun, and self-analysis. I guess it is only fitting in a town with NO's reputation. When I first thought about writing it up, I thought about doing some sort of diary entry, spelling out the day and what occurred of note. That almost seems too traditional and mundane to cover it.

Some highlights though:

I caught up with a friend from high school days. How do you overcome two decades of time? Amazingly enough I like to think we might have succeeded. Time will tell on that but I also feel I put to bed some of my lingering issues from then. I also learned just how much goes on that one is oblivious to knowing. We think we know most of the picture. Some times we have the equivalent to a snap shot and a piece of twine. Clues that we think tell a story but turn out to be far short. I also had the best cup of coffee I've ever drank.

My life never stops being surprising or entertaining. I saw a horse cop ride half way in to a karaoke bar and dance on the back of his mount to a hip hop song (yes, I and several of my friends sang at the bar. No, I was not the person on stage at that moment). I got to witness part of the New Orleans Red Dress Run, an excuse to drink and for many participants to cross dress. Just now I remembered that I saw two tranny hookers. At 1:30 on a Saturday afternoon. I had someone explain to me and a friend in much more detail than was called for the details of his heart attack.

I had several of the nicest meals of my life. In case you were wondering, haute cuisine appears to be about reducing food down to its essence flavors. A feast for the senses. Very indulgent. I highly recommend it. But at the same time there is something analytical about it. The experience gets in the way of the nourishment. Comfort may not be a transcendent experience but it sticks to your ribs. Some times we feed our body. Some times we feed our soul. Haute cuisine falls somewhere between those two poles. I'm glad I got to do it.

Actual conversation (slightly paraphrased) that happened to me on the streets while I was taking a photo:
Strange woman who may or may not have been hitting on me: "Can you answer a question for me?"
Me as I realize she is not going to walk into my shot so I can take it: "I can try."
SWWMOMNHBHOM: "Why are guys such douchebags?"
Me: "Testosterone."
SWWMOMNHBHOM: "Really?"
Me: "Yes."
SWWMOMNHBHOM: "That's it?"
Me: "Yes."
SWWMOMNHBHOM: "How do you get them to stop being douche bags?"
Me: "Hurt them."
SWWMOMNHBHOM: "Wha?"
Me: "You've got to hurt them in such a way that makes them realize how much they are hurting other people."
SWWMOMNHBHOM: "Oh. That won't work. He's always going to be a douchebag.....Oh no. Oh no! OH NO! OH NO! Someone is calling me a douchebag!"
At that point she ran down the street to have a half shouted conversation with someone she had seen walking towards us. And of course she was drunk. It was after noon. But her title was long enough.

By the time I left I was nearly crushed by the longing to see Wife again. We had been apart for over a week due to overlapping trips. Suck ass to a painful degree.

I also must say thank you to B.S. for being there.

And to E. and N. for new experiences and hopefully new friendships. And for making me feel welcome with the cool kids. I have no idea if either of you will ever read this. But if you do, I'd just like to say: "Porn."

It seems the most appropriate way to summarize the trip.

Parade Rest

TonyN's comments on my last post reminded me of a time when I could take a shower in under 30 seconds.

See, when I was a teenager a number of people in the peer group I was in joined the Civil Air Patrol. I was in the cadet program which is like Junior ROTC but for the air force and members are civilians. Even though we met on an air force base. Hard to say their greatest claim to fame but CAP pilots did manage to sink two Uboats in WWII.

In order to hang out with them I joined too. For a year it was kind of interesting and some of it was fun. What was weird was how quickly you can get sucked in to the quasi-military mindset. It's built around testing self-esteem and then giving tiny little rewards that make you want to try and get the next little reward. And creating a sense of belonging to a group that exerts more pressure on you to conform and fit in. And this wasn't even the real military.

The best part about it was the group I was in "won" and got to represent the state I grew up in for a cadet competition. I say won because we were the only one in our state to enter. The cool part was we got to fly to another state in a C-130. It's a big prop plane and equipment transporter. It was like flying in a bus with wings. Back then I didn't get airsick like I do now. That and the plane flew low so we didn't have to deal with full pressurization.

We did poorly in much of the competition, though far from the worst, and did manage to win best spirit. The team from New York was an unstoppable juggernaut that lived for the competition and was among the best in the country. Yes, they can be very proud of their ability to march as a group in both preordained and creative patterns. I'm sure it is a skill that has come up again and again in life.

What does this have to do with showering? We did a separate week long retreat and training thing while I was there that involved groups from our geographic area. One of the things they did to "break you down and build you up" was we got no more than 30 seconds for a shower for most of the week. So you learned to lather up in the sink and use that time to rinse and not much more. The weird thing, the last day we got all the time you wanted to shower and after about a minute you were clean. Anything longer seemed wasteful.

I do have to say though, to this day I'm still not sure how making perfect hospital corners helps a soldier in the field.

The Turning Point

I have a few ideas for blogs in the pipeline so those of you still reading have that to look forward to.

But how about a traumatizing story from my childhood in light of the holiday season?

The other day I realized just when I lost my chance to be cool as a child. In sixth grade I sat in the back of the bus. There were three of us who sat back there, Dean, Robbie, and myself. And those of you who rode buses to school understand the importance of the back seat. For those of you who don't, the back seat was reserved for the coolest kids on your bus route. Nobody messed with them, nobody bullied them. It was the top of the pecking order and those below you had to move up if they tried to take your place. All this despite transferring to my grade school from Catholic school and being a relative nerd (I was in my schools enrichment program for example). I had managed to work my way to the back. I can't recall even particularly liking Robbie and Dean.

Our next door neighbors at that time had two children, Jeff and Michelle. Jeff was three years younger than me. Michelle was about two years older. Jeff and I had been friends but the age difference was becoming pronounced. One day while walking home from the bus, Jeff started making fun of my younger sister who was the same age as Jeff. Now to be honest, I often participated in this activity. I'm her older brother, not a saint.

But today it was really hurting her feelings and something familial stirred in me. I told him to stop. He didn't. So I hit him in the arm. Yet he kept it up. So I punched him in the stomach. Not surprisingly he stopped. And I realized what I had done, basically beat up a little kid. So I did the only thing a big brother does when he has heroically stood up for his little sister. I ran home and started crying to my mother.

Guess who she was sitting around having coffee with. Yep, Jeff's mom. I have no idea what affect this had on their relationship but at least I was crying about it, not bragging. I don't recall being punished by adults over this. My sister was quick to confirm that Jeff had been rather mean to her and all. But the real impact on me was yet to come. Remember what I said about Jeff having an older sister? Well, by this point she was a burner in training. And Robbie and Dean were burner hopefuls. It wasn't long before word was out among the burner grapevine that I was to be shunned by them. And if the burners reject you and you aren't sporty or rich enough, it isn't long before the "cool" kids reject you as well. And that was it, my fate was sealed. No more back of the bus. No more in crowd. Heck, younger kids started realizing my new status in the pecking order and even some of them started hassling me. Especially the ones bigger than me.

Jeff, Michelle, and their family moved away not too long after the punching incident. But the damage would follow me for years. Eventually I managed to get ignored most of the time. I found social circles of similar damaged goods. And the bus became a place to nap if I wasn't stuck sitting in front of someone who might try to hassle or bully me. My senior year I had a car, though I drove to school alone. And by that time I found punk rock and freaked out the cliques by not caring that I wasn't in a clique. And escaping to college. Ahh, college. Maybe that's part of the reason I became a professor. My life was reborn there.

Not surprisingly I haven't made it to any of my high school reunions. Class of 1988 Moon Senior High. Let's see if they somehow track me down through this.