Author: energywriter

I giggle at the least provocation and love to pass my warped sense of humor to anyone who will listen or read. My favorite activities are my individual play dates with my five great-grandsons. No, I'm not THAT old. My family just has a tradition of marrying at five years old. Seriously, I am retired from the State of Wisconsin where my favorite job was as an outreach coordinator for aviation/space education. I've been a reporter for two newspapers, a copy editor for an international agricultural program, and been published in several regional magazines. My degree is in Professional Communication from Alverno College in Milwaukee, Wis. While they didn't promote humor writing, the instructors fostered an atmosphere of looking at the world through a lens that would allow us to explore what was being said beneath the obvious.

Twins – oh no!

by energywriter, posted in Humor

A video, posted at http://www.mommylite.com by Sarah Maizes, triggered a flashback to when my twins were born. So, I’m taking this opportunity to inflict, excuse me, share my memories with you.

The year was 1967 and Husband/Daddy was on his second tour in Vietnam. His first tour was when son was born. That man had great timing!

I was very pregnant and wondering if the baby would ever be born. No sonograms back then, just x-rays that doctors used judiciously on pregnant moms. I awoke at 5:35 a.m. needing to use the “necessary.” When that task was completed I felt a sharp contraction. After 30 minutes I called the doctor and my parents, waking them all from a sound sleep. Mom drove me to the hospital while Dad drove my three-days-less-than-18-months-old livewire son to his aunt’s for day care.

I checked in and was given papers to sign. “You expect me to sign my name? I can barely breathe much less hold a #$%^pen!”

The staff put me in a labor room with another woman who was sitting calmly reading a magazine. Not knowing if she was a “first timer” and not wanting to frighten her, I kept my lips tightly sealed. No moans or groans, much less screams, came from my half of the room.

After a few minutes the nurse wheeled me into the delivery room and expected me to move myself from bed to delivery table. Was she nuts? If I couldn’t write how could I move my overblown body from one horizontal position to another?

Very soon a healthy baby girl slid out and was retrieved by the nurse who began doing nurse things to her. The doctor began palpating my abdomen with what felt like boxing gloves. “Please stop, that hurts,” I pleaded.

“Just hold on a little bit. You know the placenta has to come out,” the doctor said. “Oh, my God! Here comes another one!”

Healthy Baby Girl B arrived just four minutes after Baby Girl A, both within two hours of my first contraction. She was also retrieved by the nurse who did more nurse things. Then the overly-cheerful b***ch laid a wrapped baby on each arm and asked me if I was happy to have twins. I just lay there looking from one baby to the other. Comprehension was not quite there.

Mom related that the doctor approached her in the waiting room with shaky fingers trying to light a cigarette. “It’s twin girls, Mrs. Dillon.”

Then the fun really started. While I was serenely sitting in the hospital feeding BG A or BG B, Mom was busy trying to scrounge additional baby equipment and clothes.

Her other job was notifying Daddy of the births. She visited the American Red Cross office which duly sent a telegram. The next day they called Mom to tell her that Daddy could not be found and was suspected to be missing in action, but they would send a second message by another route. This message was confirmed and Mom could once again breathe. There was no way she was going to tell me that he was missing in action.

Three days later I received a letter from Husband/Daddy. Panic was evident in his pen strokes, “Did you have two babies or four?” He had received both telegrams.

Going home day had its own excitement. Another aunt was holding one daughter while my mother held the other. Big Brother having been told he had two baby sisters, burst through the front door and ran to see the babies. First one girl cried, then the other. Big Brother looked from one to the other and said, “Uh-oh!” then ran to his room. A new toddler sized football eased his fears somewhat.

I don’t think he’s ever gotten over the shock.

When Mom asked which baby she was holding Aunt replied, “This one, because you’re holding that one.”

Oh, the other mom in the labor room? That was her eighth baby.

 © Sharon Dillon, July 15, 2010

Handy Woman, my Aunt Fanny!

by energywriter, posted in Whimsy

Today was an exercise in learning that I should have spent $25 for a do-it-for-you person.

One of my mother’s belongings was a porch-size American flag. I proudly brought it home to install in time Independence Day. Not having a place to fly it, last week I went to my local Helpful Hardware Place and bought a flag holder. Only three screws to install it. This would be a piece of cake. I’ve done other simple jobs around the house.

Today I chose to work in 105 degree temperature and install the holder. Not a problem. This would be a five minute job.

I gathered my tools and headed to the front porch. I tried marking the places where the screws need to go with a pen. The pen didn’t fit in the screw holes so I went back inside for a long, skinny screw to mark the site. That done, the drill wouldn’t start. Uh-oh, I left the battery pack in the box, a trip inside to retrieve that.

Did you know that you can’t drill upside down? Well, at least it didn’t work for me. So instead of drilling/screwing from the deck I needed to do it from the ground, using a two-step step stool to reach the railing. After another trip inside for the stool and sidestepping the phlox and nandina, I finally situated the stool so it wouldn’t tip with me on it.

Finally, I was ready to drill. Three holes appeared to replace the marks and I was ready to pound in the plastic screw anchors. Only they didn’t fit. The 11/64 inch holes were not big enough. I went back in the house to retrieve the 3/16” bit. Much better.

Now all I needed to do was pound the anchors into the holes. The people who design those objects must think we have upper body strength. They obviously don’t envision limp wrist-forearm-elbow-upper arm do-it-yourselfers attempting this task. I pounded and pounded and repeatedly dropped those little white anchors. Two of them never went in further than 1/4 inch. The third one actually went in about ½ inch. After all this effort I decided that the flag was light weight and just plain screws would hold it. Removing that third anchor proved to be a task and a half, but it finally popped from the hole.

Another trip inside for the 1/8” bit. Three new holes appeared next to the others with little stress. Now I could place the holder and insert the screws. But the drill/screwdriver was too big to fit around the various bumps on the holder.
So I made another trip inside for the battery screw driver. After the hammering incident I knew I wouldn’t have the strength to insert the screws manually. I installed the left top screw about ¾ of the way and moved to the right top screw and installed it about the same distance. Next I moved to the bottom center screw and installed it all the way.

Now it was time to go back and tighten the two top screws. But, the battery screwdriver has lost its oomph. Back inside again, this time to find a manual Phillips screwdriver. After tightening the screws I’d be all set for the Fourth of July. Small problem – the screw heads were stripped. Don’t ask me how. They just were.

After considering the option of driving to the Helpful Hardware Place to buy three new screws and drill yet more holes in the porch rail, I decided that since the flag was light the holder as installed could do the job. I came inside again. Unrolled the flag and tried it out. Good fit – success at last. However, rerolling the flag was another issue. After three tries I finally rolled it tight enough to fit back in the box.

After three trips to get all the tools back inside the house, this five minute job took only 50 minutes in 105 degree heat. I couldn’t wait to wrap my lips around a frozen fruit bar. So cool and refreshing!

I just have one fear. What if the flag falls? I can envision an apoplectic veteran pounding on my door and heaping imprecations upon my head for treating our flag disrespectfully. How will I ever explain that not only was I a Girl Scout who taught younger scouts flag protocol but I am also a daughter and niece of WWII veterans who were also carpenters? To heap more potential shame upon my shoulders, I’m the former wife of a Vietnam veteran and the mother and mother-in-law of five more veterans.

© by Sharon D. Dillon, June 26, 2010

Lost in my home town

by energywriter, posted in Whimsy

Events have a way of coming full cycle, yet never really coming back to the beginning. After being gone from Shelby for more than 40 years I’m back, but both Shelby and I are different.

When I left I knew nearly all the people, streets, stores and factories. I was born here and graduated from the “old” high school. Shelby was all I knew, though I longed to see the world, or at least more than Richland County.

Leaving started me on a journey that would take me many miles and experiences away from Shelby. Each city became my new home and memories of Shelby began slipping away. I learned what I could of the new locale, made friends and made myself comfortable. I soon learned that home is wherever I am.

I have always been baffled when I heard people say they were going “home” for a visit when they had been living in their current location for many years. I say that I’m going to visit my family.

Now, I’m back for a temporary stay and feel like an alien. Except for two close friends and a few of my mother’s neighbors, I don’t see people I recognize. Everywhere I go I look at the faces and wonder if I should know these people.

A couple days ago I answered my mother’s door; and the woman standing there said, “May I come in?”

To my question about her identity, she responded, “Your cousin, Sue.”

Looking closer at this stranger I could see Sue’s features and her warm smile, and welcomed her into the house.

I get lost in the grocery store across the street. Any time I want to buy a specialty food item or something other than groceries, I have to ask what store carries it and how to get there. Many times I’m told I have to drive to Mansfield. That’s a big change.

As a youngster growing up in Shelby I remember that our family did all our shopping here, only riding the bus to Mansfield for a special occasion. Main Street hosted a flower shop, a photographer, three or four women’s clothing stores, at least two men’s clothing stores, three drug stores with lunch counters, a couple shoe stores, two grocery stores, two movie theaters, two banks, a shoe repair shop, a restaurant and a bakery with a lunch counter, a candy store and the Shelby Dairy, where we could buy giant ice cream cones for a nickel. We could even stop on the way to school and pet the horse that pulled the milk delivery wagon.

On summer Saturday evenings we would dress up and walk downtown to meet Mom’s sisters and my cousins who were in town from their farms. We’d walk down Main Street together giggling and gazing at the wonderful displays in the store fronts. Of course, nearly all the stores were closed. Most only stayed open until 9:00 on Monday and Friday evenings. The other days saw stores close at 5:00. Everything was closed on Sunday except for the movie theaters that opened after church hours.

Now, those stores are gone, replaced by different businesses. A stroll down Main Street to learn who is there seems to be in order. Why are all those stores gone? I understand that times and trends change. Yet those shops offered a personalized, quality shopping experience not available in big box stores. The sales staffs knew what brands we each preferred and what sizes we wore. I could go in any store and tell the sales staff I wanted a gift for my mother or father and trust that he or she would guide me to a wise choice. Though, I didn’t always take their advice and my parents ended up with some strange, “kid” gifts.

And, the factories, where are they? I can’t recall their names but I recall that one made ammunition. One was a flour mill. Another made bicycles and later business forms. Fire alarms came from another workshop. Bubble gum aroma escaped another huge building. The former Air Force Depot is an industrial/vocational park, an appropriate retrofit. At least, the “Tuby” is still here.

Sometimes it’s fun to look back and feel nostalgic about days gone by. But, they are just that, gone by. Shelby is a great place, but it isn’t my home any more. Shelby feels as foreign as any other city I’ve never seen before. Hopefully, before my stay is over I’ll begin feeling comfortable again. The key to that experience is people, not stores or streets or factories. I hope to renew old friendships, get reacquainted with my cousins and make new friends.

Then Shelby will truly be my home town.

© by Sharon Dillon, April 27, 2010

I’m not lyin’ – I’m 29

by energywriter, posted in Whimsy

I’m 29 and will be that age until I’m old and gray-er. If you don’t believe me, just ask my 44 year old son. If Jack Benny could stay 39 until his death, I can stay 29 forever. (For you younger than 29s, Jack Benny was a comedian whose popularity was highest in the 1935-65 era. One of his ongoing jokes was that he was always 39.)

Actually, my family is one of a kind. Mother, daughters and I are all 29. Granddaughter hasn’t reached that elevated status yet, though she doesn’t have far to go. For the purposes of this tale, she is being promoted to 29. Since we are all the same age, we all have the same memories and enjoy the same music and activities. Well, kinda-sorta.

We all remember when Grandchildren graduated high school and their sons were born. But gosh, not everyone remembers manual typewriters, cooking without a microwave oven or riding bicycles without a helmet. Some can recall when home computers were first on the market and mobile phones were carried in a heavy tote bag. One thinks anything older than an iPod is ancient history.

The five of us 29 year olds have eclectic music tastes. Mom (or GG) likes the Big Bands and Frank Sinatra, as do I, though I tend to listen more frequently to Elvis, the Beatles and Carlos Santana. Their music, according to Mom was invented by some crazy person who drank too much. Daughters admit that GG’s music has some good qualities, as do those of my era, but they prefer Michael Jackson and Garth Brooks. Granddaughter, on the other hand, prefers Taylor Swift and Jay-Z and thinks, like GG, that 60s rock was invented by a crazy person who drank too much.

One conversation with Granddaughter went something like this.

(Gd) “What was special about Elvis?”

(Me) “How can you ask that about the King?”

(Gd) “Michael Jackson is the King.”

(Me) “Michael is the King of Pop. Elvis is the King of Rock and Roll.”

(Gd) “You’re weird, Gramma.”

Another day I was telling Granddaughter that she looked cool and fresh in her tube top. She responded, “Go buy one, Gramma.”

After I stopped laughing, I said, “Sweetie, it’s not a good idea to wear a tube top when your boobs reach your waist.”

That conversation leads us to fashion statements. GG prefers elastic waists and polyester. I tend to hang out in jeans and pullovers as do Daughters. However, being stick women, they look much better in jeans than I. My body type could be best described as fluffy. Granddaughter on the other hand is wearing GG’s elastic waists until she loses her “baby weight.”

All things considered,  I want to recommend staying 29 forever to all women, especially if they have three other generations who share being 29.

Men, take a page out of Jack Benny’s book and stay 39.

 © April 2010 by Sharon Dillon