Everyday Life – Page 17 – The Monica Chronicles

December 17, 2013

We’re All Mega Winners

lottery ticket This morning’s big news story centers around the droves of people plunking down hard-earned cash for the chance of winning the Mega Lottery prize in excess of $550 million dollars. The dream of striking it rich and having all life’s problems disappear is a major motivator for giving up what you already have in hopes of making the dream a reality.

Years ago, when the Virginia Lottery first started, Dave and I bought a ticket every week, playing our birthdays and the anniversaries of our first date and wedding. They were lucky days for us, so it only seemed natural that all six dates combined would provide us with exponential luck. It was several weeks before a winner was announced and when it was, it turned out to be someone I knew. After that point I figured the chances of my winning the lottery after an acquaintance of mine had were astronomical so we quit buying the tickets.

I have to admit that in the current frenzy and rush for the convenience store I have been tempted to get in line myself but I have way too many items on my “to do” list that have to be ticked off today that I’m not about to drop it all to buy a chance on what Thomas Jefferson referred as “a wonderful thing; {laying} taxation only on the willing.” Today I am not willing.

Aside from having a great deal to accomplish today, I can’t really see the value in adding $550 million dollars (give or take) to my life will net any improvements. I saw what happened to my friend when her family won a mere $7.6 million and it wasn’t pretty. Suddenly they were inundated with requests from long-lost relatives and strangers all wanting to share in the pot. The hounding became so bad that one day they packed a few bags, locked their door behind them, left and never came back.

Today, as I think about it, I realize that our numbers were winners. Dave’s, Maggie’s and Andy’s and my birthdays along with the anniversaries of our first date and wedding were all winning days and combined have brought not luck but exponential joy to us that mere money could never replace.

So, during this season of family, friends and reflection, let’s all look back at what we already have and hold dear and consider that in some way, either large or small, we’ve all been mega winners. And, while the size of the prizes may vary, in most cases it has been the perfect size for you.

December 9, 2013

Advent Joy

advent wreatj Every year in the weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I convince myself that this year will be different. I make mental lists of what preparations I will make and those I will let fall by the wayside. My thought is to streamline the festivities into something to be celebrated and enjoyed versus a month-long gauntlet of lists, chores and errands that are tiring and joy steeling. In the early days, I try my best to remember that we are in the season of Advent, not Christmas, and dutifully pick up a devotional booklet from church, fully intending to read the blurb every morning to start my day off on the right foot. More times than not I get started but peeter off somewhere in the second week. This year, I never got started. In fact I just found the booklet under a pile of junk mail and free mailing labels and was reminded that we are into the second week of Advent and I haven’t even turned a page. So I opened the book this morning and today’s reading was entitled, “You are forgiven.” and it made me smile.

I am in joyful awe of God’s sense of humor, or perhaps that I see things in my life that I can interpret as God’s poking me in the ribs. I love to tease, be teased and laugh at the silliness of life. I use humor as a way of connecting with people; to break down walls and get inside. I believe that is what the All-Knowing does with me. In fact, my first real encounter with the Almighty resulted in laughter.

As Jesus entered the world in a stable, God entered my world in a ladies’ room. It was Easter Saturday, 1975 and I was visiting Dave at his parents’ home in Mechanicsburg. Dave and I had been invited to join a high-school friend of his and his girlfriend to go down to Maryland to hear a friend’s band play at a church. All we knew about them was they were a “Jesus band”. In those days, the word Christian wasn’t tossed around as casually as it is today, folks who prayed in a Pentecostal manner invoking the Holy Spirit were called charismatics or “Jesus freaks”. And so it came to be that Dave and I attended a Pentecostal prayer meeting; with a band on Easter Saturday 1975.

The meeting started okay. At that time my experience of worship services outside the Catholic mass were limited to one Lutheran service and a charismatic Catholic prayer service I’d attended with friends. The lack of familiar structure in the meeting made me a little uncomfortable as did the speaking in tongues. I’d witnessed that before and found it intriguing. But, when one of the members of the group rose to her feet and began to interpret the prayers and it seemed directed to Dave and me, I’d reached my limit and exited the church as quickly as I could, heading straight back to where the car was parked. Dave joined me in the parking lot followed by the couple we rode with. Since I was so totally unhinged by what had happened, we decided to head on back home. But before we hit the road, we decided to use the restrooms.

By the time we reentered the building, the service had ended. Down in the social hall, near where the restrooms were located, a table of refreshments sat loaded with cookies and cakes. With my head lowered, unwilling to make eye-contact with anyone, I found my way to the ladies’ room. Once locked in the comfort of my stall, I felt safe and secure. That’s when it hit me.

You could call it hysteria, but I remember it as something very different. Suddenly all the stress and discomfort I’d been feeling left my body. As I sat, with my pants around my ankles I began to smile and then laugh whole heartedly. What was there to be afraid of? I couldn’t think of anything, but I kept laughing; mostly at myself. There was nothing left to do but pull up my pants and enjoy some punch and cookies with the rest of them. I’m not sure exactly what happened to Dave, but he was laughing too. In fact, the whole ride home we laughed and giggled.

Something in us changed that night, although it took years to grow and mature. Like most “mountain-top” experiences, we eventually drifted back down to sea level and went on with our lives. I will always remember that night so long ago, when God met me in the ladies’ room and tickled my soul for the first time. He knew just how to reach me; in a place where there was nothing else to distract my attention. Maybe the reason I thought of it today is because this time of year there are so many things to distract me. I’m glad that when I do finally sit down and pay attention that God’s not keeping track of my inattentiveness. Instead, I know when I come back he will again tickle my soul and tell me, “You are forgiven.”

December 3, 2013

Bed Checking

Three weeks have passed since our foster kittens, Cayla and Ally have joined our household. After the first few days, we fell into a routine of feedings and playtime that suited us all very well. In the past week I’ve noticed that they aren’t the babies they were when they first arrived so I’ve been extending their time out and have broadened their allowed spaces as I feel appropriate. Cayla especially has proven to have a good working knowledge of the house, running up and down the stairs to use not only their smaller litter box but climbing up over the side of the large plastic container I have for Izzie and Purrl in the laundry room. Free from fear that I will find a small pile or puddle on the carpet, I’ve let my guard down on having to know their constant coordinates.

Last night when it was time to head upstairs for the night, Cayla was curled up on my lap. After a couple of hours of romping she had settled in with me about an hour before, helping me with my latest knitting project by pulling plenty of yarn from the skein to reduce drag. I drew her to my chest as I lowered the footrest on my Lazyboy and began to look for her sister. Ally was not readily visible. Dave and I began by checking her usual favorite spots and not finding her began a whole house search for the missing kitten. After fifteen minutes of searching, I sent Dave to bed and decided to sit up for our errant young lady.

It’s been many years since I’ve sat vigil for a young one not home at bedtime. When Maggie and Andy were in high school, the curfew Virginia Beach imposed on minors under eighteen saved my beauty rest by requiring they be home by 11:00 PM. One the magic age of 19 was reached and they were home from college for the summer and holidays, all bets were off. Theoretically they could come and go as they pleased, whether it pleased me or not. There is nothing so precious to me as family and the fear of losing them was immense. Consequently I spent many a night waiting up for them, haunted by the ghosts of college-years past and the frightening possibilities of my own imagination. While attending a church conference I once heard this referred to as “a dark night of the soul”; a time when we feel so powerless and vulnerable that we allow ourselves to be overtaken by the darkness. It is not a good place to be.

Eventually they would arrive home safely and after it became clear that they were not impressed by my impression of a worry struck mother, I elected to scurry myself off to bed before they hit the front door. Whether I was there to great them or not, the result was the same; I lost sleep and paid dearly for it the next day.

After many long talks with myself, I resolved that I needed to stop these late night vigils. Like it or not, my children were young adults and free to live their own lives. My role had changed from protector to assistant; if they needed me, they knew they could call me and if they called me, I’d be in a whole lot better shape to help them if I were awakened from a sound sleep than if I’d been sitting in the dark, pumped up on adrenalin and fear. So, I started putting myself to bed at my regular time whether the kids were home or not. It wasn’t easy, but it was practical and I am a practical girl. That doesn’t mean I didn’t do the occasional bed check when I got up to use the bathroom, but for the most part I slept better and thankfully never received that call. I worked at ‘practicing’ my faith and really learned what it meant to rest in the Lord. Instead of giving into my lack of power, I called upon the all-powerful to light up my darkness and it worked.

So last night, I was sitting vigil again for a un-locatable kitten. After an hour of waiting for her to come scampering through the room, I gave up and went to bed. I decided to leave a portion of the playpen’s lid unzipped so Ally could slip in when she found her way upstairs. I can’t say I fell asleep quickly; there were too many mental images of kittens trapped in closets or cupboards or worse yet, lying dead in a corner after biting into an electrical chord with little black x’s over their eyelids. I said a couple of prayers for my lost kitty and eventually fell asleep. I did a bed check around 4:00 AM when I went to the bathroom but she hadn’t returned. Deja vu.

This morning Dave and I did our usual three cycles with the sleep mode on the alarm clock. As is her custom, Izzie marched in and across our bed to let us know it was indeed morning and time to get up and let her out. Unhappy at being ignored, she chased Purrl out of the room a couple of times until she was satisfied we were getting up.

I got up slowly, pushed my feet into my slippers and grabbed my robe from the closet door. I headed for the kitten’s room, hoping against all hope that Ally would be there and she was. I scooped her up, gave her a kiss and unceremoniously slid her through the slit in the screen into her playpen. Cayla greeted her with a throw down to the mat and bite behind the ear and all was set right.

As for me, I sat down and wrote this out as fast as I could. Now I could really use a cup of coffee; it’s going to be a long day.

November 27, 2013

70×7

Just one week ago I received some awful news concerning friend of mine. An acquaintance, who works for the local paper, called to give me a head’s up that my friend had been arrested that morning for possession of child pornography. She wanted me to be aware of the situation before I saw his face on the evening news.

To say that I was shocked would be a gross understatement. The thought of Sheriffs arriving at this good man’s home and arresting him under the suspicion of a crime so foul was not one I could easily reconcile. I knew there had to be some kind of mistake; it just couldn’t have been him. We’re all innocent until proven guilty, right?

But, less than thirty-minutes later, the news came on and my friend’s face filled the 40 inches of my television screen. What I had been told was the truth. He had indeed been arrested and charged with multiple counts of child pornography. I was crushed. What a tragedy; not only for him and his family but also for all of his friends, acquaintances and co-workers and anyone else who knows who he is and now wonders how they could have been fooled into believing that he was something he was not.

Or was he?

I know the first reaction of most people in this situation would probably be to distance themselves from an individual tainted by the exploitation of children. But I can’t help but think that people should be judged in their entirety. Should the many acts of goodness and kindness a person has done in their lives be negated by examples of their poor judgment? If you are truly someone’s friend, shouldn’t you still do all you can to support them through the dark times? These are the kinds of thoughts that have been processing in the back of my brain all week.

Then it came to me last night as I was trying to fall asleep. When the Peter asked Jesus how many times he should forgive his neighbor. “Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you, up to seven times, but up to seventy times seven” (NAB Matt 18:22) And there you have it.

While there is no way I could ever condone such activity, my friend is still my friend, and he is in need. For me the challenge will be in truly embracing the faith I claim to profess and forgiving the man his sin while offering prayers for him and his family as they face what is to come.

November 18, 2013

Did I Play Football? I Can’t Remember….

confusion

This morning in an interview on Today, Brett Favre spoke to Matt Lauer about some of the symptoms he’s experienced that may be a result of the head trauma received during his time as a football player, both as a professional as well as in his earlier years. A couple of the symptoms he mentioned were the loss of memory, the inability to finish a sentence or to locate a word in his mind while speaking. These are all very vexing symptoms, and I certainly don’t mean to make light of his condition or that of scores of other former professional football players. Head injuries are nothing to joke about, but hearing these symptoms, it makes me wonder about my own brain.

I have never been sacked. In fact, I’ve only ever played football about a handful of times. That was more like goofing around in the yard with my brother and some other neighborhood boys in my tween years. Then it was fun to be tackled, but I don’t remember any head injuries, just tumbling and giggling. In fact, the only real head injury I can recall was when I ran into the clothesline pole head-on during a game of tag resulting in an impressive “goose egg” on my forehead. Nevertheless, I too have experienced gaps in my memory, the inability to finish sentences and the frequent grope for the right word in conversation. Writing comes much easier to me.

Word groping is not new for me. In high school I was tasked with introducing a state official to a school assembly who was an advocate of lowering the voting age from 21 to 18 (yes, believe it or not, back in the day you had to be 21 in order to vote). Unfortunately, as I stood at the podium, the word “advocate” fled my brain and the only replacement I could come up with was “pusher”. Consequently, I introduced the poor man as a pusher. Believe me, in the ’70s, no respectable person wanted to be referred to as a pusher. He joked about it and got a laugh, but I disappeared off stage with a very red face.

My daughter, Maggie can attest to the fact that I sometimes drift of mid-though and mid-sentence. Usually it’s because my ADD has kicked in and I’ve been distracted; the needle playing the record in my brain has skipped a couple of tracks. Although it is a part of who I am, I find the whole thing irritating.

The lost memories are the worse. Occasionally one of the kids will tell a story from their childhood about something I said or did and I draw a complete blank. I hate it when that happens because I worry that I wasn’t fully present to them. I’d like to think I was fully aware of my life as a young mother, but I honestly can’t remember much except I was very busy and slept really well – when everyone was healthy.

I suppose my real question is what has caused my symptoms? Did my collision with the clothesline pole alter my brain in such a way that I suffer a similar brain condition as pro football players? Probably not. In fact, if you were to gather a group of women my age; give or take a few years, you’d most like hear the same complaints. Many of us drift, we forget and none of us can find the right word.

So, if this is the case, are these repeated head injuries turning these big, burly men into middle-aged women? Maybe that’s where the expression “knocking sense” into someone came from. Now that’s something to ponder!

November 13, 2013

Kittens – Day Two

A much cleaner Cayla and Allie on their second day of fostering.

With twenty-four hours of kitten fostering under my belt, I have to admit, it hasn’t been the cake walk I’d imagined. From the moment I woke up this morning, I was tending to their little lives, feeding them, cleaning up their playpen and scooping out their litter box. One of them hasn’t gotten the knack of peeing in the box, so there was a puddle to wipe up.

On my way home from the gym, I stopped by Walmart to pick up a few things; kitten wipes, a new some canned food and half a dozen “mice”. Before I took my shower, I gave them each a wipe down and brushing. Neither enjoyed the cleaning very much and both cried in protest as I wiped the yuck and flea dirt from their coats. Then I dried them with clean wash cloths and brushed them with a soft baby brush. To keep them clean, I put them in a net laundry basket and mopped out their playpen.

Not long after they were clean and returned to their clean pen, I noticed that Cayla was favoring her left front paw. I picked her up to examine her leg, feeling up and down the pencil sized appendage. Each time I touched that left leg she cried in pain. When I touched the right, she didn’t react. I reacted big-time and hurried downstairs to find the paperwork I signed with the Humane Society. I found the vet’s name and number and called him immediately. The vet was not in, but I left a message in his voice mail. Having the majority of my day so totally kitten-centered (except for my hour at the gym) I decided it was my turn to jump in the shower, hoping the vet wouldn’t return my call. He didn’t.

Two hours later, Cayla and Allie have just finished their second meal of the day, and are curled contentedly on their “blankie”. Whenever I go by and drop my hand it to pet them, they purr, and sometimes squeak. Oh, and Cayla doesn’t seem to be limping anymore.

I think I’ll head downstairs now and stretch out on the couch with Izzie and Purrl, neither of whom are interested in the babies. This kitten fostering is exhausting!

ps. Most of my fatigue could be a result of last night’s UVA vs. VCU Men’s Basketball game. The new hand-check foul rules really slowed the first half down; I think it lasted an hour and a half! In the end, VCU proved to be the better team and they were a joy to watch. Maggie and Jan and a whole lot of other Rams fans who made the trip north drove home with smiles on their faces. Me, I was more afraid the game would go into overtime than UVA would lose. It was a late night for us!

November 12, 2013

New Beginnings

Today is a day of new beginnings.

This evening Dave and I, along with Maggie and Jan will attend of first UVA basketball game of the season. Dave and I, die-hard ACC fans will root for UVA, Maggie and Jan, and Richmondites, will root for VCU. No matter who wins, it is always exciting to drive into Charlottesville, park by the JAG school and then ride the shuttle off to John Paul Jones Stadium where we will scale our way up to the heights of the bleachers, out of t-shirt gun range and spend two hours hooting and cheering, and hissing at bad calls. College basketball fanaticism is something I caught from my buddy, Jay Pinto, who turned me on to Big Five Basketball in the Philadelphia Palestra back in the early 70’s. I love it all; from the roars of the crowd, the shrill of the whistles to the squeaks of the sneakers on the floor.

If there is one think I love better than basketball, it is kittens. With the right set of circumstances, I’m afraid I could become the crazy woman with thirty cats you see on the news at least two to three times a year. So, to feed my need for time with kittens and avoid over populating my home with felines, I have become a foster-mother to two of the tiniest, sweetest little fur balls for the next several weeks. My task is simple, to care for them, love them and play with them.

Cayla and Allie, day one in their new foster home.

Cayla and Allie, as they were named by the granddaughter of one of the volunteers at the Madison Greene Humane Society, are about five weeks old. They are perfect miniature cats; inquisitive, friendly, playful and best of all, warm and cuddly. They are also unfortunately, a bit stinky. Tomorrow I’ll have to head for Petsmart to get some wipes to bathe them with.

Wait, hold the phone! I hear the familiar sound of scratching on the carpet in the corner. Ooooh nooo! Our first accident! Note to self; Cayla and Allie are not allowed to walk the floor of the office without my keeping an eye on them until further notice. Oh the joys of motherhood!

So far Izzie and Purrl have come in to the office to take a look at the babies, always keeping their distance. Purrl has come closest, offering hisses as she approaches. Luckily, I have a nylon play-yard for them to stay in. It’s just safer for all of us that way.

Now, I know there a many people who do not share my affection for the feline of the pet species. I contend these are people who have never really known a cat. If you think you might like to get to know a cat without any kind of commitment, try fostering one for a couple of weeks. I think you just might be surprised.

November 7, 2013

Time Management

Today I was supposed to finally pack up the Halloween decorations and put them away for next year. Did I do that? Nope.

I wasn’t goofing off, honestly. Instead, I stripped the bed in the guest room and washed the sheets (they’re still in the dryer), vacuumed the upstairs and took the Hoover downstairs and left it in the front hall so I could get the family room – didn’t get to that yet either. I also reviewed and added my two-cents to a letter being drafted to coax donors to open their wallets to support our local Habitat for Humanity group and reorganized my Gmail accounts to rid my inbox of the conversation format that has confounded me since it imposed itself on me. Just before lunch, I ran to Foodlion to pick up a few items we needed (honestly, how do you run out of peanut butter? ) and then after lunch, baked a batch of chocolate chip cookies. With all this accomplished ( at least partially) I sat down to watch Dr. Phil.

I don’t usually watch daytime television but Tuesday and Wednesday I sat mesmerized by Dr. Phil’s interview with Michelle Knight, one of the young ladies held captive in Cleveland. Her story was both riveting and repulsive. Apparently she was the victim of abuse by her own family long before she was kidnapped. It seems incomprehensible that after such a long history of raw terror and physical abuse that anyone could survive let alone find the grace and courage to share, in graphic detail, her ordeal. Perhaps the most astonishing thing about this amazing young woman is her attitude. Despite the years of torture, she has held tightly on to her faith; not blaming God for her fate, but thanking God for her release and opportunity to start over. That is truly amazing. I’m glad I took the time to watch.

This afternoon Dr. Phil’s guests was a man convinced that his wife was cheating on him and his brow-beaten wife who cried and dabbed her eyes with a tissue through the whole show. Their story wasn’t as compelling as that of Michelle Knight, but I found myself unable to look away. The man was for them most part irrational and out of control. The wife had been so emotionally abused that she had abandoned her home and left her twelve-year-old son alone with his father. I don’t know how Dr. Phil will help this couple. The story will continue tomorrow but I’m not so sure I can sit through another hour of it.

I’m not sure this is how people get hooked on these shows, watching one, tuning in the next day for the conclusion and then being enticed to tune in again the next day with tasty previews of the next program. I can see how it could happen. I just don’t think I want to give up another hour when I could finally get that Jack-O-Lantern off the front porch before it’s time to put up my Christmas wreath.

November 4, 2013

Halloween 2013

This morning as I drove off to the gym, I thought of all the things I had to do around the house – my Monday laundry sort and wash, vacuum the downstairs, wipe away several weeks of accumulated dust from the table surfaces, empty the dishwasher and bring order to the kitchen countertops – the list goes on and on. Then I thought about what I really wanted to do. There was only one item on that list; to write.

And so, having endured my Monday work-out, I came home, conquered the kitchen and sorted a week’s worth of dirty clothing, I am contentedly sitting at my desk, with the rhythmic hums and swishes of the washer and dryer running across the hall. Izzie is outback somewhere on patrol for vermin and Purrl is doing her best to entice me into a game of rubber band toss. I have about an hour before the squeaks of the garage door raising will echo through the house heralding Dave’s return for lunch. Let’s see what I can accomplish.

Halloween was wonder-filled as always. These days I have to live vicariously through the young parents who bring their little ones to my door. But I am always happy to see the throngs of beggars in their adopted personas. Fairies out-numbered princesses this year and I even had a trio of Greek goddesses! Some old favorites made an appearance; the ever popular “scream” mask, ninjas, cowgirls, ghosts and ghouls. little trick or treeter I snapped just a few pictures. This one was my favorite because this little guy was genuinely pleased to have his picture taken. After I took the shot, I showed him the photo on my camera and he said, “That’s me!” I didn’t get his name, but he was sure a cutie!

I began to run out of candy early, about 7:30 or so. As I looked at the bottom of my bag I could hear a mother talking to her two little girls at the end of my driveway. The mother said, “This house doesn’t look scary. Why do you think it’s scary?” as she led the girls up the drive. Having heard her comment I asked, “Why did you think my house was scary? ” I was only going for a festive look. The mother explained that the littler of the two was a little skittish of houses that had decorations. I assured the little one that I was not trying to scare anyone- I didn’t even have a costume on! I offered my bag and told the girls (as I’d told the others) to help themselves to two pieces. The little one peaked in quietly and pulled out a fruity tootsie roll. “Look!” she said holding the candy out to her mother, “It’s my favorite!” She was so excited about that fruity tootsie roll that she forgot all about her fear.

The funny thing about her choice is that I love them as well and had a devil of a time finding them. The other children passed them over choosing Kit-Kats and Junior Mints instead. I was so tickled, I gave her another piece, telling her they were so little, she could have two of them. She left in a much lighter mood than the one she arrived in.

Immediately it struck me how many times in my own life I’ve been afraid to go somewhere or do something because of an irrational fear rather than a real one. It’s been a life-long battle that I am constantly aware of and have been able to triumph over in my adulthood. One of the secrets of my success has been to give myself little “pats on the back” after each little victory. Positive self-reinforcement really works for me.

I’m certain that next year that little girl will remember finding something special at the porch at the end of a dark driveway and maybe not be so frightened.

October 24, 2013

It’s Been a Hard A’s Plight!

Several weeks ago while I was out buying my fall pansies, the gal tallying my bill looked at me and asked, “Michigan or Wisconsin?” At first I thought she was asking if I was rooting for a particular college football team. Then it hit me, she was inquiring about my accent. “Neither,” I replied, “it’s Western New York.” “Really,” she asked, “I didn’t know it went that far east. I thought it stopped at Chicago.” Having assured her that the accent indeed went at least as far east as Syracuse and paying for my pansies, I began to contemplate the wonders of language and linguistics. I hadn’t quite reached my car when it struck me; the accent hadn’t travelled east, it actually went west with the pioneers. At least that’s my theory.

Because I spent my ea’drly years in the Niagara Frontier of western New York State, I wasn’t aware that we had an accent. Everyone around me sounded the same. Occasionally on TV I’d hear a foreign accent, usually German, English or French (there were lots of programs set in the second world war) or a Southern drawl as the Centennial of American Civil War coincided with my childhood. Then of course, there was JFK’s New England accent. But as far as I was concerned, unless you lived in the south or New England, all Americans spoke English and sounded pretty much the same as I did.

Then, in the middle of sixth grade, my family pioneered down south to New Jersey, moving not far from Philadelphia. Again, it was television that made me aware that other people sounded different from the way we did. One local commercial in particular that my tickled my brothers and sisters and I for a business called, “Jerry Green’s Mirror World”. Jerry promised he could “beeeuuuuteeefi any room in your home” with wall to wall mirrors. We found the way Jerry said beautify so amusing that we would try to imitate him at the dinner table, the perfect stage for that kind of family entertainment.

Of course, the flip side of this experience was when I became aware that my peers were aware that I had not only had an accent but used funny words for things. The most noticeable was that I used the word “pop” for “soda”. Believe me, age twelve is not the time in life to be singled out as different from the kids in your class. No one wanted to be singled out as “queer”, which in those days still referred to being a bit odd.

It was easy to begin substituting words into the correct vernacular, but losing my hard a’s was not so easy. I had great incentive too. My best friend Patty Diamond had an older brother, Joe, who perversely delighted every time I called her and he answered the phone. I would politely ask, “Is Pat there?” and he would respond by shouting through their house, “Payaaaat, telephone!” mocking my hard “a” pronunciation. No twelve-year-old girl on the brink of puberty wants to be taunted by her best friend’s cute older brother. A change had to be made to help me stay under the radar. So, I spent hours practicing saying Pat’s name with a softer “a”, repeating, “Is Pat there? Is Pat there? Is Pat there?” over and over until I was sure I had it right.

Map of Hard A After my latest encounter with the sales girl at the garden center, I thought I’d do some minimal research into my accent. I discovered that it actually has a name; Inland Northern American English. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inland_Northern_American_English). The map* to the left illustrates the area of the US where people who sound like me come from. I come from a land up over, where lake effect snow is a winter reality, where we drink pop, get water from the faucet and pronounce, “Mary, merry and marry” all the same. The hard “a’s” are our way of maintaining our heritage, our link to our starting points.

Over the years, my “a’s” have softened. Having now lived most of my life in Virginia with short stints in Rhode Island and Hawaii, I’m sure other words and sounds have snuck into my accent. That is until of course, I find myself in a room full of relatives and other INAE speakers. Then my “a’s” harden and sharpen and I delight in hearing the familiar vowels of my childhood. As always, it’s a good thing to remember where I came from.

*map copied from Wikipedia.org