Flashback Friday - Dick and Jane........

I hadn't thought about the Dick and Jane books in YEARS. We used these in elementary school when we were learning to read.

I don't remember if it was first or second grade when we used these books. It seems there was a series of books as opposed to a single book. (Someone help me here!)

One reason I can't remember which grade it was is because I went to both first and second grades in the same year. They didn't know what else to do with smart children way back then. There were no gifted, SCOPE, challenge, or whatever classes. I thought for the longest time that they moved me up to second grade because I wouldn't go to sleep during nap time.

These books started my lifelong love of reading, and I'm embarrassed to say that when I saw the book advertised in a catalog, I got a little teary-eyed. Then I got on the computer.

I got off the computer approximately $130 later. (The book didn't cost that much, but I saw several other things I simply couldn't live without.)

I almost didn't want to take the plastic wrap off the book. But I wanted to see the pages, smell the newness.

It was just like the feeling I had when I was learning to read. I wanted to see what Dick, Jane, Sally, Spot, and Puff were up to. (These books are probably the reason my first dog's name was "Puff.") I couldn't wait to open the book and discover new things.

It's pretty much still like that today.

Flashback Friday - When I Met Rozmo.......

If I had to pinpoint the exact moment my friendship with my cycling pal Rozmo started, I would pick BRAG 2004. It would have to be the first part of the week, because that was the year she had to go home mid-week to be with a friend for a medical procedure. We had known OF each other before then, and Rozmo would go back further than that. I guess it's typical of friendships (any relationship?), that one would remember something the other did that stuck with her, and the other has no recollection of the event whatsoever.

A typical Rozmo picture, taken when we had a rest stop at Mayfield Dairy. She said she wanted to show this one to her dad. He must be proud. 

Before my stint as the person in charge of the merchandise truck on BRAG, the job apparently belonged to Rozmo and a friend of hers. Working in the merchandise truck isn't necessarily a HARD job, but it can be annoying. You have to ride like hell to get into camp by 2:00, when the truck is supposed to open. If you're lucky, you have just enough time to shower and change clothes, only to get in a truck where it's approximately a billion degrees hotter than the surface of the sun. The shower becomes a distant memory almost immediately. The truck is open from 2:00 to 5:00, and it does have its pleasant moments. You get to interact with a number of people you might never encounter on the road. Okay, that's the only one I can think of. For the privilege of working in billion degree temperatures, one gets to ride BRAG for free. I did it for several years before I said to myself one day, "Hey...I've GOT the $200 rider's fee."

On the Silver comet Trail.

According to Rozmo, when she was in charge of the merchandise truck, I was assigned to work my shift that afternoon. When I reported to work, I told her and her friend they didn't need to hang around, I could handle it. She was grateful and has never forgotten it, and I don't even remember it.

This looks like a cold morning, but it was actually the first day of BRAG. Rozmo is almost always smiling. 

I do nice things so rarely, you would think that would stick out in my mind.

We started planning rides together after the summer of 2004. We went on a couple of out-of-town rides, and we started making plans to either stay together on BRAG or at least ride together.

Working at BRAG registration. Rozmo worked for BRAG almost fulll-time for a few years, and I was greatly relieved when she gave that job up. That meant we could once again ride together.

Just because two people LIKE each other, it doesn't necessarily follow that they can RIDE together. People have different riding styles. One may like to stop frequently, one may like to stop almost never. One may like to socialize at rest stops and get into camp whenever, and one may feel compelled to get it done and get it over with.

Rozmo and Chico in the RV. Rozmo is a dog person, which is just another reason I like her.

Rozmo and I don't ride EXACTLY alike, but we have adapted to one another's styles and ride well together. Rozmo never met a stranger, and she can find something nice to say to almost anyone. She compliments parents when their children are especially well-behaved, because she knows parents like to hear that. And she's not even a parent herself! But she was an elementary and middle school P.E. teacher for 30 years, so she knows a thing or two about children. And their parents.

This picture is from Paddle Georgia, another adventure Rozmo and I shared. We also shared the same opinion of it, almost. I went home after Day 2; Rozmo made it through Day 3.

Rozmo is one of the most organized people I know. Her things are always packed neatly, and she even folds her DIRTY laundry and puts it in a separate section of her suitcase. She is kind, generous, witty, and an excellent people-person. She can mediate any conflict, even between people she doesn't even know. Last year on BikeFest we witnessed a family dispute on the Riverwalk down below our camping area, and before we knew it, Rozmo was calmly walking the feuding parties up to the parking lot. She's just that kind of person.

This was after a particularly trying day on BRAG when everyone's laundry, which they paid to have done, got jumbled together. The facial expression is staged, but the emotion was real.

Rozmo pushes me to be a better cyclist and a better person. I am truly lucky (and grateful) to have her friendship.

I may have posted this photo before. We had dinner during BRAG at my non-cycling sister's house, and Rozmo was freezing. (She's very cold natured.) Rather than inconvenience anyone by asking for socks or requesting the thermostat be adjusted, Rozmo simply asked for two paper towels and wrapped her feet in them.

No one will ever accuse Rozmo of taking herself too seriously. Just another reason she's my friend.

Rozmo, Doug and I stopped at the "Castle" house on BRAG this past summer for a photo op. I also have a photo of Doug in his plastic bag inner liner, but this post isn't about him.

Flashback Friday - My Favorite Bars......

On a day when I spent most of it sitting in a chair at the hospital, I thought it appropriate to write about my favorite bars when I was in ... let's just say it was in college.

The Other Place - Probably the first bar I went to was called "The Other Place." I thought that was a cool name.

"Where you going this Friday?"
"The Other Place."

Kind of goes along with that whole "Who's on first?" theme, don't you think?

"What place?"
"The Other Place."
"What's the FIRST place?"
"Huh?"

The first time I went there, a whole gaggle of us went during our spring break. I was ... let's just say I hadn't yet reached the legal drinking age. And the legal drinking age in Georgia at that time was 18.

We put on a really cool act, breaking into groups of three or four instead of all showing up at the door at the same time. We didn't want to draw attention to ourselves. So we all entered separately and then proceeded to congregate at the same table all together. Nah, that wasn't suspicious at all. We needn't have worried...the closest drinking town was also the college town, and they were on spring break too. The bar was probably happy to have the business, no matter what the ages. Things weren't quite as strict back then. And underage drinking was a rite of passage, not a cause for castigation.

The Mad Hatter - I think this was the same place as "The Other Place," and it was where I went twice a week almost every week for most of my college days. Wednesday night was Ladies' Night, and the featured act was male strippers. I think the only time I ever put a dollar in one of their waistbands (did they wear g-strings? hmmmm... can't remember) was right before I got married, and I felt obligated to do it then. Bachelorette parties were frequently held there, and I've never been able to erase from my brain one of the standard toasts as those gatherings:

Friends may come and friends may go,

And friends may peter out, you know.

But we'll be friends through thick and thin,

Peter out or peter in.

Please accept my humble apology. It's been that kind of day, and if the Braves don't start playing better, it's going to be that kind of night as well.

I frequently went to "The Mad Hatter" with a co-worker who became a good friend. She was a good friend but a terrible drunk, and she frequently got very, very drunk. Her husband was head of the drug and vice squad in town, so she may have gotten a free pass if she had ever needed it. I don't know that she ever DID need it, but still. One night a security guard walked past us, and when he was almost past, she reached out and grabbed the butt of her holstered gun. He whirled around, and it's a wonder we didn't both end up shot. I was furious at her. It was a stupid thing for ANYONE to do, but the wife of a cop? Even I knew better!

The B & L Warehouse - I didn't frequent the B&L very much, but I did go there a few times. They were famous for "Zoo Night," a night when you paid whatever the cover charge was ($5 maybe?) and then beer was free. I went there with a date one time, and I told him primly, "I don't drink beer." He said, "You'll drink beer tonight, or you won't drink." I drank beer. I don't know what the B&L stood for, but it was indeed in a warehouse of a building. They featured cheap drinks and loud music, and what else is there for a college crowd? I ran into my friend's husband there one night (the cop, always out of uniform because he was always undercover), and he insisted we dance to Eric Clapton's song "Cocaine." It was one of his favorites. Go figure. I lost a teeny, tiny diamond earring at the B&L one night, and I mourned its loss for days. I thought the design of the B&L left a lot to be desired. One of the exits required patrons to walk down a steep, dark, metal stairway. I guess you could consider it a sort of sobriety test.

O'Malley's - This was my favorite bar by far, because it sat beside (and over) a river at the edge of campus. It had a winding series of multi-level wooden decks (which collapsed into the river from the weight of all the patrons one night, but fortunately no one was injured), and I don't remember ever being there that we weren't outside. There WAS an inside part, but that was just for going to the bathroom. At that time it was okay to leave with a beer or a drink, but it had to be poured into a plastic cup at the exit. I was sitting there at the exit waiting for some friends one night, so I started helping, reminding people as they left to pour their drinks into cups and handing them the required cups so they could do so. The next week when they tried to i.d. a friend of mine at the door, she said, "Go get [Bragger]. She works here!" Naturally they had no idea who she was talking about. She had seen me enforcing the pour-it-into-a-cup rule the previous weekend, and she assumed I was an employee. Me? Work at a bar? Pshaw. 

These are just a few of my regular hangouts the bars I knew of. There was also "The Last Resort," "The Fifth Quarter," "T.K. Hardy's" (made famous when T.K. himself was murdered one night), "The Station," and I'm sure a host of others. There are about five times that many bars downtown these days, tiny little hole-in-the-wall joints where if you aren't really good friends with the person next to you, you will be by the end of the night.

If it weren't an away-game weekend, I might be tempted to go try some of them out. Just for the purpose of research, you understand.

Flashback Friday - The Time I Became One of THOSE Students......

I was a senior in college, and my friend from high school, Mack, and I were taking a course in Chaucer from Dr. Shaw.

A whole course in Chaucer. Ponder on that for a moment.

It must have been one hell of a scheduling nightmare, or I must have already taken every other course for an English major that didn't involve medieval poetry. I have no other explanation for why I would have voluntarily signed up for an entire course in Chaucer. Unless Mack peer-pressured me into it. He's the sole reason I was an English major in the first place. That and college calculus. And chemistry.

I don't remember a lot about Dr. Shaw. I remember her wearing a flower, either in her hair or on her blouse, and I don't remember whether it was a single occurrence or if she wore it all the time. I also remember that Mack would always turn to me in class and whisper, "Do you think she ever thinks about sex?" I had no idea what the right answer to that question was. Maybe he was referring to the flower.

The other thing I remember about Dr. Shaw was that I was terrified of her. She came across so stern and smart and knowledgeable and no-nonsense that I wouldn't have approached her on a dare. And I was a daredevil.

At the end of the semester, we had two (or was it three?) days of final exams. Exam periods were three hours per class, and the schedule was determined by what time your class was normally held. A 7:50 class (isn't that a dumb time to have a class?) might have the 8-11 slot, an 8:50 class might have the 12-3 slot, and so on. (I'm working on very poor memory of the quarter system, and almost every college in the free world has converted to semesters now, so I don't have anything reliable on which to base my examples.)

Many professors used the last day of classes to give their final exams, even though they weren't supposed to change the schedule. Professors who did that probably wanted to get their grades in (particularly those pesky English teachers, who gave such horrendous essay exams in the first place), and they may have wanted to get a jump-start on their short between-quarter vacations too. We didn't mind not having to show up for a 3-hour exam, and we were ecstatic if OUR breaks started a day (or two) early, so we didn't complain.

Dr. Shaw, however, threw a monkey wrench into the whole mess. She decided our final exam (over Chaucer, remember?) would be administered on the last day of classes (yay!), but it would still be a 3-hour exam (boo!).

Wait...what?

By doing that, she was completely ignoring anything we might have in our schedules beyond her class: other classes, jobs, a social life. If someone were unlucky enough to have Dr. Shaw for, say, a 2:00 class, and then someone else for a 3:00 class, then her plan did not allow for a student to attend that 3:00 class on the all-important (sometimes) last day of classes.

Personally, I had a job in the afternoons, and while it would have been a simple matter to rearrange my work schedule to accommodate that final exam, I disagreed with it on principle. I didn't think she should move the final exam to the last day of classes instead of the assigned day just because it fit HER schedule better, and then not take OUR schedules into consideration for the last day of classes.

So I called the chairman of the English department.

I know, right?

I've always thought it was significant that when I called to report my problem, the secretary asked what year I was. Perhaps if I had been a freshman instead of a senior, my message may never have been delivered.

I made the mistake of telling Mack what I had done, KNOWING he couldn't avoid looking my way if the phone call came up in class. But another student saved me.

When Dr. Shaw walked into class the next time, a blond-haired guy who was either a swimmer or a diver spoke up and said, "We're a little concerned by this final exam thing."

She retorted, "You're damn right you are. SOMEONE called the head of the department."

Don't look at me, Mack. Don't look at me, Mack. Don't look at me, Mack. Don't look at me, Mack.

I probably gave myself away, sitting there in the front row, because I DIDN'T look around and make eye contact with anyone else. Especially Mack.

Boy, was Dr. Shaw peeved. It had never crossed my mind that she might retaliate by creating a final exam that no one with an IQ less than 534 could pass, but that was water under the bridge at that point. The horse was out of the gate and charging down the backstretch. (Forgive the mixed metaphors. Dr. Shaw would probably crucify me for them.)

Dr. Shaw must have had some serious out-of-town plans, though, because her solution was still NOT to move the exam to its scheduled time, but instead to give us a take-home exam. I've heard horror stories about take-home exams in college and have always heard they are to be avoided like the plague, but it was fine with me. I didn't have to sit in a classroom for three hours, whether on the assigned day OR on the final day of classes, I didn't have to worry about Dr. Shaw finding me out, and I didn't have to wonder about her flower and whether or not she ever thought about sex while I was churning out some pithy remarks about Chaucer.

Looking back, I have mixed feelings about what I did. There may have been a better way to approach the problem, including going to Dr. Shaw during her office hours. But did I mention I was terrified of her? And in the late 70's and early 80's, students didn't have the kind of collegial relationships with their professors that I think are more common today. (Or perhaps that was just me. I still held professors up on a pedestal, something better than us mere mortals.) I was amazed the blond-haired swimmer/diver even had the nerve to speak up; but boy was I glad he did. Even if I HAD summoned the nerve to go to her office, I had the impression she wouldn't have changed her mind based on the opinion of one student. And we didn't have time to organize any type of group effort; exams were upon us.

I've tried to put myself in Dr. Shaw's position. It must have been embarrassing for her department chair to call her in and chastise her (if indeed he did), but to this day I think she was in the wrong.

I don't even remember what grade I got in that course. Now I'm curious, though, and I may have to go look up my undergraduate transcripts just to see if I got an "A" or a "B".

Flashback Friday.....Kylie......

I remember the first Kylie I ever taught. I hadn't been teaching high school very long, and it was trial by fire. Typically the newest teachers get the toughest kids. I guess they figure if you've been there a while you've earned the right to teach students above the criminal level. (It was sort of a rough school.) And they must also figure that if you get the tough-as-nails kids and you stick around after the first year or two, you just might make it to achieve tenure and maybe even retire someday.

If there is a positive side to teaching the lowest (and worst behaved) students, it's that as the year rolls along, those are typically the ones who drop out. They get bored, frustrated, disillusioned, embarrassed, arrested, or any number of other things, and they disappear from your classes in droves. When I say "positive side," by no means do I mean to trivialize the social issue of dropping out, nor do I mean I was glad to see any particular students go away. (But you have to know I was.) I just mean that in that setting, with those difficult students, it was much easier to manage a class (and sometimes actually teach) if the number was smaller. Those were energy-sucking kids, and I could fill up a number of blog entries with stories just from them. Some make me want to weep with sadness; others make me want to weep with joy. (I'll try to remember to tell you about the student who volunteered to answer a question when I was being observed one day. Remind me if I forget.)

On the day that sparked this particular memory, we had just returned from lunch. The way our schedule worked, we had a 4th period class that had lunch and a study hall period attached to it. On our hall, we had class, then lunch, then the study hall. Perfect arrangement. It was late in the school year, and my 4th period class had dwindled to about 8 students. (There were probably more than that on roll, but unless their probation officers were checking on them, attendance was sporadic at best.) I felt confident enough leaving them alone long enough to go down the hall to the restroom and brush my teeth after lunch. (Because goodness knows the 20 minutes we had for our lunch break wasn't enough to eat AND do everything else.)

I seem to remember there were 8 students present in study hall on this particular day. I got my toothbrush and started out the door. Then I turned to the meanest girl in that class, a girl named Kylie, and I said to her, "You're in charge." I had used the bathroom and was in the process of brushing my teeth when there was furious banging on the door of the restroom in our faculty workroom. It was a student (or two) from my 4th period class, yelling, "There's a fight in your room!"

Apparently Kylie had taken me at my word about being in charge, and she was in the process of beating the tar out of another girl. The assistant principal got to my room before I did, and I just knew my career as a teacher was over. One of the biggest no-nos in education is leaving a classroom unattended, even if there are only 8 of them and you've left Kylie in charge. He was very forgiving and understanding, though, and it almost made me like him.

The combatants had knocked every single thing off my desk in the melee. I had this precious little pen and pencil holder that spelled out "H-E-L-L-O," with each letter a separate compartment. By the time I got to my room, it said "Hell." I left it there for the rest of the year because I thought it was appropriate.

She was the first girl named Kylie I ever taught. And every time I get a new one (because there are only a jillion in the world now, with half a jillion different ways to spell it), I always remember her. And I shudder just a little bit.

Flashback Friday - The Sweetheart Ball......

I am mostly a Facebook failure, because I almost NEVER post anything, and only rarely do I get on there to see what everyone else is up to. I figure if I have to read it on the computer, we aren't that close to begin with.

I did get on there today, though, for the purpose of sending a message to the cousin who is in charge of this year's Nash Bash (that's what we call our family reunion, for the uninitiated). I noticed a message there that my BFF from high school, Jason, had posted on Valentine's Day.

What? I missed a message from that long ago? I would have thought I would get one of those emails telling me I had a message or something. Oh well.

Jason's message said it reminded him of a certain Sweetheart Ball and his first true sweetheart. (That part made me smile in a sort of teary-eyed way, since I had become convinced that he never wanted to hear from me again.)

When we were in high school, the Future Farmers of America sponsored a Sweetheart Ball every year. In our ninth grade year, the first year Jason went to our school, the event fell on Valentine's Day. Jason asked me to go, and I can picture the dress I wore just as clearly as if it were yesterday. I think some combination of Katydid and/or our mother made the dress, because they were both uber-talented that way. They didn't pass that talent down to me. Buttheads.

Another event also coincided with the Sweetheart Ball and Valentine's Day that year, and it never occurred to me to change the appointment. That was the day I got my braces. Not the cool ones that young people sport today, the glue on plastic kind with coordinating rubber bands and arch wires. No, these were the metal bands that had to be put on already-sore teeth with a demon of a device known as a "thumper." They provided the impetus for wonderful nicknames like Metal Mouth. Tin Grin. Railroad Tracks.

And because you had to wear spacers between your teeth for about a week before they put the bands on to make room for them, your teeth were incredibly sore.

It was customary for couples to go out to dinner before important dances like the Sweetheart Ball, but we were low on both cash and the need for a lot of drama. It was way before the days of thousand-dollar expenses rolled up by new dresses, limos, private party rooms, expensive flowers, professional photographs (although there was a photographer at the Sweetheart Ball, and I wish I could find that picture), and classy dinners at places where teenagers are bound to be outclassed. Even if they don't know it.

So Jason and I (and my friend Carol and her date...Ted?) went to Arby's for dinner. Yes, the roast beef sandwich place. And my teeth were so sore that it was impossible for me to eat anything. I was starving, but I couldn't eat. So Jason tore my roast beef sandwich up into bites that I could manage. (The back teeth weren't as painful as the front ones.)

Sometime in the course of that evening Jason told me he loved me. I remember thinking at the time that he was only saying it because he thought he was supposed to.

I didn't realize it would be for life.

Flashback Friday.....

I can change the rules if I want to, right?

I decided to have Flashback Friday today instead of Favorite Things Friday.

I was trying (mostly in vain) to tuck my tank top into my jeans today, and I flashed back to the 70's when we wore something I called bodysuits but may have had another name.

I wanted to put an image of one here, but most of the graphics I found were ... graphic. Definitely R-rated.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, these garments were like t-shirts (or blouses, in some cases), only they were SORT OF like leotards, but they had snaps at the crotch.

I had one that resembled a white blouse, and I wore it under some kind of uniform, either cheerleading or drill team. I think it was actually one of those things I "borrowed" from my friend Carol and never returned. It was perfect for whichever activity I was participating in, since it couldn't come untucked and stayed put. It was a glossy sort of fabric and buttoned up, with a collar and everything. It looked exactly like one of those shiny blouses we wore in the 70's (come on, admit it, you did too), but it had a crotch. Picture a grown-up onesie.

Granted, they were sort of a pain when it was time to go to the bathroom, but that was a relatively minor inconvenience. It couldn't be worse than trying to tuck a recalcitrant tank top into jeans, or worse, tucking a shirt into one's panties so it didn't come untucked when the pants were pulled up. (Sorry for those mental images.)

Not to be defeated, I searched again for an appropriate image. The ones I'm thinking of were kind of like this:

Not at all like this:

Or this:

Happy weekend!

P.S. Warm thoughts for our beloved Gym Dogs tomorrow starting at 4:00 EDT, if you have time. We can use all the mojo we can get. And if your mojo trends toward causing two certain OTHER TEAMS to fall off any random apparatus... well, you gotta do what you gotta do.