The Party

The husband is out of town and I am so sorry he will miss the party of the season. It's not black tie. In fact, most participants (including me) will be in jeans and t-shirts.

Other than paying for fried chicken, I'm pretty sure no one will ask anyone for money.

This weekend, we will gather in my childhood neighborhood. I will greet people who helped raise me and I will see people who have been there my entire life. I will laugh with people that I have played tag, hide and seek and spin the bottle. I will see children -- now grown -- that I used to babysit.

I love tradition. I am comforted by routine. I love it that my parents still live in my childhood home. It looks completely different and my room is no longer my room but the heart warming feeling of walking in there is still there. I love it that the same neighbors still live next door and across the street.

I attend lots of parties. Everything from black tie fundraisers to simple dinner parties with friends and I know what to wear and which persona to present. Tomorrow, I'm going to the party of the season and I get to just be me.

Moving

Some people love to move. They change houses or even cities on a whim. There's a purging of stuff and a fresh start that they enjoy.

I am not one of these people. I get ridiculously attached to trees and memories made within the bricks and mortar. My childhood home and neighborhood is still there and I like it that way.

My friend is moving and it's a mixed bag of feelings for her. It's a good decision but like me, she's clinging to the memories. I keep reminding her that she has the magic touch -- anywhere she lives will be a home filled with love.

And hopefully, lots of great memories in the making.

To Market, To Market

I'm a small market person. I find zero appeal in shopping somewhere that I can buy corn and tires. It confuses me.

My neighborhood has great little shops. I can park my car and go to the bank, the drug store, the meat market, the little grocery and the dry cleaners. I can browse the jewelry store. I can grab a sandwich and hors d'oeuvres at the great deli and if I need to, I can restock our liquor cabinet in the corner store.

The oldies loved this area. They could wait for a prescription while browsing or eating.

The husband decided that we should grill Ahi tuna and shrimp tonight. I had to venture a little north of my normal clan of shops. Three miles north of my home is a great fish market where everything comes in fresh each day.

I couldn't buy a lawn mower or a treadmill in these shops. I did get some wonderfully fresh seafood.

Grade schools and Policemen

I drove through the old neighborhood today. Not just the home where I grew up. I drove by the hospital where I was born and the grade school I attended. (The baby gets very tired of the same conversation every time I drive by this school. I say, "That's where I went to grade school." He says, "I know." And then he rolls his eyes. Wonder where he got that?

My golden girls and lots of my friends went to this grade school. Our generation experienced busing in this time. A big adventure was when our parents would allow us to walk home from school. A 20-minute walk could take hours; we found lots of detours. We felt safe.

Today, we all know about school shootings and other atrocious things. A posting on the Internet can incite a riot or a beating. Somehow, doing the duck and cover thing under the desk in preparation for nuclear war seems innocent and quaint.

I slowed down in the school zone so I had lots of time to pay attention. Two police cars out front and one in the side parking lot. Memory lane and a little sadness set in. The only time we saw a police officer at the school in my youth was when he came to explain Officer Friendly.

Self-Absorbed

My friend, BB, is a regular reader of my blog/brog. She doesn't have Internet access so it must be printed out for her. It is highly flattering to me that she cares enough to read it.

A few weeks ago, she went with some girlfriends to Branson, Missouri -- one of my worst nightmares. During the trip, she was reading some of the blog entries aloud. (Oh, to have been able to eavesdrop on that!) A woman commented that the writer seems pretty self-absorbed. Remember the child on the playground who would get irritated and say, "It's my ball and I'm taking it home?" Same concept. She refused to share any more. If possible, I love her even more for jumping to my defense.

Here's the reality: I am slightly self-absorbed. Writing about my life and living with the oldies requires sharing my thoughts and my feelings. So, the lady was probably right. It is about me, me, me.

Self-absorbed is an ok thing. I think we need more of it. Women need to be more self-absorbed. The world functions better when women take care of their health and their mental state. Sometimes that requires a little introspection.

This is different than self-centered, although I have been there too. Remember, I'm an only child and it took me a few years/decades to realize that the world did not revolve around me. (The Unabomber is 84-years old and he has yet to figure this out.)

It comes back to the neighborhood of my childhood. These people have watched me grow up along side their own children. They've loved me and they've disciplined me. They've known my sweet side and my bratty side. I've annoyed them and I've adored them. I've never doubted their affection. I have a pseudo sister. I also have lots of pseudo parents.

When the baby was little, I would kneel with him as he said his prayers, "Now I lay me down to sleep ..." When we got to the part of, "Please bless and protect so and so," the list became endless. One night, he looked at me and said, "I have so many people who love me!"

It's a pretty cool feeling.

The Naked Guy

Here's another story about babysitting in the neighborhood. You may want to know where this wild and wacky neighborhood is but I will never tell.

I was very big on the prospect of earning money. At 12-15, babysitting was my best option. Truthfully, it was pretty lucrative for those days.

A couple lived a few houses down from my parents. They had a toddler. They both worked full time and the wife went to school at night. My job was to feed and play with the toddler, then bathe him and have him ready for bed when the husband came home. Easy enough.

Before I go any further, remember I was about 12 or 13 and totally naive.

One night, I am bathing the baby. I hear the husband come in so I yelled, "Hello, we're almost finished in the tub." When I walked out, he was completely nude. In a very nonchalant way, he said, "We don't wear clothes in our house."

*** Brain clicking *** Brain freaking *** Don't know what to do. By the way, I had never seen a naked man. But, I tried to be cool and pretend this happened to me all the time. Oh sure, lots of my friend's parents didn't wear clothes.

So, I put the baby to bed and returned home. My parents were lying in their bedroom, watching television. I tried to act normal. "Did you know that the Rxxxxxx don't wear clothes when they're at home?"

My father doesn't leap. He jumped out of that bed and was out the door before I could finish my sentence.

That family moved.

If I get really brave, I may try this on the oldies.

The Neighborhood

I grew up in a magical time. I know it's normal to be nostalgic for your childhood, but I'm telling the truth.

Our neighborhood had tons of kids. We all went to school together; we all got in trouble together. In the row of bungalow homes, the parents crossed the lawn or the street and chatted through the magic sunset hour. As children, we ran, climbed trees, played tag, played four-square, and later played spin the bottle. We painted rocks with nail polish and tried to sell them to the neighbors. Some kind neighbors actually purchased them.

We would do anything on a dare. (I'm still living that one down. I will apologize to Mrs. Bradley for that little episode for the rest of my life.)

Front porch lights flashed when it was time to come in. We ignored them. There was no cable or video games. We didn't want to go in. They always tracked us down.

Occasionally, someone broke a limb. Occasionally, someone got punched. For the most part, we all got along. There's nothing like seeing someone after 20 or 30 years and saying, "Do you remember ...?"