It happened at a basketball game my seventh grade year.

I don’t know about your school, but at the K-8 school I attended, Friday night basketball games were the social event of the week. All the cool kids came and hung out at the far end of the bleachers, as far away from the doors and the adults as it was humanly possible to get.

Those of us who weren’t so cool came and hung around the fringes of the cool kids, hoping to pick up some of their coolness would rub off on us.

Having recently discovered boys, I’d developed a crush on a boy who attended a different school – our cross-town rival to be exact.

This particular Friday night the cross-town rivals faced each other in my school’s gym. As I sat hunched on the bleachers about half-way up I was painfully aware of my crush sitting in the very top row of bleachers – a place reserved for the coolest of the cool.

I had about as much chance of sitting up there as an ice cube has in the Sahara Desert.

I have no idea what my adolescent brain was thinking, but I’d passed him a note: “Just who is Bobbie anyway?”

I’d heard that Bobbie was his girlfriend but I knew it couldn’t be true. I knew that he really liked ME; he just didn’t know it yet. When he figured it out he’d tell everyone that I was his girlfriend, and we’d live happily ever after. Amen.

Suddenly he was standing right in front of me. OMG, he’s right in front of me.. in front of ME! I jumped back, causing the comb in my back pocket to jam into my right cheek – ow!

My crush leaned down and put one hand on my knee. OMG, my he’s touching me… he’s touching ME!

My seventh-grade imagination had created numerous scenarios in which he declared his undying love for me. Of course, in each I was smooth, calm, collected, and incredibly cool.

In real life I felt nauseous and my heart pounded as I looked into his perfect light blue eyes, then at his perfect feathered-back blonde hair, then at the perfect booger…

Wait – a booger?

Oh yeah, a booger.

Hanging just inside his left nostril.

My crush was crushed.

Who can be in love with a guy who walks around with a booger in his nose?

My note was in his other hand… “What is this supposed to mean?” he asked.

The questions I’d wanted him to answer flew around inside my head, Is she your girlfriend? Do you like her? Do you like me?

I couldn’t take my eyes off that booger. “I don’t know.”

He looked at me for a moment, probably figuring I was a total nut case, then straightened and went back to his coolest-of-the-cool friends at the top of the bleachers.

Face burning, I stayed in my place in the middle of the bleachers. It may not have been the coolest place to sit and I may not have been the coolest of seventh graders, but at least I didn’t have a booger in my nose.

Image credit: http://www.sxc.hu/photo/1124843

One of my fondest childhood memories is breakfast with Grandma. Whether we ate in the sunny “breakfast nook” off the kitchen or on the screen porch in nice weather, Grandma always made it a special meal.

Most of the time breakfast was cereal, but at Grandma’s house it was never “just” cereal. Instead of milk we drowned our Special K or Raisin Bran in sweet, creamyCoffee Rich; probably a dietitian’s nightmare, but so wickedly yummy! Grandma usually had fresh fruit to put on top; juicy nectarines, plump blueberries, sweet strawberries, or luscious raspberries. I would always eat the cereal first, leaving the fruit soaked in sugar-sweetened creamer for last. To this day that’s my favorite way to eat raspberries, and my mom can’t eat fresh fruit without creamer and sugar, or at least milk and sugar.

Sometimes Grandma would fry bacon and use the leftover grease to make eggs “over easy” with crispy-fried edges and semi-solid yolks; they always broke when they hit the pan. We’d sprinkle our eggs generously with salt and pepper then dip toast in whatever part of the yolk was still runny.

Other times Grandma would make her famous cinnamon rolls; yeasty and soft, with sweet cinnamon-sugar butter oozing from the center and butter cream icing dripping over the sides. If I asked for a sweet but Grandma was in a hurry she’d make crunchy cinnamon streusel topped Bisquick coffeecake.

No matter what Grandma made I’d clear my plate or bowl and ask for more.

 
But it wasn’t just the food that made breakfast at Grandma’s so special; it was mostly the dishes.

For as long as I can remember the Friendly Village dishes lived in the corner of Grandma’s cupboard; waiting for special occasions like Thanksgiving, Christmas, or Breakfast with the Grandchildren.

The dishes feature hand painted scenes from a country village in different seasons on the front. On the back the markings include the name of the scene.

The small plates with their scene of a covered bridge in winter are my favorite because they’re the ones we used most often for breakfast. When I look at them I can see toast crumbs and yellow egg yolks smeared across the snow. I can smell the eggs, bacon, and orange juice – which I drank even though I’ve never really liked it.

The bread plates have sugar maples and a sugar house in very early spring. I remember Grandma asking me to set them on the Thanksgiving table – with a butter knife balanced along the top edge. I was so proud for knowing the proper way to use a bread plate and butter knife. Just another time it paid off to be a voracious – and nerdy – reader.

Like the bread plates, the coffee cups and saucers have the sugar maple scene on them. Grandma would let me use one for my orange juice, and I felt so grown-up sipping from a coffee cup just like Grandma.

The old mill in the middle of summer is painted on the small bowls. They’re the perfect size for a bowl of cereal with Coffee Rich and blueberries. Forget the cereal, I just want sugar, cream and berries!

The dinner plates have another of my favorite scenes: the school house in the midst of a snowstorm. The yellow light shining from the school house windows always makes me feel warm and cozy inside, like being curled up on the couch in the middle of a blizzard.

Grandma always set out the salt and pepper shakers, sugar bowl and creamer with milk, or Coffee Rich if were were having cereal, even for breakfast. The old mill and lily pond are on the creamer and sugar dish, but the salt and pepper shaker aren’t labeled.

At 91 years old Grandma is no longer able to live alone safely. She’s moved into my parent’s house, and the Friendly Village dishes have moved into our house.

They’re living in a cupboard next to our refrigerator; waiting for a special occasion. Occasionally I’ll take out a piece, and as I hold it I’m flooded with memories of the sounds, scents, and sights from Grandma’s house.

Someday I’ll use my Friendly Village dishes… maybe when Peanut and Love Bug are big enough for their own Breakfast with Grandma. Maybe we’ll have cinnamon rolls with sweet cinnamon-sugar butter and butter cream icing, or eggs “over easy” with broken yolks and crispy edges. And I’ll remember my grandma.

But for now it’s enough to know that her dishes are in my cupboard, waiting.

Since I was a little girl I’ve loved looking through my parent’s wedding album, and since their 44th wedding anniversary is this month I thought I’d share some of my favorite photos.

My mom made her own wedding dress, but my grandma picked out the crown and veil. Mom said she never liked the crown but I think she’s beautiful in it. I could be biased, but I don’t think so.

Here are my grandma, mom and aunt. My mom has always regretted not having her older sister as a bridesmaid also, but Sharon was on the heavier side and it “just wasn’t done” back then. I’m glad times have changed!

Grandpa looks so handsome (and dapper) in his suit with the narrow tie. Although it’ll be nineteen years this fall since he died it sometimes feels like just last week. I still miss him terribly.

My dad looks like the stereotypical 1960s clean-cut all-American guy. He looks like he should be wearing a letterman sweater.

The photographer took a great sequence of photos after the service:

Think they’re just a little happy to be married?

This is my Dad’s family. (My grandparents don’t usually look so weird – maybe they were in shock from the wedding??) I love my grandma’s matchy-matchy hat, earrings and gloves – it’s so ’60s!

My Mom’s family – again with the 1960s hats. Everyone thinks of hippies and “Flower Children” when they think of the ’60s, but I think the gloves and hat are more typical of “everyday” people.

Here are both sets of parents with the bride and groom. Notice how both of my grandma’s have hats and shoes that match their dresses? My dad’s mom even has matching gloves and purse. I never asked Mom if my grandma’s chose aqua to coordinate with the bridesmaids or not, but I’m guessing they did.

This is my all-time favorite photo from my parent’s wedding. I especially love the look on my dad’s face – he still gets that expression when he looks at my mom.

I’d asked Princess and Cowboy’s photographer to do a similar thing for them but she didn’t know how. I’m guessing it could be done with layers in Paint Shop Pro, but haven’t taken time to try yet.

This is what a small-town Wisconsin wedding reception looked like in 1966. The two older couples on the near end of the table are my mom’s grandparents. I’m guessing Great Grandma wore aqua on purpose too. There’s a LOT of aqua in the crowd! The family-lover in me enjoys picking out familiar faces at the tables, while the history-lover is fascinated with the clothing, shoe and hair styles.

Another of my favorite photos. I think Teacher and I had a similar one taken at our wedding; I’ll have to dig out our album and look.

Oh my goodness – are those little cupids on the cake? In all the many, many times I’ve looked through their wedding album I’ve never noticed that until today. Eeep!

A familiar wedding tradition; cutting the cake. The knife they used was a “favor” from one of my mom’s sorority formals.

Another of her sorority “favors” that I thought was really cool was a lamp with the sorority letters on it. Yes – they got lamps for formal! When I was in college our formal “favors” were wine glasses, shot glasses, beer glasses… It’s interesting to consider the sub-conscious implications of a lamp and cake cutting knife vs the implications of booze glasses, isn’t it?

My mom and dad’s “song” is a familiar one by Anne Murray. Whenever I hear it I think of them dancing in the kitchen to my dad’s off-tune humming:

“I’ll always remember the song they were playin’,
The first time we danced and I knew,
As we swayed to the music and held to each other,
I fell in love with you.

Could I have this dance for the rest of my life?
Would you be my partner every night?
When we’re together, it feels so right.
Could I have this dance for the rest of my life?”

“I’ll always remember that magic moment,
When I held you close to me.
‘Cause we moved together, I knew forever,
You’re all I’ll ever need

Could I have this dance for the rest of my life?
Would you be my partner every night?
When we’re together, it feels so right.
Could I have this dance for the rest of my life?”

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad, and may you be blessed with many, many, more happy years together.

Moms will do anything to keep their kids safe – ANYTHING! I discovered how strong this instinct is one night when three-year-old College Boy started screaming in his bath.

College Boy was a wonderful little boy, smart and happy-go-lucky… I’m not exactly sure what that means, but I like the sound of it. He wasn’t one to see monsters under the bed or to be afraid of new places or things.

When he was three we lived in a small two-bedroom apartment that had the bathroom basically in the middle. I could easily hear College Boy playing in his bath from anywhere in the apartment so I often put him in the tub and listened while I worked. One night while he was taking a bath I was listening to him from the living room when suddenly he started screaming hysterically Mommy! Moooommmyyy!! Mmmmoooommmmyyyy!!! There was screaming and crying and splashing and more screaming and more crying.

I flew across the living room and into the bathroom so quickly that I barely remember moving; suddenly I was standing at the bathroom door. I looked around frantically for blood, guts, whatever it was that was hurting my baby.

College Boy was standing in the tub, tears streaking down his face, his eyes wild and his hands stretched toward me. Taking two quick steps into the bathroom I reached my hands out to him, anxious to take whatever it was that was hurting him. Give it to Mommy! I held out my hands for… a pile of poop! Eeeeeewwwwwww!! My firstborn had just started potty training and pooping in the tub scared the heck out of him.

I stood in the middle of the bathroom staring at a handful of poop; grossed out but glad that my baby was OK. I flushed the poop, obsessively washed my hands, then drained and scrubbed the tub. After a good scrub-down in a fresh bath and some cozy jammies, College Boy and I settled in the rocker to read books before bed.

He was none the worse for wear. I learned to take a second to look before holding out my hands.

Teacher and I met 21 years ago today, and in honor of the occasion I thought I’d tell the story. Sit back, grab a bowl of popcorn and enjoy!

It was Friday, October 24, 1986, and I was a freshman at Valparaiso University in Indiana. I was four hours away from my hometown in Wisconsin, on my own for the first time in my life and reveling in the freedom. Freedom to go where I wanted when I wanted, to eat what I wanted and not have to do the dishes, to use four-letter words, to stay up late without a curfew, to have a drink away from my parents’ watchful eyes… Not that my parents were overly strict, but they had certain expectations of their children and since I was the oldest they made me stick to the rules. My younger brother was allowed to do pretty much whatever he wanted, but that’s a different story…

My first week at “Valpo” was jam-packed with parties, dances, comedy shows, and other events to welcome the freshmen to campus and the upperclassmen back to school. There was at least one party or dance going on every night; many nights my friends and I visited several parties before falling into bed at the wee hours of the morning. Once classes started the parties moved to the weekends, but there was still plenty of them.

On this particular night my fellow music-major friends and I planned to check out the music fraternity – Phi Mu Alpha. The guys were performing a short concert in the small chapel then hosting a wine and cheese reception at their fraternity house. I love listening to men sing, but was more excited about the party afterward and the chance to meet new guys. I’d had a serious boyfriend for the past year and a half, but he was hours away at college in Iowa. I wasn’t looking for a date, but I wasn’t going to turn down the chance either.

I dressed in one of my favorite outfits: purple scoop-necked sweater with silver threads, pleated grey cords that tapered at the ankles, and saddle shoes. I slid about a hundred bangle bracelets on my arms and added large silver hoop earrings to match. Hey, this was the 80′s, remember? After damaging the ozone layer with a ton of hairspray and glossing my lips I took off to meet my friends.

We snagged seats near the back, I was the last on in so I had a great view of the stage area. During the concert I scanned the guys’ faces; looking for ones that were cute and ones that weren’t so I’d know who to try to meet later and who to avoid. At the end of the concert the fraternity president invited everyone to the frat house for a “wine and cheese reception.” I was impressed, thinking that these guys had more class than the other fraternities I’d been to. Little did I know – when we arrived at the frat house it turned out to be wine-in-a-box and processed cheese. But hey, they tried more than other frats.

I filled my plastic cup with wine, moved near a wall by my friend Gretchen, and scanned the crowded dining room. Sipping the wine I felt a thrill of forbidden pleasure – I had never gone drinking in High School; the only alcohol I’d had besides communion wine was at special holiday dinners with the family.

Over the din my ear caught the sound of male laughter and I looked around the room to see where it came from. Through a break in the crowd I spied the most gorgeous guy I’d ever seen in my life! He had dark brown eyes with incredibly long eyelashes, tousled brown hair and a face that was rugged enough to be manly, but not too chisled. Broad shoulders and a solid chest filled a navy t-shirt, and worn jeans covered one of the cutest tushes ever. (Sorry if this is TMI for family members, but it’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.) One finger sported a shell ring and the opposite arm wore a cuff of thick braided rope – the kind that tightens when it get wet so you have to cut it off. My breath caught in my throat and I choked on the wine I’d been swallowing. “He’s really cute” Gretchen said, staring at the guy I’d just been drooling over. “Yeah” I stammered, hoping she wouldn’t call dibs. While I was figuring out how to approach him another guy came up, said something to the gorgeous one, and they both left the dining room.

This is where a romance novel heroine would have made up a reason to follow the hero and throw herself at his feet. I would like to say that I followed him and finessed an introduction, but that would be a lie. I’m here to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. What really happened was that I stayed where I was. With Gretchen. By the wall. Sipping wine-in-a-box and nibbling processed cheese.

After meeting just about every member of the fraternity except the one I was looking for, I saw him later that night. I was talking to a fellow freshman music student in a little alcove that connected the dining room, bathroom, and two studies. Brad was kind of cute and I would have gone out with him if he’d asked, but at the time he was looking for advice about another girl. There wasn’t much chance of an invite from him. “Excuse me…” said a male voice as someone carrying stereo equipment brushed past us. My eyes widened and my heart went pitty-pat – it was the gorgeous one! I watched him walk away for as long as I could without obviously leaning and craning my neck while making “uh huh” noises to Brad who was still talking. “Excuse me again…” the gorgeous stranger walked back into the study to pick up more equipment. He went past us several times; each time I watched him from the corners of my eyes, Brad almost forgotten. Suddenly he stopped in front of us and I stopped breathing.

“I don’t know you, who the hell are you?” he asked with a cocky grin. “Uhhhh…” I stammered, looking into his brown eyes. Oh gosh he’s right here looking at me. Say your name, stupid, say your name! “Ummm…” Brad came to my rescue and introduced us. It turned out that Brad was his fraternity “little brother” so the three of us chatted a little longer. Eventually Brad left to find his girl and I was alone with my heartthrob. He looked at me and I almost drowned in his eyes. He was a little taller than me, but not so tall that I’d have to crane my neck to kiss him. Kiss him? Why was I thinking that? I just met him, I have a boyfriend, he probably has a girlfriend…

“Want a tour of the house?” he asked.

To be continued…