Corn Flakes

One of the perks to living at home is the cereal selection. I can testify that the options my son and I have now, DID NOT exist when I was younger.

Nope, we had either: Corn Flakes, Shredded Wheat,( the cereal packaged three to a bag and in the shape of Hot Pockets; these pockets were more of a choking pocket in your throat if you didn't get enough milk on them) or Cream of Wheat.

On a dark morning in the middle of winter winter mom, while still in her bathrobe stirring a pot of Cream of Wheat, is a memory engraved in my mind.
Back then, I would think: Not again. But the creamy wheat mixed with Reed's Dairy cream or Vitamin D milk along with sugar and butter was so tasty and did exactly what my mom said it would do: Stick to my Ribs. Which reminds me that Quaker Oatmeal was on the menu in those days.

Eating those generic breakfasts, now give me the authoritative rite to tell my son that back in the day we didn't have Cocoa Puffs, only plain 'ol Corn Flakes. None of the sugar infused cereals...

I discouraged Padre from buying them, with plenty of statistical evidence that it turns your brain to mush. So the fact that, despite all of J's options for breakfast, he is picking Corn Flakes.

You don't want Lucky Charms? No.

Rice Krispie? "no. I WANT Corn Flakes!" "OH, you mean FROSTED Flakes, let me grab 'em for ya, since its a Saturday, Son."

NO!

FROSTED MINI Shredded Wheat, little fella who woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

No affirmately followed along with upheaval. I grab the plastic cereal container, another amenity that didn't exist in our day, which is fine we read the boxes-- how we learned back in the day.

After pouring the milk over his Corn Flakes one morning, I waited to see what satisfaction he must be pulling from the bland flakes before I put the milk in the fridge. Curiously, like a chemist or scientist, I watched for the genuine pleasure to pour over his groggy face.

He casually reached for the Diner styled sugar dispenser and pouring out a stream of sugar Before I could juggle the milk jug and stop him, he'd poured out half the jar of sugar.

Hmm. No wonder the other cereals don't come close to the amount of sugar he can control that gets into his cereal.

I faintly recall doing the same thing as a kid.

I'd like a Pina Colada and SPF of 60 with That

I feel bad for today's kids. Unlike "back in my day" we didn't have sun screen carrying parents. I think I might have made a recollection of a life guard at the local pool wearing some white out on his nose and a hat, but as far as that we were oblivious.

Daily trips to the pool helped us develop a thick layer of protection in the form of a tan.

But today's kids days will never get to experience a good old fashioned broiled back.

Despite the layer of protection, a few days of ALL day swimming at a water park made me treasure things like the Aloe Vera plant, with its spikey fingers, mom grew in a hanging pot above the kitchen sink window.

If it were not for Cindy's sisters, I would never have perfected the tanning art.
You needed a trampoline for one. But we were trampless, so we had to do with two older towels, a timer or watch, and an old stereo.

A water spritzer, soaked napkins; cut almond shape so as to protect our face from sunglass lines. And don't forget the oil. Lots of it.

In Junior High I used the Tropical Island SPF of -1 as perfume because I loved the smell and it reminded everyone that I was TA-A-N.

It was about this time that I heard of a contraption called a tanning bed;
this establishment was located in the local bowling alley. And when Cindy showed up in the ebbs of spring already sporting a tan, I had to try it.

The time period was the age of Dirty Dancing so somehow sneekin' off to the bowling alley felt akin to one of the characters from the flick desperatem for an abortion had it done in a bowling alley, I mean some dark alley by an amatuer. Just didn't feel right. And it was exspensive to put my paper route money toward that. -- but of course that job was kept underwraps and my fellow carrier, Chel, never told either.



Now we flaunt it like a Master's Degree for hard work because we delivered papers up hills both ways. (only Sundays were in the morning so we had NOTHING to complain about. And I didn't have to have it as long as the boys, who, were stuck with it a very long time)

those pink or black play boy bunny stickers were always placed in the same spot so we could determine how much head way to cancer we had made.

Back in those days, tanning wasn't out in the open in a Tropical Looking, Cancer-Free bed with doors of bamboo, chairs and deodorants to freshen up and sexy lotions to make the "fake tan" last.

No, we were all about the real deal, for the most part. And when you did fake bake, you denied the three or four trips you made.

Orange skinned self tanners were scoffed at and no one died their hair. You were stuck with the color you had unless you put lemon in your hair to help bleach it.

I recall coveting Cindy's sister in church one day. Her missionary man was coming home and there she was in a white dress that had an open back and NO tan line. None. I was determined to somehow, someway do the same thing.

As college neared the bunny stickers were re-placed with the ones off of apples or oranges that we put on our hand to find out how dark we could get as a city flower girl.

Early mornings in Idaho meant winter gear, but by 11:00 we were cooly watering, weeding and driving city vehicles in tanks and short shorts. We ignored the whistles (they so often we just took them for granted) as we took pride in being a flower chick for the city. It was the the highest ranking city job you could get for serious tanners. And when we were allowed to go out in the rusty yellow jeep by or the dump truck out to the dump blasting Dy'er Maker, by ourselves, we knew we were hot, tan, and tough.

It was during this summer job that I recalled hearing for the first time the word sun-screen to protect yourself from UVB rays. Chel lathered the white out on at lunch time and I thought it was ridiculous. And what was with the hat; come on? how did your hair get blonder if you didn't leave it out in the open?

I faintly recall the donkey across the way from our grassy knoll that provided our lunch spot standing there, like he always did, crunching on a cracker with oats on it like rocks, that I started thinking: "maybe I ought to wear a little."

ONLY becuase at the end of the day, I felt like I'd been hit with a Mack truck.
There were a couple of flower ladies that always wore jeans and often long sleeved shirts along with hats. They rocked at horticulture but we were young and careless, it was all about the image.






So the other day after I had lathered up my SPF of 60, waited the recommended 30 minutes, packed it into my pack and headed to the same Recreational Park I worked at for a little league game, did I start to think back to those carefree days.

The teenage ump wearing the typical city worker uniform, close to nothing, made me recall the oiled skin days where you were envied, reverred and gaucked over..

Cap pulled down tight over my wet hair and into the third exciting inning of little league did I start to think I ought to wear pants and possibly a jump suit the next time I coach.

Of course the lack of water I failed to bring for myself was sure helping that sick feeling you get right before a car wreck. You are whoozy, parched, and suddenly empathetic of those little kids who don't seem to pay attention during the games. They are slowly being lulled into a deep sun stroke sleep.

I found the a lawn chair an older lady graciously gave up to me and had a parent go stand in the field as I downed Three of the kid's Gatorade treats. One of my co-coaches had brought a huge multi colored umbrella to put behind the kids' bench and I couldn't believe how ingenious that was. They managed to look cool under the protection of an oversized beach umbrella.

After the black hole started to open up a little, my team exuberantly ran to the treat people, was I able to pull myself from the lawn chair and let the Grandmother sit down.

Did I mention we won? After a little pep talk and determing what would be the best cheer, they chose 'Team' which I thought quite appropriate considering our humble beginings; I walked real slow to my car looking across the field to that old donkey's old residence. Now long gone I longed for the days of youth and exuberance!

That lasted all of two seconds and I headed to the Saline Station: the infusion center that replaces my electrolytes on a frequent basis. Having undone all that I'd received the day before (two bags) I sat in the cool of the office on a grey stylish bench across from a slab of slate rock with constant waterfalling H20.

There have been times when I have waited in that bench and wanted to go drink out of it like a stream in the mountains on a long hike, also, done only back in the day.

They brought me a package of crackers for the nauseau, mini water bottle and an employee came and commiserated about health problems and big anti-biotics that scare ya worse than that ball of fire up in the sky. And is part of the reason SPF 180 is needed, cause you burn on some meds.

I checked out a Surf magazine as I waited for my body to cool off in the air conditioned, tranquil, oasis of an Infusion Center. Flashbacks of a trip to Hawaii with jen during the college years hit me, too. A man sporting the latest in board short technology (we had only one option and that was it) stuck to his surf board in a crouch sliding aside a wall of water, a lip of a roof over his head like merengue pie peaks; brought the smell of Hawaiin Tropic's pineapple and coconut drenched product ripped into my stuffed nostrils. I sat and breathed in deeply of a memory of local beaches, honey bleached hair, and a milky brown tan; flaunted in November.

Thanking the nurses, staff and confirming the next re-fill, I headed home. Luckily I had the sunscreen close by, because the sun, which has been on vacation for the last eight months was barreling through my window on my crisp white skin.

I lathered it up on my burning arm and threw my sweatshirt over that arm unrolled the windows and in the faint distance heard Dy'er Maker from a flower girls radio.



With the help of the Infusion nurses, I got some food, picked up a med and talked about my little band of baseball boys and gals. Man, I am proud of them.

P.S. I just learned that Hawaiin Tropic has a yummy berry flavored SPF lip gloss.

Polite Goat Suckers

Thanks to the History channel, J learned about this odd, ugly hybrid animal believed to be in the Mexican, Puerto Rican area with a name that is spanish - chucacabras- which means to literally suck blood. (livestock blood) Thanks to Google I found it is in more places than those sites. Which means it could also suck the blood of a live, stock holding human person. It doesn't discriminate.

In the History channel clip they called them goat suckers. As you can imagine this was heavily on a young boy's mind, especially in the depths of the basement. Morning came, I was in the bathroom, readying for the day, and he beat up the stairs in record time only to be barred from me by a bathroom door. So he did what any kid would do, told me ALLLL about it as he shifted from foot to foot, kindly waiting until I was finished, an hour later, to use the bathroom. (one is downstairs but you never know if sightings of Goat suckers have been made in basements, yet. wise move)

Animatedly, he shared for a good hour about this strange and grotesque creature; How the "K-9" (he thought that was its official name, not comprehending the uncertainty of scientists as to whether it belonged to that family) drags unsuspecting Texas and Puerto Rican cats, dogs, humans from their kitty litter, Dog kennels and computers to kill them.

"They sound ruthless." I casually called out from the tub as the water gushed into the porcelain sanctuary.

"Nah, their not rude, just mean." he clarified.

"Oh, that's good." I had to admit as I turned off the water. Because if something ugly and rude is going to suck your blood, I'd prefer the Edwardian etiquette.a polite one would be better than a rude one if he were to suck my blood. Unfortunately for the beast, no one is in line to play this ugly mutt in a Sci-Fi movie. In fact, they are so horrifying to look at, I can't bare to put its mug on my pretty blog.

What I will do is tell you it is a hairless cross between Golom; but with worse posture, a Greyhound, and it stole its T-Rex head from a museum. However, some photos make it look like an innocent possum- faced creature that can't help that he has Rexy's dentures.

Yeah, right.

This grotesque combination of a creature knew EXACTLY what he was doin' when mating and the fact it added a kangaroo ( to get the longer back legs; so as to stand up and look you right in the eye or down on you, depending on your heigth,) to its coyote, dog,T-Rex DNA mutation; without our knowledge, is down right despicable!

That politician-type underhanded, chucka-caw-brat doesn't have my vote.

His slick, icky skin helps him glide perfectly into every kid and parent's nightmares and other places that sure as heck better get them extinct, or else.

I want the UN in on this. Or the drug lords. Whoever, has the better weaponry.

I don't know what I am gonna do, but if I am in Texas, I am packin' a pistol, missile, tazor, bazooka, WHATEVER NECESSARY, AND THE MAN TO CARRY IT AND ME.

Sorry, Mexico, and any of you other Latin America countries; I wanted to visit you, but your livestock sucking beast sealed the "not in a zillion years, deal."

Dora the Explorer is the closest I am coming to checking out the beauties of the Latin America. Unless Dora and her map can convince goat sucker, no sucking I am not stepping foot over there with out some serious Tony Stark and his Iron outfit AND Whiplash's.

School's Out!

I have to admit I was ready to be done with the harry carry rush of school mornnings.

Socks weren't always easily found, well, the ones J wanted to wear; black,ankle length, but clean like I like them. Collared shirts hung in his closet day after day but Mrs. H's class was an oven, so he would only wear the short sleeved T-shirts and, of course, there were a few that were his favorites.

Waking him in the morninig was always risky business, no matter when he hit the hay. He could casually walk upstairs after the 20th call, or there was his bear-like attitude when he was wakened.

Turning on his light and telling him it was time for school, was akin to bringing a Grizzly out of hibernation early, and to find his cave had been blocked off, leaving him in a pickle.

Of course there were the mornings that pulling him out of bed was like yanking on the horns of a tranquilized buffalo over Old Faithful during its regularly scheduled erruption. He'd go limp, roll his eyes in the back of his head, and try to squirm deeper down into the warm covers.

So, with a whirlwind of math papers, award for art work and AR reading coupons, and leftover school supplies brewing in his back pack he raced home from the school bus.

And hollered:"Mom! School is done! He proudly showed me his progress reports and I could see a faint glimmer of a kid who was now wiser than a first grader already.

He wasn't the only one giddy with excitment.

I, too, had renewed hope that the routine morning minutes used to feed, remind, coax, bargain, could all be put to better use.

Instead of an order to wash face, do hair, and discuss for the millionth time why collars do NOT make you a vampire; I could be my myself, replace those mornings with some tranquil alone time at such an early hour.

Moments to take the time soak in the birds chirping, the gentle tocking of the clock and the rain-green grass in the back yard made me giddy like a little girl on Christmas mornning.

I gathered my books, the last two WSJ newspapers, scriptures and sat them all next to the computer upstairs. Despite lots of cloudy, rainy days, golden streams of light poked through all the dreariness. Breathing in deeply I turned to the bookmarked page in my scriptures, smoothing the tissue like pages and stood to heat some water in a mug. This spring has felt more like winter, and if I were going to do any writing or journaling I'd need hot cocoa. With a beep of the microwave and two scoops of generic cocoa and marshmellows, I had my hands warming around the cup and sipping in delicious chocolate, thinking, once again, how much I LOVE mornings.

I read the first few lines in Nephi where J and I had been and thought back to when he wanted a "Nephi" themed b-day party. (for those who don't know 'Nephi' he was a young man who at this moment in the story breaks his bow; the only instrment for obtaining big game on their long camp out. I chuckled at the thought of him wanting to have everyone shoot his plastic bow into a cardboard target.

Whilst in this blissful reverie, I heard a faint shuffle of little feet coming toward me. I braced myself for the morning mood of the day. But as the patter neared I could tell that these were not tired feet they were awake, alert, happy feet, they were: "Where's mom feet?" .

Closing my eyes I took one last, long pull of hot cocoa and alone time into my nostrils and opened my eyes. To my surprise a little boy, hair spikey with gel, a smile across his face that could only have come from a good night's rest, stood in front of me, dressed from head to toe.And even in a vampire shirt.

"WOW!" I exclaimed. "You are sure up early!"

"Mom! Do you wanna play catch?!!" he said excitedly, pulling his mitt from behind his back.

I looked at the clock: 6:00 a.m.

Finding myself in his position all summer I started in on the excusees:

"Yeah, but shouldn't we wait til after breakfast? I think the dew from the grass might be bad on our gloves."

"Good thinking, mom. I'll get you some cereal, too, so you can go get ready."

I came upstairst in a sweat shirt and pants, searched a laundry basket for my socks and when I sat down I almost sat on my baseball glove.

"You can just wear your hair like that mom." he reassured me as he pointed to my Jane Fonda mashed up hair. "No one will see ya like that in the back yard."

"Oh, thank you. I appreciate your help."
"And ya might want to wear your rain boots, cuz it is pretty damp outside. "

And with one final spoonful of sugar bombs (the name Calvin uses in the comic strip he has with Hobbes) he asked: "what would I be doing at school right this minute?"

"Son, you wouldn't have even been up yet." You could have four recesses at school before the bell rang to start the day."

With a wowed look of self congradulatory achievement, he slipped his glove on handed me mine mid bite.

I slowlly dragged my feet to a pair of gardening shoes, pulled on a warm fleece jacket, grabbed a hat and drug my feet to the garage like a kid that was walking to school, uphill, both ways.

Padre Day

Playing in a league, for the first time, is the first taste of adrenaline and competition for most kids. Well, I should give a disclaimer because now kids have energy drinks, video games and computers to compete with that feeling.

But for the purposes of this post we will pretend they don't have those mind numbing addictions.

That first time your name is on a roster, is a ceremonial rite of childhood and public passage for humiliation.


There is no video game or drink that can give you the rush of a ball, connecting with the bat, echoeing 'cuh-rakuh' to all the other Parks and Recreation Ball diamonds and ears of fans in the stands.

You cannot duplicate the unexplicable nervous, knot in your gutt when, your clipboard carrying coach says your name along with the terrifying words: "You're up to bat".

The safety of the wood bench, where you have been picking the orange paint off of is now suddenly the only place you wanna be. Ridin the pine at this time is nooo problem. The chainlinked fence fortress standing between you and the diamond comes into magnified view.

My first time at bat with a pitching machine was terrifying. I can recall that moment when Coach Brown non-chalantly called my name and suddenly the bright, happy shiny sun in the light-blue sky turned into a ball of fire somewhere in El Paso, Texas.

Like being part of a gun-slingin' stand-off in a Marty Robbins cattle drive song, an eery hush came over my body, the dust, I'd boredly been kickin', somehow made its way into my mouth, mixing in with the last remanants of saliva. With a lone whistle somewhere in the anals of cowboy movies I stood up and dusted off my pink Levi jeans Dad had purchased at Cal-Ranch feebly walked up to my trusty horse, I mean bat and me and him hung our heads round the corner of the fence toward El Paso cause we're wanted: dead or alive.

Suddenly, that Marty Robbins song is becoming a metaphor of this game. Mom asking me if I wanted to play pitching machine softball was like that guilty cowboy fallin' hard for some bewitching black-eyed Senorita, Felina. At the time, both options for you and our heady hero seemed harmless, innocent choices.





Until he sees another man eyeing his coqueta, had one too many cervezas and jealousy rises up in him like a ticked off bull from some cartoon. Ya know, where they turn red. Maybe it's Tom and Jerry, anywayyys, he has to bust it outta El Paso to some forsaken desert in Mexico, I believe. Of course he misses the girl that started the whole darn dilemma in the first place, stupidly he risks his neck for a kiss.

Speakin' of first places, we are waiting for the pitch feeling criminal-like for even walkin' into that Serengetti of a diamond field, what with the other team and their coaches and parents eyes borin' into the back of your head.

Not being able to swallow because your tongue has doubled in size, suddenly home plate has pulled you in like some contraption offa Star Trek and you freeze into batter position. Only your eyes can dart back and forth from the gun barrel aimed straight at you, first base and Lamb boy below you.

Finally, you can empathize with 'ol Marty's cowboy crush because like him, you'll risk dodging bullets (balls), heat, and dehydration to make it back to the safe arms of the bench.

Bat, pointing upward like the steeple of a white-washed Catholic church the symbol of divine pleas heavenward intervention, slightly sways. You follow the line your bat drew in the dirt (so as to help you find your ghost batter (Johnnhy Cash nod) comrades' encouragement and last minute coaching.

Not that you can hear the advice due to the bowling ball weighted helmet pulled over your ears as tight and low as sombrero wearin' bull riders musterin' up the courage atop a bull in the shoots 'bout to be given the gate at the words: "ready boyz".

Like that rodeo vaquero, you nod that you're ready; but he's doin' cause he is, actually ready, and your head's bobblin' because of the heavy helmet.

Either way, The catcher is kneeling down in the dust, squinting up at me from behind a horrifying mask that causes a deja vu because one day I'd see that it resembled the video cover for Silence of the Lambs from the black wire rack at Digital Doohickeys. That sick feeling I felt for takin' my wobbly purple banana seated bike behind my Steve Perry haired, Journey lovin', black parachute and vans wearin' shoulder hunchin' BMX ridin', older brother of Torment.

Well, he stared at me as I assumed my position; knees bent, elbows awkwardly spread, ready to fly.


The only thing that kept me from fainting in the imaginary box around home plate, was the smell of your silk screen T-shirt that is, now, officially yours and a symbol to young and old, that you, are part of a team.

Somehow, I made it back to the bench intact. I rounded the bases like my brother-in-low on a cattle round-up.

Now, I am that coach that casually tells 'em to go on out there and face a new kind of pitching machine that looks like an oversized sling shot, forgetting, for a moment what it is like to be a kid, batting for the first time.


But coaching is helping me recall those sweet memories I can recall what it felt like, standing in the backyard a few feet from the new Asn tree; my stiff, new McGraw mitt purchased from Sunset Sports with my dad. (I bet he has the receipt somewhere.)