The Bigfoot From Space

As I write, Trent is watching one of those "the spacemen did it" programs filled with the commentaries of the guys who have no girlfriends that I wrote about in an earlier blog. Incidentally, these and other programs have inspired a new phrase in my vocabulary. Although it is grammatically incorrect, and I was an English/History major, I use this expression almost daily. And what is this blemished pearl? Something that seems to sum up the theme of many of these programs. "It was the space-mans. The space-mans did it!" I have found that this can actually be used to explain any number of things. A news story about some animals getting out of their cages at the zoo? The space-mans did it, of course! The weather is unseasonably hot? It is the space-mans who are at fault! The dishwasher hasn't been run yet? The space-mans. I know, I am a terrible, awful person.

The program that is on in the background here this evening has some things I would never have imagined. Did you know that Sasquatch/Bigfoot/Yeti/Skunk Ape, etc. are extraterrestrials? And Gilgamesh's sidekick was a Bigfoot? Oh! Goliath was a Bigfoot, too? Who knew? And they created vast networks of caves that enable them to travel and communicate with each other all over the world. I think phones and planes are easier, but they didn't ask me. There is some debate over whether they are pure extraterrestrials or the products of those wily space-mans mating with beautiful human women. We have been regaled with tales of Bigfoot-type creatures descending from spacecraft or waiting at spots where spacecraft hover or land. To me, it just does not make a lot of sense. It must not to Trent either; he just switched over to Olympics coverage.

According to the people on these programs, these are beings of extreme intelligence and capability. Heck, not only did they travel across time and space to come here, but they established themselves as Gods here before they built the pyramids and just about everything else of beauty and/or magnificence that was created in the Ancient world. If they are so evolved, why don't they speak? Heck, why don't they do something about all of that shaggy hair? And why do they smell so bad? We mere mortals at least use soap and deodorant. And, if they are so darn smart, why aren't they in charge and bossing us all around, and making us live in the forests and mountains while they enjoy their climate-controlled dwellings?

I know that there are many species of flora and fauna that modern man has yet to discover. Perhaps one day something Bigfoot-like may even be brought to light, who knows? As William Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." I am perfectly willing to go along with something like Yes, Virginia, There Is A Santa Claus, but I am afraid to say that as far as the Bigfoot from space is concerned, I am a non-believer. On a planet like ours, nobody that brilliant needs to hide away!

Magic Mailbox

I really wanted to write last night, but it just wasn't happening. I'd write something, hate it, and erase it. Then I would start again, hate it again, erase it again. Luckily, when you are a blogger there are no rules that state you must write on specific days or you will get fired. When I was trying hard not to get out of bed this morning, it came to me in a flash. I knew what I wanted to write about. That's how it should be.

At one time, one of the grocery/small store shopping areas near where Gram and I lived had a US Postal station. It was an unmanned station where you could mail letters and packages, and do things like weigh boxes so you knew how much postage you would need. There were probably stamp machines as well, I don't remember that part too clearly. When Gram would receive her pension check, we would jump in the car (okay, we didn't exactly jump, that wouldn't be too wise for an older lady to do) and go to the grocery or mail out her payments for her bills.

Something that was both cool and convenient about the postal station was that you could actually drive up to the mailbox on either the driver's or passenger's side and drop the mail in a slot if you didn't want to get out of your car. Since Gram wasn't as easily able to get around as she used to be, this option really appealed to her. She could put the mail in the slot herself and know for a certainty that it had been mailed, and not have to get out of the car and do any walking or standing in line.

We pulled up and Gram double-checked all of her letters. She made sure they were all there, and that they all had return addresses and the stamps and sealing flaps were firmly attached. Then she threw them down the chute into the belly of the mail-beast. On one such occasion, right after she dropped the mail in the box, a voice asked us, "Will that be all for you?" We looked at each other, eyes wide, and mouths open in surprise. "What?" we said. "Will there be anything else for you today?" "No," we answered shakily, "that's all." "Okay, thank you!"

We were kind of freaking out. Who ever heard of a talking mailbox? Especially one that asks if you need anything else? We started looking around for the host and camera crew of one of those hidden-camera television shows, but nobody showed up. And then we heard the voice again. "Welcome to ------ Restaurant, what can we get for you today?" Yes, we were hearing the drive-through speaker from the fast-food restaurant across the parking lot! We got completely hysterical, laughing at ourselves. Here we had been thinking that we either had a magical mailbox or were the victims of an elaborate hoax. And all along, it was just someone on a really loud speaker wanting to know if we wanted any fries or drinks with our burgers, which we hadn't ordered from across the parking lot. After that, every trip to that postal station was good for a laugh, even if we didn't get asked if there was anything else we wanted. Because we already knew it was a Magic Mailbox.

Tribute

On July 26, 1906, a baby girl named Elizabeth, who would become one of the most important people in my life, was born in Saint Joseph's Hospital in Denver, Colorado. When she was just twenty-two months old her mother, who had been pregnant with twins, died of pregnancy/childbirth related problems, along with her two babies. Her father, John, was truly devoted to his wife and never remarried. So Bessie, as she was nicknamed, grew up in a single-parent home, and she and her father were truly devoted to each other.

In November of 1923, at just past seventeen years of age, she ran off and married Hiram, the true love of her life. They had four babies, but unfortunately the first was born dead. Surprisingly enough, even though she was born in a hospital, she had all of her babies at home. Gram was a small woman; although she claimed to be five feet tall, she eventually confessed to me that she was only four feet, eleven inches, but five feet sounded so much taller! Gram had two little girl toddlers when she was pregnant with her last child, the son Harold whom I mentioned in the post "The OMG Road." 

Gram's husband was a motion-picture projectionist, so he worked in the evenings. When Gram was pregnant with Harold, she told me, she was so large by her sixth month that she had to have her legs wrapped in elastic bandages from hip to toe. Since that made her unable to get up from a chair and she had two girls to look after, she would spend the evening leaning against the kitchen counter so that she would be able to take care of her girls. When it was time for Harold to be born, she went into labor on a Friday. And labored, and labored. Her doctor, Doctor Purcell, would come and check on her, and tell her to lift the bed when she felt a contraction. Harold finally showed up on the following Wednesday and weighed over twelve pounds! Since her water broke five days earlier, it nearly killed them both. 

When she woke up the next morning, her mother-in-law had put a phone book next to her bed, opened to funeral homes! I think that gave her the strength to survive. The kids all ended up getting terribly sick during the next couple of years, including pneumonia as a result of Depression-era dust storms. This resulted in Gram becoming agoraphobic, something that she worked very hard to conquer.

When Gram's kids were all grown up and had all of their kids, Gram became a widow. After thirty-eight years of marriage, Hiram was gone. She was a widow for over thirty-five years, and I don't think she ever looked at another man. She told me once that when he was alive, her first thought each morning was what she could do to make his breakfast special. Maybe she'd cut his toast a special way or something, just a little gesture of love. She confessed that even thirty-odd years after his passing, she still woke up each morning with her first thought being what to do for his breakfast. Then the realization would hit that he was not there, and she would go on with her day. I wept when she told me this. It was, and still is, one of the most beautiful examples of enduring love that I have ever heard.

This lovely lady, whose children were all raised, and who had grandkids of her own, allowed two Hungarian girls from Chicago into her home and her heart. Even though we were not related, she was like a mother to me, and I will be forever grateful for all of the things I learned from her. Ours was a very unique relationship. We could finish each others' sentences, laugh ourselves silly, and have long chats before bedtime, which we called solving the problems of the world. We could also get so mad at each other! I guess that just confirms that she was very much like a mother to me.

We lost Gram in the spring of 1997, and there are still times that I miss her. But I can laugh or cry about things we went through together, and treasure my memories of the years we had together. She helped form me into the person I am. I still feel her presence in my life, and often find myself using one of her many delightful expressions. I will finish off with a story she told me about her father. She told me that her father liked just about everyone, but every so often he would find someone that was the exception. He once told her that he was talking to someone that he thought was pretty stupid, so he told the man, "You know, you remind me of someone I knew once. He rode his donkey into town and tied it up at a hitching post. Then he went to the feed store and got a feedbag for the donkey. When he came out, instead of putting the feedbag on the donkey, he threw it in a hole in the street. He was so stupid, he didn't know his @$$ from a hole in the ground!"

Goodnight, Grammie, I love you!

And Tandy, Too?

Sometimes Trent and I hear someone say something that is just so darn adorable that we have to make it part of our everyday language. Kids don't realize what a treasure trove their everyday comments provide. Case in point, you may remember the story I wrote about a little boy named Jeffrey who told his irritated mother, "Mommy, don't hurt myself!"

We were visiting some friends who have kids, and the kids were excited to share their day's exploits with us. The oldest child, a boy of about six, was telling us about what he had done just before we came over for dinner. His face was serious, and his blue eyes were wide open as he told us his story. "I was out riding bikes today. And when you're riding bikes, you have to be really careful so you don't hurt yourself. I have to wear a helmet when I ride bikes because riding bikes is dang-erous." Yes, we love this word now. "I'd better make sure I have some chocolate cake with this milk, because if you drink milk all by itself, it can be dang-erous."

I think my all-time favorite comes from my brother-in-law's grandson Patrick. I happened to be visiting my sister and her husband on Halloween evening, and his daughter brought her three sons over to Grandpa's for trick-or-treating. Liz had gotten the boys plastic treat buckets and put candy in them and topped them with small toys.  Patrick must have been about three or four years old, and had chosen to be a cowboy. I think this was partly because he could put on the cowboy boots by himself like a big boy. I should clarify. Patrick was dressed as a "Towboy." Like a lot of kids that age, he had problems with a few words.

Patrick's little treat bucket had stuffed toys from a television program on the top. He ambled over to it as a real towboy should. I do believe the fact that he had his boots on the wrong feet may have helped him to walk almost like John Wayne. He dropped down on his knees in front of his bucket of goodies, exclaiming over the toys, and calling them all by name. Then came the moment of surprise and joy when he realized he had  more than just toys inside his bucket, there were treats to eat, too! His hands flew to his little-boy cheeks, and he practically shouted, "And tandy, too!?" This has become a favorite expression of happiness around here. If something happens that is really fun or a pleasant surprise, "and tandy, too?" is perfect to convey the joy of the moment.

Of course sometimes someone will hear us use one of these expressions and think we are kooky. But it gives us a chance to share a lighthearted moment and a sweet little story with them. Some of them even start using these sayings themselves, which makes us realize that sharing a little bit of humor can be a wonderful gift. If something is just deliciously funny to you, your friends will probably enjoy it as well. Especially if you give them some tandy, too!

The OMG Road

I have written many times about my Gram who raised me. Her husband had at one time lived in the gold mining region around Central City, Colorado. In fact, his mother and a younger sister who died as a toddler are buried in a lovely mountainside cemetery in a place called Russell Gulch. When I was growing up, we would make day trips into the mountains, and sometimes would stop and visit this sad, beautiful place. So when Gram's nephew Ted came for a visit to Colorado, it was inevitable that Gram's son, Harold, would take him up to see where his grandmother was buried.

Gram and I joined Harold, his wife Roberta, his daughter, Carole, and cousin Ted on this day trip. It was a beautiful day, and we had a mountain picnic, which the men washed down with liberal quantities of beer. For people from lower elevations, drinking at an elevation of about 9150 feet can result in a state of impairment pretty quickly. In less elegant terms, by the time lunch was done, Ted was well on the way to blotto. Harold was enjoying the company of his cousin, and was getting a bit of a buzz as well. Nobody worried about it much; the family had driven to and from there many times.

But I don't think any of us realized Harold was going to take a road down the other side of the mountain, one called Virginia Canyon Road. It is more commonly known, however, as the Oh My G-- Road. There is even a sign at the top of the hill describing it as such. Why such a name? Imagine a road that begins at an elevation of around 9150 feet. Make it less than one lane wide. Seriously, just wide enough for one car to travel with a clearance that is at most a foot or two between the car and either the rocky face of the mountain or a drop-off of over 1500 feet.  Oh! And it is partly paved and partly packed dirt. Sounds fun, right? If driving on this road were the only thing separating me from death, I'd be the dead woman on the side of the mountain. It's that scary. Just the thought of having to drive in reverse until you find one of the few "wide" spaces in the road in order to yield to another car that has the right-of-way is enough to make me say, "No thanks, I'd rather walk."

So, here we were, headed down the OMG road with a tipsy driver and a merrily toasted passenger from the flat lands of California. I was seated behind Harold, and Carole was seated behind her mother, who kept saying things like, "Oh, look at that tree!" or "Aren't those clouds pretty!" Naturally, Harold would look, and when he did, the car would swerve a bit from the center of the road. When you swerve from center on a road this narrow, it can get pretty awful very quickly. Carole and I about lost our minds. I was holding onto the driver's seat so tightly that my knuckles were white. We were telling Roberta to quit pointing things out. Ted grew very silent. When Carole started shouting, "Daddy!" I was so scared that I started yelling "Daddy!" too! Yes, I was that scared!

By the time we had descended to Idaho Springs, a mere 7526 feet in elevation, I wanted to get out of the car and kiss the ground in celebration of still being alive, but my knees were too shaky to hold me up. I think Carole probably felt the same way. Harold was still smiling and enjoying himself. And Ted? He was stone cold sober and as white as a ghost. I had heard the expression before, and seen people get pale, but his face was completely colorless. The rest of the journey was boring in comparison, which made both of the girls in the back seat very happy and relieved. 

I have ridden on the OMG road a few times since then with drivers I really trust. It is always a beautiful ride. Once, when Trent was driving down the mountain, there were some mule deer so close to the road that you could have reached out the window and touched them. But every time I get on that road, I think of that hair-raising ride with my uncle. And I enforce a strict rule: anyone who gets caught distracting the driver has to get out and walk!

Coupons And Collections And Hoards, Oh My

This is another one of those days that I have found myself consumed by odd questions of my own making. Have you ever noticed how, when there is an accident or breakdown on the road, everyone seems to be compelled to slow down and have a look? I have long referred to those scenes as train wrecks. Normal people who usually don't want to see morbid things find themselves unable to resist. Trent and I refer to certain reality shows as train wrecks. Let's face it, some of them are kind of gruesome, but for some reason I can't change the channel. 


One of my recent train-wrecks has been watching programs about people who hoard. While I can see how it could be easy to overdo hobbies and collections, there is a whole new level of excess displayed in these shows. Trent asks how I can watch them. For two reasons, I think. One is fascination with how the human mind works, and how easily it can be broken. I also think that deep down, we watch stuff like this to scare the wits out of ourselves so that we don't do it. I know it gave me the impetus to go through some boxes and get rid of some extra things we don't need. Although I am pretty sure I could never live surrounded by eight-foot tall piles of flotsam and jetsam.


This afternoon, I thought, "Well, what about those coupon people?" Are they secret hoarders who have found a more socially acceptable outlet for their compulsion? Who really needs hundreds of packages of toilet tissue or eighty toothbrushes or five hundred cans of tuna or twenty packages of hotdogs in their house at one time? They may have their hoard neatly stacked on shelves, but does that make it any less of an obsession? How can they possibly use all of that stuff before it becomes old? "Aw, come on, Sally, this spaghetti sauce only expired six years ago, it's absolutely fine!" Is the difference between hoarding and procuring a matter of cleanliness rather than quantity? Does being a canny shopper mean you are not a hoarder? I don't know.


I do not want anyone to think that I am against laying by supplies for a rainy day, or being prepared for emergencies. In fact, that is how I was raised. And I like having some extra things in the pantry or freezer just in case we can't get to the grocery or maybe we screwed up the checkbook. Or just because we might want something a little different for our dining pleasure. And it is important, nay, vital, to try to always have the ingredients for making cookies on hand. You may have a chocolate-chip-cookie emergency, you know. But beware, my friends. Making them can cause the arrival of hordes.

 

Where Did You Get That Name?

It's kind of odd, really. My siblings, who were all born in Hungary, were given very Hungarian names. Of course, when we came to the USA, their names were Americanized to a degree. My oldest sister is named Margit, and naturally the nuns at the Catholic school we attended in Chicago insisted on calling her Margaret. She put up with it until her adulthood and then switched back to her name as it really is. My brother still goes by John, which is not terribly far from the Hungarian Janos. My sister Liz, due to a spelling error, uses Erzebeth, although the proper spelling is Erzsebet. It is really funny to go shopping with her and watch the clerks tell her that her name is spelled wrong on her card, or ID, or whatever. If it were me, I would probably say something like, "Hey, do I question the spelling of your name, Dawnniece?"

For years, when I have told people my first name, Katrina, they have said things like, "Oh, are you Dutch?" or "That's Russian, isn't it?" When I tell them that I am a Hungarian-American, they look baffled. Well, think about it. Margit, Janos, Erzsebet...how did I end up with such a non-Hungarian name? Is it because I was the only child born in the US? Did my parents have a dear friend or relative with that name? I'm afraid it is nothing quite that glamorous. My mother named me after herself, but a more American-sounding version. Her name was Terez Caterina, so she named me Theresa Catherine. Yes, I know, that still doesn't explain why I am a Katrina now. Bear with me a bit longer, my dears.

After we lost our parents and Liz and I spent some time in an orphanage in Chicago, some relatives in Colorado found out about us. My mother's third or fourth or whatever cousin and his wife heard that there were two girls in an orphanage that were related to them. So W. and A. sent for us to come live with them. And we flew out to the Denver area to begin a new life. As we rode from the airport to their home in the suburbs, A. told me that I could no longer go by the name of Theresa. "I have a daughter named Theresa, so you will have to go by your middle name. Your middle name is Katrina, so from now on you will be called Katrina." But, still, you say, where did she get Katrina from?

Katrina was a very cranky member of A.'s brother's household. An overweight, shorthaired, black-and-tan colored dachsund. Yes, like Indiana Jones, I am named after the dog. The cranky dog. The short, stout, cranky dog. Perhaps it is only fitting since my birthday, July 13th, is the same as Harrison Ford's, and he played the intrepid archaeologist and explorer that I just mentioned. So, does it make you think maybe A. really wasn't too thrilled to have me? Oh, well, water under the bridge, as they say. It is a unique name. And all things considered, I could have ended up with far worse. I could have been a Shep or a Spot, or a Lassie! I wear my name with pride, and had my name changed legally when I reached adulthood. Nowadays, though, instead of people asking me if my name is Dutch or Russian, they simply say, "Oh, you poor thing, just like the hurricane." Pssh. Whatever. I had the name before she did. And besides, I was not named after a storm. I was named after the dog!