'Twas the Fourth of July, six or seven years ago. As in previous years, we were the crazy house where everyone came for dinner and a fireworks show — and what a show it was! Since our town is one of those last bastions of fireworks insanity (where you can buy everything short of firecrackers and M-80s), we always went a little over the top. We'd spend a couple hundred dollars, friends would bring fireworks, too. Before you know it, we had 30 people in the yard and enough fireworks for 90+ minutes.
On this particular year, there was a bit of a breeze. Felt great, since it was hot out, but not good for fireworks that blast 50' into the sky. About an hour into the show, our mistress of the matches, Shannon, lit off something that was supposed to send a dozen flaming balls high into the July 4th sky, each one breaking into a different colored firework. If only.
Instead, the damn thing tipped over the instant it was fully lit. The first ball shot out over the head of the kids in the lawn. The force of the shot made the entire thing spin. It became a crazy Russian roulette of fiery balls. The second ball shot down the center of the street, harmless. I was inside, getting a blanket when I heard all the commotion. "Duck!" "Stay down!" "Run!" What on earth was going on.
As I came out the back door and neared the gate onto the driveway, a flaming ball when whizzing past my head, literally inches away. I ducked ... took a look around and saw that everyone else had scrambled.
Once the firework stopped its crazy dance, we noticed that the neighbors boxwood hedge was on fire. No problem, we had the hose ready to go and a bucket of water. Unfortunately, the hedge was dry. Very, very dry.
So in a matter of seconds, an entire section of the hedge was in flames. The hose wouldn't reach, naturally. As Lisa and a few others ran to use the neighbors hose, Andy and I ran into our backyard ... grabbed big plastic toy tubs ... and dipped them into our kiddie pool. We then ran across the street and tossed the water onto the shrubs. Someone in the house had called 911.
By the time the firetruck arrived a few minutes later, we had managed to put out the flames. Picture a 20-year-old boxwood hedge with a 5' section in the middle charred and smoking, no longer green.
The capper to the evening? As Lisa was explaining what had happened to the fireman, she accidentally sprayed him with the hose in her hand. His buddies howled ... checked the bush ... told us we had done a great job ... and drove away.
No one said a word. We boxed up the remaining fireworks and gave them to a friend. We swept the street. Everyone packed up their stuff. And the neighbor — who was very nice — told us she was so happy no one was hurt.
Yes, we bought and planted new boxwoods and purchased a new mailbox, too (the other one had melted in the fire). But that was the last time we ever did fireworks at our house. As I lay in bed this time of year, listening to the pops and bangs and booms in the distance, I wonder if somewhere out there, there may be another burning bush. Happy July 4th, everyone! Make it a safe one!
Most kids have a few bumps and bruises on the way from baby to toddler to teen. A sprained ankle here, a bug bite or two there.
Andy is not like most kids.
Ever since he was born, nearly 21 years ago, Andy has had a devil-may-care attitude about safety. When he was little, if we went somewhere near a pond, pool or body of water, he'd try and jump in it ... never mind he couldn't swim at the time. If there was a play structure to be climbed or a fence to be scaled, Andy was right there. And also unlike most kids, he had a tolerance for pain that's really remarkable.
Like the time in grade school when he was at the park with friends. Gone just a few minutes, they all came running back to the house, with one little girl telling us "Andy fell off the bars and his arm doesn't look right." When Andy came into view, he was white as a ghost, but not making a peep. Diagnosis: Broken elbow. Six weeks in a cast and sling was to follow.
Then there was the time he was at junior high bike camp with our church group. This particular year was Eastern Oregon year. At the end of the camp, a friend brought him to the beach, where we were already at with Kate for a swim meet. Poor kid was red from head to toe, with nasty blotches all over his body. Diagnosis: Poison oak. He had told his teenage counselor, who told him to go ask an adult. That must have seemed like too much drama, so Andy went back to bed and started scratching. Got so bad he had to be on antibiotics.
Also in middle school, there was the time he was visiting the Oregon coast with Lisa and her extended family. Lisa's brother let Andy climb up on some barnacle-covered rocks in the waves. Sure enough, whoosh came a big wave and down fell Andy — peeling off a dinner-plate sized piece of skin from his leg and thigh. Diagnosis: Enough degloved skin to require stitches, antibiotics and very nearly a skin graft. No tears, though, even though it hurt like hell — especially the cleaning.
With a nurse in the family, our kids have lived by the adage that if there are tears and fussing, there had darn well better be blood. As with all things, Andy likes to take that mantra to the extreme.
Another year, another wedding anniversary. 22 wild-and-crazy fun-filled years with the Mrs.
As I look back and reminisce, my mind wanders back to our honeymoon to Disneyworld. Ah, memories.
The plane trip from here to Chicago was uneventful. The trip from Chicago to Orlando, however, was anything but. Lisa and I were two of maybe 10 non-Asian, English-speaking passengers. Seems a Japanese Amway group had booked the other 190 seats. I knew we were in trouble when I saw the flight attendants rolling their eyes. Before we even left the gate, tray tables were down, bags were in the aisles, it was crazy. And they either didn't understand the instructions the flight attendants were giving, or they didn't care. After a short delay, we took off. Not more than 3 minutes in the air, the seat in front of me reclined as far as it would go. For the next four hours on a sold-out flight, I had a tiny Japanese man practically in my lap. Preparing to land, the flight attendants had to tell everyone — not once or twice, but dozens of times — to fold up their tray tables and sit upright. Having enough at this point, Lisa took matters into her own hands — literally — reaching over the seat and thwopping the man on his head to get him to sit up. Straight-forward and direct, that's why I love her!
Once in our hotel, we had a fun day-and-a-half in the parks. Then just after lunch, returning to our hotel via monorail, I suddenly felt lousy ... really, really lousy. Thought maybe a nap would do the trick, but no such luck. Spiked a temp, felt horrible. After a day of this, Lisa called for the in-house doctor. Turns out I had pneumonia — which apparently is very common with honeymooners, as they tend to be run-down from the wedding, then thrown into a hot and humid environment. Wheat Thins, apple juice and antibiotics every 4 hours. It's good to have a nurse on hand! Lisa said she knew it must be serious since we could literally see the Magic Kingdom outside our room and I was too out of it to go. Finally felt better just in time to enjoy our last two of ten days in Florida.
Here's to the next 22 wonderful and wonder-filled years. And may I never be on a Japanese Amway chartered plane again.
In our last edition, we introduced you to the wacky and eclectic cast of characters who can be found in the hospital on any given day.
In the words of Bachman-Turner Overdrive, you ain't seen nothin' yet!
Take the other night. A quiet Wednesday evening. Our gals on Labor & Delivery get a call from the E.R. telling them they have a pregnant woman, age 60, who needs to be seen. And, um, her water has broken.
Age 60, you ask? Call Ripley's Believe It Or Not and grab the ultrasound. So the charge nurse went down to investigate. Have you met our new friend, Crazy? She's having Jesus' twins. That's right — twins. And the water that's broken? She's peed on herself, naturally.
Another night in paradise and there's no room at the inn.
As the talented Susan Boyle taught us the day she belted out "I Dreamed A Dream" and became a worldwide sensation, you can't judge a book by its cover.
Case in point: Lisa's visit to the credit union drive up this morning.
On short outings like this, we often take Essie, our chihuahua. She likes to hunker down behind your head as you drive. If any sort of drive-up is involved, she knows that if she makes her presence known to the people behind the window, she might get a treat.
Today, as Lisa waited at the drive-up, a scary looking guy pulled up in the car next to her. Tattoos everywhere. Multiple piercings. The kind of bad-ass dude you picture riding a Harley or starting a knife fight in prison. So imagine Lisa's surprise when he rolled his window down, leaned over and said, about Essie, "She is just precious!" "Yes she is," Lisa replied. They exchanged pleasantries until the pneumatic tube — and Essie's dog treat — made its way back to the car.
Axe-murderer? Rogue undercover cop? He certainly had the look. But anyone who likes chihuahuas enough to chat it up at the drive-up can't be all bad.
As a native Pacific Northwesterner, I'm used to rain. Lots of it. But the fact that I'm sitting here in long pants, a long-sleeved T-shirt and a thick Eddie Bauer sweatshirt — and it's May 28 — is crazy. Apparently this was the coldest and wettest May on record. And that follows a cold and equally record-setting-rainy April. The lawn is more than watered. The flowers are so wet they're falling over. As we head into the Memorial Day weekend and the start of summer, I think it's time we get reacquainted with a long-long friend: the sun. Hurry, please, I'm tired of being cold and wet.
America is a multi-cultural rainbow and that's what makes us the great country we are. Whether you're black, white, green, purple, one-eyed, eleven-toed, tall, short, skinny, fat ... it makes no difference. The saying "it's what's inside that counts" is true. Hard work, the saying goes, is what pays off in the end.
Until, that is, you enter the world of scholarships.
Kate has been an exemplary student, leader, athlete and volunteer for years. Her GPA is near 4.0, taking all advanced classes and college courses. She's been the ASB leader for four years, including serving as Executive President (the head honcho) this year. She's a state championship level swimmer. She goes to YoungLife youth group. And in what little spare time she has, she volunteers for the Red Cross and other charitable organizations. She's a dream candidate for scholarships ... in 1965.
Thus far, she's zero for ten on getting any of the scholarships she's applied for. For one, a healthcare-related scholarship (she plans on being an OB/GYN), she wasn't ethnic enough. For another scholarship, her parents (that's us) made too much money (too much being barely able to make ends meet). Another was nixed because she has two parents — sorry about that, kiddo. And for yet another, the fact that her parents had gone to college — and thus, she would not be a first-generation college student in her home — got her the big goose-egg.
So while I'm all for we are the world, hakuna matata, and kuumbaya, I'd love it if we could get back to judging scholarships based on the actual qualifications and achievements of the student.
Color me unhappy.
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