Day 17: My Mother Tries to Kill The Elderly

Our trip to Disney World, probably around 1978? It's completely bananas that this is the only picture of Susan and I for the week we spent there. By today's standards, it's basically criminal. We do, however, have approximately 35 pictures of the hula girls at the Polynesian dinner show. I'll give you three guesses as to who was the photographer in the family. (HINT: He was the only male.)

Though we don't have pictures, I remember how excited we were for our first plane ride. There was no Epcot or MGM, just Magic Kingdom. We weren't (and aren't) huge Disney fans, but I distinctly remember being amazed at how perfect Main Street was as we walked into the park.

There were two highlights from our trip that have no photos. First, Susan and I each used our spending money to buy giant sunglasses (like the joke kind that are five times the size of your head) and sombreros, which we then WORE ON THE AIRPLANE TO FLY HOME. Do that today and you'll probably land yourself on the terrorist watchlist. But back in the days of innocence, the only thing it got you was seats in your own row because your parents had orphaned you at 30,000 feet.

The second gem from that trip is burned into my memory because I heard my dad talk about it no less than 1700 times ...with the story becoming more outrageous as the years went by. We were in line for Pirates of the Caribbean, waiting for a boat to pull up and for the cheerful Disney cast member to assign us a row. I'm not sure if my mom was overheated and dehydrated or whether she had a secret thing for pirates, but she got a bit excited when what she thought was our boat pulled up to the railing.

As my dad would tell it, it was a boat FILLED with people who were 100 years or older, all invalids. Completely immobile. These poor innocent seniors were then ACCOSTED by my mother, who attempted to JUMP INTO THE BOAT WITH THEM before they had a chance to exit. He reenacted old ladies shaking their canes, gripping their husbands, and tucked his lips around his teeth to show that they were so old they didn't even have dentures anymore. He would also scream and tuck his knees up to his chest, as if they regressed and entered the fetal position at the sight of my mother trying to capsize their Disney Dinghy. NOT SURPRISINGLY, he was able to grab my mother and save those poor older people from having to try to find the life vests under their seat. In the words of Bonnie Tyler, they were holdin' out for a hero and DON WHITE WAS IT.

How I remember the story is irrelevant. Mostly because my version is boring and the truth. In the beginning, my mom would protest and tell him he was exaggerating. But what became funnier over the years was not the story, but my mom, my sister and I laughing at HIM, telling this completely embellished, over-the-top, and basically fictional story. I guess that's really what matters, that he got laughs, the people he told the story got laughs, and we got laughs...even if it was all for different reasons.

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Day 16 of #the100DayProject: Here's the story...

The Brady Bunch was probably my favorite tv show growing up. It was a time when, if a show came on Tuesdays at 8 p.m., you watched it then or you missed it until summer reruns. My dad hated The Brady Bunch because it was "phony" and also because I would watch the repeats and recite the lines before they said them...which prompted him to ask why I needed to watch it again if I already knew what happened. He clearly was not charmed by the complicated plots, Alice's quirky gestures, or seeing Bobby swim through bubbles after overflowing the washing machine.

You know how we hear about weird college courses that analyze pop culture or specific movies? I want to take a class about the Brady Bunch. Since I can't find one, I went ahead and prepared a syllabus:

1. Discuss the Carol/Alice dynamic. They genuinely seemed to love one another without a power struggle. Was Alice paid well? Did she have health insurance? Was Sam the Butcher allowed to spend the night?

2. Six kids and one Jack & Jill bathroom. How was this possible? Current HGTV viewers have just thrown an embolism.

3. There should have been more fighting over the telephone. Mike installed a payphone on one episode, but that was it.

4. What was the deal with Cousin Oliver? Fun fact: The statue in the Hawaii Tiki episode was also named Oliver.

5. Did famous stars like Joe Namath, Davy Jones, and Vincent Price actually WANT to do guest appearances or was The Brady Bunch like The Love Boat? (*There should also be a course on The Love Boat, because (a) it's both exciting and new and (b) they're expecting you.)

6. Brady Bunch lines still famous today:

- Pork Chaaaaaaps and appleshawwwsh

- Ow! My nose!

- Mom always says, don't play ball in the house!

- When it's time to change, it's time to chaaAAAAAnge

- Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!

Do you have a favorite episode? Have you downloaded "Sunshine Day" by the Silver Platters on iTunes? Did you ever smuggle a goat named Raquel into your attic bedroom? Share your favorite Brady memories. This is a safe space.

Day 15:  Curls Just Wanna Have Fun

Ah, the 80s. The nylon materials, chemically-processed hair, and shellac to hold it all in place. It was all just so...FLAMMABLE. Did anyone spontaneously combust? Because I feel like people probably did, but there was no 24-hour news network to let us know about it. This glamour shot is a fine representation of not just big hair, but HOMEMADE HAIR. Those perms? They were done at the kitchen table and with a Toni home perm kit. 

I'm pretty sure most people in my generation experienced the torture. You'd schedule an ENTIRE AFTERNOON to get that hair did. Drag out the rollers and an old towel and assume your position in the kitchen chair. The victim....er, recipient, would hand the "stylist" (YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW LOOSELY I AM USING THE TERM STYLIST), a thin paper and then a roller. That part wasn't so bad. It was when what I now believe to be Drano was poured over your head. You'd shield your eyes, which were already burning from the mere fumes. The horrid smell was only outdone by the shrieks, as the likely carcinogenic fluid permeated your skin, right down to the cerebral cortex. If you didn't come out of a home perm with lacerations and scabs, you weren't doing it right. Each and every time my mom, Susan or I did a home perm, my dad would stop sucking on his cigarette long enough to complain about the fact that we were trying to kill him (note the irony). 

You'd sit there waiting the 60 minutes to find out your destiny, secretly terrified you may have to feign illness for school on Monday or try to pretend you truly were going for the poodle look. Almost as bad was when you wasted an entire afternoon, only to unroll it and find you basically looked the same. This was followed by teenage wrath unleashed on the unlicensed stylist (your mom), who was probably secretly wishing she would have wound those rollers a little tighter. We didn't have the term "quality time" back then, but I think this bonding experience definitely qualifies.
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Day 14 of the 100 Day Project: Noticing

This may look like a regular window, but it's actually a mystical portal for the senses. I took this photo while staying at a tiny little AirBnB in Colmar, France. It's no photographic masterpiece, but it helps me to remember. Maybe it's the fact that window screens are not common in Europe, so you feel much closer to the outdoor surroundings. It gives a great sense of community, nothing between you and your neighbors. I remember hearing the church bells and neighbors speaking in their beautiful language. The sun moving across the sky, drenching the stucco and those gorgeous red tiled roofs. At around 2 am, you'd wake to the smell of bakeries starting their bread for the day. IT WAS LIKE A DREAM. It's hard to go back to sleep with that deliciousness wafting in, but is the most wonderful memory. Whenever I travel, I find myself constantly wondering, "Do these people know how LUCKY they are? Is it just another day, where the details go unnoticed?" Probably. Just as we go about life at a pace that blurs days to years. But photography lets us capture moments and keep them. It really is pretty darn magical. 

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Day 13:  I love their love.

Day 12 of #the100DayProject: Play

I’m guessing Susan and I were about 4 and 7 in this picture. We spent countless hours playing. Those were the pre-electronic days and also days that were COMPLETELY unplanned. Not a darn thing. All day. And my mom did her thing, cleaning and cooking. We played grocery store and library, making paper cards and stamping them. We lined up kitchen chairs into rows and carefully wrote plane tickets for each stuffed animal and then spoke into a telescope like it was a microphone. We used a 33 vinyl record as a steering wheel, cans of soup for the gas and the brake, a hammer shoved between the cushions as a gear shift and drove our couch all the way to Disney World. We’d then spread out a blanket with all our stuffed animals and baby dolls and wave to an imaginary Disney character parade. WE ACTUALLY SAT THERE AND WAVED. AT NOTHING. It all seems so sweet now, looking back. No photos of it, no videos, no Boomerangs or TikToks. And so very few pictures. But these are the memories that I want to document in a place other than my heart. It’s why I love this project so, so much.  

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Day 11 of the 100 Day Project:  The World Kept Turning 

In 1982, my mom drove me to Kennedy Airport in NYC and put me on a plane to Vienna for a seven week visit with my cousin, Susanne Grasser, and her family. That trip changed my life and instilled the tremendous gift of curiosity and wanderlust. Though I was experiencing a new language, culture, and more independence, I was 14-years-old and still wanted to keep up with everything back at home. 

At that time, international phone calls had to be made from the post office in town, so I only scheduled a few calls home during my trip. We wrote LETTERS instead. So adorably vintage, isn’t it?  They were even on these handy airmail forms, with pre-printed postage, and folded into an envelope for mailing. Included in my mom’s letters would be updates on what was going on with friends and family and, more importantly, a weekly synopsis of “The Young and The Restless”, “As The World Turns” and “Guiding Light.” We were SO INTO SOAPS. Or “the stories” as the older set would call them. They were goofy and dramatic, but compared to some of the reality TV today, they seem award-worthy. 

I love that my mom took the time to keep me up-to-date on who had been kidnapped (again) and who found out they had an evil twin (again). Her generosity and diligence were especially commendable, considering all of my letters include the phrase, “I love it here so much! I’m never coming home!” 

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Day 10 of the 100 Day Project:   Well, that’s embarrassing 

The idea of organization has intrigued me throughout my entire life. I’m drawn to graphs, markers and paper organized by color, label makers, a pantry that let’s you know you’re low on flour by a mere glance at the glass canister. 

Sadly, the exercise gene mentioned yesterday has an attached strand of DNA that codes for organization (I cannot cite this as fact because whether it is an ACTUAL fact has not been proven by science, only by me). I’m really organized with some things, like when I write report or document at work, but I also have an affinity for placing “important” papers on flat surfaces. By important I mean newspaper clippings, beautiful quotes that I write on napkins at stoplights, and coupons that I will forget at home. 

After having my first baby, I knew it was time to really get myself organized. I packed Trevor in his baby seat and off we went to conquer the stacks and see what methodology could help this new mom. (FUN FACT: It was at this same library in Virginia Beach that a man stood behind me in the cookbook aisle and repeatedly cleared his throat until I turned around to notice what he was “kneading.”) 

I found a great selection of home organization books and checked them out. After a week of heavy research, reading and taking notes, I decided I still needed more information. Even then, I suffered from analysis paralysis and had to find every morsel of data before proceeding. Back to the library we went, to see if anything new had hit the shelves. 

This was before computers were available to patrons. And before you ask, YES, the wheel HAD been invented. And so had fire. I asked the librarian if there were any more books available on my topic. She scanned the screen and read three titles, but said they were checked out; however, I could request to have them held when they’re returned. I excitedly handed over my library card with delight. MORE INFORMATION. 

She types away and makes a face that says, “Hmmmm.” “Anything wrong?” I said. “Well, it seems that the person who has the all the organizational books checked out is YOU.” 

Yep. Apparently I had cornered the market on every book they had on the subject and didn’t even recognize the titles when she mentioned them. Please keep in mind I had a 4-month-old baby at the time and was basically a 24-hour milk machine. And if I had to choose between being responsible for books AND a small human, I’m glad I could still locate and recognize the human. 

We laughed it off (or maybe I giggled and ran, my memory is fuzzy.) This story doesn’t really have an ending, other than these are a few of the books I currently own on organization, the top one being from an author I saw speak live last year on the topic of decluttering. I’m fully aware that I’ll never conquer my scattered tendencies and, at 52 years old, have decided to call it part of my “charm.”  

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Story #9 of the 100 Day Project:  Exercise-ish

Were some people born with an exercise gene? It kinda seems like it sometimes. I think my DNA coded energy, but exercise? Not so much. I’ve taken classes, joined a gym, and enjoy waking and being active, but do I LOVE actual exercising? No. “Runner’s High?” Only when making it to the gate in the nick of time, after a mad dash through the airport.

This leads me to find little ways to fool myself into thinking I can make a difference 5 minutes at a time: Doing push-ups on the countertop, leg lifts while watching travel shows. My latest trick is a $7 rubber band that sits on the counter. While waiting for the microwave or eggs to fry, I can step in and burn a calorie or two. Nowhere near enough to mitigate whatever is coming out of the oven, but it feels like something positive. It’s a cheap and easy way to feel the burn. Just remember to step out of the band before moving to turn off the timer or grab a boiling pot. Don’t ask me how I know this. 

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Story #8 of the 100 Day Project: Sniffles

Our dog came to us when my dad decided to bring her home one night after work (and probably a beer or 6.) He didn’t ask my mom, just showed up with a puppy in a box. Of course, we were thrilled...but as is often typical, the job of training a dog falls to Mom.

Ol’ Sniffles wasn’t exactly the easiest to housebreak and there were days that my mom would get exasperated and would threaten a one-way ticket to a farm. For Sniffles. Not my dad. I think? Maybe.

In this snapshot, Sniffles joined us on vacation to Ocean City. She even packed her own nightgown! We were staying at Kristi Caw's family's trailer, which we rented a few times. We’d pack up the Volare’ station wagon, crank up the AM radio and roll down the windows for the ride. With sounds of 70s music and my dad tracking the Smokies on his CB radio, Susan and I would fold down the middle seat and stretch out on sleeping bags, eating packed snacks and sandwiches. Nary a seatbelt in sight.
Sniffles wore clothes, went on trips, and was forced to run through our created obstacle courses. She was our first pet and I think we gave her a good life in the suburbs...never to the farm.

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Story #7 of the 100 Day Project: Passports

This is my sweet Rowan, now 16, who was almost 3 in this photo. It was his first trip to see our family in Austria. We had a layover in Atlanta and then on to Munich. When we boarded our flight, I had a carry on, Rowan and two additional kids in tow. As I made my way to the back of the plane with my traveling circus, I got everyone settled, bags stowed and sat down in my seat, somewhat exasperated, but relieved to be seated for our 7 hour flight.

As is my practice, I put everyone’s passports in my special folio. Counting. Always counting. 1-2-3-....wait. Three? Count again. 1-2-3. Yep. Three. I frantically open each one to see who is missing. I had them all when we boarded, as the agent checks them at the podium. It’s Rowan’s that is MIA. I jump up and walk the aisle, “Excuse me” and “Pardon Me”-ing my way to the front of the plane, checking the floor. Nothing. It’s gone. How is this possible?

I went back to our seats and went through my bag again. Nope. It’s gone. Maybe someone found it somewhere and turned it in? I’m sure that’s it. I’ll ask the flight attendant. She looks nice. She’s got a cute smile and friendly — OH. MY. GOD. Never ask the flight attendant. We’ve been raised to ask the “helpers.” That’s what Mr. Rogers said. But apparently flight attendants are NOT helpers. Because in my time of desperation and need, she told me we needed to get off the plane. I’ve never gone into shock, but I almost feigned a heart attack and was willing to be shocked by a defibrillator just to stay on that plane. We bought tickets. We were in Atlanta. My cousin was waiting for us. I wanted to cry. Being the dutiful traveler, I always made copies of our passports. Can’t we just go to the embassy and sort this out when we arrive? The answer to that is a hard no. All I could think was that (a) this is not happening (b) these are NOT the friendly skies and (c) the schnitzel in Atlanta probably sucks.

Mere seconds before we were booted from the plane, I walked the aisle one more time, going to the door and back. As I walked through First Class (because I only EVER have WALKED through first class), a woman stood up and said, “I’m sitting on something! Is this what you’re looking for?” OMG. THE PASSPORT. Still warm from her ample rump. Usually I just give the lucky ducks in first class the side-eye, but I wanted to straight up kiss her. Who cares if her husband objected. This woman saved our trip!

The moral of this story is, unless you’re having chest pain or slurred speech (not from the pre-boarding hooch you enjoyed), TELL THE ATTENDANT NOTHING. Get where you wanna go and then sort it out. They may look cute in their uniforms, but they’ll straight up throw an adorable, innocent toddler off a plane in a strange city. No joke.

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Story #5 of the 100 Day Project: Quarantine Surprise

Because our patients are nearly all COVID positive, I've been distancing as much as humanly possible, outside of work. I sleep in the spare room, don't hug anyone, never wear my scrubs into the house and don't even bring my shoes inside. It's been hard. And Elsie is growing SO fast, I feel as though I'm missing so much. Olivia gave me the sweetest surprise today and came to the patio for a distanced visit. The first time I've seen them in six weeks. We are all making sacrifices in our own way and I hope that, when this is all over, we treasure the "normal" in a way we didn't appreciate before. Maybe the good that comes of this will be that our perspective changes and gratitude grows for the little things we took for granted in 2020 BC (Before COVID).

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DAY FOUR:  Chatty

My report card comment from fifth grade had some nice things to say, but ended on a somewhat sour note. I’m sure I was chatty back then, as I can be now, but was it REALLY that bad to warrant a mention? Apparently yes, though I seem to just remember myself as “friendly.”

But what I love most about this gem is the fact that one Johanna White (my mom) went BIG TIME FANCY. This was the year she took calligraphy lessons and she sure as heck wasn’t letting that $15 go to waste! She broke out that ol’ nibbed pen and let it be known that she was taking my behavior SURRIOUS. Like India Ink, italics, “SHE HAS BEEN TOLD” kind of SURRIOUS.

I’ll also point out that this was the year Jo went rogue feminism and signed her own name. Previously, she signed as “Mrs. Donald White.” I’m not kidding. Like women had no name of their own. It’s amazing, really. I like to imagine that she signed this late one night, after washing the cast iron frying pan with SOAP, against orders (*see Day One story). So much history is contained in these little bits of life. ❤️

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DAY THREE: Bonus Stacey Story Saturday! 

This is our third grade class picture, the year we became friends. We joined the same Girl Scout troop as well. As part of scouting, we did the usual cookie sales and badge projects, and our 50 cents dues each week funded camping trips and volunteer efforts.

To our surprise, we received an ENGRAVED invitation from Governor Schaefer to a tea honoring volunteers. A. TEA! We didn’t even like tea, but we’d be darned if we’d miss an opportunity to eat a biscuit with the Guv’nuh!

We shopped for new dresses and paired them with some fancy shoes. We even bought NEW NYLONS. To this day, I’m not sure why we didn’t realize that an event being held at the old Baltimore Civic Center wasn’t going to be up close and personal. Did our mothers know and not want to burst our bubble? Imagine our surprise when we showed up to the “tea” with approximately 10,000 other people and sat in section Z500, row TT.

FUN FACT: We also saw our first concert, Shaun Cassidy, at the Civic Center. He jumped through a big paper poster and ripped his pants. Governor Schaefer’s pants, however, remained intact throughout the tea.

We still snort about getting all gussied up and having Stacey’s mom drag us downtown for a bunch of speeches, a cup of KoolAid, and a single Murray’s sugar cookie.

#theyoungandtheclueless #worththedecadesoflaughs

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DAY TWO of the #The100DayProject: Stacey

The most difficult part about telling the story of our FORTY-FIVE year friendship is narrowing it down to something less than 1,000 pages. I’d love to know how many of those years were spent laughing. I’m not good at the maths, but my calculations gave me 44.5 years. Approximately.

One time when we were like 11, we decided to take her canoe out on the creek behind her house. What could go wrong? I mean, we had earned our boating badge in Girl Scouts. Her older brother, Mark, didn’t seem to honor that certification when he came stomping down to the water’s edge with a face far too stern for a 15-year-old gentleman. As punishment, he made us carry the canoe back up the hill on our heads. He didn’t find the laughter appropriate. Apparently we could have drowned or something...despite also having our SWIMMING BADGE.

Then there was the time we decided to make oatmeal face masks in her mom’s kitchen. We slathered on the concoction we read about in “Teen” magazine and closed our eyes. Then, OUT. OF. NOWHERE. I felt a splat on the side of my head. Stacey had hurled a fistful of the goo right at me. No warning. Not even a snicker. It was on like Donkey Kong and we had a full-on mask fight in her kitchen. I think her mom found dried oatmeal like 4 months later behind a wall hanging.

In this photo, we’re wearing matching shirts we had made with “OoLaLa” ironed on them. Can’t imagine why we didn’t garner more attention from the fellas at the mall. I mean, what with the braces, comb in the back pocket of our jeans, and scent of Love’s Baby Soft and Oxy10. Not that we cared. We were strictly there for photo booths and chocolate.

We had so many sleepovers. We’d put hot rollers in our hair, eat Sour Cream & Onion Doritos, watch “Dallas” and decide when to preheat the bed with her high-tech electric blanket.

The raciest thing we ever did was throw two eggs at a neighbor’s house. The dad was sitting right at the window with the light on. I can still picture him! It’s not like we disliked them. We were so dumb! We even ran right back to her house, like 100 feet away! So amateur.

She was my Ride-or-Die before it was a thing. Unless we were trying to get up Joppa Farm Rd on our bikes. Then she was my Push-or-Die.

We still leave each other voicemails that are absolutely unintelligible. They are one of us gasping, saying a word (barely), snorting, whispering, laughing, and finally giving up. I’ve saved them and play them because they’re worth more to me than that pair of hand-me-down Calvin Klein jeans she gave me.

Our stories often included the phrase “We should save our money...” So many plans. We still say it and we still have schemes and dreams. We keep each other young and, so often, sane. Years later, I’d still choose her to sing “White Coral Bells” with, accompanied by burping from reflux. ❤️

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100 Days of Storytelling

Today is the first day of #The100DayProject. Pick a way to be creative, a habit you’d like to form, etc and make time for it daily over the next 100 days. This is my very first attempt at this project and I’m super excited. I’ve tossed around SO many ideas, but have settled on 100 stories.

My line of work gives great perspective on the fragility of life. Memorials are often filled with beautiful tributes and stories, AFTER the loved one is gone. My goal is to document 100 stories from my childhood, about family and friends, etc. I’m really looking forward to documenting the details that make a life. 

Day One: I made this chocolate chip pizookie recipe last night (pictured above, with pieces missing to demonstrate its irresistibility). It’s made in a cast iron frying pan. This made me think of my dad’s LOVE of a cast iron pan. For creamed chipped beef or hot dogs and stewed “duhmaydas” - it was the go-to pan. But what really sticks in my mind is how my mom would REPEATEDLY wash it with soap and water. Despite his ranting and raving about it being “seasoned”, she would still fill it with warm soapy water! I don’t know if she legitimately forgot about his over-the-top speeches or if it was a housewife’s power play, but it still makes me laugh. SHE LEGITIMATELY WASHED IT WITH SOAP FOR LIKE 20 YEARS! 😂 I love that little things like this can stay with you for decades. These are the stories I want to remember. ❤️

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