I am going to skip ahead a few years since some topic of conversation brought up this story the other night, and it is definitely worth repeating. Some time around my 9th grade year, my mom finally decided to call it quits with my dad (the crazy, tragic stories surrounding that year will have to wait), and eventually, she moved in with Paul, who would become my step-dad one April afternoon during my sophomore year. Now, when my mom left my dad, she was in her early 30s and had never held a job outside of our home. She had always been a superb homemaker, keeping the house clean, the clothes washed, the house stylishly decorated, and she participated in all the homemaker/mom required activities. She volunteered in the health room at my elementary school, James H. Hendrix Elementary, she was assistant leader for my Girl Scout troop, she kept score for my softball team, and she was a Sunday School teacher for the 5 and 6 year olds at our church (which promptly dumped her when they found out she was getting a divorce). So, when she left my dad and our house (Paul promised her they wouldn't need and didn't want anything my dad had given us), she had to find a job for the first time in her life. Paul had worked since he was 17 at Arkwright Mills with his father, so of course, he didn't make much money, and since she was new to the working world, my mom had to take whatever job she could find - usually textile and manufacturing work through various temp agencies. The agencies would send her to a plant or factory where she would work the maximum number of weeks allowed before the company had to fully employ her and give her benefits, and then they would say her job had ended, and she would be back looking for work. Needless to say, we were pressed for money. The minute I turned 15, I started applying for jobs and started waiting tables at The Tugboat Fish Camp on Highway 9 so I could have some money.
Lack of money and credit record (my mom's credit had all been in my dad's name, and Paul's ex-wife had demolished his credit record), my mom and Paul had to settle on renting a mobile home from the brother of her sister's husband (redneck connections, to say the least). Now, we are not talking about a modular home with all the amenities one might find in a resort trailer park such as Ocean Lakes in Myrtle Beach. We are talking about an old single-wide trailer with two rooms built on to the side. The original trailer had two bedrooms and one bath. Huey, the redneck connection, had built on a living room and another bedroom, so in fact, we had 3 bedrooms, 2 living spaces, a kitchen, and a bathroom. Outside of the extension was a redwood deck straight out of Sammy Kershaw's double-wide trailer queen's dreams. The trailer sat at the end of Burmaster Street, bordered only by other trailers (one which the owners had tried to build around and make it look like a real house) and woods. Years of cars turning around in the front yard had left a circular dirt driveway for our one car until I saved up $700 in tips to buy that '78 Oldsmobile Starfire, of which I was unbelievably proud.
One spring afternoon (which must have been on the weekend because Momma and Paul were both home, and my cousin Julie was there hanging out with my younger sister) we lived out one of Jeff Foxworthy's definitions of redneck. I can't remember exactly what we were doing, but Misty and Julie had left the house out the front door, across the deck, and into the front yard. I must have been in my room, but I remember them calling me.
"Kristie! Come out here. You have to see this! Come quick!" I heard them calling.
I walked through the living room, opened the screen door, and walked across the deck. Then, I felt it. The deck had moved. I felt it shift somehow, sinking a little.
"What is going on?" I managed after gasping in surprise. "What did y'all do?"
"We didn't do anything!" They replied through peals of laughter. "You better get off of it, though!"
So, I shuffled quickly off the deck, down the steps, and stood with my sister and cousin.
"We have to tell Paul," I said. So, we called him to come see, too, just as they had done to me.
"What are y'all doin'?" he asked as he looked through the screen door. "Your momma's takin' a nap. You better not wake her up."
"Paul, come out here. You have to see this." We echoed. We at least told him, "Something is wrong with the deck."
"What do you mean something is wrong with the deck?" he asked as he took his first step across the metal railing of the screen door.
As soon as he managed his full weight onto the redwood deck, the legs finally collapsed. The entire deck sunk to the ground with the sound of cracking wood, and Paul tumbled with the debris.
"Damn!" he cried as he lay amid the rotting wood.
The crash awakened my mom. She ran to the screen door, opened it, and we all exclaimed, "Don't walk out, Momma!"
"What in the world....?" she shouted, screen door open to the rubble, with Paul standing in the middle of it all.
"I guess we better call Huey," Paul answered. "Damn!"
If Jeff Foxworthy ever reads this, then he can get the story straight. No dead dogs, and it wasn't a double-wide trailer, but a single-wide with 2 rooms built on.
Monday, January 20, 2014
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
The Broken Window
I used to love when my cousins would come over to see my grandma because that meant I had built-in playmates. My cousin Johnny and I would always gang up against my sister Misty, my cousin Kim, and Johnny's sister, Julie. Two against three may not sound like much of a ganging up, but since Johnny and I were the oldest, smartest, and most athletic, we always won despite the numbers. Now, those three might argue who was smartest, but since they never caught on to our scheme or they never bothered to protest our scheme, then I would say that we earned the intelligence battle. And those three certainly weren't anywhere near athletic. The most movement their bodies ever saw was much later in the 80s when they spent all afternoon teasing their hair and banging their heads to the music of hair bands such as Guns-N-Roses and Metallica. (I remember our epic verbal battles as teens over which genre was better and cooler - my preference was alternative bands such as U2 and REM, but they loved that heavy metal.)
On one random Sunday afternoon, after having finished our after-church meal of KFC chicken with macaroni and cheese, rolls, and green beans with banana pudding for dessert (standard fare for Sunday afternoons in South Carolina), we decided to play baseball in the front yard of Grandma's house. We had to play in the front yard because the back was too cluttered with Grandpa's junk and random plum trees or pine trees or grape vines. Plus, the front yard had built-in bases. The black kettle hanging from a curved metal pipe and which sometimes held a real flower, sometimes a plastic one, served as home plate. The front porch stairs were first base, a tree truck was second, and the white light pole was third. Either Johnny or I would pitch while the others played defense. We would even give them three outs to our two just to make the odds even more fair. Still, they agreed to the terms every time, and they lost the game every time, too.
On this particular afternoon, Johnny was pitching, and I was on defense. I can't remember who was at bat - Julie, Kim, or Misty - but whoever hit the ball, hit it toward me. Johnny quickly ran to the front porch steps and prepared to catch my toss to first for an easy out. "Over here, quick," he urged me on. I fielded the ball cleanly, but I fell victim to the adrenaline, and hurled the ball to first. Johnny's eyes followed the ball straight into the center of a 3-paned picture window that fronted the living room of my grandma's house. Bodies jumped from their reclining position in the living room, and I knew our game was over.
As cliché as this may seem, time really did seem to stop for a second. Everyone in the yard froze when the ball shattered the glass in the picture window, and we all looked at each other in horror, our eyes wide and our jaws hanging. In that frozen moment, our shared glances spoke of commiseration, collectively feeling the dread of the coming punishment. Or maybe that was what was going on in my mind; my cousins were probably thinking about how they could prove that I threw the ball and therefore was solely responsible for the damage.
Grandma would be ok. She would be upset, but understanding and calm. Grandpa, though, was the one we all feared. He was the one who shouted at us for coming in and out of his house. "Y'all ain't the ones paying the light bill around here. You need to go outside and play and stay outside and quit letting all the air conditioning out," he would bellow. Grandpa was also the one who counted the number of Coca-Cola cans in the refrigerator and fussed every time one of the grandchildren got a cold Coke out of the refrigerator: "Y'all know I only like the cold ones. You can get one of the hot ones and add ice. And you better drink the whole thing, too. I don't buy them for you to let it go flat. You need to drink more water anyway." And Grandpa was the one who dominated the television with his "Hee Haw" and 6 o'clock news broadcasts and dared us to make noise so that he couldn't hear. Yes, Grandpa was the one who fussed and the one who would hurt our feelings and the one who would let us know exactly how much a new picture window would cost.
As soon as our telepathic moment passed, we scattered like bugs suddenly exposed when a rock is overturned. We ran in 5 different paths, all out of the front yard, headed away from Grandpa and our moms, who were sure to follow Papa immediately as he descended into the carport to begin the interrogations. I don't exactly remember where we thought we would hide or how Papa ended up rounding us all together again, but I do remember his eerily serious tone when he discussed how much the window would cost to get fixed and how they would have to tape up the hole right now because they couldn't get a glass repairman out until Monday. And I remember being worried about how Grandma was going to be able to afford a new window, and I still wonder to this day if my mom or my grandma paid for the window to be fixed, but somehow they managed to get it done.
I never denied throwing the ball, but I did try to lay the blame on Johnny. "Johnny was supposed to catch it!" I explained.
"Well, I'm not Kareem Abdul Jabar," he offered.
On one random Sunday afternoon, after having finished our after-church meal of KFC chicken with macaroni and cheese, rolls, and green beans with banana pudding for dessert (standard fare for Sunday afternoons in South Carolina), we decided to play baseball in the front yard of Grandma's house. We had to play in the front yard because the back was too cluttered with Grandpa's junk and random plum trees or pine trees or grape vines. Plus, the front yard had built-in bases. The black kettle hanging from a curved metal pipe and which sometimes held a real flower, sometimes a plastic one, served as home plate. The front porch stairs were first base, a tree truck was second, and the white light pole was third. Either Johnny or I would pitch while the others played defense. We would even give them three outs to our two just to make the odds even more fair. Still, they agreed to the terms every time, and they lost the game every time, too.
On this particular afternoon, Johnny was pitching, and I was on defense. I can't remember who was at bat - Julie, Kim, or Misty - but whoever hit the ball, hit it toward me. Johnny quickly ran to the front porch steps and prepared to catch my toss to first for an easy out. "Over here, quick," he urged me on. I fielded the ball cleanly, but I fell victim to the adrenaline, and hurled the ball to first. Johnny's eyes followed the ball straight into the center of a 3-paned picture window that fronted the living room of my grandma's house. Bodies jumped from their reclining position in the living room, and I knew our game was over.
As cliché as this may seem, time really did seem to stop for a second. Everyone in the yard froze when the ball shattered the glass in the picture window, and we all looked at each other in horror, our eyes wide and our jaws hanging. In that frozen moment, our shared glances spoke of commiseration, collectively feeling the dread of the coming punishment. Or maybe that was what was going on in my mind; my cousins were probably thinking about how they could prove that I threw the ball and therefore was solely responsible for the damage.
Grandma would be ok. She would be upset, but understanding and calm. Grandpa, though, was the one we all feared. He was the one who shouted at us for coming in and out of his house. "Y'all ain't the ones paying the light bill around here. You need to go outside and play and stay outside and quit letting all the air conditioning out," he would bellow. Grandpa was also the one who counted the number of Coca-Cola cans in the refrigerator and fussed every time one of the grandchildren got a cold Coke out of the refrigerator: "Y'all know I only like the cold ones. You can get one of the hot ones and add ice. And you better drink the whole thing, too. I don't buy them for you to let it go flat. You need to drink more water anyway." And Grandpa was the one who dominated the television with his "Hee Haw" and 6 o'clock news broadcasts and dared us to make noise so that he couldn't hear. Yes, Grandpa was the one who fussed and the one who would hurt our feelings and the one who would let us know exactly how much a new picture window would cost.
As soon as our telepathic moment passed, we scattered like bugs suddenly exposed when a rock is overturned. We ran in 5 different paths, all out of the front yard, headed away from Grandpa and our moms, who were sure to follow Papa immediately as he descended into the carport to begin the interrogations. I don't exactly remember where we thought we would hide or how Papa ended up rounding us all together again, but I do remember his eerily serious tone when he discussed how much the window would cost to get fixed and how they would have to tape up the hole right now because they couldn't get a glass repairman out until Monday. And I remember being worried about how Grandma was going to be able to afford a new window, and I still wonder to this day if my mom or my grandma paid for the window to be fixed, but somehow they managed to get it done.
I never denied throwing the ball, but I did try to lay the blame on Johnny. "Johnny was supposed to catch it!" I explained.
"Well, I'm not Kareem Abdul Jabar," he offered.
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Growing up at Grandma's House
The other day, I was sitting with Marc, Jordan, and Joel in a booth at the Waffle House on Floyd Baker Blvd. We saw an old man sitting at the bar, drinking coffee and carrying on a one-sided conversation with a couple who sat near the window in a 2-seater booth. The couple nodded politely as the old man talked in cliches and well worn truths, but they weren't really listening, and that didn't matter to the old man, who obviously just wanted someone to talk to. I watched for a minute, then I mentioned casually, "My grandpa used to spend hours at the Waffle House near Waccamaw, right above his house. He would just sit there and drink coffee and talk to whoever came in."
"Not uhh," Jordan replied. "Why?"
"I don't know," I answered. "I think he was just lonely and wanted to talk to people. Helped him pass the time. We were going shopping at Waccamaw one afternoon, and we saw his truck at the Waffle House, and my sister and I told my mom to drop us off at the Waffle House while she went to Waccamaw. We went in and sat with him for a while at the bar and just sat and talked until my mom got through."
I started telling them a little more about my grandpa, and Jordan and Joel howled with laughter at the stories I was sure I had told them before.
"Haven't I told you that story?" I asked.
"No," they both exclaimed through their laughter.
"I need to tell you all about it. I need to write it down." I said.
So I am. Writing it down for Jordan and Joel and for their families one day, so they will know about my childhood and where I came from, so they will know where they came from.
I have a few clear images of my grandparents' house where I spent most of my childhood. I technically lived across the street from them in a small house on High Drive that directly faced my grandma's house, but I spent most of my time with my Grandma Silvey. My dad was a long-distance truck driver for Atlas Van Lines; he was gone at least three weeks out of every month, and when he was home, he parked his truck in the long, open back/side yard that rested behind the circular driveway in my grandma's yard. He learned to drive a truck from my Grandpa Silvey and from being in transportation in Vietnam when he was drafted in 1970. When he returned from Vietnam, my grandpa helped him get a job at Atlas Van Lines, even though my grandpa didn't hold a driver's job there for long. He never stayed with one company for very long - maybe a year or two - and then on to another company, but always driving a big rig throughout my childhood. When he would leave one company, my sister and I would play office with his left-over log books and travel forms from his old company.
Since my grandpa moved people around the country, he met hundreds of different and interesting people, drove into cities and towns all over the country, and brought back a yard full of junk those people had discarded. Specifically, I remember a dark tan leather pocketbook shaped to look like a horse's saddle, a pair of tin serving plates with dirty cartoons on them, an old, cast-iron lawn mower with blades that ran on pure human strength, not gas, and rusty tools, most of which I had no idea what he ever used them for or why he wanted them or kept them. But he kept them, kept them all. So many random items of junk that he built crazy little outbuildings from random pieces of tin roofing and a few wooden poles or beams to hold all the junk.
"Not uhh," Jordan replied. "Why?"
"I don't know," I answered. "I think he was just lonely and wanted to talk to people. Helped him pass the time. We were going shopping at Waccamaw one afternoon, and we saw his truck at the Waffle House, and my sister and I told my mom to drop us off at the Waffle House while she went to Waccamaw. We went in and sat with him for a while at the bar and just sat and talked until my mom got through."
I started telling them a little more about my grandpa, and Jordan and Joel howled with laughter at the stories I was sure I had told them before.
"Haven't I told you that story?" I asked.
"No," they both exclaimed through their laughter.
"I need to tell you all about it. I need to write it down." I said.
So I am. Writing it down for Jordan and Joel and for their families one day, so they will know about my childhood and where I came from, so they will know where they came from.
I have a few clear images of my grandparents' house where I spent most of my childhood. I technically lived across the street from them in a small house on High Drive that directly faced my grandma's house, but I spent most of my time with my Grandma Silvey. My dad was a long-distance truck driver for Atlas Van Lines; he was gone at least three weeks out of every month, and when he was home, he parked his truck in the long, open back/side yard that rested behind the circular driveway in my grandma's yard. He learned to drive a truck from my Grandpa Silvey and from being in transportation in Vietnam when he was drafted in 1970. When he returned from Vietnam, my grandpa helped him get a job at Atlas Van Lines, even though my grandpa didn't hold a driver's job there for long. He never stayed with one company for very long - maybe a year or two - and then on to another company, but always driving a big rig throughout my childhood. When he would leave one company, my sister and I would play office with his left-over log books and travel forms from his old company.
Since my grandpa moved people around the country, he met hundreds of different and interesting people, drove into cities and towns all over the country, and brought back a yard full of junk those people had discarded. Specifically, I remember a dark tan leather pocketbook shaped to look like a horse's saddle, a pair of tin serving plates with dirty cartoons on them, an old, cast-iron lawn mower with blades that ran on pure human strength, not gas, and rusty tools, most of which I had no idea what he ever used them for or why he wanted them or kept them. But he kept them, kept them all. So many random items of junk that he built crazy little outbuildings from random pieces of tin roofing and a few wooden poles or beams to hold all the junk.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Wedding Celebrations
Sunday evening, August 1, 2010We are now officially in Chicago, in our hotel, and Marc is trying to recover from the stressful drive down the expressway lining the city of Chicago. It's like driving in Atlanta, only worse. We were bumper-to-bumper on a Sunday afternoon. The trick now is going to be remembering that we are in the Central time zone, not Eastern.
The wedding Saturday was beautiful. Jason and Anne Marie were married in an old Lutheran church with an incredible pipe organ in the back. I was fine until I saw Jason getting a little choked up in the middle of the ceremony. He obviously loves her, and that started my waterworks.
The reception was a blast! Jason and Anne Marie kept the cruise theme throughout and even dazzled the crowd with a sword fight in Pirates of the Caribbean style. The DJ was great and kept us entertained, too. Joel tried out his dancing shoes again and even caught the garter. Jason and Anne Marie seem totally in love, and I got choked up again when the DJ started telling stories about how they met and fell in love. The food was delicious, the decorations beautiful, and we even were able to get a personally drawn portrait of my two boys as part of the entertainment. Thanks so much for everything, Jason and Anne Marie! And we would also like to thank Anne Marie's parents for hosting lunch for us today; we so enjoyed the afternoon on the beautiful farm land of Baroda, Michigan.
After lunch, we drove into Chicago. Tonight, we will get some supper and hang out for a while at the hotel because tomorrow is going to be huge! Sears Tower, Navy Pier, and a Cubs game. I am finally getting to sit in Wrigley Field. I am so stoked!
Go Cubs!!!!
Friday, July 30, 2010
Go Irish!
Friday night, July 30, 2010
We awoke to have breakfast with the extended family as all of us who are here for the wedding are staying at the same hotel. The guys had their final fitting for their tuxes, and they all had the rehearsal tonight, so Marc and the boys and I headed for the campus of Notre Dame.
I was so impressed by the school; they do not allow freshmen to declare a major, they do not allow sororities or fraternities, and more than 80% of all the students (including upperclassmen) stay in the dorms there on campus. They take so many precautions to make sure their students graduate - including the athletes - and the athletes stay in regular dorms with the rest of the student body. Such a good school! Yet, more than 13,000 students applied last year for only 2000 freshmen spots. Needless to say, it's tough to get in, and then, once a student is admitted, he or she has to figure out how to pay the $50,000 a year required to go there.
We visited Touchdown Jesus and 1st and 10 Moses and the Golden Dome. We saw inside the Golden Dome, too. The grotto, however, was under construction (I still took pictures). The Basilica was occupied by some couple getting married, so our tour guide thought it best not to interrupt their ceremony. Cha! How dare they interrupt my site-seeing with a wedding!??!?!? We might try again sometime this weekend to wander in and take a look around.
We also bought out the bookstore (which is the daddy of all book stores). Look for a "Play Like a Champion" sign in both my classroom and Marc's gym this year. Needless to say, the entire place is breathtaking and remarkable. I would love for either one of my boys to go to school there (like we could afford that). Tomorrow is the big wedding day and the reception at the vineyard on Lake Michigan. Excellent photo opps there!
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Cleveland Rocks!
Wednesday afternoon, July 28, 2010Yesterday was more than awesome. Cleveland is one of the coolest places I have ever been, and I never thought I would be saying that! The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame had way more than I could ever see in one day. I just made sure I scoured the Bruce Springsteen stuff in minute detail and then looked at all I could after that.
We parked in a garage right beside the stadium and then walked down to the Hall of Fame yesterday morning. We walked through 4th Street East, an alley way where several restaurants have set patio tables out and decorated the entire street with beautiful flowers and plants. I loved this area. We saw countless small restaurants, sandwich shops, pizzerias in the downtown area, too, but none of them were close to the Hall of Fame. We had to eat pre-packaged catering sandwiches there, but we were so hungry by the time we were able to eat that I just didn't care what it tasted like. Downtown Cleveland is really cool, though - the buildings are beautiful, the pier is unbelievable, and the stadiums/arenas are right beside each other. I totally loved it.
Back to the Hall of Fame.... It is the coolest place I have ever been. Floors 5 & 6 were dedicated to the greatest poet of the common man in our time - Bruce Springsteen. I thought I was going to cry when I headed up the staircase between the two floors when I saw the lyrics to "Thunder Road" written on the walls there. I had those exact same lyrics written on the back of my notebook in high school. The most amazing part of the displays, though, was the endless train of writer's notebooks. He allowed the Hall to show (under glass, of course) pages upon pages of his writer's notebooks!!!! I looked at the first drafts of countless masterpieces. It was like watching the genius at work. I kept saying that I wish my students could see this. I even saw spelling errors in his first drafts. I wish every one of my students could see all the times he crossed out words, passages, even entire stanzas. I saw where he changed words to make the line more succint or more vivid. For instance, in the first draft of "Born to Run" he changed "This town tries to rip the bones from your back" to "Baby, this town rips the bones from your back...." I could use that as a diction lesson in a heartbeat! And it wasn't just Bruce. I saw the same pattern in the rough drafts of Lennon/McCartney, too. If any of my students are reading this, you have to know that the greatest writers edit and edit and edit. I wish they could have seen it.
I don't have enough time to describe all we saw. I didn't even have enough time to see it all myself yesterday. Let me just say, we watched a really cool movie with clips from all the Hall of Fame inductees; I listened to several excerpts from the 500 songs that changed history (3 of Springsteen's, 1 from LL Cool J, 1 from Elvis Costello, etc.); I saw countless costumes. Oh yeah, Wanda G, if you read this, I have to tell you I saw a REAL Elvis jumpsuit. And Johnny Cash's bus. Too much to recount. I tried to educate Jordan and Joel as much as I could as we went along, but they were less interested than I had hoped. Maybe something stuck.
After we left the Hall around 5 pm, we headed to the stadium. Tuesday was Kids Fun Day, so the boys got a chance to play wiffle ball, throw with a radar, etc. They loved it. We had incredible seats - right down the third base line. Everyone at the stadium was so friendly, and I had a perfect view of Derek Jeter and A Rod. I learned one fact - the people in Cleveland LOVE them some Choo. He had an awesome game, though. A Rod didn't hit homerun #600, but I recorded each of his plate appearances just in case. I got some hot photos of DJ, too. And a couple of CC Sabathia for Jordan, but I was more interested in DJ.
When the game was over, and the Indians won, the place went wild. They played the theme from The Drew Carey Show, and we all shouted with everyone else, "Cleveland Rocks! Cleveland Rocks!"
And I now believe it.
Monday, July 26, 2010
In Cleveland!
Monday night, July 26, 2010
We are now in Cleveland and having a wonderful time. Last night, we toured Akron, OH after we enjoyed massive chocolate milkshakes at Steak -n- Shake. Jordan was dying to find St. Vincent St. Mary High School where LeBron James graduated. I was a bit nervous, thinking that it must be in a rough part of town since LeBron came up from such tough circumstances; but really, it was a relatively suburban area of downtown Akron. In fact, we rode by an area called Cascade Mills where new townhomes had been built and new parks lined the streets. The area definitely reminded me of a downtown renewal project like we would find around the upstate - like an old mill that is no longer in use, and the town turns it into a nice residential area, similar to Mayfair Mills in Spartanburg where my grandma used to work.
We also drove around downtown Akron this morning, collecting free tickets from Ritzman Pharmacies for the Akron Aeros baseball game that we didn't even attend tonight. My cousin Jason called me this morning, and we changed our plans altogether after talking to him. He knew of a restaurant in Cleveland called The B Spot, owned by Iron Chef Michael Symon, and that's where we went instead. Seeing Jason again and getting to talk to him was wonderful. It's been so long since I have seen him (probably the last time was at his dad's funeral), and we had a ball talking about the wedding and all the news in our lives.
The B Spot was excellent. Of course, gourmet burgers were a little pricey, but we had such a good time ordering specialty burgers like the Brueben and the Thin Lizzy and then embellishing them at the pickle bar. One mishap, though - I was almost witness to a lady falling in the floor right outside of the restroom. Her words to the waiter who helped her: "Your floor is just a little bit slippery." I smelled a lawsuit, so I ducked out of the restroom as quickly as possible.
After we left the restaurant, Jason drove us all around downtown Cleveland. We spent a while just sitting at the 9th Street Pier overlooking Lake Erie. The view was amazingly beautiful. I was so jealous of the peaceful sailboats drifting past. People just sat around enjoying the summer evening in an atmosphere dripping in beauty and peace. One couple was making out; an old man fished off the side of the pier and caught some small fish; another old man threw some kind of snack to some seagulls hanging out; other random people just sat and contemplated the universe. I picked out about a billion places to take photos tomorrow - so look for new pics tomorrow.
I also gazed in the windows of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I nearly danced with excitement at all the Bruce Springsteen stuff. I can't bring my camera in there, though, but I will be taking photos outside.
Progressive field is slap in the middle of downtown Cleveland. And so is the arena where the Cavaliers play. We could easily see the stadium where the Browns play, too, from the pier. All within a mile of each other. We are going to have such a good time tomorrow. Marc said CC Sabathia is pitching on top of everything else. Planning on a golden day tomorrow.
I am so excited to be here, and I am feeling so blessed to be able to show my children parts of America. They may not realize how precious this opportunity is just yet, but one day, they will appreciate all the experiences they have been afforded (I hope). Seeing America helps me to see that while parts of the country may look different, we, as Americans, aren't really that different at all. Jason talks so much like a Yankee now, but he says all his friends up here still give him a hard time for sounding southern. Yet, southern or not, he's still the Jason I love, the one I remember as my baby cousin with blonde curls. I see people here who remind me of people I know back home, and I constantly wonder about the people who live in the tall, turn-of-the-century houses or the high rise apartments or the new colorful townhomes I encounter as we ride.The more I see, the more I want to see (but I can't say that out loud - it makes Marc nervous when I tell him about all the places I want to go ;-)).
We are now in Cleveland and having a wonderful time. Last night, we toured Akron, OH after we enjoyed massive chocolate milkshakes at Steak -n- Shake. Jordan was dying to find St. Vincent St. Mary High School where LeBron James graduated. I was a bit nervous, thinking that it must be in a rough part of town since LeBron came up from such tough circumstances; but really, it was a relatively suburban area of downtown Akron. In fact, we rode by an area called Cascade Mills where new townhomes had been built and new parks lined the streets. The area definitely reminded me of a downtown renewal project like we would find around the upstate - like an old mill that is no longer in use, and the town turns it into a nice residential area, similar to Mayfair Mills in Spartanburg where my grandma used to work.
We also drove around downtown Akron this morning, collecting free tickets from Ritzman Pharmacies for the Akron Aeros baseball game that we didn't even attend tonight. My cousin Jason called me this morning, and we changed our plans altogether after talking to him. He knew of a restaurant in Cleveland called The B Spot, owned by Iron Chef Michael Symon, and that's where we went instead. Seeing Jason again and getting to talk to him was wonderful. It's been so long since I have seen him (probably the last time was at his dad's funeral), and we had a ball talking about the wedding and all the news in our lives.
The B Spot was excellent. Of course, gourmet burgers were a little pricey, but we had such a good time ordering specialty burgers like the Brueben and the Thin Lizzy and then embellishing them at the pickle bar. One mishap, though - I was almost witness to a lady falling in the floor right outside of the restroom. Her words to the waiter who helped her: "Your floor is just a little bit slippery." I smelled a lawsuit, so I ducked out of the restroom as quickly as possible.
After we left the restaurant, Jason drove us all around downtown Cleveland. We spent a while just sitting at the 9th Street Pier overlooking Lake Erie. The view was amazingly beautiful. I was so jealous of the peaceful sailboats drifting past. People just sat around enjoying the summer evening in an atmosphere dripping in beauty and peace. One couple was making out; an old man fished off the side of the pier and caught some small fish; another old man threw some kind of snack to some seagulls hanging out; other random people just sat and contemplated the universe. I picked out about a billion places to take photos tomorrow - so look for new pics tomorrow.
I also gazed in the windows of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I nearly danced with excitement at all the Bruce Springsteen stuff. I can't bring my camera in there, though, but I will be taking photos outside.
Progressive field is slap in the middle of downtown Cleveland. And so is the arena where the Cavaliers play. We could easily see the stadium where the Browns play, too, from the pier. All within a mile of each other. We are going to have such a good time tomorrow. Marc said CC Sabathia is pitching on top of everything else. Planning on a golden day tomorrow.
I am so excited to be here, and I am feeling so blessed to be able to show my children parts of America. They may not realize how precious this opportunity is just yet, but one day, they will appreciate all the experiences they have been afforded (I hope). Seeing America helps me to see that while parts of the country may look different, we, as Americans, aren't really that different at all. Jason talks so much like a Yankee now, but he says all his friends up here still give him a hard time for sounding southern. Yet, southern or not, he's still the Jason I love, the one I remember as my baby cousin with blonde curls. I see people here who remind me of people I know back home, and I constantly wonder about the people who live in the tall, turn-of-the-century houses or the high rise apartments or the new colorful townhomes I encounter as we ride.The more I see, the more I want to see (but I can't say that out loud - it makes Marc nervous when I tell him about all the places I want to go ;-)).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)