Another World

Ted feeding me in our kitchen at 95 Kearney Street (1957)

The place where I was born is so foreign to me, it may as well have been in another country. My parents left not long after I had completed my first year of life, packed our belongings and moved the family to Colorado.

In late spring of 1982, I ventured to the east coast to visit New Jersey for the first time. Well, not really the first time, but at least the first time that is part of my consciousness. One goal of the trip was to visit my New Jersey relatives in their native state. In the years since we moved away, many of the Thompsons had come to Colorado, one family at a time, to see how we were holding up in the Wild, Wild West. Oddly different from my parents, yet remarkably similar in many ways, they were a boisterous, busy, animated lot. Once I set foot in their home environment, those characteristics seemed even more amplified.

My cousin Sharon--who must have drawn the short straw and was consigned to serving as the living history tour guide for her innocent, naive, wide-eyed country cousin--took me to see where we lived, where I was born, the graves of recent ancestors, and places that I previously considered as nothing more than the subject of my father's embellished stories. The cemetery was beautiful and peaceful, even though it was situated near a busy highway. The Great Falls on the Passaic River were as majestic as I'd always heard, and dad's school (PS#5) was stately and shabby, all at once.

Image courtesy of PatersonHistory.com

I was disappointed to learn that the hospital where I was born, Paterson General, had been razed many years ago. As we whizzed by in her fast, sleek car, Sharon pointed out the hospital's former location to me. On the corner where this lovely old building once stood there was either a gas station or a fast food restaurant (I can't recall now).

Off we went to 95 Kearney Street. Mom would tell everyone that we didn't really live in Paterson, we lived in Totowa Borough, as if that meant anything to outsiders, yet somehow that made our living arrangements sound better to her. Mom hated New Jersey, loved her birthplace - Connecticut - and grew to love her adopted state of Colorado even more.

95 Kearney Street (1982)

The area where we lived had deteriorated since the days when my parents held residence on Kearney Street, where we occupied the top floor of Mr. and Mrs. McNab's home. Sharon pointed out the building, hoping that would be the end of our tour in this particular section of the old neighborhood. But I insisted on having photographic evidence of my visit.

Standing on the sidewalk across from this place--a previously mythical, unseen edifice about which so many stories had been told--I was mesmerized by the notion of ever having lived here. Wanting to capture it on film so mom and dad could see how it looked now, I shuffled to the left, then to the right, in a quest for the perfect angle.

My picture-taking adventure was taking a while and cousin Sharon, perhaps noticing some threat undetected by me, leaned over to the passenger window and issued a calm yet stern order: "Debbie, get in the car. Get...in...the car." I finished my last shot, climbed in the car and off we sped, down the street and 'round the corner to another part of this foreign land.

95 Kearney Street (2012)
Image courtesy of Google Maps: street view

People often ask if I'm a Colorado native. I feel as though I am, but always admit that I was born in New Jersey. Recently one person asked, what possessed me to make such a leap, in location, in altitude, in attitude, in culture? I told her that it happened long before I knew a single thing about where we lived.

How blessed I am for the choice my parents made long ago. Colorado is part of my soul; I never tire of its magnificence and grandeur. And as for New Jersey, I'm so happy to have seen all these places for myself. But to me it will always be another world...

The Appointed Hour

Ted in Paterson, New Jersey - January 1957 - just before I was born.

Today is my brother Ted's birthday. He's a few years over fifty now.

To me he will always be the big brother who looked out for me, tolerating his annoying crybaby sister as best he could while trying to grow up and have fun with his friends. "Take Debbie with you," was always mom's refrain, whenever Ted and his buddies were headed out to the crawdad ponds or to have big fun playing boy games somewhere in the neighborhood.

Ted would grudgingly oblige, and usually allowed me to participate if for nothing else than to serve as their imaginary game's "mascot." He'd say, "Debbie, you can play the part of the dog tagging along with us cowboys." And stupidly, I thought that was the best thing, ever. Woof, woof. I'd crawl around on my hands and knees and bark, thinking I had a major role in the activity. It never occurred to me how silly I looked.

After we grew up and moved away, mom established a new routine for our birthdays. She would still ask us over to celebrate with a homemade birthday cake and our favorite meal. But we worked now, and if our birthdays were during the week we couldn't always get away and spend time with her. She wanted so very much to still be part of our special day--a day, after all, that really she was the only one who shared. Back in those days, fathers were not a part of the birthing process. Although dad was present at the hospital, mom pretty much had to go it alone with the doctors and nurses. Eventually someone would find the father and announce the outcome. Seems silly nowadays, doesn't it?

Anyway, mom decided that one way she could be with us on every birthday was to call us at the appointed hour, the exact time of day we were born. Fortunately for all concerned, Ted and I were both born at reasonable times: Ted at 7:38 PM and me at 3:43 PM. When the phone rang at that exact time, it was easy to know who was on the line. Mom.

Since mom's been gone, more than 14 years now, Ted and I have soldiered on and have both taken a stab at keeping up mom's tradition. Sometimes if he's busy at work, Ted might miss calling me until past the appointed hour. I have often tried to call Ted at his appointed hour, only to discover that he is out with his family enjoying a birthday dinner. Now that technology is part of our everyday lives, we have both substituted the occasional text message in place of a phone call. Hey, it works.

So tonight, I'll call Ted at the appointed hour to give his official "Happy Birthday" notification. Somehow I imagine mom will be helping to dial the phone.

Happy birthday to my wonderful brother. I love you!

Personal Holiday

HHS Graduation Day, May 29, 1975
(photo courtesy of George Scott)

After graduating high school in May 1975, my parents allowed me one last slacker summer before I began a lifetime of work. That year I spent the months of June and July doing, well, pretty much nothing. It was great.

Then along came August, time to knuckle down. It didn’t take long to find a job. Soon I was hired part-time at Diners Club in the microfilm department, making a whopping $2.10 per hour.

Not long after I was promoted into a full-time position researching stray payments, those checks with little or no identification, to determine whose account would be credited. At this point my pay spiked to $2.30 per hour. I was rich!

A couple of months later, I transferred into the word processing center. Three of us were isolated in a small glass-enclosed soundproof room with our mag card machines. Do you remember those? Mag card machines were basically a souped-up version of the IBM Selectric typewriter, with the capability of storing your work on a magnetic card until you were ready to let the words fly. All you had to do was press a button and voila! the machine would replay all of your keystrokes. We really fancied ourselves on the cutting edge of technology.

The majority of our work consisted of sending out thousands of form letters, mainly credit card application rejections. I was determined to be the most prolific word processor in the history of word processors (a new profession, granted, so probably an easy “A”). In this position we sometimes spent an entire day doing nothing but typing names and addresses, over and over and over. Occasionally we were slowed down by bizarre handwriting or by an applicant who failed to include their ZIP code on their application. Now you'd have to stop, pull down the big ZIP code directory stored above your desk, and look up the address.

Sometimes the addresses weren't in the big book. When that happened, we were told to use the general ZIP code for the applicant's city. Over time, we started to memorize those general codes. “What’s Minneapolis?” one person would shout above the racket. “55401,” another would reply. To be honest, sometimes we just wanted to keep the rhythm going and didn’t even bother to look up the address. Because you’d no sooner turn around and there would be another stack of a thousand rejected applications, ready for a letter.

The company was located miles away at the Denver Tech Center, quite a distance from the northern suburbs. I didn't mind. I enjoyed driving, and back then a commute through metro Denver was not the nightmare it is today. I loved the freedom and the responsibility, and especially loved having enough income to buy my very own car: an avocado green Chevelle with loads of horsepower.

In 1975, Interstate 225—which skirts the eastern edge of the metro area—was still under construction. It ended at South Yosemite, a few exits shy of its goal. I would avoid the Valley Highway traffic and sneak out from I-270 to I-70 and then onto I-225. Once I discovered this “back way” to the Denver Tech Center, I loved my commute.

The Denver Tech Center began its life in the early 1970s. Diners Club headquarters was located in a low brick building on the southern tip of the DTC, a little bit north of Orchard Road. I often sat outside at lunchtime, and remember seeing nothing but prairie as far south as the bluffs rising alongside the highway on the northern edge of Douglas County. This scenic area, where once a thriving cattle ranch existed, has since been transformed into a suburban sea of homes. And the last time I was in the DTC, I could no longer find that old building. I'm sure it's there somewhere, dwarfed by the glimmering high rise buildings.

Anyway, this rather meandering story began as a way to commemorate my favorite holiday, a personal holiday of sorts. You see, my job at Diners Club had few perks, but one thing that stood out was what I considered the best benefit offered to employees: a bonus holiday in celebration of your birthday. This proved to be quite a revelation for me.

After that, no matter where I worked, my birthday tradition has been to take the day off. Oh sure, I'll admit a few times I may have called in "sick" (cough, sniffle, cough) but mostly I have been up front with my employers and told them, listen, I just don't want to work on my birthday. Most have been agreeable.

And now, thirty-six-and-a-half years later, today is no exception. I’ve grown quite tired of working but am still grateful for another personal holiday. So thank you, Diners Club, for the annual inspiration.

Hmmm, what shall I do this year?

In Like a Lion

Let's talk about the weather.

Do you remember having discussions about the weather when you were young? I certainly don't. My parents did, all the time. Now I'm not sure if this is more a function of aging, or if weather-related topics are a passion for some people more than others.

I’ve heard that in distant times the weather was thought to be an easy topic of conversation because it was not at all controversial, a subject you could discuss without fear of inciting rage or riots, acceptable even for delicate feminine sensibilities.

The British people are often accused of having an obsession with weather. Since I seem to have a newfound fascination with weather, I’m guessing some dormant Anglo gene has finally bubbled to the surface. Or maybe it’s nothing more than a deep longing to become a meteorologist.

I'll even admit to enjoying The Weather Channel. I love the maps and charts, and sometimes there’s nothing better than watching a weather reporter share a live story from the scene of Mother Nature’s latest upheaval.

Weather delights abound here in Colorado. I find myself awestruck by the swirling clouds above us, and marvel at the clash of weather events that cause a typical storm cloud to turn a sickly grayish-green color before unleashing a tornado. You might even relish a rare but delightful clap of thundersnow, or be amused by tiny pellets of graupel—a wintry mix of snowflakes that freeze into a softer, squishy version of hail. And winter trees painted a shade of antique white with hoarfrost are incredibly beautiful, magical, bordering on divine.

Yet for the past week what I find rattling around in my head, like so many leaves scattered by a strong March wind, is my own birthday weather tradition sparked by an old English proverb:

If March comes in like a lion, it will go out like a lamb.

Edging closer to the end of our shortest month, I look forward wistfully to the forecast for my birthday. Will there be snow? Will it be a warm day? Will this year's birthday come in like a lion, or a lamb?

On Friday, the first day of March 1957, a terrible blizzard roared along the eastern seaboard. Uncle Ted, mom's older brother and a Merchant Marine, was in port and staying with our family. When mom went into labor, Uncle Ted called my father at work to report the news, then headed outside to begin shoveling. And shoveling. And shoveling.

Uncle Ted was panicked. Dad was taking too long getting home and the snow kept falling. He was scared to death, stranded during a blizzard with a woman about to give birth, terrified of being called upon to help with the delivery. What a sight: a tall, strapping, swaggering sailor working up a lather of sweat shoveling wet, heavy snow from the back staircase, down the narrow side walkway, all the way out to the street.

Dad finally arrived, pulled up to the curb and wouldn't you know it? He missed the sidewalk by a few feet. Uncle Ted was furious! Here he had worked frantically to make sure mom had a clear pathway to the car, and she ended up having to step in a snowdrift.

All was well. I was born in the hospital, as planned, and Uncle Ted stayed home to care for my brothers. The next day he visited a niece fresh from the heavens, the first time he had seen a newborn. It was then he confided to his sister that although everyone says men are the stronger sex, after seeing firsthand what a woman could bring into this world he no longer believed that to be true.

Most of my Colorado birthdays seem to have been temperate, seasonal days, with a healthy dose of nasty storms thrown into the mix. Yet sometimes when I recall the blizzard story, I project my thoughts forward and imagine the day I will leave this wonderful place I call home. A warm, sunny, beautiful, mild day it will be, because I am absolutely convinced that I will go...

...out like a lamb.

So each and every boy and girl
Should watch as March comes in;
We'll know the way the month might end
If we know the way it begins.

About Those Birthdays

Today is Dave's birthday and we are leaving for another trip through our beloved Colorado Rockies, this time to the Flat Tops Wilderness. Neither of us has spent any time in this area of the state so it will all be brand new. I'm hoping we are able to catch the beautiful aspen trees at the height of their autumn loveliness. So far, we've been lucky and timed our Colorado fall vacations just about right. But an unexpected snow or windstorm can send those glorious golden leaves scurrying to the ground in a hurry, and the moment is lost.

A few weeks ago I sorted through a big wooden box of Dave's family photos, looking for a specific one that remains hidden. In the process I found many more that sparked my interest so I set them aside for scanning. Dave will most likely cringe, then laugh at these pictures from so long ago. I'm sure they will evoke certain memories for him. Since I don't share those memories, I'll tell him that what I see is a handsome young fellow who would someday become the wonderful soul I fell in love with.

Birthday celebrations in Dave's family were probably not much different than my own. My brother and I have many birthday pictures from our childhood just like these. I also seem to recall that my brother had an unusual aversion to flash bulbs. We always share a big laugh whenever we stumble on a photo showing Ted with both hands over his eyes!

My parents were never extravagant yet birthdays were always fun: a special home-cooked meal, a party with neighborhood kids, a favorite birthday cake with candles and, of course, presents!

Our celebrations now are likewise simple. We don't exchange gifts or bake cakes; instead we try to plan an event the other would like. My birthday is in the cold slumber of winter, so Dave may warm the occasion with symphony tickets or a fancy dinner out on the town. And since Dave's birthday lands at the start of our favorite season, we often plan a mountain getaway to celebrate.

Last weekend on a shopping trip, I suggested Dave look for some new pajamas. Later I told him those pajamas would be his birthday present. He seemed okay with that until he remembered that I promised to take him out to dinner.

"Okay, but... we're still going out to eat on my birthday, right?"

Maybe our birthdays now aren't what they used to be. Still, the little kids roaming around inside us cling to the notion that this one day really is our own personal holiday. And we do our best to oblige.

Birthday Memories

My old dog Bandit giving me a big kiss on my 40th birthday, March 1, 1997.

Today is my birthday. I was born on a Friday in Paterson, New Jersey, in the midst of a blizzard that roared across the eastern seaboard. My Uncle Ted, in port from his job with the Merchant Marines, was home with mom that day. According to mom he panicked at the thought of being trapped with a woman about to give birth. He shoveled and shoveled and then shoveled some more while they waited for dad to come home and take mom to the hospital. Mom said he was sweating furiously and she was afraid he might have a heart attack right then and there. Uncle Ted was so relieved to get mom out the door and on her way. Mom said she remembered lying in her hospital bed during labor and listening to nurses walking up and down the hallway singing
"M - I - C ..... K - E - Y ..... M - O - U - S - E ....."

I have been sorting through old family pictures and discovered lots of birthday pictures. Mom was big on birthdays. She liked to make each of us our favorite meal, and she insisted on the entire hoopla with birthday cake and candles and singing. I always adored the cakes but wasn’t real big on the part with the silly birthday song. Mom always marked each year by placing numbered candles or plastic decorations on the cake that showed our age. At the time it seemed kind of silly but it certainly makes it easier to identify the year. Good going mom!

Personally I am not much into birthday celebrations. I was never comfortable being the center of attention. When Dave and I are at a restaurant and someone has been pegged for a birthday celebration, I always tell him: “Don’t ever do that to me!” You know the kind of event, a group of waiters crowd around the table, place a sombrero on the birthday person’s head, then sing and clap their hands or ring cowbells. I’m sure lots of people enjoy this type of fuss but I’m not one of them.

Some of my favorite memories are a bit on the quirky side. For my 13th birthday, mom baked a cake that had little ribbons streaming down the sides, disappearing deep into the middle layer. When you pulled on each ribbon, out came a dime. That year I pocketed $1.30 in gooey coins, not good for much except an extra lick or two and then straight into the piggy bank.

For my 18th birthday, mom invited a group of high school girls over for her famous homemade “square pizza” and Coke. We were all pompon girls and used to posing in disciplined, organized, and fun group shots. First mom had us create a girl pyramid, and then she had us climb and pose hanging in various configurations off the limbs of our honey locust tree.

When I turned 25, I was certain my life was all but over. As a teenager, I had made any number of plans and schemes, all of which were going to be accomplished by the time I was 25. Not sure how I managed to assign 25 with such mystical, magical qualities, but by 1982 I had not accomplished one single thing. Being such an utter failure at age 25, I was depressed and whiney, so my brother planned a surprise birthday party to cheer me up. But instead of the usual tactic for a surprise party, he had a number of friends and family just show up at my apartment at an appointed time. Good thing I was home!

I was so excited when I turned 35 because that meant I was old enough to run for president! Not that I ever planned to, mind you, but I was happy to know that I could… if I wanted to. Turns out I never really did want to.

My 40th birthday was great. I felt so settled, so mature, as if I finally had a good, solid number to match the wisdom I had acquired. I still had lots to learn but felt good inside my head, if not my skin. My friend and I had a fun night out on the town in Denver. It was a great year, all around.

So much happened between 40 and 50, it was a whirlwind decade. Then before I knew it, I was turning 50. Dave’s parents both had fallen ill at the same time a few months prior. So how did I spend my 50th birthday? Ripping out carpet out in Dave's childhood home, revealing the pretty hardwood floors that were going to help us sell the house as his parents transitioned to assisted living and finally nursing care. Dave and his sister were busy meeting with nursing, hospital, and facility staff so I tore out all the carpet myself. Do I know how to have fun or what?

Without a doubt my favorite birthday memory comes courtesy of my mother. After I left home, mom would call me at the exact hour of my birth to wish me happy birthday. In the days before caller ID, it was the most reliable way of knowing who was on the other line. When the phone rang at 3:43 PM on March 1, I could pick up the the call and answer confidently, "Hi, mom!" We laughed about it every year.

My brother Ted also received a birthday call from mom, at 7:38 PM each January 12. Thank goodness neither of us were born in the middle of the night! Ted and I try to remember to keep up the tradition with each other, but we are not as diligent as mom was. I have to admit that this year, I forgot to make Ted's birthday call.

So today at 3:43 PM, I hope to get a call from my brother but even if I don't, at 3:43 PM I will be thinking of mom. After all, the day really was ours to share.