12 Months of '13

What a year 2013 turned out to be, chock full of changes from beginning to end. Much of the year was spent adjusting to our new reality, in our “new” home and at our new positions.

January

iGen press, photo courtesy of the Internet

After nearly three years of unemployment and working part-time or short-term gigs when he could, Dave landed a long-term temporary job working in his field (digital printing).

February

New dining room light fixture

House project 1: We had our dangerous electrical panel replaced, plus new ceiling fans and light fixtures were installed throughout the house.

March

Debbie's new window office

Debbie “retired” from her position at Colorado Parks and Wildlife and began a new job as an accounting clerk at a nearby non-profit. It’s peaceful, quiet, even a little boring. And the best part? She only has to work four days a week.

April

Dining room accent wall, color = Colonial Brick

House project 2: We painted the hallway, living and dining room walls, then pulled up the ugly blue carpet in preparation for:

May

Our beautiful hardwood floors

House project 3: Refinishing the lovely hardwood floors in the hallway, living and dining room.

June

Pedi color = Elvira, Mistress of the Dark purple

Mid-year break: Party a little, golf, sit in the shade, read, or maybe do nothing at all.

July

Daisy inspecting the new carpet

House projects 4 and 5: We removed the ugly, stinky mauve carpet from the sunroom, and then replaced the last bit of blue carpet in the family room with soft, beautiful, neutral carpeting.

HHS '75 classmates: Debbie, Peggy, Vicky, Karen, Bobbi
(Bobbi won the day by making the best face, ever)

Also, Debbie attended a reunion for 1970s high school classmates. Can you dig it?

August

An early morning with the Cattle Dog Contingent

Dave golfed. A lot. Debbie hung out with the dogs. A lot.

September

Our cabin near Monarch Pass

House project #6: All the gigantic bushes were removed from the property. Dave was moved to swing shift (which we both hate). Later in the month, we found ourselves a wonderful mountain getaway near Salida, complete with private hot tub. Ahh…

October

Bathroom--gutted

House project #7: Master bathroom remodel begins, and it's a big, messy project.

November

Bathroom--after

Bathroom remodel completed, trees trimmed, leaves raked, we’re ready for winter.

December

After nearly a year, Dave’s temporary position finally became permanent. Long before winter’s arrival, we experienced record low temperatures. Baby it’s cold outside! Time to curl up in front of a warm fire and wish you…

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Peace on Earth

Debbie and Dave  *  Tonka and Daisy

(from our Christmas newsletter)

The Lunch Box

Last Friday my brother and his wife joined me and some friends at a happy hour celebration near Golden, Colorado. The bar where we met has been around for years and is located near the Adolph Coors Company, where dad worked from 1970 until his retirement in 1982.

Dad started working for Coors at their ceramics factory, where he created unique porcelain containers that were used in medical research, among other things. Sometimes the ceramic items were flawed in design and he would bring home these crazy looking, rejected samples. Mom always found a way to incorporate those odd porcelain ditties into her everyday kitchenware.

During his early years at Coors, dad worked the swing shift from 3 pm until midnight. We had to remain silent in the mornings until dad awoke, usually not in a good mood. You see, dad was a confirmed morning person and this shift was not at all to his liking. But he did whatever was necessary to support the family.

One night, dad left work at midnight and started the long drive home. It was probably late summer, and he was riding in his beloved '63 Chevrolet pickup truck. This pretty white truck, dad's pride and joy, held a wonderful camper shell for our summer excursions, and in years past was outfitted with a stock rack in order to help my uncle transport cattle or the hay and feed for his barnyard animals in Castle Rock. Needless to say, dad loved that truck, almost as much as he loved us.

Unfortunately, on this night fate was not kind. A drunk driver, perhaps leaving the very same bar where we now enjoyed margaritas and beers in 2013, came around the corner and hit dad, sending that '63 Chevy careening over the side of a steep hill.

Dad was faithful about wearing his seatbelt so as the truck rolled, dad later recalled, he was held firmly in place and not in any danger of being ejected. He would have survived the crash relatively unscathed, were it not for the lunch box.

You know the kind. If you grew up in a blue-collar household in the sixties, I'm sure you would have seen your dad shuffle off to work in the mornings (or afternoons) with his trusty lunch box.

Sturdy and tough as nails, made of thick black metal, dad's lunch box came equipped with a thermos filled every day either with hot coffee or cold milk, a bologna sandwich, an apple and, if he was lucky, one of his favorite Hostess cherry pies and a baggie stuffed with cheap sandwich cookies mom bought at the day-old bakery.

The handsome white truck rolled at least one-and-a-half times, landing upside down on the railroad tracks below. Dad said his only memory was gripping the steering wheel and the "thud, thud, thud" of the metal lunch box as it flew around the cabin, slamming against his body and head. He came to, unable to see with one eye, his face covered with blood. Dad let loose the seat belt, then crawled out of the truck and up the hill, eventually flagging down a passing motorist. What a sight that must have been, a disheveled man emerging from the side of the road, one hand holding up a flap of bloody skin above his eye.

What happened next I'm not sure of, except that our backyard neighbor, Corky Snyder, collected dad from the hospital. I do remember standing at the front door, in the darkness just before dawn, watching mom and Corky help dad from the car. My father had a thick white turban wrapped about his head, which he wore for quite some time while his severe concussion and the 63 stitches--just enough to match the year of his beloved truck--healed.

Dad was bald for as long as I can remember. After the crash, he had a half-oval scar on the side of his head in the shape of a lunch box.

The sheriff's office located the drunk driver. He was a repeat offender, uninsured, and drove a cement truck for a local company. There was no chance of settling with him. Mom and dad would throw up their hands and say, "You can't get blood out of a turnip!" Dad couldn't shake the fact that despite surviving three long years in the South Pacific jungles during World War II, he could have lost his life to a drunk driver 25 years later, on an otherwise ordinary night.

When I was a young girl, every year I asked for a horse for Christmas; every year I got a plastic horse for my collection. After the accident, dad took a page from my book and asked Santa to bring him a new truck for Christmas. Sure enough, Santa came through, with a pretty little Matchbox truck that sat on the mantelpiece, year after year, as a reminder. Over time, it became one of our family's most cherished Christmas decorations.

My parents eventually purchased a used truck, blue, three on the column instead of four on the floor. It was never quite right and dad struggled to warm up to it. He still missed that pretty white truck and remained faithful to its memory.

Oh, and dad bought a new lunch box before he returned to work, one that gave him no grief the rest of his working years.

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...

Dizzy

Photo credit to Tim Inconnu

Over the past week or so I have been afflicted with random spells of dizziness. It came on quite suddenly and was really upsetting those first few days. There I'd be, walking down the hall, when whoops! I'd swerve to the right and slam into the wall. Or I might be performing routine household chores--changing the bed, sorting the laundry, putting away the groceries--when the lightheadedness would appear out of nowhere, forcing me to grab something stable lest I tumble to the ground with a jar of pasta sauce in my hands.

Eventually the problem spiraled out of control, so I visited the doctor. Her diagnosis was that I suffered from a form of vertigo, mostly harmless yet supremely annoying, a disorder caused by the fact that calcium inner ear "rocks" had become dislodged and were now zooming around in areas they were never meant to visit. She gave me some home exercises to perform, with the hope of sending the rocks in my head scrambling back to their intended locale.

So far, I think the exercises have mostly taught me to self-correct my swerving, spinning reactions at a much quicker pace than before. Hopefully I no longer appear to outsiders as a dizzy, tipsy blonde who has been hitting the sauce a bit too heavily.

This adventure in less-than-constant equilibrium got me to thinking about childhood. Most kids, myself included, love to spin themselves rapidly in circles, hell bent on manufacturing the same kind of dizzy sensations I have been doing everything in my power to avoid.

I was probably six or seven years old, and mom had decorated our yard with cement creatures. One was a tiny cement donkey--white with black spots--yet another subject in my expansive and sometimes imaginary animal kingdom. Over time one of his ears cracked from the heat stress caused by the high altitude sun beating down on his tiny little cement self, exposing a section of rebar. This only made him seem a smidge less than real, as I was still quite capable of imagining him as my own personal pet donkey.

In my Charleston dance outfit
for the 4th grade spring fair,
with momma deer and baby deer
in the background.

We also had two cement deer, one large and one small, both lying calmly in repose under the honey locust tree. I called them momma deer and baby deer, although baby deer had a full set of antlers and so did momma deer. No matter, that's what I called them anyway.

So there I was in the hot breezy midst of summer, playing alone in the front yard in a pair of yellow stretch shorts with matching flowery shirt. Determined to make myself dizzy, I spun 'round and 'round and 'round, arms outstretched, feeling my stable grip on the earth slowly melt away.

As was the custom for this silly game, I stopped suddenly then staggered backwards and sideways in a fit of giggles until something unexpected happened: my backside landed directly on one of momma deer's antlers. The metal antler tore into my butt cheek and I let out a scream, falling to the ground with one hand frantically clutching a bloodied spot on my rear end.

Mom came to the rescue and provided much-needed comfort and hugs, before admonishing me on how dangerous it was to play the spinning game so close to a cement deer with antlers and how my yellow play shorts were probably ruined and she'd try to patch the hole as best she could but no guarantees.

(As an aside, I believe this event may have been the catalyst for those dark years when mom would sew "play clothes" for me using scraps of leftover drapery fabric, much like the kids in The Sound of Music wore.)

Fortunately, the gaping wound on my butt cheek did not require stitches but remained a sore spot for a long time. It also provided fodder for the neighborhood kids, who loved to poke fun at any child's misfortune but their own.

And lucky for them, I was always a reliable source for such stories...

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!

A Rose by Any Other Name

Bloom from the rosebush planted in my mother's memory, called Purple Tiger.

Sometimes you just aren't quite sure if you remember a person's name. I am terrible at this. People introduce me to friends and co-workers but I promptly forget their names. It happens all the time and no, I can't really blame it on my advanced years. This has been a problem since the early days. Take work, for instance. I see people in the halls I've met at one time or another. I smile, say hello, how are you, then pass by with a puzzled look on my face. Now, what was her name again?

Speaking of work, recently we switched our email servers. As part of this modernization, all state employees were thrown into a common algorithmic pool. Where previously we had been separated in such a way that kept us sorted neatly along agency lines, we suddenly were thrust upon one another and quickly discovered how many of us shared similar or identical names. This proved enough of a disruption that I was forced to notify co-workers about the discrepancy, asking them to check closely before writing to "Debra" (the wrong person) instead of "Deborah" (the right person... or rather, me).

All this got me thinking, what's in a name?

Mom named me after Debbie Reynolds, whose wistful rendition of the song "Tammy" from the movie "Tammy and the Bachelor" left my mother yearning for a daughter who would embody the purity and goodness of that lovely young Hollywood icon (at least as she was portrayed in this particular film).



Years later, I discovered that Miss Reynolds' name wasn't even Debbie; it was only a stage name. No matter, the damage was done. By this time thousands upon thousands of little girls shared the same name. Between Deborah Kerr and Debbie Reynolds, suddenly there were little Debbies everywhere you turned.

Mom chose to spell my full name with the traditional, biblical version of "Deborah" rather than the modern, trendy "Debra." My middle name is Ann. Most everyone called me Debbie, but heaven help me if I ever heard one of my parents belt out "Deborah Ann!" It was never good news.

As an adult entering the world of work, I chose to use the shortened nickname "Deb" but will answer to anything. Quite often people call me "Bev" seemingly choosing a hooked-on-phonics version of my nickname.

How envious I have been of those whose names are uncomplicated, without nicknames or multiple variations of what someone might call you... like a "Linda" or a "Karen" or a "Joyce."

Of course, none of this can compare to mom's struggles with her own name.

Written on the back of this photo:
"Babe on Painted Lady, 1944"

Her given name was Florence Loretta, yet everyone called her "Floretta." It wasn't until she was much older, upon seeing her birth certificate for the first time, that she realized "Floretta" was only a nickname.

And it wasn't her only nickname, either.

Being the youngest child for a few years earned her the nickname "Babe" and this one stayed put, long after a younger brother was born. She told me that sometimes as a young woman, she was embarrassed by that nickname. Brothers and other relatives might pass her on the street and call out "Hey Babe!" She always worried that passers-by might assume there was a whole lot of flirting going on. But that nickname stuck, and until her dying day nieces, nephews and grand nieces on her side of the family all called her "Auntie Babe." Some of them never even knew her real name.

By the time mom and dad were introduced, she was calling herself "Loretta." Dad chose a shorter version--"Rett"--as his personal nickname for her. Eventually that became the name adopted by dad's side of the family.

Most of our Colorado neighbors also knew her as Loretta. Mom was a seamstress and made draperies in our basement on a contract basis for a company called Empire Fabrics. They called her "Flo" (don't ask me why). Sometimes I'd accompany her to deliver the completed orders. We'd trek all the way down to southeast Denver, then head inside to pick up new orders, searching the warehouse for rolls of fabric marked with big black letters: FLO.

The only time she was ever called "Florence" was at the end. The nursing home where mom spent the last few months of her life insisted on using the name on her birth certificate. Even though I asked them to change her nameplate, they never did.

Mom always favored the first name she knew as hers: Floretta. Someone once told her it meant "little flower" and she loved that idea.

So to honor her preference, and to give her one final name to call her very own, we inscribed her headstone with the one she secretly loved best.

All the while knowing that each of her names smelled every bit as sweet.

Bumpy Roads and Happy Endings

East Pawnee Butte

"The bumps in the road just make the ride more fun."

Dave and I were late bloomers, each married for the first time in our mid-forties. We met via the Internet, went out on a blind date, and became inseparable from that point forward. Two years later on Valentine's Day, we decided to give it a whirl. We married on September 2--Labor Day--that same year.

2002: The first half-year was completely worry-free, wedded bliss. First Christmas ornaments, first this, first that, loads of fun all around. Then the roller coaster ride began and our lives have been pretty hectic ever since.

2003: We decided to remodel this old house. At the same time, I learned my job would be eliminated so I scrambled to find another and oh my, was it ever a horrible job. Construction was completed by our first anniversary; two weeks later, Dave was laid off from his job. He quickly found another, which he hated nearly as much as I hated mine. Then just after Christmas, Dave’s older brother became ill and died very unexpectedly. It was a devastating time for his family.

2004: I landed a good job working for the state. About that same time, dad was diagnosed with congestive heart failure and struggled with his health all year. My brother Ted and I spent a great deal of time helping dad meet all his needs, determined to fulfill his wish to stay at home as long as possible. And he did, right to the end.

2005: Dad and Ted were at a memorial service for one of our neighbors when, after the service, dad collapsed with a heart attack and died outside the chapel. Somehow we always knew that's the way he would leave this world: poof, gone in the blink of an eye. Ted and I cleaned out and sold our childhood home. Dave was laid off again but soon found another job.

2006: Our old dog Raven destroyed the ligament in one of her back legs while chasing a kitty down the street, which necessitated a form of doggy "knee" surgery. We finally had a chance to indulge in one of our dream vacations: Autumn in New England, visiting Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont. Dave's father was diagnosed with congestive heart failure shortly after we returned. A week before Christmas, his mother suffered a stroke.

Cottonwood Pass, west side of the Continental Divide

2007: We both turned fifty, and spent most of the year selling Dave's family home, settling his parents in a nursing home, and managing their finances. After a long and difficult summer, as his illness grew worse and more unforgiving, Dave's father mercifully passed away in September.

2008: My mother-in-law's health stabilized and she seemed comfortable in her new surroundings, so we took a road trip to the Meteor Crater, the Grand Canyon, Monument Valley, and the Four Corners. We had a wonderful time. Later that year, after a Broncos game, my gall bladder exploded. A quick surgery fixed it right up.

2009: Raven was diagnosed with canine lymphoma; we kept her comfortable and happy the final few months of her life. We also added a new dog to our family, Tonka, then took a long-overdue vacation to Washington DC, Virginia and West Virginia. At the end of the year, we lost Dave's beloved mother Marge. She was buried on a brutally cold December day.

2010: Dave was laid off once again but worked part-time for most of the year. We took several weekend trips around the state. I returned to my own form of therapy: writing, and discovered this wonderful online home for my journals. After suffering through years of back problems I turned to holistic treatments, without success.

2011: Dave spent the year honing his househusband skills (he's really quite good at it). We decided to add a second dog to our family and after much searching found our little Crazy Daisy. The doctors finally diagnosed the source of my back problem, and I chose corrective surgery. Recovery was slow but went well. Plus, I had the best home health care aide you could imagine.

2012: This year has been good. I feel stronger than I have in a long time. Tonka finally admitted that he does, in fact, kind of like his little sister Daisy (shhh, don't tell her). Dave held a difficult but good-paying temporary job for several months; he is now focused on relearning his househusband skills. And for the first time in years, we are taking a vacation!

Originally the plan was to visit Hawaii for our tenth anniversary, but we scaled it back to suit our circumstances. South Dakota, here we come!

Owl Creek Pass, southwestern Colorado

"Somewhere along the way in this hard and bumpy road called life is someone who will fix your broken-down car and drive you to your happy ending."


::: handing Dave the keys :::

Fatherly Foliage

The year my father died was the same year my brother turned fifty. Although dad was always generous with his grandkids, he was a bit stingy with me and my brothers most of our adult lives. Dad figured we should fend for ourselves; he did not want to encourage any lingering parental dependency.

That changed as he grew older.

My brother's family planned a surprise birthday party for Ted's fiftieth. Dad--who never was much for parties unless they were happening at his house--declined the party invitation. Instead, he asked me to deliver a birthday gift: a card with an envelope containing five one-hundred dollar bills. When Ted opened it, he was so surprised.

The weekend before my birthday, less than two months later, I was at dad's house helping with a few chores when he handed me an envelope with the words "Happy-Birthday-Debbie" penciled on the front (dashes between words was dad's signature way of writing). In it I found five one-hundred dollar bills.

I protested, thinking it was too much money to lavish on someone having an ordinary birthday, especially coming from a parent living on a tiny fixed income. I suggested he wait, maybe another two years when I turned fifty. Dad gave his typical response, "I don't think I'll be around that long."

For years, everyone in our family had listened to dad anticipate his demise, which by his reckoning was sure to occur at any moment. In his fifties and early sixties, dad repeated his wish to achieve one last milestone: collect his first Social Security check. Once that occurred, he could promptly expire a happy, fulfilled man. Sure enough, he did collect that first check, followed by more than twenty years of continued benefits.

Dad insisted I take the money as a birthday gift. A few weeks later, he was gone.

So I used some of that birthday money to plant a tree in his memory. We had already discussed replacing the back yard apple tree we recently removed. Now the tree-planting served a higher purpose.

A maple tree is what I had in mind, and we found a lovely specimen at my favorite plant paradise, Paulino Gardens. The tree we chose was a Deborah Norway Maple, a perfect fit!

That tree was no more than ten feet tall, splindy but healthy. In seven years' time it has spread and grown into a beautiful shade tree that I adore.

Following dad's death, my sweet neighbor gave me another gift of remembrance, a beautiful yellow rosebush. That bush is planted near the maple tree, next to a commemorative stone where the yellow rose petals land after the blooms are finished showing off.

Surrounding the rosebush are clumps of purple irises, the offspring of a plant that once lived in mom's garden. Dad gave me the iris tubers when I first bought my home seventeen years ago. They spread like wildfire and brighten up several gardens each spring.

This year the irises were exceptionally pretty and fragrant. The rosebush is covered with bright yellow blooms that give off a sweet licorice scent. And the maple tree has grown so big and strong, a family of birds christened it with a brand new nest in the upper branches.

I am so grateful to have inherited my father's green thumb, as well as his love for plants and gardening. It has served me well.

Thanks, dad.

Square Pizza

The finished product

Square Pizza is a New Year's Eve Thompson family tradition, which my mom started years ago. She made only cheese pizza--no extra toppings--but I have changed it over the years to suit my own taste.

As kids, on New Year's Eve we were so excited at the prospect of being legally allowed to stay up past our normal bedtime. Dad would play his records and sing along as best he could (if he couldn't remember the words, he would just make them up). Occasionally he would swoop into the kitchen and try to entice mom into an impromptu dance. Sometimes she played along, other times she would respond with a terse: "Dick, for God's sake I'm trying to cook here!"

Later mom would let us have a drink, a Sloe Gin Fizz. This consisted of a very large plastic cup filled with 7-Up, mixed with a teeny tiny capful of sloe gin. Boy did we ever feel grown up.

Close to midnight we would assemble at the front door. Sometimes the weather was awful and we would abandon our outdoor celebrations in favor of indoor noisemaking. Mostly I recall evenings with biting cold and not much in the way of snow. Coats and hats and gloves would be donned over our pajamas, snowboots if necessary. Then my brother and I would jostle and push each other to be the first out the door. You see, the winner would be the lucky one who got to sit in the driver's seat of our white 1966 Plymouth Fury and honk the horn. The loser was stuck banging on the pots and pans mom had selected for their unique tonal quality.

Mom had this obnoxious cowbell. She didn't like going outside in the cold weather, so she usually hung out the front door clanging that thing endlessly.

After having one too many beers and singing one too many songs, dad was typically fast asleep on the couch long before midnight.

Nowadays the New Year arrives without much fanfare. We are early risers and go to bed equally early. Sometimes I'll get up at midnight to watch our crazy neighbors shoot off those ever-present fireworks.

Welcome 2012. Please be kind and please, cut us a little slack. We could sure use it. Thank you.

To make your very own Square Pizza, you'll need:

• 2 packages of pizza crust mix (6.5 oz.)
• 1 jar of pizza sauce (14 oz.)
• about 40-50 pepperonis
• one large green pepper, chopped
• 1 8-oz. package of Italian Four Cheese Blend, or similar grated cheese

Spray a rectangle cookie sheet with cooking spray. The size I use is 16"x10" and about 1.5" deep. I prefer to make my Square Pizza in a deep dish variety, that's why I use two pizza crust mixes.

Prepare the pizza crust mix according to package directions. When it is in a nice round ball, drizzle about a tbsp. of cooking oil over the top and roll the ball in the oil. Cover the mixing bowl and leave it on top of the oven for about 5-10 minutes while the oven is heating up.

Before

Knead the dough a bit and then spread it out, making sure to pull the crust up on all four sides of the pan. Pour on the pizza sauce. Add the pepperoni and green pepper (or whatever toppings you choose). Cover the entire pie with cheese.

Bake at 425 degrees for 25 minutes. Let the pie cool about 5 minutes before cutting. Makes about 8 pieces.

Note: even though the pan is not "square" the slices usually are...

The Year of the (crazy) Dog

Family photo at Pawnee Buttes.
The Good Dog joined right in. The Crazy Dog, not so much.

In terms of the Chinese Zodiac, 2011 was actually the Year of the Rabbit. We don’t have a rabbit, but we do have two dogs: The Good Dog, and The Crazy Dog.

Tonka was thrilled to learn he had been elevated in status to The Good Dog, a title previously held by sweet Raven.

Soon after we brought Daisy home from the Longmont Humane Society, Tonka was promoted to good dog status and Daisy quickly earned her nickname, Crazy Daisy.

Yes, she’s crazy. Afraid of her own shadow and terrified of people (with the exception of Dave’s sister Barb), Daisy eats bark chips, runs headlong through the house, uses the furniture as a springboard to pounce here and there, crawls under Tonka’s belly, and flings Nylabones willy-nilly into the air. She is also a sweet, cuddly little thing and quite the novelty out in the world.

Wherever we take Daisy, people stop us with a puzzled grin and ask, “What kind of dog is that?” (cattle dog/corgi with a side of hound-dog DNA thrown in just for fun… in other words, a mutt). Because she is so darned cute, everyone wants to meet her. Daisy will have none of it. She either backs away, big round eyes darting left and right while plotting an escape route, or she hides behind one of us for safety. Fortunately, she trusts us completely and loves Tonka with all her might. We know nothing of her history but think she may have been kept locked up for most of her young life. The first few months she lived with us, it was obvious the world outside was completely foreign to her, filled with frightening sounds and danger everywhere. Slowly but surely, she is being transformed into a deliriously happy little dog.

In other news – following an MRI where she was squished into a teeny-tiny tube and forced to listen to sappy soft rock music on gigantic headphones – Debbie finally learned the cause of her chronic back pain and sciatica, then was told that spinal surgery was the best option for relief. After much second-guessing and indulging in a host of irrational fears, she decided to go through with the surgery. It was successful and five months later, she is feeling better with some minor lingering pain.

In the weeks following surgery, Dave took on a new role as home health care aide. He has also become quite the respectable househusband and doggy daycare provider. His continued job searches brought forth a flurry of interviews in spring and fall; still no offers. We remain hopeful.

Much time was spent on the road this year, with three visits to Salida, road trips along the Front Range, dog park adventures, and plenty of doctor appointments. The dogs joined us as often as possible, where Daisy discovered her new favorite thing, riding on the center console.



Ever the trooper, Dave added yet another duty to his expanding job description: Driving Miss Debbie, and Driving Miss Daisy.   J

Merry Christmas * Happy New Year * Peace on Earth

Debbie and Dave
Tonka and Daisy

(from our Christmas newsletter)

A Table in Time

From a letter I wrote to my nephew, Clark

Thought I’d write a note with a little history about this table. I’m happy to give it to you so that it stays in our family. You seem like the logical person to have it next, too!

Do you remember that Cork and Kathy Snyder lived behind us? Mom and Kathy took me to visit Kathy’s grandmother at their family farmhouse. It was located at the corner of 112th and Riverdale Road, real close to where you lived when you were a little boy. The farmhouse is still there, although they sold it and the land years ago.

I don’t know what year we got it but it must have been the early 1960s, I was just a little girl. Behind the farmhouse was a separate garage and in there was this desk. They were using it for potting plants. Seems like I recall it being painted black or maybe brown, but I could be wrong about that. The drawer was off to the side, it did not have drawer pulls and the brackets to hold the drawer in place had been broken.

Mom really loved the look of the table, even though it was painted and she didn’t know what was underneath. After we brought it home, she painted it barn red (the color of the shake shingles on the house, probably with leftover outside paint!). Dad put in some boards to hold up the drawer and then he added the drawer pulls. He used that colonial variety to keep the drawer from being pushed too far back.

The table was usually in the basement bedroom, right underneath that little window between mom’s drapery room and the bedroom. By the way, don’t you just love the quirkiness in that house, I mean really… who puts a window in between a utility room and a bedroom? Oh wait, I know, my parents!

Your dad used the desk for years, for assembling and painting his model airplanes, plus any other painting projects he worked on. Soon the top was covered with little marks of different colors, yellow and blues and whites, from when his painting went astray.

Then sometime in the early 1970s, mom discovered a furniture refinishing company. It was in the strip mall at 88th and York. She had lots of furniture pieces that needed some work and the guy who owned it gave her a good deal. She decided to have this desk dipped and stripped.

When we all saw the desk, we could not believe how beautiful it was! That quarter-sawn oak is so lovely, who would ever paint over it? But I guess that was common years ago, to paint over fine wood. Sad, if you ask me.

I have always loved this desk, especially with its imperfections and because it reminds me of special times in my life. Mom loved it too, and your dad as well. I know they both would be happy that it’s going to be in your hands.

Stuffed

This picture of my husband Dave was on the front page of the Rocky Mountain News, the day after Thanksgiving (about 1962).

Dave's dad was an editor at the paper.

Word Cloud

A word cloud based on my journal: A Mother's Touch.

Happy birthday mom!

Scared of the Dark

There was a nightlight in the little room with pale pink walls. Plugged into the east wall, I insisted that it be turned on each night after mom lovingly tucked me in, always with a sweet hug and kiss goodnight.

“I don’t get you,” she once told me. “When we go camping in the mountains, sleep in a tent, where wild animals roam around in the dark and you can’t see your hands in front of your face, there--of all places--you fall asleep instantly!” She could not understand why her little girl had such a phobia in the safety of her own home, when she was not scared of the dark out in the wilderness.

Before an extra bedroom was built in the basement, my brother and I shared that little pink room. Well, it wasn’t pink at the time, more a turquoise color as I recall. We had bunk beds in a cute colonial style, the kind you could take apart and make into separate beds if needed. When the basement bedroom was complete, the bunk beds came apart. Ted got his own room: The Middle Bedroom.

That’s how they were known, much like in Goldilocks: The Little Bedroom, The Big Bedroom, and The Middle Bedroom, which was located straight down the hallway from the living room.

My nightlight was on that night, but as usual the shadows cast eerie shapes here and there. The wind was blowing. I listened to the metal threshold plate on the front door screaming in the wind, a frightening sound peculiar to our house.

When I could take no more, I crept into The Middle Bedroom and woke my brother. “Can I sleep with you?” Ever the protector, he always agreed.

Now, I don’t know why he had his bed facing straight out the door and down the hallway. I would never have set it up that way, much too spooky. I sandwiched myself between my brother and the wall, and promptly fell asleep.

Later, after midnight, we both woke to hear the hardwood floors creaking and groaning. Soft footsteps. A sound near the front door. What’s that? It was unspoken but we shared those silent words. Two little heads popped up from the pillow, eyes big as saucers, peering into the darkness down the hall.

And then, just then, we saw a figure in white gliding across the end of the hallway from right to left. Our hearts began pounding in our chests.

Another noise quickly followed, that of a chair being kicked, its legs scraping across the wooden floor, followed immediately by the thundering low, loud sounds of the bass keys on the upright piano.

“Dammit!” The kitchen light flicked on, followed by muttered words and the sound of a match.

This was no ordinary ghost. It was mom, pacing in the middle of the night, checking to make sure the front door was locked, indulging in a bit of late night worrying over one last cigarette. She had tripped over grampa's chair near the kitchen entrance and slammed her hand into the piano keys.

Phew. We were safe. At least for one more night…

The inspiration for this story came from a writing prompt: Spooky Story, by San Diego Momma. Thanks for the idea!

Channeling my Mother

A few weeks ago I was clearing up the evening dishes. Distracted by conversation and news coverage, I let the hot water run a bit too long and nearly scalded my hands under the steaming faucet. Without hesitation I hollered out a saying: "Hot! Burn the baby!" then started to laugh.

There I was, channeling my mother again.

When we were little, that was mom's phrase to warn us about hot surfaces or boiling water. "Hot! Burn the baby!" was her way of teaching us to use caution around the stove, coffeepots, toasters, or a sink or bathtub filled with hot water. Even when we were older, she would continue to remind us of impending burns with the same phrase.

Mom used a heaping portion of idioms and colloquialisms in her daily life, with a side order of old wives' tales thrown in for good measure. These phrases were a natural part of her language; she had a saying suitable for nearly every occasion or circumstance.

As I began piecing together this journal, I discovered that I remembered much of the vernacular--some I use to this day--but had lost track of the more obscure bits and pieces that were standard fare in the colorful and interesting expressions used by my family. A quick internet search helped refresh my memory. Some of my all-time favorites are contained in this story.

One of mom's least favorite family members earned the nickname, Old Fuddy-Duddy. I can't imagine why she was like that, except possibly she was one of those people who seemed to get up on the wrong side of the bed nearly every day. However, you wouldn't dare tell the old fuddy-duddy what you really thought of her, because that would surely go over like a lead balloon.

Our neighbors who brought home a color television long before anyone else could afford one were living high on the hog, no doubt due to the fact that the husband had lucked into a new job where he was In Like Flynn. With a seemingly frivolous display of new wealth, the wife was frequently spotted in town all dolled up, prancing around like she was Astor's Pet Horse.

Mom wanted to make sure all of us were careful not to bite off more than we could chew. Apparently dad didn't need to worry about that particular problem because he had a cast iron stomach. Not long after finishing a meal, dad was likely to doze off... sometimes in the midst of a large family gathering. Word has it that he loved to nap so much he was capable of falling asleep on a picket fence.

My oldest brother Rich was often accused of making up cock and bull stories to explain his violation of curfews and other parental rules. Sometimes those stories were wildly fantastic scenarios that included everything but the kitchen sink. Fortunately, they were usually sufficient for him to get off Scot-free.

No one ever worried that middle brother Ted, the most responsible and studious of the bunch, would ever put all his eggs in one basket or lose his head. As such, he was voted most likely to go from rags to riches in his lifetime. Ted could usually be found toiling over his homework or art projects and never wavered from his goals, well, at least not until the cows came home.

Because of my proclivity to question everything and remain skeptical after otherwise acceptable explanations had been presented, mom had long ago dubbed me her Doubting Thomas. In my teenage years she warned against my tendency to go through life with a chip on my shoulder and pointed out that I was guilty of wearing my heart on my sleeve, a problem that plagues me to this day.

In winter, mom would lecture me about leaving the house with wet hair; you're just asking to get sick, she would say with a cluck of her tongue. But should that dry winter air make my palms itch, turns out there was a fifty-fifty chance some money might be coming my way. Unfortunately, I could never seem to remember which palm signified money in and which meant money out.

Many times I heard I was the spitting image of my mother in her younger years. I never could see it until I started getting a bit long in the tooth myself. One thing we do share is our housekeeping philosophy: If you don't have time for a thorough cleaning, just give the house a lick and a promise.

This past winter, Dave and I were at our favorite brewpub enjoying a drink at the bar. All day long my nose had been itching like crazy. As I sat there scratching the tip of my nose, I told Dave that according to my mother, this meant I was about to kiss a fool. Right then Dave leaned over and gave me a great big smooch. I can't remember if my nose stopped itching but I can report that my heart swelled in my chest.

Now, it's entirely possible that I'm pulling your leg about some of these situations. Because although I may remember the lingo, I don't always recall specific instances when they were used.

I bet most people have similar memories. What are your favorites?

Urban Orphan

In southern Colorado is a county named Huerfano, a word that means "orphan" in Spanish. About sixty miles north of the New Mexico border off I-25, you can't miss the county's namesake: Huerfano Butte. This lone volcanic plug lies east of the highway among scattered sagebrush and yucca plants. It seems lonely, lost on the prairie, far removed from the lofty peaks to the west.

Another 150 miles north of Huerfano Butte, a busy, bustling street cuts through the heart of downtown Denver. Broadway is home to our finest old hotel and is one block distant from the city's tallest building. As Denver grew, a good number of its original buildings fell victim to progress, demolished to make way for skyscrapers and modern edifices. But there remain many historical places mixed in among the sterile, gleaming towers of glass.

One such place sits near the corner of 20th and Broadway--busy street in front, light rail train station at the rear, three diminutive stories dwarfed by towering luxury condominiums--an urban orphan far removed from its contemporaries.

Using a configuration common at the time, the exterior walls were designed to make best use of space on a wedge-shaped lot. Looking at the building from the rear it seems unremarkable, plain, with three square sides. But standing at the northwest corner, the triangular walls appear much like the pointed end of a large slice of architectural pie.

It may not have a fascinating background chronicled in newspaper archives. Its facade is not likely to be featured in the western history photographic collection at the Denver Public Library. Yet 1980 Broadway has a past I cannot forget.

Some time after my family moved to the Denver area, my grandfather followed to be near his youngest daughter and son. For a while in the early sixties he lived at 1980 Broadway, where we visited him from time to time. A trip to downtown Denver from our quiet suburb was always an adventure. I remember peering out the car window as we passed buildings no more than four or five stories, inconceivable heights to a little girl used to living in a small ranch-style home.

Even now I can close my eyes and be transported back in time to the boarding house where grampa lived.

Through the front door is the lobby and a dark, smoky sitting area with decrepit furniture, upright piano shoved against the staircase wall. The steep staircase heads straight up one side of the building. Grampa's apartment is at the very top of that dark, forbidding stairwell.

Such a tiny living space! The first thing you see is the sofa bed, then a small table and chair in the corner. Turn left into the tiniest kitchen you could ever imagine, and through another doorway is a bathroom with windows that open onto the most incredible part of his apartment: a fire escape!

My brother and I loved to crawl out the window to that fire escape. Mom and dad would visit with grampa while we indulged ourselves in imaginary New York City-type scenarios on the tiny metal balcony, the likes of which we had never seen before.

Grampa came to live with us before he died. Mom told me that he missed his apartment and the city, where he could walk several blocks to Civic Center Park, meet up with other elderly city dwellers, and talk about the old days while playing checkers.

I'm not sure how this particular building managed to survive Denver's march ever forward and upward. Now it hosts a Budget Rent a Car office, where this week we stopped to visit. The two young women working at the counter were friendly and interested to hear stories about a brief period in the building's history. They told us the upstairs rooms are sealed off, unused and in disrepair. We peered up the dark staircase and saw a mess of cracked, peeling plaster and rickety stairs.

Then came the best part of the day. "Did anyone ever tell you if the building is haunted?" one woman asked. She said that one day she was alone but felt a hand on her shoulder. Another time she witnessed her office chair spinning on its own. Both women have discovered cabinet doors in the back office hanging wide open not long after they were closed.

Whether or not you believe in ghosts as I do, the stories are fun to hear. So I told them my grampa's name, Evan, and said next time something happens... and on the off chance it is him... just say hello.

Now when I pass the building, it won't seem so much like an orphan.

Idling in Neutral

Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.

~ John Lennon

Today we spent some time reflecting on the past year. I asked Dave what he thought of 2010. His response: “Well, it was kind of shitty.”

Can’t argue with that.

It began with good intentions, plans and dreams galore, which kept us preoccupied for the first two months. Then came the news. Like so many others, Dave’s company was struggling and several employees would have to be let go.

Not a pleasing prospect, a still-sour economy coupled with the added hurdle of competing for limited jobs when you’re over fifty.

After we married we chose to live frugally, well below our means, so that we could maintain a debt-free lifestyle and save up for a wonderful retirement, perhaps move to our favorite little mountain town, maybe even a few years earlier than expected. We were well on our way.

But we quickly shifted gears this year, temporarily idling our Bus to the Future in neutral.

All was not lost. Our frugal lifestyle served us well. Dave was able to work part-time for a few months and supplement his unemployment income. The extra time at home allowed him to finish a multitude of projects, the kind you simply don’t have time to accomplish with only two days off each week. We even managed to squeeze in a few fun and relaxing trips around Colorado, making the very best of our new reality.

Tonka was delirious. His favorite person in the whole wide world was home nearly every single day. Together they perfected their ball throwing/catching skills.

I turned to writing, a creative outlet long enjoyed but always in private. Earlier this year I discovered a gleaming online warehouse for my journals. In this virtual space my silly little stories dwell in quiet, unassuming fashion, like so many wallflowers at a raucous digital blog party, afraid to be noticed.

I’ve also been fighting a losing battle with sciatica. Months into the war now--with acupuncture, chiropractic and physical therapy treatments under my belt, orthopedic shoes in the closet, prescription pain pills in the medicine cabinet, a nerve-stimulating machine that I use to perform electric shock therapy on my back--and I still hurt.

Yet we are so grateful for all that we have.

Merry Christmas  *  Happy New Year  *  Peace on Earth

Debbie, Dave and Tonka

 

(from our Christmas newsletter)