An Apology Letter to Mrs. Chamberlin, Grade School Librarian

June 28, 2016

Dear Mrs. Chamberlin,

I am so sorry.

I'm sure there were reasons, possibly extenuating circumstances, but that's not an excuse. I do know that once I left my book outside on the patio and it rained, and we paid for that one, but I bet you had to send numerous notes home, and that wasn't right. I should have been more responsible and taken better care of my library book, but I didn't. And I should have brought you the money right away but I bet it took at least a few weeks. Before email I am certain there were notes lost, notes not delivered, notes purposely misplaced in hopes of finding the book. I know you had more important things to do than chase down an irresponsible child who had ruined a library book.

Maybe you don't remember, and quite possibly I shouldn't bring this up, but let me also apologize for routinely finding books that were not really appropriate for my grade or reading level. You know that shelf, the one that was directly across from the biography section? I loved those books, and I now realize that those books were there for children in the upper grades, and I should have waited until at least fifth grade to ask to check them out. Do you remember the time I found the book about the women suffragists; it had a black and white photograph of four women holding placards on the front, and I ran around the library showing everyone my amazing find? I think I may have been a little disruptive because you took that book away from me and stashed it behind the desk with Mrs. Osborn. I also have vague memories of sitting quietly alone for a good period of time following the suffragist book incident. I'm sorry.

I'm not making excuses here but I'm wondering if you still have those carrels, the ones that were on the floor and kind of comfortable? I ask because I know that more than once you had to remind me (and I'd guess Jim L.) to be quiet when we were in those carrels. Here's the thing, we were reading, but we were also talking, about the books. Have you read "Henry and Ribsy"? That's funny stuff. Wasn't there a story about Ribsy trying to save the garbage because he thought it was Henry's? Can you blame us for laughing? Yes, I'm certain we were too loud and I'm sorry. I bet Jim is also. You shouldn't have had to ask so many times, but you know, maybe had I been reading that suffragist book...no, we would have still found something to make us laugh.

A few years ago I found all my old report cards; my mother was holding on to them for this exact reason. Attached to my third grade report card was a receipt, signed by you, for $6.00: lost book replacement cost, received of Allyson Lang. I saved it, made a copy, and hung it on the door to the library where I now work. It's a reminder to our students that everyone looses books and that no one should feel terrible about it, accidents happen. Between you and me, accidents happen far too frequently. There are some students who make a genuine mistake (say leaving a book on the back patio when it rains) and they feel terrible about it. But there are many who say things like "I never checked that book out" or "I already returned that book" or the absolute worst, "my mom forgot to return that". Mrs. Chamberlin! Did their mother check out that book?

Libraries are such an amazing way to teach children about sharing and community and responsibility. Imagine, you allowed me to take home a book every week of my grade school life, and you trusted that I would return that book in the same condition. I know I let you down but I'm grateful that you allowed me to pay for the book and continue to check out for the next three years. Mistakes happen, thanks for understanding that.

I hope you enjoyed your job, running around in those burgundy pantsuits and pixie haircuts, trying to maintain order in that sprawling suburban school library. It was my favorite time of the week, not just because I read funny books with Jim in the carrels, but because I loved finding books in the library that I was genuinely excited to read. Did you know that I read every biography of a first lady in the library? Every one. Abigail Adams was my favorite, still is, followed closely by Eleanor Roosevelt. On the table next to my bed is the new biography of Louisa Adams, wife of John Quincy. I'll finish it this summer, and I bet I'll think of you and the tall shelf in the far corner, where you kept your biographies, when I do.

My apologies for all the time you spent chasing after me and my books. I'd like to say it was childhood exuberance, and that may have been a factor, but there was also childhood irresponsibility in play. I should have returned my books on time and paid quickly for those left in the rain, I've learned my lesson.

Thanks Mrs. Chamberlin, I really loved library.

Your former student,

Allyson Lang

Merry Christmas She Said

She smiled warmly when I stumbled in, "Merry Christmas" she said, in deeply accented English.

It was after 11:00 pm and I had spent the past six hours making a two hour trip, weather delays trapping me on the ground in a city I did not want to leave. There were no more than five of us on the plane, the last flight from Kansas City to Chicago, on Christmas night. It was snowing, in both places, perfect for Christmas, unless your Christmas is to be spent flying from one winter wonderland to another.

My dad took me to the airport. Even with an early dinner we had to leave before Nana's Christmas cake, a brandy soaked tradition. It was to be the last Christmas for my 90 year old grandfather, the year he repeatedly asked where he had tied up his horse. It was a Christmas that all seven kids had made it home, when my grandmother was still able to cook, my dad still able to carve the turkey and a family all together for one last precious time. Waving good-bye was like leaving the ghost of Christmas everything; taking me away from my family on Christmas is unthinkable, stepping onto a plane scattered with strangers, like torture.

Frustrated that I drew the short straw, that no one else, not even the other clerks and paralegals who weren't traveling, offered to be there on the day after Christmas, I moped and pouted with the time I did have with my family. I was angry at my horrible boss, the one who removed his glasses and used the end piece to clean his ears whenever we met to discuss medical records or boring depositions. The one who callously said "you know I'm Jewish, I could work on Christmas day" when I asked if I could at least come in late the next day; my need to repeatedly quote him not really enveloping the spirit of Christmas.

Because my father flew frequently, often three or four days a week, he was familiar to almost everyone at the American Airlines counter in Kansas City. Having Dad deliver me to the airport meant a seat in first class as they often extended this courtesy to his daughter when available. On this night, given that I was one of five people flying, my seat in row 3 was secure. He waited with me until they finally boarded, the two of us sitting in the lonely and cold airport, the bar closed and the place deserted. I encouraged him to go home, but secretly hoped he would stay, scared to be alone and wishing that maybe they would finally just cancel this flight and strand me, helpless and unable to get to work. The plane had to be in Chicago, the flight would go, even if we had to wait all night.

Two hours later they called the few of us remaining to board. Leaving home was difficult, saying good-bye to my father who was my Christmas constant, horrible. The plane was de-iced, we pushed back from the gate, and O'Hare closed to incoming flights. We waited. I buried my head in my mixed nuts, not at all interested in small talk with the nice flight attendant who was probably not exactly where she wanted to be either. I questioned all the decisions: grad school away from my family, the terrible job at the hideous law firm, the one that made me cry almost every day as the bus approached my stop. My dad suggested I quit, find something else, but I knew I was learning, more about what I did not want to do than what I did, and the miserable pay was better than nothing at all.

After almost two hours of waiting we took off. I cried when the wheels left the ground.

O'Hare was deserted, as quiet as I had ever seen it. My lone bag spun on the carousel, as lost as I was. I threw it over my shoulder and made my way out, heading to the taxi stand rather than the train as Dad had given me cab fare, not wanting me to spend the remainder of my night on two trains and a bus getting home. I stopped in the restroom before leaving.

She smiled warmly when I stumbled in, "Merry Christmas" she said, in deeply accented English. Merry Christmas said the woman who had spent her Christmas cleaning restrooms at the airport, away from her family and friends, working at a job I have always considered to be among the worst imaginable. My day of self misery was over; "Merry Christmas" I said to her, and thank you.

Just a Girl From Kansas City Who Loves Baseball

For many years my friends have asked which was my favorite team, and for the same many years I have smugly replied that I would never need to chose. A Cubs Royals World Series? I was not concerned.

This year the questioning became more intense; this year those two teams both ended up in the post season. When the kids at school jeered at my Royals hat I assured them that this wasn't necessary, the Royals were not the enemy. Children who attend school down the street from Wrigley Field had trouble understanding that idea.

There was never a choice. I love the Cubs, I love Wrigley Field and the neighborhood we call home. I love the roar of the crowd from the front porch, the traffic on game days and odd smell that emanates from the ball park in August. I love Ernie Banks and Ron Santo and Mark Grace. But I was raised on the Royals.

My grandmother taught me the words to "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" as we walked to our car in the parking lot of the old Municipal Stadium in Kansas City. The Royals belong to my grandfather and his lap that held me when Brett's fly ball escaped the right field wall. The Royals are Nana's, games broadcast from the old transistor radio on the front porch of her Ward Parkway apartment. The Royals are my dad's team, the suite level seats and the stadium club and Sunday afternoons entertaining clients from the third base side. The Royals are the hat that I tossed back to Dad when I announced I was too old for baseball caps, the skinned knees from running down the winding ramps, LC's BBQ in the parking lot, and the baby blue t-shirt I wore until it shredded. The Royals are my team.

This year I got to share them with everyone. When they won Sunday night I was not in Kansas City but 500 miles away, down the street from Wrigley Field, celebrating in my living room. When they won thirty years ago I was at Kaufman, on the third base side, with my dad, my grandfather and my sister. That win was youthful exuberance, this one was emotional childhood reliving joy. It was simply the best.

Kansas City usually sits at the back of the class, working quietly and diligently. It doesn't scream out; there are cities far more exciting and brightly colored. It's consistent and reliable and comfortable. Kansas City is my old shoe, the train that always arrives on time, the place that will always be home.

This team plays that kind of baseball, the kind that draws you in and holds you until the very end of the game. They quietly and consistently cross the plate, not by firework spouting home runs, but by working together to put players on base and bring them home. The Royals play Kansas City baseball.



I love baseball, and I write about it here.

Yes Jack, There is Crying in Baseball

"Are you crying?"

There was no doubt as to what was coming next, no use hiding my overly emotional, third out, Wild Card game over face.

"There's no crying in baseball."

Of course there is. There is crying at the All Star Game, crying at the MLB Thank You Fans commercials and crying when faced with the destruction down the street at Wrigley Field.

It's the same conversation, now happening in the context of the World Series, "it's a business Allyson, things have changed".

This from the man who grew up in Nebraska, the land of no professional sports, where team loyalty is dictated by the color red and where players, by design, are only allowed four years before they are shipped elsewhere. This is not a man who appreciates Frank White, or Ernie Banks, or Ted Williams, beyond batting averages and on base percentages. This is not a man who grew up with a hometown baseball team and memories of the family who loved them. This is someone who says he's a baseball fan, adopting the team nearest as his own. But this is someone who, after the sweep of the Baltimore Orioles, looked over to me and said, "Yep, I'm a Royals fan".

Lorenzo Cain Does Everthain

It was easy to get on board. My children, who attended their very first game at the age of one month and who can hear the roar of the Wrigley bleachers from the back deck, finally found, in this post season, a team that made them want to learn how to score a game. These children who have, for 10 years, confused fouls, strikes, and balls, now analyze the batting order and question why Perez was moved up two spots in game five. They do well playing their father's favorite game time challenge, "should you send the runner?" and woke up sadly disappointed Thursday morning, frustrated that their parents made them go to bed before the last out of the last game, to find that their heroes came in second in the most exciting post season a Royals fan had seen in years.


For me there is no comfort in the adage, heard in constantly in our neighborhood, "wait until next year". This year was just enough and I'm not ready to close the book on this wonderful season by looking to the next. Winning it all would have been amazing but making it to the Wild Card game was reason enough for me to be happy. I'm a product of the George Brett years, when the Royals battled the Yankees year after year for the American League title. I learned about stolen bases when Willie Randolph was on second and Reggie Jackson was batting, and I looked to Hal MacRae and Willie Wilson to save the day. I grew up expecting the Royals to be a winning team and usually they complied. The slow build to a pennant race this year was unexpected and glorious. It was enough, enough to make me cry.


If you know me you know I grew up in Kansas City. You also know I love cardigan sweaters and pearls but essential to who I am now is the first place I called home. Sharing that hometown has been wonderful, and sharing my baseball team, the one I learned to love from the front porch of my great grandmother's Plaza apartment, has been amazing.

No Royal bobbled the ball in the outfield to put a runner on third in the bottom of the 9th. They may not have won but they played great baseball. Thanks for an excellent season, it was fun to watch.

Take Me Out to the Royals Game

My love of baseball was cultivated in a time when baseball was the star of the game. I am so old that my first games were at Municipal Stadium in Kansas City which was torn down so long ago that a community garden now grows on the site. It was here I chose Lou Piniella as my favorite player and learned what the numbers 1 through 9 signified. It was here that I developed a passion for a summer day at the ballpark, warm and sticky, with 9 innings and a blank scorecard in front of me, in anxious anticipation for the 7th inning stretch. It was here I sat, between my father and grandfather, topped with a Royal Blue ball cap, Cracker Jack in hand, ideally happy for many a summer day.


Once again I am ideally happy. Once again the game of baseball is the star.


In the twenty nine years since the Royals last played in the post season I have grown too comfortable with the idea that the glory days of Kansas City baseball might have passed and that the Royals of my youth, George and Hal and Willie, might just be the only names to remember. My annual visit to Kaufman Stadium became more of an opportunity to share my childhood with my girls than one with any expectations for great baseball. Far too many stories began with "remember when Freddy Patek...?". (No one did.)

I've never been so deliriously happy to be completely wrong.

Playing the kind of baseball that is incredibly fun to watch, putting together runs like puzzle pieces, and behaving like genuinely good guys who are just as excited to be winning as their fans are, the Royals are headed to the World Series. This team that together only hit 95 home runs in the regular season has now swept two teams and won 8 straight post season games, putting together runs pitch by pitch. The team that has not one super salaried star but plays together like they've been doing it since 1985 (even though most of them were not yet born in 1985) is showing everyone what scrappy baseball looks like and why it works. The Royals are making baseball a team sport once again and we are enjoying every stolen base.
 

When the Royals moved from Municipal Stadium to Kaufman, we moved with them, summer days now spent in section 306, third base side.It was here that I announced to my Dad I was too old for the baseball cap he had dropped on my head, here that my grandfather saw his last game, and here that I watched, with my dad, Grandfather and sister, the Royals win Game 7 of the 1985 World Series. My view has changed; Royal blue cap on head I'll watch every game of the upcoming series with three new seatmates, not in section 306 but 500 miles away, remembering how great it is to be a Royals fan and loving every minute of this amazing year.

12th Street and Vine

How we ever found this place is a mystery, located just south of the historic intersection at 12th Street and Vine, as is what logical thought went into making our way here, night after night, long after the more intelligent people had gone home.

Since 1930 musicians have gathered here, at the Mutual Musicians Foundation, on Friday and Saturday nights around midnight, after the regular gigs were over, to play together until the very early hours of the morning. The Foundation is on the east side of the city, an area not known for its low crime rate. We hosted my father's 60th birthday party at Arthur Bryant's, just down the street; the white suburbanites were in the cars and on their way home by sundown. Our night had just begun.

I'm going to Kansas City
Kansas City, here I come
Going to Kansas City 
Kansas Cit,y here I come
They got a crazy way of loving there 
And I'm gonna get me some

Thank heavens we had the good sense, at midnight, to never drive to the Foundation. Sadly we never had the good sense to realize that taxis, readily available in many parts of the city at midnight, are not too easy to come by at 4 a.m. when you want to go home, at least not at 18th and Vine. Fooled early on by rows of unmanned taxis parked in front we soon learned that they belonged to drivers sleeping at the transient hotel next door, who were not too interested in waking up to take us home. More than once we relied on the kindness of a departing musician to get us to a neighborhood that was at least semi awake.

I'm gonna be standing on the corner
12th Street and Vine
I'm gonna be standing on the corner
12th Street and Vine
With my Kansas City baby
And some Kansas City wine

They sell cans of Bud Lite for one dollar out of a blue Igloo cooler. The musicians rotate in and out of play, highlighting one then another, as seamlessly as if they played together always. The room is always warm, even in January, when it feels like a thick July night inside. The neighborhood, alive only hours earlier with sounds of jazz and smells of barbecue, is quiet now, save the music emanating from the old brick building on Highland. That guy, the one just walking in, has given up his search for a taxi and is going in to dance with his girlfriend, the one in pearls swaying to the saxophone solo. They are having the time of their lives. Thank goodness they weren't smart enough to go home with their friends, hours ago. Thank goodness there are still places like this, on the east side of Kansas City.

Well, I might take a plane, I might take a train
But if I have to walk I'm going there just the same
I'm going to Kansas City
Kansas City, here I come
They got some crazy little women there
And I'm gonna get me one.

Lyrics to Kansas City: Jerry Lieber and Mike Stoller

This post was inspired by 2 A.M. at the Cat's Pajamas, a completely original and engaging debut novel by Marie-Helen Bertino. I could have written about nine year old girls, or teachers, or love, or Philadelphia or the kindness of community, as this book is so full of options. I was provided with a complimentary copy for the purposes of this post, as a member of From Left to Write. Join us August 28th, 2014 when we discuss this book and our unique impressions from its many themes.

Derek Jeter: Twenty Years in the Same Outfit

In the late 1970's, when a good deal of my days were spent at the ball park with my dad or sitting on the back patio, listening to Denny Mathews' play by play on my grandfather's old transistor radio, when baseball was an integral part of summer and activities were planned around the Royals schedule, I knew that the players on the field on any given day were the same ones that were there the day before. The names: Brett, White, McRae, consistently causing my grandfather to scream in adoration, or frustration, through the crackle of the old radio broadcast. Those names, so familiar, were part of the comfort of baseball, the knowing that every day Bopaw would be there, in the shade on the back porch, listening to baseball while smoking a cigarette and musing on the condition of the garden.

In our paper plate loving society, does the disposable system of player rotation teach us all that we are easily replaced? And that allegiance and loyalty are nothing compared to the highest dollar? How do I raise Cubs fans when my children have no idea who is playing baseball on any given day?

My George Brett jersey was outdated when I outgrew it, not when George outgrew the Royals. And while I know it's easier to stick with a team like the Yankees, it's still nice to see someone in the same uniform for twenty years, in the age of disposable baseball. In one night Derek Jeter rose to the top of my daughters' list of favorite players, because right now they have no idea who is in the Cubs dugout. Neither do I. 

It's a business, says Jack, it's not that way anymore.
But I wish it was, I really do.

1984, Just Like it Was Yesterday

1984

Twenty years ago this summer I went to my 10 year high school reunion. Moving beyond the excessive air intake in realizing just how incredibly old I now am, I can say, with fondness, that it was a most wonderfully dull evening.

Which is not to say, at all, that I didn't have a good time. I did, I loved the whole experience, and was, I believe, one of the very last to leave. It was just that in 10 years nothing had changed. I arrived optimistic, and had done my part in cutting my hair, but found immediately that the same groups of friends had found each other (perhaps they had never left each other). The theatre geeks still sitting with the theatre geeks, cheerleaders with yell leaders, math nerds with math nerds, as it goes. I had really hoped that the girl who walked silently from class to class, outscoring the rest of our cumulative ACT score, might have found a seat with the girls who drove fast cars and scared me on Friday nights. She did not. In fact everything was so solidly 1984 that my high school friend, the one who had a knack for talking me into situations which often resulted in a trip to the vice-principal's office, almost got me kicked out of the reunion. Her refusal to pay for the $80 ticket, and borrowing my name tag to legitimize herself to the organizers, landed me a 30 minute time out and a lecture by the head of the event company. His words eerily evoking the spirit of Dr. Nichols, "Don't let your friends talk you into bad decisions, follow your own compass", and there I was, right back where I started ten years prior.

1994

When 20 happened I was two weeks away from giving birth to two children, and two months past measuring full term in the mid-section. I was enormous; transportation would have required a flatbed truck and very large straps to hold me down for 500 miles. Not knowing if one of my fellow graduates had chosen a career in obstetrics and unsure about delivering two children in the middle of my high school reunion I chose to stay home.

This past weekend was 30 years. The busyness of this life kept me from visiting that one, the timing coming right at the end of the school year, right as we rolled into summer (although I must note that my girth and ability to wedge into a commercial airline seat was no longer a relevant factor in my travel plans).  I followed the planning on Facebook: casual bar get together Friday night,  spouses claiming boredom being ditched, big event Saturday, cocktail dresses or pants, lunch at Taco Via every single day (disclosure: I have never loved Taco Via nor did I have any idea that everyone else did. I would have been at Winstead's but that is another story).

Sunday morning, iPad and hot tea in hand, I settled in on the back deck to check out the antics of those I had loved so much so long ago.

Who were these people? I recognized about 3% of the faces appearing before me. Hadn't these 600 plus people been the reason the sun rose and set every day? Why didn't I know every single one of them? Why didn't I know any of them? Did my brain shut down after the ten year reunion? Were all of the early 80's lost to me? 

Wait, Jeff you stand there by Paul, and then Joey, you move in next to them.  Becky, you stand next to Laura, and then Sarah and Sarah, you two together over there. Can we get Kathy and Brooke together please with Colby and Steve?  Karen, you go to the left, with Lisa and Amy and Brian, you move over there by Charles and Chris. Wait a minute, where is Margaret? Nobody move…say cheese!

Maybe at 10 years we got it all right, somethings should never change. Raiders we shall always be, as long as we stay frozen in time and stand next to those we stood next to 30 years ago, even if they talk us into trouble. I'll see you all in ten years, and don't cut your hair.

 

My wonderful grade school friend Jim and I have a date to attend 40 together. He's wearing Granimals and I'm going with gauchos. We may not fit in but at least we will know who we are, or were, in 1978.

No picture from the 2004 era, not enough room on the page.

Kansas City, Kansas City Here I Come

"Do you wear shoes there?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, it's just, I don't know, do they wear shoes in Kansas?"

If only I had reading glasses then, to push down on my nose while rolling my eyes over the top of the rim, but sadly I was young, maybe 25 with eyes not requiring assistance, and had only my face to scrunch up in a most contorted and disbelieving way. Head cocked to the side, lips pursed, I answered, "really?".

She, the 17 year old suburban Chicago high school student who worked evenings with me at the Coach store, nodded. Eyes open wide, yes, she was serious. Oh so was I.

"Curious that you should ask because no, not really, or at least not all the time. But the thing is, when you leave Kansas you do need shoes, as people in most other states wear them, so just across the state line, in Missouri, there are shoe stores everywhere, for everyone coming across bare footed. It's probably the same in all the border states, it's just Missouri that I know best".

It was her turn to scrunch her face, "are you kidding?"

It's been over twenty years since I left the shoeless prairie but my past continues to haunt me. Just recently someone asked how I'm adjusting to life in the big city. A few years ago a colleague asked if we could fly to Kansas, "do you have to fly to what? St. Louis and then drive?". This weekend one of my friends guessed the population of Kansas City to be about 100,000 people; there are four Kansas City suburbs with more people. Poor Kansas City, all wild and west and unknown. Which is exactly why my father, who traveled constantly, loved coming home to Kansas City: "no one knows it's here".

Recently I've been back and forth quite a bit, busy each trip with the business of my mother, and organizing her life. But next week I go back and for the first time in five years I do not have to take out the newspapers and balance her checkbook; that work is all being done by someone else and I might have hours of free time to spend in one of my favorite places. I'm plotting my days.

 There will be a stop at the Nelson Atkins museum, where I took preschool art classes. The lower level, on the east side of the building will forever smell like tempera paint and erasers. I'll visit the creepy Egyptian tomb rooms on the first floor and the security guard, now moved to the modern wing, who scared me quiet when I was small. 

Saturday I will be at the City Market where my dad and I used to spend Saturday mornings shopping for corn and tomatoes and strawberries. I was mesmerized by the live chickens for sale near the entrance, clearly not understanding their market value. After sandwiches from the Italian deli we'd drive over to Independence Avenue to his favorite Italian meat market for fresh sausage. The origins of my non meat diet traced directly to Saturday mornings with my father.

At some point I'll find my way through the green door of the Peanut, directly across the street from my old office. Friday at five happened here. Turn left when you come in, the table in front of you, near the wall has been vandalized: ally loves jack. She did, she does.

Before the Peanut and before Jack there was Canterbury Lane. It was here, in front of the tree on the right, that I set up my very first lemonade stand, from here that I walked the four blocks to kindergarten, from here that I started out on my own. On this trip I'll make time to wander the curvy street that ends at the park, next to the church parking lot where I learned to ride my bike; from there it's just a few more blocks to Topsy's and ice cream on Saturday night.

What I like best, that Kansas City is not Chicago or St. Louis; that there are less than 3 million people in the metropolitan area, that traffic is never horrible and that I can get to my mother's apartment in the suburbs in less than 30 minutes. I love it's big winding boulevards and it's beautiful old brick houses. I love the golf courses nestled in amongst the houses and the huge trees that hang over the neighborhood streets. 

Kansas City is where I grew up, where I met my husband, where my family began.  I love Kansas City for what it has always been, what it will always be to me: the place that gave solid roots to a shoeless cow princess and sent her off to see the world. I'm forever grateful.

Visit Mrs. Blandings, a beautiful design blog that masquerades every now and then as the best possible guide to Kansas City. Her blog makes me want to visit more than I do, and see things I didn't even know existed.

Our Little Girl is All Grown Up

It happened on a Saturday. Months in planning: meeting with attorneys and bankers, signing leases and changing addresses, arranging for movers and painters, all leading up to the actual day that my mother moved out of her house, but it wasn't until Saturday, after the movers had come and gone, that it hit me.

"You mean that I am now expected to sleep here?", looking around the living room of her new apartment, as confused as I suppose she might have looked on the day I was born.

As did I, because in that moment I realized that I was no longer the child; never again would I ride in the backseat with my parents in front, directing my life while I sat helplessly staring out the window.

I was homesick. Not for the house from which we had just pried my mother, one that was never my home, but for a time when I wasn't making decisions, when it wasn't my responsibility to see that everyone was fed and dressed appropriately.

This really happened years ago when I was vaulted from daughter to decision maker after my father had a life altering car accident. In the emergency room the questions came at me so rapidly that I didn't have time to think, and the only answer was please, please do everything you can. And they did. Our roles changed that day, but it happened so quickly and without warning I didn't really understand.

"It's like I'm the kid again, my mother and grandmother do all the cooking", explained a mom friend, right before Thanksgiving. That idea is now so far away that I cannot imagine what it might feel like to wake up on Thanksgiving day with nothing to do but watch parades and arrive at dinner with only a bottle of wine.

I'm the oldest in every possible way: I direct, I coordinate, I make decisions. I'm happier in charge and feel lost without direction. But every once in a while, just for fun, I'd like someone else to pick the restaurant.

Last week, while reading a book to the second grade about family, one of the boys in class raised his hand, "Are your parents still alive Mrs. Lang? Because if your parents are still alive then you still get to be a kid."

Oh if only that were true.

Knobby Knees? Look At These.

My knees are fat. Even when I'm not they are. It's how they're built, I have never had knobby knees, I never will.

On our first date, which was not actually called a date then because we worked together (but is now because we are married), Jack and I went to a Cubs/Royals game in Kansas City. It was a Sunday in late June, sunny and well over 90 degrees. It was the perfect opportunity to sweat away any chance at a future relationship.

Uncle Kenny, my long time best friend and simply wonderful person, was there when I came downstairs, dressed for my non date in khaki shorts and a sleeveless navy polo shirt.

"My knees are fat. He is going to see my fat knees."

He laughed. He did not tell me that my knees were not fat because we both knew that was not true. He said this, "if he doesn't like you because you have fat knees then he wasn't worth liking at all".

And I went off to a baseball game with a guy that I thought I might like knowing that a guy I loved appreciated me for who I was, not who I thought I should be. He still does.

Every girl should be so lucky.

 Not a bad outcome for a Cubs loss on a very hot day in June, so many years ago.
 

Once a School Nerd...

"Big plans for the weekend?"
"Um, yep, school auction", as I signed the sales slip at the local book shop.
The sales clerk smushed her twenty something face into a look of grim pain, "yea yuck, good luck".

Nodding, I returned the quirky smile, wished her a great weekend, and headed out.

Because you never really stray too far from who you really are, it seems I enjoy school now as much now as I did then. Like staying after in high school to help build sets for the school play, I happily volunteer to help with the book fair, and look forward to the school auction each year. In my old age I have realized that it was never as much about the academics as it was, and is, about the social circle, and being with people I enjoy.

Jack and I are lucky. In Chicago you don't just walk down the street to your neighborhood school; there are applications and lotteries and tests for kindergarten, and our daughters, after a mad scramble, found seats in an amazing school, not too far from where we live. They are learning and growing and happy, and we, in their school, have found a truly wonderful circle of friends, as well as a network of teachers and staff who we not only enjoy but trust, every day, with our two very favorite things on earth. To be forced into an evening of wild abandonment with these people is not too much to ask.

Back when I was happily building sets for Flowers for Algernon there were no school auctions. There was no fund raising; in picture perfect suburban Kansas City there was no need. Chicago schools, and Chicago students, are suffering and parents are being asked to make up the growing distance between what is needed and what is available.


Raise your paddle, support your school, and hopefully, enjoy yourself at the same time; once a school nerd, always a school nerd.

Tall Enough for the Zambezi Zinger: A Fourth Grade Writing Assignment

Racing out in front of the others I arrived triumphantly at the end of the line, a long winding snake of  a line which ended at the entrance to the roller coaster. Never before had I been on one, never before had I been old enough but now I was 10, now I could ride the Zambezi Zinger with my friends. It was all anyone in fourth grade could talk about, some of my friends had been on this thing more than once but now it was my turn; I could not wait to be twisted, spun and shaken into oblivion.

"Step up, back to the stand, right there against the umbrella please", the gatekeeper cried, the only thing standing between me and 180 seconds of unparalleled madness.

Josie, Mary and Jenny all eased through with barely a nod from the teenage sentry. I ducked by but he stopped me, "one minute there missy, back against the umbrella please, you must be 48 inches tall to ride the Zambezi!".

With all my might I eased up from my heels, camouflaging as best I could the obvious deficit between the top of my head and the top of my ticket to happiness.

"Hmmm, you don't seem to reach the top do you?"

A bit more of a push from the heel and I was almost there, "oh no, I'm tall enough, I'm 10. Today is my birthday".

He shook his head, "sorry kiddo, but for your safety you must be as tall as my umbrella, please step this way", and he opened the gate hidden behind him, the one used by people who were not brave enough to face the Zambezi head on, the coward gate. My friends stepped into the car and lowered the bar, I stepped out, finding my 6'3" father waiting for me. He was worried that I wouldn't pass the height requirement and offered to walk me over to the Funcular, the one loop roller coaster sized just for children.

Turns out I hated roller coasters, still do.

Mary and Kate's language arts writing assignment this week was to write a short essay about a birthday celebration, including descriptive language and conflict. This is my take on fourth grade, with a nod to my daughter who is struggling this year with being the shortest one in her class.

Helping Hands

Last December, as I tried to explain one more senseless tragedy to my children, I turned to the good Mr. Rogers and encouraged my girls to look for the helpers. They were there, those that run to help in an otherwise terrible situation. They are always there, if you look.

Wallowing in the self pity that comes with a Thanksgiving spent, not full of glorious friends and food, but as a precursor to a weekend full of struggle, I easily forgot that there are helpers in every situation, the kindness is not reserved for catastrophic events. And while moving my mother from a home she has known for over 20 years to a small senior living apartment might not be a worldwide tragedy, for us it was stressful, for her painfully unpleasant. The actual work compounded by her frustration, and, for those of us moving her, the exhaustion, mental and physical, of dealing with logistics, anger and limited time.

There they were, the helpers: the uncles who swooped in and took Mary and Kate away from the madness, who gave them sanity and bowling when the level of crazy elevated to one step beyond tolerable; and the girls, who made every effort to welcome Grandmommy to her new home, bringing nine year old happiness to a bleak situation, along with a tiny Christmas tree for her new apartment. But there was more, plans hatched in another room while the adults debated the proper placement of living room furniture, notes written by Kate, ten altogether, and distributed by Mary into the mailboxes of new neighbors, all without my knowing, but all to the delight of my worn soul.

There they were, helping Mom, helping me; I am very thankful, and blessed that they are mine.What a wonderful Thanksgiving.

Take Me Out to the Amusement Park

My love of baseball was cultivated in a time when baseball was the star of the game. I am so old that my first games were at  Municipal Stadium in Kansas City which was torn down so long ago that a community garden now grows on the site. I am so old, in fact, that my clearest memories of being there are of falling in the gravel parking lot while racing inside, leaving several nice scars on each knee. Municipal Stadium was so old that it was once the home of the KC Monarchs, the Negro League team, and the stadium so bare that there was little else to do but watch the game. It was here I chose Lou Piniella as my favorite player and learned what the numbers 1 through 9 signified. It was here that I developed a passion for a summer day at the ballpark, warm and sticky, with 9 innings and a blank scorecard in front of me, in anxious anticipation for the 7th inning stretch. It was here I sat, between my father and grandfather, topped with a Royal Blue ball cap, Cracker Jack in hand, ideally happy for many a summer day.

Two years ago we took the girls to a game at Kaufman Stadium, the current home of the Royals, which replaced my old Municipal Stadium years ago. It's a beautiful stadium which recently went through a $250 million dollar renovation. Somewhere during the process I think they forgot about baseball, or at least baseball as related to children. In the outfield area you can now find a batting cage, a playground, a carousel, and miniature golf. I don't know but I suspect you might also find a nap room, pony rides, a magician and a place to get your oil changed. There is a "child friendly" food area; as the mother of two children I am wildly curious to know exactly what ballpark food falls outside the definition of child friendly. Wasn't ballpark food created with the child like idea that food should be bad for you and served utensil free, preferably on a stick? It seems that the Royals succumbed to the relatively new notion that children cannot be happy unless they are entertained at every possible level and that a good day out with your family is simply not enough. It's still a beautiful stadium but I worry that this kind of day at the amusement park baseball is doing little to cultivate baseball fans; when the Royals are down 7-2 in the fifth, is that really the time to get in a round of mini-golf?

The beautiful old gal down the street is soon to be having some work done, and it's time.The Cubs recently announced plans to renovate Wrigley, which, given the netting that hangs above, protecting my head from falling concrete, seems reasonable. Included into the agreement, a jumbo screen, twice the size of the beautiful old scoreboard, to be placed in left field, next to the existing one. Doesn't that seem a bit like marrying your young secretary but keeping your middle aged wife around to do the laundry? Is anyone going to wait in anticipation for the scoreboard guy to manually change the numbers when the jumbo screen will have that information up immediately, as well as instant replay, advertisements, wedding proposals and various games intended to embarrass and entertain fans in those 7 second increments, previously so painfully boring, between strike out and new batter.

Thankfully, should you not be entertained by watching two strangers kiss on the 5,000 square foot video screen, you can now spend your baseball watching time in a two story Captain Morgan Club, doubling the size of the previous eyesore on the front of the stadium. Perhaps in making it two stories they might diminish, by perspective, that ridiculous pirate that now stands near the Addison and Sheffield entrance.

The 21 year old quasi Cubs fans are covered, they can spend their nine innings swilling run in the shadow of a pirate, but what about those precious children who come to the ballpark; what are they to do for nine long innings? Surely we cannot have them sitting in their seats with nothing to do but watch baseball for three hours? Having thought of everything, the Cubs have included a kids play zone on the west side of the park, confirming my suspicions that the Cubs now agree, baseball is simply not enough.

Municipal Stadium image courtesy of ballparks.phanfare.com. 
Image of Kate courtesy of me.

Home, Where I Want To Be

After almost eight hours of driving, through Missouri and Illinois, eight hours of distance from a place that I had once called home, the Chicago skyline appeared on the horizon.

"First one to see the Sears Tower gets a kiss from Mom!", and the girls laughed, being similarly motivated to orient themselves one week earlier by spying Royals Stadium on the outskirts of Kansas City.

The music that had been looping through the CD player for hours was now suddenly very clear, the voices from the back seat singing along with Lucy Kaplansky,  "this is home, where I want to be" and I realized; somewhere several hours back we started driving towards, rather than away from, home.

Welcome home Chicago.

Afternoon Delight

The woman in the car next to me was eating an ice cream cone. It was late in the day, a cool February Tuesday, and the woman, who looked to be about my age, was driving around enjoying an ice cream cone.

When I was young, and begged my dad to ride bikes with me to Topsy's Ice Cream, I knew that when I grew up and could do as I pleased, I would ride my bike to Topsy's every day. Sometimes I would get two scoops, most of the time I would get two scoops, and I would always, no exceptions, get my ice cream in a cone.

As it turns out, I never ride my bike to Topsy's. But it seems to me that every once in a while you should have ice cream in the middle of the day, for no reason other than you can, even if it's a snowy cold day when you should be at home eating soup. Being a parent has made me far more practical than I ever thought possible, and too often I say things like, "no, dinner is in an hour" or "walk around the puddles please".

It's nice to be reminded how much I loved a scoop of strawberry in a cone and just how good ice cream tastes in the middle of the day, before dinner, when there's no reason to be there, and no real reason not to be.

That's No Casper

My mother, an imaginative sort who loves to sew, created wildly elaborate Halloween costumes every year of my childhood, nothing was ever simple. One year I asked to be a ghost. A ghost like Charlie Brown was a ghost, a ghost like my best friend Stephanie was going to be; I envied, like mad, the Casper outfit her mother bought at the Katz drugstore. I loved the smiley Casper face, the crispy plastic mask and the 100% polyester sheath that tied in the back, that is what I wanted. My mother heard ghost and dashed off to buy felt, plenty of white felt. She worked for days, sewing like mad, whipping up what I was assured would be the most amazing ghost costume Kansas City had ever seen.

On Halloween morning I dressed for school and my mother brougth forth The Costume. She slipped it over my head, my small eyes peeking out from the two round holes she created in the front. She and my father stepped back, looked at me, and looked at each other. My father said, "she can't go to school like that". My mother threw her head back and laughed, "she's fine, you're so paranoid, really" and trotted off to sew something. I assumed they were discussing how well I could see from beneath my super ghost outfit.

That afternoon my father recieved a call from my school. My little elementary school in Prarie Village, Kansas, quite likely the most homogeneous and lilly white suburb in all of the country, was calling to confirm that I was simply a ghost and there were no racial undertones to my costume as that simply would not be tolerated.

The Costume was a floor length white column with a very tall and pointy top.

The next year we bought a really horrible Queen outfit at the drugstore. I hated the plastic mask, the polyester sheath and the fact that there were 6 other Queens in my class. Mom was back at the machine the following year, thankfully, although I was never again a ghost.

Happy Halloween!

Re-posted from Halloween, 2008

Night Moves

Occasionally running late, missing the train and being forced to drive downtown to a meeting has advantages, not fully realized until the warm night follows you home, windows open, along Lake Shore Drive.

In a city where there are very few places to drive as fast and for as long as you want, like those available to a suburban Kansas City teenager, finding yourself alone in a car on a warm night with an open stretch of road is quite a treat. And given that I rarely drive, much less by myself and at night, having this fun sneak up on me was invigorating, especially given my basic disdain for driving in general.

But there I was, top down on my white bug, racing home along Mission Road, Kathy in the seat next to me, "Don't Stop Believing" blasting from my old AM/FM dashboard radio. With parents who looked the other way with regard to curfews, we were often the last ones home, watching all our friends scurry like late night bugs to arrive before the designated bewitching hour. "Paradise By The Dashboard Lights" took me to the top of Metcalf, looking at the queen in the lights from Brad's Jeep, the open car allowing too much wind to hear or think as we raced down into the suburban sprawl of lights before us. No finer choice for spying on boys from other schools than "Every Breath You Take", from the cassette deck in Becca's mother's car, at a time when neither one of us actually knew how to drive.

For the very short drive home, my car was full, not with children and husbands and responsibilities, but with Deb, Laura, Peter, Kathy, and Susie, bad eighties music and wonderful memories. That kind of fun simply cannot be found on a bus.

Goodnight Mogul.

A Late Announcement

Allyson, a daughter of Sharon of Kansas City, and the now late William, was married ten years ago today to Jack, a son of Dave and Mary of Lincoln, Nebraska. Reverend Patrick Sean Liam Flannagan, a Roman Catholic priest with an over the top Irish name, performed the St. Patrick's day nuptials at St. Clement Catholic Church in Chicago. The bride, who is known as Ally, is also the stepdaughter of Jackie and the also late Jack. The bride does not have great luck with regard to keeping wonderful fathers living.

Allyson, who will stick with the name she has been using for too long to consider changing, was, until ten years ago, a trust officer with UMB Bank in Kansas City, responsible for taking care of truly lovely old people who entrusted their financial concerns to a woman who had difficulty passing Algebra 101. The groom, who was also, and still is, a banker, is far more skilled in mathematical logic and will, forever, be responsible for balancing the family checkbook.

The bride's father worked in the soft drink industry, specializing in packaging products, at a company bearing his family name. Years of store deliveries to the bride's childhood home required Ms. Ally to kick a very long standing addiction to Tab when the soda became difficult to find on store shelves. The groom is still happily attached to his daily Coca Cola but finds that he prefers the version produced in Mexico, available at Hispanic markets all over Chicago. The bride now abstains from all soft drinks, as do their children. The bride's mother has retired from a life of random volunteer work and car pooling, and now spends her days inside collecting Ironstone, newspapers and soy sauce.

The groom's father is a meat inspector with the USDA, supervising a pork production plant in Nebraska. That his son chose to marry a woman who does not eat meat has proved to be very difficult. Convinced that she has just not yet had a good steak he has offered repeatedly to sign up the bride for the Omaha Steaks Meat of the Month Club. The bride is horrified but has graciously declined this kind offer. The groom's mother is a nurse who is thankful she no longer has to beg for grandchildren.

The couple met in June of 1996, at work, where Ms. Ally initially thought that Mr. Jack looked like a secret service agent who appeared to be far too stiff and boring to ever go for ice cream after work. That she does not actually like ice cream was not considered relevant. The groom immediately found the bride to be witting and charming, with dazzling blue eyes, cascading chestnut hair and a keen sense of style. They first had lunch together on the way to visit a mutual client. The groom ordered a very messy sandwich; his great concern about spilling on his suit did little to dispel the earlier notion that he was stuffy. When he appeared a few weeks later in the bride's next door office, long after the bank closed, to regale her with tales of a last minute post happy hour trip to New Orleans she realized that he might not be as dull as once she thought.

The couple, both avid baseball fans, went on their first outing, not called a date, to watch the Kansas City Royals host the Chicago Cubs. "I knew then that I wanted to marry someone just like Jack" Ms. Ally said, "but I had no idea that I would actually end up marrying him". The groom remembers that day as the hottest he has ever been in his entire life and spent several innings completely focused on the child directly in front of them, wondering if he was going to puke the chocolate malt he had just inhaled in the 95 degree heat. This was before the groom became painfully aware of his future wife's all compelling fear of vomit. "It was miserable, horribly hot, and she insisted on driving in her new Jeep. There was no top and no air conditioning, it was painful. I did enjoy the game though, Royals won", said Mr. Jack.

To the surprise of many the couple actually married and have stayed happily in that fashion for ten years. The groom, it turns out, does like ice cream and enjoys going out for a scoop or two of Chocolate Malt Supreme on any given day. The bride still does not like ice cream, but is always happy to go along.