Oh, Randolph Mantooth… Where are You?!

     So most everybody that reads this blog knows that I have had quite the adventure these past six weeks with a suspected tendon tear, discovery of a benign bone tumor,  a blood clot that required a four day hospital stay, my body fighting the anti-coagulant,  and ongoing physical therapy.  It has been a crazy ride, but God has been so sweet to us through all of it, even down to allowing my family to enjoy some fabulous down time together while I have recuperated at home.  One of our favorite things to do together is gather around the television and watch TV shows from when Steve and I were kids, thanks to Netflix.  One of the shows that we have introduced the kids to is Emergency! It first aired in 1972 starring Randolph Mantooth and Kevin Tighe.  Steve and I both grew up watching the show and get all reminiscent from the moment we hear the iconic emergency notification in the opening sequence.  Let me tell ya… they really don’t make shows like that anymore.  No siree. 

     For those not familiar with Station 51 and Rampart General, let me fill you in:  Station 51 is the firehouse that cutie pie paramedics John Gage (Mantooth) and Roy Desoto (Tighe) are assigned to.  They, along with the other firemen respond to 911 calls in and around the Los Angeles area.  Just about every call demands a daring, nail biting rescue.  Once John and Roy assess the victims, they make a call into Rampart General using what only can be described as a prehistoric precursor to a cell phone. (If you only watch for that, you will be highly entertained!) Once Rampart receives the call, one of the medical staff quickly answers.  It is there that Dr. Kelly Brackett, more often than not, wisely advises John and Roy what to do next.  (BTW, he is also a cutie with his 1970’s mutton chops and rocks a very wide necktie.) Usually they are instructed to transport the patient to Rampart where they are looked after by the capable staff that includes Dr. Brackett, Dr. Joe Early and Dixie McCall, R.N.  The characters are based on the real life doctors and medical staff that trained these first responders making paramedic a household word.

     As fun and exciting as it is to watch Emergency!, it would never last in today’s market.  That’s because there isn’t enough dirt to dish on the characters. No affairs, no outing of lifestyles, no voting off the island.  Just good old adventure.  I am not sure what we will find to watch next after we finish the 100 episodes of Emergency!   Who knows, maybe we will walk on the wild side and witness Half-Pint tell Nellie Olsen off over in Walnut Grove.  Maybe.  Or maybe we will just sit back and re-watch Gage and Desoto pluck another victim from one disaster or another, all the while wishing that life really did come with a Station 51.

Running Naked… Trust me; it’s NOT what you think!

About two years ago I lost my mind and decided to start running… for FUN! Apparently the mind loss is long term, because I have managed to keep up the insanity and even enter a handful of local races. I have done the race thing enough times now that I have a rigid ritual in place prior to every event. I won’t pain you with the OCD details, but one of the first things I do is make sure my iPod is fully charged and ready to go. Running is fun, to an extent, but there are times when it is just you and the sound of your own gasping breath. That’s when DJ Einstein (Google him) and Justin Timberlake (told ya I was insane) swoop in and save the day. I pretty much have my playlist set to fit the hills and valleys of my running route. I am most definitely a creature of habit and music helps feed that habit.
That is why I was so disappointed to read that a race I was interested in entering was banning the use of any type of music devices. The organizers cited safety concerns and after viewing the course, I certainly saw their reasoning. With winding country roads populated by drivers not accustomed to seeing animals of the two legged variety with numbers pinned to their fronts sharing the road, this truly was a wise decision on the their part. I just couldn’t wrap my head around how I was going to participate in a race without anything but the thud of running shoes slapping the pavement to keep me company. I decided that the race just wasn’t for me.
I moved on to the next event that embraced earbuds and that was that. Kind of. For some reason, I kept thinking about running without music. I did a little research on it and lo and behold, found quite a few articles bestowing the virtues of “running naked”. (Let me stop right here and clarify I am not talking about the Naked Mile kind of running!) Not only did these folks advocate running without music, but they eschewed watches and any other running gadgets as well, claiming that being free to run without the time constraints and just listening to what’s going on around you is what running is all about. Yay for them. They probably grow their own sprouts and make their own yogurt, too. While I have no plans to take their running advice to heart, it did make me think about how the running naked theory applies to another area of my life. How many times in my daily spiritual walk do I become a creature of habit going through the motions? Do I make it a habit to run naked spiritually and actively listen to God speak to me? Or am I too busy calculating the next hill and relying on my own devices to see me through? How often do I really embrace Psalm 46:10 “Be still and know I am God.”? While I really don’t see myself giving up running with music or my trusty runner’s watch for that matter, I am going to challenge myself to be more open to running naked in 2012 when it comes to my quiet time. And sorry Steve, but that won’t have any impact on the clothing budget either.

There's Something in the Water

Andy got back from the youth mission week full of exciting news. The group had helped a family move, got the church food pantry set up in a new location and witnessed to the homeless in downtown Atlanta. Andy was telling us about everything when his face and tone grew very serious. Steve and I braced ourselves for what might be coming next. Very quietly Andy said, “Mom, Dad, I have seen the future… of drink machines!” Surprised at this revelation, but strangely moved to delve deeper into this change of topic in conversation, we discovered that there is a new kind of soft drink machine that will allow you to not only chose your poison at the touch of a button, but allows you to add cherry, vanilla, raspberry, grape, lemon, orange and lime to your concoction. Our son and the rest of the youth group had encountered this wonderful little invention on a dinner break in Atlanta.
Since Andy was fresh off a mission trip and in the I-want- to–serve- others- always -and -forever mode, I decided to take advantage of it and have him help me with some chores I had left to do at school. He agreed to accompany me and work at getting my room ready. I agreed to treat him to lunch at Zaxby’s, which we discovered had just installed one of these heavenly little drink machines Andy was so taken with. That afternoon, Andy and I ran into a co-worker of mine. As we chatted about school and how our rooms were coming along, she asked Andy how I had bribed him to help me. Figuring he would say he did it for lunch and a date with a futuristic soda fountain, I was stunned when he simply shrugged and said, “Na, I just got to spend time with my mom. That was pretty cool.” Wow! Either mission week had a larger impact than I thought, or there is magic in that Coke machine! Until I can figure it out, I think I will take the boy back out to lunch… at Zaxby’s.

Rails and Tales

Last week, Steve and I, along with two good friends, packed up the kids and boarded an Amtrak train headed for New Orleans. Since it had been forever and a day since Steve and I had traveled by train, we weren’t quite sure what to expect, but figured that reaching our destination would be half the fun. Let me tell ya, within five minutes of entering the train station, we got ourselves an upgrade on that fun ticket and not once during the entire seven hour trip to New Orleans did we hear a child ask, “Are we there yet?”.
The train was running an hour behind schedule, so that gave our little party of six more than enough time to sit in the tiny shoebox of a station and assess the personalities that would be joining us on the journey. It was immediately apparent that we had two large groups that would be making the trip to The Big Easy with us. One group of 30 or so was headed to a family reunion. Grandmamma, great grandmamma, and an assortment of aunts, uncles and cousins were sprinkled across the small waiting area. I liked this group. They laughed, they hugged, they set up a fabulous picnic complete with fried chicken right there on the brown naugahyde seats in the waiting room. The second group was comprised mostly of middle aged women headed to their 30th high school reunion. Since the family reunion group had captured my attention and caused me to crave some greasy fried goodness, I didn’t take much notice of this second group. After all, they seemed pretty tame…HA! We just hadn’t met “Juiced up Joyce” yet.
Once on board the train, it didn’t take long to realize that this high school reunion group had a ring leader: Joyce. She laughed loudly, drank loudly and much to my delight, told juicy, gossipy stories even louder. That is how I became acquainted with the sad tale of an ugly baby Hermanie Grace. The following is an excerpt of their hard-not-to-be-overheard conversation:
Joyce: (eating pineapple chunks that she has been soaking in overpriced vodka purchased from the lounge car) Catherine, did you hear what that Georgina child named her baby?
Catherine: (between bites of chicken she has brought on board with her) No, Joyce… didn’t know she had had that baby.
Joyce: Well, she did and that mama named her baby Hermanie Grace.
Catherine: That’s a pretty name.
Joyce: No it ain’t. Now what that is is a tribute. Givin’ that baby an ugly name for an ugly daddy.
Catherine: Is she a pretty baby?
Joyce: Lord no, Catherine! With Herman as her daddy?! What do you think? That baby is named Hermanie Grace so people will know why she looks that way… bless her heart and Herman’s.
I have no idea if this story is true or not, but if I EVER meet someone named Hermanie Grace, I will more than likely wet my pants.
Our journey continued and by the time we had reached Picayune, Mississippi, we had made friends with Joyce and company, knew all about their weekend plans (liquid refreshments and visiting the casino were high on their agenda), made the acquaintance of three guys sitting behind us (who I highly suspect did not have meeting women anywhere on their agenda), and had been taken on a tour of a roomette (which I kid you not included a most lively demonstration of how the bed came out of the ceiling by one very animated, very Bea Arthur adoring, steward named Kyle). With bellies full of microwaved cheeseburgers purchased from the diner car and hearts filled with delight at the interesting and unique people we had met on this leg of the journey, we settled back in our seats and witnessed one of the most glorious sunsets we had ever seen as our train chugged over Lake Ponchartrain. Yep, ridin’ the rails beats a game of license tag Bingo any day in my book…
There is more to this story… I mean we had to get home after all onboard yet another train. But that tale, which involves legs being left in luggage, will have to wait for another day.

**The names have been changed to protect the innocent, guilty, and obnoxious.

Drivin’ and Cryin’

So Andy got his Learner’s Permit this past week. We have heard friends lament about their children getting behind the wheels of their cars, but it never occurred to us just what a big milestone ( or a stronger argument for OTC Xanax) this really is until we found ourselves calling shotgun next to the person who refers to us as Mom and Dad.
The first driving lesson was a family event complete with video footage thanks to a bored younger sister. Steve, who I might add did a brief stint as a driver’s ed teacher, took Andy for a spin around the church parking lot. I was buckled in the backseat, resigned to keep my mouth shut. HA! That didn’t exactly work for me. Andy couldn’t even put the car into gear before I started baptizing him with driver’s wisdom. Suddenly I felt compelled to warn him of every real or imagined threat he might ever encounter on the roads of America. I also felt the need to confess every driving sin I have ever committed. (I blame that part on the setting though.) And for some absurd reason, I felt the need to parrot Steve’s instructions with the addition of the word “Gentle” tacked on to every directive.
Steve: Andy, take a right turn up ahead.
Me: Andy, take a GENTLE right turn up ahead!
Steve: Stop to the left of the light pole.
Me: Make a GENTLE stop to the left of the light pole!
He did a great job and managed to take four laps around the parking lot without any insurance claims being made. Nobody jumped from the car to kiss the solid ground beneath them and everyone was still speaking to each other.
The second driving lesson went even better. After watching Amelia’s film footage of the first lesson, I decided to mend my ways and just zip my lips and let Andy drive. And you know what? He did just fine.

Higher Education

Wow! It’s been a long time since the Kissin’ Couple has had an update! I would love to tell you it’s because Steve and I have been on a fantastic, three-month cruise, touring the world, soaking up the traditions of some exotic culture. Not quite. Well, except for the culture part. Steve and I have enrolled ourselves in “The Lifestyle of the High School Student 101” and “How to Speak Conversational English with Your Teenager.” The classes are being taught by our son. It has been enlightening, let me tell ya. Naturally, we have anticipated these courses since we have been on the waiting list for 15 years. Being the smarty pants that we are, we felt that we were more than ready for this. I mean we have DEGREES from actual universities that state in a very fancy font that we are qualified to teach. This is just a simple little continuing education class, right?! WRONG! We have had awesome advisors who have told us that these classes are lengthy and tough, but worth it in the end. The professor is hard. I am fairly certain that he thinks that we qualify for Special Ed. We have been told numerous times that we don’t know anything. Steve and I have persevered, though. We seek counseling from a very wise Heavenly Father and consult our Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth textbook on a continual basis. Steve and I are in it for the long haul. We have no choice. Andy brought in a guest lecturer earlier this week: his pre-teen sister. From that experience, I can only surmise that she teaches the graduate level courses.

Big Girl Woes

So this week has pretty much been a rotten week. It has been filled with tension and conflict. Feelings have been squashed, lines have been drawn in the linoleum, and eyes have been set to glare mode. Not a beautiful day in the neighborhood to say the least. And I have hated every minute of it. Go ahead, ask Steve. He will tell you that I really do detest conflict. I try and avoid it at all costs. But this week was different. Although the tensions and conflicts were not involving me directly, I had to step in and complete two tasks that required putting on the proverbial big girl panties. And you know what comes with big girl panties? A big girl wedgie. I hate that uncomfortable feeling of awkwardness that follows asserting yourself in unpleasant situations.
Sigh….. What a week! I would like to tell you that the whole time I asked myself, "What would Jesus do?" Instead I found myself asking what my grandmother would do. She died 30 years ago this week. I miss her. I remember her being wonderfully patient and kind towards others. But at the same time, I also remember getting a stinger of a reminder on the backside to never sass and never, ever under any circumstances turn on the oven to make Shrinky Dinks without her permission. A wonderfully kind woman, my grandmother, but I really don't think that shrinking violet would describe her. (She once painted a gigantic smiley face on the outside of her garage door!) And I don't think she would have been too happy with me had I just kept my mouth shut and let things slide. A big girl’s gotta to do what a big girl’s gotta do and that means standing up for what is right… even if you just want to sit right back down, hide your face, change your name to Blanche Mushrush and move to Coeur d'Alene, Idaho.
I am happy to report that I made it through this current drama with my face uncovered, my name unchanged and current residence still intact. Have I learned something about myself this week? You bet. I’ve learned that next time I’m going straight for the big guns… the Granny Panties.