Return to Bullethead High

My high school alma mater celebrated its 50th anniversary with an open house last week.

And while, yes, my high school experience was less than stellar, some weird nostalgia prompted me to attend the festivities.

Upon our arrival, we were afforded the opportunity to enjoy the Normandy High School Marching Band. The sousaphone players were marching about in the parking lot, doing what Mr. Ginley insisted was the "Script Normandy." When they played the school song and I didn't know the words, I got the "tsk tsk" from Mr. who, of course, can sing his own.

Inside, I signed my name, although I didn't write my name on an I.D. tag, confident in the knowledge no one would remember me anyhow.

In the cafeteria, we were served cake and purchased "bites" prepared by the culinary students. All was tasty.

Then we wandered the halls, Mr. Ginley keeping up a running stream of questions.

"Where was your locker?" (We got a different one each year, I don't remember where any of them were.)

"What did you see in the auditorium?" (Assemblies and school plays and such.)

"Where is the print shop where you worked?" (It's not there anymore, it was in the basement with the woodworking and other vocational shops.)

"Which classrooms were you in?" (No idea.)

And so on.

He snapped many photos while we roamed the three floors of classrooms in the round. And he took pictures of my sisters in their respective yearbooks. (My brothers all graduated from Parma High.)

I bought the official 50th Anniversary tee shirt as a souvenir. It features both the original mascot and the updated version. (Both versions of which my brother-in-law refers to affectionately as "the bullethead.")

Nothing felt familiar. No ghosts lingered in the classrooms. No memories came flooding back. It was just the place where I spent three of my formative years, trying to get by so I could get to real life.

If I'd known then...I might not have been in such a hurry. 

Take Me Back to Old Wapakoneta

My grandma lived in a trailer park in Wapakoneta, Ohio.

Mom's back. Grandma's talking.

Not her whole life, mind you, just the last 25 years or so.

By that time, I was in junior high school, so it was just my parents and the three youngest siblings who did the regular visits.

I'm not sure why this came to mind this morning, except it's Saturday morning, and our treks almost always took place this time of the week. Of course, we'd be well on our way if that were the case, because my dad insisted we leave at 6:00 a.m. Sharp. No lollygagging allowed.

Denise and I would put the seat down in the back of Old Blue, the '66 Chevy Impala station wagon that served as our chariot to Wapakoneta. (Or "Wapak," as the locals call it.)  Since we couldn't read (chronic car sickness), we would listen to our transistor radios or hum tunes to one another and play "Name that Tune."

Paul had the middle seat to himself. (He didn't have to sit on the hump, like I did when all six sibs rode the rails.)

Once we arrived, my parents would have a cup of java with grandma, while Paul and I headed out to the "lake" (pond) that was there for the enjoyment of the entire trailer park.

A baby fish for my baby brother.

Later, my parents would tackle the list of  to-do's Grandma had amassed for them since our last visit.

And in the evening, we would sit around the kitchen table and play "Kings," a card game I've never encountered anywhere else. In the background, Grandma would have the TV on, and we'd listen to Pop Goes the Country and Hee Haw. (I've only recently acquired a taste for some country music.)

Wapakoneta is home to the Neil Armstrong Space Museum. I used to ask Grandma if she changed Neil Armstrong's diapers when he was a baby. (Cue eyeroll and exasperated, "No.")

Or I'd ask her if she was going to marry her boyfriend. ("Now why would I take on another man at my age? I had a lot of good years with your grandpa before he had his stroke, but I don't want to be nursing some old man at this stage of my life.")

As I grew into a surly teenager, I began wishing for the day when I'd be old enough to stay home. Wapakoneta was bo-ring. Nothing exciting to do. All those hours driving in the car.

Teenagers are assholes. I know, I was one of them.

These days, I wish I could get in the Wayback Machine and play Kings at Grandma's kitchen table.

I wouldn't even mind listening to the Grand Ole Opry.

Ducks eying the "lake"

Eye, Carumba!

"You'll be the first among your friends to have cataracts," my ophthalmologist told me several years ago.

Diane: OMG, looks like a tea strainer!

Of all the firsts I had envisioned in my life, this was not the one I'd aspired to.

During each subsequent annual appointment, I was tested to see if my cataracts were ripe for harvesting. Last month, I was told surgery was in my very near future.

And so it was that Tuesday morning I was lying in a hospital bed hooked up to an IV, blood pressure monitor and heart monitor, waiting my turn in the conga line for cataract surgery. Lots of drops were placed in my eye, a strap attached to something that looked like a ping-pong ball was placed over my eye and the nurse and doctor both put magic marker dots on my forehead to make sure they operated on the correct peeper.

As I lay there, mildly terrified and thinking worst case scenario (placating myself by musing Peter Falk and Sammy Davis, Jr. each did okay with one eye), I listened to conversations taking place in the beds to the left and right of me. After 45 minutes of waiting, I felt I knew my fellow soon-to-be-cataract-less travelers.

At one point, I panicked a little because it occurred to me that, in spite of a visit from the anesthesiologist, I didn't feel doped up. The nurse assured me I was fine.

Then it was my turn to be wheeled into the operating room.

Prior to this, I'd asked around for reassurance. Almost all of the stories had positive outcomes. My brother-in-law said he watched YouTube videos to understand what the surgery entailed, but when I pulled up the first one and there was a picture of a long needle and an eyeball, I decided ignorance was bliss after all.

As it turned out, this was the right way to go.

The surgery lasted about 10 minutes. I was afraid I'd be able to see the doctor working on my eye, but all I saw was a bunch of flashing colored lights. Then he said I was done, and off I went to the recovery room, where they put me in a chair and offered me graham crackers and a beverage.

Mr. Ginley joined me there. He'd already spoken to the doctor, who said it went very well with minimal anesthesia. So I was able to go home in short order.

The following day, I went to the doctor's office so they could make sure everything was healing okay. I got the all-clear indication, and my sight was good in that eye. Then we went over to the optician, who popped the right lens out of my glasses.

Whoa.

There was two of everything.

"It will take your brain awhile to adjust," I was told. And so it was.

The next day, there was only one and one half of everything, and by Friday, we were back to one.

Because I wasn't confident of taking to the road, Mr. Ginley drove me to work and picked me up both Thursday and Friday. (Have I mentioned how wonderful he's been through all of this?)

Today, I hit the road with Mr. Ginley in the navigator's seat, just to make sure I was ready for prime time. I did fine.

Assuming my next follow-up goes well, I'll be back in the operating room for eye #2 the week after next.

The eye patch will be with me for awhile, I guess. (I have to wear it at night and when I shower.) And Mr. Ginley will continue to feed the cat and clean out the cat litter. (I'm supposed to minimize bending over and carrying anything over 15 pounds. Maggie is very confused about the change in routine.)

I will be very glad when I have two good eyes, working together again. And the doctor assures me that cataracts are a one-time thing, so I won't have to deal with this in my dotage.

Also, I'll be able to see to drive at night again.

All good stuff.  Please remind me of this when the bills start to come in!

It's Your Day, Ladies!

I knew yesterday was International Women's Day by the emails I received.

My favorite had a subject line that proclaimed, "It's Your Day Ladies!" And included a free shipping offer.

And, there we have it. IWD (not to be confused with IUD) officially became a Hallmark Holiday. Complete with gifting opportunities and lots of  "gee, look, women have done lots of neat stuff" messages.

My feelings are mixed. On the one hand, it's nice that the world acknowledges the achievements of my gender. On the other, there's a bit of me screaming inside, "We're half the population, you stupid twits!  We shouldn't have to be granted a day to celebrate our accomplishments."

And yet...at least there is some effort to give credit to women achievers.

The way we study history is so deep seated, the only way women get any props for what they've done is through parallel study. There's regular history and women's history. Consider how history is taught in school. It's chronicled by wars and leaders, with the spotlight squarely on the major players, who are predominantly men. If we shifted that spotlight ever so slightly, we could take in the women working behind the scenes, for better or worse, to influence the course of history. 

I'm not going to start listing the amazing women who've had to fight for a place at the table. I'm just going to give them a nod here.

And set the record straight on one point. The person who penned "A Diamond is Forever" was Frances Garety. Frances is a woman's name. Which the author of a book on how to advertise didn't realize when he used the "he" pronoun.

Oh well, at least Frances got credit for penning it, right? Even if she had to change genders to get it.

Meatless in the W.P.

Lent begins next Wednesday.

Back in the day when I was a practicing (but never perfected) Catholic, I would have been scrambling to decide what I wanted to give up. It was usually candy or soda or snacks.

When my son was little and we tried to explain the concept to him, he decided he was going to give up killing people for Lent, a reference to the soldier guys he played with.

Further explanation was required, and he amended his choice to giving up something that was an actual sacrifice on his part.

These days, I am no longer a participant in the Lenten traditions, but Mr. Ginley still refrains from eating meat on Ash Wednesday and Lenten Fridays. This admittedly puts a cramp in our Friday date nights, since he dislikes fish and seafood (except for tuna -- the salad, not the unprocessed fish). He will eat battered and fried fish, a la Arther Treacher's. Alas, there is only one left in this Berg, and it's not nearby. Which is decidedly good news for his arteries, but presents a challenge for yours truly.

What do you serve a meat eater during Lent?

Macaroni and cheese. Waffles or pancakes or french toast. Tuna noodle casserole. Cheese ravioli (no meat sauce). Salads (aka "Bunny Chow.") Peanut butter and jelly. Toasted cheese sandwiches.

All lively choices, indeed. All met with a resounding "meh."

Yes, Mr. Ginley, paczkis are meatless, but no, we're not having them for dinner.

Wake me up when Easter arrives!

P.S. For the the benefit of non-locals, "W.P." stands for "West Park," the original name of our neighborhood before it was gobbled up by the city, but which we natives still call it.