Christie Stories

Not Recommended for Adults

2010-03-04T16:17:00.000-08:00

Randy and I slept on the same mattress for 25 to 30 years. It started sagging, so I spent maybe 6 months researching new mattresses. Randy wanted to keep the old one, but reason eventually prevailed and Jackson drove across the state to get this perfect mattress, brought it home in December and Randy immediately said it was way too firm. Spent about 80 nights "breaking in" the rock hard bed and finally called the store to arrange a return.

Store acknowledges that the bed is way too firm because the foundation we bought is "not recommended for adults".

A Purdy Good Time with a Watermelon Smasher

2009-07-21T18:45:00.000-07:00

I climbed onto the back of Doyle's motorcycle and he drawled, "What do you want?" with his deep country Tennessee accent. It was a game we played, I'd name a fruit - say, a peach - and off we'd go. I was zooming down the dirt roads of McNairy County with a teenaged neighbor who was helping us build our house at the farm. "The farm" was 100 wooded acres in McNairy County, Tennessee - a few miles outside of Bethel Springs, close to Purdy, in the county run by legendary sheriff Buford Pusser, his life later featured in the movie "Walking Tall". It was in the late 60's and I was in early high school.

That day we found peaches, berries, and a watermelon. Doyle picked the watermelon from Major Hill's garden and I held onto it as we headed off to the swimming hole. When we got there, he hoisted it above his head and slammed it onto the ground - breaking it apart into self-serve portions. All the kids came out of the pond and grabbed a piece, lowering their faces into the watermelon and wolfing it down. Afterwards, we all jumped into the pond to wash off the watermelon mess.

Prior to that, I'd only approached watermelon sliced and served on a plate with a fork, and I'd done most of my swimming in what Doyle referred to as a "mortar-bottom" pool.

Thinking of you

2009-03-11T16:46:00.000-07:00

For the past few years, I have worked with a student who has been totally blind since birth. Recently he asked me what I think about when we're not together and I think of him.

Naturally, I think of how he looks, his bright and beautiful face and smile, his cautious gait pattern and short strides, the way he uses his cane, his brailler and notetaker. I think of how the other students treat him, how some stare at him in the cafeteria, how frequently I find him off on the sidelines while the sighted students are playing games or copying work from the overhead. I think of his quick mind and incredible memory, his tears of fear during a camp activity in which the students were expected to swing out holding a rope and drop into a cushioned landing pit. I think of how difficult it was for him to move from living in a trailer park on the outskirts of town to an inner city apartment. I think of his potential and all the challenges he faces. I think of the growing trust in our relationship that enables him to venture these questions about the sighted world and the sighted mind.

I struggle to answer his question.

So I turned it on him; I asked what he thinks of when he thinks of me.

He thinks of my voice and the stories I've told him. He thinks of my therapy bag and all the stuff I bring in the bag. He thinks of the way I laugh.

Why I Don't Like Field Trips

2009-03-04T19:04:00.000-08:00

8 things to consider before taking a class of students with self-regulation issues on a field trip to 6 Flags.

Raymond might have a tantrum and pull your knit top below your left breast (where it stays unbeknownst to you) while waiting in the line for the log ride.
Jason might snatch a man's wallet from his back pocket and toss all the money and cards in the air while waiting in the line for the log ride.
Jason might snatch a stranger girl's ice cream cone right out of her hand and start eating it while waiting in the line for the log ride.
Jose might pull out his peetoe and stick it into a drain hole in the bottom of a large trash can and pee - near the entrance to 6 Flags.
It might get so hot that Raymond becomes so thirsty and excited when he sees you balancing that cardboard tray of drinks that he leaps aloft and knocks the cardboard tray out of your hands spilling all the drinks into the gutter.
Two other classmates may lose control and join Raymond on their hands and knees to slurp up the icy drinks from the gutter.
You might lose Clinton.
Your teacher colleague may experience a medical situation and need to leave briefly to stabilize herself while waiting in the line for the log ride.

Jumbo Corn Burger

2009-02-18T22:50:00.000-08:00

OK - so the first meal I ever made after Randy and I got married almost 34 years ago was called "Jumbo Corn Burger". I got it out of a cookbook of sorts - something someone cut out of "Reader's Digest" and stapled together for me as a young bride. I think it was titled "50 Ways to Cook Hamburger Meat". Anyway I had very little cooking experience and didn't know one needed to drain grease prior to baking. So when "Jumbo Corn Burger" made it to the table and we made the initial slice, hot orange liquid shot across the table.

We ordered pizza.

Just found this recipe on cooks.com..

Jumbo Corn Burger

1 1/2 lbs. hamburger

2 eggs

1/2 can tomato sauce (reserve 1/2)

1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce

1/2 c. crackers, crumbled

1/4 c. green pepper, chopped

1/4 c. onion, chopped

1/2 tsp. salt

1/4 tsp. sage

Spread half mixture in pan, top with small can corn. Spread other half of mixture; top with reserved tomato sauce. Bake in 375 degree oven for 1 1/2 hours.

Randolph's Civil War Letters: The Corn Field

2009-02-11T17:49:00.000-08:00

Randolph Marshall, from Indiana, came to Franklin County, Tennessee during the Civil War in July of 1863. He very much admired the countryside. More than 100 years later, his descendants also admired the countryside and bought some land, built a home and a farm. They never knew that their ancestor had previously found this country and admired it deeply..

Tomorrow is the celebration of Lincoln's Birthday - his 200th birthday - and I spent some time this week reading Civil War letters written by my great-great grandfather, Randolph Marshall. Randolph served in the Union Army with the 22nd Indiana Volunteers. He served for over 3 years and wrote his wife 149 letters which my family kept. My Mom spent many years working with these letters and I now have a notebook with 319 typed pages of her transcriptions of these letters.

Randolph was an eloquent learned man, a lawyer and teacher who also served as the County Clerk of Brown County, Indiana, prior to volunteering to fight in the war. After the war, he served as the school superintendent.

During the war, he walked, rode horseback, or train with his company throughout Indiana, Missouri, Arkansas, Mississippi, Tennessee, Kentucky, Alabama, and Georgia. His letters reveal his character, his principled nature, his keen eye, and his desire to reassure his wife of his well-being. Though he details harrowing personal close calls in battle, the gore of war, and the grief of the loss of friends, comrades, and family, he also provides almost a travelogue description of the countryside as he travelled.

In July of 1863, his company arrived in Winchester, Tennessee, which he describes as follows:

"The Army is still resting here at and in the neighborhood of old Winchester. The longer we remain here the better I like the place - it is clean, nice and healthy - churches are numerous, society is improving and religious privileges accessible to all... The climate must certainly be fine - the soil is of that peculiar reddish cast which we have often seen in the upland regions of the South - it however seems fertile and productive. The grain of the wheat and rye which I have examined is of the best quality. Fruit is abundant and does well. The rich coats of grass, clover and other verdure indicate a good stock growing region..... This is a pretty Tennessee town - standing on a branch of Elk River in a beautiful, extensive and fertile valley, the Cumberland mountains rising in the distance, their blue summits being clearly visible about 8 miles in our advance..."

He describes bathing in the cold river and enjoying the abundance of fruits and vegetables, "Gardens containing onions, potatoes, peas, beans - thousands of acres of corn, wheat and oats... Our boys are well and buoyant in spirits. They are feasting on the fat of the land.."

Sorta makes you want to go there - huh? Well, funny, we went there last summer. My cousin lives there now, teaches school, and farms there. Randolph never returned as far as we know, but the irony of his descendants settling there is great. These are pictures we took last summer frolicking in their corn fields. The little boy is Whit, he's Randolph's great-great-great-great grandson. He's kicking up that red dirt and feasting on the magnificent Winchester corn that Randolph described 145 years ago. According to Google maps, it's 363 miles from Randolph's hometown in Indiana to Winchester, 6 hours by car.

Happy Lincoln Bicentennial Birthday!

The New Oint

2009-02-04T19:25:00.000-08:00

At age 2, Jackson loved diaper rash ointment..

Once he waddled out of the bathroom wearing just his t-shirt and started sobbing, "Mama, I don't like the new oint." There was obvious pain in the privates area. His tears and discomfort were rapidly escalating into full-blown agony! "What new oint?" I asked with rising panic while running into the bathroom to investigate. On the floor lay the evidence.. an open and used tube of Ben-Gay.

Thanks to Laura Grothe for suggesting this story.

Southern Roots

2009-01-28T09:21:00.000-08:00

In April of 1968, Dr. King was killed in Memphis. I was finishing 10th grade at Central High in Memphis, and Jack was preparing for highschool graduation. Both of our parents graduated from Central and at least one grandparent had. So, I guess you could say we had legacy - deep South, white, the 60's.. I remember the great bands and great parties of highschool. Desegregation of the schools had started when I was in elementary; I've blocked the images of police guarding and escorting little black kids into my school. The iconic pictures were from Mississippi and Arkansas, but it happened at Rozelle Elementary, my elementary, in Memphis too.. I've been searching and reading the stories recently, trying to make sense out of it all.

When I was little, we ate at home every meal except for Sunday after church. We'd frequently go to Bill and Jim's but usually we'd just go to the drive-thru at Jack Pirtle's Fried Chicken, where we'd order a tub of their finest. I remember waiting in line in the back seat watching the other line of cars. Those cars were older and more dilapidated than ours and black families sat in them, dressed in their Sunday best, waiting for their food. I remember looking into the eyes of the little black girls my age in their frilly Sunday school dresses just like mine sitting in the back seat of their parents' cars. I read the "Colored" sign above their take-out window and wondered what kind of fried chicken colored people might eat - assuming the food had to be different since there was a different line and a different window.

I appreciate the naivete of childhood, yet, it's too easy to let it all go and not dig into the deep pervasive racism of our history. Memphis' ugly history didn't start with King's assassination..

As a pre-schooler, I remember going to Overton Park in the summertime with my family. Though I yearned to swim in the big pool with Susan and Jack, my older siblings, I was tethered to the wading pool with Mom and little Jerry. Mom promised me that NEXT summer, I'd be old enough to swim in the big pool. But, I never got to swim in the big pool at Overton Park, because the Memphis public pools were drained and closed to circumvent the enforcement of desegregation of public facilities. Our family ended up joining a private club so that we could still swim during the hot summers.

Those incredible highschool parties and bands were courtesy of the highschool sororities and fraternities which sponsored all the dances. Now I know that Memphis public schools stopped holding dances, sock hops, and even proms after there was forced integration. So private highschool sororities and fraternities sprang up and hosted some stellar parties. I even got tear-gassed at one in 1968. Evidently the police were called by the facility because there were black and white kids partying together, and the police broke it up with tear gas.

What perplexes me now is that, even though I lived through it, I didn't get it.

Fair Warning

2009-01-14T13:24:00.000-08:00

"Shoe-throw-Mommy's-face" was Jackson's first 4 word sentence. He was standing to my right as I loaded the dishwasher. I heard the words, turned to face him, and WHAM, got clobbered in the face by his hurled shoe.

Foo-Foo

2009-01-07T15:21:00.000-08:00

Imagine being 2 years old, in possession of enormous curiosity, and managing the chaos of 20th century East Dallas and the joy of la vida Grothe. That's exactly where Elena found herself in the summer of 1981.

She was born to be an investigative journalist, Randy said; she did ask ALOT of questions. Prior to this time, I held considerable pride in my ability to communicate with children; this was something I had education and expertise in. But when Elena hyper-focused on an issue beyond her range, Randy was far more adept than I at heading her off and bringing her back to the here-and-now of being 2. The combination of her natural proclivity toward investigation and my misguided belief that all children's questions deserved to be answered in a manner they could understand inevitably led us into dicey territory. Randy would frequently return from work to find us mired in a never-ending Q & A dealing with impossible topics that puzzled great minds - other great minds.

The other essential detail to appreciate in this story is that Elena, at age 2, had an urgent physiological need for an afternoon nap, a full-blown, 2-hour afternoon nap. Our days were planned accordingly.

Rather, most of our days were planned accordingly...

During August of '81, I had weekly appointments with Dr. Leib over at St. Paul Hospital to manage this pregnancy situation I was also dealing with. So one hot afternoon, I buckled Elena into her car seat for the trek to St. Paul. By the time we hit Fitzhugh she was sucking away on her thumb and drifting into slumber. Clearly, there would be hell to pay if I allowed her to fall asleep now in the car and not be able to complete her nap, so I launched into the daunting task of keeping her awake with an arsenal of oral diversions.

'Little Bunny Foo-Foo Hoppin' Through the Forest...', we sang.

'The People on the Bus Go Up and Down...', we sang.

'Wise Men Say, Only Fools Rush In, But I can't help falling in love with you..', we sang.

'Memory - All Alone in the Moonlight...', we sang.

I'd become desperate and we were just turning onto Harry Hines; Elena was fading fast. So, in that crucial and desperate moment, I said, "Look, Elena, on your left is Parkland Memorial Hospital where they took President Kennedy when he was shot!"

No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I was slammed with panic and remorse. Out popped her thumb.."Why'd they shoot President Kennedy?" she asked. (Why'd dey shoot Pwesident Dennedy?) I was beating myself up for general and pervasive maternal ineptitude and feared I was ruining her life. Asking myself WWRD (what would Randy do?), I replied... "No, no - I meant that's the summer home of Santa's elves."

"Who shot Pwesident Dennedy?" she persisted. Now she was fully awake and had morphed into her investigative mode and there was no turning back. "Lee Harvey Oswald" I muttered before launching into 'Little Bunny Foo-Foo' for the umpteenth time.

By the time we got into St. Paul, she was asking about motives and theories. I was faced, in this awkward and public situation, with all my failures as a mother. I knew that Randy would know how to deflect and redirect her, but it would be more than a decade before cell phones. I was reduced to asking her to keep her voice to a whisper as we sat in the waiting room. I told her that there were books written about all this and that we could read them later, when she was a little older. I tried to redirect her to 'Green Eggs and Ham'. As a young mother, you'll never face a more vigilant and judgmental crowd than those surrounding you in your obstetrician's waiting room.

Her questions continued all afternoon and evening up until her bedtime. Then, in the wee hours of the next morning, Randy and I were awakened when our precious 2 year old stood by our bedside asking,

"Mommy, what did the Wawwen Weport say?"

Whirly-birds

2008-12-31T13:11:00.000-08:00

I gotta admit I spent some time this year watching the print journalism balloon floating toward the horizon. More than once, I had to shake the nagging out-of-body vision of us clinging to each other in the basket as it sinks lower and lower toward the horizon (Insert image of hot air balloon descent and "Nearer My God to Thee" played by a string quartet..) Sometimes, us was just Randy and me, but usually us included all our newspaper loved ones, near and far.

But where's the joy in these shoot-me-now scenarios? And, isn't the horizon just a perpetual mirage anyway?

My preferred image of descent is that of the whirly-bird - you know those brown winged maple seed pods from childhood. I used to gather them and toss them aloft and dreamily imagine I was a tiny spinning fairy enjoying gravity's tug earthward. You toss them aloft over and over until you get hungry or have to pee and then you go home.

And the killer benefit is that they hold the promise of solid future growth. Take THAT 2008!

So here are my top 7 good news moments of 2008..

7. Web news thrives and now supports Elena.

6. Plate glass windows shatter into tiny pieces that don't always do permanent damage.

5. Jackson can both play a mean guitar and fix our dishwasher.

4. Pacemakers exist and one in particular exists in front of my Mom's left pectoral.

3. Susan and Tom met White Hawk.

2. Katie and Seth met Reece.

1. November 4, 2008

Little Doll Dishes

2008-12-17T16:20:00.000-08:00

OK, I'll make it snappy and complete last week's story...

Yes, I was the same Ms. Grothe whose son had bitten into a light bulb last Sunday night and had gone to the emergency room to be monitored in case he had swallowed glass. And, yes, my husband was currently screaming from the agonizing burning sensations inside his head because he had just snorted a jalepeno seed. But before the nurse could get a doctor's visit arranged, the jalepeno seed washed away in the streams of water that continued to pour from Randy's eyes and nostrils. He stopped jumping and screaming and collapsed into exhaustion.

No lasting ill effects...end of story.

So tonight my question is...

Why do children have to grow up so fast? Why can't we let them enjoy being children without being burdened with too much adult information?

Elena's 6th grade teacher wanted her to do a report on Auschwitz. Auschwitz! She was only 11 years old. I had already proven my smother mother credentials that year by protesting the showing of "Salaam, Bombay!". The film featured orphaned and homeless children surviving amidst the crime, child prostitution, and violence on the streets of Bombay. When I objected, the teacher informed me that she was just trying to prepare the students for middle school and high school, and that I needed to let Elena grow up.

This growing up madness started way too early for my liking; it began when Elena first started nursery school at the age of 2. She was immediately thrust amongst more progressive 2-year olds with more progressive parents.

When Elena was 2, I became pregnant with Jackson and I explained to her that there was a baby in my tummy. She was perfectly delighted with this and proudly went off to nursery school to announce the blessed event to all her buddies. Of course, she was immediately shot down and shamed by a know-it-all 2 year old in her class. Little Daniel (whose mother was also pregnant at the time) informed Elena that the baby was not in my tummy, "Your Mommy didn't swallow it!", he mocked. She came home and informed me that the baby was in my uterus (which she pronounced, utewus)."The baby is in your utewus, Mommy, not your tummy", almost rolling her eyes at my naivete.

Later that year, there was the night when she was bathing with her rubber ducky and sweetly asked me, "Mommy, do I have china?"

"No", I explained, "You have little doll dishes."

"I don't have china?", she persisted.

I assured her that she had plenty of little doll dishes.

"Do you have china?", she asked.

I explained that I had my Grandmother's china and that someday it might be hers, but that right now she had plenty of little doll dishes all her own.

As she got out of the bath and I was wrapping her with a towel, she summed it all up for me.... "Jake says that boys have a penis and girls have china."

Nacho Night

2008-12-10T15:06:00.000-08:00

OK, time for a funny story -

This one hearkens back to circa 1983. To set the stage, I was 31, Randy 32, Elena 5, and Jackson 2. It was back when our health insurance first became a PPO and we didn't have direct access to any providers. You had to call an 800 number and plead your case with a triage nurse before you could get seen by anyone.

So, one night we were in the kitchen and Randy was standing at the cutting board slicing jalepenos for nachos when, suddenly and inexplicably, he started screaming and jumping up and down. I rushed to him and found water pouring out of his eyes and nose as he was screaming about somehow getting a piece of jalepeno stuck up his nose. As I recall, I started screaming and jumping up and down in front of him in an empathetic, but not particularly helpful gesture. Realizing that this was an actual emergency, I ran to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Not knowing exactly what I was looking for, I rushed back to the kitchen holding some tweezers.

Randy, still screaming and jumping up and down, added bellowing "NO!" repeatedly and emphatically to his repertoire. I decided we clearly needed professional medical assistance and ran to retrieve that insurance card with the promising 800 number to call in an emergency. Before calling, I tried to take a history so I could present a compelling case that we needed immediate medical assistance.

I dialed the 800 number, spelled my name several times, and recited various identifying numbers while Randy continued hollering and jumping behind me. I explained as calmly and coherently as I could that my husband had inadvertently snorted a piece of jalepeno, perhaps a seed, and it seemed to be lodged in his sinus behind his left eye. He had been making nachos and then sneezed and now he was in a real crisis.

She put me on hold. When she returned she said, "Ms. Grothe (but she pronounced it GROWTH), are you the same person whose son bit into a light bulb on Sunday?"

To be continued....

Kathleen's Glorious Sunday

2008-12-03T14:13:00.000-08:00

Siyahamba, ekukanyen' kwenkos'

Siyahamba ekukanyen' kwenkos.

We are marching in the light of God

Last Sunday evening, 3 nights ago, in the brisk North Texas night, it was the last night of November. Jupiter and Venus were at their brightest and closest over the sliver of the early evening moon; a celestial trifecta occurred. Inside, four year old Skyler was belting out the tune of the Zulu hymn as he marched around and around the dining room table, lifting each knee high as he reciprocally beat the rhythm on an imaginary drum. In the crowded home, his was a solo performance. Bill, his father, was graciously bidding farewell to the tearful guests, "Thank you for coming. Thank you for coming. Thank you for coming" as they filed out into the crisp night air.

Kathleen sat on the couch with an afghan draped across her lap, the windows open behind her and the oxygen tube recently re-aligned so that both nostrils could access the supplemental air. She was warm and had asked for the windows to be raised. "That's a first; she's never been warm before," Bill said as he hurried to comply with her single request. Then she asked for a chicken quesadilla from Taco Bueno and a red-eyed parishioner rushed away to bring her a bite of Tex-Mex.

Her "glorious Sunday" included baptising 36 babies, hosting the youth choir in her den, then hosting innumerable friends, parishioners, and loved ones - like me - as we hugged and said whatever we could.

Siyahamba ekukanyen kwenkos

We are marching in the light of God.

It was on a steamy Sunday in the summer of 1994, Jackson and I sat on a pew at Greenland Hills and listened as Kathleen preached her first "Glory Be!" sermon. He was 12 at the time - and about a month away from entering 7th grade at Long Middle School. Elena was sitting in front of us with her high school friends. At the end of the service, I watched Jackson tap and count off on his fingers starting with his thumb, "7th, 8th, 9th, 10th, 11th, 12th - will she stay here for 6 years?" he asked.

She stayed at Greenland Hills for 7 years and we all loved her dearly. She was the most powerful influence on Jackson's coming of age - outside of our family. She stayed until the summer after his freshman year at college.

Kathleen died yesterday.

On Sunday evening, I sat on her couch and hugged Kathleen and tried to put into words my gratitude for her presence in our lives. How do you thank someone for helping to raise your children? We laughed and hugged and told stories as love reigned over us.

Siyahamba ekukanyen kwenkos

We are marching in the light of God.