WARNING: Nicknames have a way of just...happening. As you know, I love nicknames, and usually try to find one for everyone.
So there I was, bright red and sure that I’d not heard what I thought I’d just heard.
And the Viking Princess, or VP, (aka Kajsa) is screaming, “What did he just say?!?!?”
And Superman Steve….well, Steve’s jaw has dropped, he is blushing (and hey, I’ve known the guy for ten years, and never seen him blush), and he’s frantically reaching for the answering machine—
“Did your little brother just say what I think he said?”
“Steve,” ordered Kajsa, “Rewind that tape! Oh my go—“
So, as the tape rewinds, let me fill you in:
I had just arrived in SF for one of Steve’s shows. Steve and I were catching up on all the latest Party Element and Rogue gossip, when the VP (who doesn’t gossip nearly as much as Steve and I, but we love her anyway) interrupts--
“Oh, Steve! Your brother Dave called while I was on the phone. I let it go to voice mail.”
Now, my friends, - let me interject some back story here (again), as that voice mail tape is rewinding: Dave is Steve’s little brother. Like Steve, Dave was also bitten by the comedy bug: he is a standup comedian in Philadelphia. Very quick, very witty. I met him once – five years ago when Steve did his very first standup show. Funny guy….nice guy--or so I thought, until
that tape started playing.
“Hiya Steve! Hiya Kajsa! Dave here. Yea, went to see Joe Jackson last night. Good show! I’m on my way – gonna do a show at ______________. Hey tell Airplane Jayne I said, “Hi –“
Steve is beaming. You can almost hear his thoughts, “What a good kid brother. He remembered APj was coming up this weekend. He’s saying, ‘Hi’ to my friend”
“How sweet,” I thought, “What a nice kid brother—“
And the tape continued “Heh-heh , yea – tell Airplane Jayne ‘Hi!’ – I wouldn’t mind – ya know – a ten cent ride—“
This is where we came in on this story – Me blushing (which takes a lot, mind you), Kajsa squealing, and Superman Steve gob-smacked……
Multiple playings of the tape had the three of us rolling on the floor and me laughing so hard I was in tears.
Jayne: But Steve, what exactly is a “Ten cent ride?”
Steve: I don’t know. But I say, let’s call him and find out. (dialing phone on speaker.)
Ring-ring! Ring-ring!
Dave: Hey big bro!
Steve: Hey Dave. Whatcha doing?
Dave: I’m going on in 20 minutes! Whazzup?
Steve: Well, we’re kind of confused. Just exactly what is a “ten-cent-ride?”
Dave: (wicked/nasty laugh) Heh-heh, well –
Jayne: (not wanting to hear, especially after “heh-heh) Yes, Dave dahling, just exactly what are you expecting to get for ten cents?
Dave: (stammering) Ohh! Airplane Jayne! Ohh! Ahhh, probably ahh, not much of anything now, huh?
Needless to say, we called Dave at least ten (ha-ha) times over the weekend – harassing him relentlessly. Poor child….but I don’t feel sorry for him – not at all! After all, he brought it upon himself.
But on the bright side, Dave did get what he truly has been wanting for five long years…..no, not that, you dirty minded Rogues! He finally got a nickname! He is no longer known as “Dave,” Steve’s kid brother…..He is now known, affectionately, as:
Ten-Cent.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
family stories - Jeff
Have ya’ seen that commercial? -- The one where the older brother is (almost) touching the sister’s arm, and she keeps saying, “Quit touching me.”? How did SunnyDelight find out about my older brother?!?! His given name was Jeff. Currently, he is known as Pastor Jeff. But back then….well, I thought of him as SATAN(and the echo goes, “satan,satan,sata--)
“Oh surely, you jest,” you protest.
No, I do not jest….and don’t call me Shirley.
Oh, you want proof? Ha! Where to begin? Where to begin?
Exhibit A
Perhaps we should start with something where you see the power and superiority of Jeff's brain. What a chess player: start at checkmate and work backwards...and remember all the moves necessary! Here's a play-by-play, ala Memento style:
Step G: Jayne protests that, "I hit him because he was picking on me! I told him to stop!"
Step F: Jeff proclaims it was self defense, because, "Jayne hit me first!"
Step E: Mom calls Jeff into the kitchen to get his side of the story.
Step D: Jayne runs crying to Mom, "Mom! Jeff hit me!"
Step C: Jeff hits Jayne in the arm.
Step B: Jayne slaps Jeffs hand away, and gripes, "Cut it out! Leave me alone! Quit picking on me!"
Step A: Jeff pokes/picks at air around sister Jayne, while repeatedly uttering, "Pick, pick, pick, pick--"
Step H: Jeff announces with much innocence, "I never touched her."
Which was true! How many hours did that take to work out!?!?!? Sheer genius! But used for evil purposes....
Exhibit B
It was a dark, cold night. Mom and Dad had gone out – one of those rare occasions – and left Sata—Jeff in charge. (Why they left him in charge, when John was older, we could never figure out.) JoJo and I were awake in bed and whispering to each other. I glanced around, making the bogeyman visual safety check of the room, and realized that the closet door was slightly open. This would never do! Who knows what could be hiding in the closet? There could be a monst--
“JoJo! The closet door is open! Go close it.”
Being the obedient little sister, she leapt from bed, pushed the door shut, and flew back to bed. Mission accomplished. The whispered conversation continued, but when I made the next bogeyman visual safety check—
“Jo! You didn’t close the door good! It’s open again! Go close it!””No way! You close it this time!”
So, taking a deep breath, I jumped from bed, pushed the door closed (hard), and leapt back into bed. Again, mission accomplished – but I was wary. I kept glancing back to the door during our conversation. Waiting for the slightest movement, or hint of move—
“JoJo!” I whispered/warned, “The door is open, again.”
“Jaynie” she whimpered, “I’m scared.”
“Jo, don’t cry. Keep talking, pretend like you don’t notice. Maybe I can sneak—“
--and the door continued to open – steady, not fast, but fast enough that you could see it. And fast enough that I knew there was no way I could get to the door fast enough.
“Jaynie, I’m scared! What are we gonna do?”
I started to answer, but then the monster came out of the closet. It was so tall, it had to bend it’s head to get under the door. It had a hat on, so we couldn’t see it’s face, and a long coat. It was moaning, coming towards us, with its’ arms reaching towards us –
JoJo and I scampered to the farthest corner of the bed, and still it came forward. We screamed…we prayed….to no avail. The monster was at the foot of the bed. It had something in it’s hand… was reaching towards it’s head…. Sheer terror took over, and Jo and I clutched each other screaming for someone to save us—And the monster snatched it’s hat off, and turned on the flashlight in it’s hand
“Boo!” screamed Jeff.
The beam of light revealed that Jeff was riding on John’s shoulders, a long coat draped over the two of them.
Yes, I know, funny, eh? ...UNLESS IT’S YOU COWERING IN THE CORNER!!!
Exhibit C
I had just finished reading the book, The Exorcist. As I was only in 8th grade, I had to “sneak” read it, because my Mom thought it was too scary for me to read. (Note to Mom: you were right – the book still scares the shi** out of me!). My friend Emily C was spending the night (side note: it is a wonder that any of my friends ever spent a second night at my house..). We were discussing the book when suddenly the sofa bed…well it kinda jumped up in the air a bit.
“Emily! Stop it!”
“Jayne, I didn’t do anything”
“Oh…well, maybe we put too much weight on part of the bed or something.”
So, we went back to our conversation, and as it drifted towards the Devil (the real one, not Jeff!), the bed jumped again – but higher!
“Jayne! That’s not funny! You’re scaring me!”
“Emily! I swear I didn’t do a thi—“
And at this point the bed began to….well to pitch and bounce, for lack of a better description.
And so yes, I found myself, once again screaming….and praying in bed, clinging frantically to my friend as the sofa bed went satanically insane.
And then we heard laughter – but human laughter.
And out from under the sofa bed came….yes you guessed it – Sata—I mean, Brother Jeff.
Oh, I could go on and on – about the time he wanted to see how long I could hold my breath, so he held my head under water….or the time he closed the bedroom door to make JoJo and me cry because we were afraid of the dark……or the time –
But that’s not the point, is it? It’s that commercial – that crazy commercial makes me remember my brother Jeff….and I smile. I smile because as cruel and mean as his jokes were, in hindsight they are hysterical. I think it’s even more hysterical that he has an entire congregation that is impressed with his piety…his goodness…..his sincerity.
Perhaps one day, I may get brave enough to don that bear skin rug….and make an entrance into his church…..possibly during a midnight mass.
Hmmm….what kind of bears do they have in New Orleans?
“Oh surely, you jest,” you protest.
No, I do not jest….and don’t call me Shirley.
Oh, you want proof? Ha! Where to begin? Where to begin?
Exhibit A
Perhaps we should start with something where you see the power and superiority of Jeff's brain. What a chess player: start at checkmate and work backwards...and remember all the moves necessary! Here's a play-by-play, ala Memento style:
Step G: Jayne protests that, "I hit him because he was picking on me! I told him to stop!"
Step F: Jeff proclaims it was self defense, because, "Jayne hit me first!"
Step E: Mom calls Jeff into the kitchen to get his side of the story.
Step D: Jayne runs crying to Mom, "Mom! Jeff hit me!"
Step C: Jeff hits Jayne in the arm.
Step B: Jayne slaps Jeffs hand away, and gripes, "Cut it out! Leave me alone! Quit picking on me!"
Step A: Jeff pokes/picks at air around sister Jayne, while repeatedly uttering, "Pick, pick, pick, pick--"
Step H: Jeff announces with much innocence, "I never touched her."
Which was true! How many hours did that take to work out!?!?!? Sheer genius! But used for evil purposes....
Exhibit B
It was a dark, cold night. Mom and Dad had gone out – one of those rare occasions – and left Sata—Jeff in charge. (Why they left him in charge, when John was older, we could never figure out.) JoJo and I were awake in bed and whispering to each other. I glanced around, making the bogeyman visual safety check of the room, and realized that the closet door was slightly open. This would never do! Who knows what could be hiding in the closet? There could be a monst--
“JoJo! The closet door is open! Go close it.”
Being the obedient little sister, she leapt from bed, pushed the door shut, and flew back to bed. Mission accomplished. The whispered conversation continued, but when I made the next bogeyman visual safety check—
“Jo! You didn’t close the door good! It’s open again! Go close it!””No way! You close it this time!”
So, taking a deep breath, I jumped from bed, pushed the door closed (hard), and leapt back into bed. Again, mission accomplished – but I was wary. I kept glancing back to the door during our conversation. Waiting for the slightest movement, or hint of move—
“JoJo!” I whispered/warned, “The door is open, again.”
“Jaynie” she whimpered, “I’m scared.”
“Jo, don’t cry. Keep talking, pretend like you don’t notice. Maybe I can sneak—“
--and the door continued to open – steady, not fast, but fast enough that you could see it. And fast enough that I knew there was no way I could get to the door fast enough.
“Jaynie, I’m scared! What are we gonna do?”
I started to answer, but then the monster came out of the closet. It was so tall, it had to bend it’s head to get under the door. It had a hat on, so we couldn’t see it’s face, and a long coat. It was moaning, coming towards us, with its’ arms reaching towards us –
JoJo and I scampered to the farthest corner of the bed, and still it came forward. We screamed…we prayed….to no avail. The monster was at the foot of the bed. It had something in it’s hand… was reaching towards it’s head…. Sheer terror took over, and Jo and I clutched each other screaming for someone to save us—And the monster snatched it’s hat off, and turned on the flashlight in it’s hand
“Boo!” screamed Jeff.
The beam of light revealed that Jeff was riding on John’s shoulders, a long coat draped over the two of them.
Yes, I know, funny, eh? ...UNLESS IT’S YOU COWERING IN THE CORNER!!!
Exhibit C
I had just finished reading the book, The Exorcist. As I was only in 8th grade, I had to “sneak” read it, because my Mom thought it was too scary for me to read. (Note to Mom: you were right – the book still scares the shi** out of me!). My friend Emily C was spending the night (side note: it is a wonder that any of my friends ever spent a second night at my house..). We were discussing the book when suddenly the sofa bed…well it kinda jumped up in the air a bit.
“Emily! Stop it!”
“Jayne, I didn’t do anything”
“Oh…well, maybe we put too much weight on part of the bed or something.”
So, we went back to our conversation, and as it drifted towards the Devil (the real one, not Jeff!), the bed jumped again – but higher!
“Jayne! That’s not funny! You’re scaring me!”
“Emily! I swear I didn’t do a thi—“
And at this point the bed began to….well to pitch and bounce, for lack of a better description.
And so yes, I found myself, once again screaming….and praying in bed, clinging frantically to my friend as the sofa bed went satanically insane.
And then we heard laughter – but human laughter.
And out from under the sofa bed came….yes you guessed it – Sata—I mean, Brother Jeff.
Oh, I could go on and on – about the time he wanted to see how long I could hold my breath, so he held my head under water….or the time he closed the bedroom door to make JoJo and me cry because we were afraid of the dark……or the time –
But that’s not the point, is it? It’s that commercial – that crazy commercial makes me remember my brother Jeff….and I smile. I smile because as cruel and mean as his jokes were, in hindsight they are hysterical. I think it’s even more hysterical that he has an entire congregation that is impressed with his piety…his goodness…..his sincerity.
Perhaps one day, I may get brave enough to don that bear skin rug….and make an entrance into his church…..possibly during a midnight mass.
Hmmm….what kind of bears do they have in New Orleans?
Friday, July 6, 2007
skydiving-nickname
Well, it all started sometime around the year 19-seems-like-forever-ago, when I went to watch my bestfriend, Claire, jump from a perfectly good airplane. "Sounds like fun!" I said. I went out to the DZ (drop zone)and watched her go through the class, and jump. Awesome! Right there and then I decided that this was definitely something I had to try. But, being a starving college student and skydiving being an expensive hobby, I found myself in a predicament. What to do? How to do? As I spent the next few weeks hanging out at the drop zone, watching all the action (in air and on the ground...), I stumbled on a money-making opportunity: Skydivers would rather skydive than anything else, especially packing parachutes. They were willing to pay good money to almost anyone who would pack their chute. Ka-ching! One afternoon packing class was all it took - Within a few more weeks "Plain Jayne" was making money packing.
Yes, hated being called "plain" anything. But ya' see, at the time, the drop zone was populated with Ironworkers. These rough-and-tumble guys had nicknames for everyone: Red Baron, Captain Cut-away, the Reverend (note: not the altar boy type), White Boy, etc. I felt flattered (and a little nervous) that they gave me a nickname at all.
"Hey! Plain Jayne! Ya' done with my rig?"
"Hey, Plain Jayne! When ya' gonna jump with us?"
"Hey, Plain Jayne! Come on, ya' ever gonna jump, or what?"
After 2 1/2 long months of packing parachutes, eating only PBJ sandwiches (sometimes without the bread), and stealing T.P. from public bathrooms, I had saved enough money to jump. I made my reservation for the next Saturday class, and showed up at 7:00 AM
"Hey-hey, Plain Jayne! Hear ya'lls jumpin' today! Can I go on your load?"
"Hey, Plain Jayne! This here is the Red Baron! He's gonna be in class with you."
"Hey, Plain Jayne! Ya' scared?"
I just smiled at them, and breezed on by. Little did they know that I had been flying in my dreams all my life - this skydiving thing was gonna be a snap!
Class flew (pun intended) by and it was finally time to jump. I remember that Ray was my jumpmaster, and Red Baron was on the load, but I don't remember who the other jumper was. sorry, some memories aren't as clear as others. I do know that Ray was only supposed to snap one photo, but said my, "exit was so clean he snapped off the whole roll." Personally, I think he was just twitterpated with me....... :)
Jump was great - just like my dreams. Did a perfect landing, which at that time meant thudding non-gracefully on the ground and trying not to break body parts. Red Baron and I were jumping, screaming, hugging and hollering as everyone ran out to greet us.
"Plain Jayne! Plain Jayne! You looked awesome!"
"Plain Jayne! Plain--"
"Hold up!" interjected Red Baron. "She ain't 'Plain Jayne' no more. She's Airplane Jayne."
Twenty-plus years later, I'm still called Airplane Jayne. what can I say? sure beats "Plain Jayne" anyday.
Yes, hated being called "plain" anything. But ya' see, at the time, the drop zone was populated with Ironworkers. These rough-and-tumble guys had nicknames for everyone: Red Baron, Captain Cut-away, the Reverend (note: not the altar boy type), White Boy, etc. I felt flattered (and a little nervous) that they gave me a nickname at all.
"Hey! Plain Jayne! Ya' done with my rig?"
"Hey, Plain Jayne! When ya' gonna jump with us?"
"Hey, Plain Jayne! Come on, ya' ever gonna jump, or what?"
After 2 1/2 long months of packing parachutes, eating only PBJ sandwiches (sometimes without the bread), and stealing T.P. from public bathrooms, I had saved enough money to jump. I made my reservation for the next Saturday class, and showed up at 7:00 AM
"Hey-hey, Plain Jayne! Hear ya'lls jumpin' today! Can I go on your load?"
"Hey, Plain Jayne! This here is the Red Baron! He's gonna be in class with you."
"Hey, Plain Jayne! Ya' scared?"
I just smiled at them, and breezed on by. Little did they know that I had been flying in my dreams all my life - this skydiving thing was gonna be a snap!
Class flew (pun intended) by and it was finally time to jump. I remember that Ray was my jumpmaster, and Red Baron was on the load, but I don't remember who the other jumper was. sorry, some memories aren't as clear as others. I do know that Ray was only supposed to snap one photo, but said my, "exit was so clean he snapped off the whole roll." Personally, I think he was just twitterpated with me....... :)
Jump was great - just like my dreams. Did a perfect landing, which at that time meant thudding non-gracefully on the ground and trying not to break body parts. Red Baron and I were jumping, screaming, hugging and hollering as everyone ran out to greet us.
"Plain Jayne! Plain Jayne! You looked awesome!"
"Plain Jayne! Plain--"
"Hold up!" interjected Red Baron. "She ain't 'Plain Jayne' no more. She's Airplane Jayne."
Twenty-plus years later, I'm still called Airplane Jayne. what can I say? sure beats "Plain Jayne" anyday.
Erynn - pet story
How far would you go to keep your child from experiencing pain? Kien shared a story of his childhood involving stew and a pet....which made me think of pets and DEAD pets....which made me think of my daughter, Erynn, and her pet hamster named Baby.
Well, Baby had lived two years, which is a long time for a hamster. Baby had been a very smart hamster - so smart that she was an escape artist...which wasn't a problem since all you had to do was knock on a wall and she would come to you! Each night I'd knock on her cage and up the tube she would come.
So one night knock I did...and no Baby. "Hmmm...maybe she's still sleeping," I thought. Twenty minutes later, still no Baby. This time I knocked a bit longer, and heard her stirring, and saw her walking towards her tube. But not really walking....more like waivering...a bit like a drunken sailor.
"Mommy!" cried Erynn, "Somethings wrong with Baby! Fix her, fix her!"
So I scooped her up in my hands. Her eyes were almost closed, and she just shook in my hands. I promised Erynn that I would make Baby better....and convinced her to go to sleep.
Alas, Baby died in my arms. I cried, because I'm a softie, but then I thought, "Oh Lordy, what am I gonna tell Erynn in the morning?"
Take #1: "Good Morning sweetie, your hamster's dead. Get ready for school"
Take #2: "Good Morning Erynn, Baby died....do you want cereal or eggs?"
No, neither of those "takes" would do..... I could not give Erynn terrible tragic news about her beloved pet and then cruelly send her to school. I had to protect her from the pain, even if it were only for a little while. How could I do it? I had to switch into Mommy-mode, and quick. I wrapped Baby in T.P. (soft burial shroud), and placed her in a coffee can.....then I put the can in the refrigerator. That way she wouldn't start to smell...or worse.
Morning arrived and it was easy to distract Erynn from Baby. The day went as it normally would, with me picking her up from school and heading home.
"Mommy, do you think Baby will be okay?"
"Oh honey, you know...Baby lived for a long time. She didn't look too good last night" and thinking to myself, "true, no one looks good wrapped in T.P"
"Mommy, I'm gonna hold her and make her better."
"Sweetie, she was so sick. I just want you to be prepared...she might not be okay."
"I know, Mommy."
So we arrive home, Erynn leaping out of the car and rushing for the door.
"Hold up sweetie-darling!" frantically I tried to think of some suitable delay. "Would you please go get the mail?"
"Mommy, I gotta check on Baby."
"Oh sweetie, I'll go check on Baby. You go get the mail"
As Erynn stomped to the mailbox, I rushed through the door, tore around the corner to the kitchen, threw open the fridge door, grabbed the coffee can, unrolled Baby from her burial shroud and plopped her in her cage. At that exact moment, Erynn came through the door.
"Mommy! How's Baby?"
Quickly catching my breath, composing my face into an appropriate mourning demeanor, I replied, "Oh sweetie, I think she's dead."
Tears welled in her eyes as she approached the cage. " Oh, mommy, she's so still....can I hold her?"
I carefully picked up Baby and placed her in Erynn's hands.
"Oh Mommy....she's so cold."
(Yes, I know....I should have thought quicker, longer, something. But honestly, after everything that had just transpired, it was the best I could come up with.)
"Yes, sweetie, I know. Ah...that's what happens when you die."
Erynn did not know the true story of the demise of Baby until she was in high school....she then proceeded to write a story about her horrible mother keeping her dead hamster in the fridge! Yes, she has a wicked sense of humor...no idea where it came from. :)
So, how far will a mother go to ensure her daughter doesn't have a bad day? Pretty damn far: Dead loved ones kept in the fridge....
Well, Baby had lived two years, which is a long time for a hamster. Baby had been a very smart hamster - so smart that she was an escape artist...which wasn't a problem since all you had to do was knock on a wall and she would come to you! Each night I'd knock on her cage and up the tube she would come.
So one night knock I did...and no Baby. "Hmmm...maybe she's still sleeping," I thought. Twenty minutes later, still no Baby. This time I knocked a bit longer, and heard her stirring, and saw her walking towards her tube. But not really walking....more like waivering...a bit like a drunken sailor.
"Mommy!" cried Erynn, "Somethings wrong with Baby! Fix her, fix her!"
So I scooped her up in my hands. Her eyes were almost closed, and she just shook in my hands. I promised Erynn that I would make Baby better....and convinced her to go to sleep.
Alas, Baby died in my arms. I cried, because I'm a softie, but then I thought, "Oh Lordy, what am I gonna tell Erynn in the morning?"
Take #1: "Good Morning sweetie, your hamster's dead. Get ready for school"
Take #2: "Good Morning Erynn, Baby died....do you want cereal or eggs?"
No, neither of those "takes" would do..... I could not give Erynn terrible tragic news about her beloved pet and then cruelly send her to school. I had to protect her from the pain, even if it were only for a little while. How could I do it? I had to switch into Mommy-mode, and quick. I wrapped Baby in T.P. (soft burial shroud), and placed her in a coffee can.....then I put the can in the refrigerator. That way she wouldn't start to smell...or worse.
Morning arrived and it was easy to distract Erynn from Baby. The day went as it normally would, with me picking her up from school and heading home.
"Mommy, do you think Baby will be okay?"
"Oh honey, you know...Baby lived for a long time. She didn't look too good last night" and thinking to myself, "true, no one looks good wrapped in T.P"
"Mommy, I'm gonna hold her and make her better."
"Sweetie, she was so sick. I just want you to be prepared...she might not be okay."
"I know, Mommy."
So we arrive home, Erynn leaping out of the car and rushing for the door.
"Hold up sweetie-darling!" frantically I tried to think of some suitable delay. "Would you please go get the mail?"
"Mommy, I gotta check on Baby."
"Oh sweetie, I'll go check on Baby. You go get the mail"
As Erynn stomped to the mailbox, I rushed through the door, tore around the corner to the kitchen, threw open the fridge door, grabbed the coffee can, unrolled Baby from her burial shroud and plopped her in her cage. At that exact moment, Erynn came through the door.
"Mommy! How's Baby?"
Quickly catching my breath, composing my face into an appropriate mourning demeanor, I replied, "Oh sweetie, I think she's dead."
Tears welled in her eyes as she approached the cage. " Oh, mommy, she's so still....can I hold her?"
I carefully picked up Baby and placed her in Erynn's hands.
"Oh Mommy....she's so cold."
(Yes, I know....I should have thought quicker, longer, something. But honestly, after everything that had just transpired, it was the best I could come up with.)
"Yes, sweetie, I know. Ah...that's what happens when you die."
Erynn did not know the true story of the demise of Baby until she was in high school....she then proceeded to write a story about her horrible mother keeping her dead hamster in the fridge! Yes, she has a wicked sense of humor...no idea where it came from. :)
So, how far will a mother go to ensure her daughter doesn't have a bad day? Pretty damn far: Dead loved ones kept in the fridge....
skydiving-accident
It makes a whooshy sound, and then I have to take a breath. The breath feels too big, like it’s going to break my ribs. But if I don’t take the breath, the alarm goes off. How do I know this? Because I thought I’d “skip” a breath, just one…
Those are the words I wrote in shakey-hand print, trying to explain what the ventilator felt like, trying to explain why there was fear in my eyes, trying to explain why I was afraid to go to sleep.
How did I end up here? Oh yeah, I remember…
I was preparing for landing – worrying a bit about some power lines, but not wanting to make any turns low to the ground. “Remain focused” I said to myself.
“Turn Right!” screamed Don.
Instinctively, I pulled my right toggle down. Oops, wrong move, too low to the ground. But too low to pull out of the turn – if I had let up on the steering toggle, I would have landed on my face. “Oh shit” I thought to myself, “Prepare for the hardest landing of your—“
They estimated my impact at approximately 50 miles per hour, give or take. Unfortunately, my femur did not agree with the give and take, and it broke, probably on my first of three impacts with Mother Nature.
I sat up, pulled my ‘chute underneath me. Moved right arm, check. Moved left arm, check. Moved left leg, check. Moved right leg….move right leg? Aww, what’s that pokey thing trying to poke thru my leg? Aww shit, that’s my bone! No wonder it hurts like a M.F.er.
A quick ride to Fresno via ambulance, although I made ‘em turn on lights and siren, since I was paying for the ride. Thru a comedy of errors, none of which was funny, I ended up at VMC – which I referred to as “Very Many Cokeheads.” (Please do not defend the place…unless you have stayed there, I will not listen to you)
“Well Ms. Day, you have a compound fracture to your femur.”
“Duh” I thought silently, but said, “Oh, really? What needs to be done?”
“Well, we can put you in traction for 5-15 days, followed by a cast. Or we can do this new surgery: we’ll insert a steel rod down the middle of your femur. No cast, and you’ll be home in 3-4days.”
“I’ll take surgery for two, thanks Alex.”
Three days later found me being rushed down a hallway. Seems they had done the surgery too quickly, sending globules (their word, swear) of that stuff in the middle of my femur into my lungs, heading for my heart. In technical terms: an embolism.
I watch episodes of ER, fascinated with the process of “intubating.” The patient is always asleep or knocked out. The doctors usually get it on the first try, never more than the second try. Doesn’t look hard or painful. In the show that was my reality, I was awake, wide awake. The tube went down three times, feeling like it was shredding and tearing my throat, and three times it came back up. The fourth time one of the doctors said to the other to get ready, because they might have to do a trach on me. The fourth time (not the third time) was a charm. I was hooked up.
It makes a whooshy sound, and then I have to take a breath. The breath feels too big, like it’s going to break my ribs. But if I don’t take the breath, the alarm goes off. How do I know this? Because I thought I’d “skip” a breath, just one…
The doctors come in, stand around my bed and whisper. They check my heart, my blood pressure, the machines. They whisper more. They shake their heads. One finally looks at me and says, “Do you have any next of kin you’d like us to notify?”
“Next of kin?” I thought panickedly, “What do you mean? Am I gonna—“
I reached for the pen and paper that had become my sole means of communication. Frantically I scrawled my boss’ number. He would help. He would call my folks. He would help. He would—
Mr. G arrived within 30 minutes. He sat on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel Jayne?”
Am I gonna die? I wrote.
“The doctors say it doesn’t look good. But how do you feel?”
The doctors are assholes. They’re wrong, I wrote.
Mr. G sat with me for awhile, told me to be strong, and said he’d pray for me, and call my mom. He stood to leave, and told me he’d see me in the morning.
So there I was: in an ICU room at VMC, alone and afraid. Afraid to go to sleep. Afraid that if I fell asleep, I would die. So, in the wisdom of youth and terror, I decided that if I didn’t go to sleep, I couldn’t die. (That’s when I discovered that alarm thing on skipping the breath. Momentary moment of Pythonesque humor involving doctors and nurses screaming at me to breath, and me frozen in terror at the alarms, buzzers and screaming...)
So the whole “staying awake and not dying thing” worked…until somewhere around 2:00 AM. I found myself alone (still), and exhausted. I found myself no longer afraid to die, but sad. Sad that my Mom was hundreds of miles away, thinking it was only a broken leg (because that’s what I had told her) and there was nothing to worry about until she got the call today from the hospital and Mr. G. Sad that I hadn’t been able to talk to her one more time. Sad that I couldn’t see her one more time. Sad that I couldn’t tell her how much I loved her. Sad…but more exhausted. Too exhausted to keep breathing like this. Too exhausted to keep on.
“Okay, God,” I prayed, “I guess it is YOUR WIIL, not mine. Whatever YOU want. I’m just sorry that I can’t see my Mom…..” And I faded off….
I remember that I heard noise. “Noise,” I thought, “Noise could be a good thing….noise could also be a bad thing. Not feeling hot flames….that could be good…..Maybe I’ll sneak a peak…..Please be white, not red, please be white, not red, please—“
When I opened my eyes, I was still in ICU at VMC….not heaven…not hell (although close). Guess God had more plans for me.
My accident happened on my 15th jump, I went on to make approximately 150 more jumps. Trust me, #16 was the hardest jump I ever made. I tell people that skydiving is not a dangerous sport, but it is also not a forgiving sport. Most people don’t live to get a second chance; I did. Of course, because the handymen at VMC believed in a “measure once and cut once” practice, I have one leg that is shorter than the other, set 30 degrees off, and a hole in my hip…. J
It also gave me a unique view on life, etc. I truly believe that if my Mom had been with me, I would have felt okay to leave, and that it was my need for her, and God’s plan for me, that kept me “earthbound.” Family, friends, and faith remain the most important aspects of my life, and not a day/week goes by without me telling at least one of them how important they are to me and to the world.
Those are the words I wrote in shakey-hand print, trying to explain what the ventilator felt like, trying to explain why there was fear in my eyes, trying to explain why I was afraid to go to sleep.
How did I end up here? Oh yeah, I remember…
I was preparing for landing – worrying a bit about some power lines, but not wanting to make any turns low to the ground. “Remain focused” I said to myself.
“Turn Right!” screamed Don.
Instinctively, I pulled my right toggle down. Oops, wrong move, too low to the ground. But too low to pull out of the turn – if I had let up on the steering toggle, I would have landed on my face. “Oh shit” I thought to myself, “Prepare for the hardest landing of your—“
They estimated my impact at approximately 50 miles per hour, give or take. Unfortunately, my femur did not agree with the give and take, and it broke, probably on my first of three impacts with Mother Nature.
I sat up, pulled my ‘chute underneath me. Moved right arm, check. Moved left arm, check. Moved left leg, check. Moved right leg….move right leg? Aww, what’s that pokey thing trying to poke thru my leg? Aww shit, that’s my bone! No wonder it hurts like a M.F.er.
A quick ride to Fresno via ambulance, although I made ‘em turn on lights and siren, since I was paying for the ride. Thru a comedy of errors, none of which was funny, I ended up at VMC – which I referred to as “Very Many Cokeheads.” (Please do not defend the place…unless you have stayed there, I will not listen to you)
“Well Ms. Day, you have a compound fracture to your femur.”
“Duh” I thought silently, but said, “Oh, really? What needs to be done?”
“Well, we can put you in traction for 5-15 days, followed by a cast. Or we can do this new surgery: we’ll insert a steel rod down the middle of your femur. No cast, and you’ll be home in 3-4days.”
“I’ll take surgery for two, thanks Alex.”
Three days later found me being rushed down a hallway. Seems they had done the surgery too quickly, sending globules (their word, swear) of that stuff in the middle of my femur into my lungs, heading for my heart. In technical terms: an embolism.
I watch episodes of ER, fascinated with the process of “intubating.” The patient is always asleep or knocked out. The doctors usually get it on the first try, never more than the second try. Doesn’t look hard or painful. In the show that was my reality, I was awake, wide awake. The tube went down three times, feeling like it was shredding and tearing my throat, and three times it came back up. The fourth time one of the doctors said to the other to get ready, because they might have to do a trach on me. The fourth time (not the third time) was a charm. I was hooked up.
It makes a whooshy sound, and then I have to take a breath. The breath feels too big, like it’s going to break my ribs. But if I don’t take the breath, the alarm goes off. How do I know this? Because I thought I’d “skip” a breath, just one…
The doctors come in, stand around my bed and whisper. They check my heart, my blood pressure, the machines. They whisper more. They shake their heads. One finally looks at me and says, “Do you have any next of kin you’d like us to notify?”
“Next of kin?” I thought panickedly, “What do you mean? Am I gonna—“
I reached for the pen and paper that had become my sole means of communication. Frantically I scrawled my boss’ number. He would help. He would call my folks. He would help. He would—
Mr. G arrived within 30 minutes. He sat on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel Jayne?”
Am I gonna die? I wrote.
“The doctors say it doesn’t look good. But how do you feel?”
The doctors are assholes. They’re wrong, I wrote.
Mr. G sat with me for awhile, told me to be strong, and said he’d pray for me, and call my mom. He stood to leave, and told me he’d see me in the morning.
So there I was: in an ICU room at VMC, alone and afraid. Afraid to go to sleep. Afraid that if I fell asleep, I would die. So, in the wisdom of youth and terror, I decided that if I didn’t go to sleep, I couldn’t die. (That’s when I discovered that alarm thing on skipping the breath. Momentary moment of Pythonesque humor involving doctors and nurses screaming at me to breath, and me frozen in terror at the alarms, buzzers and screaming...)
So the whole “staying awake and not dying thing” worked…until somewhere around 2:00 AM. I found myself alone (still), and exhausted. I found myself no longer afraid to die, but sad. Sad that my Mom was hundreds of miles away, thinking it was only a broken leg (because that’s what I had told her) and there was nothing to worry about until she got the call today from the hospital and Mr. G. Sad that I hadn’t been able to talk to her one more time. Sad that I couldn’t see her one more time. Sad that I couldn’t tell her how much I loved her. Sad…but more exhausted. Too exhausted to keep breathing like this. Too exhausted to keep on.
“Okay, God,” I prayed, “I guess it is YOUR WIIL, not mine. Whatever YOU want. I’m just sorry that I can’t see my Mom…..” And I faded off….
I remember that I heard noise. “Noise,” I thought, “Noise could be a good thing….noise could also be a bad thing. Not feeling hot flames….that could be good…..Maybe I’ll sneak a peak…..Please be white, not red, please be white, not red, please—“
When I opened my eyes, I was still in ICU at VMC….not heaven…not hell (although close). Guess God had more plans for me.
My accident happened on my 15th jump, I went on to make approximately 150 more jumps. Trust me, #16 was the hardest jump I ever made. I tell people that skydiving is not a dangerous sport, but it is also not a forgiving sport. Most people don’t live to get a second chance; I did. Of course, because the handymen at VMC believed in a “measure once and cut once” practice, I have one leg that is shorter than the other, set 30 degrees off, and a hole in my hip…. J
It also gave me a unique view on life, etc. I truly believe that if my Mom had been with me, I would have felt okay to leave, and that it was my need for her, and God’s plan for me, that kept me “earthbound.” Family, friends, and faith remain the most important aspects of my life, and not a day/week goes by without me telling at least one of them how important they are to me and to the world.
Jayne and a present
Oh dear…
Reading over my blogs, I’m sounding like a very nice person…..which I’m not…..
And to prove to you what a wretched, awful, self-centered person I truly am, let me share the first celebration I remember, of Christmas--which in my family has been renamed (after this event) to, “It’s not Christmas unless Jayne cries…”
It was Christmas, 19s-- oh not going to tell you that. Suffice to say, that all I wanted for Christmas was The Budding Beauty Vanity. Remember how you’d make a list of everything you wanted? How the list would go on, page after page? How if you totaled it, the total was somehow always equal to the Annual Gross Profit of a small country? Well, at the age of 6, my list was short. The only thing on it was…The Budding Beauty Vanity.
Perhaps some of you remember it: Wonderful, shiny French Provincial high quality plastic. The mirrors lit up, so you could see your beautiful face. You could store all those beauty products that every six-year old had to have in the drawers. There was even a hidden compartment in the button-tufted Styrofoam seat that came with the vanity.
So week after week, it was the only thing on my list. Trip after trip to Santa, it was all I asked for. Letter after letter—well, you get the idea. I figured if there was only one thing on my list—
Now, let me interrupt to explain that I’m from a rather large family. I am one of six children, my father was in the military, and my mother was a stay-at-home-and-work-harder-than-you-should-have-to-Mom. Money was often short. My folks did the best they could, but Christmas was often creatively done. My parents were both very handy.
So for weeks, after we children went to bed, my dad spent hours down in the workshop, making vanities for my sister JoJo and I. Jo’s would be a sweet jewelry version that sat on a dresser or such. But mine, well mine would be the Budding Beauty version, according to my Dad. He measured, cut, watched the commercial, and looked at the picture so that he could get it just right. He decided to make it out of maple, because he thought it would look the best. He finished them on Christmas Eve, and placed both vanities under the tree.
I think my Father was as excited as I was that Christmas morning. I had come down early—and spied the box! Oh my goodness, could it be? I could hardly stand sitting through breakfast and the opening of stockings. “Please, please, please, hurry,” kept repeating in my head. Finally, it was my turn. I tore off the paper…..and began to cry. No, not tears of joy…instead they were the tears of a disappointed 6 year old.
“What’s wrong, Missy?” my father asked.
“It’s,” sniff “not” sniff “the right” sob “one,” I responded, and then proceeded to bawl. “I wanted the Budding Beauty Vanity! Not a homemade one!”
“Oh but honey,” my mom said, “look how nice the one your Dad made. And look sweetie, it has a stool—“
“But there’s no hidden compartment! And….it’s brown!”
How my father (and my mother, for that fact), kept from beating me that day, I do not know. I don’t even remember the rest of that Christmas day. I do remember that my friend got the Budding Beauty Vanity…..and her brother used the secret compartment as a toilet…..I remember the legs breaking off her vanity shortly thereafter when she leaned her elbows to heavily on it…..I began to slowly appreciate my homemade version.
But my Father did get his revenge. Over the years, he made sure the vanity always moved with us (a daunting feat as many times as we moved). It was always carefully oiled and refinished when needed.
All in preparation for the Christmas I was pregnant with Erynn…….a package arrived from my parents in Nebraska…….a rather large package…….containing my homemade Budding Beauty Vanity……
Christmas 1984, was again “Christmas,” because “Jayne cried.”
Reading over my blogs, I’m sounding like a very nice person…..which I’m not…..
And to prove to you what a wretched, awful, self-centered person I truly am, let me share the first celebration I remember, of Christmas--which in my family has been renamed (after this event) to, “It’s not Christmas unless Jayne cries…”
It was Christmas, 19s-- oh not going to tell you that. Suffice to say, that all I wanted for Christmas was The Budding Beauty Vanity. Remember how you’d make a list of everything you wanted? How the list would go on, page after page? How if you totaled it, the total was somehow always equal to the Annual Gross Profit of a small country? Well, at the age of 6, my list was short. The only thing on it was…The Budding Beauty Vanity.
Perhaps some of you remember it: Wonderful, shiny French Provincial high quality plastic. The mirrors lit up, so you could see your beautiful face. You could store all those beauty products that every six-year old had to have in the drawers. There was even a hidden compartment in the button-tufted Styrofoam seat that came with the vanity.
So week after week, it was the only thing on my list. Trip after trip to Santa, it was all I asked for. Letter after letter—well, you get the idea. I figured if there was only one thing on my list—
Now, let me interrupt to explain that I’m from a rather large family. I am one of six children, my father was in the military, and my mother was a stay-at-home-and-work-harder-than-you-should-have-to-Mom. Money was often short. My folks did the best they could, but Christmas was often creatively done. My parents were both very handy.
So for weeks, after we children went to bed, my dad spent hours down in the workshop, making vanities for my sister JoJo and I. Jo’s would be a sweet jewelry version that sat on a dresser or such. But mine, well mine would be the Budding Beauty version, according to my Dad. He measured, cut, watched the commercial, and looked at the picture so that he could get it just right. He decided to make it out of maple, because he thought it would look the best. He finished them on Christmas Eve, and placed both vanities under the tree.
I think my Father was as excited as I was that Christmas morning. I had come down early—and spied the box! Oh my goodness, could it be? I could hardly stand sitting through breakfast and the opening of stockings. “Please, please, please, hurry,” kept repeating in my head. Finally, it was my turn. I tore off the paper…..and began to cry. No, not tears of joy…instead they were the tears of a disappointed 6 year old.
“What’s wrong, Missy?” my father asked.
“It’s,” sniff “not” sniff “the right” sob “one,” I responded, and then proceeded to bawl. “I wanted the Budding Beauty Vanity! Not a homemade one!”
“Oh but honey,” my mom said, “look how nice the one your Dad made. And look sweetie, it has a stool—“
“But there’s no hidden compartment! And….it’s brown!”
How my father (and my mother, for that fact), kept from beating me that day, I do not know. I don’t even remember the rest of that Christmas day. I do remember that my friend got the Budding Beauty Vanity…..and her brother used the secret compartment as a toilet…..I remember the legs breaking off her vanity shortly thereafter when she leaned her elbows to heavily on it…..I began to slowly appreciate my homemade version.
But my Father did get his revenge. Over the years, he made sure the vanity always moved with us (a daunting feat as many times as we moved). It was always carefully oiled and refinished when needed.
All in preparation for the Christmas I was pregnant with Erynn…….a package arrived from my parents in Nebraska…….a rather large package…….containing my homemade Budding Beauty Vanity……
Christmas 1984, was again “Christmas,” because “Jayne cried.”
Jayne and a present too
I hate surprises. Well, I love the idea of surprises: people jumping out and yelling, unexpected packages, etc. Getting to say such lines as, “Oh, my! You shouldn’t have!” and “Wow! I never expected this!” But the reality of it all…Nope, nada, not for me. If I think there’s gonna be a party, I’ll try to find out beforehand. If there’s a package, I’ve gotta at least shake it. Erynn thought it was normal to open “a present a day” for a week before Christmas. Even now, I’ve got to open at least one present a few days before Christmas! It got so bad for my folks while I was growing up, that my Mom and Dad had to become very sneaky and clever with wrapping my presents. Like the Christmas of my junior year.
The first week of December arrived, and because my Mom shopped all year, I knew all the presents were bought. And wrapped. And in the closet. I could almost hear them calling me.
“Jayne”
“Shut up. I want to be surprised this year.”
“No you don’t. You really want to see us now. You’re an actress! You can ACT surprised! Come on”
“Shut up! Really! This year—
“Oh you shut up! Now, you can come now or later. Come now or later, noworlater, noworlater, now, now -- "
“Oh fine. I’ll just shake ya. I don’t have to open any more—“
“That’s right. Come on up and shakeshakeshake…..”
And so up the stairs I went, and into the closet. The packages were all there, wrapped and stacked: it looked to be three presents for each of us six kids. Mom and Dad always tried to make it even – in numbers and dollars!
Hmmm…so I shook the first one. “Oh, this is easy!” I informed the other presents, “It’s a skirt. Hmm….probably a homemade one, so it can’t be the biggie!” So I grabbed the next package. That’s when I realized it was the only other package for me. “Only two?” I asked the packages.
“Well,” a rectangular present for sister JoJo answered, “ maybe there’s something else in it.”
“Good thinking! Thanks boxy!” So I shook….and could hear something inside…something chainy sounding. “Piece of cake!”
“Ohh, I don’t think even your Mom would wrap cake—“
“Oh Boxy, I didn’t mean it literally—oh for Pete’s sake, what am I doing talking to a box?! But it’s obvious: It’s a jewelry box. And it must have an expensive piece of jewelry inside….”
I showed an amazing amount of restraint by not opening the box right there. Actually, it wasn’t that amazing, because my Mom had started using that cheap tape – the kind that tore the paper. The kinda tape that made it almost impossible for me to unwrap my presents. I could wait….after all, it was only 22 days….
22 days! Almost a lifetime. At least twice that first week I found myself answering Boxy’s call to come and shake it. Each week the call grew stronger and stronger, but amazingly, I remained strong -- and so did the tape. By the 20th of December I was shaking the box on a daily basis. (Yes, I know….I had it bad.)
Finally, Christmas morning arrived. I could hardly stand it as we went in a circle, each opening our first package. I, of course, started with the skirt – and yes it was a skirt – and yes, it was homemade. (Yes, you’re right: I am that good.)
The anticipation was almost too much to bear. By this time, I was convinced that the Hope Diamond, or its equivalent, was in that box. As the paper came off, yes, I was right again! Jewelry box! Score! Come to me Hope Diamond! Lifting the lid ever so slowly, savoring each moment, slowly, slowly, until the necklace was revealed. A very nice……but plain…….inexpensive……necklace.
“There must be something else,” I thought, panickedly looking in the jewelry box for something I missed, when I heard a square sounding giggle. Looking up, I saw JoJo opening “Boxy,” which turned out to be a very nice, EXPENSIVE stereo. “Got to be—nothing!” the thoughts flew through my brain. “Calm down, don’t cry,” I silently comforted myself, “after all, Christmas is for the little ones. Maybe there wasn’t enough money…”
“What’s wrong, Jay-ne? Why aren’t you opening a present?” Mom asked.
“Looks like I’m done.”
“Oh….I’m sure there’s a present left. Did you look on the backside of the tree?”
“Oh, it’s okay, Mom. I love the skirt. And the necklace is sweet….and thanks for the jewelry box.” But silently I pleaded, “don’t tear up, don’t cry – it’s okay…”
“Oh, Missy…I’m sure there’s another package. Why don’t you look again,” reassured my Dad.
“Really, Daddy, it’s okay! There’s nothing else under the tree….but I love my presents, really I do,” blink, blink, keep the tears from showing.
‘Oh, maybe I left it upstairs” answered Mom, quickly getting up, as if she suddenly realized how grossly unfair the number and dollar value was
(--helLO! JoJo’s stereo, Jason’s bike, need I say more? And all I’ve got is a stupid--).
“Let me go upstairs—“
And the dam burst.
“Oh Mom! Stop it! You know there’s nothing else up there! You know I’ve been up there for weeks! You don’t—“
But she ignored my cries, and up the stairs she disappeared. I knew she’d probably come back down with some trinket….some dumb gift put aside for those forgotten birthdays and events, some stupid—
But wait! Everybody was grinning….I mean everybody: all 3 brothers, 2 sisters and my Dad. What did they all know that I didn’t know? And Mom was coming around the corner, dragging something big…something she was still trying to hide. –something that couldn’t possibly fit in the trinket box--
“Jay-ne, we knew you’d know what this was as soon as you saw the box. And we know that you can’t stay away from the presents. Sooooo, we hid this package over at the neighbors house. It’s been there all month. Hope you like this….”
And as soon as I saw the box – as tall as my waist, and kinda slanty/square in shape…yes I knew. The tears welled up in my eyes…..and as my entire family cracked up, because they all knew that I knew that they knew that I had been shaking packages for weeks. So they all laughed…..I cried….
Yes…it was another "Christmas because Jayne cried"
because my mystery present was...
a new guitar.
The first week of December arrived, and because my Mom shopped all year, I knew all the presents were bought. And wrapped. And in the closet. I could almost hear them calling me.
“Jayne”
“Shut up. I want to be surprised this year.”
“No you don’t. You really want to see us now. You’re an actress! You can ACT surprised! Come on”
“Shut up! Really! This year—
“Oh you shut up! Now, you can come now or later. Come now or later, noworlater, noworlater, now, now -- "
“Oh fine. I’ll just shake ya. I don’t have to open any more—“
“That’s right. Come on up and shakeshakeshake…..”
And so up the stairs I went, and into the closet. The packages were all there, wrapped and stacked: it looked to be three presents for each of us six kids. Mom and Dad always tried to make it even – in numbers and dollars!
Hmmm…so I shook the first one. “Oh, this is easy!” I informed the other presents, “It’s a skirt. Hmm….probably a homemade one, so it can’t be the biggie!” So I grabbed the next package. That’s when I realized it was the only other package for me. “Only two?” I asked the packages.
“Well,” a rectangular present for sister JoJo answered, “ maybe there’s something else in it.”
“Good thinking! Thanks boxy!” So I shook….and could hear something inside…something chainy sounding. “Piece of cake!”
“Ohh, I don’t think even your Mom would wrap cake—“
“Oh Boxy, I didn’t mean it literally—oh for Pete’s sake, what am I doing talking to a box?! But it’s obvious: It’s a jewelry box. And it must have an expensive piece of jewelry inside….”
I showed an amazing amount of restraint by not opening the box right there. Actually, it wasn’t that amazing, because my Mom had started using that cheap tape – the kind that tore the paper. The kinda tape that made it almost impossible for me to unwrap my presents. I could wait….after all, it was only 22 days….
22 days! Almost a lifetime. At least twice that first week I found myself answering Boxy’s call to come and shake it. Each week the call grew stronger and stronger, but amazingly, I remained strong -- and so did the tape. By the 20th of December I was shaking the box on a daily basis. (Yes, I know….I had it bad.)
Finally, Christmas morning arrived. I could hardly stand it as we went in a circle, each opening our first package. I, of course, started with the skirt – and yes it was a skirt – and yes, it was homemade. (Yes, you’re right: I am that good.)
The anticipation was almost too much to bear. By this time, I was convinced that the Hope Diamond, or its equivalent, was in that box. As the paper came off, yes, I was right again! Jewelry box! Score! Come to me Hope Diamond! Lifting the lid ever so slowly, savoring each moment, slowly, slowly, until the necklace was revealed. A very nice……but plain…….inexpensive……necklace.
“There must be something else,” I thought, panickedly looking in the jewelry box for something I missed, when I heard a square sounding giggle. Looking up, I saw JoJo opening “Boxy,” which turned out to be a very nice, EXPENSIVE stereo. “Got to be—nothing!” the thoughts flew through my brain. “Calm down, don’t cry,” I silently comforted myself, “after all, Christmas is for the little ones. Maybe there wasn’t enough money…”
“What’s wrong, Jay-ne? Why aren’t you opening a present?” Mom asked.
“Looks like I’m done.”
“Oh….I’m sure there’s a present left. Did you look on the backside of the tree?”
“Oh, it’s okay, Mom. I love the skirt. And the necklace is sweet….and thanks for the jewelry box.” But silently I pleaded, “don’t tear up, don’t cry – it’s okay…”
“Oh, Missy…I’m sure there’s another package. Why don’t you look again,” reassured my Dad.
“Really, Daddy, it’s okay! There’s nothing else under the tree….but I love my presents, really I do,” blink, blink, keep the tears from showing.
‘Oh, maybe I left it upstairs” answered Mom, quickly getting up, as if she suddenly realized how grossly unfair the number and dollar value was
(--helLO! JoJo’s stereo, Jason’s bike, need I say more? And all I’ve got is a stupid--).
“Let me go upstairs—“
And the dam burst.
“Oh Mom! Stop it! You know there’s nothing else up there! You know I’ve been up there for weeks! You don’t—“
But she ignored my cries, and up the stairs she disappeared. I knew she’d probably come back down with some trinket….some dumb gift put aside for those forgotten birthdays and events, some stupid—
But wait! Everybody was grinning….I mean everybody: all 3 brothers, 2 sisters and my Dad. What did they all know that I didn’t know? And Mom was coming around the corner, dragging something big…something she was still trying to hide. –something that couldn’t possibly fit in the trinket box--
“Jay-ne, we knew you’d know what this was as soon as you saw the box. And we know that you can’t stay away from the presents. Sooooo, we hid this package over at the neighbors house. It’s been there all month. Hope you like this….”
And as soon as I saw the box – as tall as my waist, and kinda slanty/square in shape…yes I knew. The tears welled up in my eyes…..and as my entire family cracked up, because they all knew that I knew that they knew that I had been shaking packages for weeks. So they all laughed…..I cried….
Yes…it was another "Christmas because Jayne cried"
because my mystery present was...
a new guitar.
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