Independence Day

I miss Independence Day in a small town.

I grew up on the edge between two small towns, Highland Park and Deerfield in a little 2-street neighborhood one house away from the main road.  We were so close to the border, we were allowed to choose which school district we would attend, so Deerfield it was.  My mother grew up just down the street from us and my Nana still lived there.

Each year on the 4th of July we would get up early and make our way down Deerfield road toward town.  There were sidewalks on both sides of the 4 lane road and given how close we lived to our destination, it was easier to just walk.   About a 1/2 mile or so down the road, along the fence in front of the golf course,  we would set up shop with a chair or two.  The original folding yard chair with aluminum frame and weaved seats.  The kids would sit on the curb – waiting.

We were waiting for the 4th of July Parade.  It was a great parade, with the Shriners on little tricycles, bands playing, floats, twirling batons and more.  As a little kid, it felt like it went on forever – in a good way.  We were set up toward the end of the parade route so the wait seemed like an eternity, but we would run into friends and play chicken in the street to pass the time until the parade came by. Our faces would light up, we would plug our ears at the band and giggle at the clowns on the tiny bicycles and Shriner’s hats.

After the parade, we would walk home and often had a picnic at my Nana’s house.  I recall a few years where it was too hot to sit outside, so we would bring the picnic table into the garage to eat in there.  My Nana’s garage was so clean, you could eat off the floor.  I think my brother Neal still has that picnic table to this day –  it has to be at least 60 years old.

Later in the evening after leaving Nana’s we would head one of two places to watch fireworks.  Deerfield High School or over to the Ropiquet’s house to watch the fireworks at Sunset Park in Highland Park.   When going to the Deerfield HS show, we would bring blankets and be way back from the field.  The fireworks were actually set off over the football field and a band played in the stands ahead of time.  You had to pay for that seating, so we stayed out of bounds near what became the soccer field later.   The Sunset Park show we would set up in the driveway of the Ropiquets as they lived right across the street.  This was perfect as there were chairs, no itchy grass and it wasn’t as crowded.   In both cases, the fireworks shows were spectacular!

To this day, small towns near where I grew up do their own fireworks shows.   Some still do parades.   I was recently in Florida where they actually coordinate so one town does them one weekend and another town another day so people can enjoy both.  In the more rural area where I am without a center town, we rely on the baseball team or the fair grounds to put on fireworks shows.  No matter how it is demonstrated across the country, Independence Day is a day to celebrate America and the new independent nation it became on July 4th, 1776.

Happy Birthday America

For the Love of a Laundry Basket

I always hated to do laundry.  When I was growing up, we learned early how to do laundry.  Our washer and dryer were in the basement, in the room with the sump pump (which always freaked me out), the utility sink, the extra freezer and the dreaded ironing board.

I look back now and realize how lucky we were.  Not everyone had washers AND driers.  Often only a washer.  I would give anything to have an actual “utility sink” now and while I truly hate to iron, its something that every boy and girl should learn how to do.

Being the only girl to a working mother, she taught me how to do laundry fairly early.  “Separate the colors from the whites”; “pre-soak the laundry in the utility sink if there is a stain”.   My mom had some friend who sold Amway, so we used Amway Laundry Detergent way back in the early 70’s before I understood what a Pyramid Scheme was.  It makes sense now, though, why my mom avoided that woman like the plague after some time.  Learning to iron, I recall spending hours in the basement, in poor lighting, practicing by ironing my dads hankerchieves and boxer shorts.

But the laundry basket was the most memorable thing of all.  After I moved out of the house, first off to school, then home, then out again and being in a position where I had to do my own laundry, I have gone through many iterations of the perfect laundry basket.  NONE of them held up to the laundry basket my mom had.  One could draw an analogy to Goldie Locks; One was too small, One was too plastic, One was too floppy.  There was no laundry basket that fit the bill of the one my mother had.  Her laundry basket was round, not oval as many wicker ones today are.  The handles were also wicker and weaved into the basket.  It was hand-made, not machined so the weave was perfectly done for each individual piece of wood.  It was smooth on the inside and out, almost as though it was oiled, not made of rough, cheap wood like the ones found today so it didn’t pull on your clothing and over time it weathered and gained a patina.

When I bought my first house my mom gave me her old laundry basket.  It was like giving laundry a new life.  It’s the perfect size, a large opening, wicker, sturdy handles.   This laundry basket was purchased by my mother in the early 1950’s after my parents built the home I grew up in in 1948 and were preparing to start a family.  I have had it for over 30 years and have hauled laundry to and from laundry mats, up and down stairs, raised 2 kids who never wear the same pair of jeans 2 days in a row in addition to beach towels and more.  Last year one of the handles came apart and I have actually considered finding someone to put a new one on.

Yes, it may be an odd thing to get attached to, but I must say if you had the same laundry basket I do, you would nod in understanding.  And heck, its over 60 years old!  At this rate, it may become one of my kids…..

Imagine that – a hand-me-down laundry basket.



Lineman for the County

Tomorrow will be the 10 year anniversary of my father’s passing.  It occurs to me that so many people who are important to me never got to meet my dad and while there are far too many hilarious stories I could tell, one that I tell so very often I would share again.

My dad was a Lineman for Commonwealth Edison power company in Chicago.  His main dispatch location was out of the Skokie Road office in Northfield, Illinois;  not too awfully far from our house.  Some of the little things I remember from being a little girl include that he was never home at Christmas because working a holiday was triple-pay, but he always managed to make it home for us to open presents and would park his bucket truck in the driveway so he could see the flashing light in the dash indicating he had a dispatch call coming through.  He often slept on the floor in the living room right in front of the heater vent in the winter because he was always cold from working outside.  He had the roughest hands from the weather and used this horrible stuff called Corn Huskers Lotion to try to make them smoother – it didn’t work.  He had round scars on both his hands where he had been electrocuted as a young lineman and the scars were where the electricity escaped his body.

But one of my favorite memories came back to me not long before I moved from Chicago to Virginia.  In November 1996 I had a business friend visit (actually the person who introduced me to Michael) and I took the afternoon off to take him downtown to see the city.  He had been to our offices so many times before but had never seen the city as a tourist.   So we headed downtown and started with a drive down Lake Shore Drive and out to the Planetarium to take in the view of the city then made our way to the Sears Tower to the observation deck.  On the Sears Tower tour, the first thing you do is watch a video of the building of the tower.  As we sat there watching the video, I had a flashback………………….

When I was about 10 years old, the Sears Tower was under construction and was about the biggest thing to happen to Chicago and the United States since the 1920’s.  The new sky scraper was going to be the tallest building in the world, taking over the Empire State Building by at least 10 floors.  One afternoon in the summer while my dad was working he came home with his bucket truck.  A bucket truck is the kind used by a lineman from the telephone or electric company where the worker gets into the bucket and can operate it from inside the bucket or someone can operate it from the ground.  Raise the bucket high to get to the wires.  This replaced linemen from having to manually climb the poles as they had to in the 50’s and 60’s.

My dad came home knowing my brother Keith and I were home and it was a clear day.  Every once in awhile he would do this to give us and some of the neighbor kids a ride in the bucket.  On this day, he came home to give us a surprise.  I can remember like it was yesterday with my dad in the bucket with me, raising the bucket on its post as high as it could go and pointing to show me which way to look until I saw the shell of the Sears Tower in the distance.  It was just the steel girders, like a skeleton, but you could make it out. After I went, my brother went, then a few neighborhood kids, then I went again.

I had completely forgotten about that until sitting watching that movie and their was a shot of the skeleton as viewed from north of the city – just like my view was that beautiful day in 1972.   The tower was completed in 1973 and it would take another 23 years before I would cross the threshold for the first time and be reminded of my dad making a special trip home with his truck to show us from right in our driveway.

Michael and I were lucky enough to go to Bermuda a few months ago and in our trek to the Governor’s fort, I found this picture of a Bermuda Lineman, whom they call a “Kiteman”. Yup, put on some long underwear and a CarHart insulated jumper along with the rest of the equipment and that would be my dad. The green glass are insulators which can be found at the top of the   T-posts on a power line.  This insulates where the two lines meet and are tied off.  I don’t think we had a door in our entire house that wasn’t held open by one of these green glass insulators.

Lineman (2)Insulators (2)

As an adult with kids now, I see the little things Dad’s do for their kids that go unnoticed or are so subtle the kids don’t get what’s happening at the time.  My hope would be that as they get older they find the same appreciation for those little things their dads did for them as I had and still have for my dad.

I have so many great stories about my dad I will have to share, but this one is definitely a favorite.

Miss you Dad

The cabin, the lake and a fireball

A few years ago I had occasion to spend a long weekend at a Minnesota lake with some of my childhood friends and a new friend too.  It reminded me a bit of when we used to go up to this lake in lakeWisconsin with all the neighborhood families (Tricarico’s, Rouses, Sieferts, Weils, us) and we would meet the Carlson family up there.   Mrs. Carlson had what seemed like a dozen kids and was raising them on her own after the untimely death of her husband years before.

My dad thought it would be a great idea to get one of those “pop up” campers when Keith and I were in Jr. High.  I think he thought we would use it all the time, go camping on weekends, take these great fishing trips and the like.  I recall exactly 2 times when we took it out of the driveway and one of them was to take it up to the lake to hang with the Carlson family and all the other neighborhood families.

It was a summer weekend.  Keith and I were each allowed to bring a friend on this trip, so I invited Karen Green.  She wasn’t much of a “camper”, but she was game to go.  Karen came to our house on a Friday afternoon, we packed up the car and headed out.  We picked up Keiths friend and got as far as the high school when there was a loud KACHUNK!  and SCCCRRRAAAAPPPEEEEEE!  My dad pulled over to investigate.  Evidently he hadn’t locked the hitch down on the ball, so we had hit a bump, the hitch popped right off and we had dragged the trailer by the chain along about 100 yards.

After about an hour delay,  we got back on the road and headed north.   When we arrived, all the rest of the families had already been there much of the week.  The Rouses and Weils had cottages next to each other, the Tricaricos had the super-cool A-Frame house they got every year (I LOVED that place!), the Carlsons had their cabin and we being only along for the weekend had our pop up camper.

There was a lot of wandering around the lake, going from house to house, playing in the water and general camp ground fun to be had for the kids while we were there.  The parents were usually split during the day with the men off fishing and the women huddled around a picnic table gossiping and playing cards.  On this particular weekend visit, all the kids we were over at the Weil’s cabin waiting for dinner to be fixed.   Some of the ladies had been consuming adult beverages…..which is important to the rest of the story.

From previous stories, you may have learned that these ladies, when they all get together, get loud, laugh, giggle and basically forget about anything else that is going on (sounds familiar!).  They get wrapped up in whatever the subject of the day is.  Margaret went into the kitchen to start the oven in preparation for dinner and came back out to the table, got a bit distracted and when she went back in to check on the oven (cigarette in hand) and opened the oven door, it caused a fireball.   Turns out the oven was gas and the pilot was not lit causing a gas fume buildup.

It was 1975.  Polyester was new and very popular.  Margaret always had a great tan and to show that off, she was wearing a pair of white polyester pants with the seam down the front and was wearing sandals.  Poor Margaret’s pants melted right to her legs from the fireball.  We heard the boom outside and before we could get inside, Margaret was out of the house grabbing ice.  Us kids were all scared, but  on the plus side the melted portion of the pants peeled right off. After the initial shock, lots of ice on her legs and even more ice in the cocktail glass, and the weekend was saved.  Lord knows, it could have been so much worse.

That was the last weekend we went up to the lake camp in Wisconsin.  I don’t think it had anything to do with the accident, but more that Keith and I were getting older, he was really good at baseball which means no open weekends and we ended up getting rid of the camper the next spring.  I

In a parallel universe, and about 40 years later; while my girlfriends and I were all together in Minnesota on the lake, at a cabin, there was a similar incident.   On our last night, while roasting marshmallows after a day on the lake and a visit to a bar to play the meat raffle, a small fire started on the lower deck.   The fire was put out quickly, but it reminded me a bit of the oven fire on the lake in Wisconsin all those years before.

The Turkey Platter


There is a story to this platter, but then again, there is a story to everything, right?

The story of this platter goes wayyyyy back to my earliest Thanksgiving memories at our house on Windsor Road.  Each year, my mom hosted Thanksgiving at our house.  My Nana was in charge of the turkey and would cook it at home, stuffing INSIDE the bird and bring it to our house to finish off in our “tornado” oven in the basement.  Early on, we had the extended family for Thanksgiving as well; Aunt Shirley and Debbie, Aunt Glenna, Nana, our family and eventually Todd’s wife and kids and Neal’s (then fiance) Robin.  Aunt Shirley always made a strawberry jello salad (still a favorite of mine), mom made candied sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes and just for me she would make creamed spinach.

The platter was for the turkey.  It was the only time of the year we would ever see this platter.  I don’t even know where my mother stored it when it was not in use, but it was always there faithfully every year to serve the turkey on Thanksgiving.

We never ate Thanksgiving dinner in our dining room.   Our dining room was far too small for all those people.  In our basement we had a ping pong table, which makes for a great dining table when the net is down and a bed sheet is used for a tablecloth.   At some point, the ping pong table, having been sat on and broken, was replaced with a pool table.  We used that for a table for Thanksgiving as well, with another bed sheet making due for a tablecloth.  No matter where we had our Thanksgiving dinner, we always had The Turkey Platter to serve the bird.

After my mother died and my dad was selling the house, myself and my brothers’ wives were brought to the house to pick out a few things we may want.  I wanted some special Christmas ornaments, but had forgotten about the platter…..until we started hosting Thanksgiving at our home after Michael and I were married.  For several years, I mourned the loss of The Turkey Platter as an opportunity lost and wondered which brother may now have it or was it gone altogether.

Then one day the phone rang.  it was my dad and he was packing up to move into a senior apartment, so lots of stuff had to go.  He asked me if I wanted this platter he found.  I immediately got excited and asked “is it The Turkey Platter?”.   He didnt know exactly what I meant so I asked him to describe it to me, which in hind sight was silly given he could not see very well anymore.   He was having trouble describing it and I just kept saying “is it The Turkey Platter?”.  He said, “well, yes, it has a turkey on it”.   We agreed he would send it to me so he wrapped it up nice an cozy and shipped it to me.  I was giddy like a little girl when it arrived and as I unwrapped it found it was indeed “The Turkey Platter”.

I was so proud to use the platter that Thanksgiving and have used it each Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter since.  Each time I unwrap it for the event we are hosting, I remember back to Thanksgivings in the cold basement on Windsor Road, eating around the ping pong dining table covered with a bed sheet and smile at the memory just as I am now.

I hope the Turkey Platter will be able to be passed down to my girls and they will have some of the same good memories of Thanksgivings will family or Christmas dinner with the  LaCombe family.  We don’t have a basement or a ping pong table, but I have been known to use a bed sheet as a table cloth…..and it worked great.

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone…………..gobble gobble….

A Town With No Name – Erin Allen (3rd grade)

A Town with no name Picture Slide1 Slide2

Those who work with me are often forced to listen to me read the stories written by my daughter.  She has a quick wit and a wild imagination and has some really funny stories to tell.    While cleaning her room recently, she ran across some old papers with stories she wrote in grade school.  She knows how much I love them so offered me the papers.  I called over my neighbor to read a few to him and in a few cases was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.  One of those stories is written below – I used her words exactly, so the grammar may not be up to par.  I have also attached the originals with a accompanying picture.  Read and enjoy:

An angry mob gathered in the middle of town square!  Mayor Phipps saw the torches and pitchforks of the crowd from his window.  He went outside and called a town meeting to see what the problem was.

Everyone gathered at the courthouse at once.  Two cousins named Jack and Jill told the mayor that the citizens wanted their town to have a name.  Just then Jimmy, the town grump burst through the door “NEVER!”  “I like living in a town with no name!”

They tied Jimmy  up and put him in a spider infested closet.  Jack and Jill suggested that a contest be held to come up with a name.  Everyone submitted their idea, but they were all lame.  So they left the town as no name, released Jimmy from the closet and sold the spiders to a pet store.

The End.

Mom’s Little Sister


My mother’s youngest sister Glenna was a piece of work, as they say.  As the youngest of 4 girls born during the depression, she was a bit of a wild child.  She was the most petite of all the girls, wore ruby-red lipstick and had platinum blonde hair, right until the day she dies.  Those attributes, along with a wild child attitude and Glenna had eloped with her boyfriend before she was 18 years old.

Over the years Glenna had kids, divorced her husband and moved around a bit.  My memories of her when I was little include; her living at and running a “campground”, which was really a place in Wisconsin where families rented trailers and spend a week or so at the lake.  She had a bright red pickup truck with wood guard rails on the bed – painted on the side were the words ‘Lil Red Truck’.  She wore far too much Amway perfume, smoked, didn’t take care of her diabetes and struggled financially in her later years.  Each year on her birthday my mother would take her out to wherever she wanted…..inevitably they would end up at The Cheetah Club on Milwaukee Road & Rt 22 in Lincolnshire to watch the male stripper show before they opened the doors to the men about 11 pm.

Aunt Glenna was always looking for love.  In the late 80’s when personal ads were becoming more mainstream, Aunt Glenna was in the thick of it.  She was living with my mom and dad at the time, working to get back on her feet…..and mom and dad were living with my brother and his wife helping out as they just purchased their first home and had 4 kids to contend with.  Glenna was writing to men all over the country, sweet talking with them on the phone and a few times going to stay with them for a week or so to “test the waters”.  She was looking for a husband.

It was during one of these visits when my mother got a phone call from a social worker in Wisconsin.  Evidently, Aunt Glenna had taken a bus up to stay with a farmer she had met through the personal ads.  After 2 weeks of Glenna living there, she confronted the farmer about when they were going to get married.  When he seemed surprised by the question and responded “I was never going to MARRY you, she grabbed a kitchen steak knife and proceeded to stab the man in the butt several times.

The police were called, she was put in jail and since she didnt live in Wisconsin and was staying with my parents at the time, the court appointed social worker called my mother.  Mom sent bus fare to get Glenna home, engaged social services in Illinois and eventually Glenna got back on her feet.  The incident was long forgotten until Mothers Day 1992.

By this time, my parents had both retired and were living in a small town in Wisconsin not far from Kenosha.  On this particular Mothers Day, my Nana, Aunt Shirley and Aunt Glenna all drove up to spend the day at my parents house.  As they arrived, my father was helping my Nana into the house when Glenna collapsed in the driveway.  With the volunteer rescue squad just down the street help was there quickly, but it was too late.

My mother and Aunt Shirley went to the hospital later that date to take care of the death certificate and other arrangements and while waiting in the hallway my mother was approached by a police officer.  “Mrs. Geitner, did your sister ever live in Wisconsin?”.  “No” my mother responded, “Why?” The police offer proceeded to tell my m other about the outstanding warrant for Glenna’s arrest for assault and battery as well as jumping bail.  My mother had forgotten all about the incident with the farmer.  As it turned out, when she sent Glenna money to pay for the bus fare and her “fine”, it was actually bus fare and BAIL MONEY.  My mother was horrified.  Aiding and Abetting a criminal!

I can remember the day my mom started to tell me that story like it was yesterday.  When she got to the part where the police officer asked her if Glenna had ever lived in Wisconsin, I knew exactly what was coming next.  I had never forgotten that story and had told it often.  My husband and I joke about it still – I tell him “dont make me mad, I have a kitchen knife and I know how to use it!”  and we both laugh.  My kids are in on it too.

I loved my Aunt Glenna and all her crazy ways.  She added color to our family… most often in the vein of ruby red lipstick on your cheek.

I Love the smell of carburetor cleaner in the morning

There are people who can work on cars and those who cannot.  The trick is to know which one of these categories you fall into.

My father fell into the CANNOT category, but he thought he was a CAN kind of guy   Disclaimer:  my dad could repair most anything around the house including gas and electrical as well as appliances and more; and has walked me through many a repair over the phone to repair my washing machine, dryer, refrigerator, lay floors……

Example picture, not Bessie


My memory of my father’s inability to work on a care (or any combustion engine for that matter) goes back to an old baby blue Chevy station wagon we lovingly called Old Bessie.  Bessie was a 1961 Chevy station wagon (or thereabouts) with matching blue interior and a crank down rear window.  She had rear fender wings and chrome detailing down the side.  Those corner side windows that my dad would crack open in the winter to flick his cigarette ashes out of.  Over the years, my father had attempted to work on various parts of Bessie; the engine, brakes, the back window and more.  By the time we took Bessie off to the metal scrapyard in the sky, she barely ran and the back window hadn’t been able to crank up or down for a few years.  Being half-down, the back window was covered with plastic and held there with black electrical tape – my dads favorite.

After Bessie’s demise, there was the introduction of a 1972 Ford Country Squire station wagon.  It was dark green and had fake wood paneling down the sides and across the back.  The way-back had a hidden seat that could flip up and offer an additional row of seating – facing backward.  My brother Neal and his now wife of 39 years dated in that car and eventually my parents gifted it to my brother Todd when his family grew unexpectedly.  The wagon wasn’t a mess when Todd received it, however in typical Chicago style it was a rust bucket by the time Todd took it to the wrecking yard.

Move on to 1977 and an International Harvester Travel All was the Geitner family mobility device.  The Travel All was International’s answer to the Jeep Wagoneer or the SCOUT.  International Harvester (now Caterpillar) made cars you ask?  Why YES, yes they did; though no one else on the planet knew this, but my father.  The International Harvester headquarters were in Peoria, Illinois, where my father grew up.  As it turns out, we had several family members who worked in the factory there, so the stage was set.   I learned to drive in this car and can still hear Sue and Nancy cackling when they saw me driving it for the first time.  I will add, however, that my (our) friend Gini’s dad also had a Travel All – so we were destined to be friends when we met in high school.   Over the years, my dad tried to “fix” things on the Travel All, yet sadly and not so surprisingly, it ended up with the same demise as old Bessie with a back window that didn’t work and all of the pieces taken apart to try and repair it, left to rust in the back and the window no longer going up or down.  Bring in the plastic and trusty black electrical tape, which remained there until my Dad took the Travel All off to the junkyard in the sky.

In case you haven’t noticed, my father did not have a good track record with fixing cars, but I had friends who I loving called Gear Heads and thanks to them I was able to surpass the “Dad” gene and learn how to repair my own vehicles.  It started with my first car, a 1974 Honda Civic named Ben.  When Ben began constantly getting bogged down, sputtering and such  I became friends with  the guys up at the NAPA auto parts store in town because I was up there so often to get a new fuel filter.  Gas was leaded then and clearly I was not getting it at the right place.   That started the trend of repairing my own vehicle and thanks to many of my Gear Head friends I learned how to change oil, tires and recognize the sound of open headers.

My husband Michael is a lover of cars.  He has completely torn down and rebuilt the engine in a tractor, a 1994 Isuzu Trooper and my trusty chipper-shredder.   Thanks to him, our cars will last as long as we want them to and look good doing it.   Years ago when my father’s eyesight was beginning to fade, he had come to visit us out in “the country”.   Michael was working on our F250, giving it an oil change or what have you.  My father wandered out there to “watch” and lend a helpful hand.  Mostly he asked a lot of questions and pointed in directions that did not make sense based on what he was asking about.  Yes, my dad did have failing eyesight at the time, but it was further proof he just wasn’t good with cars.  Nowadays, Michael and I spend a good bit of time watching ‘Fast n Loud’, ‘Wheeler Dealers’ and the GOOD (now defunct) version of Top Gear BBC– the American version STINKS.   Before I met Michael i was listening to  Car Talk on NPR.  I would listen and play this game with myself to figure out what the problem was before Tom and Ray gave their diagnosis and see if I was right or at least in the same ballpark.

Of course, now cars are mostly electronic and fuel injected and I take them into the shop for repair now; which is what brings me back to the title of this little anecdote.  A few years ago my neighbor Steve bought a SWEET 1961 Chevy Impala; the 4 door version of Bessie.  We have named Steve’s car Vlad, the Impala.  Its Chevy blue with a white hard top, white wall tires and a solid metal dash.  The wings on the rear fenders are just the perfect size and if you were in the mob, you could fit 6 bodies in the trunk – easy.  When Steve was working on the engine one morning, I happened to walk out my front door just as he was spraying some carburetor cleaner and caught a whiff.  I had an immediate flashback to high school and my old gear head buddies and shouted down to him…….”I love the smell of carburetor cleaner in the morning, Mr. Steve!”

The best part was when he later told me he was impressed I was able to name that smell.



Me – Kindergarden

I got my hair cut today. Its funny how things come around over time. Our parents take care of us when we are kids and as they age, they become more like children and we end up having to take care of them.

I am the youngest child in my family AND the only girl. If you were to ask my mother, she would tell you they kept trying until they got a girl. My dad would always comment on a little girls hair if it was long and pretty. Me? I never had long and pretty hair. I had long hair for awhile, but I would never call it pretty.

When I was 5, my mother entrusted me to our neighbor, Lisa Rouse, to take me to her hairdresser for a haircut. At the time, I was a toe-head blonde (whatever that means – what does toe-head have to do with anything?) with super-fine hair a bit past shoulder length and it was slightly curly. I don’t recall the name of the place where Lisa took me, but I do remember it was on Old Skokie Road in Highland Park, not far from the pedestrian overpass over HWY 41 and near the scrapyard along the railroad tracks.

The Pixie cut was all the rage in 1967, though I would say far more so for fashionable young women, not so much for kindergarten girls. Nonetheless, I came home with a pretty raggety Pixie hair cut as pictured from my 1st grade picture. My Father was devastated. My Brothers teased me relentlessly and I am fairly sure my mom and dad “had words” about it. Thankfully, my father was never one to hold a grudge. Over that weekend, he went down to the Rouses’ house, they all had an Old Style and laughed at my haircut for the next month or so.

That was when I was 5. I don’t think I cut my hair again until I was at least in my 20’s. From 25 – 40 there were various perms, highlights, trims, bangs, cutting my own hair, letting Jamie cut my hair and lord knows what else, but the length remained relatively long.

I had my first child at 36. I cut my hair to my shoulders. I had my second child at 39 and my hair got a bit shorter. For years I thought about going all the way and really cutting it short. I would think, try to visualize, but never got up the nerve to do it until one day it happened.

I was determined. I found a picture in a magazine and headed up to Super Cuts, one of those walk-in and for $10.00 they will cut your hair any way you want. I had never been there and didn’t know a soul, but showed the hairdresser the picture and asked her to cut my hair. Her name was Pam and she was pretty hesitant. Throughout the cut, she kept checking and I would say shorter!

When she was finished, I was thrilled! Here I was at 43 years old and I had finally found the haircut that made me happy. I will admit, my husband was not thrilled (what is it with men and hair), but he has grown used to it. And…….he likes to see me happy. J

Me now
Me now

Summer Solstice

Wedding Day 1947

June 21st is the longest day of the year.  Summer Solstice is what astronomers call it.  I learned about the Summer Solstice when I was old enough to understand and remember my parents wedding anniversary.  I guess my mother started me out with using major events to help me with my date/time references.

My parents were married June 21st, 1947 only to be separated by death on March 16, 1994.  47 years, still holding hands and thoroughly enjoying their retirement in Wisconsin (when they weren’t in Vegas).  The period that lead up to their wedding was pretty interesting and I am proud to say that I know my mother is the source of my stubbornness.  It is because of her stubbornness, and her love for my father that I sit here writing about this story.

My father was in the Army during WWII.  He never talked about it much other than to say he was in Europe on a “clean up crew”.  I took that to mean he and his team had to pick up the mess left behind after a battle, including the people.  I guess I wouldn’t talk about it much either.

When my dad returned to the states as a skinny 21 year old member of the US Army, he was sent to Fort Sheridan, Illinois where at a USO sponsored dance in Highland park, he chanced to meet Jean Briscoe, a 5’8″ dark-blonde who I am certain dazzled him with her dance moves.  My dad could not keep a beat to save his life (thanks for sharing dad), but my mother was a fabulous dancer.  A romance quickly ensued and my father proposed.

When my father and mother went to Grandpa Briscoe to formally ask for her hand, he refused.  It all came down to religious beliefs.  My grandpa was a Christian Scientist and dad was not.  Interestingly, neither were my nana and the girls, but that didn’t matter.  There were tears, raised voices between Grandpa and Nana.  More tears.  My mother and father (ok, my mother) forced ahead to plan a wedding at a church in Highland Park.  Invitations printed and all.

Shortly before the wedding, when my mother, father and even Nana had failed to sway my grandfather, my mother hopped a train and headed to East Peoria where my fathers family lived.  My mother moved into an apartment with my dad’s sister, Ruth.  Without any help from her family financially, she borrowed her sister Shirley’s wedding dress (which was also borrowed), found a church and walked down the aisle to become Mrs. Gene Geitner on the day of the Summer Solstice.  Standing up for her were my fathers sisters, Margaret and Ruth, my fathers brothers Jack and Joe, and Margarets girls Kay and MaryLou as flower girls.

There was one person who attended from my mothers family.  My Nana.  She had begged her husband to reconsider, this was the daughter who wouldn’t have to run away to get married, but he refused.  She begged him to drive down to Peoria and participate; he refused.  So, without my Grandpa’s knowledge,  my Nana got someone to drive her to the train station, took the train down to Peoria and watched her daughter walk down the aisle.

I said earlier that my mother was the source of my stubbornness.  Scratch that – Thank You Nana, for always speaking your mind and standing up for your girls.  You taught them well, and they taught theirs girls too.

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad….The Invite 1947