Category: Stories

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I Am Not The Doll You See Here

Mom made a gaggle o’ dolls over the years, but the one in this slide was not one of them. I was not yet born when this photo op came to pass. Since my Sister Who Wishes To Remain Nameless (SWWTRN) is holding the doll, I’m assuming it was hers. Perhaps she was channeling my future earthly birth with me while I was still in the Pre-existence. C’mon—it could have happened. Notice that my sisters have both donned long Bow Ties o’ the Day for what the date on the slide indicates was Christmas of 1958.

Dad’s a looker, eh? In my mind’s eye, Dad always has his Sean Connery beard—even though this shows me to be wrong. Come to think of it, Mom started making dolls about the same time Dad grew his signature beard—sometime in the 80’s. Perhaps that was how they each dealt with their newly empty nest and their proverbial mid-life crises. I dunno. I just know that in the 80’s, Dad’s beard sprouted its salt-and-pepper glory, and plaster doll parts were perpetually scattered throughout flat surfaces in the house, in their various stages of doll-completion.

FYI Here’s the birth order of my siblings and I, for anyone who might be wondering: Betty (front); SWWTRN (back); Ron (front, middle); Rob (on Dad’s lap); a bigly time-gap (a true pregnant pause); then, yours truly.

If you ever want to rile up Mom, just tell her I said I know I was an accident. She does not abide that “accident” talk about me. I can usually get her calmed down about it by explaining I meant to say I was more of an “afterthought.” At 89, Mom still shines with her comebacks. Not too long ago when I was egging her on about the topic, she said, “An afterthought? I should say not! There was no thought after.” And then I said, “Mom, get your mind out of the gutter, so mine can roll by!” We continued the back-and-forth, and we laughed until I lost my breath and had to take a hit off her oxygen mask. We are soooooo related. We are The Two Helen’s! Vaudeville is our next stop.

BTW Mom doesn’t really have an oxygen tank. It just made the story better to paint a picture of me stealing the old gal’s oxygen. Note to self and others: The key to telling good stories is to never let the truth get in the way—as long as you fess up to it later.

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Meanwhile, In Dad’s Rocking Chair…

TIE O’ THE DAY presents a rare sight. Here I am in a diaper, without any kind of tie, AND I am sound asleep. Those three planets haven’t aligned since this slide was snapped.

I’ve always had trouble sleeping, even as a wee sprite. In fact, I think I may not really be bipolar. I think it’s entirely possible my extremely moody brain activity is simply a result of the insomnia I’ve had for the last 50 years. I declare in all honesty that if it would help me sleep at night, or any other time, I would gladly go back to wearing diapers.

But not the cloth kind, as shown in the photo. Nope.

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Two Queens, Standing

We, here at TIE O’ THE DAY are pleased to present this forgotten late-60’s slide, starring my hip mom, Helen Sr., and her equally stylish mom, my Oak City grandma, Martha Anderson. Check out their mod footwear. Grandma makes those Keds look sexy as all get-out, don’t you think? And, of course, they’re tied with bows.

The date on this slide is September of 1968. I don’t know what these two precious ladies were up to that day, but it’s a safe bet that yumtastic cooking, canning, and/or expert quilting was involved. (Note: It appears from this picture that Grandma Anderson still had both of her eyes, but that wouldn’t be for much longer.)

If you’ve had the chance to know these two dames, there is nothing further I need to tell you about them. These women always spoke for themselves, and presented themselves as exactly who they were and what they were about. (Mom continues to do so, even on pandemic lockdown at the care center.) What you saw and heard from them was what you got. I would say that Mom is a more sarcastic, liberated version of Grandma, but that is due mostly to the different times into which they were born. If Mom is Grandma-squared, I am Mom-cubed—simply due to historical culture.

If you haven’t had the honor of knowing either/both of them, let me offer this about Mom and Grandma: They mirrored each other in their generosity and willingness to serve others. They differed in approach somewhat. Mom won’t let anybody get away with anything mean or petty, but she’ll make and serve you scrumptious potato salad while she’s nicely putting you in your place. You end up thanking Mom, as you walk away from being shown the error of your ways.

Grandma Anderson is the only person I’ve known who truly loved her enemies—to the point that she couldn’t remember who her enemies were, or even that she had any. I recall a conversation with Grandma during which, for whatever reason, I mentioned to her that “so-and-so” had once caused her some grief. Grandma was still sound of mind at the time of our conversation, but she truly could not recall any such slight from “so-and-so,” or from anybody else. She had no time for enemies, because she was too busy loving everybody. I’m working on honing that eternally handy skill, inch by inch.

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A Battered Blanket Happened

My name is Helen, and I’m a thumbsuck-aholic. ‘Tis true. I didn’t defeat my personal thumb-diction demon until sometime after 1st Grade. When I was in Kindergarten, I knew I had to stop, but I couldn’t. I did not want to take my baby habit with me to elementary school, but I did—at least to 1st grade. I distinctly remember “accidentally on purpose” dropping my pencil underneath my desk a dozen times a day at least, so while I retrieved my pencil, I could suck a quick puff o’ thumb with my desk as my cover. I never got caught committing my baby habit, but I knew my luck with getting away with such an embarrassing habit would likely not hold out much longer.

Besides, my 1st Grade teacher thought something wasn’t quite right with my behavior anyway. I’m sure the near-constant droppin’ o my pencil was one of the reasons she told my Mom she was sorry, but she thought I was probably retarded, and Mom and Dad should just face it. Mostly, my teacher thought something was wrong with me because I barely spoke. My teacher did not speak in low decibels: She was a yeller, and I had not yet hobnobbed with any adult yellers up to that point in my life. I handled her yelling by trying to be invisible and silent. I tried to blend in with the furniture and hoped to go entirely unnoticed for my first year in elementary school. Looking back, I can see I truly needed my thumb-sucking habit to help me reduce the stress of my 1st Grade experience. It makes perfect sense to me now why I couldn’t stop thumb-sucking before I got away from all the shouting.

Over the summer, I focused all of my superpowers on quitting my bad habit. I begged Mom to cut off my offending thumb (the right). I reasoned that if I didn’t have my thumb, I wouldn’t need to suck it. She would not do it. One of my brothers had his pocketknife at the ready, to lop it off if I gave him a dollar (which I did), but Mom didn’t let him cut it off for me either. Neither did he return the dollar I had already given him for his services.

I soaked my childish thumb in rubbing alcohol, so I wouldn’t be tempted to suck it anymore. But that didn’t work either. I held my nose and sucked my thumb. I was desperate. And as every pro-level thumbsucker knows, thumb-sucking isn’t merely about sucking a thumb. For me, it was about sucking my thumb while mousing my fingers in the fabric of MY quilt. See my raggedy blanket there on our clothesline, barely hanging together. See how tattered it is from my thumb-sucking, fidgety-fingered use and from all the dragging it around with me. See how I couldn’t be separated from it at home for the length of time it took for it to dry on the clothesline. See how I stood at the clothesline, clutching my quilt all day in the hot sun. #yesthatisthebattingyoucansee

Standing there with my blanket was for many years my idea of Heaven. But I needed to stop. So I begged Mom to burn my blanket, reasoning that if I had no blanket, I would have less desire to suck my thumb. Mom would not burn my quilt, and I don’t have any idea how I finally stopped the whole thumby experience. All I know is that my infantile thumb habit did not go with me to 2nd Grade, where my teacher was not a yeller. In fact, at the end of 2nd Grade, my teacher thought I should skip a grade.

BTW This washed-out slide is one of my faves. I haven’t been sure if I really did this or have just been “remembering” I did it because I heard the story from so many family members for so long. This slide proves it was not just a family myth. My quilt, my right thumb, and I were united. And I’m sure there’s a Bow o’ the Day tied somewhere on my dress.

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Have Cork Gun, Will Travel

When I discovered the long-hidden slides of baby-me yesterday, I knew two things were bound to happen: I will be making Suzanne watch slideshows of me and my family every evening until we have seen them all many times, AND y’all will be seeing pix I take of the slides projected onto my wall. I’ll eventually get the slides scanned and turned into photos, but I can’t wait that long to show y’all.

With this slide, I am utilizing my bow-tied hoodie string around my face as our Bow Tie o’ The Day. Here, I am just amblin’ through the neighborhood, down our front sidewalk in my natural habitat with my natural prop: a gun, of course. I am a Wright, therefore, I shoot things. It would not surprise me if Dad put this gun in my arms as we left the hospital after I was born. I do remember the gun shot corks. A double-barrel cork gun! And please note that I am already carrying the gun barrel-down, which means Dad had already taught me to hold a gun safely. Heck, Dad had probably made sure I passed my Hunter Safety classes before he ever brought me home from the hospital in the first place.

For those of you Deltites over 50, you might remember the building in the far background of this slide. If my kid memory is correct, it is the old train depot. Yup, Delta used to be a regular stop for passenger trains. As a kid, I spent a lot of time hanging around the tracks and the depot. I did a lot of investigating stopped train cars, especially cabooses—with and without permission. I will always miss the sound of trains during the night. Trains were part of my natural habitat too.

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A Lost Treasure Is Found

In this exotic slide, Tie o’ the Day is worn in by none other than my grandpa, Walt Wright. He was my first tie influence. We look like we were probably ready to head off to church. Note my red/orange shoes! I doubt our dog, Dum Dum, was going with us, but I’m sure Dum Dum tried to follow us. It’s just what Dum Dum did. She’s so light in this slide, she looks like a ghost. Well, we kinda all three look like ghosts. Apparently slides don’t hold up well when nobody knows where they are for decades. But that’s part of their charm too.

I’m overjoyed to share this. It is a slide, among many, I ran onto today—after 40 years of not really knowing there were missing slides of my childhood. My slide projector still works, with its 40-plus-year-old bulb. I am flabbergasted and astonished at my luck in finding these. Sorry that my walls are textured, so it makes the image look like a puzzle I put together. Be warned! You will be seeing more slides o’ my kidhood past in the near future. I’m sure tall tales and half-truths will abound. Like in my usual posts.

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Rearing A Purse Is Nothing But Drama

As you likely know, I have owned one—and only one—purse in my long, long, long, really long life. I am not a purse chick. However, when I saw The Saddle Purse in a shop at the airport, I had to adopt it. The chief selling points of the purse were its teensy stirrups and its teensy saddle bag. I have had The Saddle Purse just over a year at this point. Because of the magnificent item, I have become a tad bit purse-y, I must admit.

With the pandemic call to stay at home when possible these last few months, me and mine have done just that. Staying home has been hardest for The Saddle Purse and some of the drinking Ties o’ the Day. They have sat idly by, in a kind of hibernation their party selves aren’t really suited to. I am always aware of my stewardships: I tend to my fashion items with great diligence. I know they’ve been feeling wonky lately. I had planned to spend some quality time with The Saddle Purse and the drinking ties this morning after Suzanne drove off to Ogden to her Champagne Garden Club, but when she was finally gone, I couldn’t find hide nor hair of The Saddle Purse or the drinking ties.

I searched the neckwear crowds of The Tie Room. I searched under the dust in my car and truck. I was just about to call the Centerville police to report The Saddle Purse and party drink ties as having been burgled, when I decided to check the bedroom deck. Lo, and behold! A drunken bash was going on, the likes of which we haven’t seen in this house since ever. Even the wine bottle label had a bow tie on it!

Oh, the fun debauchery The Saddle Purse had created. I have no doubt whatsoever that The Saddle Purse was in charge of this inebriation insurrection. The ties were mesmerized and manipulated by the purse, like we all are. Seriously, if The Saddle Purse asked you to steal some hooch from the fridge and meet up at the bedroom deck without telling the boss of the house, you’d do it. And I wouldn’t blame you for doing it, cuz I completely understand the hold The Saddle Purse has on people. I hope The Saddle Purse doesn’t find where I stored the capes.

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Summer Waits For No-one

My Klimt-inspired Bow Tie o’ the Day is a perfect cherry-on-top selection for my green-and-white, old-timey swimming suit. I found a green-and-white striped Face Mask o’ the Day which almost matches. I’m good with almost matches on rare occasions.

It’s pool time folks. I’m wearing my cowboy boots here in the photo just cuz I like to wear my cowboy boots. They make an especially bold statement, but I won’t be swimming in them. I swam in my cowboy boots at the Reservoir near Delta once when I was a kid, and I got stuck in the sand at the bottom. No matter how hard I tugged and pulled, I could not budge my boots from the muck. I got stucker and stucker. I stood out in the water, calling for help for what felt to me like hours, but it was probably more like 10 minutes. There was no way in heck I was gonna just pull my feet out of my stuck boots and swim to shore. No way in heck was I going to leave my cowboy boots out there to drown without me. I waved my arms, again and again, and yelled for assistance. Even then, people knew I was eccentric, so they just thought I was waving hello and putting on a show for those on shore.

Finally, some drunk hippie I didn’t even know suddenly realized I was in a predicament. He swam out to save me, and he patiently dove beneath the water to release me and my boots. He carried my boots to shore for me.

I learned two lessons that day: 1. Don’t swim in your cowboy boots, no matter how much you love wearing them. 2. Sometimes the drunk stranger will be the first one to save you from yourself.

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I Ain’t Got No Stinkin’ COVID-19

I was able to go to my physical therapy appointment at the U of U this morning, cuz yesterday I got the news I passed my COVID-19 test. I had to prove I was virus-free before the staff at Pain Management Center would even open the door to me and wood Bow Tie o’ the Day. It was my first PT visit for the current torso distress I find myself in. (It feels like my ribs are squeezing my innards to death.) I am not convinced PT will do a dang bit of good for what aches me now, but I will do as I am told. I felt the same hopelessness about going to PT for my gnarly rotator cuff last year, but PT almost completely eliminated my shoulder issues. And so, I will give PT for my gut a whole-hearted go.

By the time I was done with today’s PT appointment, I had been through a thing called “trigger point dry needling” therapy, which I had never heard of before. It is sorta like acupuncture, but with electricity being pumped through the needles and into whatever muscles they are sticking out of. Electrified needles protruded down both sides of my spine and across my belly for most of my appointment. I kid you not.

While I was experiencing dry needling, it came to me. Here’s how you can determine whether or not you’ve hit your pain limit: You know you’ve hit your pain limit if you’re happily willing to endure new and different pain for the merest smidgen of a chance to get rid of the old familiar pain. Or something like that.

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Tested

Well, I have an in-office pain specialist appointment in SLC in a few days, but before I’m allowed to actually enter the office, I am required to take a COVID-19 test. So this morning, I threw on a mustache wood Bow Tie o’ the Day, and I managed to wrangle Skitter into the car with me for a drive to the Farmington Station U of U Hospital, where they have drive-thru COVID-19 testing. Skitter and I sang Lumineers songs together in the car while waiting in line, and she was very brave. She even held my hand through the entire drive-thru testing process.

The testing itself was a shock to my system—only because I didn’t know it was going to be done quite that far up my nose. Ever had a really long toothpick shoved all the way up your nose for exactly 5 seconds? The stick may have been only about the circumference of a toothpick, but when it’s poked up your nose for 5 seconds it feels like an angry ponderosa pine.

I get the results in 24-48 hours. Kudos to the U of U Hospital folks performing the tests. The process was streamlined and professional. The testers also liked my mask.