Practically Laura

Everyday No. 1

…a time to weep and a time to laugh,

a time to mourn and a time to dance

Ecclesiastes 3:4 (NIV)

How do you gather your thoughts in a basket with holes? Well, I try. Writing helps.

It’s an understatement to say it’s been a sad few days.

A disturbed person may choose a target, and that’s what happened last Friday. I know you know this, but I feel the need to restate it—a sniper killed five people (Dallas police officers) while they worked at a peaceful protest that night.

I feel sadness then fatigue then distraction. My thoughts go round and round my head while I sit still, while I run errands, while I’m at church. What does it all mean? Has it always been this bad?

Growing up in the seventies and eighties in North Oak Cliff, I didn’t think so. Sunset High School, the school I attended, was nicely integrated. I know there were attitudes beneath the surface, but for the most part, I feel we felt more of a modern generation, a generation that didn’t necessarily register race at first glance. Even then and knowing that others of our age would’ve concurrently lived a more segregated lifestyle, it wasn’t that way for us. Was it perfect? No. In fact, my own youthful lack of caution and ignorance may have offended some person at some time. I cringe to think of such a mistake. I hope you’ll forgive my lack of sensitivity if that’s the case, but please know it wasn’t on purpose. It was more from the unspoken assumption on my part that we are equal. 

I would prefer you think of me as a person first. I would rather give you the same consideration, yet be assured I respect your right to be proud of any part of your heritage or identity. On second thought, I would love it if you thought of me as a Christ-follower.

But to get back on track, the fact of the matter is that we’re still self-segregated, although I view it more as a socioeconomic (possibly educational) divide, instead of a racial divide—not even a religious one.

Last week makes me think I may be wrong.

In the meantime and as a white, middle-aged housewife that lives in a fairly diverse Houston suburb, I wonder what I might change in my own life. What do I need to do? I’ve yet to come to a conclusion other than wild thoughts of moving my family farther into the city, somehow trying to breach that divide.

I don’t think that’s a possibility for now. Instead, I paste on an awkward albeit sincere smile as I go through life instead of looking down; I pray silent, disjointed words that only Christ understands; and I wait for an answer.

Then I’m brave enough to talk to my children about subjects I don't mind broaching but wish it wasn't a necessity. Subjects like how I believe we’re all equal but not the same. God made each of us in his image yet unique. “When the heart breaks, no, it don’t break even,” after all.* And things about life not being fair, but I still feel it’s good. And in saying this acknowledging how blessed I am, and the irony that it may be too easy for me to hang on to that hope due to my background and circumstances.

And people I don’t know…just people…giving me awkward smiles back.

No man is an island,

Entire of itself,

Every man is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less.

As well as if a promontory were.

As well as if a manor of thy friend's

Or of thine own were:

Any man's death diminishes me,

Because I am involved in mankind,

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;

It tolls for thee.

by John Donne

 

*Lyrics from “Breakeven” by The Scripts

Famolare Shoes

She probably doesn’t think I read her post because she knows how I love to reminisce…but I didn’t comment.

Instead it prompted me to once again stop and think (and stop and think) and try to remember about high school.  In particular, I tried to remember what it might’ve been like to walk into the building on the
first day.

It wasn’t as if I wasn’t familiar with the high school anyway.  After all, my sister had just graduated from Sunset the year before—I’d visited several times. But Lisa was off at college, and, if she’d been born a year later, I’m not sure she would’ve entirely welcomed my presence.  As close as we are now, four years during the teens can feel like an unfathomable galaxy. 
Only the U.S.S. Enterprise of age can begin to bridge that distance(Live long and prosper.).

However, I bet Kristi and I found each other somehow, some
way.  I bet it didn’t take us long.  We may’ve even set up a place to meet before class for solidarity’s sake—then we wouldn’t have felt so alone.  If we met at the front of the school (and I’m thinking we did), we would’ve had a whole pyramid’s worth of concrete steps to climb to get to the main entrance.  It was the kind of concrete with microscopic little pebbles, the Dallas kind.  So if you kept your head down as you climbed this gauntlet, it was highly possible to be distracted by the tiny, bright dots of color embedded within the steps; it might’ve made it a little easier to ascend with all the potential onlookers perched around.

We would’ve noted each other’s new clothes once together,
including some ridiculous Famolare heels I’m sure my resourceful mother helped me to find on sale because I wanted to feel stylish; I wanted to feel like I fit in.  I vaguely remember some burnt red, linen-y pants and a long-sleeved striped, cotton blouse.  I wonder if those were the pants I chose to wear the first day.

I don’t think the shoes did the trick, by the way.  I think I just felt awkward.

Nonetheless and with Kristi, her presence would’ve done the trick; it would’ve been another welcome and welcoming distraction.

Because we almost certainly felt awkward together.

Soon we would’ve scanned the crowd for Sus and Lori and Lisa
D., eyes darting hither and thither, and almost unthinkingly registering the cute boys who passed us by.

But we could talk over the cute boys later.

Yes, these were the boys who might break our hearts in a few
weeks time…the boys who might teach us to be especially careful with our feeble, patched-up selves for a very long while.

Teaching me it was better to remain just friends with the Y chromosome (even if on a subconscious level)…for all the cuteness.  After all, like a fine work of art, cuteness can be admired best from a little distance.

Even more importantly, we girls always had each other after
the sometimes treacherous boys took their leave.  We didn’t necessarily have to talk the heartache over in any great detail, but we stuck around…we continued to be there.

Therefore, when my own daughter left for her very first day
of high school this past Monday, I prayed for many things.  But one of the most important things I whispered to God concerned her friendships.

After all…belonging…is pretty close to everything.

Oak Cliff-O, Part 3c: Church Friends, v. Scary

When I say we were scary, I don’t mean like the Church Lady.

I mean, the Church Lady (Thank you, Dana Carvey.) was quite scary…in more ways than one…albeit funny.

I guess I mean to say we didn’t shy away from Halloween…which, when you think about it, makes sense.  After all, we grew up watching reruns of The Munsters and The Addams Family.  Talk of the devil’s holiday wasn’t an issue…at least in Oak Cliff…so we all dressed up and trick or treated as children.

As we grew a little older and entered our teenage years, we continued to view Halloween more as a way to have fun with our friends…or even reach out to the community…or (believe it or not) raise money for church youth activities.

This manifested itself in different ways.

For instance and at one point, we used the youth building across from our church as a haunted house to raise money for a mission trip.

Another year, our youth group had a retreat or something out at Mt. Lebanon (our local, Baptist encampment)…back then our church had its own lodge.

And, actually, I’m not sure if we stayed the whole night…but they (Mt. Lebanon) allowed us to have a Halloween scavenger hunt...truth be told.

Jodi B. and I were in charge of the hunt; we had to drive out the night before to set it up.  And I remember dreaming up the clues (or we both did); then we put them together and planted them around the grounds of the retreat.  One clue was on a white sheet, and we spray-painted it with red paint to look like blood.  One clue was in a humongous pickle jar which I had previously used as a bug collection and fumigation repository for a science project…but I can’t remember exactly what we did with the jar.  We also had a pail with all kinds of food slopped in it…which sat out over night…and attracted many critters (Yes…that one wasn’t thought out too well.).  I vaguely recall us hanging a life-size, fake corpse or some such (I cringe to admit.) from a tree.

Thinking back on it…I hope we gave out some decent prizes to the winners because dealing with that pail alone deserved a prize.

And I bet you almost anything I wrote up most of the gruesome clues…because looking back on a lot of things I’ve written for the blog has caused me to come to the conclusion I was the main culprit in many of our ‘adventures.’

I have brief flashes…snapshots…of sensations from that night at Mt. Lebanon.  I feel cool, dark, October air… running…gray trees…dirt…shadows…pinpoints of light from the various buildings.  I think I was largely alone…I don’t know if it was because I was one of the people who set up the scavenger hunt, so I couldn’t participate.

Later that evening, I continued by myself in the huge, open-air tabernacle where we had planted one of the clues.  It was so odd to be alone in this place which I had only ever experienced packed with people, sound and light.

I remember wanting to dance around the smooth, concrete floor a bit…I think I did.

Surprisingly…throughout it all…the entire night…I don’t think I was scared once.

I was young after all…and I didn’t know to be afraid.

PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

I’m not sure anyone else will think this is funny…but we continue to think it’s funny after all these years.

The silly thing is…we may’ve already been in college at this point and a little too old for these types of escapades.  If this was the case, it must’ve been the summer…so we were together.

Recently, we bandied it back and forth via facebook message to see what we could remember about the incident…and it wasn’t too much.

Although Duane reminded us we were in his car which was a little Horizon…I couldn’t remember whose car it was, but thought it might have been a Chevette.

Okay, okay…I’ll try and get to the point.

One night, I guess we were back at Mt. Lebanon for something, but we obviously had a lot of freedom because several of us decided to take off for Goat Mountain in Duane’s mini car.

Now, I bet you’re thinking something like this:  What (in the world) is Goat Mountain?

Goat Mountain was a little cemetery in Cedar Hill, Texas…not too far from Mt. Lebanon…and there was no mountain involved.

Although Goat Mountain was not its real name (I’m not sure anyone knows its real name.), but it was rumored to be a place where witches or devil worshippers would do their rituals…rituals supposedly involving the sacrifice of goats or other animals.

Sounds scary, right?

In reality, it was just a small, lonely, country cemetery…with a few scrubby bushes or trees and that dusty, lime-stone chipped top-soil so common in that particular part of North Texas.

The few times we were there, we never saw evidence of any goat-type sacrifice…ironically enough.

So, one night, I guess we were bored and thought it would be fun (or briefly amusing) to pile into Duane’s little car and head over there.  My friend, Kristi, was in the car along with Duane (of course)…I can’t remember who else was along…maybe Lisa D. or Kathy or Lori or Owen…but Shawn was definitely with us because there wasn’t enough room in the car…and he had to sit back in the hatchback area…you know, the trunk area.

And he wasn’t happy about it.

Not. At. All.

I’m not sure why he came along…I bet Duane convinced him.

Consequently, it wasn’t long before we started hearing moaning and groaning from the back.

“I’m tired; I’m hungry; I’m sick,” Shawn wailed, adding other descriptive words as he dreamt them up and continuing without abatement.

Finally, someone (probably Duane) asked with a little sarcasm thrown in for good measure, “How are you, Shawn?”

“I’m fine,” he nonchalantly replied as if the previous litany of ills were never voiced in the first place.

However, in a few more moments…the complaints started up again…only to have another one of us ask how he was doing to which he would reply with the same droll answer then a brief respite.

Okay, so I guess there’s not much point to this tale, but I have to say…Duane and Shawn are still two of the funniest people I’ve ever met…Kristi comes in third…because she really knows how to tell an entertaining story (and laugh at herself).

Once we got out to Goat Mountain, I can’t remember what happened, but Kristi says we chased some people out of the cemetery…which is really hard to believe because all I can remember from that night were the cramped car conditions and Shawn’s groaning.  And, generally, we weren’t really the chasing sort of group.

But, in a funny twist of fate (and this gave us the biggest laugh of all), Kristi says her husband, Scott (pre-Kristi), was chased out of the cemetery one night by a bunch of crazy people.

I’m pretty sure we’ve decided we were the ones chasing Scott and friends out of the cemetery…whether or not it’s true…because it makes a good tale.

And if I can say nothing else about my old church friends (and I, fortunately, have many good things to say about them)…it’s that we all love a good story…the more ridiculous the better.

Have a fun, safe Halloween, everyone!

Author's note:  Since I published this, Shawn has very subtly let me know the incident probably occured during the winter.  Well...so much for my memory.

Oak Cliff-O, Part 3b: Church Friends

Author’s note:  Cliff Temple people…please forgive me. ;)

******

None of us had good cars.

Noneofus.

I had an olive-green Ford Pinto (actually borrowed on occasion from my dad until he went off to work in California for awhile; then I drove it all the time.).  Kristi had a gold Ford Pinto.  Owen had some kind of a land yacht…and Mark as well (I think).  Duane had a Horizon.

Did Shawn have a car?  If so, it was probably another boat.

I can’t remember if Lori had one.

Okay, wait…I think Lisa D. had some kind of a decent car because she was enterprising enough to work at Minyard’s in her spare time.

And Tom had a navy Oldsmobile Cutlass which was a very nice car…it had an eight-track tape player…we used to listen to Rick James.  Although Tom went to Cliff Temple…and the Cliff Temple people were a little more upscale (in their imaginations) than the Calvary people.

The Cliff Temple people…they’d forgotten they lived on the wrong side of the tracks.  In fact, I think some of them were proud they lived in Duncanville.

But getting back on this track…Don’s was the worst.

Don’s was this gold Gremlin hatchback.

And at some point…it got water in it.  Maybe a window was left open during a heavy rain…or something else, but it, well…okay…let me just cut to the chase:  It stunk.

I guess the water caused the interior to mildew.

But, I have to give Don credit…he tried to get rid of the smell by hanging those pine air-freshener thingies from his rear-view mirror.  The result was this strange hybrid smell…something between lemony and mildew.

I’ve never smelled anything like it since.

 
Don with our friend, Jodie

Don was a great guy, by the way.

He was a senior at Sunset when I was a freshman.  He was a cheerleader (one of four guy cheerleaders on our squad of eight).

I remember those cheerleaders my freshman year quite well; they were very good.  They could do these amazing stunts because they had all that muscle behind them.  And most of them could do back flips and other impressive gymnastic-type things.

I really loved watching them at the games.

At one point, Don started dating my cute friend, Lisa D.

In fact, I think Lisa was the reason Don started coming to Calvary…and how he and I got to know each other.

Incidentally, Don had a really wild/scary thing which led to his decision to become a Christ-follower.

So Don had this dream…and in the dream…he was standing at a cliff…and there was another cliff across a deep ravine…like Royal Gorge, I guess.  A few of his friends were with him in the dream.  When his friends went to leap across the ravine, they made it just fine…one by one.  When Don went to leap across the ravine…he didn’t.

And it concerned him because he interpreted it as a metaphor of his own spiritual state.

Well, I’m sure there are a few skeptics reading this who will think it was his subconscious playing with him...building on past information he had received from friends or family…and, actually, I’m pretty sure I would agree with you...to a point.  Personally and additionally, I think God was speaking to him…reinforcing those previous messages…because I’m not sure the information had made any kind of impression on him before the dream.

Whatever the case...the dream shook Don up so incredibly, he soon made a decision to follow Christ.

As a result, even after he and Lisa D. were no longer dating, Don continued to hang around with us at Calvary.

And, in truth, he was one of the gentlest and most generous people I knew…within his means.  He never minded giving us rides in his Gremlin with the pine tree hanging from the mirror…and quarters to play Pac-Man…and little stuffed animals for the girls before a game.

He used to do some of the cheerleading stunts with us on Sunday nights between the services…he must’ve been incredibly strong.

Unfortunately, I lost touch with him at some point…but a few years back my sister noticed his obituary in the Dallas Morning News; he died suddenly…just like Mark.    However, I found out while reading the obit comments from some of his co-workers he liked to plan and host cook outs for the employees at the car dealership where he worked.

In other words…he was still generous.

For now…I bet he’s lending Mark quarters to play Pac-Man and giving our Lori sweet little, stuffed animals to cuddle.

And I bet the barbeque tastes heavenly.

 
Grace, Laura, Don and Owen (up high)

Oak Cliff-O, Part 3a: Church Friends

Does it sound awkward to say…I have no brothers, but I have brothers?

Or what if I told you I had one sister, but I have many sisters?

It doesn’t add up, does it?

But it’s the truth.

******

Back in the late seventies, looking back on it now, my parents seemed to afford me beaucoup autonomy.

Especially at church.

It all started off in about fifth grade.  Yes, fifth grade when I still sometimes cried to sappy Barry Manilow songs about New England…and about a year after my friend, Kristi, came into my life.

    Kristi and I at my Grandparent's Farm (About Fourth or Fifth Grade)

Incidentally, Kristi and I were brilliant…and we had brilliant, left-handed ideas.

So we decided our parents would probably never find out if we skipped children’s choir.

There were only three of us in choir, anyway (Sorry, David B.).

So Kristi and I would roam the building.

We would open doors, walk up and down staircases, travel the echoing halls, and write silly, fifth-grade girl things about DC in the ladies restroom (Yes, mom, I lied about it.  Sorry to you, too.).

We would explore all the little rooms behind the baptistry.  All these little dressing rooms lined up in a row…so beige…with probably a few wire hangers hung up on various hooks here or there…or forgotten white smock things.  There were other rooms…with old choir props…like the obligatory, wooden manger…and there was the flower room…filled with the carcasses of plastic flowers sadly languishing in their coats of dust…no longer pretty or useful.

We normally had fresh flowers on Sunday morning after all.

And it was deliciously scary…this series of secret rooms.

Once, we thought we heard someone back there with us…and we were supposed to be in choir, so we hid.  We crouched down and tried to peer through the weird, bronze-colored metal, screen-like things which separated these rooms from the sanctuary…but never found out where the noise came from.

Maybe...it was a ghost.

More likely it was a rodent.

Then...at some other point and even better…we discovered the roof.

The stairs were nice and broad…as if the original builders intended them for real use.

But when we daringly, excitedly opened the propitiously unlocked door to uncover the stairwell...home to many a dust-bunny…we realized we may have been the only two ever to use these hidden stairs (at least for several hundred years).

It didn’t stop us.

We were brave.

So we climbed to find an opening to each floor…but after the third floor…the top floor…the stairs still climbed.

So we plunged onward…and we clattered out onto an extremely typical tar and gravel roof.

But it wasn’t so typical to us.

I’m pretty sure we barely noticed the commonplace tar and gravel…because the blue, blue sky ranged overhead….everything was out before us.

We were young, you see.

And the really miraculous thing about all of this freedom…was that so many of the doors were open.

 Kristi and I at Love Field - Around Seventh Grade

******

I can’t remember when Mark first started showing up on Sundays.

Duane would remember…because I think he and Mark (both a few years older than I) started making appearances about the same time.

In other words, I think they were already in college, but I can’t remember for sure.

I bet Shawn was responsible for inviting Duane…and Duane was responsible for inviting Mark.

But I really can’t recall…and it’s not terribly important.

Because this is about Mark.

By the way, I’m not sure how Mark became a Christ-Follower, but it was a big, noticeable character change for him…or at least it seemed to me from afar.

Later on I would learn Mark had scars.

His father died at a very young age, and I don’t think his mother was ever the same.

In fact, I know she wasn’t.

So these were a few of the things which bent and refined him…before I even knew him well.

 Then, one day, he went off to U.T.

He had always wanted to go to U.T. Austin…so this was a very big deal for him.

He would come home every summer…just like the rest of us who had scattered, and the old group would do things together…for several summers…for many years.

So we all knew each other to what felt like an exceedingly great extent.

And during this time many things happened including one of the most important of all.

Adulthood.

Afterward…at some point, I started to get tired a lot (even more than usual)…and couldn’t seem to commit to or get as excited about 'things' as some of my friends; subsequently I started to become a little more forgetful.  I would sometimes even forget I was supposed to meet someone somewhere and let them down.

The thing was…I would try to be conscientious and committed, but my job and a few other things like my relationship with Craig…seemed to be the only stuff I could handle with any consistency.

And it seemed like a few people…people I loved and admired…were disappointed in me.

Because, I guess, they were expecting me to be something I wasn’t or couldn’t be.

And I was disappointed in myself as well.

I wasn’t angry at myself; I was on the verge of angry…but life was continuing forward…it was relentless, and it wasn’t slowing down at this point enough I could actually fall into a real depression.

Thank God.

I later found out I had hypothyroidism which explained quite a bit…but that’s another story.

In the meantime (no matter how other people viewed me…or I perceived they viewed me), I never had to worry about Mark.

Because he would sometimes get tired himself.

In other words, he got it.

So, I guess, God placed him in my life…for a brief time…to give me someone who understood if I sometimes couldn’t give a lot.

Furthermore, I would say…I needed someone…someone who didn’t judge me…but hugged me as if his life depended on it…who would talk to me as if I had his respect…someone who seemed to need nothing but my friendship.

I’ve rarely ever experienced more acceptance than I did with Mark…my brother.

One night after Sunday evening church…fairly early on in our friendship…right on the cusp of adulthood…before I got so terribly tired it was noticeable…before I let people down…a bunch of us ended up at Pecan Grove Park (I think that’s the name).

And even though we were too old, we were on the playground…and it was late.

Some of us moved toward the merry-go-round.

We climbed up, hung on, pushed each other and whirled around…and people gravitated in and arced away as if we were our own little solar system.

But Mark and I remained.

And I brought up the subject of God.

And Mark lit up like a spark because he loved to talk about God…as did I.

So we whirled and leaned our heads back.

We talked and looked at the stars.

And I wish I could’ve bottled it and given it away…because it was one of those perfect moments…a moment not to be forgotten.

It was a moment of peace and acceptance.

It was a moment of looking out and looking in.

*******

At some point, our merry-go-round turned a little too fast, and we all drifted apart…gravity reversed and…scattered our stars further than it was possible to come back together.

And Mark left us.

He left us at a point in my life where I was so far from my point of origin…it was impossible for me to return for remembrance.

Yet I remembered alone and…Craig and I reminisced and grieved for our still-young friend…and the still-young family he left behind.

However, Mark left us with many sweet gifts…things which are free…but far, far from cheap.

Things which only a good, sincere man…living a good, sincere life…can give.

I’m so, so glad…somebody invited him to church.

  
Mark

Oak Cliff-O, Part 2a: Park Friends Behind the Scenes

 Unfortunately, my memory is not of the sort to recall events of almost thirty years with perfect clarity (I can’t remember my name with perfect clarity).  Therefore, when I decided to write up my “Park Friends” stories, I relied more on general feelings and impressions of the event and then improvised a bit to round out the story.  For example, I think Tom (Super-T…He probably hates that nickname) and I may have spent more than one snow/ice day together (teenagers in close proximity will drift together and maybe even outside their normal comfort zone if there is no transportation available).  In fact, if I remember correctly, those snow days might have been the impetus to restart our friendship during his last two years of high school, but he would remember more than I on that point.  So, when commenting on the park mentioned in the first two stories, he sent:

“….By the way, the name of the park is Moss Park. Believe it or not, Sunset used to practice football there yrs ago. Another thing I distinctly remember was sledding on the ice, starting at the Barton's house (across from mine), going west on 10th street, going down the hill, making a right on Cavendar heading north towards your house. Invariably, we could go all the way until we hit Jefferson.”

Well…I didn’t think the park had a name.

See what happens when you start asking questions?  You learn a little more about your own background.  Although I don’t believe I ever went sledding on the route he mentions.  I was too big of a chicken and, additionally, wouldn’t have been able to stop my “sled” in time and subsequently been squished on Jefferson.

****

My first story is about time spent with my friend, Kristi, or K-squared.  Kristi is full of great stories and information of her own.  Talk about a good memory!

 She wrote:

 “Here's an Oak Cliff park story I'm sure you don't remember. I had just moved to Dallas, and Mrs. Butler was our 5th grade Sunday School teacher. she took us to Lake Cliff Park to play on that rocket slide. While we were there, a news crew came and filmed us. I was so excited to be on the news in Dallas! When we got home and saw it on the news that night, the story was about child abuse and child abandonment.

There was also a park called something like Pecan Grove on Kiest. We had Y-Teen events there, and you and I dominated in the three-legged race every time.
Surely, I can come up with more than that.”

Yes, my dear, I bet you could come up with more than that…..much more than that.  You are one of the best storytellers around.

By the way, I do remember the slide at Lake Cliff Park because they installed it when I was quite young and it seemed so incredibly tall to me.  I did climb it, but it was a pretty scary experience for little Laura.

I also remember the original Polar Bear Ice Cream store across the street in all its fake white stucco/snow glory.

 

*****

Last, but not least, it turns out Susan (Sweet-S) has been absolved! 

Okay, I need to backtrack a bit.  When I decided to write up her story, I called Sus on the phone to get her permission to post it and to talk the story over with her.  Well…I thought she had “steering problems” only a few times at the infamous spot, but when we rehashed it she revealed it was actually three or four.  This made us laugh and laugh, but Sus insisted there was an oily patch on the road which contributed to her problems.  I was a little bit skeptical (Sorry, Sus!), but Kristi just happened to run across DC’s mother (Mrs. Ch. and Kristi still live in Oak Cliff) and had a little conversation with Mrs. Ch.  Kristi reported:

“Well, I hate to admit this because it takes away from Susan's notorious driving reputation in the little red Bug. Last night, Mrs. Ch. (DC’s mother) told me that there had indeed been a slick spot in the road for years, and many people had wrecked in front of their house. After several "little old ladies" smashed into the same light pole, she got the city to resurface it. Other neighbors got the city to add roads humps. I'm (Kristi) thinking of placing my own little "Susan G. Cautionary Speed Bump" plaque there.

I responded:  “I love it! Can I chip in some of the funds? And better yet, Sus has finally been vindicated. Awesome.”

And Sus gets in the last word: “Yeah Kristi for clearing that up. Lol! I'm jealous that I missed on ice cream and sledding. It sure sounds like it was fun.”

Moreover, with Susan’s story I exercised quite a bit of artistic license as I did with the snow day story.  I mean...who knows what I thought at the time, but I’m sure I wasn’t developing theories based on divine intervention or magnetic polarity.

I guess that’s the joy of story writing…getting to work your creativity.

I LOVE it!

Guess what else I love?  I love my friends.  I’ve been blessed with many good friendships over the years.

I have much for which to be thankful.

Oak Cliff-O, Part 2: Park Friends

Author’s Note:  If you want to add extra depth while you read, please play “Summer Skin” by Death Cab for Cutie.  It’s on my mixpod at left.  Just click on it.  If that's too esoteric for you, well.....I'll never know the difference. :)

K-Squared

I think it was a quiet, overcast Sunday afternoon, and K-squared was at my house; I can’t remember why, but we decided to walk to Minyards to get some Bluebell.

We had a sweet tooth…both of us.

So we made our way past our huge Magnolia and walked up my street toward Plymouth.

My street was shady and green until we reached the end where some newer houses had been built.  The yards of those houses never seemed to flourish…at least in my memory.  I think at least one lacked topsoil because I remember little limestone chip stony patches peaking through the sparse lawn.

One dark brown and one strawberry blonde, I see us with heads bent closely together while making our way up the hill.  We were most likely sharing secrets, but I can't be sure.  However, I know we talked as we walked because we always talked as we walked (I’m a bit upset I can no longer recall the words). Yet we were comfortable and familiar to each other as only youthful, longtime friends;  maybe the words didn’t matter.

 The words were just words.

We reached Plymouth and turned left and directly started downhill.  We blithely crossed busy, busy Jefferson (taking our lives in our hands, but so unaware of it in our youth) and then navigated around the cars in the parking lot.

We entered the store and headed toward the freezer section; I’m sure we shivered a bit because the freezer section is always cold.

If I remember correctly, Bluebell only recently began selling pints, so they were a bit of a wonderful curiosity for us.  We each picked our favorite flavors, took the little tubs to the register and paid up.  I’m guessing I bought mint chocolate chip or rocky road.  I’m not sure what K-squared would’ve purchased, but more likely than not...it also had chocolate in it because I think she liked chocolate…like me.

While clutching our treasure tightly, we trudged back up Plymouth toward a small scruffy park located outside a fenced water reservoir like a mini volcano just out of reach.

The park had no name, but it did have some swings and a slide and a merry-go-round and a lot of dead weedy grass.  Sometimes, it had those horrible spiky stickers we call 'burrs' in Texas, but we managed to navigate around any such obstacles to the swings.

The swings, tall and metal-ish, had those plastic letter-u seats which hug your bottom when you sit in them.  We were getting a bit big to use them, but it didn’t stop us.

So we planted ourselves and took out our Bluebell; we must have packed up some plastic spoons from my house because I remember one or maybe both breaking while trying to dig into the ice cream.  But we were persistent in our quest to consume our sweet snack and managed to continue eating with little short-handled, mini shovels.

As we ate, we talked about things only girls talk about (so I’m not sharing them with you as I didn’t share my ice cream with K-squared back then).

I’m positive we felt slightly guilty for each consuming whole pints.  I’m not sure if she was on a diet, but I was (ridiculously) always on a diet.  Yet we didn’t feel misguided enough for it to stop our progress.  I imagine us acknowledging our sin with guilty little smiles and slightly sardonic laughs but continuing on.

So we talked and ate and went back and forth on our little “u” seats and with our words.

We were the picture of park friends.

Super-T

It’s a snow day, which normally in Dallas means an 'ice day' with a little snow, but today we actually have a good bit of snow on the ground.  On these days, if we aren’t required to go anywhere, we stay inside because the roads are BAD.

Needless to say, I’m bored.

 I can call my friends, but I can’t get to them....and they can’t get to me.

But I have a gamble of an idea.

Super-T lives just a few blocks away.  Maybe he’s as bored as I.

So I ask my Mom if it’s okay to call to invite him over for hot chocolate...and to watch TV or make a snowman...or something.

I can’t believe I have the nerve to call him, but somehow I dredge it up.

I’m slightly bemused by my bravery.

And, miracously, he agrees.

Perfect.

When we were little, by the way, we were friends.  We played together.  He, Queen Butterfly and I would play 'Batman and Robin' with our mothers' kitchen aprons as capes.  We would zoom around the house with our makeshift costumes flapping out behind us and vanquish bad guys.  Unfortunately, because I was the youngest I was always Robin.  Queen Butterfly was Batgirl and Super-T was Batman, so unless I wanted to be a bad guy I had to pick Robin which was a huge downer for me.

In truth, I think I picked Cat Woman a few times, and I can’t recall, but I hope I got my revenge on Batman and Batgirl (if only once).

Back then, we were all goofy as only small children are allowed to be.

Anyway, Super-T and I have since grown apart, but we've been slowly starting to interact a bit more over the last few months.

And he’s no longer goofy, but I think he thinks I’m still goofy.

I am goofy.

He rings the doorbell, and I open the door to find him all bundled up and carrying flattened cardboard boxes.

So I’m guessing we’re not watching TV after all.

Yep. We’re playing in the snow!

However, I’m not sure about the boxes.  I’ve never used cardboard 'sleds' before, but we decide to try them out at the end of my street because it has a steep slope...so we slide down the hill a few times; then Super-T declares he has a better idea.

He suggests we walk up to the park near his house to the water reservoir.

“We’re not supposed to climb the fence.  It’s not supposed to be safe,” I tell him, but he shushes my objections, and I go along with him because he’s Super-T...and if he says it’s okay to break the rules….then it is.

We walk up my street dragging our boxes and then up Plymouth and, once we reach the park, carefully inspect the fence.  There’s some barbed wire at the top, but it’s bent down in a few places.  We strategically choose a point to climb and chunk the cardboard boxes over the fence first before we scramble over ourselves.

Then we slide, slide and slide…and hit the fence but, miraculously, fall in no holes...and the reservoir seems to hold up under our meager weight.

We stay there for awhile, and he’s right…no one comes to yell at or berate us for climbing the fence.  I guess all the would-be responsible adults are hibernating.

I’m glad we didn’t, I think, as we later warm up our frozen fingers with hot chocolate in front of the fireplace.

Choir Dresses

It’s nighttime. We‘ve been at a school choir concert somewhere and while driving home through Kessler spot some sprinklers going at Stevens Park Golf Course.

I’m not sure how or what prompts our actions or who’s idea it is, but the next thing you know we’re running through sprinklers in long black, witchy dresses.

There are houses directly across the street, but no unexpected light flicks on to startle us….no one peeks out to check on the noise…so we continue on unobstructed.

In our imaginations, we briefly believe we’re children again.

We’re not…but for one fleeting span we forget…and we run through the night-time sparkly sprinkles stealing the water from the grass.

Sweet-S or Car=Freedom=Love

Sweet-S turns sweet sixteen before the rest of us and quickly becomes our chauffeur of choice.  Sweetly, she accepts the responsibility without complaint.

She has this adorable, red, reconditioned VW Bug…without air conditioning.

Yet, the lack of air conditioning doesn’t seem to bother us.  The car is cool (as in super) and it gets us around.

Seriously…what more could we ask?!

Then one evening she picks us up to go to Young Life which was being held at DC’s house across from the Stevens Park Golf Course.

DC’s house has a swanky view, by the way.  Directly across the street is a beautiful portion of the golf green with trees artistically scattered hither and thither.  Further away…around a corner and down about a block but still within view, is a grouping of small stone pavilions which house some picnic tables.

From DC’s door, they add to the picturesque scene.

In reality, the little group of buildings has been dubbed 'Pervert Park' by the local teens.  I’m not sure how it originally earned the name (and don’t want to know) but think it should be redubbed 'Pot Park' because it currently is used as a haven for our youthful druggie population.

I’m pretty sure the Sin Twins hang out there.

Anyway, we’re driving up to DC’s house and, despite the avenue-like street, parking is quite difficult to navigate.  So Sweet-S tries to pull into  a parking spot and, I guess, gets flustered because the next thing we know she’s hopped the low curb and hit a light pole...which was sneakily camouflaged with dark green paint and difficult to see in the nighttime.

At this point, I’m wondering if God is trying to tell us not to go to Young Life at DC’s house--or not to go to DC’s house at all--because visiting seems unlucky.  Maybe God, despite the fact we’re being good girls to attend Young Life, doesn’t want us in close proximity to Pervert Park because another night I accidentally left my purse on top of the Bug as we were leaving and, of course, lost the house keys; my parents made me pay to have the locks changed.

Okay, okay…I know it’s far-fetched, but it does give me pause for thought.

For now, Sweet-S’s zippy car has an ugly dent in its pretty red door.  We pile out to look at it but then quickly start toward the house.  It’s almost time for Young Life to start.

******

A few weeks later, we’re driving past the scene of the crime, when Sweet-S becomes discombobulated once again and somehow hops the curb.

She hits the exact same pole.

We shouldn’t, but we tease her…which she shrugs off with much grace.

Yet I can’t help but muse on my earlier theory of divine intervention.

I quickly dismiss the thought and decide it’s something altogether different, but more plausible.

What, you might wonder, is my new theory?

I hypothesize the car and the pole have opposite magnetic polarities and are being irresistibly drawn together.

In other words, the light pole is in love with the Love Bug.

It’s incredibly possible….because the rest of us feel the same way about Sweet-S’s car.

If she hits it again, I’ll have proof.

********

Author’s Note:  Thank you to Kristi, Tom and Susan for allowing me to share our stories….even if my memory is a bit faulty so I had to improvise here and there.

Specifically, I would like to thank Kristi for enthusiastically sharing her better memory (You have the BEST stories).  I would like to thank Tom for teaching me it’s okay to break the rules every now and then (but please don’t tell my children I said so).  Last but not least, I would like to thank Susan (our sometimes unsettled angel) for perpetually being such a good sport. XOXO

Oak Cliff-O, Part I

It’s hard to believe, but Craig and I are celebrating our twenty-first wedding anniversary this year.

We met while attending Baylor.  He was a junior, and I was a senior...and we were both business majors.  He was getting a double major in Finance/Economics.  I was getting my Economics degree.

Attending Baylor in the eighties was sometimes tough for me.  There was such a difference between the 'Baylor Bubble' as it used to be called and the real world…or maybe I should say the real world as I had known it.

I had many good experiences while at Baylor, but I often felt like a fish out of water.  My background seemed to be very different from those around me; I tried to fit in, but I’m not sure I was ever very successful.

By the way, I grew up in the Oak Cliff portion of Dallas.  If you’ve never visited Oak Cliff, I’m thinking you should check it out because, in general, I believe it’s good to expand our horizons.  And you never know, but you might stumble across the Bishop Arts District, Aunt Stelle’s Snow Cones or the Texas Theatre and spontaneously decide to stick around for awhile and remodel a house…or something.

While at Baylor, the Cliffies had a little joke about being from 'Oak Cliff-O' because when people would ask where we were from...it went like this:

Other person:   Where are you from?

Cliffie:  Dallas.

Other person:  What part of Dallas?

Cliffie:  Oak Cliff.

(PREGNANT PAUSE while the other person reevaluates everything they knew or thought of you before the initial question.)

Other person:   Oh.

 I guess I need to get back on track.

So specifically I grew up in the northern part of Oak Cliff and attended Sunset High School and Calvary Baptist Church of Oak Cliff.  The church happened to be just down the street from the high school on West Tenth. 

There were a lot of churches on W. Tenth.  There still are.

Anyway, that was my world before Baylor….the gray, clumsily patched streets of Oak Cliff.  The road from our house to the school was lined with little brick and then wood-sided varyingly kempt houses.  Green grass oftentimes gave way to weeds; then we were at school...or church if you travelled another few blocks.  Once you reached our church if you jogged left and continued on, the houses became progressively larger and progressively more unvaryingly kempt until you entered the Kessler Park portion of Oak Cliff.  Once you reached Kessler, you would most likely want to stay, but probably couldn't have afforded it.

To sum up:  It was real.  It was familiar.  It was (blessedly) the wrong side of the tracks.  I'm glad I grew up there. 

My high school (and Oak Cliff itself, for that matter) was a cultural experience in diversity…diversity in race, socioeconomic status, sub-culture, political bent and, of course, personality-type which, I guess, can be applied anywhere. 

Although I have to admit, at the time, most Cliffies were Protestant, or so it seemed in our part of Oak Cliff.  Religion was the one area where there didn’t seem to be a lot of diversity.  There were other options, of course, and there were many different Protestant denominations from which to choose.  On Tenth Street alone, I can name/remember several churches.  In addition to our church, there was Cliff Temple Baptist, Grace Temple Baptist, Tyler St. Methodist, an Episcopal church and a Salvation Army church.  I’m sure there were others I cannot recall, but it was a very churched street.  If streets went to heaven, W. Tenth St. would be first in line.  Our pastor used to quote someone else (I can’t remember the name, of course) who characterized Tenth St. as the buckle on the Bible Belt.

Our church, Calvary Baptist of Oak Cliff, was a wonderful place.  My best friend’s father as pastor and my father as a deacon, we felt an investment in the place.  It was a second home.  It was one of our comfortable places…for the most part.  While I was a child, three generations from my mother’s family attended the church.

In fact, my parents still attend Calvary.

During my preteen years and beyond, we were incredibly blessed to have David Kuykendall as our pastor.  He preached against legalism, constantly reminded us of the gift of God’s grace, never criticized other denominations (or anyone, for that matter) and preached a message which was Biblical.

His message seemed for everyone.

Additionally, things were pretty loose for the youth group at CBOC.  We didn’t have many unwritten rules, the lack of which was an incredible gift only fully-realized by me later in adulthood.

For example, we were allowed to mix our 'Pass It On' with Buddy Holly and the Beatles in our youth worship.  Our music minister, Russ Murphy, was from Lubbock; therefore, he passed on his Buddy love…and everyone loves the Beatles so they couldn’t be left out.

So I enjoyed the friendship of other teens, who even if we weren’t the most mature group for our age (well, I’m sure most of the others were more mature than I), were gifted with a sense of belonging, loved to be together, to laugh, to talk about the Bible, to not be afraid to question intelligently or otherwise...and to not lean too heavily on the evidence of externals.

You see, in Oak Cliff, there weren’t many “externals” to get all in a twist over.

It’s difficult to explain life as we knew it.  I would almost say it was bohemian, but it wasn’t… for some it might’ve been, especially some of those from the upper socioeconomic strata.  Yet, for most of us, such a characterization would be pretty far off the mark.  We weren’t pretend gypsies.  Although a typical Cliffie’s upbringing would intuitively teach openness and acceptance in order to survive and thrive.  Furthermore, we didn’t understand the white suburban mindset of the day or even care about it.

 I think there were those in our community who chose not to understand we were no longer living in an all-white world (a delusion in the first place), and maybe they were bitter or in denial.  Of course, many of like mindset had already flown if they had the option.

Yet my dad didn’t 'fly.'  My dad could not have cared less what most people thought about his family’s choice of location or the color of his next door neighbor’s skin.   Therefore, like many others, we lived in Oak Cliff and didn’t think too much about the distinctiveness of our proletariat place.  It was life (period) and I’m not sure we understood the somewhat uniqueness of our situation.

There was no "o" at the end of our Oak Cliff.

*****

Author’s note:  An old high school friend has started an interesting blog called “Walks in the Hood”.  In it, she writes about life in Oak Cliff then and now.  Her photographs accompany her work.  Here is the link:

 http://walksinthehood.blogspot.com/2010_09_01_archive.html

If you’re interested in learning a bit of Oak Cliff history, here is the Wiki link for the Texas Theatre:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Texas_Theatre

I apologize because I wasn’t specific with today’s post.  I think a few examples or short anecdotes would not have been amiss, but then the length might be a problem.  Additionally, I’m saving some such for another venue but wish to continue to share more of my Oak Cliff stories/thoughts/commentary with you in future.  I’ll hopefully be more detailed then.

 Another author's note:  After posting, I realized I may have given the wrong impression.  Unfortunately, my family no longer lives in Oak Cliff.  While I was in college, they moved to one of the southern suburbs in order for my mom to be closer to her real estate office.  She was diligently working to help  pay for my expensive private school education and wanted to spend a little less time in the car.  Actually, she had one of the first car phones.  It was this huge, black monstrosity mounted inside......Oh wait, I'm getting off track....again...but please know I'm sorry for being unclear.