Geraldine and St. Therese

The second oldest child, Geraldine, was eleven years older than me. She shared a bed with Joann in the bedroom with the “Don’t mess with me” St. Therese picture. In the book, The Autobiography of St. Therese, The Little Flower of Jesus, St. Therese explained how she did chores and offered them up as sacrifices to Jesus. As a teenager, Geraldine, went to a great extent to emulate St. Therese. She cooked supper on the weekends so Mom could sit and hold the currrent baby and visit with the endless relatives that stopped by. She helped do the ironing, swept floors, vaccumed and washed and gathered eggs that we sold. Geraldine did the chores with a brooding, serious, clenched jaw face. I was underfoot one day as she swept the kitchen floor.

“Get out of my way or I will smash your big toe with the leg of this metal stool,” she snarled, glaring at me.

Her threat was real and I scurried out of the kitchen.

No, housework would not make Geraldine a saint. She tried another approach to sainthood by placing a thin board under the bottom sheet on her side of the bed that she shared with Joann. St. Therese had written in her autobiography that she did this as a way to give sacrifice to Jesus.

“Too hard,” Geraldine moaned to Mom the next morning, rubbing her lower back. “I’ll take the little kids for a walk after breakfast. I need to stretch out my back. We’ll walk to the sand pit.”

Twenty acres of our ninety-two acres farm was sand. Dad sold sand for $5.00 per truckload to anyone that wanted to shovel it by hand into the back of a pick-up. The sand pit was our favorite place to explore and play. We dug holes, jumped in sand piles, and after heavy rains, swam in the low areas that filled with water. On a small hill in the sand pit a lone willow tree grew. This morning after Dan, Kate, Steve, Mary, Tim, Kevin and I gathered on the soft brome grass surrounding the willow tree, Geraldine talked about the saints that had been martyred and persecuted for their beliefs in Jesus.
”Because they believed in God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit; St. Cecelia, St. George and St. Valentine had their heads chopped off. St. Joan of Arc was burned at the stake,” she said.

She gazed upward at the large, blue, prairie sky, her dark hair rolled up with pink plastic curlers as she was going to work at El Dee’s Drive In after lunch; she raised her creamy white arms, flashed her dark brown eyes, and said, “To be a martyr is the greatest gift we can give to God.”

The seven of us were transfixed as she spoke. She brought her hands down and asked us if we talked to our guardian angels.

Our eyes were wide-eyed and we shrugged our shoulders.
”Your guardian angel is always there for you. Your guardian angel knows what you are doing at all times. You need never be afraid ,we each have our very own guardian angel to protect us from harm,” she said.

My siblings and I looked at with awe. Geraldine sighed deeply, bowed her head, and did the sign of the cross. We followed suit helping the babies, Tim and Kevin make the motions with their little hands. We recited aloud the Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be, and finished with the sign of the cross.

After praying, we walked back to the farmhouse kicking up sand with our bare feet, not speaking. I kept looking over my shoulder for my guardian angel, but didn’t see him. Having someone hovering over me the rest of my life, an entity that I could not see, watching every move I made, felt creepy. I wanted to be as good and smart as Geraldine, but devoting my life to Jesus like the saints and martyrs and getting my head chopped off or burnt at the stake did not seem like fun. Geraldine might be able to do it ... but I didn’t think I could ever be as good and devout as she was. I got angry when I lost at playing the card game Go Fish, fought with my younger sister Mary, was frightened of the statues and pictures in the house and had a hard time sitting still in church.

Geraldine was tall, quiet, wrote plays and her teachers admired her. Geraldine’s friends were A students. Sherry was the editor of the yearbook, Joyce the editor of the school newspaper and three others were on the debate team. Judy Amatoto, was Mexican and Geraldine and she spoke Spanish together. Geraldine would be a hard act to follow on the path of growing up.

St. Therese Haunts Me

A framed print of St. Therese of Liseiux hung above the bed I shared with my sister Mary in the farmhouse where I grew up. St. Therese was garbed in a brown robe, a halo encircled her veiled head, and a cross of Jesus hung from her neck. She clutched rosary beads, a dozen red roses and a crucifix in her arms. St. Therese eyes stared at me no matter what direction I moved. Embarrassed to undress in front of St. Therese’s constant gaze, I changed my clothes behind the closet door to be out of her sight.

Mary and I shared the bedroom with our sister, Kate, who slept on a cot, and baby brothers, Tim and Kevin, nestled in cribs.

Two older sisters, Geraldine and Joann, had a similar framed print of St. Therese hanging in their adjoining bedroom. St. Therese was older with thinner lips, and she had a look that said, “Don’t mess with me.” I avoided entering my older sisters’ bedroom.

I dreamt one night that St Therese stepped out of the print and stood beside my bed. She smiled, reached out her hands for me to join her, and stepped onto a moving stream of light that poured from an open window. I watched her soar upward as if on an escalator to heaven. Shaking, sweating and breathing heavily, I cowered in bed wanting to snuggle next to Mary. However, Mary had marked an imaginary border with her hand and said, “Don’t cross this line, not even your toe.” I lay without moving feeling my heart pounding, knowing that St. Therese was staring down at me thinking, “What a scaredy cat, you are Sheila.”

The next morning I rose early to speak to my mom about the picture. With so many people in the house, time alone with mom was rare. She was in her robe drinking coffee, sitting by the kitchen window watching the mist rise from the soybean field. I sat down on a kitchen stool. I was seven years old and this was the first time I was going to speak with mom about something other than a sibling who bothered me.

I cleared my throat and asked, “Why do we girls have pictures of St. Therese hanging in our bedrooms? When I change my clothes, she watches me. I’m afraid of her. The boys have a small crucifix hanging on their wall. Jesus is not staring at them. He keeps his eyes closed.”

Mom sipped her coffee, continued looking out the window and said, “You are lucky to have St. Therese in your bedroom. St. Therese is the Little Flower of Jesus and the patron saint of young girls. I got those pictures to protect my daughters through the night. Instead of being afraid of her, you should pray to her for guidance.”

I knew from her answer that I would not get St. Therese out of my bedroom. I rose from the stool and walked around the house looking at the religious icons. There were statues of the Infant of Prague, St. Anne, St. Francis of Assisi, Mother Mary and framed prints of Jesus and Mother Mary showing their bloody hearts. Other religious items were a plastic light switch going to the second floor with a guardian angel hovering over a boy and girl, and a holy-water fountain hung outside the bathroom door.

I came back to the kitchen. Mom dished me up a bowl of oatmeal, decorated with raisins in a happy smile. As I was eating, Mary and Kate came in, each with a baby in their arms, babbling with excitement about an illumination they had seen hovering in our bedroom during the night. They had both watched the shape move above their bed in the night but didn’t say anything to the other until the morning. Talking about it, they both agreed that the illumination was in the silhouette of an angel.

“An angel was in our bedroom last night,” they chanted to our brothers and sisters as each one entered the kitchen.

No one believed that Kate and Mary had seen an angel.

“Yeah, you just saw some light,” pooh-poohed John.

“Why would an angel come to you guys?” added Joann.

“You’ve read too many holy books,” said Dan.

I sat listening. I believed that they had seen an angel. I didn’t tell anyone about my dream. I was relieved that Kate and Mary had witnessed a vision. I would have been even more frightened to have awaken from my dream and seen an angel hovering about. I was disappointed that I had slept through it, but I became a less afraid of the picture of St. Therese.

Visions, the head nun at my school would say, were for those who were chosen, and I was thankful that I was chosen. I still hid in the closet when I changed my clothes, but I was no longer worried about St. Therese dragging me to heaven.

It Wasn't in the Cards

I had been living and working in Las Vegas for six weeks as an assistant manager at a gas station/ convenience store located five miles from the Strip. Most days began at 6 a.m. and ended at 2 p.m. Other days I worked from 2 p.m. to 10 p.m. Standing in front of a cash register 8 hours with no breaks caused my head, back, and legs ache. I was not quick at counting money and the register had so many buttons, buzzes and numbers, I was cautious when operating it. The lines of customers coming in were constant without a breather. “Hey lady if you can’t do the job, get out of here,” customers snarled as they walked out slamming the door. I knew that I would eventually learn the cash register but what I hated most about the job was the uniform. Blue polyester, high wasted pants, a white button down shirt with emblems of the American flag on one shoulder, a badge on the other shoulder that stated "We Card Because We Care “and my nametag, Sheila, Assistant Manager, with a scowling photo of me attached to my lapel. I had moved to Las Vegas from Minnesota as I heard work was plentiful. I had been divorced for a year and half and was fresh off the Minnesota farm where I had lived for 25 years. Now here I was a cashier in a town full of scam artists, drug addicts and people living on the edge.

I dragged myself home each day, praying to find an escape route from this job from hell. One evening when I was complaining about my job to my landlord Chuck, he suggested I try out dealer school.

Chuck said, “My friend Dana, works as a Blackjack dealer at the Wynn Casino down on the Strip, he makes $90,000 a year. I was going to dealer school for a while last summer, but didn’t finish because I had some health problems. We can go check out dealer school tomorrow when you have the night off.”

“Okay,” I said.

The American School of Dealers was located in a mall west of the Strip on Las Vegas Boulevard. Chuck introduced me to the owner Mike, and Mike introduced us to the teacher, Lauren. Lauren and Mike had been dealers in casinos for 25 plus years.
Mike told me to check out the windowless one room school which was made up of several gaming tables where Blackjack students were practicing pitching cards or taking stacks of ten chips in one hand and sliding them to the edge of the table to make believe customers. Other students were playing Blackjack with fake money. People were smiling and having a good time. This place didn’t smell like gas and no one was wearing a shirt that said, “WE CARD BECAUSE WE CARE”.

Cost for the school was $400. I like learning new skills, meeting new people and the money I could make as dealer sounded good. Besides, I was in Las Vegas…why not become a dealer?

Chuck said, “Being a dealer is easy. You meet people from all over the world, get tips, and the casinos feed you for free.”
Mike nodded and said, “If you come everyday for 4 weeks, you can graduate with a certification from here. Some people get through the school in two weeks while others take longer; it depends on one’s schedule. We are flexible here. The hours of the school are from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. everyday except Saturdays we close at 6 p.m. and Sundays we are not open.”

I was working 40 hours a week at the convenience store and had a 14-year-old son, Tim. I did not want to spend too much time away from Tim, but figured that dealer school wouldn’t last too long.

“Okay, I think I can handle it,” I said as I wrote out a check for $400 that was good for learning the two games I has signed up for, Blackjack and Craps.
I drove the following evening to dealer school after I had put in my stint at the gas station. Chuck went along as Mike said he could finish up the training he had started in early summer. Dealer school was quiet, when students were playing Blackjack. Blackjack was the biggest draw at the school with dealing Poker a close second. Roulette, and Craps were taught a couple times a week. The school became noisy when the Roulette and Craps students came in.

Lauren was the teacher for Blackjack. The first two weeks, all I did at school was pitch cards. My fingers felt like heavy clubs. The cards were slippery, awkward, and sprawling every which way in my hands like large pieces of cardboard. Lauren would come over snorting, take the deck from my hands, hold them deftly in her hands and pitch the cards like they were a birds taking off in flight one by one. Slowly I started to get better at pitching the cards. I was not great and my pitch was not always steady, but I was starting to feel comfortable with the cards.

When I was not at dealer school I would pitch the cards into a bowl while lying in bed before I went to sleep. I had to learn how to shuffle two decks of cards and this I also practiced at home, another skill was picking up ten poker chips in one hand.

“It’s easy,” said Lauren “My hands are smaller than yours and I can do it,” She balanced ten poker chips between her pointer finger and thumb and slid them like butter to a student. Lauren’s two-inch blood red nails curved downward like ski sloops and resembled talons. She could scoop up cards that were fanned into a spread in one swift upward motion. Lauren barked and snorted at students and bragged that she was one of the greatest dealers ever. She was 5 ‘2”, built like a box, wore large sweatshirts and baggy jeans with a hole in the seat that showed off her flowered underwear. She had a wandering left eye, stringy dyed black hair with long wisps of gray strands tucked back into a thin ponytail that hung out the back of her baseball cap that had a large badge of the Ace and of King hearts sewn on to it. Lauren was partial to the Asian students, particularly Philippinoes as her husband was from the Philippines. I was at dealer school for nine weeks. I was not consistent going to school day after day as I worked 40 plus a week and my son needed me. I got the flu in the middle of my session and missed a week. Lauren had no sympathy, though she had lectured us to not come in when sick. Her job as a teacher was to get students in and out of the school quickly. She watched me like a hawk and pounced on every mistake I made.

“Did you just give a $100 chip away? You are fired,” she snarled at me. “Why are you still here? These guys you are playing with came in last week and passed dealer school in ten days…you are never going to make it as Blackjack dealer.”

I was worn out when I arrived at dealer school. Most of the students did not have other jobs. They came every day and spent 8 to 10 hours at the school while I came in increments of two and half hours to three hours and once in a while 5 hours. I started to see that it was similar to being a cashier as I was on my feet all day. Another obstacle I had was that dealer school was 11 miles from where I lived and the traffic was often bumper-to-bumper.

I started hearing whispered stories from other students that it was getting hard to get jobs. The jobs offered were the graveyard shift, at Casinos on the outskirt of Vegas and wages started at $6.50 an hour. The only way anyone could make a living was on tips and the outlining casinos were not busy after midnight.

My roommate Chuck was doing worse than me at the school; he never shut up and was telling other students how to deal. Lauren banned him from the school. She wanted to ban me as Chuck had told the owner I was his girlfriend and I definitely was not. I began to investigate being a dealer further by speaking to people in the grocery line, my hairdresser who had two sisters that were dealers, and I went to the casinos to play Blackjack to speak to the dealers.

“I liked it when I started,” said an Asian woman named Crystal, who was dealing a $2 game of Blackjack at the Hacienda Casino in Boulder, Nevada, “but now I get called in all hours. I live 20 miles from here. The customers are not nice anymore. People are more desperate…life is not as good in Las Vegas anymore. People are losing their houses and their jobs. Dealing is not what it used to be.”
I decided not to get my certification from dealer school. I did audition for Blackjack at two casinos and did fairly well. I was called back for the graveyard shift, at $6.50 an hour, but declined because of the low wages and the smoky casinos had poor ventilation.

I stayed at the gas station, conquered the cash register, was offered to be manager which I turned down and became a substitute teacher on my days off. My brother Kevin, who is a fisherman in Ireland, sent me an email when he found out I was substitute teaching; “I’m disappointed that you are no longer going to be a Blackjack dealer, I loved telling my friends that my sister was a dealer, it is not as exciting telling them you are a teacher.”

Fifty Chickens in an Hour

My sister Mary and her husband Donald celebrated their fifteenth anniversary this past July. I asked Mary and Donald what was the main attraction for each of them.

Donald said without hesitation, “Mary had 50 pounds of whole wheat flour, five gallon bins filled with grains and beans, gallon jugs of soy sauce, nut butters, and oils in her kitchen. I had been buying my food in bulk for years as I lived in the mountains. I knew that this was the girl that I wanted to marry.’

“ I had a catering business and made food for festivals, “ Mary explained. “I liked Donald because he enjoyed eating as much as I did.”

“Another reason I liked Mary, is because she is a Minnesota farm girl and she is not afraid of hard work,” said Donald.

“Not afraid of hard work,” I mused. “I have been working since I was five; milking cows, planting and weeding gardens, cutting wood, butchering, cooking, and cleaning.”

I married at age 19 and was married for 30 years. I raised six children on a farm in Minnesota. Then in 2006, after 30 years and 22 of those years being unhappily married, I became happily divorced. My girlfriends told me that I should try Internet dating.

Carli had been Internet dating for over ten years and said it was fun and safe.

“There are a lot of single men out there waiting to date you, Sheila,” Carli said.

The first Internet dating site I signed up for was on Yahoo. I created a profile, didn’t mention my six children, wrote that I was a newspaper reporter, (which was true) and that I liked to read, dance and practiced yoga daily. I posted my profile and started surfing the site. There were a lot of single men.

I decided to narrow my search and seek out building contractors as my ex and I were going to build a new house, but my ex‘s new house had become the local bar.

My first date was with a contractor named Denny from Kensett, Iowa. Denny didn’t get a second date because he called me up drunk, slurring, “I love you, Sheila.”

“Don’t ever call me again,’’ I said as I hung up the phone.

Okay, no more contractors.

I narrowed my search to men that stated that their income was over $100,000. I went out with an electrical engineer, a couple men who played the stock market, a computer technician, an auctioneer, and a mold inspector. Most of them did not make $100, 000 a year, but had $100,000 or more in assets.

I began to understand the game of dating.

I had not dated much before I married and was having fun. I would meet one date for breakfast, another for coffee in the afternoon, and a third for dinner. I had a hard time remembering the details of each date’s profile. But I was a good listener and nodded and laughed. I was making up for lost time. Twice I became bored hearing about past relationships and said, “Let’s not talk. I would rather go out to your car and make out.” Both times the men quickly escorted me to their cars.

After three months of world wind dating, I got off the dating sites, as I had to take a second job. I had been working part time as a newspaper reporter for six years and written a column about my farm and family. Now that I was single, I was not ready to share my life openly in a town where women were often judged by the profession of their husbands. I needed to start anew.

I could not get a full time job and a friend offered me to move to Las Vegas, as there were many jobs there. I moved to Las Vegas with my teenage son, got a full time job in retail and worked part time as a substitute teacher.

I decided to try Internet dating after I had been off the sites for a year.

I noticed that people in Las Vegas were impressed with my farming background. I decided to emphasize this in my profile for the dating site, farmersonly.com.

Here is a sampling of my profile: “I am a Minnesota farm girl. I can butcher, pluck and process 50 chickens in an hour using an automatic chicken plucker. The feathers were flying! I am good with a shovel, a hoe and am looking for a man who is a great kisser.”

If the chicken feathers were flying, the emails came flying in even faster. I received emails from 30 states from farmers, homesteaders and those that worked in the agricultural industry. I got an offer to be flown to Montana to help a man with his poultry business. Another offer came from a farmer in Oklahoma who came to Las Vegas for the winter and wanted to come and wine and dine me. I was sent photos of gardens, pumpkin patches, sheep, chickens, horses, tractors, llamas and cattle. I was flattered, with all the emails but became confused as to who sent which email.
”No, I am not the one who sent you a photo with a view of a farm from a mountain,” was one message I received.

I went off the dating site when my one-month subscription expired. I was working too much and decided to move to Humboldt County to be near family and have my son attend a smaller school. It has now been 7 months since my move. I have been proposed to twice since I moved here. One of the proposals came from a man named Rolf whom I met in the meat department at Ray’s Food Place in McKinleyville. I mentioned that I knew how to butcher chickens. Rolf said that he had four hens he wanted butchered as they were eating his eggs. We set up a time to butcher his chickens, but he called the morning of the date and said that a raccoon had eaten the chickens the night before, but did I want to help him butcher a goat?

I declined on the goat.
”Well, you are just what I am looking for in a wife,” said Rolf. “I want a woman who is as capable as you are.”

“Go to Minnesota,” I said. “There are more like me there. We Minnesota women are not afraid of hard work.”

Learning to be a Cashier in Las Vegas

I have been in Las Vegas six months. The winter here has been great for a southern Minnesota girl who spent so many years living in a drafty farm house, wearing layers of clothes and not taking her long johns off until May each year. Long Johns! Not many people in this part of the world even know what long johns are.
Since November, I have been working at a gas station owned by the corporation Terrible Herbst. There are over 100 Terrible Herbst gas station convenience stores in Las Vegas. The one I work at is number 266 located at Decatur and Meadows in central Las Vegas.

It has been challenging for me working in a convenience store that takes in over $10,000 in currency daily. My past work involved being creative and using words when I worked for the Austin Daily Herald. This job requires accuracy in counting money, taking inventory, keeping records and trouble shooting with the many customers that filter in all day long.

When I began work here November 2007, I had just arrived from living in the sleepy town of Albert Lea, Minnesota. I was excited, upset and bewildered. I did not know how to use a cash register, count vast amounts of money, or how to keep records. I was constantly making mistakes and Pat, the woman who trained me had been a cashier most of her working life. She rolled her eyes at me, sneered and snorted and yelled at me every time I made a mistake. The manager of Terribles 266 was Ken, a short in stature Hawaiian, with a missing font tooth, and a small paunchy stomach. He would come to my register when I was in training and say, “You must work faster! Faster! It so easy! Why you make so many mistakes?”

Being a cashier, I know is not rocket science, but the cash register came with many, many different buttons. My biggest problem was learning how to correct mistakes. All gas pumped must be prepaid. Customers would come in and tell me, “Thirty dollars on pump six.” I would type in $30, press the pump 6 button, along with the prepaid fuel button. When this is done a check mark goes on pump 6 to show it is activated. The customer would leave the store, and not go to pump 6 but be on pump 4! Now, I had to take the money off pump 6 and move it to pump 4. It took me a while to figure out this transaction. I kept coming up short at the end of the day, because when a customer paid with a credit card, I was not properly trained that I had to start the transaction all over when he or she was not on the pump that was stated. I also had to go into the records and print out a receipt that showed that the customer’s credit card was not charged. Try and explaining this to a customer that is in a hurry and there are 7 other irate customers in front of the cash register waiting to make their purchases. In the midst of all this learning process, Pat turned on me the day I told her to quit yelling at me. The rage and wrath of this woman spilled forth. I had seen her turn on other workers, demean customers and snarl and snap at her down-trodden husband, now it was my turn to be her whipping post. Now, she screamed at me or would not answer my questions. Last week when I came to work, she snapped at me, when I told her once again to not yell at me and she hollered, “Go to hell, Sheila! You put everyone through hell.”

I laughed and she started circling around and stomping her feet like Rumplestilskin when the princess found out his correct name. Seeing me not get upset, did something that day… yesterday, for the first time when I came to work, she talked to me about her grandchildren and how she had brought her two year old granddaughter a purple and pink tricycle. I acted as if she spoke kindly to me everyday. It probably won’t last, this pleasantness, but her ire is her problem and not mine.

Working at the Teahouse

I am going on my second year since my divorce in 2006. It has been difficult, invigorating, lonely and I have been scattered in the ,direction to go in my life. I quit my job at the Austin Daily Herald in February 2007. I quit when I was hired to be a home visitor for Freeborn County. I lasted one month in the job as they wanted someone who spoke Spanish better than I could. I can speak conversational Spanish, but it was not good enough for the position. The month of March I was without a job and panicky. Every morning upon rising from my bed, I lit a green candle, did a Tarot card reading and prayed that I would get a job. During this month, I could not eat or sleep. Finally, in April I got a job at the Turtle Dove Teahouse and Gardens in Albert Lea, Minnesota as a cook. I have been here ever since. The proprietor is Gwen Reiss. Gwen has worn many hats, as I have too. She is a RN and has sold corn seed and cars in the past. Gwen has a main of hair like a lion, wears teals, oranges and over sized earrings, bracelets and ankle bracelet on her left foot that accents what she calls her "fuck me" sandals, which she wears daily. This teahouse lady is no shrinking violet. Bawdy, down-to-earth and don't fuck with me is her attitude each day in thi Victorian teahouse located on Main Street in Albert Lea. The Teahouse is in a hard to find site, as it is off the beaten path on a north frontage road of Main Street. Flowers, herbs, a fountain and a rippling pond surround the premises of the Teahouse. Gwen and her husband, Ed built the pond and did all the renovations on this house that was built in the 1800's. It is a beautiful place. The inside decor of the house, Gwen has decorated with silk flowers, flowered wall paper and flowered carpeting. Guests to the teahouse are in awe as they wander the ten rooms that are decorated with themes such as the teacup room ( a tree decorated with teacups and a teacup chandelier give this room its name), the Red Hat Room, Garden Room, Christmas Room and others. No room or corner is left bare in this establishment. My friend, Carli calls the climbing silk rose decor that encircles a pipe in the bathroom a "peony tornado".

The Teahouse is where I now work Tuesday through Saturday starting at 10 a.m. I usually make three entrees each day and serve them with salad,scone and soup. The servings are ample and include such items as spinach fritatta, lemon herb chicken, and crab orzo.

Every day there is an offering of at least five choices of killer desserts that the ladies that come to eat ooh and ahh over.

I like the cooking, don't have to wait on the guests, have to think quick on my feet and am constantly moving. It is creative work but I miss writing. I will be writing a blog every week and will keep you posted on my new directions. I am struggling, as I make very little money. I am making ends meet and living extremely frugal.

Best Costume, no Costume at All

The month of October has just flown by with Halloween coming upon us next Monday. Because Timmy and I are not eating wheat and sugar he isn’t going Tricks or Treating this year. He doesn’t mind as we both feel so good from eliminating these two foods from our diet. I have always liked Halloween and the celebration on November 1, the Day of the Dead that the Mexicans celebrate. I have been talking about Halloween and I have encountered several men that do not like this holiday at all. Their main reason is that they do not like to dress up in costume. Reporter, Josh Verges said, “I think it is a waste of time and money spending it on a costume that you wear for only a few hours.”

I don’t agree with him, as I have never spent much money on costumes but have gone to thrift stores and put articles of clothing together. These type of costumes are the least costly and usually the most clever.

My husband, Tom never liked to dress up for Halloween. But one year I talked him into wearing a white dish cloth wrapped on him like a diaper and he carried a baby bottle. He thought it was funny when he was at home and the kids thought he looked great, but when we arrived at the Halloween party we were attending, he didn’t last long walking around like that! I couldn’t get him to dress up for Halloween after that incident and he would say, “I don’t know how I let you talk me into dressing like that!”

But he likes to be the center of attention and the year I was pregnant with our fifth child, Theresa, he came up with his own Halloween costume. He wrapped his hand and taped his middle finger down and told everyone at the Halloween gathering we were at that he had sliced part of his finger off when he was cutting wood with the buzz saw. Right away the hostess of the party was very sympathetic to Tom. But one couple, David and Sue were watching Tom sip away at his beer and the two commented, “What kind of pain medication are you on that you are able to function and still drink alcohol?”

I was sitting near by and didn’t say a word as this was his prank. Tom slowly took a sip of beer, clutched his wrapped hand and said, “Darvon. It is really helping; I don’t feel too much pain. I do feel a little light headed though.”

David and Sue started to laugh as they did not believe him. The hostess of the party was angry because these two didn’t take Tom’s injury seriously. She came to me and said, “What is wrong with those two? I can’t believe the way they are carrying on. Anyone can clearly see that Tom is in such pain. I am so amazed and grateful that you made it to my party. I feel really bad for you as you are having this new baby soon. What a strain this is for you…”

I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut and because of this the hostess thought I was in great stress. Several people offered me comfort about what a tough time our family was going through. I started to think that they were going to set up funding to tide us through this “terrible time”.

Tom didn’t know I was getting all this sympathy and he went on with his prank by going into the bathroom and took the bandages off his finger. He had a small cardboard box with a hole cut in the bottom and cotton wads in the box. He put red makeup on his finger and than put a lid on the box. Tom came out of the bathroom and walked up to the hostess and said, “The doctor gave my finger back to me today after I got it cut off, do you want to see it?”

The hostess looked horrified, but she gingerly opened the box, saw Tom’s “bloody” finger and gasped. Then Tom wiggled his “cut off” finger and boy was she ticked off then! His un-costume costume was a hit at the party, but he has never been able to repeat it again.

Questions

One of the most delightful things about raising children is their sweet innocence and curiosity to learn new concepts. Last winter my son, Timmy had spent a week with his three older sisters, Bridget, Molly and Theresa. The girls speak very openly around him and often after they have gone is when I find out what they have spoken so openly about. I was sitting in the living room reading and Timmy was sitting next to his dad, who was doing a crossword puzzle, while at the same time watching television.

Timmy turned to his dad and asked, “What it is the difference between orgasm and masturbation?”

His dad was listening to the television and was not paying attention to Timmy.Timmy cleared his throat and asked once more, “What is the difference between orgasm and masturbation?”

I pretended to be reading intently as I wanted his dad to answer this question.
Timmy cleared his throat loudly one more time and asked, “Dad, dad. What is the difference between masturbation and orgasm?”

This time his dad heard him and looked up startled but he answered Timmy truthfully and in simple terms.

Timmy said, “Thank you. I didn’t really know what they meant. I thought I did, but that makes more sense.”

I was glad that Timmy was comfortable to ask this question. If I had asked my parents such a question when I was his age, I would have been interrogated about where I had even heard such words, slapped and then sent to my room.

When my daughter Molly was 11 she was at her friend Tara’s house watching a movie. In the movie the word masturbation came up several times. Monday morning when she and Tara went to school they asked several of the boy’s at the small Catholic school they attended if they had ever masturbated.

Most of the boys answered, “Huh? Gee, I don’t know. I don’t think so…”

A couple days later, one of the boy’s mothers, Laura burst into my kitchen her hair all array and said she needed to have some words with me.

“I was at the school today helping teach sex education to the girls and I mentioned to the principal that the girls were very open and asked very intelligent questions. The principal said that yes, the girls were very inquisitive. Why just last week the principal overheard Molly Donnelly asking my son, Ralph if he masturbated. This is not acceptable behavior. I will not have Molly asking my Ralph if he masturbated.”
I heard giggling in the other room.

I sighed and said, “Well, let’s ask her if she did. Molly, come out here.”
Molly slowly came out to the kitchen with pigtails in her hair and her head down.

“Molly, did you ask Ralph if he masturbates?” I asked.

“Noooo…” Molly stammered.

Laura shook her finger at Molly and said, “Listen. Don’t you ever, ever, let me hear you asking my son if he masturbates again, do you hear me?”

Then she left quickly slamming the door.

We all burst into laughter, and I said, “Poor Ralph. Okay, Molly what’s the deal. Why did you ask Ralph if he masturbates?”

“I don’t know what it means, and he didn’t either. Tara and I asked all the boys if they did. No one understood what it meant,” Molly said.

“Well at that little conservative school please be careful what you ask the boys. Next time come and ask me first,” I said.

I went to the principal the next day and told her what had incurred and she was embarrassed that Laura had gotten in such a huff. The principal thought it was a normal question that a young person would ask, and it is. I suggested that the school have someone with more experience teach sex education as Laura was too naive to see that Molly’s inquisitiveness was normal. But, she continued to be the teacher and her Ralph is now a man and I am pretty sure that Laura sees now that it was not such a big deal the day Molly asked her son if he ever masturbated.