Bunches of Muffins

When I was a very small girl, my brother and sister had a dog named Sandy. I don't remember Sandy much, other than what I've seen of her in pictures. (Click here to see Sandy in my sister's arms.) Then when I was maybe 8 or 9, I was given my very own dog. Her name was Muffin.

I loved Muffin, but I quickly learned that owning a dog was hard work! Just managing all that input and output is a huge job. And I was in charge of both ends.

Muffin was 110% mutt. (Honesty time: The photo above is of my friend Brillo. Muffin was a bit more mutt-like and larger.) She was high-strung. Loved to runrunrunrunrun all around the house. And always peed on the floor when Dad got home. I think he expected Muffin to behave in a calm, civilized way that was counter to her nature, and that made her extra nervous.

Muffin was medium-sized and, I thought, perfectly suited for riding. She didn't mind playing dress-up. She was cuddly and snuggly and my best friend.

Other than peeing on the floor, and chewing up our shoes and escaping and making us chase her down the street a few times a day, she was a very good dog.

Some months after we got Muffin, we went to Virginia to visit family for a couple of weeks. For the life of me, I can't remember if it was at Christmas - or if it was a summer visit. But what I do remember is missing my dog the whole way home. I remember bursting into the house and yelling, "Muffin! Muffin! Did you miss me? Come out, girl!" I looked in all her hidey places. And then, someone - my dad? my mom? my sister? told me that Muffin had gone away. She'd been taken to a nice place in the country where she could run and play outside and have a wonderful time and we wouldn't have to worry about her being hit by a car. Oh, I was furious. F.U.R.I.O.U.S. I felt betrayed. And incredibly alone.

Perhaps a month or so later, we got the news that Muffin had been hit by a bus on a country road.

So that was Muffin no. 1. My first pet and only dog. A series of hamsters and guinea pigs followed over the next several years - bunches of Muffins.

Stitches in Time

When I was about three, I woke up one drizzly spring morning and decided I needed to wear a cape. And test my super powers. I cannot tell you why a three-year-old dressed in a polka-dotty dress and a calico cape was able to walk out of the house (and around the corner) without adult supervision. Perhaps mom was painting? The point is, I did. (I don't have a fat lip in this photo, so I think it was the Christmas before the events in this story took place.)

I have this surreal misty memory of opening the back door and stepping out into the cool drizzle. And skipping around the corner to my friend Kristine's house. Where we proceeded to jump off her porch into the bushes, testing out our capes. I think hers was a blue towel.

On one of my flying leaps I apparently slipped. And somehow caught my lip on a big nail somewhere. Ohhhh ... it was nasty. And loud. Kristine was screaming bloody murder. I probably was, too. I remember her mom running out of the house with a towel over her shoulder (she'd been washing the dishes). She took one look at me,  clamped the towel over my bleeding lip and ran around the corner with me in her arms to my mother. We only had one car, which my dad had taken to work. So another neighbor had to drive us to the hospital so I could get stitches.

This is where the memory gets a bit fuzzy. I remember the numbing stuff they put on my lip was very very bitter. I remember freaking out that the doctor was going to use what looked like a GIANT CURVED KNITTING NEEDLE to sew my lip back into place. And it was going to hurt and I thought maybe I would be just fine as is. I think my sister was on duty at the hospital that day and somehow found us in the ER. I also vaguely remember my brother being in a car accident and being wheeled in on a gurney right next to me. And my sister had to run frantically back and forth, tending to the two of us. But that might be mixed up with another memory. Perhaps they can help me sort that out? I was very young, after all.

My mom had - and a dear aunt has - stitches in the same spot - scars on the same side of our mouths. Connecting us like stitches in time.

Hooked on Bonnets

When I was in second grade - at least I think it was second grade - our teacher read us Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I was instantly hooked. I wanted to be Laura Ingalls.

My mom, who always nurtured my imagination, created for me two very authentic calico dresses with matching sunbonnets so that I could dress like Laura. My sister bought me 100-year old lace-up boots that had been re-soled. This was not just for dress-up time. This was my wardrobe. If Laura had just two dresses, I could be fine with that, too.

If you can imagine, I was an odd child. So I had no qualms trotting off to school dressed like a young girl from the prairie in the 1800s. For Christmas one year my amazingly gifted mother created a life-size Laura doll for me. Seriously - she was exactly my size. Here she is - a bit bedraggled today - but isn't she cool?

Look at her little booties with the vintage leather and buttons! Look at her little bloomers and heavy leggings (I'm sorry, Laura, had to hike up the dress a little to show your fans). The elastic is shot ... actually, poor Laura needs an overhaul. Sadly, I did not inherit my mother's sewing talent. Or her sticky tuna fishes or whatever Cathy said today. When I had to sew the patches on Lizz's Girl Scout sash the night before her fly-up ceremony? I used staples.

Poor Laura spent a few years in a plastic tote, but she's out now, stirring up memories. Laura was the little sister I wanted. My companion. My confidante. I even took her to school for a while and my teacher let her have a desk near me!

Oh - I have to find those photos from the Sesquicentennial when our whole family won Best Dressed Family or something like that. I found those not too long ago when cleaning out my dad's house. Now where did I put them ...?

Out from under the rock

Since this is the family story blog, I've been searching the archives for memories. Then I came across the About Me thing I did on Facebook ... thought that might be a good start. What I really need are all those good juicy stories about my mom and other family members out there ... hello, fambly: Are you listening?


Let's see ... how do all good stories begin?


Once upon a time, a small girl child was found under a rock in a city called Saginaw. Her first 5 years were filled with magic and wonder (and a few visits from firemen and trips to the E.R.). She had three imaginary friends to keep her company during the day, but they went away when she started school. 


The little girl's first glimpse of real life was at the age of almost 11 when her mother died. In the decades that followed, she was surrounded by the love of her family, made many friends and learned many good things - hitting a few rocky patches along the way. Went to college, studied life, changed her major about a dozen times, brought a beautiful baby girl into the world, held 27 jobs ranging from bartender to lab assistant to art studio manager and truck driver to copywriter. Finally went to Europe and bought a house (in the U.S., not Europe) at the age of 39. Also began the reverse aging process.


Story to be continued ...


P.S. My mom and dad always said they found me under a rock when I asked where I came from. Thought that was kind of gross --- under there with all the slugs and slimy things. But sort of cool at the same time. Where did your parents find YOU?

Going Crackers

I have no reason for inserting this photo except that I just found it. It's a little figure in my backyard - used to be the base of a birdbath - that I discovered the first spring in our house when I was tidying up our secluded, tangled Secret Garden-esque retreat. There's another little cherub that was tipped over with just its little hand poking out of the ivy. Kinda freaky.

Anyway, I pulled out my "raw material" notes from my sister's ramblings earlier this year. Here are her recollections of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

We were at the Buckingham Apartments in Arlington during the Cuban crisis. One day, mom came home quite agitated. It wasn’t a payday but she said we needed to go to the drugstore.

We bought a transistor radio and batteries.

Then, we had a treat - a grilled cheese and soda at the counter. That was the kind of treat we usually only got on payday.

Soon after, big military trucks came to our apartment building. Our building had been designated as one of the shelters. The trucks brought food and water for our complex - cases of crackers and barrels of water.

The storage area was fenced in with chicken wire and had a door and a lock. Mom was trying to explain that we were going to war. I always associated this with the turquoise transistor radio.

Well, those crackers stayed there forever and it eventually attracted mice and rats.

In 2000 when people were freaking out about Y2K I thought about those boxes of crackers from when I was a little girl. So what'd I do? I bought crackers every time I went to the store. I had at least 10 boxes at one point. Then they got stale so I fed them to the birds.

Photo Evidence

Gosh, it's been more than six months since I've posted here. Kind of disturbing that the most recent post has that lovely photo of me in labor almost 20 years ago, below.

Since this is the place for me to tell the family stories, I'm moving the update on the upstairs bathroom/bedroom painting project on over here. Get caught up here first, and then come back and see the pretty photos. And to learn more about my fine home repair skills, read this story.

All caught up now?

Now, you may enjoy the "after" photos. I seem to have no control over where they show up on the page. Sigh.

Eric Schantz is the artist who painted the giant irises here. He's been in the news a fair amount for his public paintings around Saginaw - painting boarded up buildings, Arson Watch signs, murals and more. Just Google his name with any of those key words. I just told him I wanted to eradicate the ugly wallpaper here - and to paint some flowers. I came home from work one day to find floor-to-ceiling irises. It's even more impressive in person.

Here's Eric's bathroom ceiling/wall masterpiece. See? You can't even tell were the giant crater was. The blue on the ceiling is the blue I used on the door. I shouldn't just say it's "blue." It had some really fun name, like Serendipity. In fact, the paint names were key selection criteria.

I replaced the old yellowed plastic switch covers with porcelain ones. It's the details ...

I have no idea what happened to the lighting here. The golden glow is lovely, isn't it? That's the original sink. The cabinet and little shelf were probably installed in the 70s when the last owner bought this house. There's a lot of evidence that they did a ton of work then - like new wiring, refinishing the woodwork downstairs, installing new windows upstairs, painting trim throughout the house SAGE GREEN ...

Current status of project:

Still need to put a doorknob on the little cabinet below the sink. This requires me going ALL THE WAY to the basement to get the drill. Or something. (Didn't John B. do a fabulous job on the little cabinet? If you need a carpenter, I highly recommend him. That man is a master craftsman - and does amazing technical drawings, which is how I first met him through my job. While he was helping me with various projects around the house I learned that he grew up in my neighborhood AND was one of my dad's students. I'm sure there's a story there ... in any event, dad would be so proud.)

Need help hanging the light fixtures I purchased. Yes, Virginia, I had all summer to do this. Lizz knew better than to point it out more than 27 times. They look fine in their boxes, I think. The time will come ... Oh, I might want to have someone help me re-hang the door. It won't shut all the way. (Refer to fine home repair skills and bathroom doors above.) I painted the door blue, by the way.

I think I need to hang the other porcelain towel hook somewhere.

There are a few other miscellaneous to-do's that aren't really worth mentioning. We'll just sweep them under the rug ... oh wait, a rug would be a nice touch, wouldn't it? I saw the cutest Pottery Barn monkey rug the other day that has just the right colors. There's a simple geometric design with a stylized happy monkey face in one corner ... not Curious George or anything like that.

Always looking for family stories to share here ... I picked Sharon's brain earlier this year and have to revisit those notes. It might be time to bring out her memories of the Cuban Missile Crisis.