Summer's Last Rites

It is a rite of passage.

There is a moment in time when a child realizes that he is, without argument, taller than 48 inches.

He has grown. He is a BIG kid. The amusement park might as well have been designed for him and him alone.

Well, it certainly wasn’t designed for me exactly, or at least no one mentioned to me that you had to be 48 inches tall and younger than 38 years, give or take (at least for a few of those rides).

It started innocently enough. The park opened in the 1800s and many of the rides are quite old in design. The roller coaster debuted in 1938, at a time when people were not necessarily used to five-point harnesses and break-neck speeds.

The Merry-go-Round was beautiful. The Ferris Wheel was delightful. The bumper cars were Andrew’s dream come true. Crashing into Dad made his day.

George liked the airplanes and balloon ride and the train too. Gladys’ favorite was the Ferris Wheel, no the roller coaster, and the . . . “Can I give you my top five?”

While Jay enjoyed the under 48 inch rides with George and Gladys, I took Andrew to the other side so he could ‘introduce me’ to the bumper cars. After all, every seven-year-old ought to have the opportunity to crash into his mother. And, we decided to find the roller coaster too.

I am not a roller coaster fanatic, but I really enjoyed the roller coaster at Idlewild. It was that right mix of fast and curvy without shaking apart my joints. And, although it wasn’t break-neck speeds, there wasn’t any restraint per se, which left it appropriately exciting.

But, then my dear husband called me on the walkie-talkie to let me know that the little ones were having SO much fun that he would need some extra time. And, so, Andrew and I decided to go on a few extra rides.

I should have known better. The balloon ride had made me mildly dizzy. I had to find a stationary focal point while on the teacups. I went on the Spider anyway. Somehow, for some reason, our car decided to spin out of control.

I could no longer see. Everything moved so fast. My world became a blur.

We went aroundandaroundandaroundandaroundandaround. And. Stop.

Oh, my, my my my my pleeeeeasse stop. They let out the other riders soooo slowly.

I staggered off the ride like the town drunk.

“Let’s go find your father,” I said calmly.

“We have plenty of time, Mom. Let’s go on another ride.”

I looked around frantically for somewhere to sit. Every ride I saw seemed to spin.

“Let’s go find your father,” I heard myself say again. But, I knew he wouldn’t be ready yet and probably wouldn’t hear me where he was.

“Mom, how about the bumper cars?”

The bumper cars did not spin. I could drive myself. That would be fine. We stood in line. I held myself up on the railing, hoping the nausea would subside – wondering when I had ever felt so sick. The flu? The food poisoning in Greece? That unfortunate night with those Australians? Was it that bad?

I could barely stand.

I began to wonder if my face had actually turned green.

After buckling myself into the bumper car next to Andrew, I noticed that the building had begun spinning. I only had a few seconds before the operator would check our belts.

“Andrew, I might hurl. You go ahead. I’ll watch from the side.”

I carefully got up from my car and headed out of the bumper pavilion. I had made it. I leaned up against the soda machine, assuming that I would lose my lunch at any moment. I thanked myself for refraining from any funnel cakes. I had had a good lunch.

I might even be fine. Maybe.

And, sure enough, I was fine, (although it would take nearly two hours and lots of water before I could even go on the Ferris Wheel). Andrew jumped happily off the bumper cars and we went, slowly and deliberately, to find Jay.

It was only later, during the late-night departure from the park, that I realized my son had experienced another rite of passage. He learned a new word. And, I am so proud that he learned it from his mother.

“So, Mom, what does ‘hurl’ mean?”

A Sunday Drive and Henry's Baptism

As a child, I learned that the definition of a ‘Sunday Drive’ was a ‘family outing with no particular destination intended to test everyone’s patience.’

Definitions really don’t change so much. The children poked and annoyed each other. We encouraged them to “stop their bellyaching.” We played a few games.

The intended purpose of the drive, aside from testing patience, was to put 400 more miles on our new truck, Henry. It is common practice to put 1000 miles on a truck before requiring it to haul heavy loads. We bought the truck two weeks ago with about 24 miles on it. Henry will be ‘hitched’ to Bessie II (our trailer-to-be) on Friday, so he needs to be ready. (Henry belongs to two engineers with great respect for the proper care of machines – and an obvious need to drive unnecessary?? off-road vehicles.)

We visited the Allegheny National Forest in Pennsylvania, with a brief stop at Vince’s bar for lunch. If you did not enjoy a pizza lunch on a tippy bench for Mother’s Day, after a three-hour drive with three young children, you have every right to be thoroughly jealous.

I shouldn’t brag like this, but lunch really was delicious. And, I was able to introduce Gladys to a ‘towel machine,’ which she had never before seen. Remember those machines? The ones where you pull the towel out to dry your hands and the used towel loops up back into the machine? I hadn’t seen one in years. I really ought to get out more often.

After a big pizza lunch (Andrew ate three slices), we traveled deeper into the National Forest.

My husband has been reading about off-roading and trail ratings and places to go on our trip out West. Jay and Henry had made some unofficial plans to leave the map.

I didn’t flinch when Henry turned onto a side road.

The steep grade and bumpy road amused all of us, but didn’t impress Henry much at all. I glanced over my shoulder to see Andrew’s huge smile.

George began singing ‘aaaaaaaaaa’ to enjoy the voice modulation resulting from the bumpy road. I love his ability to self-entertain, and I giggled out load.

Soon, we heard Andrew complain.

“We are enjoying George’s song,” my husband and I admonished, “stop your belly-aching.”

He complained again.

“Andrew, you were enjoying it a minute ago, just enjoy the trip. Look out for animals, I bet we see more deer.”

“Dad! Stop! I’m really, really, really, really going to puke!”

Jay stopped. He pulled off the dirt road onto a small dead end. But, it was too late.

Andrew looked left, and Gladys was immediately covered in puke.

I leapt over the back of the seats, grabbing Jay’s (washable) jacket and caught the rest of the volcano. In the meantime, Jay tended to Gladys.

After mitigating the worst of the voluminous vomit, Jay took Andrew out of his seat and I continued cleaning the truck. I admit that I was pretty upset. It wasn’t Andrew’s fault. We should have listened. He shouldn’t be allowed to eat so much pizza. I could have put the blanket under their seats, like I do in the van.

Should have. Would have. Could have. I muttered to myself as I swabbed up the sticky mess in our beloved new truck. Grrrrr. George watched me quietly.

And then I finally looked up. I saw Andrew, standing outside the truck, free as a bird save his sneakers.

My gasp of surprise was enough to set Andrew into giggles. I laughed too, in spite of myself.

Henry was baptized on Mother’s Day.

I hope your day was as memorable.

Pick-up trucks are particularly handy for carrying loads of pukey clothes and for washing off disgusting car seats. Wash thoroughly after use.

A messy flashback

There is something about vomit that brings us all together as humans. As a mother, I see it all too frequently. No matter how impressive it is, my mind always wanders back to my favorite vomit story. Don't have a favorite vomit story? Feel free to borrow mine.

It was Christmas in Japan 1994. I worked for a Fortune 500 company, but there were only three of us (plus a shared secretary) in our division’s office: a British manager, a Japanese engineer, and a young American female engineer (yours truly).

Saying it that way sounds like the beginning of a bad joke. Maybe it is. But it’s true.

The three of us, my boss’s wife, and our shared secretary went out to dinner for our Christmas party. We then met back at my apartment for drinks and dessert. I had a lovely three-bedroom apartment on the fifth floor, overlooking the river. The living/dining area was a large room with two sliding glass doors onto a wrap-around balcony. The place was very nicely furnished. We were all dressed nicely. I played delightful Christmas music such as Bing Crosby’s White Christmas. We sat around and talked. Suzuki-san, the Japanese engineer, took an occasional smoke break out on the balcony. A bit after midnight, everyone went home.

The next morning, my very quiet American neighbor on the seventh floor called me.

“Quite the party last night, eh?”

“Party last night?” I asked. “I had a few people over. I’m sorry, were we loud?” I was very confused. Why is this man calling?? Sure, I enjoy entertaining, but certainly we couldn’t have disturbed HIM on the seventh floor? Huh?

“I can’t get to work.”

“What?” I asked, even more confused now.

“Have you looked outside?”

“Well, no, what are you talking about, exactly?” I wasn’t quite dressed yet, so didn’t want to go running out to my balcony.

“I’m sorry, there simply aren’t words to describe it. You’ll just have to go look.”

I quickly dressed and peeked out my sliding glass door. Nothing. Ha! Wasn’t my party.

I went down the elevator and out the front door.

“Oh my. Oh my. Oh my!!!”

Yes, it was certainly my party. From the outside of my fifth floor balcony there was a clear path of vomit. It hit every balcony on its way down. It must have spread into the largest cone imaginable. It completely and totally COVERED my neighbor’s car: THICKLY. It even splashed onto the car of my 4th floor neighbor. He was right. There was just no description for such a large amount of vomit.

Oh my.

My neighbor took the train. By the time I arrived at the office, my boss had already broken the news to Suzuki-san, who was anticipating whose car had been victimized. He left immediately with a friend in tow.

How did it end?

Apparently car washes in Japan do not take too kindly to such filthy disasters. He was denied access. He had to go back to the apartment building and clean most of it off himself before they allowed him into the car wash. He cleaned the inside too, and filled it with gas.

They were my quiet neighbors. I didn’t know them well myself. I went up to their apartment that evening with a small gift and apologized. That is how I heard the rest of the story.

When Suzuki-san went to return the keys to the 7th floor neighbor’s wife, he bowed so deeply and so long that she said she finally had to just shut the door on him. She didn’t really care so much about the car, but she felt a little awkward about having shut the door on a man bowing. He didn’t speak English fabulously well and she didn’t speak Japanese at all. I can imagine it was quite the scene.

The truth is that Suzuki-san didn’t really feel that badly about it either. It just happened. He did what he felt he was supposed to do. I bet my 7th floor neighbors still think it was funny too.