Shadow, was my dog. He was actually the family dog, but since none of my siblings have a blog that I know of, I can claim him as my own. He followed me everywhere. Shadow was a dachshund, a 'wiener-dog' to some people, although I'd have never been disrespectful enough to call him that. He was a great dog. He was protective, yet loved people. He was also very smart. I don't remember him ever being tied up or leashed, yet he always stayed with his family.

Phantom, was my friend Lisa's dog, he was a husky-mix, with blue eyes and lots of fluffy fur.

Every summer Lisa would spend a few weeks visiting her grand-parents, the Wycoff's. I loved it when she came to visit. We went swimming at her grandparent's private beach, and picked blueberries, and played Michigan Rummy with her 'Nana'. My sisters and I would gather our pennies together and head down to the 'turn-out' (cul-de-sac in today's terminology). The Wycoff's house was small yet inviting. Mr. Wycoff was meticulous about keeping his yard and porch tidy. He was always out and about, sweeping and raking, until he lost his legs to diabetes years later, but that's another story.

That summer it felt like forever before Lisa came to visit. I saw her car drive down the dusty dirt road, and a while later I headed down to say hello. My Shadow followed close behind. As I came around the corner I heard a loud bark. It was a big dog tied to a chain. I had never seen him before. I started up the driveway, he barked again at me. My Shadow barked back. I turned around and shooed him yelling for him to, "GO HOME!" but Shadow wouldn't leave my side, instead he ran up to face Phantom and show him who was boss.

It was a tangled mess of fur, teeth, and dog chain. Before I knew it, Shadow was yelping and limping his way toward home. I ran after him. He was bleeding.

I never saw Shadow again after that.

I've hated Phantom ever since. I blamed him for something that was primarily instinctual, and partly my fault... I could have picked up Shadow, and brought him back home instead of shooing him away...

Phantom and Shadow are pseudonyms for two dogs who spent some time in Hickory Hills in the late 70's.

Posted by Michelle at 7:29 PM | 17 comments  

Living in north central Massachusetts, referred to by many as the "New England Snow Belt", we were seldom at a loss for the white stuff during the winter months. In fact, we usually had more than our fair share! Every year we waited with anticipation for the first few flakes, (yet we were equally eager to see it all melt away in March, even if it was replaced with muck and mud!).
Most winters we had so much snow that the typical snowman was often trumped with elaborate snow-forts and various snow sculptures.
One year for Christmas, several of us in the neighborhood asked for, and received, 'Snow Block Molds' that we knew would be the perfect tools for building snow castles and Alaskan igloos. I was so excited as I tore through the wrapping paper to find my very own snow block maker, daydreaming of becoming the queen of my very own snow castle! Several hours later, reality set in, as the stickiness or perhaps the lack of stickiness proved to be too much for the little red scoop. It was soon cast aside for the lure of the hill and my friend Michelle's brand new sled.
Even though the block molds didn't quite work out as we planned, they did prove useful for other snow creations...
I'm fairly certain that my parents, ahem, I mean Santa, never fully considered the ingenuity of my older teenage brothers when 'he', crossed that item off my list and placed the "Snow Block Mold" under the tree. Nonetheless, my brothers had a great time molding, sculpting, and creating the most realistic sculpture I had ever seen. I remember waiting with anticipation for my parents to come home from work to see the 'piece of art' smack dab in the middle of the front yard - it was the neighborhood's first (and only) snow toilet!
At the time I didn't understand my mother's blatant displeasure of such a realistic snow-carving, complete with a 'number two' from the neighbor's dog. Mom simply said, "get rid of it" as she looked disapprovingly at my oldest brother. By morning any evidence of the toilet was gone for good, yet its legacy remains in all of our memories every time the first snowflakes drift down.

Posted by Michelle at 6:22 PM | 12 comments  

I've already disclosed it, and almost feel ridiculously redundant saying it again, but by not mentioning it, the magnitude of the situation is totally diminished, so... being one of six kids, losing socks in the laundry was par for the course. If it wasn't a sock, it was underwear, or a shirt, or even pants. It got to the point that if any article of clothing 'went missing' it was as if it was reason enough for the FBI to come out and investigate! Everyone would immediately point fingers and/or deny accusations of 'stealing' a sock or whatever article of clothing it was.
Needless to say, clothes sharing wasn't popular in our house, but 'borrowing' was fairly common. From time to time my mom would gently encourage us to, "just let 'fill in the blank' borrow (whatever it was), this once." But for some strange reason clothing ownership was extremely territorial among us kids. I remember fist-fights breaking out between the boys when one would 'borrow' something without asking first, (as if asking would have granted permission!)
Once I 'borrowed' (hijacked, really!) Liz's brand new M.C. Hammer style pants that she got for Christmas and brought them with me to New York City for a few days. When I got home it was like the Spanish Inquisition, as Liz demanded to know their whereabouts. I gave them back... eventually!!

Posted by Michelle at 7:41 PM | 2 comments  

"Do I have to?" Four words that every mother loves to hear! I don’t know how I ever thought that whiny little question would get me out of clearing the table or doing the dishes. It never did!

At our house we all took turns washing dishes, so theoretically I only had to do them once every six days. For some reason, I always felt like I was doing them way more often than was required. I’d argue, “I did them on Wednesday!” and my sister would say, “No, I did them Wednesday!” Round and round we’d go until I’d eventually give up and in a huff, drag the stool up to the sink.

Mom was a great cook, but she seemed to use an awful lot of pots and pans to prepare a meal. Add to that plates, cups, and silverware for eight people, it was like cleaning up after a Thanksgiving feast – every day!

I was one to let the water run, which I'm sure drove mom crazy, but she never let on. I know she wanted to tell me that the proper way was to fill up the sink with hot soapy water, scrub all the dishes clean, and then rinse them all at once, (which is a good way to conserve water too). Not for me. I was all about finding the quickest way to get the job done. And, if I was going to have to do the dishes at unfair intervals, I was going to do them my way!

Above the sink was a window that looked out to the backyard, as well as the backyards of our neighbors. Washing the dishes I could see my friends outside playing, waving to me to hurry up and come back out, which would only make me more anxious to get the job done faster. It felt like an eternity, (although I’m sure it was no more than fifteen minutes) with the clock ticking away each precious minute of sunlight left in the day.

Doing the dishes could really mess up a good game of hide-and-seek!

Posted by Michelle at 4:04 PM | 19 comments  

Labels: friends, Sisters, Sunday Scribblings

Photo courtesy of: http://www.hotspringsghosttour.com/ghostlady.gif

The Camelot Guest House.
Located on Main Street in Harwichport, Massachusetts, (Route 28, to those familiar with Cape Cod).
We spent several summers vacationing there when I was a teenager.
I say it's haunted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mr. and Mrs. Hiller laughed when Liz and I asked them if the inn was haunted. The Hiller's were the innkeepers, but more than that, they were family friends. I didn't appreciate their humor at the time and at first was a bit indignant with their response. But since, they neither confirmed nor denied our suspicions, I let it go and listened intently to their stories.

Our teenage 'inquisition of the innkeepers' was brought on by a series of unexplainable events.

My sisters and I slept in the attic, (they called it 'the loft'), that was hidden behind a door in my parents guest room. The loft remained locked for most guests. But, since my parents were friends of the Hiller's, they opened it to accommodate the three of us girls.

Stepping into the loft,was like stepping back in time. The wooden floors were old and creaked with each step. On the right was a big walk-in closet, that held mostly seasonal decorations, old clothes, and some board games. The inside walls were laden with graffiti that appeared to be from the 1970s, peace signs and all. Past the closet was a small staircase that I think went down to the Hiller's kitchen. There was a gate at the top which was an obvious indicator that we were not allowed to go down there, so I never really knew where the stairs went.

The room was plainly furnished with a small antique rocking chair and four twin beds; two on the left and two on the right, with a small bedside table between each pair. I always slept in the bed on the left that was closest to the window. I remember studying potential escape routes out the window, in the event I ever needed one. It was one of those places that creeped me out without reason. I hated to be alone in there. Whenever I was alone, I felt like someone was watching me. My heart would race, I would hurry to grab whatever it was that I needed, and run back up into the safety of my parent's room.

That summer, I witnessed some things that confirmed my suspicions and gave credence to my fearful instinct. We never actually saw a ghost, but strange unexplainable things happened that led to no other conclusion.

It started first with the small lamp on the bedside table between the beds where Liz and I slept. It was an old lamp, the kind with a small key-type switch that you had to turn hard to get it to turn on. It seemed to have a mind of it's own. Sometimes we would find it turned on, when we knew it had been turned off, sometimes it was off, when we had purposely left it on. We jiggled the wires and tightened the bulb, examining it for any logical explanation, but found none.

A day or two later, after spending the afternoon at the beach we came back to the loft and found the rocking chair rocking back and forth, as if someone had just stood up and walked away from it. But nobody was there.

That was it, we were convinced!

My parents were downstairs relaxing on the porch, chatting with the Hiller's. Liz and I sat and listened for a little while, and when the time was right, we took the stage. "Is this place haunted?" Our question was not met with the serious answer I thought it deserved. Instead, the Hiller's laughed and gleefully shared stories from other guests who thought they saw or felt something strange. My parents gently teased us, as if our teenage imagination had taken over our sensibility. There was no confirmation. No denial. But for some reason I was comforted in knowing that other people had suspected the same thing.

After that summer, we never experienced any other hauntings, but we were no less convinced of the presence of ghosts!

Posted by Michelle at 11:38 AM | 11 comments  

Labels: family, Sisters, Sunday Scribblings, vacation

I found this writing prompt on Saturday Scribes.
Theme: Serendipity
Three Words: candle, speaker, emblem
Bonus Words: Byzantine, zeppelin

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

sixteen candles
eyes closed
wish made
lingering smoke

teenage desires
self-centered aspirations
naive happiness
wrapped in a material world

pink bows and ribbon
packaged surprises
dreams realized
serendipity

black plastic box
silver emblem
turntable
dual-cassette

music spins
speakers scream
led zeppelin
stairway to heaven

rock idols
parental fear
album covers
byzantine icons

Posted by Michelle at 9:55 PM | 4 comments  

Labels: birthdays, music, Saturday Scribes

I found this writing prompt on Saturday Scribes.
Theme: Communication
Three Words: Blueprint, Denim, Universal

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Photo courtesy of: http://www.flickr.com/photos/fiveeyes/536749781/

My dad worked in the Science Department at Groton School. He helped teach science labs to spoiled rich kids. I know that sounds a little harsh, but I never really liked the way the kids treated him.
Every once in a while, I would go visit him at work and we'd have lunch together. The first time I heard it, I think I gasped.
"Hi, Ken!"
What was that?! They didn't just call him by his first name, did they?? Hi Ken?!?
Dad was never bothered by it. He told me that the kids lived away from home and calling him by his first name gave them a sense of family. To me that didn't make a bit of difference; I didn't like it. Respect for adults is universal, and kids whether they are privileged or not should address adults respectfully.

During the summer, Dad painted houses. He had lots of business and many repeat customers. Each of us spent a summer, (or more) painting with him. I lasted one summer. In fact, I believe I only lasted two painting jobs.
I hated painting, even if there was money involved. I had to wake up way earlier than any teenager should in the summertime. I'd throw on my old denim cut-off shorts, a paint-stained t-shirt, an old baseball cap, and running shoes from the previous track season. Still groggy, I'd heave myself up into his truck, dreading the 'fun-filled' morning of painting in the hot rising sun.
Dad and I went through a phase that summer where communication was a bit strained. Oh sure, I did my share of yelling and screaming, (like that's communicating!). Dad tried to help me to understand where he was coming from, but we just couldn't see eye-to-eye. He'd try to reason with me using different angles, as if dealing with a teenager was like reading a blueprint.
I was smarter than him, or so I thought. I'd make fun of him in my mind thinking how silly and strange he was. He was so 'nice' to people and friendly. He could make friends with anyone anywhere and he didn't care what anyone thought of him.

If only I could be more like him.

Posted by Michelle at 4:16 PM | 3 comments  

Labels: Dad, family, Saturday Scribes