Just a Girl

When Fio was in the eighth grade, she scored highest in her junior high on the  history contest sponsored by the Daughters of the American Revolution, although, unbeknownst to all, she had picked up most of what she knew from reading her mother's historical novels rather than studying her textbook. Whatever, she picked up a nice gold medal that she unfortunately lost five years later when she and her future husband were taking a walk through an Austin local park. But what she didn't lose was the memory of being on the radio with the history winners from Waco's other three junior highs.

Fio expected an interview sort of set-up or maybe a discussion in which she and her fellow history buffs talked about--well, American history--but instead, they were all handed a script.  The other three winners, all male, were to talk about historical figures like George Washington and Thomas Jefferson while Fiorella was supposed to pop up with a pert reminder of Betsy Ross, which, in some way she didn't understand, made her feel less than herself. But then, she was just a girl.

Busy Bee

Fiorella and Husband had a wonderful afternoon in Austin with Brother and his wife, first at a very nice restaurant, and then at a clever performance of 17th century art songs.   Not only did Fio enjoy a tasty salmon dinner, but she also got a free dessert because it was her three-month belated birthday celebration. Next came the Early Music Project, hosted by the First Presbyterian Church. Of course, Fio and Brother, who took voice lessons many years ago and had actually sung some of the songs, were in their element.
Fio's singing voice is gone now, but it's all for the best. She's got too many irons in the fire as it is. One of those fires is putting up her Halloween decorations--wrapping the plastic skeleton around the mailbox, arranging her cardboard bats on the window, and sticking paper pumpkins around and about. And, of course, she needs to start on the fifth revision of Phillipa's story, clear the fallen branches and rotten limbs out of the south woods, and plow ahead on Spanish.
Too bad she has so much spare time.

Remembering My Father

Fiorella's father was a hard worker out of necesssity. When he was thirteen months old, his father was killed in a coal mine accident, leaving his mother to support their three children. Times were tough until she and one of her sisters got the contract to clean the schoolhouse. Of course, Dad and his brother and sister were expected to help. One of Dad's most poignant memories was looking out the window while he was sweeping the floor and seeing the other children at play.

As he grew up, Dad picked up odd jobs around the neighborhood, like killing chickens and herding cattle down to the river and back. And after graduating from high school, he took the inevitable bus ride from Osceola Mills to Akron and scored a job with General Tire, eventually becoming a foreman, then being sent to Waco, Texas, to head up the biggest department in the plant.

Dad played as hard as he worked. A born athelete, he played basefball and football in high school, added golf, tennis and bowling when he hit Akron, and, in Waco, established a company golf league and bowling league. Fio remembers the rows of sports trophies lining the garage shelves.

But best of all, Dad was a sweet father. His eyes glowed with warmth when he looked at his children, and Fiorella always knew that she was loved.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. Rest in peace. May you bowl 300 in heaven.

Rebuttal

Fiorella remembers when black people weren't allowed to walk through the doors of "nice" stores in downtown Waco--unless they were part of the clean-up crew, of course. She remembers when the president of her church youth group and another girl got on the office phone and, just for kicks, called phone numbers in the black area of town and told whoever answered that he had won a million dollar prize and where to pick it up. She remembers a high school guy she knew telling her how much fun it was to go down to South Waco and pretend he was about to run down old black women because they'd screech and drop whatever they were carrying all over the street.

Don't tell Fio that racism didn't exist before Obama took office.

Fio's First Home Run

Fio encountered softball for the first time when when she was seven and her family moved from Ohio to Texas.  At Ellet Elementary, recess had meant running around and playing on the swings, see-saws, sliding board, monkey bars, or jungle gym. Recess at North Waco Elementary meant being sent out to the barren school grounds with a bat and ball (or, according to season, a kickball or a jump rope).
Needless to say, Fio panicked when a softball--or any ball--whizzed toward her.

Well into junior high, she couldn't hit, although she always tried, so when the her father's department at General Tire held a picnic and  set up a softball game, she lined up to participate. The pitcher gave her a long, slow ball, virtually aiming at her bat--what else do you do for the boss's daughter--and SHE GOT A HIT!
 
Maybe it was the feel of the bat thwacking the ball, or maybe it was that the slow pitch had given her a moment to think about what she was doing, but from then on,she was a reliable playground batter.

We'll save the story of how she learned to catch for another day.

Waco, Old and New

Surprisingly, Fio survived her high school reunion. She talked to a lot of people, ate too much, and spent way too much time driving around New Waco and looking for Old Waco. Her elementary school has been replaced by a new school, her junior high is now a vacant lot, and her high school is a downtown apartment building.  The nice neighborhood she grew up on is going downhill fast.

To top it off, she and Husband spent an hour out in the hot sun checking out tombstones to find her parents' graves before they finally gave up and sought help from a cemetery employee. Then there was the flower arrangement Fio tried to make for the grave vase.  Sorry, Mom.  Fio's brain and fingers were fried by then.

But I love you.

High School Reunion

Husband and Fio are in Waco for her high school reunion.  It's interesting, exciting, and weird.  People grow up to be different than they were as teenagers--their appearances change with age, weight gain and loss, and hair colors and styles, while their personalities and attitudes have been altered by their varying experiences.

Fio is attending the reunion not only because she is curious about her former classmates, but also because she might pick up some good story ideas.  Hmm--light bulb goes on--maybe she could deduct the registration fee as a business expense.

Alcohol

Fiorella's mother grew up in a house that was dominated by her father's alcoholism so Fiorella grew up in a house that was alcohol-free.

But she was fascinated by the concept of drinking.  Not like the drinking her grandfather engaged in, but like the sophisticated people on television and in the movies who had a beer with friends or sipped a glass of wine before dinner or carried around a cocktail at a toney parties.

Fio had her chance when she was eighteen and departed stone-sober Waco for the more mellow halls of The University of Texas.  She drank on dates and at parties.  She even got drunk a few times.  But she never liked the taste.  Finally she quite trying.

Make Fio's water.

Fixer-Upper Downer

Fio's tried out Fixer-Upper on HGTV and doesn't like it.

She thought she would--it's set in Waco, where Fiorella grew up, and she even recognizes some of the locations.  And the premise is interesting--Chip, a contractor type, and his wife, Joanna, a decorator type, give prospective homeowners their choice of three down-and-out houses, then renovate the winner.

The only problem--aside from Fio being tired of the "choice of three" format--is that the renovated houses all end up looking the same.  And, well, also that Chip and Joanna's relationship is downright irritating.  There's something about her humorless intensity and his country-boy goofiness that doesn't add up.

Dad

My father was a self-made man.  When he was thirteen months old, his own father died in a coal mine accident.  The county tried to take my father and his two siblings, but his mother worked in other people's homes to support them.  In fact, the whole family worked--my father herded a family friend's cattle to and from the pasture and cut off chicken's heads for neighbors.

Dad was a good-looking guy and popular in school.  His nickname was "Buddy," he excelled in sports, and was elected president of his senior class.

His first job, with General Tire, lasted almost forty years, and he founded a company golf league and bowling league on the side.  He advanced to become the manager of the largest department in the Waco plant, won several sports trophies, and enjoyed his retirement.

But, most of all, he was a loving, caring father.

Playdates

When Fiorella was a child in Akron, she went across the street to play with Diane Woodhall or down the street to play with Barbara Tromer, or up the street to play with Bobby Duncan or further up to play with a motley gang of kids in Patty Castile's big, jungle-like yard.  In Waco, she ran across the street to play with Ellen or went next-door to visit Elaine.

When Fiorella's children were born, she assumed they also would roam freely around the neighborhood. WRONG-O!  There was a new kid on the block--playdates.  Where did these things come from? Probably from the fact that, in the meantime, mothers had entered the workforce and were not at home anymore so they had to set up appointments for their children to play together.

How sad.

 

Howdy, Friend

The first time Fiorella and Husband drove through this subdivision, a jogger waved at them.

That one wave was enough to convince Fio she wanted to live in the area.  Eight years later, neighborhood pedestrians and drivers still wave at each other, and Fiorella has adopted the habit herself.  It reminds her of her youth in Waco, when one politely greeted anyone one encountered while walking down the street.  That didn't hold for crowded downtown sidewalks, of course, just as Fio's current hand-waving ceases when she hits the highway.

One has to be in a more intimate situation to acknowledge fellow travelers.

    

A Well-ordered LIfe

Mr. Lattimore taught Fiorella precision and order.  Looking back, Fio thinks he was probably diagnosibly obsessive, but, since he taught math at a junior high school, it worked for him--and for Fiorella.  She has no trouble balancing a checkbook or adding up business expenses because she writes the numbers down clearly and keeps the columns straight and distinct.  And she tries to live her life that way too--precise and in the right order.

John Lattimore was a little man, maybe about five-three, so small he had to buy his clothes from the boys' department, but he commanded tremendous respect from the students, mainly because he was so strict and--well--precise and well-ordered.

Retread

Maybe eternal life consists of innumerable variations of each person's life.  Maybe we are all reborn as before, but with different opportunities, and we make different choices.  Maybe Fiorella's parents would have stayed in Ohio rather than move to Texas.  Maybe she would have chosen to attend Rice rather than University of Texas, or maybe she would have stayed in Waco and gone to Baylor, despite required attendance at Baptist chapel.  Maybe her art career would have taken off and she would never have tried her hand at writing novels.  Maybe she would have learned Spanish or some other language well enough to really use it.    The maybe's are endless--thus, eternal life.