Betsey's a comin'

I attended sixth grade in New Orleans, or just outside of New Orleans, at Trist Junior High School. It must have been a “middle” school as Micki was also there and was a year ahead of me.

I don’t have a lot of memories of my time there except that I named as my “favorite teacher”, if asked, Karl Bakken. One of many, many teachers I had as you can imagine, averaging two schools a year. I think my first grade year I had, between moves and other reasons, nine different teachers. For some reason, Mr. Bakken stood out. I do remember him dressing up as a superhero for a biology lesson. I also remember his form of punishment, for a rowdy classroom of sixth graders, was to have us stand beside our desks. Can teachers even do that kind of thing now?

Sometimes after lunch, which always included red beans and rice, we would get to mill around outside in the humid New Orleans air. It was a time of social discovery as girls stood in circles with their arms folded across their developing chests and boys ran, pushed and tried to deal with their own social inadequacies. It was during one of these fresh air experiences, windy and hot, that I looked up to see a figure scurrying across the parking lot, chiffon scarf whipping around her freshly teased hair-do....my mother. She was in a hurry, came to me quickly, embarrassingly so, and told me we were going home. She was in quite a state, that’s for sure.

There was a hurricane coming, and a big one at that. We lived in a trailer, which does not stand up well to tornadoes and hurricanes. Mom got us all home, packed, secured what she could which included putting masking tape on the mirrors in a big “X” pattern and taping cabinet doors shut. You have to remember that this house rolled...so we knew how to secure things down. We were quickly out and went downtown to a hotel, which we hoped would offer more security and safety that the aluminum box we knew as home.

The hurricane was big, and named Betsey. It was 1965, and it lasted throughout the evening and night. We were in a hotel room with another family we knew well in the room next door. We watched the blowing and the rain, and the debris flying through the air from our opened hotel room doorway on the third or fourth floor. Two boys skateboarded down the exterior walkway, back and forth, their speed encouraged by the strong winds. The next morning, the damage was apparent as street signs, shingles, glass and panels lay all around the hotel grounds. My dad went to check on the trailer and came back reporting that although the park took quite a lashing, the trailer came through pretty well, shifting off its support blocks only because the trailer next door rammed in to ours. There was a dent in the front corner, but otherwise, things were not bad. Not like some of the other homes in the park, which were completely destroyed, and the insides, those belongings that made these trailers “homes”, scattered throughout.

The next few days passed without electricity and eating what we could keep in a cooler with lots of ice. It took a few days for the city to recover and for us to be allowed back to our home. The pool at the hotel was filled with debris that blew in during the storm so we couldn’t swim. I do remember my brother Kevin somehow managed to “fall in” to the pool and came to the hotel room grinning and wet. If there is water, a boy will be wet.

I remember watching over the balcony one evening as a big, long, black limousine drove slowly down the streets. People told me it was the President, which would have been Lyndon Johnson, surveying the damages. That made an impression and I can still see that overhead shot from the hotel balcony of that limo turning the corner to go around the block and continue its surveillance. I didn’t ever picture people inside that car. I am trying to imagine it now and don’t know if its my imagination or memory from a news story that displays there for me.

I don’t know how long it was before we were allowed back home. I do remember that after a couple days my parents took pity on our poor souls and moved us to a hotel that had the power back on and a clean pool. The hurricane refugees that we once were had suddenly turned in to vacationers.

My memory.

Last week I posted a beginning. A beginning to explore some of my past, and to write it down. To throw it out there, let it plop down on the floor and then, to poke it with a stick. It might be interesting, and it might be dull. Dull dull.

I have one really clear memory of my sister and I when we were little. She was riding the tricycle, and I was standing on the back. That was typical. I was either standing on the back of her tricycle or on the back of Kevin’s. I don’t remember that I had my own tricycle. Micki had one because she was oldest. Kevin had one because he was the boy. I didn’t have one because, well, I don’t really know except that I didn’t. At least, not in this memory or else I wouldn’t have been standing on the back, while Micki pedaled.

We wore dresses a lot. I remember it being hot, that the park we were then living in had parched dirt roads. It was in California, I think, although I am not clear on where it was. I have a vivid memory of looking down and watching our shadow as I stood up and Micki was seated in front of me, my dress blowing out behind me. It was windy, too, and when we got back to the trailer the awning that attached to the top of the trailer and was secured by poles stuck in the ground had blown loose. It now laid across the top of the trailer. Or, at least, that’s my memory.

I will tell you that I remember being the middle kid. The middle kid between my mom and dad’s first child together and their baby boy...red haired and freckled boy. I was sweet, cute, spoiled to a degree. But, I was still the middle. My situation was hopeless! I don’t know if I ever got a tricycle but I can tell you I was 10 before I got my first bike. It was purple. Micki had hers for years, and Kevin, well....again, being a boy he got his bike when he was about 2 weeks old. Or, at least, that’s my memory.

There is an old movie of me crying my eyeballs out as Kevin and Micki danced together in our living room. I am probably 5 or 6. Apparently, neither would dance with me and I was quite distraught. I’ve seen that movie many times during my life and can not believe I cared that much, but like I said, I was spoiled to a degree. I fancied myself to be a ballerina, often wearing my petticoat over my clothes as if it were a tutu. I am sure that is why I was so upset, because I was the dancer! Or part of why they were being so darned mean to me, ganging up on me. Or, at least, that’s my memory.

My memories are scattered and are not like the memories of other people I have known. I have no repeat, kind of seared in to your brain memories you get from doing the same thing every day of your childhood. Like the street names, or store names or the hallways of schools. Or who use to live in a house on the corner of such and such street. People who had the same best friend for their entire lives. I’ve always been fascinated by those memories that other people can pull back to the surface. We moved about every 9 months, so there was not a lot of time to sear memories into the ol’ noggin. I do have snippets. Polio shots, and being lined up to get a sugar cube with vaccine in it, beaches, petrified wood, some sort of dinosaur park. My grandpa’s watermelon stand, Mt. Rushmore. Or, at least that’s my memory.

Oh, the places I've been...

I have a list of about 100 places I would like to see. I have a list of at least that many places I have been. I have often shared a little of my history with people but will post it here again for those of you who may not know...

My dad was a superintendent for American Bridge, division of United States Steel, and wherever a bridge was needed, we went. This meant a lot of traveling across these great 50 states, and living in close quarters. Grew up in a trailer..that’s right, trailer..not a mobile home, although it most certainly was that, not a modular home. A trailer. In trailer parks. Sometimes just over the tracks...often not pretty but usually fun, with lots of kids and adventures.

I was raised with my older sister, Micki, and my younger brother, Kevin. We had good times. There were just the five of us most of the time. We also had half siblings as mom and dad had each been married before and had two children each. Of course my dad’s kids were with their mom so we didn’t see them much as we traveled and lived far from them, but, we loved them. My mom’s kids also lived with our grandparents, my mom’s parents. Never really knew why and it matters not at this point. We loved them, too. Bunny, Jerry, Glenn and Darrell.

There are habits I developed as a kid that I carry forward into this current life. The whole sit back and observe thing. I will talk to anyone, and love learning something from a stranger, or finding out how we are connected. I like those characteristics...but there are a couple I developed I am not fond of and am spending my adult life trying to shake. I size people up. Too quickly, and often incorrectly. I do talk to anyone but it is often uncomfortable to look them square in the eye...forced extrovert from an introvert. And, I move on quickly. Friendship falters? Okay, move on. I don’t work hard to save them as there are, or at least was true in my past, more friendships down the road.

“I don’t drink, cuss or chew, or run with women who do...” an old pastor friend of mine once said. In the next chapter of my book, I’m going to be working on those other bad habits I've developed. Do you have habits you would like to change? Join me. Its never too late to be a better version of yourself.

Its true what they say, one of the worst things about working from home is the discipline it takes to stick to the plan. To keep the paperwork organized and the business running smoothly.

I had to take several steps to establish myself as an independent contractor in order to begin working with the clients I now provide services. The first, to have a business name. Now this is not something that I had ever considered in my “previous life” but I went with my name. Some people include something like “virtual services” in their business name or phrases that hold special meaning to them. My feeling is that should I ever need to advertise, I’m easy to find by my name rather than something clever...I’m already in the phone book. I just went basic. For those of you who know me, that probably isn’t surprising.

I also had to get the standard office equipment and tools. I have upgraded two computers, have a separate telephone line and a few other pieces and parts to prepare this to be a well-oiled machine. And don’t forget my way cute labeler. Bottom line, yes, there was start up money.

Handling the paperwork has been a challenge. Managing my schedule, instead of it managing me, has also been a bit of work. When I am done with what I have scheduled for the day, I walk away from it. That’s difficult and has often had me racing from one errand to another as I try to juggle my free time. Its been two years but I am finally starting to feel like I am in a flow, and am top of the pile instead of piled on.

I know a lot of young mothers and others would like to work from home, believing it to be an answer, and it can be, but it isn’t easy and it won’t work for everyone. The idea that you can do it all, put in a quick half hour here or there, just doesn’t work out. It takes the time investment, the time management, that all “jobs” take. I also have no small children to think about and no barking dogs. That's a home office killer.

It takes dedication and flexibility and it takes being able to say no.

That’s been a hard one for me. Saying no, my plate is full. No, that’s not something that I can take on right now. No, you are nice and I see you are in a bind, but that doesn’t mean I can allow myself to be in a bind. No, I just don’t want to. No, I realize that to some it must mean that I have all the free time in the world because I work from home, but I am a professional business owner and have a commitment and contracts to meet.