Cori’s Neighborhood

The other night after dinner Hayden and I were hanging out on the driveway enjoying the sun that stays up until almost 10pm these days.  He was mostly pushing his trains around and intermittently stopping to examen the "flowers" that Nancy planted last summer.  (there are quotes around flowers b/c even though they are perennials and Nancy told me they would come back I was a little late in watering them this season and they are still brown at this point.)  Eventually Hayden started heading down the driveway just to the sidewalk and he would look up and wave and say "bye-bye" as if he was going for a walk.  He did that a few times and I finally said "don't leave me, I'll be sad."  At that he stopped where he was, turned around and marched back up the driveway and gave me a big wet kiss!  He has learned to give kisses when we ask him but this is the first time he has done it without being asked.  I don't think I have to tell you my heart melted!  He's such a sweetie, I think I'll keep him ;)     

Tonight Hayden put two words together for the first time to form a short sentence.  We were at home depot browsing around the gardening section waiting for some paint to be mixed up.  Hayden was helping me pick out a watering can and Matt found a comfy swing to hang out in.  All of a sudden, Hayden put down the watering can, started looking around, put his little hands up in the air in a questioning stance and said "where's daddy?" clear as a bell!  I was so surprised but thought maybe I was just hearing things.  Later when I picked him up from the church nursery he did the same thing.  I told Matt what I thought had happened and he replied "when we were in home depot I thought I heard him say 'where's mommy?'!" I was tempted to ask Matt exactly at what point in the Home Depot visit that took place so that I could deduce which was actually his first sentence, but I guess it doesn't matter either way :)   

• From the "The Crazy Shit you Remember" file: Brother Marky used to play baseball.  Quite well, actually.  Anyway, he had a Babe Ruth League game one Wednesday evening back in the day, and I rode to the ballpark with my parents.  My buddy Mike had just played a game before Mark's, and he was all excited to try out his new screwball.  Fernando Valenzuela was the new thing then, and he had a wicked screwgie.  Anyway, Mike and I were off throwing screwballs to each other.  It was a warm spring night, and the air smelled like a ballpark, one of nature's most perfect aromas--grass, clay, sweat, burgers cooking, peanut shells, dirt, and adrenaline.  The next morning at school, Mike and I were playing basketball with a bunch of our friends.  This jackass kid nobody liked tripped me when I was going for a lay-up, and I fell and broke the hell out of my right wrist.  The things you remember.
• I didn't like Fernando Valenzuela after that.
• I have always liked the Gin Blossoms, though.
• The Gin Blossoms' guitarist is Jesse Valenzuela.
• I don't know whether A) he's related to Fernando Valenzuela, or B) he can throw a screwball.
• Gin blossoms refer to the ruptured capillaries on the nose of one who drinks excessively (see: Fields, W.C.)
• The Gin Blossoms were formed in 1987 in Tempe.
• In 1987, I was in Tallahassee, and I didn't have any gin blossoms, although I could throw a pretty good screwball.
• Now, I have some gin blossoms; I like the proper noun Gin Blossoms, can't throw a screwball, and stopped drinking gin.
• Though you'd never know it from reading this blog.
• In honor of Independence Day, we've had a potluck type thing here at work.  As always, we're a bit dessert-heavy, with a couple of cheesecakes, an Italian Dream Cake, a fruit platter, a giganto birthday cake, a coconut custard pie, and other things my pancreas wouldn't allow me to examine. 
• One lady brought a huge crock pot full of Cuban black bean chili.  Woo-hoo!!! My plan was to eat about four bowls of that, then go home and create my own fireworks.
• Damn the luck, though, that masterful chili was all gone before I even got a spoonful.  However, big props to Linda for making the absolute greatest deviled eggs in the history of either the devil or eggs.
• Seriously, if Satan made these while preparing for a picnic, he'd call them Linda'd eggs in respectful tribute.
• Linda doesn't have any obvious gin blossoms.
• Her eggs, though.  OY!
• Okay, not her personal ova, but the deviled eggs she made.
• She said they were the easiest thing ever, containing horsey sauce, bacon, salt & pepper, and did I mention bacon?
• Adding bacon to eggs seems like a subtle perfecting of the existing chicken egg, and I mean no offense to chickens.  God forbid I offend the poultry-American community on Independence Day.  We damage human-poultry relations enough as it is.
• Another one from both the "Human-Poultry Relations Snafu" and "The Shit You Remember" files: One year, my family was in Ft Oglethorpe, Georgia, for Independence Day.  There was a big celebration in the Chickamauga National Battlefield.  My grandmother packed a picnic of fried severed chicken parts, Golden Flake potato chips, and Coca-Cola in those little 6.5 oz glass bottles.  The Chattanooga Symphony Orchestra played, and there were fireworks.  Being there on that blood-hallowed ground, Civil War cannons still scattered throughout verdant fields, eating that quintessentially Southern American meal while fireworks exploded and patriotic melodies soared, my patriotism swelled.
• My greatest fireworks experience was after the U-92 Tenth Anniversary Beach Blast, a big concert we staged on Clearwater Beach.  Predictably for an August concert, a giant thunderstorm came blasting through before the headliners were able to play, thus ruining our giant fireworks finale over the Gulf.  Well, here's the problem.  With all the lightning and ozone in the air (so the tetchy pyrotechnics guy said), the fireworks were unstable, and there was "No damn way (he was) driving them sumbitches back across the bridge in (his) truck.  That shit could explode at any time."  By this point, the crowd was gone, and Digger the promotions guy and I had taken down all our stuff.  Mike the Engineer, aka "Gorgonzola Monster Boy," asked Mr Tetchy 'Splosion Guy what we should do.  "Best thing is just blow the fuckers up." 
• I should mention that Mike the Engineer had given two weeks notice two weeks before that night.  He didn't really care if the lingering dozen or so station VIP's and sponsors snootily lolling about the hospitality tent would be scared.  In fact, all the better. 
• "Go right ahead!"
• The fireworks display was to have been twelve minutes long.  I know this, because I had spent a few hours Friday painstakingly editing together a 12 minute musical montage to accompany it.  The annoying station brass and sponsors didn't know what hit them, and somehow we'd neglected to give them a heads-up.  The 12-minutes worth of fireworks were launched and exploded in about 25 seconds. 
• The Apocalypse will have to work mighty hard to outdo this.  It was jarringly, violently beautiful, like nuclear explosions.
• Thank God I don't have any nuclear explosion stories to share.
• I should note that my buddy Mike from school and baseball is NOT Mike the Engineer, aka "Gorgonzola Monster Boy."
• My buddy Mike went on to coach high school baseball, and there are few greater motherlodes of colorful language than baseball people.  Their expressions transcend the narrow ballet of ball and bat, forging into every facet of life, including meteorology.  For example:

The Weather Channel: "There were heavy downpours."

Baseball people: "It rained like a cow pissing on a flat rock."

 

• That night, my buddy Mike would have told Gorgonzola Monster Boy Mike that "It's raining like piss from a boot."
• States I've been in: Florida, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Texas, Oklahoma, New Mexico, Utah, Arizona, Arkansas, Tennessee, Kentucky, Colorado, California, Hawaii, Wyoming, Idaho, South Dakota, Iowa, Nebraska, Kansas, Illinois, Missouri, South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania, District of Columbia, Indiana, and Michigan.
• Maybe Ohio, too: I'm not sure.
• Things change.  Many of the states I've been to were once fighting each other right on that Civil War battlefield where we had that picnic long ago.  My grandmother and grandfather are buried maybe fifteen miles north of there, in the Chattanooga National Cemetery. 
• The Chattanooga National Cemetery was established Christmas Day in 1863.  By 1870, more than 12,800 folks had taken up residence there, 4189 of whom were unknown.  There are actual German POWs buried there, too: 183 of them from World War 1 and World War 2. 
• Just to be clear, my grandfather was a World War 2 veteran from the United States Army, and NOT a German POW.
• The last time I was at the Chattanooga National Cemetery was when we buried my grandmother on April 1, 1993.  It was ridiculously cold (Baseball term: "Cold as a witch's tit"), and I'd left the houseful of mourners by myself, just so I could hot-box a few cigarettes before the funeral.  I parked next to this beautiful valley, and all at once it started to snow.  Just a tiny flurry that didn't stick to anything, but I smiled through my misery.  This was just how my grandmother would've said "howdy" when I was sneaking cigarettes before her funeral.
• Today there are over 43,000 bodies buried in the Chattanooga National Cemetery.  Watching over them since 1879 is a large monument erected by the State of Ohio.
• Ohio is next to Indiana, which is where my buddy Mike now lives.
• Ohio was also the home of a judge with the impressive name Kenesaw Mountain Landis.  Judge Landis was named after Kennesaw Mountain, from which his father and fellow Ohioan was shot during the Civil War. Landis pere was extremely pissed off that he left most of one leg in the shadow of Kennesaw Mountain, thus he named his son after it, just as sort of a sick memorial.
• I suppose it would be like me naming my son "Fournier's Gangrene Melancholy Socially Retarded Drunkard" (Biff, for short).  
• Anyway, Kenesaw Mountain Landis went on to be one of the most revered and influential baseball commissioners in history.  His biggest achievement was maintaining the game's integrity following the 1919 Black Sox Scandal. 
• His second? The phrase, "busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest."
• Happy Birthday America, and I hope everyone has a safe, happy weekend.

Today was a very relaxing day at The Aerie, and I realized that since Penny came to be part of our pack on the day after Memorial Day, that today was her first holiday at home.

There was plenty of resting…

And a little curiosity about the gardening we did

And a little curiosity about the camera

And finally, a nice Happy Hour hanging out with a good drink and a good book.

Happy Independence Day to all!

I hope time spent with your family and/or friends is as marvelous as mine.

These guys? Rock my world.

 

And these cookies aren't half bad either.

 

I know why they're called daylilys...here today, gone tomorrow.

 

 

I intended to run yesterday.  Really, I did.  But I hosted a happy hour fundraiser on Thursday, and my cycling friends who showed up conspired against me.  Even the runner.  They had been discussing the Lake Barcroft loop - a popular mid-week training ride, and decided on the spur of the moment to plan a ride for the next day because one (the runner) was a "Barcroft virgin."  I'd never done that ride either as it's virtually impossible to get to Arlington by six o'clock on a weekday.  And since it's a ride I can do literally from my door, it didn't take much convincing.  We weren't meeting until noon, and I briefly entertained the notion that I could get my run in early before the ride.  Then I stayed out until after midnight.  So that plan got all shot to hell.

Well, Barcroft lived up to its billing, with several nice rolling hills balancing out a somewhat convoluted cue sheet.  And I wasn't feeling especially guilty about skipping my run until I showed up this morning for the forty mile pie ride.  I had been planning on doing this ride for the last week, since we didn't have an official training run today.  But at least five people asked me "Aren't you supposed to be running?"
 
So on this day noted for bold proclamations of freedom and liberty, I hereby declare independence from my bike until October.  That's not to say I won't be riding at all.  (I've already been cleared by my running coaches to ride on Sundays for the next six weeks or so.)  What I mean is: yesterday was the last time that, when confronted with the choice to run or ride, I will opt to ride.  I will be free from my bike.  Sort of.  As I write this, the Tour de France is on in the background.  I still get to ride vicariously.

I'm in the middle of making a patriotic mix for our Independence Day get-together at my parents' house this evening (I could listen to Toby Keith's "Courtesy of the Red, White & Blue [The Angry American]" on repeat every day) and writing up index cards on famous Americans who have helped make our country what is today for myself and my nieces and nephews -- I'm Martha Bratton, Kailin is Betsy Ross, Emily is Molly Pitcher, my sister is Sacagawea, my brother-in-law is Meriwether Lewis, Elijah is William Clark, and Kevin is General George S. Patton.

Red, white, and blue cupcakes and cookies are ready for transport. I've got my "One Nation Under God" shirt on and a cute new red hairband in my hair (I don't even have to bobby-pin my bangs back anymore).

But I wanted to take a moment and post this inspirational column from Karl Rove. It made me cry.

Rather than the Cindy Sheehans of this world who parlay their grief into angry attacks on our country, this is what true patriotism and honor is all about.

A Family's Valor, a Nation's Freedom
By Karl Rove
Wall Street Journal, July 2, 2009

At a dinner last week in California, I was reminded of the debt we owe to those who have, for 233 years, sustained our freedom and independence. One remarkable family in particular exemplifies the best in the American spirit of courage and sacrifice.

Sitting at my table was a friend, Christine Krissoff, wife of Dr. Bill Krissoff and mother of Nathan and Austin Krissoff. One of her sons, Marine First Lt. Nathan Krissoff, was killed in Al Anbar Province in December 2006. A Williams College grad, athlete and musician, he'd left for Iraq on the fifth anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks. He was 25.

I met his parents and brother in Nevada in August 2007 while accompanying President George W. Bush to Reno, Nev. The president was there to address the American Legion before meeting with local families who'd lost a loved one in Iraq or Afghanistan. Mr. Bush has met with about 550 families in private visits like this. At those meetings, he would have a senior staff member close by in case there was something that needed to be followed up on, such as getting a flag to a family member.

We entered a small room in the back of the convention center to find the Krissoffs waiting -- the father in a black suit with his arms crossed and the mother in a plain dark outfit. Their dress contrasted with their son Austin's Marine dress uniform. Like his older brother, Austin had volunteered for service after college. He was to be deployed to Iraq in March 2008.

During my White House years, I saw few people with the quiet power, intelligence and poise of Chris Krissoff. She talked about her sons, the pain of her loss, her concern for her youngest when he went into harm's way, and the stakes in the War on Terror. The entire time, her husband was quiet.

When stories had been told, tears wept, and grief expressed, Mr. Bush asked if he could do anything. At that, Bill Krissoff spoke.

"Yes," he said. "I'm a pretty good orthopedic surgeon. When my younger son is deployed to Iraq next March, I would like to be working as a Navy medical officer, but they won't let me because I am 61 years old. Will you give me an age waiver, Mr. President?" Mr. Bush pointed to me. Dr. Krissoff and I exchanged business cards and he promised to fax me his application.

I checked him out on the way back to Washington. His reputation was that of an outstanding trauma and sports medicine surgeon. He was also a marathon runner and a really fine person.

Two days later, I placed Bill's application on the president's desk before he met with Gen. Peter Pace, chairman of the Joint Chiefs. I made sure Gen. Pace had the file when he left. He promised to get back soon with an answer. I told him that he would have to get back to someone else: The next day was my last day at the White House. One of the last things I did before turning in my badge was to write Bill Krissoff to wish him well.

A day later, I was in West Texas for the start of dove season. While waiting for the next flight of birds, I realized I hadn't written Mrs. Krissoff. So I sat down that night at the Gage Hotel in Marathon and did. She had already lost her oldest son. Her younger son was preparing to deploy to Iraq. Meanwhile, her husband wanted to give up their comfortable life, career and friends so he could honor their sons by joining the military at age 61. And she had given her full, heartfelt support.

A few weeks later, I received a note saying Bill had received his waiver and a chance to pass basic training. A few months later, I was invited to the commissioning ceremony for Lt. Commander William Krissoff, United States Navy Medical Reserve.

Bill emailed me this April about his duties as a combat surgeon in Iraq. He sent photos of himself with Austin, who is now on his second tour there. This is how father, mother and brother are honoring the sacrifice of Nathan. While sharing this story with the audience last week, I found myself unable to look at Christine until I finished and the crowd rose to applaud her.

Watching the smoke rise from the Battle of Bunker Hill, Abigail Adams wrote her husband John, who was away at the Second Continental Congress in Philadelphia. While she and others lived "in continual Expectation of Hostility," Abigail wrote, "like good Nehemiah, having made our prayer with God, and set the people with their Swords, their Spears, and their bows, we will say unto them, Be not affraid of them."

Christine Krissoff's husband and sons, wrapped in prayers and armed with swords and scalpels, have served our nation with valor. So has she. So long as our nation produces families like the Krissoffs, America will remain not only the greatest nation on earth, but also the most noble in history.

Huskers memorable moments (not all great ones) sitting at no. 12, 10, and 7.  Of course the Nebraska-Oklahoma rivalry would have to be listed in the top 10 (so far).  Number 7, was of course the famous "Black 41 Flash Reverse" that helped Nebraska defeat Oklahoma. 

Cheers

This time last year.