September/October with the Girlies
By the time September rolled around the girlies were all geared up to start preschool. I had spent weeks grilling them on verb conjugation and their times tables so that they would be ready for the competitive world of New York City preschools, but decided to back off because I didn't want to put pressure on them to succeed like my parents did to me when I was a young lad.
You see, when I was young I was generally thought to be a handsome, smart, well-behaved child of excellent breeding. My parents, especially my father 'Lee', would spend hours each day (when he wasn't out picking up broads) helping me study music, Latin, history, and the social sciences, in the hopes that I would use my advanced intelligence and physical gifts to make the world a better place. Either that, or become an NFL placekicker.
When it came time for me to enter preschool, my brother and sister (Ron and D;al;dfj) were already in real school at Dressell Elementary (named after Friedrich M. Dressell, well-known Amish craftsman and the inventor of Bisquick). They got to ride a bus and hang out with Ed Mitchell and Karen Kaiser, while I had to spend every day at Mrs. Adams house, where I would listen to the Partridge Family all day and plot my escape (or revenge, depending upon the circumstances of the day).
I was eager to begin school, largely so I wouldn't have to listen to 'I'll meet you halfway (That's better than no way)' over and over again, so when I turned 4 my 'Mom' thought it would be a good idea to completely deceive me into thinking that I was going to real school and not some place with mean old ladies who yelled at me all the time and made me eat food that smelled like fermented poultry byproducts.
On the first day, my 'Mom' said "Hurry up, the 'bus' is coming to take you to 'school'" (she actually used 'finger quotes') as if I was a complete buffoon who didn't know the difference between a bus and a white Plymouth Belvedere driven by a lady in a housecoat and curlers. When the fake bus pulled up, my 'Mom' said 'Hey look, the 'bus' is here'!, which was clearly not true. How stupid did she think I was?
I looked out the window and said 'Where? Where is the bus? I don't see a bus! All I see is a white Plymouth driven by a lady in a housecoat and curlers. Do you think I don't know what a bus looks like? Come on! I'm four, but I'm not a complete doofus. A bus is yellow and big, and while it probably would be driven by a lady in a housecoat and curlers, it certainly would not look like a rusty two-door sedan. I'm not going until an actual bus shows up to take me to school. Ron gets to ride a bus, D;al;sdjk gets to ride a bus - I want to ride a bus, not some stupid ugly 2-door Plymouth.'
Well, my Mom laughed and laughed and said 'Why, you little scamp - your recalcitrance is so refreshing it fills me with happiness and joy.' Actually, now that I think about it that is probably not what she said - more likely she repeated some words normally associated with men who have served in the Navy, (my Mom never served in the military but seemed to be familiar and comfortable with their profanities) and to my astonishment and against my expressed wishes I soon found myself in the back seat of a hot, smelly car sitting next to some booger eating moron.
My preschool was the Montessori school on Lindbergh in St. Louis - their motto was 'A warm and nurturing environment for young children, using techniques developed in the leading prisons and mental institutions of Eastern Europe'. Each day I would show up and begin the process of learning, knowing that I had to work hard to achieve my full potential.
Of course, ten minutes later I would start to get nervous thinking about what nasty filth they were going to force down my throat for 'lunch', and so instead of focusing on my advanced trigonometry or the song we were supposed to be singing (Here is a story of Michael Finnegan, He has whiskers on his chinnegan - even at that age I realized there was no such thing as a 'chinnegan'. Geez, did everyone think I was a complete huckleberry?) I would start to develop my scheme to avoid ingesting the filthy lunch they had planned for me.
In those days I was quite a picky eater (I have always preferred the term 'fussy') and I didn't like (still don't) most things that other people view as actual food. People say that makes me a big pain the, uh, neck, but in fact it is just the opposite - all I need is some turkey, wheat bread, maybe the occasional cheeseburger or a slice of pizza, and I'm perfectly happy. See? No hassle at all.
My typical approach to avoid actually eating the nasty lunch served by these nefarious evil-doers was to sort of hunch over and hide my plate from the teacher, move the nastiness around my plate so it looked like I had eaten something, and then when all the other kids got up to put their plates away I would hang back towards the end of the line and rapidly, stealthily put my plate underneath the plate of little Suzy or that stinky kid Ralph, thereby avoiding detection and surviving for another day.
This approach worked for a few weeks, but even I, with all my gifts and talents, didn't anticipate pea soup day. In 1970 pea soup was something people actually fed children - in those days it was not reserved exclusively for hogs and prisoners, but then again it was a simpler, less enlightened time - and one day, just as you would expect from these types of people, they served us (me) pea soup.
I instantly realized that my normal techniques would not work this time. First of all it was soup, which removed the viability of my 'move it all around' approach. Second, it was in a bowl and not on a plate, so my 'secretly stick my plate on the bottom' approach was not an option. Desperate times call for desperate measures, though, and so I did the only thing I could do in this situation. As I inhaled the vile stench of the hideous entree made out of what seemed to be cigar butts in a gallstone sauce, I jammed my spoon onto the side of the bowl with all of my strength and the bowl flipped in the air, spilling the nasty gruel everywhere.
By the way, my 'Mom' claims that I actually put the bowl on my head, which would have been funny of course, but clearly not something I would have done. - some of the gross pea mixture might have accidentally made its way into my nose and mouth, which would have made made my entire plan a colossal failure instead of a resounding success. So if you ask her aboot she will insist that I put it on my head, but you and I both know that is not the real story.
I was entirely and completely pleased with my display of independence and rebellion, although my heavy-set, strongly accented 'teacher' did not share my joy. She strolled over to me and began wagging her finger in my face - she wore a large skirt that could also have served as a lean-to if she ever found herself lost in the woods and in need of shelter. Her shirt was a dingy cream-colored blouse (it may have been white at some point in the distant past) with very short sleeves. As she pointed and screamed at me in an unfamiliar, unpleasant sounding Slavic language, I couldn't help noticing her upper arm flab bouncing and recoiling in every conceivable direction, back and forth, up and down, occasionally even in concentric circles of flab, not unlike when a pebble is thrown into the lake. It was hideous, and yet I could not look away.
As she carried on with her indecipherable yapping I started to giggle, which was not the reaction she expected or hoped for. I don't recall exactly what happened next, but seemingly within seconds my 'Mom' showed up (I think my Aunt Carolyn and Uncle Rodney showed up as well. They lived in sunny Tyler, Texas but were in St. Louis to visit us and do some vigorous hiking) and I was whisked away from the institution, never to return. I still have very fond memories of this early childhood educational experience, as you can clearly tell.
And now, 39 years later it was time for my girlies to start preschool, and they eat all kinds of food (I am guessing they would even eat pea soup, although I would never feed such yucky stuff to my darling girlies!) so I didn't have to worry aboot them reenacting my shenanigans. They love their school and their teachers, although I don't think they have learned the Michael Finnegan song - maybe I will teach it to them tonight.
In October we went upstate to visit our friend, leading New York physician Eric and his delightful twin daughters (Eric's wife works for the Wall Street Journal and she couldn't be there because she was busy blowing the lid off of some major scandal involving graft, corruption and kickbacks - it may have been something about Nancy Pelosi taking bribes to pay for her repeated and extensive facial tightening, but I am not certain about that). We went to an orchard where we picked apples, fed various farm animals, and took the girlies on their first hayride. We also walked through a corn maze, which pleased Kim to no end while at the same time also shamed her two brothers for their attempts to mock her many years before (a hilarious story but not one that can be repeated here, due to contractual restrictions).
Below are some photos and short videos, and when I say 'some' I really mean way too many. Sorry there are so many - if I cared about you, the home viewer, I might try to edit this down a bit, but the reality is that I don't really care so much. If you don't want to look at all of these pictures and videos, no one is going to stop you.
Please enjoy.
You see, when I was young I was generally thought to be a handsome, smart, well-behaved child of excellent breeding. My parents, especially my father 'Lee', would spend hours each day (when he wasn't out picking up broads) helping me study music, Latin, history, and the social sciences, in the hopes that I would use my advanced intelligence and physical gifts to make the world a better place. Either that, or become an NFL placekicker.
When it came time for me to enter preschool, my brother and sister (Ron and D;al;dfj) were already in real school at Dressell Elementary (named after Friedrich M. Dressell, well-known Amish craftsman and the inventor of Bisquick). They got to ride a bus and hang out with Ed Mitchell and Karen Kaiser, while I had to spend every day at Mrs. Adams house, where I would listen to the Partridge Family all day and plot my escape (or revenge, depending upon the circumstances of the day).
I was eager to begin school, largely so I wouldn't have to listen to 'I'll meet you halfway (That's better than no way)' over and over again, so when I turned 4 my 'Mom' thought it would be a good idea to completely deceive me into thinking that I was going to real school and not some place with mean old ladies who yelled at me all the time and made me eat food that smelled like fermented poultry byproducts.
On the first day, my 'Mom' said "Hurry up, the 'bus' is coming to take you to 'school'" (she actually used 'finger quotes') as if I was a complete buffoon who didn't know the difference between a bus and a white Plymouth Belvedere driven by a lady in a housecoat and curlers. When the fake bus pulled up, my 'Mom' said 'Hey look, the 'bus' is here'!, which was clearly not true. How stupid did she think I was?
I looked out the window and said 'Where? Where is the bus? I don't see a bus! All I see is a white Plymouth driven by a lady in a housecoat and curlers. Do you think I don't know what a bus looks like? Come on! I'm four, but I'm not a complete doofus. A bus is yellow and big, and while it probably would be driven by a lady in a housecoat and curlers, it certainly would not look like a rusty two-door sedan. I'm not going until an actual bus shows up to take me to school. Ron gets to ride a bus, D;al;sdjk gets to ride a bus - I want to ride a bus, not some stupid ugly 2-door Plymouth.'
Well, my Mom laughed and laughed and said 'Why, you little scamp - your recalcitrance is so refreshing it fills me with happiness and joy.' Actually, now that I think about it that is probably not what she said - more likely she repeated some words normally associated with men who have served in the Navy, (my Mom never served in the military but seemed to be familiar and comfortable with their profanities) and to my astonishment and against my expressed wishes I soon found myself in the back seat of a hot, smelly car sitting next to some booger eating moron.
My preschool was the Montessori school on Lindbergh in St. Louis - their motto was 'A warm and nurturing environment for young children, using techniques developed in the leading prisons and mental institutions of Eastern Europe'. Each day I would show up and begin the process of learning, knowing that I had to work hard to achieve my full potential.
Of course, ten minutes later I would start to get nervous thinking about what nasty filth they were going to force down my throat for 'lunch', and so instead of focusing on my advanced trigonometry or the song we were supposed to be singing (Here is a story of Michael Finnegan, He has whiskers on his chinnegan - even at that age I realized there was no such thing as a 'chinnegan'. Geez, did everyone think I was a complete huckleberry?) I would start to develop my scheme to avoid ingesting the filthy lunch they had planned for me.
In those days I was quite a picky eater (I have always preferred the term 'fussy') and I didn't like (still don't) most things that other people view as actual food. People say that makes me a big pain the, uh, neck, but in fact it is just the opposite - all I need is some turkey, wheat bread, maybe the occasional cheeseburger or a slice of pizza, and I'm perfectly happy. See? No hassle at all.
My typical approach to avoid actually eating the nasty lunch served by these nefarious evil-doers was to sort of hunch over and hide my plate from the teacher, move the nastiness around my plate so it looked like I had eaten something, and then when all the other kids got up to put their plates away I would hang back towards the end of the line and rapidly, stealthily put my plate underneath the plate of little Suzy or that stinky kid Ralph, thereby avoiding detection and surviving for another day.
This approach worked for a few weeks, but even I, with all my gifts and talents, didn't anticipate pea soup day. In 1970 pea soup was something people actually fed children - in those days it was not reserved exclusively for hogs and prisoners, but then again it was a simpler, less enlightened time - and one day, just as you would expect from these types of people, they served us (me) pea soup.
I instantly realized that my normal techniques would not work this time. First of all it was soup, which removed the viability of my 'move it all around' approach. Second, it was in a bowl and not on a plate, so my 'secretly stick my plate on the bottom' approach was not an option. Desperate times call for desperate measures, though, and so I did the only thing I could do in this situation. As I inhaled the vile stench of the hideous entree made out of what seemed to be cigar butts in a gallstone sauce, I jammed my spoon onto the side of the bowl with all of my strength and the bowl flipped in the air, spilling the nasty gruel everywhere.
By the way, my 'Mom' claims that I actually put the bowl on my head, which would have been funny of course, but clearly not something I would have done. - some of the gross pea mixture might have accidentally made its way into my nose and mouth, which would have made made my entire plan a colossal failure instead of a resounding success. So if you ask her aboot she will insist that I put it on my head, but you and I both know that is not the real story.
I was entirely and completely pleased with my display of independence and rebellion, although my heavy-set, strongly accented 'teacher' did not share my joy. She strolled over to me and began wagging her finger in my face - she wore a large skirt that could also have served as a lean-to if she ever found herself lost in the woods and in need of shelter. Her shirt was a dingy cream-colored blouse (it may have been white at some point in the distant past) with very short sleeves. As she pointed and screamed at me in an unfamiliar, unpleasant sounding Slavic language, I couldn't help noticing her upper arm flab bouncing and recoiling in every conceivable direction, back and forth, up and down, occasionally even in concentric circles of flab, not unlike when a pebble is thrown into the lake. It was hideous, and yet I could not look away.
As she carried on with her indecipherable yapping I started to giggle, which was not the reaction she expected or hoped for. I don't recall exactly what happened next, but seemingly within seconds my 'Mom' showed up (I think my Aunt Carolyn and Uncle Rodney showed up as well. They lived in sunny Tyler, Texas but were in St. Louis to visit us and do some vigorous hiking) and I was whisked away from the institution, never to return. I still have very fond memories of this early childhood educational experience, as you can clearly tell.
And now, 39 years later it was time for my girlies to start preschool, and they eat all kinds of food (I am guessing they would even eat pea soup, although I would never feed such yucky stuff to my darling girlies!) so I didn't have to worry aboot them reenacting my shenanigans. They love their school and their teachers, although I don't think they have learned the Michael Finnegan song - maybe I will teach it to them tonight.
In October we went upstate to visit our friend, leading New York physician Eric and his delightful twin daughters (Eric's wife works for the Wall Street Journal and she couldn't be there because she was busy blowing the lid off of some major scandal involving graft, corruption and kickbacks - it may have been something about Nancy Pelosi taking bribes to pay for her repeated and extensive facial tightening, but I am not certain about that). We went to an orchard where we picked apples, fed various farm animals, and took the girlies on their first hayride. We also walked through a corn maze, which pleased Kim to no end while at the same time also shamed her two brothers for their attempts to mock her many years before (a hilarious story but not one that can be repeated here, due to contractual restrictions).
Below are some photos and short videos, and when I say 'some' I really mean way too many. Sorry there are so many - if I cared about you, the home viewer, I might try to edit this down a bit, but the reality is that I don't really care so much. If you don't want to look at all of these pictures and videos, no one is going to stop you.
Please enjoy.
Amelia with her collage of photos and stuff. I think the school asked us to do that but I can't remember why. There was probably a good reason, though.
Sally's face covered up by her pink blanket, along with her collage and my wrist.
The girlies with Mimi.
Kim and the girlies in front of our apartment on the way to preschool!
The girlies and my lovely wife in front of the preschool. Amelia learned that face from me, and of course I couldn't be more proud.
Sally and Kim at school.
Upstate at a farm, getting ready to feed a calf.Feeding the calf (now, on video)
On a hayride with the girlies and my beautiful wife. The girls have never been happier, as you can clearly tell.They seem a bit happier in the video
In the corn maze. Kim's brothers better just keep their yaps shut from now on.Kim's Vindication
Getting ready to pick some apples
Sitting on pumpkins (these captions are getting quite dull - I am sure you could tell on your own that the girls are sitting on pumpkins without me pointing it out)
Walking through stacks of hay bales
Amelia in her Spider-Girl costume and her groovy shadesPeanuts and Jello
More Peanuts and Jello
Ode to Joy (with alternative 'Peanuts and Jello' lyrics)
At a Halloween party - Sally is wearing her Spiderman yarmulke
Pop goes the pumpkin"That's Scary"
At a school event in their Chinese dresses. Sally is not a big fan of being photographed, so I love it when we get one of her with a cute smile. 
The girlies with Miss Liz. Again, Amelia is thrilled!
The girlies with Marty, DeYan's father. Marty is cooler than you for at least three reasons: 1). His hair, which is just spectacular; 2). One of his childhood best friends was George Carlin; 3). One of his childhood best friends was George Carlin (that one counts twice). DeYan's Mom used to date Bobby Orr (presumably before she met Marty, although who am I to judge?), which also makes her cooler than you.
Amelia with our neighbor Maria at the school event (if I could remember I would tell you what the school event was. It might have been International Day or something, but that doesn't make too much sense, because it is called the International Preschool, so I would think every day could be considered International Day.)
