Doris - My Hero

Doris Ruth (Fuller) Larson Ryan, age 48, of Cove, Arkansas passed away February 28, 2011 at UAMS.

Doris was my hero. I found her obit in today's paper and cried.

She appeared on my radar in the spring of 1975, the day the results of the Junior High cheerleader tryouts were announced. Eight of the girls were no surprise; the usual suspects - cute little petite popular girls. And then there was Doris. All through the day everyone was asking, "Who is this Doris girl???"

In an era of cutesy names like Mitzi, Jenni, and Kristi, there was Doris. Doris, a name associated more with grandmotherly smells and sensible orthopedic shoes than perky little cheerleaders. Doris.

You see, Doris was one of those 7th grade girls nobody noticed. She was tall, gawky, all arms and legs; towered over everyone and slouched just a little to fit in. She had a mop of wild, curly carrot-red hair she hadn't yet learned to tame. She didn't wear makeup and dressed like a tomboy. She was practically invisible to the tight social cliques of a small-town Junior High.

But she had given it her all in the cheerleader tryouts and earned a coveted spot. Against all odds, she, who once was a Nobody, suddenly became a Somebody. She was living proof that Cinderella stories can and do come true, a hero to all little geeky girls who can only dream of sitting at the Cool Kids table at lunch. I always wondered if that fateful day in '75 had a dramatic impact on the outcome of her life. Did she dance in her glass slipper or did it cause blisters?

I didn't know Doris personally because we were in different grades and ran with different crowds, she an exalted Cheerleader and I a lowly Band Geek. I doubt she would have even recognized my name. But I admired her from afar, marveling at the grace with which she carried her unexpected fame.

I've thought about Doris from time to time over the years and wondered where she was and how she was getting on. Sadly, that question was answered today.

Rest in peace Doris. You will always be my hero.

"I'm too sexy for yourself; too sexy..."

Sunday afternoon, 1:00 pm. Hubby is "suiting up" for a shopping marathon at Wally World.

From top to bottom his ensemble includes: a blue and gold ballcap from a community college; a gray and green Portland State University Athletics T-shirt; a pair of khaki Dockers with green paint splotches, holes and frayed hems; and a pair of ankle-high Red Wing workboots long past their prime. His hair is wild, he has a three-day beard stubble, and I'm pretty sure he hasn't bathed since early Friday morning.

He tucks in his shirt, loads up his pockets, then gives himself a last admiring look in the mirror.

Then he strikes a pose and starts singing, "I'm too sexy for yourself, too sexy for yourself, too sexy...."

Ah, yes, you are *waaay* too sexy for me honey. (eyeroll)

Frozen in Time

(Valentine card from my brother-in-law Poppy.)

I've just returned from a two-week stint at my sister Nana's house trying to get her to part with more of her possessions. It's a hard row to hoe, but she did very well this trip. We took a truckload of stuff to the dumpster and a mountain of paper to recycle. Poppy lightened his bookcases by 250 books which were donated to a community library. Yay! Life is lighter at their house now. Next trip we get to lighten Nana's bookcases. Oy vey.

Anywho, I was at their house on Valentine's Day and got the card above from Poppy. It was perfect for me since my latest obsession is writing papers and fountain pens. When I pulled the card from the envelope, Nana and I both squealed, almost simultaneously, "It looks just like me(you)!"

When Poppy came home that night, he said he had plucked the card from the rack of hundreds just because she looks like me. Well, the little girl does look amazingly like me when I was her age. I'm well into middle age with gray hair and bifocals these days.

It's interesting all three of us said she looks just like me. Not that she looks like me when I was her age, but that she looks like me now. All three of our memories are frozen in time back when I was four, Nana was 16, and Poppy was 18. When we are together we revert back to that time and those ages.

Nana becomes Mother Hen again because she mommied me more than our mother ever did. There are times when I catch her looking at my dinner plate, pausing just a split second to consider if she should cut up my meat for me. I don't mind. I liked being mommied every now and then.

I enjoy not having adult responsibilities, or having to cook or clean or pick up after myself. I get to play with Nana's toys and poke around in her attic for treasures. I get to stay up late, sleep late and eat all kinds of sugary treats.

Frozen in Time is not such a bad thing after all.

Says my inner 4-year-old Speck, "I yike it."

Rice to Iraq and A Response from the Radical Middle

More from the Wayback Machine:

January 30, 2003

Today I got the following spam email:


RICE TO IRAQ

There is a grassroots campaign underway to protest war in Iraq in a simple, but potentially powerful way.

Place 1/2 cup uncooked rice in a small plastic bag (a snack-size bag or sandwich bag works fine). Squeeze out excess air and seal the bag. Wrap it in a piece of paper on which you have written:

"If your enemies are hungry, feed them. Romans 12:20. Please send this rice to the people of Iraq; do not attack them."

Place the paper and bag of rice in an envelope (either a letter-sized or padded mailing envelope--both are the same cost to mail) and address them to:

President George Bush
White House
1600 Pennsylvania Ave. NW
Washington, DC 20500


Attach $1.06 in postage. (Three 37-cent stamps equal $1.11.)

Drop this in the mail TODAY. It is important to act NOW so that President Bush gets the letters ASAP.

In order for this protest to be effective, there must be hundreds of thousands of such rice deliveries to the White House. We can do this if you each forward this message to your friends and family.

There is a positive history of this protest! In the 1950s, Fellowship of Reconciliation began a similar protest, which is credited with influencing President Eisenhower against attacking China. Read on:

"In the mid-1950s, the pacifist Fellowship of Reconciliation, learning of famine in the Chinese mainland, launched a 'Feed Thine Enemy' campaign. Members and friends mailed thousands of little bags of rice to the White House with a tag quoting the Bible, "If thine enemy hunger, feed him." As far as anyone knew for more than ten years, the campaign was an abject failure. The President did not acknowledge receipt of the bags publicly; certainly, no rice was ever sent to China.

"What nonviolent activists only learned a decade later was that the campaign played a significant, perhaps even determining role in preventing nuclear war. Twice while the campaign was on, President Eisenhower met with the Joint Chiefs of Staff to consider U.S. options in the conflict with China over two islands, Quemoy and Matsu. The generals twice recommended the use of nuclear weapons.

President Eisenhower each time turned to his aide and asked how many little bags of rice had come in. When told they numbered in the tens of thousands, Eisenhower told the generals that as long as so many Americans were expressing active interest in having the U.S. feed the Chinese, he certainly wasn't going to consider using nuclear weapons against them."

From: People Power: Applying Nonviolence Theory by David H. Albert, p.43, New Society, 19.

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And my response because I just couldn't help myself, that's the way I am:

RICE TO IRAQ - A RESPONSE FROM THE RADICAL MIDDLE

While rice producers across the nation would applaud this idea, I can see three serious drawbacks with the plan.

1.) If you send rice in a regular mailing envelope, chances are that it will not reach Washington, D.C. Somewhere along the way automated mail handling equipment will chew that sucker up into shreds, dropping rice grains into the moving parts of the machine causing it to seize up and halt. If this happens in post offices across the U.S., it could be construed as a terrorist attack on one of the nation's vital communications pipelines. The shredded rice will of course leave a white, powdery residue on the machine. Anthrax abatement teams will be dispatched to clean it all up costing the Postal Service millions of dollars thus causing the price of stamps to increase.

2.) Of the padded envelopes that actually do reach the president, most if not all will have a white, powdery residue in the bottom of the baggie due to the disintegration of a few of the grains of rice. The FBI, CIA, Secret Service, and the Director of Homeland Security will conduct a raid on your house for sending anthrax to the president. They will spirit you off in the middle of the night to some super-secret military prison and hold you for six months while inefficient government labs test thousands of little rice baggies with white, powdery residue. While your terrified children wonder where their mommies and daddies are, the government will investigate every aspect of your life from your dog's vaccination records to your granny's knickers to your 1954 income tax return.

3.) Iraqis do not eat rice. It's against their religion.

If you really wish to protest a war with Iraq, do not weenie out and merely send ten thousand baggies of foodstuffs to Washington....send ten thousand people. A protest march on Washington would get much more media attention and you would be far less likely to be arrested for your efforts. If your job or family obligations prevent you from taking a trip to Washington at this time, send me the $1.06 that you would have otherwise spent on postage. I'll be glad to go in your place once enough funds arrive. D.C. is beautiful in the spring when the cherry trees bloom. I'll go then.

Speck,
Americans for Safe Granny Knickers, Inc.
Lower Arkansas, USA

Bustin' Bricks Fer Jesus

More from the Wayback Machine, circa 2005:

I have been cackling about this all day. The hot cultural excitement here in Our Town this week is the big "Bustin' Bricks fer Jesus" show over at one of our largest mainstream Protestant churches. It has been going on every night this week and has been heavily advertised on the local television station.

From the ads it appears to be a cross between a Jim and Tammy Fay Baker Demon Castin' show and a Hulk Hogan/World Wrestling Federation gala. Hot, oily, muscled wrestlers clad only in a pair of tiny Speedos karate chop bricks, boards and slabs of ice....then do a little witnessin' fer Je-HE-sus. I break up in hysterics when the ads come on. "Yew might be a redneck if....the WWF rassles at yer church."

I happened to have the TV muted and a Moody Blues album playing when one of these ads came on tonight. I nearly wet my pants in laughter when, at the exact moment the ad came on, the song "Isn't Life Strange" started. It was the perfect soundtrack for the ad.

I live for the delicious irony of the absurd.

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"The world is a comedy to those who think, a tragedy to those who feel."
-- Horace Walpole (1717-1797), Letters

Great Obits - The One Who Needs Me Most

Deleva S., age 81, went home to be with the Lord on Friday. Beloved wife, mother of four, grandmother of six and great-grandmother of nine. Member of the Assembly of God Church, she was known for her strong Christian faith and gentle love for all. She always made the welfare of her children her number one priority.

When asked which child she loved the most, her reply would be, "the one who needs me most."

I Grow Old and Other Stuff

More from the Wayback Machine:

Oh, and by the way, that's a reference to Peabody's Improbably History, with Peabody the dog and his pet boy, Sherman, not the Internet archive thingy. The Internet archive thingy was named by a bunch of geeky cartoon-watching Baby Boomers who spent their formative years trying to produce an actual Wayback Machine.

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Sent: Wednesday, December 18, 2002 5:36 AM
Subject: I Grow Old and Other Stuff

Dear Yahoos,

There are times that I get bits and pieces of stuff stuck in my brain that won't go away. They swirl around and around, never congealing yet never fading. Sometimes I've just gotta poop 'em out to get rid of them so I can start a new cerebral belly button lint collection. Tonight I am fully dilated. My brain is full. I gotta poop a little.

---------------------------------------------------

Yesterday two newly hired Patient Care Techs appeared in my department. Since my boss went Christmas shopping, I had to give them the "Welcome to the Department" speech and tour and fill out all the initial paperwork. They sat primly on the other side of my desk with their 19-year-old freshly scrubbed little faces and puppy dog eyes, answering my hundred questions with "Yes ma'am" and "No ma'am."

Somewhere around the third "Yes ma'am" it hit me that I was old enough to be their mother. I looked up at them and, looking in their eyes, realized that to them I must seem like an antique. In that instant I could almost hear my wrinkles forming. My brain keeps telling me I'm just 22.

This morning I fixed my hair as I got ready for work. I admired it in the mirror. It was looking pretty nice...no frizzies, curling under nicely, very shiny and healthy. Then I put on my glasses. There on my right temple was the biggest gray skunk stripe you ever saw. (sigh) I gotta get me some Miss Clairol.

I was reminded of a verse an old college professor quoted all the time:

I grow old...I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

(from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot)

Doc and I became friends about five years after I graduated. He had a scandalous reputation both at the university and in the community mainly because he bucked the administration and bedded most of their daughters. He was an independent thinker and had an off-the-wall opinion about everything. I loved that. He was a character.

After his third divorce he decided to adopt the bohemian lifestyle and set up housekeeping in a ratty old trailer on the banks of the river. His door was always open and something from his garden was always cooking on the stove. Any time day or night there would be an odd mixture of folks hanging around. They would range from his students to other professors, to the mayor or the chief of police. You never knew who you would encounter at Doc's. He would hold court from his piano bench, cigarette in his wildly waving hand, imparting the wisdom of the ages on his gathered audience in a beat poet, coffeehouse style. All that was missing was the beret.

In the summer we would wade out into the middle of the river and set up a card table and lawn chairs. We would play spades sitting in the waist-high water. People floating down the river on tubes and rafts would stop and chat for awhile then float away. After we were thoroughly waterlogged, we would go back up the hill and eat whatever was cooking on the stove. He cooked green beans all day until they wilted. Hubby always wants me to cook wilted green beans that way now.

For reasons I'll never fathom, he hooked up with one of the faculty's daughters and married her. She got him to clean up the ratty trailer and take a shower a little more often. They were an odd couple. They built a beautiful house on a bluff overlooking the lake. Just a few years after it was completed Doc died from cancer. I'll miss him.

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Current day, current hour...my jeans are rolled up just past my ankles. Dammit!!!

NOT a Baby Person

More goodies from Wayback Machine:

Sent: Thursday, October 03, 2002 2:05 AM
Subject: The Daily Dribble 10-02-02

Dear Family,

I guess I'm the last holdout and have to tell about my life. I've been working far more than I want to, four to five days a week. I almost got overtime on my last paycheck. Yuck!

It's a big joke in the Nursery that I am NOT a baby person*. Everybody knows that I avoid babies at all costs and they tease me about it all the time.

Well today Beverly, one of the Nursery nurses, made me hold a baby because everybody else was busy. I nearly had a cow. She said "Here, hold this kid" and thrust him at me and almost let go. I started freaking out because I had no idea how to hold a baby and figured the kid would get dropped in the transfer process.

She pulled him back up just a little when she saw my panic and said "Calm down, it's OK. Take a deep breath..... Now, are you right-handed or left-handed? OK then, you need to hold him this way." She made sure I had a good grip on him before she let go. I think I would have been calmer if she had handed me a large poisonous lizard.

I don't think I was holding him in the most advantageous position but I was too scared to readjust. He seemed to be stuck out there on the end of my boobs. I know this is where a baby belongs, but it just didn't seem natural. I finally got the courage to ease him down below my boobs, but he disappeared from view. I pulled him back up on top but he was right under my nose. I realized then that babies smell funny.

I also noticed he had thick hair all over his forehead and looked like a werewolf. Why is it again that people think these creatures are cute???? I finally figured out that I could work him in *between* my boobs so he was sitting kinda upright. That seemed to be the best position for both of us and I relaxed a little bit.

It was about this time that the other Nursery nurses discovered me and stood and gawked as though I had grown three heads. I guess my ashen face and sweaty brow were quite a sight to behold. I probably had that "deer-in-the-headlights" look.

After the initial shock of seeing me holding a baby, they just stood there laughing and pointing, those turds. Nobody offered to take him from me. The little monster started making poopy, burpy, spitty noises and I yelled at Beverly to come get this kid.

After she took him I bolted out the back door. It was a bad day. I can deal with babies as long as they have four legs and fur. These nekkid hairless-ape babies are a whole 'nuther story.

Love,
Speck

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*Not a baby person.....
I was traumatized at the age of 13 when Nana told me I couldn't hold Billy Joe Jr. the Christchild (my nephew) because I would infect him with Teenage Plague or something. She told me I had to wear a surgical mask if I wanted to go into the same room with him. I figured holding babies just wasn't worth all that. I've never wanted to hold one since.