Remembering special moments
Hopefully you read the comments in the March 2 LVN’s “Voice of the Community.” Mary Glaesman wrote a letter concerning the legalization of marijuana. It was concise and really hit the “nail on the head.” I’m going to send a copy to all of my children, grandchildren and friends.
Looking back at what is now almost a century since this old lady was born, I remember the only thing we had to worry about with other drivers was alcohol. Now we have the nuts that use their cellphones– why did somebody have to invent those darned things — along with alcohol and now marijuana. My son Doug and I keep score while driving, looking out for inattentive drivers.
Nine times out of 10 trips, we see at least one or two people using their cell phones, or worse, appearing “out of sorts.” It boggles the mind. So now, included in this “I’m about to cause an accident”, is going to be those nuts we have been using marijuana. Oh yes, of course they all need this for some sort of medical problem.
If you don’t think this can cause an increase in accidents on the road, just check what’s been happening in Colorado. I just can’t believe people in not just this country, but all over the world are finding as acceptable behavior. It always makes me smile when I hear about so-called “dealers” going to jail, being fined, etc.
If I had my way they’d put every person found using “dope” into mandatory rehab for the first offence, and in jail if they repeat. The dealers aren’t the only problem, it’s the nuts using this poison in this world who aren’t happy unless high. And yes, I’ve experienced this in my own extended family.
Thinking about what to write in my column I remember somebody asking me what special times were life changing. I’m not talking about the normal births, deaths and marriages. Instead, I’m talking about some of those normal everyday moments that stick in the mind and make you smile. Of course I have to talk about the birth of my first son on Labor Day 1944.
Don, Jr. was due that day and I was staying with my in-laws because their home was close to the hospital. However, they had no car. I woke just before dawn with a pain in my lower back and the ever present “I need a bathroom” problem pregnant women experience. This went on each half hour until about 8 a.m. I felt it was time to wake my mother-in-law.
She gave me one of those looks “yeah, sure, you’re in labor” and said that “women don’t have their babies on due dates.” But she got up and made coffee and breakfast that I just couldn’t touch. I just kept pacing the floor. My father-in-law had the day off from his pharmacy job, and had slept in late.
Dad Hill got up at 10 a.m. and I immediately told him to get a taxi, I was going to the hospital. Mom Hill was furious and thank goodness he listened to me. Mom grumbled all the way to the front door of the hospital and into the examination room when a nurse wheeled me out in a wheelchair.
Mom demanded to know where the nurse was taking me. “To the labor room,” she replied. “This child’s in labor.” So much for not having babies on your due date. How I loved proving my mother-in-law wrong! One other special time sticks in my mind was much later. It was sometime in the late 1970s when my second husband Van and I had flown back from Fresno to visit his family in Mantua, New Jersey.
His nephew kept looking at me sideways and finally asked where I had lived in the Philly area. When I told him Ambler he laughed out loud. “I fixed your oil burner when you lived on Spring Garden Street.” Van and I had been born 10 miles apart in two different states, but had met in Irving, Calif., a lot of years later.
His whole family, step-mom and dad, nephews, nieces, brother and sister and assorted other in-laws all sat just outside on the wide, green lawn of the little house in Mantua eating hamburgers and potato salad. I can still see that picture in my minds eye like it was yesterday. It was one of those very special moments filled to the brim with love.
Edna Van Leuven is a Churchill County writer and columnist. She may be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org