I'm going to sit right down and write myself a letter...

I will admit to a certain fondness for the often-reviled institution known as the "Christmas Letter" - we've all gotten them -- those missives tucked into Christmas Cards that outline all the successes of the previous year -- along the lines of:

"Bob finally was made president of the golf club, which is a miracle when you consider how much time he devoted to Doctor's Without Borders this year. Of course, both our sons are also physicians, and they were able to help him when they weren't busy immunizing Somalian children and raising money for Easter Seals (Bob Jr. is chapter chairman!). And we continue to be proud of little Susie who got a scholarship to dance with the Joffrey Ballet all the while maintaining her 4.0 grade point average and lettering in lacrosse."

Now do not misunderstand - most of the letters I receive, I greatly look forward to - I enjoy hearing about what folks have been up to - particularly those I don't get to see very often.

I'm referring to the over-the-top communiques - those letters that appear to only present the brilliance, with no regard for the everyday. I once got a letter that was so pretentious it actually required a dictionary to understand.

One line stuck with me: "After years of demonstrating her exceptional engineering acumen, Beth is now at the center of our domestic tranquility, managing our household with aplomb and much self-sacrifice."

Translation: Beth got fired from her job and is now a stay-at-home Mom.

It took me almost five minutes to figure it out.

And I'm a Phi Beta Kappa who, when I'm not busy saving the world one fundraising event at a time, spends her spare time creating sculpture out of recycled materials that I find while taking underprivileged children on nature walks. Of course, this is when I have a few spare minutes between teaching English as a second language and skydiving...

Oooo...better grab my pen...I sense a letter coming on...

;-)

Where have you gone Derry Daring?

When I was a kid, it seemed like every Christmas there was the ONE gift I wanted above and beyond all others - you recall it - that feeling of "if I don't get fill-in-the-blank" life will no longer be worth living.

The year I was 10, that gift was "Derry Daring."

What? You don't remember Derry Daring?

Derry Daring was a doll, slightly smaller than Barbie, who came with her own motorcycle and leather outfit. You placed her on the bike, and the bike on a gadget that you then wound up by hand. Once released, Derry would then shoot across the room, or over a ramp that you'd set up on the coffee table.

Think Evel Knievel for girls.

I wanted Derry Daring more than anything in 1976.

1976 was probably the last year I cared about toys and Derry represented everything I wanted to be: she was original, had long blonde hair (my Mom was still making me keep my hair short at that stage of life) and most of all, Derry Daring was, well, DARING.

She was fearless! Anything the boys could do - even Evel Knievel - Derry could do - oft-time BETTER!

I can remember having pre-holiday conversations with my Dad - who, of course, had a direct line to Santa Claus:

"A motorcycle chick? Really Lolly? You wouldn't rather have a life-sized Barbie head hair salon? Or maybe a Spirograph? How about some Weebles?"

Nope - I had my heart set on Derry Daring.

And Santa must have been paying attention that year - because unlike previous years when I had requested an Easy Bake Oven and a LiteBrite - Christmas morning the full Derry Daring play set was under the tree.

Overjoyed doesn't begin to capture how excited I was.

Derry and I were best buds the rest of my 5th grade year - long after my brother got sick of his Evel Knievel playset.

I think Derry was the last actual toy I ever asked Santa to deliver. In subsequent years, I recall well wishing for and receiving such gifts as a microscope, chemistry set, roller skates (with bright orange pom-poms!) and even a Commodore 64 computer.

Clearly post-Derry, my wishes well-corresponded with the person I am today.

But for one brief shining year, I was a daredevil - jumping over stacks of Matchbox cars in the backyard, long blonde hair shimmering from under my hot-pink motorcycle helmet.

Go Derry Daring Go!

I wanna do more than whistle under the mistletoe!

Okay, I admit it - I am a Christmas Carol junkie.

I LOVE Christmas music. And I love ALL of it - from the most sacred hymns to the secular goofy songs, down to and including anything by the Muppets.

There is room on my iPod for "O Holy Night" and "Jingle Bell Rock." And I'll sing both at the top of my lungs.

But as a child, my favorite Christmas songs all came from my four album set of Lawrence Welk Christmas Classics. You see, no one told me that Lawrence Welk was for old-timers and senior citizens back then -- I thought the champagne singers were the cat's pajamas!

My favorite tune? A little ditty called "I Wanna Do More Than Whistle" - it's a keeper, with classic lyrics like:

"My jingle bell heart is beating, it's time that our lips were meeting, come give me my season's greeting...under the mistletoe!

"Start kissing and please don't tarry, 'cause kissing is customary, soon it will be January...under the mistletoe!"

Catchy, huh?

I also loved the Peggy Lee hit "Don't Forget to Feed the Reindeer" - with its winsome words:

"So don't forget to feed the reindeer

Angels are friends of the reindeer too

And if you are a good little angel

Santa Claus will be good to you!"

Either one of these songs can instantly transport me back to my Dad's den, circa 1979, with the albums playing on the big stereo...

A few years ago, my sister found the Lawrence Welk albums on Ebay and gave them to me for Christmas - I almost cried I was so happy!

It was all there -- Guy, Ralna, Towering Tom Netherton, Mary Lou, even the Champagne Lady herself, Norma Zimmer, singing "Ave Maria."

One of the very best parts of the holiday season is reliving old memories and creating new ones - I can hardly wait to see what new memories will be added to the Christmas arsenal this year!

And now, if you'll excuse me, my husband's out of the house this evening and I'm going to fire up the ole phonograph...

Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens...

Last year I wrote a silly "Favorite Things" blog entry, based on Oprah's annual show - where unsuspecting members of her studio audience received all kinds of glorious stuff...I wasn't going to do it again this year, but have had several emails from friends and family members requesting a new list, so here goes:

Lolly's Favorite Things - 2009 Edition

1. GLEE - I've loved watching the new Fox TV Show Glee since its first airing - the marriage of high school angst with musical theatre! My favorite Glee moment wasn't actually from the show itself...it was me asking my friend Kevin why he thought they portrayed the Glee Club kids as such misfits? After all, I was like that in HS, and I wasn't a geek...right? Kevin just looked at me and said, "Oh Laura..."

2. I've often said that BACON is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy, and 2009 was definitely the year I rediscovered bacon. From the Baconator at Wendy's to my obsession with the mere concept of chicken fried bacon to my discovery of Bacon Salt - it's all about the bacon. Which leads neatly into #3:

3. In October I began exercising regularly again (all that bacon!), and have taken up KICKBOXING - what a great cardio workout - not to mention a way to work out all of my frustration. And after accidentally kicking a fellow classmate on the first day, I am pleased to report that I've not injured anyone else - myself included!

4. What was I waiting for? In January 2009, we finally got high speed wireless internet here at Stately Stocker Manor...how in the world did we survive before we could carry our laptops from room to room? Many is the night you'll find both hubby and me both watching TV with laptops a-whirling...

5. Mr. Clean Magic Eraser - this little white sponge can clean up almost anything -- where have you been hiding all my life Mr. Clean? It takes marks off white walls, scuz and scum off the floors and shower walls, and bird scat off white pick-up trucks. Amazing!

6. Cecil Whitaker's Pizza - my first trip to St. Louis and my first exposure to this incredible ultra-flat pizza with Pravel cheese. Utterly delicious - can't wait to go back and eat more! A close second place to a restaurant chain called Steak n Shake - none in Central PA - but best milkshakes I've ever had - half chocolate, half vanilla! Plus they give you a really cool diner-style hat to wear!

7. Favorite Song of 2009 - "Take A Bow" as sung by Lea Michele in Glee:

"You put on quite a show, really had me going

Now it's time to go, curtain's finally closing..."

Of course I first heard this song moments after being told that my services would no longer be required at the company I'd helped found ten years earlier...

8. Kristin Chenowith - this pint-sized dynamo (who is probably sick to death of being called a pint-sized dynamo!) starred in my favorite now-defunct show "Pushing Daisies" - and made a hysterical guest appearance on Glee - singing my second favorite song of the year: "Alone" - originally made famous by Heart. Loved her new Christmas album and her autobiography published this year. The uber-talented Ms. Chenowith makes me want to be a better singer...a better writer...and a better Christian!

9. How in the world did I get to age 41 without having seen an IMAX movie? Went to my first IMAX 3-D movie this year - WHOA! I'm now ruined for other movie theatres -- the scope, the sound, the funny glasses!

10. Virginia Diner Peanuts - I've always been a lover of the nut, but these peanuts from Virginia are truly outstanding - and each is roughly the size of my pinky finger! These peanuts are like my own personal brand of crack - they are that good!

11. Biggest thrill of the year - riding the Superman roller coaster with my buddy Elliott at Great Adventure! BEST roller coaster EVER - and I'm not just saying that because it is modeled after my all time favorite superhero. You ride face down (and if you're like me, arms extended) and it really feels like you are flying! Unbelievable rush - can't wait to return next summer and try it again!

And it goes without saying that I continue to be loved and supported by friends and family - without whom the silly stuff mentioned above wouldn't have nearly as much meaning!

Cheers!

Soupy Sales and the Three Mrs. Kosses

Two days of sadness recently for the Baker clan - we lost two of our favorite people - Soupy Sales, and Mr. (Frank) Kos.

When I first met Soupy Sales, I didn't know he was famous - he was simply a friend of my Dad's coming into town to help with a March of Dimes telethon. He always called me "Nora" - even after I corrected him, saying that "Nora was a MUCH funnier name than Laura."

He also taught me the importance of the word "duck" - particularly when someone was approaching with a cream-based pie.

But what I liked best about Soupy was the way he and my Pop would banter - even though most of the time I had no idea what was so funny. I just loved hearing the two of them laugh.

I last spoke to Soupy right after my Dad died - he was unwell and unable to make the service - but wanted "Nora" and the gang to know that St. Peter was most likely waiting for my Pop with a cream-filled pie in his hands. Dad would have loved that!

My sister, Kath, emailed me to let me know that Mr. Kos had passed away. He was our neighbor for several years on Mercer Street in Harrisburg - and was almost as much of a hoot as Soupy was - albeit with a thick Slovakian accent. I loved listening to Mr. Kos talk - the rhythm of it - I was probably the only kid on the block who could imitate Mr. Kos perfectly.

One day, I was trying to impress the neighborhood kids with my Mr. Kos impersonation, not realizing the Mr. Kos was walking up the street behind me. I was so upset when I saw him - and was certain he would yell at me - or tell my Dad that I was making fun of him.

He did neither - simply told me to "watch my v's" if I wanted to truly sound Slovakian!

His then wife, the lovely Mrs. Kos, was a favorite of my sister Kathy. Each night, before bed, when she would say her prayers, they always ended the same way:

"...I pray the Lord my soul to take...God bless Daddy and Lolly and Paula and Grandma and Uncle Mike and Smokey and the three Mrs. Kosses."

There was, of course, only one Mrs. Kos - but trying to convince a three-year-old of that was near impossible - so for years she asked God's blessing for all three of them.

I think in honor of both of them, I will speak with a slovac accent for the rest of the day, and make Soupy's favorite dish: Chicken Catch A Tory!

:)

Heavy is the head that wears the crown...

I have always had an affinity for crowns and tiaras, and count many among my collection -- but was reminded earlier today of one of my more embarrassing "crowning achievements" -- the time I accidentally got Miss Universe's crown stuck on my head.

Yes, you read that correctly -- I actually got Miss Universe's crown stuck on my head -- in front of witnesses no less. And yes - it was, as pictured above. All five pounds of it.

I was in my mid-twenties and working PR at Hersheypark. Miss Universe Dayanara Torres (later married to Marc Anthony if you follow such things) and her chaperone were doing a bit of publicity at a local Ronald McDonald house. I got a call early in the day that summer asking if we would 'comp' Miss Universe (she apparently loved roller coasters) if she would agree to pose for some photos. I happily said yes.

She was lovely - although didn't speak a word of English, and, wearing her crown, posed for many photos with our Chocolate characters and some tourists. Before heading out into the park to play, her chaperone asked if they could leave her rather large crown at Guest Relations - they would then pick it up on their way out at the end of the day.

Once again, I happily said yes.

The crown was mammoth - and when not on Miss Universe's head, lived in a heavy mahogany box lined with velvet.

Miss Universe dashed off into the park, leaving this box in my hands.

I, along with two or three of the young gals working in Guest Relations, watched her walk away. They then turned to me, all of us staring at the box in my hands.

I believe my exact words were along the lines of: "I don't know about you guys, but I am trying this thing on!"

And I did!

We went into the back room - which had a mirror - and I had that thing out of the box and on my head in five seconds flat. And it felt GOOD. And looked even better! I must have admired myself in the mirror for several minutes whilst the others argued about who would try it on next.

Then I went to take it off -- and it was STUCK. Somehow with all my posing and preening, I'd managed to get strands of my then long hair wound around the little jewels going around the base of the crown. And it wasn't coming off - no way, no how.

Our giggles turned to horror as we realized just how stuck it was.

In the middle of all of this, my friend Mark came in to Guest Relations -- "Did I miss seeing Miss Universe?" -- and found me sitting on the floor, crown stuck to my head with two young girls attempting to cut my hair out of it with manicure scissors.

I think his parting words before turning and walking away were: "I don't want to know - I just do not want to know."

After what seemed like an hour, they managed to extricate the crown from my head and we packed it away.

We all agreed that the less said, the better.

Hours later, I got a call from Guest Relations that Miss Universe had come back for the crown, and did I want to come down and say good-bye?

I passed. I figured it best not to put a face to the blonde hairs she'd probably be picking out of her crown for weeks to come.

Back to School

In the twin boroughs of Annville/Cleona, Monday marks the official first day of school for students.

I used to both love and dread the first day of school as a kid.

On the one hand, I was one of those kids who found summer “boring” – despite my Mom’s best efforts to keep us busy with sports, vacations, and library cards. On the other hand, I loved being out of doors, playing “Charlie’s Angels” with my sisters, getting into trouble in the woods, and stalking the ice cream truck. One infamous summer, I walked around the ‘hood for weeks with an old fashioned tape recorder doing “man on the street” interviews – much to the neighbors chagrin!

Another summer, my sisters and I spent two months choreographing our own four person production of Grease.

But by the middle of August, I was always ready to return to the dusty halls of Lower Dauphin.

The days leading up to the first day of school were always fraught with anxiety for me – back-to-school shopping (I was always one of those fashion “don’ts” you see in magazines), wondering what classes I’d be in (we never got our final scheduled until day 1), and fretting over where I’d sit for lunch...and with whom.

By the night before the first day of school, I’d be a nervous wreck.

My much more outgoing sisters would be excited to see their friends – and would have spent the day trying on outfit after outfit, trying to find the perfect “first day” clothes.

I’d be worrying about whether or not taking both AP calculus and analysis first semester had been a good idea.

Frankly, I just hoped (and prayed!) that my clothes would match. That no one would make fun of me and that I wouldn’t have to sit alone at lunch.

To the school world at large, I’m sure I seemed like a somewhat confident, dare I say gifted student, who studied hard, had more than her share of leads in school plays, and was utterly focused on getting into college.

But inside, I was shy smart kid, who was more comfortable on stage than off.

The day before the first day of school always ended the same way – with my father drugging me.

Yup – you read that right – he would see me work myself up into such a state, that around bed time, he’d come into my room and give me half a Valium to help me sleep. This became a day-before-the-first-day-of-school tradition for the two of us. It was our little secret.

Years later, he told me he actually gave me half a baby aspirin – a placebo – and like Dumbo with his feather, that half a baby aspirin did the trick – and helped me fly back to school each Autumn.

Pedro Says...

Every year, as kids, my parents would load us all in the Gran Torino station wagon and head south to visit the grandparents in central Florida. As a future destination marketer, it was on many of these trips that I first fell in love with the idea of travel, and one of my favorite things to do was “collect” brochures from every single Welcome Center that we would visit.

I would then spread them out in the car and rate them, some individually, and some comparatively. So many side trips came from these brochures — “Please Daddy? I’ll just DIE if we can’t stop at “See Rock City!”

One of the places that I just loved to visit along the way to Florida was a tourist attraction known as “South of the Border” in Dillon, South Carolina.

But it took several years of begging to talk my parents into it.

On 95 South, just past Richmond, VA, the billboards would start: “Pedro Says: Visit South of the Border!” This first billboard would start the begging process, as well as become something of a game for the four Baker kids — “is that billboard #5 or #6?” There were, at the time, 120 “Pedro Says” billboards between Richmond and Dillon. And we loved them all.

By the time we were halfway through North Carolina, our desire to visit South of the Border reached fever pitch.

And then, finally, my Dad agreed to stop for lunch. We literally left the interstate and drove THROUGH Pedro’s legs (could there be anything more exciting to a 12-year-old?) and into what can only be described as the world’s best-marketed taco stand.

We ate tacos (not nearly as ‘available’ back then as they are now), wore paper sombreros, even rode the elevator to the top of the “sombrero tower” — it was kid heaven! And, most likely, my Mother’s least favorite place on the planet.

But the marketing folks at SOTB knew their audience — they knew they were going after kids who had been stuck in a car for hours, who were looking for any diversion regardless of their love of Mexican food.

To this day, I have never seen ANY advertising or marketing for South of the Border other than those wonderful billboards. I have even been told that the billboards have been cleaned up tremendously, removing some of the less than politically correct language.

And even though, most of those long car trips had Disney World as our ultimate destination, I can honestly say that I was probably more excited about FINALLY getting to see South of the Border on that particular trip.

Much to my Mom’s chagrin, I took more photos at SOTB than I did at Epcot that year.

As Pedro used to say: Chile today, hot tamale!

Note: This blog entry was orginally published on my business blog - but I thought friends and family might enjoy, and so posted it here as well.

...touched by the holy and beautiful light.

My friend Peyton talks about his daughter a lot – but I don’t mind. In fact I enjoy it tremendously.

She’s a cool kid – seriously – the kind of kid that even grown-ups enjoy spending time with. Smart as a whip – great sense of humor and can do really neat tricks with her mouth and an imaginary piece of string!

But what I enjoy most is the memories that seeing the two of them together conjures up – of another doting father and precocious blond girl – my Dad and me.

My Dad loved his kids. And I’ll bet that my sisters would agree that we each individually felt like his "favorite” – because that was how he made you feel – when you had his attention, you were the only person in the world that mattered at that moment.

And, like my friend, he talked about us all time. To his friends, to the neighbors, to his listening audience. Complete strangers would walk up to me and say, “now are you the sister who just got married, or are you the one who sings and dances?”

Once a few years back, I was invited to speak at a symposium in Amsterdam. Somehow, Pop got mixed up, and told folks that I was in Afghanistan! For weeks after my return, people would ask me about the desert. Pop would just smile and say – "Amsterdam/Afghanistan – who cares – my daughter is successful and world renowned!" Then it would be my turn to smile and shake my head.

But he was a proud Papa – proud of each of us for completely different reasons – even if he couldn’t remember our names.

I think my baby sister was five before she finally realized that her name was not Laurakathypaula. In the end, he just called all of us “Honey” – minimizing mistakes and avoiding us saying “Daaaaddd!”

My Dad has been gone for several years now - almost seven, although that does not seem possible.

And while there will certainly be family members who make the trek out to Fort Indiantown Gap to honor his memory -- I will not be among them.

For in my mind, my Dad isn't there -- he's all around me. I hear his voice in my head when I'm trying to make a tough decision. I see his eyes when I look at my sisters lovely faces, I can even hear him singing when old blue eyes comes on the radio.

And lately, just watching my friend interact with his daughter both relaxes and comforts me and makes me think of Dad.

So, this Father's Day I will pause to honor my Pop in my own way -- and in turn take a bit of time to remember all the men in my life who mean so much to me -- both friends and family alike.

Here's looking at you Pop -- scooby dooby doo!

A rose by any other name...

I can remember the day my baby sister, Paula, was born.

I cannot say that about any of my other siblings -- but I was almost five when Paula made her grand entrance -- and I remember the day fairly well, considering all the other childhood memories I've lost over the years -- mostly to make room for PIN numbers, users names and passwords.

What's funny is that the thing I recall most about that day is an argument I got into with my Dad.

You see, I had very specific ideas about what the new baby's name should be.

For some reason, I was convinced that new baby should be called "Julia" if it was a girl. I conceded that if it was a boy, Dad could finally have his junior and name the baby "Paul."

For days leading up to her birth, I danced around and told everyone I came into contact with that my new baby sister - Julia - would soon be here!

I was very excited.

When my Dad called home from the hospital to tell us that it was a girl -- I was ecstatic -- even to the point of making a big sign: "Welcome Home Julia!"

You can imagine my dismay when Dad came home later that night and announced that my baby sister's name was going to be "Paula."

This simply did not compute with me.

"But she already has a name -- Julia!"

"No honey -- we decided to name her Paula."

"But I already named her!"

This same conversation was repeated for two days, until she came home from the hospital. I had not yet resigned myself to the fact that her name was NOT Julia until Daddy settled me on the sofa and let me hold the new baby.

"Oh!" -- he recalled me saying, "she isn't a Julia after all -- she's a Paula!"

Dad said later, that he had no idea what I'd meant by that statement - but was relieved that I seemed to have accepted the baby's actual name.

Some years later, Dad mentioned that, at the time, there had been a popular TV show called "Julia" -- and the character's full name was "Julia Baker" -- and that was the reason I got out-voted. To this day, I've never seen the show.

Ah well...she IS so clearly a "Paula!"

And today IS her birthday.

Happy Birthday Julia ... err ... Paula!

Pomp & Circumstance

My nephew Mikey - who I am sure would prefer I call him Mike -- graduates from high school today.

He's a great kid -- full of fun - terrific personality, humorous, loves his sports, his baby sister and loves his Mom, my baby sister.

In a lot of ways, he's our family's pragmatist -- doesn't have a driver's license yet -- when pressed, he'll note that he "really doesn't need one." If Mikey discovered that he wasn't great at a particular sport or activity - no big deal - he'd move on and find that one where he could excel -- and excel he did.

The past Christmas Eve my sisters and their families and Brad and I were all sitting around after dinner playing a silly game -- a thinking game -- with questions on cards designed to get people talking. Watching Mikey take the lead in this game was among my greatest pleasures in 2008.

He jumped in when others struggled to answer questions, and REALLY thought about his own answers, showing insight and thoughtfulness well beyond his years. He worked hard to include everyone in the game - making sure everyone had a chance to speak and participate.

Hard to believe this was the same little kid who used to make me nuts a few years back -- begging to go home minutes after Mommy had dropped him off for a visit... of course, maybe that was more a reflection on ME? (tee hee).

Bizarre to realize that he's practically an adult now -- and heading to community college in the Fall.

Watch out world - here comes Mikey -- err...Mike!

M is for the many things she gave me...

Most people don’t have a choice when it comes to their Mom – you simply get the one that gave birth to you, and that’s that.

I, on the other hand, am one of the fortunate who had an actual “say” in the matter – because my Mom became my Mom when I was seven years old – and while my father thought the sun rose and set just for her, he did ask me if I would like it if his ‘then’ girlfriend, would become my mother.

My answer? A resounding YES!

And this was even BEFORE she took me to see Donny Osmond in concert – just us two!

When I think back on those early days, now as an adult – I am frankly amazed that she took us all on. She was about 24 years old, married a man ten years her senior, moved to another state and had an instant family of four kids!

When I think about was I was doing at 24 – shoot, when I think about where I am in life NOW – I can’t imagine myself leaving the only home I’ve ever known and being an instant mother of four. I can picture it – but I’m picturing myself in the loony bin, whilst Mary Poppins takes care of the kidlets!

It could not have been easy for her – on any level – and let me tell you – we were MORE than just a handful!

In that first year alone, I can count at LEAST five trips to the emergency room (we’re a clumsy bunch), two softball teams that she coached, and one birthday cake accidentally set ablaze.
While much of my personality can be attributed to my father – I learned much from Mom too – and some of the most important lessons:

1. Good manners – we were pretty much heathens when Mom came on the scene – and she not only taught us rudimentary etiquette, but why manners were important. I’ll never forget the dinner where I embarrassed a school friend (loudly) by drawing attention to the fact that she was not using the right fork for her salad. Mom yanked me into the kitchen and told me that “we do NOT beat up people with our manners – we honor them by using our manners” – that has stayed with me and been much quoted.

2. Reading – Mom quietly began replacing candy and Barbie’s as “treats” with books. Friends were amazed that our Easter baskets were filled with books and not candy. She was the first to suggest that if was “bored” I crack open a book. She instigated library day – the one day a week we’d all go and ‘stock up’ for the week.

3. Try Everything – Mom’s rule for almost any situation! You didn’t have to eat a plate of clams – but you had to at least try them. You didn’t have to stick with anything you hated – whether it was volleyball, Girl Scouts, or playing baritone horn – but you had to try it. To this very day, I’ll “try” almost anything at least once!

4. Don’t be Average – another powerful life lesson. The first (and last) time I brought home a “C” on my report card, I was scared to death to show it to Mom. To my shock, she glanced at it and didn’t seem that upset. Later, when pressed, she told me “A ‘C’ means ‘average’ – if you are satisfied being ‘average’ – okay then. But ‘average’ people don’t lead extraordinary lives.” I never brought home less than an “A” again.

5. How to Study – In sixth grade, I was struggling a wee bit with social studies – committing dates to memory, etc. Mom actually came to school and sat next to me during class – to see how I behaved, took notes, etc. Later that night, she showed me HOW to take notes in class – and how to outline book chapters and match them up to my notes. This was HUGE for me – and served me well throughout high school and college. To this day, when reading for business, I am outlining it in my mind…and sometimes on paper.

6. Teamwork – With four kids, teamwork was critical – but Mom seemed to understand that as much as we were a team, we were also four individuals – with widely different likes, dislikes, strengths, weaknesses, hobbies and talents. And she made room for all of it – going from concerts to baseball games to baton twirling lessons to debate club championships. She was multi-tasking, and teaching me to multi-task years before it became a buzz word.

It somehow seems appropriate that this year, to celebrate Mother’s Day, we’ve decided to go to Philadelphia for a day and see the Cezanne exhibit at the Philly Art Museum. After all, it was the first art museum she ever took me to see – after another of our favorite pastimes – a Phillies game!

Happy Mother’s Day!

Sing out Louise!

I was probably about four years old or so the first time I performed publicly.

My father was hosting a March of Dimes “Ways & Means” committee meeting at our house, and at some point during the evening, he called me downstairs, picked me up, stood me on an end table, and said “Listen to my little girl sing!”

I performed a soul-stirring (at least in my young mind) rendition of “Joy to the World” (Three Dog Night) – or as I liked to call the song, “Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog.”

My father beamed at me the entire time I performed – it was the greatest feeling! And then, when I was done, the other five gentlemen in the room clapped! They actually clapped for me!

I’ve been “following the applause” ever since.

What followed were years and years of performances – both at school and in the community, and years and years of dance lessons, music lessons, etc.

And let’s be honest – I was a good singer, but not a GREAT singer. I loved to do it, but always had more “personality” than “talent.”

I majored in theatre in college, and while having many small successes, it became clear early on that I was probably not Broadway-bound.

And here’s where my Dad probably did me the biggest favor – he was honest with me. He would critique my performances, and gently suggest other directions. He showed me how I could translate my love of theatre into other disciplines – like broadcasting, radio, public relations, marketing – my first job out of college was as spokesperson for a local theme park with lot’s of camera time – and minimal singing.

My father thought his baby girl was the most talented kid in the world – but he was always realistic with his expectations.

I think this is why I can’t bring myself to watch American Idol until the final ten contestants or so. Seeing the heartbreak on some of these kids faces as they are told to go home – kids who really, truly thought they were talented – gut wrenching!

And I’m not talking about the bozos who are just looking for the 5 minutes of fame – I’m talking about the kids who have been told all their lives how talented they are – and they are not. Why would a parent (or teacher/mentor) do such a thing?

All these years later, I still love to sing. And I sing every chance I get. Locally, people have paid to hear me sing – I’ve gotten many compliments over the years, ovations and requests. I’d even hazard to say that for a time, I was fairly well-known in Lebanon County for singing and acting in local productions.

And I still love the applause!

But, outside my own active fantasy life, I don’t kid myself that I’ll be on the Great White Way anytime soon. And I continue to be in awe of friends, like Kevin "Big Guns" Biddle, who are truly gifted.

To quote Karen Carpenter: “…don’t worry that it’s not good enough, for anyone else to hear…just sing…sing a song.”

My boy friend is back!

I spent a considerable amount of time, my senior year in high school, explaining to other girls, and some family members, that Peyton was NOT my 'boyfriend,' but my 'boy friend' -- my friend who happened to be a boy.

I don't know why this was such a difficult concept for some folks to grasp.

He was the new kid that year, infinitely cooler than I was, and the object of several junior and senior girls' affection. I was always getting cornered and asked if Peyton was "available" by these girls -- or if he was "taken" (guessing they assumed by ME) or if I knew if "he liked so and so."

And, as tight as Peyton and I were, we really didn't discuss his dating habits. I knew which girl he crushed on most and he surely knew for whom I cried my puppy dog tears -- but that was as far as it went.

We were friends...buddies...pals... we talked constantly -- and had so many more important topics to discuss.

He was so interesting - even back then. Smart, witty, and articulate. Could make me laugh like nobody's business. Ferried me around in his car. Listened to my incessant babbling about whatever had my knickers in a twist on any particular day.

He had opinions on everything -- and loved to share them. Most times we agreed - sometimes we did not -- it didn't matter. Sometimes we enjoyed arguing more than we enjoyed agreement.

I was always amazed that this cool guy was my friend.

But I graduated and went to college and his family ultimately moved back to Virginia...and in the blink of an eye 20 years passed without contact.

But he's BACK!

About halfway through last year, Peyton found me again. And suddenly, this hole I didn't even realize was there, was full again. The friend I hadn't realized I'd missed, was back.

And it was GREAT.

The years between changed us little -- a few more gray hairs for him...a few pounds and wrinkles for me -- but the bond, the connection was stronger than ever.

And now, my fondest wish is coming true -- this very weekend, he, his beautiful wife and uber-cool daughter are moving back to Pennsylvania -- nine short miles from my very home!

I can hardly wait!

Carpe Diem (In Memoriam)

On the first day of my sophomore year in high school, I entered a classroom that would ultimately prove to be life-changing for me.

The class was a three year gifted program called "English Enrichment" and the teacher was a young woman named Nan Willis.

Miss Willis explained to the 20 or so of us in the room that we had been selected for this special three year program via testing and recommendations from other teachers. Instead of attending "standard" English literature classes, from now until graduation, we were "stuck" with her.

I was stunned. I looked around the room at some of the best and brightest my school had to offer and was convinced I had been placed there by mistake -- in fact, after class I even approached Miss Willis to tell her so.

With a smile and a gentle arm around my shoulders, Miss Willis explained that I did, in fact, belong in the class, and that she "could already tell" that I would be one of her favorite students.

Simply put - I loved the class. And I grew to love Miss Willis.

The class was challenging -- we did more than just read great literature, we discussed it, wrote about it, picked it apart and put it back together again. Every opinion mattered. I'm sure this is where I first developed the critical thinking skills that have served me so well.

But it was more than just a class.

Miss Willis saw something in the geeky blonde girl who didn't have a lot of friends, the girl who loved music above almost all else, the girl who never quite felt like she 'belonged.'

She encouraged me to begin writing for the school paper. When I didn't get a part in the school play, she personally invited me to be part of her public relations team. She made phone calls and helped me get my first job at Hersheypark. She talked with me for hours about my college choices and wrote many letters of recommendation -- all of which I still have.

Senior year we sold carnations for St. Valentine's Day -- to raise money for a class trip to NYC. Miss Willis somehow knew, or guessed that I wouldn't be receiving one -- and sent me one herself -- with a personal note that I cherish to this day.

For three years, she was a huge part of my life. So much of the person I am today can be traced back to lessons learned in and out of her classroom.

Every kid should feel so special.

I stayed in broad touch with her over the years -- the odd card or letter -- and shortly after getting married in 1993 ran into her in a Chinese restaurant. I was delighted to see her and introduce her to my new husband. She introduced me to HER new husband as well -- and said "This is Laura -- one of my very favorite students!"

I glowed with pleasure the rest of the day.

Yesterday, I found out that Miss Willis passed away unexpectedly, at the age of 57.

I don't know the details and don't need to know. I just know I felt an overwhelming sense of loss -- for a person who probably touched more lives than I can even imagine. Who probably never made a lot of money or garnered much of we would materialistically consider "success."

On that first day of class, all those years ago, before we started reading The Canterbury Tales, Miss Willis explained to us what an "epic" was -- "a long narrative tale, told in an elevated style, that celebrated the accomplishments of a hero."

Miss Willis was my hero.

Kiss today good-bye

The first time I kissed a boy I was 13.

Well, to be perfectly honest, the first time I almost kissed a boy I was 13.

I had been "going" with Scott for almost three weeks. My father almost had a heart attack when I came home from 7th grade and announced that I was "going" with Scott - a new boy in my school.

I'd met Scott on the first day of the new term after Christmas. He was very nice and very handsome, although about two inches shorter that I was (keeping in mind that I've been my current height of 5'5" since 5th grade!).

I remember thinking he was nice and smart, but being totally surprised when a gal-pal told me that Scott "liked me." Unlike my sisters - and most of my pals, I simply wasn't the sort of girl that boys noticed.

So I was taken totally by surprise, when, one day, in the hall between classes, Scott asked me if I would like to "go" with him.

My reply was instantaneous: "Go where? Music class?"

I missed the nuances completely. Luckily for me, Scott was kind and gently explained that he wanted me to be his girlfriend. I agreed and a 7th grade romance was born.

In 1979, a 7th grade romance consisted mostly of Scott carrying my books to class, sitting next to me at lunch, and the occasional telephone call to my house. To the best of my recollection, we never had what could be considered a date...and he never laid a finger on me (just my books).

The school year was winding to a close, and with it, a big event -- the Junior High Dance. As neither of us drove, we agreed to meet at the dance.

I well remember the event -- in the high school cafeteria...with streamers hanging from the ceiling and a DJ playing songs like "My Sharona" and "MacArthur Park." We danced, and talked and drank Kool-Aid out of a punch bowl.

At the end of the evening, whilst waiting for our parents to pick us up, Scott decided to make his move. I wondered if this would be "the moment" I'd been dreaming of since Donny Osmond first burst through a mylar curtain on ice skates...would this be my first kiss?

I could hear the Village People, in the distance, singing "In the Navy" -- and Scott and I were holding hands and looking into each other's eyes...and looking...and looking...

Finally, it became clear to me that this was not going to be "the moment." And I started to turn away from him - to look for my Mom and the Grand Torino.

But, just as I started to turn away, Scott decided that he was "ready" and leaned in for the big moment.

And actually ended up kissing the collar of my coat.

In front of most of the school...and my Dad -- who decided to come pick me up.

Pop pretty much laughed the entire ride home. Probably mostly relief that his eldest child was not in any danger of "real" romance.

Scott moved away again a few weeks later. And no one attempted to plant one on me again until almost five years later, during my senior year.

Canadian writer Thomas Haliburton once said: “There is the kiss of welcome and of parting, the long, lingering, loving, present one; the stolen, or the mutual one; the kiss of love, of joy, and of sorrow; the seal of promise and receipt of fulfillment.”

I wonder how he would classify the kiss of the coat collar?

Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes

I spent the better part of my youth "looking" for my baby sister.

In our family, with four kids, "holding hands and sticking together" took on real meaning. And when the family was out and about, my Dad would often shout "Partners!" which translated to the four of us pairing off.

As the eldest, this meant that I was to grab my baby sister's hand and hold on for dear life. Paula and I were always "partners" -- as were my sister Kathy and brother Jeff.

For whatever reason - Kathy and Jeff never had any issues with 'holding hands and sticking together.'

But Paula and I were another story altogether.

Almost everywhere we went as a family, Paula got "lost." Theme parks, malls, baseball games -- you name the place, and my baby sister probably got lost there.

I wish I could put the blame squarely on her little shoulders, but I cannot.

We always started out with the best of intentions - truly, we did. Dad would shout "partners" and we'd grab hands, smile at each other, and pinky swear that we would NOT separate.

I think our 'best time' was about 15 minutes of togetherness.

Then, at some point, I'd realize that I was no longer holding her hand.

The first few times it happened, much terror ensued -- security called, parents hysterical, etc. But after several years, it became such a common occurance that we all knew our parts: Dad would start shouting for her, Kathy would find a policeman or security guard, and Mom would pointedly ask me "how in the world I managed to lose her AGAIN?"

And I wasn't losing her on purpose. Really.

I'd just get distracted...or we'd start singing and dancing and eventually drop hands. Or she'd stop to blow her nose and take a drink... and next thing you knew, she was gone.

We always found her.

When she was around 4 or 5, I taught her a song to sing -- so that if we got separated, she could sing the song until we found her:

"Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes - hey has anybody seen my sweet Gypsy Rose!"

I told her that if she'd sing the song, loud and strong, I would always find her.

It was as close to hanging a cow bell on her as was appropriate.

To her credit, she never seemed to panic when she got lost -- we'd find her with a policeman, singing her little heart out.

And she'd look up at me with these big green eyes and shout, "I knew you'd find me Lolly!"

To this day, I can't hear that song without thinking of searching for Paula in Hersheypark...or Disney World...or Veteran's Stadium...

And I'll freely admit that all these years later, when the two of us are out together, I have to resist the urge to take her hand in mine and hold on tight.

But I'd probably lose her in about 15 minutes or so...

...and then Nipsey Russel saved me!

Around 4 a.m. this morning I almost learned the "meaning of life."

I was in that half awake, half asleep part of my consciousness known as The Dream Zone.

In my dream, I was standing in the center ring of a three ring circus - with all the giant cats around me, up on their stands. I was not scared and in complete control of the situation and I quite clearly recall thinking that "this is certainly interesting."

Then, into the ring walked Gunther Gebel Williams! Let me tell you -- he looked pretty good for a fellow who's been dead for eight years. He was dressed exactly as he was the last time I saw him and had his whip in his hand.

He walked over to me and said "I'm going to tell you the meaning of life, Laura."

Needless to say, I was very excited -- who knew what insights GGW might have?

He leaned over to whisper in my ear -- I could actually FEEL his breath on my neck.

He started to speak...

And I woke up -- with a collie nudging my ear with his nose.

All day I've been wondering what Gunther might have shared with me, if not for a dog that needed to go out.

Sigh.

I do tend to remember my dreams in vivid detail.

My personal favorite and the one that landed me on national TV is my now famous "Nipsey Russell" dream.

Now, please keep in mind. I am NOT a Nipsey Russell fan. He has never factored into my life in any way, shape or form -- except for this bizarre episode.

In the dream, the end of the world is coming -- missiles launched from silos -- the whole shebang. I am running through an old house, trying to hide -- trying to save myself and the people I'm with...
...
We are finally hidden in some kind of storm cellar, thinking we are all going to die soon, and a door opens in the ceiling, a hand reaches down for me -- pulls me out and to safety...and it's NIPSEY RUSSELL!

Yup -- Nipsey Russell saved me.

Now on the TV show, the supposed 'expert' in dream interpretation tried to tell me that this was me crying out to resolve old issues with my father.

Hogwash.

I think I probably just ate ice cream too close to going to sleep...with The Wiz on the television.

At least I looked good on national TV!

Sixteen going on seventeen...

By my family’s standards, I got married late in life.

I was 28.

Both my sisters married young – I don’t believe either was of legal drinking age when they tied the knot.

If you asked my Dad, he would have told you that “Laura is SO picky.” And I was. He was always the first in the family to “fall in love” with one of the guys I was dating. Well before the term “bromance” was popular, my Pop adored David…Gordon…Chris…Matt…Henry (I think he may have gotten choked up when I broke it off with Henry – they had much in common!).

I was always looking for something elusive…something I couldn’t quite put my finger on – until I met Brad.

Within two or three dates, it was crystal clear – the missing link was that the other guys “weren’t Brad.”

Who would have thought that a mind-manner school teacher from New Jersey would capture my affections?

Now, as we celebrate our 16th anniversary, it’s still Brad.

Brad who makes me laugh…Brad who supports me no matter what. He understands my fiercely independent nature, my wacky sense of humor, my love of all things Superman, my need to make a difference, and my propensity to break into song without warning.

I think a lot of people are “in love with the idea of being in love.” They require fireworks 24/7. When the initial “wow factor” wears off, they get bored…or worse, go looking elsewhere for new fireworks.

Now, don’t misunderstand -- I enjoy fireworks as much as the next person (Oooo….Ahhhh…) but I am a believer that sometimes love comes softly.

When I think back on some of those ill-fated relationships, I can see that it wasn’t the fellows that were the problem – I was the problem. I was the one adapting myself, my personality to suit THEM. In effect, I was playing the role of “Henry’s Girlfriend” – not being my true self.

With Brad, from day one – never an issue. In fact, with those in my inner circle – not an issue.

Sixteen years later – still not an issue.

The love that came softly was the love with staying power.

Once upon a mattress...

I love to sleep. At the end of a day, long or otherwise, little pleases me more than to climb beneath the sheets and settle in for the night.

When I was first married, my new husband and I shared a double-bed. He had been single for some years and it was brand new – he’d purchased a lovely Oak bedroom set weeks before we’d started dating.

The subsequent purchase of a king-sized bed some months into our marriage probably saved us from killing each other.

When it comes to sleep, we are polar opposites – he climbs into bed, assumes the position, and doesn’t move for the rest of the night. I climb into bed and begin what he calls my nightly gymnastics exhibition. I’ll admit it – I’m a sleeping mover and shaker – a cover hog who both talks and sings in her sleep and has been known to grind her teeth when stressed. He likes a firm mattress…I prefer to cocoon myself in a feather bed.

I generally go up to bed three hours before he does – so most nights when he enters the bedroom, he says he must physically move me to make room for himself. He then climbs in, back to me, and hangs on to the night stand for dear life.

As soon as he’s in the bed, I am drawn to him – no -- get your mind out of the gutter – it’s his large bare back – better than a space heater when it comes to warmth. But what I view as snuggling, he views as me trying to push him out of bed. Keep in mind, throughout all of this, I never actually wake up.

He has literally worn the finish off his nightstand – holding on to it whilst he sleeps these last fifteen years.

And when I am asleep – I am ASLEEP. As a child our neighbor’s house burned to the ground – and I slept through it. Many is the morning when hubby will say to me “how about that storm last night?” and I am thinking “what storm?”

But there is one area in the world of the master bedroom in which we agree – we are linen snobs. We both absolutely love 400 thread count sheets, pillow cases, and duvets. We didn’t start out that way – our early sheet sets – most likely wedding gifts – were fine – honestly I don’t think we ever thought about sheets one way or another. And then, about five years ago, we noticed that our sheets were actually wearing out – fitted sheets falling off the bed, etc. So I bought some new linens.

A life changing experience. Truly.

I put the new sheets on the bed and climbed in that first night – nirvana! So much so that I got out of bed and went downstairs to tell him how wonderful the new sheets were – much to his amusement. I know he thought I was nuts, going on for ten minutes about sheets.

That is until he climbed into bed a few hours later. His positive commentary actually woke me up! And the next day I heard him on the phone with one of his friends – “you wouldn’t believe these sheets Laura got!”

That Christmas everyone on our list received – you guessed it – “the sheets.”

Converts all.

It’s gotten to the point where Sunday night – known as Clean Sheet Night at our house – is my favorite night of the week.

Even the dog isn’t allowed on the bed on Clean Sheet Night.

Hey Monkey Boy!

Every girl should have an Uncle Mike. But you can’t have mine – he’s … well … MINE.

Uncle Mike is my birth mother’s brother and was one of my Pop’s best friends. Many of my earliest childhood memories involve Uncle Mike.

Ever see the 80’s sitcom Full House? That was us – me, my sisters, my Pop and Uncle Mike.
And he was the best.

He always treated me like an equal – even when I was five or six and he was, well, NOT. He never talked down to me, told the absolute best stories, and always seemed to have such great ideas. I loved listening to him and my Dad talk about books they were reading, books Uncle Mike was writing, movies, politics, you name it.

He had a sense of theatricality about him and whimsy. And the most soothing voice – to this day he is among the most recognized voice-over talents in our region.

He would chase us around the house and really play with us – wasn’t afraid to get down on the floor and play dolls or tell us ghost stories. We’d climb all over him, ride him horsey style and beg for piggy back rides – he never said no…was never too tired.

When he got his first recording equipment – with individual tracks – he spent hours with me (I must have been around 12) showing me how it worked and letting me test it out by singing Karen Carpenter songs.

Sometimes – particularly during my teen years and early twenties, years might pass with little physical contact between us. It was a non-issue – we always picked right up where we left off. I can talk to him every day…or twice a year … it matters not.

In later years he’s become something of a mentor – keen business sense, great advice and probably the most genuinely creative person I know. He is always present.

It amazes me sometimes that he seems to know when I need him…a phone call or email out of the blue, just as I am thinking “I need a little Uncle Mike today…”

One of the final conversations I ever had with my Dad was about Uncle Mike – Dad said he wanted to speak to me privately and then basically told me that he was turning the reins over to Uncle Mike – that Uncle Mike would always be there, no matter what. He said that he trusted him more than almost anyone he’d ever known and that Uncle Mike had shown him time and again what friendship really meant over the years.

Pop was right. But then he almost always was.

I could fill up this entire blog with stories and ways that Uncle Mike has helped me over the years – some of which he probably isn’t even aware of.

One of my early memories of Uncle Mike involved a stuffed monkey – a toy that you could wind up and it would bag cymbals. One day, in anger, Uncle Mike pretty much tore up the monkey. I’m sure he thought I was upstairs in bed, but I saw it happen – and called out to Uncle Mike in a way that only a precocious six year old can and told him “well now you’ve scared me for life!”

We’ve laughed about that line for years.

And it’s a scar I wear proudly.

Happy Meals

The first meal I ever made for my husband was a concoction called Turkey Lasagna Roll-Ups.

He spit it out.

Literally.

I mis-understood the recipe, not realizing that cooked ground turkey was the main ingredient, and substituted sliced turkey from the deli counter.

A week later I decided to surprise him with stuffed potato skins – a treat I knew he enjoyed ordering in restaurants when we were dating. I mean, really – how hard could it be? I scooped out the potato innards, filled them with cheese and bacon and put it under the broiler for a few minutes until all golden and bubbly.

He was surprised all right – apparently you are supposed to START with cooked (boiled, baked, whatever) potatoes. I served him raw potato with melted cheese and bacon.

We eat out quite a bit, as I’m sure you can imagine.

As the years have passed, I’ve certainly gotten better – although still best known for my appetizers and desserts – I can make rumaki and pastry with the best of them. But Brad still reminds me to “keep it simple” at least once a week.

Somehow the culinary gene missed me. I come from a family of really great cooks. My Mom’s creamed turkey on biscuits…Aunt Kathy’s cranberry salad or even better her homemade chicken noodle soup…Granny’s cornbread (haven’t had it in 20 years but still dream about it!). My Dad even hosted a radio cooking show!

Apparently none of this rubbed off on me.

My husband’s favorite meal would involve a steak or even meatloaf and potatoes. I like sauces and ethnic food. He likes soup the way his Mom used to make it – I tend to load it up with extra carrots. I love to read cookbooks and try new things. He wants to know EXACTLY what is in something before he brings his fork to his mouth.

I look at dining as an adventure – he just wants his supper.

Even what we would consider comfort food differs. I love homemade mac and cheese or chile in my big pot…he likes Stouffers Lasagne.

But in 2008 we found one dish I can successfully make that we both love – we have agreed on my fried chicken as my best homemade meal.

I actually found the recipe online – it’s Italian fried chicken served with homemade pasta sauce that has both basil and bacon in it. Delicious.

And – I haven’t, as Brad would say “messed with it” – I make it exactly as the recipe says. (What can I say? I do love to tinker with things…)

Its official name is Chicken Bill Conte – but in my mind it’s actually Chicken Switzerland – the one dish on which we can both agree.

Email me for the recipe.

My Funny Valentine...

To paraphrase Jane Austen -- "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that the ultimate role of the 'older' sister is to torture the younger sister..."

My sister Kathy has always been my 'sweet comic Valentine' and often the fodder for some of my very best stories -- mostly because she's one of those people who is funny without even trying.

As a child, I can vividly remember thinking that she was placed in my family purely for my own personal entertainment. Polar opposites in almost every way -- she was always boy-crazy, I managed to get all the way to senior year without a single date. She was tiny and thin - a real fashionista who made her own clothes and I was size 12 at age 12 and wore clothes based solely on comfort and availability of plaid.

Classic Kathy -- came home from her very first day of school ever and proclaimed herself "in love" with the first boy she met -- a young man named Marlon. I never met Marlon - never laid eyes on him -- but in a Classic Laura move, immediately sat down and wrote a song about her experience. With six -- count 'em -- six verses.

And I mean a SONG -- got out the staff paper, sat at the organ and wrote a song. With harmony that I taught to the neighbor kid -- so we could follow Kathy around and serenade her - literally until she'd cry:

Marlon and His Big Blue Truck

Music and Lyrics by Lolly Baker

Marlon and his big blue truck
Marlon and his big blue truck
On the first day of school
They sat in the lunch room
Planning their wedding day
Marlon and his big blue truck...

Call me if you want to hear the melody... I could go on...but you get it -- And I would follow her right to the door of her Kindergarten room singing it at the top of my voice.

I don't think she and Marlon made it to Halloween.

But my tortuous creativity where Kathy was concerned didn't end with music -- oh no -- as the years passed, I found new - non-musical ways - to make her miserable.

We spent many an hour traveling in the old Grand Torino station wagon - to North Carolina, to Florida -- with the four kids bouncing around in the back. And after a few hours of "I Spy" and "The License Plate Game" one of my siblings would request a story from me.

And while I am one of those fortunate people who can read in a moving vehicle with no problem, their favorites were the stories that I made up -- usually involving a family (not unlike ours) going on adventures in their own backyard.

The premise was simple -- Laura and Jeff, the Clickatat Twins, lived on Clickatat Lane in Mumblestown, PA with their little sister, Kathy. Laura and Jeff would go on magical adventures in the woods, riding bikes, finding treasure - and Kathy, to their dismay, always wanted to tag along.

Regardless of the particular story or adventure, they always ended the same way -- with Kathy getting sprayed by the neighborhood skunk. Always. And usually, Officer Kirkpatrick would have to take Kathy home to be washed with tomato juice AGAIN, whilst the Clickatat Twins would go off on another lark.

The "Kathy and the Skunk" stories - as they came to be known amongst our family and friends were a hit -- much to Kathy's mortification. My brother and other sister (and let's be honest - most of their friends) would beg me for "the next installment."

And I would further torture Kathy (think Lucy promising Charlie Brown that THIS time she won't pull the football away) telling her that THIS TIME, Kathy would NOT get sprayed by the skunk.

But, of course, she always got sprayed.

And she would make me swear to never write another "Kathy and the Skunk" story -- and I'd promise -- and then some time would pass and someone would ask for the next installment, and off I'd go.

I think I finally stopped telling them sometime in high school.

But -- if you really want another installment...I could probably be persuaded... (insert maniacal laughter here)

Happy St. Valentine's Day and Happy 41st! May your day be both Marlon and Skunk free!

There is nothing like a dame...

My Irish-American grandmother was a real character. She was christened Elizabeth Irene Ryan, but came to be known after her marriage as Betty Baker. And Betty Baker, as my grandmother loved to say, was a dame's name -- Betty Baker was a 'broad.' Grandma was a dame and proud of it.

She was 89 when she died...and I was 20 -- so for all of my life she was elderly and for most of my life, she was in a wheelchair and almost completely blind. But these distinctions slowed her down not one wit.

I loved going to stay with her when I was very young - we would make sand tarts and watch Merv Griffin and Mike Douglas. She'd teach me songs from when she used to perform in Minstrel Shows back in the teens and 20's -- in black face, no less. Once she covered my whole face with black shoe polish and didn't understand what the big deal was when my Dad arrived to pick me up and almost had a stroke!

She was an uber Catholic and a Kennedy democrat. I once heard her tell the lady across the hall that if you weren't a Kennedy democrat, you might as well be a communist. Later that I night -- after asking my Dad to explain what a communist was, I heard him ask her to please "refrain from 'getting her Irish up' in front of his impressionable 8-year-old."

But that was Grandma.

When I was 10 or 11, Grandma had to move into a nursing home. And she was heartbroken. Until she got settled in and realized that their were now 100 or so new people that had never heard her stories! And half of them weren't Catholic!

So she spent her last ten years attempting to convert her elderly partners-in-arms, and rabble-rousing at the home. She also got involved in scary arts and crafts -- a doll she made for me during this time period sits on my nightstand to this day.

It was a bit startling to me to speak with a family member earlier this week and realize how little they recalled about Grandma Baker -- particularly with my memories so fresh -- so I thought I'd make a small list of Grandma-isms -- to remember her on this special day.

1. Grandma always called her sofa a davenport. I'm not sure why -- but I can hear her in my head saying that I "daresn't put my feet on the davenport."

2. She had the most beautiful hands. Her face might have been wrinkled by the time I knew her, but her hands were smooth and lovely, always.

3. To this day, whenever I get a whiff of Ben-Gay, I think of her -- severe arthritis made it her fragrance of choice late in life. She also used an abundance of "Shower to Shower" baby powder.

4. She could "put on the Irish" with the best of them. I'd walk into a room and she'd look up and say "'tis herself" as if we were in Belfast.

5. On Grandma's right foot, her big toe didn't have a toenail -- I'm not sure why -- but when I asked her about it as a little girl, she told me that it was what happened when little ladies didn't use their manners. For weeks, I'd check my feet each morning when I'd wake -- to make sure I still had all toes intact.

6. Grandma went to her grave convinced I was attending a Jewish college. She couldn't wrap her head around the fact that Temple University was actually named after a Baptist temple -- not that THAT would have gone over any better with her.

7. She had a weird tendency to whisper words that she 'thought' had negative connotations: "Ethyl has the cancer" ... "my new nurse is from Mexico" . Further she always seemed to put "the" before any disease: "the cancer"..."the gout"... "the arthritis"...

8. Once, during Christmas Eve dinner, she overturned her entire glass of red wine on her dinner plate -- and INSISTED on eating her food covered with the wine -- telling everyone that it "tasted better that way," and "you should all try it."

9. I can't use a packet of Sweet-n-Low without thinking of Grandma -- she would hoard them, and then give them to us as gifts in later years. I don't think my parents had to buy artificial sweetener for at least two years after her passing. She would also save paper placemats that had puzzles on them. Rolls and rolls of them -- and she never seemed to notice that they all had the exact same puzzles.

10. Grandma had a touch of both hypochondria and fatalism -- my ENTIRE life, every time I said goodbye to her, she would say "Give me a kiss, honey -- it will probably be the last time. And don't forget to pray for my eyes."

And finally...Grandma loved to hear me sing. When I'd walk into her room, she'd shout out "Sing Al Jolson for me honey!" And I would drop to one knee and give it everything I had, whilst she watched, with tears in her eyes, probably an old memory running through her mind ...

Instead of singing the famous "Mammy," I'd substitute "Grammy..."

"I'd walk a million miles for one of your smiles my GRAAAAMMMMMY!"

Happy Birthday Grandma -- you old Groundhog you!

And don't worry -- I won't forget to pray for your eyes

Batter up!

My father was a wise man -- some would jokingly say a "wise guy."

He loved his life, his wife and kids -- and wanted the very best for all of us -- but understood and always tried to convey that you had to work and work hard to achieve your goals -- regardless of how large and overwhelming or small, and seemingly insignificant.

No where was this more evident than on a sports field. I am not an athlete, but enjoyed playing sports all through elementary and high school -- even into college. All the Baker kids played sports -- but our family pastime was definitely baseball -- or in the case of me and my sisters, softball.

We all loved to play -- and during different periods of our scholastic careers, both Mom and Dad coached our teams -- or acted as scorekeepers, or umpires. They were involved, always.

Softball was great fun -- we were all good players -- and I almost always played catcher. To this day, I can hold a squat longer than almost anyone else I know -- and used to get in trouble for using just a bit too much 'chatter' behind the plate.

Where I struggled was batting. My Dad would practice with me, throwing balls to me for hours on end. And I would get frustrated at my inability to make significant contact with the ball. And we'd practice and we'd practice.

His favorite refrain -- "Lolly -- swing with your WHOLE body -- not just your arms!" Or "You're swinging with just your arms again -- you're chopping wood!"

And he was right -- that's exactly what I was doing.

In time, I became great at bat -- Oh, I wasn't going to win any college scholarships, but I was solid player - a base hitter - a "Charlie Hustle" as Pop used to say.

And I learned and always remembered that lesson that he taught me in our backyard -- to always give it, regardless of what "it" was -- EVERYTHING you've got.

To this day, I get frustrated with myself -- get really angry at myself -- for not being the best -- strongest, fastest, smartest (pick one or all). For not nailing every ball that comes my way, real or imagined. I hate showing any sign of weakness - even around those for whom I care most.

Some days I catch myself "chopping wood" -- not giving it my all, or feeling sorry for myself.

Some days, even if I do "swing with my entire body" it is simply not enough - some things are outside my control (gasp!).

Those are the hardest days of all.

I am learning, or trying very hard to learn, to allow my new found faith to strengthen me -- to be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his might. To allow HIS strength to pull me up, when I feel like chopping wood.

And I'm getting there.

And if I listen closely I can hear both voices in my head, both my Pop and my heavenly Father, whispering ... batter up!

Snow days and scrambled eggs

Snowy days always seem to make me crave scrambled eggs.

As kids, we LIVED for snow days. And it seemed like we had a lot more of them then we do now.

I can well remember lying in bed, all cozy and warm, waiting for those magic words to come from either my Mom or the clock radio: Lower Dauphin School District is CLOSED.

The sheer magic of the snow day!

Immediately we would all bound out of bed -- and insist that we wanted to go out and play in the snow. We had these great old-fashioned sleds - and loved using them.

It would take us 30 minutes to get properly dressed -- snow pants, hats, mittens, long underwear -- we were wrapped up so tight we could barely lower our arms. Do kids even have snow pants anymore?

And inevitably, after 15 minutes outside, we'd had enough -- "we're cold!" and into the house we'd go.

And Mom would make us scrambled eggs -- even if it was 2 o'clock in the afternoon.

I don't know when the scrambled egg tradition began -- but it was critical to the joy of a snow day.

To this day, I can't look at a plate of scrambled eggs, without thinking "Snow Day!" in my mind -- sometimes it even leaks out, to the amusement of my fellow diners.

Nowadays "snow day" means that my husband gets to sleep in while I have to get up and get to the office.

Somehow the magic of a snow day is lost when hubby just rolls over and grunts something about "driving carefully" while pulling the warm covers up around his shoulders...pup at his side.

Maybe next time I'll make myself some scrambled eggs...while he sleeps...

Driving Miss Laura

I'll admit it -- I am not the world's greatest driver.

My husband would call the previous sentence an understatement.

From the very beginning, I have had a tumultuous relationship with both cars and driving. Like most sixteen-year-olds, I couldn't wait to get my learner's permit. I recall well the day that a high school girlfriend and I went together to take the test -- the summer before senior year. She left with a permit, I left with a failed eye exam (didn't even get to take the written test!) and a bus pass.

It wasn't a big deal at the time. Plenty of my classmates and friends drove (and had cars!) and I never lacked a ride when I needed one. Plus, the university I was planning to attend didn't allow freshman to have cars on campus - and Philly had a good public transportation system. No worries.

But after graduation, it became clear that I was going to have to learn how to drive. My Pop felt certain that he could teach me. I was less certain, but slated to begin my first full time professional job, so figured I'd better give it a go.

Trying to teach me to drive turned my mild mannered Pop into a nervous wreck. First day out I hit a bank. An actual bank, as in financial institution. Day two I almost ran my sister over trying to back out of the driveway.

Professional intervention was needed - and fast. And multiple trips to the eye doctor -- who assured my Dad, that while I had certainly inherited Grandma Baker's eyesight (or lack thereof), the biggest problem was lack of depth perception -- for which I could learn to compensate.

This time around, Dad hired a professional driver to teach me, and my license was finally earned around the time I turned 23. If all was not "well" it was at least "acceptable."

Not quite 20 years later, my driving reputation seems to have become something of a legend among family, friends and co-workers.

Admittedly, my eyesight continues to worsen, and what was once a simple depth perception issue has escalated -- but I do enjoy being in the driver's seat.

My husband would rather have teeth pulled without anesthetic than get into a car I'm driving:

"You're following too close!"
"Hold your lane!"
"Are you actually aiming for those pot holes?"

And I've been accused on several occasions of simply pointing my car in the direction I want to go and "flooring it."

We were married only a few weeks when he borrowed my car and noticed the oil light on -- he almost had a stroke when I casually commented that it had been on for a few weeks, but I wasn't worried as it hadn't started 'beeping' yet... (in my defense, in that vehicle, that was how the low fuel light worked...)

I've gotten lost so many times that even my GPS unit appears to 'sigh' at me sometimes, along with repeatedly notifying me that it is "recalculating" again...

New employees at work are clearly "prepped" the first time they get in the car with me -- strapping themselves in and making the sign of the cross before I even have my key in the ignition.

I don't know what they are so worried about -- I can stop my vehicle on a dime -- and have proven it many times.

And I'd like the record to show that I have never been in an accident -- a few fender benders, but I am hardly a menace.

But today I turned over a new leaf. I allowed a co-worker to drive the two of us to Philadelphia. I've never seen him so relaxed. It was nice...I chatted, got some work done, replied to email messages, and just enjoyed the ride.

No near death experiences. No pot holes. I even learned a little something about Audi's (he has a new car).

I know the day is coming when I will probably have to leave the driving to others again. And I will be very sad that day.

But the collective sigh of relief will most likely be heard all up and down the East Coast.

Good night Mustang Sally!

...Some are silver and the others gold...

How many friends do you have?

According to Facebook, I have 14. Fourteen friends. I can't quite believe it.

Okay -- one of them is our local airport. Then there are a few clients, and my beloved hubby. Still -- several folks I know on Facebook have hundreds. HUNDREDS of friends! And it must be true -- after all, there it is in on the computer screen.

I've never made friends easily -- and it hasn't gotten easier as I've gotten older. I am certainly friendly, (some would say entertaining). I have dozens of folks with whom I enjoy spending time, and co-workers I like very much. But very few actual friends.

In fact, if I am perfectly honest, I think I have four. Four friends.

And at first glance, some might think -- "how sad...she only has four friends..."

But I look at it quite differently -- I have FOUR FRIENDS!

I have four people who I know I can call anytime, day or night, and if it is within their capacity to help me they will -- regardless of time or distance. They know the same of me. People for whom I care deeply -- dare I say love -- and who I know feel the same way about me. To me, friends are family -- the family you get to choose -- and who choose you in return.

"A friend is someone who is there for you when he'd rather be anywhere else." -- Unknown

These are people who I want to talk to during both the best and worst moments -- mine and theirs. They are familiar with my faults and talents and willing to share both. The people to whom I can say: "I did the dumbest thing today..." and they will listen...and laugh with me at my idiocy.

Each adds something immeasurable to the quality of my life. I pray that I offer the same. They listen to what I say, and what I do not say.

"No lapse of time or distance of place can lessen the friendship of thosewho are truly persuaded of each other's worth." - Unknown

One friend I communicate with almost daily. One I speak to only once or twice a year. One is a beloved mentor...another a travel buddy and musical savant. Each precious. Each as necessary to me as oxygen.

And while I enjoy playing on Facebook, I am somewhat bewildered when I receive "friend invitations" from folks who simply seem to be "collecting friends." Truth is, I decline almost all "friend invitations" I receive. Not because I don't care about the person in question (if, in fact, I remember them at all), but because friendship means something profound to me. I invest in my friendships.

"How lucky I am to have known someone who was so hard to say goodbye to."

I lost a friend recently. Not to illness or death, or even physical distance. No, the tragedy is that I lost this friend to a point of view expressed in this blog. I feel today like I've lost a limb -- and not a pinky finger, but one of the important ones! -- because he fears my new-found faith. I mourn the closeness we've lost because he fears a judgment on his lifestyle that simply isn't there. I oscillate between anger and sadness, but am ultimately hopeful that we will somehow be able to recapture what we've had.

"It is as if their is a cord, knotted beneath my rib - connected to you in similar fashion, and I fear that cord will snap and I will take to bleeding inwardly." -- Jane Eyre

When, months ago, I re-connected with a friend after a long absence, this quote from my favorite book jumped into my mind. What a gift such a connection is! I do not take it for granted, but thank God daily for being the recipient of such a blessing.

But perhaps Edgar Guest sums up my feelings best:

"I'd like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me. I'd like to be the help that you've been always glad to be; I'd like to mean as much to you each minute of the day, as you have meant, friend of mine, to me along the way."

Getting Sick Is Not For Wimps...

For fifteen years I've listened to my beloved husband say things to me like "just you wait until you're my age...see how fast you race up and down the stairs then!"

And while I am still flying up and down stairs, I have noticed, particularly in the time since I first turned 40 (no comments, please!) that while my energy level remains high, my body has clearly decided to work against me.

Case in point -- caught a cold last week -- first time I've had a cold in probably five years. And if it wasn't bad enough that I sounded like Elmer Fudd, couldn't breathe through my nose, almost coughed up a lung and was otherwise miserable -- I managed to throw out my back.

By blowing my nose.

Yes -- I threw out my back by blowing my nose too hard. And by "threw out my back" I mean as in literally could not stand up straight. Had to crawl to the bathroom. Had to basically fling my drawers on the floor and step into them, wriggling them up my legs as bending over was NOT an option.

And while I'm better now...the cold lingers...and lingers...one week later I'm still good for a major coughing fit once per hour -- there simply are not enough tissues in Lebanon County to handle the snot spigot my nose has become.

Hubby just smiles that "now you understand" smile.

I don't like that particular smile.

And other fun stuff now accompanies the coughing fits -- all kinds of ... well let's just say that some of my...uh...muscles aren't what they used to be.

Plus the cough syrup has somehow managed to give me acid reflux. Which is helped by the Tums...except that Tums seem to cause phlegm...which then makes me cough more.

Oh, and let's not forget the big zit on my nose -- apparently a by-product of all the excess rubbing and blowing.

Are you getting a picture here?

Whatever happened to the girl who laughed in face of streptococcus? The girl who went seven years without a sick day?

Oh wait, I know -- she just decided to invest in the company that makes Puffs Plus with Vicks Vapo Rub blended in...