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!