I was raised Catholic. It is in my blood. My great great great grandfather Peter DeRome was studying to become a priest in Montreal, Canada sometime in the 1850's. He became ill and fell in love with his nurse, Margaret LaChance and married her in 1855. I have past relatives who help establish Holy Cross Church in Saginaw, Mi. I even had a relative, Ruth Pelon (1st cousin 3 times removed), who became a Dominican Nun as Sister Ursuline for the 84 years in Grand Rapids, Mi. She past away when she was 101 years old. My mother was once disciplined by her mother for saying the Act of Contrition wrong. The school was teaching a new way of saying it and her mother was very upset by the fact they changed it. During Lent we were forbidden to eat meat of Friday and we had to give something up. During Advent we lit the Advent wreath - 3 pink candles and 1 purple candle...or was it the other way around. I don't remember.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Remembering the Challenger Explosion
There are times in our lives when an event impacts us so much that when we hear about it, we are transported directly back in time to that day. We remember small details that would seem meaningless any other time. It could be a personal memorable moment or a national moment. One of those moments for me happened on January 28th 1986 - The Challenger Explosion.
This blog entry is dedicated to those who died in the Challenger.
In the back row, from left, mission specialist Ellison S. Onizuka, Teacher in Space Participant Sharon Christa McAuliffe, Payload Specialist Greg Jarvis and Mission specialist Judy Resnik. In the front row, from left, Pilot Mike Smith, Commander Dick Scobee, and Mission specialist Ron McNair.
I was two weeks shy of my 9th birthday, in the third grade at St. Thomas Aquinas School in Saginaw, Mi. Sister Sandy was one of the third grade teachers. A lot of our class discussion that year was about how the space program was on a mission to send a teacher up and teach a class from space. The teacher, Christa McAuliffe, we learned, was an average person, a wife, mother and teacher, that was selected by NASA to be a part of this historic event. We were all mesmerized by the romance of the space program. Many of my classmates wanted to become astronauts, myself included. We would study all about the space program, first man on the moon, first air walk, how spacecrafts evolved. Sister Sandy was one of the first teachers who discussed current events in our classroom.
It was the day of January 28th, 1986. The day was like any other day. I knew many of the adults were getting excited about the launching of the Challenger. The junior high school students at St. Thomas Aquinas were all gathering together to watch it on TV. We were a bit disappointed that we wouldn't be able to watch it ourselves. Our lunch hour was at 11:30 and Sister Sandy excused herself to watch it with the other teachers in the teacher's lounge. It was common for the students to eat lunch in the classroom and the teacher would go to the lounge before we would head outside to play. On this day, it was biter cold and our recess was to be indoors.
We played and ran around the room and goofed off like what any other third grader would do on their indoor lunch break. Everyone was enjoying their break. Sister Sandy came into the classroom and we all scurried to our desks, even though we knew it was still a lunch break but no one wanted to be caught horsing around and getting into trouble. We could tell she had been crying. The room got serious real fast. Something was the matter we just didn't know what.
Sister Sandy explained that there was terrible news. The other teachers and herself were watching the launch in the lounge. She informed us that something went wrong and the shuttle exploded and they believe everyone on board died. A numbness filled the room. It was so quiet that the ticking of the clock seemed loud at that moment. Lesson plans were put away for the rest of the day. We focused on talking about the accident. I think Sister Sandy needed to talk about it as much as we students did.
Soon it was time to get ready to go home. Usually we rush out to the hallways to get our snowgear, boots and bookbags. Instead I grabbed my friend, Melissa, and told her we need to pray. Under the crucifix hanging on the wall we knelt down, made the sign of the cross, In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen, and prayed for those who had died in the explosion and comfort for their families. We followed it by reciting the Our Father Prayer then arose and walked quietly out to the hallway to gather our belongings. Sister Sandy stopped us at the doorway and wondered what we were doing. I simply told her we were praying. She gave us huge hugs.
I got off the bus and went inside. My mom, and my grandparents were already gathered in front of the the console TV. They watched the whole thing and couldn't pull themselves away from the TV. I sat myself on the couch and that is when I first seen the pictures of it. I think I must of gasped by the horror of it all and then the realization that their families were probably in the crowd of people watching right there in Florida. I couldn't imagine what it would be like seeing someone you loved, either a friend or a family member die like that and they were watching, powerless to help. How do you walk away from something so tragic like that? They would of had to scrape me off the stands.
Time marched on and as a nation we healed our wounds. Five years later I was able to go to Washington D.C. for a class trip. Walking through Arlington National Cemetery I came upon the Challenger Memorial. I paused for a moment reliving the day all over again. Their faces etched on the memorial gave tribute to those that lost their lives that day will never be forgotten.
This blog entry is dedicated to those who died in the Challenger.
In the back row, from left, mission specialist Ellison S. Onizuka, Teacher in Space Participant Sharon Christa McAuliffe, Payload Specialist Greg Jarvis and Mission specialist Judy Resnik. In the front row, from left, Pilot Mike Smith, Commander Dick Scobee, and Mission specialist Ron McNair.
I was two weeks shy of my 9th birthday, in the third grade at St. Thomas Aquinas School in Saginaw, Mi. Sister Sandy was one of the third grade teachers. A lot of our class discussion that year was about how the space program was on a mission to send a teacher up and teach a class from space. The teacher, Christa McAuliffe, we learned, was an average person, a wife, mother and teacher, that was selected by NASA to be a part of this historic event. We were all mesmerized by the romance of the space program. Many of my classmates wanted to become astronauts, myself included. We would study all about the space program, first man on the moon, first air walk, how spacecrafts evolved. Sister Sandy was one of the first teachers who discussed current events in our classroom. It was the day of January 28th, 1986. The day was like any other day. I knew many of the adults were getting excited about the launching of the Challenger. The junior high school students at St. Thomas Aquinas were all gathering together to watch it on TV. We were a bit disappointed that we wouldn't be able to watch it ourselves. Our lunch hour was at 11:30 and Sister Sandy excused herself to watch it with the other teachers in the teacher's lounge. It was common for the students to eat lunch in the classroom and the teacher would go to the lounge before we would head outside to play. On this day, it was biter cold and our recess was to be indoors.
We played and ran around the room and goofed off like what any other third grader would do on their indoor lunch break. Everyone was enjoying their break. Sister Sandy came into the classroom and we all scurried to our desks, even though we knew it was still a lunch break but no one wanted to be caught horsing around and getting into trouble. We could tell she had been crying. The room got serious real fast. Something was the matter we just didn't know what.
Sister Sandy explained that there was terrible news. The other teachers and herself were watching the launch in the lounge. She informed us that something went wrong and the shuttle exploded and they believe everyone on board died. A numbness filled the room. It was so quiet that the ticking of the clock seemed loud at that moment. Lesson plans were put away for the rest of the day. We focused on talking about the accident. I think Sister Sandy needed to talk about it as much as we students did.
Soon it was time to get ready to go home. Usually we rush out to the hallways to get our snowgear, boots and bookbags. Instead I grabbed my friend, Melissa, and told her we need to pray. Under the crucifix hanging on the wall we knelt down, made the sign of the cross, In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen, and prayed for those who had died in the explosion and comfort for their families. We followed it by reciting the Our Father Prayer then arose and walked quietly out to the hallway to gather our belongings. Sister Sandy stopped us at the doorway and wondered what we were doing. I simply told her we were praying. She gave us huge hugs.
I got off the bus and went inside. My mom, and my grandparents were already gathered in front of the the console TV. They watched the whole thing and couldn't pull themselves away from the TV. I sat myself on the couch and that is when I first seen the pictures of it. I think I must of gasped by the horror of it all and then the realization that their families were probably in the crowd of people watching right there in Florida. I couldn't imagine what it would be like seeing someone you loved, either a friend or a family member die like that and they were watching, powerless to help. How do you walk away from something so tragic like that? They would of had to scrape me off the stands. Time marched on and as a nation we healed our wounds. Five years later I was able to go to Washington D.C. for a class trip. Walking through Arlington National Cemetery I came upon the Challenger Memorial. I paused for a moment reliving the day all over again. Their faces etched on the memorial gave tribute to those that lost their lives that day will never be forgotten.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Adventures at the YMCA
I love the water. In the summer being in the water was like a second home to me. I would spend most of the summer days splashing around in Houghton Lake or doing backflip dives at my best friend's pool. For me swimming just came naturally.
I was in my third to fifth grade year at my elementary school, St. Thomas Aquinas, and other local private schools would co-op with the YMCA for afterschool activities and once in a while a sleep-over. It would last a few days a week for several weeks. It mostly consisted of gym activities and swimming. The big blue bus would approach our school. Over the PA system the secretary would announce, "The kids heading to the YMCA may now board the bus." We would leave a few minutes early from the rest of the school because there were several schools the bus had to stop at. It was grand to stand up and head out to the lockers to grab your garb and proceed to the bus.
The YMCA was on the other side of town from where I lived. It was the side you didn't want to walk alone at night, perhaps even the daytime. We come upon a bridge that took you over the Saginaw River and there standing tall was a huge green building. The YMCA! Excitment filled the bus and we kids sang out the YMCA song as the bus looped around and unloaded us at the front doors. We knew fun awaited us on the other side.
I was in my third to fifth grade year at my elementary school, St. Thomas Aquinas, and other local private schools would co-op with the YMCA for afterschool activities and once in a while a sleep-over. It would last a few days a week for several weeks. It mostly consisted of gym activities and swimming. The big blue bus would approach our school. Over the PA system the secretary would announce, "The kids heading to the YMCA may now board the bus." We would leave a few minutes early from the rest of the school because there were several schools the bus had to stop at. It was grand to stand up and head out to the lockers to grab your garb and proceed to the bus.
We all gathered into the meeting area with vending machines and arcade games. A few played and several gathered around to talk. A guide would show up and split us up into groups. Half went to the gym and the other half went to the pool area. We walked along the long hallways looking at pictures of past people on the walls. We were only allowed to stay in certain areas of the YMCA and were forbidden to leave our group. We all knew the rest of the building housed ex-con's and used as a half-way house. We were curious to see them and wondered what they lived like but we were too young to take the risk to venture off alone.
The lucky ones started with swimming. Every now and there we had to start off with gym. It wouldn't of been so bad except the floor was carpeted. There was a larger gym but it was used for adults. During the sleep overs we would get to use the upper balcony which had a track and we had to run several laps around it and you can see down to the main floor of people playing basketball. If you fell while playing dodgeball or spud or some other fun game it would hurt. You would get rugburn on your knees very easily then to splash in the clorine pool afterwards, ouch! During the sleepovers the carpeted gym is where we usually slept.
Coming from the gym I remember passing by the raquet ball courts. People were usually in there having a game. It looked fun. I never played it but I remember hearing the squeeks of their shoes and the sound the ball would make hitting the raquet, off the wall, and off the raquet again. As we got closer I remember seeing pictures of swimmers who won past awards for the Y. They were on both sides of the hallway. I always wondered exactly what they did that was so great to have their picture posted up on the wall.
Finally it was pool time. There were 2 pools. One was a shallow pool and one was a deeper pool for the more experienced swimmers. At first there was freetime in the shallow pool for everyone. We goofed off, as kids do, splashing and playing. Then we broke up into different classes depending on your swimming skills. Some were pollywogs, some were minnows. Others were fish, flying fish, piranha and eventually shark. I was a piranha. That meant I got to swim in the deep pool. The deep pool was so much colder than the shallow pool. It took a lot of energy from everyone in my class to take that first jump into that pool. But after we got used to it then at the end jumped back into the shallow pool it felt like a sauna. Just wonderful.
I had two instructors that I remember. Art - a lanky old guy wearing a speedo that was more wrinkled than a shar pei. Even at a young age I knew that was just wrong. Nonetheless he was a great teacher. I can still see his long boney arms extending out in front to show us the freestyle stroke and when our right arm is extended back in the water elbows should be up and we should look like we are looking over our right shoulder and inhale. When the right arm extends back forward our faces turn back into the water where we exhale.
Julie was another instructor. She looked like Kit from the movie A League of their Own. I remember her teaching the back stroke - pinky fingers first into the water behind the head and push the water sideways to propell your body faster in the water. She would get mad at us if we just splashed our hands straight back. Pinky's first. Kicking! Don't bend the knees. Keep your knees straight and move from your hips.
Swimming in the deep pool was hard work. I was in the 4th grade and I remember doing 100 meters of different strokes, freestyle, breast, back, butterfly. We had to tread for what seemed like forever. We would stare up at the clock at the wall and it seemed like forever for the second hand to go around, and the minute hand seemed non-moving. Our heads would be back and water up to our ears as we would tread doing both the scissor kick and the bicycle movement and our arms pushing the water below us to keep us afloat.
A few years later I attended White Pine Middle School in Saginaw. Swimming was part of gym there and it came easy for me. In 8th grade I was even on the swim team. I was in the middle as far as speed was concerned. I wasn't the fastest but I wasn't the slowest either. Stepping up on the white blocks, bending over getting ready to hear the gun fire then BANG! off you dive into the water swimming with all your might. Coming up to the opposite wall you quickly dipped under the water for a summersalt twist and push off the wall to race up to the other side. You can't hear anything. It's just you pushing yourself against the water faster and faster. Entering high school the public school called and asked if I would be interested in being a part of the swim team. I was honored but I was headed over to the catholic high school and they didn't have a pool. So that ended my swimming competitions. I probably would of never had those opportunities if it wasn't for those early elementary years at the YMCA.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Tales from the Clothes Chute
Sometimes in life it is the small things that can bring us happy memories. Some of the things we take for granted and not really notice them until one day you look back and have a flashback over some little thing and smile. For me, that small wonder is the clothes chute.
We lived in a comfortable ranch style home on a basement in Saginaw Township. At the end of the short hallway was the mystic porthole which lead to the deep dark dungeon where only the bravest of the family members dare to go....MOM. It had a square opening with wood trim. The wooden square door had a simple brass knob just hanging there on its own wall. To the right side of the hallway was me and my sister's bedroom, bathroom door was on the left side. On some small occasions mom would put a small wire chair below it or a table to display small figurines on it to give it that special look. That simple square opening in the wall was something more to me. It was part of my childhood memories.
The clothes chute drops down into the laundry room in the basement. Makes sense. I remember reaching up high (with mom near-by to fight off creatures that may be lurking around the corner) and turning the latch and the heavy wooden door would swing around on its hinges and the trapped laundry would finally escape into a heap on the basement floor right in front of the washing maching. Sometimes the laundry would be so packed in that the laudry would just be wedged in the chute. I remember jumping up trying to reach for any piece of clothing to unclog the clothes. A sock would fall...maybe a shirt or two. Then you grab onto a pant leg. The whole heap would come crashing down on your head quicker than you can get out of the way. Deep down that was kind of fun when it happened.
My older brother and my older sister got along for the most part. My older sister would babysit us as mom went off to college and we would play games or watch a movie. Then headlights would pull into the driveway and we would remember the forgotten dishes in the sink. We knew mom liked chatting in the car with a friend she car pooled with for a few minutes so we had to act fast. Marc would unload the dishwasher, Lisa would toss in the dirty dishes and I would take the pots and pans and toss them down the clothes chute. A few days would go by and mom would go downstairs to do laundry. A few moments later we would hear the crashing sounds of the pots and pans making their desent down onto the basement floor followed by the sounds of, "I'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR THESE!!! JILL, GET DOWN HERE NOW!" Ooops, I guess I forgot about them being in there. Somehow she always knew it was me too.
Another time my brother and his friends thought it would be funny to put our cat down in the chute. There was also some clothes in there so she had a soft landing. The hard part was getting her out. No one wanted to open the chute to have our cat digging her claws into the first thing she sees. We held out a sheet, not only to help catch our cat but to mostly protect ourselves from her. It took all three of us to operate the rescuse mission for our cat. Two to hold the sheet and one brave sole to open the door. She finally made her way out and lickity split she ran upstairs and hid for the rest of the day.
I spent the first 16 years of my life at this house and no other places I have lived after that had a clothes chute. There was a lesson I did learn from looking back: Never stand underneath a clothes chute as you never know what to expect!
We lived in a comfortable ranch style home on a basement in Saginaw Township. At the end of the short hallway was the mystic porthole which lead to the deep dark dungeon where only the bravest of the family members dare to go....MOM. It had a square opening with wood trim. The wooden square door had a simple brass knob just hanging there on its own wall. To the right side of the hallway was me and my sister's bedroom, bathroom door was on the left side. On some small occasions mom would put a small wire chair below it or a table to display small figurines on it to give it that special look. That simple square opening in the wall was something more to me. It was part of my childhood memories.
Growing up I thought everyone had a clothes chute. Two of my friends that lived near by had them. They had small narrow ones and seemed unused but ours was big and we used it. On the back side wall of the clothes chute was our closet. There was only half a wall there and from our closet we could toss clothes down into it - kinda like a two way chute. Sometimes my sister would want to be alone with her friends and she would lock me out of our room. Well, being an annoying little sister that I was I would climb up into the chute and very carefully fling myself across into our closet. It had to be done carefully or else I would of fallen below into the basement and that probably wouldn't be a good thing. But I was good at wriggling myself in and pulling myself across. If I think hard enough I can still feel the other wall digging into my gut as I cross into the closet. She just couldn't keep me out.
The clothes chute drops down into the laundry room in the basement. Makes sense. I remember reaching up high (with mom near-by to fight off creatures that may be lurking around the corner) and turning the latch and the heavy wooden door would swing around on its hinges and the trapped laundry would finally escape into a heap on the basement floor right in front of the washing maching. Sometimes the laundry would be so packed in that the laudry would just be wedged in the chute. I remember jumping up trying to reach for any piece of clothing to unclog the clothes. A sock would fall...maybe a shirt or two. Then you grab onto a pant leg. The whole heap would come crashing down on your head quicker than you can get out of the way. Deep down that was kind of fun when it happened.
My older brother and my older sister got along for the most part. My older sister would babysit us as mom went off to college and we would play games or watch a movie. Then headlights would pull into the driveway and we would remember the forgotten dishes in the sink. We knew mom liked chatting in the car with a friend she car pooled with for a few minutes so we had to act fast. Marc would unload the dishwasher, Lisa would toss in the dirty dishes and I would take the pots and pans and toss them down the clothes chute. A few days would go by and mom would go downstairs to do laundry. A few moments later we would hear the crashing sounds of the pots and pans making their desent down onto the basement floor followed by the sounds of, "I'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR THESE!!! JILL, GET DOWN HERE NOW!" Ooops, I guess I forgot about them being in there. Somehow she always knew it was me too.
Another time my brother and his friends thought it would be funny to put our cat down in the chute. There was also some clothes in there so she had a soft landing. The hard part was getting her out. No one wanted to open the chute to have our cat digging her claws into the first thing she sees. We held out a sheet, not only to help catch our cat but to mostly protect ourselves from her. It took all three of us to operate the rescuse mission for our cat. Two to hold the sheet and one brave sole to open the door. She finally made her way out and lickity split she ran upstairs and hid for the rest of the day.
I spent the first 16 years of my life at this house and no other places I have lived after that had a clothes chute. There was a lesson I did learn from looking back: Never stand underneath a clothes chute as you never know what to expect!
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
First and Last Snowmobile Ride
As I look out the window at the finally fallen snow I know it won't be long before I hear the rumbling sounds of snowmobilers zooming out in the fields enjoying their time on their fast machine. I reflect back to a time when I took my first ride in the drivers seat in one of those things....
I was about 13 or 14 years old and my mom, sister Lisa, and Matt,a guy my sister was dating at the time went up to our family cabin at Houghton Lake, Mi. We had an Arctic Cat snowmobile in our garage that my grandpa used to ride before he became sick and lost his battle with cancer a few years prior. This was one of our first winters up to the cabin since the death of both my grandparents.
Matt, who has grown up around snowmobiles offered to take us out on the ice for some sledding fun. And it was. I would sit on the seawall and watch Matt and my sister go off on the frozen lake zipping back and forth. Then it was my turn. I remember it was fast and fun! There wasn't any fear in it. We would pass other snowmobilers and give a quick wave hi. All was going well.
We pulled the snowmobile around to the garage to put more gas into it. I asked if I could drive it. My sister quickly told me no. Matt, thinking it over, told my sister that his younger brother,who is a year younger than me, can drive them and he thinks I could too. She gave in reluctantly. He gave me a quick lesson and how to move the handle bars forward for one direction and back for another direction. He said while turning it might take a moment for the snowmobile to turn because of some sliding but don't worry about it.
I turn on the key and the motor starts. I felt in total control and so much older. I can do this, I thought, I can drive a snowmobile! I look up at Matt and my sister, my eyes beaming through the tinted glass in the helmet. I look forward and slowly move the gear forward. The snowmobile lurched ahead. My goal was to make a lap around the house and back. I start to turn the handle bars to the left and the snowmobile kept going straight.
I panicked and that was putting it lightly. Piled high in front of me two houses down was stacked wood for someone's fireplace. I pictured myself hitting the woodpile and flying over the woodpile and smacking myself on their concrete driveway. I couldn't remember which was the break and which was the side to make it go faster. In my fear I squeezed the handlebars turning them both forward. The woodpile came closer and closer. I close my eyes to brace for impact. CRASH!!!
I took a breath. I was still sitting on the snowmobile. I'm alive! I didn't fly over this woodpile! My sister and her boyfriend quickly came to my rescuse. Matt turned off the key while my sister scooped me off. She said I looked so funny as in one motion my body lifted up from the impact and came back down never letting go of the handlebars.
The snowmobile wasn't in that great of shape. The left ski was all twisted and bent and the headlight and part of the hood was cracked. We were able to bend back the ski and it was still usable but I sure wasn't going to be the one to use it.
Going into the house we told mom what happened. Needless to say I was grounded and mom wasn't too thrilled either with the older two who let me do such a foolish thing. The next day my muscles were so sore from bracing myself for the impact that it hurt to move. It is twenty years later and I have never been back on a snowmobile and I still have no interest in riding one ever again.
I was about 13 or 14 years old and my mom, sister Lisa, and Matt,a guy my sister was dating at the time went up to our family cabin at Houghton Lake, Mi. We had an Arctic Cat snowmobile in our garage that my grandpa used to ride before he became sick and lost his battle with cancer a few years prior. This was one of our first winters up to the cabin since the death of both my grandparents.
Matt, who has grown up around snowmobiles offered to take us out on the ice for some sledding fun. And it was. I would sit on the seawall and watch Matt and my sister go off on the frozen lake zipping back and forth. Then it was my turn. I remember it was fast and fun! There wasn't any fear in it. We would pass other snowmobilers and give a quick wave hi. All was going well.
We pulled the snowmobile around to the garage to put more gas into it. I asked if I could drive it. My sister quickly told me no. Matt, thinking it over, told my sister that his younger brother,who is a year younger than me, can drive them and he thinks I could too. She gave in reluctantly. He gave me a quick lesson and how to move the handle bars forward for one direction and back for another direction. He said while turning it might take a moment for the snowmobile to turn because of some sliding but don't worry about it.
I turn on the key and the motor starts. I felt in total control and so much older. I can do this, I thought, I can drive a snowmobile! I look up at Matt and my sister, my eyes beaming through the tinted glass in the helmet. I look forward and slowly move the gear forward. The snowmobile lurched ahead. My goal was to make a lap around the house and back. I start to turn the handle bars to the left and the snowmobile kept going straight.
I panicked and that was putting it lightly. Piled high in front of me two houses down was stacked wood for someone's fireplace. I pictured myself hitting the woodpile and flying over the woodpile and smacking myself on their concrete driveway. I couldn't remember which was the break and which was the side to make it go faster. In my fear I squeezed the handlebars turning them both forward. The woodpile came closer and closer. I close my eyes to brace for impact. CRASH!!!
I took a breath. I was still sitting on the snowmobile. I'm alive! I didn't fly over this woodpile! My sister and her boyfriend quickly came to my rescuse. Matt turned off the key while my sister scooped me off. She said I looked so funny as in one motion my body lifted up from the impact and came back down never letting go of the handlebars.
The snowmobile wasn't in that great of shape. The left ski was all twisted and bent and the headlight and part of the hood was cracked. We were able to bend back the ski and it was still usable but I sure wasn't going to be the one to use it.
Going into the house we told mom what happened. Needless to say I was grounded and mom wasn't too thrilled either with the older two who let me do such a foolish thing. The next day my muscles were so sore from bracing myself for the impact that it hurt to move. It is twenty years later and I have never been back on a snowmobile and I still have no interest in riding one ever again.
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