Parlez Vous Statesmahn?

A long time ago in a land faraway... Well, how about 1989 in Canada?  Way before cell phones.  Waaaayy before Hubby.   It was a great opportunity: a drum corps competition in Quebec City.  Before this, our jaunts into Canada had been limited to Ontario, which really isn't much different from New York.  Well, except for Niagara Falls... that place is just weird.  But I'm getting off topic.   So, the Empire Statesmen had our first competition in a French-speaking city.  The entire show was announced in French.  We actually won both the all-over competition and many of the caption awards (colorguard, horn line, drum line, etc.) but since none of us were fluent in French-Canadian, we didn't have a clue what we were winning.  All we heard was "Blahblahblahblahblah, zee Em-pahre StatesMAHN!"   And we'd accept the trophy.  Then a bunch more "blahblahblahblah" followed by "zee Em-pahre StatesMAHN!"  And another trophy.  It was pretty funny; we'd just keep saluting, then quietly asking each other, "what'd we win?"  Nobody knew. 

So after the show, we headed out to the parking lot to load the buses.  Another corps in the show was from our hometown, Erie.  I used to march with them, as did my at-the-time-boyfriend.  Let's call him Melvin, because the name Melvin makes me giggle and that way he can't get angry at me for blogging about him.   Because I'm not; I'm blogging about Melvin.   Well, Melvin apparently wanted to visit with all our old friends from the other drum corps so instead of heading to OUR buses, he went to theirs first.  As we all got settled into our seats (Melvin and I had been sitting in the very back of the bus), I realized he wasn't there, so I started yelling up to the front that Melvin wasn't on board.  But one of the horn players, John, assured me  that Melvin was in the very front, talking with the bus driver.  I believed him and took advantage of having the seat to myself while we pulled away from the stadium. 

Meanwhile, the Erie corps' buses were also getting ready to pull out, so Melvin (I'm still giggling every time I type that name) said his goodbyes and headed back to where our buses had been parked.  And found NO buses.  He did find some policemen and asked them to help him get to the school where we were staying the night on the gym floor.  (If you're not familiar with drum corps, having a gym floor to crash on is considered a luxury.  Normally, we'd be sleeping on the bus)  Unfortunately, Melvin couldn't remember the name of the school.  Even more unfortunately, the policemen didn't speak English anyway.  For a while, he thought they did understand, as they had him get in the backseat of their cruiser and they headed out.  But soon reality hit as he spent the entire night in that backseat, repeatedly trying to communicate with two French-Canadian policemen who kept wanting to take him to the Y. 

When our buses pulled up to the school and we unloaded, I quickly realized that John didn't know what he was talking about... Melvin wasn't anywhere to be found.  I pushed my way through the mass of zombie-like performers who just wanted to find their sleeping bag and crash and sought out anyone and everyone who might be able to help me.  But all the powers-that-be assured me that if Melvin had been with the Erie corps, he certainly must have hitched a ride with them.  They didn't seem to care that while this would get him safely out of Canada, it would put him in Pennsylvania, and we lived in New York.  Then again, those powers- that-be were probably just as tired as everyone else and figured, "Eh, he's a big boy.  He can take care of himself."  Of course, I was the doting girlfriend with no one who was willing or able to take me back to the stadium to find my poor, lost boyfriend.  So I collapsed onto my sleeping bag  and fell asleep.  What else could I do?

And Melvin spent the entire night riding around Quebec City in the backseat of a police cruiser.  At dawn, he finally spotted the restaurant we had eaten dinner at the night before and knew they were close to the school.   He got them to stop when he recognized one of our drummers' car.  As we were groggily waking up and packing up our stuff, Melvin came into the gym.  I was so confused; I seriously figured he was on his way to Pennsylvania!   He wasn't confused; he was furious with me.  Somehow, his getting left behind and having to spend the night in the back of a cop car was MY FAULT.  He didn't believe my story that John had said he was sitting up front.  He didn't believe that I tried to get someone to go back for him.   He believed that I knowingly allowed the bus driver to leave without him, I didn't care where he was, and I apparently only wanted to get his prime spot on the gym floor.   Or something like that. 

Now, twenty-one years later, I find it pretty darn amusing.  And if you ask Melvin, he still thinks I did it on purpose.

NOTE:  In the picture above, I'm the one on the ground.  If I tried to hit that pose now, it would be followed by "I'VE FALLEN AND I CAN'T GET UP!"

The Whimsical Life of Pico and Annette

My siblings and our mother are spread all over the eastern US, so we keep in touch through email.  We actually carry on conversations throughout each day, hitting "reply all", so that sometimes, you might not be part of a conversation but you can always "listen in".  Most times, it doesn't take long for these emails to become pretty silly.  Here is a snippet of one such email conversation:

My brother Dave: "I have been wondering for years how flowers (and other plants) follow the sun.  Everyone I asked either ignored the question or didn't know or restated the reason they do it, but no one said how.  Finally, I found an answer.  Not certain if it's the right answer, but it sounds plausible.  Plants follow the sun because of increased elongation of the stem on the shadowed side.  The growth of cells on the sunny side of the stem is suppressed by the presence of light (the growth hormone that causes cells to lengthen is photo-sensitive), so that one side of the stem is slightly longer than the other.  This makes the stem bend toward the sun during the day."

My brother Bill: "That is interesting."

Me: "No it wasn't. It wasn't the least bit interesting. Stop encouraging him!"

My sister Sue: "*yawns* I have a new grandson if anyone is interested. Not sure the sun-worshipping flowers can be outdone, though."

Me: "Was Heather pregnant? Or is it one of the boys'? I'm pretty sure I'd remember if you had told us that Rachel was expecting... so, what's his name?"

My sister Betsy (after two days with no answer from Sue): "Based on Sue's current reply rate to email, this grandson will be celebrating a birthday before we know whose child it is... or did she answer you personally, Julie?"

Me: "Nope, not a word.   I've decided to make up my own version of who the parents of this baby are... it'll be juicy!  Very soap opera-ish."

Bill: "The father is a displaced chef from the New Orleans flooding.  The mother is a waitress he met as he migrated north to escape the rising waters.  The father's name is Pico Sanchez and he is a mouse.  He fell in love with the beautiful waitress right away.  The waitress was surprised by the mouse.  She was not aware that mice could cook so well or where he kept his wallet when he tipped her as he didn't seem to have any clothes on.  She admired and respected him and eventually loved him for his skill in the kitchen.  Eventually they were married.  Thus begins our story of Pico the mouse and Annette.  Both Pico and Annette had some money saved and began their life together north of Mobile, Alabama having started their own little diner.  Recently, they had their first little one which we were told about by our sister Sue."

Me: "VERY good, but one question... Sue refers to the baby as her grandson? So is she Pico's mother or Annette's?"

Our Mom: "You people!  You build up such kooky stories, I'd nearly forgotten what the original story was. Oh yeah, Ethan!"

Me: "I think we've just been scolded by Mom for making fun of Susie's grandson. Tee hee... I'm gonna start poking her when Mom's not looking."

(So apparently, Sue's stepson Ethan is the proud new daddy. But technically Mom, the original story was Dave's flowers-bending-toward-the-sun snoozefest.)

Bill (continuing the story without missing a beat): Sue was very proud of her new grandson named Ethan.  She was not alone in this though.  Pico was also very proud and sent out letters of announcement to all his relatives who had stayed and lived through the flood in New Orleans.  Shortly afterward those very relatives came to visit Pico and Annette, all 423 of them.  Pico was overwhelmed by their family spirit.  Annette was just overwhelmed and asked Pico where they would all sleep for the duration of their stay.  "Under the sink next to the soap, of course" replied Pico.  "There are so many" said Annette as she put their son in his crib.  "Not so many" replied Pico. "Combined they make up less mass than one of your legs".  Annette looked at him with a shocked expression.  Pico began stepping backward with his paws up.  "No no, I didn't mean it like that.  Your legs are not fat.  I am just saying that mathematically speaking, one of them has more mass than 423 of my relatives"  Pico said smiling.  Annette said nothing and turned to go to get the child's bottle.  Later that night as they lay in bed, Pico assured Annette that his relatives would only stay a few days.  He was not sure she was placated.  She reached over and patted his head and said, "Well I should just be thankful you aren't a rat".  Pico knew he had that coming.  He apologized to her and they both went to sleep knowing that their son was being watched by 423 pairs of little eyes.

No one else probably cares about this, I just find my mood is lifted every time one of my family shows up in my inbox. Especially Bill... we don't hear from him very often, but when he does chime in, it's always entertaining.