It didn’t just promise Happy Hours – it delivered, affording mothers throughout the Tiny Kingdom five hours of peace and giving three, four and five-year-olds days of kindergarten bliss.
Here’s the graduating class of Happy Hours kindergarten in 1973.
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We learned all sorts of important life skills at Happy Hours. We learned how to cut with pointy scissors, how to stop eating the jar of paste, how to go all the way across the monkey bars without stopping and not to hang on them upside-down on the days you wore a dress.
See the clock in the background? We probably couldn’t read that. We didn’t focus so much on letters and numbers and real school stuff. The teachers at Happy Hours wanted to make sure we knew how to share, how to get to the bathroom on time, to say please , thank you, yes ma’am and no ma’am. That’s what everyone learned in kindergarten back then.
When you were five, Mrs. Sillaman, who owned the school, was your teacher, and she ensured you were ready to make your way in the world. Everyone graduated well-versed in a variety of songs and dances, including “Way Down Yonder in The Paw-Paw Patch,” “Skip To My Lou,” and the Hokey-Pokey. We memorized and recited the 100th Psalm every Thanksgiving after we’d made hand-turkeys.
There was one kid in my class who said everything like it was a question? And Mrs. Sillaman made him repeat every sentence without the inflection on the end? And even at that young age I thought I might be capable of murder? And I cannot for the life of me remember which child that was to identify him, which is probably best for all concerned.
I remember plenty of the others, though.
I suppose everyone who moves back home experiences this– the people from your past pop up in unexpected places. Today’s Flashback Friday has shown me just how much our lives are interwoven.
The boy on the end of the front row is Archie, and he and I went to school together through high school. You know the kid who could fix the film projector when it broke down and then grew up to be a computer genius? That’s him. He also married a gorgeous blond-haired, blue-eyed girl who was several years younger than we are. She Jazzercises with me, and has the tight ass and firm thighs that come along with that activity.
Now that I’ve complimented her I suppose it’s a convenient time to confess that I remember a certain boy-girl party in the 7th grade where Archie and I flirted and danced. I don’t think I kissed him, but I sure thought about it. I actually had a crush on his older brother, Charles, but figured that any male from that family (and there were several) would do.
Despite growing up with brothers, Archie now has three blond, blue-eyed daughters and is hugely outnumbered in his household. Dude, I feel your pain. Sometime we need to trade: you can come to my house and play the Doorknob/Fart game with my boys and I’ll go to your house and braid hair and sprinkle glitter.
The red-head on the other end is now a judge. Happily, he’s not the judge who has a daughter that Finn decked in the face in second grade. He has a boy Finn’s age and they are great friends. He also has twin boys who look exactly like he does in this picture.
In the second row, the boy in the red and white stripes (which are probably meant to be crimson, for all the Bama fans out there) is now a successful insurance salesman with a lovely wife and children. I cannot believe I don’t have any dirt on him, as we ran in the same circles. Thank God I showed some restraint with someone.
I’m in the middle in the blue dress, and next to me is Katie Stroud. I played with her a lot. Her mom looked a lot older than my mom and wore her hair piled in a bun on top of her head, and long skirts, like a German hausfrau. I couldn’t picture her wearing the flashy bikini my mom sported. Hairstyles aside, I thought Katie’s mom was great because she let Katie have an E-Z Bake Oven, while my mom told me I could use the real oven and be happy about it. Katie and I probably made 1000 saucer-sized chocolate cakes at her house through the years.
John is next to her. He played football at Alabama. Several of my friends kissed him in high school, but I didn’t. Today he owns Greek restaurants and sushi restaurants which both rock. Bill and I had a wonderful dinner at his fancy sushi restaurant, Ginsei, and sat next to a guy who was wooing a Greek medical student. She was hot, his lines were witty, the rock shrimp were luscious and we drank two bottles of wine while we eavesdropped on their date. Space between tables is not the restaurant’s strong point. The wooer is now engaged to someone else, which is a whole ‘nother story, but I hear that the med student is the most eligible Greek in town so she’ll be totally fine.
The first guy on the last row is Steven, and we had one date in high school. (Just to show you the connectedness of the Tiny Kingdom, he’s now married to the sister of someone I practice law with, his mother lives around the corner, and his brother’s mother-in-law lives down the street.)
Steven and I went on a double date with his mother and Fred, her now husband. At that point they had been dating five years or so, and my parents knew that we were at the movies with Steven’s parents. Fred had some sort of car trouble, and I got home five minutes after curfew. My parents were way uptight about the curfew, and I intend to be the same way. There were no cell phones back then, and Steven had the pleasure, which he assures me he has never forgotten, of walking me to the door, where he was met by my dad, clad only in his boxers.
My dad was unforgiving, Steven and I were horrified, and his mom and Fred were in the driveway waiting on Steven, either laughing or making out. I should ask her.
The next guy, Brad, was your typical Bad Boy. Not the sexy kind of Bad Boy, just Bad. We carpooled with Brad. His mom had pale skin and blonde hair and the look on her face when we picked him up for school was one of pure relief. I sympathized; that’s the look I had on my face when we dropped him off. He kicked girls and teachers, threw tantrums, refused to color when it was time to color and he was the worst dancing partner.
I couldn’t remember the name of the next girl, but Paige, in white, says her name was Arden Ripple. My God! What an awesome name! It’s my personal belief that she changed her name to Angelina Jolie and became obsessed with children, but if not, I hope the real Arden Ripple will let us know what she’s been up to.
Paige gets the award for least changed, despite birthing five boys. Oddly, she looks even more like herself today in the 3 year-old class picture than she does here. Sigh.
The boy in the brown and white stripes is Lee and he has a great recollection of the Happy Hours gang. In fact, he wrote that he painted the tree on the far right and Archie did the apple tree next to his, which he felt was inferior. He knows that a girl created the tree on the left hand side and remembers thinking it was awful. Archie commented that the girls were totally responsible for painting all the bunnies.
The boy in blue is named Duvergne. You pronounce it “Doo-vern.” Clearly that’s a French name, but I remember my mom insisting it was Spanish. Whatever. Foreign languages were not her thing. In 6th grade all the kids in the Tiny Kingdom take ballroom dancing lessons at Steeple Arts. I did it, our parents did it, and Finn did,too, though Bill was unsure when he would ever use them, as he grew up in Auburn and has never had to do an impromptu foxtrot himself.
Duvergne has not lost his love of the dance; he was one of the ballroom aids during Finn’s class. When I told Finn that I’d known Duvergne for 35 years he about fainted, because I’d been telling him I was thirty for quite a while.
Here we are at four:
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I’m in the middle again, with pink and white. The boy in blue by my knee was named Blair, and he had the longest eyelashes ever. I’m sitting next to Dana Goldblatt, who has disappeared. It’s a shame, because I went to her house after school a lot.
Dana told me that if we touched the tips of our tongues together a fairy would appear and we could boss her around. We tried it several times but we never got a fairy. You might think it’s gross to touch your tongue to someone else’s, but the great thing about Dana was that she was also a big fan of eating Gleem toothpaste, so the tongue-touching was a minty experience. Generally we’d get home, have a snack, eat some Gleem (I didn’t swallow), go outside and touch tongues, and spend the rest of the afternoon on the swings.
Here we are at three:
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Archie’s on the second row, and he’s whooped. Paige, John, Russell, me and Katie make up a happy back row. It looks like we couldn’t draw trees, but we were able to cut out Easter Eggs with our safety scissors at that young age. Even then we were headed for great things.
I’m not sure how the girl in the green and red in the middle row got to be in this class. Kathryn lived behind us, and her mom was in my mom’s wedding. I know for a fact that she was only two-and-a-half. She must have been a toilet-trained prodigy to have been at Happy Hours.
My family did a lot with her family. They had a poodle named Celia, and Kathryn had two little brothers who were always climbing on furniture and bleeding. I thought they were gross. I was too young to see an omen when it was right in front of me.
To her right is Allen, in the Peter Pan collar. We carpooled with him, too, and he was always late. Their maid would walk him out to the car with his lunchbox and make sure he got in the Chrysler safely. In high school, his sister and I were hookers. I don’t mean the kind of girl who sleeps with an older married man with children, hoping he’ll buy her a fancy new Lexus. We were Dorians together, on the dance team, and we hooked arms when it was time for us to do high kicks. I’d go to her house to change between the football game and the party afterward, and one time Allen walked by the room where we were changing and saw me in nothing but my fishnets and my bra. I screamed, he screamed, and we didn’t talk again for years.
I’m sure if I sat here longer I could bore you with more kindergarten tales, but really I’d like to encourage the other graduates of Happy Hours to click on “comments” and let us know where you are and what you remember. In particular, if you know what a paw-paw is and why you put it in the basket, please chime in.
Join in with your own Flashback Friday! Directions are here.
Hoards of readers have written to ask about the finer points of vermicomposting, whether I was joking when I said I was keeping the worm bin inside, and how the red wigglers are faring.
Those of you who didn’t know we have a full-blown worm farm in the house can click here for the story of the genesis of this operation.
It’s no joke– Squirmy and his friends reside in the area once known as “the living room” but now known as “the ping-pong/laundry-folding/worm room.” The space we used the least has now become a hub of activity, now that we stored the fancy rug and candlesticks and have games to play, work to do, and worms to care for.
The weather has been a bit nicer lately, so I’ve taken the bin outside so the worms can get some fresh air, and that’s where I took these photos to demonstrate the latest in composting with worms. Squirmy and his friends eat, poop and reproduce at an astounding rate.
As you’ll recall, they live in a set of stacked bins, and when they’ve munched everything in the bottom bin, you add one to the top and start adding food scraps to it and the worms climb up to the food and work on that tray.
Looking at a working tray is not going to take your breath away. Once you lift the lid and pull aside the newspaper, what you see is a conglomeration of food, shredded paper, dryer lint, coffee grounds, dry leaves, and anything else you’ve stuffed in the bin.
And if you dig into the mass a bit, you’ll find worms. Thousands of worms. You have to take their picture quickly or they’ll burrow back down to finish their eating or pooping or lovemaking. Single-minded, these worms.
The tray below is much more satisfying to look at. The worms are about finished with it, so it’s mainly full of compost. Actually, it was totally compost, but I had so many worms crowding the upper tray that I stuck a little food from the top tray that was almost completely digested, and added several hundred worms to see of they’d get fatter when they have more room. No one has suggested this is a good or bad idea; it’s just a wormy experiment I’m conducting. It’s better than trying to magnetize them with batteries, for God’s sake.
Here’s a closeup of the compost. Look at that rich soil!
The fact that it’s really worm poop grosses out my boys. Yes, the boys who announce, “Don’t leave yet– I gotta take a big dump” when we’re already late for drums. The boys who brag about burping and farting simultaneously. The boys who love to yell “frank ‘n’ beans” just before disrobing.
Dude, you pour the liquid from that tray onto your garden and you will see some pansies that look like they’ve been hanging out with Jose Canseco.
Anyway, the horny worms that just want to make love and don’t want to do their fair share of eating and pooping hang out here. They hide on the sides of the tray. Every once in a while I have to gather them up and dump them back in the working tray.
“The orgy is over– back to work.”
So far I’ve mixed the compost with water and watered my winter plants, which have all perked up like the steroidal pansies. When it’s time to change to warm weather plants, I’ll incorporate the actual compost into the soil. I’m giving vermicomposting two thumbs up here. It’s easy and entertaining, depending on how exciting the rest of your life is.
Two years ago in My Tiny Kingdom: Blast From The Past: Potty-Training Nomad Style (contains rear nudity)
Don’t forget- this week’s Flashback Friday theme is “There Once Was…”
Well, I certainly had my share of pictures to choose from in addressing this week’s theme. In the end, I looked back at the year 1999 when it seemed like the boys were everywhere they weren’t supposed to be,
like playing in the potty. One minute Drew and Porter were fine, sitting on the floor eating dog food, and the next moment I heard a lot of flushing from the kitchen bathroom. Drew discovered the toilet first, then summoned Porter, who was reluctant to leave his snack. Once he and Blue Bunny ambled over, they agreed that the combination of swirly water and my hysterics were fine entertainment.
A couple of years later when we had our septic tank pumped, the Pickles (they have a monopoly on all the septic tank work around here) were amused to find not only the usual sludge, but also an assortment of Legos, dominoes and marbles in the tank. They also removed several pieces of heavy paper. I bet that if that hot Danny Messer from CSY:NY had been here to analyze those shards under the mass spec, he would have identified them as Finn’s missing baseball cards.
I like to take pictures that will remind me when I’m a grandmother (assuming the sex talk has been successful) that raising children was hard and messy. Here’s one of Porter.
I told Porter not to run down the driveway but toddlers ignore you– it’s to prepare you for when they are teenagers. His nose took ages to heal, but Blue Bunny was with him every moment.
I thought the bracelets added an especially stylish touch.
Thanks to all of you for your kind wishes about my back. As I told Finn earlier, I really shouldn’t complain. Anyone with this amount of hardware in her body ought to be hurting a lot more than I do, and I have far more good days than bad.
The MRI didn’t give us a clear diagnosis but I’ve been to physical therapy where Jon, who saw me through rehab after my 2004 surgery, attacked my problem with enthusiasm. He began by shoving his hand under my scapula and forcing me to turn my neck 270 degrees to the right,and followed that move with other contortions.
The session was quite successful in that it was so painful that I left feeling like maybe I didn’t hurt so bad after all, because Jon certainly proved that I could hurt much worse.
Additionally, it’s a sunny afternoon, we have about 24 hours before tornadoes come through, and I have a decent stock of Tanqueray, tonic and limes. I believe I’ll pull out an unbroken wedding glass and toast the rest of my body for hanging in there.
Join in with your Flashback Friday OOPS picture(s)! Instructions are here!
Today I wanted to write about our recent adventures in Costa Rica or post pictures of the anatomically correct chalk drawings Drew and Porter decorated our driveway with recently.
Instead I’m writing about pain– physical pain– as it’s had me in its jaws for the better part of three weeks.
Longtime readers know that I’ve had two spine surgeries, one for scoliosis and a second to address complications caused by the first. My spine is fused with a combination of rods, hooks and screws. Here’s a diagram of a spine.
The spine is divided into the cervical, thoracic and lumbar regions, and each vertebra within a region is given a number. The green line shows where I am fused, from the fourth thoracic to the fourth lumbar vertebra. Those of us in the know call this T4 to L4. The red area shows the vertebrae and discs that are not fused: L4-5 and L5-S1. Because these two discs handle all the movement of my upper torso, while the spine is designed to spread all the pressure evenly across the back, my bottom two vertebrae are in bad shape and are the source of most of my back pain.
During the last thirty years, back pain has been a fact of life for me. It’s been worse at times and better at times, but it always lurks nearby. I’ve used back braces, pain patches, physical therapists, chiropractors, medications, a muscle stimulator and gin and tonics in my fight against pain. I visited my trusty brace man to fashion a brace to support my belly during my pregnancies and relieve the pressure on my spine, but I still had to take painkillers during pregnancy to make it through some days.
Generally I’m a rockstar at handling lower back pain. If your lower back felt the way mine feels on a normal day, you’d be shooting tequila and hollering for your mama.
Sometimes, however, there’s pain that no medicine can touch, and that’s what I’ve been fighting most recently.
It originated near the blue dot on the top diagram, which, coincidentally, is right by the top hook under my right shoulder.
This upper back pain is a new kind of pain for me, and I haven’t been managing it well. It radiates up into my neck, down my shoulder, and makes my arm and fingers numb. The muscles on the left side of my lower back are burning, perhaps because they are compensating for the fact that I’m trying to move my right side as little as possible.
I hurt when I stand and when I sit, but I hurt the most lying down. I’m beginning to dread night time.
Pain affects me physically, but it also gets inside my head. I’ve been yelling at the boys. Around 5:30, when it’s really throbbing, I feel like I’m seeing my family through a haze, and I fear that I’m losing my grasp on reality. I tell Porter to sweep up his cookie crumbs, but impatiently, because I think I’ve already told him once.
“Yes, ma’am,” Porter says, and he sweeps and then goes outside to write “Porter is cool” in Morse code on the driveway.
I ask Drew if he’s finished his homework.
“You already asked me that,” he says. I don’t remember.
Dinner is agonizingly slow, but no one else seems to notice.
“Finn, eat or don’t eat, but let’s get this over with,” I hiss.
“Honey, I’ll deal with the kitchen. You go lie down,” Bill says.
It’s a kind offer, and he means well, but it doesn’t help. Alone in our room, I cry. I’m frustrated. I’ve had a shot in my back and I’m scheduled for an MRI. My doctor has prescribed a different type of pain pill, but I still can’t sleep. I wonder if my boys will remember me as a bedridden mom, alternately weeping and shouting orders.
As the hours stretch on and everyone sleeps but me, my pity party is in full swing. I cry over the years I’ve spent recuperating from surgeries and liver disease. I sob about the things I can’t do, like turning cartwheels and somersaults. When I get good and worked up, I weep about my big feet, my small breasts and the paint peeling in the bathroom.
I know this season will pass. Tonight I’ll try not to scream and be impatient with the boys; to keep my hurt hidden until they’re tucked in.
I’ll try to remember what my mom told me: “My feet might be big, but they sure do hold me up.”
To be honest, I never was that good at cartwheels, either.
Three years ago in My Tiny Kingdom: Get Me Out Of Here!
The theme for this week’s Flashback Friday is OOPS! Feel free to join in– we’re having a marvelous time digging through old photos and blogging about the past. Instructions are here.