You Have The Right To Remain Silent

 I had my first run in with the law when I was 18.

It was Christmastime and there was a bandit lose in my neighborhood. The bandit wasn't looking for anything valuable. He/she/they were just up to no good. A little holiday mischief. A Grinch among us.

The street I lived on growing up was a festive street. Neighbors would decorate their houses with the most colorful lights - from rooftop to basement. My parents' house was no different. My dad and brother would take great care to make sure the lights were first, untangled. This of course was the hardest part. The lights seemed to be tossed in the bin each year after the glow of new year's had faded only to become an  unearthed jumble 11 months later.

The boys would make sure that each bulb was glowing up to it's potential. With each twist and turn the colorful chain came together. There were a few years when blue was the shade of choice. Our home - light years before the movie Frozen was a thing - was the perfect Elsa castle with a soft azure luminosity.

Prior to Y2K, our home had two huge pine trees in the front yard. One to the left of our house in the front yard and one adjacent to our house on the right side. These were only a handful of trees that once dotted the yards of the homes on our street. In fact, our next door neighbors' home was practically hidden due to the foliage from their large shrubs.

My father would take the time to put lights around the large tree closest to the street. This was a painstaking process involving a ladder and plenty of patience. Each year, once the decorating was complete, we would have light up night and stand across the street to witness the finished product and bask in the warmth of holiday radiance.

After all the hard work that went into making Christmas come alive on our street, imagine the frustration when the bandit first struck. Lights on the huge pine tree started disappearing or were left broken in our yard. Yes, a Grinch indeed was among us.

I was in college at the time and only heard about the criminal activity via telephone. Even though I was living an hour away, I was upset and angry about this violation. My father had alerted the police about what was happening and asked if maybe an officer could do some drive-bys on our street to possibly catch whoever was responsible.

When I came home for Christmas break, I helped my dad replace more lights on the tree. He was talking about scaling back our display in the future if this kind of destructive activity kept up. This made me want to catch this bandit and take a stand for holiday decorators everywhere.

The next night my younger sister and I had been out having sibling bonding time and were on our way home. Before turning down our street, I had the bright idea to turn off my car lights and drive slowly down the hill on the approach. Once we got to the street I sped up,  turned on my lights and started beeping the horn hoping to scare the person who I thought would be stealing lights right at that very moment.

Of course no one was in our yard but we did manage to have a few laughs during our attempt at undercover detective work. We were regaling our parents with the details of our mission when there was a knock at the door. My dad opened the door only to find a police officer standing upright with his notepad at the ready.

"There she is officer!" my father exclaimed.

I immediately wanted to run. I wanted to hide. But there was nowhere to go. I went from detective to criminal in a matter of minutes and my own father gave me up for no ransom. The officer had been doing a patrol on our street when he observed my erratic driving which caused him to stop and find the driver responsible. Here I was thinking I was going to bag a criminal and instead was getting the third degree. I was aghast. Christmas had certainly taken a turn.

I was left with a warning to let the police do the detective work. I am not sure if the thieves were ever caught that year but we were left with a pretty funny story and a pretty good reason why I never went into law enforcement. The element of surprise, not my strong suit.

My father still decorates our family home with care - and this year is no different. The large pine trees are long gone and the large bulbs have been downgraded to strands of LED lights. Whether or not that is because of the bandit incident of '95 is not for me to say, but even decades later driving down the hill to my house has never been the same. Am I tempted to reenact my stunt of a Christmas long gone by? You betcha. Will I do it? Not a chance.

Happy Holidays.
Enjoy the brightness of the season.

My current home and the textbook bulbs.

Was It A Dream?

I could have sworn the other day that Albert was in my kitchen.

I turned around and there was a quick motion from the side of my eye that seemed to indicate he was there. The feeling caught me off guard and I had to tell myself it wasn't real. It was my imagination working overtime.

We put our beagle, Albert, to sleep three years ago on December 15. He had started having seizures and in two months his mobility had deteriorated quickly. I cannot believe it has been three years already. Some days it seems like it has been even longer or even that our time with him was just a dream.

I think I started having these thoughts about our dog a few weeks ago when I stumbled upon a box of old photos. Looking at pictures when my kids were little and Albert was less gray and more feisty rekindled thoughts of a simpler time.

There were photos from our oldest's first snow and Albert playing in the yard. There were photos of Albert on the floor curled on a blanket with our middle child and on the couch watching TV. The best one is when Albert was reluctantly posing wearing reindeer antlers for the holiday photo.

Not long after the trip down memory lane, our oven broke. We were in a scramble to get a replacement before Thanksgiving and had to clean the area where the new appliance would go. Pulling the broken down oven away from the wall unearthed 14 years worth of stuff...there were pieces of toys, magnets, pens, coins and old dog biscuits.

We would always give Albert a treat when he came in from outside. We would toss them on the floor for him to retrieve and there was many a time when the treat found its way out of reach. Our poor aim was evident from the biscuit graveyard under the stove.

It made me stop and think how weird it is that so much time has gone by. There are still days I think I'll see him at the top of the stairs when I get home or that he will jump up on the table to grab a quick morsel of food before getting caught.

We had planned on getting another pet shortly after putting Albert to sleep. That didn't happen because we eventually decided to make some home improvements and get new carpeting and a new couch. It was nice to not have dog hair to clean up. It was nice to not have to corral a dog every time we had company or make arrangements for him when we went away. Still we had planned on opening our home to a furry friend once again.

I thought a few months ago we were close to making that commitment. A friend had a dog that needed a new environment and my husband and I thought our family might be a perfect fit. We went to meet the dog on a Saturday morning and spent some time getting to know him.

Unfortunately, it just wasn't meant to be. He needed a place to run, which we do have, but not to the extent he was used to. He needed to not be in a crate during the day which we would have had no choice but to do considering our work schedules.

There is also the other aspect to consider. I don't know if there will ever be another dog as perfect as our dog was for us. I see pictures of puppies and yes, I would like to take one in, but I still don't think my heart is ready. I've gotten used to not having Albert around but I think the sorrowful experience of watching him take his final breath might have rendered me incapable of going through that experience again.

It makes me happy to know that we had the best dog the first time around. And who knows, once my three kiddos are grown and on their own maybe my heart will be ready to take that leap of love with a new furry friend. But for now, I have great memories of our dear Albert Von Pupsley.  I'm sure when our 14 year old fridge finally breaks, we'll smile once again when we find a few more treats our careless aim put just out of his reach.

Nicholas and Albert 2003

The Feelin's Here

It wasn't long after the lights flickered out in the rain soaked jack o' lanterns that the winds of change quickly turned one holiday to the next.

The very day after Halloween it was a surreal experience as I watched Christmas come to town. It started with the morning trip to Dunkin' Donuts. I was driving my husband to work, instead of having him take the bus, so we decided to stop for coffee. Our morning pick me up was served in a holiday style cup. At first I thought it was just a winter theme, but then I noticed the reindeer head and wreath. Yes, folks less than 24 hours after I had a porch full of ghouls, we were ushering in the Yule.

After the downtown drop off, I headed to Squirrel Hill for an appointment. I was a little early so I decided to do some window shopping. There was still evidence of fall - with your friendly pumpkin displays and Halloween decorations but there were other things too. Holiday lights were going up on the light poles and some storefronts were already getting their festive window displays in order.

I was feeling, as my cousin, Kelly, would say, all sorts of ways about what was going on. I do not like to rush things and here I was knee deep in Christmas. The holiday, for me,  has morphed into something that is almost unmanageable with the gifts and the parties and the baking on top of the regular day to day. You think it would get easier as kids get older but that is not the case. The presents get more pricey and the teens harder to buy for.  As the primary holiday shopper, I have longer lists than a Walmart receipt for all the things to get done before Christmas Eve.

Part of the problem for me is that I have turkey brain right now and all I want is a plate of my mom's stuffing, gravy, mashed potatoes - yeah, you hear me. Don't even get me started on desserts. I turn into Bubba from Forest Gump but instead of talking shrimp, I'm talking pumpkin pie, pumpkin cake, pumpkin roll...etc. We need to let the oven bag breathe and whipped cream run out before Santa steals the show.

But something hit me as I watched two creative ladies put together their window display, last Friday,  with a zebra laden with packages near two Christmas trees. The scene was beautiful and it made me happy. By the time I made a second lap, after my appointment was over, the window was almost done. I stood there and took a photo with my phone not noticing one of the ladies still adjusting things on the floor. My photo captures her waving at me.

Since I was busted I felt like I needed to go inside and at least say hi. I told them how much I loved the finished product and how it made me happy to look at it. They said my comments made their day and, after a few minutes of friendly banter, I moved along. It seemed like I was already filled with the holiday spirit and all it took was beauty - appreciating the beauty of the season.

My husband, who always has a wise and simple way of summing up my emotional dilemmas, could not understand why I wasn't ready to give in to the holiday cheer. "It's a beautiful time of year. Just go with it."

Yes, just go with it. But I am not one of those people who have been looking forward to putting trees up since summer. The Hallmark Countdown to Christmas isn't on my radar and I am not one of those people who need their carols 24/7 stat. I am thinking of my to do list, getting it all done while making joy happen - you know,  the stress of it all. That's when the snowflakes start to melt and my inner Grinch with the noise, noise, noise starts to manifest.

But maybe this year, I AM going to go with it. Maybe I'll let Christmas wash over me with wild abandon and channel my inner Kristen Kringle and do it up right. Happy Holi-YAY will be my new mantra. So what if I am listening to Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas as I eat my Thanksgiving dinner - is it going to taste any less yummy? What if we put our tree up in November instead of December 1? Will the Pilgrim police stop by? Ho-Ho-NO!

And maybe, by embracing the season instead of individual holidays, I will maximize my time to accomplish must do tasks - like baking and shopping. (This tactic could come in handy with Thanksgiving falling late this year.) So you heard it here first. I am turning over a new holly leaf and who knows, maybe this change of attitude is just what I need to simply have a wonderful Christmastime.

It Ain't Over Till It's Over

I started doing something last week I haven't done since 1988.

I started watching the World Series.

As a child of the one television decade, with no remote, and parents who controlled the viewing choices, I think I was just along for the ride. I was rooting for the L.A. Dodgers that year and their All Star pitcher Orel Hershiser.

When you don't have a local team in the hunt for a championship it is hard to be fully vested in the outcome. I vaguely remember the hype from the 1979 World Series, being that I was all of 5-years-old. The guys from that team - I felt like they were part of my family.

Teke Tekulve, Willie Stargell, Omar Moreno, Ed Ott. Yes, Ed Ott, I remember him because of my brother's baseball card collection. I used to help him organize his cards from teams all over Major League Baseball. I knew more about baseball in the early 80's than I do now.

It is a shame it has been 40 years since Pittsburgh had the best baseball team in the land. It is a shame that a sprinkling of postseason appearances, since then, is all Pirates fans have had to sustain themselves. But there have been many familiar faces making contributions, this 2019 postseason, with their new teams hoping to make it to the big show:  Mark Melancon with the Atlanta Braves, Russell Martin with the L.A. Dodgers and Charlie Morton with the Tampa Bay Rays. Memories.... like the corner of my mind. Misty water-colored memories of the players we had.

But the greatest storyline of all is the journey of Geritt Cole. Our guy who was traded back in January of 2018 and now look at him. He pitched seven innings Sunday night - striking out nine and allowing just three hits to help lead his Houston Astros to a 7-1 victory against the Washington Nationals. His success is something a Pirates fan can get behind. But it also begs the question - why couldn't that be us?

This World Series, for me, was something I was drawn to because it was comprised of some relatively new faces. The two teams who played have four World Series appearances combined since 1903 versus the 40 for the New York Yankees or the 20 for the San Francisco Giants.

Even though the Houston Astros won the world championship just two years ago, this series marks only their 3rd appearance. And for the Washington Nationals , this is their first appearance as a rebranded team established in 2005 - the former Montreal Expos who were founded in 1969. (I noticed some fans in the stands wearing Expos jerseys which was a nice nostalgic touch.)

It is nice to root for teams who don't go to the dance every couple years. I like to root for the underdog - teams that could be on par with my home team if things were - let's just say - a little more focused on making a better team instead of making another dollar. But that is a discussion for people more qualified than myself.

I was rooting for the Astros for a couple of reasons. 1. Going back to those days of yore and my brother's baseball cards, I remember loving Nolan Ryan wearing the awesome Astros jersey with the Lone Star and orange stripes on the front.  2. I have been to Houston. I visited friends, for a total of 36 hours, a few years back and I liked what I saw and wished I could have stayed longer. Heck, I even had a beer with a cowboy at the airport. (But that's a story for another day.)

One of my Houston friends has been quite vocal about supporting his Astros and, since I was rooting for the same team, we enjoyed texting back and forth throughout the series. After the first two Astros losses, I provided encouragement saying "I'm not worried." By Sunday night he was texting me about plane tickets so I could attend the victory parade. I told him that was a bit premature, but he said he was only looking at the economics of waiting to buy a ticket.

Either team deserved the win in my opinion. They were that good.  I love that I have learned the names of some new players - Jose Altuve, Alex Bregman and Anthony Rendon. These guys take a distant second to Dave Parker, Lee Lacy and John Candelaria, but I really liked watching them on the field.  I admire their talent and their reactions when they make a great play. I like that Altuve reminded me of my youngest, the way he bounces around the bases.

Looks like I don't need a ticket to Houston now that my Astros have lost and I do have a friendly Dunkin Donut wager with my 8-year-old to honor. But it's been a fun ride and a great display of what baseball can be. As the winds of change swirl around our Buccos, may they usher in a rebirth that helps our boys of summer become a family that has reason to celebrate once again.

Swing Batter Batter...Or Not

Baseball isn't what it's cracked up to be. Especially after you get hit in the head with a pitch.

So what do you do when your kid is afraid? Legitimately afraid and refuses to participate in the team sport he signed up for?

A few weeks ago my youngest, who plays kid-pitch baseball, got hit in the head while he was up to bat. Luckily, I wasn't there for that event and even my husband, who was there, looked away at that particular second and when he looked back at the batter's box he saw our son lying on the ground.

The little guy had a helmet on and that cushioned the blow. So I think him laying on the ground may have been the result of a little overdramatization on his part. Of course everyone rushed to his aid, and of course there was crying involved but once it was determined he was ok, off to first base he went.

The rest of the game went fine and when he returned home he had quite the story to tell - as he finished his Dairy Queen Blizzard. It was funny to hear him recount the event like a soldier who had returned home from battle. "It was a bad scene...."

This season of fall ball has been a transition for us. Prior to now, it was the coaches who were on the mound throwing to the kids. My son is one of the youngest on his team and some of the kids have been pitching for a couple years now.

Despite their youth, some of these kids get some speed on their throws. The first kid pitch game I attended I felt like I was at PNC Park. I was aghast. I exclaimed to my husband, "Just how old are these kids? These pitches are like 70 miles an hour!"

As a mother, I have been reluctant to send my kiddo into these circumstances. It has been a long time since I've been part of this level of baseball.

Our oldest retired after his first season of T-Ball and pretty much for the same reason. He often played catcher and he didn't like speeding objects coming at his head. So prior to now, my most recent experience with kid pitch goes back to when my brother was little and since I really didn't care about baseball I didn't really pay attention. I know he probably got hit with a ball quite a few times in his career, and I am sure he had to get back in there or deal with a major pep talk from our dad.

Fast forward a week or two from the head hitting incident, my son got rammed in the foot with a hard hit ground ball to second. This one I was there for and I not only saw it - I heard it. I was convinced his foot was broken and as he lay on the ground, for a second time, I watched from the bleachers until I could not wait any longer and ran over to the field.

We inspected his foot back in the dugout and amazingly it looked fine and within a few minutes he was walking on it. He put some ice on the little bump and just relaxed. His coach asked if we were going to Children's Hospital but, with a $300 co-pay just to walk in the door, we told him we would see how it goes. By the end of the game, my son was back in the outfield.

So now he has been hit twice, he cries before each game and his batting record is down the tubes. (He has struck out pretty much every time he has been up to bat since the head hit.) He has been talking about retirement - at the age of 8.

I have tried being stern. "Your team needs you. You can't quit now there are only a few games left."

I have tried being sympathetic. "You have been through a trauma. I get it. You are scared but you have to get back in there and work through this."

My most recent attempt - probably not the best- "Just swing at every pitch and get it over with."

As you can see I've been worn down but nothing prepared my husband and I for the cry fest on Monday and complete refusal to participate in the game. He sat with me in the bleachers. He sat with my husband in the dugout. Coaches tried to coerce him to get in the game. Our son was not having it.

I felt like I brought this on myself because of another stellar pep talk we had in the car when the tantrum started after we got to the game. My son said he was embarrassed he cried both times when he got hit. He said you never see professional players cry and they are always cool.  I said, "You are a kid. They are grown men. I love that you are not afraid to show your emotions. That's cool too." I would have tweaked my talk a little had I known he was going to show his emotions for two and a half hours.

So here we are with one game left. I don't know what is going to happen but I don't want him to end the season on a bad note. I would like the storybook ending where he makes a great catch in right field for the out and gets a grand slam while up to bat to help boost his confidence because the kid does have talent and loves sports. He just needs to get out of his head but I am not sure how to accomplish this. And maybe time is all he needs.

I set up a practice session with his uncle, who has been coaching for decades and can really break down the nuts and bolts of the game. When my little guy came home afterwards he said, "I feel a little more confident now." Let's hope that confidence spills over into Saturday. Having the World Series to watch right now is also a good motivator.

This type of stuff I have never been quite prepared for as a parent but, somehow, I hope we make it to the other side. If down the road he makes his major league debut, I will say it was all worth it. But for now...this Pinterest quote from Jaja Q pretty much sums it up: "Life is like a baseball game. When you think a fastball is coming you gotta be ready to hit the curve." With kids - the curves are pretty much a given.

And The Cherry On Top

Saying goodbye to summer means saying goodbye to businesses that are seasonal. 

Sandcastle has been done. Kennywood is now done with regular weekdays/weekends of operation. It is nice though that we get to enjoy the park now in the off season, with their effort to take advantage of Halloween and Christmas. 

Last year, my family spent an evening at the park during one of the Holiday Lights events, to see the tree lighting, but, for me, it was too cold to pop on any of the rides. 

There are quite a few ice cream places that are serving up their last cool treats during the next couple of weeks - including our local hang out. 

Growing up, as far as I remember, my family did not have a regular place we went to. We would hit Dairy Queen, Baskin Robbins or the area mom and pop cone establishment. I remember when we first discovered Handel's in West Mifflin. It was a big deal to drive from McKeesport to Century III Mall to get a scoop of fudge ripple or coffee ice cream.

I remember hitting the Baskin Robbins in Midtown Plaza, with my grandmother, and being mesmerized by the thought of 31 flavors. I wanted to be able to say I had tried all of them but too many had something fruity associated with its name (which I do not like) so unfortunately, that was an accomplishment for someone else.

I have had ice cream experiences that have been life changing. I remember my first Ben and Jerry's (Coffee Buzz Buzz Buzz) , my first Penn State Creamery ice cream (WPSU Coffee Break), (are you noticing a trend?) and even my first Schwan's Vanilla Bean.

My first Rita's gelati experience was in New Jersey with my godparents and their children. My godfather loves desserts and whenever we would drive out for a mini vacation- there was always dessert. I had the best cookies and cream ice cream I ever tasted when he took us to Goodnoe's near the PA/New Jersey border. I had at least three scoops on this cone and I ate every last bite. 

Due to my love of ice cream you would think working as a cone artist would be the perfect job for teenage me. Nope. I hated every minute of working at Vangie's, which use to be near Renzie Park in McKeesport.

I hated when those little leaguers would show up after a game and the line would never end. I hated how sticky I got after making a milkshake and I hated reaching in the jar and putting the cherry on top of a sundae then watching it roll down the mound of whipped cream that had already started to melt due to the time it took me to create my masterpiece. 

Almost 10 years ago, an ice cream place opened near my house and summers have never been the same. We started going to Arctic Avenue in an effort to support a local small business and we've never looked back.

For us, Arctic Avenue is like the TV show Cheers. The proprietor, Mr. Wayne, knows our names and knows what we like. He has celebrated many a special occasion with us including last days of school, first days of school and more than one of our many summer birthdays. 

When my daughter was about seven-years-old, she made him a card when he was getting married. The card featured two ice cream cones tying the knot. (Can you believe he still has that card hanging up in his store?)

This week marks the end of Arctic Avenue's 2019 summer season. It will be sad when we drive by and the open light isn't glowing and the ice cream cone sign has been packed away. But we always look forward to the spring and hints that our buddy is getting things ready, behind the scenes, to open once again. 

But for now, there is one last ice cream run to make. I think I am going to get a hot fudge sundae. I know from experience what it takes to make one to perfection. One thing I did right during my ice cream career, I never skimped on the hot fudge. Luckily, neither does Mr. Wayne.

My Girl

Fifteen years ago yesterday, I received the biggest surprise recorded in my lifetime. I was handed a baby, by the midwife on call, who proudly announced, "It's a girl!"

I was shocked to say the least. I was convinced I was having another boy as this second pregnancy had pretty much been identical to my first. My weight gain, cravings, even my first contractions were a week early from the baby's due date, just like the first time. Yep, I was convinced it was another boy.

Despite that fact, we were a bit unprepared when, on a Saturday morning, I calmly told my husband today is the day. Heck, we hadn't even settled on a boy's name. (Which caused me to do a quick recall of boy names used in Beatles songs. Yes, I tried to push for Jude.) 

During the night prior, the baby was extremely active which made it hard to get any housework done. I had been looking forward to catching up on the week's mess as I was working part-time, had a two-year-old boy and a three-year-old beagle.  

We had been told that as the baby got bigger it would likely run out of room and move around less. Not this kid. It was almost as if she was trying to get out any way she could. The kicks and punches were frequent and there was no indication this little one was slowing down. I was comfortable in the knowledge her due date was still a week away. 

Oh the difference a day makes. We were at the hospital by 1 p.m. I had chosen to have my delivery at the Midwifery Center at DePaul. We were living in Virginia and this was an option that was available to us. The center was attached to a hospital so I had peace of mind in case emergency medical assistance was needed. The delivery room was a huge bedroom with a real King-sized bed, rocking chair, and a hot tub. 

Yes, the hot tub was the huge draw for me, which is ironic, but we will get to that in a minute. After having my first child, I wanted something different from the cold, antiseptic feel of my first delivery. I wanted to be comfortable and away from what a hospital has to offer. The midwifery was like home and it seemed perfect. 

Not long after our arrival, we were set up in our room. I was offered the opportunity to get in the hot tub and I was going for it. I was assisted into the water and slowly sunk beneath the warm bath. I found myself situated near a powerful jet which felt great along my aching back. A nurse brought me a cup of ice chips and I sat there amazed by how smoothly this labor was playing out. I mean it was more like a vacation at a Sandals resort. All that was missing was some reggae music and a cabana. 

Someone offered my husband the chance to join me in the hot tub to which I quickly shot an emphatic "NO". This was my vacation and I wasn't sharing. "You have to sit outside," I said. 

But just as quickly as my vacation began it abruptly ended. 

"Get me out!" I said. I knew that the baby was coming and I didn't want a water delivery. This little baby was the quickest of my three to make an appearance - in just a little over three hours from the time we arrived at the center. Baby number 2 was also my biggest weighing in at 8 lbs. 10 oz.

I remember the sheer joy I felt when she was handed to me. 'My little girl', I thought. I guess I didn't let myself admit how much I wanted to have a girl. But from the moment I looked at her I knew she was something special and after her first miserable, colicky months, I knew she was also a force to be reckoned with.

Now here we are 15-years-later. I hardly see that little one anymore when I look at her. I see a young lady who is like me and not like me all at the same time. She has my determination but times 10. She has my lack of patience but times 10. She has an abundance of confidence, like I've never had, and if somewhere in the cosmic universe she could have spoken with 15-year-old me maybe I wouldn't have been such a late bloomer. 

This child will always be "My Girl" no matter how old she gets. Even on days when she is more overcast than sunny I am thankful for this gift that, in the not so distant future, will find her wings and make an indelible mark on the world.

Is Accident Forgiveness Really A Thing?

Sometimes in life you are moving along minding your own business when CRASH suddenly things become very still.

That happened to me last week when I was involved in a car accident. And here is the kicker, the accident was my fault. I was driving alone and about to merge onto Route 30 in North Versailles. The car in front of me had started moving and I looked back to see if it was clear for me to go. I started to accelerate and then....BOOM! The moment of impact.

It was startling to say the least. I didn't know what had happened at first but I did know one thing - I was responsible. I got out of the car, totally oblivious to my surroundings, and any vehicles behind me, and attempted to ask the other driver if she was ok. She seemed just as shocked as I was. As I remember, she was stopped and then started to inch forward. I had just begun to tap lightly on my break when my bumper made contact with her bumper.

Luckily, she was fine. Both cars seemed fine and I was able to give her my contact information before driving away.

As I drove off I asked myself, "How did this happen?"

 I kept replaying the moment of impact in my head wondering how I was so oblivious to actually crash into another vehicle. I remember the moments prior listening to a news story about why hurricanes are stronger now than decades ago. Yeah, I am into weather but I am not sure that distracted me enough to cause an accident.

"I need to slow down," I thought. Literally.

I was embarrassed and upset but honestly I felt like nothing would come of this minor accident. Heck, I didn't even bother to tell my husband that is how minor it was. I mean there was no visible damage to either car.

But less than 24 hours later, guess what happened? I got a text on my phone from an insurance company - with a claim number. At first I thought it was a spam text and then the light bulb went off. "Oh," I shook my head in disbelief. Now I kind of regretted not telling my better half. But now I also knew I would have to.

I wasn't worried about how he would react. He is a pretty easy going guy and in the event there is some damage, it's not going to be significant. I just didn't want to admit I made a mistake. It is hard to admit when we are at fault even if it is to someone who knows better than anyone how imperfect we are.

My husband handled the news well and I assured him, using the words my insurance guy told me, this is pretty routine stuff. People file a claim and get the ball rolling so if there is damage the repairs can be done right away.

But now I not only regret the accident, I regret how I handled it. I should have taken photos of the non damage. I should have called the police or at least filed a report. Even though I have shared my side of the story with the claims adjuster it is going to be my word against the other driver's and it appears I could be on the hook for any anomaly that is detected on her bumper.

So now I wait.

But I also overthink.

It has been a bumpy ride for my family lately. Just the day prior to my accident, my son and his friend were involved in a crash. My son and his friend were crawling along in traffic on the Parkway East (he was the passenger) when the motorist in front of them stopped suddenly. My son's friend had no choice but to hit the person. Luckily, no one was hurt and there was only minor damage but the text I received was a little unnerving, "Hey, can you come and get me?"

My son was with me when I received a call from the insurance agent, the first time, so I had to come clean. He acted like it was a badge of unity. He high-fived me and said 'accident buddies'. I chuckled a little then I tried to explain this was the first time I was involved in an accident that was my fault.

 I have been pretty fortunate over the years and I attribute my driving skills to the great instruction I received from my parents. (I had to say it.) But also due to my years working as a photographer/reporter at a television station. Being the driver while heading to news/breaking events, I learned what to do and what not to do.

The car trips after my recent accident have been calculated journeys. I make thoughtful turns. I back out of my driveway slower than I did before. I try to stay in the moment with each tap of the gas and each press of the break and not let my mind carry me to all the places I can go. My accident may have been a result of me being in a rush so now it is time to slow down. The alternative is just not worth it.

Just The Fries, Please

I am out of shape.

Seriously, it has been too long since I last road a roller coaster. Forget about me getting on the Steel Curtain. I can't even do the Thunderbolt.

Maybe I'm exaggerating, but you can't take a decade break from riding coasters and then just jump right back in. Don't get me wrong. There have been a couple Racer runs and maybe one Jack Rabbit adventure since 2009 but not enough to keep me in shape.

The problem is my teens do not like roller coasters and my youngest isn't tall enough. My older kids fall into that category of people who could live, dare I say it,  without Kennywood. Sounds crazy, right? (Although, they would probably go there to get the Potato Patch Fries.)

I've tried for years to get them to go on coasters and at least I got them on the Racer and Jack Rabbit once. But that's where the fun ends. During the summers, when my family has been at Kennywood, there have not been opportunities when my husband and I were able to ditch the kids and just take off for the Thunderbolt or Phantom's Revenge (previously known as the Steel Phantom.)

These are rides he and I enjoyed at one time. Heck, we even spent the day at Busch Gardens in Williamsburg BC (Before Children) and road EVERY coaster, even the ones that go upside down,  multiple times!

Well, that was then. This is n-OW. He and I had the chance to do something we haven't done probably since the late 90s. Go to Kennywood alone. It was a much needed kid free afternoon and I thought, "What better way to loosen the knots in my neck and shoulders than by strapping myself to the Thunderbolt?"

Yes, the Thunderbolt was my first choice because it is the ride I've missed the most. But due to long lines and wait times on a beautiful Sunday, late in the season, it became our only ride. And boy, was that 1 minute and 48 second trip, up hills and down dales, an eye opener.

I screamed almost the whole time, partially because I forgot what it was like and secondly because I seriously thought something was going to get dislodged - my neck bone, backbone or pelvis. I didn't remember that many hills and I certainly didn't remember the part - like the Jack Rabbit - when you hit a double dip and almost fly out of the car.

Of course these are the things that make it fun but when we pulled back to the station it took me a few seconds to get out of the ride. My husband and I kept shaking our heads in disbelieve that we even presumed we were primed to take on the Thunderbolt after such a long absence. As we disembarked, he wanted to know if I wanted to go get our fries and I said, "I'm gonna need to walk for a bit."

When we finally did sit down to eat, we were plotting out our next move. I really wanted to hop on my all time favorite ride the Bayern Kurve but we knew we needed to ease back into riding - especially after just eating. I suggested the Merry-Go-Round or the new Thomas Train.

His reaction made me laugh out loud. "Ohhh, the train! Let's do the train." This coming from a guy who tackled Busch Garden's Alpengeist - which climbs to 195 feet and hurtles riders through six staggering inversions at speeds up to 67 miles per hour. Of course, I have no room to talk. I was right with him.

So we made our way over to the train and upon seeing at least four rides worth of people already in line - we decided to pass. Although, we did watch a train load of people pull out of the station and we waved to them as they went on their way. Does that count?

As luck would have it, by the time we got to the Bayern Kurve it was closed for maintenance. My husband looked at me and said, "Are you ready to go?" To which I replied, "Almost. We still have to go to our place."

Almost 22 years ago, back when the ski lifts were still running, I had my best Kennywood date ever. My boyfriend, at the time, and I drove from Johnstown to West Mifflin and spent the entire day at the park. We rode just about everything but my favorite memories include: riding the lift, eating ice cream sundaes by the lagoon, and sitting by the fountain (tucked away near the Bumper Cars) and tossing wish pennies.

That boyfriend, now husband, may have only rode one ride with me last Sunday, but we still made penny wishes at the fountain. I don't remember what I wished for 22 years ago and if my wish ever came true but one thing is for certain - I still have the best date.

Mary's Vine To Open Friday

There is a famous movie quote "If you build it they will come." That has sort of been the philosophy of the family behind Mary's Vine - a wine lounge set to open in the former Visitation of Blessed Virgin Mary Church in Rankin. The dream began in November of 2017 and now, in just a few days, the Stasinowsky/Smith family will be welcoming their first customers.

"Pittsburgh is ready for this," says Cheryl Stasinowsky, project overseer and chief executive officer of Fine Wine Cru, LLC, who along with her husband, Wally, have been navigating an uncharted path, along with their son, Jordan, and daughter, Amber Smith, and son-in-law, Daniel, to make their dream come true.

This dream has come with high risk. Four family members uprooted their lives in California to make a new life in Pennsylvania. (Jordan had already been a resident of the Burgh working as a financial advisor for PNC Investments.) The dream also meant putting every penny they had into the mission of giving this former Croatian Catholic church a new purpose and making it, once again, a destination where memories could be made.

"We are trying to do things that are just out of the ordinary for Pittsburgh. It doesn't mean that what Pittsburgh does isn't good. We have to be different to get them out here," explains Cheryl, who says her family just really wants people to enjoy wine.  This desire will be felt from the minute a person arrives at Mary's Vine. From the valet experience to the first glimpse of the lounge through the clear glass doors, people will feel like something special is about to happen.

Jordan Stasinowsky has been the driving force behind making wine accessible to every level of wine enthusiast and at every budget. He is a certified specialist of wine and is currently studying to be a Level 2 sommelier.  He, along with the rest of his family, have tried thousands of wines over the past eight months, 2200 to be exact, to find the perfect vintages to offer at Mary's Vine.

There will be just over 70 wines by the glass and 350 different bottles, which have not only been Stasinowsky approved, but also come recommended by people across the world who drink wine, not manufacture it. Jordan is currently working with eight suppliers to allow Pittsburghers a passport free trip to vineyards around the world.

"He is going to do flights. You can try a Merlot from California. You can try a Merlot from France, and you can try a Merlot from Chile, so you can try the same wine variety from different countries and see what the difference is," says Cheryl. 

But the Mary's Vine experience will also include the use of a customized app, developed by Jordan and his brother-in-law Daniel,  that will allow even the most sheltered wine drinker the chance to try something new, based on their answers to a couple of questions. The app will guide the user to chose a particular vintage and that bottle will be brought to the table, poured in person, and tasted by the consumer before an entire glass is poured. A variety of cocktails and other beverages will also be available for purchase. 

Wine by the glass will run from $10 to a higher end $30 to $40. There will also be the option to try a glass of champagne, which is normally not something a wine lounge can offer, but the Rankin venue will utilize state of the art vacuum seal technology that aids in the preservation of wine remaining in an opened bottle.

Once you select your wine, the next step will be choosing what to eat. The Mary's Vine menu has just been perfected thanks to the addition of Executive Chef Alexander Fitz, a Mount Lebanon native, who has a background in rustic Italian cuisine. Fitz most recently worked for Common Plea catering where he did really upscale and large events at the Heinz History Center and Heinz Hall.

"I've always been about good food and the fact that it can be pretty simplistic and still very elegant and taste very good," explains Fitz, who understands his food will work to complement the wine Jordan has selected and help elevate the Mary's Vine experience. The menu will include items like sliders and flatbreads, fondues and charcuterie boards, prepared by a cheese monger, featuring cheeses you can't get in Pittsburgh.  But there will also be meal selections that will appease each palette and price point.

Fitz says, "It's neat and challenging for me because of what they want to do with it bringing in these wines from different regions around the world and trying to match cuisines with it. Eventually, they are going to get to a part of the earth I'm not familiar with so I'll have to do some research."

The final inspections have been completed at Mary's Vine -  everything from the handicapped ramp to plumbing to food services. The Pennsylvania Liquor Control Board inspection allowed for the delivery of more than 4,000 bottles of wine in a short span of time. Now the team is putting the rest of the puzzle pieces together that will lead to a soft opening this week, for financers, laborers and local officials - a trial run before the official opening on Friday, August 30.

Social media has played a large role in getting the word out about the Stasinowsky/Smith project. Frequent updates on their Facebook page have illustrated, step by step, how the wine lounge has taken shape. A recent post featured a time lapse video of the flooring being installed. The interest sparked through the unique church transformation leads Cheryl and the Mary's Vine team to believe, with seating available for 97, people will have to be patient.

"There will be a wait probably for the first 6 months. When we post something there are 8,000 people that view it. It's a good problem to have."

There will be live jazz five nights a week featuring local musicians and the first 3 months are already booked. For people who come to check out Mary's Vine, a front covered patio will allow parties to enjoy a glass of wine while they wait to be seated. The valet parking lot is taking shape - where the Mary's Vine experience will begin.

"You'll greet an owner at parking. You'll greet an owner at the hostess. I am working the red wine station. We are all working it," explains Cheryl, who adds that Jordan will float around assisting servers, when needed, and making himself available to share. with others, his knowledge and passion about wine.

And as Chef Fitz will tell you, he's already picked up on the family's determination, even in the short time he has been part of the team. "There is no accepting anything but seeing this work."

That Senior Feeling

By the time you are reading this, I will probably be on my second box of tissues.

Today, August 22 is the last first day of school for my oldest child. I remember finding out, when he started kindergarten, he would be in the class of 2020. It seemed light years away. So far down the road. When he was in first grade, he and members of his future graduating class walked across the football field as part of the homecoming football game festivities. Two kids stood on either side of a banner that read, Baby Wildcats Class of 2020.

His high school senior year was always so far down the road until, it wasn't. When he was a sophomore, I thought, "Oh, that's two years away." Then when he was a junior, it was getting eerily close, but it was still a year away. Now - there is no where to run or hide. It is here and it doesn't take much for waterworks to flow.

I am not really sure the exact reason I cry. He is my first graduate-to-be so I am sure that plays a part. There is also the age factor. "I can't possibly be old enough to have a child that is going to be finishing high school." Then there is the diminishing mom role. "He isn't going to need me anymore."

Yes, I sound like a lady that has a lot of issues but please, cut me some slack. I've never done this before. I want to be happy about this year of lasts but I'm an emotional kind of gal.

I've got a tear reserve that you wouldn't believe. I cried so hard after seeing the blockbuster movie Titanic you would have thought I knew Jack and Rose personally. I cry during animated movies, Hallmark commercials and a song on the radio can trigger a double tissue moment. (My husband is a lucky guy, right?)

I know I'm not alone right now.  It's not like I have a kid who is going to Mars. Other parents have been through this and many more will go through it after me. But just when I think I've got a handle on things, something triggers my reserve. A letter from the school - your deposit for your cap and gown is due. A Facebook post about the band senior banner pictures. Picking out a shirt for his last first day of school. Ugh....

So yes, today is going to be tough. But I am going to have to put together a strategy to survive the next ten months. I'll be asking around to see how others made it through but apparently, I need to focus on the realities which have been clouded by the emotions.

 1. My son will still need me - let's face it. He doesn't have his license yet. He doesn't cook real well and knowing where things are - not his strong suit.

 2. He has worked hard. He deserves to see where this year will take him. I tried to talk him out of calculus and into an easier class but he didn't want to hear it. That says something. Who knows what choices he'll make that will result in a door opening for him. It's like waiting to find out what new shows/movies will drop on Netflix at the start of a new month. Stay tuned.

 3. Yeah, I miss his baby days but now, the house smells a lot better and I can actually understand what he is saying. He knows how to make me laugh and that is a gift worth its weight in gold.

4. No one wants to stay in high school forever. I couldn't wait to graduate and start fresh and reinvent myself. My son will soon get to do that and there is no better feeling when you've been stuck in the same hamster wheel for 12 years.

So as we keep moving forward, I'll try to cry less. (No one likes a downer.) I want to try to celebrate the happiness in all we've experienced, and in all the memorable experiences awaiting us this year. As Dr. Seuss or Harvey Mackay once stated, "Nobody said it’d be easy, they just promised it would most likely be worth it.”

First day of 3rd grade

A Devastating Loss

In the 44 years I've been alive, gun violence has not affected me personally.

Until last weekend.

This is a bit surprising since I frequent one of the most dangerous cities in the country a couple times a week. The National Council for Home Safety and Security lists McKeesport as number 4 on their list based on recent shooting statistics.

I grew up in McKeesport and my parents still live there. On Saturday, a gun shot victim was found in a garage I used to walk past each Tuesday when I took piano lessons back in the early 80s.

Even though this fatal shooting happened in a place I can visualize and am familiar with, the victim was unknown to me. But just hours earlier, in a nearby community, there was another shooting. This one happened in a place I am not familiar with, but the victim - I knew. In fact, he recently left me a few voicemails regarding a suggestion for a possible newspaper article.

I am not going to pretend I knew Rev. Sheldon Stoudemire very well. In fact, since we met back in 2015, I've probably talked to him less than ten times. But replaying his phone messages, this past weekend, brought tears to my eyes. He called me Kris, which is typically done by family, he thanked me for my hard work and ended the call with God Bless You.

For those of you who did not know him, Rev.  Stoudemire started his street ministry in 1993. He worked within communities of Allegheny County when things got rough.

 "I go where the homeless are at, I go where the drug dealers are at, where the gang members are at, where the disinherited are at," said Stoudemire during a recent interview.

He was an ordained Baptist minister but his credentials went further than that. He was an author, boxer, army ranger, and a graduate of the FBI Citizens' Academy. He had been involved with Mad Dads (Men Against Destruction, Defending Against Drugs and Social Disorder) street patrols, volunteering at the Salvation Army in Braddock, and teaching anti-bullying classes.

As I tried to make sence of him losing his life to the kind of violence he tried to prevent, I said to my husband, "This is such a devastating loss to the community." My husband said, "Every loss of life is a loss to the community."

Rev. Stoudemire was a person who sought out the forsaken, those written off by others, those deemed a menace to society. It takes a special kind of person to do that. He was trying to make a difference in ways that often went under the radar and for what? For this to happen? To have his mission cut short at age 57? I am sorry, but this just doesn't make sense. Why him? Why now?

Working in the news business, I've become desensitized to the shootings, the violence, the death. You almost have to to be able to do the job. I have spoken with mothers who have lost sons and daughters, men who have lost brothers and sisters, teens who have lost siblings. Rev. Stoudemire was out there trying to prevent another person from experiencing the unfathomable loss these people have endured and in doing so, sacrificed his own life.

Being a practicing Catholic, I took some time to talk to God. As a person of faith, I was taught to believe everything happens for a reason, at its right time and for a greater purpose but I said, "I'm sorry, God, I think we needed the Reverend here."

I replayed in my head the last time I saw Rev. Stoudemire. It was at his boxing studio in Homestead. I recall taking his photo for the Braddock mayoral candidate article I was writing at the time and agreeing to eventually do a story on the kids that come to the E. 9th Avenue gym. I was in a hurry that morning as we were going to press before noon. I feel badly looking back that I was rushed to get on my way. But how was I to know that would be the last time we would speak in person?

Social media was lit up over the weekend with stories from people who have been touched by Rev. Stoudemire. People, who like me, were trying to make sense of it all. Just trying to process. But some, while grieving, talked about moving forward. The 'what do we do now?'

One person wrote, "We can't give up."

And that part is true. All Rev. Stoudemire's hard work cannot be in vain. But whatever happens next, it seems like there will be one more guardian angel that has joined the fight. And who knows, that angel, added to the many others, may be just what was needed to help guide the work that needs to be done within our communities and in our hometowns.
,
God bless you, Rev. Stoudemire.

It's A Twister!

I did something last week I almost never do.

I bought something I did not need. I bought something just for the fun of it. Just for the thrill of it. 

I made an impulse buy!

Let's back up by stating when it comes to shopping for myself - I don't. I am not sure the explanation for this because at one time I loved to shop. 

Back in my teen years, early twenties, I loved taking my babysitting/paper route money to Century III Mall, blowing it on a new vest from Deb, earrings from Claire's, a new cassette tape from National Record Mart and a hot fudge sundae from Dairy Queen. 

I even put a new winter coat on layaway one year at Kmart - the one that recently closed in North Versailles. It took me a few months to pay off that baby but I could not have been prouder to wear the turquoise/black coat with shoulder pads, matching scarf - topped off with my black Debbie Gibson hat. 

Although I made frequent purchases, I rarely bought anything that was not on sale. I inherited my mom's frugal nature and it pained me to pay full price. I was raised with flea market and thrift store shoppin' skills so I learned early on just how far a dollar should go. 

I think I got away from self shopping because I have others to shop for. Three kids and one large kid (husband) equals little time for personal buys. Every now and then I'll get a pair of jeans, like I did a few months ago through Amazon or the beach wardrobe I bought at the American Thrift Center in West Mifflin. Four pair of shorts, including Under Armour and Adidas, and two tank tops $11.00.

 Yes, sir! The price was right that day. It would have been cheaper if I had swallowed my pride and accepted the senior discount the cashier tried to give me. LOL!

Anyway...the other day I went to the local vacuum store to buy the special bags I need for my machine. As I was paying for them, I caught sight of a oval shaped appliance on the counter that was filled with water and made a swishing sound. 

As I looked at it closely, I noticed what looked like a mini tornado (plastic funnel) in the center. I said to the man ringing up my purchase, "What it that?" He said it was an air purifier called a Twister. It takes air in, cleans it and then sends it back out. You could add a fragrance too, if you'd like. 

I said, "Wow! I think I need one of these." Now keep in mind, I'm almost two months into summer vacation. Kids are everywhere. Mess is everywhere. Life is in total chaos. I haven't been alone in my house since May 29th. The calming sound of swishing water around a tornado? Heck, it's a metaphor for my life. The salesman went on to say, "Yeah, and they are actually on sale right now."

The price was reasonable in terms of my standards. Under $40? I'm worth it. Besides, my birthday is coming up. But then I found out there were only three left. THREE LEFT!!

I was in a hurry that day and had to go but the thoughts of my own personal air purifying tornado stuck with me throughout the day. Plus, with my weather fascination, this little machine had my name written all over it. But I had to wrap my head around this unnecessary purchase that for some reason seemed so necessary. 

The very next day, I dragged my husband to the vacuum store and what do you know? There were now only TWO LEFT!!! I quickly snatched a box from the shelf, put it on the counter and I said, "I'll take it!" You would have thought I was holding a box of gold the way I pranced out of the store singing 'Happy Birthday' to me. 

Later that day, my daughter offered to set it up for me by filling it with water and plugging it in. The LED light display gently illuminated our own personal twister in our dining room and the swooshing sound created a false sense of calm. The kids ooohed and awwed as they were hypnotized by the colors and moving water.

I've since moved it into my bedroom and have been able to sleep with it on at night. I don't know if the air is cleaner, I didn't buy it for that, but it is calming to watch and hear. I'm sure there will come a day when the allure of my little Twister will wear off but for right now there is no place like home!

Magic Yarn Project Warms Heads and Hearts

There is nothing more magical for a little kid than to dress up as their favorite Disney princess or superhero. But for some special little ones, an illness prevents them from really getting into character. This is where the Magic Yarn Project comes into play.

The non-profit organization is based out of Palmer, Alaska and was started by two pediatric nurses. What began as a handful of Rapunzel wigs delivered to a local children's hospital has blossomed into 18,000 wigs that have been distributed across North America and Europe in the past three years.

Jessica Ash is the Pennsylvania Chapter Leader and found out about the project through social media last October. She contacted the organization to see how she could get involved and had to submit some of her crochet work, and write an essay detailing her skills, experience with kids and why she would be a good leader.

"After our interview, I guess they saw my passion for it," explains Ash, who says there was a lot of competition for the chapter leader position, and was delighted to be chosen.

The project is special to Ash not only because it allows her to utilize her talents, but because of what she has seen first hand. After her cousin was diagnosed with lymphoblastic leukemia she spent a lot of time at Children's Hospital and saw these little kids going through tough treatments and needing some extra love.

"Unfortunately, there is a need. We wish there wasn't. But when they get these wigs they put them on and they just get this smile and they twirl and they are on top of the world and that is why we do it."

There are a variety of Disney character wigs that are made along with superhero beanies. Ash handles the complicated parts, making the actual headpieces and accessories out of yarn, perfect for sensitive scalps. Workshops are held twice a month at Lincoln Place Presbyterian Church to help assemble the wigs and for this part, you don't need to be skilled in the art of crocheting.

Family friend Kathy Schaming wanted to help Ash from the moment she found out about the project.

"When she showed it to me I started crying and I said, 'Ok, put me in there.'"

Schaming did not know how to crochet but has been able to learn how to attach the yarn, for the hair, and the bedazzled accessories thanks to Ash's patient teaching style. A group of 10 to 12 volunteers come together at each workshop to complete the wigs of the designated character of the day. At the June 8th workshop, Elsa, from the movie Frozen, was the princess of the day.

The wigs are made under the watchful eye of the Disney corporation, Ash explains. "Everything is made in their image as far as what Disney has trademarked. We get as close to the princess as possible."

Currently, the group is preparing a shipment of wigs to be distributed at PNC Park for the Pirates' Pediatric Cancer Night scheduled in September. They will be given to children who have been diagnosed with cancer, alopecia or have some type of head deformity.

More workshops are scheduled through the summer months and help is needed. The jobs go beyond making the wig. Volunteers can help assemble the accessories, package the wigs and even write personalized cards, letting the kids know who made the wig as well as offering words of encouragement.

The project is 100% volunteer and donation driven. Anyone who donates money or material, it all goes toward making wigs that are distributed locally and once that need is met,  other organizations across the country are contacted. Ash says if anyone knows of a local organization that offers support to patients and would be interested in tapping in to the project they can reach out to her through email: JessicaA@themagicyarnproject.com or check out their website: themagicyarnproject.com

Somewhere Under The Rainbow

I blame Tom Hanks for my romantic delusions.

I guess I should include Meg Ryan too, if I am going to point fingers. After watching 'You've Got Mail' and 'Sleepless In Seattle' countless times yes, I believe in "Magic."

But real, not movie, magic is probably what is needed to make my dream come true - my dream of finding my silver wedding band.

I have written about this before. The sad tale of a girl who, along with her husband,  boarded an ocean kayak only to be hit by a sudden wave. The wave knocked both occupants out of the vessel and, as I fell beneath the water, I felt my band slip off my finger. It was gone. Lost in the depths of the blue/green water.

Even though it was 18 years ago, I never really gave up hope that one day it might return to me. Yes, a bit unrealistic I admit. But if Tom Hanks could find the love of his life across the country, I could find my ring washed up on the beach.

My tale becomes a little more plausible when I tell you we often return to the same beach each year. We may not be at the same house, but we've stayed pretty close. Each vacation, I take walks up and down the beach - hoping some silvery glimmer will catch my eye and close this unfinished chapter in my life.

The wedding band was my mother's so to me it is irreplaceable, but she even admits my hope in finding it is a little far fetched. As a little girl I remember seeing that plain thick band on her finger or laying on the counter when she was making meatloaf and thinking there was not a finer ring in the land. I still feel that way although I've always wanted a replica of Princess Diana's sapphire engagement ring. But, I digress.

While we were away last week, again it was my mission to find my ring. I took walks each morning and even spoke with a nice gentleman with a metal detector. We were far from where I actually lost my ring, so I didn't have hopes that he would find it, but he did regale me with stories of the items he has found.

Oh, that my story would have a similar ending.

At the end of our conversation he actually said something quite profound to me. "My good day is someone's bad day." But that sentiment changes if he is able to reunite someone with their lost item, which he did recently with a set of car keys.

The second to last day of our trip, a pretty hefty storm blew through. It was dark and nasty. The waves were really crashing and it was terribly windy. But after the storm, there was a lovely rainbow. As I admired the colors and took photos, it seemed like the rainbow's end was just over the area where we had stayed 18 years ago. I thought maybe, just maybe, the storm liberated my ring from the depths of the ocean and washed it ashore. And, as if Nora Ephron was directing me herself, I was off on a journey.

The walk down the beach was pleasant at first - still following the rainbow's glow. But at some point I realized I had a long way to go and at that moment I was already committed, so there was no giving up. I began hallucinating at one point and thought I actually saw Tom Hanks who I imagined would speak to me softly and say the words I wanted to hear "Kristen, are you looking for this?"

My sweet husband, back at the beach house knew I was in over my head and brought the car down the road. Once he parked, we met up close to the exact spot of infamy and briefly looked together for my lost jewelry.

To be honest, I really didn't look that hard when we got there. Something happened to me during what turned out to be a 2 mile walk. (Besides losing feeling in my legs.) I realized, finally, that my ring was gone for good. I let it go just like Elsa from the movie Frozen sang. I let it go and was actually at peace. I wasn't going to look in the sand anymore. I wasn't going to hold out hope that one day the ring would reside on my finger. I LET IT GO and it felt good.

I've been married almost 20 years and at this point no hardware is needed. Don't get me wrong - if I find a 14K Artcarved white gold band on Ebay, reasonably priced, this girl is getting it, but the things I have accumulated during the past two decades are worth more than the ring I lost. I have lots of great beach memories, which outweigh the one dark day. And as I wrote before, with my ring sitting comfortably beneath the waves, part of me will always be at the beach and all I have to do is close my eyes to return to the place I love the most.

A Plague of Our Own

Where are the cicadas?

I mean yeah, I've seen video on the 6 o'clock news of people in Sewickley, Fawn Township and Murrysville dealing with the pesky creatures. But at my home, a little further south, not a wide eyed bug around.

Now don't get me wrong. I am not complaining! I didn't want to see them face to face. But after all the hype for weeks leading up to this? The cicadas are coming! The cicadas are coming! Team coverage at 6. I feel a little left out. I don't remember anyone saying there may be some here, there may be some there but you will not find them everywhere.  (Major Dr. Seuss vibe there.)

I even saw the video of a TV reporter "eating" one. You may have seen it too and I have my doubts. It happened so fast. The reporter, John Shumway from KDKA-TV, had one on his hand and popped it in his mouth. Yuck! Not on my hungriest day would I eat a bug. Not covered in cheese. Not covered in chocolate and not even with a side of Heinz, mind you, ketchup.

Funny thing is I never heard about cicadas until 2004. My oldest was two and we were driving from our home in Virginia to my brother's place in Maryland. Prior to this trip, I had seen a few around our neighborhood, due to the emergence of Brood X, but nothing major. While stuck in traffic, on I-95, things got biblical. I mean cicadas were bouncing off the windows buzzing around. There was a swarm enveloping the vehicle. It was scary. Here I was, a new mommy, and I was wondering if these flying nuisances would be able to get in the car through the vents and harm my baby.

Luckily, once traffic started moving, we left the swarm behind us, never to see a cicada again. Until now. And this time, only on TV.

It is funny that my son was born during a cicada year and, every 17 years, he will celebrate this weird little ritual of them emerging to find a mate. The next time this will happen he'll be 34 and I'll be, well, that's a little too much math for today.

I've always kind of admired people who got excited about bugs. I mean there are so many different kinds, with different features and purposes. It really is fascinating. But once they start moving or flying my fascination ends. Not so fast bug, this is my house and you and your creepy ways aren't welcome.

The other morning one of those ridiculous thousand leggers was spotted on my daughter's wall. Now, over the years, I have become more respectful of creepy crawlies, stink bugs and 'piders', as my former college roommate's baby cousin used to call them. I have begun capturing them and releasing them outdoors. "Carpe diem, Bug!"

This is a huge development for a girl who used to command her younger brother to "KILL IT!" when an invader crossed her path while riding her Hot Wheels bike.  But for those fast moving centipedes, there is no way to capture them first. They are too fast and I just envision one getting on me and then I'll die instantly.

My daughter was in a panic and I said, "Just close your door until dad gets home." But she was running late for school and needed to gather the rest of her things. It was do or die time. I took this as a teachable moment to show my daughter what "Girl power" is all about.

"I got this," I thought to myself, hesitantly. So I grabbed my husband's shoe and went it for the kill. I may have told her she owed me big time. I don't remember. Heck, I hadn't even had coffee yet. 

First, I stared it down. Then we exchanged a few words, probably something like, "You've messed with the wrong middle aged lady thousand legger" and then, as I uttered my best kiai - martial arts yell that contracts the diaphragm and chest and allows you to put tons of energy behind the strike, helping to focus on the moment of impact - and boom, it was smooshed to bits.

My daughter thanked me and was able to get out the door on time.

Now back to the cicadas. I guess the season is winding down and we will all be able to return to our regular lives. But until then, I am keeping my eyes peeled, just to be prepared to run for cover if I see one. I am happy I do not live in the epicenter for the current invasion. The car ride I took 17-years-ago, exposed me enough for a lifetime.

Prommin' Ain't Easy

 Things are adding up these days. Between the ticket, the tux, the flowers, even the haircut - my eyes are clouded by dollar signs.

But today, when my son tries on his tux before we leave the store, my heart will melt and the Benjamins will slip from my mind. Yes, my baby is going to the prom. And my pride will well up and and make me want to explode.

This is his first prom at his school. He went last year with a friend from a nearby high school and the emotions I described in the last paragraph are spot on. This year, he is going, as a junior, with a friend who is a senior. When I first heard the news, I squealed in delight. Then when I heard the theme - A Night In Paris - I squealed again. You would have thought I was going to the prom not him.

I am not sure why I got so excited but I suspect because it is different for boys than girls. I can only imagine what things will be like when my daughter starts 'promming'. I  foresee a potential Promzilla and tears. (My tears!)

For my oldest, he is easy. He has my husband's devil-may-care attitude which basically lends itself to me making the tux choice, flower choice and dabbing some product in his hair. The kid is just along for the ride.

Many moons ago, I had the almost perfect senior prom experience. It started with finding the perfect dress. It is funny now that my mom and I found it at the former Steel Valley Bridal on Eighth Avenue - a place I pass regularly traveling to and from work.

Seeing the worn sign on the side of the building triggers memories of standing in front of a large mirror in my emerald green gown, thinking there could never be a more perfect dress. My mom didn't want me to get the first dress that I tried on but after a few fruitless stops, we found our way back to Homestead.

Then I had the perfect accessory. A friend, whom I am still close with today and was part of my prom quartet, actually made our lovely cinch purses. She found material to match both the shade of my dress and hers and made elegant handbags. I have kept this purse over the years and love to take it out from time to time and replay the fun memories of our special day.

But the day did have its snag. A big snag you might say. My date and I, who were going just as friends, never really discussed the transportation issue. All we knew is that we were bucking the system and not getting a limo or fancy car like the majority of the participants would be doing.

Back then, everyone drove to the high school, showed off their fancy duds in a procession around the building and then drove off in a 'prom parade' of sorts to a dock in McKeesport to board the Gateway Clipper.

When my date came to pick me up, or so I thought, he was accompanied by his mother and sisters in their station wagon. I really didn't think much of it at the time since we were going to be taking lots of photos before going on our way. I just figured we would drop them off before heading to the school.

But after our family photo shoot, we started walking down the street to his car and he said, "Where are we going?" To which I replied, "To your car?"

He said his mother needed the car and I had to think quick. "No problem," I said calmly, but fearing the wrath of God as we turned around and I uttered, "Dad, I need the car."

The words we heard next were not really appropriate to be uttered in front of a preacher's son but hey, maybe my dad was moved to pray at that moment and was not was actually demonstrating how to properly break the third commandment.

To put things in perspective, I wasn't allowed to drive the big station wagon. (Too much car for a little lady.) And secondly, my dad is a man who goes the whole nine yards to make everything just right for special occasions.

As he was going inside the house to get the keys he went on about "I could have had the car washed and vacuumed." I believe he mentioned Turtle Wax and detailing, I don't exactly remember but I assured him it was ok, really, and everything was going to be fine.

(Also, keep in mind, my dad keeps his cars very clean. So even with three kids in the family, our rides were typically in good shape. There was nothing, in my opinion, that could have made the car look any better at that moment. I mean it had wheels and an engine, right?)

So my dad handed my date the keys and off we went. I am not sure we said much on the ride to pick up our friends, but once we arrived, as I predicted, everything was fine. Going to the prom was probably my best high school experience and I wouldn't change a thing.

Of courseg, as you would expect, a few weeks ago, after my son told me he was going to the prom and my squeals subsided, my first question was, "How are you getting there?" To this moment, I still don't have a definitive answer to this question.

Am I worried? Nope. I've been down this road before.

Not my prom photo but that is the emerald green dress.

My dried prom corsage and lovely cinch purse.