tag:theregularriot.com,2005:/blogs/the-phantom-finish-lineThe Phantom Finish Line2022-09-02T06:52:34-04:00Heather High Kennedyfalsetag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/64699392020-11-04T07:41:53-05:002021-04-21T13:04:17-04:00A Friend to Count On<p>I lost a friend this year. He wasn’t my best friend. He had never been my boyfriend. He was not even a friend that I had seen very recently, but he was a dear friend from my youth - someone I laughed with, hung out with, someone whose parents’ house remains the setting of some outstanding Halloween antics, at least, in my memory. </p>
<p>Bill Brogan was a 16-year-old firefighter when I met him as an incoming freshman to the high school band. We were both drummers, thus members of the percussion section, something synonymous worldwide with tomfoolery, undoubtedly for good reason. Stretched across the entire length of every band room in the universe, resides a mixed-up conglomeration of instruments of various sizes, shapes, pitches, and timbres, which have little in common beyond the fact that they are played either by smashing them together or hitting them with sticks, and the kids who play these instruments tend to be correspondingly offbeat. Yet, for reasons unknown, percussion sections over the ages have served as breeding grounds for lifelong friendships among a widely diversified collection of characters, and such was the case with me and my friend, “Bungalow Bill”. </p>
<p>Like the bass drum he played, Bill was large and lovable, a steady beat, the backbone of the band, supporting everyone else. He had no patience for stupidity but a fondness for nonsense, and there was a lot of that to be enjoyed at pit band rehearsals for the school’s musical, <em>42nd Street</em>. During that show, at one <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/258557/e305b9cda58fa42e6996d53d0d242699495b8d0f/original/img-1302.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_right border_" />lengthy, late-night rehearsal or another, being extraordinarily unencumbered as the lowest person on the totem pole, playing only an occasional note or two on the glockenspiel, I penned a rhythmic parody of an age-old Christmas poem, and entitled it, <em>'Twas the Week Before Opening Night</em>. In this extraordinary literary work I observed the ridiculousness of our rehearsal, including a comment or two about the spiffy sneakers that our beloved, neurotic musical director, a Catholic priest, had changed into that evening, and the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I imagined he had eaten for dinner in the sliver of time between school and rehearsal. I sat grinning but undetected as the lines flowed, and Bill snickered with tears in his eyes, holding his mouth to stifle the chortling each time he looked at my notebook. </p>
<p>He graduated when I was a sophomore, so I typed up the poem and glued it to the back of a photo that my mom had taken of us during band camp that year, and gave it to him as a graduation gift, a small token of our friendship that was delivered with a wish for a bright and happy future as we parted ways. </p>
<p>Thanks to a few informal band reunions and social media, I was able to reconnect with Bill many years later, and found that he was still supporting others and serving the community as a dedicated first responder; then in June of this year, a day or so after commenting on one of his Facebook posts, I got the news that he had died. All I could think of were his parents and sister, whom he loved so much and who loved him - I had lost my mom not long after high school, when she was in her forties, like Bill. Those who know the pain of suddenly losing someone, especially someone so young, would never wish it on their worst enemy, let alone good souls like theirs. I attended his socially distanced funeral, but I was unable to approach his family to express my sympathy, thus I left them with a small wave from afar. </p>
<p>Much to my surprise, a few weeks later, I received an email from his mom, asking me for my address, and a few days after that, the earth moved beneath my feet when I opened a package from her that contained the old photo of me and Bill from band camp with a now-yellowed poem still glued to the back, with the final line, “Happy graduation, Bungalow Bill,” and a signature in my teenaged handwriting, “Love, Heathe 1989”. In her note, his mom mentioned that it must have meant a lot to him, if he had kept it all these years. </p>
<p>“Art is long and time is fleeting...” writes Longfellow in his <em>Psalm of Life</em>, who seems to observe that art has the capacity to capture moments so that we feel them and remember them, yet it fails to stop the beat of time. The only thing we can carry with us as we march along are memories of small moments and the people who took the time to give them meaning. Thank you for making those fleeting moments count - rest easy, friend.</p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/64600572020-10-20T21:29:08-04:002021-04-21T13:04:17-04:00Oh, What a Knight! Drumming with Dame Evelyn Glennie <p>Thanks to my husband, Sean J. Kennedy, who produced this video, I enjoyed a dream-com-true type of experience when I saw my snare drum recording side-by-side with legendary percussionist, Dame Evelyn Glennie. The common thread between us is that we both lost our hearing at a young age, yet both love music and continued to study and perform on percussion instruments, despite our losses. She, of course, has been knighted by Queen Elizabeth II, while I have coronated myself, HRH Heather the Great, Countess of the Carpool, Duchess of Dinnertime. I mean, I have two titles - so technically, I win, right? </p>
<p>In all seriousness, I had the best time with this project and am so grateful for the opportunity to play with Dame Evelyn Glennie and all of the others in this cast of talented and accomplished musicians. Check it out!</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe class="justify_inline" data-video-type="youtube" data-video-id="X-8_VTtg0l8" data-video-thumb-url="https://img.youtube.com/vi/X-8_VTtg0l8/mqdefault.jpg" type="text/html" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/X-8_VTtg0l8?rel=0&wmode=transparent&enablejsapi=1" frameborder="0" height="315" width="560" allowfullscreen="true"></iframe></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/64472562020-10-01T18:29:51-04:002020-10-01T20:09:49-04:00A Hearty Round of Applause: The Day Daddy’s Piece Premiered at Carnegie Hall and Nobody Remembered the Child's Clothes<p>It was a Sunday and I was working at church the morning that my husband, Sean’s, composition was premiering at Carnegie Hall, and since I had to head out to get there so early, we decided to leave my car at church after the services and drive up to New York City together, once he arrived. As I rushed out the door, though, before the others awoke, I noticed our littlest Twerp's Lightning McQueen suitcase sitting alone in the middle of the entryway. Being the mom of four that I had been for a long time by then, I did not trust the rest of the family to pick it up and put it in the car; in fact, I clearly pictured ten feet stepping over it as they made their way out the door, so I tossed it into the back of my vehicle and brought it with me to work.</p>
<p>That would have been the end of the story - no fuss, no muss - if only one of the teens had not overflowed the dishwasher by using liquid soap, flooding the kitchen with bubbles right before they left the house. </p>
<p>I was surprised that they were late to arrive, granted it was such a big occasion, but when I saw the boiling-red skin tone and furrowed brow on my husband’s agitated face, I understood that the plan we had hatched did not take into consideration the fact that children, as wonderful as they are, can sometimes be unpredictable nincompoops. The man whose feathers have always been decidedly difficult to ruffle ran out of the car toward me, snarling, "They are as useful as garden gnomes!" which caught more than one glance, as parishioners filed out of the building after the service. In an attempt to calm him, I reminded him that we had still had plenty of time, everything was fine, and it was all going to be a wonderful experience. "Let's go! It will be awesome!" I said, hopping into the front seat, looking over my shoulder to offer a smile, however forced it might have been, to the four silent, sullen faces behind me. </p>
<p>We arrived in NYC about two hours later. The Twerp exited the car in the parking lot, at which time I noticed that she was not wearing the formal dress I had left for her... and that her shoes did not match her worn-out play clothes. One of the teens said, "I think her other shoes are packed in her bag." I stood frozen in my tracks, struck by the realization that the Lightning McQueen suitcase was sitting snugly in the backseat of my car in the church parking lot in Pennsylvania. Fortunately, we had not forgotten her extra-red stuffed dog, Hearty, whom she held up with her colorful, polka-dotty arm from her self-designated spot on the floor of the balcony (after a long, long concert that followed a long, long drive). The grinning pup hovered, seemingly suspended in mid-air, next to her Daddy, as he stood waving in response to kudos and applause from a very full house at Carnegie Hall.</p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/63473542020-06-09T10:35:26-04:002020-06-12T10:34:32-04:00A Band-Aid on the Battlefield<p>A Band-Aid on the Battlefield </p>
<p>I’ve been trying to write something new, but now does not feel like the time for the recording of musings and shenanigans, which are very much woven into the fabric of this blog. </p>
<p>There are people hurting every which way we turn, so many from injustice and racism; others have been ruined by acts that serve to desecrate the term “social justice”, rather than exult it, by associating criminal activity with the very American right to assemble and protest; folks are grappling with the issue of police brutality, while the countless true-blue officers and their families - who have sacrificed so much to serve their communities - suffer in body, mind, and spirit as victims of misdirected rage. All of this is happening as we endure a pandemic and national quarantine, as well as - lest we forget - our more common, but no less devastating, sources of tragedy, pain, and suffering. </p>
<p>It is no wonder that so much of our country is clamoring for a compassionate, unifying leader to help us heal the wounds of today and yesterday and move us to a brighter tomorrow because truth be told, despite political perspectives and agendas of one brand or another, we need a sensible, caring, and trustworthy leader who wholeheartedly believes in uniting the states of America. </p>
<p>We are at a very serious moment in our story, which tomorrow will be history. We’re called upon now to decide on the plot twist. Which way will we go? Will we pull together and move forward, or will we tear each other apart? It’s all so important and all so serious that I am tempted to believe that only important and serious people can help to steer the ship. When I look at myself, I see the tiny, circular adhesive bandage that sits at the bottom of the Band-Aid box, while blood gushes from the gaping wounds of the world. That’s what I feel like in light of the seriousness of this moment. I’m a silly woman who writes silly stories so I am tempted to believe that nothing I do or say will make a difference in the world. </p>
<p>But that is not true. </p>
<p>It has been my long-held conviction that the differences between all people are gifts, and if anyone’s contribution to the whole is absent, we all suffer, which is demonstrable in small, everyday examples. If any piece of a jigsaw puzzle is missing, the picture remains incomplete. If a traffic light is missing the green signal, we never move forward. All things are intended to work together, serving a very high purpose, which is not to divide and conquer, but to strive for justice and peace, loving one another as children of the same God, and neighbors on the same planet. Our individual contributions to this purpose were highlighted in recent months when stockbrokers and lawyers - whose jobs are undoubtedly valuable - stepped back as the truck drivers and grocery store workers demonstrated the urgency of their work, which has long been overlooked in a society enamored with the rich, powerful, and highly educated. </p>
<p>I have worked with children of all ages for many years as an educator and a mother, a coach, and a mentor, and whenever I ask kids about their talents, a few will proudly boast - however truthfully - about their athletic prowess, their musical skill, their artistic abilities, or their academic achievements. Very few, if any, respond by telling me that they can make people laugh, they can help around the house, they can listen to others and comfort those who are down, they can show kindness to strangers, they can protect the vulnerable, they can make people feel good about themselves, or that they have any special attribute or inclination that is immeasurable or for which they cannot receive a gold star or blue ribbon. They do not value their own abilities as useful, much less as gifts, because they don’t see them that way, but how sad it would be to live in a world in which nobody shared such blessings. </p>
<p>I’m not a politician, a lawyer, a judge, a military general, a scientist, or the leader of a nation. In the grand scheme, not many people are those particular decision-makers. We all have our roles and special abilities, and sitting here feeling like a small, circular Band-Aid in a wounded world is not the way to change anyone’s day for the better. I’m a silly woman who tells silly stories, and by doing that, I can lift people, I can make some laugh and others cry, and through often-ridiculous nonsense, I tend to haphazardly expose common ground that we share in our lived experiences as members of the human race. I cannot personally put an end to all racism or any other evil that divides and demeans people, none of us can, but I can make someone’s day better by using my gifts, and that is important. </p>
<p>Where do we start when we feel hopeless? I think that we start within ourselves and our homes. Our families and friends, our jobs, and neighborhoods. We strive to serve the higher purpose by doing what we do best and using the gifts and abilities that are within us. </p>
<p><em>Make me a channel of Your peace, </em></p>
<p><em>Where there is hatred, let me bring Your love,</em></p>
<p><em>Where there is injury, Your pardon Lord,</em></p>
<p><em>And where there's doubt, true faith in You. </em></p>
<p><em> </em></p>
<p><em>Make me a channel of Your peace. </em></p>
<p><em>Where there's despair in life, let me bring hope. </em></p>
<p><em>Where there is darkness, only light, </em></p>
<p><em>And where there's sadness, ever joy. </em></p>
<p><em> </em></p>
<p><em>Oh Master, grant that I may never seek </em></p>
<p><em>So much to be consoled as to console, </em></p>
<p><em>To be understood as to understand, </em></p>
<p><em>To be loved as to love with all my soul. </em></p>
<p><em> </em></p>
<p><em>Make me a channel of Your peace </em></p>
<p><em>It is pardoning that we are pardoned, </em></p>
<p><em>In giving to all men that we receive, </em></p>
<p><em>And in dying that we're born to eternal life.</em></p>
<p><em>(Prayer of St. Francis)</em></p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/62656662020-03-29T15:06:09-04:002020-03-29T18:01:22-04:00Online Living: Checking Out the New Views<p>This Sunday looks a lot different than any before in our corner of the world, even last week. Normally, at this time on Sunday afternoon, just as many of us are returning home from church, the gym, or visiting friends or family, we start to feel the weight the upcoming workweek pressing on our shoulders, reminding us to pick up snacks to pack in lunches, throw in a load of dress shirts and sports uniforms, fill up the tank with gas, read messages from teachers to get the spirit days straight, and make final adjustments to whatever lessons or presentations we might have prepped for work. In usual circumstances, maybe we would toss a coin to determine whether we should take care of such things first, or go out to play with the kids for a while, before facing reality. Either way, yet another Monday morning would be looming. </p>
<p>This week, in the midst of an unprecedented worldwide quarantine, wherein we have ceased all activities that separate one day from the next, we actually have to remind each other on social media that - if we are lucky enough to be able to do our jobs online - today is Sunday and we should definitely show up for work tomorrow. The grocery stores are madhouses and we don’t need gas in the car because we are not allowed to leave our property. Not only that, but families, children, and teachers everywhere are bracing for the start of online learning, which to many is an entirely unexpected and uninvited guest at the dinner table. </p>
<p>How are we going to do this? Truth be told, I’m a cyber teacher, and I love working with kids online (and in-person), but I am shivering in my boots a bit, too, and biting my nails about working with my own children. I’ll take your kids over mine any day of the week! (Okay, I’m kidding, take it easy - I love my children.) Really, though, whether it’s online learning, teaching, work, church, science labs, music classes - we are fearful about what we don’t know, how it will impact what is familiar and comfortable, and the changes that we will have to make to our routines. </p>
<p>Good news, friends! We have reached the moment in time when all of the bad things that have ever happened to us in life are going to prove their worth. If there is anything we should have learned by now on this crazy cosmic speck, it is to avoid becoming too comfortable, because that’s usually when these unwelcome guests blow through the door, like Jim Carrey in The Mask, “Somebody stop me!” Only, there is no stopping them. They come in, wreak havoc, and leave. </p>
<p>When they leave, though, we tend to find ourselves a little stronger and more resilient, more prepared for the next time they drop by, no matter how much bigger they might have grown. </p>
<p>When I was twelve years old I started losing my hearing, and each time I took a hearing test, I bounded down the audiogram in leaps and jumps, less like a graceful, delicate ballerina, and more like a sneezing hippopotamus on skis. Nobody in my family was deaf, none of my friends were deaf, and I was a musician, to boot. Life as I knew it was turned upside-down, and I had to choose whether to resist the loss or to embrace it by learning a new approach to everything I wanted to do. I chose the latter, and to quote Robert Frost, very briefly, since I can never remember full quotes, “...That has made all the difference.” </p>
<p>Nothing we experience right now will be the same, at least while we are quarantined, and possibly, in certain situations, ever again. For now, work won’t be the same, church won’t be the same, school won’t be the same, and playdates and birthday parties won’t be the same as we have excitedly anticipated, but if we choose to embrace the moment - as unmanageable as it may seem - the experience will love us back with gifts of faith, strength, perspective, joy, and possibly a few other surprises, as well. </p>
<p>So, again we ask, how are we going to do this? We are going to look back at everything we’ve already survived, recall the times we’ve had to change gears suddenly, and decide whether to slam on the brakes or roll with it for what is bound to be a wild ride, graced with some unexpectedly beautiful, new views.</p>
<p>(Photo by Christian Wiediger on Unsplash)</p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/62575462020-03-21T15:50:47-04:002020-03-23T07:31:07-04:00Cracking Up<p>When I was a little kid, my heart would drop and pound wildly whenever President Reagan addressed the nation from the Oval Office. Usually, by the time he appeared on the screen, I had absorbed droplets of news here and there about whatever frightening world events prompted his message, and back then, it was the news about Russia that scared me the most. We children knew about the nuclear arms race and I would listen intently, hoping for information about how far Russian missiles could fly. Could they reach my family? I would lie awake, sometimes praying, sometimes thinking, but always anxiously wondering. Were the people I loved going to get blown up as we slept? If I survived, how would I go on without them? </p>
<p>As I grew, my aptitude for anxiety expanded remarkably. In fact, it was the only gut-wrenching sport in which I excelled, especially at nighttime, having mastered panic attacks and bouts of insomnia. </p>
<p>Thankfully, however, I had easy access to Nan, my savvy, snarky, Irish-blooded grandmother, whose tongue was made of knives and heart was made of gold. During those times when I would be swept away in a cyclone of nervousness, she would tug on my kite strings and lower me to the ground, so that I could feel the earth touching my feet again. I could hear decades worth of hard-won wisdom and resilience in her wisecracks, as she laughed through life, embracing it as one big, knee-slapping riot. </p>
<p>During one nerve-wracking world event or another when I was a teenager, I was sitting at the tiny kitchen table with her, eating breakfast and watching the sunshine bounce off of the Tastycake box, when she said, “Listen, if a bomb comes over to us, just look up and give it a little smile and a wave because there is nothing you can do about it.” Her message was clear and simple, as was her approach to every challenge she faced in her life: sometimes, there’s nothing you can do but laugh. </p>
<p>Nan was very close with her equally sharp and witty brother, Bill, and in their old age, they checked on each other frequently. A few years ago, Bill was hospitalized for heart issues, and just before he was sent home, I took Nan to the store so we could stock his place with essentials. </p>
<p>Nan stood with the cart that held my young children and sent me off to get toothpaste for him. I went to the next aisle and selected the biggest tube I could find so that he wouldn’t feel the need to run out for more too soon; however, when I returned and put it in the cart, Nan shook her head to tell me something was wrong. “What?” I asked. </p>
<p>“Get the smaller one,” she answered. </p>
<p>“Why?” </p>
<p>She shrugged knowingly and said, “Well, he might… check out.” And with that, she howled with laughter at the stark nakedness of the comment, and a second later, as the shock wore off, I did, too. The thought of losing Grand-uncle Bill was dreadful, but the irony of estimating his remaining life through the length of a tube of toothpaste somehow took the edge off. </p>
<p>Thankfully, Bill ended up needing a lot more toothpaste than she had anticipated, and lived another few years after that; in fact, Nan only outlived him by a month. Shortly after his funeral, she came to stay with us for a while, and one morning she leaned over the railing and called for me, “Hey, Heathe, I think I should go to the hospital. I can’t breathe.” </p>
<p>As I jumped up and started to gather my keys, coat, and phone, she pointed back to the tank in my son’s room, which was next to the bed where she had been sleeping, and quipped, “I think it’s those damn goldfish.” </p>
<p>“Yeah,” I answered with a decompressing chuckle, “I’m sure it is.” </p>
<p>The nurses wheeled her into a room in the ER, and I took a seat beside her bed. We both knew how sick she was, and neither of us wanted to cry, as we were both trying to be strong for the other. At that very moment, a kindly, white-haired musician glided through the doorway and approached us, wearing a long, denim skirt, and carrying a small harp that she had wedged into her side, above her hip. I couldn’t even glance at Nan because I knew what she was thinking, and I didn’t want to hurt the thoughtful harpist’s feelings by laughing, so I cast my eyes downward solemnly and worked intently to relax my facial muscles. The woman played a sweet, gentle melody and left the room with a loving wave. Ever so slowly, I lifted my eyes and turned my head toward Nan. We held each other’s gaze as five quiet words broke the silence. She asked, “Are they coming for me?” </p>
<p>Indeed, it seems they were. She passed peacefully about a week later, and I always wondered if, perhaps, the harpist had been a little gift from heaven to help us that day, not by serenading us with lovely music, and it was lovely, but by shining light through something we could laugh about together in the midst of a very anxious and stressful moment. </p>
<p>I can only imagine how Nan would be handling COVID-19 right now. I am sure she would be concerned, particularly for the vulnerable, especially sick children and their families, but something tells me that if I looked at the brokenness of our present world through her humorous perspective and the eyes that witnessed the tragic loss of so many friends and close family members, I’d see something alluring shining through the cracks… to crack us up and help us feel the earth under our feet again. </p>
<p>We need to follow the rules and do everything we can to help, but remember, we only get a certain amount of toothpaste in this lifetime; we can’t afford to throw it down the drain with excessive worry. </p>6:56Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/62013932020-02-03T07:17:42-05:002023-01-29T14:27:40-05:00Happy Groundhog's Day?<p>The dreary months of January and February are notoriously depressing, especially in the northern states where the bareness of the trees, the grayness of the sky, and the sharpness of the wind serve as natural antidotes to rays of sunshine and breaths of fresh air. By mid-January, we’re back to the daily grind. Friends and family who gathered near us for the holidays have departed, and there is a long, desolate road ahead before the flowers bloom and the ducklings take their first dip in local ponds. </p>
<p>On a personal level, this time of year is marred with memories of a distant tragedy that now rests fairly peacefully on a pillow of passing time, until the arrival of the 2-week period between the end of January and beginning of February, when it wakes and knocks on the door - luggage in hand - to take me, its reluctant travel companion, back again for a visit. </p>
<p>It’s not a fun trip at all, I have to say. I have never cared for the journey, so I’ve spent a lot of time grasping at any viable distraction. Alas, these grim months offer very little in the way of festivity. There’s Valentine’s Day, perhaps, but the heart-shaped decorations are all markers along the annual journey to misery, and the fabricated holiday, itself, seemingly created in desperation, tends to accentuate the sorrowful loneliness of many friends and family members. Valentine’s Day is a failure. </p>
<p>Ah, but wait. What is this I hear? There is noise coming from the forest near Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, a town far removed from progress and innovation. I cup my ear and move closer to discover that it’s ringing with joyful enthusiasm. And what is everyone so excited about on this second day of February? … A fuzzy, buck-toothed whistle-pig, whom they’ve named Phil and charged with the responsibility of predicting the arrival of spring and the upheaval of the season of sadness. </p>
<p>My prayers for a beam of light on the gloomy, annual journey were answered with a newfound appreciation for this miraculously meaningless celebration of absurdity. Naturally, the only thing better than watching the hoopla on television would be, of course, witnessing it in person. </p>
<p>Therefore, a few years ago, much to my family’s dismay, I dragged them on a pilgrimage to the hallowed hollow of Gobbler’s Knob in Punxsutawney, to witness the event firsthand. </p>
<p>I don’t want to give away too much, other than to say that it was a muddy morning that involved a 4:00 a.m. school bus ride through and beyond the town to a wooded hillside, where we were greeted by thousands of others, who were divided into two groups by a long rope that stretched the length of the forest, separating the drunk from the sober. We had with us a confused toddler in a stroller, twin tweens, crying about their muddy shoes, and a 10-year-old boy who had forgotten his suitcase. </p>
<p>The misty morning broke in a sunless sunrise, and the crowd chanted, “Phil! Phil! Phil!” Men in tophats raised the woodchuck in the air, Simba-style, after reading his prediction for a long winter. Immediately, the crowd of thousands roared, “Boo!” as they turned in our direction and stormed back to the three shuttle buses waiting at the top of the hill. A walk back to town through a cornfield proved to be the safer, if not quicker, alternative, until the buses were gone and our stroller got stuck in the mud, forcing us to release the toddler. An hour or so later, back on concrete, we journeyed on foot to the outer town limits, where we had to park our car, and passing a curious number of tall, metal groundhog statues planted in various locations. </p>
<p>Strange? Very. Effective? Indeed. We have been laughing about it at this miserable time of year ever since. Distraction is not a healthy answer to sadness, and really, it can only work for so long; but finding light and laughter in strange places as we wander through the darkness is a big part of what life is about. When the winter is long and the days are dark, remember… every year on February 2, a forest full of muddy drunk people gather to boo a befuddled rodent and cheer for the coming of spring. If that is not something to chuckle about, what is?</p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/60208382019-12-14T23:37:36-05:002019-12-17T00:06:01-05:00Babysitters, Bettors, and Bifocals<p>A few years ago, I winced when the optometrist bluntly predicted, “The progressive lens. Not yet, but soon.” Progressive lenses. Bifocals. Spectacles. It all sounded to me like a little, old lady, Edna Broadbottom, sitting behind a gray, oversized typewriter with a sweater draped over her shoulders and a beehive on top of her head, transcribing dictation from her portly boss, who would bellow through the intercom for more coffee, 195 degrees exactly, extra sugar, and no cream. “Yes, Mr. Franklin, right away,” she’d answer, and scurry away from her workload to grant his wish. No, thank you. Mr. Franklin, take your coffee and… </p>
<p>Anyway, things change with time, including my age, my eyeglass prescription, and my ability to read effortlessly, so I finally bit the bullet, ordered the dreaded progressives, and picked them up yesterday. Lo and behold! Much to my surprise, it was love at first sight… the first sight of every detail in the room, no matter how near or far. It was glorious and reminded me of when I got my first pair of glasses as a ten-year-old. </p>
<p>When we were little, our Grand-Uncle Bill (Gub, as a loving acronym), would babysit on occasion. On the outside, Gub was a tough, no-nonsense Korean War vet with a gruff voice that matched his seemingly irritated demeanor. Tall with fluffy, white hair on his head and a pack of Chiclets in his shirt pocket, he was an eternal bachelor and a chain smoker, who considered almost everything to be his way or the highway. But he couldn’t fool any of us in his vast, Irish collection of nieces and nephews. We knew that he had a heart of gold and a soft spot for children, which was never more evident to me or my younger brother, Jaime, than when he would take us for a night out at the race track. </p>
<p>He would swivel his white work van into our driveway and tell us to jump in and sit down. Of course, there were no seats. The entire back of the van was devoid of carpets and passenger seating; it was, after all, a work truck, but he kept two clean buckets in the back for us. Good kids got good buckets. We’d flip them over and sit on them, as Gub’s heavy foot pressed on the accelerator. Never a firm believer in slowing before a stop, he’d slam on the brake every so often, wait long enough for us to topple over and reset our buckets, then hit the gas again when the light turned green. The buckets swished all around the back of the van, as Jaime and I zoomed along with them, holding onto their sides, and screaming laughing. </p>
<p>At the race track, Gub taught us a lot about probability when explaining how to read the roster and determine a winner from a loser. After making our selection, he’d get in line to place our bets as we waited across the room behind the ropes. One time, I made the mistake of yelling to him after he walked off and got in line. Standing with Jaime, reviewing the roster, I felt compelled to choose a different horse, so I shouted, “Hey, Gub! I changed my mind!” He ignored me, looking coolly at the people around him. “Gub! I want a different horse,” I continued. Finally, to save us all from a night in jail, he shot me a glance over his shoulder that unmistakably snapped, “Can it, kid!” After his purchase, he retrieved us, snarling with mock disdain through clenched teeth, “What the hell, Airhead?” I smiled, knowing that our nicknames, Airhead and Bozo, meant he loved us. </p>
<p>Later that night, as we watched the horses running across the finish line, I felt distressed, “Aw!” I said to Gub, as I pointed in the other direction, “Look at that poor horse back there, so far behind all the other ones.” He looked but saw nothing. “Where?” he asked. “Right there, see him? He is so far behind.” </p>
<p>Again, Gub stretched his neck to look, and repeated with more confusion, “Where?” I couldn’t believe he didn’t see it. “Right there! Look! Right where I’m pointing.” He rolled his eyes and pointed to the exact spot I was pointing to. “That?” he exclaimed. </p>
<p>“Yes.” </p>
<p>“That’s a truck! It’s cleaning the track.” </p>
<p>That week, I had my eyes checked and received my first pair of glasses soon thereafter. When I tried them on, I was head over heels in love with every detail in sight, just like with the new glasses last night. </p>
<p>Progressives, huh? I can’t help loving them, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of progress I want to be making. Then again, entertaining children at the horse races is probably not the kind of babysitting activity that would earn someone high ratings on Care.com, and yet, those nights at the track with Gub - and Bozo - were among the most precious moments in my life. Things change with time. Call me Airhead, but as far as I can see, it’s all about perspective. </p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/59874712019-12-01T19:01:01-05:002019-12-01T20:58:23-05:00Please Stop Asking Boys What Sports They Play<p>Here’s a newsflash for men and boys everywhere: You don’t have to be an athlete to be awesome. </p>
<p>One of my favorite pastimes is watching 5-year-olds play tee-ball, not because it’s inspirational to usher children into a new era of athleticism, certainly not for the thrill of the game or the spirit of competition, and not even because it’s hilarious to watch the chaos that ensues when attempting to explain the rules to babies, who want nothing more in life than to run over to the swings on the playground where they’re free from restrictions. <em>Hit the ball. Run. No, not that way. Run to your right. No, stay on the path. No, he shouldn’t be throwing that at you. Timmy, don’t throw that… ow! Timmy! </em></p>
<p>I love watching tee-ball because it’s the only time in a boy’s life when he can do what he really wants to do when playing - and watching - a game. He can climb the fence behind the dugout. He can take a nap on the pitcher’s mound (Why is there even a pitcher in tee-ball, anyway? Is it so the fathers can go back to work on Monday and announce that their sons were pitching in the game that weekend?). He can weave little, grass wreaths between his fingers and toss them at his buddy, who is lying on his belly watching the ants march across second-base. He can do whatever he wants without judgment or labeling, except walk over to the swings. They’ll definitely stop him for that one. </p>
<p>Sure, some boys love sports from the moment they can utter the word, “ball”. I have a nephew who started running at nine months and scored two points when he launched a cherry tomato into my grandfather’s iced tea from across the room at 18 months. I don’t know if that’s a standard indicator of talent or success, but he certainly embraced his natural abilities and went on to play Division 1 basketball in college, and I was there to cheer him on, because that’s who he is, it’s what he does well, and it’s his passion. </p>
<p>When I took my own toddler son to Short Sports at the Y, however, he was interested in nothing more than walking along the lines on the gym floor and felt like a champ when he had carefully followed all the patterns to the center of the room. I caught sympathetic glances from other moms that seemed to say, “It’s okay. He’ll get better,” but really, as his artist mom, I was pretty impressed and wanted to cheer, “That was a very clever way to get from point A to point B, little man!” He had no interest whatsoever in learning how to shoot a ball into a net. Zilch. </p>
<p>But, because I truly believe that we should let kids use whatever crayon they choose to color the sky in their world, I didn’t want to label him as a non-athlete just because he didn’t want to participate at Short Sports as a toddler. I tried to keep my mind open to things that did not interest me, like sports (and cooking, but that’s another story), because I realized that perhaps those activities *would* interest my children, and I didn’t want to push a square peg through a round hole. I tried multiple times to engage him in various games until I figured it was pointless because he wasn’t drawn to anything that had to do with kicking, hitting, or throwing a ball. All he wanted to do was play with trucks, watch trucks, read books about trucks, ride his bike, and listen to music, so there you go. <em>Live your dream, kid. Let’s crank the tunes, ride bikes, and look at trucks.</em> But wow - the reactions I received when I opted to skip mini soccer! It was as if I announced that I had decided to stop feeding him. <em>You do realize he can live a full life without soccer, right? We’re all on the same page with this? </em></p>
<p>By the time he was wrapping up elementary school, though, he started asking to join all different kinds of teams, and he wasn’t bad at any of them. In fact, considering the fact that he never showed any type of interest in the activities as a younger child, he was pretty good. The pressure to join sports teams and talk sports, though, increased tenfold in middle school and again in high school, and I realized that no matter where we went, whether it was to church, a family event, or a trip to the mall or movies, without fail, a friendly older boy or man would shake his hand and unwittingly ask, “So, what sports are you playing now?” It was an undeniable and overwhelming social expectation. </p>
<p>We make a big fuss about encouraging girls to be who they are and follow their hearts and dreams, whether it be through ballet or STEM careers, yet, our society as a whole forces boys to feel like there is something wrong with them if they have interests beyond the playing field. In turn, a cut from a team runs much deeper than the elimination of a name from a roster. Such a rejection is a shameful experience that excludes boys from what our society tells them is the ultimate brotherhood - the brotherhood of athletes. Whether the expulsion is due to the lack of skill, an injury or illness that prevents participation, or a mere disinterest, the boys are disconnected and constantly reminded of what and who they are not, without being asked about what and who they are. </p>
<p>To be sure, I have nothing against athletics or anyone who loves to talk about sports. I am, however, considering the millions of males out there who have other interests and talents that are deemed less important by a society obsessed with ballgames. For the sake of them and all that makes them awesome, how about we change the conversation when we talk to the men and boys in our lives? Instead of asking the second-base ant-watcher how much he loves baseball, or asking a kid who’s about to enter a movie theater what sports he’s playing these days, ask boys, “What do you like to do?” and let them tell you about all the different things that fascinate them in this very big, wide world. </p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/59705012019-11-23T10:06:38-05:002019-11-25T09:57:34-05:00Getting Through the Day in Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood<p>Have you seen the photo of the newborn babies in the hospital in Pittsburgh, wearing red sweaters in honor of Mr. Rogers? It is nothing short of heartwarming, and of course, is a well-deserved nod to a man who taught generations of children to truly love themselves and all others they meet in the world. I do not believe that there is a soul on the planet who can utter a negative word about Mr. Rogers, at least a truthful one, and with the new <a contents="Tom Hanks" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://tom-hanks.net/">Tom Hanks</a> movie, <a contents="A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.abeautifulday.movie/tickets/?hs308=search&ds_rl=1277628&gclid=CjwKCAiAzuPuBRAIEiwAkkmOSAHEduSwC_FP5g_jH6omGdftQiCam0tLPNvqhi8YLXOlPHizMP0FIxoCmjAQAvD_BwE&gclsrc=aw.ds"><em>A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood</em></a>, now out, people everywhere are spreading his inspirational messages about kindness. Undoubtedly, Mr. Rogers is a wonderful role model, but his standards are killing me, and I’m not sure how worthy I am of living in his beautiful neighborhood. </p>
<p>As a child, I watched him cheerfully open the door of his house to the lovely sound of a piano glissando. He smiled at me, gently retrieved his sweater from the closet, and chatted with me about his afternoon agenda, as he carefully changed into his clean pair of comfortable shoes and lovingly fed his fish. Like other children, I was charmed and attuned. </p>
<p>As an adult, I watch Mr. Rogers and wonder if he ever commuted to and from work, up and down Fifth Street in North Philadelphia, behind SEPTA’s Bus 47? Huh, Fred? Did you, Fred? Did you ever get stuck in cross-traffic at the entrance to Roosevelt Boulevard? Fred, I need that shoe to throw at the bus that won’t move into its own lane, because this guy in a white van is approaching me at 50 mph and is getting on this ramp whether or not I’m in his way. Your song that starts, “It’s such a good feeling to know you’re alive…” has taken on a whole. New. Meaning. </p>
<p>Speaking of shoes, Fred, have you ever tried to get four children - and all eight of their feet - to church on time? Eight feet. Six shoes. Wanna know why? Because two shoes were stuffed into Mommy’s pillowcase, which was apparently being used as a grocery bag in a game of “store”. That’s why. Who in their right mind will think to look for shoes in a pillowcase at 8:57 a.m. on a Sunday morning? Not this girl. Nope. In order to find them, this girl had to fall over that pillowcase in a mad (and noisy) dash around the house. That’s what she had to do. </p>
<p>I don’t know, Fred. I just don’t know how you maintained such unfaltering equilibrium in this dizzyingly chaotic world, but your patience and grace were certainly gifts from God that you used well, in order to slow us down enough to hear messages about love and kindness. You were who you were, and you lived as you were created to live, and despite the velocity of our society, which does not appear to be running out of fuel any time soon, we heard you. </p>
<p>I heard you tell me that I was special because there was only one of me in the world, and I heard you tell me to care for my neighbor, so guess what I did just for you, Fred? The other day, it was raining, and I was driving down Fifth Street when I noticed an older woman without an umbrella scooting frantically toward the corner, looking behind her. I glanced in the rearview mirror to see what was making her so nervous and noticed the beast itself, Bus 47, right behind me. I didn’t know anything about the woman, but it was clear that she needed to be on that bus, so guess what I did, Fred? You would have been so proud of me. I pressed on the brake ever-so-calmly with my shoe and slowed my car to a snail’s pace, allowing her enough time to scurry to the stop before Bus 47 could blow past her. The driver expressed vehement disapproval of my thoughtfulness, but the woman’s relieved expression was worth the honking and screaming that my actions elicited. She caught the bus and got out of the rain. Everyone else was late for work that day, but that’s beside the point. </p>
<p>Clearly, I will never be <a contents="Mr. Rogers" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.misterrogers.org/special-guests/">Mr. Rogers</a>. Nobody will. That was his point. There is only one of every person in the world. Not all of us are peaceful and patient, but we all have opportunities that we are invited to take to make the world easier for the people around us, and that is beautiful no matter what else is going on in the neighborhood. </p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/59628922019-11-16T14:19:34-05:002019-11-16T14:23:57-05:00May Tomorrow Be a Perfect Day<p>I was three years old when the Osmonds rocked my world, and despite the dim, fragmented, early childhood memories I have of the seventies, the regularly maintained Friday night routine from 1976-1979 remains crystal clear. </p>
<p>After bathtime, my parents would snap me and my brother into our Carter’s footie pajamas, tuck us into their giant bed (or so it seemed when we were extra-small), and bring up a bowl of Jiffy-Pop to munch on, as we sat glued to the TV set. Mom and Dad, who were frantically busy by nature, would settle down to watch the show, too; there was just no way to resist the talented, brother-sister pair of (ice-skating) singers who embraced the dazzling style of Liberace, were backed by a killer live big-band, and knocked everyone out with their authentic, sparkling smiles. As 9:00 drew nearer, my brother and I would fight the urge to sleep, holding out for “Tomorrow”, the greatest of all lullabies that signaled the end of each show and the beginning of each new chapter. It was a ritual, and it was wonderful. </p>
<p>For Christmas one of those years, Santa brought me a record player and microphone, and my cousin and I would take turns playing the role of Marie, depending upon who was feeling more country or more rock and roll on any particular day. We donned our grandmother’s old, nylon negligees over our Healthtex bell-bottoms and put a lot of lip gloss on each other, in order to mimic Marie’s look on the album covers. We made up dance moves to “A Day Late and a Dollar Short” and rocked out to “It Takes Two”, but it was “The Umbrella Song”, a ballad about love being an umbrella from the rain of life’s turmoil and loneliness, that struck a chord with me the most. </p>
<p>When I was six years old, my parents took me to see the Osmonds at Valley Forge Music Fair, and to this day, my heart skips a beat when I recall the excitement surrounding the event. I was all kinds of dressed up and being a very social chatterbox, I must have struck up a conversation about it with Mrs. Downey, the lady who lived next door. I don’t remember what I said, but I vividly recall standing in her small garden on the side of her house, watching her snip a few of her beautiful climbing roses for me to have as a gift for Marie. I proudly wrapped a handwritten letter around the stems and carried them into the concert, where security immediately insisted that I put them in a box filled with flowers and letters from other adoring fans, but assured me that she would love them. It didn’t really matter, though - I was in the same room with the Osmonds, listening to their music, and all was right with the world. </p>
<p>After the Donny and Marie television show ended, along with the Friday night ritual, and after I packed away the look-alike dolls and became a fan of other musicians; as life did its thing, knocking me down and lifting me up; as I lost my hearing at twelve, along with the ability to listen to music and socialize effortlessly; as I heard a band play and my children speak for the first time through a cochlear implant almost twenty years later, and as I braced with cautious optimism for every twist and turn on a four-decade roller-coaster ride, the love, hope, and joy that echoed from my babyhood soundtrack continued playing, like an umbrella from the rain. </p>
<p>Donny and Marie will perform their final show in Las Vegas tonight, after a long, successful run at the Flamingo. My awesome husband took me to see their show for my fortieth birthday, and I was just as excited as I was when I was in first grade. Donny and Marie, good luck with your future endeavors - I can't wait to see where you go next. Thank you for the memories and using your gifts to make the world a sun-shinier place.<em> May tomorrow be a perfect day. May you find love and laughter along the way. May God keep you in His tender care, till He brings us together again. </em></p>
<p><em>Goodbye, everybody!</em> (Cue the exit music, kids.)</p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/59561672019-11-10T22:00:43-05:002019-11-11T06:24:17-05:00Rolling With the Rain on Our Parade<p>It was my first year back to full-time teaching on a regular basis, and later that morning I was scheduled to meet with the Director of Instruction to review what was his first observation of my class this school year; however, it was also Halloween, and my youngest of four children was to partake in the annual Halloween parade around her elementary school, where parents arrive in droves to wave and smile as their kids proudly strut their stuff around the parking lot to the looping soundtrack of Thriller and… actually, just Thriller, over and over again, I think. It’s all I can ever hear through the hungry howls of younger siblings dressed as furry farm animals and irresistible infant insects. </p>
<p>I’ve been to this parade every year since 2006, and like Bill Murray in Groundhog’s Day, I have the whole event down pat from my view near the flagpole. Standing on thirteen years of previous parades, no longer enveloped in the newness of early parenthood, watching another wave of younger parents, I instantly perceived which moms were going to start talking for five seconds and lose track of their two-foot dinosaurs. This one is going to freak out in 3, 2, 1… “Archer? … Where … Archer? ARCHER!” Take it easy, girlfriend, everything is okay. Archer is behind the bench, just like last year’s Archer. My kid was Archer in 2007. “You scared Mommy. Do not walk away from me again.” Scared, of course, but just wait. Sometime around 2030, you’ll drop Archer off in a cinderblock chamber of a dorm room with a new comforter, a can of Lysol, and a plastic laundry basket, and drive away praying the most intense prayer of your life that he will always stay within reach. </p>
<p>This day, however, was not about that short dinosaur of mine, it was about my nine-year-old Lucille Ball look-alike, who was charged with excitement for what would be her first and only third-grade Halloween parade. Therefore, I submitted my half-day PTO request and had just enough time to get to the parade, wave to the child, and make it back to the city for the meeting. The weather was supposed to hold out for a little longer, but since I was dressed extra-professionally and actually tried to make my thin hair look nice with the flat iron, I grabbed the umbrella from the car before trotting up the street to the school lot. Good call, Mama, good call, I told myself. </p>
<p>As soon as I marked my spot near the flagpole with my high-heeled shoe, and smiled at some familiar faces, a large drop of water plunked down from a cloud and landed on my head. Not to worry, this girl was prepared. Up went the umbrella, perhaps a smidgeon prematurely, but again… the hair. Soon, though, the rain was pattering repetitiously on the handheld waterproof dome, and I started to worry that the event would be canceled. The wind picked up and the water started to pour. My pants were drenched as a burst of sideways rain outsmarted everyone holding an umbrella. A puddle turned into a river, and parents scooped up their small sheep and cows, covered their bees and ladybugs with blankets, and charged toward the entrance of the school. </p>
<p>Ah, but it is no longer 2006. In 2019, teachers and administrators are hard-pressed to ensure the safety and security of all children in the building, regardless of who is standing outside the doors or what is powering through the neighborhood, so we braved the elements for several minutes until they were able to carefully admit us to a single space and provide a quick glimpse of the costumes, grade by grade. Water continued rolling down my previously styled hair, and the sleeves of my blouse clung to my chilled arms as I awaited my ten-second peek of my little Twerp with her classmates; surely, I had my doubts about the worthiness of this event with regard to my four hours of paid-time-off. </p>
<p>Just then, the art and phys ed teachers escorted her class to the front of the stage. I saw her red wig moving forward from behind the curtain, and the second she approached, her eyes frantically scanned the room full of parents, searching for me. No longer concerned about the sogginess or the fact that I’d have frizzy, air-dried hair for my meeting, I thought, “I’m here, baby,“ as I lifted my hand to wave to her. It took just a second or two for her to notice me, and the moment our eyes locked, she flashed a relieved smile. She stood there for less than a minute, but both of us managed to capture the preciousness of the fleeting moment before she was escorted off the stage and back to her classroom. </p>
<p>I later saw a handful of the newer moms grumbling on social media about being locked out of the school in the rain; they were likely unaware of what goes into planning such an occasion, and how difficult it has become for the administration to carry out fun events for families while complying with the laws. Sure, we got wet. It was inconvenient. I was a mess for my meeting. Some might have gotten a cold afterward. But the altitude of the thirteenth parade provides an unobstructed view. From there, it’s easier to realize that the feeling of worth and security that overcomes your children that moment when they spot you in the audience will remain when you leave them in the cinderblock chamber, hoping for the best, and it’s one of the things that will always keep them within reach. Slow down enough to catch those moments, and take it easy, girlfriend. Everything is going to be okay. </p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/56653012019-03-01T14:04:38-05:002019-03-01T14:18:21-05:00An Affair to Remember<p>When my husband, Sean, was in eighth grade, his class planned a field trip to New York City. The trip, of course, was a monumental event for kids living near Philadelphia back in the 1980s and would cost $80. His parents, John and Rosemary, whose only experience with the Big Apple at that point had come through the nightly news and the movie, West Side Story, were anxious about sending him there, so they offered him $80 to stay home, which he gladly accepted. Everyone was happy. Sean, who had no interest in New York at 13, had $80 in his back pocket, and his parents did not have to worry themselves sick about the possibility of his being ensnared in a gang war, knife-fight, shoot-out… Broadway dance-off.... or any such crime scenes that they envisioned when they received the permission slip. </p>
<p>My father-in-law, John, passed away this May, and he was an extraordinary man and grandfather, as equally eager at all times of the day and night to drop whatever he was doing to lend a hand, as to engage in a heated, one-man argument about the frivolousness of using a chainsaw to cut down a tree. (Evidently, anyone with a sound mind and respectable work ethic knows that an ax does a better job.) He was a pip, to put it simply - a fiery, gold-hearted pip, who was cracking jokes until his last breath and has been sorely missed ever since. What has been remarkable, however, is the cohesive way that the family has grieved, pulling closer, rather than pushing apart, strengthening the bonds instead of snipping the strings, and talking about him frequently to ensure that his grandchildren continue to carry him in their hearts. Certainly, such good grief has been the silver lining. </p>
<p>In August, for our daughter's 8th birthday, we decided to head up to American Girl Place in New York City, so I suggested to Sean that he should ask his mom if she wanted to come with us. Rosemary, who does not suffer even a whit of wanderlust, has spent her life perfectly content in southeastern Pennsylvania, venturing out only on a yearly excursion to Ocean City, New Jersey, and another to Hershey Park; however, for some reason, perhaps because of her love for the movie, An Affair to Remember, which features the Empire State Building, or maybe because we thought an adventure would be good for her, it seemed like a marvelous idea to ask her to join us, even though we did not expect her to agree. Well, you could have knocked us over with a feather when she swiftly and easily asked what time she should be ready, and the kids were thrilled (and amused) that “Marmee” was ready to take a bite of the Big Apple. </p>
<p>For her sake, we made the journey far more direct and strategic than our usual, whirlwind road trips. We parked in Princeton, took the train for safety and efficiency, and even had a mental copy of what big-time planners might refer to as an “itinerary”. It seemed crazy to us, the chronically spontaneous, but it all went very smoothly, and she clearly enjoyed the experience of shopping and sightseeing in Manhattan. At night, when we were full from a hearty meal at an Irish Pub, we walked with the birthday girl and her new doll past the Empire State Building and made our way to Penn Station. The trip was a complete success until it went a smidgeon askew with the knife-fight on the train ride home. </p>
<p>Penn Station was jam-packed with so many people that I thought I was going to lose a grip on the little one's hand and have her carried off in the sea of strangers. Behind the closed doors that led to the tracks, we waited for what felt like an eternity, as I tugged on the child’s arm to keep her close and made sure the big kids were within reach, as well. Marmee took it like a pro, held her own, and didn’t appear to be affected by the pushy mob, even though she kept close tabs on the kids. </p>
<p>When the doors opened, the entire wave of people crashed down the steps and pressed toward the train cars to capture good seats. Sean shouted for us to run to the first car, so all seven of us dashed to the very front of the double-decker train where there were plenty of seats on the lower level. As the train pulled out of the station, we relaxed comfortably and contentedly, Marmee and the three teens on one side of the aisle, and me, Sean, the 8-year-old and her new doll on the other side. </p>
<p>Within a few minutes, however, we could hear a disturbance above us. Even I, through my cochlear implant, could sense trouble by the tone of the voices that were tunneling down to our level. The cries grew louder and closer, and suddenly people who had fled down the steps from the floor above us tore through our car, not slowing down, but screaming to us, “Run!” </p>
<p>Our reaction was ambiguous at first, as we tried to process what was happening and determine whether or not we were experiencing a real-life situation. We jumped up but stood still, snatched up our belongings, but didn’t move, then almost hid beneath our seats until Ashley, one of our teens, assertively commanded, “Run! Now!” With that, we bolted out the door with Marmee in the lead, charging through car after car. Hoping that the doors would close behind us, the teens and I looked back and saw a giant man on top of another man with a knife, and he was screaming, “Get help!” </p>
<p>We must have run through six or seven cars before the train came to a stop in Newark, where we waited in total silence, watching out the window as police boots ran toward the car from which we had escaped. Eerily, without announcement or explanation, after a lengthy pause, the train once again began to roll along the track toward home. </p>
<p>There was nothing in the newspaper, nothing online. We have no idea what happened. All we know is that Marmee’s first trip to New York City was, by every stretch of the imagination, an affair to remember. </p>
<p>*Wishing you always God’s blessings of strength, courage, laughter, joy, hope, and memorable moments with the people you love.*</p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/55261072018-11-24T09:36:36-05:002019-11-26T16:49:31-05:00Spectacle<p>Every year on Thanksgiving, usually running late (as we were this year), we drive to Clifton Station to meet up with the family, and head into the city to see the Philadelphia parade. The set-up is one in which the parking lot is on one side of the tracks, and the platform is on the other, so in order to get on the train from the lot, one must walk down the steps, under a short, little tunnel, and up the next flight of steps. Easy. </p>
<p>Apparently, it was too easy for my dear better half, who coolly decided, after a mad dash to the platform, that, since the train was not barreling around the corner at that exact moment, he had enough time to go back for something that he had left in the car. It’s possible that the rest of the family, and the many other people standing on the platform at that time, would have agreed. I did not. My heart was in my throat, racing and pounding, as I stood there, wearing my tall turkey hat, watching him disappear into the shadow of the tunnel. </p>
<p>Sure enough, as soon as I glanced upward, I saw the bright, shining headlight of the SEPTA train snaking up the tracks. Again, while others might chime in and say that it was still practically in another town and that there was plenty of time for him to retrieve his items and get back on the other side, I could picture nothing but the whole family waving to Sean from the train windows, as he stood sadly separated from us, while we carried out our annual tradition. Nevermind that Sean claims that he would have smiled wittingly, gone up to my dad’s house, helped himself to one of the hoagies and taken a nap on the couch. </p>
<p>No, in my heart, I was certain that he would have shared my devastation; so, enveloped in that fear at the sight of the train, and seeing Sean in the lot across the tracks (a mere 80 diagonal feet away from us), I screamed at the top of my lungs, “Seaaaaaaannnn! …. It’s heeeeeeeere!... Oh, no! … Seaaaaaaaan! The train is here!” Only at that moment did I recapture the presence of mind to remember those many other people, who had been standing next to us in complete silence that early Thanksgiving morning. As I turned to face the crowd, every eyeball was on me and my hat, my dad shook his head and laughed and my darling teenaged children seethed, glaring at me with contempt. Sean took a leisurely stroll back to the train, and we boarded easily, but I could not control my laughter for half the ride into the city. </p>
<p>Once we arrived at the parade, that hat was instrumental in helping me meet people on the street, especially since Jaime and Kate gave me a gift of huge, blinking, red Christmas lightbulb earrings, which added a remarkable flair to the look. In the end, a small group of people visiting from France approached me, and in their lovely accents, commented, “You are in danger today, no? Everybody wants to eat you.” It was funny, and I appreciated the exchange with the visiting strangers. </p>
<p>While I generally try to avoid making a spectacle of myself, I appreciate the way that visual surprises command our attention, allowing us to see things that we otherwise might have missed, or meet people that we otherwise might have passed by. At Christmas time, on a much grander and deeper scale, it gives me pause to wonder about the magnitude of awe and joy that must have rocked the world when a magnificent spectacle marked the place where Jesus was born. </p>
<p>“When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy.” -Matthew 2:10 </p>
<p>May God bless you with joy and renewal this Advent season.</p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/55261052018-11-24T09:04:03-05:002020-06-10T08:02:42-04:00Loss, Faith and Children<p>There have not been many scenes in my life more poignant than watching my four children and their four cousins, all between the ages of 7 and 18, say goodbye to their grandfather (my father-in-law) in the back of the church, moments before closing the casket. </p>
<p>As other relatives and friends settled in the pews, the eight children, their parents and their grandmother huddled around their patriarch for the last time, each remembering something uniquely precious that they shared with him, and in a silent show of unity, comforting each other in the midst of the heavy grief. My nephew, Sean, then a seventh grader, laid a toy truck beside him, and my niece, Maddie, the eldest of the crew, leaned in and placed her senior portrait in his hands, before kissing his head. When all had said goodbye, weeping, the children were escorted up the aisle to take part in the service. </p>
<p>“Poppy” had been a hands-on grandfather, present at every soccer game, band competition, dance recital and school concert. Retired and living around the corner, he was “on call” on sick days and many times after school. He enjoyed every moment he spent with the kids, and he spent the time well, telling them stories about his life, teaching them about his favorite presidents, and singing<em> Back in Baby’s Arms</em> on the way to and from Wawa, where he intentionally brought each child on special trips, to let them know that they were special to him individually, and for different reasons. As a result, the children felt his death deeply and instantly, and his loss left a gaping hole in their young hearts. </p>
<p>As parents, we instinctively attempt to protect our children from pain. We make them wear bike helmets and gloves when learning to ride a bike because they will inevitably fall and get scraped or bumped. We don’t want them to hurt or bleed, so we stand beside them to steady the bike until it appears as though they have enough balance to maneuver it on their own. </p>
<p>When it comes to death we are even more powerless to prevent the pain. We can’t stop the loss of loved ones, and there is no way to make it what we would consider by today’s standards to be a “kid-friendly” experience. In a culture that has revised the details of enduring fairy tales so that the first two little pigs are not devoured and the big, bad wolf doesn’t end up in a cauldron of boiling stew, that can be a hard fact for parents to accept. </p>
<p>There are countless resources on the web from professional counselors who help people with teaching their children about death, and with coping with grief. Some offer suggestions such as making sure that it is discussed openly and honestly, and that the children understand that they are not responsible for the death of their loved ones. There are grief centers and experts trained to help children with the concept that, as my second grader reported to me after science class, “Every life cycle ends in death,” and the fears that that might instill about their own mortality and that of others they love. </p>
<p>As Christians, we have the blessing of sharing the greatest news of all in the darkest hours of life. With our faith, trusting and believing in the love of God, and knowing the power of the risen Christ, when our children experience the pain of grief, we can offer them hope. Whether today, tomorrow or the next day, every child in this world will suffer the pain of loss, but as a church family, we can huddle together in a show of unity, comforting them in the midst of grief - with the promise of eternal life. </p>
<p><em>“In my Father’s </em><em>house</em><em> there are many dwelling places. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also. And you know the way to the place where I am going.” </em></p>
<p>John 14:2-4cv</p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/47782162017-08-04T15:52:43-04:002017-08-04T15:52:43-04:00The Phantom Finish Line<p>09 September 2016 </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/258557/7903658644bddfe7fe23cbf01358338abc7fa54d/medium/108236483-400.jpg?1499978998" class="size_m justify_left border_" /></p>
<p>I admit it – I love my birthday. Really, who doesn’t? Between the cake, the ice cream, the balloons and the good wishes, I never met a birthday I didn’t like. I can’t understand how so many people play it cool, “Oh, it’s my birthday? That old thing? I barely noticed. I’m too old for birthdays.” In the meantime, I’m running up and down the block with a pointy hat on each ear, blowing into a cardboard horn, while holding a Bic candle-lighter high above my head, like a torch, and singing, “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” between horn honks. To each his own. </p>
<p>This year, however, the vibe is a little bit different. Not to worry, I’ll still be doing a little jig that moment I wake up and remember that it is, indeed, the anniversary of my birth, but this year, I will be 43, and that is as old as my mom ever got to be. Because of that, ever since then, somewhere deep inside, there has been an imaginary finish line associated with that number, which added fuel to an already smoldering sense of urgency when it came to living. I often considered the possibility that, just like Cinderella’s dance with the prince was suddenly interrupted by the harsh sound of the clock striking 12, for me, if I was lucky enough to get that far in the first place, the magic of this lifetime would surely end abruptly when the 43rd candle was added to the cake. </p>
<p>Shoot! </p>
<p>If that’s the case, move it! …Get that old lady with the wand, and hand me a pumpkin – they’re having a ball down the street, and I need a ride… yesterday! </p>
<p>What’s surprising is that, for as long as it has existed, the looming finish line has actually been a blessing, much more than a burden of any sort. It served as a constant reminder of the swiftness of our time on earth, and the importance of living, loving, laughing, learning, working, and serving with fervor. It pushed me through the muck every time I found myself in quicksand, forcing me to take chances that I might otherwise have put off until it was too late; likewise, it insisted that I stop and smell the roses with my family and friends, while I have them here with me. </p>
<p>As I approach 43 tomorrow, I’m inevitably reminded of my mom, her last birthday cake and the frailty of this life. Nonetheless, although I can never take a single breath for granted, I find myself, not at the end of the line, as, however irrationally, I anxiously anticipated all these years; rather, I’m standing on the brink of all new adventures, including the start of my seminary education. It seems that there’s still work for me to do, and another leg left in the race. </p>
<p>Every day of my life, the good and bad, has been a gift, and every day after tomorrow, come what may, in light of God’s gracious love and promise, the happily ever after. </p>
<p> </p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/47847082017-07-19T11:07:43-04:002017-07-19T11:07:43-04:00An Offer They Couldn't Refuse<p>02 July 2016 </p>
<p>We’ve all passed them on the boardwalks, the musty Old Time Photo shops, where customers line up in droves to have portraits taken in gangster, flapper, cowboy or pirate attire, against antiquated backdrops, holding timeworn props. Otherwise-respectable adults set their minivan keys and docksiders on meager benches in the dressing rooms, and slip into fishnet stockings or pin-striped suits, to pose on bar stools with money bags and Tommy Guns. Small children, whose parents fret over every non-organic element in their daily lunches, are posed in fringed and feathered headgear, holding empty whiskey bottles. Why? Because dress-up is fun and irony is funny. </p>
<p>That is, at least, what those who heartily enjoy the Old Time experience, believe. </p>
<p>Being an enthusiast, myself, I have, again and again, over the past five years, on our annual summer vacation, attempted to convince my closest chums to have a group photo taken at one of these beach-side establishments, only to be shot down on a yearly basis, for all kinds of reasons: I don’t want to wear clothes that other people wear; the whole thing is weird; I don’t feel like going there; I’d rather die, and so on. I can, however, be persistent, and pitched it to the BFF, yet again, as we sipped morning coffee on the deck. </p>
<p>“Come on. It’ll be hilarious. We can check it off the bucket list, and I’ll never mention it again,” I suggested. </p>
<p>“I don’t have a bucket list,” she answered, with eyes as level as laser beams, “I have a list of ridiculous things you’ve made me do throughout my life.” Disbelieving, I searched her face for a trace of jest, but she continued, “And if I had never done any of those things, my life would still be fulfilling.” </p>
<p>“But not as much fun,” I quickly interjected, entirely convinced that that was her next intended line. </p>
<p>“Maybe not. But still perfectly fine,” she replied steadily, with a smile. <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/258557/0faf8e1c6865017c5187caf1ce78cecde5027df4/original/old-time-photo-2016-d400.jpg?1500475849" class="size_l justify_right border_" /></p>
<p>For a nanosecond she had me convinced, then I determined… Nope. Deep down, she absolutely wants to get an Old Time photo taken. They all do. Who wouldn’t? </p>
<p>As luck would have it, the only storm during our sunny, beach-weather week rolled in shortly after that conversation, and as 14 of us sat in the living room, 13 of whom were desperately trying to devise alternative ways to spend the afternoon, I made my case again, emphasizing the promise, “… and when it’s over, I will never ask again. Ever.” The room fell silent with awe when the BFF’s husband, the toughest nut to crack on this case, piped up flatly and unexpectedly, “I’m in.” Eyes darted around the room at each other. If he was in, that meant we were all in. After five years, the stars aligned; thus, with a complete lack of something better to do, we were on our way. </p>
<p>“You guys are going to love this!” I assured them, as our large lot piled into two minivans. Love is a funny word, though. It has a lot of variation, as I was reminded a bit later. </p>
<p>Being a drop-in business, there’s no time for dillydallying or lollygagging in the Old Time Photo studios, especially with a crew as gigantic as ours. Almost as soon as we set foot in the place, a photographer and her assistant sized us up, one by one, handing out costumes and accessories, lacing the backs of the dresses, and covering whatever didn’t fit with ties and feathered boas. Within minutes, all 14 of us were placed strategically around a saloon scene, answering the assistant, who requested our individual prop preferences with a repetitive, “Gun, bottle or money bags?” Most chose guns, and aimed them at me. </p>
<p>At that moment, a moment when the joyfulness of a realized plan was overcome by deafening, awkward silence, it occurred to me for the very first time… I really don’t think they want to be here. Each of my beloved friends’ faces was marked with varying degrees of discomfort, awakening me to the reality that it was more than lackluster enthusiasm that kept them from doing this for five years – it was that they really, truly detested the notion of dressing up for an Old Time Photo. From behind the camera, the photographer instructed, “Nobody smile.” This was not a problem. </p>
<p>When the photo shoot ended, and our squished-up group dismounted the bar, and dispersed throughout the room, tugging wildly to remove red neckties and strings of white pearls, I told the BFFs, “Right before she took the picture, I realized that none of you were having fun.” They laughed in agreement. “Then why did you do it?” I asked. </p>
<p>“Because we love you. This was the one thing you wanted from us, for five years, and we love you.” Well, if that ain’t the cat’s pajamas. </p>
<p>When it was over, and everyone was in their own clothes, seated contentedly around a restaurant table, the smiles started cracking, partly because, as suspected, the experience made for an outstanding memory, and the finished product, itself, was worth a thousand words; moreover, perhaps, it was because they know I’m a woman of my word and as such, can never, ever ask them to endure it again. Ever. That was an offer they couldn't refuse. </p>
<p> </p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/47847072017-07-19T11:06:33-04:002017-07-19T11:11:14-04:00Tinnitus: Planes, Trains and Other Inaudible Madness<p>12 March 2016 </p>
<p>“What did you say?” I ask with a tinge of disgust, “My ears are screaming right now.” </p>
<p>That’s what I tell my husband and children, when the sounds of tinnitus are unbearably loud, drowning out nearly every other sound being detected by my cochlear implant speech processor. The sounds, themselves, are nothing like a screaming human being, really, but I can’t put the madness that is happening in the space between my ears, 24 hours a day, into better words. It’s as if every nerve in my head has a voice, and intensely panicked, is howling wildly to alarm me about impending danger. But there isn’t any. It’s just a beautiful, sunny day on a peaceful trail in the woods, an empty aisle in a quiet food store, a conversation with a friend in a coffee shop, a heartfelt moment at a child’s dance recital, or a soft pillow when the lights go out. Nonetheless… the grating noise fiercely persists. </p>
<p>“The trains are zipping through the station” is another phrase I frequently use to communicate with my family that I’m having a particularly intense tinnitus moment, because the sounds are a mix of a similar hissing, whirling, whistling, ringing, raging, static-y ugliness, which can be heard at 30th Street Station. The sounds fluctuate in volume, but in my case, the mix is generally overpowering of all other environmental sounds. Like an insolent boss, it wants my undivided attention. On great days, it’s distracted, and its loudness can decrease to equal that of an industrial freezer, humming in the background; on the worst days, its volume rivals that of a church organ or airplane engine, and it refuses to let me attend to anything else without acknowledgement of its control. </p>
<p>Though I did coincidentally lose my hearing as a 12-year-old, from what was years later diagnosed as auto-immune inner ear disease, tinnitus is not always associated with deafness, and mine ironically predates any sign of hearing loss, although, it was not nearly as intense in my childhood as it is now. I remember when I was about 4 years old, lying in bed, newly aware that I could hear something that other people couldn’t, and asking my mom, “Don’t you hear those whistles?” Her perplexed expression was the response, and is still the reaction of most people to whom I try to explain it. </p>
<p>At this point, there is very little that can be done to treat the condition. Everyone’s case is different, but when it’s particularly intense for me, and I’m teetering on the verge of tears, exercise often gives me the boost I need to push through the immediate hurdle, and I’ve discovered that, more than anywhere else, I find peace on the beach, where nature has my back. The crashing waves, singing seagulls and whipping wind give tinnitus’s volume a run for its money. Most days, though, when I’m nowhere near a beach, and relief is out of reach, in order to persist, it takes strength and fortitude, which I receive through prayer. A good, old-fashioned counting of the blessings, as well as the empathetic awareness that most people treading the earth are fighting battles, some obvious and some invisible, is a very real method for gaining perspective. <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/258557/ee37c57cedca937387fcd759d7f8d63eed5f33e7/original/ata-logo-very-small.jpg?1500477043" class="size_l justify_left border_" /></p>
<p>To sample the sounds of tinnitus, visit: </p>
<p><a contents="http://www.hearing.nihr.ac.uk/public/auditory-examples-sounds-of-tinnitus&nbsp;" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://www.hearing.nihr.ac.uk/public/auditory-examples-sounds-of-tinnitus&nbsp;" target="_blank">http://www.hearing.nihr.ac.uk/public/auditory-examples-sounds-of-tinnitus </a></p>
<p>For more information about tinnitus, visit the American Tinnitus Association at: </p>
<p><a contents="www.ata.org" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://www.ata.org" target="_blank">www.ata.org</a></p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/47847052017-07-19T11:05:14-04:002017-07-19T11:05:14-04:00Ready or Not: Kindergarten Registration<p>05 March 2016 </p>
<p>It’s happening again. Waking in a panic with confusion and worry. Becoming overly emotional at commercials and cartoons. Desperately trying to savor, if not record, every blessed moment, as a response to the sensation of impending doom. Psychologists will be too swift to categorize these symptoms as depression or anxiety, while particularly discerning mothers immediately and accurately identify it as kindergarten registration. My fourth and final baby is flapping her fuzzy, little wings with more fervor each day, and there’s nothing I can do in good conscience to prevent her from taking off. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/258557/7538db2298a7deaa8c13723fc5b99a9a7d6b7a61/medium/bus-school-d400.jpg?1500475848" class="size_m justify_left border_" />Unlike her older siblings, who all had quiet rocking chairs sitting in the midst of their freshly painted nurseries, when she arrived, this little Twerp slept in a frequently relocated pack-n-play, until we could carve enough time to extract the crib from the attic, and assemble it in a corner of her 7-year-old brother’s messy room. Since we figured she was too small to know the difference, and we wanted to optimize her chances of acceptance by the boy (thus, survival in general), we nixed the pink flowers and frilly dresses, choosing instead whatever he selected, which often ended up being Phillies gear. There she was – our beautiful baby princess, sleeping in a crib that sailed over a sea of muddy soccer cleats and stinky socks, wearing her Chase Utley jersey, all the while being watched over by a foreboding poster of Optimus Prime. </p>
<p>From the first moments, her life has consisted of running from one activity to the next, and though I often feel guilty about the stark contrast between her early childhood and that of her three older siblings, primarily her infrequent opportunities to stay home and play with her toys, I can’t deny that she is better prepared for school than the others were, combined. She’s been on an airplane, she knows what a short stop is, she understands the correlation between homework and success in school, she knows how to “customize” selfies, where the circle gym is located in the high school, and which rows are the prime seating options on a school-bus. She can apply stage make-up, buy her own lunch in a cafeteria and keep time on a snare drum during percussion ensemble rehearsal; when her tiny legs are tired, after a full day of keeping up with much taller people, instead of crying helplessly, she boldly announces, “Okay, right now I need to sit down and relax with an episode of Curious George.” She knows how to speak her mind. </p>
<p>What she doesn’t know is how much I’m going to miss having her beside me all the time, whether snuggling on the frozen bleachers or playing cards on a blanket on the sidelines, having her under my desk, where she plays with figurines and waits for me to finish my work before we take walks, or in line at the food store, where she organizes items on the conveyor belt and offers loud commentary on her observations. </p>
<p>When my three older loves went to kindergarten, I learned how the car line works, what snacks can be eaten in a classroom and how to survive as a homeroom mother. What no experience in the world will help me understand, though, is how to let go of my baby’s hand as she steps out of our yard and into the world. I’ll be a blubbering disaster when she takes flight, and will be praying hard that she soars in the company of protective angels, but the world better brace itself, because ready or not… here she comes! </p>
<p> </p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/47847042017-07-19T11:04:27-04:002017-07-19T11:04:27-04:00Ain't That a Kick in the Shins<p>05 February 2016 <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/258557/023e79f2fcaf1eadd0f4485dd8e9350659803d1b/original/nanpop1-d400.jpg?1500475849" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p>It’s hard to believe, especially as a child, that your grandparents were ever young. What’s even harder to envision is that they were ever in love, in the whistling-“That’s-Amore”, buying-boxes-of-chocolates sense. Sure, they held hands, to help each other to and from the car, and they stood together through every difficult circumstance that developed at different points in their long marriage, but the head-over-heels, fireworks, “in love” image isn’t something that’s easy to picture while observing their interaction as grandparents, shopping for a tablecloth. </p>
<p>I remember being with Nan and Pop as a 15-year-old at Clover, where we must have been stalled in the home goods section for quite a stretch. Pop had obviously had enough of tablecloths and other textiles, and was trailing behind, knowing better than to nag verbally, but using every trick in the book to express his agitation, and desire to go home. Finally, like a puppy who’s not allowed to go outside to play in the mud, he slumped down in a seat, about 20 feet from where we were standing, rested his head on his paws and sulked. Every so often, he turned his wrist upward to glance at the time. It drove her crazy that he wore his watch seemingly upside-down, on the underside of his wrist, for no particular reason, so Nan warned, “Jimmy, if you look at that watch one more time, I’m going to kick you in the shins.” Intrigued by the challenge, he perked up his ears, and with a daring expression, he looked her in the eyes, then flipped his arm around, and took the forbidden glance at his watch. His victory was short-lived. Much to his surprise, Nan immediately abandoned the cart, scurried over to him, and gave him a swift kick in the leg. </p>
<p>With a mix of amusement and bewilderment, he exclaimed for all of Clover to hear, “She kicked me!” Then the two of them burst into laughter, and he conceded, “Alright, Old Girl, you’re the boss.” She shot him a familiar glance, which quipped, “Tell me something I don’t know.” </p>
<p>Being so familiar with that stage of their relationship, I loved hearing stories about the beginning, when he was trying to sweep her off her feet. They met shortly after the war ended 1945, on a work truck, which finally, with the help of Google Images, I am able to accurately envision. (With confusion, I would always ask Nan, “Was it a bus?” and she’d say, “No. It was a plain, old truck that picked everyone up and dropped them off.”) </p>
<p><a contents="http://hiddencityphila.org/2014/08/an-anniversary-to-forget-august-1-1944/factory-employees-broght-home-by-truck-during-the-ptc-strike/&nbsp;" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://hiddencityphila.org/2014/08/an-anniversary-to-forget-august-1-1944/factory-employees-broght-home-by-truck-during-the-ptc-strike/&nbsp;" target="_blank">http://hiddencityphila.org/2014/08/an-anniversary-to-forget-august-1-1944/factory-employees-broght-home-by-truck-during-the-ptc-strike/ </a></p>
<p>She was a class act, who graduated high school through an accelerated program, which enabled her to get a job to earn an income during “war times”, as she later called them. She was fairly shy and quiet in public, despite her warm, charismatic personality, and he was, by all means, a loving, caring, people person, and an unrivaled, animated storyteller. Their greatest commonality, from my perspective, was a sense of humor, so I can’t help guessing that chance seated them next to each other on that truck, and wit took care of the rest. </p>
<p>Pop often reminisced about those summer days when he worked a few floors above Nan at Sharp and Dohme in Philadelphia. To show her how just how wonderful he thought she was, he filled a basket with ice cream, tied a rope to the handle, and lowered it out the window, so that she could catch it, and bring it to her desk for a treat. I never heard the full report, but I imagine that sparked a little envy among the ladies working around her, and though it was not in her character to gloat, I can picture her being impressed with that cute boy upstairs, and wearing the hint of a grin on her face. </p>
<p>They were married on February 5, 1949. Over the years, their expression of love somehow changed from baskets of ice cream to fights in Clover, but it took until I was several years into my own marriage to understand that it was the same thing. She was still his best girl, and the fact that he endearingly referred to her as, Old Girl, the way he did, only meant that he’d loved her more than anyone for a very long time. </p>
<p>Happy anniversary to the two best people ever to fall in love and get married. xo</p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/47847032017-07-19T11:03:22-04:002017-07-19T11:03:22-04:00Morning Person<p>30 December 2015 </p>
<p>I am the only chipper morning-person in this house, living with five night owls, which means I am completely out of sync with the rest of my family. Nearly every day, I spring out of bed in the last hours of darkness, cheerily greet the morning moon, grab my fluffy, pink robe, and immediately start buzzing around the house. I do some laundry and dishes, make the coffee, exercise or do whatever else strikes my fancy. No grogginess. No wishing to go back to bed. I’m as happy as a clam, until I encounter my husband and children, who possess an uncanny ability to flatten my enthusiasm with a single grunt. They sit upright with their eyes closed, and frown at me angrily. They snarl and bark when I ask questions, such as, “What are you looking forward to today?” or, “Do you want to hear a joke?” Sometimes it seems as though, even deep down, they really don’t want to dance when I put on Barry Manilow’s, Daybreak, at that hour. I don’t understand it. </p>
<p>My, how the tables turn in the evening, though. It seems to defy logic that they experience a surge of energy late in the day, almost at the exact time that I start slipping and sliding toward the crash and burn segment of the daily routine. They laugh noisily, jump around, enthusiastically share stories, and I want to cry, “For the love of all that’s good, WHY are you still awake?” </p>
<p>“Mom, it’s 8:00. The entire world is still awake.” </p>
<p>I try so hard to keep my eyes open to watch movies with them at night, but I usually can’t do it. It pains me to miss out, but it’s excruciating to stay awake when I feel so miserably exhausted. Last year, Sean and I were watching the Oscars, and The Grand Budapest Hotel was making a sweep of the awards. I commented, “We should’ve gone to see that.” He looked at me squarely, and remarked, “We did see it. At the theater. You fell asleep during the previews.” That’s right. I knew it sounded familiar. </p>
<p>For all nighttime events, I’m a terrible date, and a lousy party animal. Maybe that’s why I enjoy parades so much. At the crack of dawn, the streets are lined with my kind of people… people ready to dance on the sidewalks, wearing goofy hats, while the sun rises over the city. The camaraderie is palpable, “We morning people really do know how to have a good time… before noon.” </p>
<p>Sunrise is, by far, the most hopeful time of day, and I never want to miss one, for just that reason. Being a natural-born worry-wart means that the middle of the night brings me undistracted fears, who rub their hands together mischievously, ready to wreak havoc on what would be a peaceful slumber. Thanks to them, many nights are wrought with tossing and turning, as they flick my ears, tickle my feet and whisper a steady stream of exaggerated concerns in my ears. </p>
<p>Just before dawn, though, I am finally able to stifle the mangy miscreants, because something beautiful is on the horizon. Coffee? Yes, of course, it’s my favorite. I’ll take two, please. But there’s something even more glorious than the bean, and that’s the joy of witnessing the birth of a new day. Watching light seep incrementally through the darkness, waiting for the sun to appear, and finally enjoying the range of gorgeous colors splash across the sky is something that fills me up, and I want to share it, but I refrain, because that would be an unhealthy choice… at least, in this house. </p>
<p>On our most recent summer vacation, however, the crew surprised me. After a straight week of asking everyone the night before, who wanted to join me in my morning trek through the darkness, up the street to the beach, to find a front-row seat to my favorite show, and after being denied five times per night … for a whopping total of 35 consecutive “no”s… on our last morning at the shore, they all rolled out of bed to accompany me. There wasn’t a smiling face in the bunch as they trudged along the sidewalk in their pajamas, and I don’t think the little one could blink for five straight minutes as she sat motionless in her stroller, but it was monumental, and the gesture shone brightly. <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/258557/4be18cd8a9a22071108c65021d1ab26548147e86/medium/beach-sunrise-2015-d400.jpg?1500475848" class="size_m justify_right border_" /></p>
<p>In a world of 24-hour, international news broadcasts, it can be hard to see the sunrise through the darkness, but hope remains, often in the mundane. On any given day, patrons hold the door for strangers at Wawa, someone makes a hilarious joke to provide comic relief at the perfect moment, people pick up items dropped by colleagues, teachers give high-fives, adult children accompany their aging parents to Acme and the hair salon, acquaintances send the assurance of thoughts and prayers over social media, cars brake for small animals (hopefully after checking the rearview mirror first)…the list of goodness goes on and on, and it is clear that the Light of the World is painting the sky with bold colors every day, even if we have to make an effort seek Him. </p>
<p>I'm thankful for all who have been a source of light in our lives this year, whether it was in person, through the computer, on the phone, or even in a memory that we share. </p>
<p>Merry Christmas and happy New Year! </p>
<p>Love and peace, </p>
<p>Heather </p>
<p>"What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it." -John 1:3-5 </p>
<p> </p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/47847022017-07-19T11:02:23-04:002017-07-19T11:02:23-04:00Another One Bites the Dust<p>12 November 2009 </p>
<p>The knife, lathered in the peanut butter that I had been rinsing off as I loaded the dishwasher, fell out of my shaking hands and hit the bottom of the kitchen sink. Slowly, I turned and looked down at four pleading faces that moved closer and nearly pinned me to the cabinets as one child repeated the request, “Mommy, can we please take Kristen out to see the bunny?” </p>
<p>I’m a fair woman. I try to honor all reasonable requests. Sure, it was cold out, and we’d have to bundle everyone up to hike across the yard and stare at the rabbit in the hutch in the whipping January wind, but I would do it. If not for the fact that the stinking bunny had dropped dead as a doornail just before Christmas, I truly would have done it. </p>
<p>My heart was thumping wildly as I tried to play it cool and think up an outstanding reason why we had to stay inside for the next 40 minutes before Kristen’s mom came to pick her up. Spotting the box of treats that Sean brought home from his band rehearsal, I shouted, “Who wants a doughnut?” That trick bought me roughly 10 minutes, and as the temporarily distracted crew cheered and ran to the table, my brain raced to develop a stronger deterrent. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/258557/21b421c89e44450a2605af8e186c3620e6256f3c/medium/dead-bunny-doll-400.jpg?1500475848" class="size_m justify_left border_" />At one point in time, there were three rabbits. When the first one died, it was a traumatic event in the household. Tinkerbell was Juliet’s pet, but all three kids went berserk when she passed on to greener pastures, and we have since had to tearfully include her in bedtime prayers. A year or so later, when Aidan’s female rabbit, Jeff, went to nibble the big carrot in the sky, we brilliantly opted to tell them that she ran away. This prompted a slew of unexpected questions, mostly from a particularly discerning Ashley. “How did she get out?” I guess she must have pushed the top open. “How did she get the rock off of the top?” I don’t know – maybe she just pushed really hard until it fell off. “How did she put the rock back on before she left? Can she hop with a rock in her paws?” UGH! We have since been answering questions regarding Jeff’s departure, and the details have become ridiculously elaborate, and very difficult to keep track of. As of right now, Jeff is living with her husband and children in a posh shrub somewhere in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. </p>
<p>When Belle, the third and final bunny, died a couple weeks ago, the weather had just gotten very cold, and the kids were no longer running around all corners of the property. In wintertime, they voluntarily narrow the play area to the swing set and the driveway, where they ride bikes. When Sean discovered the dead bunny, Christmas was coming, and while we decided that telling them the truth was the better road to take, we put it off indefinitely, kind of hoping that they wouldn’t notice. When their friend, Kristen, came over for the first time yesterday, however, the kids were bubbling over with excitement to show her every nook and cranny of the house, including the bunny hutch. </p>
<p>Now this story will not work out too well, since there’s no resolution as of this morning. I managed to entertain the crew until Kristen was picked up. There was a close call as she was leaving because the kids made a break for it, speeding across the yard toward the hutch until Daisy, our enormous, insane, 1-year-old golden retriever, tried to kill them with love, which happens to be the first smart thing that dog has ever done. </p>
<p>With a birthday party to go to soon after their friend left, the kids were re-directed to the house, and the news has yet to be broken. I dread it, but it has to be done, and after a while they will be okay. We will not be buying any more bunnies, but I have had my eye on a frog for Juliet, since they've always been her favorite pet. After all this, however, it might be wise to procure a companion that is not as likely to croak the first day we get it.</p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/47847012017-07-19T11:00:58-04:002017-07-19T11:00:58-04:00Sense and Sensibility<p>03 July 2015 </p>
<p>Exactly seventeen years ago, on a sunny, funny summer day, Sean and I got married. We kick-started this journey with a trip to Moorea, where we got a drumstick stuck in a coconut in an attempt to open it, ate pineapples for two meals a day, to avoid Tahitian cuisine, and went sharkfeeding on an outrigger canoe, thinking it must be safe, since we paid a guide to take us. The guide threw tuna into the ocean until we were surrounded by black-tip sharks, and unable to speak English, he pointed to them, as if to say, "You wanted to see them... there they are." *Ah, thank you. Let's go back now.* </p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/258557/a4f0c5562afad0e7c2ed451c363ee11b3c71bd89/medium/safari-1998-001-400.jpg?1500475849" class="size_m justify_left border_" />We jumped into a Jeep with a giant Polynesian maniac who zipped through muddy, hilly terrain in the pouring rain at about 6,000 mph, causing us to cling to the posts of the vehicle for dear life, as he climbed fearlessly to the tops of the hills at what seemed to be 90-degree angles. He used a machete to clear the way to a waterfall, where I jumped in, then jumped right back out when a giant eel, or some similarly slimy creature, slid across my legs. On another day of the trip, we rented a scooter, went off the path they told us to stay on, killed the scooter, then took a ride from a kindly, French-speaking stranger with a truck big enough to haul the dead scooter back to the rental facility, which was quite possibly the only establishment on the island, besides our hotel, that had a floor *and* a roof. </p>
<p> What made us think that we could fly halfway across the world to that tiny speck of a (quite primitive) island, and make it back home again? We had no sense in our heads... that was certainly a huge factor, which also played a role when we exchanged the rings, promising to build our futures together, without any real idea of what that meant. We were clueless then, and haven't gained all that much wisdom over the years, but from the start, we've had hope, love and a lot of laughter. Here's to many more senseless years, Hub! I love you.</p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/47847002017-07-19T11:00:12-04:002019-09-22T09:53:12-04:00Cow Appreciation Day 2015: Taking the Bull by the Horns<p>15 July 2015 </p>
<p>“Mom, no. Stay in the car. Please don’t go in there.” </p>
<p>Before heading over to Chik-Fil-A, I made a detour to see if my niece and nephews wanted to tag along, while my 14-year-old daughter, who always asks me to swing by her cousins’ house, begged me to turn around in their driveway and leave, before anyone noticed we were there. I really don’t know what her problem was. At first I thought that maybe she had a little tiff with one of the cousins, which was highly unlikely to begin with, but when I realized that my 12-year-old son joined her in pleading me to back out of their driveway, I was sure it wasn’t that. </p>
<p>What odd behavior. What strange concerns were rolling around in their little teen and preteen heads? Were they afraid of being distracted by conversation, and wanted to focus on their food? Were they selfishly afraid that there was not enough chicken to go around if we brought more kids with us? I taught them better than that! Alas, the answer struck me as soon as my niece and nephews approached, with the same immediate expression of intense confusion and disgust. It was the head-to-toe cow costume that I was donning. They were all judging me. </p>
<p>For whatever reason, be it curiosity or fear, they got in the car anyway, and glanced sympathetically at my children, whose clothes were adorned with construction paper cow spots, stuck on with wads of electrical tape. My son had a photo of a cow plastered on the front of his beloved Nike shirt, and the preschooler was wearing a cow hat with ears, and had a little, paper tail taped to her backside. </p>
<p>“Listen, people. It’s Cow Appreciation Day. If we dress like cows, we get a free dinner. Share your spots.” Obediently, yet apologetically, my children removed a few of their taped-on cow spots, and stuck them to their speechless cousins. As we approached the parking lot, the kids worriedly reported, “Aunt Heather. Nobody else is dressed like a cow in there.” </p>
<p>“Yes, they are. You just can’t see them yet. Look! There’s a giant cow right there.” </p>
<p>“Mom, he works here. He’s the mascot. You’re just a crazy person in a cow suit.” </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/258557/05d2158fc266ec1e9eb3cd5f8ebc7018e7715f3d/medium/cow-appreciation-2015-400.jpg?1500475849" class="size_m justify_left border_" />You know, if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a party pooper. Ok, I understand all about adolescents and their heightened self-consciousness and sensitivity, but there comes a time when we have to cast aside all fears about what others may think, and focus on the goal. In this case, the reward was not a little, plastic whistle – we were talking about free Chik-Fil-A chicken sandwiches, waffle fries and lemonades all around. We were not dressed like fools – we were dressed like winners. Eyes on the prize, kids. </p>
<p>To the slight relief of the teens, there were, indeed, other driven individuals in an assortment of black and white costumes milling about inside the restaurant. As we waited in line, a man in a sharp-looking business suit stood between us and another cow family behind him. When I glanced in his direction, he shook his head shamefully, and sighed, “I didn’t know.” It’s alright, my friend… now you do. Now you do. </p>
<p>Watching the friendly cashier ring up our order of seven sandwiches, seven waffle fries, and seven lemonades, for a grand total of $0.00, I was overcome with a gloriously victorious feeling, and though I doubt they’ll admit it for years to come, I’m pretty sure I witnessed my herd crack a few smiles. </p>
<p>Were the children mortified? Marginally. But as they walked out of Chik-Fil-A, hiding behind their bags of food, dashing to the car to avoid being identified, they also carried with them the truth that the only way to achieve goals in this world is to push beyond insecurities, take the bull by the horns, and moo-ve it.</p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/47846982017-07-19T10:59:12-04:002017-07-19T10:59:12-04:00Ways to Earn A Purple Petal<p>21 January 2008 </p>
<p>Due to holiday interruptions, and the fact that the Daisy troop only meets every other week to begin with, Ashley and Juliet had been waiting very anxiously for the Girl Scout meeting that they finally attended on Monday night. For some reason, as the troop leader, it just didn’t seem like I had to wait quite as long before the meeting was upon us, and naturally, on Monday morning, I was scrambling to develop an activity that would cover the bases and qualify the troop for another petal patch. </p>
<p>Since the dark purple patch is awarded to troops that participate in an activity that promotes respect of self, a tea party theme was selected, with a lesson on manners neatly attached. It was a hit in every capacity! With plastic cutlery, the girls enthusiastically learned about formal table settings, and with pretty pink napkins, the Daisies had a ball politely dabbing the corners of their mouths. Most of all, however, they enjoyed the giant bin of dress-up clothes that we brought from home, from which they each selected formal attire, appropriate for the occasion. </p>
<p>As luck would have it, with all the eloquent tossing and yanking of boas and tiaras, out of the bin popped a little magnet that is covered in soft material and resembles a chocolate chip cookie. It was part of a toy that the kids had when they were really small, and I didn’t realize it was still around. What is funny about the little magnet cookie is that, right after I had my cochlear implant surgery, in which a magnet was strategically placed inside my head to hold the external speech processor in place, Ashley, Juliet and Aidan (then 3, 3 and 1) thought it was the world’s funniest magic trick when I would stick the cookie to my skull, just behind my ear. (What a deranged mother won’t do to entertain the crew on a rainy day, eh?) </p>
<p>Sure enough, when it popped into the air at the meeting, in a spray of hot pink feathers, Ashley and Juliet recognized the cookie and recalled my freakish talent. “Do it, Mommy! Show them!” they exclaimed. Trying to divert their attention, I shook my head and motioned toward the other girls. With great delight, they once again squealed, “Come on, Mommy! Do it!” The other girls heard them, and although they didn’t have a clue what they were asking for, they joined in the pleading, “Yeah! Show us!” they cheered. <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/258557/7d18ec3e29ccf2b1283d4f37d0b35c621b2630b4/medium/daisy-petals-smaller-400.jpg?1500475849" class="size_m justify_right border_" /></p>
<p>Exercising superior judgment, I smiled and said, “Okay,” as I held up the magnet, pulled back my hair, and without any warning, slapped the cookie on the side of my head, where it – as far as the room full of 5 and 6-year-old girls were concerned – defied the laws of physics, and sat hauntingly, without reason. </p>
<p>As Ashley and Juliet howled with laughter, every other child in the room stared – speechless - with bulging eyes and gaping mouths. Some were confused and others were genuinely horrified, but they remained transfixed on the madness before them. Suddenly realizing what trauma I might have inadvertently inflicted upon their psyches, I snatched the cookie off of my head, and tried to explain how it worked. “No, no…it’s not magic! I have a magnet in my head!” That helped. This time, not only did they cast ghastly glances, some literally gasped. </p>
<p>Though it took some quick and fancy talking about why they should find it as amusing as my children, they eventually relaxed a little bit, and were able to see the humor that Ashley and Juliet found in my unique capabilities. We formed a circle, sang the Friendship song, and bid farewell. They certainly earned their purple petal that night, but I can only imagine what it will remind them of in the future! </p>
<p>Posted by Heather High Kennedy at </p>
<p>7:04 AM</p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/47846972017-07-19T10:57:33-04:002017-07-19T10:57:33-04:00Joy to the World, This Year is Done<p>26 December 2011 </p>
<p>One of the best things about Christmas time is that, mixed in with bills and circulars, more often than not, there is a beautiful card or photo from a friend or family member to look forward to. Isn’t it funny how receiving something personal changes the whole vibe of the mailbox experience? Being that the excitement of receiving Christmas cards never lost its luster to me, I still flip through the pile, tossing statements and form letters on the ground around me, enthusiastically rooting for the red and green envelopes, or ones with a handwritten address on the front. When we were little, Jaime and I had to divvy up the goods, and I remember trying to read the return addresses as quickly as I could, hoping to score the ones from people we knew, rather than those from local business owners or politicians. How sad is it that I still do this, only now to my four children? The mail truck comes, the bright-eyed little ones rush to the door, and the big goon of a mom pounces out of the kitchen like a linebacker, elbowing, shoving, taking no prisoners, tackling the mail carrier on the front step. It can get ugly, but that’s the holidays, my friends. Buck up. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/258557/4075307eccab7ec4f0d2f843182de199ae24bf4c/medium/123880037-400.png?1500475849" class="size_m justify_left border_" />Normally, I would write in detail here about my year, but I want to keep a festive mood, so I’ll just summarize. I lost my uncle, I lost my grand-uncle, I lost my grandmother, I lost my job, and my children cry themselves to sleep every night because of said losses. We took a vacation in the summer to get away from things for a few days, and I got so sick that I had to be wheeled out of Epcot Center in a wheelchair. This week, while looking forward to new traditions that will keep the crying children from getting too sad on Christmas Day, Aidan came down with a nasty case of pneumonia, and has been in bed for 5 days. Fa-la-la-la-la. 2011, please don’t let the door hit you too hard on the way out, okay? </p>
<p>I admit, I’m laughing while I write this, even though it’s true, because what else is there to do? I’m perfectly aware of how lucky we are despite the trials and tribulations of this year. I’ve been reminded to simplify, stop and smell the roses, and count my blessings, which are many, but the greatest of all being our four beautiful, funny, healthy, mostly-good kids (we have our eye on that little one), who – if recuperated enough – will partake in the Christmas Pageant on Saturday, which should be hilarious. The girls, who have been taking dance and theater for years now, are beside themselves because they were cast as “Group B”. Oh, the carrying on! “Group B!...Couldn’t we at least be townspeople, or something like that? …Group B?! That must be THE most important group in the Bible!” Their brother, who hates the spotlight, was picked to be Joseph, and the only reason he has agreed to participate is because Joseph has no speaking lines; he simply has to stand beside the manger and stare out yonder. We joke with him sometimes, yelling spontaneously, “Aidan! Be Joseph!” which is his cue to freeze, close his mouth and look off into the distance. After watching him in the rehearsal, though, I will also have to remind him not to blow off Mary, leaving her a good 5-feet behind him with Baby Jesus, as they process out of the church. </p>
<p>Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! May the Lord bless you with lots of love and laughter in 2012.</p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/47846952017-07-19T10:55:33-04:002017-07-19T10:55:33-04:00The Package <p>Well, the big news in our household is the arrival of our (now) 5-week-old baby girl. Peewee is the fourth blessing that my husband and I have received as parents, and follows twin 9-year-old girls and a 7-year-old boy. Needless to say, we have been out of the baby business for a while, but it seems as though – according to many acquaintances – life with a newborn baby should be second nature to veterans like us. </p>
<p>There were, indeed, times during pregnancy when I felt like an old pro. While leafing through a catalogue, for example, I was able to diminish the list of “infant essentials” from 55 items to roughly four in about a minute and a half. Changing table? Please. It’s 2:30 a.m., dark and freezing, and I’m supposed to drag the baby to a designated location down the hall to do a diaper switcharoo? I don’t think so. A foldable, washable blanket works just as well, and if the diapers are set up close enough, Mama doesn’t even have to get out of her covers to get the baby comfy-cozy. Cha-ching! That little trick came back to me instantly. </p>
<p>What I’m surprised to have forgotten, however, is exactly how painful and delirious it feels to be genuinely sleep-deprived. The culmination of a month without sleep occurred last week in a conversation with my husband. I had spent my 30th consecutive night feeding a frenzied baby and gazing numbly at the Soap Opera channel. In one show, a character named Caleb found a package on the front steps of his mansion. When he reached for it, however, he was knocked unconscious by a villain who had been hiding in the bushes. <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/258557/4fa85e022d2b33e0e6702ba00fc7de63e07c9a69/medium/starter-package-400.jpg?1500475849" class="size_m justify_left border_" /></p>
<p>I thought nothing of the show again until my husband came home from work and ironically asked if a package had been delivered to our house. Suddenly, the world started moving in slow motion, as I lost a handle on fantasy vs. reality. I said, “Yes, there was a package! No, wait – I don’t know …Does your head hurt?” The husband just stared blankly, until I finally decided that we had not received a package, I was just thinking of someone named Caleb Cooney. </p>
<p>So I didn’t remember how tired I would feel mothering a newborn, but over the years held onto the fact that – though sleepless – these nights are precious. How could I have forgotten that? As my wise, old granny used to say, “Like sand through the hour glass, so go the Days of Our Lives.” …Well, someone said it, right?</p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/47846942017-07-19T10:54:05-04:002017-07-19T10:54:05-04:00Bridezilla's Offspring<p>29 April 2009 </p>
<p>Carol Brady never sprayed her children with Lysol, I do realize this; however, there’s something about celebrations involving pretty white dresses that brings out the madness in women. Certainly, we’ve heard horror stories about Bridezillas, otherwise normal females who momentarily morph into egocentric, fire-breathing dragons while preparing for the happiest day of their lives. Often overlooked, however, is the smaller-scale, L’il Zill – the mini-maniac who shows up in the midst of other white-dress occasions, such as graduations and First Communions. She’s not as intense or offensive as Bridezilla, but can often match her in terms of irrationality. </p>
<p>I almost refused to allow my daughters to get a fancy First Communion dress, because I worried that the deeply significant meaning of the occasion would be lost with the materialistic element of fashion. As the time drew closer, however, I gave in. As good as my intentions were, it would take a stronger woman than me to resist the opportunity to make a fuss, and dress up her baby girls – perhaps one last time, before they reject the innocent puff and fluff of formal childhood attire. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/258557/c19ac7d699d483cc52f583e02079b1629cdec315/medium/first-communion-400.jpg?1500475851" class="size_m justify_left border_" />Two full days of our lives were spent at Betty’s Children’s Shoppe, in Prospect Park, where I clearly remember picking out my First Communion outfit. The twins once again demonstrated their individuality during the selection process, but after many long hours, dresses, gloves, sweaters, white shoes and beautiful veils were finally acquired. </p>
<p>Last Saturday, however, with a week to go until the big event, just after I dropped off the frocks for pressing and ordered the cakes for the festivities, my 6-year-old son got sick. Naturally, I was worried about him, but instead of Mommy coming to his side, he got L’il Zill. His confused face flipped around in mid-air as she stripped the bed from underneath him, boiled his clothes, and possibly brain-damaged his pet fish with the lethal level of Lysol sprayed inside his quarantined room. L’il Zill was genuinely concerned for the boy, but equally determined to rid the place of germs; the last thing she wanted was one of the girls tossing her cookies on the beautiful, white dress. </p>
<p>Today, our house smells like a swimming pool. Everyone in the family is now blonde and needs a new eyeglass prescription. Hopefully, L’il Zill exterminated the bug, but she might also have decimated herself. In the wake of her madness, I plan to use my new glasses to help me focus on what’s important – in sickness or health – on Saturday.</p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/47846932017-07-19T10:53:15-04:002017-07-19T10:53:15-04:00No More Taxis<p>10 March 2009 </p>
<p>Did you know that President John Adams was a noteworthy public sleeper? That is, according to my third-grade daughter, who is currently working on her first research report. It turns out, the entire family is learning a multitude of lessons from this one assignment. </p>
<p>After much deliberation, Kiddo finally decided on Lucille Ball as the subject of her biography project. Now, being an English teacher, I should have noticed the red flags flapping wildly about the availability of research material on the child’s reading level; however, I was so happy that she finally made up her mind, I was too busy dancing to think that far ahead. In fact, I remembered that our school library had a dusty, old book about Lucille Ball that sat on the shelves for ages. Surely it would be there, and I could borrow it for a week. As luck would have it, though, the book was checked out for the first time in two decades the very day I needed it. <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/258557/9b24fd814d27a44bb9723fd35575710bfcfac634/medium/download-400.jpg?1500475851" class="size_m justify_right border_" /></p>
<p>I called my husband, and asked him to investigate the situation at Barnes and Noble. Very excited, he reported that there was, indeed, a paperback book available, and that he would pick it up on the way home. Proud as a peacock, he walked in the house as a genuine hero who had saved the day. As Kiddo stood brimming with anticipation, out of his coat her father plucked a 235-page biography with what appeared to be 6,000 words per page, all about the sordid details of the Ball-Arnaz marriage and divorce. Back to the drawing board. </p>
<p>In the end, she selected Abigail Adams as the subject. As I mentioned, I’m an English teacher. I spend most of my days helping kids sift through research material and organize their ideas into logical sequence, so I figured this was going to be a breeze with my own child, who was in third-grade no less. Wrong again. Kiddo apparently knows more about reading and writing at the age of 8 ½ than I could ever hope to know with a degree in literature, and as we sat – locking horns over simple details – she taught me these facts: President John Adams was a noteworthy public sleeper; Abigail Adams flavored equal rights for women; and the Revolutionary War began when the colonists got tired of all the taxis.</p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/47846912017-07-19T10:52:16-04:002017-07-19T11:13:33-04:00The Naughty, the Nice and the Boys<p>28 November 2009 </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/258557/be15cb0522c87ca0e89c211c42570f61732841ed/medium/boys-2011-400.jpg?1500475848" class="size_m justify_left border_" />“Mommy,” my six-year-old son asked with genuine concern, as he looked around the room that was newly decorated for Christmas, “does anyone really get coal from Santa?” Remembering the story about my grand-uncle, who received coal the year he ditched the church’s May procession to feed the elephants that came to town with the circus, I replied, “Yes, kids get coal if they end up on the naughty list.” </p>
<p>He mulled the response quietly as he sat upside-down on the sofa. Eventually turning himself upright, he asked, “Is there a medium list?” After a moment of self-examination, he was obviously concerned about his status. Even though he is generally a very good boy, he is just that - a boy…and what interesting creatures those critters are. </p>
<p>Last month, my daughters and niece set up a spa in the bedroom, where they were painting each other’s nails and putting on make-up. When my son and nephews asked to play and were denied admission, they armed themselves with light sabers, busted the door open, took a doll hostage and started World War III. Afterwards, all three boys, with heads hanging low and makeshift holsters sagging off their waists, were lined up on the stairs, and interrogated about their actions, at which point they exclaimed, “We wanted to play with them, but they wouldn’t spa us!” Their tone spoke volumes, begging me to understand that injustice forced them into action. </p>
<p>I took the same three boys shoe shopping, and if the saleslady at Olly’s is reading, again, I apologize. Nephew One has an aversion to socks, and the odor that emanated when he removed his shoes was enough to knock a horse dead. Nephew Two took his sneakers for a test drive, running a lap as fast as he could around the store, then power-slid into the hard-wearing saleslady and said, “Yep. They’re good.” In the meantime, Sonny Boy occupied himself quietly by practicing his shoe-tying, lacing together a long strip of sample sneakers. </p>
<p>Now, as I peel tape off of 30 new trash bags that they used to insulate and side the swing-set clubhouse, I can’t help thinking that Santa might actually keep a medium list for boys with instincts that often overpower good intentions. Surely an old man, who still opts to jump down chimneys instead of using doors while delivering good cheer, can empathize with that.</p>Heather High Kennedytag:theregularriot.com,2005:Post/47846712017-07-19T10:46:39-04:002017-07-19T10:46:39-04:00...Give Me Something Good to Eat<p>12 November 2009 </p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/258557/c607043449b2e28bd5402c6d067520763b432d73/medium/halloween-candy-corn-3-400.jpg?1500475567" class="size_m justify_right border_" /> “Mom! We’re going to have parties in school!” My three kids, twin girls in third grade and a singleton boy in first, came bursting through the front door after school a few weeks ago and bombarded me with written guidelines regarding the upcoming holiday celebrations in each classroom. At first glance, the smiling jack-o-lantern at the heading brought on feelings of nostalgia, and memories of my classmates in costumes, trick-or-treating around the school and coming back to our desks to enjoy cupcakes and cookies that homeroom moms decorated in festive colors. The reminiscing made me smile. Then I read the notes. </p>
<p> In the spirit of healthy choices, a list of acceptable party foods had been drawn up for all three of my kids’ classes. On it were carrot sticks, grapes, water bottles, pretzels and celery. Further, salsa was recommended as an appropriate alternative to ranch dressing or cheese dip for the veggies. Right here, right now, let me say, I’m all in favor of health and fitness. I buy the leanest poultry, choose fruits and vegetables as snacks, and purchase only skim milk. We exercise regularly, and have the kids involved in sports. With that said, are they kidding me with Healthy Halloween? The whole purpose of the holiday is to acquire as much candy as possible to eat, to classify, to count, to trade - then sometime close to December, when it has taken up counter space long enough - to have Mom toss to some very lucky backyard critters when the kids aren’t looking. </p>
<p> As I glumly turned to the next page of the family letter, I noticed that our dutiful health advisors had no intention of stopping at Halloween. For birthdays, it’s fruit kabobs or a craft. I’ve never seen a fruit kabob, but I doubt it’s something I could write on with icing. Finally, they closed in on Thanksgiving. Acknowledging that many of us who have never heard about diet and exercise would gorge ourselves amongst loved ones, the recommendation was made that we be active afterwards, perhaps with a game of Follow the Leader. Fair enough. I like that game and can guarantee that when I’m done eating a fine turkey dinner, I will announce, “Grab your forks and follow me…we’re headed to the pie table.”</p>Heather High Kennedy