Nineteen Years; One Regret [UPDATED with Photos]

It's a gorgeous autumn day in the south just like it was nineteen years ago today when I married my Officer and Gentleman in a military wedding at the Main Post Chapel at Fort Benning, Georgia. Ten fellow officers served as the Gentlemen of the Saber Arch. Our friend, George, then a first lieutenant and now a retiree, officially welcomed me to the Infantry as he ceremoniously swatted my bottom with his saber. The tradition is to say, "Welcome to the Army, Mrs. X." At that time, I outranked him and told him that I was already welcomed into the Army as my leave and earnings statements regularly proved. I also cautioned him that as a recent graduate of the U.S. Army Airborne School, I was also welcomed there as my Basic Parachutist's Badge proved. I warned him that, mess dress uniform or no, I would have no hesitation dropping him for push-ups if he violated my bridezilla edict.

He surprised me by saying, "Welcome to the Infantry, Mrs. Adams." There's a picture somewhere in the album of me laughing in surprise

and Dave smiling at me with a knowing look.

Duplicate that picture innumerable times over nineteen years. I'm often surprised and he's often smiling at my ability to be surprised.

I wouldn't change anything, really, about our married life together. There have been many challenges, some of which have been documented on this little blog, and many others that pre-dated blogging. And there are some which remain known unto us alone. Every marriage is a mystery, known only to its members.

I believe the one regret I have is in my faults--what I've done and what I've failed to do--in being more holy, more loving, and more loveable to the best man I've ever known. The only man who ever walked the earth who surpasses my man would be good St. Joseph. I have the extreme privilege of being married to a fun, funny, content & holy man who is a wonderful provider, father, beloved and friend. I was so happy on our wedding day that no tears fell from my eyes; I took it as a pre-figurement of Paradise. And every day since, I've had the privilege of living out what happily-ever-after means.

UPDATE: I dug and found the photos. My brother, a groomsman, took them back when he was a photojournalist and before he began his wedding photography work. All of them are copyright Paul F. Gero, all rights reserved.

Thanks go to Dave for scanning them. Natch.

DVD Review: Life After Tomorrow

I just watched "Life After Tomorrow" on NetFlix Instant View. It's a brief [72 minutes] documentary about the little girls from various shows and tours of Annie who, as grown women, share their memories and sometimes quite sad stories of making it big as a little kid and the feelings they had of outgrowing their fame. Ultra famous Annie, Sarah Jessica Parker, does an extensive interview and comes off as remarkably well adjusted. Another personal fave of mine, Martha Byrne, who I came to know as Lily Walsh on As the World Turns, does a nice interview, too. There are many, many, many others and their post-show biz struggles are poignant.

I think this film should be required viewing if you have any plans of putting your daughter in show business or on the pageant circuit.

I am an Anniephile. Dad must've belonged to some record club because I remember hearing Broadway Cast albums of many shows. Dad would play them on Sunday mornings after 7 a.m. Mass when he would cook breakfast for Mom and the rest of us. I wore out the grooves of my Annie album. We bought the piano music to "Tomorrow" and I played it always. I knew the words to every song. The National Tour came to Milwaukee when I was a junior or senior in high school. I bought tickets and dragged my boyfriend to the show. We made a day of it, riding with his folks there and back and having three meals on the road that day. I was in heaven. I bought the t-shirt and wore it until it became a gym shirt and then I wore it for gymnastics practices. I know there's a picture in a high school yearbook where I'm wearing it. That musical touched me. About 10 years ago, the show was coming to Winston-Salem and I won the easiest trivia question possible about Daddy Warbucks [first name 'Oliver'--duh!] and took my man to see it. I was way up in the balcony on the edge of my seat, enraptured. I still knew every word to every song, even though I had only seen the show the one previous time in the late 70s.

And then there's this.

It was a little sad for me to see this film and tarnish some of my golden memories. I highly recommend this pic, but only for people who loved the musical.

NICU Wall Art

A while ago, I allowed my girls to be photographed for an art project at their old NICU. This weekend, their nurse posted her pictures of the finished prints and her musings on the wall of fame that now graces her workplace.

Thanks, Sara. You are an amazing nurse and you have enriched our lives by being so good at what you do.

Tyrannosaurus Debt

I was showing Zeke some of the Grammar Rock the other day and came upon the Money Rock part. I don't believe I ever saw this before. But these days it seems pretty useful. It might need to be updated to go to squillions, though.

UPDATE: I'm just a bill, just a 'stimulus' bill, I got so much pork I'll make you all ill.

My Olympics/Wisconsin Connections

This falls into the category of 'Six Degrees of Separation,' but here goes. I was a high school gymnast who qualified for the State Gymnastics Meet in the uneven parallel bars my senior year. That year, Andy Memmel won the men's floor exercise for Nicolet High School. He pulled a double back somersault in at least one of his tumbling passes, which was awesome and the first time I had seen one 'live'. This was the early 80s and the equipment was not nearly as good as it is now. Plus, he was in a public high school. Fast forward to now: he's the father/coach of US gymnast Chellsie Memmel.

Another one for posterity. Eric Heiden, multi-gold speed skater from Wisconsin, used to train off-season by bicycling. He did a regional race team competition for the 7-11 Team. I met him at a bar in my college town during one of the summers I lived there. I have a photo of that somewhere. He's now an orthopedic surgeon and I know a little something about those men.

Swing and Sway with Sammy Kaye

My mom blogs about the story of how she met Dad. I wrote about it a long time ago.

Today would have been Dad's 79th birthday.

Toy Shopping Made Simple

I'm on somebody's mailing list and I get scads of catalogs in the mail. Today, I shopped at Back to Basics Toys online to help out Santa. There are tons of classic toys and games [packaged in retro packaging, too]. I discovered a working Mrs. Beasley doll, Lincoln logs [which I didn't know were originally designed by the son of Frank Lloyd Wright], Slinky [real metal, too!], a classic phone [what's this dial thingy?] and dozens more. Tell me, what toy or game did you get excited to see again?

The Beatles or Elvis?

Lots of Elvis making his way 'round the internet today, the 30th year since his death. Elvis is inextricably linked with my husband in my mind.

I know "Pulp Fiction" summarized the question of all pop music lovers to Beatles or Elvis? I was a little too young for the Beatles. Even if you spot me the five years older I got because of my oldest sister, she only first bought "Revolution" as a single. I can remember peering over the top of the stereo console, about 6 years old, watching that little yellow plastic doohickey spin in the middle of a big green apple. She caught the tail end of the Beatles. I missed them entirely. And Elvis? How does a child get Elvis when your parents are playing showtunes and big bands and symphonic music? I never got either the Beatles or Elvis.

Until Dave.

Dave's Daddy robbed the cradle when he married a woman 10 years younger than him at the age of 29. Dave's Mama loved pop music. She played Elvis for him. And her love for the singer and the son translated when the son played The King for me.

'Are you lonesome tonight?'

That question is never as lovely as when it's half-whispered, half-sung into your ear by the man you know you're falling in love with. A crisp uniform and the scent of clean manliness are all that separates you. And who knew Elvis sang gospel? It's even possible that our son's first name stuck in my husband's head from hearing "Swing Down Sweet Chariot" innumerable times.

When Elvis died, I couldn't understand the hoopla. Before the 24-hour-news-cycle, we had several days of Elvis coverage. Many years later, I met the man who shared Elvis with me.

So ask me now Beatles or Elvis? The answer is Dave.

Whatsup Doc?

Dave bought a four disc collection of classic Warner Brothers cartoons. I love it and the kids are walking around quoting Bugs Bunny dialogue, too. There are so many pop culture references in some of the toons [Humphrey Bogart, Clark Gable, Bing Crosby, Lauren Bacall, among many others appear in one, and a little character, Owl Jolson, loves to sing-a about the moon-a and the June-a in a spring-a over his parents' objections.]



It's not great art by any stretch, but what it does is great and I don't mind at all exposing the kids to it.

Another Reason Why I Love Tony Snow

Oh, if only he had delivered this commencement address at my little college. He writes like a man who has come face-to-face with his own mortality. I think it gives you a fearlessness that is holy. I've seen it in my daughter, Annie. Thanks, Anchoress, for the hot link.

You're So Next

Sippican has been sharing his favorite Merry Melodies and Looney Tunes. Here's mine.



Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd both cross-dressing, a little tiny lawnmower, Carmen Miranda headdress, and an arms race. What's not to love?

A Sunday to Sift

We were so pleased to have friends stay overnight. Typical of old times, we stayed up late catching up. We didn't run out of things to talk about, we just ran out of gas. Our friend, just back from Iraq where he did extremely hazardous duty in the streets of Baghdad [not his words, but my take on what he was doing], was very helpful at putting the current war in perspective. Two main points that I took away: [1] What he saw and the progress being made was not well reported at home, [2] pulling out before we've finished the job would be devastatingly bad all the way around. He enlightened me about the tribal nature of the sectarian violence. The best analogy we could reconstruct [in our freedom-addled minds] is that it's like Robert E. Lee of 100+ years ago, who saw being a Virginian above being an American and renounced his oath to join the Confederacy.

----------------

Have you ever met a real life hero? I think there are moments of heroism in most lives where we sacrifice something for our fellow man. But our friend is a hero of uncommon valor. Bullets whizzed past him many many times. And he suited up and showed up for duty every day for over a year. He has a wonderful, heroic-in-her-own-way wife, and two fabulous kids. He had everything in the world to lose. And he did it anyway. I just cannot say enough good things about our soldier friend. We owe him more than we can repay in this life.

"What Are You Giving Up for Lent?"

It's a question I've been asked for over 35 years. In grade school, it's a chance to connect with your peers and engage in a little spiritual one-upsmanship. "You're giving up chocolate? I'm giving up all sweets." Of course, then you're obligated and all your classmates are watching.

As a college kid, it was my chance to shun my faith. "Aw, that's hokey. Nobody does that anymore. I think it's more important to live your faith every day, not just during Lent." And that was the jump-off point for forgetting my faith entirely.

As a revert, I've taken the question as a chance to instruct by answering, "You know, sometimes Lent isn't about giving up things, sometimes it's about taking on new spiritual obligations." I have found in the south that in the last five years, the protestants are getting into this self-denial biz. It really does make Easter an especially good time of jubilation after the gray, thorny self-denial that accompanies a life following Jesus, taking up one's cross.

One year, I gave up nagging. You'll have to ask Dave what he thought of it. One year, I decided that my Lenten obligation was to say "Yes!" to whatever God presented that season. It was all well and good until a couple nefarious folks heard about it and wheedled a Yes! out of me to rejoin a group at Church. Last year, I gave up clutter around the house for Lent and that has carried on pretty well.

This year, I am embarassed to say what I'm giving up, so I shan't. I'm also slated to do a couple big projects--taxes and blog maintenance/editing throughout Lent. I'd love to read what this year's Lent holds for you.

House Hunting and Held Hostage

A lovely leisurely Sunday. We all made it through Mass. Annie wore her Mr. Tony leg to Mass for the first time, so I asked Father to bless it afterwards. He did. Everyone except me had breakfast prior to Mass, so Dave stopped at my coffee shop and I got my white chocolate mocha to go while we house hunted again. Thank goodness for onboard DVD. The whole family rode around for about two hours while we dreamed and schemed. Reminds me of those Sunday drives to a little neighborhood called Bird Haven in Princeton, Illinois.

The afternoon unfolded languidly. Dave watched the race and I dawdled in the blogosphere. The kids napped late. As bedtime approached, Dave and I hid out in our bedroom watching the first episode of "The Amazing Race" [Rob and Amber won the first leg. Natch.] while the three little monkeys got their second wind about an hour after their normal bedtime. We go through this time lag about the time the clocks change. I try not to fight it. They don't know how to tell time yet and they're just being affected by the increasing light hours of the day. About the time we spring forward, they'll be about right. Anyway, we were either hiding out or being held hostage in the bedroom. We had a no-hassle bedtime and the house is silent, save the humidifier blowing and my keyboard clicking like toenails on the linoleum.

A Detour

Because of this post over at Althouse, I was all ready to blog tonight about a remembrance of my time in the U.S. Army Airborne School and to share a YouTube about bad exits [turn the music off because it's awful and foul]. But before I wrote it, I received an email from a church friend who is doing the March of Dimes Walk Across America and dedicating her family's walk to my girls. I discovered this YouTube, about a preemie named "Ezekiel" and thought it was worth a watch. Just as information, both my girls were also 26 weekers. Mary Jo weighed 1 pound 15 ounces at birth. Annie was the big girl at 2 pounds 3 ounces.



If you'd like to make a donation to my friend's walk-a-thon, please email me and I'll send you her link.

Lookey Here

Today was the usual Tuesday around here. Kids went to the Y, Annie wore her Mr. Tony leg to the Y and did pretty well with it, I felt like I was running a half hour behind for everything today. You know, the usual.

But here's something unusual and worth a look. My brother, Paul, is a blogger, but he rarely posts twice in a day. He's archiving his photographs and I got to see some wonderful shots of his that I had never seen before: Three presidents in front of the Twin Towers and Three shots of Harry Ford. Enjoy.

Robert P. Ashley, R.I.P.

A beloved college professor of mine died in November, 2006. Today, at Ripon College, they held a memorial service in his honor. I knew him well, having him as a professor and then as a landlord for a summer and my final semester of college. His daughter asked me to deliver a tribute to him. Because of travel and family obligations, I declined to be there in person, but I wrote the following tribute to Dr. Ashley which my sister Peggy delivered.

Dr. Ashley's reputation preceded him when I entered Ripon College in the fall of 1981. I'm the fourth of four children, all of whom attended Ripon College. All three of the Gero girls graduated from this esteemed institution; brother Paul enjoyed three years here and figured out that his degree would be in journalism from Marquette. My sister Mary had freshman English with Dr. Ashley just one year prior, in 1980, and that was the year that he became a widower. She spoke of him with respect and she spoke of Mrs. Ashley's passing in hushed tones. I believe that was the year that Dr. Ashley became Emeritus. And it was the year he began taking in roomers. Oh, not the whispered tales, but the students who would live at his home rent-free. The price of their keep was to clean his Watson Street home each week.

I knew of Dr. Ashley but only had the privilege of being his student once. I took his English novel course as a sophomore. For my money, that was the best bargain in all the curriculum----one night a week for three hours, earning 4 credits. My science friends would lament their several hours in lab for a measly credit and I knew we had it sweet. In that course, we learned of Dr. Ashley's love of the written word and also film. He was the authority on the novelist Wilkie Collins. As a consequence, I don't miss those Collins questions on Jeopardy.

I loved Ripon so much I stayed here year round. The library crew hired a few of us to work full-time during the summer, and if you could find a cheap place to stay, you could maximize the profit. My first summer, I lived in what was then called Hughes House. The next summer, I stayed with Dr. Ashley. You can learn a lot about a man by cleaning his house. Treasures of all kinds are hanging on the walls, or needing dusting on the shelves, or chilling in his freezer, or wagging their happy golden retriever tails. That was the summer that Dr. Ashley became known to me as "Da",the name his children called him. I once asked its origin and it was a shortening of "Dad." As I already had a father whom I loved, in my mind, "Da" became an acronym--D A--Dr. Ashley. I, too, took on a nickname with Da that summer. After taking a phone message for him and signing it with my initials---R A G-- from thenceforward, I was to him "Rag"....or my full official title: "Rag, the charwoman."

That summer I met most of his family as they visited and learned that he bestowed nicknames on darn near everyone from the Romans [Junie's bunch], to Arpy and Squish [Robert P. the Third and Jacqueline]. He would spend many an evening in that front study, reading books he'd read dozens of times before or enjoying new crime fiction and filling the home with the heavenly aroma of his pipe tobacco, petting Katie-dog and possibly plunking out a note or two on his ancient typewriter. He usually had a stash of ice cream in his freezer and I learned that he loved Sealtest Heavenly Hash ice cream. He never even offered to share that and in fact made sure my fridge was in the basement so I wouldn't be tempted.

He would stroll to the cinema once a week and often I would accompany him. He played tennis year round and made it a point to play mixed doubles with the best [and prettiest] young woman on the college team. He and Jerry Thompson played doubles and were dubbed "The Sexigenerians." Da turned 70 in April of '85 and I knew he hated losing that clever moniker. For his birthday present, I had a t-shirt made for him which read "Septuagenarian" on the front, and "But Still Sexy" on the back. I continued rooming at 504 Watson my senior year. He took on me as well as my mostly English major pals. We called ourselves his harem and he took us all out to dinner at graduation. I got to shovel show and walk the dog and paint my room. More than the free rent, however, I got to spend time with this wonderful man. He was a scholar who was always reading. He was the well educated Easterner who was no snob around us unassuming Midwesterners. He was the widower who loved his family. He was wry and funny and always had an opinion. You had to ask for it, but he always had it. He was, to me, the joy of wisdom and maturity.

I found my replacement and trained her as I went off to law school in Madison. Da used to tease me that Dianna got into and did much better at a tougher law school. He consoled me, however, with the observation that no one could clean his toilets like me. One summer, I clerked in Appleton and he was an "Attic Angel" at their theatre. He came for a visit and we had dinner and a show. There were several times he took me out to dinner in Madison, including one Valentine's Day when "the professor I lived with" was the better prospect to anything the law school had to offer. And he joined my family and dearest friends at my graduation party.

When I went off and joined the Army and met my husband, I felt it was important for my southern gentleman to see my haunts and lurks. Da was no stranger to the military, having been a colonel in the reserves and having taught at West Point. So he and my Citadel man got on famously---mostly making jokes at my expense. My life moved South and my visits with Da grew rare. But every Tax Day triggers a memory of his birthday. Most Christmases brought a letter and card from him. My mother often sent a package of fudge his way. My memories of Ripon are inextricably tied to Dr. Ashley. He was the rarest of adults. He could listen without judgment. He could disagree with great civility. He laughed often. He never stopped learning. He will be remembered fondly and sorely missed.

I learned of his passing near Christmas. To console myself, I found one of his books online and bought it, ostensibly for my young son to read in a few years. It's a juvenile novel all about a Civil War train caper and based on an actual event. It was even made into a Walt Disney movie. When the out-of-print treasure arrived from the used bookseller in the northeast, its yellowing pages crackled with a familiar smell. The dedication was simply "To Arpy." I held in my hands the tangible proof of his life well-lived--a book he wrote and dedicated to his only son.

Thank you, Da. Thanks for everything.

I am very grateful to Peggy for giving the tribute. Mom called on Peg's cell phone from the audience and I could hear that they laughed at all the right places. She did a great job and it was a fitting final time to recall a wonderful man.

Thanksgiving Classic: Oh, the Humanity!

I'm really quite thankful for YouTube and the ability to reminisce about this classic scene from WKRP in Cincinnati's Turkey Drop episode.




"As God is my witness: I thought tukeys could fly." [Hat tip: Hugh Hewitt]

51

Photo by Paul F. Gero, all rights reserved.



Today is the wedding anniversary of my parents. They were married 51 years ago. Last year, the whole family gathered to celebrate 50 years. This year, we are all in different places. Dad died July 3rd after a long illness. Mom spent the last 7 years of their married life providing care for him. She lived her vows "in sickness and in health." And she fulfilled her vow of "til death do us part." She hasn't stopped loving him.

Last year's gathering was bittersweet because we knew Dad was ill. But it was sweet to see them celebrate a milestone that is too rare these days. On the front porch of my girlhood home, Mom and Dad toasted their day from the family heirloom goblets--the same ones they toasted from on their wedding day in 1955. The same goblets that my husband and I toasted from at our wedding in 1990 [and all my siblings did, too, at their weddings.] These goblets were crafted for my great grandparents on the occasion of their 50th wedding anniversary. They are the family emblem of longevity in married life.

Fifty-one is also important because it is the year my father graduated from Rutgers University. He was a proud Joe College. He wore his college ring [emblazoned with Tau Kappa Epsilon on the stone] until the end. I believe my brother owns it now. When we were sassy, Dad would ask us if we wanted TKE written backwards on our forehead. It was an empty threat, but it usually stopped all the shenanigans. Dad always wore two gold rings for as long as I can ever remember.

So I recall these shiny things,
silver goblets, and golden rings.
Promises made. Promises kept.
Love was shared. Tears were wept.

First and Last

In blogging, the last thing posted in a month is the first thing you come to in the archives. Let me close out this July 2006 with a picture of my father, Robert B. Gero, who died on July 3rd, 2006. My brother took the picture in September 2005, on Dad and Mom's 50th wedding anniversary. He was watching the sunset from the front porch of the house where I spent my childhood.

I miss him.