A Formidable Bond (The Night We Got Hammered)

The "Hammer" (courtesy of auburnxc-Flickr Photos)

Cathy and I recently took a stroll down memory lane, via old postcards on the Facebook page of an unknown alumni from Lancaster named Tom. There were a few comments here and there from other Facebookies (who actually knew Tom), but once we started chiming in with our own memories, the strings of comments from other friends (who did not know Tom either) began to grow. Tom was delighted. We were enthralled. As you can see, we are not followers in Facebook Land. We. Are. Leaders.


As it turns out, Tom proved to be quite the lover of the annual Antelope Valley Fair and Alfalfa Festival. If you grew up in the high desert of southern California, known as the Antelope Valley, you would not be unfamiliar with this annual fete’ celebrated at the end of every August and runs through Labor Day. We all called it "the fair." Some call it the Antelope Valley Fair. Out of respect I included Alfalfa Festival for those cowboys and ranchers who still participate in tractor pulls and cow pie tossing. Soon enough, Cathy was commenting on how much she had loved going to the fair each year. I was like, what? huh? Did we go every year? I'm not remembering this... Did we go as a family? As kids? Did Jim and I ever take our own kids? I couldn't remember. So it got me thinking, gees, I really don’t have any memories of us going to this stinkin fair. That’s when I remembered the 4H booths and the livestock buildings. So yeah, I did go to that fair. And it really did stink. The "Alfalfa Festival" remains intact. Then I had a flashback to the 60s of a time when I did go to the fair, and Cathy was with me. In honor of the 2010 AV Fair AND Alfalfa Festival arriving this month, I share this with you.

I only have one memory of my sister, Cathy and me at the fair. Now that’s just sad, isn’t it? Only one. But it’s significant because it drew a strange bond in my childhood mind to a sister that I had considered invincible. My best guess is that we were probably 11 and 13? Not much older if that. So the year was close to 1965. At that age we must have been with our parents. I'd love to make up something really interesting here but the truth is, I honestly don’t recall the details. (are you sensing a theme here?) What I do remember is the two of us deciding to ride "The Hammer", located in the SCARY section of the midway. It consisted of a cage at the end of a long iron arm. There were two arms that rocked, scissor-like, back and forth opposite each other, as each built up speed that eventually caused the cage to turn full circle and spun round and round. In each cage sat two people who were fastened by a single lap belt. When it was our turn we climbed into the cage. I remember the carnie who belted us in was a huge, ugly, hygiene-deficient jerk who would NOT listen to our pleas that the belt he had "secured" was NOT TIGHT enough. We looked at each other and felt helpless. Because we were! That's when I noticed the open area in the front of the cage. It was certainly large enough for me to slip through, and definitely big enough for the both of us to fall out of. OK. Changed my mind. I wanted OFF.

Then the Hammer began to move. Our cage began to rock. We swung up; we swung down. And we were not enjoying this one bit. This was not fun. And as that stinking "Hammer" began to move towards it’s 360 degree turn, our lap belt began to feel looser than before we stepped in. We hung upside down hanging onto that belt for dear life. Seriously. I was plastered to one side of the cage with my feet pressing firmly to anything that would keep me from falling through that hole in front of me. Cathy was plastered elsewhere and we were unable to reach each other. More importantly, my big sister couldn't reach ME. All we could do was white knuckle that lap belt and keep our legs outstretched in a determined effort to remain inside a cage we desperately wanted out of. It was truly terrorizing. In my mind there was no question of whether or not we'd fall to our deaths. It was just a matter of when.

We both began screaming for it to stop! And of course, it didn’t. We'd paid for this thrill with two ten cent tickets and apparently we were going to get what we'd paid for. NO EXCEPTIONS. I finally caught a glimpse of Cathy and the fear on her face made this all too real. It wasn’t long before we were both screaming for our mom. Literally. It just seemed the natural thing to do when all hope is lost. Did we think she could hear us? Could anyone hear us? The funny things is, I knew that my sister could hear ME. Strangely, that gave me some slight comfort, though we were both facing the same demise. Eventually and mercifully, the ride ended. Why is it that rides you hate always last twice as long as the ones you love? It's one of those childhood anomalies. It's like a parent telling his crying kid to be quiet or "I'll give you something to cry about." It makes no sense. So, we wobbled out of the Hammer, happier than life itself to have our feet on solid ground. I gave that creepy carnie the meanest look I could muster. He'd nearly killed us and he didn't even seem to care. He didn't. He was already lap belting his next two victims. I hate him still.

I don’t remember anything else that happened after that. Perhaps it was the TRAUMA. I don't know. What I do remember is - that was the night I learned something amazing. My invincible big sister was capable of the same fear that I was. Together we had gotten hammered at the 1965 Antelope Valley Fair (and Alfalfa Festival). Together, we had faced death, and together we had survived. We now shared a bond that I have since to share with anyone else. And I'll have it for the rest of my life. Now how cool is that?

And Facebook Tom, I don't care if I ever go to another AV Fair (and Alfalfa Festival) again. But I do hope you have a blast. If you pass by "The Hammer" please do me a favor. Keep Walkin...

~Susan~ 

Grampy Drinks the Koolaid

My father in law, Tex is 84 years old. He's a widower and lives in a senior mobile home park a couple miles from us.  He's old enough to be bitter and honery and get away with it. He's 5'3" tall, and loud; cranky as an old rooster with a hangover. But he's the only parent Mike and I have left so we do love him and patiently tolerate him, knowing first-hand that parents only come once in life and don't last forever. And we also know that our adult children are watching us and getting clues on how to treat their aged P's (parents). 

     Grampy has 27 great-grandchildren. Every time a new one is born we sit down together and count them all up again. We start with the oldest and name them all down to the new one. He never remembers how many he has. He just knows he has "too damn many." "Well" he says "At least most of them are boys. Girls are trouble. I never wanted girls". (He had three sons) Seeing the illogic behind that reasoning and having had two daughters of my own who are and were NOT trouble (well not much) I just nodded my head and changed the subject. I used to argue with him. I don't have the energy anymore. He's as stubborn as dried egg yolk on a fork sitting three days out in the sun. Unlike God, who changed His mind about destroying the golden calf-worshiping Hebrew children when Moses beseeched Him not to, Grampy does NOT change his mind.

     We had my grandson Jared's 8th bday party here at my house, weekend before last, We had a piñata and all the kids got cellophane treat bags with all kinds of candies and prizes that fell from the piñata, plus other goodies Sarah (Jared's mom) stuck in the bag. Well Grampy came to the party. He says there are too damn many kids underfoot so leave him out of the parties...But he comes over anyway. Nevertheless he had a swell time, even took a whack at the piñata, entertained us with stories of his youth, and was the last to leave. 

Grampy Bustin Up the Piñata

     Mike (my husband) gave one of the leftover candy-filled treat bags to Grampy as he was walking out the door. Grampy came over this weekend shoved the treat bag he'd received in my face and said "Your husband tried to kill me with this candy" There was no candy left in the bag - he'd eaten it all. There were only two balloons and a small yellow bottle of bubbles (the tiny kind with the wand in the lid) "What?" I asked eagerly, knowing I was going to get a great reply and gearing up for it. "Yeah!" he continued, pointing to the cellophane bag "I tried drinking that yellow lemonade and it tasted like soap! I hope none of them other kids got sick on it!" Well I had to hahaha in his face and that only made him spittin' mad. He stormed out of the room in search of Mike to give HIM an ear-full. How on earth did that man make it to 85 years?

          

~  Mary Catherine