tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-217768612024-03-06T22:50:35.032-06:00Family Without BordersThis is our way to share them with our friends and family across the globe.
And my adventures in Thailand are here http://borderadventures1.blogspot.comUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger480125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-12978261737224032732016-11-29T20:52:00.006-06:002016-11-30T09:19:23.633-06:00The path I’ve taken<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not straight.</div>
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The background is important, as it’s shaped many decisions, and I’ve come full
circle.<br />
<br />
UCSB – Political Science/International Relations major, because I wanted to be
a diplomat (really I wanted to travel). Took Biology for non-majors in my 2nd
year and decided I wanted to be a Biology major because I loved it so much. I
did well in science in HS but was never really encouraged to be a scientist. I
didn’t even know how one could be.<br />
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<br />
Beginning my 5<sup>th</sup> year, I looked at how much I had to finish that bio
degree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One more year of Physics and a
couple of upper division Chemistry classes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What did I need to finish the Poli Sci degree? Two courses. I switched
back to Poli Sci and got my B.A. <br />
<br />
Trying to decide how to use my love of science with my degree in political
science and a desire to save the world, I discovered Public Health,
particularly epidemiology. I applied to Yale’s School of Public Health.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved Infectious Disease Epidemiology, and
the school’s focus on international research was the perfect fit. By the end of
my first year, I decided that to do real work in this field, I needed a PhD.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I finished my MPH (incurring a lot of debt), and began the
PhD program at Yale. I worked in vector biology – ticks, sand flies,
mosquitoes, tsetse flies. While there, I travelled, ahem, did field work, in
Costa Rica, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took FOUR long years to
finish my work on the molecular genetics of the Y chromosome, but overall, worth
every moment. <br />
<br />
Oxford, England (well, that was mostly lab work), and Kenya.<br />
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<br />
After
my qualifying exams, for a variety of reasons (mostly personal but partly due
to changing dynamics at Yale), I transferred to Notre Dame to “finish” my PhD.
No coursework, but started over on a new project, this time on mosquitoes and
malaria.<br />
<br />
Having spent most of the last years working on the vector, the epidemiologist
in me wanted to work on the parasite. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
started a post-doc on drug-resistant Plasmodium falciparum in Thailand. The
position was based in San Antonio, TX, so I had a US <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(NIH) salary, but spent most of my time on the
Thai-Burma border. Amazing experience in so many ways – my experience learning
about socio-political dynamics proved valuable in this crossroads of cultures,
refugees, civil war, and fascinating people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And the science was interesting too.<br />
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<br />
Back in San Antonio in between Thai trips, now in my early 30s, I met a rather
nice Swiss physicist, just arrived for a two year postdoc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As that progressed, no worries he said, he
had no plans to stay in TX long term. Married at 34, in my last year of
post-doc, I started looking for other positions in San Antonio. I had always
assumed I’d build a lab like my mentors, a pseudo-family of scientists,
mentoring young scientists. At the time, no viable academic jobs came up, and
now married, wasn’t willing to move for a job (though I did look at some
possibilities).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I settled on a second
post-doc at the USDA in Kerrville working on ticks. Lots of people in my field
do two post-docs. Great place in many ways, but I found myself sucked more into
basic scientific research, and away from the real-world-disease science that my
epidemiologist brain wanted to consider.<br />
<br />
So when a position came up as a (poorly paid) epidemiologist with the city
health department, I decided to leave lab-science. It wasn’t a difficult
decision, as it seemed it had been coming on for some time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My only hesitation was feeling like I was
somehow letting down my fellow women in science, that I’d be perceived as “giving
up for my husband’s career.” I didn’t feel like that, as he’d have supported
whatever I wanted and if that required moving, we’d have worked it out. But I
felt the weight of all the women scientists who had come before who helped me
get to this point. <br />
<br />
I knew once I left I likely could never go back, at least not into Academia. I
was surprisingly ok with that. Mentally, I was ready for a new challenge. I had
always referred to myself as an “epidemiologist in a scientist’s body.” Now I’d
be a real epidemiologist. By chance, I became part of Public Health Emergency
Preparedness and discovered a whole new world of emergency management and
public health disaster response, thanks to Hurricanes Katrina and Rita.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By default, I also became the local expert on
influenza, disaster preparedness (giving hundreds of talks to local businesses
and community organizations, as well as health care facilities). I began to say
I was<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“scientist in an epidemiologist’s
body.” One of the only people with an advanced science degree in the
department, that expertise singled me out.<br />
<br />
On I went to work for DSHS (Region 8) as the Communicable Disease Program
Manager, overseeing all communicable disease programs, and directly managing the
TB and HIV/STD programs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I learned to
become the resident expert on those topics. Worked various outbreaks, including
a massive TB investigation on the border. Then the flu pandemic, H1N1, first
discovered in our region.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Technically,
the CDC team did all the real work, my job was to oversee their work, ask them
the right questions, and agree with their recommendations, then take that to
the directors.<br />
<br />
Then I had my second kid. I was 40, finally paid off all my debts. My husband
was travelling a lot, and my job was requiring me to travel on a moment’s
notice. My work was becoming increasing all about HR<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and less about projects. I was good at
management but frustrated to not do the real “science/public health” work.
Something had to give, I decided to become a SAHM. Yes, with a PhD. Again I
worried that I’d be perceived as sacrificing for my husband/kids, but I didn’t
feel like I was. It was the best decision I ever made.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did all sorts of stuff over the next year,
had fun with my two kids, got involved in projects locally. <br />
<br />
When my husband was diagnosed with cancer I was so glad I wasn’t working full
time, but also decided I needed to participate in the workforce at least
somewhat, to stay connected, should I ever need to support our family. So an
adjunct teaching offer came up at UIW. Perfect timing, and I loved teaching.
The pay was pathetic, barely covering my childcare costs, but I was good at it
and loved it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple of years into it,
a friend who worked with the state Lege sent me a notice for a consulting job
with an immunization focused non-profit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Their mission is advocacy of science-based policy, support of best
practices, and immunizations education. I took that on, while teaching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was the “Subject Matter Expert” and local
rep for the organization, with the intent to build the program in my city. At
the same time, an article I wrote about education for a local news website led
to a semi-regular freelance gig writing on health and science topics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Around that time I reached out on behalf of the
immunizations program to the director of a group who did emergency
management/disaster response. We wanted his sponsorship of our conference. He said, “Where have you been! We need you.” They pulled me in
to their Incident Management Team and I spent some time working on infection
control procedures for Ebola.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve been
called up for other events (outbreaks in immigrant shelters) but haven’t had time. <br />
<br />
Eventually, something had to give so I dropped the teaching and started working
more hours consulting, and am now on salary part time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I considered diving into science writing full
time, and participated on a panel at the recent science writers
conference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I think I’ve decided not
to invest in science writing as a “real” job, and just stick with my freelance
gig. I’ve been pulling back on that though, as my NPO – Immunizations work
kicks into higher gear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My current
position has morphed, but I am currently working on two CPRIT grants with UT,
in an area more services-research focused than lab based, but again as the SME
with my academic background, I’m the bridge between the UT researchers and our
organization. I'm also working on developing a local immunizations advocacy network to support science based policy.<br />
<br />
So not what I planned when I was 27 doing my PhD. I miss traipsing across the
tropics doing field work, I miss some of the discovery of research, but it
doesn’t fit with the life I’ve created. And I like the life I've created: scientist, political activist, health educator, mentor, parent, spouse, community activist.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-65180406312900288912016-05-22T11:29:00.004-05:002016-05-22T11:31:45.278-05:00Alexander Hamilton! I so rarely update this page, but this one deserves a mention. I first played the Hamilton CDs in the car a couple of months ago. Immediately upon hearing the songs, Angelina was singing along. More importantly, she started to ask questions about the American Revolution and all the characters involved. She wanted to study history and learn more.<br />
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Then she wanted to sing. So she gathered a group of friends together to perform the opening number for her school's talent show. They worked hard for a week, but mostly, they had fun rehearsing (which involved a lot of trampoline play time).<br />
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"Pride is not the word I'm looking for. There is so much more inside me now."<br />
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Here's the video of the performance.<br />
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<a href="https://youtu.be/GBtA4qxMy-M">https://youtu.be/GBtA4qxMy-M</a><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-194115710893941912015-12-09T06:28:00.001-06:002015-12-09T06:30:13.862-06:00What no one told mePeople told me many things about becoming a mother, but no one told me that every year, when my kid's birthday came around, I'd relive every single moment of his labor and delivery.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSMYkYG0CpGbJEYU1V9nPQaPCRFCbSxnXnbPXVSKtwhiEZG6AHXVqSwqcc9mLw7ix4yOmhmncbiCnGQFtF9oXg6Hm76OSxUeKzDmqDvNcnny7ydcHm_odyEf6eXxnPC2BaBzBA/s1600/faces.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSMYkYG0CpGbJEYU1V9nPQaPCRFCbSxnXnbPXVSKtwhiEZG6AHXVqSwqcc9mLw7ix4yOmhmncbiCnGQFtF9oXg6Hm76OSxUeKzDmqDvNcnny7ydcHm_odyEf6eXxnPC2BaBzBA/s320/faces.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOG-bcJaZvWXkUWcL2D6s5Z99-MlGPuCQ0_Oxt6qFY3CSczXwTqBStzcq4egORDl2vCCVhUOQe6FKCSaGM9X4HjGPwuJRbgY9dDHzhRE8lMHn9OXh68hovKORyPdRjxZRrR9cs/s1600/20140323_153026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOG-bcJaZvWXkUWcL2D6s5Z99-MlGPuCQ0_Oxt6qFY3CSczXwTqBStzcq4egORDl2vCCVhUOQe6FKCSaGM9X4HjGPwuJRbgY9dDHzhRE8lMHn9OXh68hovKORyPdRjxZRrR9cs/s320/20140323_153026.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ntC501Tk1qqRPOMHyQCJNfTV-LP-uydiZbXQSa7GvaRyZm1JG3Sj4yhajcx1HJVxzWKGdj0yd5AX23dRbaoDSPSZJxpiGPhgsvyD38Zt5_VO2Erm2OQko8-EW7opMnGXHp7y/s1600/DSC_5186.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
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That I'd relive the excitement.<br />
That I'd relive the nervousness.<br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=21776861" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">That I'd relive the amazement.</a><br />
That I'd relive the moment of sharing this all with my older child.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOG-bcJaZvWXkUWcL2D6s5Z99-MlGPuCQ0_Oxt6qFY3CSczXwTqBStzcq4egORDl2vCCVhUOQe6FKCSaGM9X4HjGPwuJRbgY9dDHzhRE8lMHn9OXh68hovKORyPdRjxZRrR9cs/s1600/20140323_153026.jpg" imageanchor="1"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWZVOsNhUzyUjGV9aIYpGN5_voGRdPkWUssp8euGp7RiSsIT2m5eMapWcVLmyf36caOVF7x_v1gUfEk_RBpp6OtAtCh58oihh3SvYNbHQy66iv8Lr-00ZrRGfRx5M-u5Eu7BlB/s1600/10290630_10202910352392572_7290877123131666827_n.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWZVOsNhUzyUjGV9aIYpGN5_voGRdPkWUssp8euGp7RiSsIT2m5eMapWcVLmyf36caOVF7x_v1gUfEk_RBpp6OtAtCh58oihh3SvYNbHQy66iv8Lr-00ZrRGfRx5M-u5Eu7BlB/s320/10290630_10202910352392572_7290877123131666827_n.jpg" width="212" /></a><br />
That I'd feel again the physical act of this creature inside of me, one with me, become his own separate person, yet still attached.<br />
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That I'd relive the intense, over powering emotion of ecstasy, of love, of pure joy as he came into this world.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6VSn8FhB8I0IcccBDpYXfGQnMs9_pWoVmsV453CXGD3_X7KeXJm_UoVIcKWCZ5252R-nx0zQDUjAFJWuXeYOjMmAIfiUU2ArnlCjTMc6XYxWZaMvsJB_19TGrjN28vOdq3vsw/s1600/DSC_2437.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6VSn8FhB8I0IcccBDpYXfGQnMs9_pWoVmsV453CXGD3_X7KeXJm_UoVIcKWCZ5252R-nx0zQDUjAFJWuXeYOjMmAIfiUU2ArnlCjTMc6XYxWZaMvsJB_19TGrjN28vOdq3vsw/s320/DSC_2437.jpg" width="212" /></a><br />
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No one ever told me that I'd laugh. And I'd cry. And I'd smile.<br />
No one ever told me that I'd look into his eyes, big brown saucers they are, and see my own soul.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3PdhrXU8DouUGh71BGRaQ2fat1zg5UNHuITzoRU9w6KADdAPKs1c-odPSbKLza4k_65_HGFjwyioXHoSpdKnJFp3rbqOakDeQGke43lQI0auUmrK7EZrS0tpbO4f5OqNFZ9XM/s1600/20140723_135446.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3PdhrXU8DouUGh71BGRaQ2fat1zg5UNHuITzoRU9w6KADdAPKs1c-odPSbKLza4k_65_HGFjwyioXHoSpdKnJFp3rbqOakDeQGke43lQI0auUmrK7EZrS0tpbO4f5OqNFZ9XM/s320/20140723_135446.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
No one ever told me that I'd love my kids' father that much more with each passing birthday.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhZccuGb-akM5FPfBtzprg7QsEsiKKEo93SFb-CLkhAMqBW98_qKgk7mp2PfsZ-LFTp2afP3HQx282RM1a2tL-hDa1eV76DGEH1eScVUdOdcoGiyN94LA6fbFa5P-RuzOb-nf1/s1600/DSC_5162.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhZccuGb-akM5FPfBtzprg7QsEsiKKEo93SFb-CLkhAMqBW98_qKgk7mp2PfsZ-LFTp2afP3HQx282RM1a2tL-hDa1eV76DGEH1eScVUdOdcoGiyN94LA6fbFa5P-RuzOb-nf1/s320/DSC_5162.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=21776861" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="16" id="r0m89sevb62i" src="data:image/gif;base64,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" style="cursor: move;" width="16" /></a></div>
As my soon to be six year old has been reminding us every day for the past month, his birthday is nearly here. It's a celebration of him, of his life.<br />
<br />
For me, it's my celebration of his birth, of the moment, after 38 weeks he grew inside of me, that he became himself. <span id="goog_1894045828"></span><span id="goog_1894045829"></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilezcchG1a_TgVpufLgE_s6P7mZQ_uRo-FJFBhlLyulbZqhdQCrQuNpJ6d2e3vTatlJOlweky7gvke2hbZvvvnXm1nYRbHU4S_FRXj196HlqTiVYlh8-JBuqWJ6xRbcbTtkU52/s1600/_DSC9064.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilezcchG1a_TgVpufLgE_s6P7mZQ_uRo-FJFBhlLyulbZqhdQCrQuNpJ6d2e3vTatlJOlweky7gvke2hbZvvvnXm1nYRbHU4S_FRXj196HlqTiVYlh8-JBuqWJ6xRbcbTtkU52/s400/_DSC9064.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-60639173335051791452015-07-14T00:30:00.001-05:002015-07-14T20:25:55.356-05:00A Memory<div class="MsoNormal">
On July 14 two years ago, I saw the news that Cory Monteith, star of Glee, aged 31, had died of a suspected drug overdose the night before. I was filled with anger, but in a small apartment with two families while on vacation, I bottled up my emotions, not wanting my kids to see me cry and not being able to explain why. As a high school kid who loved music and dancing but couldn’t sing, I was the glee club groupie of my day. So, many years later, I naturally loved the TV show, and its star. A life cut short is always sad, but why did the death of this stranger send me to the bathroom to hide and cry my eyes out?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Because, 24 years before, there was another 31 year old at the top of the world, full of life, the kind of person to make everyone laugh and smile. He was the kind of person who, when he walked into a room, you knew the party had started. There’d be song and dance and joy. He was the kind of person who would give you the shirt of his back, who would rush to your side to help you up. He was also the kind of person who also had a darkness inside he couldn’t overcome, whose pain was so unbearable he turned to cocaine to numb it. He was my big brother.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The first emotion is anger – why would someone be so selfish as to turn to drugs? Don’t they know they have a family who love them? Friends? Fans? (And believe me, my brother Albert had fans!) Sometimes it takes years to get over that anger, and sometimes it comes back, like each time a well-known person dies in the same way. Sometimes the anger is directed at ourselves – why didn’t we do more? Why couldn’t we fix it? Why couldn’t we love enough? What did we do wrong?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But the other emotion one recognizes over time is one of sympathy, if not quite understanding. Depression, real depression, is a powerful demon, not easily controlled. It’s not about “feeling blue.” It’s about being brought to the depths of despair and feeling like there is no way out. People in that place find a way to numb the pain. I’m not sure I’ll ever fully understand it, but I recognize that it’s not so easy to toss off. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Sometimes, a loved one can help pull them back up. Often, they can’t. You can love someone completely, you can be there for them, you can give them your hope, but you can’t save them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy5_IPEYpVCs7O8hmcch57AhtQ9Weyb8yiTmzrM0CTpfVXox2PL2SnDvdoJuTZ2v_Qcw-5WpKgGmWGYoo-szmfdx_szmQS2535lyxmDisAQ4LCqZ9_FFCDnYd8q2bbTwzAPYaQ/s1600/73071_1565242343734_4663878_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy5_IPEYpVCs7O8hmcch57AhtQ9Weyb8yiTmzrM0CTpfVXox2PL2SnDvdoJuTZ2v_Qcw-5WpKgGmWGYoo-szmfdx_szmQS2535lyxmDisAQ4LCqZ9_FFCDnYd8q2bbTwzAPYaQ/s320/73071_1565242343734_4663878_n.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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In June of 1989, when my brother hadn’t returned my calls for a number of days, I got worried. I went to his apartment and he wasn’t there. I found an open window and climbed in. On the counter I found a steno-pad with notes about cocaine: what it does to the body, how the body reacts physiologically, how the brain reacts.<br />
<br />
Then he walked in. At first relieved he was ok, I then worried he’d be furious to see his 19-year-old kid sister snooping, but he was calm, peaceful. He told me that he’d not only been off cocaine for many months, but was working on understanding it so he could learn to counsel kids about drug use. We talked for hours that night. Finally, I went home, content that he was well into recovery. A young man full of so much promise, so much love and hope. A man full of laughter.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Two weeks later, in a particularly dark moment of despair, he reached for the one thing he knew could numb the pain, cocaine. And it did. Forever.<br />
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[<i>edit: I'm being an armchair psychologist. To my knowledge, he was never diagnosed with depression, because I don't think he ever sought out psychiatric help. But knowing what I know now, the manic-depression-drugs cycle is very obvious. I use addiction and depression interchangeably, because for him, I think they were linked. ]</i></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-9421248990848378992015-03-27T10:13:00.001-05:002017-10-24T14:52:03.526-05:00My first airplane tripSummer of 1985, my sister, Denise, was 12 and I was 15. Not quite a kid, but hardly a savvy world
traveller. My brother Tim lived in St.
Croix, USVI and my sister Theresa lived in NYC. My mom decided Denise and I
should visit (how exactly they came up with the money I don’t know, but it was
bargain basement air travel…). My only experience of airports had been picking
up visiting relatives.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit8_ypo1yAvzVg0zfMyJ68sWUivvPs-Yrtpnz9HbGK_oymrBJAqXo_aEw0tUQ8dQYelgfuZLDmIgZtOvNnHGPGyvRtJyrm5czENlZjmRmQe78Epl6vukIJqXFnA7O2rnJtWNdj/s1600/scan0004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit8_ypo1yAvzVg0zfMyJ68sWUivvPs-Yrtpnz9HbGK_oymrBJAqXo_aEw0tUQ8dQYelgfuZLDmIgZtOvNnHGPGyvRtJyrm5czENlZjmRmQe78Epl6vukIJqXFnA7O2rnJtWNdj/s1600/scan0004.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Denise, getting ready to board</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One-way from LA to NYC on People’s Express for $100.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Uneventful. Theresa and her friends met us in
NYC, we took our first subway ride, had a blast. The next day she delivered us
to JFK for our flight to San Juan, Puerto Rico then onward to St. Croix.<br />
<br />
When Denise and I arrived in San Juan, we had to change airlines to a small
puddle jumper. Though PR is a US territory, it’s definitely a Latin American
place and, despite growing up in a very Hispanic area of Los Angeles, seemed foreign.
So, dragging our bags, we searched the airport for the airline counter and couldn’t
find it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eventually we noticed the sign
for that airline, but no one was at the counter. I asked the people in the
counter next to it and was told “Oh, they went out of business.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Now would have been a good time to freak out,
but I guess when you’re clueless, you don’t realize you should be freaking
out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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So what did that mean? The folks
there had no idea, except, the airline no longer existed.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixQ0pz8ikLzzLYNJJahFT0paZNwUZ1maoCsRIA06sZwgqClhCuRmuzrGIdq08jku5rCpJWGfNT2AmTp52orWd053_5pa7X3r_s_9NydNOuHoQY43wqylAquE2b9ykajdWk9wr9/s1600/scan0005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixQ0pz8ikLzzLYNJJahFT0paZNwUZ1maoCsRIA06sZwgqClhCuRmuzrGIdq08jku5rCpJWGfNT2AmTp52orWd053_5pa7X3r_s_9NydNOuHoQY43wqylAquE2b9ykajdWk9wr9/s1600/scan0005.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tim and Denise at Grassy Point, East End, St Croix </td></tr>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somehow, I found a pay phone and called my brother. He had
been notified of the airline’s situation and managed to arrange an alternative
flight. So we trudged over to the new airline and made our way to St Croix.<br />
<br />
First crisis over.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-tOXcBFgBcdkgqHBPYNYwQ5FVedf6T2h9r4pTXWv8qHYejf6nLdriPMoMPAoKMEozacX5QAfwowm6W-tAZLgAtpLNDVAdWfWNFITC1MdQg9Ie5NQ6iV1GEmIBa4bFWy3mRfjj/s1600/scan0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-tOXcBFgBcdkgqHBPYNYwQ5FVedf6T2h9r4pTXWv8qHYejf6nLdriPMoMPAoKMEozacX5QAfwowm6W-tAZLgAtpLNDVAdWfWNFITC1MdQg9Ie5NQ6iV1GEmIBa4bFWy3mRfjj/s1600/scan0006.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
On the way back, our flight into JFK was delayed. We arrived
in the international terminal (not sure why as we came via PR) to a crush of
people pushing on the barricades. That was overwhelming, having never seen such
a sight.<br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Again we had to change airlines for our onward flight to
Ohio, where we’d meet the rest of our family and drive back to California.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Knowing we had very little time to make our
connection and having no idea how these things worked, I told my 12 year old
sister to get our luggage while I ran over to the ticket counter to tell them
we had arrived and told her to meet me there. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At 12 years old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
JFK. In the International Arrivals area (having since spent many hours in this
area, WHAT WAS I THINKING?!)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then Denise didn’t show up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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I waited. No Denise. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally the agent said they had to let the plane go,
meanwhile I’m thinking “Holy crap! I sent my 12 yr old sister into the bowels of
a crowded airport and I am responsible for her and what if something happened?”
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now’s an ok time to freak out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then she showed up, dragging our bags. I had never been
so happy to see my sister in all my life. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Denise wasn’t the least bit scared, or
worried.<br />
<br />
Just pissed off. And calm, in her very-Denise way that involved looks of shooting daggers deep into my body. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The US Airways agent, nicest man ever, then spent the
next 2 hours trying to figure out how to get us to Cleveland, Ohio, where my other sister, Michele, would meet us. My sister wasn’t in NYC at that time, so we couldn’t go
to her place. There were no more flights out of JFK to anywhere in Ohio.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally, he
found a flight out of La Guardia, leaving in less than 3 hours, but that required
getting there. We had little money, no credit cards, no cell phones (it was
1985). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So we took a bus. In NYC. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kindly agent said “HURRY!” So we rushed, and got on the wrong bus. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiruDfOdJMTeluvdwXhnG61E4Hc9B-A58LtiBUYzHjT70-VZO7262HWztrilr2a2_UQw7grf9TKQNkemZiyPYVB73t3n9QMO8NeFobO9ytQOxHUSTiVwzUSHjkE5BJxVQC_Qzly/s1600/scan0007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiruDfOdJMTeluvdwXhnG61E4Hc9B-A58LtiBUYzHjT70-VZO7262HWztrilr2a2_UQw7grf9TKQNkemZiyPYVB73t3n9QMO8NeFobO9ytQOxHUSTiVwzUSHjkE5BJxVQC_Qzly/s1600/scan0007.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My brother Chris with Malinda and Ronnie's son, Scott.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally got on the right bus. Somehow made it to La Guardia
in time, checked in, and got on our flight, arrived safely in Columbus, Ohio where
our cousins Malinda and Ronnie picked us up and eventually delivered us to the
rest of the Rohr Clan.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbBGWSKgNHk27Q2wFRxyQBEmAaUuxHsPPJvje7dYFFfZp7Fhna_LjjSd7Eab26BqDMwLkiQ48WAZp3Ddwcm1wwMqzBI-eDjVB35aX4lFcULHtVkjYy4QeI_N2Uzk5s-yEUV660/s1600/scan0008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbBGWSKgNHk27Q2wFRxyQBEmAaUuxHsPPJvje7dYFFfZp7Fhna_LjjSd7Eab26BqDMwLkiQ48WAZp3Ddwcm1wwMqzBI-eDjVB35aX4lFcULHtVkjYy4QeI_N2Uzk5s-yEUV660/s1600/scan0008.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A lake in Holmes County. Buckhorn?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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That was our first every trip via airplane.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-35300146739962602942015-02-03T12:08:00.002-06:002015-02-03T12:45:33.915-06:00Measles and gratuitous cute kid picturesI haven't updated this blog in ages. The kids are growing and are as cute as ever.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3NlWOSEzWoN1vOuEBllUh88nzKYECSKE3GWXx9R8uUK0azrCT0hyphenhyphenvzpx73JCGW_cYjlYKG-TqtShaad8d4HsEUDZ898eYAunPiwe_dXhE-0ytzuYKuTehT7VPcNlEknd7-8Io/s1600/_DSC4651_00258.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3NlWOSEzWoN1vOuEBllUh88nzKYECSKE3GWXx9R8uUK0azrCT0hyphenhyphenvzpx73JCGW_cYjlYKG-TqtShaad8d4HsEUDZ898eYAunPiwe_dXhE-0ytzuYKuTehT7VPcNlEknd7-8Io/s1600/_DSC4651_00258.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnm_f-DYu6l0cOaOdHfBC1lq8zr7FzD0dl_TFt43IWs1gRjwQ-pj2QoOpBzV_O-GJnglowFJNd8_3VezB_NwoSQzOFnybfW3KSUh1PxUtPZkCteiFyNHg8KTN9ROwY6e8UApx_/s1600/_DSC4662_00268.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnm_f-DYu6l0cOaOdHfBC1lq8zr7FzD0dl_TFt43IWs1gRjwQ-pj2QoOpBzV_O-GJnglowFJNd8_3VezB_NwoSQzOFnybfW3KSUh1PxUtPZkCteiFyNHg8KTN9ROwY6e8UApx_/s1600/_DSC4662_00268.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></div>
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But here's a timely topic: Measles. Fortunately, neither of our kids have it. And as they're fully vaccinated, their risk is very small. <a href="http://www.therivardreport.com/measles-back-vengeance/">MEASLES </a></div>
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As a public health professional, my job is to worry about everyone's kids, not just my own. If you haven't been vaccinated, please do so.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-66783806387287339482014-08-18T15:57:00.001-05:002014-08-18T15:57:42.255-05:00This. Just this.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-53802190303732421442014-07-23T12:26:00.000-05:002014-07-24T10:12:48.115-05:00My Village<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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I just read an article entitled <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/bunmi-laditan/i-miss-the-village_b_5585677.html">“I miss my village.”</a> I read it while folding pool towels, preparing
for an onslaught of neighborhood kids and their parents to come over for a summer
afternoon. The only reason I was “preparing” was that, after so many impromptu
neighborhood gatherings, I decided we had to limit them a little bit so we
could plan other activities. (The house is still a mess, but that’s ok because
I know my fellow villagers don’t care)<br />
<br />
See, I live in The Village. That village where your neighbor’s door is open and
your kids freely wander in. Ok, not so freely, my neighbor put sleigh bells on
her back door so she could hear when my kid wandered in, as often she’d turn
around, startled, to find a stealthy 4 year old looking up at her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A neighborhood where, when my husband was diagnosed with
cancer and faced multiple surgeries, before I could blink my eyes neighbors
planned childcare for our two kids, planned and delivered meals, even offered
to clean my house. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The village where, when I must write down the responsible
adults who may pick up my child from school, the newcomer at the school thinks
I must be nuts: I have at least ten names down. Then a teacher steps in and
says “I have to explain to them about ‘the neighborhood.’” Because, at any given time, if I’m stuck
across town, or having a sleeping baby I would rather not wake, or was in the
middle of a home project, I could call and ask “Can you get my kid from school today?” <br />
<br />
The village where, when I had to go out of town for the day, I could rally a
tag team of five families to pick up and deliver my kids from different schools
to different homes until I could get back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The village where, when I need a wine opener, I can walk
next door and borrow one, then share the wine. Ok, I’ll be honest, usually it’s
my neighbor asking for the wine opener because I’m well stocked, but we still
share the bottle. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The village where, after yet another pool party, the
gathering will morph into dinner and movie watching with multiple families
(this one planned, because, we know by now it’ll happen anyway).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The village where I can chat with my female friends, some
other moms, some without kids. The village where I can chat with my male
friends, some dads, some without kids. The village where my childless next door
neighbors are honorary grandparents to my kids. The village consists of all types of families, not just those with kids. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Our village is urban, and while we have trees to climb, there are streets to traverse, which mean we can’t just let our four year olds run to their friend’s house a few blocks away (as much as he may think he can). There’s enough traffic that I don’t let my kids play in the street, but they can walk down the sidewalk to the neighbors' houses. We have what one neighbor calls "Walkpooling" - she'll pick up anywhere from five to ten kids and walk them home from school. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Our village has multiple layers. The layers include two major neighborhoods and
another smaller one, but still, all One Village. The layers include families with small kids, families with grown kids, childfree families, and singles. One Village. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t miss the village. I live in The Village. We even have a flag. <o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-15665647802989906472014-07-05T08:45:00.004-05:002014-07-05T08:45:57.046-05:00And this is 8!I haven't updated in awhile, these kids keep me on my toes.<br />
<br />
<br />
I can't believe our first born is now 8! How did that happen? Wasn't it just yesterday she was a tiny baby? Now she's a gorgeous, fiesty, smart, curious, fascinating girl. No surprises there.<br />
<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-79076680455383679602014-03-03T21:56:00.000-06:002014-03-05T20:50:09.711-06:00Dad, Opa, husband, uncle, friend<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Martin H. Rohr made an
impact on everyone he met. Having lived 81 years and giving his family and
friends a lifetime of stories, he died peacefully on Friday, Feb. 28.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_AlGlwq89zFcN4ggw57gB3eqdG9WHGW5LtMB_L-HPI0Se2W_UsdA1XT0S-ercsuy-d_mxYlAmqjfS02NgCkyTEdh2uwpP5z5-aQEZIetPN8faHCs-F-QPkIEUDSSONy9aoXCI/s1600/Martin+Rohr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_AlGlwq89zFcN4ggw57gB3eqdG9WHGW5LtMB_L-HPI0Se2W_UsdA1XT0S-ercsuy-d_mxYlAmqjfS02NgCkyTEdh2uwpP5z5-aQEZIetPN8faHCs-F-QPkIEUDSSONy9aoXCI/s1600/Martin+Rohr.jpg" height="320" width="160" /></a>Marty was born on Nov. 24, 1932, the tenth of 14 children of
Elmer and Helen Rohr and raised on the family farm in Massillon, OH. Joining the US Navy in 1951, he reported for
duty at the US Naval Training Center in IL, where 63 years later, his grandson
would also report for duty. Serving
through the Korean War, it was while stationed in San Diego that he became
friends with Charles (“Carlitos”). Far away from his own family, Marty happily
tagged along to the large Mexican family gatherings of Carlitos’ extended clan
in Los Angeles. It was at these events he
met Elaine, who would become his wife after his honorable discharge in 1955.
Together they raised eight children in Baldwin Park, CA. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Always a hard worker, Marty was a milkman, a meter reader
for the electric company, and worked in various construction jobs before
founding Martel Rebar, later to become Rohr Steel. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He gave a lifetime of service to others. He was a continual presence at the schools
his children attended: St John the
Baptist in Baldwin Park and Bishop Amat High School in La Puente. From moving
bleachers, to conducting parking at football games, to setting up for festivals,
he was always ready to lend a hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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As Scout Master of Boy Scout Troop 695 in Baldwin Park, he
taught the boys (and some of their sisters) how to tie knots, led camping and
hiking expeditions and served as a role model to a generation of boys and
girls.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Most recently, he was a very dedicated member of the
American Legion Post Charter Cove 755, donating many hours of his time and
expertise to the Post. He considered his fellow Legionnaires family. He will
long be remembered by Legionnaires, friends, and family alike standing over an
open fire making his famous Mojo potatoes and telling stories. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The many friends of his eight children knew him as “Dad
Rohr,” the man who drove the 1963 Ford van filled with teenagers to football
games, visits to the mountains, and trips to the beach. Marty was a father figure and role model not
just to his own children, but to all their friends and neighbors, to his many
nieces and nephews, to his grandchildren and to their friends who also called
him “Opa.” Indeed, when remodeling the
small 3-bedroom house in Baldwin Park, he said his goal was to make the house so
that all friends and relatives would feel welcome and there was always space
for one more. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A strong believer in the importance of education and known
for giving the shirt off his back to someone in need, he donated his body to UC
Irvine Medical School, so he could continue to be of service and to foster
education. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Preceded in death by his son Albert and granddaughter Camie,
he is survived by Elaine; his children and their spouses: <span style="color: #181818; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">Tim and Leone; Theresa
and Paul;</span> <span style="color: #181818; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">Loretta
and Bruce; Chris and Debbie; Michele and Steve</span>; <span style="color: #181818; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">Cherise and Frederic; Denise and Kurt, and 25
grandchildren. He is also survived by his siblings Cletus, Ron, Gerrie, and
Helen Ann, and more than 60 nieces and nephews.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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The family is especially grateful to those who assisted in
his care in his final years at Claremont Place Assisted Living and to our
cousin, Susan, who always brought a smile to our dad’s face. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Marty leaves a legacy of service, of laughter, and
celebration. A Catholic Mass in celebration of his life will take place at
1:30 pm on Saturday, March 8, at St Joseph’s Catholic Church, 925 N. Campus
Ave, Upland, CA, 91786. In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to St John
the Baptist School Youth Programs, c/o Noreen Ebiner, 3870 Stewart Ave, Baldwin
Park, CA 91706. <o:p></o:p><br />
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The short obituary in the Daily Bulletin (Inland Empire) can be found <a href="http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/indeonline/obituary.aspx?n=martin-h-rohr&pid=169984031">http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/indeonline/obituary.aspx?n=martin-h-rohr&pid=169984031</a>>here</div>
and the <a href="http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/indeonline/obituary.aspx?n=martin-h-rohr&pid=169984031" style="font-family: Helvetica;">http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/indeonline/obituary.aspx?n=martin-h-rohr&pid=169984031</a>>Massillon Evening Standard <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-16756495462505729342013-12-08T22:40:00.000-06:002013-12-08T22:40:06.889-06:00My 4 yr old monster<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Four years ago this little creature entered our world. Life has never been the same.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ9i0sB4cIsAAcskNxgH9VUzQ179YsXCpSv2mXSCkwRVHGxYSnVrSxlPV2JCHBiyHIBtYDwZEGw5BOmf9aMg4yKaNMtDUtxSv5O1WmbgE9Nx8HNjJNMFtkGwgxL1DAzRFE0gqg/s1600/Slide1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ9i0sB4cIsAAcskNxgH9VUzQ179YsXCpSv2mXSCkwRVHGxYSnVrSxlPV2JCHBiyHIBtYDwZEGw5BOmf9aMg4yKaNMtDUtxSv5O1WmbgE9Nx8HNjJNMFtkGwgxL1DAzRFE0gqg/s640/Slide1.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-26685316750345684822013-10-31T22:26:00.001-05:002013-11-01T19:05:16.557-05:00All hallow's eveAll Hallows Eve<br />
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Spooky. Scary. A night intended to scare off the demons.<br />
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But what I finally realized tonight, is that it is anything but.<br />
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I've never been a huge Halloween person. I've had my share of parties and been to my share, but if it didn't happen, I probably wouldn't have missed it. But now I have kids. And they're All. About. Halloween. Dressing up, getting candy.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgbZVZ1aZInQ8yECXvX8R7RTcT8XWYTKAOOLHwEOixI5gYKeL4-qvDPQe5njzXsu1NJ-_34FGBxhMW9HAuTG-3p2X7TJOAWxvUXaB2v1sJnaVOtoQ6okEQnjKETbT0dIkHsraR/s1600/297462_2384608227369_480010351_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgbZVZ1aZInQ8yECXvX8R7RTcT8XWYTKAOOLHwEOixI5gYKeL4-qvDPQe5njzXsu1NJ-_34FGBxhMW9HAuTG-3p2X7TJOAWxvUXaB2v1sJnaVOtoQ6okEQnjKETbT0dIkHsraR/s320/297462_2384608227369_480010351_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sami, Will and Lenaïc 2010</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But now, what I realize Halloween is really all about? Neighborhood. Community. What is "trick or treating" if not a way to become part of the neighborhood? And the way we do it, Lavaca style, it's all about the 'hood. See, when we first moved here, there weren't many kids and it was not exactly the coolest place to be. Halloween saw precious few kids. Around the same time, the trend for kids to trek to the "cool" neighborhoods became the norm. And by "cool" I mean where they could get the most loot. But while our closest neighborhood is THE place to be, some years ago we realized that trick or treating with truck loads of roving teens was not so fun for 2-4 yr olds. So a few neighbors decided it was time to Take Back Our 'Hood.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFKBPCQ3HX3ZT9TTVMgQAuZrPzNf84pUOAySYEZ3Sc_UL5xFrtjT253WUCYBecXiprCGjcwQi-8rcAh-7pU2sLOluUK8yYbDWin4KHHUSX2lqxJ0nbm90WE5-qPvRJxHQd4K6s/s1600/315728_2384782871735_1645605067_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFKBPCQ3HX3ZT9TTVMgQAuZrPzNf84pUOAySYEZ3Sc_UL5xFrtjT253WUCYBecXiprCGjcwQi-8rcAh-7pU2sLOluUK8yYbDWin4KHHUSX2lqxJ0nbm90WE5-qPvRJxHQd4K6s/s320/315728_2384782871735_1645605067_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2011</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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And so we did. We started with a pre-party for the kiddos to get fueled up on "healthy food" (i.e. something that wasn't candy), check out costumes, take a group picture, and head out. The neighbors, long since accustomed to so few kids coming by, were THRILLED.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB59nMts2cYCrUT97yLFISZe39q0c8WWwMnQcnjCpKWgrTpUTMNslPXMZsac2hx-7csjdRX242dHS5Wibb3H57Pscm2k-rcB3_cKHup7SMhTxK8dFggCLkmpfnf_5zlzl_A-vg/s1600/386060_2384779191643_1701151931_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB59nMts2cYCrUT97yLFISZe39q0c8WWwMnQcnjCpKWgrTpUTMNslPXMZsac2hx-7csjdRX242dHS5Wibb3H57Pscm2k-rcB3_cKHup7SMhTxK8dFggCLkmpfnf_5zlzl_A-vg/s320/386060_2384779191643_1701151931_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lenaïc, Sami, and Will 2011</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVvUo3GDM2h6-29jJRub3NiPHh0SPtq-Lt-J5pXAzRgc_LMAENOeCHhhTyhJf_W8sZmqBCqKmMqUDJqWYEfG11kRV4wSWLVnaZ14lWTj15F-W9-HeU3YmKwfjohyphenhyphensE_q6RdnI_/s1600/1380195_10151745610633730_2109580609_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVvUo3GDM2h6-29jJRub3NiPHh0SPtq-Lt-J5pXAzRgc_LMAENOeCHhhTyhJf_W8sZmqBCqKmMqUDJqWYEfG11kRV4wSWLVnaZ14lWTj15F-W9-HeU3YmKwfjohyphenhyphensE_q6RdnI_/s320/1380195_10151745610633730_2109580609_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2012</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYiE66phCYlWVGiYqnRBfI2KeIP47CCpF01jn59uF4Zz5YfyLTFGkb77krfr2VQzuIf0LDFLS2XQmmouYiLt337mLEDC42rwwi4ZjTRGnbycyHtQ1BWGkLrumHwXXXTWnS9Km/s1600/DSC_7936.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYiE66phCYlWVGiYqnRBfI2KeIP47CCpF01jn59uF4Zz5YfyLTFGkb77krfr2VQzuIf0LDFLS2XQmmouYiLt337mLEDC42rwwi4ZjTRGnbycyHtQ1BWGkLrumHwXXXTWnS9Km/s320/DSC_7936.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Attempting to herd cats, 2013</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And here we area, 4 years later. It was our turn to host the pre-party. We saw old friends and made new ones. We connected with our usual neighbors, we made friends with new neighbors, we sent kids out trick or treating, and then with friends to our next-neighborhood to pass out candy to the masses. I sat, realizing, that Halloween is really just, or most importantly, about community. And oh, how lucky my kids are to have that.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijzfMXT5g2dHxlfdKhCiCMtUxoYQozkFhkVfG0gPgAlAc355SQd6Pvr5jP1spwYuE5IR4udkN5WaQGIWepFp_-yylx6FzSMsMs49YxRYgQwpUS65YpG2EbT1i5Ma1jiIo8kgTt/s1600/1401676_10153422298145296_2134596765_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijzfMXT5g2dHxlfdKhCiCMtUxoYQozkFhkVfG0gPgAlAc355SQd6Pvr5jP1spwYuE5IR4udkN5WaQGIWepFp_-yylx6FzSMsMs49YxRYgQwpUS65YpG2EbT1i5Ma1jiIo8kgTt/s320/1401676_10153422298145296_2134596765_o.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Will, Sami, and Lenaïc, 2013</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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After all, what is Halloween, without friends and neighbors?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOvbo0vYnxnq-xnGlvkVV1f1WsMP782U0jRDpELn5FaIk1dTWIMlkhKV47BnicWkIOtHkTZGWqSv2Y8e-N4pLMLeb5gRNfd2PU9UH2u-hLGGAxZPzHgTJpLhDaQGAcS-hBBf_F/s1600/390417_2384768391373_1986375664_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOvbo0vYnxnq-xnGlvkVV1f1WsMP782U0jRDpELn5FaIk1dTWIMlkhKV47BnicWkIOtHkTZGWqSv2Y8e-N4pLMLeb5gRNfd2PU9UH2u-hLGGAxZPzHgTJpLhDaQGAcS-hBBf_F/s320/390417_2384768391373_1986375664_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-30910057373090362602013-04-28T14:11:00.000-05:002013-04-28T14:11:01.514-05:00KWAKs!KWAKs are our King William Area Kids. We parents, I like to call "SAPs" - Southtown Area Parents.<br />
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Because one can have too many parties, every year during Fiesta (a city-wide, 10 day series of events), our KWAKs participates in the King William Parade. The <a href="http://kwfair.org/parade/">http://kwfair.org/parade/</a>>parade<br />
kicks off the King William Fair a sort of arts gala and tribute to the funky and weird that is my neighborhood (King William is the fancier side of Southtown). The local newspaper described the parade as "geared towards families." And it is, if your family enjoys drag queens. My family does, so it's all good.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8CXtxboTxhmccg_Qpd66SzJraNzc2qgNMrR_fmMkXQI-WTWexU74jzqcs-teSA8c9L-sL-kGbmrVeHxYU-bQcaRdvdErQxe_PsbUSFi9rsl5Q7ZDkrX5AekpAnRP99tGgJ8wJ/s1600/376046_10201093438279799_1582618694_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8CXtxboTxhmccg_Qpd66SzJraNzc2qgNMrR_fmMkXQI-WTWexU74jzqcs-teSA8c9L-sL-kGbmrVeHxYU-bQcaRdvdErQxe_PsbUSFi9rsl5Q7ZDkrX5AekpAnRP99tGgJ8wJ/s320/376046_10201093438279799_1582618694_n.jpg" width="320" /></a>Ok, not ALL drag queens, but the KW Parade is all about anything goes. Quirky, funky, strange, serious, funny, real, and unreal. For a number of years now, the kids in the 'hood jump on the trailer made into a float and sing, cheer, and sometimes pout.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIsJRCueEU57JvIkGrFXuimMmrENsVYPKraYxq-YzZ_xsjqvaysTpbjsX1ScBfF6QE_H8pftW2D7DyqjAyy6qn4EBxRHs1A_I2UL5Q04XbFrMMf0QImtai2gPo0BfhUtBXkF8A/s1600/f_DSC0889.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIsJRCueEU57JvIkGrFXuimMmrENsVYPKraYxq-YzZ_xsjqvaysTpbjsX1ScBfF6QE_H8pftW2D7DyqjAyy6qn4EBxRHs1A_I2UL5Q04XbFrMMf0QImtai2gPo0BfhUtBXkF8A/s320/f_DSC0889.JPG" width="320" /></a>Needing to get things off to a fun start, we decided to merge our Friday playdate (just a few kids...) with the float decorating party and move it all to our house.<br />
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While the kids played, the parents worked, then the kids worked, and despite the drizzle off and on, we created a float.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrIdouUXN3bevtCfdFuIjZPFXDp5mumyGnqniFkBkEibWE2G_Pln56Y1FClC6z4hozjoss-mTh_p5uTmg6y5kbYJAKC3tJEpNLiP401niYaNJfMqPPXuPPZ4nHWVtBEKczEu6y/s1600/f_DSC0898.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrIdouUXN3bevtCfdFuIjZPFXDp5mumyGnqniFkBkEibWE2G_Pln56Y1FClC6z4hozjoss-mTh_p5uTmg6y5kbYJAKC3tJEpNLiP401niYaNJfMqPPXuPPZ4nHWVtBEKczEu6y/s320/f_DSC0898.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiScPmQXWfAiVW-7ZwVR4G45ScLpj0MFDYkfMrX-JuhYcKkYpP5sKHk5Qqs_0D8x-D_PA2cXjUWd7RT6zTzlAqzhgjdnEj1QqzOJLeZy8nU8XxEx7VjEWc_uw2w4xiEIChAlprn/s1600/fc_DSC0886.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiScPmQXWfAiVW-7ZwVR4G45ScLpj0MFDYkfMrX-JuhYcKkYpP5sKHk5Qqs_0D8x-D_PA2cXjUWd7RT6zTzlAqzhgjdnEj1QqzOJLeZy8nU8XxEx7VjEWc_uw2w4xiEIChAlprn/s320/fc_DSC0886.jpg" width="244" /></a></div>
<span style="text-align: center;">And on Saturday, the kids went wild. And then we all partied some more. These days, we don't bother going to the Fair itself. After the parade we hang out at our friends' house along the parade route, enjoy our neighbors, then stumble home.</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">We didn't get too many pics of the actual parade, but we got the important part - the KWAKs! </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;">Click <a href="http://flic.kr/s/aHsjETz1xr">HERE</a> for more</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidxzIRdHIxkfMyQJRmDcGGA9vsHzL67xQMkjSCl6N0XIkvPFXSa5d9cfppxbX_W_JloX8b8-L87_Ffg1Q6U5XCUy0KZ1IT4vBha1kfkQQBnoLmENBrt5Ha8Jvl7GYhfJ1DDZx2/s1600/fc_DSC0955.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidxzIRdHIxkfMyQJRmDcGGA9vsHzL67xQMkjSCl6N0XIkvPFXSa5d9cfppxbX_W_JloX8b8-L87_Ffg1Q6U5XCUy0KZ1IT4vBha1kfkQQBnoLmENBrt5Ha8Jvl7GYhfJ1DDZx2/s320/fc_DSC0955.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-4021633564815418002013-03-31T20:34:00.001-05:002013-03-31T20:34:10.067-05:00Kids in the 'Hood - Easter<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsYgQwPhJu3wcu5EaDW_4ct4X_Lzd4CcG0BaX26ImtHL5UO2MyMykNrWNglLrtiAM_FsEHk5QtvVdL2I76iWF7eI_mz7HIPKnJE6niTUOI6a6sm5qSlpRuOddPVKNO5bBQK8ue/s1600/_DSC0085.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsYgQwPhJu3wcu5EaDW_4ct4X_Lzd4CcG0BaX26ImtHL5UO2MyMykNrWNglLrtiAM_FsEHk5QtvVdL2I76iWF7eI_mz7HIPKnJE6niTUOI6a6sm5qSlpRuOddPVKNO5bBQK8ue/s320/_DSC0085.JPG" width="320" /></a>Every year our neighborhood has an Easter Egg Hunt. A wonderful family who live across from Upper Mill Park collect eggs all week (every family is asked to leave 1 dozen per kid) then spend the wee hours of the morning hiding them. This year they brought some bunnies too. And it was a record year - well over 100 eggs to be hidden! <br />
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The 3 yr olds and under go first, then they big kids count down 60 seconds, and race off.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7gcDse5j1h48TvvntJSdJAj-UFdMjz4jJ1onQ1GNfUOH5FLsMgV9fARWA_Wpq7XBYAxVGMhkEh4TiXXI3fhGJIj-8IUPozMD5sEUMndHRJyjBzt1mw0YO-2AITYHFX6q0ZJ-s/s1600/_DSC0140.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7gcDse5j1h48TvvntJSdJAj-UFdMjz4jJ1onQ1GNfUOH5FLsMgV9fARWA_Wpq7XBYAxVGMhkEh4TiXXI3fhGJIj-8IUPozMD5sEUMndHRJyjBzt1mw0YO-2AITYHFX6q0ZJ-s/s320/_DSC0140.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC0wvQA4M616ulUQzELUy4JjFr1wonJiWqiE3V8z6paVbwYUJOKQcLo_EDM-POOgKbBDn1CPs1IC1FhEjocSGn9ZEKt3I2oUNGtoSRGIIvK6B4iG4JPcJYCAHPC8wBvwOlv1DN/s1600/_DSC0101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC0wvQA4M616ulUQzELUy4JjFr1wonJiWqiE3V8z6paVbwYUJOKQcLo_EDM-POOgKbBDn1CPs1IC1FhEjocSGn9ZEKt3I2oUNGtoSRGIIvK6B4iG4JPcJYCAHPC8wBvwOlv1DN/s320/_DSC0101.JPG" width="320" /></a>I cheat though. While I left off my 2 dozen eggs, I brought another dozen in my bag. Having seen my own kid confused my the whole "race to get as many as possible" idea, and there are usually a few late arrivals, I keep my stash and hide one at a time for the little ones. After awhile, I was re-hiding Lenaïc's own eggs, since really all he cared about was finding eggs. And it helped to have a few to hide for his buddy Will.<br />
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The kids have a blast hunting for eggs and playing with friends.<br />
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For more pictures of the Hunt, click <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/27490348@N07/sets/72157633133237977/">HERE</a><br />
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The Egg Hunt was followed by two birthday parties and a dinner party. All the better that none required getting in the car!<br /><br />So we spent Easter Sunday relaxing, well, until Angelina went next door and found they were going to another egg hunt and invited herself along....Oh, and if you consider my working 6 hours in the yard as relaxing.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrJEZdNmB4SSl1LGOSKxXydCY8NCaIGMDqIzaCQ4oGhnnTsKvTtHBYec8wyaThrQkFqzeg2Hntrx9_Zwj_cuz9uYmImcof_9E2Kby7W5d455CxiGKJA9mPWJ1K_XYCNDxcS75_/s1600/_DSC0333.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrJEZdNmB4SSl1LGOSKxXydCY8NCaIGMDqIzaCQ4oGhnnTsKvTtHBYec8wyaThrQkFqzeg2Hntrx9_Zwj_cuz9uYmImcof_9E2Kby7W5d455CxiGKJA9mPWJ1K_XYCNDxcS75_/s320/_DSC0333.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
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What a great neighborhood!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-34908560751004111262013-03-11T17:04:00.004-05:002013-03-11T17:04:54.191-05:00Why I Love Lavaca part XXIVI<br />
Yesterday was another regular sunny Sunday with no commitments. Well, that part was unusual as we often have some local activity happening. But anyway...<br />
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One neighbor posts a note on Facebook that his kid wants to kick around a soccer ball. A few of us say we'll join them. After playing an hour or so and all are ready to stop, Angelina yells "every one over to my house!"<br />
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Parents conferred and agreed it was ok. An entourage of kids head over, on the way we see another neighborhood family on the river, invite them to join us. Soon we have 9 kids playing in the yard.<br />
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Frederic reminds me he wants to drive out to see the comet - west of here, where the viewing is better. The other parents wanted to see it as well. We also realize it's dinner time. Though I haven't gone shopping, I scrounge up everything in my pantry and fridge while others run home to see what they can bring from their fridges and gardens. We manage a feast for 6 adults and 7 kids (plus one baby). We eat and caravan to the west end for comet viewing.<br />
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Just another day in the neighborhood.<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-50488449953547310752013-03-07T21:23:00.004-06:002013-03-10T22:34:18.663-05:00Southtown Kids, take 2<div class="MsoNormal">
I sit here in my partially renovated 1880s-era Southtown
house, soaking in the quiet. So calm and
peaceful with no kids in the neighborhood. Well, that’s because it’s 10 am and
they’re all at school. If I were to write this at 3:30 pm, well, I wouldn’t.
There would be too many distractions - kids laughing, kids playing in the
street, kids chasing the dog in the yard, kids playing on our trampoline, or
slide, or playhouse or, in the summer, our pool, kids going back and forth
between houses on the block, like they’re all part of one family.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But, “No families live downtown.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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And so, coming back to my computer late at night, it went today. By 4pm, at least 10 neighborhood kids
were in our yard playing, and a few non neighborhood kids who come to Southtown
because “this is where all the fun is.” In the summer this is a weekly event.
In the winter, it’s about once per month, not including all the other impromptu
events with kids. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every day we walk our older child to the neighborhood
school, with smiles and cheers for our beloved crossing guards. We watch a neighbor ride his bike to school, another
ride his scooter with his dad – a teacher at the local school, and 2 younger
sisters, while my 3 year old follows along on his tricycle. Just a few of many kids on foot or bike.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But there are no kids in Southtown.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then there’s KWAKs – King William Area Kids, a group
organized to get parents in Southtown together for fun and kid activities.
These include bike rides on the Riverwalk (we don’t even have to get in a car),
nature walks and scavenger hunts along the river, Easter egg hunts, picnics at
Chris Park, and, for the one activity that requires getting in a car – a neighborhood
campout. The first campout was so much
fun, that the second annual campout spots filled up in a matter of hours. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I wonder if the kids I see every day are really invisible,
since one reporter believes, from driving around, that “no kids live in
Southtown.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If we “young professionals” or “aging hipsters” fancy a beer
and a bite, we head over to The Friendly Spot.
So friendly it has a playground and on any given day a ton of kids
running around. Or to Alamo Street Eat Bar, where the neighborhood kids come up
with elaborate, creative games while eating gyros or bahn mi. Or we <i>walk</i> for a taco at Taco Haven. And then, we walk home. Walk? You know, that
thing you do with two feet, that doesn’t require a vehicle, gas, emissions and
all that fun stuff. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think Southtown must be filled with aliens under 4 ft
tall, since no human kids live here. Or
so says one local reporter. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For those of us who come from far away lands, with no family
nearby, we learned the value of a community. We know that, should I require an
emergency hospital stay while the other parent of my children is out of the country,
there is no hesitation. My children have “extended” family – not blood
relations, but neighbors, friends – who will take them in in a heartbeat. We know that, when we have other health or
family crises, or when we just need a mental health break, our neighborhood community is there to step in and help – so many
in fact that we have to say “Thanks but we’re covered for now.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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But there is no “community” in Southtown, “<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">it's basically an apartment complex spread across
several blocks of tree-covered lots. It will not evolve.</span>” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I moved to Southtown as a single young professional, when it
was far edgier and far less hip than it is now. I later met someone, fell in love, bought a house
around the corner from my rental in Southtown; had kids, and am now raising
them in our beloved Southtown, among what my 6 year old describes as her “family.”
In her mind, Southtown is one big commune, and all her neighbors – including those
without kids, including those straight, gay, single, married and all colors of the rainbow – are her family. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Southtown has evolved. It has evolved back to what it was in
its earliest days: a community of people who share their lives, and a place
where my kids know they belong. It will
continue to evolve. It will evolve so that our kids’ kids can live here too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, apparently none of us really exist, since “<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">there will
never be herds of little kids riding bicycles to the corner store or playing
street football.</span>” Except, oops, there go those kids riding their bikes and playing football in the street.<span style="border: 1pt none windowtext; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%; padding: 0in;"><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-12888603814248585622013-03-07T11:16:00.005-06:002013-03-07T11:16:45.371-06:00Southtown Kids!An ignorant reporter recently wrote an article about our neighborhood, claiming there were no kids, and therefore the "hip" neighborhood would eventually die as the "young" professionals who live here would eventually move out to the suburbs once we married and had kids.<br /><br />While I like being referred to as "young," this poor piece of journalism could not be more wrong.<br />
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Just another summer day in the 'hood (literally, this was a weekly event this past summer)<br />
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July 4th King William Celebration - apparently these kids are invisible</div>
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And fun isn't only in summer - this was December<br />
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Hipster kids at an Election Night Party<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-83609539367052179402013-02-08T12:57:00.000-06:002013-02-08T12:57:48.264-06:00Quotable QuotesThere will be many more coming, but for now, here's one:<br />
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Upon seeing a police car on the road, Lenaïc shouted, "Look! Police! Woo-Wooo. Wooo-Wooo!" (imitating a siren). Then it passed us with no lights or sirens, and he said "The police car must be out of batteries."<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-4044418852056663792013-01-08T20:40:00.003-06:002013-01-08T20:44:08.741-06:00An Advertisement for L.L. BeanMore stories of California adventures to come, but for now, a mini-advert.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJWndXOPj5DrBq96rB4qZqSlGnvjA5B3DeFPcAp_t8cTRQ7aJEfskJAgAbyWEQoyWuTQRG1xaUYlHruEZYWxooRLfbsoJjamxdf8DJhPeqRc2SECDiDUj9vX93aTL8RWl7MgSB/s1600/Lenaic+and+Richard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJWndXOPj5DrBq96rB4qZqSlGnvjA5B3DeFPcAp_t8cTRQ7aJEfskJAgAbyWEQoyWuTQRG1xaUYlHruEZYWxooRLfbsoJjamxdf8DJhPeqRc2SECDiDUj9vX93aTL8RWl7MgSB/s320/Lenaic+and+Richard.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
In February 1992, I took a ski trip with my sister and her family to Colorado. Her son Richard, 2 years old, wore a lovely green snow suit and jacket from L.L. Bean. A few weeks ago, digging for snow clothes for Lenaïc in Chris and Debbie's storage, I came across the very same outfit. Not only has it lasted 21 years, but it's gone through at least three Rohr kids, and probably the two Bowen Boys in between, and maybe a few more. If that's not an advert for quality, I don't know what is! Rich, now 22, all grown up and visiting with his girlfriend, was happy to see his name still marked inside the jacket.<br />
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And of course they're pretty darned cute.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-80989211477395447402012-12-09T06:46:00.004-06:002012-12-09T06:46:52.179-06:00THREE Years Old!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieSO9c1dLuROI9JV0HIdLZX9P9595aX_QgepMa874Fmj439IlPG_32tARPUu9ZczRIiZcaM1EVjjfjnEXtIFBk19B6EhmDl4W8xPn3x0Gd129N1oAIkOTf7gLBQRJv1eTxny2w/s1600/DSCN6585s.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieSO9c1dLuROI9JV0HIdLZX9P9595aX_QgepMa874Fmj439IlPG_32tARPUu9ZczRIiZcaM1EVjjfjnEXtIFBk19B6EhmDl4W8xPn3x0Gd129N1oAIkOTf7gLBQRJv1eTxny2w/s320/DSCN6585s.JPG" width="320" /></a>It's hard to believe that three years ago today I was wondering if these little pains were signs of early labor. I'd already decided to work from home that day, but couldn't focus. Should I cancel the girls' night I had planned to host that night? Should I send the construction worker finishing a room in our house home (we had planned a homebirth, didn't fancy him being around during labor)? Nah, it was too early. Just under 38 weeks pregnant. Surely this baby wouldn't come now? I'm too busy! Well, one little boy had other things in mind, and over the next 12 hours or so, we brought him into this <href borderadventures.blogspot.com="borderadventures.blogspot.com" how-he-came-into-world.html="how-he-came-into-world.html" http:="http:">world.</href><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7XNCpLC7Oc6wbRXTC9dBMtar0snjV5xZJqcR6rYgUDEDtJMnK-GrJQ3S4uuMa8jIJoExPe1yHeOWBp5-61jr0ztMVdvRYOC3t3SgmMiRj5zGvs89CgnLCN9pdihX2fzqgIC52/s1600/DSC_7737.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7XNCpLC7Oc6wbRXTC9dBMtar0snjV5xZJqcR6rYgUDEDtJMnK-GrJQ3S4uuMa8jIJoExPe1yHeOWBp5-61jr0ztMVdvRYOC3t3SgmMiRj5zGvs89CgnLCN9pdihX2fzqgIC52/s320/DSC_7737.JPG" width="320" /></a>And what an amazing kid he has become. Lenaïc is so full of laughter and love. He has a light that shines in his eyes when he smiles. He has a spirit that's irresistible. He has a sense of empathy that warms my heart. Often he reminds me of his Uncle Albert, sometimes his Uncle Chris, sometimes Papa, sometimes me. But mostly, he is Lenaïc. The unique, fascinating, wonderful Lenaïc. So full of life.<br />
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Our world is a better place because he is in it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-39049801651958002392012-11-14T17:10:00.002-06:002012-11-15T07:05:13.969-06:00Ready to Rock N Roll 13.1 MilesThere is something very special about your first time.<br /><br />I always walk. My aim
is to walk or cycle if I can avoid using the car. That’s one of the advantages
of living where we live. Not fully urban, but I can do a lot
of errands on foot, including taking the kids to their respective schools.<br />
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Every November for the past 4 years, we’ve watched the
participants in the San Antonio Rock N Roll Marathon and Half Marathon run,
walk, or stagger past our street, cheering them on. Every year I think “That
would be fun to do.” Except, I’m no runner. I can’t run. I can barely make it a
mile when I try. But walking? I can do that. I walk 2-3 miles without even
thinking about it. I’ve hiked with a backpack 10+ miles (admittedly, in my
younger days). In May, while walking the
kids around, I decided I’d set a goal of walking the San Antonio <b>Half</b> Marathon (13.1miles). I wasn’t
entirely convinced I could do it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I started walking more and more. With the new <a href="http://www.sariverfoundation.org/projects-initiatives/museum-reach">Museum
Reach</a> of the San Antonio
Riverwalk and then the <a href="http://www.sariverfoundation.org/projects-initiatives/mission-reach">Mission
Reach</a> opening, walking in San Antonio was easy. Well, except when it
was 90F+ at 8:00am. But, that was useful too….one never knows how warm it’ll be
on a November Morning in San Antonio.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNnCL4XvAXtS4UH5Ei5FzxGnnWozpjrEiA9EUrWoesTNVyM_yLtW4e7DzelXutRgJuMWWWglAnYsffxqDaHwOT1ldUa_3pM86dcJHVh3xJYLNJRyNbU6m54mvkXIQVUMD8DEKY/s1600/20121111_072928.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNnCL4XvAXtS4UH5Ei5FzxGnnWozpjrEiA9EUrWoesTNVyM_yLtW4e7DzelXutRgJuMWWWglAnYsffxqDaHwOT1ldUa_3pM86dcJHVh3xJYLNJRyNbU6m54mvkXIQVUMD8DEKY/s320/20121111_072928.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waiting to start</td></tr>
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A friend pointed me to a training website. Though my schedule, Frédéric’s travel and
Lenaïc’s unwillingness to sit in a
stroller for more than 45 minutes, I couldn’t stick rigidly to the training
schedule. A week before the race I was worried I wouldn’t be able to do it. My
normal pace at 4 miles is about 15:30 per mile (walking!), but I assumed it’d
be much slower when I was walking 13.1 miles. I was hoping for close to 3:30,
would be ok with 3:45, and was just praying it’d be under the 4 hour limit.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Well, I did it! 13.1 miles walking, 3hours, 19 minutes, 52 seconds.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just finished and got my medal!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Calling Erin at mile 9.5 to tell her when to bring the kids out </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking faster than ever</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking up at the only "hill", just before mile 13</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breaking into a run</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKM4XGOk36UquIRJokI-zoQyqQhjSlnGuxVgxUuPhyphenhyphenyYmEVM7yE9w5lNU65y0OGDtCi7jmZxOcYDihdI_uPUv_dsXh5RdrbdAjk_CZaPjuU-T1iiOaQN1kir5Hwx1anfVCu1d7/s1600/724314-1246-0008s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKM4XGOk36UquIRJokI-zoQyqQhjSlnGuxVgxUuPhyphenhyphenyYmEVM7yE9w5lNU65y0OGDtCi7jmZxOcYDihdI_uPUv_dsXh5RdrbdAjk_CZaPjuU-T1iiOaQN1kir5Hwx1anfVCu1d7/s320/724314-1246-0008s.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By my GPS watch, I walked 13.32 miles in 3:20:00, <br />
thanks to lots of zig zagging</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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After crossing the finish line I wanted to jump up and down
and cheer. This was way more fun than I expected. Three days later I’m still on a high. And now
I understand why people do it. It’s an
addiction. I’m already planning my next one. <o:p></o:p><br />
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFtuYx-Mmx4qHVbHIUo2r9dc_YgfCwOQP9VsEpfzdoP-xVHY1biiMxTR40P6meyPHCisGvRa91E3Bg0hCwIaCscSIik0wj54HJsGyV0GbUXNd3gzV7pGXIBu1SrJzXTK7oWYdX/s1600/724355-1018-0009s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFtuYx-Mmx4qHVbHIUo2r9dc_YgfCwOQP9VsEpfzdoP-xVHY1biiMxTR40P6meyPHCisGvRa91E3Bg0hCwIaCscSIik0wj54HJsGyV0GbUXNd3gzV7pGXIBu1SrJzXTK7oWYdX/s320/724355-1018-0009s.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For you runners, I’m a slow poke, but for walking, and my
first, I’m pretty proud!<o:p></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-56653780607575932272012-11-06T13:46:00.001-06:002012-11-06T13:46:50.614-06:00Teaching kids about the ElectionsAngelina, in first grade, has spent a lot of time lately learning about the electoral process. The school set up voting booths, discussed the candidates, the kids voted. I think just for President, they didn't go into various other elections, which might have been funny as one of her classmate's dads is up for re-election to the state legislature.<br />
<br />
She's been coming home every day talking about the election, asking who we're voting for and why, and just overall very excited. I'm excited for her. It's been fun to see this little person with a big mind learn about the democratic process.<br />
<br />
Our school is on a busy street near downtown. Lots of (slowish) traffic. Today, as kids entered school, there were kids with signs saying "Get out the vote!" and similar. All non-partisan, no reference to one campaign or another, just encouraging people to vote.<br />
<br />
And even the candidates made a little visit..... that's Angelina with the pink headband, looking down, just to the left of "Mitt."<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwESunC2zWpf5CqIH6qYvjo8acMHZ8rktrxzT24qHAlbCHxW6HPB_IPxe7FSu1WYOLutil0HDobUNXTz7HQRys6hOkldSueYuPTOOYSUUqx0xCV3S6HBMSXXKC87pCQWXQUKBa/s1600/599790_399526390117782_350809777_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwESunC2zWpf5CqIH6qYvjo8acMHZ8rktrxzT24qHAlbCHxW6HPB_IPxe7FSu1WYOLutil0HDobUNXTz7HQRys6hOkldSueYuPTOOYSUUqx0xCV3S6HBMSXXKC87pCQWXQUKBa/s400/599790_399526390117782_350809777_n.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
Whatever happens tonight, we have exercised our right and responsibility to make educated choices for leaders for our country. Many people in many countries don't have such a right.<br />
<br />
<br />
(And lucky us in Texas, we have early voting so we voted last week)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-60647734678603174612012-10-28T22:25:00.000-05:002012-10-28T22:25:01.489-05:00Kids in Motion <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
If I haven't posted in forever, here is why:<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5BASp6d5gOqgnldiixHyMbd346CCSnTUvdp2gSF8yIw_NQHxW33Bo2Glrm_jf2_Pc15PsMfhfju_1h4UzCWqEhE8BzasHzCuY_Ydk57mV-cMu7jsQ8ZCCbXhSaypeinI_gPtv/s1600/Presentation1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5BASp6d5gOqgnldiixHyMbd346CCSnTUvdp2gSF8yIw_NQHxW33Bo2Glrm_jf2_Pc15PsMfhfju_1h4UzCWqEhE8BzasHzCuY_Ydk57mV-cMu7jsQ8ZCCbXhSaypeinI_gPtv/s320/Presentation1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Two kids, constantly in motion, almost always airborne.</div>
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I'll catch up soon... </div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-11819216042505776672012-08-04T16:07:00.001-05:002012-08-23T06:03:14.786-05:00World Wanderings....With Kids<div class="MsoNormal">
In my various world wanderings, I dealt with travel
glitches, delays, and the like by telling myself <a href="http://borderadventures1.blogspot.ch/2007/11/trekking-in-umphang-i-adventures-in-mud.html">“It’s just all part of the adventure.”</a> <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Travelling with two kids, that becomes a little harder.
Amazingly, though, the kids dealt with it all better than I. And what did they
deal with? A simple 15ish hour trip (including time to the airport, actual flights
and layovers) became a 45 hour ordeal.</div>
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<b>Day 1 </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
10:00AM – leave home for our 11:55AM flight</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdF-MXjjtEE09x5TrTv2OTCmqq8ziJ_fZzsIGvN7XOKgk3bY8eoHv1c3LYoGbc5bMIRq3CrTZcQRvEC9rF9nscmCxmbtIVdd2XDrW0BfQe9A6Yd5gwcyp-_nqZaQYkzRPxGMR/s1600/DSCN0114.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdF-MXjjtEE09x5TrTv2OTCmqq8ziJ_fZzsIGvN7XOKgk3bY8eoHv1c3LYoGbc5bMIRq3CrTZcQRvEC9rF9nscmCxmbtIVdd2XDrW0BfQe9A6Yd5gwcyp-_nqZaQYkzRPxGMR/s320/DSCN0114.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
11:00AM – attendant announces flight is delayed “but not to
worry, no one will miss connections.” (our connection in DC is ~1hr 40 minutes</div>
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12:00PM – airplane arrives. Phew. If we board now, we’ll
make it. In all my years of travelling, usually when there’s been a delay, the
attendants work like crazy to board and move the plane fast to make up lost
time. Nope. 12:30PM and still no sign of movement.</div>
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12:40PM – FINALLY we board. Only, the attendant hadn’t a
care in the world, as she took FOREVER to board. At least 1 minute for each
passenger just scanning the boarding pass. Lucky there weren’t that many
passengers or we’d have still been there when the bomb threat was called in and
the airport closed. Lucky us, we missed that.</div>
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1:00PM – we take off. As Lenaic says “woo-hah!!!”</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2xp8t5LbkZJM3M18-6Y_xSwlbw5kwFsJHbSmXktMw0nPy7oaul4TBazoLkNFi9psOfei-CcVNj7xxHSNGI3GtM0D_73lyeUORDIK0nQ-S8bGqvxTOWBeHG0Lg76kwC2JKeRDq/s1600/DSCN0122.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2xp8t5LbkZJM3M18-6Y_xSwlbw5kwFsJHbSmXktMw0nPy7oaul4TBazoLkNFi9psOfei-CcVNj7xxHSNGI3GtM0D_73lyeUORDIK0nQ-S8bGqvxTOWBeHG0Lg76kwC2JKeRDq/s320/DSCN0122.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="text-align: right;">5:40PM (DC time) – we arrive, gate D10. Phew, our plane
leaves at 5:55PM, and it’s at D5. We can make it.</span><span style="text-align: right;"> </span><span style="text-align: right;">In all my years of international flying, there
have been many many times when they’ve held the flight – last flight out for
the night, know they have a handful of passengers who will arrive with only
minutes to transfer, it’s generally in everyone’s best interest to hold the
plane 5-10 minutes to allow them to board.</span></div>
</div>
<br />
<br />
5:42PM – arrive at gate D5 for our Geneva bound flight.
Plane is still there. They’re loading luggage. Passenger doors are closed, no
gate agent in sight. Finally find someone who says “Too bad. You missed your
flight. You have to go to gate C20 to find another.” We try to argue that the
plane is still there. They are still loading luggage!!!! Nope.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRLPAq8mt9y6kFQx9sdp51PdVHFFax5ak2nDagMHb0hXMlPxj382myAHUl9X-vsDpJg27UxZEkRpkYTB8CFGYznVPqxZrAePKTrsnxUGL1Ve5BmTUPbF2ucxSnv8rqknmvov__/s1600/DSCN0123.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRLPAq8mt9y6kFQx9sdp51PdVHFFax5ak2nDagMHb0hXMlPxj382myAHUl9X-vsDpJg27UxZEkRpkYTB8CFGYznVPqxZrAePKTrsnxUGL1Ve5BmTUPbF2ucxSnv8rqknmvov__/s320/DSCN0123.JPG" width="240" /></a>So we trudge down to C20, stand in line with about 100 other
people in the same boat (multiple missed flights, not all Geneva-bound). Lenaic
finds a kiosk to run under, playing “keep away” from me. Thankfully, I was not travelling alone with
these two. Finally talk to someone,
after 10 more minutes of searching [by now, it’s about 6:30PM) she says “oh,
maybe the plane is still there and I can get them to open the doors.” Too little,
too late. Of course it’s gone. All
remaining flights to Europe are full, except a 10PM flight to Manchester,
England, which would require 2 stops on the continent and an arrival at 6PM the
next day. Or we can wait 24 hours and take our same flight the next day. Kids
are tired and grouchy – parents are tired and grouchy. I tried to tell Angelina about my “adventure”
theory. She wasn’t buying it, but to be fair, she didn’t complain much. </div>
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After much debate –
and a promise from United of hotel and food vouchers, we decide to stay
overnight.</div>
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On the plus side, our friends Neil and Jen live in DC, we
haven’t seen them in awhile, and maybe they’re home. Hooray, they’re free! So we trudge to our
hotel, drink some wine (well, I drink some wine), get some food, and try to
enjoy a nice comfy bed. </div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSFB6AU2m-UtCO_aAMe6d8cvFi03cookVbC21kRBKLhhOnOXReuDKY2JmqX2VVq3JW46tvGee13Ks_0i1he0aJKsBAPKzsR5ISLihtxfco0IQpl1G_LrX1dHw_rX4nsgz_dY1a/s1600/DSCN0125.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSFB6AU2m-UtCO_aAMe6d8cvFi03cookVbC21kRBKLhhOnOXReuDKY2JmqX2VVq3JW46tvGee13Ks_0i1he0aJKsBAPKzsR5ISLihtxfco0IQpl1G_LrX1dHw_rX4nsgz_dY1a/s320/DSCN0125.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b>Day 2</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBjG6b-9tm_NnDTluIDZ53q1mDnT3ZrFfLScHy7r2JTfnLxgdGOn8HqXeY-zsbVhTrYaVq7notXYzk7k04IsaaEaogVDxsxvxhdOgr8n7SVpMng4ezAsrnTb4ZNhN7-nbpmm50/s1600/DSC_6415.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBjG6b-9tm_NnDTluIDZ53q1mDnT3ZrFfLScHy7r2JTfnLxgdGOn8HqXeY-zsbVhTrYaVq7notXYzk7k04IsaaEaogVDxsxvxhdOgr8n7SVpMng4ezAsrnTb4ZNhN7-nbpmm50/s320/DSC_6415.JPG" width="212" /></a>Met Jen and Neil the next day for lunch and spent some
time at the Air and Space Museum. See, we can make lemons out of lemonade.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh53kooGknaD1sbE9Mtp0OH884N7N-qpvOx62xSSutmxEtnO8ediLPpSSBL6yjWkVVvGcfYGXULyJsUwWhKIuA8aX999A2Z3BAuu1JSkqagHlZobvXLDuVBiHeCNkR7w1KQ6WiZ/s1600/DSC_6374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh53kooGknaD1sbE9Mtp0OH884N7N-qpvOx62xSSutmxEtnO8ediLPpSSBL6yjWkVVvGcfYGXULyJsUwWhKIuA8aX999A2Z3BAuu1JSkqagHlZobvXLDuVBiHeCNkR7w1KQ6WiZ/s320/DSC_6374.JPG" width="212" /></a></div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3zMd1EwHr80HEJtWNy91ruljGT1gZJCQmqjxcLDeuue-9SapdGFwWNgmgLSIemHksjS9Pj8FkLPXaZU6eURdZRkpH8T2ceM-S13WQ_4qk2oIT8sQJ4X1uBC6OXR4wSOLTIRmz/s1600/DSCN0133.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3zMd1EwHr80HEJtWNy91ruljGT1gZJCQmqjxcLDeuue-9SapdGFwWNgmgLSIemHksjS9Pj8FkLPXaZU6eURdZRkpH8T2ceM-S13WQ_4qk2oIT8sQJ4X1uBC6OXR4wSOLTIRmz/s320/DSCN0133.JPG" width="320" /></a> 3:15PM – make our way back to Dulles Airport for our 5:55PM
flight. We had already been there in the morning to check in. Now, the problem
with getting moved around on flights: seats. We weren’t seated together. Yes,
like anyone is really going to want to sit next to my toddler… Agents could do
nothing. So, we head to our gate.<br />
<br />
To find that our 5:55PM flight is now delayed
until 8pm. Why could it not be delayed the day before?<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
For a couple of hours, Lenaic runs wild in the airport.
Fortunately the terminal is relatively empty. Not sure if anyone was too bothered, many many
people laughed and commented on how cute/funny he was, so we let him. … Of
course Angelina has not been sitting still either, but she wasn’t squealing
with loud laughter like he was. I see
all the other kids waiting patiently and wonder if they will rub off on Lenaic.
Nope. Other way around, soon the other kids waiting join the fray. (No pictures of this, since we were more focused on chasing them down)</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaUc3NQvbkJ4B2bW5nxDo_IHM2kj4vF5x6Xae0hCkpocuf0HML1pvgsCWV7-0GVRhK-TtAfo6zz2vrr8QbXjrQK7me2RgYtm93ZiEX_KO5E_NrTHpmLgsm8R_pnJzvpnYLJVar/s1600/DSC_6428.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaUc3NQvbkJ4B2bW5nxDo_IHM2kj4vF5x6Xae0hCkpocuf0HML1pvgsCWV7-0GVRhK-TtAfo6zz2vrr8QbXjrQK7me2RgYtm93ZiEX_KO5E_NrTHpmLgsm8R_pnJzvpnYLJVar/s320/DSC_6428.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For a short time, we tried to distract them with a movie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihOn63OlE9iU_w9O4NIgMrjNOWU_urFMvluKa1Q45XvUqGdAj1l0picq945eRxuSrsKYUzcrtJ46bs4lbkn1k85yiFL4DVJunGytBllem938-hxrv95RPLh46CIkrPlbMb1R_h/s1600/DSC_6432.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihOn63OlE9iU_w9O4NIgMrjNOWU_urFMvluKa1Q45XvUqGdAj1l0picq945eRxuSrsKYUzcrtJ46bs4lbkn1k85yiFL4DVJunGytBllem938-hxrv95RPLh46CIkrPlbMb1R_h/s320/DSC_6432.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Movie didn't last for long before he was ready to run again</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7PM – “our” plane arrives. Phew. That means we’ll leave. Nope.
Announcement: “All on flight to Geneva, this is not your plane. Your gate has
been changed to C4. We do not know when it will leave. We’ll know more at 7:30
or 8:00PM.” (Interestingly, the Munich
bound flight that was at gate C4 was moved to our gate – D7, and it DID leave.
For whatever reason, United decided the Munich flight was more important –
maybe it had more connecting passengers).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, and our seat assignments were
still screwy – we managed to get 2 sets of seats together, so no kid would be
left alone, but still far apart. They claimed the plane was full.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8:00PM – no word.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8:30PM – Announcement: “Still not sure when we’re leaving,
they will tell us in 40 minutes.” At this point, it was looking doubtful if we’d
fly at all. Problem was, there were other flights to Europe, last one leaving
at 10PM. If they don’t tell us until 9:15PM that our flight is cancelled, we
ALL (300+passengers) have to walk over to one customer service counter in a
different area to get help with reassignments. Yeah, not making any 10pm flight….
At this point, we’re already a day delayed, are we going to be 2 days? Do we
spend another day in DC? I had about 24 hours supply of diapers, fortunately a
change of clothes for kids and I and my toothbrush. I’d been frugal on diaper
changes and thankfully no diaper blowouts. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile, about 20 kids (ages 2 up to about 8) were running
wild. Ours were not even the wildest. In my childfree days, I’d have sat in the
wine bar with my book and just ordered another glass. Not an option with the
kiddos (and Lenaic never had a nap that day…). Fortunately, most people were understanding –
happy laughing kids running wild was much preferred to tired, cranky, screaming
kids forced to sit still (after a 4+ hour wait).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
9:10PM – We can board. The cheer rocked the airport. We
board quickly – tons of free seats (I presume some passengers who would have missed
connections had already been rebooked elsewhere). Lucky us, we manage to find 4
seats together without much effort.
People happy to oblige. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
10:00PM – plane doors closed. Eventually we taxi. Plane
starts its rumbling as we speed up….for 2 seconds, then stop. Yup. Stop. Now,
since I’d rather not die in a plane
crash, I won’t begrudge them holding back for maintenance issues. But really,
the number of maintenance issues on United flights lately has been more than I’d
ever seen. We weren’t the only ones delayed – at least 25% of the flights out
of DC that night were delayed due to “maintenance issues.” (We were never told
why our original San Antonio flight was delayed). The pilot does a U-turn. We’re convinced we’re
going back to the terminal to de-plane.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD20rB4gLb5JUy9w0Qrpt98WdVm4R6MTXeQrhZY13-jPE4G6dfY2k67xX9nC1Mof-bOjaT864TBcJgZwIGla82xJYxB5F_mlT-9R8T2uosjMCfVm5ka8BLsi_7nj_Lw5yKU4tN/s1600/DSCN0141.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD20rB4gLb5JUy9w0Qrpt98WdVm4R6MTXeQrhZY13-jPE4G6dfY2k67xX9nC1Mof-bOjaT864TBcJgZwIGla82xJYxB5F_mlT-9R8T2uosjMCfVm5ka8BLsi_7nj_Lw5yKU4tN/s320/DSCN0141.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
10:15PM, pilot lets us know it’s a minor issue. It’ll be
fixed. “5 more minutes.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
10:55PM – we take off. All is well, and since I’m writing
this the maintenance issues were resolved and we didn’t crash. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Day 3 </b>- 12:30PM – we arrive (our scheduled arrival had been
7:40AM the day before)</div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs6tQmIwcoFICZYi9uuMvUKM6wIQdFnI-77jroAALSa7T2U-X2tuNASPqynNDBbh1mgqs-g2tpkYWgLbwcbb8LOE04YwB_l8bC3HqihP04_O7MoB57_YWvplcvkCDKh40avH8E/s1600/DSC_6438.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs6tQmIwcoFICZYi9uuMvUKM6wIQdFnI-77jroAALSa7T2U-X2tuNASPqynNDBbh1mgqs-g2tpkYWgLbwcbb8LOE04YwB_l8bC3HqihP04_O7MoB57_YWvplcvkCDKh40avH8E/s320/DSC_6438.JPG" width="320" /></a> Just 45 hours after we started.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
I understand flights get delayed, glitches happen. But UA, an airline with which we travel frequently and have never had any significant problems, was a mess. We have flown all major US carriers and many foreign ones. All have their issues, but overall, UA had been pretty good. Not so since their merger.<br />
<br />
*Staff was rude, with the exception of one person. I know they work hard and deal with a lot of stressed out passengers, but it’s their job.<br />
<br />
*Multiple delayed flights, some with explanation, others not.<br />
<br />
*Poor planning – while I know there’s often a narrow window for flights to depart, holding a plane for 5 minutes for passengers they KNOW will be late due to a late connecting flight makes more sense than rerouting people. At least, that’s what they all used to do.<br />
<br />
*And just general suckiness
All in all, though, thanks in large part to the kindness of other passengers and the friendliness of their kids while waiting, Angelina and Lenaic managed it all very well. And we made it to Geneva safely, if late and tired.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21776861.post-68176629095244011052012-07-15T22:23:00.003-05:002012-07-15T22:23:53.486-05:00Lenaïc doesn't like it when Papa leaves for the day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dw09G_VLUU_YiOR0bS78OB1g8PA1ugdX720pFdAqUzi59XzflCwAkHri-ZSN4QtkMXM_odZ73fHpJY' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
Papa has had to work a lot lately. This happens every day, but today, Sunday, it was particularly traumatic.<br /><br />It's heartwrenching, but sweet. Since he's fine a few minutes later, I tend to smile more than cry. His excitement when Papa comes home, well, is beyond imagination. Jumping for joy.<br />
<br />
That's ok. I'm chopped liver. I'm used to it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0