Monthly Archives: August 2013
Dear Voracious Fan Base of me, myself, and I:
Apologies for the delay in correspondence, I have been pre-occupied but today’s daily prompt inspired me because I only have to mention the third line of the last song I heard and make it the post title and then rant for 15 minutes.
THAT, I can do! So, thanks to Maroon 5 for invading my brain with “Love Somebody”, but I digress.
During the last couple of weeks, I have seen posts on Facebook of adorable children with a sign reading, “First Day of (please fill in the blank). It’s back to school already, hard to believe.
Back in the day before technology spoiled us, we didn’t have 10,000 photos of us by the age we were two. Not even for the first child! We had that old-fashioned camera where one had to put film in it, shoot the entire roll, and then transport the film to the drug store and wait a few days to have them developed and it was pretty expensive!
The anticipation was awesome and having any redeemable photos became treasures representing a snippet of a precious moment in time.
Our expectations were very low. In fact, if one got a good shot, it was a major surprise. One would have pinky prints on the picture or unexpected views of feet or bodies without heads.
They could be blurry or they could be full of shadows with a fabulous background.
One would shoot the photo and have no clue if the photo was any good and perhaps a couple of years later, the roll of film would get developed and one would be treated to a fabulous flashback of a lifetime milestone that got lost in a drawer somewhere.
Technology has made it a no-brainer to capture events such as the first day of school. No more waiting until the roll is finished to have the satisfaction of knowing if a photograph turned out. Back then, photos would be taken and developed – whether you were ready or not! It was kind of charming! Think of all of the photos we threw away because they were of poor quality!
So, while everyone was all giddy over the shots of their kids back to school, I dug into the photo albums I absconded from my childhood bedroom at my house and found
And that’s taking the stairs, not the elevator!
Last year I climbed 2,109 stairs/103 flights to the skydeck of the Willis Tower in Chicago. I had five weeks to train and I made it up all of the steps with a collection of fabulous firemen waiting to be in photos with me. Could be worse! Exhilarating! Exhausting! Here’s a flashback to last year’s climb.
It’s hard to believe that it’s time for me to start thinking about this climb again. Especially since I feel like I JUST caught my breath. This year, I have a little less than three months to train. Not quite as much pressure but I obviously want to beat last year’s time and raise more money for Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago.
I grew up on a bustling block in the north shore of Chicago. The location offered many conveniences such as being within three blocks of all of my schools until I entered high school (but I still walked there, too). Very few footsteps led me to a plethora of tennis courts, a massive playfield, lagoon and bike path that ended at a floral paradise and I was within blocks of the many offerings of downtown.
However, what I remember most of my childhood on that convenient street was the cocoon of camaraderie, fun, and safety. One could hear the symphonic sounds of summertime and see a string of smiles!
There were tons of kids on that street. We would play “Kick the Can” until the parents would start calling our names to go in, sibling by sibling. We’d have block parties. We’d jump in swimming pools made of plastic that were less than a foot deep and thought we had it made.
We could hear the bouncing of a basketball before it took aim and swooshed through the net. The woosh of the wiffle ball as it soared across a yard. Neighbors would just play in one’s yard even if the homeowner wasn’t there. We could hear the smacking sound of the tennis ball hitting the garages and the groan as another tennis ball made its way into the gutter, resulting from an overeager groundstroke.
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