My Story in Lists|Memories I have

As previously mentioned, carnival rides always invoke two memories in me. The second of which was the time, we went to the now defunct Adventureland, Chicago's largest amusement park with over 55 thrilling rides and attractions.

Every Sunday, the comic section would contain advertisements for the park, enticing us with the promise of as many rides as you can go on for one price. After many months of begging our dad to take us to Adventureland, the moment had arrived. Dad went  to work like normal, but came home early so we could go. The day seemed to last forever. Greg had not been feeling well so at the last moment it was decided that mom would stay behind with Greg.

I felt bad for mom and Greg, but the selfish, fourth-grader in me was happy that we were still going. I had already learned that sometimes if plans were changed, they never happened.

With just four of us, the whole adventure seemed different, but some things never change. Eliz and I were partnered up as always on every ride which turned out to be unfortunate for her and for me.

At some point in the fun, it was decided that we would go on a ferris wheel type ride like I had never seen before. On this one, the cars were inclosed and as the wheel spun around, the riders could swing the cages in such a way that they would flip over as the wheel was spinning around.

The ride looked fun to me, until we got strapped into the cage, at which time, the thought of swinging the contraption upside down by our own force frightened me. As the ferris wheel began turning around, I begged Eliz not to swing the cage so we would not flip upside down. Much to my relief, at first she agreed. But as the ride continued, watching the other cages flip around and around made her want to do the same. An argument ensued, she rocked her body trying to get enough momentum going to flip us around as I screamed trying to get her to stop.

The ride slowly came to an end and the operator instructed all the riders to refrain from attempting to flip the cages as they unloaded us from our cages. Eliz was all kinds of angry. I can't say that I blame her. She was stuck with me, the fraidy cat, and cheated out of all the fun of the ride. As we sat there waiting for the wheel to slowly spin forward, letting riders off and on, Eliz decided that she was going to get her revenge and make the cage flip around as we waited.

Another fight began as she began to rock the cage back and forth. I was even more frightened than before because now in addition to spinning upside down, we would get in trouble for not following the rules and get kicked out of the park.

Well, that never happened and the cage we were in never flipped over. I'm not sure to this day if we didn't flip over because as angry as Eliz was, she just wanted to scare me or if she didn't have the strength to do it. If I had to guess, I would say the former because Eliz was always so strong and determined.

My Story in Lists|Memories I have

Carnival rides always bring to mind two memories. The first is the time we went to the carnival when we lived in Puerto Rico.

There seemed to always be some occasion which brought a carnival around Ponce. Like carnivals here, one day they would suddenly appear in an empty lot. Where there was once darkness and silence, there would be brightly colored flashing lights and the sounds of happy screams filling the air.

We didn't have money for frivolity and dad didn't have the patience for crowds and loud noises, but that didn't stop us from begging mom and dad to take us to the carnival every time one would come around. One night, our wish was granted.

The evening started well enough, but as the crowds grew so did the chaos. We've learned from living overseas that not everyone queues up in an orderly line as they do in America. We were about to learn this lesson for the first time.

We were standing in line for a spinning type of ride. The kind with octopus arms that had buckets at the end for thrill seekers to sit in and then get whipped around for a few minutes of pleasure. As we got closer to the front of the line, our excitement grew. So did the pressing of the crowd. I don't know what made me more nervous, the unruly crowd or dad's anger at being pulled and pressed upon. Finally, we were close enough to be next. When, at last, the ride operator opened the entrance gate, it was like being caught in a wave. Dad tried to keep us all together as we pushed our way through to pick a bucket to sit in.

The next thing I knew Vic was crying saying that his shoe had fallen off. Sure enough, we had been pressed so tightly together that someone must have stepped on his foot and as Vic moved forward, his shoe had not only fallen off, it had fallen down the platform onto the ground below. Dad was furious. When dad got furious it was not only nerve-wracking, but it was also a sight to behold. In his fury, he was able to make things happen that normally did not happen.

In this case, dad was able to get the ride operator to wait to start the ride while he squeezed his way through the crowds, down the stairs, find Vic's shoe and press his way back again. By that time, I just wanted it all to be over. I think the whole family must have felt the same way.

It was the last carnival we went to while we were in Puerto Rico. Every time they would come to town, I would get a little twinge of hope. Maybe we could go again, maybe this time it would be different. Even as a third-grader, deep down inside I knew better.

My Story in Lists|People I Love

There was not a moment when I was with him that I did not feel loved. He had a way of making each one of his grandchildren feel special. I loved his deep voice, his rumbly laughter and his warmth.

He had nicknames for all of us. I was his little Debby-doo. I never realized how much that alone meant to me until after he passed away and it hit me. No one would ever call me that again. Even now, 26 years later, the realization makes me cry. Even now, 26 years later, I miss him.



When we were younger, he would often come to our house on Sunday, bringing yogurt, animal cookies and, of course, pan dulce. It was a wonderful treat, but it wouldn't have mattered if he came empty handed. We were always so happy to see him.

The older I grew, the more I loved him. I loved his wrinkly skin, the age spots on his hands...it sounds silly I know, but the things that society now looks down upon, such as aging, were the things that made him all that much more special to me.

To me he was perfect, even when I knew that he wasn't. I wish he had been more loving and generous with my grandmother than he was. I wish he had been the spiritual leader of our family. How different things may have been if he had been both those things. But still I loved him, flaws and all, just as he loved us.

Once when Eliz was in seventh grade and I was in fifth grade, grandpa came over to the house. Mom, dad and the boys were not home and Eliz and I offered to make grandpa some scramble eggs. He took us up on our offer. We whipped them up, over-salting them to the point where they were inedible. We were horrified, but grandpa insisted they tasted wonderful and ate every bite on his plate.

When I began pregnant with Matthew, my dad took me to my grandparents to break the news. My grandfather turned to me and told me there was nothing I could do that would change his love for me.

The day I brought Matthew home from the hospital, dad went to my grandparent's to bring them to meet their great-grandson. Grandpa was already growing frail from cancer. I believe it was the last time my grandfather may have left his house. I remember how grandpa took Matthew into his arms, touched Matthew's little foot and chuckled in his rumbling voice, saying, "Hey, Chalako".

And from that moment, Chalako became Grandpa's nickname for my son. Every time Grandpa would see Matthew, he would exclaim, "Hey, Chalako". Nothing would make me happier than to hear him call Matthew that and to know that my son, too, had been nicknamed by my grandfather.

After a long bout with cancer, my grandpa passed away at his home surrounded by his family. Matthew was 8-months old. The one regret I have is that I did not go to the house until after he passed away. I am thankful that I was able to say goodbye before he was taken away. I was able to kiss his cheeks one last time and stroke his wrinkly fragile hands. I am thankful that even though Matthew doesn't remember, that he met my grandpa.

And most of all, I am thankful that in those last days of his life, my grandpa accepted Jesus Christ as his savior. One of the things I look forward to seeing him in heaven some day and hearing his deep rumbling voice laughingly call me his little Debby-doo.

My Story in Lists|Memories I have as a Child

Back then, the boxes seemed to be bigger. They were definitely cheaper and the pressure to sell was just beginning to come to fruition. Back then, girl scouts sold the majority of the cookies door-to-door, not at their parent's place of employment.

I had been a girl scout since second grade. I don't really remember selling cookies as a Brownie, but we may have. In fourth grade, I became a Junior, which meant I wore the coveted green uniform and sash. I vaguely remember several meetings at which our girl scout leaders prepped us for the upcoming cookie sale. There was talk about how many boxes they wanted each of us to sell. We were given tips about how to increase sales. We were told what cookie sales meant for our troop. and fed stories about girls who were able to sell hundred of boxes. The pressure was on.

It all seemed exciting to me. After all, when Eliz was an Indian Princess and had to sell Vanilla Extract and other odd items, I was able to go to door for her and in my cuteness get neighbors to shell out the cash. Of course, that's when I was in kindergarten, still full of baby fat. But these, were Girl Scout cookies, for goodness sakes, which practically sold themselves. All I had to do was knock on a door and wave my little order form in front of whoever opened the door and the rest would be history.

So on a cold winter day, I headed out the door with my order form and pen in hand, ready to sell, sell, sell. I headed directly across the street and confidently, expectantly, knocked on the door. When a man answered the door, I was sure I hit pay dirt. I promptly gave him my sales pitch, but instead of buying a single box or kindly telling me thank you, but no thank you, the man inexplicably, angrily told me off and to add insult to injury slammed the door in my face.

I was humiliated, embarrassed and sick to my stomach. I was not about to try it again so I walked back across the street and sat in the cold for what seemed like hours on the milk box that was placed on our porch between the door and the window to our living room. I waited there on the porch until I felt like I could go back inside and tell my mom that no one wanted to buy cookies. Not one person.

I didn't tell her about the rude man. I just told her that I didn't find a single buyer. I remember her questioning me about it. What I didn't realize is that she knew I was just sitting out there the whole time.  I ended up only selling nine boxes of cookies that year. Six to my mom and three to the neighbor on our right.

My mom was embarrassed. She was the cookie mom that year which meant she was responsible for the distribution of the cookies to all the girls in our troop. Our family room was filled with boxes of cookies, only nine of which were sold by me because everyone else in the troop managed to sell at least four times as many as me.

My troop leaders were disappointed. When I gave them the order form with nine boxes sold, I could see the look of disbelief on their faces. There most have been some sort of unwritten rule that the daughter of the cookie mom was expected to be a top seller. I always felt they treated me differently after that.

My fellow troop members were smirky. There was laughter and whispers when it was learned that I had only sold nine boxes of cookies.

It seemed that cookie selling season lasted forever. Every time someone came to the house to pick up their boxes of cookies, I was reminded of the failure that I was. On top of that every time I walked out the door, I was afraid I would see the grumpy man from across the street. I both despised and feared him. Thankfully a few years later I would have a chance at redemption.

To this day if I'm asked by a girl scout to buy cookies I never say no matter how ridiculously overpriced I think they are now.

My Story in Lists|Places I've Been

It's said that if you throw a coin in the Trevi Fountain, you will return to Rome.

It must be true because I've been to Rome, not once, but twice in my lifetime.

Just in case, I threw a coin in the second time too. Because I would love to go back again...and again...and again.

The second time in Italy was in many ways more special than the first. This time around, I knew how very special the opportunity was.

The first time, I was a 16-year old traveling with my family.This time around I experienced it with my daughter.

The first time it took us forever to find the Trevi Fountain. This time, we took two busses and then followed the clearly marked signs straight to our destination.

This time around I was in charge, instead of going along for the ride. We did many of the same things we did the the first time which included the Vatican and the Colosseum which has to be one of my favorite sights in Rome.

I remember being surprised that we could walk around as we did at the Colosseum back in '78. 34 years later, I was happily surprised that we were still allowed to roam around as we did back then, this time with self-guided tour headsets if we were willing to pay a few extra dollars.

The first time around, we had almost 50-pictures of our trip to Rome. This time I had over 50-pictures of the Colosseum alone.

Last time we spent three nights in Italy. This time we spent three nights in Italy. It was not enough time in either case. Rome wasn't built in a day. There is too much to reasonably see in three.

My Story in Lists/Memories I have as a Child

Being only a year and a half apart in age, my sister and I often squabbled when we were younger. Looking back, I marvel at the fact that she put up with me at all. I knew how to play the wounded party which meant I often got my way even when I should’t have.

The tale of the piggy banks is a perfect example of what Eliz had to put up with. My maternal grandparents lived in a little neighborhood in Whittier 15-20 minutes away from where we resided. Many a weekend was spent visiting with them so their neighbors, the Millers, got to know us as well.

Upon return from a trip to Mexico, the Millers brought Eliz and me a beautiful ceramic piggy bank. It was a brightly colored, chunky thing, big enough to house a fortune in change. As fate would have it, I was allowed to carry it from the house to the car and somewhere in between, the bank slipped out of my little hands crashing into a million pieces onto the driveway. 

Tears and accusations flowed. Eliz was not happy...rightly so. A happy occasion quickly soured. 

Some time later, we were at my grandparents house when the Miller’s stopped by with another piggy bank for us. This one, too, was shiny and beautiful. We could not believe our luck. To be given a second chance with such a precious gift was beyond what my four-year old mind could comprehend.

As we prepared to leave my grandparents house, an argument insued between Eliz and  I. wanting a chance at redemption, wanted to carry the new piggy bank to the car. Eliz was equally determined not to give me a chance to smash the poor little pink pig. I used the one weapon in my arsenal to get my way, tears. 

My parents must have taken my side because I remember triumphantly carrying the pig in both of my arms to our car. This time I got all the way to the door of the vehicle before the little pig jumped out of my grasp and went the way of the first, dead on the driveway. Tears and accusations flowed. It was a long, angry car ride home. I was sad that I dropped the pig, angry at Eliz for being angry at me, angry at my parents for giving into me. Eliz was angry at me and angry at my parent. My parents were angry at both of us. 

For a long time afterward, every time we went to our grandparent's house, I would hope against hope that the Miller's would come by with another piggy bank. But that was never to be. 

My Story in Lists|Memories I have as a Child

It was to be my very first Valentine’s Day celebration at school. To say that I was giddy with excitement would be an understatement. Somehow I knew it was a very special occasion. Since it was the first time I would celebrate it at school, I can only assume that I had seen Eliz come home for the past two years with a wad of Valentine cards and now at last it would be my turn to experience it. 

Earlier in the month, my mom had already taken us to the store where we picked out the box of Valentine’s to be distributed. Miss Brown, my kindergarten teacher, had given us very specific instructions. We were to bring x number of cards, we could sign our name on the cards, but we were not to put anyone’s name on the outside of the envelope.

But how could that be correct?? I must have misunderstand that last directive. It was imperative to select the very best cards for my best friends. Even a kindergartener knew that. I also had to be very careful about which cards went to the boys in my class. They had to be the least gushy ones because heaven forbid they got the wrong idea, especially if it was a boy that I really did like. 

The thought of just distributing the cards willy-nilly was too much for my six-year old mind. So I did what any six-year old would do...neglected to tell my mom that one little detail and painstakingly wrote everyone’s name on the little white envelopes that housed each hand selected Valentine.

On the morning of February 14th, 1968, I arrived at my school so excited I could barely contain myself. I couldn’t wait to see how much my friend’s loved their cards. I couldn’t wait to pour though the 30 some odd cards that I would be receiving myself. I couldn’t wait to see what types of home made goodies would be brought to the party. 

Earlier the class had made giant envelopes for our Valentines. Made out of pink, red and white construction paper, they had our names and hearts plastered on the outside with lots of glitter adding sparkle and shine. These were hung on the walls of the classroom waiting to be filled with Valentines and candy adding to the festivities.

One by one, each child brought up their stack of Valentines that were to be shared with the class. When Mrs. Brown saw the names on the outside of my envelopes, she immediately scowled in displeasure. I was not anticipating that my defiance would displease her to the extent that it did. Apparently her years of experience taught her that in order to expediently distribute the cards, it worked best for her to be able to throw any old card in any old brightly decorated piece of construction paper, love be damned. 

My version of the story is this (it is MY memory after all)....Miss Brown proceeded to do what every grouchy old teacher does when they are unhappy with a student, berate me in front of my classmates for my inability to follow clear instructions. During her tirade, something was said, I don't remember what, that i made me finally understand exactly why she didn't want the recipient names on the envelopes. It was for her convenience. Love be damned.

It was at that moment that I intensely disliked her. I wasn't sure if it was because she embarrassed me in front of the class, took away some of my excitement about the party or did it because she was just too lazy to take a few minutes extra to sort envelopes by name. 

Miss Brown, thankfully, retired before the end of the school year. But every Valentine's Day, the memory of that day comes back to me transporting me to a little girl being embarrassed in front of the class all int he name of love.

My Story in Lists/Memories I have as a Child

Growing up, our weekends and holidays were filled with family time. Not just immediate family time, but Aunts, Uncles, cousins and Grandparents family time. There was always someone at someone's house. Mostly no one bothered calling, we just got in the car, arrived at the door and rang the bell.

Before our family got older, the family would mostly gather around my grandparents' house. Grandpa and grandma were almost sure to be home and, if luck would have it, grandma had baked that day. My grandma's pies and puddings were delicious to say the least.

If grandma ever wanted to be sure to have everyone visit, all she would have to do is call one of her children and tell them what she was baking that day. Word would travel fast and, one by one, each family would arrive eager to eat dinner to get to the dessert.

Nothing brought the family running faster than when word got out that grandma had made pumpkin empanadas. Now these were scrumptious works of art. Grandma's pastry was flakey, delicate with a crispy layer of sugar that grazed the top. Inside was the perfect texture of pumpkin puree that was both sweet and savory. My mouth still waters just at the thought of them. I could never get enough.

Sharing these were hard. Selfishly I loved when we were living away and grandma would come visit because she would always make us pumpkin empanadas that we didn't have to share with the whole family. Which meant more for us!

As grandma grew older, she lost her zest for making the empanadas. They took a lot of time to make and standing so long was hard on her. One day, my sister, Eliz and I were bemoaning the fact that it had been too long since we had empanadas and that no one knew how to make them but grandma. We decided to ask grandma to come over and show us how it's done.

Grandma graciously obliged. We were so excited. I'll never forget, we were standing in the kitchen, side by side by side, ready to start with making the pastry. The ingredients and measuring cups and spoons lined up at attention. When right before our eyes, Grandma whipped her cupped hand into the can of crisco, saying, "first I start with a handful of Crisco."

We were flabbergasted. But how much is a handful? We actually made grandma take the crisco she had in the palm of her hand and try to shove it into a measuring cup. Grandma couldn't tell us a measurement. She made her pastry by feel and the pumpkin puree by taste. It was the last time we ever had grandma's empanadas. She had not lost her touch, they were as wonderful as always, but she was already in her 80's and it was just too much work for her.

We didn't end up with a recipe we could use so we've never made them again either. I just have to hope that in heaven, there will be pumpkin empanadas. I know grandma will be there.

My Story in Lists/Jobs I've Had

It was my first real job. The one that came with a bonafide paycheck, tax deductions and all. Not bad for a 17-year old, high school junior with no car to get to work.

For an unconfident, introvert there were times in my life when I stepped out of character and did something so far out of my comfort zone, I would surprise myself. Looking back, I wonder why I don't do that more often because most every time I did, good things would always happen. This was one of them.

After two years in Iran, we moved back to California in the summer of '78. I would be starting school as a junior. It had been a long and lonely summer. In Iran, I was surrounded by friends and always on the go. Here we had family, but it wasn't quite the same. When school started, things didn't change much. I was extremely shy and didn't speak much to anyone in any of my classes. I went to school, came home, watched TV. I was dying inside.

One day at school, we were given a pamphlet of after-school classes we could take. Classes that would help us in our careers. One of the classes offered, promised to teach me how to become a travel agent. With all the traveling I had done, my interest was piqued. At least it sounded exotic.

The first day of class there were three students there. Our teacher, Mrs. Mattingly owned her own travel agency a few miles up the road. She had two children who went to our school, both I knew, none very well. It was a miracle that I went back for the second class because the first day was, well, boring. One of the other two girl's must have felt the same because she never came back. The other girl must have felt as desperate as I did, because she, like me, continued to come.

After several weeks of agonizingly boring classes, Mrs. Mattingly took us to her travel agency. It was located in a little strip mall and I loved it from the moment I first walked in. There were three woman working up front, full of energy and kindness. Tove, Dottie and Norma. In back was a bookkeeper and then there was a giant office that belonged to Mrs. Mattingly.

For the next quarter, the other girl and I would go there twice a week and basically work for free, filing brochures, typing itineraries and running to the taco bell or little store for sodas for the travel agents. At the end of that time, Mrs. Mattingly hired me. Even gave me my own business cards. It was the best first job ever. I have to say, I was treated well.

At first, I mostly worked in back, filing brochures and doing little jobs, dreaming of all the places I could go, but as time progressed, they let me sit up front filling in when someone was on vacation. Ultimately, Mrs. Mattingly trusted me enough to file the weekly ticket receipts that was required by the airlines and even had me working alone on a few Saturday's which was the only thing I hated.

I also got to go on a few "fam" (familiarization) trips. These were trips that airlines, hotels and travel areas would sponsor as a way for travel agents to learn about their destinations so we could recommend them when someone would come in looking for a place to vacation. I couldn't imagine that my job would include the opportunity to go to Lake Tahoe and learn how to ski for free and go on a week trip to Ireland for practically nothing but spending money.

On top of that, I was surrounded by a wonderful group of woman who shared their stories with me, who watched out for me and encouraged me in ways that they don't even know. I ended up working there for over three years, until my second year of college took over my life.

My Story in Lists/Bad Habits I Have/Had

My name is Debra and I was (am) a nail-biter. As a child, I bit my nails. To the quick. Much to my dad's chagrin. It drove him crazy.

I couldn't help myself. Even as I was biting away, I would kid myself this was the last time. But no sooner than I was finished, my mouth was gnawing away at the next finger even when there was not enough nail to bite. Dad would scold and threaten me, telling me he was going to cover my fingers in chile. Being  of Mexican descendent, that was never really that scary to me.

My nails got a break in 8th grade when I got braces. Those things created a buffer between my teeth and my nails that made it impossible to chew. For the first time ever I could wear nail polish and it would look nice. After a while not biting my nails seemed normal, even after the braces came off.

I thought I had overcome and for the next few years my nails were safe. Somewhere in my freshman or sophmore year, the stress of being a teenager got to me and my nails fell victim to my angst. Once again I became a voracious nail-biter. Once again, I drove my dad crazy, but no amount of nagging and badgering on his part could make me stop. Until the first day I ever really spoke back to him.

It was the summer of May 1978. We were traveling in Europe on our way back home from Iran. I'm pretty sure it was in Greece, when my dad asked in exasperation as I was chewing on a nail, when I was going to stop. I pulled my finger from my mouth and equally as frustrated said, "When I feel like it".

Even as I said the words, I couldn't believe it. Inwardly I winced, waiting for another scolding, but my dad must have been as surprised as I was because while he looked taken aback, he didn't say a word. And just like that, I stopped biting my nails.

Truth be told, I never really have given up the habit. For years, my nails were mainly long, but every two or three months, I would bite them all down and then let them grow again. For example, in college I tended to bite them at the end of every quarter. Once I confessed to a friend in a library about what I did, asking him if he thought it was weird. He was silent for a moment and then told me that I must have sharp teeth.

Recently, I've been biting them more than I used to. Not all down to the quick like I used to, but ever since chemo, my nails haven't been as strong as they used to be. As they grow, I can feel the weakness in them and before I know it, I am taken advantage of that weakness and ripping into them.

Funny thing is my dad still notices. When I met him for lunch a month ago, he commented on the fact that I had bitten my nail during lunch. Somethings never change.