NOTE: The following Vintage Berry Wine column is a tribute to my daughter, Jocelyn, who turned 24 this month. Jocelyn just returned to her home in San Francisco, after a long stay in New Orleans, where she worked as a volunteer following Hurricane Katrina. This column was never published; it was written 10 years ago, in December 1996.

Most families have a schedule for doing laundry. Some people prefer to set one certain day aside to do laundry – Mondays or Fridays or even Saturdays. Others like to take smaller, bite-sized chucks of laundry and do, oh say, a load or two every day, while undoubtedly others do no laundry at all – preferring instead to hire someone else to do it. I've tried it all three ways and I must say we keep coming back to the same old routine. Around here, we do laundry 24-hours a day.

Take the other morning for instance. It was a Tuesday – a cold and damp Tuesday, but other than that, just your normal, run-of-the-mill Tuesday.

With one exception.

This particular Tuesday Jocelyn couldn't find her shirt. Not just any shirt, mind you, the ONE AND ONLY SHIRT that could be worn on this particular Tuesday. (She had, you see, picked it out about a week ago. That was when she told herself today would be the day she would drive her mother crazy trying to find THE ONE AND ONLY SHIRT.)

Now before I get to THE ONE AND ONLY SHIRT, it would be helpful for you to know we have a new family member. Her name is Pandora and she is a 12-week-old Samoyed puppy. Quite an adorable white ball of fluff, too. As the newest addition to our humble home, she has made an enduring impression. (Especially on Jocelyn, who on this particular Tuesday morning, found that Pandora was the reason she couldn't find THE ONE AND ONLY SHIRT.)

It would also be helpful to know that, just before school dismissed last June, I told my children in no uncertain terms that when school resumed in September, some things were going to be different. One difference was going to be that instead of running around the house like a crazed lunatic in search of socks or shoes or whatever other article of clothing was needed just five minutes before the school bus was due to arrive, clothes were going to be picked out the night before. This would, I assured them, prevent me from going stark raving mad – and allow them to live a longer life, also. (If you know what I mean.)

Well, they tried, bless their little procrastinatingly-inherited hearts. And for awhile – the first couple of days, anyway – they succeeded. Then the desire to do better and be more organized gave way to a force much more formidable – habit. Everyone went back to the old routine of throwing on rumpled, wrinkled clothes just before they sped out the door to hop on the bus.

Everyone, that is, but Jocelyn. For she continued to try her hardest to select her clothing the night before – or two nights before, or, in this particular case – a full week before she wanted to wear them.

About one hour before she was due to leave for school, Jocelyn came into the kitchen to ask me if I had seen her shirt.

“What shirt?” I asked as I stood there making breakfast.

“You know, (THE ONE AND ONLY SHIRT),” she said, describing it in detail.

“I'm sorry, Honey, but I don't know where it is.”

“But remember, I hung it up in the bathroom to dry,” she added hopefully.

“Maybe it got carried upstairs with other laundry. Maybe it's mixed in with your other clothes and you just didn't see it,” I said, trying to be helpful.

“But Mom, I left it on the rack in the bathroom last week. Remember?” she asked, stomping out of the room when it was clear I was of no help at all.

The minute she was gone, her sister, Courtney, who happened to overhear the entire exchange while seated at the table eating her breakfast, whispered, “Remember, it's her brown shirt. The one that was in the bathroom on the floor that needed washed.”

It took a few seconds for that to sink in. Jocelyn's shirt, which had been washed and placed in the bathroom to air dry, was now dirty and awaiting another washing. Oh yes, it had been among the items Pandora dragged down when she was left in the bathroom while we were gone during the weekend. We came home and found quite a few things that needed to be washed. As soon as I was struck by this revelation, I remembered Courtney's warning, “You better wash Jocelyn's shirt before she finds out what happened!”

I looked down at the floor, where the shirt was still laying in a heap with other items needing to be laundered. I threw it into the washer and turned it on, hoping it would just need to agitate for a few minutes, instead of several.

“Uh, Jocelyn, we found your shirt,” I said, cautiously going into the living room where she was busy looking through the clean basket of clothes. Then I explained how it was now in the washer.

“So you're going to dry it?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, adding that I knew it would be done in time for her to wear (while I crossed my fingers behind my back.)

“How long has it been washing?” she asked.

“It just started,” I said.

“It won't get done in time. I tried that last week and it was six o'clock. It's six thirty now. I won't be able to wear it,” she said in a resigned voice.

Ever optimistic and also trying to avert disaster, I suggested we just wait and while she was waiting, she could eat breakfast. She did, thankfully. The minute the washing machine stopped, though, she was there, pulling the wet garments out.

“This isn't my shirt,” she wailed in disgust as she looked at the garment.

“It isn't? Then what shirt are you looking for?” I asked, genuinely amazed.

“No, it isn't. I'm looking for the shirt – you know the one – I wear it all the time,” she said, as she once again gave a detailed description of THE ONE AND ONLY SHIRT. She stomped off for the second time. Her voice came from the living room a few minutes later. “Here it is. It was in with the clothes you just took out of the dryer. It was there all along. Now all I have to do is iron it,” Jocelyn said.

I offered to do it for her, since I had just promised her brother I would iron his shirt. As I began to press it, I noticed it had holes all along the edge of the hem. “Jocelyn, do you wear this shirt tucked in?” I yelled to her, afraid we had another problem to contend with.

“No.”

“You probably should, or the holes will show.”

“What holes?” she yelled, appearing in the doorway to see what I was talking about.

“These holes,” I said, as I showed her several tears in the fabric.

“Those holes weren't there before,” she said, her face wrinkling.

“I'm sorry, Honey. We found the shirt when we came home over the weekend. Pandora had pulled it down along with several other things that were in the bathroom.”

Instant tears appeared. “PANDORA! YOU DUMB DOG – I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!”

She screamed as she ran in search of the puppy. I reached Jocelyn just before she clobbered the mutt with THE ONE AND ONLY SHIRT.

It was awhile later, with just about five minutes remaining before the bus arrived, before Jocelyn calmed down and managed to find another shirt she could wear with the clothing she already had picked out. The shirt incident forgotten, she was all smiles as she went out the door, yelling, “Bye Mom, have a good day!”

I will, I told myself, as I sat down to take a breather before facing any other trials that would come my way. I said a silent prayer, asking only for a reprieve before I had to face another Tuesday like this one.

Posted by Daleen at 05:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

NOTE: The following Vintage Berry Wine column was never published; it was written in February 1993, after the author found out how addictive her son, Zach’s, electronic toys could be. Zach was then eight.

The expression “if you can't beat ‘em, join ‘em,” has been echoed many times, for various reasons. I have recently found myself uttering the words, and what's more, enjoying being a participant.

For years, I thumbed my nose at the idea of going into a place, generally referred to as an arcade, and playing video games. I could not see the sense in throwing money away on such trivial pursuits, and I knew such activities weren't for me. I even questioned the sanity of those who could spend hours, entranced, before the machines.

Many has been the time, while walking through a mall, that my children have requested a trip to the arcade and although I may have given in a few times, I didn't do it very often. I certainly didn't stand around to see what the attraction was, and if I did, it was with a rather “all right, machine, hurry up and turn off so we can get out of here” attitude. I just couldn't see the significance of standing before a video game trying to earn points by shooting this missile or clubbing that foe.

As an avid anti-violence supporter, I still agree with that last statement. However, there are, I am finding, video games that can be played that involve very little violence (although these are the exception).

And how, you may ask, did I come to this conclusion, since I've rarely ever set foot in an arcade? Well, suffice to say I've been converted. Once staunchly opposed to video games, I'm finding they can offer a pleasant diversion. The thanks goes to my son Zachary, and our little friend Chad, who showed us both just how much fun he had while playing something called a “Gameboy.”

Earlier this summer, I found myself watching Chad playing with his toy, and I soon found myself eager to give the thing a try. It wasn't long before I was hooked – quickly trying to push the buttons so I would get ahead in the game; vocalizing my discontent when I wasn't able to do so, and finding there is some enjoyment to be had in video games after all. We were on the highway at the time, and Chad had brought along the game to keep himself occupied. It wasn't long, though, before his dad remarked that he may not get it back from me.

More recently, Zack was in school and I had a few minutes to relax and unwind. Picking up his video game, I sat out on the porch in the sunshine, trying to see how dexterous I could be while playing a game that builds walls out of falling blocks. The kids, when they arrived home on the bus, I thought vaguely, would surely laugh to see me sitting there with his game. But I hardly noticed – so engrossed was I in building walls. I reluctantly put it aside a few minutes later, to chat with my children about their school day. (Their thoughts were still on the electronic toy, asking me how many points I had, and what level I was at, and so on. They were, I had predicted rightly, quite amused to see their mother playing with a toy.)

The fun that was enjoyed by both Chad and Zack has been responsible for my actually playing a video game in an arcade, too. I must admit I now know why so many people lose their quarters in such places. There's just something exciting, and definitely pleasurable, about moving the knobs, pushing the buttons, and seeing the figures move about on a video screen. While I haven't entirely figured out what the attraction is, I'm more understanding now of the kids who hang out in arcades, or spend spare time with an electronic toy in hand. I no longer look down on such activities, and plan to partake from time to time myself.

In fact, during the weekend, I'm sure I'll have enough time to kick back my heels and relax. Now, I know I could probably finish that novel I started reading awhile ago, or do some much needed studying, or maybe I could put on some soft music and just sit and think about absolutely nothing at all.

I can just see it now – such a peaceful scene. But wait, what's that – over there on the buffet? Could it be that Zack has somehow forgotten to take his Gameboy to his father's, during weekend visitation? Why, it certainly appears that way. Well, I guess I could finish that novel later today, and the studying can best be done at bedtime … just give me a few minutes with the toy, that's all I want!

Posted by Daleen at 10:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

NOTE: The following Vintage Berry Wine never appeared in print; this is the original publication. However, it really did happen, on any given night of the week, between the years 1990-98.

For years I had the same problem. It didn't matter if I was married or single, although it has gotten worse since I began tucking the kids in alone, but bedtime is a real chore around my house. It is the one thing I think I dread more than anything else.

My kids, as with most children I know, have something I do not - limitless energy. In fact, their energy levels peak around, oh, 8 p.m. That's when they're supposed to be taking their baths. Instead, I will find them bouncing off the walls (and each other), or chasing a sibling around the house. It takes me at least 15 minutes to persuade them that taking a bath really does have some health advantages - in addition to being a good habit to get into. Then they hop in the tub and I leave the room, with strict instructions that bath time is 15 minutes ONLY.

Continue reading "Bedtime Blues" »

Posted by Daleen at 03:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Welcome back ... to Vintage Berry Wine!

After 15 long years, it is returning in a new and more modern format – online, for the world to see. Born in 1987 in Preston County, West Virginia, during my first job as a newspaper reporter, "Vintage Berry Wine" was my weekly column, about the humorous antics of my (then!) four small children. At times, space was also devoted to discussion of personal topics, such as divorce, single parenting, love the second time around, and mental illness.

Weekly readers used to say they couldn't wait to receive each new issue of the Preston County News, and often told me it was the first thing they read upon opening their newspaper. While the column stopped after I left in 1991, many loyal fans of Vintage Berry Wine would stop me (or my family) on the street, to ask when publication would resume.

That didn't happen, but the original weekly column was briefly reborn in 1997, when I went to work for The Dominion Post, a daily newspaper in Morgantown, W.Va. There it was called "In the Out Door" and readers’ responses were just as enthusiastic. A relocation to California ended that column's brief stint, and it has been waiting for a resurrection of sorts ever since.

In time, I plan to publish some of the original Vintage Berry Wine columns here. In the meantime, this new Vintage Berry Wine is dedicated to two people: Charles, my first grandson, and Jane Stewart, a loyal reader, wherever she is. Charles was born in 2003, and is already a heartbreaker – he broke mine the first time I held him!

Thank you for believing in me, Jane. Your faith and that of many other loved ones have sustained my writing efforts during all these years. I hope you find this new format, and that you will let me know how you like it.

Posted by Daleen at 09:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)