Kane-Bayard Christmas 2014 Letter

        A Kane-Bayard Christmas 2014 Easter  2015

Family Update

To celebrate Colin’s college graduation, we took a trip to the UK; traveling to Wales, England and Scotland.  For the first 3 days, we did a driving tour starting at the White Cliffs of Dover, to the southern beach town of Bristol, Bath, and then Carthage.  While driving a manual shift using my left hand and driving on the left hand side of the road, I had car accident with a row of hedges.  The hedges won and damaged the rental car’s passenger side mirror.  This all seemed fine until I had to return the car; I couldn’t find the proper car return and drove around Heathrow for almost an hour.  By the time the car was processed and we got the tram to get the train, a really sappy James Taylor song started playing; I sat and cried to the point the guy sitting near us moved away.  Driving in the UK is a lunatic’s suicidal activity, which will drive any sane person to tears.

 

Colin and I finally boarded the train to Edinburg.  Note to self: English train tickets don’t necessary mean you are purchasing a seat on the train.  We sat in steerage (being the accordion part of the car where it meets the next car) for 2 hours with 7 other people and their luggage until the bulk of the people got off the train in Newcastle.  At this point, all the steerage people rushed for empty seats. Nothing like a serious game of musical chairs while carrying 8 days worth of luggage.

 

Edinburgh:  I loved Edinburgh; we had a great time and stayed in a wonderful hotel.  First night, we ate at the smallest Japanese restaurant. I had the most delicious marinated eggplant.  It was so wonderful; Colin told me I had a make-out face on when I was eating my dinner.  Not the best face for public especially when traveling with your 23 year old son.   After touring Edinburgh castle, we walked down the main road to the Palace of Holyrood house.  By this point, Colin was done with castles. There are three types of castles:

1.       Castle in ruins with lovely ferns growing in the nooks

2.       Semi-ruined castle with or without really bad tourist displays

3.       Castles where people still live, and we are allowed to pay gobs of money to see a dozen rooms with really nice furniture or really bad tourist displays

London: We relaxed in London staying near Hyde Park and Paddington station.  We got the subway to Notting Hill where we casually walked to find a tiny bakery for lunch and tea.  As we ate and relaxed watching the people go by, Colin asked. 

“This is a great neighborhood.  How did you know about it?”

Nothing….

“Mom?”

“It was in a Julia Roberts’ movie,” as I put my hand up over my face to hid from him.

“Ahhhh”

There was some more mumbling from Colin; I guessing it wasn’t good.

Kathy Update:

Easy Peasy eZpass:  How long does it take to get erroneous charges fixed?  Beginning of Jan 2014, a white truck with my license plate charged tolls in NC to my Delaware eZpass account over the course of several days.   At the end of Jan 2014, NC Quickpass said it wasn’t their fault since I had a Delaware eZpass account. Two days later, Delaware said it wasn’t their fault since the tolls happened in NC.  Beginning of Feb 2014, I realized Delaware eZpass didn’t have my correct license plate (off by 1 number), which was the proper license number for the white truck. So I let Delaware eZpass know this information.  May 2014, I was assigned a case number and waited for Delaware to review the charges.  July 2014, the charges were removed from my account.  I know it was only a $12 charge but 6 months, really?

 

Colin Update:  

Upon graduation, Colin moved home and started the very stressful process of looking for his dream job.  Currently, he is working at Jerry’s Artoroma in Raleigh helping artists with their art supply needs.  He is still on the hunt for that 3D artist position.  Fingers crossed.

 

House Update:

The Hall bathroom looks amazing. Special thanks to Jim and Sandy for spending their vacation putting up dry wall and tiling.  The sunroom decided it wasn’t getting enough attention, and the roof started leaking.  Now when I say leaking, I don’t mean one little hole.  There were five.  Yup!  I go big.  During major rain storms, it was literally raining in my sunroom.  Ahhh, the smell of dank in the morning.

    

Christmas Ornament Update:

We have one of those skinny pre-lit trees.  All we have to do is put the star on top and plug it to the rest of the lights.  I am not sure what happens at your house for tree trimming, but my house is a Looney bin on tree trimming night.  I don’t care where you put the ornaments; just put the damn things on the tree.  But I get ahead of myself.  The star we have is too heavy for the top branch.  So here is the conversation we had after trying to secure the star to the tree for 5 minutes.

Colin: Do we need to breakout the rum and Coke?

                Kathy: Yes, ‘cause I am about to zip tie this MF’ing star to the MF’ing Christmas tree.

After sipping our Christmas libations, the star was zip tied to the tree.  Thus giving us our usual “Only look at the tree from the foyer”, because if you look at it from any other angle, the pretty sparkling tree is crazy crooked.  Every freaking year, we have a lopsided tree.

After a very strong highball break, Carlton and Colin start talking astrophysics and the theory of Star Wars which is all good until I ask the both of them to help put red twinkly lights on the little Sugar Plum fairy tree.  What is a Sugar Plum fairy tree? Well it is the little tree that the sugar plum fairies decorate with candy on Christmas Eve.  Carlton asks “What? What do you put in your Christmas stockings if candy is on the tree?”  Colin’s answer is you get your own personal candy in your stocking, but the tree has sharing candy.  This is great until you are old enough to realize that the candy is secured to the tree with strips of scotch tape, and it looks like a Dollywood vending machine that just threw up Christmas.  At this point, both of them are laughing at me and refusing to put tacky red lights on a 2 foot Charlie Brown tree.  Christmas Mutiny on Tanglewood.  They can make their own hot chocolate, and I am hiding the hazelnut Bailey’s Irish cream. 

After the Sugar Plum Christmas tree is completely decorated, they both admit the tree is bizarrely pretty and continue with their discussion about the fabric of the universe and space travel.   

 

Wishing you and yours a Happy New Year, Peace, and a really large bowl of your favorite ice cream.

A Kane-Bayard Christmas 2013

        A Kane-Bayard Christmas 2013

A very sad 2012 Christmas:

Sorry for no letter last year.  Emma was very sick the last quarter of the year, and Colin and I waited until after Christmas, her favorite holiday, to put her to sleep.  Fluffernutter (AKA Emma) was my best girl… (Sorry Kane girls).   Silly memories: 

-          She used to bark at me when I took too long putting on my sneakers before a walk.

-          She always had to check on me every time I took a shower.  As you know, showers are evil water torture devices.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

-          Due to constant stomach issues, Emma was always foraging on Colin’s socks & shoe laces, shirt sleeves and the old family room carpet. 

Kathy Update:

This spring, I had a table in a craft fair for my handmade journals. In the fall, I held a trunk sale out of the back of my car.  That trunk sale was so much fun; it was held in a parking lot of a restaurant where one can buy some really delicious desserts from the restaurant with one’s profits.

Foot surgery just sucks.  I had a bunionectomy on my right foot.  The healing process didn’t go as well as expected; I also wasn’t the best patient known to man.  The whole don’t exercise and just sit on the couch with your foot up really isn’t something I do well, even with staples and pin in my foot.  During a drug induced crying hysteria meltdown, I called my brother, Mik, in France to get help because I couldn’t braid my hair.  He kindly suggested that I stop taking the pain meds and contact one of my girlfriends, who live within 5 miles of my house.  Sage advice.

Advantages to buying and wearing guy bike pants:  an extra pocket for keeping hands warm and storing snacks.

Colin Update:  

Quote of the year:  “Where is that music coming from?” asked Colin.

 “A radio,” I replied. 

“What kind of radio is that?  Is that a boom box?”

“Yes.”

“It still works?”  (Like it is some sort of Victrola or something)

Colin is in his last semester of college and is working part-time doing animation for the ECU’s nursing college virtual training program.  Graduation is May 9^th!

House Update:

Hall bathroom demolished to the studs in July.  August brought walls, a sub floor and some shower wall tiles.  The tile floor came in October.  A toilet arrived in November.  For Christmas, mud had been applied to the walls, and the shower tiling finished.  January was exciting since we finally got a door.  Yes! No more hanging sheet to separate you and your business from the rest of the world.  We are still waiting for a vanity and sink. Oh, yeah.  I have the sink; it is sitting in the living room. 

Christmas Ornament Update:

Pink ornaments; sorry if you like pink, but they just had to go. 

My living room is now a CSI crime scene.  A white Styrofoam dove lay riddled with mysterious holes.  Windmills, parasites, freezing weather, tornadoes, exhaustion, lack of food? Or Predators?!  Currently, the interior of my home is clear of fox, hawks, owls and weasels. My grand mom’s porcelain carolers, whom have rather foul looks upon their faces, have been arrested, arranged and are out on $500K bond with passports revoked.  Trial is scheduled for April; I’ll keep you posted.

The Road Menders

Mad because she cut herself shaving for the 3rd time this week, Gwen let out a large grunt that lingered in the moist bathroom air. Wrapped in several towels from top to bottom, she walked into the kitchen to make a bowl of oatmeal with fresh blueberries. While waiting for the oatmeal to cook in the microwave, Gwen examined her left leg and determined navy dress slacks would look great and hide the hack job on her leg.

Her morning routine consisted of eating, dressing, listening to morning TV, applying make-up and then lastly, drying her completely out of control hair. All of these activities took place in her bedroom. Gwen’s bedroom was 10’x10’ which is large bedroom by New York City standards. Her grandmother’s wrought iron bed was against the exposed brick wall. Above the bed was a copy of van Gogh’s Café Terrace on the Place de Forum; her cousin Oliver painted it as a graduation present for her.

In the reflection of her mirror, she saw the painting. It had been disturbed. Slowly, she stopped drying her hair and turned around. Gwen stared at the painting. She quietly grabbed her phone and sat on the bed, eating her oatmeal just staring at the painting and wondering if she should place the call.
Today, the rest of the world got busy with the morning rush to work. Gwen just held her phone in her left hand and stared at the painting. She never thought any of the stories were true. Her grandfather had made it all up. Right? Why her? Why now?

Finally, she dialed Max, her brother. He answered in his usually morning voice of a grunt.

“How is your van Gogh?”
“What?”
“Your van Gogh? What does it look like?”
Max pulled the covers off of his head, “What time is it?”
“6:55 AM”
“You are such a pain in the ass,” and he hung up.

The Road Menders was painted in 1889 by Vincent van Gogh; it depicts workers repaving Cours de l’Est, a road in Saint-Remy. There were several versions of the painting. One was painted en plein air; the other in van Gogh’s room at the Saint Paul de Mausole Asylum. That is the official providence of both paintings.

A third painting existed out of sight and knowledge of the public eye. This secret painting resided in the Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen in the living room of a fourth floor walk up belonging to Max Dumont.

Gwen sat on her bed and waited. Fifteen minutes later her phone rang.
“Gwenny, is your painting upside down?”
“Yes, Yours?”
“Missing”

A Murderous Look

Trudy wasn’t afraid of death; it was her murder, which surprised her. She raced though the warehouse at a frantic pace.  His footsteps were strong and steady.  She had no place left to run.  Up against the back wall, Trudy did the only thing she could; she composed herself and waited. It only took 13 seconds for him to catch up to her.  She had counted.  Trudy wanted to remember every detail of this night just in case she survived.  The rotted floor boards next to her exposed a black nothingness below in the warehouse basement.   She stood frozen posed to fight.  

The large looming body appeared before her holding a 2x4; she finally understood his weapon choice.  It was a common object with no ownership, no traceability.  Brilliant really, if you think about it, but no sane person would think about such things.  

All of a sudden, the brute of a man before her knelt down on one knee and did a sign of the cross.  Trudy leaned and spat in his eye to wash the murderous look out.  It didn’t work.  Her murderer swung the piece of wood like a baseball bat.  The board connected with the right side of her body.  Her hip and pelvis shattered.  The crunching sound of her bones sickened Trudy.  Her only reaction was a loud gasping of air before she blacked out. 

Trudy’s body lay limp on the ground.  

The man stood up, stepped towards Trudy, and with the 2x4 pushed her into the black hole.  As she hit the dirt floor, a thud resonated up from the hole.  Technically, it wasn’t murder; she wasn’t dead, but she will die from lack of medical attention.   A sinister smile of complete satisfaction came across the man’s face.  

Negligible Homicide was much easier the third time around.

Anna's Headache

Anna had a great morning run, until she found her X-husband’s dead body on her front lawn. It would be just like him to prank her. She nudged his leg with her foot. Nothing. Then she wound up and kicked him really hard in the thigh. Nothing. “Shit, Shit, Shit,” flew out of her mouth as she stomped towards her neighbor’s side door.

Her thoughts were flying. Oh, you are so the prime suspect. Maybe that stupid, little twit of a girl friend did it and dumped him here. Oh, maybe his crazy business partners got sick of his crap? This is not good. Shit! I have to cancel my morning meeting.

She knocked on the neighbor’s side door and waited.

“Hey, Curt, I hum..well..I think Jack's dead on my front lawn.”

Curt just stood and stared at her as he wiped this face to get the sleep out.
“Sorry? Jack peed on your lawn? How would you know that?” still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Dead. I think he is dead?”

“What?”

“He’s on the lawn by the rhododendrons,” as she put her hands to her face to keep from crying.

“Ah…Let me…ummm…shoes…” as they started down the drive way, “Yep, that’s Jack.”

They stood and stared at the still body for a few minutes. From across the street, Alice, the 78 year old neighbor, came out of her house to pick up the morning paper. Her coffee mug in hand tattered in her bony hand, while a cigarette perched on her bottom lip. She walked up to Anna and Curt, “Why’s Jack sleeping in the bushes?”

“He dead, I think?” Anna just stood frozen.

“Well, is anyone going to do a test?” Alice took her foot and nudged Jack’s arm. Nothing.

“Tried that," said Anna trying not to vomit.

“How about this?” as Alice’s leg swiftly flexed and landed squarely in Jack’s stomach. Nothing. Curt’s face went white as he searched for his cell phone.

“Yep, rat bastard’s dead,” Alice took a sip of her coffee and headed back towards her house.

Playing with Fire

Mother always told me not to play with fire, which for someone raised in the 1940’s and 50’s that phase meant the following:

1. Wash the makeup off your face and put a slip on under your dress, or you’ll end up pregnant. What? How does that work?
2. Go to confession every Saturday and Mass every Sunday, and you’ll get into heaven. Really, I cannot skip one stinkin’ week, or I am damned to Hell? Could someone please point out that specific chapter and verse?
3. Don’t go cruising with rowdy boys (or any type of boy, for that matter), or you’ll end up pregnant. OK, fine, I’ll give her that one.
4. Don’t wash your hair while you have your period; it is bad for your health. Oh, I just don’t have the strength to argue that insane logic of a wife’s tale.

However, the following story isn’t really, what mother had in mind when she talked about playing with fire. Normally, a series of uneventful tasks linked by a life in the suburbs with a husband, 2.5 kids and a dog named Chris defined my life. I know, I know...you’re thinking Why a dog named Chris? After Chris Rock, of course. The .5kid gave him the name.

Rant:.5 is a neighbor kid who unofficially lives part-time at our house. How does an 8 year old know about the comedian? His parents. You see, these parents (and I use that term very loosely) see parenting as a low priority in their very self-absorbed lives. They don’t have time to teach or haven’t figured out how to teach the kid about diversity. Instead, they let him watch Chris Rock comedy specials to gain insight about the Black Experience. To this day, this idea baffles me. A typical weekend with these “Parents” would include hang-gliding off a cliff, tequila shots and poker games with the notion that poker is a great teaching tool for counting, determining shapes and reading (which one needs when being the beer caddy, I suppose). Maybe, it is the overwhelming attention to family traditions like Thanksgiving, where everyone determines their own dinner time by making their very own Turkey lunchmeat sandwich with the items left out on the counter. Nothing says love like “Make your own damn sandwich and while you’re there can you bring me a beer.” Perhaps, this would explain why he cohabitates with my family. Between checking on homework, family meals and marathon games of Monopoly and Rock Band, we seem to toss in a hug and a few words of encouragement.

Oh yes, playing with fire. Well, it all started when .5 kid ran into the kitchen and plowed his face straight into the side of the cupboard. This caused an antique tea cup to wobble and smash to the ground. .5's face was fine. His brain...hum…not so sure.

I quickly reached for the broom and dustpan before this event turned into a trip to the emergency room for one of the kids or dog. From the shards of porcelain, a matchbook from a night club called FireStorm in South Philly emerged. The worn, yellowed edges and missing matchsticks exposed its age. I picked it up and all of a sudden, I could swear I heard Jimi Hendrix singing “Fire” in the distance, and people cheering at his wailing guitar. This played nicely into my theory that motherhood makes you a part-time lunatic.

A day or two went by without any unusual activity. Then Tuesday around 4:30, it started. .5 ran into the house; Conner, my son, dragged a bit behind with a very sad face.

“Mrs. S. you are never going to believe what happened at the history fair today. It was so awesome.”
“Connor, what’s wrong?”
“His Abraham Lincoln assassination model caught on fire. It was sooooo cool,” .5 screeched as he dug in the cookie jar.
“What?”
With tears in Connor’s eyes, “Tony DeBella’s Pompeii reenactment exploded all over my model.”
“John Wilkes Booth never stood and chance,” .5 rooted through the pantry for some more food.

A freak mishap, of course. This is what I told my child to keep him clam and moving forward with life. This logic worked until dinner the next evening. The old crusty wooden shed sparked flames from the windows and door. “Mr. S. should there be fire coming from your shed?” .5 calmly stated as if he were asking for more peas. With this comment, everyone at the table leaped from their chairs and darted for the backyard, except for .5, who scooped up more mashed potatoes.

Several days later while cleaning up the kitchen, I came across those stinking FireStorm matches. Got that right! raced through my mind as I tossed them into the junk drawer. .5 strolled into the house for breakfast. “Lake, could you take the kitchen trash out for me?”

Rant:What the hell? If I have to be a part-time parent, .5 can do part-time chores. Furthermore, do you see what happens when you drink too many Jello Shooters? You start naming your kid after geological nomenclatures; forcing them to question your parental skills at a very young age and go looking for surrogate parents.

“Mrs. S., how can grass catch on fire?”
“Well, during a drought, the grass can get very dry, and…”
“No, I mean green grass.”
“I am not sure what you mean?”
“The grass in your front yard is on fire.”

You would think standing in the road surrounded by neighbors as the fire department extinguished my front yard was humiliating. Nope. Maybe even a stern line of questioning by the fire chef would have made me cringe. Nope. It wasn’t until .5 walked out from the crowd towards the only non-charred portion of my yard and stated the following:

“Look Mrs. S. This is really cool,” and pulled the FireStorm matches from his pocket along with a squirt bottle of full of liquor and proceeded to set the rest of my lawn on fire in front of God and everyone then I was mortified.

Waltzing Souls

Worn pines floors below creek and bend
Music’s melodic beat enchants
Entwined souls gliding
Slow sensual dance of paramours
Strong hand guides with gentlest touch
Euphoria captures my heart
Love engulfs my life