My Name is Tricia S. and I Like Cars.

I blame my father.  I blame him because it is popular to blame your father. Because he is in heaven I know he doesn't care. And because I think it really is his fault; however, I am an adult and so I now state openly, “My name is Tricia S., and I like cars.”

            Growing up my dad always pointed out the fun, fancy, and unique cars, starting with, “I would give my eye teeth to have that…” Later I realized those cars cost more than eye teeth, which is probably why dad spent most Saturdays in the garage fixing our own “Rolls Can’ardly”, (Rolls down the hill and can 'ardly get up the other.) My brother and I spent our Saturdays banned from the garage because Dad was speaking a language we were forbidden to learn.  Though I didn't learn the language (from dad), I was infected with the love for cars.

            Doug’s father also loved cars but Doug didn't get the bug. He likes a car that will work and get him from point A to point B in the least expensive way.  When I started dating Doug he had brown Chevy Chevette.  Remember the ads for those cars?  "Chevy Chevette, it will drive you happy.”  They really were thinking there, it was a car that could drive you crazy and they must have been trying to subliminally warn people.  We fondly knew it as Dimples, because it survived a Colorado hailstorm - proof that I didn’t marry Doug for his car.

            Understanding our attitudes toward cars you can appreciate Doug's great love for me when he rented for me a red Mustang convertible one beautiful Colorado week.

We had been in Slovakia for four years and returned to the US for a year that can only be described to the general public as the year of torture.  It was the year my dad died, my grandma died, my mom lost her voice for months, Ryan had emergency surgery and 4 bouts with pneumonia, etc. 

We travelled around the States in a car that had to be started by two people - one turning the ignition and one spraying flammable starter fluid directly in the carburetor.  While the first person gunned it, the second person had to reinstall the air filter and close the hood.  This made some interesting opportunities to meet people when I went out with my toddlers.

            The next fall, back in Slovakia in the midst of daily tears, Doug would ask me what I needed.  Since nothing came to mind right away I would often say, a red convertible. I just need to drive one for ONE day-but not here, in the rain.

            The next summer we were back in the States arranging estate work from my dad and grandma and taking the vacation we hadn't had the years before.  That's when Doug decided I should have the car. 

            I can't describe how glorious it was.  We bought some fun CD's, like Beach Boys Greatest Hits.

My niece, then age three, would ask to take a ride with me in my "hot car." I think she really thought we meant heat because in the Colorado sunshine, those in the back seat really did bake. Those in the front were fine; I turned the air conditioner on full and enjoyed the ride.  

            I still have never owned my own car, but I had one more experience that was glorious fun.  One summer in South Carolina we were offered a car to borrow.  They gave us a choice, the Buick or the new Dodge Ram truck.  What could I say, they were already being generous to loan us any car? But as we arrived at the airport, there was the beautiful Dodge Ram and they handed us the keys.  Doug drove home but it was almost the only time he drove it those weeks.

            What is it about cars and music?  For some reason Dan Fogelberg and Classical seemed to go better with the truck, but that is probably just me.

            As we met with the couple for dinner to thank them for the use of the car, our friend asked Doug how he liked it.  Doug said it rode nicely but I had done most of the driving.  The friend burst into laughter, he had just told his class that Doug was getting in touch with his masculine side by driving the Ram.  What he didn't know was that it was really me who was getting in touch... 

            Maybe Dad isn't only to blame, maybe I should also thank my Dad, for the ability to enjoy something as simple as driving a fun vehicle.

American Through and Through

I am an American living in Slovakia. I have lived here most of my adult life. I finally found out that there is nothing I can do to make me not look like an American. I have asked my Slovak friends to give me tips. Through all the cultural anthropology classes, gaining insights on the actions and mindsets of other cultures, through all the lessons on how to love your host culture, and even through countless haircuts and shopping trips, no matter how hard I try to blend, ultimately I cannot. 

I can prove it.  I was at the swimming pool for my regular swim.  I knew the routine. Pay at the small window downstairs for both your locker and your entrance.  Give the attendant upstairs in the ladies' dressing room your receipt and your deposit for the locker and DON'T try to use a locker other than the one on the key, no matter how close it is the bank of windows that look out on the busy intersection.  Also don't go beyond her bench with your shoes on.  Fair enough.

I had finished my swim and was back for a shower. I am pretty sure I have been modest since before I was born.  My mom loves to tell the story of our trip to the playground when I was three years old.  Being a particularly hot day, my friend removed his t-shirt.  Appalled I ran to my mother and told her what had happened.  I can almost see a sweet three year old with all the indignation of a 70-year-old spinster.  My mom, completely clueless as to my duress asked, "Would you like me to help you take your t-shirt off too?"

Needless to say, gang showers anywhere still make me nervous (and fast). But as I said, Cultural anthropology classes made their mark and although I didn't want to blend enough to swim in a two-piece, I did go ahead and shower in the regular way.

As my Slovak haircut was being shampooed by my Slovak shampoo, I heard a voice behind me.  "Oh, your an American?"  (No, I have no tattoos, yet.) I turned my head to see two ladies addressing me in English.  They introduced themselves. (My first naked handshake-hopefully my last.) We talked a bit about living in Slovakia then I made my get away to the locker room. 

Deep in my heart though I was relieved. As much I as I try to blend and fail it is no one's fault. There is something about me that is as culturally bound to being an American as my birthday suit, and I can't get out of that.

Here’s my blog and welcome to it.

Here is my blog and welcome to it.

I decided to blog based on several experiences:

*I enjoy encouraging others and telling stories, my goal is to have both of those fulfilled here.

* Many friends who have heard me speak or read my newsletters enjoy my writing and have encouraged me to write more.

*I enjoy writing and this will give me an opportunity to get some feedback. Please be gentle.

I am reading about how to do a good blog as well as asking others what they have learned. 

Here is what I learned; web readers spend an average of 96 seconds reading a blog. I am putting my book on the web. I am going to have to break it up into smaller bits than the normal chapters.

Readers of blogs also scan, which is why my paragraphs may look strange to you, they do to me too, but it is so they can be scanned easily.

Friends, I hope we both enjoy this experience, Tricia