Tag: friends

She Was a Good Thing: My Love Affair With A VW

Posted on January 12, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

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Her name was Martha. Not sure exactly why or how she earned that name, but it kind of stuck. I got her when I was 17 – my senior year. My mom actually found her for sale, and I guess she thought her daughter needed a crazy convertible before she went off to college-I don’t remember the exact details, but I do recall driving to a house on

F Street

where an older man (he was probably about 50-ha!) was trying to sell her. He had been towing her behind his RV when he traveled, but her time had come. She was young and ready for adventure, and she needed someone who could keep up with her.

As I drove off in her the first time, black vinyl top folded back, I thought I had really made it. Here I was, a young northern Californiagirl with my own convertible! Forget the fact that her removable windows were made of plastic vinyl, the propane heater wouldn’t work, the radio only played AM, and the metal on the floorboard was the only thing keeping road debris from bouncing into the car-she was mine. All 1972 top of the line VW Thing. Bumblebee yellow, black vinyl, chrome bumpers made of steel – she and I were a force to be reckoned with.

There was another girl – Randy was her name. She moved into town that year. Not only was she super cool, but she had a yellow Thing too! We soon became bestfriends-it seemed like fate had brought us together. Double trouble, long haired, fun loving, boy crazy TAB swigging B-52 Violent Femmes bopping around in matching convertibles. Only in California, right?

Times change, and Martha and I headed off to college at the end of the summer, leaving our partner in crime to fend for herself in the hometown. Suited up with Alva sticker and surfboard ready,and with the coast now under an hour’s drive away, Martha became the beach mobile. The removable plug in her floorboard was handy for washing out sand and debris after our escapades. I soon learned that cruising over the hill to Santa Cruz and back required vigilance with the gas tank-more than once I found myself stranded by the side of the road with nothing to do but wait for help to find me. Big band and talk radio became my best companions on those foggy morning drives.

Then one day, Randy arrived on campus. Our funny vintage clothes and crazy colored matching cars were like nothing these college kids had ever seen before. In a parking lot full of expensive foreign cars, this new girl stuck out. The first night the boy’s dorm slipped out and removed our driver’s side doors – yes, they detached at the hinges – and choked with laughter as we struggled in the morning to get our keys to fit in the locks. I hate bullies.

The next summer Martha, Randy, her Thing and I decided we would live in San Diego. To us, young, energetic and ambitious, it seemed like a good idea at the time. We loaded up our clothes, hung an ironing board out the window and headed south on I-5 towards our promised land. Two girls, two convertibles – what could be more ideal? The stares we received were legendary – probably in part due to the premade signs we had that we would flash to each other like signal beacons. A few passers by flashed us back a few things, too.

Traveling to Rosarita Beach, Mexicowas one of Martha’s favorite adventures. Roomy enough to stretch out, she became our kitchen, dressing area and hotel room. I think we really pushed her to her limits there-she was glad we all made it out alive.

There were a few downsides with Martha. She was freezing cold in the winter-driving over the Grapevine in December wrapped in a sleeping bag was not my ideal start to Christmas vacation. She was noisy-the wind whistled through the removable windows making it nearly impossible to sing over the racket. And she was brittle. Like any lady, she aged gracefully but began to show wear and tear in her plastic top and windows.

Martha survived a few fender benders-the steel helped a bit. My little brother’s head was hard enough to crack her windshield, but her strong bumpers never bent. The last straw came one windy, rainy afternoon when, while driving down the freeway with my future husband, Martha’s back windshield imploded sending shards of rock hard plastic flying into the back of our heads. Boyfriend, who never succumbed to Martha’s charms, began a ‘get rid of that damn car’ campaign.

Stupidly I agreed, and Martha went to live with my uncle and his 16-year-old son. She was definitely showing her age – years of hard living will do that to a girl. With a new engine transplant, though, Martha was able to embark on many happy adventures with him for years. She tried to live up to her reputation – beach trips, screaming up and down the SF hills hoping the mediocre brakes would hold, hauling band equipment, and roaring down I-5 to San Diego with her new man. Kind of like a mid-life crisis, I guess you could say. Life was good for Martha for a few more years.

Sadly, Martha moved on to yet another fellow. I’ve heard he’s a real nice guy and treats her well. They live somewhere in the Bay Area. Rumor has it she’s had a total makeover-sure to breathe new life into the old gal. It happens to the best of us.

I wonder what he calls her.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Prom Night At Our Place

Posted on December 13, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe

I am definitely not a person who is into cliques. As a result, I’ve never been much of a joiner of clubs, groups, or anything that labels. I even resisted junior proms and senior balls as a teen. I don’t think at 16 I was thinking that I was being ‘true to my authentic self’; I just knew that something didn’t feel right, and prom wasn’t the place for me to be.

As a middle school teacher and survivor of the teenage years I know the damage kids can do to each other by labeling, stereotyping and making exclusive groups. As a mom, however, I was really pleased to be nominated as the “cool” place to hang out and prepare for the junior prom. As it turns out, kids in our town don’t need to have a date in order to go to the prom-what progress since my high school days! As a result, I had ten sophomore girls arriving to my house in waves to primp, polish and prepare for the first big dance of their young lives.

With iPod speakers blaring the young ladies began to polish toes and fingers in anticipation of the slightly tippy, strappy sandals most would be wearing, despite the 30 degree weather outside. It was an amazing sight to see that their texting ability wasn’t slowed down a bit by wet paint on their fingertips!

Next, the hair. Straight locks are out this season-with coordinated teamwork worthy of a football playbook, one after the other the girls strategized the curling process to result in Taylor Swift-worthy tumbling tresses.

Then, the food. In-n-Out was the request-what girl doesn’t need a big burger and fries before dancing the night away, right? Washing it down with sparkling cider served in my great grandfather’s tiny crystal wine glasses surely added class to the menu!

Dresses? Can anyone say micro-mini? Sheesh…these girls tugged and pulled to ensure no accidental wardrobe malfunctions! Some of the dresses were very, ahem, sophisticated.

The boys arrived next. Surprisingly there were a few ‘dates’-the sophomore boys seemed to wait until the last minute to ask the girls. Were they building up courage, or hoping that their last minute plea would be desperately accepted? Maybe they were just traditionalists trying to do prom the old fashioned way. Regardless, there didn’t seem to be any problem with only four of the ten girls having escorts-aside from the fact that none of the girls really knew how to act or entertain them while they waited. Standing awkwardly in their new suits, squeaky shoes and fresh haircuts, the boys waited patiently in the living room for the ladies, while mamawolfe acted as a human buffer between them and the hallway to the bedroom.

Finally, the photos. With flashbulbs that would challenge any paparazzi, the girls dazzled in a variety of photo combinations. Yes, there were the awkward groupings of those with dates, those who had been friends since elementary school, the whole group, and the shoes to show off the pedicures.

After all the memories were captured and we all piled in cars to drive to the high school, one of the girls commented, “Wow, you must feel really popular, mamawolfe, to have everyone want to hang out at your house tonight. It’s the place to be!”

Her comment stopped me cold. Popular? Not the word my adult brain would use. Special? Definitely. Recognized? For sure. Thrilled? Absolutely.

For me, this year’s prom night was so much more than all the pageantry. Sure, watching my little girl transform into a young woman before my eyes was beautiful. Feeling the excitement, the anticipation, and the energy was contagious. But what prom night really taught me this year is that belonging happens in many different ways. The girls learned that they don’t need to be joined (literally or figuratively) with a boy to have fun. The boys realized that if they ask, they have hope. And now I know that I don’t really need to join anything to be important in my daughter’s life – by being myself she and her friends feel comfortable. Actions speak louder than words. My house really is the place to be.

What more could a mom ask for?

Jennifer Wolfe

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Friday Photo: Old Friends

Posted on December 10, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe

Old friends are just the best. It’s so easy to pick up where we left off, jump into conversation, and not have to do all the ‘getting to know you’ kind of talk. Especially when they’re really old friends-I’m talking nearly 30 years of friendship.

Old friends don’t judge. They take you for who and what you are, and know it has all come about from who and where you’ve been. In my mind’s eye, we haven’t changed that much. I don’t need a recent photo-we are still those girls in 1983 going off to college in our VW Things, ready to take on the books, the beach, and the boys-and not always in that order!

So when I met up with my old friend this week, we just picked right up where we left off. We looked into each other’s eyes and remembered living together, arguing with each other, and trying to understand how a Physics major and English major could possibly communicate with each other. We laughed about our adventures, and prayed that our own children won’t repeat our stupidity. We remembered the tears, the break ups, and the meals we shared as we ventured out into adulthood together.

But mostly I smiled, and laughed, and felt a deep sense of connection to my old friend, my confidant, my history keeper. And while our road trips together have been on hiatus for awhile, we know that one day we’ll jump into a convertible, put the top down, and cruise down to Baja just like the old days.

Old friends. They’re just the best, aren’t they?

Jennifer Wolfe

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Ticket To Ride

Posted on October 25, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe

One moment it’s just a peaceful walk down the Santa Cruz beach with two of my best girlfriends. The sun is slipping towards the horizon, the gulls are out, and most of the beach-goers have gone home. Thoughtful conversation bounces back and forth like a Brahms lullaby, and I am happy and content. Just a few more steps and I’ll be back at the house, glass of wine in hand, firmly and finally planted in a lounge chair to watch the sunset. Sleepily, I move towards our peaceful haven.

Oh no. Not so fast. Here come girlfriends two and three, grins blazing, heading for the Boardwalk. Suddenly I’m climbing stairs, leaving my tranquil little happy zone to be slapped in the face by humanity. Blaring carny rides, flashing lights, and the succulent smells of potato on a stick instantly awaken my senses. And to my despair, tickets are waved in my face. Yep, the Giant Dipper and I are about to meet, whether I like it or not. There’s no turning back now.

We squish into line amongst the teenagers, twenty somethings – no ‘mature’ ladies in sight. My heart pounds as I consider what is before me. One of the oldest wooden rollercoasters in the west coast is about to do me in. And having just confessed my lack of fear to my girlfriends the night before, now is definitely not the time to run crying back to the shore. I’m in it. Televised images of those who have gone before taunt me. I can’t do this. I will die. Barf. Fall out. I’m only 5’2″-these things aren’t made for little people like me. 1/2 mile of track at 55 mph? I’m doomed.

Girlfriends two and three, obviously trying to relive some long dead teenage dreams, insist on the front cars. Really? Are you kidding me? Reluctantly I climb in and search for the seatbelt, the foot rest, the shoulder brace-anything to keep me inside this rickety structure for the next minutes of eternity.

Ugh! We jolt out of the gate with a start that would make any jockey lose their seating. Into the dark tunnel we spin. Ok. I can do this. Not so bad….here we go uppppppp-that means we are going to come down…this is the part where I defy the laws of gravity and fall out of my seat, right? This bar won’t hold me in…who the hell thinks this is fun anyways? AHHHHHHH!

SMACK! My head crashes into the bar, back and forth, back and forth. Up and down, side to side. I am the ball in the pinball machine taking one hit after the next. No time to take in the scenery from the top. Eyes pressed shut, arms braced, my mind drifts back to the Lamaze exercises I learned in birthing class so long ago. Go to your happy place. This too shall pass. Only the strong survive.

Really? With one final grunt the car lurches to a stop. Dazed, I climb out of the car and trip to the walkway, realizing that I had been holding my breath for the last two minutes of terror. My ribs scream with pain as I make my way down and out like a drunken sailor. I keep going, one foot then another, until I spill back onto the strand. I’m in one piece. I made it.

Gratefully I reenter the sand, happy to leave the lights behind me. Suddenly I notice that the moon has risen, the tide has come in, and I breathe deeply. As I climb the hillside toward home, the carnival lights dim and flicker out. The Boardwalk has closed down, but I didn’t miss the ride.

Some say life is like a roller coaster, and today I would have to agree. We never know what is around the next bend, or over the next hill. But maybe really the question is are we just along for the ride? Do you pay your dues, take your ticket and get on thinking you know what to expect? Or do you hide at the entrance, sure you’re not strong enough, smart enough, or brave enough to take what’s thrown at you?

Now I know. I’m grabbing the next ticket, racing to the front, and climbing aboard. Only the strong survive, after all.

Jennifer Wolfe

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Once Upon A Time

Posted on October 1, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe

Once upon a time there was a young girl growing up in an old, small town. She had long, straight chocolate colored hair and deep brown eyes. Her oval face held a blank expression most times, as she was the type to watch and listen more than express what she was thinking or feeling.

One autumn day this young girl arrived at school. She loved her school-it was clean, quiet, and full of places to play. She loved her teachers, and was a quiet and obedient student. Unlike most kids her age, what she enjoyed most about school was reading. She was happiest when she was working alone in her books, learning about new people and places and things. Also unlike most kids her age, what she disliked most about school was PE. It wasn’t that she disliked exercise-actually, she loved playing softball, hopscotch and four square. For her, PE was terrifying for one reason: DODGE BALL.

In her little old town dodge ball was the favored sport for PE class. Students begged and pleaded each day to play dodge ball during their treasured exercise time. And as convincing as the students were, the teacher almost always agreed. Dodge ball it would be.

From beginning to end, dodge ball was excruciating. The two manly boys who were always captains lined the other children up to select teams. First chosen were always the other ‘sports boys’. Next came the ‘tom boys’, and then the cute, outgoing girls. Last was always the oval faced, brown eyed girl.

After that exercise in taxonomy, the game began. Circling around their prey, the ‘sports boys’ would throw the ball at each other, eager to show off their quick reflexes and agility. The prey would scurry from one side to the next, not wanting to be hit yet not quite wanting to back down, either. Then the ‘tom boys’ jumped in, dodging with grace and flexibility. The cute, outgoing girls giggled, admiring the prowess of the young, manly hunters.

The young girl trembled, knowing it was just a matter of time before she became the victim. Eyes wide, she tried to avoid the flaming red sphere, but every time SPLAT! she took it in the stomach. On the back. At the ankles. Tears welled up in her big, dirt colored eyes.

Not sure which was more painful, the sting of the ball or the burn of the humiliation, she attempted to survive. The predators became more confident. The giggling girls pumped their testosterone. SLAP! TWANG! Over and over the ball would smash the young girl down, the laughter of her classmates growing louder and louder and LOUDER. Paralyzed with pain and fear and humiliation she froze, absorbing one sting after another after another.

And in that moment, relived thirty-five years over and over, she realized something. The young chocolate haired, dirt eyed oval faced girl learned that she owed her classmates a thank you. For what she realized is that those ‘sports boys’ and ‘tom boys’ and laughing spectators had taught her a very important lesson: dodge ball is the way the world works.

And in that moment, decades later, she realized that like dodge ball, it’s easy to run away from what’s coming at you. She realized that it’s painless to punch someone in the gut, slap them on the back, ding them at the ankles and go back for more. Because of dodge ball, she learned that it’s hard to stand strong, take the hit, stay upright, and confront each obstacle hurled by others. She understood that life really is about survival of the fittest. And because of dodge ball, she survived and lived happily ever after.

The End.

Jennifer Wolfe

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