Firstborn and Fearless

My oldest daughter, Sarah, will be turning 35, tomorrow—August 8, 2013.

It's hard for me to comprehend that she is that old—mostly because it makes me old enough to have a 35-year-old daughter.

And she has given me two of the best grandchildren for whom a grandmother can hope—Hannah Jean and Michael Rush.

Sarah, being the first child, had to put up with her mother’s, well, quirks, for lack of a better word. (idiot-syncrasies?)

Everything she touched and anyone who touched her had to be sterilized. It was so bad, that my sister-in-law, Sue Pierce (now Birkle), who was living with us in the townhouse in Montgomery, Ohio, had to move out because I was making her crazy.

Thank God I had my mother and my mother-in-law (Mary Carol Pierce, may she rest in peace) living close by to take my emergency phone calls.

Case in point, a call to my mother went something like this:

Me: “Sarah has just projectile vomited all over the kitchen!”

Ma: “Where is she now?”

“I have her secured to her changing table”

“On her back?”

“Yes.”

“What are you, nuts? She’ll choke if she vomits again!”

“Oh. My. God. I am a horrible mother!”

When Sarah was nine months old, I got pregnant with her sister, Amanda. When Amanda was two years old and Sarah barely four, we were shopping at Gold Circle in Tri-County Plaza in Cincinnati. Sarah thought it was a hoot to hide in the circular clothing displays and jump out at me.

At one point, Sarah stopped jumping out at me. I searched all of the clothing displays in the area, and was starting to freak out more than just a little.

Then, over the store loudspeaker, I hear this: “Will the mother of Sarah Kathryn Pierce please come to the Customer Service desk at the front of the store to claim her daughter?”

I am thankful my four-year old was savvy enough to find her way there, and was not snatched along the way. Thankful. Every. Day. Needless to say, although I AM saying it, I kept an eagle eye on that child from then on.

As she grew older, she posed more of a challenge, as the oldest child usually does. The oldest is the “practice child.” You work out all the kinks in your parenting style.

Thankfully, she has always had a marvelous sense of humor.

She’s shorter than my other two daughters are. Shorter than most people, I think. Amanda is about 5’9” and Samantha, my youngest, is even taller. I used to look at her when we were asked to stand up in church for prayer or a hymn and say, “Sarah, stand up!” even though she already was. It stopped being funny very quickly.

She also has one heck of a temper. Do NOT mess with her family. Sam, the youngest, had a fear of condiments when she was a child—especially catsup. If we went through a drive-thru and they put anything but pickles on Sam’s hamburger, Sarah would leap from the car and read the manager the riot act. (Sarah was a manager with McDonald’s for years and knew the drill.)

My favorite memory of Sarah, besides being present at the birth of both my grandchildren, is driving with her in her car when we lived in Columbus. All of a sudden, my car window rolled down.

Me: “Why’d you open my window?”

Sarah: “I didn’t!”

Then the window rolled halfway up.

Then it rolled down again. And it kept right on doing this until we got back to the house.

We got to laughing so hard at the haunted car window that we were in tears.

Then there was the time she went to the local do-it-yourself car wash and took our dachshund, Gretel, with her. Gretel stepped on the door-locking button while Sarah was washing the car. Sarah spent I don’t know how long trying to talk the dog into unlocking the door by stepping on the button again. I think she finally flagged down a cop.

Thirty-five years. Half a lifetime for some. My wish and prayer for Sarah on her birthday is this:

• Love God.

• Be you.

• Be happy.

• Love your children.

• Love your mother.

• And, if possible … become a millionaire so you can support me in my advancing years.

I love you with all my heart.

Happy Birthday, firstborn and fearless!

Thumper - In Memoriam

On Thursday of last week, February 26, I lost my companion of the past six years—my beloved dachshund, Thumper.

Thumper came to me from my brother and sister-in-law in September of 2003. Upon moving to a gated community that did not allow more than two dogs, and having three dogs—Thumper being the troublemaker of the trio (he liked to dig under the fence and cruise the neighborhood)—Steve, my brother, called and asked if I would like to adopt Thumper. I have always loved dachshunds and particularly Thumper as he was very talented and loaded with personality, so of course, I said “Yes!”

Thumper was an AKC-registered, smooth red miniature dachshund. His sire—dad—was Oscar Mayer Veiner II, and his dam—mom—was Buttons McIlvain. Buttons was three years older than her beloved Oscar, but theirs was an ageless love.

At the time of Thumper’s birth, Oscar and Buttons lived in Hamilton, Ohio, but their story began in war-torn Ireland . . .

Lt. Oscar Mayer Veiner II, had been a spitfire youth who was caught up in the fervor of the rebuilding of his country after WWI. Like so many other youths, he was an idealist, and was blinded by the rhetoric and propaganda of the rising Nazi powers. He joined the Lutwaffe—the German air force—and was soon fighting a battle that opened his eyes to the cruelties of man.

On April 7, 1941, Lt. Veiner II participated in the bombing of Belfast, Ireland. The lieutenant’s plane was shot down, and Oscar was seriously wounded.

Buttons McIlvain, a beautiful, red-haired lass, supported her family by working as a barmaid in Belfast. When the air raid sirens ceased on that fateful day, she climbed out of the bomb shelter and nearly tripped over the wounded Lt. Veiner II. Her mind told her to let him die, but her soft heart would not let her leave him in the street. She dragged him to her home, and there she undertook his care.

Buttons’ compassion, coupled with Oscar’s disillusionment with the German war effort, helped these two young pups bond and fall in love. Oscar never returned to the Lutwaffe, and spent the remainder of the war assisting the Irish in the defense of their country.

After the war, the young lovers married, and daringly stowed away on a ship journeying to America. They made their way to the home of Steve and Lynda McIlvain in Hamilton, Ohio—relatives of Buttons—who welcomed them with open arms, chew toys, and bags of kibble.

Their son, Thumper, never tired of hearing the story of his parents’ love. Their sense of adventure was instilled in Thumper at a young age, and he grew to be a great adventurer—fighting in the Sahara with the French Foreign Legion, working undercover with the FBI to infiltrate and bring down Al Capone’s organization, crossing the 38th Parallel between North and South Korea to deliver vital strategic information to the Americans as a CIA operative, and counseling President John K. Kennedy during the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Thumper’s talents and bravery earned him a pampered retirement in my home, where he grew fat and happy. Finally able to relax, he lived out his days rolling over for cookies, chasing tennis balls, learning to use his inside voice, sleeping under his human’s desk while she worked, and caring for stray kittens.

Thumper is survived by his cousins, Jippy—a sheltie, and Jasmine—a black Labrador, Boo-Boo, a grey kitten he nursed to health, and his housemate, Dickens, an orange tabby cat.

And me, his human.

You are sorely missed, Thumpy-Geez.