Small towns are not so bad after all

Sometimes living in a smaller town can be frustrating. Our mall doesn’t exactly have the most variety and there isn’t a whole lot to do when you’re bored and you don’t have motorized toys or legal mud pits at your disposal.

Also, there is a good chance you’ll be recognized in Walmart and that identification will almost always happen when you least desire it to occur, such as, while you’re screaming at your children; on the morning you wore those old pajama pants with the hole in the knee; when you just left the gym and are drenched in sweat, but had to pick up milk on the way home; or the one day your hair dryer broke and the only color left in the eye-shadow pallet was electric blue.

Having said all of that, this past week has made me realize one of the most outstanding qualities about living in a small town: a sense of community.

This past Sunday, a horrible tragedy occurred in our county that resulted in the loss of a little boy’s life. I had met the young child, Matty, several years ago when his mother, Mandy, and I had briefly worked together. Since that time, we have kept up with each other’s lives on Facebook, but that really isn’t a substitute for being involved and present in someone’s daily life. Still, I was heartbroken for the whole family.

Several people were involved in setting up fundraisers to help the family and I was quick to volunteer my time at a couple of carwashes. Truth be told, I was probably going to spend those two days napping and not studying for my upcoming nursing exams; in other words, being completely and utterly unproductive.

Though I avoid washing my own car like I avoid jogging or moving furniture with my husband, I seriously got into scrubbing and rinsing complete stranger’s vehicles for a good cause. I even relished in taking on the most tedious job in the realm of car cleaning: bug detail.

One thing I learned about our county is that a good portion of our citizens own large vehicles. I was able to practice the art of stability by precariously balancing on a bucket so I could clean the tops of vans and large trucks. It was a tad bit scary, but I did it.

I also conducted quality checks on the placement of a parking block by kicking it several times. Some would say it looked more like I had inadvertently tripped over it, but I was just making sure that it was securely attached to the pavement. On a related note, I may have mentioned this in the past, but want to remind everyone that flip flops are dangerous footwear.

While washing the windshield of one monstrous truck, the gentleman was inside pointing to spots I was “missing.” It was all in good humor, but I did have to tell him that I couldn’t reach one area because it was on the inside. We both got a good chuckle out of that.

People gave from their hearts. Some people drove up and gave money without getting their car washed at all. Most people had heard about the tragedy and just wanted to help.

Avon Park, Sebring, and Lake Placid may not have all the fancy bells and whistles of larger cities, but one thing we do not lack is love.

To the Fisher family, my deepest sympathies and may your precious Matty forever smile down upon you from Heaven.

Dreams of burning rubber

The smell or orange blossoms and gasoline in the air means the 12 Hours of Sebring has returned! This year celebrates 60 years of racing and, as you’re reading this, I’m somewhere on the trackside soaking up the sun’s harmful ultraviolet rays while I watch a variety of cars zip around the notoriously bumpy raceway.

I’m sure that I’m getting a slightly unhealthy dose of crowd interaction also. Hand sanitizer is a must-have any time you plan on attending a public function, but especially when you go to the Sebring races.

I’ve always fancied myself an undiscovered amateur racecar driver. Goodness knows I have put in some practice over the years on the many back roads of Highlands and Polk counties.

My first car was a 1985 Mercury Lynx hatchback. That poor Lynx saw some intense moments on the road, but the fastest I ever forced it to travel was around 110 miles per hour which made it shake as if it were going to fall to pieces.

You could say I’ve slowed down over the years, though I do tend to speed more when I’m alone in the car. If the kids are with me, they act as witnesses who love to tell on me as soon as Daddy gets home, so I try to keep my inner speedster in check.

The races are a bad influence on me. Every time I head towards the track, I feel my foot pressing down more on the gas pedal the closer I get. When I hear the noise of the cars, I can’t help myself and, before I know it, I’m going 80!

Though I’ve been around the track at a normal speed, my dream is to get behind the engine of a racing machine and tear up the road. I imagine gripping the wheel of a diesel-powered prototype car and zigzagging in and out of the pack to hold the lead and snag the best overall lap time.

While the races are on, my sister has parked her brand new 2012 Dodge Challenger at my house because she doesn’t want to risk it getting scratched at the track. The temptation to take it for a spin is just about to overwhelm me. I know that she knows the mileage on the odometer and I also know she’ll eventually forgive me if I decide to add a few extra miles without her permission.

The biggest reason I want to drive her car is because of a certain toy she found on her dash display. Apparently, the car challenges you to discover how fast you can achieve the speed from zero to 60 mph! How cool is that? Then, it keeps a record of your best time. Because you can’t turn or brake at all during the timing, she hasn’t had a chance to record anything on it which means there is no record to break so I guess I’ll resist the urge to borrow her car for now.

If you’re at the races, come visit our camp between turns 8 and 9. We’re next to the house boat. Yes, someone brought their boat. It makes a weird kind of sense when you don’t have a camper.

If you have access to a fast car and you want to give me an opportunity to play racecar driver, let me first give a quick disclaimer: I said I drive fast, but never said I drive well; however, I do use my blinkers.

An underwhelming physical performance

South Florida Community College will soon become South Florida State College. This means that I may have just participated in the last Community College Week ever held on our campus.

What was Community College Week? It was an opportunity for the student organizations to battle each other in various competitions over a period of four days. My team, the Student Nurses’ Association, called ourselves the Bloody Warriors, a name that sounds more menacing than we actually were.

If we had to pick a name that fit the way we performed, perhaps “Island of Misfit Toys” would have been more appropriate.

In case you haven’t met any current student nurses, we range in age by about 40 years and some of us, like me, are not in peak physical condition. This made for an amusing match-up with the other clubs which were mostly young, athletic individuals. Our only real physical equals were the faculty team.

The first day put us on a field in the hot sun running with a stick horse in a relay-style race. I sat out of this competition, choosing instead to laugh at winded classmates.

The next game was “Granny Pants” which had me in a pair of pantyhose stretched to the max so I could catch balls thrown by my friend, Amanda. It is hard to catch anything in a pair of pantyhose you are actually wearing, but the difficulty increases when you have a bad case of the giggles.

The final game was the Wobbly Wheelbarrow. I was not the wheelbarrow and I was very thankful for that. Both the wheelbarrows lost the use of their arms for about 24 hours and the Bloody Warriors lost all three events.

Day two, unfortunately, had us in our bathing suits for a raft race. I was erroneous in my thinking on two things: 1. that my extra fat tissue would give me buoyancy and 2. I could swim fairly well. We lost miserably.

The dreaded belly flop was next, but since everyone on my team was philosophically opposed to embarrassing ourselves added to the fact that there were no paramedics on site, we opted out of this one.

We had eight members participate in the tug-of-war and it seemed like we were going to be victorious at first, but rope burn is a very real, painful skin condition and the other team gained some supernatural strength from somewhere to eventually overcome our will to win.

Finally, a water balloon toss capped our losses and sealed the second day in fun-filled misery.

On the third day, dodge ball was the game. All of a sudden I was catapulted back to 7^th grade gym class with those mean girls pelting me in the face with balls, only it was the faculty team figuratively spanking us around the court. I want to say our first match lasted about 45 seconds, but the shame made it seem about five times longer. The second round was even shorter. Apparently, dodging and throwing is not our forte.

Our moment of triumph arrived with the trivia challenge. Amanda and I battled with our wits and snatched a victory for the Bloody Warriors which goes to show that what we are lacking in brawn, we make up for with brains!

We didn’t compete on the last day, but even with all the humiliation, our team was awesome. If I learned one thing from this week, it is this: next time I play tug-of-war, bring hand protection.

A star in the making

Lately, my five-year old daughter has been fascinated with the television show, “Toddlers and Tiaras.” In case you haven’t found time to catch this spectacle of human indecency, please don’t feel that you’re missing something educational or worthwhile. In fact, I’ll do my best to sum up a typical episode in as few sentences as possible.

A pageant mom or dad pushes a child to perform onstage. They dress these show kids in slightly inappropriate sequined outfits and slap on layers of make-up that would be considered too much for a “Glamour Shots” session. The children are usually spoiled brats and the parents are, more often than not, living vicariously through their child while in constant denial that they are forcing them to wear fake eyelashes.

In one show, the mother swore her daughter loved getting a spray-on tan.  The girl was about two-years old and naturally pale. Since the mom had a friend who worked at an auto paint shop, that’s where she took her to get tans. I guess it’s just a simple matter of changing out the chemicals. I’m not making this up.

The kid was running away screaming and the mom was just baffled that her little angel wasn’t cooperating because she usually just loved getting this done. Really?

My daughter is immune to all of the obvious dysfunctional family issues the show presents; instead, she gets stars in her eyes when she sees the stage and the performances. She puts on her prettiest church dress, places a plastic crown on her head, and practices her pageant walk while smiling and waving to an imaginary crowd.

Last Saturday we had the privilege of seeing a real live pageant at the Hardee County Fairgrounds. My niece was selected by her second grade class to participate and have a chance to be crowned as the 2012 Princess.

My sister had been preparing her for the last two months; there was paperwork involved and pictures to purchase from a specific studio and an evening gown that had to touch the floor or else points would be deducted.  It was mind-boggling how much went into a kid’s beauty pageant and this wouldn’t even include pushy parents and talent competitions like the crazy reality show where I’d been getting all my tainted preconceived notions.

The night of the event, we walked into the Civic Center which must have had their air condition set at around 32 degrees because I swear I could see my breath. This was when I realized almost every second grade class in the county had nominated a Prince and Princess which made up 54 contestants. That meant that 54 times the audience heard some kid answer the question, “If you had a million dollars, what 2 things would you buy?” One kid said, “A bunch of clean underwear and hot dogs!” That was the best answer, hands down.

At the end of the night, about four hours of my life had been stolen and my niece did not have a crown, but she was smiling so big you wouldn’t have known it. I guess that’s what made all those kids so different from the “Toddlers and Tiaras” children, they truly had a good time.

My daughter wants more than ever to get onstage. Maybe I’m the perfect mix of parent for her. I would never force her to do it, but if she wants to, I’ll sit in an uncomfortable chair for hours until I lose feeling in my legs while I let her shine.