had a contest to see which student could sell the most raffle tickets for the spring carnival. The winner would get first pick at a prize table full of things our family could never afford. The clear choice, in my view, was a beanbag chair in red vinyl. Seating space was at a premium in our house, and having your own personal chair would be huge. Plus it was portable, so I would be guaranteed a seat in any room. Lucy and I got busy selling tickets, as did a few of my other sisters still at St. Geronimo’s. The competition was fierce and there were many fights and tears leading up to the contest deadline. Lucy and I were neck and neck and each kept our final tallies secret from the other. We were standing outside at assembly when Sister Mary Eucharist read the results.
“First place goes to Lucy O’Leary, grade six.”
I was shocked. Then mad. Lucy was going to get my chair. The jealousy made me cry as I watched my older sister survey the prize table. To my amazement, she selected a huge bottle of perfume. The girl who came to school in a wrinkled uniform picks the perfume? It made no sense.
“Second place goes to Tanzie O’Leary, grade five.” I wiped my eyes and made a beeline for the chair. I got what I wanted and was elated.
“Why did you pick the perfume, Lucy?” I asked when we began to walk home that afternoon.
“Mama’s birthday is tomorrow. She told me once that she loved perfume, but I know we never have enough money to splurge on it.”
CHAPTER FIVE
A lovely part of the aging process—besides weight gain, stiffness, and memory lapses—is its effect on your sleep habits. Sometimes I awake in a pool of sweat and feel as though it is a perpetual Houston August in my bed. This morning, I step out to my balcony to cool off and then go to my tiny kitchen for some ice water. It is just past 4:00 a.m., and I am flipping through the channels on the flat screen, waiting for my temperature to reboot, when my interest is snagged by CNN showing a massive fire in a residential area of Houston. I cover my mouth in horror and turn up the sound.
I walk closer to the screen to see if I can pick out any landmarks. It is still dark outside except for the enormous flames, but I can see the seventy-story Williams Tower and the Southwest Freeway/Loop 610 intersection. The fire looks like it iswithin a half mile of the Galleria shopping mall.
Oh my God!
I think,
I know people who live near there!
On TV, the anchor is interviewing a resident of the area.
“I heard an explosion,” the man says. “It shook my whole house and I could smell smoke. I grabbed my dog and ran outside. My roof was on fire, but the big stuff was down the block from me, where those fancy new townhouses and condos are. I tell you what—I have never seen anything like that before in my life, and I’m a Vietnam vet. There were injured people running down the street with third-degree burns.”
The CNN news team spends the next thirty minutes or so speculating about causes—pipeline explosion or terrorism or possibly a plane crash—and casualty figures—massive, given the high-density housing that has sprung up in that area recently and the fact that the tragedy occurred in the middle of the night when families were home in bed. Hospitals are reporting in about the terrible injuries and are asking for blood donations.
I think about friends of mine—Beth and Grant and Ken and Alice—and wonder whether they are okay. I think about where they live in Houston, relative to the fire. Even given the scale of this thing, it doesn’t seem as if any of them are in any immediate danger. I force myself not to worry about it right now. Surely they are safe. Still, there is no going back to bed, and I’m an early riser anyway, so I make a pot of coffee and wait for the sun to come up. I sit glued to the television but get frustrated because there’s no real information, just speculative chatter between newscasters. I decide to take a shower and get
“First place goes to Lucy O’Leary, grade six.”
I was shocked. Then mad. Lucy was going to get my chair. The jealousy made me cry as I watched my older sister survey the prize table. To my amazement, she selected a huge bottle of perfume. The girl who came to school in a wrinkled uniform picks the perfume? It made no sense.
“Second place goes to Tanzie O’Leary, grade five.” I wiped my eyes and made a beeline for the chair. I got what I wanted and was elated.
“Why did you pick the perfume, Lucy?” I asked when we began to walk home that afternoon.
“Mama’s birthday is tomorrow. She told me once that she loved perfume, but I know we never have enough money to splurge on it.”
CHAPTER FIVE
A lovely part of the aging process—besides weight gain, stiffness, and memory lapses—is its effect on your sleep habits. Sometimes I awake in a pool of sweat and feel as though it is a perpetual Houston August in my bed. This morning, I step out to my balcony to cool off and then go to my tiny kitchen for some ice water. It is just past 4:00 a.m., and I am flipping through the channels on the flat screen, waiting for my temperature to reboot, when my interest is snagged by CNN showing a massive fire in a residential area of Houston. I cover my mouth in horror and turn up the sound.
I walk closer to the screen to see if I can pick out any landmarks. It is still dark outside except for the enormous flames, but I can see the seventy-story Williams Tower and the Southwest Freeway/Loop 610 intersection. The fire looks like it iswithin a half mile of the Galleria shopping mall.
Oh my God!
I think,
I know people who live near there!
On TV, the anchor is interviewing a resident of the area.
“I heard an explosion,” the man says. “It shook my whole house and I could smell smoke. I grabbed my dog and ran outside. My roof was on fire, but the big stuff was down the block from me, where those fancy new townhouses and condos are. I tell you what—I have never seen anything like that before in my life, and I’m a Vietnam vet. There were injured people running down the street with third-degree burns.”
The CNN news team spends the next thirty minutes or so speculating about causes—pipeline explosion or terrorism or possibly a plane crash—and casualty figures—massive, given the high-density housing that has sprung up in that area recently and the fact that the tragedy occurred in the middle of the night when families were home in bed. Hospitals are reporting in about the terrible injuries and are asking for blood donations.
I think about friends of mine—Beth and Grant and Ken and Alice—and wonder whether they are okay. I think about where they live in Houston, relative to the fire. Even given the scale of this thing, it doesn’t seem as if any of them are in any immediate danger. I force myself not to worry about it right now. Surely they are safe. Still, there is no going back to bed, and I’m an early riser anyway, so I make a pot of coffee and wait for the sun to come up. I sit glued to the television but get frustrated because there’s no real information, just speculative chatter between newscasters. I decide to take a shower and get
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