My husband found this on the camera card…�Zoe figured out how to take pictures and record video on the camera. You just can’t ask for better memories…

And not bad camera work…

In fairness, everyone has had their fair share of bad hair days. May I present the reason for all of mine.

Groovy, huh? This is a pic of the Crunkletons and the Stewarts, my mother and biological dad’s families (respectively). My mom is in the second row, white shirt, to the right of my buff and shirtless uncle Matt. My dad is in the back row, directly over her right shoulder.

You think you’ve got hair troubles?

*shut your mouth!*

*I’m talkin ’bout the Fro, baby*

*We can dig it…*

Occasionally I will have a dream that will spark a memory from my childhood; something that I haven’t thought about in years. One of those dreams was last night, and here’s the childhood memory:

When I was about 8, my little brother, Sean, and I somehow got a hold of a short-wave radio. I have no recollection of how we got it. Anyway, we asked our parents if we could use it. They showed us the basics—turning it on, surfing the frequencies, certain choice short-wave phrases—and then my brother and I went out into the backyard, climbed the apple tree in the corner nearest the highway, and began trying to talk to people.

We decided that we needed “handles”. I can’t remember for the life of me what my brother’s was. Mine, however, was “Sheena”… as in “Queen of the Jungle”, which was my favorite movie at the time. So there we were in the apple tree and we started getting in touch with various truck drivers passing by on the highway. Sean and I only knew a few phrases that our parents told us (and those phrases they only knew from Smokey and the Bandit movies) so the conversations were usually pretty short.

“Hey, there, good buddy,” we’d say.

“Uhhh, hello. What are you kids doing?” the strange trucker would ask.

“Are you doing the double nickel?” (referring to the speed limit of 55) (*snickers*)

“Yep, sure am.”

“Ok. 10-4, good buddy.” (*more snickers*)

This was basically the conversation we had each time. Rarely, we would have a rude trucker telling us to “get the hell off”, but it never deterred us or kept us from snickering. 

In retrospect, talking to strange truckers on a short-wave from the top of the apple tree in our backyard was the 1984 equivalent to sending your kids into strange chat rooms online to talk to weird grown-ups. But it was fun, and nothing happened.

After a while, we grew tired of saying the same three phrases to people. I think that’s why we stopped. Or maybe it was because my mom finally realized that we were actually contacting strangers on the highway. Either way, it was a short-lived recreational activity. But man, what a funny memory.

This is Sheena signing off, over and out.