Contents:
Canadian Recording Industry Association. Archived from the original on 30 April Archived from the original on 24 September The Traveling Wilburys certified awards". Recording Industry Association of America. Volume 3 certified awards". The Traveling Wilburys Collection certified awards". Archived from the original on 3 July The Roy Orbison Story. The Beatles Diary Volume 2: After the Break-Up — Roy Orbison's Life and Legacy. The Editors of Rolling Stone Living in the Material World.
Behind the Shades 20th Anniversary Edition. George Harrison — After the Break-up of the Beatles. The Encyclopedia of Popular Music 5th edn. The Invention of an Alternative Rock Masculinity. While My Guitar Gently Weeps: The Music of George Harrison. Madinger, Chip; Easter, Mark Eight Arms to Hold You: The Solo Beatles Compendium. Romanowski, Patricia; George-Warren, Holly eds Rock 'n' Roll Guardian. The Life of Bob Dylan.
View credits, reviews, tracks and shop for the Vinyl release of Handle With Care on Discogs. Friendship has 2 ratings and 0 reviews: Published March 13th by Gospel Advocate Company, pages, Paperback.
Van der Kiste, John Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers: Runnin' Down a Dream. Conversations with Tom Petty. The Traveling Wilburys Collection. Discography Awards Bibliography Songs written by Dylan. The Complete Album Collection Vol. The Royal Albert Hall concert Vol. Rare and Unreleased — Vol. Another Self Portrait — Vol. The Basement Tapes Complete Vol. The Cutting Edge — Vol. Trouble No More — Vol. More Blood, More Tracks. Tarantula Writings and Drawings Chronicles: The New Basement Tapes.
The Concert for Bangladesh Live in Japan. Songs by George Harrison Early Takes: Is This What You Want? In Celebration Chants of India. Songs from the Material World: Armchair Theatre Long Wave The Birthday Party Idle Race. Class of '55 Traveling Wilburys Vol. Discography Awards and nominations Songs. Retrieved from " https: American country rock groups Bands with fictional stage personas British country rock musical groups British folk rock groups Folk rock groups from California Grammy Award winners Musical groups established in Musical quartets Roots rock music groups Supergroups music Traveling Wilburys Musical groups disestablished in Views Read Edit View history.
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It was the day we were leaving; and as Dad loaded up the car, you and I sat at the kitchen table, playing Rock Paper Scissors. Remove with a slotted spoon and immediately place the peach in ice water. I think it would work, if we wanted to do it. Remove from heat, and stir in chocolate until completely melted. Chill dough before baking.
This page was last edited on 17 December , at By using this site, you agree to the Terms of Use and Privacy Policy. Folk rock , country rock , roots rock. CD, vinyl , cassette. It showed Tinkerbell floating like a mosquito through the Magic Kingdom over the heads of the insanely cheery visitors. The family seemed so happy it made my stomach hurt to watch it. I wanted to believe they were laughing, smiling, even as they were spinning out of control.
Amelia, how many times have I told you not to leave your socks on the floor, because Willow could trip over them? What mom spends days researching the hospitals in Orlando?
It was the day we were leaving; and as Dad loaded up the car, you and I sat at the kitchen table, playing Rock Paper Scissors. I should have known better; you always threw scissors. You were, in general, full of information no one else knew or cared about, because you read all the time, or surfed the net, or listened to shows on the History Channel that put me to sleep. It freaked people out, to come across a four year old who knew that toilets flushed in the key of Eb, or that the oldest word in the English language is town, but Mom said that lots of kids with osteogenesis imperfecta were early readers with advanced verbal skills.
I figured it was like a muscle: For the bazillionth time she ran through a checklist. It was a letter from Dr. Rosenblad, saying the obvious: Should we go visit Mickey? You gave him a big silly grin, as if Mickey Mouse was real and not just some teenage girl wearing a big plastic head for her summer job. Mom frowned over her list one last time. I nodded and ran upstairs. She turned off the lights and locked the front door, and I bounded over to the van. I handed the camera to Dad and buckled myself in beside your car seat, and let myself admit that as dorky as it was to be eleven years old and excited about Disneyworld, I was.
I was thinking about sunshine and Disney songs and monorails and not at all about the letter from Dr. Which means, in the long run, that everything that happened was my fault. You said you were hungry and we turned into an old-time ice cream parlor. Dad stood in line holding your hand while Mom brought napkins over to the table where I was sitting. At exactly the same moment that Mom let one napkin flutter to the ground and Dad let go of your hand to take out his wallet, you hurried to the window to see what I wanted to show you, and you slipped on the tiny paper square.
We all watched it in slow motion, the way your legs simply gave out from underneath you, so that you sat down hard on your bottom. You looked up at us, and the whites of your eyes flashed blue, the way they always do when you break. It was almost like the people at Disneyworld had been expecting this to happen.
With Mom giving orders, the way she always does around doctors, they managed to get you onto it. It was Saturday night, and the people coming into the emergency room were much more interesting that the TV program that was playing. There were two kids who looked like they were the right age for college, both bleeding from the same spot on their foreheads and laughing every time they looked at each other. There was an old man wearing sequined pants and holding the right side of his stomach, and a girl who only spoke Spanish and was carrying screaming twin babies.
Suddenly, Mom burst out of the double doors to the right, with a nurse running after her, and another woman in a skinny pinstriped skirt and red high heels. Dad wrapped himself around her, and the nurse led them to another empty room, a smaller one, with a tattered red couch and a little oval table and fake flowers in a vase. There was a picture on the wall of two pandas, and I stared at it while the woman in the skinny skirt — her name was Donna Roman, and she was from the Department of Children and Families - talked to our parents.
The woman just blinked at him. My mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out of it. Mom was staring at me as if she was trying to do ESP. Does this happen a lot? It was a stupid question — one of them was always with you. I remembered his tight face as we sped toward the hospital. By now she was walking back toward the room where my parents were. With a firm hand — and the help of the police officer — Donna tried to peel her away from me. Willow will be here overnight. I did this for five minutes, until I went totally numb.
I figured that they were for orphans and inner-city kids, kids whose parents were drug dealers -- not girls like me who lived in nice houses and got plenty of Christmas presents and never went to sleep hungry. As it turned out, though, Mrs. Ward, who ran this temporary foster home, could have been an ordinary mom. I guess she had been one, from the photos that plastered every surface, like wallpaper. She met us at the door wearing a red bathrobe and slippers that looked like pink pigs.
I was expecting a posse of kids, but it turned out that I was the only one staying with Mrs. She took me into the kitchen, which smelled like dishwashing detergent and boiled noodles. She set a glass of milk and a stack of Oreo cookies in front of me. My bedroom had a dresser, a small bed, and a comforter with cherries printed all over it. There was a television, and a remote next to the bed. My parents would never let me have a television in my room; my mother said it was the Root of All Evil.
Ward that and she laughed. I wondered where it had come from. Frogs have to close their eyes to swallow. One pencil can draw a line thirty-five miles long. Cleveland, spelled backward, is DNA level C. Ward had gone to her own bedroom I tiptoed out of bed. I turned the light on in the hallway and went down to the kitchen. There, I opened up the refrigerator and let the light and cold fall over my bare feet. I stared at lunch meat, sealed into plastic packages; at a jumble of apples and peaches in a bin; at cartons of orange juice and milk lined up like soldiers. When I thought I heard a creak upstairs, I grabbed whatever I could: I ran back to my room and closed the door, spread my treasure out on the sheets in front of me.
At first, it was just the Oreos. But then my stomach rumbled and I ate all the spaghetti — with my fingers, because I had no fork. I had a piece of bread and another and then another and before I knew it only the plastic wrapper was left. What is wrong with you, I thought, catching my reflection in the mirror. Who eats a whole loaf of bread? The outside of me was disgusting enough — boring brown hair that frizzed with crummy weather; eyes too far apart, that crooked front tooth, enough fat to muffin-top my jean shorts — but the inside of me was even worse.
I pictured it as a big black hole, like the kinds we learned about in science last year, that suck everything into their center. A vacuum of nothingness, my teacher had called it. Everything that had ever been good and kind in me, everything people imagined me to be, had been poisoned by the part of me that had wished, in the darkest crack of the night, that I could have a different life. The real me was the kind of disgusting person who imagined a life where you had never been born.
The real me had watched you being loaded into an ambulance and had let myself wish, for a half a second, that I could stay at the theme park. The real me was could eat a whole loaf of bread in ten minutes and still have room for more. I could not tell you what made me go into the bathroom that was attached to my room and stick my finger down my throat. With one hand holding up my hair, I vomited into the toilet, until I was flushed and sweating and empty and relieved to learn that, yes, I could do this one thing right, even if it made me feel even worse than I had before.
Weak and wobbly, I stumbled back to my borrowed bed and reached for the television remote. My eyes felt like sandpaper and my throat ached, but I flipped through the channels. Suddenly that old Disneyworld commercial came on.
It felt like a punch in the gut: When I started to sob, I stuffed the corner of the pillow deep into my mouth so Mrs. I hit the mute button on the television, and I watched the family at Disneyworld going round in circles. This was what I believed, heart and soul, until about an hour ago when I was carted down to the Lake Buena Vista PD on suspicion of child abuse. One look at your x-rays, at the dozens of healing fractures, and the doctors went ballistic and called DCF.
But today, with everything we had to remember to pack for the trip, the letter was forgotten, and what we got instead was a police interrogation. The problem was, even the truth sounded crazy. A kid slips on a napkin and winds up with compound fractures in both femurs?
He gestured toward the phone in the middle of the desk. No good parent would want to wake his kid up. He stared at me for a minute, then picked up the phone and dialed. He asked for your room, and talked quietly to a nurse who answered. Then he handed the receiver to me.
You were groggy, shaken awake by that nurse. Your voice sounded small enough for me to carry around in my back pocket. It was a game between us. Your body might betray you at every turn, but your brain picked up the slack. How heavy was my own? I rested my elbows on the table between us. My wife went to get napkins, Amelia sat down at a table, and Willow and I were waiting in line. Her sister saw something through the window, and Willow ran to go look at it, and she fell down and broke her femurs.
These three breaks would be her twenty-fifth, twenty-sixth, and twenty-seventh. One in twenty thousand kids are born with it. What the fuck else do you want to know? The detective stood up. The desk sergeant who let me out of the lockup shuffled beside me, uncomfortable. Suddenly a door opened, and I could see Charlotte — dazed, pale, her brown curls tumbling out of her ponytail elastic. She was blistering the officer escorting her: She smelled like apples and suntan lotion.
There was cry from the doorway, and we both looked up in time to see Amelia barreling toward us. The desk sergeant had offered to drive us to the hospital in a cruiser, but I asked him to call us a cab instead. You had been put into a spica cast — surely one of the biggest torture devices ever created by doctors. It was a half shell of plaster that covered you from knee to ribs. The cast kept your legs splayed wide so that the femurs would set correctly.
You would wear this cast for several months. Then it would be sliced in half, and you would spend weeks sitting in it like an oyster on the half shell, trying to rebuild your stomach muscles so that you could sit upright again. The small square cut out of the plaster at your belly would allow your stomach to expand while you ate. Because of all these things, we did not leave Florida immediately. We rented a Suburban, with three full bench seats, and settled Amelia in the middle.
They were not fashionable, but they covered up your crotch, which was left wide open by the position of the cast.
Amelia alternated between doing word search puzzles and asking if we were almost home yet. Seven hours into our drive, Amelia shifted in the back seat. Grey always makes us write a short story about the stuff we did over vacation? I glanced at him. In the dark, a green band of light from the dashboard reflected like a mask around his eyes. I imagined the hothouse of humidity that Washington would be; I pictured us lugging Willow around on our hips as we climbed the steps to the Air and Space Museum. Out the window, the black road was a ribbon that kept unraveling in front of us.
They look at your casts — camouflage or hot pink or neon orange. They watch me unload the car and set up your walker, with its tennis-ball feet, so that we can slowly creep across the sidewalk while behind us, their children swing from monkey bars and play dodge-ball and all the other ordinary things that would cause you to break. They smile at me, because they want to be polite or politically correct; but the whole time they are thinking, Thank God. Thank God it was her, instead of me. That some people, when they ask, really do want to lend a hand.
The last time you broke your leg, you were just as brave. I remember you inched one foot in front of the other, your teeth caught your lower lip in concentration. You forced yourself to learn to walk again after each fall. How could I ask any less of myself? What are you going to do next? The rest of the guys cracked up.
My captain hushed them all up and came to stand in front of me. At that, everyone howled with laughter and dribbled out of the locker room, leaving me alone to dress in my uniform. I smacked my fist into the metal frame of my locker, and it jumped open. A piece of paper fluttered out — my face again, with Mickey Mouse ears superimposed on my head. And on the bottom: My ears were hot, my collar too tight. I pulled at it as I navigated the hallways of the department to the dispatch office and yanked a telephone book from a stack kept on a shelf.
Because you deserve the best. So I dialed the number. I was the designated night watchman. After you girls were fast asleep and Charlotte was showered and climbing into bed, it was my job to turn off the lights, lock the doors, do one last pass through the house. With you in your cast, your makeshift bed was the living room couch. I almost turned off the kitchen nightlight before I remembered, and then I came closer and pulled the blanket up to your chin and kissed your forehead.
Upstairs, I checked in on Amelia and then went into our room. Almost every good marriage is built on a foundation of friendship because it allows for two people to reveal who they really are. A healthy dating relationship has boundaries that protect the integrity of the individuals involved. How many of us have them?
Friends — the ones you can depend on Let me stop hedging — I do have a good marriage. My wife and I love each other, but more importantly, we really like each other. That All You need is Love. But I have found the real key to a marriage that lasts — and a marriage that you actually want to last — is LIKE. I know I have information to share, I know and believe that this book can help you. I am trying to bring marriage back — to make it seem palatable. I am determined to stem the tide of negativity about marriage — help people to realize that it is a great thing.