Week 5: Audience & Adult Memoir
Writing is wicked and can be passionately true,
A writer writes for the reader; himself or you.
Dearest reader, I calm you and tell you no lies;
That the words here before you go together without ties.
This isn’t a poem, in me - a poet you‘ll not find.
This is a jubilee of the words that race in my mind.
***
The dog days of August brought us unbearable heat, temps in the 90’s; so damp with sweat that our clothes stuck to us and us to the couch. My phone vibrated and I had barely enough oomph to lift it to my ear. It was my sister, she was calling me from her vehicle parked out in my yard, she wanted to take my kids swimming for the afternoon. A towel in one hand and a swimsuit in the other, I sent them out the door.
***
Alone at last, for an hour or two;
Melted brain and mushy muscles, I had nothing to do.
The phone rang again, “hello?” “hello!”, this time for me.
Mustering my energy, I found the strength of ten hot wives - plus three.
A word can mean more then it’s intended, my dear.
Let me say again; though things may rhyme, there is no poetry here.
***
My swimsuit, my helmet and my mountain bike on the back; the Land Rover and I left the dogs behind as we set out. I drove for thirty minutes, made a call for directions, drove another fifteen miles past a fields of lupines gone to seed; parked and lifted the bike off the back. Strapping my helmet on; I pedaled and glided around corners and over hills with the breeze from the Atlantic keeping me cool. I saw the tall pole and all the little wooden signs marking the names of the camps down that drive; I made the right turn down the dirt path and journeyed to the end. Tossed my bike in the woods, waded into the ocean and swam thru the seaweed to the cliffs edge; the waves were rough but his hand pulled me up.
***
Light unveils what the darkness hides,
Summers are for loving, I was along for the ride.
Unspoken words rhyme in rhythm with the beats of the heart,
What God has brought together, let no man tear apart.
Truth is like the tide, it comes and it goes.
A love beyond the truth is a love that holds.
***
Sunset came quicker then ever before, speaking into the pink skies and hoping dusk stay out at sea; I stayed on the island as long as I could. Be it an uninhabited island, I enjoyed my time and desired to never return to the main land. If only I had brought my kiddos with me, I would have stayed - started over - just my family and I; the isolation would’ve be sublime.
***
Alone may mean that you are on your own,
But being on your own does not mean that you are all alone.
Time travels and if you don’t take the ride,
You are left in the dust with yourself to abide.
Roads dip and turn, and you may come to a rock or a bend,
You may struggle with the journey but don’t let it come to an end.
***
After tucking the kids into bed, I returned to the couch. I sat, listening to the hum of the fan, thinking of the cool ocean breeze; and imaging myself on the island, living on crustaceans, garden goods, and love. I was feeling like Arial the mermaid, wanting a life I couldn’t have. I flipped open the computer and opened up the word program; it was time to type. With my pointers on F and J, I stared at the blazing white screen for an hour; no words came. My phone vibrated, “hello?” “hello!”
***
This story has not ended, for it has yet to begin.
Parts and pieces float in the waters with us, ready to swim.
Fact or fiction, was this just a dream?
Pinch me, wake me, I’ll tell you what I mean.
Listen, dear reader, to the song deep inside…
Be brave, fear not and go along for the ride.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Week 3 Rewrite: Tone and Travel
The scariest ride at the fair and he wanted to take me on it. “Come on” he coaxed “It’s not that bad.” With his palm firmly on the center of my back, we merged forward; I was leaning backwards and my feet were two steps ahead of the rest of me…I did not want to go on the ride.
A black night, with the sparkling lights from the fair added a colorful glow over our heads. I had enjoyed the evening thus far; cotton candy, a game of darts, the car stunt show - life was good. But now, the night was taking a turn for the worse - no excuses left - my husband was dragging me onto the ride that frightens me the most…the Ferris Wheel.
We stood in line - three couples ahead of us, he had a tight grip on my forearm so I couldn’t bolt, I was wincing in pain and already starting to cry a bit; the carnies were eyeing me - I could tell that they were wondering if I was drunk, stoned or going to puke on their ride. One carnie even moved to bring the water hose closer to the loading deck…just in case I guess. After all, I couldn’t guarantee them I wouldn’t; all the lights that were once prettily illuminating the night were now blinding me as they spun this way and that. I couldn’t help but notice a container stopped at the top was rocking back and forth, appearing to be held on by only two small pins; I was unable to run, so I just lowered my head, closed my eyes and started to pray.
Mike pulled me up the silver metal steps onto the platform, he handed the man our tickets and we moved inside the railing; another guy lifted the lap bar and Mike nudged me to climb in first. I stood frozen, my stomach already churning, I did not want to get on. He nudged again, more like a shove and I stumbled into the seat. The man lowered the bar and pulled the lever we were going up.
Slowly, like the hands on a clock we started to work our way around the wheel as they unloaded and loaded more people. With one hand on the side of the bench and another on the bar across my legs, I trembled and whimpered softly not loosening my death grip on the cold steel one bit. Mike howled, laughed and rocked the bench wildly back and forth; we swayed and tipped and I could see both the ground and the dark sky within the same second….I squeezed my eyes shut, my body ached and my belly hurt. Up, up we went.
Right as we were nearing the top I feared they would stop us there to let on more people but, thankfully, they did not. With a tug and a jerk, we were off. I tried to pry open my eyes but the tears were stinging them so much it was a pointless effort; I wasn’t about to let go of the freezing frame to wipe them. Each trip around felt like an eternity; the ride was slow going and our seat was just a rockin - Mike laughing like a mad man, obviously amused hollered down for them to speed up and keep it going; the carnies half appeased him by stopping us right at the very top.
My heart was racing a mile a minute. Seeing the end of my life through squinted vision, I had no thoughts at all but those of the painful death that was to come at any moment.
“Open your damn eyes!” Mike said. “Come on - let loose and hold your hands up or I’m going to flip this thing all the way around!”
I just gripped a little tighter, stiffened a bit more and prayed that much harder; just hoping someone was listening to me. I don’t know how long we were up there but it felt like forever; my head hurt, I was dizzy and felt very sick to my stomach. After what seemed like hours, we started down. Mike was making use of our final moments by trying to peel my fingers off the bars, all the while swinging roughly trying desperately to flip us. Unsuccessful and annoyed he urged the man to let us stay on for another trip around. I don’t know what the look on the man’s face was but I do recall feeling the bar being lifted off me and a strange hand being offered to help me out.
The world spun when I stood and I released the air that I believe I had been holding in my lungs during the course of the entire ride. Each colorful light turned white and several faces merged together; I rocked, swayed, trembled and my legs felt as heavy as boulders and moved like jello - I tried to take steps but as I did the ramp below me seemed to move like the waves of an ocean…my body gave way… and I fell.
Laying on a hard surface, freezing and unable to move - the world was dark - I thought I was dead. Muffled sounds had me trying to pry open my eyes, when I was finally able to open them, I saw two paramedics above me and heard lots of voices all coming at once, I felt very, very nauseous; Mike’s voice, although low and quiet, boomed over all the rest, I could smell him and feel his hair brushing against my cheek, he leaned in very close to my ear and whispered… “I just got us enough tickets for another trip around.”
A black night, with the sparkling lights from the fair added a colorful glow over our heads. I had enjoyed the evening thus far; cotton candy, a game of darts, the car stunt show - life was good. But now, the night was taking a turn for the worse - no excuses left - my husband was dragging me onto the ride that frightens me the most…the Ferris Wheel.
We stood in line - three couples ahead of us, he had a tight grip on my forearm so I couldn’t bolt, I was wincing in pain and already starting to cry a bit; the carnies were eyeing me - I could tell that they were wondering if I was drunk, stoned or going to puke on their ride. One carnie even moved to bring the water hose closer to the loading deck…just in case I guess. After all, I couldn’t guarantee them I wouldn’t; all the lights that were once prettily illuminating the night were now blinding me as they spun this way and that. I couldn’t help but notice a container stopped at the top was rocking back and forth, appearing to be held on by only two small pins; I was unable to run, so I just lowered my head, closed my eyes and started to pray.
Mike pulled me up the silver metal steps onto the platform, he handed the man our tickets and we moved inside the railing; another guy lifted the lap bar and Mike nudged me to climb in first. I stood frozen, my stomach already churning, I did not want to get on. He nudged again, more like a shove and I stumbled into the seat. The man lowered the bar and pulled the lever we were going up.
Slowly, like the hands on a clock we started to work our way around the wheel as they unloaded and loaded more people. With one hand on the side of the bench and another on the bar across my legs, I trembled and whimpered softly not loosening my death grip on the cold steel one bit. Mike howled, laughed and rocked the bench wildly back and forth; we swayed and tipped and I could see both the ground and the dark sky within the same second….I squeezed my eyes shut, my body ached and my belly hurt. Up, up we went.
Right as we were nearing the top I feared they would stop us there to let on more people but, thankfully, they did not. With a tug and a jerk, we were off. I tried to pry open my eyes but the tears were stinging them so much it was a pointless effort; I wasn’t about to let go of the freezing frame to wipe them. Each trip around felt like an eternity; the ride was slow going and our seat was just a rockin - Mike laughing like a mad man, obviously amused hollered down for them to speed up and keep it going; the carnies half appeased him by stopping us right at the very top.
My heart was racing a mile a minute. Seeing the end of my life through squinted vision, I had no thoughts at all but those of the painful death that was to come at any moment.
“Open your damn eyes!” Mike said. “Come on - let loose and hold your hands up or I’m going to flip this thing all the way around!”
I just gripped a little tighter, stiffened a bit more and prayed that much harder; just hoping someone was listening to me. I don’t know how long we were up there but it felt like forever; my head hurt, I was dizzy and felt very sick to my stomach. After what seemed like hours, we started down. Mike was making use of our final moments by trying to peel my fingers off the bars, all the while swinging roughly trying desperately to flip us. Unsuccessful and annoyed he urged the man to let us stay on for another trip around. I don’t know what the look on the man’s face was but I do recall feeling the bar being lifted off me and a strange hand being offered to help me out.
The world spun when I stood and I released the air that I believe I had been holding in my lungs during the course of the entire ride. Each colorful light turned white and several faces merged together; I rocked, swayed, trembled and my legs felt as heavy as boulders and moved like jello - I tried to take steps but as I did the ramp below me seemed to move like the waves of an ocean…my body gave way… and I fell.
Laying on a hard surface, freezing and unable to move - the world was dark - I thought I was dead. Muffled sounds had me trying to pry open my eyes, when I was finally able to open them, I saw two paramedics above me and heard lots of voices all coming at once, I felt very, very nauseous; Mike’s voice, although low and quiet, boomed over all the rest, I could smell him and feel his hair brushing against my cheek, he leaned in very close to my ear and whispered… “I just got us enough tickets for another trip around.”
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Week 4 - Voice & Childhood Memoir
Week 4 Voice & Childhood Memoir
“If you’ve got the money honey ~ I’ve got the time.”
Jim, my neighbor, would sing this to me every Sunday on our way home from church after I would relentlessly beg him to stop for ice cream. Occasionally Rita, his wife, would go along with us to the little Pentecostal church in Town Hill. It wasn’t the typical looking church, white steeple - few people, but, instead, a big brown building. I’ve never been a fan of brown; they had brown paneling on the walls, musty brown cabinets in the bathroom and hard brown benches to sit on but this was all upstairs… Downstairs was fun!
Aaah Sunday school; brightly colored rooms, lots of kids, painting, coloring, stories and singing - I was five - the church could have stopped with just the crayons and they still would have had me. It was a break, one day a week that I got away from everything else in my life, when I could just be a kid and have fun.
My mom and dad never took me, they never went. Mum was too busy raising eight kids and keeping house, dad….well, mumma told me churches and dad just didn’t agree. I had to keep it a secret from him that I was going; mum said he would be very angry. I didn’t understand but I also didn’t care - it was fun.
We had a carnival one Sunday with face painting (I had a heart painted on my cheek), bubbles, sack and three-legged races, and balloons! We were even allowed to bring our bring our bikes to decorate with crepe paper and ribbons, I wasn’t able to bring mine but I watched the other kids and it looked like a blast. My Sunday school teacher approached me while I stood back watching the bike race, leaned down and asked me if I was almost six; I excitedly told her that yes it was almost time for my birthday, she straightened up and simply smiled. I didn’t realize that the end was near, the end to the fun.
***
I was in the backseat but not buckled and I leaned up between the two front seats; with my head on Jim’s shoulder, I smiled as sweetly as I could and pleaded with him to stop for ice cream after church (yes after - this time I begged on the way there instead of on the way home - I thought if I started sooner I would have more time to convince him). He just kept driving and sang the usually ditty:
“If you’ve got the money honey ~ I’ve got the time.”
Arriving hopeful and happy I ran downstairs to join the other kids for the regular routine of coloring, singing and stories; but this time I was met at the schoolroom door. My teacher stood tall and with a soft smile she proudly told me I was ready to go upstairs and be with the adults for service; I had graduated from Sunday school. I burst into tears and cried and cried. My world was changing and it took me about twenty years to realize just how crucial that moment in time was to the rest of my life.
We all need to have something to believe in, something to hold on to and to have faith in; something that makes us happy. That was what Sunday school was for me and now it was stopping. I felt rejected, confused and hurt. How could she think this was a good thing! I didn’t want to be with the adults. I was a kid and told her such; I told her what it meant for me to be downstairs with them but she insisted that it was God that I needed to have faith in, to believe in and to find my happiness with - not the room downstairs.
Sadly, I turned from her and took the long walk back up into the big open room; the service had already started so I quickly and quietly found a spot in the back row. The man at the pulpit was shouting so loudly that the chandelier above me was shaking, he spoke of the people who were not there in church and pointed at various people shouting things. When he pointed at me he shouted that my father was going to hell and then turned to tell another that her child was going to hell too. There were women kneeled in front of him with their hands raised franticly mumbling out words (later learned they were speaking in tongue). A feeling was rising from the pit of my belly and something inside of me was changing; somehow, I knew this was the last day I would be coming to this church.
I was feeling the urge to blow chunks and I was looking around for the fastest escape route; I contemplated climbing under the benches or going around them - when I looked towards the isle I saw my Sunday school teacher’s husband (I recognized him because he was the man I had seen being baptized with his wife the previous Sunday at the carnival). His eyes were on the man preaching but his hands were up the dress of the woman beside him. She was wearing stalkings that hooked on her legs just a bit above her knees, she had long black hair and wore a long black dress but at the moment the dress was hiked up like a mini skirt; I liked the lace trim on the top of her stalking and I think he did too because he couldn’t stop touching it. He must have felt me staring because he caught my eye and quickly removed his hand and smoothed down her skirt. I decided I better stay in my seat.
When the service was over I jumped up to leave; the husband stepped in my path, grabbed me by the arm and leaded me out the door. He looked down at me, smiled and said, “we are friends right?” I nodded and he handed me a five dollar bill and walked away.
After the events that followed when I went upstairs, I spent years associating the ‘downstairs’ with hell and the ‘upstairs’ with heaven and believing that hell was a far better place. On the way home, I didn’t speak a word. Jim said to me, “why so quiet? What, not in the mood for ice-cream?” And he started singing the usual tune. I thought for a moment about how I was going to tell him that I didn't want to come to church again - no words came to mind. Instead, I smiled, leaned inbetween the seats, handed him the five dollars and replied:
“I’ve got the money honey ~ do you have the time?"
“If you’ve got the money honey ~ I’ve got the time.”
Jim, my neighbor, would sing this to me every Sunday on our way home from church after I would relentlessly beg him to stop for ice cream. Occasionally Rita, his wife, would go along with us to the little Pentecostal church in Town Hill. It wasn’t the typical looking church, white steeple - few people, but, instead, a big brown building. I’ve never been a fan of brown; they had brown paneling on the walls, musty brown cabinets in the bathroom and hard brown benches to sit on but this was all upstairs… Downstairs was fun!
Aaah Sunday school; brightly colored rooms, lots of kids, painting, coloring, stories and singing - I was five - the church could have stopped with just the crayons and they still would have had me. It was a break, one day a week that I got away from everything else in my life, when I could just be a kid and have fun.
My mom and dad never took me, they never went. Mum was too busy raising eight kids and keeping house, dad….well, mumma told me churches and dad just didn’t agree. I had to keep it a secret from him that I was going; mum said he would be very angry. I didn’t understand but I also didn’t care - it was fun.
We had a carnival one Sunday with face painting (I had a heart painted on my cheek), bubbles, sack and three-legged races, and balloons! We were even allowed to bring our bring our bikes to decorate with crepe paper and ribbons, I wasn’t able to bring mine but I watched the other kids and it looked like a blast. My Sunday school teacher approached me while I stood back watching the bike race, leaned down and asked me if I was almost six; I excitedly told her that yes it was almost time for my birthday, she straightened up and simply smiled. I didn’t realize that the end was near, the end to the fun.
***
I was in the backseat but not buckled and I leaned up between the two front seats; with my head on Jim’s shoulder, I smiled as sweetly as I could and pleaded with him to stop for ice cream after church (yes after - this time I begged on the way there instead of on the way home - I thought if I started sooner I would have more time to convince him). He just kept driving and sang the usually ditty:
“If you’ve got the money honey ~ I’ve got the time.”
Arriving hopeful and happy I ran downstairs to join the other kids for the regular routine of coloring, singing and stories; but this time I was met at the schoolroom door. My teacher stood tall and with a soft smile she proudly told me I was ready to go upstairs and be with the adults for service; I had graduated from Sunday school. I burst into tears and cried and cried. My world was changing and it took me about twenty years to realize just how crucial that moment in time was to the rest of my life.
We all need to have something to believe in, something to hold on to and to have faith in; something that makes us happy. That was what Sunday school was for me and now it was stopping. I felt rejected, confused and hurt. How could she think this was a good thing! I didn’t want to be with the adults. I was a kid and told her such; I told her what it meant for me to be downstairs with them but she insisted that it was God that I needed to have faith in, to believe in and to find my happiness with - not the room downstairs.
Sadly, I turned from her and took the long walk back up into the big open room; the service had already started so I quickly and quietly found a spot in the back row. The man at the pulpit was shouting so loudly that the chandelier above me was shaking, he spoke of the people who were not there in church and pointed at various people shouting things. When he pointed at me he shouted that my father was going to hell and then turned to tell another that her child was going to hell too. There were women kneeled in front of him with their hands raised franticly mumbling out words (later learned they were speaking in tongue). A feeling was rising from the pit of my belly and something inside of me was changing; somehow, I knew this was the last day I would be coming to this church.
I was feeling the urge to blow chunks and I was looking around for the fastest escape route; I contemplated climbing under the benches or going around them - when I looked towards the isle I saw my Sunday school teacher’s husband (I recognized him because he was the man I had seen being baptized with his wife the previous Sunday at the carnival). His eyes were on the man preaching but his hands were up the dress of the woman beside him. She was wearing stalkings that hooked on her legs just a bit above her knees, she had long black hair and wore a long black dress but at the moment the dress was hiked up like a mini skirt; I liked the lace trim on the top of her stalking and I think he did too because he couldn’t stop touching it. He must have felt me staring because he caught my eye and quickly removed his hand and smoothed down her skirt. I decided I better stay in my seat.
When the service was over I jumped up to leave; the husband stepped in my path, grabbed me by the arm and leaded me out the door. He looked down at me, smiled and said, “we are friends right?” I nodded and he handed me a five dollar bill and walked away.
After the events that followed when I went upstairs, I spent years associating the ‘downstairs’ with hell and the ‘upstairs’ with heaven and believing that hell was a far better place. On the way home, I didn’t speak a word. Jim said to me, “why so quiet? What, not in the mood for ice-cream?” And he started singing the usual tune. I thought for a moment about how I was going to tell him that I didn't want to come to church again - no words came to mind. Instead, I smiled, leaned inbetween the seats, handed him the five dollars and replied:
“I’ve got the money honey ~ do you have the time?"
Week 3 (An Unpleasant) Tone
After another horrid day, feeling very inadequate and underappreciated, I made a few calls and did some searches with Google. Cooks can make an average of $27,000 a year, childcare can run a family roughly $1,000 per child per month; maids charge approximately $80 per day and a part time secretary usually make about $8 an hour; based on this I should be bringing in something like $88,856 a year and this does not count in any of the other jobs I do. So, why do I still have to ask for $20 for gas for the week, or money for groceries, or a few bucks to take the kids out once in awhile?
How can anyone make a marriage work when you have just spent the last eight hours pulling your hair out watching two sick kids, home schooling another, doing your own class work, cooking, cleaning, tending to the animals and running errands alone - having to change crappy diapers with out baby wipes only to have your ‘partner’ (I’m using the term loosely) come home, after being gone all day (doing god knows what) with a new bow for the upcoming hunting season. Honestly, how much can one person handle?
We’ve all heard of or made up our own mnemonics for things; our names, the planets, things that will be on a test, or, the most common, ones for the words: mom and bitch (notice how often these words are used to describe the same person). It’s should not be a big shocker as to why, is it right, fair or kind…no (just my opinion). My sister Jane once said to me, “what can you live with?” She wasn’t asking me a question she wanted the answer to, she was telling me the question that I needed to be asking myself. So, what can I live with?
I know what I can’t live without, one being my extended family. We all need support in our lives, someone to turn to when times are tough, people that will help us to laugh at the worst times in our life, people that will share our pain and our joys…I get that from my extended family. The greatest part about this family is that anyone with an open mind can share them with me, they can be your family too! The head man is one pretty darn amazing man, he will walk with you and leave you to walk on your own; he will ask things of you, challenge you, make you laugh, make you cry and give you hope…I’m sure you know who I am talking about - the family I am referring to…. If you are thinking of “The Simpsons” (Homer, Marge, Bart, Lisa and all the other people on the show) you are 100% completely accurate. Who else could I have meant?
The Simpson’s, Bob (that’s Sideshow Bob) said, “Attempted murder? Now honestly, what is that? Do they give a Nobel Prize for attempted chemistry?” Thou shall not kill is one of the commandments but so is thou shall not lie and that does not stop the world (our spouses) from telling more tales than a politician. I’m greeted daily with a, “Jesus Fucking Christ”; I have a time limit for how long I can be on the toilet, I must check in regularly (but not call too much), dishes have to be done, house cleaned, errands run, bills paid (even if I have none). Money grows on trees, you can indeed get blood from a turnip and I really can pull flying monkeys from my ass! Eighty eight thousand sounds pretty sweet and would be very nice (but you can’t pay for things with monopoly money) but honestly, what is the worth of all of this and, more importantly, what is the cost?
How can anyone make a marriage work when you have just spent the last eight hours pulling your hair out watching two sick kids, home schooling another, doing your own class work, cooking, cleaning, tending to the animals and running errands alone - having to change crappy diapers with out baby wipes only to have your ‘partner’ (I’m using the term loosely) come home, after being gone all day (doing god knows what) with a new bow for the upcoming hunting season. Honestly, how much can one person handle?
We’ve all heard of or made up our own mnemonics for things; our names, the planets, things that will be on a test, or, the most common, ones for the words: mom and bitch (notice how often these words are used to describe the same person). It’s should not be a big shocker as to why, is it right, fair or kind…no (just my opinion). My sister Jane once said to me, “what can you live with?” She wasn’t asking me a question she wanted the answer to, she was telling me the question that I needed to be asking myself. So, what can I live with?
I know what I can’t live without, one being my extended family. We all need support in our lives, someone to turn to when times are tough, people that will help us to laugh at the worst times in our life, people that will share our pain and our joys…I get that from my extended family. The greatest part about this family is that anyone with an open mind can share them with me, they can be your family too! The head man is one pretty darn amazing man, he will walk with you and leave you to walk on your own; he will ask things of you, challenge you, make you laugh, make you cry and give you hope…I’m sure you know who I am talking about - the family I am referring to…. If you are thinking of “The Simpsons” (Homer, Marge, Bart, Lisa and all the other people on the show) you are 100% completely accurate. Who else could I have meant?
The Simpson’s, Bob (that’s Sideshow Bob) said, “Attempted murder? Now honestly, what is that? Do they give a Nobel Prize for attempted chemistry?” Thou shall not kill is one of the commandments but so is thou shall not lie and that does not stop the world (our spouses) from telling more tales than a politician. I’m greeted daily with a, “Jesus Fucking Christ”; I have a time limit for how long I can be on the toilet, I must check in regularly (but not call too much), dishes have to be done, house cleaned, errands run, bills paid (even if I have none). Money grows on trees, you can indeed get blood from a turnip and I really can pull flying monkeys from my ass! Eighty eight thousand sounds pretty sweet and would be very nice (but you can’t pay for things with monopoly money) but honestly, what is the worth of all of this and, more importantly, what is the cost?
Week 1 Rewrite
You can learn a lot from the little pond in your own back yard; all about the slimy black water snakes, the call of the monstrous man-eating frogs and the slippery sludge that can suck the life away from you in a moments notice; all these fancy little ponds - oh yes, and canoes flip easy in smaller spaces. Snakes, sludge, frogs and fish…I have so much to learn.
Dad took me fishing in the little pond almost daily when I was a young girl, I would catch a trout now and then. He and I would stand on the banks by the cattails and I would cast out the line of my little Snoopy fishing pole; feel the tug and reel it in and with a little fling over my back shoulder the fish would land softly on the grass. Sometimes I would play with them in a bucket full of water and other times I would scale, gut, clean and fry them up for dad and I…well, the ones ‘Idle’, our cat, didn’t snatch off the hook for himself. The snakes and frogs didn’t bother us much back then and we didn’t have much use for any canoes, just the rod, real, line and hook is all we needed for a decent catch.
Dad caught more then a tricky trout once; overly curious and leaning in, I slipped on the sludge in our little pond, right down into the muck and reeds I went - the water was over my head, mud between my toes and darkness choking my airways - daddy pulled me up. After that, it occurred to him he would need a back up plan in order to keep me safe from precarious waters of the world; he didn’t want just any fish taking me, it would have to be a whale worthy of the catch - so, he taught ‘Lady’, my dog, to save me from drowning using my old winter coat strapped onto a big stuffed toy. Luckily Lady never had to try out her skill in the water but she did save me from a few wrong fishies with a couple of growls and nips. Mike was one of the fish I found along the way, he came after the wind took Lady; I wonder if she would have nipped him…
Mike and I love to fish and canoe, although I didn’t always jump at the idea. He didn’t care much for fishing along the banks, he wanted to drop the canoe in and paddle out deep. There was a time when I was very scared at the thought of being out in the middle of nowhere, in a little tipsy boat, with a man who wasn‘t my dad. The last thing I wanted to do was flip a canoe, lose my glasses, have the boat bash me in the head, my legs cramp up and end up just swimming with all the fishies…no dad to pull me up, no Lady to pull me out.
Mike and I started with a few small boat trips; around Branch Pond and under the bridge into Branch Lake, weaved through the rocks into Patten Pond, and danced with dragonflies out on Blunts. I got the feel for the quakes motor boats left behind, the winds from storms rolling in and the pull from the feisty bass on the other end of the fishing lines; like learning to drive a car, I needed to experience all the conditions - I needed to learn to stay afloat without my winter coat.
Not always the patient man, Mike has thrown lots of obstacles at me; the aqua critters get more fierce, the ponds get deeper and the waters get rougher but we keep taking the boat in and dropping the line. He wants to do the Penobscot Canoe race and he’s been trying to wheedle me into doing it with for the last three or so years. I’ve seen the pictures and I’ve got to admit it looks great but I’m just not ready. The white water waves crashing over us, the huge rocks to maneuver around… He wants to do the canoe race so badly he can taste it. Be it a canoe race or a sweet catch; he’s always got his eye out for that next big adventure and catching that big, record-breaking bass; I sometimes wonder if I’m just the paddle part of his journey.
Mum told me that her and Dad would boat out to a big rock in the middle of Union river and fish from that spot, my parents divorced when I was six - their canoe tipped too many times. Mum keeps a picture of her parents, they are sitting side by side fishing from a rock they had boated over to, my grandparents divorced after thirty some years of marriage - Grammpy took the bait but it wasn‘t Grammy’s hook that he latched on to… Maybe, like Mike, there is something that I want so much that I can just taste it too but sometimes the canoe tips and the fish just don’t bite.
Dad took me fishing in the little pond almost daily when I was a young girl, I would catch a trout now and then. He and I would stand on the banks by the cattails and I would cast out the line of my little Snoopy fishing pole; feel the tug and reel it in and with a little fling over my back shoulder the fish would land softly on the grass. Sometimes I would play with them in a bucket full of water and other times I would scale, gut, clean and fry them up for dad and I…well, the ones ‘Idle’, our cat, didn’t snatch off the hook for himself. The snakes and frogs didn’t bother us much back then and we didn’t have much use for any canoes, just the rod, real, line and hook is all we needed for a decent catch.
Dad caught more then a tricky trout once; overly curious and leaning in, I slipped on the sludge in our little pond, right down into the muck and reeds I went - the water was over my head, mud between my toes and darkness choking my airways - daddy pulled me up. After that, it occurred to him he would need a back up plan in order to keep me safe from precarious waters of the world; he didn’t want just any fish taking me, it would have to be a whale worthy of the catch - so, he taught ‘Lady’, my dog, to save me from drowning using my old winter coat strapped onto a big stuffed toy. Luckily Lady never had to try out her skill in the water but she did save me from a few wrong fishies with a couple of growls and nips. Mike was one of the fish I found along the way, he came after the wind took Lady; I wonder if she would have nipped him…
Mike and I love to fish and canoe, although I didn’t always jump at the idea. He didn’t care much for fishing along the banks, he wanted to drop the canoe in and paddle out deep. There was a time when I was very scared at the thought of being out in the middle of nowhere, in a little tipsy boat, with a man who wasn‘t my dad. The last thing I wanted to do was flip a canoe, lose my glasses, have the boat bash me in the head, my legs cramp up and end up just swimming with all the fishies…no dad to pull me up, no Lady to pull me out.
Mike and I started with a few small boat trips; around Branch Pond and under the bridge into Branch Lake, weaved through the rocks into Patten Pond, and danced with dragonflies out on Blunts. I got the feel for the quakes motor boats left behind, the winds from storms rolling in and the pull from the feisty bass on the other end of the fishing lines; like learning to drive a car, I needed to experience all the conditions - I needed to learn to stay afloat without my winter coat.
Not always the patient man, Mike has thrown lots of obstacles at me; the aqua critters get more fierce, the ponds get deeper and the waters get rougher but we keep taking the boat in and dropping the line. He wants to do the Penobscot Canoe race and he’s been trying to wheedle me into doing it with for the last three or so years. I’ve seen the pictures and I’ve got to admit it looks great but I’m just not ready. The white water waves crashing over us, the huge rocks to maneuver around… He wants to do the canoe race so badly he can taste it. Be it a canoe race or a sweet catch; he’s always got his eye out for that next big adventure and catching that big, record-breaking bass; I sometimes wonder if I’m just the paddle part of his journey.
Mum told me that her and Dad would boat out to a big rock in the middle of Union river and fish from that spot, my parents divorced when I was six - their canoe tipped too many times. Mum keeps a picture of her parents, they are sitting side by side fishing from a rock they had boated over to, my grandparents divorced after thirty some years of marriage - Grammpy took the bait but it wasn‘t Grammy’s hook that he latched on to… Maybe, like Mike, there is something that I want so much that I can just taste it too but sometimes the canoe tips and the fish just don’t bite.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Freak outs for Week 1 - Nature
Ok....so, here are my first thoughts when I read about week 1:
When I arrived home today I thought, “oh god, my yard smells so bad like crap”. We have goats, geese, ducks, bunnies, chickens…I could go on; we have a farm. In addition, two flourishing gardens all on a beautiful ten acre lot of land; so, why can’t I think of something to write about for our ‘nature’ topic?
I love hiking, swimming, fishing, canoeing, kayaking and I just finished my hunters safety course this Spring; nothing nature-istic (I know that’s not a word) comes to mind.
I’ve seen one person born into this world and watched three people leave it. I’ve raised baby bunnies, baby birds, baby ducks, chickens and turkeys and more…. What am I going to write about?!?
***************
Then I thought: What about telling the story of when I saw my nephew being born! Can't really call this much of anything because as soon as I started it - I didn't like where it was going:
I Was (not) a Teen Mom
The cramps were excruciating, doubled over in my buddies Ford 150 on my way to work; popping Midol and chasing them with Pepsi - in hopes to make it through the day…that’s some pretty darn good work ethics for a fifteen year old.
He was like my own big cuddly bear, six years my elder, 6’1, and sexually sensational.
**********
So, then I thought....why not a bit about my garden, my marriage and the book I've been reading (ya...the Bible. Me reading it? Well....that's another story) So I got going with this which I actually didn't mind and I think I could still work with but for another topic/week:
“And there was evening and there was morning, one day.” (Genesis 1:3)
A plot of land, 16x24, grass, comfrey and a dream. A tiller rumbles to life and rips the grass up by its’ roots, the comfrey twists into the blades and mulches into the earth; a vision in the making.
Part time jobs, a 1991 mobile home, dishes from mum, beanbag chairs and a dream. A baby lets out her first breath in a shrieking cry; we were young, not quite so dumb and not quite so full of…well lets just say - two children later - we were a family in the making.
“And there was evening and there was morning, a second day.” (Genesis 1:8)
Several sections of rejected stockade wood fencing for a border; some tossed out decking boards, a post hole digger, hammer and nails for raised beds - we burrowed and pounded into the night.
Appliances bought on-time to make the kitchen usable; discarded mattresses from Mardens piled on the particle board flooring, cleaning supplies, a broom and dustpan - we scrubbed and settled ourselves into our new digs.
“And there was evening and there was morning, a third day.” (Genesis 1:13)
We dickered for a deal on soil, we shoveled - loaded and unloaded - wheel barrel after wheel barrel to fill the beds. We bartered for basil, rosemary, chives, and sorrel; pumpkin, sunflower and cucumber seeds we had; strawberries, celery, and lettuce came in trade. Rhubarb, tomatillos and nasturtiums were a gift.
What was it Daddy told me about gardening? Mumma knew the ins and outs of marriage and family…what was her advice again?
****
But is just wasn't working....or I just didn't give it enough of a chance - not sure...
The truth is - there has been so much going on in my life lately - that I can't seem to make heads or tails of some of it and right now honesty (non-fiction) means dealing with or coming to terms with certain things...and I'm not quite ready for that...but pushing on just the same - so we'll see.
I can already tell I will regret clicking the 'post' button.... I have tons of things saved in my word documents that are starts to pieces (I'm sure we all do) so it's odd to expose/share them.
Sometimes I wish you did a class on poetry.
The toast is burnt, the skin is fried; it's all a dream, you have not lied. Two by two, they are little and white; play pretend, turn your head, it doesn't make it right. Convice me not, you've played your game; I'm in the wrong and I'm to blame. Left is wrong and black is blue; whisper no more sweet things, I will tell you no lies too.
*****
Drama. Drama Queens. Queens, New York. New York, Broadway. Broadway, Drama.
Salt is best kept in the shaker, coffee in the pot, food in the belly, hair on the head.
Lets leave things where they belong (or at the very least - work best).
When I arrived home today I thought, “oh god, my yard smells so bad like crap”. We have goats, geese, ducks, bunnies, chickens…I could go on; we have a farm. In addition, two flourishing gardens all on a beautiful ten acre lot of land; so, why can’t I think of something to write about for our ‘nature’ topic?
I love hiking, swimming, fishing, canoeing, kayaking and I just finished my hunters safety course this Spring; nothing nature-istic (I know that’s not a word) comes to mind.
I’ve seen one person born into this world and watched three people leave it. I’ve raised baby bunnies, baby birds, baby ducks, chickens and turkeys and more…. What am I going to write about?!?
***************
Then I thought: What about telling the story of when I saw my nephew being born! Can't really call this much of anything because as soon as I started it - I didn't like where it was going:
I Was (not) a Teen Mom
The cramps were excruciating, doubled over in my buddies Ford 150 on my way to work; popping Midol and chasing them with Pepsi - in hopes to make it through the day…that’s some pretty darn good work ethics for a fifteen year old.
He was like my own big cuddly bear, six years my elder, 6’1, and sexually sensational.
**********
So, then I thought....why not a bit about my garden, my marriage and the book I've been reading (ya...the Bible. Me reading it? Well....that's another story) So I got going with this which I actually didn't mind and I think I could still work with but for another topic/week:
“And there was evening and there was morning, one day.” (Genesis 1:3)
A plot of land, 16x24, grass, comfrey and a dream. A tiller rumbles to life and rips the grass up by its’ roots, the comfrey twists into the blades and mulches into the earth; a vision in the making.
Part time jobs, a 1991 mobile home, dishes from mum, beanbag chairs and a dream. A baby lets out her first breath in a shrieking cry; we were young, not quite so dumb and not quite so full of…well lets just say - two children later - we were a family in the making.
“And there was evening and there was morning, a second day.” (Genesis 1:8)
Several sections of rejected stockade wood fencing for a border; some tossed out decking boards, a post hole digger, hammer and nails for raised beds - we burrowed and pounded into the night.
Appliances bought on-time to make the kitchen usable; discarded mattresses from Mardens piled on the particle board flooring, cleaning supplies, a broom and dustpan - we scrubbed and settled ourselves into our new digs.
“And there was evening and there was morning, a third day.” (Genesis 1:13)
We dickered for a deal on soil, we shoveled - loaded and unloaded - wheel barrel after wheel barrel to fill the beds. We bartered for basil, rosemary, chives, and sorrel; pumpkin, sunflower and cucumber seeds we had; strawberries, celery, and lettuce came in trade. Rhubarb, tomatillos and nasturtiums were a gift.
What was it Daddy told me about gardening? Mumma knew the ins and outs of marriage and family…what was her advice again?
****
But is just wasn't working....or I just didn't give it enough of a chance - not sure...
The truth is - there has been so much going on in my life lately - that I can't seem to make heads or tails of some of it and right now honesty (non-fiction) means dealing with or coming to terms with certain things...and I'm not quite ready for that...but pushing on just the same - so we'll see.
I can already tell I will regret clicking the 'post' button.... I have tons of things saved in my word documents that are starts to pieces (I'm sure we all do) so it's odd to expose/share them.
Sometimes I wish you did a class on poetry.
The toast is burnt, the skin is fried; it's all a dream, you have not lied. Two by two, they are little and white; play pretend, turn your head, it doesn't make it right. Convice me not, you've played your game; I'm in the wrong and I'm to blame. Left is wrong and black is blue; whisper no more sweet things, I will tell you no lies too.
*****
Drama. Drama Queens. Queens, New York. New York, Broadway. Broadway, Drama.
Salt is best kept in the shaker, coffee in the pot, food in the belly, hair on the head.
Lets leave things where they belong (or at the very least - work best).
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Week 1 - Nature
Mike and I love to canoe, although I didn’t always jump at the idea. There was a time when I was very scared at the thought of being out in the middle of nowhere, in a little tipsy boat. The last thing I wanted to do was flip a canoe, lose my glasses, have the boat bash me in the head, my legs cramp up and end up just swimming with the fishies…didn’t want that at all.
He and I started with a few small boat trips; around Branch Pond and under the bridge into Branch Lake, weaved through the rocks into Patten Pond, and danced with dragonflies out on Blunts. I got the feel for the quakes motor boats left behind, the winds from storms rolling in and the pull from the feisty bass on the other end of the fishing lines; like learning to drive a car, I needed to experience all the conditions.
You can learn a lot from the little pond in your front yard; snakes, monstrous man-eating frogs and sludge fancy little ponds - oh yes, and canoes flip easy in smaller spaces. Bigger ponds taught me too; you can get very lost and eels… un-dead eels belong in the water - not in the canoe! So, which is better the little ponds or the big ones…I had so much to learn.
Dad took me fishing in the little pond in our yard when I was a young girl, I would catch trout. He and I would stand on the banks by the cattails and I would cast out the line of my little Snoopy fishing pole; feel the tug and reel it in and with a little fling over my back shoulder the fish would land softly on the grass. The catches ‘Idle’, our cat, didn’t snatch off the hook for himself, I would gut, clean and fry up for dad and I - we handled the snakes and frogs with ease.
Mum and myself, would pop Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again” cassette into her car stereo and head out into the big ‘ponds’; chasing our ‘Neon Rainbows’ from Hancock to Brunswick, across the borders into New Hampshire and back again - just ramming the roads. Sometimes she would let me drive while she covered her eyes from the back seat and prayed, other times we would purposely get lost, find a motel and stay over night in a new land. Just her and I; we never picked up hitchhikers, nor brought along anyone else - big eels belonged in the water.
Mike wants to do the Penobscot Canoe race and he’s been trying to wheedle me into doing it with for the last three or so years. I’ve seen the pictures and I’ve got to admit it looks great but I’m just not ready. The white water waves crashing over us, the huge rocks to maneuver around…I don’t know - I’m timid and afraid. I’ve been working on over coming my fears, slowly and one at a time. Fears can turn even the clear blue waters into dark nasty nightmares; but in order for a clock to keep ticking it must continually change the placement of its’ hands - let loose of the rock holding you under and find a way to the surface.
I slipped on the sludge once in our little pond, right down into the muck and reeds I went; the water was over my head, mud between my toes and darkness choking my airways - daddy pulled me up. He taught ‘Lady’, my dog, to save me from drowning after that using my old winter coat and a big doll to represent me floating in the water. Luckily she never had to try out her skill in the water but she did save me from a few wrong fishies with a couple of growls and nips.
She never nipped me but she did howl with the banshees the day that I had been outside playing… Mumma hollered for me to come in for supper; I barged into the house and followed my nose to the dining room; mum took one look at me and screamed in horror. Shocked and confused I ran to the bathroom and locked the door, she pounded on the door while I stood frozen in the mirror - a monster was staring back at me. We spent the rest of the day in the doctors office. She held and rocked her little monster for hours while we waited to hear why I was red, swollen and covered head to toe in hives. Every Christmas since I get Benadryl in my stocking.
Mike wants the canoe race so badly he can taste it; my fears are what’s holding us back. We took the canoe out into Craig’s Pond in Orland a few weeks ago. It’s a rare opportunity when Mike and I get to spend some time together alone, without kids, without work, without anyone or any obligations - just the two of us. Neither of us had been to this place before, we had the canoe but no poles; Mike was fishing but not for anything below the surface, trolling along the edge, admiring the ledges and caves. The pond had other visitors that day so, reluctantly paddling from the edge, we found a quaint spot in the middle. We tested the waters without going in, we rocked the boat and tipped our luck from side to side; losing our shorts along the way - we discovered a canoe does not tip so easily in a big pond but now fellow boaters have to tales to tell.
Mum told me that her and Dad would boat out to a big rock in the middle of Union river and fish from the spot. She keeps a picture of her parents on the buffet in her dining room, they are sitting side by side fishing from a rock they had boated over to… Boats do tip, people do drown, sometimes the fish just don’t bite but there are things that stand the test of time, fears can be overcome, and, sink or swim, I know I will do the Penobscot canoe race one of these Springs…I just know it.
He and I started with a few small boat trips; around Branch Pond and under the bridge into Branch Lake, weaved through the rocks into Patten Pond, and danced with dragonflies out on Blunts. I got the feel for the quakes motor boats left behind, the winds from storms rolling in and the pull from the feisty bass on the other end of the fishing lines; like learning to drive a car, I needed to experience all the conditions.
You can learn a lot from the little pond in your front yard; snakes, monstrous man-eating frogs and sludge fancy little ponds - oh yes, and canoes flip easy in smaller spaces. Bigger ponds taught me too; you can get very lost and eels… un-dead eels belong in the water - not in the canoe! So, which is better the little ponds or the big ones…I had so much to learn.
Dad took me fishing in the little pond in our yard when I was a young girl, I would catch trout. He and I would stand on the banks by the cattails and I would cast out the line of my little Snoopy fishing pole; feel the tug and reel it in and with a little fling over my back shoulder the fish would land softly on the grass. The catches ‘Idle’, our cat, didn’t snatch off the hook for himself, I would gut, clean and fry up for dad and I - we handled the snakes and frogs with ease.
Mum and myself, would pop Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again” cassette into her car stereo and head out into the big ‘ponds’; chasing our ‘Neon Rainbows’ from Hancock to Brunswick, across the borders into New Hampshire and back again - just ramming the roads. Sometimes she would let me drive while she covered her eyes from the back seat and prayed, other times we would purposely get lost, find a motel and stay over night in a new land. Just her and I; we never picked up hitchhikers, nor brought along anyone else - big eels belonged in the water.
Mike wants to do the Penobscot Canoe race and he’s been trying to wheedle me into doing it with for the last three or so years. I’ve seen the pictures and I’ve got to admit it looks great but I’m just not ready. The white water waves crashing over us, the huge rocks to maneuver around…I don’t know - I’m timid and afraid. I’ve been working on over coming my fears, slowly and one at a time. Fears can turn even the clear blue waters into dark nasty nightmares; but in order for a clock to keep ticking it must continually change the placement of its’ hands - let loose of the rock holding you under and find a way to the surface.
I slipped on the sludge once in our little pond, right down into the muck and reeds I went; the water was over my head, mud between my toes and darkness choking my airways - daddy pulled me up. He taught ‘Lady’, my dog, to save me from drowning after that using my old winter coat and a big doll to represent me floating in the water. Luckily she never had to try out her skill in the water but she did save me from a few wrong fishies with a couple of growls and nips.
She never nipped me but she did howl with the banshees the day that I had been outside playing… Mumma hollered for me to come in for supper; I barged into the house and followed my nose to the dining room; mum took one look at me and screamed in horror. Shocked and confused I ran to the bathroom and locked the door, she pounded on the door while I stood frozen in the mirror - a monster was staring back at me. We spent the rest of the day in the doctors office. She held and rocked her little monster for hours while we waited to hear why I was red, swollen and covered head to toe in hives. Every Christmas since I get Benadryl in my stocking.
Mike wants the canoe race so badly he can taste it; my fears are what’s holding us back. We took the canoe out into Craig’s Pond in Orland a few weeks ago. It’s a rare opportunity when Mike and I get to spend some time together alone, without kids, without work, without anyone or any obligations - just the two of us. Neither of us had been to this place before, we had the canoe but no poles; Mike was fishing but not for anything below the surface, trolling along the edge, admiring the ledges and caves. The pond had other visitors that day so, reluctantly paddling from the edge, we found a quaint spot in the middle. We tested the waters without going in, we rocked the boat and tipped our luck from side to side; losing our shorts along the way - we discovered a canoe does not tip so easily in a big pond but now fellow boaters have to tales to tell.
Mum told me that her and Dad would boat out to a big rock in the middle of Union river and fish from the spot. She keeps a picture of her parents on the buffet in her dining room, they are sitting side by side fishing from a rock they had boated over to… Boats do tip, people do drown, sometimes the fish just don’t bite but there are things that stand the test of time, fears can be overcome, and, sink or swim, I know I will do the Penobscot canoe race one of these Springs…I just know it.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Are you ready - An Impaired Observation (freewill rewrite)
She was crying, when she cries I go to her. We were little together; a nine year difference that left me with the crappy end - I changed her diapers. My niece, my darling, my Amber… when she cries - I go.
When we walked into LaVerdiere’s Drug store, she was just over two, the snow had warmed up to slush and mumma sent us in together; hand-in-hand. I was eleven - the perfect age to be easily embarrassed; she was two - the perfect age to easily mortify me. Three steps out of the slush, into the warmth of the store, we stood next to the counter with the gray haired man who busied himself tending to the line of customers. Without warning, Amber belts out, “Turdie!!!” All eyes found us, my eyes found their feet; paired in twos were goulashes of all colors. Moving quickly three steps back out the door, I was ready to run. It turned out her excitement was over nothing more than a stuffed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toy. Oddly enough, ever since that day, I’ve found myself wanting to run to her …and for the same reasons I once wanted to run from her - “Turdies!”
Did I develop an obsession with Ninja Turtles? No. Mike and Dixie are the “turdies” of today. Mike is mine (but he is another story) and Dixie is hers. I told Amber when she turned twenty-one that I wanted to take her out to the bar for her first legal drink but she was away at college and Dixie took her. I did not change her first diaper, see her first steps, was not the first to hug her as she graduated from high school and moved onto college, didn’t smoke her first joint with her or even help her move into her first apartment; I made it for none of those…but did that stop me from changing her stinky butt, walking with her, hugging her, chasing a shot or entertaining Miss Mary Jane with her…no. Because when Amber cries, I go.
It was around seven and the sun had not quite set when Amber called me quite hysterical; Dixie was up to her usual bullshit but had taken things to a new all time low. I jumped into the car and closed the 200 mile gap between us within moments (or so it seemed). Hugs, tears and a two second tour of her pad, had us baking clams like true Mainers in her little Toyota Corolla - scanning the radio for something to set the mood. Tears turned to laughter and tunes turned to texts; pals bid us to venture over their way. We floated across the yard on a cloud to arrive at their door, we entered into another cloud as we crossed their threshold; cigs and beers in hand, they were true friends - ready to listen, they knew she was there to talk about the latest brawl with her long term ‘turdy’.
It was a blast from my past, Queen wasn’t on the walls - nor was Meatloaf, Aerosmith or Guns-N-Roses but those black velvet posters that glowed were there…those were the same. As was the big comfy ‘curb-side’ furniture, tower of beer cans (the cheap stuff-no Bud here) and the scent of incense and Menthols (ok maybe some bud after all) clouding the room. Strands of beads hung in doorways and a variety of high school ceramic artwork embellished the ash covered coffee tables; oddly enough I believe they were meant to be ashtrays; the place was tripping.
Amber and I found the loveseat, it was a soft mocha color, like those yummy iced coffees from DD, this is where we sat - her and I and her friend, that I’ll call, “Kat” (as in Kat Von D - because she’s cool), this 'Kat' was a female friend of a different kind - the straight (yet awkwardly bi-curious) kind. As they started to chatter about Dixie, the smoke in the room started growing a lot thicker and tastier. The three of us sat, becoming immobile on that mocha cigarette burned loveseat. Amber and Kat continued their chatter back and forth to one another as we passed around the lil bubbling glass of toxic pleasure - Bic lighter in tow; Kat had the silver tongue and spoke a mile a minute - while Amber kinda fell into numbness,
“Dixie is shit -forget about her!”
“Yaaaaaaaa”
“No, seriously, crap - complete crap.”
“Yaaaaaaa”
“What the fuck? Really. Lets just do it. You and I bitch. No joke.”
“Ummmmmmm”
The chair adjacent to us was a soft, strikingly beautiful color of… oh heck, honestly, I don’t know, half-baked and bored, all I knew is that there was an adorable red-headed hunky Irish man lounging in it. Snow white skin with tiny little pepperspots; those green eyes carried the freckles with pride. A cell phone glued to his ear and a scowl on his face were the only unhealthy things about him; the conversation was twisting him from the cutie he was into a frazzled little angry leprechaun, “I told ya baby, I’m with friends. Jesus….really? No hun, we are just chillin. Ya ya baby, you can swing by. Fuck.”
Two other men adorned the room; one - a tall thin tattooed one - sat shirtless in torn jeans with a silver chain around his neck - he played the role of a young Charles Manson (B.C. - Before Carnage) He spoke in a dramatic way, as though he were running for President and addressing his country, “Today we are facing difficulties; the cultural differences I see on a daily basis mixed with the advanced technology is creating the unnecessary dramas in the world of which we live” .
His friend who sat beside him was a little man; short brown hair - shaved in a military fashion. He was the regular guy who would blend into a crowd (most likely the one to end up on top of a tower shooting the people below). He spoke slow and steady in a dreary tone, “Yes, your point is clear. You speak from knowledge. Pass me another. I see your point. Do you have a light? You are recognizing what I’ve been seeing. Dude, is this South park that’s on?”
All the voices blended together like a Barber Shop Quartet; I was getting the high notes from the silver tongue, the baritone from my angry little leprechaun and a little in between embellishment from the rest of them. I smiled as the room spun; a nice beautiful, shit-eating grin spread across my face, it was a picturesque moment, a night to remember, this experience - my niece and I. The room spun and settled as we floated about it. Her and I sat heavy like the couch and lingered like the smoke; there was no rhyme or reason to the evening - it just was what it was… Kenny was killed yet again, Lady GaGa danced with Alejandro, we sang, laughed and coughed into the darkness until our ears rang with delight. Eventually, our inner alarm clocks lifted mine and Amber’s shaking legs and we traveled like lava across the shag rug and out the door. Two stairwells down, three more up, and a couple of clouds later, I found myself back at her place, awaking, in the early morning hours, to the hungry eyes of a... stuffed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. It was time to go.
When we walked into LaVerdiere’s Drug store, she was just over two, the snow had warmed up to slush and mumma sent us in together; hand-in-hand. I was eleven - the perfect age to be easily embarrassed; she was two - the perfect age to easily mortify me. Three steps out of the slush, into the warmth of the store, we stood next to the counter with the gray haired man who busied himself tending to the line of customers. Without warning, Amber belts out, “Turdie!!!” All eyes found us, my eyes found their feet; paired in twos were goulashes of all colors. Moving quickly three steps back out the door, I was ready to run. It turned out her excitement was over nothing more than a stuffed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toy. Oddly enough, ever since that day, I’ve found myself wanting to run to her …and for the same reasons I once wanted to run from her - “Turdies!”
Did I develop an obsession with Ninja Turtles? No. Mike and Dixie are the “turdies” of today. Mike is mine (but he is another story) and Dixie is hers. I told Amber when she turned twenty-one that I wanted to take her out to the bar for her first legal drink but she was away at college and Dixie took her. I did not change her first diaper, see her first steps, was not the first to hug her as she graduated from high school and moved onto college, didn’t smoke her first joint with her or even help her move into her first apartment; I made it for none of those…but did that stop me from changing her stinky butt, walking with her, hugging her, chasing a shot or entertaining Miss Mary Jane with her…no. Because when Amber cries, I go.
It was around seven and the sun had not quite set when Amber called me quite hysterical; Dixie was up to her usual bullshit but had taken things to a new all time low. I jumped into the car and closed the 200 mile gap between us within moments (or so it seemed). Hugs, tears and a two second tour of her pad, had us baking clams like true Mainers in her little Toyota Corolla - scanning the radio for something to set the mood. Tears turned to laughter and tunes turned to texts; pals bid us to venture over their way. We floated across the yard on a cloud to arrive at their door, we entered into another cloud as we crossed their threshold; cigs and beers in hand, they were true friends - ready to listen, they knew she was there to talk about the latest brawl with her long term ‘turdy’.
It was a blast from my past, Queen wasn’t on the walls - nor was Meatloaf, Aerosmith or Guns-N-Roses but those black velvet posters that glowed were there…those were the same. As was the big comfy ‘curb-side’ furniture, tower of beer cans (the cheap stuff-no Bud here) and the scent of incense and Menthols (ok maybe some bud after all) clouding the room. Strands of beads hung in doorways and a variety of high school ceramic artwork embellished the ash covered coffee tables; oddly enough I believe they were meant to be ashtrays; the place was tripping.
Amber and I found the loveseat, it was a soft mocha color, like those yummy iced coffees from DD, this is where we sat - her and I and her friend, that I’ll call, “Kat” (as in Kat Von D - because she’s cool), this 'Kat' was a female friend of a different kind - the straight (yet awkwardly bi-curious) kind. As they started to chatter about Dixie, the smoke in the room started growing a lot thicker and tastier. The three of us sat, becoming immobile on that mocha cigarette burned loveseat. Amber and Kat continued their chatter back and forth to one another as we passed around the lil bubbling glass of toxic pleasure - Bic lighter in tow; Kat had the silver tongue and spoke a mile a minute - while Amber kinda fell into numbness,
“Dixie is shit -forget about her!”
“Yaaaaaaaa”
“No, seriously, crap - complete crap.”
“Yaaaaaaa”
“What the fuck? Really. Lets just do it. You and I bitch. No joke.”
“Ummmmmmm”
The chair adjacent to us was a soft, strikingly beautiful color of… oh heck, honestly, I don’t know, half-baked and bored, all I knew is that there was an adorable red-headed hunky Irish man lounging in it. Snow white skin with tiny little pepperspots; those green eyes carried the freckles with pride. A cell phone glued to his ear and a scowl on his face were the only unhealthy things about him; the conversation was twisting him from the cutie he was into a frazzled little angry leprechaun, “I told ya baby, I’m with friends. Jesus….really? No hun, we are just chillin. Ya ya baby, you can swing by. Fuck.”
Two other men adorned the room; one - a tall thin tattooed one - sat shirtless in torn jeans with a silver chain around his neck - he played the role of a young Charles Manson (B.C. - Before Carnage) He spoke in a dramatic way, as though he were running for President and addressing his country, “Today we are facing difficulties; the cultural differences I see on a daily basis mixed with the advanced technology is creating the unnecessary dramas in the world of which we live” .
His friend who sat beside him was a little man; short brown hair - shaved in a military fashion. He was the regular guy who would blend into a crowd (most likely the one to end up on top of a tower shooting the people below). He spoke slow and steady in a dreary tone, “Yes, your point is clear. You speak from knowledge. Pass me another. I see your point. Do you have a light? You are recognizing what I’ve been seeing. Dude, is this South park that’s on?”
All the voices blended together like a Barber Shop Quartet; I was getting the high notes from the silver tongue, the baritone from my angry little leprechaun and a little in between embellishment from the rest of them. I smiled as the room spun; a nice beautiful, shit-eating grin spread across my face, it was a picturesque moment, a night to remember, this experience - my niece and I. The room spun and settled as we floated about it. Her and I sat heavy like the couch and lingered like the smoke; there was no rhyme or reason to the evening - it just was what it was… Kenny was killed yet again, Lady GaGa danced with Alejandro, we sang, laughed and coughed into the darkness until our ears rang with delight. Eventually, our inner alarm clocks lifted mine and Amber’s shaking legs and we traveled like lava across the shag rug and out the door. Two stairwells down, three more up, and a couple of clouds later, I found myself back at her place, awaking, in the early morning hours, to the hungry eyes of a... stuffed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. It was time to go.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
An Impaired Observation
She was crying, when she cries I go to her. We were little together; there was a nine year difference that left me with the crappy end - I changed her diapers. My niece, my darling, my Amber… and when she cries - I go.
When we walked into LaVerdiere’s Drug store, she was just over two, the snow had warmed up to slush in the parking lot and mumma sent us in together; hand-in-hand. I was eleven - the prime age to be embarrassed by any joke - especially a ‘poop’ joke; she was two - the prime age to have one thing on her mind - poop. Three steps out of the slush, into the warmth of the store, next to the counter with the old man with gray hair tending to the line of customers in goulashes, Amber belts out, “Turdies!!!” The only time in her life I wanted to run away from her. I wanted to run and run far all because of ‘turdies’ (which turned out to be nothing more then a giant stuffed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toy). Ever since that day, I find myself wanting to run to her and oddly enough for the same reasons I once wanted to run from her, ‘turdies” (just of a different kind).
I told her when she turned twenty-one that I wanted to take her out to her first bar for her first legal drink. She was away at college in Waterville and I did not get to take her. I did not change her first diaper, walk her to the bus on her first day of school, be the first to hug her as she graduated from high school and moved onto college, drink her first drink with her, smoke her first joint with her or even help her move into her first apartment; I made it for none of those firsts…but did that stop me from changing her stinky butt, walking with her, hugging her, toasting the New Year with her or smoking a sweet treat with her at her first apartment…no. Because when Amber cries, I go.
It wasn’t Queen on the walls - not Meatloaf, Aerosmith or Guns-N-Roses but those black velvet posters that glowed were there…those were the same. As was the big comfy ‘curb-side’ furniture, tower of beer cans (the cheap stuff-no Bud here) and the scent of incense and Menthols clouding the room. Strands of beads hung in doorways and a variety of high school ceramic artwork embellished the ash covered coffee tables; oddly enough I believe they were meant to be ashtrays. We floated across the yard on a cloud to arrive at their door, we entered into another cloud as we crossed their threshold; cigs and beers in hand, they were true friends - ready to listen, they knew she was there to talk about the latest brawl with her long term ‘turdy’.
The loveseat was a soft mocha color, like those yummy iced coffees from DD, this is where we sat - Amber and I and her friend, not the ‘turdy’ who had made her cry…a female friend of a different kind - the straight (yet awkwardly bi-curious) kind. As they started to chatter about Dixie (the long term piece of shit who was upsetting my baby girl) the smoke in the room started growing a lot thicker and tastier.
The chair adjacent to us was a soft, strikingly beautiful color of… oh hell, I don’t know because all I know is that there was an adorable red-headed hunky Irish man lounging in it. Snow white skin with tiny little pepperspots; those green eyes carried the freckles with pride. A cell phone glued to his ear and a scowl on his face were the only unhealthy things about him; the conversation was twisting him into a frazzled little angry leprechaun - someone was after his pot of gold. “I told ya baby, I’m with friends. No hun, we are just chillin. Ya ya baby, you can swing by.”
Two other men adorned the room; one - the tall thin tattooed one - sat shirtless in torn jeans with a silver chain around his neck - he played the role of a young Charles Manson (B.C. - before carnage) He spoke in a dramatic way, as though he were running for President and addressing his country, “Today we are facing difficulties; the cultural differences I see on a daily basis mixed with the advanced technology is creating the unnecessary dramas in the world of which we live” .
His friend who sat beside him was a little man; short brown hair - shaved in a military fashion. He was the regular guy who would blend into a crowd (most likely the one to end up on top of a tower shooting the people below). He spoke slow and steady in a dreary tone, “Yes, your point is clear. You speak from knowledge. Pass me another. I see your point. Do you have a light? You are recognizing what I’ve been seeing. Dude, is this South park that’s on?”
And the three of us, the only females in the spacious two bedroom apartment, sat motionless on that mocha cigarette burned loveseat. Amber and her friend continued their chatter back and forth to one another and we passed around the lil bubbling glass of pleasure along with the Bic lighter; their voices were rapid and exact wording was quite un-comprehendible but I got the gist of it all as I helped to cloud the room, “Blah, blah some guy… Yada Yada Dixie… Blah blah manaja twa… Yada Yada Yaaaaaa.”
The room spun and settled as I floated about it. I sat heavy like the couch and lingered like the smoke; there was no rhyme or reason to the night - the night just was… Kenny was killed yet again, Lady GaGa danced with Alejandro, we sang, laughed and coughed into the night until our ears rang with delight. Our inner alarm clocks lifted our shaking legs off the shag rug and transported us out the door. Two stairwells down, three more up, and a couple of clouds later, I found myself awaking, in the early morning hours, to the hungry eyes of a stuffed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Amber, resting peacefully without a tear, so I washed the cotton from my mouth, gathered my stuff and slipped quietly out, it was time for me to go.
When we walked into LaVerdiere’s Drug store, she was just over two, the snow had warmed up to slush in the parking lot and mumma sent us in together; hand-in-hand. I was eleven - the prime age to be embarrassed by any joke - especially a ‘poop’ joke; she was two - the prime age to have one thing on her mind - poop. Three steps out of the slush, into the warmth of the store, next to the counter with the old man with gray hair tending to the line of customers in goulashes, Amber belts out, “Turdies!!!” The only time in her life I wanted to run away from her. I wanted to run and run far all because of ‘turdies’ (which turned out to be nothing more then a giant stuffed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toy). Ever since that day, I find myself wanting to run to her and oddly enough for the same reasons I once wanted to run from her, ‘turdies” (just of a different kind).
I told her when she turned twenty-one that I wanted to take her out to her first bar for her first legal drink. She was away at college in Waterville and I did not get to take her. I did not change her first diaper, walk her to the bus on her first day of school, be the first to hug her as she graduated from high school and moved onto college, drink her first drink with her, smoke her first joint with her or even help her move into her first apartment; I made it for none of those firsts…but did that stop me from changing her stinky butt, walking with her, hugging her, toasting the New Year with her or smoking a sweet treat with her at her first apartment…no. Because when Amber cries, I go.
It wasn’t Queen on the walls - not Meatloaf, Aerosmith or Guns-N-Roses but those black velvet posters that glowed were there…those were the same. As was the big comfy ‘curb-side’ furniture, tower of beer cans (the cheap stuff-no Bud here) and the scent of incense and Menthols clouding the room. Strands of beads hung in doorways and a variety of high school ceramic artwork embellished the ash covered coffee tables; oddly enough I believe they were meant to be ashtrays. We floated across the yard on a cloud to arrive at their door, we entered into another cloud as we crossed their threshold; cigs and beers in hand, they were true friends - ready to listen, they knew she was there to talk about the latest brawl with her long term ‘turdy’.
The loveseat was a soft mocha color, like those yummy iced coffees from DD, this is where we sat - Amber and I and her friend, not the ‘turdy’ who had made her cry…a female friend of a different kind - the straight (yet awkwardly bi-curious) kind. As they started to chatter about Dixie (the long term piece of shit who was upsetting my baby girl) the smoke in the room started growing a lot thicker and tastier.
The chair adjacent to us was a soft, strikingly beautiful color of… oh hell, I don’t know because all I know is that there was an adorable red-headed hunky Irish man lounging in it. Snow white skin with tiny little pepperspots; those green eyes carried the freckles with pride. A cell phone glued to his ear and a scowl on his face were the only unhealthy things about him; the conversation was twisting him into a frazzled little angry leprechaun - someone was after his pot of gold. “I told ya baby, I’m with friends. No hun, we are just chillin. Ya ya baby, you can swing by.”
Two other men adorned the room; one - the tall thin tattooed one - sat shirtless in torn jeans with a silver chain around his neck - he played the role of a young Charles Manson (B.C. - before carnage) He spoke in a dramatic way, as though he were running for President and addressing his country, “Today we are facing difficulties; the cultural differences I see on a daily basis mixed with the advanced technology is creating the unnecessary dramas in the world of which we live” .
His friend who sat beside him was a little man; short brown hair - shaved in a military fashion. He was the regular guy who would blend into a crowd (most likely the one to end up on top of a tower shooting the people below). He spoke slow and steady in a dreary tone, “Yes, your point is clear. You speak from knowledge. Pass me another. I see your point. Do you have a light? You are recognizing what I’ve been seeing. Dude, is this South park that’s on?”
And the three of us, the only females in the spacious two bedroom apartment, sat motionless on that mocha cigarette burned loveseat. Amber and her friend continued their chatter back and forth to one another and we passed around the lil bubbling glass of pleasure along with the Bic lighter; their voices were rapid and exact wording was quite un-comprehendible but I got the gist of it all as I helped to cloud the room, “Blah, blah some guy… Yada Yada Dixie… Blah blah manaja twa… Yada Yada Yaaaaaa.”
The room spun and settled as I floated about it. I sat heavy like the couch and lingered like the smoke; there was no rhyme or reason to the night - the night just was… Kenny was killed yet again, Lady GaGa danced with Alejandro, we sang, laughed and coughed into the night until our ears rang with delight. Our inner alarm clocks lifted our shaking legs off the shag rug and transported us out the door. Two stairwells down, three more up, and a couple of clouds later, I found myself awaking, in the early morning hours, to the hungry eyes of a stuffed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. Amber, resting peacefully without a tear, so I washed the cotton from my mouth, gathered my stuff and slipped quietly out, it was time for me to go.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
I don't think you know me, I don't think I know me.
What makes me different from any other student? Nothing. I’m one of the many people returning to education to better their situations.
Youngest of eight, born within the sixth month, just shy of the sixth day in the hours of six-ish; I was brought into this world with an evil smile on my face. Twisted, congealed in my beliefs, I am determined; foolish yet feisty, I am eager….
I started babysitting when I was six, grew into a blueberry rake, burned my way to a fry vat, served myself right into a bar and counted my tips all the way to an accounting office; ten years behind a desk - I was missing the outside world, so I sang, “The hills are alive” to my boss as I walked out the door and into the gardens of my present employer. It’s been a long road, with a lot learned. I am a Jane of all trades (and a master of none).
Engaged at 19, spent my 21st birthday pregnant (unable to enjoy that first legal drink) and graduated into my 30’s knocked up again; life has been that rollercoaster ride but it’s been a somewhat fair ride that’s not over yet.
However, those stars shot themselves through the sky in vain, uncaught wishes left me with a bit of a bitter taste - skip the tale, the white night and the fairy godmother and just make the dreams come to life. If only that simple.
I thought I knew where I was going with this educational opportunity but honestly I’m still quite clueless; my head steers me in one direction and my passion in another. I know what I like, I know what I want but I still need to learn what I can do.
I’m at Eastern Maine Community College as a Liberal Studies student, the plan is to eventually transfer to University of Maine; will I get that far or switch gears and take the road “less traveled”1 …only time will tell.
__________________________________________
1 “The Road not Taken” by Robert Frost
Youngest of eight, born within the sixth month, just shy of the sixth day in the hours of six-ish; I was brought into this world with an evil smile on my face. Twisted, congealed in my beliefs, I am determined; foolish yet feisty, I am eager….
I started babysitting when I was six, grew into a blueberry rake, burned my way to a fry vat, served myself right into a bar and counted my tips all the way to an accounting office; ten years behind a desk - I was missing the outside world, so I sang, “The hills are alive” to my boss as I walked out the door and into the gardens of my present employer. It’s been a long road, with a lot learned. I am a Jane of all trades (and a master of none).
Engaged at 19, spent my 21st birthday pregnant (unable to enjoy that first legal drink) and graduated into my 30’s knocked up again; life has been that rollercoaster ride but it’s been a somewhat fair ride that’s not over yet.
However, those stars shot themselves through the sky in vain, uncaught wishes left me with a bit of a bitter taste - skip the tale, the white night and the fairy godmother and just make the dreams come to life. If only that simple.
I thought I knew where I was going with this educational opportunity but honestly I’m still quite clueless; my head steers me in one direction and my passion in another. I know what I like, I know what I want but I still need to learn what I can do.
I’m at Eastern Maine Community College as a Liberal Studies student, the plan is to eventually transfer to University of Maine; will I get that far or switch gears and take the road “less traveled”1 …only time will tell.
__________________________________________
1 “The Road not Taken” by Robert Frost
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