Teaching a Teen to Drive
You hit a tree the first time you backed up a standard; it was your brothers pick-up and with three pedals to choose from you mistook the gas as the brake. It could have happened to anyone. You still knew best. Seventy years behind the wheel, or has it only been thirty or maybe just seventeen; oh well, doesn’t really matter, you know best.
He’s your friend’s son and he’s fresh off the market with a permit in his hand. No car of his own, the only transportation he’s been in control of has been his ten speed and he only learned to handle that four years ago (all those gears to choose from). His parent’s wash their hands of his training and they put their trust in you, his teacher.
“Let him drive? Never. He’s my baby!”
“I’m standing right here Mom, you are acting like I’m still five. Trust me, I can do this.”
***
Your brother taught you to spin donuts in his van. Your mom hid in the back seat when you ventured out onto Main Street. Your first speeding ticket came two months after you got your license for going 64 in a 30; but you know best. So, you take your friends son out on Old Route 1 and hand him the keys.
He buckles his seatbelt but forgets to adjust his mirrors; you speak up. He puts it into drive and pulls out without looking; you clear your throat. He drives between the lines but gets the speed odometer a good 40 slashes above the law; you grab the ‘oh shit’ bar.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve drove; my dad has taken me before.”
“Pull over. Give me the keys. We’ll try again another time.”
***
“Mum, you’ve gotta take me driving…this poor sap just can’t swing it.”
“Sorry hun, I just can’t.”
You’ve decided you will take him out again, but he’s going to listen to you and do things your way. You have several years on him - so you have the experience. You tell him:
“We have less then five months to teach you how to drive. Each week we will work on one part of becoming a safe driver.”
He’s excited, eager, trusting and ready to learn. He knows how to drive a little and goes to you willingly - completely unaware of your plan.
***
Week one:
“I want you to think about the steering wheel; how it operates the steering mechanisms of the vehicle thus allowing you to maneuver within the limits of the yellow and white lines - of which we will later cover the varieties and significances of.”
He roles his eyes and lets out a sigh but his enthusiasm and trust wins out and he thinks.
Week two:
You unveil the next lesson. Followed with some fantastic examples of what you have done; exhibiting your vast array of expertise. You conclude with a handwritten list of what not to do; what you do not want to see, hear, experience or have him try. You leave him to his thoughts.
***
The weeks follow and he’s made a few attempts behind the wheel. Some successful ventures and some….well, lets just say it’s a comfort knowing there were seatbelts. He’s listening to you, hears your stories of your experiences and is doing his best to follow your ‘not-to-do’ list. He’s trying.
“I really appreciate you taking me out to drive, mom still does not dare. I can‘t wait to test for my license; I’m dying to take a bunch of friends out. ”
“My mother never took me either. I told you about the time I got the speeding ticket right?”
“Yep.”
“There was this time I went with a bunch of friends too. We went to Branch Pond after work to have a few drinks, it was a ritual the closing crew did where I worked. I didn’t drive thankfully so I knew I could have a few. Haha, what a joke that was - we forgot to get a d.d. so it was the least drunk who had to drive us all out. That was me. Yep, I learned pretty quick how to handle a car with a buzz.”
***
This wasn’t the first kid you taught to drive. In fact you had taught several. Your methods have worked in the past, or, in your opinion, they had…so you thought it was best to stick with the plan - even though you noticed he was having troubles. You had faith. You knew he would get it.
“I don’t get it. How am I going to figure out a standard if we don’t try one?”
“Why do you want to try a standard? Most cars are automatics now.”
***
Time is moving along quickly and his permit time is almost up and he has a few more hours left to fill. His frustration grows and he asks you questions, comments on your methods and wonders what he can do because there are still things he doesn’t get that he will need to know; parking on hills, night driving, parallel parking…he knew he needed help.
You were confident. You met his questions with questions. You challenged his fears with quick responses and you filled his mind with more of your past experiences and those of your buddies. After a few trips out on the road, your list of what not to do grows as does your frustration of his inability to follow your plan or his lack of trying (as it appears to you).
“Please take me parallel parking, I know it will be a part of my driving test.”
“Let’s try driving on ‘95 first. Next week we will drive up North so you can get some long distance driving in! Did I tell you about that trip I took in the snowstorm and almost hit a pole? …”
***
The following week came and went and he did not show up. The next few weeks went by and your frustration grew. You heard his complaints through his mother and it angered you; after all you were only trying to help him. You contact him on face book and say:
“Let’s drive.”
Six days later he contacts you.
“I can’t. I’m too scared. It’s almost time for our training to be done. I’m having troubles. I’m never gonna get this, I’ll never figure it out.”
***
Your frustration has peaked. Your tired of trying. He does not appreciate your efforts. Screw it. Why do you care if he learns to drive, after all, who needs another teen on the road?
“I’m done. Get your mother to help you with your last hours.”
“She won’t, please help.”
***
Sixteen (and a half), crisp new laminated card in his wallet. He’s driving his friends home (he’s the least buzzed), it’s snowing pretty heavily and the car starts sliding out of control. He wrangles with it and nearly misses a telephone pole. He and his buddies breath a sigh of relief, crack up laughing, and gun it. Four miles down the road he is pulled over for speeding 64 in a 30.
You have succeeded.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Week 9 Rewrite
The Whore in Me
I can feel the little hairs on the back of neck stand and send shivers down my spine; he is eyeing me, staring me up and down, I am aroused and enticed all from his very presence. The power he has and doesn’t even realize it; the control I lose when tempted by him - every fiber of my being fights to resist his calls to me. I’m able to walk away…this time.
***
Katahdin was my goal this summer and I hurdled each boulder up Abol with enthusiasm and excitement (ok…some sweat too); I’ve worked hard to condition my body for this climb and I’m not stopping here . Battling weight my entire life, a year and a half ago, I stood 5’1 and morbidly obese (or so I was told by my doctor). My squat frame tipped the scales beyond the 230 mark; I was waddling my way into our family tradition of diabetes, high blood pressure and other various weight problems. Change was mandatory.
Yet change was not always easy. Mike walked out of G & M variety with a dozen jelly and creams from Dunkin Donuts, I sighed and asked him, “why do you not want me to lose weight?”
“You will become a whore.” he said and handed me a glazed goodie. I rolled down my window and chucked it out; my will power was not always this strong but his comment had set my mood.
In fact, it inspired me…inspired to waltz into Bangor’s Goodwill to look for some new clothes. It’s taken about 18 months, 48 krav and fit classes, 96 karate lessons, over 260 miles biking Hancock county, multiply hikes through Acadia and endless trips to the YMCA to drop about eighty pounds - going from a tight 24 to a 20 to 16... and now my 16’s were hanging; I needed something new.
Fresh off Katahdin, my legs were looking hot, so I decided to stroll through the skirts. I happened across a little mini skirt; chuckled as I lifted the size 8 and thought this will never cover my booty but, inspired my Mike’s comment, it came with me to the dressing room. I couldn’t believe it, shocked and amazed, I had found me a whore skirt and….damn I looked pretty good in it!
***
Regardless of where I went the thought of him followed me; I tried to tune him out forget about the luscious vision I had of him. I’ve always liked the big, dark, black ones but how could I do this - to my family, to myself; I could not let my desires overtake me. Yes, I wanted him - I wanted to experience all he had to offer; let him sooth me, let him waltz with me, let him fill me…
The agony was almost unbearable, it was a yearning beyond comprehension - like when you’ve held your breath too long or your so afraid - that dizzy feeling that comes is just what I was experiencing. Lightheaded and stirred up, he beckoned to me - I found my moment and drew nearer. But knowing I shouldn’t take any more steps, I paused… my kids will be disappointed, my mother raised me better, Mike, oh god, what would Mike think and me - would I ever be able to look at myself in the mirror again if I went through with this…
Catching my hesitation, he intensified his hold on me, probing me from a distance, and I felt weak in the knees; stopping to sit for a moment I glanced down at my exposed thighs - damn Abol sure had worked its’ magic - the definition was clearly lined, even my calves appeared a little more lifted. How could I ruin it all now, I believe in the ‘Law of 3’ and what goes around comes around, karma always finds a way…so how could I risk this…It wasn’t right to cave into the temptation and let him have me and I him; I would be punished.
Penalized how - I’m not sure, maybe my abs would turn back to flab and protrude past my belt loops (muffin tops are in - right?), or my thighs will lose their definition, my chins will return (all three of them) or maybe my extra ass will reform on my lower back…my knees could scream and refuse anymore lunges or side kicks and my progress could halt and revert. It’s hard to say what could really happen but, sadly, the power of belief is strong, and I believe punishment would follow if I was to continue on to him.
However, at the least, I could still be a gracious host and be so kind to escort him out and bid him farewell. I rose from my seated position, adjusted my whore skirt, and moved closer. I could feel the static between us intensify, electric waves encompassed us and closed us in…could I simply say goodbye and part on good terms.
The minutes slowed for me, paused momentarily, as the two critters on my shoulders debated. Ooo, I wanted him, he was fine, mighty fine; just what I liked. He wanted me too, I sensed it. He spoke not a word but I could hear him, he flirted without words - tempted without tongue. Oh god, the lure was too strong, I was being sucked in; why wasn’t my brain working - after all this was only lust - right? I could fight lust. Calm, breath, think of the consequences. Who would forgive me, could I look at anyone in the eyes, would my world stop and the fat drip back on? I really needed to find my strength.
I heard a noise from the side door. Someone was coming. I had to decide. He froze, motionless, like he did not want to be discovered by anyone but me. I tried to act nonchalantly, smothering my desires deep down so not to be too obvious to who was approaching and, damn, wouldn’t it figure, it was Mike.
Mike stepped in and stood still; glanced at me then turned his eyes to him. We formed a triangle the three of us; a scary, odd, love triangle of sorts. Could Mike read me, did he recognize the look in my eyes, what was my body language saying. I needed to make my move; I slowly stepped forward but it was too late - Mike was stepping towards him. Mike gave me an odd sideward’s glance - phew - he had no idea; he had not picked up on the vibes, the looks, my body language…he was none the wiser. But just the same he moved in towards him with his own purpose in mind, faster than I, Mike reached out and grabbed!
As he loosened the grip on his shirt he smoothed it and joked, “Had ya there bud didn’t I?” Mike looked at him, at me and at the plate on the counter between us all. “Looks like one donut is left.” He snatched it up and walked off. My friend stood, paused and looked at me. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t take the next step. He said not a word; hung his head and walked out the door.
I was empty; the ache in my stomach hurt beyond belief. Standing alone. I caught my reflection in the window; there I was - me in my whore skirt. My heart longed for love, my belly longed for the donut; my body had not betrayed me but my mind had. At that moment, I realized, I was turning into the very thing Mike had accused me of becoming…
I can feel the little hairs on the back of neck stand and send shivers down my spine; he is eyeing me, staring me up and down, I am aroused and enticed all from his very presence. The power he has and doesn’t even realize it; the control I lose when tempted by him - every fiber of my being fights to resist his calls to me. I’m able to walk away…this time.
***
Katahdin was my goal this summer and I hurdled each boulder up Abol with enthusiasm and excitement (ok…some sweat too); I’ve worked hard to condition my body for this climb and I’m not stopping here . Battling weight my entire life, a year and a half ago, I stood 5’1 and morbidly obese (or so I was told by my doctor). My squat frame tipped the scales beyond the 230 mark; I was waddling my way into our family tradition of diabetes, high blood pressure and other various weight problems. Change was mandatory.
Yet change was not always easy. Mike walked out of G & M variety with a dozen jelly and creams from Dunkin Donuts, I sighed and asked him, “why do you not want me to lose weight?”
“You will become a whore.” he said and handed me a glazed goodie. I rolled down my window and chucked it out; my will power was not always this strong but his comment had set my mood.
In fact, it inspired me…inspired to waltz into Bangor’s Goodwill to look for some new clothes. It’s taken about 18 months, 48 krav and fit classes, 96 karate lessons, over 260 miles biking Hancock county, multiply hikes through Acadia and endless trips to the YMCA to drop about eighty pounds - going from a tight 24 to a 20 to 16... and now my 16’s were hanging; I needed something new.
Fresh off Katahdin, my legs were looking hot, so I decided to stroll through the skirts. I happened across a little mini skirt; chuckled as I lifted the size 8 and thought this will never cover my booty but, inspired my Mike’s comment, it came with me to the dressing room. I couldn’t believe it, shocked and amazed, I had found me a whore skirt and….damn I looked pretty good in it!
***
Regardless of where I went the thought of him followed me; I tried to tune him out forget about the luscious vision I had of him. I’ve always liked the big, dark, black ones but how could I do this - to my family, to myself; I could not let my desires overtake me. Yes, I wanted him - I wanted to experience all he had to offer; let him sooth me, let him waltz with me, let him fill me…
The agony was almost unbearable, it was a yearning beyond comprehension - like when you’ve held your breath too long or your so afraid - that dizzy feeling that comes is just what I was experiencing. Lightheaded and stirred up, he beckoned to me - I found my moment and drew nearer. But knowing I shouldn’t take any more steps, I paused… my kids will be disappointed, my mother raised me better, Mike, oh god, what would Mike think and me - would I ever be able to look at myself in the mirror again if I went through with this…
Catching my hesitation, he intensified his hold on me, probing me from a distance, and I felt weak in the knees; stopping to sit for a moment I glanced down at my exposed thighs - damn Abol sure had worked its’ magic - the definition was clearly lined, even my calves appeared a little more lifted. How could I ruin it all now, I believe in the ‘Law of 3’ and what goes around comes around, karma always finds a way…so how could I risk this…It wasn’t right to cave into the temptation and let him have me and I him; I would be punished.
Penalized how - I’m not sure, maybe my abs would turn back to flab and protrude past my belt loops (muffin tops are in - right?), or my thighs will lose their definition, my chins will return (all three of them) or maybe my extra ass will reform on my lower back…my knees could scream and refuse anymore lunges or side kicks and my progress could halt and revert. It’s hard to say what could really happen but, sadly, the power of belief is strong, and I believe punishment would follow if I was to continue on to him.
However, at the least, I could still be a gracious host and be so kind to escort him out and bid him farewell. I rose from my seated position, adjusted my whore skirt, and moved closer. I could feel the static between us intensify, electric waves encompassed us and closed us in…could I simply say goodbye and part on good terms.
The minutes slowed for me, paused momentarily, as the two critters on my shoulders debated. Ooo, I wanted him, he was fine, mighty fine; just what I liked. He wanted me too, I sensed it. He spoke not a word but I could hear him, he flirted without words - tempted without tongue. Oh god, the lure was too strong, I was being sucked in; why wasn’t my brain working - after all this was only lust - right? I could fight lust. Calm, breath, think of the consequences. Who would forgive me, could I look at anyone in the eyes, would my world stop and the fat drip back on? I really needed to find my strength.
I heard a noise from the side door. Someone was coming. I had to decide. He froze, motionless, like he did not want to be discovered by anyone but me. I tried to act nonchalantly, smothering my desires deep down so not to be too obvious to who was approaching and, damn, wouldn’t it figure, it was Mike.
Mike stepped in and stood still; glanced at me then turned his eyes to him. We formed a triangle the three of us; a scary, odd, love triangle of sorts. Could Mike read me, did he recognize the look in my eyes, what was my body language saying. I needed to make my move; I slowly stepped forward but it was too late - Mike was stepping towards him. Mike gave me an odd sideward’s glance - phew - he had no idea; he had not picked up on the vibes, the looks, my body language…he was none the wiser. But just the same he moved in towards him with his own purpose in mind, faster than I, Mike reached out and grabbed!
As he loosened the grip on his shirt he smoothed it and joked, “Had ya there bud didn’t I?” Mike looked at him, at me and at the plate on the counter between us all. “Looks like one donut is left.” He snatched it up and walked off. My friend stood, paused and looked at me. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t take the next step. He said not a word; hung his head and walked out the door.
I was empty; the ache in my stomach hurt beyond belief. Standing alone. I caught my reflection in the window; there I was - me in my whore skirt. My heart longed for love, my belly longed for the donut; my body had not betrayed me but my mind had. At that moment, I realized, I was turning into the very thing Mike had accused me of becoming…
Week 6 ReWrite
Is Blood Thicker Than Milk?
Today we are not speaking. Yesterday was tipsy. Tomorrow is still not known but a week ago…we were good. It’s like that with us, she and I are not like two peas in a pod but are more like milk and cookies; both are nice on their own but are much better when together. However, this yummy combo was not concocted overnight - it has taken more effort then a fifty year long marriage but every moment has been worth it because a friend like this is that diamond in the rough we all hope to find.
I have five sisters, I love them all; she, however, is my sixth sister, not by blood but by choice. We make a daily conscious effort to make this choice and the feeling you get when you know you are being chosen for this place of honor in someone’s life is an ultimate high. Sixteen years now we’ve been making this choice, for it was sixteen years ago we met.
It was the mid-nineties, I was finishing up high school and I was ready for the world! Of course I wanted it all handed to me on a silver platter, what kid didn‘t. We were a generation that was raised having to start working as soon as we were big enough to lift a blueberry rake (thank you child labor laws for coming into play years later). So by the time I was breaking out of accounting class I figured I knew the ins and outs of earning a buck and, with pyramid schemes flooding Ellsworth, my ex and I thought why earn the buck when you could swindle it; after all that was faster and easier - or so it was thought…
Her ex and my ex worked together, old Mr. Bellows kept them pounding nails and scraping paint but work was scarce and times were tough; everyone one was on the look out for a way to improve their situations. Somehow, our exes pulled together a plan…probably the best (only good) idea they ever had.
I was informed one afternoon that we would be hosting an event, a meet-n-greet of sorts to learn all about a new business opportunity (thoughts of a pyramid scheme came rushing to the forefront) and I was to be prepared for my life to change. Change it did; however, not in the way the exes thought it might. Amway may have been their spiel of choice, thoughts of riches beyond their imaginations, dreams of quick bucks and self employment, busier and richer then Sam Walton; but it was the long haired lady that altered my life. Granted Amway did have that get-rich-quick jingle to it but I discovered something worth more than cash.
She sat in our living room quiet as a mouse. She had long blonde wavy hair, tall, slender, eloquently dressed (like a proper lady on her way to church); she spoke softly, sharing her hopes and dreams in a soft voice just above a whisper. Her and her husband were to be our sponsors, the people just above us, the ones we would have to go-to and I thought… “Oh god! This will never work - her and I are just going to clash!” She was too sweet, too doting on her husband, too kind, too gullible…not at all someone I could mesh with but like my mumma always told me - never judge a book by it’s cover.
***
“You didn’t EVEN give me a CARD for my birthday! You have NOT been around to help me at all. Don’t bother to call me - I won’t answer! I need a BREAK!”
Mouse was gone…
Spoiled milk and burnt cookies!
“Don’t worry, I WON’T call! You NEVER answer when I do anyhow! I wanted to spend time with YOU on your birthday! Next year I will just send you a freaking CARD!”
***
My ex and I would drive to her home in Milbridge once a week to pick up our SA8, and each week we stayed a little longer. They taught us how to play the card game “Hearts” and then they taught us how to keep playing after a few drinks. We bonded over swapping cards beneath the table to beat out our exes’s hands and we bonded while scraping jello and potatoes off her kitchen ceiling because we, once again, managed to lose our hearts to them.
***
“I don’t know what to do. It’s been two days. I miss you.”
Milk.
“I don’t know either but I miss you too. Should I come over?”
And.
“Yes.”
Cookies.
***
Cool Autumn days are made for baking and there is nothing that makes a day better then eating a spoonful of raw cookie dough while splatting your best bud with flour. Her and I don’t often bake together so when we do - it’s therapeutic.
Therapy is often needed in daily lives but few are able to accept the help; I was there when she divorced her husband and her maid-of-honor when she married her current one, she held my hand as I confronted the teacher and principal at the school I removed my son from…we both lost our fathers to cancer, we’ve cut our Christmas trees down together; we are best buds - we’ve learned the secret.
Set the temperature to 350’, mix up the dough - eat it raw - splat flower, and poor yourself a glass of milk because blood is not thicker than milk.
Today we are not speaking. Yesterday was tipsy. Tomorrow is still not known but a week ago…we were good. It’s like that with us, she and I are not like two peas in a pod but are more like milk and cookies; both are nice on their own but are much better when together. However, this yummy combo was not concocted overnight - it has taken more effort then a fifty year long marriage but every moment has been worth it because a friend like this is that diamond in the rough we all hope to find.
I have five sisters, I love them all; she, however, is my sixth sister, not by blood but by choice. We make a daily conscious effort to make this choice and the feeling you get when you know you are being chosen for this place of honor in someone’s life is an ultimate high. Sixteen years now we’ve been making this choice, for it was sixteen years ago we met.
It was the mid-nineties, I was finishing up high school and I was ready for the world! Of course I wanted it all handed to me on a silver platter, what kid didn‘t. We were a generation that was raised having to start working as soon as we were big enough to lift a blueberry rake (thank you child labor laws for coming into play years later). So by the time I was breaking out of accounting class I figured I knew the ins and outs of earning a buck and, with pyramid schemes flooding Ellsworth, my ex and I thought why earn the buck when you could swindle it; after all that was faster and easier - or so it was thought…
Her ex and my ex worked together, old Mr. Bellows kept them pounding nails and scraping paint but work was scarce and times were tough; everyone one was on the look out for a way to improve their situations. Somehow, our exes pulled together a plan…probably the best (only good) idea they ever had.
I was informed one afternoon that we would be hosting an event, a meet-n-greet of sorts to learn all about a new business opportunity (thoughts of a pyramid scheme came rushing to the forefront) and I was to be prepared for my life to change. Change it did; however, not in the way the exes thought it might. Amway may have been their spiel of choice, thoughts of riches beyond their imaginations, dreams of quick bucks and self employment, busier and richer then Sam Walton; but it was the long haired lady that altered my life. Granted Amway did have that get-rich-quick jingle to it but I discovered something worth more than cash.
She sat in our living room quiet as a mouse. She had long blonde wavy hair, tall, slender, eloquently dressed (like a proper lady on her way to church); she spoke softly, sharing her hopes and dreams in a soft voice just above a whisper. Her and her husband were to be our sponsors, the people just above us, the ones we would have to go-to and I thought… “Oh god! This will never work - her and I are just going to clash!” She was too sweet, too doting on her husband, too kind, too gullible…not at all someone I could mesh with but like my mumma always told me - never judge a book by it’s cover.
***
“You didn’t EVEN give me a CARD for my birthday! You have NOT been around to help me at all. Don’t bother to call me - I won’t answer! I need a BREAK!”
Mouse was gone…
Spoiled milk and burnt cookies!
“Don’t worry, I WON’T call! You NEVER answer when I do anyhow! I wanted to spend time with YOU on your birthday! Next year I will just send you a freaking CARD!”
***
My ex and I would drive to her home in Milbridge once a week to pick up our SA8, and each week we stayed a little longer. They taught us how to play the card game “Hearts” and then they taught us how to keep playing after a few drinks. We bonded over swapping cards beneath the table to beat out our exes’s hands and we bonded while scraping jello and potatoes off her kitchen ceiling because we, once again, managed to lose our hearts to them.
***
“I don’t know what to do. It’s been two days. I miss you.”
Milk.
“I don’t know either but I miss you too. Should I come over?”
And.
“Yes.”
Cookies.
***
Cool Autumn days are made for baking and there is nothing that makes a day better then eating a spoonful of raw cookie dough while splatting your best bud with flour. Her and I don’t often bake together so when we do - it’s therapeutic.
Therapy is often needed in daily lives but few are able to accept the help; I was there when she divorced her husband and her maid-of-honor when she married her current one, she held my hand as I confronted the teacher and principal at the school I removed my son from…we both lost our fathers to cancer, we’ve cut our Christmas trees down together; we are best buds - we’ve learned the secret.
Set the temperature to 350’, mix up the dough - eat it raw - splat flower, and poor yourself a glass of milk because blood is not thicker than milk.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Week 9
The Whore in Me
I can feel the little hairs on the back of neck stand and send shivers down my spine; he is eyeing me, staring me up and down, I am aroused and enticed all from his very presence. The power he has and doesn’t even realize it; the control I lose when tempted by him - every fiber of my being fights to resist his calls to me. I’m able to walk away…this time.
***
Katahdin was my goal this summer and I hurdled each boulder up Abol with enthusiasm and excitement (ok…some sweat too); I’ve worked hard to condition my body for this climb and I’m not stopping here . Battling weight my entire life, a year and a half ago, I stood 5’1 and morbidly obese (or so I was told by my doctor). My squat frame tipped the scales beyond the 230 mark; I was waddling my way into our family tradition of diabetes, high blood pressure and other various weight problems. Change was mandatory.
Yet change was not always easy. Mike walked out of G & M variety with a dozen jelly and creams from Dunkin Donuts, I sighed and asked him, “why do you not want me to lose weight?”
“You will become a whore.” he said and handed me a glazed goodie. I rolled down my window and chucked it out; my will power was not always this strong but his comment had set my mood.
In fact, it inspired me…inspired to waltz into Bangor’s Goodwill to look for some new clothes. It’s taken about 18 months, 48 krav and fit classes, 96 karate lessons, over 260 miles biking Hancock county, multiply hikes through Acadia and endless trips to the YMCA to drop about eighty pounds - going from a tight 24 to a 20 to 16... and now my 16’s were hanging; I needed something new.
Fresh off Katahdin, my legs were looking hot, so I decided to stroll through the skirts. I happened across a little mini skirt; chuckled as I lifted the size 8 and thought this will never cover my booty but, inspired my Mike’s comment, it came with me to the dressing room. I couldn’t believe it, shocked and amazed, I had found me a whore skirt and….damn I looked pretty good in it!
***
Regardless of where I went the thought of him followed me; I tried to tune him out forget about the luscious vision I had of him. I’ve always liked the big, dark, black ones but how could I do this - to my family, to myself; I could not let my desires overtake me. Yes, I wanted him - I wanted to experience all he had to offer; let him sooth me, let him waltz with me, let him fill me…
The agony was almost unbearable, it was a yearning beyond comprehension - like when you’ve held your breath too long or your so afraid - that dizzy feeling that comes is just what I was experiencing. Lightheaded and stirred up, he beckoned to me - I found my moment and drew nearer. But knowing I shouldn’t take any more steps, I paused… my kids will be disappointed, my mother raised me better, Mike, oh god, what would Mike think and me - would I ever be able to look at myself in the mirror again if I went through with this…
Catching my hesitation, he intensified his hold on me, probing me from a distance, and I felt weak in the knees; stopping to sit for a moment I glanced down at my exposed thighs - damn Abol sure had worked its’ magic - the definition was clearly lined, even my calves appeared a little more lifted. How could I ruin it all now, I believe in the ‘Law of 3’ and what goes around comes around, karma always finds a way…so how could I risk this…It wasn’t right to cave into the temptation and let him have me and I him; I would be punished.
Penalized how - I’m not sure, maybe my abs would turn back to flab and protrude past my belt loops (muffin tops are in - right?), or my thighs will lose their definition, my chins will return (all three of them) or maybe my extra ass will reform on my lower back…my knees could scream and refuse anymore lunges or side kicks and my progress could halt and revert. It’s hard to say what could really happen but, sadly, the power of belief is strong, and I believe punishment would follow if I was to continue on to him.
However, at the least, I could still be a gracious host and be so kind to escort him out and bid him farewell. I rose from my seated position, adjusted my whore skirt, and moved closer. I could feel the static between us intensify, electric waves encompassed us and closed us in…could I simply say goodbye and part on good terms.
The minutes slowed for me, paused momentarily, as the two critters on my shoulders debated. Ooo, I wanted him, he was fine, mighty fine; just what I liked. He wanted me too, I sensed it. He spoke not a word but I could hear him, he flirted without words - tempted without tongue. Oh god, the lure was too strong, I was being sucked in; why wasn’t my brain working - after all this was only lust - right? I could fight lust. Calm, breath, think of the consequences. Who would forgive me, could I look at anyone in the eyes, would my world stop and the fat drip back on? I really needed to find my strength.
I heard a noise from the side door. Someone was coming. I had to decide. He froze, motionless, like he did not want to be discovered by anyone but me. I tried to act nonchalantly, smothering my desires deep down so not to be too obvious to who was approaching and, damn, wouldn’t it figure, it was Mike.
Mike stepped in and stood still; glanced at me then turned his eyes to him. We formed a triangle the three of us; a scary, odd, love triangle of sorts. Could Mike read me, did he recognize the look in my eyes, what was my body language saying. I needed to make my move; I slowly stepped forward but it was too late - Mike was stepping towards him. Mike gave me an odd sideward’s glance - phew - he had no idea; he had not picked up on the vibes, the looks, my body language…he was none the wiser. But just the same he moved in towards him with his own purpose in mind, faster than I, Mike reached out and grabbed him!
Four mouthwatering bites later and it was done, he was gone, my big black, chocolate twisted donut stick was gone. Just like that. I felt empty, alone, and betrayed; I turned to return to the land of the living and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window…my legs looked hot, my tummy fell a bit flatter and my size 8 whore skirt was hanging a little loose…Life was good again.
I can feel the little hairs on the back of neck stand and send shivers down my spine; he is eyeing me, staring me up and down, I am aroused and enticed all from his very presence. The power he has and doesn’t even realize it; the control I lose when tempted by him - every fiber of my being fights to resist his calls to me. I’m able to walk away…this time.
***
Katahdin was my goal this summer and I hurdled each boulder up Abol with enthusiasm and excitement (ok…some sweat too); I’ve worked hard to condition my body for this climb and I’m not stopping here . Battling weight my entire life, a year and a half ago, I stood 5’1 and morbidly obese (or so I was told by my doctor). My squat frame tipped the scales beyond the 230 mark; I was waddling my way into our family tradition of diabetes, high blood pressure and other various weight problems. Change was mandatory.
Yet change was not always easy. Mike walked out of G & M variety with a dozen jelly and creams from Dunkin Donuts, I sighed and asked him, “why do you not want me to lose weight?”
“You will become a whore.” he said and handed me a glazed goodie. I rolled down my window and chucked it out; my will power was not always this strong but his comment had set my mood.
In fact, it inspired me…inspired to waltz into Bangor’s Goodwill to look for some new clothes. It’s taken about 18 months, 48 krav and fit classes, 96 karate lessons, over 260 miles biking Hancock county, multiply hikes through Acadia and endless trips to the YMCA to drop about eighty pounds - going from a tight 24 to a 20 to 16... and now my 16’s were hanging; I needed something new.
Fresh off Katahdin, my legs were looking hot, so I decided to stroll through the skirts. I happened across a little mini skirt; chuckled as I lifted the size 8 and thought this will never cover my booty but, inspired my Mike’s comment, it came with me to the dressing room. I couldn’t believe it, shocked and amazed, I had found me a whore skirt and….damn I looked pretty good in it!
***
Regardless of where I went the thought of him followed me; I tried to tune him out forget about the luscious vision I had of him. I’ve always liked the big, dark, black ones but how could I do this - to my family, to myself; I could not let my desires overtake me. Yes, I wanted him - I wanted to experience all he had to offer; let him sooth me, let him waltz with me, let him fill me…
The agony was almost unbearable, it was a yearning beyond comprehension - like when you’ve held your breath too long or your so afraid - that dizzy feeling that comes is just what I was experiencing. Lightheaded and stirred up, he beckoned to me - I found my moment and drew nearer. But knowing I shouldn’t take any more steps, I paused… my kids will be disappointed, my mother raised me better, Mike, oh god, what would Mike think and me - would I ever be able to look at myself in the mirror again if I went through with this…
Catching my hesitation, he intensified his hold on me, probing me from a distance, and I felt weak in the knees; stopping to sit for a moment I glanced down at my exposed thighs - damn Abol sure had worked its’ magic - the definition was clearly lined, even my calves appeared a little more lifted. How could I ruin it all now, I believe in the ‘Law of 3’ and what goes around comes around, karma always finds a way…so how could I risk this…It wasn’t right to cave into the temptation and let him have me and I him; I would be punished.
Penalized how - I’m not sure, maybe my abs would turn back to flab and protrude past my belt loops (muffin tops are in - right?), or my thighs will lose their definition, my chins will return (all three of them) or maybe my extra ass will reform on my lower back…my knees could scream and refuse anymore lunges or side kicks and my progress could halt and revert. It’s hard to say what could really happen but, sadly, the power of belief is strong, and I believe punishment would follow if I was to continue on to him.
However, at the least, I could still be a gracious host and be so kind to escort him out and bid him farewell. I rose from my seated position, adjusted my whore skirt, and moved closer. I could feel the static between us intensify, electric waves encompassed us and closed us in…could I simply say goodbye and part on good terms.
The minutes slowed for me, paused momentarily, as the two critters on my shoulders debated. Ooo, I wanted him, he was fine, mighty fine; just what I liked. He wanted me too, I sensed it. He spoke not a word but I could hear him, he flirted without words - tempted without tongue. Oh god, the lure was too strong, I was being sucked in; why wasn’t my brain working - after all this was only lust - right? I could fight lust. Calm, breath, think of the consequences. Who would forgive me, could I look at anyone in the eyes, would my world stop and the fat drip back on? I really needed to find my strength.
I heard a noise from the side door. Someone was coming. I had to decide. He froze, motionless, like he did not want to be discovered by anyone but me. I tried to act nonchalantly, smothering my desires deep down so not to be too obvious to who was approaching and, damn, wouldn’t it figure, it was Mike.
Mike stepped in and stood still; glanced at me then turned his eyes to him. We formed a triangle the three of us; a scary, odd, love triangle of sorts. Could Mike read me, did he recognize the look in my eyes, what was my body language saying. I needed to make my move; I slowly stepped forward but it was too late - Mike was stepping towards him. Mike gave me an odd sideward’s glance - phew - he had no idea; he had not picked up on the vibes, the looks, my body language…he was none the wiser. But just the same he moved in towards him with his own purpose in mind, faster than I, Mike reached out and grabbed him!
Four mouthwatering bites later and it was done, he was gone, my big black, chocolate twisted donut stick was gone. Just like that. I felt empty, alone, and betrayed; I turned to return to the land of the living and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window…my legs looked hot, my tummy fell a bit flatter and my size 8 whore skirt was hanging a little loose…Life was good again.
Week 8
The Union
Welcome friend. Thank you for allowing me into your home but are you sure you want me here? I am like the plague that wipes out the village in the night, the storms that sweeps you out to sea; I will crawl into your mind and fester into the darkest places, awakening them. Oh yes, my friend, be afraid.
For who is that dares creep into the darkest basement, gradually slinking down the stairs, spider webs clinging to their face; is it you that dares this descent? Do you openly enter the mind of Lucifer, peeling back the rotting flesh and placing your face close enough for your nostrils to pick up the odor seeping from the decomposing souls of the fools before you. It is so. I see you now, you know my will and you fear not the line I have drawn.
You hesitate not my brown-eyed friend, though our lives teeter at their end; you think not of ‘morrow but of this day at noon. Fairly warned, you step to the altar of your own free will; taking my hand in yours, you exchange the vows of eternity. Onlookers, naysayer’s, those unable to bare false witness to this bond of which we make will rise to this festive occasion and weep for us, and weep with us; for you, my friend, on this day shall weep. The deal is sealed with the coming together of our chapped flesh. Then shall I bore my claws into your heaving chest and clasp them around your pulsating heart. The mere thought of the beat intoxicates me, gives breath to my lungs, adds life to my malnourished soul; and you shall fill the core of me with your essence as we solidify our unity. In the name of all that is holly and righteous it shall be done.
And so it is.
My person thanks you, my brave, naive friend; for into your home, of no walls, I shall stay. Mortality is but only to our shells; our innards will putrefy ceaselessly, in no way departing fully - instead, entangling eternally… We have crossed the threshold of matrimony; you to I and I to you, we are bonded.
What! Do you back step now? Now that it is done, do you tear the mask from your saccharine face to reveal the demon beneath! I forewarned you fairly, justly, honestly! Where was the returned courtesy? Does thou think I shall fall back! Tripped by your hoof, hammered by your rod, entrapped by your steel limbs; you were not afraid thus I shall fear you not! For how can it be thought that your mind will out demonize mine, to the gambler you have asked to play the game and like a fool you will fall.
You do not believe? You scoff at my will, my determination, my survival. Does thou here the calling of an apocalypse, did our union draw it near? Do we have not but an hour in the clock of life; let us draw our breath on this second and reveal our weapons to one another - let us hide no more. Draw your sword my friend and pierce the lungs to which you have given breath, raise your shield and protect your own; for when I strike, it shall be but once.
A fool perhaps am I for such blasphemy, yet we shall continue on. We made the pact, one hundred years behind us and forever more to go. Our mob draws near, what their God has joined together - no man shall tear apart, thus the time has come. You do not pull back so I shall meet you head on. It was your dream in which I cowered before you, it is in your awaken night terror that I do not. The time to fear is not far from us now, embrace and know this horror and halt… or rush blindly upon the blade. Soon the torches will be lit, my friend, for in your home - of which is your mind - you can not escape me or draw me out. It is there that I shall be… forevermore.
Welcome friend. Thank you for allowing me into your home but are you sure you want me here? I am like the plague that wipes out the village in the night, the storms that sweeps you out to sea; I will crawl into your mind and fester into the darkest places, awakening them. Oh yes, my friend, be afraid.
For who is that dares creep into the darkest basement, gradually slinking down the stairs, spider webs clinging to their face; is it you that dares this descent? Do you openly enter the mind of Lucifer, peeling back the rotting flesh and placing your face close enough for your nostrils to pick up the odor seeping from the decomposing souls of the fools before you. It is so. I see you now, you know my will and you fear not the line I have drawn.
You hesitate not my brown-eyed friend, though our lives teeter at their end; you think not of ‘morrow but of this day at noon. Fairly warned, you step to the altar of your own free will; taking my hand in yours, you exchange the vows of eternity. Onlookers, naysayer’s, those unable to bare false witness to this bond of which we make will rise to this festive occasion and weep for us, and weep with us; for you, my friend, on this day shall weep. The deal is sealed with the coming together of our chapped flesh. Then shall I bore my claws into your heaving chest and clasp them around your pulsating heart. The mere thought of the beat intoxicates me, gives breath to my lungs, adds life to my malnourished soul; and you shall fill the core of me with your essence as we solidify our unity. In the name of all that is holly and righteous it shall be done.
And so it is.
My person thanks you, my brave, naive friend; for into your home, of no walls, I shall stay. Mortality is but only to our shells; our innards will putrefy ceaselessly, in no way departing fully - instead, entangling eternally… We have crossed the threshold of matrimony; you to I and I to you, we are bonded.
What! Do you back step now? Now that it is done, do you tear the mask from your saccharine face to reveal the demon beneath! I forewarned you fairly, justly, honestly! Where was the returned courtesy? Does thou think I shall fall back! Tripped by your hoof, hammered by your rod, entrapped by your steel limbs; you were not afraid thus I shall fear you not! For how can it be thought that your mind will out demonize mine, to the gambler you have asked to play the game and like a fool you will fall.
You do not believe? You scoff at my will, my determination, my survival. Does thou here the calling of an apocalypse, did our union draw it near? Do we have not but an hour in the clock of life; let us draw our breath on this second and reveal our weapons to one another - let us hide no more. Draw your sword my friend and pierce the lungs to which you have given breath, raise your shield and protect your own; for when I strike, it shall be but once.
A fool perhaps am I for such blasphemy, yet we shall continue on. We made the pact, one hundred years behind us and forever more to go. Our mob draws near, what their God has joined together - no man shall tear apart, thus the time has come. You do not pull back so I shall meet you head on. It was your dream in which I cowered before you, it is in your awaken night terror that I do not. The time to fear is not far from us now, embrace and know this horror and halt… or rush blindly upon the blade. Soon the torches will be lit, my friend, for in your home - of which is your mind - you can not escape me or draw me out. It is there that I shall be… forevermore.
Week 7
When the Birds Stop Singing
Two little zebra finches perched in their pen atop of my piano; they chittered and chattered and sung to their little hearts content. I’d relax into the silence of the night and allow them to invade my thoughts - bringing natural music into my world.
***
At Mary’s party, Lisa and I tied our ankles together and walked around the house like Siamese twins joined at the hip; we danced, chatted and sung our hearts out. She sang mostly country; Shania Twain, Reba, and Susie Bogus. I believe she would have enjoyed the Dixie Chicks - especially, “Goodbye Earl”.
***
Lisa Jean Lounder, born and raised in Hancock, Maine. November 1976.
***
Thirteen going on twenty-one, playing happily in her little pen, we stayed up late making prank calls and playing “Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em” till her mother barged into her bedroom, groggy and rubbing her eyes saying, “Cut that racket out!”. We apologized until her mom closed the door, burst into laughter and after three more prank calls to our Freshman gym teacher we drifted off into dream land (with visions of Sophomore boys dancing in our heads).
***
An overdose of pills in fifth grade, slashed wrists in seventh grade, alcohol poisoning her Freshman year, raped her Sophomore year, overdose of prescription meds Junior year and a head on collision with a telephone pole her Senior year; Lisa was lucky to be alive. I sat with her on the floor of the trailer her and Jeff were renting - their very first place on their own after moving out of their parent’s houses. Positioned in my lap, I wrapped my legs over hers around her waste and my arms around her shoulders holding her the best I could; trying like crazy to soothe her as she spazzed out. She thrashed, kicked, dug, head butted, and attempted ever possible maneuver she could to escape my grasp - the loaded gun I knocked from her when I walked through the door was only a few feet in front of us. We started to sing together…like the little birds who sing sweet lullabies and she calmed.
***
Standing 5’4, weight fluctuating from 98 to 140, hair color and style changing as often as the seasons, she stood looking in the steamed mirror. A quick swipe of her hand revealed her reflection; wearing a baby blue polka dotted bra and her Pizza hut workpants she burst into tears and smashed her palm against the mirror, screaming, “I’ll never look right! Never!” Reacting like a little Finch caged, thrashing her wings against the little bars; she freaked out. Running late for work, less then 10 minutes to get there, she tore off her clothes and jumped in the shower again; I stood frozen in the doorway. Fifteen minutes and a loud thud later; I turned off the scorching shower, picked her up out of the tub and carried her to her bedroom and made the familiar call into her workplace.
***
She had every Cabbage Patch doll there was; her father made sure of it. They were lined all around her bedroom, still in their boxes. Her closet was full of clothes that still had tags on them, that she would donate to kids at school that did not have much. When her father walked into the room, she would say, “daddy” and he would just smile at her and ask us how we were doing. If she could have flown to his shoulder and perched there she would have accepted any cracker he offered - tweeting till twilight.
***
A little spitfire, she once attacked a man a foot and a half taller then her to defend her friend; knocked him backwards right into a wood stove! People learned not to poke their fingers in her cage, she wasn’t afraid to peck. She jumped out of a moving car to step between her best bud and a baseball bat, and she sat swinging on a swing for countless hours with her little brother who was not yet cancer free.
***
Lisa Jean Lounder. Survived by her two parents, her two brothers, her boyfriend, and a friend who will never forget her; drove into the sea at Lamoine Beach on a cold evening in October, 1998. Her car was fifteen feet off the shore - her body floated from Lamoine to Hulls Cove where it was found the following day…the day the birds stopped singing.
Two little zebra finches perched in their pen atop of my piano; they chittered and chattered and sung to their little hearts content. I’d relax into the silence of the night and allow them to invade my thoughts - bringing natural music into my world.
***
At Mary’s party, Lisa and I tied our ankles together and walked around the house like Siamese twins joined at the hip; we danced, chatted and sung our hearts out. She sang mostly country; Shania Twain, Reba, and Susie Bogus. I believe she would have enjoyed the Dixie Chicks - especially, “Goodbye Earl”.
***
Lisa Jean Lounder, born and raised in Hancock, Maine. November 1976.
***
Thirteen going on twenty-one, playing happily in her little pen, we stayed up late making prank calls and playing “Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em” till her mother barged into her bedroom, groggy and rubbing her eyes saying, “Cut that racket out!”. We apologized until her mom closed the door, burst into laughter and after three more prank calls to our Freshman gym teacher we drifted off into dream land (with visions of Sophomore boys dancing in our heads).
***
An overdose of pills in fifth grade, slashed wrists in seventh grade, alcohol poisoning her Freshman year, raped her Sophomore year, overdose of prescription meds Junior year and a head on collision with a telephone pole her Senior year; Lisa was lucky to be alive. I sat with her on the floor of the trailer her and Jeff were renting - their very first place on their own after moving out of their parent’s houses. Positioned in my lap, I wrapped my legs over hers around her waste and my arms around her shoulders holding her the best I could; trying like crazy to soothe her as she spazzed out. She thrashed, kicked, dug, head butted, and attempted ever possible maneuver she could to escape my grasp - the loaded gun I knocked from her when I walked through the door was only a few feet in front of us. We started to sing together…like the little birds who sing sweet lullabies and she calmed.
***
Standing 5’4, weight fluctuating from 98 to 140, hair color and style changing as often as the seasons, she stood looking in the steamed mirror. A quick swipe of her hand revealed her reflection; wearing a baby blue polka dotted bra and her Pizza hut workpants she burst into tears and smashed her palm against the mirror, screaming, “I’ll never look right! Never!” Reacting like a little Finch caged, thrashing her wings against the little bars; she freaked out. Running late for work, less then 10 minutes to get there, she tore off her clothes and jumped in the shower again; I stood frozen in the doorway. Fifteen minutes and a loud thud later; I turned off the scorching shower, picked her up out of the tub and carried her to her bedroom and made the familiar call into her workplace.
***
She had every Cabbage Patch doll there was; her father made sure of it. They were lined all around her bedroom, still in their boxes. Her closet was full of clothes that still had tags on them, that she would donate to kids at school that did not have much. When her father walked into the room, she would say, “daddy” and he would just smile at her and ask us how we were doing. If she could have flown to his shoulder and perched there she would have accepted any cracker he offered - tweeting till twilight.
***
A little spitfire, she once attacked a man a foot and a half taller then her to defend her friend; knocked him backwards right into a wood stove! People learned not to poke their fingers in her cage, she wasn’t afraid to peck. She jumped out of a moving car to step between her best bud and a baseball bat, and she sat swinging on a swing for countless hours with her little brother who was not yet cancer free.
***
Lisa Jean Lounder. Survived by her two parents, her two brothers, her boyfriend, and a friend who will never forget her; drove into the sea at Lamoine Beach on a cold evening in October, 1998. Her car was fifteen feet off the shore - her body floated from Lamoine to Hulls Cove where it was found the following day…the day the birds stopped singing.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Week 6
Is Blood Thicker Than Water?
Today we are not speaking. Yesterday was tipsy. Tomorrow is still not known but a week ago…we were good. It’s like that with us, she and I are not like two peas in a pod but are more like milk and cookies; both are nice on their own but are much better when together. However, this yummy combo was not concocted overnight - it has taken more effort then a fifty year long marriage but every moment has been worth it because a friend like this is that diamond in the rough we all hope to find.
I have five sisters, I love them all; she, however, is my sixth sister, not by blood but by choice. We make a daily conscious effort to make this choice and the feeling you get when you know you are being chosen for this place of honor in someone’s life is an ultimate high. Sixteen years now we’ve been making this choice, for it was sixteen years ago we met.
It was the mid-nineties, I was finishing up high school and I was ready for the world! Of course I wanted it all handed to me on a silver platter, what kid didn‘t. We were a generation that was raised having to start working as soon as we were big enough to lift a blueberry rake (thank you child labor laws for coming into play years later). So by the time I was breaking out of accounting class I figured I knew the ins and outs of earning a buck and, with pyramid schemes flooding Ellsworth, my ex and I thought why earn the buck when you could swindle it; after all that was faster and easier - or so it was thought…
Her ex and my ex worked together, old Mr. Bellows kept them pounding nails and scraping paint but work was scarce and times were tough; everyone one was on the look out for a way to improve their situations. Somehow, our exes pulled together a plan…probably the best (only good) idea they ever had.
I was informed one afternoon that we would be hosting an event, a meet-n-greet of sorts to learn all about a new business opportunity (thoughts of a pyramid scheme came rushing to the forefront) and I was to be prepared for my life to change. Change it did; however, not in the way the exes thought it might. Amway may have been their spiel of choice, thoughts of riches beyond their imaginations, dreams of quick bucks and self employment, busier and richer then Sam Walton; but it was the long haired lady that altered my life. Granted Amway did have that get-rich-quick jingle to it but I discovered something worth more than cash.
She sat in our living room quiet as a mouse. She had long blonde wavy hair, tall, slender, eloquently dressed (like a proper lady on her way to church); she spoke softly, sharing her hopes and dreams in a soft voice just above a whisper. Her and her husband were to be our sponsors, the people just above us, the ones we would have to go-to and I thought… “Oh god! This will never work - her and I are just going to clash!” She was too sweet, too doting on her husband, too kind, too gullible…not at all someone I could mesh with but like my mumma always told me - never judge a book by it’s cover.
And boy o’ boy was mumma right about that! Wasn’t too long into this ‘working’ relationship that her and I got to know one another…..like I said, milk and cookies. Now I had friends prior to her; first male friend from Kindergarten who stomped on my toes to get ahead in the water fountain line , my first female friend who lost the silver glove to my Michal Jackson Barbie doll, and others along the way…but she tops them all.
We are far from perfect; we can not always be there for each other the way the other one thinks is best. I remember when I was getting married she was no where in my life to be found, nor was she when I was pregnant with my first child; it was hard and it hurt, even put a bit of a strain on us for awhile but we talked and worked it out. I, in turn, have not always been there for her; sadly there have been times that I have let her down too. It’s hard when that happens because it hurts worse then anything I can describe. The very thought of losing one another aches more then all the toothaches in my life combined, stings more then the time I stepped on the bee jumping off our old tire swing, throbs more than the severe migraines I’ve been enduring do to high amounts of stress and crippling back pains….I believe the point is being made that it would really simply bite (worse than nursing babies with first teeth).
But the good out weighs the bad; there have been more times then I can count or even recall that we have been there for one another. I believe we are like Thelma and Louise, Selma and Patty, Betty White and the rest of the Golden Girls all balled into two; we would go to the ends of the earth for one another. The tails I could tell of bail outs from jail or pick-ups after being drugged by a coworker; no questions asked, no judgments made - we were just there - best friends.
How does a quiet mouse evolve into the bestest friend of all times…well, that road is different for everyone and a lot will depend if you are traveling on that same road or not. Amway did more then sell their SA8 laundry detergent that year… At one point, we all took a business trip to Rhode Island, we read the required reading on the way down, “Chicken Soup for the Soul”, shacked up with their sponsors and attended the big Amway conference; boy did that company know how to put on an event. Ricky Van Shelton blared across the arena and into the night; when my new pal smashed her head on the cement ceiling of the parking garage from being excited and overjoyed by the times we were sharing together and just laughed it off…I knew it was friendship at first smash - the mouse was knocked clear out and I knew from that moment we were kindred spirits - her and I…milk and cookies.
Now, I’ve always heard blood is thicker than water…. but is blood thicker than milk?
Today we are not speaking. Yesterday was tipsy. Tomorrow is still not known but a week ago…we were good. It’s like that with us, she and I are not like two peas in a pod but are more like milk and cookies; both are nice on their own but are much better when together. However, this yummy combo was not concocted overnight - it has taken more effort then a fifty year long marriage but every moment has been worth it because a friend like this is that diamond in the rough we all hope to find.
I have five sisters, I love them all; she, however, is my sixth sister, not by blood but by choice. We make a daily conscious effort to make this choice and the feeling you get when you know you are being chosen for this place of honor in someone’s life is an ultimate high. Sixteen years now we’ve been making this choice, for it was sixteen years ago we met.
It was the mid-nineties, I was finishing up high school and I was ready for the world! Of course I wanted it all handed to me on a silver platter, what kid didn‘t. We were a generation that was raised having to start working as soon as we were big enough to lift a blueberry rake (thank you child labor laws for coming into play years later). So by the time I was breaking out of accounting class I figured I knew the ins and outs of earning a buck and, with pyramid schemes flooding Ellsworth, my ex and I thought why earn the buck when you could swindle it; after all that was faster and easier - or so it was thought…
Her ex and my ex worked together, old Mr. Bellows kept them pounding nails and scraping paint but work was scarce and times were tough; everyone one was on the look out for a way to improve their situations. Somehow, our exes pulled together a plan…probably the best (only good) idea they ever had.
I was informed one afternoon that we would be hosting an event, a meet-n-greet of sorts to learn all about a new business opportunity (thoughts of a pyramid scheme came rushing to the forefront) and I was to be prepared for my life to change. Change it did; however, not in the way the exes thought it might. Amway may have been their spiel of choice, thoughts of riches beyond their imaginations, dreams of quick bucks and self employment, busier and richer then Sam Walton; but it was the long haired lady that altered my life. Granted Amway did have that get-rich-quick jingle to it but I discovered something worth more than cash.
She sat in our living room quiet as a mouse. She had long blonde wavy hair, tall, slender, eloquently dressed (like a proper lady on her way to church); she spoke softly, sharing her hopes and dreams in a soft voice just above a whisper. Her and her husband were to be our sponsors, the people just above us, the ones we would have to go-to and I thought… “Oh god! This will never work - her and I are just going to clash!” She was too sweet, too doting on her husband, too kind, too gullible…not at all someone I could mesh with but like my mumma always told me - never judge a book by it’s cover.
And boy o’ boy was mumma right about that! Wasn’t too long into this ‘working’ relationship that her and I got to know one another…..like I said, milk and cookies. Now I had friends prior to her; first male friend from Kindergarten who stomped on my toes to get ahead in the water fountain line , my first female friend who lost the silver glove to my Michal Jackson Barbie doll, and others along the way…but she tops them all.
We are far from perfect; we can not always be there for each other the way the other one thinks is best. I remember when I was getting married she was no where in my life to be found, nor was she when I was pregnant with my first child; it was hard and it hurt, even put a bit of a strain on us for awhile but we talked and worked it out. I, in turn, have not always been there for her; sadly there have been times that I have let her down too. It’s hard when that happens because it hurts worse then anything I can describe. The very thought of losing one another aches more then all the toothaches in my life combined, stings more then the time I stepped on the bee jumping off our old tire swing, throbs more than the severe migraines I’ve been enduring do to high amounts of stress and crippling back pains….I believe the point is being made that it would really simply bite (worse than nursing babies with first teeth).
But the good out weighs the bad; there have been more times then I can count or even recall that we have been there for one another. I believe we are like Thelma and Louise, Selma and Patty, Betty White and the rest of the Golden Girls all balled into two; we would go to the ends of the earth for one another. The tails I could tell of bail outs from jail or pick-ups after being drugged by a coworker; no questions asked, no judgments made - we were just there - best friends.
How does a quiet mouse evolve into the bestest friend of all times…well, that road is different for everyone and a lot will depend if you are traveling on that same road or not. Amway did more then sell their SA8 laundry detergent that year… At one point, we all took a business trip to Rhode Island, we read the required reading on the way down, “Chicken Soup for the Soul”, shacked up with their sponsors and attended the big Amway conference; boy did that company know how to put on an event. Ricky Van Shelton blared across the arena and into the night; when my new pal smashed her head on the cement ceiling of the parking garage from being excited and overjoyed by the times we were sharing together and just laughed it off…I knew it was friendship at first smash - the mouse was knocked clear out and I knew from that moment we were kindred spirits - her and I…milk and cookies.
Now, I’ve always heard blood is thicker than water…. but is blood thicker than milk?
Not for class. Just for me.
There’s two of you but you are both the same
Called different things but go by one name
Stories you told seemed honest and true
I was a fool to buy into them and to believe either of you
One bites the heart, the other the mind;
Together blood is shed and pain is left behind
You won’t read this, you don’t care to see
The damage your lies do and the pain you cause me
You may look, you may scan but it will be done in vain
Because only seeing what you want, there is nothing to gain
Twisting this up to make yourself feel all right
Behind closed doors and into the night
No one will see, the smile stays on
But the pain that is caused is still very wrong
Wanting something more searching everywhere
Pause and look, maybe what you want is already there
Only you can stop it and clear up the haze
Hoping and praying this is only a faze
When a soul sheds its’ shell, only the body sticks around
You will miss what you had, it’ll be no where to be found
Deceased or thriving, I’ll find the path
With you, without you; you do the math
Two is two, one is one;
Bottom line is… I’m simply done.
Called different things but go by one name
Stories you told seemed honest and true
I was a fool to buy into them and to believe either of you
One bites the heart, the other the mind;
Together blood is shed and pain is left behind
You won’t read this, you don’t care to see
The damage your lies do and the pain you cause me
You may look, you may scan but it will be done in vain
Because only seeing what you want, there is nothing to gain
Twisting this up to make yourself feel all right
Behind closed doors and into the night
No one will see, the smile stays on
But the pain that is caused is still very wrong
Wanting something more searching everywhere
Pause and look, maybe what you want is already there
Only you can stop it and clear up the haze
Hoping and praying this is only a faze
When a soul sheds its’ shell, only the body sticks around
You will miss what you had, it’ll be no where to be found
Deceased or thriving, I’ll find the path
With you, without you; you do the math
Two is two, one is one;
Bottom line is… I’m simply done.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Week 5: Audience & Adult Memoir
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.
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.
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
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
A challenge to work towards...
It's dark and dreary out this morning so I've spent an exceedingly large amount of time just playing on-line; not a good habit. However, while researching, I came across something that gave me a chill when I read it:
"Man is born to Die, His Works are Short-lived Buildings Crumble, Monuments Decay, Wealth Vanishes But Katahdin in All Its Glory Forever Shall Remain the Mountain of the People of Maine"
What is my passion for wanting to climb this mountain? I simply don't know but it doesn't change my desire to want to do it. I can see myself at the top, resting, viewing the world before me with the breeze cooling me down and the same chill I felt this morning when I read that quote, climbing up my spine and allowing a shiver to escape my body. Sitting upon mother earth will I feel her heartbeat? Will it be a feeling of accomplishment? Closer to the divine? A connection to the earth? Or will it just be?
I was reading a bit about Katahdin and read that it is very rich in Native American lore. The Native American tribes were wise beyond what man today will ever fully understand or appreciate; they would recognize the importance of working together, leaving pride behind and honoring all the souls for their connected contributes - so unlike man today.
This journey I feel I'm on with this weight loss, this search for a healthier happier me, I'm learning that I can not - nor should I try to believe - that it should be done alone....it is a tribe that helps carry us when our muscles rest. To think otherwise would be foolish...and I have thought otherwise thus the long rollercoaster ride I was once buying countless tickets to ride.
If I was to start dishing out 'thank yous' for the parts of my body that have already left me (like one of my extra butts) the list is already lengthy and I'm only half way there.
I've talked with others and hear them tell me about how hard they have worked to shed some pounds and control their diets and in their stories I hear a lot of "I", "me" and "my"....well, I don't doubt it - I believe they've worked very hard - heck I know I have but that's only a part of it. It took support, encouraging words (even unencouraging words), babysitting, cash, time, effort and so much more from friends, family, new acquaintances and even strangers. It's funny how so much ties together. Each day is a struggle, something new that I encounter and by the end of the day I've met a new person that I need to thank.
Today’s challenge was a Twinkie. Odd eh? I don't usually buy them or even allow them in the house but yesterday was Zac's birthday and his request was for Twinkies. Phoebe brought one to me this morning to open for her... my heart raced, pulse quickened and even a few droplets of sweat trickled down my brow. My mind thought of a zillion reasons not to eat it a zillion other reasons why it would be ok to just indulge. Bless (bless is a code word for shoot) the people who can simply indulge and gain no extra weight for doing so. Curse (curse is code word for reward) those of us who can not and have the will power to walk away. However, I feel a slight tremble as I write this...perhaps the battle is not over just yet. The Twinkie and I will perhaps still have our face off...till then I thank the extra children in my home for asking for Twinkies for breakfast.
So, the challenge I'm working toward....is it the hike up Katahdin or is it the hike along the rocky edge of my will power?
"Man is born to Die, His Works are Short-lived Buildings Crumble, Monuments Decay, Wealth Vanishes But Katahdin in All Its Glory Forever Shall Remain the Mountain of the People of Maine"
What is my passion for wanting to climb this mountain? I simply don't know but it doesn't change my desire to want to do it. I can see myself at the top, resting, viewing the world before me with the breeze cooling me down and the same chill I felt this morning when I read that quote, climbing up my spine and allowing a shiver to escape my body. Sitting upon mother earth will I feel her heartbeat? Will it be a feeling of accomplishment? Closer to the divine? A connection to the earth? Or will it just be?
I was reading a bit about Katahdin and read that it is very rich in Native American lore. The Native American tribes were wise beyond what man today will ever fully understand or appreciate; they would recognize the importance of working together, leaving pride behind and honoring all the souls for their connected contributes - so unlike man today.
This journey I feel I'm on with this weight loss, this search for a healthier happier me, I'm learning that I can not - nor should I try to believe - that it should be done alone....it is a tribe that helps carry us when our muscles rest. To think otherwise would be foolish...and I have thought otherwise thus the long rollercoaster ride I was once buying countless tickets to ride.
If I was to start dishing out 'thank yous' for the parts of my body that have already left me (like one of my extra butts) the list is already lengthy and I'm only half way there.
I've talked with others and hear them tell me about how hard they have worked to shed some pounds and control their diets and in their stories I hear a lot of "I", "me" and "my"....well, I don't doubt it - I believe they've worked very hard - heck I know I have but that's only a part of it. It took support, encouraging words (even unencouraging words), babysitting, cash, time, effort and so much more from friends, family, new acquaintances and even strangers. It's funny how so much ties together. Each day is a struggle, something new that I encounter and by the end of the day I've met a new person that I need to thank.
Today’s challenge was a Twinkie. Odd eh? I don't usually buy them or even allow them in the house but yesterday was Zac's birthday and his request was for Twinkies. Phoebe brought one to me this morning to open for her... my heart raced, pulse quickened and even a few droplets of sweat trickled down my brow. My mind thought of a zillion reasons not to eat it a zillion other reasons why it would be ok to just indulge. Bless (bless is a code word for shoot) the people who can simply indulge and gain no extra weight for doing so. Curse (curse is code word for reward) those of us who can not and have the will power to walk away. However, I feel a slight tremble as I write this...perhaps the battle is not over just yet. The Twinkie and I will perhaps still have our face off...till then I thank the extra children in my home for asking for Twinkies for breakfast.
So, the challenge I'm working toward....is it the hike up Katahdin or is it the hike along the rocky edge of my will power?
Monday, June 28, 2010
It's been awhile...
Everyone has to start somewhere - right? But where to start....
Remember being younger and playing the game, "Life"? I sucked at that game (nothing like Monopoly). Why did I not see it - that "Life" was surprisingly similar to life.
However, they should update and add a few more realistic spots. I mean sure - some are right on the money like all those little spots after you get married...honeymoons are a lot like that - one problem after another right from the beginning (and p.s. to newly weds - it never stops and I'm not referring to the sex - that often does or at least slows down). The spots I'm referring to that should be added are ones like, "go back 10 spaces for moving back in with your folks" or "lose a turn for gaining 50 extra pounds that you can not blame on the new baby". You know things along this line.
I mean they do not teach you in high school about real life; we learn all sorts of useful things - history, science, algebra and how to sneak a smoke on your break but what you don't learn is how to not get bored in your marriage, how to survive on macaroni and ketchup and not gain extra weight or how to find and keep a decent paying job when all you learned prior to graduation is history, science, algebra.
Ok, I'm downplaying the importance of education. I don't mean to do that, it is important, valuable and I'm happy to have had it but looking back I realize there is room for improvements in the system but that's another story.
In all honesty so much of my life so far I've had to learn as I go...trial and error and it's not the easiest course. Remember how our parents told us not to do something because they had been there done that and then whatever they said next we didn't hear because we were too busy rolling our eyes and thinking about how we were going to sneak out with our friends later that evening....well, maybe our parents were on to something with those warnings - if only I had listened.
No, instead I learned on my own - as I went - the hard way. I can't say that is is the road less traveled...so many of us don't listen - no, no I encountered a lot of other people going through things just like I was - many other fools.
So now I'm 33 years old and I can feel myself on a different road once again. Wait, better yet, a different level. You know those "over the hill" jokes...well guess what - there really is a freaking hill! Yep, that's right. Here's my take on it so far...
At the bottom on the first side is all the pretty green grass and wild flowers - we are all just babes in Toyland at this point. Not a care in the world simply enjoying the new bodies we were born into.
We climb a couple of rocks as teens and get a taste for that level up. We get cocky and daring. We now see the grass below and realize if we fall...it's not really so far. So we do stupid things - skip school, try the pot, have sex with a variety of people, smoke the cigs and get so drunk our friends carry us home and sneak us in through our bedroom windows.
Our twenties are only a couple of stones higher but it is a major difference because now we think we know it all. We want to be adults but we still want our meals cooked for us and our laundry washed and dried by mumma. We've discovered that we must work to stay on those higher rocks but we are not ready to spend our earnings on the necessities...we feel the need for the latest movie, ipod, or cell phone is way more important at this time. Our elders are all clueless and the youth is so annoying. In our twenties - we own that hill.
We hit our 30's and this was like a big jump and the hill developed cliffs...we are climbing them all through our 30's. If we have yet married we are looking - fearing our child bearing years are nearing their end. If we have married and had children we wonder why the hell we did that so soon. Our loved ones that are just a bit older start to die and the younger ones are screwing up left and right and we've dished out so many "I've told you so's" that we realize karma is knocking at the door along with the bill collectors. We teeter on the edge of our trail up the hill and contemplate life frequently but are often so busy wrapped up in the moment that we don't realize it is passing us by. At this point in time, many of us realize with all of our contemplations, what they heck have we done to ourselves and how can we fix it. This could be in the form of failed marriages, one too many run ins with the law, failed childhood dreams, or simply the shallow fact that we can no longer walk up stairs without sweating and gasping for air and we can no longer fit into those jeans we were wearing just a few months (years) ago...the ones in the back of our closets (men have them too) that looked so great on us (in our teens and twenties) and now have a layer of fat (new) clothes piled up on top of them. We wonder.... "what the hell happened and when?"
And so I guess here is where I begin...
Remember being younger and playing the game, "Life"? I sucked at that game (nothing like Monopoly). Why did I not see it - that "Life" was surprisingly similar to life.
However, they should update and add a few more realistic spots. I mean sure - some are right on the money like all those little spots after you get married...honeymoons are a lot like that - one problem after another right from the beginning (and p.s. to newly weds - it never stops and I'm not referring to the sex - that often does or at least slows down). The spots I'm referring to that should be added are ones like, "go back 10 spaces for moving back in with your folks" or "lose a turn for gaining 50 extra pounds that you can not blame on the new baby". You know things along this line.
I mean they do not teach you in high school about real life; we learn all sorts of useful things - history, science, algebra and how to sneak a smoke on your break but what you don't learn is how to not get bored in your marriage, how to survive on macaroni and ketchup and not gain extra weight or how to find and keep a decent paying job when all you learned prior to graduation is history, science, algebra.
Ok, I'm downplaying the importance of education. I don't mean to do that, it is important, valuable and I'm happy to have had it but looking back I realize there is room for improvements in the system but that's another story.
In all honesty so much of my life so far I've had to learn as I go...trial and error and it's not the easiest course. Remember how our parents told us not to do something because they had been there done that and then whatever they said next we didn't hear because we were too busy rolling our eyes and thinking about how we were going to sneak out with our friends later that evening....well, maybe our parents were on to something with those warnings - if only I had listened.
No, instead I learned on my own - as I went - the hard way. I can't say that is is the road less traveled...so many of us don't listen - no, no I encountered a lot of other people going through things just like I was - many other fools.
So now I'm 33 years old and I can feel myself on a different road once again. Wait, better yet, a different level. You know those "over the hill" jokes...well guess what - there really is a freaking hill! Yep, that's right. Here's my take on it so far...
At the bottom on the first side is all the pretty green grass and wild flowers - we are all just babes in Toyland at this point. Not a care in the world simply enjoying the new bodies we were born into.
We climb a couple of rocks as teens and get a taste for that level up. We get cocky and daring. We now see the grass below and realize if we fall...it's not really so far. So we do stupid things - skip school, try the pot, have sex with a variety of people, smoke the cigs and get so drunk our friends carry us home and sneak us in through our bedroom windows.
Our twenties are only a couple of stones higher but it is a major difference because now we think we know it all. We want to be adults but we still want our meals cooked for us and our laundry washed and dried by mumma. We've discovered that we must work to stay on those higher rocks but we are not ready to spend our earnings on the necessities...we feel the need for the latest movie, ipod, or cell phone is way more important at this time. Our elders are all clueless and the youth is so annoying. In our twenties - we own that hill.
We hit our 30's and this was like a big jump and the hill developed cliffs...we are climbing them all through our 30's. If we have yet married we are looking - fearing our child bearing years are nearing their end. If we have married and had children we wonder why the hell we did that so soon. Our loved ones that are just a bit older start to die and the younger ones are screwing up left and right and we've dished out so many "I've told you so's" that we realize karma is knocking at the door along with the bill collectors. We teeter on the edge of our trail up the hill and contemplate life frequently but are often so busy wrapped up in the moment that we don't realize it is passing us by. At this point in time, many of us realize with all of our contemplations, what they heck have we done to ourselves and how can we fix it. This could be in the form of failed marriages, one too many run ins with the law, failed childhood dreams, or simply the shallow fact that we can no longer walk up stairs without sweating and gasping for air and we can no longer fit into those jeans we were wearing just a few months (years) ago...the ones in the back of our closets (men have them too) that looked so great on us (in our teens and twenties) and now have a layer of fat (new) clothes piled up on top of them. We wonder.... "what the hell happened and when?"
And so I guess here is where I begin...
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Week 16 Theme Choice 4
Week 16 Theme Choice 4
Choice #4 Week 16. Write about yourself as a writer--hopes and dreams, strengths and weaknesses, ambitions and failures; reactions to the semester, what changed for better or worse in your writing; course experiences, problems, positives.
Some people like to draw, paint, sing, jog daily, build things…..me, I like to write. Paper is my own little, personal (and inexpensive) counselor. I love finding small details unique and exciting and utilizing those discoveries in various poems, stories, and such (if only you knew the true speck of dust some of these stories stemmed from); it’s like a sick challenged of sorts that I’m obsessed with. I completely enjoy writing about my family, when one of them says to me, “I’m so bored, my life is so dull.” - I write a story about them; just to prove them wrong…all in good fun. It’s grand to capture memories on paper the way a photographer does with a picture; precious things and people fade and become lost if we don’t preserve those memories. Not too mention it is very exciting to write a piece and have it move someone…to tears – to laughter – or to be completely pissed off – whatever the emotion – it’s fun just to know you brought that on with your thoughts and crazy out looks. That’s how I feel anyway.
My weaknesses are retched; I procrastinate something wicked. There are times I am well aware that I do it…I tend to work best under pressure but then there are times that are just beyond my control. It’s a weaknesses that can prove to be beneficial or can really wear me down after countless sleepless nights working late hours to catch up on things.
Another horrid weakness is this dang cement block that hinders my vision and weighs down my writing hand – it can go on for days, weeks, even months and sometimes it is a great challenge to lift it off and work past it. I feel as though my imagination just up and leaves for Hawaii a few times a year.
It’s fortunate in ways that I am still - basically….learning to fly (so to speak) because I do not have many failures on my plate pulling me down. I was hoping to be proud of some great writing accomplishment before my father passed away but that did not happen…but I continue because what child does not want their parents proud of them and mum still enjoys when I read foolishness to her.
This class has been…what a good word for it….like a fine vinaigrette. If you always have your salad plain and never venture out for a little spicy variety then you will never improve the taste of the salad.
Some weeks I really got into doing, I liked the memories the prompts brought up – other weeks felt like trips to the dentist….but with every pulled tooth comes the fairy – right and all your comments and tips and such were like valuable gold coins….not saying you are like a fairy or anything.
Honestly, any time I write and someone critiques it, I feel I’ve gained something….whether it is a new out look to a different approach, a bit more strength for handing judgments or whatever…but always something gained. I mean sometimes, especially with a nonfiction class, we really put ourselves out there – kinda like baring all.
Occasionally I wanted to comment on other people’s pieces in the class; there are some amazing writers in this group and it’s been quite enjoyable reading the variety of stuff. Other times, I would have liked to hear a few other opinions – specially on the pieces that you didn’t get…it would have been interesting to know if I was so far off – no one could get them or if it was just generation issues.
One of the biggest challenges I felt was the pressure of what to write and what not to, some weeks the lectures frightened me and I was like....ok – he doesn’t want this – this – this or this…so that leaves…this and there are already several good examples of “this” that I don’t want to copy so now I need to do….what again? Confusing. Exactly. Frustrating. Precisely. But fortunately you were not a stickler for requesting the assignments to be done by a certain date/time leaving opportunities for us to sleep on the lectures and really think about them for a while and work through all that.
Positive experiences…many! I honored a friend by writing a story about her life and her struggles, she had her family read it and that evening they all pitched in together to help her clean up the house and they all decorated the place for Christmas; that was a wonderful feeling. I read a few pieces to the sister who I worked with caring for our father during his last days and as I read we shared tears and memories and it was like our own form of therapy. Another sister who lives far away, I call frequently to read my stories to and we laugh and share together and it is very bonding and enjoyable. I could go on an on with the positives…I liked learning some of the different techniques to try. For example, after those torturous vignettes – a friend asked me to go watch the Nutcracker with her…but it was not the whole version it was only a vignette of it – so, finally – duh – got it!
So, to sum things up – I have no regrets. I enjoyed this class a great deal. Though, I know there are other options that are probably financially more appealing, I want to do more writing classes, fine tune, polish, and simply just keep doing what feels natural. I feel you’ve done a great job as an internet teacher – it must be quite a challenge to keep things interesting and to keep up with all of us posting a dozen weeks at a time! It’ll be interesting if we ever meet in person someday because over the course of this class I’ve developed my own impression on what sort of person I think you are – lol but I’ll save that for a creative fiction class.
Thank you for everything.
P.S.
Choice 3 - I would love to tackle but, your right….just to scared, don’t know where to begin, how to begin and now…times up.
Choice #4 Week 16. Write about yourself as a writer--hopes and dreams, strengths and weaknesses, ambitions and failures; reactions to the semester, what changed for better or worse in your writing; course experiences, problems, positives.
Some people like to draw, paint, sing, jog daily, build things…..me, I like to write. Paper is my own little, personal (and inexpensive) counselor. I love finding small details unique and exciting and utilizing those discoveries in various poems, stories, and such (if only you knew the true speck of dust some of these stories stemmed from); it’s like a sick challenged of sorts that I’m obsessed with. I completely enjoy writing about my family, when one of them says to me, “I’m so bored, my life is so dull.” - I write a story about them; just to prove them wrong…all in good fun. It’s grand to capture memories on paper the way a photographer does with a picture; precious things and people fade and become lost if we don’t preserve those memories. Not too mention it is very exciting to write a piece and have it move someone…to tears – to laughter – or to be completely pissed off – whatever the emotion – it’s fun just to know you brought that on with your thoughts and crazy out looks. That’s how I feel anyway.
My weaknesses are retched; I procrastinate something wicked. There are times I am well aware that I do it…I tend to work best under pressure but then there are times that are just beyond my control. It’s a weaknesses that can prove to be beneficial or can really wear me down after countless sleepless nights working late hours to catch up on things.
Another horrid weakness is this dang cement block that hinders my vision and weighs down my writing hand – it can go on for days, weeks, even months and sometimes it is a great challenge to lift it off and work past it. I feel as though my imagination just up and leaves for Hawaii a few times a year.
It’s fortunate in ways that I am still - basically….learning to fly (so to speak) because I do not have many failures on my plate pulling me down. I was hoping to be proud of some great writing accomplishment before my father passed away but that did not happen…but I continue because what child does not want their parents proud of them and mum still enjoys when I read foolishness to her.
This class has been…what a good word for it….like a fine vinaigrette. If you always have your salad plain and never venture out for a little spicy variety then you will never improve the taste of the salad.
Some weeks I really got into doing, I liked the memories the prompts brought up – other weeks felt like trips to the dentist….but with every pulled tooth comes the fairy – right and all your comments and tips and such were like valuable gold coins….not saying you are like a fairy or anything.
Honestly, any time I write and someone critiques it, I feel I’ve gained something….whether it is a new out look to a different approach, a bit more strength for handing judgments or whatever…but always something gained. I mean sometimes, especially with a nonfiction class, we really put ourselves out there – kinda like baring all.
Occasionally I wanted to comment on other people’s pieces in the class; there are some amazing writers in this group and it’s been quite enjoyable reading the variety of stuff. Other times, I would have liked to hear a few other opinions – specially on the pieces that you didn’t get…it would have been interesting to know if I was so far off – no one could get them or if it was just generation issues.
One of the biggest challenges I felt was the pressure of what to write and what not to, some weeks the lectures frightened me and I was like....ok – he doesn’t want this – this – this or this…so that leaves…this and there are already several good examples of “this” that I don’t want to copy so now I need to do….what again? Confusing. Exactly. Frustrating. Precisely. But fortunately you were not a stickler for requesting the assignments to be done by a certain date/time leaving opportunities for us to sleep on the lectures and really think about them for a while and work through all that.
Positive experiences…many! I honored a friend by writing a story about her life and her struggles, she had her family read it and that evening they all pitched in together to help her clean up the house and they all decorated the place for Christmas; that was a wonderful feeling. I read a few pieces to the sister who I worked with caring for our father during his last days and as I read we shared tears and memories and it was like our own form of therapy. Another sister who lives far away, I call frequently to read my stories to and we laugh and share together and it is very bonding and enjoyable. I could go on an on with the positives…I liked learning some of the different techniques to try. For example, after those torturous vignettes – a friend asked me to go watch the Nutcracker with her…but it was not the whole version it was only a vignette of it – so, finally – duh – got it!
So, to sum things up – I have no regrets. I enjoyed this class a great deal. Though, I know there are other options that are probably financially more appealing, I want to do more writing classes, fine tune, polish, and simply just keep doing what feels natural. I feel you’ve done a great job as an internet teacher – it must be quite a challenge to keep things interesting and to keep up with all of us posting a dozen weeks at a time! It’ll be interesting if we ever meet in person someday because over the course of this class I’ve developed my own impression on what sort of person I think you are – lol but I’ll save that for a creative fiction class.
Thank you for everything.
P.S.
Choice 3 - I would love to tackle but, your right….just to scared, don’t know where to begin, how to begin and now…times up.
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