Once

February 9, 2020
It's strange
and sometimes somewhat
unsettling
to think that there used to be
places, events, moments, things
that used to be ours
and now they're
yours
or mine
or even yours and mine
separately.
It's even more strange and
unsettling sometimes
to remember
to realize
that we are okay with this.
You are,
and I am,
separately, on our own.

In Too Deep

July 7, 2017

Summer in July. If you’re from Fresno, that means if humanly possible, you’ll spend as much time in the pool as you can. If you’re a kid in the 1970s in Fresno, that means every day, all day, flaunting the scorching sizzle of 105 degrees of unrelenting heat by splashing, playing, and diving into the deliciousness of the backyard pool. We had sitting-on-the-bottom-of-the-pool contests, and races walking on our hands into the deep end. We belly-flopped and did back flips and cannonballs off the diving board. We took breaks to run in the house to pee if we thought Mom was paying attention; we didn’t run into the house if we thought we could get away with it, because it was so much work to drag ourselves out and away from the fun, dry ourselves off completely so as not to drip a trail of water through the house, and peel off (and then put back on) the cold, soggy suit just to run back out and rejoin whatever games were in progress. (I know you’re judging here; I also know you’ve done it too. And if you have kids now, you’re fooling yourself if you think they’ve never peed in your pool.)

We had a built-in group of playmates, since there were five of us kids. Our next-door neighbors had ten kids, some of whom were older and out of the house, but many of whom were right there with us in our pool every day. Around lunchtime, Mom would often appear with a stack of sandwiches and some grapes or oranges. We also feasted off of the two mulberry bushes that were in our backyard. (Until we moved to that house, I thought mulberry was just a made-up word that was used in a nursery rhyme.) We knew Mom was in the house and was only a yell away in case of emergencies, but she didn’t often come out to the pool to swim with us. She was scared of swimming, borne of the sink-or-swim lessons she had as a child, when her step-dad threw her into the lake and told her she’d have to figure out how to get back to land on her own. She never got over the panic she felt around water, but she wanted us to have a pool. (She also paid to take us to swim lessons so we could learn how to swim in a less threatening environment than she did.) Although Mom occasionally passed by the kitchen window with a casual “Be careful!” or “Watch your little brother!”, we were mostly joyously, raucously, exuberantly free from parents, from worries, from cares about anything more important than which kid got to decide the next game that we played. Sun up to sundown, that’s where we were. It’s a wonder we survived without drowning or sunstroke.

Today we wouldn’t dream of leaving our young kids to their own devices all day, especially not in the pool. The dangerous part for us, though, was when Dad was off for the weekends and he decided to join us in the pool. Dad liked to rough house and was impatient with ‘weakness’. He’d jump in the pool and wrestle and fight, pitting his 200 pound frame against his 12 year old son, his 10 and 8 year old daughters. On the one hand, we liked when he would join in our games; he was a busy man and spent a lot of time at the office during the week days. There was always an edge, though—the feeling that things could turn at any moment. They often did. Riding on Dad’s back was fun; watching him swan-dive into the pool, seeming to freeze momentarily mid-air to cockily salute and wave to an adoring audience—well, we loved those moments. But inevitably, Dad wanted to wrestle us, take us on precariously close to the deeper end of the pool where he could stand, but we could not. There was something strange that overcame him during those battles, a competitive spirit that could not be tempered with logic or reason. He played dirty, not one to let his kids get the better of him. His signature move was to suddenly swing around to face whichever kid was trying to ride his back to bring him down. He’d swiftly reach out to hold us underwater, the palm of his hand planted firmly on the top of his opponent’s head—the ultimate show of superior strength and agility. To this day I can remember the feeling of being held, firmly and helplessly, under the surface, just moments shy of far too long—arms flailing, panicked eyes casting about for some means of escape, feeling the burning sensation in my lungs and knowing I couldn’t hold my breath anymore. I remember several times thinking, “He’s going to forget to let me up in time. I’m going to drown before he lets me up!” Inevitably, when Dad did finally let me or my brother or sister up from his vise-like grip, we’d either be angry (my brother, my sister), or we’d be crying. Gary even tried to sucker punch Dad in retaliation once, but a swift, sneak attack underwater is difficult to pull off. It set Dad off even more, and Gary was pushed underwater once again in order for Dad to underscore his dominance. Dad’s victorious gloating grin after these matches would be eclipsed by that impatient, irrational anger. He’d call us babies, he’d rail at us for playing the game and then being sore losers. He’d become enraged and said he wouldn’t play with us anymore, and then he’d either banish us to the shallow end or tell us we weren’t big enough to go in the pool at all and would make us get out for the day. He’d brood and sulk for the rest of the day. There were always arguments with my mother, too, when she told him he needed to be more gentle with us; he needed to remember that he was bigger and stronger than all of us. He, on the other hand, didn’t want to raise sissies; he didn’t want to have weaklings for kids. We needed to get over it and toughen up. At the same time, he seemed to need constant validation that we acknowledged him as the strongest, the wiliest of us all. He needed to know that we knew he was the alpha male. Even as a kid I thought it was irresponsible—unparental, even.

Those 1970s summers were seemingly carefree and without purpose, but they taught me a lot, too, about what I expect, and what I accept, from those who hold positions of power in my personal, professional, and public world. Back then, I was willing to jump back in the pool again and again, knowing that danger and anger lurked there, for the trade-off of my father’s playful bravado and fun that always preceded it. But I what I eventually realized is that risking my well-being in order to feed someone else’s insecurities is simply not worth diving into. Is it selfish to not want to drown under the weight of someone else’s baggage? Those hot summer days taught me that being selfish is sometimes necessary for survival.

Memories

March 7, 2017

Our memories alone are silent black and white films. Shared, they are fuller, richer, technicolor prisms, reflecting a multiplicity of shades, perspectives, and details. Collective memory is shared humanity.

The Fletcher Experience

March 6, 2017

A couple of weeks ago, on a whim, I looked up my old 5th and 6th grade teacher on Facebook.  I had tried to look him up before, but it's tough to look up folks when you don't know their first name--or if their first name is "Mr.".  Anyway, he was one of those incredibly unique and interesting educators that not all students are fortunate enough to encounter in their careers, and he made quite an impression on me in my young days.  I always wondered where he ended up.

Recently, it came to me that perhaps I was remembering that Neil was his first name, though I couldn't be sure.  I did a quick search and found a Leo Neil Fletcher.  I looked at a couple of pictures to determine if he was someone I recognized; I saw a couple of pictures of him (I was fairly certain I recognized that mischievous twinkle in his eye), but mostly I saw some incredible underwater marine life photography.  Leo Neil Fletcher was a world traveler, an adventurous diver, and an excellent photographer.  This certainly fit my memory of Mr. Fletcher--a consummate outdoorsman and a free spirit. I didn't know if he'd remember some shy kid who was in his class some 40(!) years ago, but I thought even if it wasn't him, the photographer in me was thrilled by the beauty in his work.  I decided I'd like to connect with him.  Within minutes of my friend request, he accepted.  Two days later he messaged to ask me if I was the same Donna Mayes who was in his class at Dry Creek Elementary so long ago and after confirming, we exchanged a few  'where-has-life's-journey-taken-you' messages.  I tagged him in a couple of old pictures from those early days, which led him to reconnect with a few of my classmates, including my two best friends back then, Kari and Missy.

After a little trip down memory lane, Mr. Fletcher suggested it might be fun for those of us who were still local to have a mini reunion of sorts--he was on a brief hiatus from his travels and was game to catch up with some of his very first students.  We planned to meet up at The Elbow Room on Friday night.

Six of us were there, plus Mr. Fletcher.  Still the consummate story-teller, Mr. Fletcher regaled us with anecdotes that he remembered, and we shared some of our favorite memories.  There was bombarge (Dodgeball), and marching out of the blacktop, competing with the other classes.  There was a love of reading--he read us The Hobbit, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, among others, and weekend camping trips.  There was the incident with Bo and the alligator lizard, and an epic footrace against the fastest kid in our class, which naturally, Mr. Fletcher won.  There was the movie that Mr. Fletcher took three of us to see after we'd won a reading contest in class.  (The movie was Ice Castles, by the way.  I can't remember who the other girl was that came, but I do remember that she and I overruled the boy, Derek, who most certainly did NOT pick Ice Castles as his first choice.  I also remember, sitting in the theater, that I thought even then that the movie was perhaps not quite appropriate for 5th graders, but I really wanted to see it anyway.  In retrospect, there were a lot of things that I think Mr. Fletcher got away with; call it beginner's luck, or willful ignorance of the rules, or an adventuresome desire to stay just out of reach of the realm of the ordinary--the status quo. Doing things differently didn't mean we didn't learn; it just meant that we learned things in a way that was real and that stuck with us.  It's the thing that made him so memorable to us all.)

It's a strange feeling, straddling the world of the past and present simultaneously.  We sat there, both 49 and 9 , and he both 65 and 25.  We were at once teacher and students, and old acquaintances reconnecting over a drink and a meal, reminiscing about the Fletcher experience--a shared moment in time, many, many years ago. They say that a teacher's first class is impressed upon  one's memory in a way that is more indelible than classes that follow, no matter how much you love those subsequent years. As much as Mr. Fletcher made an impression on all of us, his students, I like to believe that as he sat there, laughing, connecting, remembering, that perhaps we made a lasting impression on him, too.

    Missy, me, and Kari

        Missy, Will, me, Mr. Fletcher, Tammy, Kari, and Eric

       Me and Mr. Fletcher

Memory Lane

May 18, 2013

Mike McGough, and old friend and colleague of Mom's from Clovis High, has been scanning and posting all sorts of pictures from his old yearbooks lately.  As I was scrolling through the hundreds of pictures (from several years) that he'd posted, I found a few of myself from my senior yearbook.  It's been really fun to see all of the comments and responses from the many students he's reconnected with as he's taken us all on this trip down Memory Lane.

Pancakes, Anyone?

May 1, 2013

I'm the only one on the planet apparently who doesn't like pancakes.  I don't like waffles and I can't stand syrup, but mostly, I really, really, really don't like pancakes. 

The rest of the world, however, views them as comfort food, symbolic of home, love, Mom.  Idyllic family around the breakfast table kind of symbolic.  Somehow pancakes are something like the Norman Rockwell nostalgia food.  I don't get it.

When I was a kid, my mom would try every possible way to make pancakes appetizing to me.  Maple syrup?  Nope.  Berry flavored?  (Straw-, blue-, rasp-....whatever.)  Gag.  Plain butter? Mush sticking to the roof of my mouth.  Thin, thick, covered in whipped cream or powdered sugar, spread with peanut butter and rolled up?  Even covered with chocolate syrup?  There may have been melodramatics involved in my reactions to any and all of these offerings, but the response was always the same at its core:  no amount of disguise could mask the unmistakable taste and texture of the awful pancake.

You might not know it to read about my adamant response to pancakes, but in virtually all other ways in my young life I was a people-pleaser.  I wanted to make people happy and have them smile at me.  (Really, I wasn't a brat.  I was a good kid who tried almost any food my mom set down in front of me, at least once.  That was our rule.)

When I was eleven years old, my mom hit a crossroads in her life.  For her safety and well-being, she decided she needed to get herself and her kids out of our home and onto a new life.  We were without home and without most of our belongings, and the youth pastor at our church opened his door to us on that first night while mom tried to figure out what her next step should be.  I knew, as did all of my siblings, that we were to be respectful and thankful guests in his home, since Mom felt guilty about imposing herself and all five of her kids on someone else. That's a lot of baggage. We were quiet, probably a little frightened and stunned by the turn of events that led us to their doorstep to begin with, and having left our home--for good, it would turn out--late in the night, we were exhausted.  Not much talking that first night.  That would come later.

We slept in our clothes and woke up the next morning all huddled together in blanket pallets on the floor.  After all, not many people have an extra five or six beds at their disposal, so we slept together in the living room, Mom on the couch and the rest of us on the floor.  We awoke foggy and not quite remembering where we were, whether or not the events of last night had been a terrible dream.  Our youth pastor's wife, knowing everything we had gone through the previous evening, did what many folks do in those kinds of situations--she cooked comfort for us.  Breakfast was already being served up on sunshiny yellow plates at the kitchen counter as we stumbled out of the living room rubbing the sleep from our eyes.

Hopping up onto the high kitchen stools, she set a plate in front of each of us--three huge, fluffy pancakes each, laden with butter and dripping with gooey, sticky maple syrup.  Sher--the youth pastor's wife--had kind eyes and was wearing an-everything-is-going-to-be-alright smile, one that was meant to be reassuring to us.  "Your mama's still asleep; let's let her get some rest while you eat breakfast."  She noticed me picking at mine and mistook my lack of interest for depression or sadness.  "Honey, please eat up.  Everything is going to be okay, I promise."  And she looked at me with such earnestness, such a desire to make us all feel okay again, that I couldn't let her down.  I felt guilty.  Ungrateful.  And so I ate.  And she smiled.

I choked down every bite of those three over-sized pancakes.  I'm not sure how I did it, honestly.  But I was proud of myself for being the good guest, allowing our host to feel good about making us feel better, and I turned to my older brother to ask about whether or not we'd be going to school that day.  After all, our world had pretty much turned upside down.  Did normal rules apply still?  I turned back to finish off my orange juice just as Sher was coming back with a spatula stacked with three more pancakes.  "Here, Sweetie.  I knew you must have been hungry!  You ate those so quickly, I thought you might want seconds."  I tried to decline, but she insisted, thinking I was just being shy.  Just then Mom came into the kitchen, also still in her clothes from the night before, bruised face and swollen lip still evident from her struggle the night before, the cause of us leaving behind everything we knew.

"Donna, what are you eating?  You don't like pancakes!"

I saw Sher looking a bit crestfallen.  "No, no, Mom.  It's okay!  I like them now!"  Sher went to take back the three new pancakes back.

"You don't have to eat them if you don't want to.  You should have told me!  I would have made you something else, poor thing!"

I felt bad.  I didn't want her to think I didn't appreciate her feeding us all, taking care of us.  "No really!  I want them.  I'm still really hungry.  May I have them, please?"  Ignoring the look from my mother, I watched Sher load up my plate with more butter and syrup, and then I dug in.  And I ate every last bite of pancakes number four, five, and six.

Immediately after I finished, I excused myself and promptly went to the bathroom to throw up.  Thirty-five years ago, and I haven't eaten a pancake since.

That incident didn't cause my intense dislike for pancakes, but I'm pretty sure it sealed the deal. 

 

The Story Behind the Picture

April 12, 2012

This may seem a random time and place in my blog for this particular entry, so I'll give it a little context. I'm working with my students on descriptive writing right now, and we're doing a photo essay assignment. So as to illustrate the difference between describing what they see in the picture as opposed to describing the story behind the photo, I chose one of my own pictures and used it as an example. This picture of my brother and me happens to be one of my favorites, so this is the one I chose.

Here's the basics of my photo:

Who? My brother Gary and me

What? Opening Christmas presents

When? Christmas, probably 1969

Where? My house in Oklahoma

Why? Well...because it was Christmas!

Not much of a story, huh? No emotions there, nothing to draw the interest of an objective 'reader' of the picture. So what's the story behind the photo? Why is it meaningful to me? Here's a fuller 'picture' of the picture:

I love the smell of pine needles. It means Christmas to me, and Christmas means a great many things to me: love, family, joy, magic. From the time I was a cherub-faced little tot, I have anxiously awaited Christmas morning and all of the gifts, both literal and figurative, it brings. Many, many years ago, before our family was a family of seven, we were a tight-knit group of four, and my older brother, impish and fiercely intelligent, was my hero. On Christmas mornings, I'd follow his lead: he'd listen intently at the door to hear whether or not Mom or Dad was stirring, which was our cue. We were not allowed to open our door until we knew they were awake. When he heard the coffee pot brewing, we'd run out to the living room to see mounds of colorful presents piled high under the festive tree, manyof them bigger than both of us, and stockings filled to the brim with sweets and trinkets.

As a young boy, Gary was, like me, filled with the joy of Christmas. There was a sweetness and an innocence in his face, and always a twinkle in his eye. He played with me, a sense of tenderness in his touch as he patted me on the head and helped my chubby little hands rip at the shiny paper that would reveal a dolly or a stuffed bear for me to love. He was protective of me, and wanted me to be happy.

Later in life, when he succumbed to the demons that haunted his later days--depression, bi-polar disorder, addiction first to alcohol and later to prescription pain killers, and eventually the cancer that ended his life, it was hard to remember the sweet little boy who once took me by the hand and led me through our childhood. When I look back at pictures of our family in our younger days, I can see again the sweet little boy who, for a time at least, knew happiness, and I'm forever thankful for those memories.

Steve Hall

November 14, 2011

When we went down to Southern California for Laura and Sean's engagement party, Doug found an opportunity to reconnect with someone he had been very close with several years ago when he was living down in San Diego. Doug had very recently come across Steve Hall on Facebook, and they had corresponded a bit. They were co-workers for about a year, and roomates as well, but had lost touch. With the advent of Facebook, they went in search of each other now and again, but sifting through all the Doug Smiths and Steve Halls out there on the internet is a bit of a daunting task. (Look them up if you don't believe me--a lot of folks seem to think Doug and Steve are great names for the offspring of the likes of the Mr. and Mrs. Smiths and Mr. and Mrs. Halls out in the world.) Eventually, though, their Facebook profiles crossed. It was only a matter of time.

As luck would have it, Steve is currently living not far from where we were going to be that weekend, and as a matter of fact had business to attend to in Santa Monica, which is where the engagement party was being held. Since I knew I had to drive the college kids back down to San Diego on Sunday, Doug had an afternoon to himself. He called Steve and arranged to meet up at a poolroom in Santa Monica. It was actually an ideal way to meet after so many years, since Doug cites Steve as one of his main influences in becoming the real pool player he is today. When they knew each other down in San Diego, they spent a lot of time at pool rooms, and Steve was a good player--better than Doug was, by Doug's own admission. Though they shared good times, good conversation, and easy rapport, their pool games always had the same outcome back in those days--Doug did a lot of racking the balls back then. Probably an association of those good times--combined with a somewhat competitive nature--spurred Doug on to pursue the game of pool and to develop the impressive and considerable skill he developed over time.

In meeting up again, both Doug and Steve found themselves falling right back into the comfortable conversation of good friends--you know the ones you can go for months or even years without speaking to, and yet it feels like just yesterday? They reminisced about old times and old stories, and caught up on where their life's paths had taken them. They made future plans to get together with the wives and kids. They ate, too, and of course there was pool--pretty good pool, as a matter of fact, even though Doug hasn't played much in the past couple of months. Good is good, you know? There's a sense memory there that doesn't really go away, once you get to a certain level. Kind of like the sense memory of a good friend from years past--time passes, but that connection is never really gone.

If I Wrote About You

November 9, 2011

If I wrote that you were the one who convinced me I was capable, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one who made me believe I was unworthy, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one I've always been in awe of, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one I was always a little afraid of, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one who saved me when I needed it, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one I thought was embarrassed by me, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one who had more faith in me than I ever did, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one I wished I could be like, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one I never could quite live up to, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one who showed me how men should treat women, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one who showed me how important friendship was in a relationship, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one who showed me how pasion can turn to anger, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one who showed me what magic can lie in a person's eyes, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one who made me question my worth, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one who made me believe I was beautiful, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one who pushed me to the edge of disaster, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one who brought me back from the edge, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one I feared would never go, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one who filled me with despair, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one I thought I deserved, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one I had to make my peace with, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one who made it all worthwhile, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one I felt made me whole, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one I wished against hope for, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one who made me realize how strong I am, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one who made me realize how lucky I am, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one who made me question the value of my voice, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one who made me feel my words, my thoughts, could really speak, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one who made me wish I had been able to reach you, would you recognize yourself?
If I wrote that you were the one who made me know that I had touched you, would you recognize yourself?

Would you recognize yourself? Would you see that you were important to me, to who I am, if I wrote about you? Would you see yourself there? Do you know who you are? Do you know who you are in my life story--which role you might have filled? Which roles?

If I wrote the story of my life, and the names were changed to protect the innocent--and the not-so-innocent--, would you know if you were there?

If someone wrote their story about me, would I know it? I sometimes wonder who I am to you--to anyone--in their own life story. I wonder if I would recognize myself.

Not Quite Normal, But None the Worse for the Wear

October 10, 2011

I spend a lot of time running my kids around to soccer and drama and choir and softball and robotics...you get the drill. When the kids were younger, there was T-ball, gymnastics, soccer, ballet, tap--if my kids expressed an interest, I thought I'd let them give it a try so they could see what 'spoke' to them.

When I was a kid, some of the same things my kids expressed interest in also appealed to me. My five-year-old little self was enamored of fancy tutus and the tip-tappy sounds of musically magical tap shoes. Little girl leotards were sparkly, and I wanted five or six fancy ones to wear to gymnastics class while I balanced precariously and glamorously atop the balance beam. I coveted the jaunty pink T-ball hats that the community Little League bestowed upon the little girls as they first learned the correct direction to run after hitting the ball off of the tee. I wanted all of those things desperately--things that many of my classmates had. I heard about them running off to practices and classes after school, and I wanted to join them. I saw myself, if I was able to join my classmates in their various glamorous activities, as elegant, beautiful, and graceful. Who wouldn't want to see me in all my finery out on the stage, or out on the gymnastics floor, or out on the baseball field? I know I wanted to see me there.

My mom, inexplicably, had other ideas about what I might like to try as a child. Who knows what her rationale was. Maybe she thought that having me try out an activity that was more obscure would give me an edge and help me excel in the field. Maybe the activities that she chose to sign me up for were simply less expensive lessons than the lessons my counterparts received. I really couldn't say. All I know is that when the other kids in the play group were off in their respective dance and gymnastics classes and learning about the rules of the great American sport of baseball, my mom ushered me into our 1970's Brady Bunch-style station wagon and drove me off to accordion lessons. Yes, you read that right; I learned the invaluable skill of playing a portable piano organ.

Now, lest you think I am disparaging the venerable art of the accordion musicians around the world, let me assure you I have respect for those who can play any instrument--any instrument. This many years later, this is a lost and mystical art to me. No, it's just that when I was taking lessons so many years ago, from an old man with an almost indecipherable accent in a tiny studio across town, I only knew one other person who was under the age of retirement who was learning to play the accordion, and that was my brother (also dragged unceremoniously, a fairly unwilling participant in the whole ordeal). I'm not sure if Mom thought we would eventually grow up and take the world by storm on the Lawrence Welk show with our modern renditions of polkas, or if she was grooming us for the life of a quirky street musician. Either way, our foray into this musical sub-culture was a brief one. My only real source of pride in the whole episode was that it was universally acknowledged (well, by my parents and my teacher, anyway) that even though I was two years younger than my brother, I was the better accordion player. A dubious distinction, to be sure, but I was proud of it, nonetheless. Sibling rivalry will do that to you.

You'd think after our undistinguished side-trip into the non-traditional that my mom might have learned her lesson and brought us back a little more center. You would think. But no, that's not exactly how it went. A few years passed, and Mom decided it was time to seek out a new extra-curricular activity for me. Again, I'm not sure what put this particular thing on her radar, but suddenly she was researching baton twirling. Not cheerleading. Not dance. Twirling. Don't get me wrong; in some parts of the country, twirling is, even today, fiercely competitive. And there are definitely sparkly outfits--sequins and glitter galore, automatically garnering more than a passing interest from me, especially since playing the accordion offered nothing like anything girly. But mainstream, here in California? Not even back when I was in elementary school. Once again, perhaps it was the only thing that wasn't cost-prohibitive. Or maybe she decided to stack the odds in our favor by sending her girls into lessons that most little girls didn't have. Whatever the reason, we delved into the world of twirling and parades and half-time shows.

This endeavor lasted much longer than accordion lessons--some two or three years, by my count. And unlike the accordion, I really enjoyed it. I twirled as a member of a team; I twirled solo. I got to march out in front of bands in parades, and wore my hair in fancy buns with glitter in my hair and sequins on my outfits. Eventually, I twirled myself right out of relevancy though, as twirlers eventually got benched in favor of high stakes cheerleaders on the football field and high powered dance and guard teams moving in synchronicity in band field shows.

In junior high and high school, I found my way to some of the more traditional extra-curricular activities--choir and swimming and band--and I loved them. These things were neither better nor worse than my previous affiliations, but at least I know other people who have had some of the same experiences I had in these organizations. But twirling? And even more so, accordion playing? Oh, those are secret societies, I think. Those of us who endured should have developed a secret Freemasons-type handshake to identify each other later in life, since I don't know too many who freely give up that information to just anybody.

My own kids have found themselves attracted to a wide variety of activities over the years, some of them in the realm of the mainstream, and some of them not so much. The main difference with my kids is that I have allowed them to find their own way and seek out their own interests. They got to chose. If I had a kid who wanted to pursue twirling, I would help him or her seek out opportunities to learn those skills. The kids who showed interest in Destination Imagination, in baseball, or in choir or dance--they piled in the van and off to rehearsals we went. I want them to seek out places where they can do what they love (not necessarily what I love), regardless of whether they are 'popular' activities or off-the-beaten path ones. However, I think that if one of my kids decides to get involved in, say, accordion-playing or Live Action Role Playing (hypothetically speaking) because it's what they really love and enjoy, I'm going to suggest that they try to institute a secret handshake. Later in life, they might enjoy being able to reconnect with their own people once again.


The girl playing the accordion is not me--she's just a representation. As far as I know, there is no photographic evidence of my musical prowess. The picture of the baton twirler, sadly, is me.

Nostalgia, Continued

August 11, 2011

I went looking online for a picture of the last home I had in Garden Grove a few days ago. Did you know you could find childhood memories on the internet? 11252 Ivanhoe--it was actually only our home for a few years (from my 1st to 4th grade year), but there were a lot of memories there. The living room where one whole wall was mirrors, and kids were only allowed in for special circumstances. (It was nearly impossible to talk to Scott in that room; he was absolutely incapable of carrying on a conversation without being drawn to his own reflection.) The huge den with the wet bar where we kept cream sodas for a treat. That was also where Mom held the Cub Scout meetings, for which the was the Den Mother. The huge fish tank in the hallway with mesmerizing Angel Fish. The huge walk-in playhouse that Dad built in the backyard. The sandbox and jungle gym right next to it, where we would climb up and watch the fireworks that Disneyland shot off every night. Our bedroom with the lavendar paint. Our across-the-street neighbors with the red door. (The mom and dad were Arlene and Charlie. Arlene chewed and smacked her gum all the time; Charlie was always very nice to us, and we lovingly named our pet salamander after him. ) The white rocks lining our driveway. Roses lining the front porch. Dad's red and white Javelin. The family car--the seventies-style station wagon that took us back and forth to Oklahoma each year for Christmas vacation. (Oh man, I was angry at mom when they traded that thing in for a dark green, luxurious Lincoln Continental. She, on the other hand, felt like she was moving up in the world.)

The pets who lived with us there were Maggie and Missy (dogs), Charlie the Salamander, Hansel and Gretel the guinea pigs, Charlie Green, my parakeet, a host of hamsters and more fish than I could possibly count. I took accordian lessons while living there, and Gary took saxophone lessons, and we both took piano. Laura was born while we were living in that house. Mom and Dad's friend Bruce lived with us in the garage for a time, and his sister, Janet, was one of our live-in babysitters. We also had a string of other live-in babysitters, one of whom had two kids (Victor and Janice) who also lived with us.

It's weird how interconnected the memory is. Every little memory brings you to another one. I could go on all day, I suppose, but there are very few people for whom these snippets have any meaning besides myself and Lisa and Scott, and even they were pretty young to remember much of this. Guess I'd better bring myself back from my reverie!

Words, Words, Words

July 10. 2011

Words, words, words. Words we read, words we write, words we sing, words we hear. We whisper words, we shout words. We text words and we type words. We use them to draw closer or further apart, to learn and grow and understand. We use them give voice to the emotions that bind us as human beings.

We have more vehicles for communication today than we ever have before. We are connected through emails, instant messages, text messages, Twitter, and Facebook. The moment an idea pops into our heads, it can be conveyed across the room or across the world within seconds. We keep in contact with people today who have moved out of our everyday scope of movement with an ease unimaginable even twenty years ago. The benefits are undeniable, to be sure, and as with all forms of progress, there are less than positive consequences as well. You wouldn't have to look very hard to find someone out in the world of the internet singing the praises of the world's interconnectedness. You would also not have to look very hard to find someone lamenting the demise of language and intellectual thought due to the mundane drivel one has to sift through to find communication of substance. It's all there, and I can't say I disagree with either side of that particular conversation.

That is neither here nor there. I embrace it all. I do, however, have a nostalgic regret for those growing up in this world of today, this world of progress. At the risk of sounding like the ancient grandparents from my youth who loved to say, "When I was growing up....," I am, in fact, going to talk about when I was growing up. When I was growing up, we didn't have the immediacy of text messaging. This has changed the high school dating scene tremendously over the years. Remember when you sat in Algebra class, far too interested in a boy to pay any attention to how to solve for 'x'? Today's high school kids clandestinely sneak out their cell phones to send off a quick text to the boy in question--nothing too personal or deep, but a connection nonetheless. Perhaps a "Hey, do you know what time the football game is?" (The subtext here has nothing to do with a football game, by the way. The text, if you read between the lines, says, "Please don't forget about me. I'm the girl in your Algebra class three seats back.")So what's missing? What's the nostalgic regret? It's two-fold, really. What people are missing with all of this immediacy, for one, is anticipation. Pre-instant communication in seven varieties at our fingertips, if a girl wanted to meet a boy, or a boy wanted to ask out a girl, there was anticipation--the waiting was the excruciating and delicious part of it all--something we know so little of today. We used to write notes in class--scrawled out furtively, having agonized over each word that ultimately made it onto the binder paper our Biology teachers thought were meant for notes on the respiratory system. You might write it in 3rd period, and hand it off to your best friend to give to his best friend during 4th period, only to have to wait until 6th period after lunch to find out whether or not he got it. And even more importantly, if there was a note in return. It was something of a heroic quest, this foray into the battlefield of romance, and the uncertainty of victory was part of the journey. Quaint and archaic, perhaps, but the gesture is one that many of us of a certain age can still remember--the anxiousness of waiting for the response, and the heartbreak or elation when it came. There is no journey now, no waiting for the hero's return. There is no anticipation.

In addition to the loss of anticipation, I also am saddened by the loss of the notes themselves as a memorable connection to one's past--a piece of the past you can see and hold and touch. Those handwritten notes we used to send one another, they were a risk, a personal investment, but also something tangible that couldn’t simply be deleted with a casual ‘delete all text messages' click, swept away indifferently with all detritus of the day. When someone throws away a letter, it means something; it’s a deliberate act. When one deletes an email, there very often is no subtext; it is simply cleaning up one’s work station, so to speak. Now I know not everyone is a sentimental as I, but I know I am not the only one who has old letters from best friends, from old boyfriends. These are history, really, the kind of history that matters most to us---our own. Yes, lots of people even back before instant communication threw away their letters and notes. But those of us who kept them have a tangible connection to the young people we once were, the young people who helped us become who we are today. Sure, there was nonsense, filler, fluff, that made up a lot of those old high school and college notes, not unlike the flurry of text messages that runs through most of our cell phones daily. But there are also hopes and dreams, and records of our daily lives--they are history. I have, for example, letters from a good high school friend who passed away far too young. Through her letters, I can keep the memory alive of the person she was--her thoughts and secrets and plans. I can read them, and many years later can still see her sense of humor and her vulnerability, and her intelligence.

Notes, letters, handwritten communication--these are casualties of modern forms of technology. There is, of course, a proliferation of the written word these days, and much of it can be accessed and saved. But so much of it is for public consumption--carefully crafted for a wide audience--that we are losing some of the personal, intimate communications from our past. Public persona we have in spades, but will we, in the future, have any way of knowing who the very real, day-to-day people really were?

Do people still write notes to each other? In the future, will we still be able to take out of a treasured box of trinkets and memorabilia a letter from a former lover, gingerly unfold and smooth its yellowing pages, and be transported back to another time, a former life? I don’t think so, or at least not nearly in the same way. There are so many more efficient, casual, non-committal ways to communicate now. Is it better? In some ways, yes. In other ways, perhaps no. But I'm a sentimental kind of girl, and I think I'm going to miss this reminiscent kind of journey for my kids. I think I'll go write a nice long letter to each of them--by hand, on pretty stationary.

To Brianna, Looking Forward and Back

June 7, 2011

It’s a paradox, you know? At this moment in time, on this particular occasion, this momentous hour of looking forward and back, it’s a paradox. You’re a paradox.

I look into your eyes and still see the tiny, fragile newborn before me, nestled comfortably in the crook of my arm. Your eyes look up at me and I fill your whole world. You, too, fill my whole world. Your every need is my charge, and I am consumed with the responsibility and the wonder and most complete love I have ever known.

I look into your eyes and see also an amazing young woman on the verge of adulthood— intelligent, capable, and ready to take on the world. You are blessed with a generous heart and a spirit that shines through your eyes and radiates in your smile. And I am still filled with wonder and the most complete love I have ever known.

You graduate tomorrow, and it’s the end in a lot of ways. This marker to the end of childhood is a happy one, one that celebrates the achievements and accomplishments you’ve worked so hard to earn. It’s the end of the life you’ve known for the past 18 years, one that has seen you through skinned knees and the Tooth Fairy and the sometimes precarious terrain of teenaged relationships. It’s the end of school life and home life as you have always known it. It’s the end, but it’s okay; you are ready.

You graduate tomorrow, and it’s the beginning in even more ways that you can know. Who knows where your new journey will take you? New schools, new cities, new jobs, new friends, new experiences. You are starting out on the journey to discover who you are, who you will become, and I am excited to see where that journey takes you. Just as when you were first beginning to walk, there may be some stumbles—perhaps you may fall a time or two—but you will find your sure footing and begin to run before you know it. It is the beginning, but it’s okay; you are ready.

Today you stand on a bridge, one foot on either side. One foot in childhood, looking back on the joys of youth, and one foot in adulthood, looking forward to the excitement and unknown of the future. Nostalgia and anticipation. Comfort and nervousness. Pride and eagerness. I look at you and see all these things in you, looking forward and back. I see also in you myself, some years ago, on my own bridge, appreciating everything that brought me to that moment in time, and eagerly awaiting all that was before me. The paradox? You feel like you’re crossing that bridge, but you don’t really ever lose where you came from; you take it with you.

Today you have memories, some good and some less so, as you look back on your past. You have your family, your childhood home, your classmates, your closest friends who know all your secrets. And even though you won’t live with your family day in and day out, as you have for nearly eighteen years, and even when you move from your childhood home, they will continue to be a part of who you are. They are a part of the stories of your life—the ones you’ll pass down to your own children someday. Some of your friends will remain an integral part of your life in the future; some will become memories that occasionally resurface when you pass an old familiar haunt, or hear a certain song on the radio. Not ever-present, not at the forefront, but there, nonetheless. They are a piece of the fabric of your being, and always will be. These people, these places, these experiences of your past—they have led you to where you are now, and will continue to lead you into your future. Embrace that. Celebrate that. Because who you are, where you are? It’s pretty great.

It’s a paradox, you know?

So here you stand, at this moment in time, on this particular occasion, this momentous hour of looking forward and back. Your feet are in two worlds; you are at the beginning and at the end. Take a moment. Breathe it all in. There is no other moment in your life quite like this, and I want you to remember it. Remember it as possibility, as hope. The world is out there waiting for you to make the most of it. And remember, most importantly of all, no matter where your journey takes you, wherever you go, I am proud of the young woman you have become, more than I can possibly say. You are also my baby, and always will be. I am filled with wonder, and filled with more love than I have ever known. That too, you take with you, forever. It is the end, and it is the beginning, but it’s okay; you are ready.

I’ll love you forever, I’ll love you for always. As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be….

I Can See the Headlines Now: Five-Year Old Does Hard Time for Swiping a Candy Bar

February 8, 2011

It's amazing that my siblings and I managed to turn out (relatively) normal, given some of the experiences we had in our childhood. Take, for example, the virtual Russian Roulette my parents played with the caregivers we had over the years. Dad was working long hard hours in his job at the Small Business Administration, and Mom was working various jobs while finishing up her teaching credential at school. That left four little ones at home (and later, five) to be cared for. We had a string of babysitters, mostly ones who lived with us--for room and board and some extra money, they were charged with our care while our parents were away.

Some of these babysitters were excellent--bonding with us, giving us the kind of love and care and attention our own parents did. Some of them, however, were a little less able to rise up to the challenge of being a good role model and nanny-figure to us. One of our sitters, one of the younger ones, was a good example of how not to earn a reference when moving on to greener pastures.

She was one of the ones who was not a live-in sitter. She probably still lived at home; I'm guessing she was a college girl looking to pick up a little pocket-money. She was ill-prepared for four rambunctious kids. (Truth be told, it was mostly one rambunctious kid and three fairly mellow ones, but Gary could make it seem like there were far more of us than there actually were. He actually made it a game to see how quickly he could get our sitters to quit--his record was one day.) Anyway, she liked Gary and me, because we were a lot more verbal and self-sufficient than Lisa and Scott were. We were somewhere in the neighborhood of 7, 5, 3, and infant at the time. It was summer time, so we were all at home all day long.

Every afternoon, after lunch, it was naptime for the two youngest. Lisa would be put down for a nap in a bedroom just off the front porch, and Scott would be put down for a nap in his crib in Mom and Dad's room. That just left Gary and me to be entertained. Our sitter began to get a little stir crazy being stuck inside all day, so she decided to start taking walks with us during that hour or so that the little ones were napping. As soon as she felt Lisa was completely out, we'd quietly sneak out the front door and wander down the street.

It's shocking, now, to think that our babysitter made a habit of leaving those two tiny children to their own devices for an hour at a time. In today's world, terms like 'child endangerment' and 'neglect' and 'abandonment' would be thrown out fiercely. Heck, if it were my own kids I'd be issuing those accusations. Back then, though, I guess she just figured the kids would be fine sleeping safely in their beds for a bit. Who knows if she ever considered how scared they might be if they woke up and no one answered their cries.

Gary and I also didn't worry about consequences. We were kids, after all, and adults knew best. If she said it was safe to leave them alone, then she must be right. We were happy to get out of the house, too, especially when she lured us with the promise of treats. We lived a couple of blocks away from a convenience store and a little hamburger place called Jo Jo's Hamburgers. That's where our walks took us every afternoon. We'd head into the mini-market and she'd pick out a candy for us, and then she'd treat us to an ice cream or soda at Jo Jo's. Sometimes, she'd even let us get a burger, if we hadn't had a big lunch.

How long this went on, I'm not sure. I know there were several trips, though. After the first few, we really began to look forward to them, knowing we were getting treats that the others weren't big enough to have 'earned' yet. We were big, we were mature, we were responsible. We were old enough, she said, to be able to keep it a secret from everyone else, because she didn't want our parents to think she was playing favorites, and she didn't want to hurt Lisa's feelings because she was too young. We completely bought it.

One day when we were in the mini-mart, she gave me a candy bar. "Put this in your pocket, will you? I'm going to pay for it, but I don't have any more hands to hold on to it." So I did. We wandered around a bit longer, she went up to the cash register to pay, and then we left. On our way home I asked her if she had remembered to tell the cashier that I had the candy bar. She laughed. "I didn't forget, but I didn't tell him. They make so much money that a little candy bar won't make any difference!" I was shocked, but didn't really know what to say. I felt a little guilty eating the candy, but I did it anyway.

On return trips, she continued to either hand stuff to us or simply drop items into our pockets. She was paying for less and less, and using us to carry out more. I was starting to get scared, so I told her I was worried I was going to get caught and the clerk would accuse me of stealing. She leaned her face down close to mine and said, "If you tell anyone--the clerk or your parents--I'll tell them it was your idea to steal, and they'll send you away to prision for a long, long time. And I'll never bring you back to Jo Jo's again, either." I believed her, and I certainly didn't want to go to prision, so I kept quiet and kept taking the treats she was having us walk out the door with.

Finally, after a few weeks, we were making our daily trip back home, still licking ice cream cones from Jo Jo's as we walked the steps up to our front porch. We were always told to be extremely quiet opening the front door, so that we didn't wake the kids who were soundly sleeping at home. On this day, though, there was no need for silence. Mounting the steps, we saw Lisa in the parted drapes, eyes red and swollen with tears, standing on her bed by the window. There was an instant of relief when she saw us, and then indignant anger. She'd woken up early from her nap only to find herself alone with the baby, and she'd been scared. But then we came walking up with ice cream in our hands! She'd had to take a nap and we got ice cream? It seemed so unfair!

That evening, when our babysitter felt like she had gotten the situation diffused and had gone home for the evening, Mom came in to find me practicing my piano lessons, a small pile of candy on the bench beside me. "Where did all that candy come from?" she asked. I told her the babysitter had given it to me because I had been good. As instructed, I had left out the part about us going to the store to get it. Lisa heard and fell to crying again. "She gets candy and ice cream too? I want candy! I want ice cream!" My mom only had to dig a little before both Gary and I were ready to confess. Even though I was terrified of going to prison, I was too tired of sneaking and pretending. We were scared to stand up to our babysitter, but maybe Mom could. I was scared she'd be really mad at us and call the police, but she said she was only angry at herself, for trusting that woman with her babies. We had a long talk about stealing and why it was wrong, even if an adult tells you it's okay. She hugged us and apologized to Lisa for leaving her with someone who would leave her alone, and told her she'd always do whatever she could to make sure all of her kids were safe.. Then she told us we'd never see that babysitter again--and we never did.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer, You Slay Me

January 6, 2011

Doug and I are re-watching one of our favorite series of all time, Buffy, The Vampire Slayer. This time, we're introducing the kids to the show. (It's okay, they're old enough for it!) We're in Season 2 now, and we've just watched the one where Angel loses his soul. If you're familiar with the series, you know what an emotional episode it is. If you're unfamiliar with the series, suffice it to say that this is a pivotal episode. Just like the first time I saw it, it profoundly affected me. I'm actually a little embarrassed at how much, in fact. It really affected my mood. Silly, I know, for a television show to have such an impact. It's fiction, after all. And yet, it's not. Sure, it's a show about vampires, but really it's a show about relationships and friendships. When I started thinking about it, I realized why that episode in particular is such a powerful one. In the end, it's just about a boy who, after some trigger unbeknownst to the girl, 'turns,' or changes. Without knowing why, he becomes someone different, unrecognizable. Just like that, with no real explanation, the relationship and trust is betrayed, leaving the girl with a shifting equilibrium, gasping to catch her breath and understand the incomprehensible.

To be honest, that's happened to me twice in my life, and believe it or not, that show really takes me right back to those completely devastating scenes in my own life where my world was spun dizzily out of my control, leaving me helpless in its wake and completely at a loss to explain why the change took place. I guess that's what makes it such a good show--its ability to transport the viewer, the immediacy of the emotions, and way it transcends the obvious storyline and becomes, ultimately, a show about the emotional journeys of real life--despite the vampires. A story about how we all love and hate and hurt and lose and trust and care: that's a story we can all relate to, wherever we are in our lives.

Heeere's Johnny!

October 25, 2010
It's the time of year when the T.V. channels are filled with the kind of slasher/horror movies designed to tap into the love-to-be-scared-to-death vicarious thrills people seem to seek as Halloween nears. Me, I could do without all of that. I'm a big scaredy-cat who likes her 'spooky' Halloween to be about fluffy black kittens in witch hats and Winnie the Pooh dressed up as a pumpkin. Although I've made peace with the fact that my husband is Mr. Creepy Halloween, I still have to change channels quickly whenever I see a commercial or trailer for a scary movie. Honestly, I was even hesitant to put up the creepy picture of the knife for this post, because I'm sure I'm going to see it come up in my nightmares tonight. So where did this morbid fear of knives come from? As far as I can tell, it all began with Johnny.

No, no, not that Johnny. (And yes, I've gone out of my way to avoid watching The Shining. Just the trailer for that movie is too much for me.) No, I had my own personal Johnny. He was a neighbor kid who lived up the street from me when I was about three years old. My brother Gary was five, and by that age, already showing signs of precociousness. That's a diplomatic way of saying Gary went out of his way to prove he could outsmart and outwit just about any adult he came into contact with. As a matter of fact, eventually he made it his mission to see how quickly he could get our babysitters to quit--he made it a game. At this time, though, he was only just beginning to test out his skills at getting under people's skin.

My parents were both working and going to school, so my mom had hired a young mother to come to our home during the day to watch us. When she was too sick one day to come to work, my mother was left in a bit of a bind. She couldn't miss school or work, so she had to find someone to stay with us. Since it was summer, our neighbor Johnny was home during the day. He was a sixteen-year-old kid who was willing to give up a day to earn a little pocket money, and my mom was desperate. Having never met Gary, he didn't really know what he was getting himself into. Gary, it would turn out, was also a bit out of his element.

You know how when you get in trouble or get scared and you just want someone to be in it with you? How it kind of lessens the fear? Well, Johnny was pretty much a non-factor for me. I stayed in my room playing quietly. But Gary found a way to push Johnny's buttons. I don't know what he did, or what he said, but he eventually went too far. Suddenly, Gary burst into my room where I was minding my own business and playing with my dolls. "Johnny's got a knife and he's trying to kill us!" he screamed. His eyes were wide as saucers and he slammed the door shut, trying to jam a chair under the doorknob. I didn't question him; I didn't doubt him. I heard Johnny banging on my door and yelling, "Come back here, you little brat!" Even though Johnny didn't have any reason to be mad at me, I wasn't processing reason. I was three, after all. When Gary told me we had to jump out the window to escape or Johnny would stab us and kill us, I scrambled after him, abandoning my dolls to whatever fate befell them if Johnny should happen to break down my door.

Gary opened the window and used my bed as the trampoline to jump up onto the window sill. He quickly dropped into our front yard and yelled for me to follow. I struggled to jump up high enough to jump up to the window, hindered by short little limbs and blinded by frightened tears. My heart was pounding as Gary was screaming for me to jump while Johnny continued to bang on my bedroom door. I was terrified, and when I finally made it to our front yard, I was sobbing. Gary grabbed my hand and we ran to the neighbors' house, where the kindly grandma-type let us in to wait until our mom got home. I was inconsolable, and could only feel safe hiding under her bed until Mom came to retrieve me. Neighbor Grandma even tried to coax me out from under her bed by offering me cookies; she eventually left a small plate of them under the bed for me.

When Mom finally came over to get us after she got home from work, she tried to console me. I don't think she actually believed our story, and couldn't believe how hysterical I got. Gary verified the story, but he shook it off pretty easily. Me? I was scarred. When I tried to go to sleep that night, I closed my eyes and saw Johnny with a knife. Now, mind you, I never actually saw Johnny with a knife. It probably wouldn't have scared me nearly as much if I had. As it was, I was free to use my imagination to picture what kind of knife Johnny was chasing us with, and man, it was BIG. And very sharp, and very shiny. In hindsight, I would imagine that the truth of the matter was that Gary smarted off to Johnny, and Johnny probably pulled out a little pocketknife that was ubiquitous among the 'cool' teenagers during that time. Realistically speaking, if sixteen-year-old Johnny had really wanted to hurt an obnoxious five-year-old (let alone a little three-year-old), I'm sure he would have.

None of that mattered, or even occurred to me at the time. All I knew was that there was a killer who lived on our street, and he was after my brother and me. I was afraid of going outside for fear of seeing him during the day. At night I couldn't sleep, and when I did, I had terrible nightmares. I was miserable, and I made my mom miserable, too. She didn't know what to do with me, or how to assuage my fears. She was pretty smart, though, and ultimately, she came up with the solution that allowed me to sleep peacefully again. What did she do? She lied. She lied knowing that I'd fall for it, and that it would work. I was, as I have said, only three. After about the fifth day, she came home from work and told me that she had talked to the police. The police, in turn, had gone to Johnny's house and talked to his mother. And do you know what the police did? They made Johnny move to another street. And for the first time in nearly a week, I slept like a baby that night. Now I don't know what actually transpired between Johnny and my mother--maybe she didn't pay him for babysitting. Or maybe she did. Maybe she never spoke to him about it, or maybe she told his mother that he wasn't mature enough to babysit kids, for future reference. I don't have any idea. All I know is that when Mom told me the police made Johnny moved away, I thought I put it all behind me. Mostly, I did. But knives? The glint of a blade, or a slightly crazed look in the eyes of anyone with a knife in his hand, even in jest, takes me right back to an irrational, instinctive reaction. And in case you're wondering, there's way too much of that right around Halloween for my liking.

So while I don't have to hide my knife block in the kitchen before I go to bed each night anymore, and I no longer leap on my bed from across the room just in case there's a creepy psychotic escaped convict ready to reach out and grab my ankles before I head off to dreamland, I'm still no fan of simulated fear. Real life is scary enough; I can't spend energy going out of my way to find extra fictional ways to scare myself to death.

It's Okay--I'm With the Band

September 19, 2010

Earlier this month, Doug and I attended our second high school reunion of the year. The first one was in July, and even though it was my 25th reunion and we had a great time, the one in September was an especially meaningful one. Call us band geeks if you will, but a reunion of all of our band mates from our high school days was much more a family reunion than a gathering of scores of people who happened to pass each other in the halls on the way to Geometry during a particular year. These were the people we spent hours and hours with every week and really got to know as we practiced and worked and laughed and cried and competed. Some of us spent all four years of high school in the band program, and some spent only one or two years learning all the intricate elements that went into putting on an incomparable show on the field, but all of us truly became family through a shared commitment and desire to succeed.

Leading us all was the visionary and director of our band during those years, Mel Stratton, who was on hand at the reunion to be honored by all of us who appreciate even more as adults with the benefit of time and perspective the amazing and undeniably unique experience we had under his guidance. (It is testament to his influence the sheer numbers of his students who went on to become great band teachers in their own right.) Call it being at the right place at the right time, if you will; I feel incredibly fortunate to have found my way into this group, this family, at that time in history. I would be willing to bet it would be difficult to find a member of Mel's band from those years who wouldn't be able to recount some way that our band, our family away from home, made a lasting impact on their lives.

Patty and Mel Stratton, Shirley Claybaugh Weaver and Jim Claybaugh

Trina, Shannon, and Me

Jim and Kirsten
My day uniform from my freshman year. Sadly, I do not fit in that thing anymore. I find it a little hard to believe I ever did.
Doug, trying on his old uniform. Nope, he doesn't fit anymore, either.

Kris McGraw Pauley and Me
Bill Murray and Kris
Lisa, David Rubacalba, and Me
My hubby and me--a former band couple who reunited later in life.
Jeff Lee and Me
Marty and Judy--another band couple success story.
Mel, Me, Lisa, and Patty
The Reunion Gang

Former Drum Major Brad Riley. Nice Salute, Brad!
Mel Stratton--funny, charming, and still a true leader after all these years.
Mel and John Hackney, Assistant Director Extraordinaire
Doug and Di Hoskins
Mike Donaghy and Me--I love Mike!
Annette and Todd, Maria and Mike (Another Band Couple!)
Brady and Me. Brady and my sister were inseparable in high school, so he was like my brother.
Lisa and Brady
Bill Murray and Renee Brown
Jim and Lisa
My Sis and Me
Bill, Lisa, and Me
Doug, surrounded by Rosa, Alicia, and Me. He's kind of in his happy place, even though he doesn't actually look like it right now.
Rosa and Doug
Doug, Darren, and Jim
Shannon and Trina
The Jones Twins! Kris and Kelly
Alicia (Lisa), Rosa, Me, Kris, Kelly, and Lisa