So what if I'm stuck?

Note:  While working on the book project, I've been going through some old columns I wrote while I did the ten year column writing gig.  This was written when my kids were a good bit younger, but they definitely still subscribe to that "don't get her started" philosophy if they think I might step into the wayback machine and start telling stories. 

 

My kids, in no effort to help bridge any generation gap, continually tell me that I am stuck in the 70s.  I suppose there are worse decades I could be accused of being stuck in and, for some reason, the 80s come to mind.  Thinking back on big hair and neon colors, I really don’t think that 70s were so bad.  I am not saying I would trade in my off-white appliances for ones in a lovely shade of avocado green, but they were good times.   

The offspring were certain I had completely lost my mind when I spent a day watching VH-1’s “I Love the 70s.”  I think the children subscribe to a “don’t get them started” philosophy.  If there is the slightest chance my husband and I will start reminiscing about our childhoods, they volunteer to clean their bedrooms.  

Some things remain unexplainable to our boys when we start talking about the things we used to watch on TV or toys we had.  If my husband or I quote commercials like, “Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down,” or “Two all beef patties special sauce lettuce cheese pickles onion on a sesame seed bun…Big Mac,” our kids look at us like we have just landed from a different planet sporting three heads with purple tentacles.  “Ancient Chinese secret” not only incites eye rolling, but threats to check us into the nearest mental facility.  

An impression of Mork from Ork goes completely over their heads.  The fact that I had a crush on Henry Winkler as the Fonz makes them laugh so hard they nearly wet their pants.  “What you talking ‘bout, Willis?” does not amuse them.  They don’t care that I may have never learned about adjectives, conjunctions, interjections, and gravity without “Schoolhouse Rock.”  

“Let me get this straight,” they laugh.  “Wonder Woman had an invisible plane, a lasso that could make people tell the truth, and she was cool?”  I haven’t even bothered telling them about Shazam and Isis from two of my favorite Saturday morning shows.  I doubt they would be impressed that wristbands could deflect bullets, or that we didn’t question seeing strings when the scenes required the characters to fly.   

They don’t revel in my stories, let out a sigh, and reflect on the good old days when I talk about my riding Inch Worm, my favorite mode of transportation when I was four years old.  In fact, when I talk about its yellow seat and wheels, my kids roll their eyes and wonder how I could ride a plastic worm of all things.  It embarrasses them, and they weren’t even born.   

They don’t know a thing about a leaking Stretch Armstrong, or who Evel Knievel is.  I can ramble on and on about the Baby Alive that ate food and soiled diapers.  They really couldn’t care less that I loved my Growin’ Up Skipper doll because with a crank of the arm, she grew taller and more womanly.  My dolls are the last thing they want to hear about, even the Suntan Jodi that tanned under a living room lamp, and went from blonde to brunette with a twist of the scalp.   

That isn’t to say that some things haven’t transcended the generations.  They had a Sit n Spin.  By the time my younger sibling got a Slip n Slide, I was too big to use it, but my children had one.  Bicycles remain standard issue for kids despite that ours sported banana seats, orange flags, baskets, and huge handlebars.   

There are events and things my kids experience that bear similarity to their parents’ childhoods.  I am afraid there are things my kids will never get, though:  telephones with cords, pen pals from Big Blue Marble, “fill ‘er up with regular,” Captain Kangaroo, a K-tel played on a turntable,  after school specials, Judy Blume, Colorforms, black and white television, 8 tracks, and why it was shocking that Mikey liked it.   

Aside from polyester and harvest gold, I have to say if they are right, and that I am trapped in times past, the 70s isn’t a bad decade in which to be stuck.   

 

 

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Play Possum - to pretend to be dead or sleeping so that someone will not annoy or attack you

I love nature.  Despite the fact that toads really freak me out.  Or, that a well placed mosquito bite makes me welt up and itch like crazy.  Never mind that I’m allergic to bees and a sting can leave me looking like the elephant man for a week.  I’m also highly sensitive to poison ivy in my old age and even a cat lounging about in my flowerbed can give it to me, leaving me scratching myself bloody.  High mold in the forecast makes me feel a bit miserable, but not as much as taking a few Benadryl does. 

Nonetheless, nature rocks. 

I grew up on a farm, or what you could best consider a farm.  We had a barn, some chickens, cats, dogs, and the occasional loose cow from the neighbor’s house wading in our pond.  Even though we lived out in the country on a couple acres surrounded by farm land, I didn’t exactly get a lot of experience with what I’d consider wild animals.  The Bassett hound we had for many of my younger years dragged home about anything he found dead, but that didn’t exactly fall under the category of dealing with wild animals since they failed to exist on this earthly plane.  Their stench could seemingly wake the dead, but that hardly counted.  I honed my skills killing leopard frogs with rocks along the side of the pond (no, I don’t know why I did this, but I didn’t need a slingshot), watched the deer in the morning in the field across the road, and occasionally saw snakes knotted together in a rope-like fashion in the small trees along the railroad tracks. 

But, for whatever reason, the wildlife seemed to keep its distance.  Well, up until last year. 

It’s odd at best.  We live in a small town.  Population 250 if the neighbor is having a big party.  It’s one of those small, rural towns that no longer even has a gas station.  That ended in the early 90s when the powers that be said the underground tanks had to meet certain standards and the mom and pop businesses couldn’t afford to meet those specifications.  And while man cannot live by bread alone, business also couldn’t survive by selling bread (and milk) alone.  There’s no stoplight.  No stop sign if you come through on either of the main roads. 

Blink and you miss it.  That is unless you happen to be a possum.  There's some sort of blinking beacon or welcoming committee for possums. 

Last year, two possums on two separate occasions greeted me at the back door.  I must admit that the first time I thought wow, that’s one big cat, here kitty kitty, oh great day in the morning, that’s no cat, that’s a freakin’ possum.  Okay, so maybe I cleaned up that thought process a wee bit for the sake of a reader, but I honestly thought at first glance it was a very large cat.  I remain thankful I didn’t reach down and attempt to pet it and invite it in to the house.  In my forty plus years, most of which were rural living in Indiana, that was the closest I’d ever come to a living marsupial of this sort.  I’ve seen plenty smooshed on the road this time of the year in their quest to find a mate, populate, and take over.  I figured it came to the back door to dine on some Meow Mix, and from the looks of its well fed physique, it’d been high dining for some time. 

A few nights later, its friend showed up.  Even with the encouragement of my pink softball bat, it didn’t want to leave the premises.  A stubborn possum isn’t exactly what you want at your backdoor when you have cats and dogs.  As I said, I love nature, but at my back door baring its teeth?  Not so much. 

When the oldest child moved home a few months ago, a nearly two year old blue tick coon hound was in tow.  This dog will never be hunting material.  It’d become apparent the poor soul lived a rough life when he got him.  His neck was raw from being tied up.  He cowered when someone reached down to pet him.  A motorcycle backfired one day last week and I about had to coax him down from a tree.  He’s a good and loving boy, though, and content to be an outside dog.  We built him a good sized pen that he shares with a few outside cats without too much complaining.  He lets me know when things aren’t as they should be outside, which happened to be the case at 12:50 this morning. 

I stumbled through the kitchen not overly thrilled at the prospect of going outside when I much rather preferred sleeping.  These people I live with could sleep through a marching band deposited into our house riding a freight train via a tornado.  I personally cannot, unfortunately.  I scanned the dog’s pen area with the flashlight on my cell phone while I scratched his ears over the fence not seeing anything out of the ordinary.  He paced a few times nervously, stopped, and then began wagging his tail.  He repeated the process a few times, trying to draw my attention, maybe with a little pride, to an area just a few feet to his right.

I looked down and thought oh great, he’s killed a cat.  Note once again, my brain went to filling in the logical blank with cat lying on the ground.  Nope.  It wasn’t a cat.  It was another dang possum.  This time it was much smaller.

In the wee hours of the morning, I don’t proclaim to be a genius.  At any hour of the day, I don’t profess to be the swiftest person.  There the possum was in a position I wouldn’t assess as a natural one for something alive.  Its mouth was slight agape.  As was mine.  It looked like the dog had worked it over a bit, and logically, I assumed it was dead or at least stunned.  At no point did I think it was merely…well, you guessed it…playing possum.  Insert a forehead slap here.

I tried to wake the oldest kid, who only responded with, “Awesome,” when I told him his dog got a possum.  I knew better than to wake the husband who had to be up at 4 a.m.  The youngest was still out lollygagging about, so I called him and requested his assistance in possum removal.  I watched the possum for signs of life, and sure enough, it was still breathing. 

I guess a little adrenaline gets the brain cells bumping around and functioning, and after I spied a five gallon bucket used for sitting on while visiting with the dog, I surmised that I could trap the possum under the bucket until my back up arrived.  I carefully opened the gate, grabbed the bucket, and inched my way towards what I assumed was a stunned possum.  He wasn’t stunned.  At least not until what happened next. 

I don’t know who was more surprised when it sprang to life and I screamed.  People who I’ve told this story today tell me that possums don’t move that quickly.  I’m here to tell you that perhaps they don’t normally unless the scenario involves five gallon buckets and a middle-aged woman’s screams.

That thing boogied. 

The funny thing is, however, is that it didn’t consider me and my bucket and scream enough of a threat to play dead.  Nope.  It wasn’t sticking around to see what kind of crazy came next, I suppose. 

By that time, the kid arrived home and my nocturnal screech woke the neighbor.  We’ve had a lot a trouble with punks stealing gas and breaking into cars, so a renegade possum was a welcome troublemaker, all things considered. 

I still have to wonder about myself.  How many times did I accuse my kids of playing possum or used the phrase?  Clearly, there was a possum in all his glory doing what possums do and I was too stupid to realize it.

It wasn’t just the possum, though.  I came back inside only to find out that the husband had heard the dog grumbling and carrying on, and had heard me go outside, too.  He just pretended to be asleep so he didn’t have to get up and help me.  Ahh, yeah, playing possum.  Maybe I’ll try it sometime. 

A Little Aspirin for my Roseanne Barr Syndrome

“Do we have anything that remotely resembles ibuprofen?” the youngest kid asked.  And yes, he really did pose the question as such.  I think mainly because I’ve spoken to both of the kids like they were little humans from birth and not cutesy-poopsy, brainless baby blobs.  I have encouraged that one speaks like they were somewhat intelligent beings.  

He was standing in front of the kitchen cupboard where medication has been housed for longer than I’ve been alive.  It’s the same cupboard where my grandma stored the Vicks Formula 44-D, Tums, and Alka-Seltzer.  He might as well have been speaking Greek, though, because it didn't register in my brain what he was asking. 

“Huh?” I so eloquently inquired. 

I’ve noticed as I’ve gotten older, that is as I’ve spent more than forty years on this planet, that often times I mishear things.  Mostly it’s when I’m only half paying attention.  Commercials on TV are the worst.  I’ve looked up to the screen convinced that they’re selling singing penis covers when what they’ve really said is something about Cingular cell service. 

I don’t know.  Things start knocking around in the synapses in a way they didn’t used to, and it makes for some strange conclusions that I draw.  I bet it’s a lot like having dementia except I still have the ability to pause and asked what the hell and analyze the situation before being convinced that Bob Barker just was on the TV telling me he now works for Roto-Rooter. 

The kid once again repeated his request.  “I. Bu. Pro. Fen.  Do. We. Have. Any?” 

Recently, I started taking Topamax for a bevy of muscle/Fibromyalgia issues.  I won’t get into the tiring details of such.  It’s nothing life-threatening.  A huge pain in the, well, muscles, but nothing I can’t deal with.  However, one of the side effects of this medication for some people is that it purportedly can make you dumber than a box of rocks.  As evidenced by the above example, one might assume that my kids have already put me into that category even though I haven’t shared with them the potential side effects.

“No, sorry.  We’re out.  Take some aspirin,” I suggested, which I don’t believe I’d ever done.  Mainly because I knew there was some reason that youngins’ shouldn’t take aspirin.  I attempted to explain it was okay that he took the aspirin now because he is 19 years old, and I didn’t think he was at risk to develop whatever syndrome it was. 

“What syndrome?” he asked. 

Did I mention one of the other side effects of Topamax is aphasia?  Aphasia is the difficulty remembering words that you’re needing while speaking or writing.  When it strikes, I don’t think a thesaurus can come to your aid.  It’s like losing the total ability to even describe what it is you mean.  Say for example you want to say apple.  It’s like you no longer know it’s a red roundish fruit that has seeds, grows on a tree, and was planted by Johnny Appleseed.  It can also cause you to replace strange words in place of what you really meant to say. 

“Oh, I don’t remember.  There were signs up all over the place in the drug store when I was 19ish or so warning about this syndrome.  It had something to do with flu type symptoms.  Maybe the chicken pox. It was kind of weird because all we took was aspirin back in the day.  Nothing better than a chewable baby aspirin.  Now those things tasted good.  And grape Dimetapp?  No one complained about having to take a spoonful of that when you were sick.”

He continued to give me this blank look, waiting for me to make my point, or remember if he took aspirin at that moment would it land him in the hospital with some sort of tropical disease that could be prevented if his mother could remember some important information about why kids shouldn’t take aspirin.

“Just take it.  You’ll be fine.” 

I guess he figured since 19 years had passed and he was still alive that I could be trusted. 

The train of thought continued in my head: 

Epstein Barr syndrome? 

Raymond Burr syndrome? 

Roseanne Barr syndrome? 

I did finally discover it was Reye’s syndrome once my head cleared a little and I was able to formulate a Google search with appropriate terms to convey what I was trying to figure out.

Though, that Roseanne Barr syndrome – I think I’ve made a self-diagnosis.

Am I sometimes inclined to offer inappropriate, unladylike gestures?  Yes.

Do I live in a household where the mess should be excused because we live here, the children aren’t perfect, and problems aren’t always solved in a half hours’ time?  Yes.

Have I ever felt that I live on a nut farm or should be?  Yes.

Have I ever defined myself as a domestic goddess?  Yes. 

Have I ever felt if my kids are still alive when my husband gets home from work that I’ve done my job?  Yes. 

I’m no doctor, but I suspect I don't suffer from Roseanne Barr syndrome alone.   

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You will make many changes before setting satisfactorily.

My children are now 19 and 21 years old. As my dad would say, old enough to eat hay and poop in the street. (My dad has always had a way with words.) A few months ago, or maybe it was only a month ago, but it seems like a year ago, the oldest moved back home after a break-up with his fiancé. The youngest really has exercised that teenage rite/right to see just how close he can push me to the edge and watch me teeter. One would think they'd be pooping in someone else's street by now, but they're both under our roof.

These changes and trials prompted me to drop the classes I was taking this semester. Sometimes, something's gotta give. There wasn't enough coffee, margaritas, or Xanax to help me cope. I asked myself what was most important to me, and for a refreshing change of pace, sanity won out.

The Devil Drove a Station Wagon will at some point reach completion. I figured since I have this extra time on my hands, I would test the self-publishing waters with a compilation sort of volume of my old columns. I wrote "Off-Kelter" for ten years, so there's a lot of material from which to select. Besides, who doesn't love a compilation? Ronco and K-Tel come to mind.

....I paused to laugh when I commented that I have extra time on my hands. That's not exactly a truth. When the oldest returned, dive bombing the nest I assumed would be empty by this fall, two dogs accompanied him. Only one is an inside dog - an eight month old Bassett Hound. The other is a Blue Tick coon dog that reached retirement before his career ever started (he'd obviously been abused when he was given to the kid, and because we're basically a family of bleeding hearts, he opted to keep him as an outside pet). Regardless, a 21 year old and two more dogs has zapped the time I'd spent on my studies....

It's not the first time this whole motherhood thing has left me befuddled and feeling deceived. I've anticipated those changes that come out of nowhere that go with the territory. But, really, I cross my fingers and eyes that the youngest will graduate this May. I'm still hoping he passes all his classes and gets the credits needed. He's met with the Navy recruiter several times, and if all goes as plans (Nothing ever goes as planned, it's a hell of a notion, I know), he will go off to Basic this fall. And, if that all happened as planned, my humble abode would be kid-free. Instead, sometimes they come back. Just like in a Stephen King tale.

Strangely enough, I know to some people the idea that I'd looked forward to the kids out on their own makes no sense. I've actually met a few of those mothers who've crafted apron strings out of 100 mph tape. I find this peculiar because I think Mother Nature, in some ways, equips mothers with the strength to watch children fly free and solo. No joke. I've heard a few mothers say they were more than ready for their children to make their way in this world on their own. I can only guess it's loosely based on hormones. Sort of like those that make you lament, "I want another baby," when the first baby approaches a year old, walking and crawling and not being so needy. Instead, as the kids and I have both gotten older, it's more like, "Oh hell, I don't know if I'll even be able to someday tolerate grandkids. Everybody out!"

Observations as such have caught me a lot of crap through the years. A good mother doesn't say things like that. A good mother doesn't think things like that. Well, I tend to believe a mother doesn't say or think things that might be perceived as "bad mom." I've also learned a good mom isn't so willing to admit that sometimes her kid isn't only bad, but plain rotten. That's one head scratcher that I doubt I'll ever understand. Parenting must be one of those universal experiences, but so few are willing to share the nitty gritty.

The columns I wrote spanned a time period when my kids were eight and ten to the time they were eighteen and twenty. Reading through these, I have to wonder how I survived some of those years. I offer up an apology if I ever implied to anyone that parenting becomes less of a challenge. I can't say that it ever gets any easier; perhaps, the challenges merely change.

I've never excelled at accepting change. Sure, if it's on my own terms, it's all good. My fortune cookie at the Chinese restaurant over the weekend read, "You will make many changes before setting satisfactorily." Yeah, that's an understatement. For the past week, I've cut and pasted and coped, rearranged, formatted, and sighed while looking for the perfect combination of columns to offer up to would-be readers.

So, yes, this next project, A Little Off-Kelter, is in the works. Likely, I'll go the electronic route only. I'm not entirely sure. Funny something like a book cover for a print edition is what makes me lean that direction. It's definitely easier to slap up one .jpg for electronic format without the worry of creating an entire jacket. We'll see. For now, I'm going to roll with the changes and try to get rid of some of this moss because a watched pot never boils if you're counting your chickens before they hatch. (Maybe this way with words runs in the family.)

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Middle school P.E. was not a "happy period"

I had a dream about one of these things the other night.  And yes, it's a Kotex dispenser, just like the one that hung in the locker room in middle school.  If memory serves, in the gym locker room, it hung inside a bathroom stall.  In the pool locker room area, it was out there in all its glory.  Free to be seen by your classmates when you bellied up to the dispenser and fed in your quarter.  You've got me why it was such a big deal that no one else knew you were having your period (which had to be spoken in hushed tones, because Lord knows, it could have been contagious).  Note how institutional it looks, unmarked, nonthreatening.  You could probably stand in front of it and pretend that you weren't waiting for a tampon or pad to magically appear.  Candy, yes, I'm buying candy, so the rest of you go about your business.  I'm not having my period.  No.  I'm not!  Honest!  I thought this was a candy machine, dang it, but I guess this will come in handy the next time I have a nose bleed. 

Anyway, one might say that when you reflect on the past, a few things can happen.  One might be that you can't remember squat about the past to begin with, so nothing happens.  Some might surmise that you look back and realize, "Hey, things weren't nearly as bad as it felt when I was experiencing it."  Others might look back and think, "Yeah, it was really was not good times even in retrospect." 

The latter was represented in this dream I had where I was whisked back to middle school, so let's say seventh grade. 

After a relatively sheltered existence at my elementary school, the next year, we were all dumped on the doorstep of the middle school.  We'd been given a little taste of the misery that was P.E. class in sixth grade when we went for swimming lessons once a week.  I loathed it.  I'd beg for a note that said I had an earache or some other malady that kept me from being subjected to the torturous hour of aquatics.  And since it was the early 80s, before girls started sprouting boobs as first graders and getting their period by fourth grade thanks to growth hormones in our dairy, that couldn't be used as an excuse.  If it would have been the case, I bet I would have had a period that lasted the whole nine weeks. 

So, in this dream, a couple classmates from those days were telling me to hurry up.  We had to get out there before the swim teacher got mad.  Evidently the three of us were all sharing the sisterhood of the curse at the same time, and we needed to report for poolside calisthenics.  That was the "punishment" for being unable to participate in the water. 

"We're going to get in trouble," they said.  "He'll kill us.  He's going to drown us.  We're going to die! Hurry!"  Their pleas had me trembling, but there was something I needed to do first. 

To fully set the stage for what was complete humiliation regardless of whether I was water-friendly that day or not, one must understand that I hated this class.  The teacher scared the crap out of me, and I honestly believe he kept a score of tally marks somewhere for every kid he let think they were going to die before letting them stop treading water or throwing them a lifesaver to cling to.  He was the type of adult who'd make you beat your personal best holding your breath by dunking and holding you under the water.  (I'm inclined to believe that a sadistic nature is a prereq to be a gym teacher.)

The poolside torture of jumping jacks, running, push-ups, and other exercise didn't begin until after we'd all taken our spots in alphabetical order on a bench.  When he called your name, you said, "here," if you were prepared to join that day's chlorine-laden festivities.  If you couldn't, you had to say you had a note or that dreaded word - period.  Right in front of the boys, the other girls, God, and the swim teacher. 

I fully believe he took some pleasure in pretending he didn't hear you.  "What did you say?"  "Period (spoken barely above a whisper)."  "Speak up."  A little louder this time, "Period."  "What?"  And this time nearly screamed just to end the embarrassment and move on with life, "PERIOD!"  He'd mark his gradebook with a P for Period. 

If you've never done physical exercise in a room with a heated pool, barefooted, in a swimsuit made from the heaviest polyester blend known to man that wouldn't flatter a supermodel and rode up your crack and made your boobs itchy, on indoor/outdoor carpet over cement, with the smell of chlorine burning your nostrils and brain, you should try it.  If you're crampy, bloated, and worried your feminine hygiene product isn't going to hold back Aunt Flo, that's even better.  I don't know if the early 80s were a time where proper hydration wasn't a concern, but we were expected to ask for permission to get a a drink from the fountain.  You didn't want to do this, or you'd surely be told to run for a solid five minutes before you could walk the quarter lap of the pool.  Occasionally, if someone was looking a bit ill, he'd suggest getting some water.  That's probably because a kid passing out would take his attention away from learning the proper technique for blowing bubbles. 

It certainly was a toss up which was worse - that or actually getting into the water.  I knew how to swim.  I'd taken swimming lessons over the summer at the community pool where the lifeguards/swimming teachers spent about as much time flirting with each other as they did plucking kids on verge of drowning out of the pool.  I wasn't going to be swimteam material no matter how well this teacher attempted to groom the finest of the bunch to join him in swimming victories.  I would have been content to stay in the shallow end of the pool, which in retrospect, I don't think I could hardly touch there, either. 

I refused to dive.  I refused to try harder to help win a relay race.  It had nothing to do with the fear of water.  I'd rather enjoyed it up until this point of my life.  I simply did not trust this man to not watch me drown after making me tread water for 20 minutes. 

So, there I was in the dream.  Beginning to panic that I was going to be in trouble because I couldn't get that confounded Kotex machine to dispense something that would attend to my feminine needs.  I looked at the box and read $2.00.  I fumbled for eight quarters, dropping them on the floor, noting that they were only a quarter back in the day. 

I heard my name being called.  "Coleman."

 I turned the crank and out came a PVC gasket like you'd use to fix a sink drain. 

"Miss Coleman."  I kept feeding in my money.  With a turn of the crank, out came a firework spinner.

"Kelly Coleman."  I don't know where the quarters were coming from, but the next prize from the machine was a box of Tic-Tacs. 

I knew I had to get out of there considering this Kotex machine wasn't offering me anything that helped my current plight.  When I glanced at the machine again, I could see stacks of dollar bills.  I reached in grabbing them, totally forgetting about my friends and reporting to poolside misery.  Suddenly, I didn't care about the swim teacher's wrath, and I found myself thinking I should stop and get gas on the way home. 

I hated those days in middle school, and I couldn't wait to get out of there to go to the high school in ninth grade where there was no pool, even though that brought about new worries about initiation and being a freshman.  I wonder if being all forthcoming about menstruating was supposed to give us a healthy attitude about it - you know, like reaffirming what all those "you're becoming a woman" films in elementary school that it happens to all girls, eventually.  It did lend itself to a certain feeling of shame and embarrassment.  What I do know is that there would have been a line of parents a mile long outside the principal's office these days to complain about their little darlings having nightmares about drowning and diving boards. 

I don't know why I had this dream.  I can only suspect that it's a little like those times when I dream about tornadoes - it means I'm feeling out of control or helpless, or something.  I do know, though, looking back, it's ironic that Kotex's current slogan of, "Have a happy period," doesn't really apply to those days. 

Unsolicited advice for aspiring writers....from someone who hasn't totally figured it all out

I'm no expert, and I'm not pretending to be.  What I'm saying is that I've read books, visited websites and blogs of agents and editors, attended writing conferences, attempted to publish various book projects and was rejected, and submitted to magazines and ezines.  All that while writing a weekly column for ten years and trying to uncover the secret code of the publishing world.

These are a few things that make sense to me now, which has taken the past fourteen years to seep into my thick skull.

1.  If you are a writer, you write.  It's what you do.  It's what you can't stop doing.  You can try to stop.  I've watched my writing friends stop.  I've stopped writing, too.  I gave up my weekly column about a year and a half ago.  Despite my efforts to turn my attention to my college studies, I found myself blogging or writing emails of epic proportions.  Some people might be successful squelching the urge, but I don't know many.  Writers write.

2.  Now, for the reasons you write.  I know people who write at least several times a week, and they've never been published once.  They don't even go so far as to post to a website or blog.  They write because they love it, and they have this undying need and desire to do it.

If you write because you must have that feedback from others, that sort of atta boy or atta girl pat on the back of job well done, you're probably doing it for the wrong reasons.  I'm not saying that reader feedback doesn't stroke the ole ego.  It does.  It's like being on crack (I can only assume) when you see your byline and someone takes the time to say hey, I could relate to what you've written.  Or man, that made me laugh until I cried.

It's like any other profession - it's good to know that you've set out to do what you intended and you are being noticed.  But, frankly, if you're a needy little bitch that needs that constant reassurance from someone, anyone, and this is what propels your desire to write...well, you're going to be met with great disappointment.  Sure people read stuff.  Some of them even read all the way to the end.  However, most don't take the time to drop a line and share their thoughts.  Not unless you tug a heart string or touch a nerve.  If you can make someone teary or pissed, you're probably going to get an email or a blog comment.

Write because it brings you joy and satisfaction, and the joy and satisfaction from your readers is just icing on the cake.

3.  You have to learn what works and what doesn't.  Somehow, you have to absorb and apply what you've read when it comes to writing query letters, outlines, crafting a 650 piece work, and advice on anything you're attempting to do.   I can read a how-to on portrait painting, but likely, I'm not going to walk over to a canvas and create a masterpiece.  We learn in the doing, and writing is not any different.  You can find good examples of winning query letters and do your best to emulate it.  You can also read really, really bad query letters on various websites.  I think the latter helps more than anything.  Though, if you can read a crappy proposal and can't figure out why it's crappy, there's a problem.

I suggest checking out this site.  http://slushpilehell.tumblr.com/  If you don't find it amusing, you probably could learn something from the examples.

4.  It seems one of the most important things is to create a following.  I interviewed Bruce Cameron years ago who's had some great success in writing since those days.  I think his third book was recently released.  He started by writing a weekly column online.  He offered it through a list where it would pop up in your inbox each week.  The thing about this is that he struck when the iron was hot.  When he first started, spam wasn't so much an issue, and not everyone was doing it.  Nonetheless, he created a following, which helped him become syndicated because he had that following.  The column and his following landed him his first book deal.  You can Twitter if that's your thing. You can use Facebook and other social networking outlets to get your writing out there.  Create a blog.  Visit other people's blogs and leave sincere comments.

Creating followers seems to come in dang handy these days if you have aspirations of self-publishing.  Start a blog, find a niche, be different, entertaining, or whatever you feel you are with what you want to write.  Regardless of whether you go the traditional route or the e-format, you'll already have some people who will be willing to purchase and recommend your work.

5.  Don't get caught up in the fantasy that you're going to be an overnight writing superstar.  Don't start writing with the hopes of publishing because your kid is getting braces next month.  Don't expect to get your bills caught up at the end of the month because you're going to publish something.   I know it does happen - that crazy, whirlwind success.  One example that comes to mind is the guy who started a Twitter account and offered up shit his dad says.  He has a book.  There's a sit-com based on a Twitter account.  If that doesn't blow your mind, it should.  This is not the norm.  I'm not being cynical here.  It's being realistic.  Read about Stephen King and how he found his eventual success.  You'll see why I used the word eventual.  These writers who finally make the big time had heap tons of rejections.  They just didn't quit.  They kept writing.  They kept submitting.  They kept honing their craft, improving, rewriting, editing.  They did the work and were persistent.

As an aside here, persistent means what I suggested - write, rewrite, get better.  Ditch a project that doesn't deserve to be finished.  Brainstorm.  Keep on keeping on.  It doesn't mean when you're told no that you try to change a publisher/agent/editor's mind.  You've got one shot in a query letter.  Be confident, but not cocky.  Don't be needy.  Don't be whiny, apologetic, clueless, verbose.  Don't tell the agent what to do or what you'd do if you were the agent.  Don't promise that you're the next best thing after sliced bread.  Sell your idea without coming off as a huge pain in the ass.  After all, if you represent yourself as some sort of fruit loop in that letter, I'm guessing no agent no matter how great the idea sounds is going to want to babysit your ass through the final product.

Meanwhile, back to the point that writing isn't a get rich scheme.  Do the research and you'll see that few writers can earn a living from it.  Sure, it might make the mortgage payment and buy you a package of bologna each month.  Do a little reading about royalties.  Research how many books you'd need to sell to make a profit (even if you're going through CreateSpace or publishing electronically).  Take into consideration you're probably going to want to give away books to those willing to do reviews on their blogs that might get you more readers.

6.  Okay, so, I'm not putting these ideas in any particular order, but it occurs to me that I should mention letting others read your work for feedback before you're looking to acquire an agent or go the self-publishing route.  By others, I mean people who are avid readers.  Find a few people who dig the genre of your work.  Ask people who have had some success with getting a byline or their name on a book cover.  Sure, you can ask family and friends to read, but likely, they aren't going to be fully honest with you.  No one (usually) wants to hurt someone else's feelings.  And, as I mentioned previously, if you need that positive feedback in order to survive, people are going to be reluctant to tell you the truth.  

I understand what it feels like to be told you suck.  Writers have this connection to their work, and when they're told something doesn't quite work, it's like being told your child is ugly, has B.O., is unliked by his peers, and shows great promise of one day riding on the back of the garbage truck.  Because of that personal attachment to one's work, it's hard to tell someone that they should give it up or even that they need to get better at the craft.  I have to agree with King when he wrote that you can make a good writer better.  You can teach someone to write well enough to write office memos and college papers.  I don't know that you can take someone who has no talent and teach them talent.  Either you have it or you don't.

There are reasons your writing is rejected.  They are various, and perhaps, even painful.  Maybe your work isn't the right fit.  Maybe it's a topic that has been a gazillion times and the market is saturated with stories about vampires and werewolves.  Maybe your writing style isn't a good fit.  Maybe the agent isn't looking to represent memoir or romance.  It could plainly be that it's not good enough.  Or not good at all.  A storyline that is believable to you quite possibly isn't believable to anyone, and everyone was too damn polite to tell you as much.

At some point, the reason you're being rejected could simply be that you're deluded about your abilities.  If you can't even get your work in a venue that doesn't pay, it's time to have a little coming to Jesus meeting with yourself.  That's why I believe anyone who encourages someone without offering constructive criticism is doing a real disservice if the writing is plain bad.  Though, it is one person's opinion.  They could be wrong.  But, chances are, if more than one person suggests your writing needs work, they're probably right.  Just remember - your mother or grandmother is going to love anything that you do.

7.  I recommend this book Self-Publish Your Novel :  Lessons from an Indie Publishing Success Story by Robert Kroese.  It was recommended to me by a writer who has found a bit of success going that self-publishing route.  This book is straight, to the point, without any of that sugarcoating, let's hold hands and sing kind of crap that you find in some works or at writer's conferences.

While on this topic, if you have a Kindle, you can download sample chapters of books or topics that might be similar to what you're trying to do.  It helps to see what grabs the attention of a reader in the first couple pages that would make you want to read the book.  Something as simple as formatting has made me read a couple pages and promptly delete it off my Kindle, not even considering spending the $1.99 to read it.

8.  Because I like lists with even numbers.  I'll sum up a few things.  Be professional.  Expect to be rejected.  Rewrite and edit - seldom is anything perfect in the first write up.  Follow your dream for the right reasons.  Do your homework and be knowledgeable   Figuring out what doesn't work is a good way to understand what does.  Ask for help from people who know a thing or two and not the homeless guy near the river.  These are things I've learned, and continue to learn as I work towards self-publishing.

Sweet Jesus in a jumpsuit, what was I doing?

Well, it took a comment to remind me that I started this blog and have excelled at neglecting this project for over two months now.

I'm in the homestretch of this semester.  It's a good feeling.

I also feel like I'm not only looking at the barrel of shotgun, but kissing the gunmetal.

Here's my problem.  Okay, one of many of my problems.  I'm so damn distractible.  I just had to look up if I really meant gunmetal.  Are guns still made of gunmetal?  Maybe it's steel.  Aren't most made with steel now?  I don't know.  For all intents and purposes, I’m smooching a vintage gun.  It may or may not be a double barrel.  I don't know. It could be a rifle.  Where was I?

Anyway, in the next three weeks, I have three papers due.  One of them isn't so much a paper as it's a portfolio project that I should have been working on all semester for Health Psychology.  Have I?  Of course not.  I was probably too busy Googling something that has likely not enriched my life.  It could have.  I did Google scoliosis and that was informative.

Naturally, there was a reason for that, even though I tend to look up some pretty random crap.  My youngest son apparently has a slight curvature to his spine that we've been unaware of for the past almost 19 years.  Sweet Jesus in a jumpsuit, I don't know how this is possible.  I'm ready to put him in a home for the invalid.  That kid has more wrong with him than my 90ish year old grandma.  And no, I'm not going to stop and do the math to report exactly how old she is.  Okay, I lied.  She turned 89 in June.

One paper is a relationship analysis paper for Love, Romance, and Relationships.  I need to pick a person and put our relationship through the wringer, detailing such riveting topics as "Assess the Relational Sexuality aspects of this relationship using the abbreviated form of the Sexual Attitudes Scale and Bern Sex-Role Inventory.”  I have a perfect score in that class.  A 100%.  I'll be honest and say I don't have the first flippin' clue what that even means.  If that class has taught me anything, it's that you can indeed look too closely at things like friendships and other relationships.  I've also reached the conclusion it's a wonder that more people don't end up in an asylum, drooling, babbling, and chewing on electrical cords.

Another paper is for Critical Thinking.  And no, I'm not going to go look up the details for the sake of this blog.  Not going to do it.  I will say it has something to do with my personal feelings on what Critical Thinking entails, and will require a fair amount of surmising how my thinking probably should have changed over the course of a semester.

It's not been a bad semester.  It's been one of the easiest ones yet.  There has been so much writing, though.  Every week, there's been something that has required talent beyond simple memorization skills.  One instructor suggested that I might consider writing because my papers were that easy to read and enjoyable.  I got 200/200 on a research paper about positioning a booty call on the relationship spectrum between long-term relationships and one-nightstands, and what experts say about this.  Yes, it even strikes me as oddly absurd.

(I just spent ten minutes looking up a Sesame Street clip where the song to the tune of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" that goes, "Whistle, whistle, little bird.  Eating crumbs is quite absurd.  Have a ham and cheese on rye or a piece of cherry pie.  Then if crumbs you only want, then don't come in my restaurant.”  I couldn't find the clip, but for whatever reason, I know the words to it.)

I think what has happened over these semesters is much like what happened when I wrote the column.  At first, it was difficult to get everything down that I wanted to say in 700 words.  Then after a while, I could whip out the first draft, and I'd be within 20 words of the count.  That was a transformation from whittling down 1,000 words when I first wrote the column.  The only difference now is I'm not going to get excited about writing a ten-page paper on a relationship.

I've been on the fence about taking off a semester and waiting to go back next fall.  I can do that before Sallie Mae starts wanting payment for student loans.  However, I'm not entirely convinced I wouldn't find something else to take up my time.  Say, for example, Googling Shaun Cassidy or the history of Spandex.

Or Shaun Cassidy wearing Spandex.

Is it next semester yet?

I've given some thought as to what this blog should be about.  I've decided it's about me.  So, if it's something towards the book project, then that's what it'll be.  If it's a ranting, raving observational thing (much like my weekly column used to be), then so be it. 

This is what I'm thinking about today:   

A friend posted on Facebook yesterday that her 11 year old daughter proclaimed it was time to shave her legs.  After all, she's in middle school now.  It seems that oftentimes as parents, we think kids are all gung-ho on growing up and wanting to do things they aren't old enough to do.  As parents, there's one thing we forget - we did the same dang thing. 

After I spent a few days listening to that collection of cassette tapes recorded at slumber parties with my friends back in my middle school days, I found myself somewhere between amused and abhorred.  Sweet Jesus in a jumpsuit, for a bunch of midwest sheltered youngins' who went to church on Sunday in the early 80s, we sure talked about sex A LOT. 

A favorite, it seemed, was to play the, "How far have you gone?" game.  Well, since the majority of us might have snuck a kiss or held hands with a boy (the majority not including me), that game lost its appeal because there was no dirt to dish.  This evolved into the, "How far would you go?" game.  It was outright scandalous to admit which boy you might want to kiss, and how old you would have to be before you would do "it."   

I cringed when I listened to our comments, listing off the bases and saying, "4th base, all the wayyyyyy home" like Kevin Bacon said in "Footloose" comparing sex to the carseat going "all the wayyyyy back,"  if you know what he means.  Truthfully, if you'd asked us the previous year while still in the protective walls of elementary school about bases, we likely would have started talking about playing kickball on the playground at Poplar Grove, and how you have to be careful running to home (yeah, as if I ever got that far in kickball or with boys) so you didn't run into the big tree behind home base. 

A girl we met in middle school was knowledgeable.  I mean she really knew things about sex, and she wasn't afraid to share the nitty gritty.  I know somewhere in the recesses of my footlocker o'crap, there's a tape with a sex story she wrote about another friend getting it on.  The finer details of the middle school porn tale escape me, and for this I'm likely thankful, but I do recall a line about "zip grip, pull tab, crotchless panties."  While I couldn't quite wrap my young mind around what exactly that meant, and I kept trying to mentally picture what those drawers would look like, I take some solace in knowing now that it still doesn't make much sense. 

My friendship with this girl came and went during the remainder of my public school days.  Some years, we were friends.  Other years, we weren't.  While I remained close with those I'd formed an early friendship with, it seemed my circle of friends rotated depending on who was in my History class or who had the same lunchtime.  When she wasn't teaching me to put on eyeliner or enlightening me on making out, she tried to kill me.  Teenage girls with cars that go fast are never really a great idea.  Neither are a couple teenage girls riding in the back of a pickup truck at highspeeds on a crisp fall evening, that may or may not have done donuts in a churchyard. 

I'm not blaming this girl for ushering me into the world of the mysterious and unknown because I think it's the natural course of things for a young, curious kid.  I did my fair share of stupid before she came along, and she didn't trigger my desire to hurry up and grow up.  I was already in a hurry.  My friend mentioning her daughter's desire to shave reminded me of this.   

At about the fifth grade age, I decided I needed to shave.  The hair on my legs was blonde and fine, but this didn't stop me from digging through the medicine cabinet to find my dad's razor.  If safety was an option for razors at the time, my dad still lived life on the edge and used the double-sided blades that were, well, as sharp as a razor. 

I turned the bottom of the handle, which opened the top of the razor like a mouth.  Examing the blade in the razor, I decided I needed a fresh one.  I lathered myself up with some shaving cream, using probably half the can.  With the precision of someone who'd been doing it for years, I took my first swipe with the razor up the middle of my shin. 

Then it hit me.  Oh man, that stung.  Was shaving supposed to hurt?  I looked down at my leg.  The mounds of shaving cream around the area I'd tended to was turning a shade of pink.  I was bleeding.  I glanced at the razor, and there it was.  My flesh.  A four inch piece of my flesh that rolled up on the razor.  I'd peeled my flesh like I was using a vegetable peeler on a carrot.

I don't know if it was the blood or the piece of my skin that was once on my body and now on the razor, or the burning from the shaving cream entering my wound, but darn if I didn't get a little woozy.   I cleaned myself up and put about six bandages in a row to cover my wound, and swore I'd never shave my legs again.  I still have a faint scar. 

So, this need to hurry up and grow up, and do grown up things and talk about grown up stuff certainly isn't anything new.  We did it.  Our kids do it.  Our grandkids will do it.  Oh, to be young and stupid and needing to have the crap smacked right out of you by a well-meaning adult.

New Blog

Go here...http://devilswagon.blogspot.com/

Back to school

I love this commercial.  As it notes, your own kids probably aren't going to react this way when you walk in the door with their supplies for the impending school year.  Well, not unless I happened to be your child. 

Call it a sick fascination, or just plain sick, but I loved getting new school supplies as a child.  I loved thumbing through blank notebooks waiting to be filled - especially the one serving as a journal for a high school English class.  I couldn't wait to use a fresh pack of Bic Banana markers.  A jar of paste or Elmer's rubber cement set my heart a fluttering.   The smell of fresh crayolas - the kahuna box of 64 with the built-in sharpner, oh please, please, mom.    They made me put my worries aside about whether I got a good teacher or if my best friend would be in the same class. 

The list sent home for needed art supplies told me exactly what kind of projects we might embark on in art class.  My mom groaned each year as she looked over the list of required supplies so that I might fully reach my potential in art class.  Oh, but I do know that groan, especially the several years that my sons' school decided kids should have two sets of supplies - one for the classroom and one for the art room.  My groan may or may not have been followed by a litany of well-crafted profanity.  What a pain the ass that was, not to mention pretty darn expensive, too. 

While I scoured the aisles and shelves for Fiskar round-tip scissors that sold out quicker in Wells county than bread and milk during a blizzard warning, my mom lamented over one thing - Prang brand watercolors. 

This is the original packaging that I remember.  In later elementary school days in the 70s, the metal box was replaced by a plastic one.  This was a great point of contention with my mom because Prang paints were expensive.  The cheap, prone to drying out, less than exciting Kmart brand water colors were much cheaper.  The one year she tried to get them past the art teacher, a note was sent home requesting that I come back equipped with the proper paint.  Although I suffered the embarrassment of not following directions, it wasn't so bad because I got to use the Kmart ones at home.  Well, until I got caught coloring my Barbies' hair with it. 

There was something about those Prang watercolors, unused, so vibrant and inviting,  that gave me this artsy feeling of well, having an ounce of artistic ability in my body.  Sadly, I really didn't.  That didn't stop me from loving those art supplies.  I'd pack and repack my artbox, not particularly caring if the jumbo box of crayons didn't fit.  What mattered was that I had 64 colors at my disposal for artistic expression.  If could somehow accent my collection with a Pentel outlining marker (silver with red outlining preferably that could give you a high before you knew what being high was all about) or a bottle of glue with the dauber top, I knew it was going to be a good year in art. 

As I hinted, I certainly wasn't the best at art in my class, but I also wasn't the worst, either.  This mainly because as one might suspect, art class was co-ed and most boys didn't have that desire to create a festive holiday piece such as this shamrock with some tissue paper cut into squares, a pencil eraser, and some glue.  As a mother of two children of the boy variety, I know most can't be bothered by expressing themselves creatively.  I probably didn't earn the S+ grade in the class for my picturesque drawings so much as my effort counted.  I really did want to be good at it. 

These projects were my favorite.  Try as I might to recreate the project at home (after the art teacher would often set out scraps and leftovers for us to pick through and take if we wanted), it never really was the same.  Perhaps, it was because we sat somewhat quietly at tables with the teacher's instruction and without the distractions of cartoons, dogs, and siblings.

My second favorite project types involved this.  Mod Podge.  How thrilling it was to catch a rumor that we'd be Mod Podging something as our next project.  Some tissue paper glued on a hunk of paper, brushed with this wonderous creation could create a stained glass window, mosaic type effect.  From experience, I can tell you that glue doesn't work if you're trying to do a little Mod Podging at home. 

 

Nothing beat a good paper mache project, either.  Especially the ones that used a balloon as a form.  Most of these projects took place in the classroom, and I'll never forget the teachers who trusted us to hold the corsage pin and pop our own balloons.  My dog loved the one we made in first grade - wrapping pieces of yarn around a balloon to create an egg shaped cage-like deal that we stuffed with Easter grass.  I can't remember what we shoved into it, but I'm guessing it was some sort of little bird like the ones you can buy in a craft store.  My mom loved the my project even more than the dog when she had to extract Easter grass from the dog's butt. 

Of course, I'm much older now and so are my kids.  A few notebooks, some pencils and pens, maybe a 3-ring binder constitutes back-to-school shopping now.  Blank pages and a good ink gel pen still call out to me.  As does a nice set of art pastels.  I don't know what I'd do with them because while my mom and sister can draw, paint, sketch and do all sorts of things artistic, I know my limits.  Still, there's something about school supplies that at least gives me the feeling that maybe I could create something beautiful and awe-inspiring. 

....and I just happened upon a recipe for homemade Mod Podge. 

And so it began

On February 8, 1969, a meteorite weighing over 1 ton fell on Chihuahua, Mexico, the last edition of the Saturday Evening Post hit the newsstands, and I made my appearance in the world.   

Try as I might, I’ve never gathered too much information about the day from either of my parents.  When I’ve asked, I’ve learned it was cold and rainy.  There was no blizzard, no mad dash to the hospital on the back of a snowmobile, no giving birth in a car along a rural road somewhere.  Nothing to write home about.  For all intents and purposes, the best I can figure is that it was your average Saturday, except for those folks in Mexico.  I imagine they remember it clearly, especially anyone in the meteorite’s path.   

My mom shared a few details, none of which is the making for stories you tell your kids or grandkids.  I've searched for clues in my nearly untouched baby book, reading it cover to cover looking for anything that might tell me more about the day I was born.  The section for comments made by family members upon my arrival were mostly blank.  Perhaps, my arrival left everyone speechless because my dad was the only one who had something to say.   

According to Mom’s fine penmanship he said, “That’s a huge weight off my shoulders.”  I asked her what this meant because it didn’t make a lot of sense to me.  She didn’t know, but she assumed it meant he was relieved.  But, by the tone of her voice, I could tell she was the one who felt she had more right to feel relief because he spent his time in the waiting room while she was laboring and delivering.   Some men would refer to this as the good ole days.

While my first few days remain a mystery, the one thing I do know for certain is that following my birth, my parents took me home to the house trailer where they resided.  I spent my first five years surrounded by family.  We lived next door to my mom's parents.  On the other side of my grandparent’s house set another house trailer where my grandma’s mom lived, my great-Grandma Jones.  Now if that wasn’t enough family to pack into a few acres, my grandpa’s mom lived in the house with them, Grandma-Great, as I called her.   My dad’s parents lived just a mile away.  I grew up thinking everyone’s family was as accessible as mine. 

Some of my earliest memories are a bit sketchy.  Some might not be actual memories of my own, but those created by thumbing through photo albums and shoeboxes full of photographs that never found a home in an album.  Some might be stories that were told to me time and time again, and through the telling and listening, became my stories.   

Seldom do I need to turn to others to jog my memory.  I am the retainer of moments in time.  I am the person you call when you can’t remember the name of the boy who dressed like Johnny Cash in fourth grade or who the girl was who played guitar on the long bus rides home.  Events with no meaning and those that shaped the person I am today come back to me.  The good, the bad, the inconsequential.  They are all there – resurfacing unexpectedly, conjured by the senses, similar events, and sometimes for no apparent reason at all.  They reside in journal entries, weekly columns, and stories I tell my own children about what it was like when I was growing up.  Sometimes pleasurable; other times, painful.  A gift.  A curse.   

The brain works in strange ways.  What we remember and why is a mystery.  I don’t have the slightest idea why, or even how, I remember the things I do.  I’m definitely wired differently than the average person who will ask me, “How do you remember that?” to which I reply, “How can’t you remember it?” 

There are things I remember with most certainty.  I know these early recollections are mine:

My baby brother was born in September of 1972 when I was about 3 ½ years old.  On the day he came home from the hospital, I sat beside Mom on the couch, on a pillow just as she, and held my T-bear in my lap while she cradled the tiny newborn.   

Grandma-Great kept her post rocking in her chair listening to the Christian station on the radio.  She lost her vision to glaucoma in her 30s, and oftentimes, one of her eyes peeked open revealing the bluest of eyes.  When I look in the mirror, I recognize the blue. 

Grandma Jones had a chamber pot in her bedroom.  It was the greatest source of intrigue I had encountered in my young years.  She didn’t have to trek down the short hallway in her house trailer at night to use the bathroom.  She had a toilet right there in her room.  It was nothing short of magical to me.  If I made an extra strong argument that I couldn’t hold it any longer, she would let me use the chamber pot, not once complaining about having to empty out the metal bucket.  

One night, when I was supposed to be in bed, I got up to find my mom watching TV while eating Seyfert’s BBQ potato chips and drinking milk.  Instead of making me go back to bed, she let me join her.  The chips never tasted so BBQ-y and the milk never colder.  It’s probably one of my favorite memories.    

Sometimes, there is little importance to the things I remember.  I mean really, how pivotal was it that I got the wrong crocheted shawl after a family dinner and my second cousin took home mine instead?  The exchange of shawls went peacefully, and I couldn’t have been more than three years old at the time.  Yet, I remember, but I couldn’t fathom a guess why.   

Maybe on that day I was born, uneventful as it was on earth, they were running low on special gifts and talents.  As they rummaged around the bins labeled athlete, dancer, artist they turned up empty-handed.  There in the corner, possibly, there was a bin they didn’t often dip into.  Instead of being blessed with the legs of a dancer or the stamina of a basketball player, I was given a different gift.  The gift of a phenomenal memory.  

These stories, including the devil who drove a station wagon,  are what I remember. 

Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day...when I was 12 years old

This week, during some much needed alone time, I came across six cassette tapes that were recorded in the early 80's.  Cassette tapes.  Remember those?  They were played in a tape deck or tape recorder at the time.  Rewind.  Stop.  Fastforward.  Pause.  Record.  Please remember to punch out those little tabs on the top if you don't want to accidentally record over something important.  However, if you changed your mind, and "Electric Avenue" was no longer your favorite song, and you now wanted to recorded, "Our House" from the Coca-Cola Top Nine on WMEE, a piece of clear tape could solve that pesky problem of poked out tabs. 

Note that the manufacturer of these cassettes is Kmart.  The best place to shop on a Friday night after my dad took us to supper (yes, supper.  We ate supper then.  Lunch was called dinner.  It's a confusing concept to my husband who was raised in a upstate NY.  He's never had supper until he married me, and to avoid confusion, I gave up saying what we'd have for dinner because he was expecting meals at times I had no intention of cooking them.)  I can only wager a guess that a great portion of my $5/week allowance went towards the purchase of 60 and 90 minute blank cassette tapes for my tape recorder that I got for Christmas when I was in seventh grade. 

I was going to say it looked a lot like that one. 

Except it didn't.  It looked like this.  I remember because of the high tech record and play button combination.  When play was pressed, the small orange button remained in the up position.  While recording, the orange button was pushed down as well. 

I'd often been asked what was the best gift you'd ever received.  I think thoughtfully, as one should do, and I'd say something like my children, or meeting my husband.  Maybe I'd wax romantically and say it was my first engagement ring that my husband bought before we ever laid eyes on one another (that's another long story for another time).  I'd like a do-over on all those answers because that Panasonic tape recorder, hands down, was the greatest gift EVER. 

It strikes me what a different era this was.  When photos were taken, you didn't just randomly point and shoot as we do now with digital cameras and cell phones.  No, it cost money - to buy film and have them developed.  Photo ops were few and far between.  Of course, there is photographic evidence that I did have a childhood.  My family didn't do the home movie thing, and again, there was an expense to that as well.  I know some people who have home movies, but in most, there's an underlying theme of conserving film just in case something more important happened that needed to be saved for posterity. 

My tape recorder and a blank tape afforded me the luxury to capture moments, that for all practical purposes, didn't necessarily need to be preserved for posterity.  I'd hit record, oftentimes unbeknownst to my friends who were being recorded at the time.  So, I broke the law and didn't know it.  Had I known you were to inform someone they were being recorded, I probably would have lied awake at night waiting on the FBI to show up and haul me off to the pokey.  Copyright infringement would be the other crime I could be charged with because I recorded TV shows by holding my recorder up to the TV.  Why it was important to have audio of "The Muppet Show" or the "Solid Gold" escapes me a little now.  But, again, it was a different time.  VCRs were a technology still a few years out. 

One tape snippet I've listened to at least a dozen times.  It was a sleepover, and my best friend was staying the night.  The tape recorder set in the background capturing a moment that was neither spectacular or noteworthy.  We talked about boys.  We talked about what we did that day.  We giggled.  A lot.  My dog at the time was a Bassett Hound named Bosley.  He was the greatest dog EVER, but that's a story for another time.  Wherever there were kids, this hound could be found.  And naturally, this meant Bosley had joined in on the sleepover festivites. 

By joining in, this meant he was trying to snag an empty sleeping bag or pillow for his own.  He must have crawled between us because the conversation focused on him for a good bit of time trying to convince him to just lie down and go to sleep. 

"Go to sleepy time, Bosley dog," I coaxed to him.  I was somewhere around the tender age of 12, but I spoke to him as if he were my human baby. 

And then, I started singing to him.  "Go to sleep my baby, my baby, my baby."  My friend joined the lullaby and we both sang to Bosley. 

Either he fell asleep, or we forgot it was our mission to lull him into slumber, because we both got up to do something and ditched the poor pooch.  Walking and banging around on something is heard in the background.  My friend and I both come back, giggle over something, and go about getting the dog back into the position we preferred. 

"Bosley, you're in my seat.  Can I sit with you, Bosley dog?" my friend asks him.  "You're a good boy letting me sit with you."  A few moments of silence pass, and then she says, "You're a stinky dog.  You know that? You stink.  Why am I letting you sit with me when you smell bad?  Kelly, why am I hugging your dog?" 

I'm still at a loss to explain how exactly listening to these recordings impacted me.  I'd thought of Bosley many times since then.  I've thought about our countless sleepovers and how we amused ourselves by making recordings.  Sometimes, we'd even use them as blackmail if someone happened to confess which boy was the cutest or who'd we like to kiss.  They're the closest I come to having home movies of my youth, and I'm reminded of a time that wasn't perhaps simpler, but my life was much simpler.  There's something about my dog partaking in the moment that's left me a little melancholy, perhaps. 

I spent way too many hours listening to these treasures from the past.  I'm still not done.  One hour in, though,  I reached the conclusion that I was thankful for three things - that I stopped giggling incessantly, that I stopped recording myself singing, and for the technological advances since the early 80s.