The Center of Things

The Prompt:  
Ah the freedom of flight, the weightlessness of free-fall. Doesn’t it feel wonderful? Well it would if you weren’t launching at maximum velocity towards a gaping hole that leads to the center of the earth. Why are you going there? What’s going on?


Revenge. That’s what is on my mind as I sit in a shuttle moving at a rapid speed along the tracks that would lead me to Final Stop, a facility designed to take place of death row. Instead of taking a dirt nap, prisoners were taken deep into the center of the earth. Gone were the days of appeals and second chances, once a jury declared a guilty verdict, it was all over. I don’t even get the luxury of looking out the window. The shuttles are encased in some kind of super-metal, stronger than titanium and forty-eight inches thick. Not that it would matter, all I would be able to see is the cold steel structure of the tunnel I’m traveling through. Instead, I stare at the back of the girl in front of me, Prisoner 98745622, the black numbers emphasized against the bright yellow jumpsuit. She’s crying loudly and keeps tugging at her tangled blonde hair, mumbling something about injustice. I feel the same way, but I don’t let the others see me cry and I don’t voice my own opinions about our system of justice. I suspect the weeping sops are the first to go down at Final Stop, I need to prove myself right away if I hope to survive. No one has ever come back. I will be the first. I have to find the doppelganger who took my life from me. I flex my fingers, thinking about that day that changed my life. I was there when the bank was attacked, standing in line to make a credit withdrawal. I was lying on the floor with the rest of the customers when my twin walked in and shot the President in the head. They caught it all on film and when they were interviewing all of us, they assumed I was playing a trick on all of them. The trial was over in under an hour. In a matter of three months, I went from living the dreams of a hopeful college student to wearing a jumpsuit as bright as a lemon and hurtling towards a condemned life working in the diamond mines. I won’t waste time thinking about the unfairness of it all, I have to find a way to escape this alternative to a death sentence. The man next to me grunts and kicks the back of the chair making Prisoner 98745622 jump and hiccup and start sobbing louder. I look over at him, meeting his hard stare with one of my own, daring him to say something. He nods and breaks eye contact. Message received. The wheels of the shuttle start screeching as the brakes are applied and we all lurch forward. A guard at the front stands up and waves his rifle as he turns to face us with a sneer. “Welcome to Final Stop, I will be your tour guide”, he is laughing now at his own pathetic joke. I meet his gaze and a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. I will make a special effort to find him and make him stop laughing.

The Old School House

The Prompt :  The tires on her SUV crunched over the gravel as she pulled into the curved driveway.  She hopped out of the driver seat quickly and the closing of the car door echoed in the eerie stillness.  “Finally,” she thought to herself, “Finally you are right in front of me.”  A small smile crossed her face as she gazed upon the old schoolhouse on the hill.  She couldn’t wait to get inside.

The tires of the SUV crunched over the gravel as pulled into the curved driveway.  Callie put it into park and shut the engine off, her eyes of walnut brown peering out the windshield in wonder.  She hopped out of the driver’s seat, the closing of the door echoing in the eerie stillness of the afternoon. 

“Finally.” Callie thought to herself. “Here you are, right in front of me.”  A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she gazed up at the old brick schoolhouse on the hill.  It was everything she imagined it to be with an arched entrance, multi-paned windows trimmed in white and a little bell tower complete with a bronze bell.  The steps leading up to the door were made of granite, solid and sure under her feet.  She took a deep breath, and reached for the door.  She couldn’t wait to get inside! 

“You made it!” A man’s voice exclaimed as Callie stepped into the front hall, her feet soundless on the dark hardwood floor.  She bit her lip anxiously as an older gentleman tottered towards her, his cane making a thumping sound with each movement forward.

                “Mr. Devins?” 

                “Call me Alan.” He said in his shaky voice, “We’re related after all.”  

Callie’s nervousness began to fade.  She wasn’t sure what to expect from her mother’s estranged brother.  She had not known of his existence until just a few short months ago. “That’s what I’m told.”

                Alan nodded, “You look like Mae-Belle.” He waved his arm around the wide foyer, “She ever tell you much about Hilltop?”

                “A little.” Callie was loathe to share with her Uncle that she virtually nothing about this property or the family that had established it.

                “She hated it.” Alan stated. “Couldn’t wait to get out of here and out there in the real world, as she called it.”  He shook his head, “Doesn’t matter now, she’s gone so Hilltop belongs to you.”

                Callie followed him from the all into a larger room that had been renovated into a spacious living area.  A dark suede couch and chair were set up facing a large brick fireplace.  Various scenery photos had been framed and hung up tastefully around the room, and heavy drapes had been pulled back to allow sunlight to flood in through three tall windows.   “It’s beautiful”

                “This was the commons room when it was an operating school.” Alan gestured to the fireplace, “It was a private school, of course, quite fancy in its day.”

                “And your family… I mean ‘our’ family ran it?”  Callie still had trouble remembering that this was part of her heritage.  Her mother had never spoken of Hilltop or her brother in all the years of Callie’s upbringing in the mountains of Colorado.  When Mae-Belle had the skiing accident, it caused brain damage and Mae-Belle had reverted to her sixteen year old self.  She thought Callie was her best friend, Sue Randolph and she talked in length of Hilltop and her adventures with her family in mid-Missouri.  Until that time, Callie had thought her mother was her only family.

                “Your Great Grandfather Malcom established it.” Alan said with a sniff, “He made his fortune in the shipping industry along the Missouri river and retired here.  He opened the school as a good will gesture to the community and it flourished.”

                “Why did it close?”  Callie asked curiously as she started down another hall to see where the bedrooms might be.

                “Your mother left.” Alan’s words caused Callie to stop and turn in surprise.

                “The school closed because Mama left here?” She shook her head, “That doesn’t make much sense.”

                Alan looked at her for a long moment, “What exactly did she tell you about the family, Callie?”

                Callie flushed and glanced down at her hands, “Honestly, she never told me… not really.  All I know is the ramblings of a sick woman.”

                “There was a scandal.” Alan said abruptly, no pity showing in his face for the pain that Callie had surely suffered.  “Your mother got mixed up with one of the professors.  There was a big investigation, the professor was fired, your mother ran away and the school’s reputation never recovered.”  He said like he was reading it off of a cue card, no feeling, just a simple recitation. He lifted his cane towards the hall, “Down that way is a music room, and a library.  Up on the second floor are the bedrooms, just three of them but they all have their own bathroom.”   The subject change was abrupt and obvious. He appeared to lose all of his energy and he turned and moved slowly towards the front door.

                Callie recovered from her stunned stance and made a move towards him,  “Wait… “  she reached him and offered a supportive arm for him to lean on.  “What am I supposed to do?”

                Alan looked at her with a soft sad smile, “I think it’s time for you to start your new life, Callie.” 

BE CAREFUL OUT THERE

The Prompt:

 "Be careful out there," your mom said as you grabbed your duffel bag and headed on a camping trip with friends. "You know that tonight is the anniversary, don't you?" You nodded, then shut the door behind you before getting in the car and taking off.

            Nora wrestled her way into a blue pullover hooded sweatshirt, as her mother stood at the counter stirring a bowl of cookie dough with a wooden spoon.   Pop music played from the boombox radio on the counter and cool evening breeze trickled its way into the room through the open kitchen window.

            “It seems silly going camping this time of year.” 

            Nora rolled her eyes and zipped up her ragged duffel bag, “Its not that cold out.”

            “it is with the rain.”  Nora’s mother quipped and stopped stirring.  She pulled a cookie sheet from the cabinet and set it on the counter.  “Did you pack extra socks?”

            “Yes.” Nora hefted the duffel up on her shoulder, “I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon. I promise.”

            Her mother pulled a spoon from the drawer and scooped up some cookie dough.  She plopped it on the cookie tray, “I just worry.”  She got another spoonful of the dough, “I want you to be careful, tonight is the anniversary of…” she dropped the dough on the cookie sheet next to the other dough and shrugged, “well, you know.”

            Nora pushed back the stray curls of brown hair that fell across her forehead and let out an exasperated sigh, “Seriously?  You’re going to keep bringing that up like I don’t know?  Like it isn’t common knowledge in this entire town?”  She opened the back door, “I’ll be fine, mom, you worry way too much.”  She shut the door and trounced down to her truck, tossing the duffel bag unceremoniously in the back.   With her hand on the door handle, she paused, her green eyes flicking to the bushes on the side of the cement porch.  That was where she had hidden, her shoulder screaming in pain, her clothes soaked crimson from the blood.  Inside she had heard more shot gun blasts and she had curled into a fetal position, making herself as small as possible. She had no memory of the events that led up to her bleeding and cowering in the bushes. 

            A wave of guilt washed over her.  She may not remember that fateful night, but her mother did.  She let go of the handle and walked back to the house.  Her gaze fell on the empty sleeve of her mother’s shirt and moved to the ugly scars that trailed from her mother’s forehead, over her now misshapen skull. 

            “Did you want help with the cookies, mom?”  

A Karaoke Love Story

THE PROMPT =  A promotion at work has you head out with coworkers to celebrate. While at the bar, you decide to sing karaoke. As you belt your way through the song (fill in the blank), another member of the crowd starts harmonizing with you. Is it someone you know? Is it not? Either way, this is the moment you fall in love. Write this scene.

Submitted :  May 12, 2015



The Moment I Knew

“Here’s to my baby!” Ben slid a shot glass of clear liquid over to me with a grin, “I’m so proud of you!”
I took the shot glass and tentatively sniffed. Patron Silver Tequila. “This is so expensive.” I protested weakly, my mouth beginning to water in anticipation.
“We’re celebrating your promotion, damn the costs!” Ben lifted his glass, “On the count of three?”
With a grin I lifted the glass to my lips, “Three!” I downed the tequila, relishing the smooth burn as it made its way down my throat. “You know they have karaoke here, right?” I personally despised the idea of getting up in front of a bunch of drunken strangers and warbling out a song, but Ben liked it and had been pushing me to go to a karaoke bar for months.
Ben’s eyes lit up, and he spun his head towards the stage, “Are you serious?”
“Go! I know you want to.” I encouraged him. I already knew he would sing off key and probably mess up the lyrics but I wasn't going to stop him from having some fun.
Ben shifted in his chair, “But this is your night.” He put one calloused hand over my own, “What do you want to do?”
“I want you to let me have another shot of Patron and watch you sing.” Truthfully, I didn't even like being in a bar. Twenty years ago when I was breaking free from a disappointing marriage, I couldn't stay away from the bars and the nightclubs. The music, the smoke, the dancing.. it was all a release for the pain I was feeling from failing so horribly at what was supposed to be a lifetime commitment. Now, middle-aged, kid in college and job going well, I didn't need any of it.
Ben leaned over and gave me a quick kiss on the lips, “You should come sing with me.”
I reached up and tugged on his short beard, “Ha ha ha, if you want small animals to go into hiding and children to cry, I will get up there and sing.”
“You have a good voice.”
“I have a crappy voice from smoking for 20 years.” I pulled my smart phone out of my back pocket, “Besides, I want to get you on video.”
Ben looked at me and then rolled his eyes. I knew he was going to keep pressuring me, but he was backing off for the moment. He pushed his shot of Patron over to me and grinned, “Wish me luck.”
I gave him a thumbs up and watched as he threaded his way through the crowded table, his bright orange shirt like a beacon bobbing in the ocean. He stepped up on the small stage and picked up the microphone. I lifted my phone and fumbled to find the record button, silently cursing the fact that smartphones just made me feel like an idiot. I thumbed through a few screens until I found the camera application and pressed it. The music began and my head shot up in recognition, my jaw dropping in dumbfounded surprise. Before Ben and I were anything but friends, I had once told him about an Elton John song I had just loved as a kid. I liked it so much my mother had bought me a 45 with it on it and I had played it over and over again. It was one of those obscure off-the-cuff conversations; the kind that I never seriously thought about as I plunged ahead into my future because it wasn't a game changer in any form.
I started to laugh and I stood up, trying to clap my hands but I was still holding that smart phone. The crowd was calling out now and whistling, some were singing along and my heart was beating fast. I dropped the phone on the table and it tumbled into the shot glass of Patron, sloshing liquid all over the screen. I didn't care. I started singing along too, I couldn't help myself. Crocodile Rock would always be my go-to song and I knew right at that moment, Ben was always going to be my go-to partner.

Anyone But Me

THE PROMPT =  You’ve had a rough day at work. You head home and go straight to bed, mumbling, “I wish I’d wake up tomorrow and be anyone but me,” before dozing off. When you wake up in the morning, your dream has come true, as you quickly realize that you are not you—you are someone else that you know! Excited to live the day in that person’s shoes, you set off, only to find a day in the life of that person isn't as easy as you imagined.

Submitted :  April 23, 2015

Be Careful What You Ask For

There she was. She looked amazing in the pink floral print sundress, her long dark hair plaited neatly down her back, the sun casting a nice warm glow on smoothly tanned skin. I knew when I bought the dress it would look great on me. But that wasn't me, not any more. I looked across the room and saw the other girl. She was at least fifty pounds overweight, dressed in a over-sized t-shirt and a pair of worn jeans. Her dirty blonde hair was pulled back into a messy pony tail and she was frowning causing deep furrows across her brow. It was a girl I had looked at with disgust fairly often over the past few years, I even made a point of pointing out her every flaw to those who would listen and laugh about it with me. I absolutely detested that woman with every fiber in my being and now I was trapped in her body.
I've been this way for two weeks now. After a harrowing day at work I had gone to bed saying “I wish I’d wake up and be anyone but me.” When I woke the next morning, I was no longer Brittany, the Administrative Assistant to the President of the company; instead, I was Rachel, the fat girl who worked in the tech department and smelled like peanut-butter fudge and cigarettes. I should have been more specific with my wish.
Rachel lived in an apartment building that was constructed in the 1960’s, her furniture was all things you would find in garage sales, just like her very unfashionable wardrobe. Every night since the swap, I get a call from a very drunk man named “Paul”, professing his love for me and apologizing profusely for running around on me. In the mornings, a very sober Paul calls to tell me to quit calling him. I eventually put the pieces together and figured out that Paul is the handsome Loan Officer I've often heard in the office bragging about the women he has slept with. Paul is a piece of trash. Rachel could do so much better, she’s actually quite pretty under all those extra pounds and lack of self-esteem. I have decided to help her, but I keep craving sugar and fast food no matter how hard I try to stick to a diet of salads and low-calorie foods. I continue the weird craving for cigarettes even though I have tossed out all the ashtrays and cleaned the dingy apartment from top to bottom. I try to go walking in the evenings, but this body tires easily and it’s harder to move it like I did with my old body. Yesterday a car of young teens drove by and shouted out fat jokes as I made my way down the block. I admit I cried when I heard it, I've never had anyone do that to me before.
I don’t know how long this is going to go on. I miss Brittany. I don’t like the way people look at me with judging eyes, they don’t know me! I hate the way I’m out of breath from climbing a set of stairs, I hate the way my hair always looks a mess, and I really despise the fact that I really want Rachel to like me.

Co-Dependent

Sometimes, I am just sad.  It does not mean I am unhappy about my life, it does not mean that
something terrible has happened or that I am suffering from major depression.  I am simply just sad.  After years of analyzing this and being sad about things that you are rightfully sad about, I can only see this sporadic sadness as a mini breakdown of my emotions.   Ninety-nine percent of the time I am positive about things in my life.   I know that the bills will eventually be taken care of.  I understand the little stress causing factors in my life and I acknowledge them and handle them.  Outwardly, it looks like I'm standing strong and facing the little obstacles and flavors life hands me.  Inwardly, I think things over.  I analyze and work through scenarios to find the best course of action.  I worry about things that haven't happened and I worry about things might happen.  I also self-berate and criticize my appearance, my conversations, my actions and my unanswered dreams.   Inside is where my weakness lives and demands to be released but that strong outer shell keeps it at bay.  
You can only be strong to a certain extent.  Those things you keep trapped inside need to be let out once in a while or it boils over and causes all sorts of havoc.  A counselor once told me that as I sat in her office sobbing about the thousands of thoughts and life factors that made me want to simply give up.  She told me I needed to let it out so I could stay strong.  Give myself a day to just be weak, the world would not end if I admitted that I cannot handle all that its handing me without freaking out a little.  
With that little tidbit of knowledge I know its okay on the mornings that I awaken less than thrilled about life.   Its my stress emotions slipping out and making a grand escape.  I am allowed to feel this way.   I do not have to stay strong every single day, every single minute.  I can show weakness once in a while and not feel guilty for needing someone to comfort me instead of the other way around. Its not selfish to want someone to give to me what I always give to them… a shoulder to cry on, an ear for me to vent to, a moment where someone is being thoughtful of my needs and desires without expecting anything in return.  
The problem is…  I am sad all by myself.  Things still need to be done, others still need to be cared for, and someone else is sad and needs comfort.  I feel melancholy by myself.  I shed a few tears when no one is watching, and I wage war deep inside.

Tomorrow…   tomorrow I will be strong again and no one will be the wiser.

They're Just Boys

I picked the boys up from the sitter, a wonderful girl who had nothing better to do over the summer so she happily agreed to watch over the kids for a mere four hours a day.  They usually had a good time while hanging out with Jenna, but even I knew it couldn't last.  Today,  Eldest was crying because they didn't go play in the creek; apparently this was most tragic thing that could happen to an eight year old.  He said I had gotten there too fast and needed to come back.   Eight year olds really don't have any concept of time or responsibilities of having a job.  He was less than understanding when I told  him I needed to return to work.
Youngest was angry because he got yelled at for being a hindrance while Jenna was trying to clean up the house. He wanted to go to the creek too and felt it was "stupid" to clean the house.   Jenna look relieved to see me there.
I understand. When they get an idea in their heads it's difficult to sway them from their goal,  they think they are invincible and pay no heed to warnings given to protect them from harm.  If you don't set boundaries they run rampant and they live in the moment, with no consideration for the consequences of their actions.   Every moment spent with them is a teaching moment and there are times you wonder if it is you teaching them or them teaching you.  They will test you, look for your weaknesses and they will exploit them at every chance.  
They are children, after all, and we are the adults who are secretly envious of their ability to throw caution to the wind.


Youngest is right.  Cleaning house is stupid.  

The Dream

There it was, hidden in an email from one of my very best friends. The one thing I had failed at that I regret  almost daily.
My friend was sharing news of the success of one of our former classmates but rather than make me excited, I was filled with a burning jealousy.  This former classmate, younger than me, had set out and achieved the dream that I was still just talking about achieving.
When it comes to reasons why I have not pursued this passion in my life, I have a million of them:  I am good enough , I have to live some life and get experience before I can sit down and write about it and my all time favorite…  I was too busy raising my son and paying the bills.
I'm now in my mid-forties.  I've written stories for newspapers and countless beginnings of stories that still swirl in my head.  I've had plenty of adventures and experiences to fill hundreds of pages, and my son is almost 20 years old and attending college in another state.   The excuses I can come up with today are just as implausible as the ones I've made my mantra.
This is my own fault.
Its time to stop reading the published works of others and feeling as if I can never write as well.
Its time to stop using work and family as an excuse for me not sitting down and pouring out the words that long to escape.
Its time to prioritize my duties, my hobbies and guilty pleasures.
Its okay to "ignore" everyone around me for a few hours each day and concentrate on my dream.

Its time for me to start writing

Figgy

Today I bought a package of  Mission figs.  I didn't even know if I liked figs, I just knew that my sweet tooth needed to be fed and it was a healthy choice.  

That's the thing about eating healthier, every purchase must be well planned out.  When you look at them though, they're not very appealing. That's another thing about healthy things... they are not always eye-pleasing.
Turns out, I like figs.  When I looked at the plump brown seed shaped fruit, I was hesitant to take that first bite. What if I found out I was allergic and had to be rushed to Urgent Care?  What if they made me sick to my stomach or caused hallucinations?  ( this is the way I freak out in my head ).  After I finished "rationalizing" in my head, I held my breath and sank my teeth in.

"Oh my gosh! Fig Newtons!"   The memory came hard and fast. Me, six years old, sitting in the kitchen of a farm house that had been in the family for generations.  Grandma pouring me a glass of milk and scooting the crinkling yellow package over to me and my brother. It was a time long before any other varieties of the Newton cookie was available;  no apple, no raspberry, no strawberry, no fat free.. just the plain old fig kind.    Ah, how I adored Fig Newtons!  It was the "fig" part I liked the best, sweet and just the tiny bit crunchy. I recalled trying to get all the cookie part off just so I could have that fig filling.

I'm not allergic, obviously. Figs are awesome!  

Placing the Blame

Dear Society,

                        I honestly want to lay all the blame on you for the battle I must face each day.  I want someone to blame… anyone to blame but the one who is truly responsible for this.  

You did exactly as I asked.  I wanted food, but not just any food.  I wanted something easy, something quick and something reasonable.  You granted me microwave meals, an array of fast-food restaurants, convenience store munchies, five-minute side dishes, mouth-watering desserts and a grand selection of carbonated beverages.  You gave my milk flavors, offered me sweet cream for my coffee, provided energy in a handy chocolate bar and took the pulp out of my orange juice.  It wasn’t enough, I wanted more.  I wanted comfort food as well.  You offered me fat and juicy cheeseburgers with crunchy bacon, crisp, salted French fries, and ice cream with a variety of yummy toppings.

                However, Society, in granting my requests, you were terribly quiet in your warnings. You did tell me, however, you didn’t shout it out like you did when you were informing me about all these things.  You didn’t post pretty pictures or hit me with subliminal messages in your advertising about the dangers I was facing by indulging in all these tasty foods.  So I didn’t pay attention.  I didn’t worry about the high calories, I blatantly ignored the sodium content and the fat and gave in to the addiction to these processed treats.  You weren’t very loud about telling me I wasn’t getting my daily recommended nutritional value in all the food groups, or that continually indulging would wreak havoc on my body. In all fairness, though, when I did hear you, I ignored it.   After all, everyone had cheeseburgers, pizza, sodas and other wonderful fried food goodness all the time.  I was going to buy it anyway because it was cheap and it curbed the hunger for the time. 

                Yes, I could blame you, Society.  That would be the easiest way to cope.  Blame you and demand the government step in and start doing something to change your ways, to stop you from giving me exactly what I demanded of you.  Or I could simply accept that I am responsible for myself.  You did not force me fill my cart with pre-processed goodies, chips and simple meals. You did not take me into the kitchen every time I was sad, lonely, or bored. No… that was me making that decision all along. 

                See, I like food.  It’s always been my comfort, and my downfall. Thankfully, Society, you know about people like me and you spin it both ways.  You cater to what I demand, even though it’s not good for me, and you offer me a way out, that’s harder and not near as comforting as a good piece of cheesecake drizzled with cherry sauce.  You now offer countless online sites to guide me in a quest to be healthier, to eat like I should be eating.   You label nutritional values ( and let’s face it, you always did ) and you are now making it easier to see those same values when I do go into a fast-food place.  Support groups are now plentiful and let’s be honest, those healthy foods may seem expensive, but they really aren’t when you realize you don’t eat near as much of them.  You are doing much better at educating me and leading me in the direction I need to follow.  It is a hard road to travel,  after living on the fast and easy for so long, and I admittedly stumble quite often.  This road is not lonely though, more and more are merging in and that makes it even better. 

                Society, I still blame you a little, but ultimately, I know this is up to me. 

Talking to Strangers

                I have a friend who is an introvert.  Let’s call her “Emma”.  I never saw this characteristic about  Emma until she pointed it out to me.  As an extrovert, I suppose I just chalked it up to her being shy since the day I met her in third grade.  I’m a mixed bag of introvert and extrovert with more of the extrovert that leads the way.  It made life as a single parent  challenging only in the aspect that my son was even more extroverted than I am.  We were constantly doing new things and venturing into unknown territories. There were times, I admit, that I counted on him to lead the way.  In his own right, he brought out more confidence in me than I realized was there because he forced me into situations in which I truly needed to lead the way. Emma, also a single parent, has two young children. One is very much like her, shy and cautious.  The other is outgoing and confident, very much an extrovert.  This provides a very challenging dilemma for Emma.  She wants to provide the best parenting for both her children and still must battle her own personal challenges of being an introvert.  It’s not an easy road for her and I applaud each effort she makes.   

                Emma and I keep in touch via e-mail and Facebook.  We’ve been friends forever and my moving eight hundred miles away was never going to change that.  I mentioned to her about people I have met in my day to day life and she came back and said,  “You sure talk to a lot of strangers.”    I thought about that statement, curious where she had gotten such an idea.  Apparently, in my correspondence, I’ve told her about chance meetings with people.  The guys I met at the laundry mat, the folks I conversed with at the grocery store and the list goes on.  Emma was right.  I talk to strangers.   That’s the thought that went through my head while standing in line at Wal-mart last night.   The line was long and not moving very fast so I struck up a conversation with the guys behind me.  Turns out they were from out of town and we ended up discussing the differences of living here verses where we were each originally from.  When I left the store I walked to my car, smiling at the door greeter and wishing them a goodnight as I left.  I was driving away and mentally calculating how many people I had struck up conversations with just that day that wasn’t related to me doing my job.    Yesterday I clocked in at five that I can think of right away.  

               For Emma… this is not normal behavior.  For me though, this seems to be just who I am.  

To be bullied

Bullying is watched so much more close now, people are aware of it because of the wonders of technology.  I never thought the things I went through was considered bullying, but it turns out that I am a bullying survivor.  Life has a way of putting things in perspective.   I went to preschool and things were good -  at four years old, we weren't thinking about styles, who our best friend was or what boy was the cutest.   Kindergarten went pretty much the same way, I had friends and I got to have a juice and cookie break.   First grade was when it occurred to me that maybe I wasn't quite the princess I had envisioned myself as being.   Natalie was.  She was beautiful with just a dash of freckles across her face and pretty blonde hair that swept to her shoulders.  Everybody liked Natalie and I found myself wanting to be her friend to.  I spent days gathering up the courage to say "hello", and I practiced it in front of the mirror over and over.  Only I thought her name was "Madeline" like the character in one of my favorite books.  It was an honest mistake that opened the door to a lifetime of silly little mistakes that were blown out of porportion.  Not only did Natalie laugh when I called her by the wrong name, she also got all her friends to laugh and make fun of me.  I was utterly humiliated.    I do believe it was at that point that I began to realize that some girls are princesses and some girls are mere servants.  I was of the latter.  A servent to the mightly dragon of jealousy.   I wanted to be beautiful and thin like Natalie and have all the kids want to be my friend.  I especially wanted Mike from town to like me so I spent my recess chasing him all over the playground so I could pin him down and kiss him.  In retrospect, I can see that was the wrong way to get his attention, but I really wanted him to like me.   
By the fourth grade, it was pretty much established that I was never going to be Natalie's friend.  It didn't matter at that point, I had a best friend, Becky J and we were like two peas in a pod.  We liked the same things, enjoyed the same subjects... if Becky J liked something I didn't, I tried it any way and vice versa. 
I moved away that summer and my new school was full of the same kind of girl Natalie was.  They were popular, pretty, thin and the boys really liked them.   I was the outsider - hair that was always unruly, rumpled hand-me-down clothing, a bit on the heavier side than my anoerexic peers.  I didn't fit in at all, but  I sure tried.   I wanted to be them...  I just didn't know how.    I have thousands of memories of bullying, taunting, and jeering... they probably never knew I went home feeling miserable and alone, in fact, they probably never once thought about any of those things once I had fled the scene in quiet desperation. 
Enter junior high -  the bullying continued, the jeering persisted and I learned quickly that I was but a shadow in the light of the beautiful girls.   Magazines were filled with girls who looked just like them and nothing like me.  I handled it okay those first years, but I was deteriorating.  I dreaded getting on that school bus, I detested gym class and the girls who insisted on reminding me that compared to them I was "fat"  ( I really wasn't,  just bigger than they were ),  I felt self-concious about everything and I was certain that every time I walked by a group of kids, they were surely saying something horrible about me.   Sometimes they would walk up to me in the hall just to say something hateful, and more times then I can count, they verbally attacked as a group. 
It steadily got worse through high school.  I dropped out of basketball because the girls on the team made me feel so clumsy and unwelcome,  I joined theater but always felt awkward and stupid on stage,  my home life was less than stellar and I thought many times of running away or simply just ending things because I was so miserable.   No one...  not even my family knew how close I was to the edge.  I had perfected the "I'm Okay" me on the home front.  I never told my parents how awful things were or why my grades kept slipping, they had more to worry about with my brother being very sick and their own marital difficulties.  My older brother never knew either.  How could I tell him that his own friends were two of the worst that would attack me and remind me daily how little I mattered?    Sometimes I wonder how I got through it, and then I remember those girls who were always there for me.  I didn't tell them what was going on, they witnessed a lot of it and they were sometimes victims themselves.   Lori and Pam and Bethany were the three who knew how unhappy I was because at one point, I cried nearly every day and they still didn't give up on me. Just being with them made it better though,  They were my friends through some of my darkest years...and they are still my friends to this day.
All it takes is one friend to make the difference on your life.  I was lucky to have three.  Bullying is a horrible attack on a person's feeling of self-worth.  People don't always think before they spout off a hateful comment, they don't see the effects.. the long lasting effects.    I read daily about the bullying that goes on in the schools and how people think the school can somehow be responsible for it.  Let me tell you, when you are being bullied, the last thing you want is more attention.  If you get one bully in trouble, there are five more in the background lying in wait to jump you and get even.  Kids keep it to themselves because they are scared.  The only thing you can do is teach your children to treat one another like they want to be treated...  press this issue with them, make your voice a reminder in their head each time they open their mouth to tease, taunt or terrorize someone who appears to be weaker than them.  Teach them to be a friend.

I am a bully survivor. 

Grandparents

Grandparents are wonderful.   As a little girl I was convinced that my grandparents names were really “Grandpa” and “Grandma”, I even bragged about it to a few of my school bus companions one morning while traveling along Randall Road.  We were heading to my grade school, Hillcrest Elementary and I was only five and in kindergarten with Miss Embry as my teacher.    I blame my own parents for this misconception, for that is what they referred to them as whenever I was around

I loved my grandparents immensely.   Grandpa Robert and Grandma Adeline  were my father’s parents and they were very much a part of my life.  We went to their home every Sunday and on all the major holidays, and that’s where me and my brother were taken when Mom and Dad had “errands” to run that did not involve children. 

My Grandma was a large woman with German ancestry.  She could cook up a storm and there is nothing on earth as good as her apple pies.  My father used to brag about her skills and then he would shake his head and say with a bit of sadness, “… and then she went instant.”   Once the easy-to make meals came around, the home cooking from scratch waned considerably.      For some reason, I always remember her potatoes.  Now my Uncle C would laugh and regale to you a tale of me eating an entire bowl of mashed potatoes all by myself when I was only four and how my grandfather kept looking under the table to see if I was just throwing them out of sight.  I  don’t remember it, but I’m sure the tale is true as it has persisted throughout the years.    

I knew a few facts about my Grandmother that will always remain true….    She kept a bottle of whiskey on her nightstand to take care of the tickle in her throat.  It wasn’t a small pint, it was a gallon jug because it was more cost effective.

She had an obsession with hoarding cups you would bring home from 7-11 – we found a whole box of them she had packed away and put in storage when she moved.  – Dad said it was a residual effect of having lived through the Depression. 

There was a constant supply of butterscotch candies in her pocketbook, along with handi-wipes and a wad of crumpled Kleenex.   

Grandpa Robert  was a man of mystery to me, but one I loved dearly.  We knew the moment he pulled his truck in the drive and me and my brother would come running to get a peppermint flavored lifesaver.  He was most commonly dressed in a pair of pin striped bib overalls and a ball cap depicting the local feed store.   He was a man of few words and he always seemed to be the one supervising the work on the farm.   He drove a mint green ford pickup with a cattle rack and I would often hear him humming a tune of sorts.   I could never imagine him as a child and I learned early on that going for a walk with Grandpa Robert would always end up working in some fashion… like pulling weeds in a bean field.   

I know the relationship my father had with his father was not always one of mutual respect, but I truly believe my father loved him much deeper than he has ever let on.  I know this because even to this day, my father refers to things his own father told him and they are never said with malice, but rather as wisdom. 

These were the grandparents I knew and loved well.  I was a Senior in high school when Grandpa Robert gave up his fight to stay,  and I was a young mother when Grandma Adeline left to join him.   Often I have wished my son could have known them, almost as often as I wish he could have known his own Grandma Nancy.   

I barely knew my Grandpa Al or my Grandma Elsie.  What I do know is mostly what I’ve been told.  Eventually I will share those tales, but that’s for another day. 

Introduction

I live in a small country town, plopped down in the southwest corner of Missouri.  I haven't always lived here and in many ways that makes it easier to go about my life.  Here - the only history anyone has on me is that which I have created since my move here and that which I have chosen to share.  Its nice because I can look anyone in the eye and not wonder if they remember some embarassing thing I may have done when I was in that era of time between sixteen and thirty.  Those are the years where we seem to make our biggest decisions, our unwise choices and the mistakes we would rather forget all about.  We all have something in our past we would much rather never revisit or be reminded of.

The first few years of life here on earth, were spent in northern Illinois.  I lived there only nine years, but my memories of the place seem to burn stronger than memories I have of my later adventures.  Perhaps because it was spent in those vital years when everythng was and adventure and the bad times never seemed to linger long.  I have fond recollections of  fishing with my brother,  swinging on ropes, climbing trees and jumping in giant piles of autumn leaves.  My brother, two years older than me, was my companion and my best friend.  When school started for me, life changed drastically.  On the farm, no one cared that I was a wild tom-boy, my hair cropped short and dirt always finding a way to decorate my face.   That first day of school though, people noticed the moment I got on the bus and I can still remember well the feeling of panic and despair as the older kids pulled on my scarf and laughed and made fun of me when I began to cry.  Little did I realize this was the first of many incidents in which my peers would force me to see that I was different and therefore someone who needed to be reminded that I would never be like them. 

Most of my educational years were spent in the mountains of Colorado.  If this were an adventure story, that would sound really wild and bring forth images of log cabins and harsh untamed winters.  The reality of it was I lived in a mining-turned-tourist town that depended greatly on the flow of visitor traffic detouring off of  Interstate 70.  I lived in house that was covered with sea foam green aluminum siding.  It had a nice yard, a big garage and a neighbor who believed me and my brothers were horrible juvenile delinquents.  True, we did make a point of breaking the boards on her picket fence and pulling them back together to make them look whole, and we did have a habit of kicking our ball over that same fence, forcing us to trample on the grass she spent hundreds of hours and money on keeping it weed free and beautiful.  We were loud and rambunctious and surely it had to wear on the nerves of a spinster who had enjoyed a quiet life until my family moved next door.  We weren't bad kids, we were just a bunch of siblings moved off of a farm and thrust into town life. We lived there for nearly a decade, however the neighbor, never did warm up to us and I'm certain she breathed a huge sigh of relief once we moved away. 

For a very short time I lived in Arkansas.  I managed to get through one semester of school there and then decided to moved to Montana.  That lasted three weeks.   At nineteen I wasn't ready to be on my own, although in hindsight, I know I should have stayed and toughed it out.  Isn't hindsight a cruel thing?  If I had known the rough years ahead of me, the choice to give up on one dream to try another, may not have been made based on fear of being alone.  Seems too many of my choices were made that way.  A fear that has proven to be something that I'm not afraid of at all now.  The comfort I get from that knowledge is that I know fear of being alone will never dictate my decisions that are life changing!

In just a few short paragraphs I've laid out the most basic timeline of my life.  Between those lines is forty-two years of memories and stories to share, heartaches and happiness and a lot of choices.  I've made a plethora of friends along the way, a good many of them have phased out of my life, but a handful still remain, still sharing and creating the events that shape who I am.   As my life is about to make another change, I am turning to my passion of writing to adjust, to learn who I am now compared to who I was.