If letter writing is an art, then my grandfather was an artist. Born in 1923, he grew up in the 20’s and 30‘s. He was a young man and naval officer in the 40’s. My grandfather, Robert Burke Hilsabeck, wrote letters as did everyone else. A sign of the times I suppose, but there was nothing frivolous about my grandpa’s letters. There is a reason my grandmother saved every one he wrote when he wrote her everyday when he was in the naval academy. There is a reason everyone in my family saved the letters he had written them.They are beautiful.
There is something about letter writing. Taking pen to paper. Taking the time to write something by hand means more I think. You can tell me you love me, you can type it, you can text it, but writing it is different. It makes it more meaningful. It’s permanent and real. It takes effort.
When grandpa passed away in 2008, we were going through his things and found his “Copy Book,” something I didn’t know he had. It was a book of quotes he liked that he had written down over the years. I had this same thing in my purse that sat on the couch next to me. I loved that we had this in common. But what astounded me more is in it I found a draft of a letter he had written to me. A letter I had lost. The letter he wrote to me the week I got married. He was ill and couldn’t come to my wedding (which was devastating for me though of course I understood). He wrote me a letter in his absence. In it he quoted Robert Frost’s poem The Master Speed (a poem Robert Frost had written his daughter on her wedding day), “Together wing to wing and oar to oar.” A quote I love and is forever my barometer when finding a life long partner. I loved finding this long lost letter. Proof of his love for me, but also it proved to me he was a letter artist. He wrote drafts. There were scratched out sentences, arrows flipping phrases, re-chosen words. It was carefully constructed. He didn’t just use his quotes from his copy book, but wove them into his vernacular.
I also credit him with my love of story telling. I loved going to my grandparent’s house when I was a kid. Grandma would make me my favorite snack: a smoked cheddar cheese sandwich and hot tea and grandpa would bring out his tin of pencils and giant notepad. He would tell and draw stories all afternoon. A year before he passed away he read my picture book, Yawnster the Monster, and drew his rendition of Yawnster for me. I treasure that picture. It has a special place on my inspiration board.
Grandpa was an amateur photographer, collector of wisdom, illustrator, letter writer. I don’t know if my modest history teacher grandfather would have considered himself an artist. Though he most definitely was.
Take the time. Write a letter to someone you love. I’d love to hear about your connection to letter writing and letters you’ve received that have impacted you.
To close, I’d like to share the last part of letter he wrote to me and my husband at the time:
“Both of you stay well and enjoy life: as Lincoln said he ‘was glad the future comes one day at a time.’ So it does and we have to ‘seize the day’ as the Romans said (Carpe Diem). Much love, Gramps.”
Grandpa, You would have been 89 today. Happy birthday. Thank you for making me all that I am. Your influence is obvious. As William Wordsworth said, “Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart." You did that. That is what strive for.
I love you. I miss you very much.
Your granddaughter,
Beth
“Do you help your victim first or call 9-1-1?” My CPR instructor asks.
“Call first!” I say confidently.
“Do you love your person?” She says to me, eyebrow raised. A classroom full of people look at me like I’m an idiot.
First aid fail.
Help first. Help first. That is my mantra.
My work informed me I needed to be CPR certified by today or I couldn’t work. I work with kids and seeing that I can barely put on a bandaid correctly I better figure out what to do if they are unconscious from a basketball to the head. And I won’t lie, the idea of learning how to use a defibrillator is sort of intoxicating.
Despite my out of gate “Obviously I’m not in the healthcare field” response, I love my instructor.
She’s teaching us how to use and epi-pen, that pen you jam in someone’s leg if they are having a sever allergic reaction.
“Why do you inject it in the thigh?” A classmate asks.
“It needs to go in the meatiest part of the body,” my instructor says.
“I know. I know. We all know that’s not the meatiest part...”
Class laughs like fifth grade boys.
“But you’re not going to ask someone to bend over. Unless it’s Brad Pitt. Then by all means...”
“I know someone who uses the epi-pen three times a day. It’s totally addictive,” another classmate says. Yeah sure, you know someone...
“Oh yeah. This stuff is a good time. Great stuff for a weekend. This is Friday isn’t it? Rave it up,” Our instructor says.
Then we get to practice stabbing each other. It’s awesome.
Then we got to watch one of those instructional videos. First of all the video had NOT been formatted for this screen so we only saw partial titles. I don’t know why, maybe it was the mandatory CPR class at 9am, but I found this very entertaining: Roduction, ompression, Oking (That was my favorite).
The actors in industrial video... Oh such terrible acting. I totally should have booked this job. I would have kicked ass as the emergency supervisor in the factory. But I must admit the chick who played that part was good. I’m pretty sure she had a backstory that she was in the love with the new employee she was training or at least they hooked up the day of the shoot. And during the epi-pen reenactment the dudes really looked like they enjoyed the required ten seconds of rubbing the injection spot.
Then it was time for the real work. CPR.
I’m not going to lie. I rocked this. Two hundred required compressions.
“Don’t pull a Conrad Murray,” someone said.
LOL I almost lost count.
The video showed a... how do I put this nicely... a gross, hairy guy with his shirt ripped open getting CPR’d.
“Now unless it’s Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise...”
Or Ryan Gosling.
“Do NOT take off their clothes, “ Our instructor says caressing the mannequin. “If it’s Brad, you are checking for injury. That’s your story.”
I love her.
We learned the breathing. Create airtight suction around their mouth and blow.
Sexy.
Although not require anymore, FYI.
And last but not least, we learned the AED.
Now this is not an Automatic Explosive Device like I suggested (Star student).
But the Automated External Defibrillator.
Whoo Hoo! That was my favorite part. Though we didn’t get to do any real practice. Whatever. Helpful tip: Have a shaved chest. Otherwise I’ll have to do it for you if I have to defibrillate you and it won’t be cut free.
“You are their heart machine. You are their lung machine. You aren’t? They have zero c
It’s the end of the world. Zombies have taken over. You’ve found yourself a rag tag group of people to try to survive with. And part of your group are a few women who back in the pre-apocalypse days were stay at home moms and won prizes in the bake sale. You think “Great. These bitches are dead weight. They got nothing to offer.” Wrong. They will be the best members of your team. Way ahead of the machismo bad ass wannabe that can’t wait to see the zombie brains explode. Y’all should know that guy is going first. Moms are your ticket to survival.
Let me make my case:
1.
Be quiet- Every mom knows the value in this. Disturbing a sleeping baby is criminal. Disturbing a walking zombie is death. Moms have the art of silence perfected.
2.
Pick your battles- Any mother knows that you can’t fight every fight. That will kill you. Same goes for zombies. If you can avoid a fight, do it.
3.
Know your way out- A mother who takes their children always knows her exit strategy.
4.
Keep the idiots close- Keep them close so they don’t fuck up your zombie survival plan. Moms keep the idiots close all day long. We got this down.
5.
Be prepared- Always have a gun and a secondary weapon. You can’t solely rely on the gun. You will run out of bullets at some point. Mom’s know this. Their diaper bag is filled with anything needed for any worse case senario.
6.
Be efficient- One shot should be all that needed to kill the zombie. One and done. As a mom that’s my motto. I say no once and that is it. Done. (Though double tap to be sure. See number 11.)
7.
Always check the backseat-Check for Zombies. Checking for kids. Practically the same thing.
8.
Be ruthless- You got no time for compassion. Zombies sure don’t. You got to get the job done. As a mom, you can’t be weak. You must be strong. Ruthless or those little fuckers you spawned will eat you alive.
9.
Have some stamina- I been running after my toddler will the energy of twenty men on coke all day long. Zombies got nothing on that.
10.
Do not confine yourself to a small place- Don’t be an idiot. You’ll get cornered. This goes for zombies and evil genetically related toddlers.
11.
Double tap- Make sure that zombie is dead. Don’t trust the one bullet and done. Double tap. Same goes with kids. That came out wrong. What I mean is never take anything for granted. Double wipe. Double check. Double everything. Moms can never be too sure about anything.
12.
Travel in a group- It’s a numbers game. You stand a better chance if you’re in a group. There’s not just you the zombie has to focus on. Someone else more weak will go down. Same goes in groups of parents and kids. Most likely there’s a mom worse than you and a kid worse than your kid. Makes your day.
13.
Blend in- It’s not pretty, but works. Smear some zombie guts on you and maybe you’ll just blend. Mom’s are used to this. We smell like our kids poo and pee and spit up daily. I think it must be part of how the children bond with us.
14.
Warm up- You don’t want to pull a muscle while taking down a zombie. That’d be a pretty lame way to die. Moms have learned this lesson after straining themselves while crawling on the floor with their three years olds.
15.
Have a plan. Know where you are sleeping- Moms nest. That’s our thing.
16.
Dress comfortably- Whether you’re dealing with zombies or kids: It’s is not a fashion show. I perhaps am too good at this one. Don’t h
One of my writing projects I've been working on is a play called Definition. The main character is a lexicographer. Maybe this should be embarrassing to admit, but... I find that job fascinating. An editor of the dictionary. That sounds extremely important with lot of responsibility.
I've always been into words. I look forward to my word of the day email. I love playing "dictionary" at family gatherings. When I was about 10 I was obsessed with cool words and phrases. I still have all these old poetry books where I circled stuff I liked. I guess it's no surprise I enjoy writing. So when my play idea first dropped into my head I was very excited. Then I realized quite quickly that as much as I admired lexicographers, I know nothing about this profession and this character I'm writing is smarter than me. Now I'm no dummy, but I'm going to need some help here.
I found some articles online which were helpful, but found the most valuable information on a TED talk (I love TED talks!) given by senior editor at Oxford,
Erin McKean .
Please watch! It is so worth your time. She talks about how we need to redefine the dictionary and how we interact with language itself. Fantastic. I learned a lot watching this, but I still wanted more. So I tried a shot in the dark. I emailed her. I pushed send and figured Erin, who I've dubbed the rockstar of the word world, would have much better things to do than respond to some playwright in LA.
Then she emailed me about a week later. Whoo hoo! I thought I'd share a few of her answers to some of my questions. Thanks again Erin!
What is a typical day for a lexicographer?EM: t depends on the day, and the skills of the editor. There's planning
meetings, there are rote tasks (pulling lists of entries by category,
such as chemical elements, or checking all the currency entries to make
sure that they're up to date -- this was a big deal after the Euro was
created), there is new-word finding (people talk a lot about this, but
the truth is that there are so many more new words than most paper
dictionaries have space for, so it's mostly not finding new words, but
winnowing them out!), there is definition writing, there is checking
pronunciations (usually experts do this, but everyone pitches in). If
there are biographical entries (common in American dictionaries, but not
in UK dictionaries), they have to be updated.
A big part of dictionary work is pouring old text into new bottles --
for instance, taking a big dictionary and creating a new smaller edition
(like a desk dictionary) out of it.
Are their any inside jokes within the dictionary world?EM: We usually call everything by short names: etymologies are etys,
definitions are defs, and pronunciations are "prons" -- which is also a
common misspelling for "porn" online, so there are some jokes about that.
People who write definitions are either "lumpers" or "splitters" -- they
want to cram as much meaning as possible into a single definition, or
they want to have a different definition for each possible shade of
meaning.
What is the most satisfing thing about your job? Why do you love it?EM: I love words, but I really love systems, and the idea of systematically
describing all the words was very, very seductive. I have wanted to be a
dictionary editor since I was eight years old ... but I also love
To celebrate my one year anniversary of writing for the fantastically hilarious www.sahmmy.com I am reposting the article was most fun for me to write. I added a few new bits and pieces for the occasion.
I Bless the Rains Down in Africa
“I loved traveling with my kids!” A business man next to me says as me and my two kids wait in line at airport security.
I look for signs of a stroke, but he seems to just be a fucking insane person. I smile and move along peeling my four year old Frankie off the stanchion pole. I take inventory for the hundredth time this morning. Diapers. Wipes. Snacks. Movies. My computer. Books. Coloring book. Crayons. CDs. Old Disc-man. Changes of clothes. Sippy cups. Child one. Child two. Got em. It’s my first solo trip with my love monsters and I’m a bit freaked. But I am as prepared as I can be. I can do this.
“ ‘Daddy’s gonna kill Ralphie’,” Frankie says to the woman behind us.
Frankie has been quoting A Christmas Story and singing Deck the Halls at the top of her lungs since we arrived to LAX. It’s March. I’m thinking this is her nervous tick. Zoe, my little zen Buddha baby, is cool as a cucumber.
We make it through security, our first hurdle, just fine. Except for the fact that it’s really hard to close up a stroller and lift it onto the conveyor belt of the x ray machine one handed while holding a 18 month old and everyone around you acts like they don’t see you struggling. I think it might be against policy for TSA workers to be courteous human beings.
We get to our gate armed with happy meals. The kids are... happy. Content. Staying in one place. Frankie downs her milk. Zoe eats all her food. This is going well!
“Okay, time for the bathroom stop before we get on the plane,” I announce. Frankie scrunches up her face momentarily, but then gives in.
“Okay!” She says.
We go to the bathroom, cram ourselves, stroller and all, into the handicapped stall and she sees the toilet.
“NO!!!!! It’s the magical potty!” She screams.
Fuck.
Ever since she used one of those automatic flushing toilets, she is deathly afraid of them. I don’t blame her. They sound like jet engines and seem to have the vacuum power of a black hole.
But I have an idea. We go to the family bathroom. Perfect. There’s a little potty just like the one at her preschool. This is where things really go to shit. I am in a full on wrestling match with a four year old forcing her pants down and trying to make her pee. I scream. I beg. I plead. Nothing. Zoe looks on amused. I even call Papa, “MAKE HER GO!”
He helplessly talks to her, but there’s no use. The public bathroom is not happening. I take a deep breath. Okay, let it go. When she’s got to go. She’ll go.
We board the plane after waiting an excruciating thirty minutes (Note to self: Getting to the airport too early with kids is worse than having to rush. “Look at that trashcan! Is that a toy?? What’s that man doing? What’s that girl eating? Girl, what are you eating? Lady can I touch your shoe? Oh look she has a princess backpack!” Can someone say overstimulation? ). I hope we have the row to ourselves, but no. A older man sits next to us. I scrutinize his face. I’m dying to use my line on that passenger that gives me the “I have to sit next to two kids” look: If you didn’t want to take public transportation then maybe you shoulda chartered that jet. But he sits down pleasantly.
“ ‘A crumby commercial? Son of a bitch!’ “ Frankie quotes another classic Christmas Story line to the man.
The man chuckles. I actually feel a little sorry for him. This guy doesn’t even know what he’s in for.
I can’t seem to get anything organized. Everything Frankie wants she can’t have. Zoe is smearing her breakfast bar all over my jeans and to make me more annoyed the flight attendants start their spiel. Okay, let me say this. You can’t make up for being a shitty airline with
I used to keep a cookie sheet under my bed and burn stuff on it.
Before you freak out (mom), my pyro stage did not last long. I was much too afraid of burning the house down. I loved the idea of burning stuff. Striking the match. I loved the smell, the disintegration of the paper, but then I would panic when a piece of ash flew upwards and I’d extinguish it before I could get my full pyro high. The cookie sheet was probably back in its rightful place before my mom’s next batch of peanut butter cookies. But I think I was onto something then.
Burning something is freeing.
Years later things are different. Now I keep my negative feelings under there. I remove them from my brain before bed, tuck them carefully under the box spring, but instead of burning them I store them up like it’s a deep freezer. Preserving them. So in case anyone asks I can say, “See here’s all my baggage.” Freezer burn and all.
Not super healthy I’ve realized.
My 10 year old self was wise. I got out the old cookie sheet, sat quietly in the backyard and set some shit on fire. I emptied the metaphorical freezer I’d created under my bed. I wanted my dreams to be free, to be infinite, not burdened with the past. I still panicked a little bit when the ash flew upward, but for different reasons now. I didn’t realize how much I was holding on.
So I let it go.
An Austin Kleon blog was forwarded to me and it fueled me with inspiration. It's titled: How to Steal like an Artist. I mentioned in my previous blogpost his log book idea I started doing. But after meandering around his site I found another fun thing to try.
Newspaper blackout poetry.
It's become a fun stress releasing hobby. It's easy. "Grab a marker and a newspaper and blackout the words you don't need." At first I was worried that it wouldn't be "right." (Yes let's go back to that fun chestnut of a creativity blocker.) Then I let that go and just went for it. I do it to find out what it's going to tell me and there is a great satisfaction you get when the poem emerges.
Here's a few that I came up with:
Feel free to share some of yours with me!
I'm going to stray from my usual story telling format and do a little mid year review. This is as much for me as it is for you. If I write this down I must follow through. I feel like I need to sort out my brain a bit. Seeing what's going on written down seems to make all the files in my head collate. (Collating is one of my favorite things by the way. I can collate anything and feel loads better.)
WritingI'm in rewriting mode for my sci fi/dystopian young adult novel. I'm dilgently going chapter by chapter forcing myself not to rush, to take my time and look at every freakin sentence. I finally realized how after a couple pages I start to skim. It's slow going, but getting good stuff done.
Also, my newest picture book, Grambo, will soon be available on
Be There Bedtime Stories! The illustrations by the fabulous,
Betsy Hamilton are beyond incredible. I cannot wait for the world to see!
What I'm ReadingI'm almost done with The Magicians by Lev Grossman. An amazing read! I was told "if you liked Harry Potter you should read this." I was obsessed with Harry Potter and this is Harry Potter with drugs and sex thrown in. Next on my list are: The Pillars of the Earth and Game of Thrones.
New endeavors!I've decided to start a
log book, an idea stolen from the poet, Austin Kleon. I've also decided to start doing morning pages again. (Writing fifteen minutes every morning stream of conciousness right when you wake up.
I started to make book boxes for my kids and godson. I will collect books for them and on their 13th birthday I will give them their book box. A start to their library and I'll put them in a really cool box too. Hopefully this will turn out awesome not really lame and they will look at me "like great a whole crap load of books, thanks mom/godmother." Hopefully they will love books like I do and be super stoked.
A lot of change in my life is coming. So I'm trying to embrace it all. Focus on making a happy home, keeping at the work I love and keep open to all the possibilities.
So that's about it. Feel free to please comment about what you are up to. I'd love to hear!
When I was fifteen I had to live in a twenty feet by twenty feet area with my parents and eleven year old brother. I also was pretty sure Charles Manson was working on our kitchen floor.
It was February of 1992. I was in the throws of adolescence and lucky for me, our house was being remodeled and what this meant was, I was forced to live in the dining/living room with my family. There could be no greater hell I could imagine.
Let me give you a lay of the horrific land:
I can imagine the ad in the paper:
A charming room for rent. Perfect for the tight knit family. Furnished with two double beds next to each other in an old dining room. Have a privacy obsessed teenager? Phone/work area within ear shot of anywhere in the unit! Fridge humming inches away from your beds. Perfect for your midnight snack cravings. A cozy T.V. area ideal for family bonding. A cute 3/4 bath. What more could you need?
There was only one way a fifteen year old girl would react to this:
Excuse me while I vomit. Sharing a bed with my brother?? One phone? One bathroom? All I wanted was privacy. A place to be awkward and daydream all by myself sans judgmental audience. This was going to be the longest few months of my life.
I lived in a Walton’s episode every night.
“Good night Beth,” mom said.
“Goodnight mom,” I mumbled.
“Good night Ryan,” dad said. “Good night Ellen.”
“Good night Lee,” mom said.
“Good night dad.” Ryan said. “Good night Beth. Good night mom.”
“Good night everyone,” I said a bit too loudly.
I had about as much privacy as a prison inmate when it came to phone calls. Thank God the bathroom had a lock and it did not help that the disaster zone filled with construction workers that resembled serial killers were held back by the flimsy wall of plywood and tarp. Our house may have been being remodeled, but my insides, my brain, my body was in its own remodeling state. Adolescence was like the Measles. Potentially fatal, but all anyone can notice is how crappy you look. I just wanted to be able to disappear. But we might as well have had a spotlight installed on the ceiling.
INT. MAKESHIFT STUDIO APARTMENT-WAY TOO EARLY IN THE MORNING
Beth is sleeping smashed in between the wall and a thick barrier of down pillows. A spotlight illuminates her.
BETH
What the--
Mom mans the spotlight wearing a huge smile.
MOM
Morning darling!
DAD (O.S.)
Would you like some bacon?
Pan to dad making some bacon on a hot plate. Ryan sits in the background watching T.V. (He had to deal with this too. He did the best he could.)
MOM
Oh is that a zit?
The spotlight pinpoints on the pimple on Beth’s face.
MOM (CONT.)
Oh and your friend Steve called. He might come over!
Beth is horrified.
Well I survived. Looking back. Eh, shouldn�
(This is a smidge true and a smidge fiction. I changed the names to protect the guilty.)
I was the picture of adolescent horror, but I had no clue. It was the morning of my first day of sixth grade. I sat in front of my mirror picking my blonde permed hair into the perfect halo. I adjusted my pink-rimmed square glasses on the bridge of my nose, folded the collar of my turquoise turtleneck dress down and added the perfect finishing touch. A extra long “pearl” necklace. I looked like a thirty-year-old business woman in an eleven year old’s body. All I needed was the brief case. The smile was undoubtedly pre-teen though, under bite and all.
I was terrifically uncool.
“Triangles or squares?” my mom yelled from downstairs.
“They are actually rectangles,” I corrected coming downstairs with my backpack.
“Rectangles it is,” she said cutting my sandwich and handing me my lunch.
“Bye mom,” I said heading for the door.
“Wait for your brother. He’ll be out in a second. Ryan? Triangles or Squares?”
“Tell him to hurry up,” I said walking outside.
Then the first thing that ever really happened to me, happened.
I froze. On the porch was a red rose with a note folded in perfect triangle attached to it. It said my name. B-E-T-H. Definitely boy handwriting. I scrambled to pick it up, ran behind a bush that I’m pretty sure was not tall enough to hide my hair, and unfolded the tightly bound ruled paper
Dearest Beth,
My name is Adam Harris.
I sat in front of you last year in Mrs. Kline’s class.
I think you’re neat. I think you’re the prettiest
girl in school. Especially in that blue dress you wear almost everyday…
“Oh my god.” I could barely breathe. I kept reading.
You’re the smartest too.
I’ve been waiting all summer to see you.
Let’s hang out at recess. I’ll write you a note.
Adam
I didn’t think I had ever talked to him, but that didn’t matter. Adam Harris. A boy.
“We had the same initials!” I thought to myself. “I’d better get to school. Oh gosh. Oh no. He’s going to be there. Oh god…”
I took a step onto the sidewalk and was nearly mowed over by the latest fashion trends.
“Nice dress Beth. Didn’t you wear that last year?” A familiar voice mocked. Amanda Wright. The most popular girl in school. She laughed with her minions as they ran away.
I didn’t care. Adam liked my dress.
“Beth, wait up!” my little brother ran up. “What are you doing? Is that a flower? What do you have that for?”
“Ryan, shut up!” I said. I stuffed the rose and note into my backpack and continued on with my brother trailing behind me.
“Sooooorrrrry,” Ryan whined.
But I beamed.
In school relationships were like the love affairs on soap operas my babysitters liked to watch. Beginning with strangers exchanging glances across a crowded playground, an innocent chance meeting at the drinking fountain, falling in love by Social Studies and broken hearts by Gym class. I desperately wanted to be part of that cycle.
A note boyfriend.
The bell rang.
“See you after school…with your booooyyyfriend,” Ryan teased running off to join his class.
I didn’t care. Nothing could get me down that day.
Adam. There he was. His messy brown hair covered his face. His red converse propped up on the seat in front of him.
My mind was going a millions miles a second.
“He’s not looking over here.
I would guess I was around age nine when I was accused of assault with a deadly weapon. I wasn’t formerly charged or anything, but when you’re nine any adult might as well be wearing a cop uniform.
It was a Saturday. I was dragged to my brother’s tee ball game. I took refuge on the playground with my best friend Megan. I could not handle another five year old tapping the ball, letting it dribble off the tee and barely clear home base or just miss the ball completely. We were on the swings. The ground was covered in millions of pieces of gravel. I absent-mindedly kicked them with my dangling feet unaware of how if it was asphalt, maybe this would have gone differently. Then again it could have been worse that way. Asphalt tends to come off in chunks on the edges.
What did we talk about at nine years old? What was on the forefront on our minds?
“I got some new earrings at Claire’s last night,” Megan said pointing to her earlobes.
“Cool. Orange cats,” I commented.
I imagine it was something like that.
I heard the sound of a gravel hitting gravel in front of me. Megan and I looked up to see a boy, younger than us, hanging on the domelike jungle gym. He tossed bits of gravel at us. His face was blank. It didn’t seem to malicious. Just your garden variety rock tossing. Megan and I ignored him and resumed our cat and saturday morning cartoon banter. The boy started throwing the rocks into the air above his head. When they landed it sounded like hail.
I remember thinking, “He’s going to hurt himself.”
Seconds later, he abruptly ran away.
“Do you want to see Splash?” Megan asked me. “My mom and dad have the video at home.”
“Really? The mermaid movie? Okay.” My stomach fluttered. I was pretty sure that was rated R.
“Which one?!? Tell me which one!” I heard an angry woman’s voice yell.
Megan and I looked to our left. Storming toward us was a beet red woman. The jungle gym boy trailed behind her. We froze. I tried to steady my swing with my foot, but my legs were too short and the gravel was slippery.
The woman stopped in front of us breathing heavily. “Come here,” she said to the boy. The boy stood next to her. “Tell me.” She said to him.
He looked at both Megan and I, deciding. His eyes landed on me. “Her, mom,” he said pointing at me.
My heart was pounding. The boy’s mother pulled his lip down and showed me the blood. “Where are your parents?” she growled.
I looked into this kid’s eyes, but he betrayed nothing.
I couldn’t speak. I had no idea what to do. I could only hear Megan’s breathing. She sounded like she was just getting over a cold. I subconsciously looked over to the field my brother was playing on and without warning, this woman, this stranger, grabbed my arm so hard I thought she might have pulled it out of it’s socket and dragged me off the playground in the general direction of the baseball field. Megan followed behind along with the boy. Why did he say that? I was terrified. She pulled me harder so I would keep up with her pace. No one had ever treated me this way before. I was so scared I would be in trouble. I felt completely powerless. This was new. I’d gotten in trouble plenty of times, but never something I hadn’t done. My parents wouldn’t believe me. I had no idea how to handle myself. The walk seemed to be miles. At the most it had to have only been a block or so. I began questioning my own memory. Maybe I did do it. Did I? I was going to be in so much trouble. I was never going to get to see Splash. Could she call the cops on me? She never let go of my arm. She held me so tightly I thought I’d have bruises. I don’t remember my feet moving. I couldn’t feel them.
She said nothing to me as we walked. My parents came into view. They were cheering. Maybe my brother’s loser team was on the upswing. My dad glanced my way and the smile fell from his face. “Beth?” This was it. I was in trouble.
Then the woman start
I was deathly afraid my mom would say “war-sh.” It was annoying enough that she seems to work in talk of washing into conversation, but for her to use the Iowan slang, “war-sh” instead of the normal "wash" terrified me. (I’m not sure why though. I’ve found out since many moms say this except for ones from New York of California). I was fifteen and I was waiting for my first date, James, to pick me up and war-sh was all I could think about. My mom hovered in the kitchen making dinner while I waited with my face pressed up to the window in the living room. I racked my brain for topics to steer clear of: dishes, clothing, b.o. I was sweating so the b.o. might be a problem. I imagined James walking into my house meeting my dad who was half watching the Cubs game.
My mother pulling meatloaf in the shape of our high school mascot, the Trojan, out of the stove. “Hi James. Beth you better war-sh up!”
And my brother wearing his Michael Jackson glove, “Hey James. What’s your favorite Phil Collins song?”
Okay, I would not allow this to happen. I was not going to expose the ususally hidden strangeness of my family into the open. My Dad would probably lop off the trojan’s head to have him bring home for left overs. I made a quick phone call.
“Hey mom. I’m meeting him at the Tivoli!” I called to her.
She popped her head out of the kitchen looking a bit disappointed. “All right. Ten o’clock. I’m waiting up.”
I waved a quick goodbye happy to take any contingencies she set.
The Tivoli movie theatre was only four blocks away. Meet me in front, he said. Everyone would see us there. I turned the corner there he was. Long, blonde hair. Cigarette in hand. He hadn’t seen me yet.
“Hey!” I yelled a bit too loudly. He turned toward me as he flicked his cigarette to the curb. For a moment I was completely mesmerized. The way he looks at me…into me.
“Let’s go in,” he said.
His fingertips tickled my palm as he dropped the ticket into my hand. I headed to my usual seat in the 22nd row when...he quickly grabbed my arm.
“Why don’t we sit here?”
Fifth row from the back.
The back.
A place reserved only for… for lovers.
“Ok,” I said. I sat in my seat afraid to look at him. The only guy I’d gone to the movies with alone was my Dad. This was decidedly different. I had no idea what to do. Then as if mocking my panic the light suddenly faded to black.
Oh God it’s starting, I thought to myself.
James grabbed my knee. “Kinda a chick flick, but it should be good.”
Don’t panic, I thought.
And the movie began. I experienced the movie as a berage of color, sound and movement. My eyes fixed, unfocused on the flicker of film and the rattle of the projector filled my ears. All I could think the entire time was how I could still feel his hand on my knee. Those words went through my mind like on a digital screen: His hand is on my knee, his hand is on my knee, his hand is on my knee!An imprint forever left on my virgin skin, only touched before by mom medicating a scrape. My mind searched for a way to preserve that moment. A rush of anticipation filled me. I left my hand hanging over the armrest less than 2 centimeters away from his. My body pulsed with a tingle I only had felt before when I used to play with He-man and She-ra. My body was the epicenter, feeling the quake start to rumble.
“Beth, you ready to go?” He said.
The credits were rolling. The lights burst on unmasking my blushing face .
In the sixth grade my biggest wish was to see the inside of a semi’s cab and nine times seven was keeping from this.
I never could remember nine times seven. I still can’t. I seriously just had to do it on the calculator on this computer. I mean I can figure it out if I didn’t want to throw everything off my desk because it was taking so long. 63. Whatever. Ugh. Math has never been my thing. And in sixth grade our teacher Mrs. Langely gave us timed times table tests every week. Once we passed our 1’s we’d move on the 2’s etc. and if you made it through 10 we got the prize. THE prize. We would get to tour in the inside of her husband’s semi cab.
Looking back at this I realize this may sound stupid. But kid you not every single one of us in her class could not wait. I don’t know about everyone else, but I know what it was for me. I loved the idea that you’d have this cozy little home on wheels. This place where everything you could possible need was within reach. The thought of it still makes me sigh. I loved playing the game I called raft on our big guest bed. I’d pretend I was on a raft far off at sea and had to get everything I would need to survive on it. I remember designing a room for myself when my parents were remodeling the house. It was a room within my room that I could read in and have hot chocolate. Cozy. The architect was not on board with it though something about support beams and well he didn’t get it. Then I put together a proposal for my parents to make the dank, mildewy, nasty fruit room in the basement my own personal hideaway (I was really big into writing out proposals for my parents when I wanted things by the way. I loved making charts and presentations and visual aids. It worked with my puppy project. I put a whole report together of research on breeds, a chore schedule. To close I drew a picture of my family with a question mark next to us. Who was missing? I think I saw tears in my mom’s eyes. That locked it for me. Seriously I think I would have been a great business woman.) Alas the fruit room bid did not work out. Apparently the old furniture and boxes put in a better offer.
So seeing proof this space existed was really exciting for me. But damn it all if nine times seven was getting in my way. I had done every other test. I had only the nine left. I skipped it at one point and just got ten out of the way, because I might suck at math but you’d have to be an idiot to mess that one up.
Every friday Mrs. Langley would say."Ready go!"
We all would scribble away. I felt the penetrating eyes of Mr. Multiplication staring down at me. In my mind he sounded like Mr. Belvedere, “Now Miss Hilsabeck I know you know this.” Grrrrrr. But then after weeks of failure. It happens. Quite by accident. I didn’t mean to look at Tyson’s paper (and even if I did he never had the right answers) and there it was. 63. I DID IT! Now I know I cheated. Shame on me. But something in my brain would not let me remember that answer and it hasn’t since so that’s a dysfunction and therefore I deem the cheating fine.
So I got to see the cab. And it was worth my moral discrepancy.
The day of the semi’s arrival (no jokes) I had butterflies in my stomach. Mrs. Langley (who remains one of my favorite teachers of all time) was excited too. She took us outside and there it was. Comfort on wheels in. When it was my turn, Mrs. Langley helped me inside the cab.
“So proud you did your nines!” She said. I felt a little bad. Then I panicked she would ask me the equation that was my kryptonite, but she didn’t. Whew. The sleeper cab was all I dreamed it would be (minus the pink fl
It’s raining. I’m standing in line with a huge crowd like I’m at a hot new club, but instead of sleazy wannabes and whored out women I’m surround by junior highers and a few scattered chaperones. I’m at the roller rink. I can’t wait to get in. The chaperones ogle me because it’s fairly obvious I don’t fit in either group (Note: I thought these people were chaperones, but when the rink was cleared for advanced skaters and they glided out with ease I realized they hung out there).
I was meeting a new group of friends there for a fun friday night adventure. But so far I was the only one there over 14 and under 40. I looked around for my friends casually and noticed the young couple behind me (Rollerskating dates! Cute!) were looking at me with extreme pity. I suddenly was jettisoned back to Junior high where the worst thing in the world was being ditched. Old thoughts wandered back into my head. Do they think I’m pretty? Where are my friends? I look like a loser.
I slap myself silly in my mind and remind myself that I’m 34 years old and no longer need to impress the cool kids. When I kick ass on that rink, I’m doing it for myself not Brandon in eighth grade who laughed at my perm. Though if he was there, he’d frickin’ die to couple skate with me. So there Brandon.
When I near the front I find a familiar face (Take that, couple behind me that thinks I’m a loser). We talk excitedly about how it’s been twenty years since we’ve done this and as we put on our spray disinfected skates I begin to wonder if I can even do this anymore.
The rest of the group comes and we hit the rink. And it’s just like riding a bike. It’s pretty thrilling to tell you the truth. The wind in your hair. The speed. Justin Beiber. What more do we really need? I don’t know how to break, but hey slamming into the wall always worked before.
I remember when I’d go to birthday parties at the local rink as a kid and the birthday gal would get to ride in a giant skate around the rink. I wonder if they still do that?
“Couple skate!” The announcer says. “Pairs or triples only!”
I grab a couple of my new friends hands and sail off. I haven’t felt this free in a while.
The song ends and my friends and I part ways to skate at our own pace.
The referee whizzes by me.
“Keep it moving,” He says to a awkward boy hanging onto the wall.
Suddenly I feel a wave of sadness. I remember something else. I remember the loneliness I would feel when I was that age. I remember going to the rink so I wouldn’t feel that way anymore. I could blend in to the fast moving crowd and still be alone if I wanted, but with a roomful of people. I let that feeling take me over for a minute. I still feel that way sometimes of course. My troubles then were just... very different.
Then I fall into a fantasy I had countless times when I was 13: That a boy would want to skate with me.
It goes something like this-
Boy: Let’s face it. You’re the hottest girl in this place.
Me: You speak the truth.
Boy: Couples skate with me.
Me: You got balls kid.
Boy: So? You coming?
Me: Okay.
Meanwhile all his little friends are jealous and I’m giving him mad street cred. Well, that was an embarrassing part of my brain I just exposed you to. Have fun with that. I’m going to have to write that into something...
My friends and I spend hours skating to the latest pop hits. I was hoping for a throwback to rollerskating’s hay-day and hear a little “ Oh Mickey your so fine
I’m not Catholic and they're going to find me out.
I had already gotten fingerprinted as you all know for my new job as substitute teacher, but I still needed to do the seminar and I was panicking. I wasn’t worried about brainwashing. Though secipable to most charms, the religious kind I have a force field against.
I went over and over in my head the sign of the cross. Forehead, belly button, shoulder shoulder. Does it matter which side I touch first? My husband tells me not to worry. “You were raised Lutheran. It’s practically the same.” Yeah but you guys memorize shit! I’m fucked.
I walked into the church school grounds and found that the seminar would be held in a class room that’s across from a portable fireworks selling booth. Well they got to make money somehow. I sat down with the glaring red white and blue wooden giant fireworks booth to my left. Little exploding fireworks with smiling faces stared at me like they were saying just wait until you see what you’re in for. People started coming in. The mixture was...interesting. Chola girl. A lady that wouldn’t stop hacking. An old mexican man. Well they were all mexican except me. A woman came in, sat in the front row and took out her brand new spiral notebook. Kiss ass. The hacking lady between hacks asked me if I was going to be a nun? Um no. Am I really sending off that vibe in my motorcycle jacket and Chuck Taylors?
The instructor came in and welcomed us. She openedwith a prayer. Which I tried to take seriously until she started blessing carnival clowns and the Taco Bell owner down the street. I got through my first sign of the cross with flying colors. Whoo Hoo!
Then she told us the purpose of the seminar.
Now I thought this seminar was about how religion is a part of this school and this was a refresher course. Oh no.
“This seminar will teach you how to deal with predators.” She said
Crap. This is about molesters.
She passed out workbooks that we had to fill out as we went. Great. Do we get a molester seminar certificate at the end too?
“At the end of this seminar you will be qualified to perform Catholic duties.” She said.
To perform Catholic duties all it takes is knowing about child molesters.... hmmm. I look around. Does anyone else see how crazy that statement was? And this program has been around since the 80’s. How can I break it to her that this obviously didn’t work.
We had to watch a video. Great way to spend a Saturday I’m telling you.
“It’s hard to watch she says, but God has a plan,” she said.
The video was horrible. Kids recounting their molesting stories. Molesters themselves telling how they did it and why. Disturbing. But she whispered half way through the video that the holy spirit is with us so we’re fine (uh huh, sure).
After the video we break up into small discussion groups or more appropriately named the Sick Bastards Discussion Group. One woman retold stories she had heard. Really stuff I didn’t need to hear. The hacking lady said, “one thing I know is that molesters aren’t disfigured.” Okay, what?? Then one woman went on and on about how molesters play favorites with kids and that’s not cool. The other kids must get mad (Are you serious??). Another woman says that she thought she granddaughter’s teacher is a molester, because the teacher said kids are special. Okay, that might be taking a bit of a leap. They looked to me for a comment. All I could think of to say is that’s sick how they threaten the kids. The hacking lady looke
I am so weird around cops (and those of you who know me, yes I do realize this is ironic). I substitute teach occasionally and I just got hired on at a new school. The hiring process requires lots-o-paperwork and a thorough background check making sure I’m not a criminal or pedophile (The school is also a catholic school and required a seminar I had to go to. THAT is a whole other blog entry. Stay tuned). So included in this barrage of red tape I had to go through, I had to go to the police station to get fingerprinted.
I know. No big deal.
Maybe it’s because I’m an actor/writer and my imagination is constantly being worked and given mass doses of steroids. Maybe it’s because I haven’t always been the most law abiding citizen in the world (Nothing crazy i promise you. I mean who didn’t steal a gum from the 76 in grade school and stumble drunkenly down the street when they were in their 20‘s. And by “gum” I mean gap clothes and by “stumble drunkenly” I mean... Oh never mind). The origin doesn’t matter. The fact is I am totally nervous.
I go one evening to my local police department, check in and wait in the lobby. What’s happening in the lobby is interesting to me. A woman and a boy maybe 12 or 13 are talking to a sergeant. I eavesdrop. The boy is telling the officer about how he is being bullied at school. His mother is taking furious notes. Fucking junior high. In junior high something chemically changes in kids and makes transform from perfectly good and cute into into tremendous assholes willing to make the innocent eat cat shit. I was a naive skinny girl. I was good target back then. I nod to the kid understanding (I still am skinny. It’s just that super skinny models have made what I’ve always detested about myself okay, So keep on with the cocaine and anorexia ladies).
“Elizabeth Ann Navarro?” a short bald officer asks popping his head out of the door.
I snap back into the real reason I’m there. He used my full name. Really? Nothing worse to make me feel like I’m in trouble. My I walk back into the bowels of the station following this officer clutching my paperwork. He’s making some sort of small talk, but all that is running through my head is: Don’t act like a criminal. I’m not a criminal. Be cool. Act cool. You won’t be found out. There’s nothing to be found! Shut up Beth. Be cool! Remember cops are almost like real people.
Before I know it we are at the holding cells. I freeze. What the hell! Is this a trick? I start backing up.
“It’s through here,” the cop says. “ I like your purse by the way.”
Okaaaaaaay.
He leads me to the middle of the four cells they have there (none occupied thank god. I did not want to have a silence of the lambs moment). And there is the fancy finger printing station. This is no ink and paper operation. It’s all computerized now. I realize this is where people who’ve been arrested go to get finger printed too. He takes out some sanitizer and sprays down the machine. Well that’s good. While I’m waiting I start to get antsy and start tot want to do very inappropriate things. I want to grab his gun. Why do they have to make that so tempting??!? I want to rub his bald head. I want to get him in a choke hold and noogie him. I want to snap the cord of his radio repeatedly against his back.
My arm starts to raise of it’s own accord. Down arm down! Stop it Beth! But this is what goes through my head when I’m around cops. Welcome to my brain, grab a cocktail and enjoy the insanity.
“I’m ready for you!” He says
I suck at eye exams. I wish I could study for them.
I arrive at my eye doctor’s office yesterday and I’m nervous like I always am. I know I need a new prescription. My vision is not perfect with my contacts. At night I drive like a grandma if she was a cab driver. I can’t see, but I drive fast anyway, I have places to go. I’m nervous. I fail eye exams as consistently as I failed my algebra tests. And it’s not my eyes fault. Sure, I’m about as blind as one can be without it being legally declared. If you put me out on the streets with no vision aids and I might as well start pandering like a homeless woman. But it’s me that screws up these tests and I sort of think everyone in the office is out to get me. Okay, that’s paranoid and maybe a bit of exaggeration. Listen to the evidence and draw your own conclusions.
So the first thing I have to do is take out my contacts. A very nice female assistant take me to a room to do this. No problem.
“Here’s a new case,” She says and disappears out the door. For some reason I always forget about the logistics of this part. I never remember to bring my glasses (Fail number one). So my contacts are out and I’m standing in this room feeling about as helpless as a newborn baby. I wait for her to come back. Nothing. I look out the door and all I see is a blotches of the bland beige decor and about six blue blobs walking around. The chick helping me is one of those blue blobs. I feel like an idiot. Don’t they know that without my contacts it’s about as clear looking through a fogged up window?? So I sit myself down in a chair and stare at my lap figuring someone will get me when I’m ready.
“Beth Navarro,” I hear my blue blob call from across the room.
I sigh loudly. Don’t mind me. I can make it through your maze of chairs and planters. No problem. I knock over a few magazine hanging off the coffee table to emphasize my point (yeah I know totally dramatic, but I was PMS-ing too).
I walk into the room and sigh again. I forgot about this part. The glaucoma test. The stupid glaucoma test.
“My favorite,” I say. She just smiles and tells me to put my head against the forehead rest.
“Keep your eyes open. Just a small puff,” She says. I can hear her smiling. I am convinced this test means nothing and it’s just to mess with people. “Focus on the red dot.”
I do. I’m straining to keep my eyes open even though I know what’s coming. It’s like holding your eyes open when someone is shaking out a beach towel. Totally against your instincts. This is just torture.
“Oh no, you blinked!” She said all cheerfully (Fail number 2). No shit. You are blowing air into my eye.
After the third time it finally works.
The eye chart exam is where I really suck.
The doctor comes in, makes some small talk about the weather then puts up the eye chart on the wall. I’m pretty sure they put this up here just to humiliate me. I can see nothing. The only reason I know the top line is an E is because on the Snellen charts (fucking Snellen) the top line is always: C,D,E,F,L,N,O,P,T,H or Z. So I got a one and 11 shot and the E looks pretty boxy. See I did do some studying, not that it got me anywhere.
Then they put my prescription in that binocular sort of thing. Ah, I breath a little sigh of relief. But now it’s the one and two game, which I don’t think I could suck at worse.
“One or two?” the doctor asks.
It’s make it or break it time. Come on new persciption. Don’t mess this up, Beth!<
Say it ain't so! I know they have been saying for years, now that the internet and electronics have taken over our lives. The LA Times have a interesting article about this. Check it out:
http://www.latimes.com/news/opinion/la-oe-engelhardt21-2008dec21,0,1701730.story
I have been asked: You read so much, wouldn't you love to have the Kindle (a hand held electronic book that holds hundreds of titles)? But no one can replace the good ole paperback for me (Although I won't be surprised if I find the Kindle in my stocking this year, god love my husband). I have faith the traditional publishing market will stay afloat. Hopefully this is not just wishful thinking...
I feel like I'm turning the corner... I've never written anything before because I HAD to. And I don't mean I HAD to as in required to in English class. God knows I've had plenty of writing assignments. But I HAD to as in, something deep inside is telling me, this story needs to be told. This is why you are a writer. The story I am beginning I HAVE to tell. It is the most exhilarating feeling. I think is a key. The key to good writing. I will find the heartbeat.
Today we celebrate Shel Silverstein! He introduced poetry to children everywhere. Below is a favorite of mine that he wrote:
Invitation
If you are a dreamer, come in,
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
a hoper, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer...
If you are a pretender,
Come sit by my fire
For we have some flax golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!
I learned an important lesson today (and I'm sure if I think hard enough I'll find it's a life lesson too). I learned when rewriting I have to forget the perfect story I had in my mind before I wrote word one. You know... That explosion of excitement when you come up with a great idea and amazing characters and before you know it you're making millions like J.K. Rowling and signing book after book in great halls filled with readers who know your world better than you do? You know that perfect novel? I'm not dismissing this part of the process. Without it I don't think I'd write at all. It gets you motivated. Excited. But in rewriting I have found it can be detrimental.
I must remember to forget the perfect novel I had in my mind and deal with the story that is in front of me. Only then can I move forward. And I've realized this week that when I let go fully of my fantasy story and I see the actual story I wrote, my rewrite comes alive (and I even enjoy it!).
I thought I would "toot the horn" of a fellow author of mine. Jill Osborne just published a interactive story. We are part of the same critique group and I am proud to say she is now published! Below is her summary of the story:
Sam Feels Better Now!
Sam Feels Better Now!: An Interactive Story for Children incorporates elements of trauma therapy, as well as play and expressive therapies to assist children in working through crisis situations, traumatic events, and grief by helping the character, Sam learn ways to cope after his own difficult situation.
I truly feel this book will help the kids who need it. Thank you Jill! Great job!
If we'd all be more quiet, I think we might understand something."
-Fellini
Advice I take to heart.
I just finished reading Twilight by Stephenie Meyer. It's safe to say the I now have a new book obsession. The way I was hooked reminded me of when I started reading the Harry Potter books. Any free minute I had I would steal away and read Twilight. You immediately love Bella and identify with her (at least the girls will) and you love (in quite a different way) Edward Cullen. The story is simple. Bella is a human. Edward is a Vampire. They are in love. You can imagine all that can ensue. Meyer's portrayal of vampires is amazing and complete. She manages to portray them in a way that seems familiar yet uttery original. If you haven't picked this up, now is the time! It will fill the hole left in you when the Harry Potter saga ended. It is a four book series and I am out the door to buy book two. Thank you Stephenie!
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Wonderful and thoughtful post. It's clear how much he meant to you and your family.
Such a sweet post. I hae nejoyed this thoroughly. Funny, I save letters that my Gramma writes to my children. I imagine they will want them someday.
Thank you both! Save those letters! Such a treasure.