The Exorcist,or, l’Exorciste.

There is nothing, and I mean nothing, more ludicrous than a bunch of twelve-year-old girls performing a séance. The 17th century Salem Witch Trials come to mind when I think about the levels of hysteria that took place in each of our bedroomsproof that adolescent girls had changed very little in the last three hundred years. Oftentimes, it wasn’t until someone went a bit too far that things would come to a halt, and oftentimes, that someone was me.

“Are you moving it?” I asked Deborah accusingly, our fingers shakily and lightly resting on the plastic planchette. Three or four other girls would be hunched over the OUIJA board in a semicircle while two of us sat in the middle, summoning a spirit, any spirit, to come to our bedrooms. Bedrooms that were plastered in Kirk Cameron posters, or New Kids On The Block, or Ralph Macchio while our teddy bears lay strewn about the bed. We were all inhabiting that space somewhere between boys and bears.

“No! I’m not!” Deborah would protest, looking around at all of us for reassurance that we believed her. Our young, prepubescent faces were illuminated by the numerous candles we had lit in an effort to make the room look and feel a bit more séance-like, our eyes as big as saucers.

“Yes she is! Let me do it!” Raquel would take over, kicking Deborah out of the middle and taking her spot across from me. It only made sense that Raquel help with the board, since this was her room. Deborah took her place among the rest of the huddled girls, hands clasped in fear, shrinking from the dark corners of the bedroom. Raquel dramatically closed her eyes and carefully placed her fingers on the edge of the planchette, her head slightly raised, perhaps to more easily reach the ghosts we were all certain were hiding just behind us in her closet, or under the bed.

“Is someone there?” she would ask in her most theatrical voice. Collectively holding our breath, we all stared as the planchette slowly made its way to “YES.” My eyes met Raquel’s in a mutual look of horror and delight.

Someone gasped and frantically whispered, “Someone just touched my shoulder!” causing the whole lot of us to grab on to one another, look all around and over our own shoulders in gleeful terror.

Placing our fingers back on the edge, Raquel would ask, “Who are you?” and again, it would slowly move to the letters beginning to spell out a name.

“‘J.’ ‘A.’”

“Oh my God, did you hear that? Did you hear that?” someone would squeal, and we would again grab each other and huddle, waiting for a dresser to be thrown onto us, or someone’s closet door to randomly swing open. Suddenly, the board would fly off our knees and spill into the middle of the floor. The six of us would scream and run out of the room, beckoning to Raquel’s mother that there were demons in Raquel’s room.

Another time, my friends Tami and Tiffany were at my house. I met Tami in the 5th grade when she came to our school as a new student. She stood all of 5’1”, wearing pink overalls and a cast on her right leg. The teacher had asked me to show Tami around and help her out that day. Tami was nervous and shy and hobbling everywhere and I was given a job to do, which made us fast friends. I first met Tiffany from afar, a couple of years alter.  It was recess in the winter time. She was surrounded by a group of her friends and was holding their attention with her antics. I remember envying her charisma.

The three of us were next to my bed, huddled on the floor over my Ouija board, whispering and trying to contact Jennifer Stife. I channeled my best Abigail Williams and feigned being possessed by an evil demon. Mid-séance, I held out my arms zombie-style, moaning and making wide-eyes, causing Tami and Tiffany to scramble back toward the door, screaming in terror as they threw it open and raced down our stairs as fast as their feet could take them.

“What the hell are you girls doing up there?” my father asked, taking his feet off the ottoman, his cross-word puzzle half done. He craned his neck to look up the stairs, Tiffany and Tami practically jumping over the banister toward him.

“Michelle! For crying out loud, what is all the screaming about!?” My mom emerged from her bedroom where she and my sister were cuddling and watching some TV show. “It’s past 9:00 and it’s time for you girls to start calming down!”

My dear, sweet friends, huddling at the bottom of the stairs, reluctantly came back up as I hid in the bathroom, stifling my laughter. Once they reached the top of the stairs, I again came out of the darkness moaning, arms outstretched, which caused yet another barrage of screams as they scrambled to get back into my bedroom. It was all fun and games for me until, trying to follow them, they slammed my bedroom door right into my face, nearly giving me a concussion. I started crying. There is no limit to the hysteria that can happen among a few girls in Junior High within the span of 15 minutes.

Here again, I felt a bit badly for my parents. Things would have been so much more cut and dry if we had been boys. We could have just beaten the crap out of each other, given a couple bloody noses, and been done with it. But where’s the imagination in that? Where’s the ingenuity? The innovation? It was far, far more creative to feign demon possession.

This is how the large majority of our sleepovers went when I was 12. Always the Ouija board. Always the screaming. In particular, Tami and I had an unnatural preoccupation with the paranormal, and when we weren’t trying to psychologically torture ourselves, we seemed to enjoy putting others through it as well. Especially unsuspecting 7th grade French-Canadian exchange students.

Sophie and Karin came to Swanton, Vermont one early winter weekend after Tami and I spent some time in their country several weeks prior—one of the perks of living just a few miles from the Canadian border. During our visit to St. Jean, Quebec, Sophie and Karin took us clothes shopping, played French board games, and introduced us to their favorite weekly show that resembled America’s Little House On The Prairie, save for the occasional boob shot now and then. Karin, my exchange student, was a stickler for only talking to me in French, despite her family’s attempts to speak to me in English and give me a break.

“Eh, eh, eh! En français!” Karin would scold her sweet family, while I looked helplessly at her parents, desperate to know what they were all trying to tell me. No amount of tutoring seemed to help me.  I would never learn French.

In exchange, when Sophie and Karin arrived in The States and to the front steps of my house for their first-ever American sleepover, Tami and I swiftly brought them to my room, shut the door behind us, turned out all of the lights, and subjected them to the horror movie of all horror movies.

The Exorcist.

In our defense, The Devil did speak some French during one point in the movie.

The only reason we even had access to such a terrifying movie (and clearly not age-appropriate) was that my father had recorded it off of the TV. It was his hobby. I would venture to bet that we had one of the largest underground operations of piracy taking place right from our living room. And when I say “operation” I’m not talking about a few recorded movies here and there. We had thousands. For all intents and purposes, we had an in-home video store for our very own personal use.

Each VHS tape had at least two or more recorded movies on it, along with a cut-out of the TV Guide synopsis taped onto the outside of the VHS jacket. We had dozens of VHS drawers stacked on top of one another lining our living room in lieu of end tables. In addition, my father had put together a typed catalog of his movies, which included genre, rating, title, length and tape number.

In sharp contrast to the hysterics I brought to the house, my father seemed to be desperately trying to find some order. So many lists, so many categories, so much time spent labeling and organizing. I imagine it gave him some kind of solace to have at least something in his life that made sense to him. It was too bad you couldn’t categorize or label a marriage, fatherhood, or a confused and melodramatic 12-year-old daughter.

As Tami and I took out the seemingly endless list of movies in an effort to locate The Exorcist, my father tried to communicate with Sophie and Karin. Unfortunately, he was under the impression that he knew more French than he actually did. He sat in his chair, stumbling over his French words, adding hand gestures and throwing in an English word here or there. Sophie and Karin were visibly confused and uncomfortable, swapping perplexed glances with one another, until I finally grabbed our movie and rescued them from my father’s sweet but embarrassing attempt to seem cultured.

Once in my bedroom, which was strewn with sleeping bags and duffle bags full of clothes, and teddy bears, Tami and I cued the movie and immediately fast-forwarded to the best parts: innocent little Reagan being whipped back and forth on her bed like a rag dollher head spinning 360 degrees, her green vomit landing all over the priest’s face. When she began speaking in French in her sinister Satan voice, we paused the movie to ask Sophie and Karin, “What is she saying at that part?” but were only met with the violent shaking of their heads as they cowered beneath their sleeping bags. At each horrifying scene, we all screamed in unison and laughed afterward. Well, Tami and I laughed. Poor Sophie and Karin sat, huddled in each others’ arms on top of their sleeping bags and screaming something in French—I didn’t know what, because I had a C in French and had to be driven to my French teacher’s house twice a week to get tutored. Eventually we shut down the movie and sat around and talked about boys, which seemed the only other exciting topic at the time, and one in which we all shared common interest.

After all of the frightening fun of sitting through scary movies—and forcing Sophie and Karin to watch them—and having performed séances with my friends while feigning demon possession to get a rise out of people—the truth was, as I lay in bed at night unable to sleep, I was terrified. Maybe I had become preoccupied with demon possession, because at twelve I was starting to feel a bit out of control myself. I was starting to change in ways I didn’t understand, almost as if someone else was taking over my body or my mind.  I felt things I didn’t understand and did things I didn’t always understand.

Maybe little Reagan and I had more in common than I liked to admit.

In the dark of my room, I would lay flat on my back and wait for odd sounds or random movements. I would lie there, certain that my own bed was starting to tremble, expecting to be thrown around in my nightgown and start speaking in tongues like Linda Blair. That’s when I would start to pray to God. I would clasp my hands in desperation and plead, “Please God, keep me safe. Please God, keep me safe. Please God, keep me safe.” My bedroom door, which was directly across from me, slowly opened. The light from the hall would shine in, and my mother’s silhouette appeared.

“Chelle honey, don’t forget you’ve got your class pictures tomorrow, ok? I washed your favorite red shirt to wear.”

My mom gently placed a warm and folded pile of clothes on top of my dresser. Of course I forgot tomorrow was class picture day. Of course I wouldn’t have remembered to wear my favorite red shirt. Those were things that I took for granted at my age. My mother remembered all of those kinds of things for me. While I was busy indulging in hysterics all day long, she was keeping tally of everything that needed to be done to make sure real life went smoothly for me. I never seemed to have to worry about having clean clothes. They were just always there when I opened up the drawers. And with a kiss on my forehead, she shut the door behind her and I fell fast asleep.

40 lessons I’ve learned now that I’m 40.

40.  When it comes to giving advice and applying make-up, less is more.

39.  Always moisturize your neck.

38.  Imbibing too heavily is vastly different when you’re 20 than when you’re 40.  The rebound time takes twice as long.

37.  Setting 105.5 Oldies station into your #1 is nothing to be ashamed of.

36.  My increasing obsession with Lip Gallagher from “Shameless” is no longer cute.  It’s now officially creepy and disgusting and I should probably get help for it.

35.  When I meet a 20-something who knows absolutely everything about everything, I just smile.

34.  You will only start meditating when you’re ready.  And then you’ll kick yourself for having thought it was a waste of time for so long.

33.  That it’s not my job to take care of a man’s ego.  I don’t need to worry about hurting his feelings, or having a different opinion or arguing with him, or telling him “no” or always apologizing for things, whether he’s family, or a friend, or a co-worker.  His ego is not more important than my personal integrity.

32.  That, depending where you are in your  menstrual cycle, eating an entire bag of Milano cookies in one afternoon is not binge-eating.  It’s a sanity-saving necessity.

31.  My increasing obsession with Li……wait….nope…did !?……yep, already said that one.  Never mind.

30. Kate Moss once said, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” and I say Bullshit!!  Linguine with chicken in a creamy Alfredo sauce paired with white wine on a Friday night at One Federal with no kids and two hours to eat at my leisure is totally worth the extra lbs.

29.  I will no longer only buy from the sale rack or TJ Maxx dammit!   I’m 40 years old.  I am a mature woman who has worked hard for her money and deserves well-made clothes.

28.  Chocolate, wine and coffee are best a little bitter.

27.  I’m tired of running.  Running sucks.  I’m just going to walk fast from now on.

26.  Lip Gallagher may play a college student on Shameless, but he’s actually 25 in real life so it’s not that bad right?

25.  I find I have less and less energy to care about what others are thinking of me.  Their opinions about what they see on my outsides do not equate to the truth about my insides.  If they’d like to think it does, so be it.

24.  I have forgiven all of my exes.

23.  The harder you hold on to an Ideal, the weaker it becomes.

22.  If Brad Pitt and Jack Black showed up on my doorstep to ask me on a date, my 16-year-old self would blush and giggle and pick Brad Pitt.  My 40-year-old self would pick Jack Black in a heart beat.   Unless one of them was Lip Gallagher.

21.  I used to hunt down and pluck my grey hairs….but I don’t have enough hours in the day anymore.

20.  I can’t believe I’m only half-way done.  God, this is taking forever.

19.  Even after all these years, I sometimes still crave a cigarette.  And I may sneak one every now and then.  With certain people.

18.  How someone manages their money often reflects how they manage their emotional baggage.  Watch closely.

17.  My angry, insecure, know-it-all 17-year-old self thought my parents couldn’t have done a worse job.  I wish someone had slapped me.

16.  Every single Victoria’s Secret model has experienced explosive diarrhea at some point in their life.   And isn’t wasn’t pretty.

15.  Getting into my Jeep and blaring Stevie Nick’s “Stand Back” is more cathartic than any therapy session.

14.  Wait!!  In season 6, Lip has a scandalous affair with one of his professors…….who is 40!!!!

13.  To Kill A Mockingbird is still one of my favorites.

12.  I am no less confused than I was when I was 19.  I am just confused about different things now.

11.  I still miss my Grandma Goodman.

10.  I never knew real love until my sons arrived.

9.  I have become both of my parents in more ways than one……and it’s not a bad thing.

8.  I still rely on the wise words my father said when I was an insecure 15-year-old:  “Other people aren’t thinking about you as much as you think they are”.

7.  We are all addicts to some- thing, or some idea, or some person, or some act….every single one of us.  (See #’s 36, 31, 26, 22, 14, and 1)

6.  You go to your doctors too often when they ask you to bring them a coffee next time.

5 .  It doesn’t matter that you don’t know all the Zumba moves….as long as you’re moving!!

4.  I don’t trust anyone who smiles too much.

3. I am so lucky to be growing older.

2.  It’s never too late to start that book.

1.Last time, I swear…..

 

 

lip

 

 

 

 

 

The Good Dinosaur and The Chicken Whisperer.

My older son Silas and I had just returned home from my Zumba class on Tuesday evenings.  Since my husband and younger son were off at hockey practice, he had the choice to hang around the rink for two hours, or hang out with his good friend Payton while her mother taught class and I desperately tried to keep up with her.   Pulling into our driveway just before 8:00pm, Payton and her mom dropped us off and headed back to their house right next door.

As we headed toward the house, the wind was so strong I had to re-gain my balance.   It was also completely dark outside, being almost 8:00 at night.  The trees along the small woods that surrounded our house on three sides were swaying back and forth and I had to yell in order to be heard.

“Si!  We have to let the chickens in!”.  We had let the chickens out earlier that afternoon and needed to make sure they were all back in their coop for the night.  I motioned for Silas to follow me to the backyard and down to the edge of our woods where our coop sat, but he stood at the corner of our garage, still on the black top.

“But mom, it’s so windy!  Is it a hurricane?  Is it a tornado?”.

Silas has always been more afraid than my younger son, Sam.  I can remember nursing Silas when he was just weeks old, looking down at him peacefully eating.  Almost sleeping.  I sneezed once and the poor kid practically jumped out of his skin.  His arms flailed way out to the side and he screamed for several minutes until my rocking him and kissing him and cooing him had calmed him down enough.  He was also my first-born.  I had no idea what I was doing and so was cautious and over-protective myself.  His already-amped-up nervous system combined with my Newbie mom skills has supplied him with a good dose of anxiety.   He is terrified of thunder and storm clouds and is obsessed with the scene in The Wizard of Oz when the twister comes.

Pushing myself against the wind as I made my way to the chicken coop, I yelled back, my voice probably lost in the wind, “No honey, it’s not a tornado! It’s just windy!!”.

But he wasn’t moving.  “But mom…..”.  I saw his silhouette against the kitchen light of the house, just standing there.

Down by the coop, I took my phone flashlight and shone it near the hen-house my husband had built and noticed that all of our chickens were huddled on top of the mesh fencing, bracing themselves against the wind and trying to stay warm.  Their door to the coop was shut for some reason, so they couldn’t get in.  I hollered back to Si that the chickens were locked out and that we were going to need to pick them up and carry them back in to the coop.  But, he wasn’t behind me and I couldn’t hear him or see him.  I’d guessed he retreated to the house, which is what Dorothy’s whole family did when the tornado hit Kansas.

The thing was, Silas was “The Chicken Whisperer”.  He had a way with animals and was able to coral them back to the coop whenever.  I’d often find him sitting out back of our house, in the grass, just hanging with the chickens, talking to them, always holding at least one in his arms.

I stood there trying to figure out what to do.  I didn’t want to have to pick them up.  They squawked and made a fuss and their wings felt gross to me and I was nervous around them.  How was I going to get them in there??

But, before I even had to decide, Silas came up from behind me and I heard him yelling so as to be heard over the wind:

“Mom!  In the movie The Good Dinosaur, Arlo’s father says, ‘Face your Fears!!'”

And with that, he marched over to the chickens, his jacket flapping wildly in the wind, leaves and small twigs blowing haphazardly all around us, and he picked them up one by one, talking to them gently and putting them back in their coop.

Arlo reminds me very much of my son Silas, and I am so proud of him for already working hard to push through his fears and see the beauty on the other side.  He’s an inspiration to me.  God, I love that kid.

 

We’ve all got our blankets about something.

“It’s not so much that we’re afraid of change or so in love with the old ways, but it’s the place in between that we fear….It’s like being between trapezes.  It’s Linus when his blanket is in the dryer.  There’s nothing to hold on to”.  –Marilyn Ferguson

 

Maya sat cross-legged across from me, on my proverbial “Therapist Couch”, and fiddled with the long, dark hairs on her leg.  “My cousin came over the other day and said, ‘Ew!  Why don’t you shave your legs?  That’s not very lady-like'”.

Shifting in my rocking chair, I stifled my contempt for her cousin and asked, “What did you say?”.

Maya shrugged her shoulders, “I just said, ‘Whatever.  I like it'”.  She ran the pads of her finger-tips up and down her shin.  She was 16 and looked more like a teenage boy than when I first met her.   I have watched Maya grow, incrementally, into the person she wants to be over the last year.  The changes she has made to her physical appearance, the questions she has asked, the decisions she has made.  I have had the honor of witnessing someone shed who they were told they were supposed to be, and slowly, (often painfully) begin to accept and become who they  have wanted to be.  Who they truly are.

But with each step forward in her accepting ourselves, there is always someone nearby who will not.

“But then”, Maya continued,”my cousin….she caught site of my boxers and said, ‘What the hell are you wearing boxers for?  You tryin’ to be a boy?'”.

I allowed myself the private, fleeting fantasy of me punching her cousin in the throat.    After my indulgence, I swiftly pushed the thought away and again shifted in my seat.  “It sounds like your cousin is a bit scared”.  Maya looked up at me, suspicious and confused.

“Of what?” she asked, “Me?”.

“Not you exactly.  But, maybe your courage to do what you want to do.   Your bravery to be who you want to be.  That’s scary to a lot of people because they’re too afraid to do it themselves”.

Maya and I had been meeting for just over a year.  She first came in with long, thick, hair down her back and a shy and quiet demeanor.  She had sought therapy because of her overwhelming anxiety.  Today, a year later, she wears her hair extremely short, often comes to my office on her skateboard or BMX bike, and fidgets on my couch.   She tells me about her classes and her family and her new skateboard tricks.  She also tells me about the how alone she feels.  And judged.  And scared.

Today, the more we talked, the more restless Maya became.  She would try to say something, but the words would stay lodged in her throat and she would give up and go quiet.  Or, she would contradict herself and then shake her head and say “never mind”.  She leaned forward on the couch and ran  shaky hands through her short hair, rocking back and forth a bit.  “I’m just.  I’m so confused.  I don’t know.  My mom says that I shouldn’t be worried about this stuff.  She makes comments about other people like me that I overhear.  Like my cousin”.

I didn’t know what to say.  I could have lectured her on how ignorant so many people are.  About how fearful they are and how it has nothing to do with her, but I didn’t.  I just sat there with her.  Sometimes it’s all you can do.

I noticed that Maya had stopped rocking and simply sat cross-legged on my ouch, her arms folded tightly across her chest and her head slightly bent down.  Her face had become red.  And her eyes were glistening.  I watched her avoid my gaze.  She seemed to be using all of her strength to hold something in.

“Figuring out who we are– growing into who we are truly supposed to be, can sometimes take a long time.  And sometimes it sucks to go through”.

On the heels of my comment, I watched her tears spill over the edges of her brown eyes.  Her shoulders lurched forward as she bent into herself and finally gave up trying to hold back the glacier that had been coming.  “But when will it stop?  When will I know?”.  And she cried.  And she covered her face with her hands and she cried, and my tiny room was filled with her exhausted voice.

“I think I know more about myself than I think I do”.

**********************************

A few months ago, my older son Silas and I were sitting in the truck outside of Bob’s Meat Market.  My husband and younger son had gone inside to get some things for grilling that night.   After a long week’s work, I’ll admit, I was surfing Facebook on my phone and zoning out when I heard my son from the backseat.

“Mom, is that a boy, or a girl?”.  I looked up from my phone, looked out the passenger-side window, and saw a person getting into their car just next to us, a paper bag full of things for grilling, just like we were.

“I don’t know honey.  I’m not sure”.  I looked back down at my phone.  Figuring out if someone was a man or woman is not high on my list of priorities.  I really don’t care as long as they are a decent human being.

Silas was silent for a few seconds, until he then explained to me, “I bet I know.  I bet that she was born a girl.  But then, I bet….I think maybe she was born a girl, but felt more like a boy on the inside.  I bet she felt more like a boy and so she wanted to start dressing more like a boy so that how she felt on the inside matched what she looked like”.

I again, looked up from my phone yet this time, much more engaged in what he was saying.  I smiled and touched the side of his face with my hand.   “I think you’re exactly right honey.  I’m so proud of you that you understand that”.  I had explained that reasoning to my boys on more than one occasion, but I honestly didn’t think they were really listening to me all that closely.  And then, just like that, just as if he and I had been talking about the weather, he asked the next question on his mind:

“What are asteroids made of?”.   We asked Siri, “What are asteroids made of?” and watched a YouTube video on it because really, what asteroids are made of is far more interesting.

 

linusLimnus

 

Two Red Maples

If the two red maples standing at attention on my front lawn could have talked, they probably would have bemoaned how annoying I was, always hanging around. I spent countless days lodged up in their branches for all kinds of reasons, but usually it was to be alone. What I loved most about them was how they offered me the privacy of being able to sit comfortably, and be hidden from view so that I could think about what I wanted to think about and daydream. I spent an inordinate amount of my time fantasizing and daydreaming, mostly about who I wanted to be instead of who I was, which lately, was a constant pressure cooker of emotions. I felt big, and I expressed big, and sometimes it was exhausting and embarrassing.

I was always so much more calm, cool, and collected in my daydreams, so much less emotional. I sometimes hated how sensitive I was and how intense all my feelings were. The hardest part was not always understanding what it was I was feeling. I could feel the tension rise between my parents by just one small gesture from my mother when she walked past him. I could sense the despair when my father’s favorite song came on the radio and he didn’t turn it up, or when my mother needed me to repeat something three times for her to actually hear me. Or, when one of my “friends” pointed out my blemishes on the school bus and said, “It’s like you’ve got a constellation all over your face.” All of these things—everything—pierced my heart like a spear and then simply sat in my gut, heavy.

In my fantasies, I was the unflappable girl who didn’t ever seem to get riled up by anything, unlike the real me who got riled up by everything. In some of my fantasies, I would tell off the older girls who rode by on their bikes and laughed at me and my sister. In others, I would walk by boys I liked and pretend like they weren’t even there. Or, sometimes, I would scream at my parents all of the things no one else was saying. I would sit up in those trees and wait for the day I could be like that, and the trees didn’t tell me it would never happen. They just blew in the breeze and held me in their sturdy arms.

They bore the initials that I would carve into their trunks, of me and whichever boy held my attention at the moment. It frequently changed. None of the boys ever knew I “liked” them, and as quickly as I fell into delirious love with them, I would just as quickly be over them and on to someone else. I felt a bit bad for the trees, to be honest, what with all the carvings into their sides I did, aside from the fact that it also made me look like a slut. I had dumped Jason only days after our roller skating date and I had no idea why.

The two trusty trees overheard the conversations Tami and I would have about Jennifer Stife and the eerie coincidences that, surely, were “a sign.” Of what, we hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“I opened the Bible the other day and it opened right up to page 47!” she would whisper quickly to me.

“No way!” I would say, incredulous. “What did it say on the page?” We would try to decipher what Jennifer Stife may have possibly been trying to tell us from the grave through page 47 of The Bible. If that didn’t shed some light on the mystery, we would sometimes count to either 42 or 47, slowly and with anticipation, and then wait with bated breath to see if anything happened. Nothing ever did. If the maple tree in which we were perched could talk, it would have rolled its eyes and muttered, “Idiots.”

It lent its branches to me when I swung from them and tried to show off for Jacob, who came down the sidewalk on his bike. I wanted him to see how strong I was, and how limber, that I was able to climb the tree gracefully and without any grunting or difficulty, like boys did. Sometimes I would succeed and then watch him from the canopy of leaves to see if he noticed, but he always just rode by on his bike, oblivious to my grace. Other times I’d slip off and fall with a thud, at which point I would pretend I didn’t see him at all and skip away toward my house, unable to breathe, to show him I wasn’t hurt in the slightest.   In case he had been watching.

The big Red Maple also hid the awe and fear that Tami and I felt whenever the Hot Dog Man walked by. Neither Tami nor I knew from where the Hot Dog Man came, or where he was going on his walks. We only ever saw him pass by the maple trees on his way into town and on his way back. He stood about six feet tall and was huge and lumber some. Not fat- huge, but just big-boned burly-huge. And he was bald. We would sometimes see him coming a few blocks away. Sitting among the leaves chattering away like one of the birds, we’d quickly lower our voices to a barely perceptible whisper as he neared. He walked slowly and didn’t look at any of his surroundings as he passed. When he walked toward town, he was always empty-handed, but when he walked back to from wherever he came, he always had four hot dogs in his hand. No buns. Just cooked hot dogs, four in a row, and he held them like one would hold cards. Fanned out. He would bumble home and eat them just like that, fanned out in his hand, nibbling them from top to bottom. And we’d sit so perfectly still as we watched him walk by, eating his hot dogs that were fanned out in his hand. At first, I thought it was so weird that he ate his hot dogs like that, but then again, the way I ate my Pop-Tarts was kind of weird too. Maybe The Hot Dog Man and I had something in common. There was something about him that made me want to come down from the trees and say hello.

The real me never would. I was too scared, but the fantasy me did all the time, and I found that he was very nice.

I’d later heard, maybe from my mom or dad, that he lived in the halfway house a half-mile down the street on the other side. I didn’t know what a halfway house was, but I knew he lived there because he needed to, because something wasn’t quite right with him. Did he feel everything too much too? Did he wish he were different than he was? Did he feel anything at all? Every time I passed by that house afterward, I would stare at it through the backseat window and wonder what he was doing in there, if he was just sitting there, rocking in a rocking chair or eating hot dogs. Or, maybe he was hiding behind a curtain and looking right back at me from his bedroom window upstairs, like I watched him from the tree?

Sometimes, I would give him a weak smile and a friendly wave on my way by, just in case he was.

A short story for young girls about a boy named Jean-Guy (pronounced Jun-gee). He was french.

My favorite Karate Kid movie in the series was The Karate Kid Part II, where Daniel-san accompanies Mr. Miyagi to Okinawa to see his father who is “veddy sick.” While there, Daniel-san falls in love with the beautiful local girl named Kumiko who has long, gorgeous, flowing black hair (of course). After being taken hostage during her dance routine by the evil Chozen who was all, “You betrayed my honor,” Daniel-san has no choice but to fight him to the death. In true Karate Kid fashion, Daniel-san is able to dig deep and utilize a fancy move, winning him both the match and the girl.

But, my most favorite part of the Karate Kid II movie itself is when Kumiko invites Daniel-san to take part in the customary tea ceremony to signify that she had fallen in love with him. Unsure and nervous, Daniel-san loves and respects Kumiko so much he doesn’t want to mess up the special ceremony, turning the bowl nervously and looking to her for guidance. Finally, in the end, after she’s taken her cascading hair out of her bun and it falls all around her, he gently and lovingly kisses her from across the table, as romance is only romantic when the woman has long hair.

I would not have considered myself a romantic at the age of almost-ten, but boy oh boy, that scene sure did make me have butterflies, especially with Peter Cetera setting the tone in the background. I would go to bed and play “The Glory of Love” over and over, praying to God to send me someone like Daniel-san who would respect and honor me as much as he did Kumiko, and to declare his love for me.

But alas, God does indeed work in mysterious ways and chose, instead, to send over Jean-Guy.

It was the summer after the third grade and finally, my hair had grown out to an acceptable length; no one was calling me “Michael” or ditching me for candy bars anymore. I could put it up into a ponytail with the help of four or five barrettes (to reign in the shorter hairs), but it most certainly did not fall all around my shoulders when I took it out. Being summer time, my Swanton neighborhood was swarming with kids looking for fun. Mostly boys. So many boys. I had no choice but to constantly play sports all day long. It was the kind of neighborhood where kids would simply walk up and down the sidewalks or run across the street looking for each other. You knew who lived where, who had a decent backyard, whose parents were strict or not, and where everyone was (based on how many bicycles lay on the front lawn). I had a decent backyard that was surrounded by fence on all sides, and my parents were pretty laid back so we usually had a few bikes strewn around.

The boys who frequented my house the most were Travis, Tommy, Michael, Chris, and Eric. We would always start a game of soccer, baseball, hide-and-seek, tag, or dodgeball. I had everything we needed in the clubhouse that sat off of our garage, and we would play until dusk—until we could barely make out each other’s silhouettes running through the yard. In 1986, no one seemed worried about where their kids were, or getting West Nile Virus from mosquitoes, or getting poisoned by DEET in order to prevent West Nile Virus. Milling around my backyard trying to figure out teams, my little sister and her rat’s nest would sometimes come out and try to get in on the action. She would be giddy around all the boys, more interested in flirting with Michael or Chris than actually playing the game.

My mom and dad were always milling around the house on the weekends, raking or cleaning gutters, or vacuuming their cars. They weren’t really talking to each other today, but sometimes they did. Sometimes I would see them pass each other without so much as a glance, or I would come in from outside and feel their mutual silence meandering through the house—a stubborn silence. They would each talk to me or Erin, but not one another. Sometimes I’d hear them talking loudly and angrily inside, saying things like, “I’m just trying to make you happy!” or, “Nothing’s ever good enough!” and then they’d stop when I came in, and just not talk at all. I guess that was the best thing they could do when we were around. You can’t always pick and choose when to fight. So the tension was the same, just quieter, and I was glad to be busy outside.

Today, the game of choice was dodgeball, and Travis, Michael, and Eric were all here. They each made their way to my backyard from either next door or across the street, tossing their bikes to the grass as they jogged by my dad, hollering, ‘Hey Mr. Goodman’, or waving to my mom through the porch window. They didn’t see her slamming things around in there, or notice my father spend 45 minutes ferociously trying to fix the nozzle on the garden hose, but I did.

“Where’s Chris?” Michael asked, and Eric shrugged his shoulder.

“Not sure. I think he had to visit his aunt or something.”

Michael was the tallest of the three, with light hair, and he always had on an Adidas soccer shirt. Travis had a swath of thick, black hair, and was much shorter than Michael in addition to having one leg shorter than the other, which caused him to walk with a very slight limp. I thought it was kind of endearing. And Eric wore glasses and had auburn hair, but was still the most attractive of the three—maybe because he was the most polite and considerate to me. The three boys formed a small circle under our gigantic pine tree, assessing who was present and what should be our team formations. Sometimes, I felt less like one of the guys and more like the platform for which they could hang out. I was fine with either possibility.

I was on a team with Michael, so things were even—except when my sister would frolic over and sheepishly stare at the boys. Then we’d have to stop and tell her to get out of the way, although I noticed Eric would always lob the ball a lot less hard when she was around, which I thought was nice. After a good twenty minutes of us getting into our groove with the game, a kid from across the street came sauntering over. Jean-Guy. He wasn’t a regular at my house and didn’t really live in my neighborhood, but his grandmother did, and so we only ever really saw Jean-Guy when he was both visiting at his grandmother’s house and we were all home on the weekend.

A year or two older than me and most of my friends, Jean-Guy was around 12 or 13, which was a big difference in adolescence. He had an older brother, which made him privy to even more mature things, like cars and cigarettes and swear words. I saw him coming through the fence on the other side of my house (not the way everyone else came over), and I had a suspicious feeling that things would be a bit more interesting today. As his name suggests, he was a husky almost chubby kid, who seemed always to be clammy and perspiring, which was made worse considering we were in mid-July. He had a weird tooth in the front of his mouth that (only slightly) stuck out from all the others. He wore a gold chain around his neck that never moved because it seemed to always be stuck in his sweaty neck-crease.

“Hey,” he called to us from a few feet away. “Whatcha doin?”

Travis, the friendlier one of our bunch took the reins. “Dodge Ball. Wanna play?” He walked nearer to him, the ball resting on one of his hips. Jean-Guy was at least four or five inches taller than the other boys and eagerly took the ball from him.

“Yeah.”

Pointing to me and Travis, he declared, “You two can be on a team and I’ll be with Michael.” The dynamic had shifted quickly, with Jean-Guy calling the shots and the rest of us obeying. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. Travis jogged over to me and we immediately took our dodgeball stances, ready for anything.

For some unknown reason, Jean-Guy thought he was The Man. He had a conceited strut about him that I can only deduce he got from having an older brother around. We never actually met his older brother, but he talked about him a lot, and from the sounds of it, I’m glad he didn’t come around because he sounded scary. He was old enough to drive and get into fights, and Jean-Guy told us all about those things with great pride, so I guess it was Conceit by Association.

Mid-way through our now lackluster game of dodgeball, Jean-Guy the Stud whispered something to Michael, who looked visibly put out and came jogging over to Travis and me, ball in hand.

“Jean-Guy wants to know if you wanna be girlfriend-boyfriend,” he spit out quickly, probably hoping this intermission would soon be over. He rested the ball on his hip again and looked at me sideways, waiting. Standing there impatiently waiting for an answer so that we might more quickly resume playing, I felt pressured to answer. Throwing the ball up and catching it back in my hands I pondered for several seconds. Jean-Guy stood fifty feet away, legs spread, hands on his knees, staring in my direction, and waiting. Why did I feel like everyone was annoyed with me? I wasn’t the one who stopped the game to court another player!

Folding under the pressure to hurry up and make everyone happy, I replied, “Sure,” but felt annoyed with myself. I wasn’t even remotely interested in Jean-Guy, barely knew him and certainly didn’t find him attractive. I guess I also figured that our relationship would be like any other elementary school relationship I had been in: The boy sends his buddy over to ask me to be his girlfriend, I tell them yes, he goes back and tells him my answer, and then we don’t ever speak to each other again. The End. I think I mostly said yes because everybody seemed irritated with me and also so we could continue playing our game without any trouble. How had I become responsible for that?

But Jean-Guy had something else up his sleeve. Immediately upon entering into our covenant, Jean-Guy decided that I could no longer play dodge ball, but now had to be protected from the ball. He beckoned me—no, he ordered me—over to his side and explained that he would block all the shots himself, and I wouldn’t have to do a thing. I stood against the back of my garage while Eric, Michael, and Travis all took their positions midway through the backyard, ready to fire. In an instant, my role had shifted. Jean-Guy proceeded to wrap his sticky arms around me and deflect any and all balls that were aimed our way by the other boys. Standing stiff and oppressed in him, they took turns chucking the balls. Erin had somehow made her way back out to our game and was retrieving the deflected balls and throwing them back to Michael or Travis or Eric so they could pelt us again. My hero would block them with his arm, and then quickly place it back around me so as not to leave me unattended for even a minute. Or, he would deflect them with his foot, sticking it out just in time so it wouldn’t hurt me. Sometimes it was a close call, which worried me.

Having never been this physically close to a boy in my life, I could smell his dirty pubescent mid-July aroma, feel his clammy arms around me, and hear his breathing as he worked hard to protect his Delicate Little Flower from getting hurt. But most of all, I could feel his vainglory at playing the role of protector. It seemed as though this is what he thought a good boyfriend did: put his girlfriend in the role of invalid and himself in the role of protector. A mere twenty minutes ago I was in the game, hurling balls right at his stray tooth, but upon accepting this role of “girlfriend,” I was not only placed into the role of damsel in distress, but I was expected to play my role perfectly. The worst part was I tried to play it to the best of my abilities. I shrank from the oncoming ball, feigning fear. I winced as his hand narrowly intercepted it, and I stood perfectly still in his sweaty, clammy, chubby arms, while he reveled in his machismo, which I’m pretty sure began to make the other boys hurl the balls our way even harder. So really, he was making things worse.

I began to worry that maybe he had asthma, because all of the physical strain he was putting himself under was really making him start to wheeze, and I was beginning to lose faith in his ability to hold up his end of the bargain. What had I gotten myself into? I wanted to play, not stand here and be treated like some kind of tulip. Besides, I’m pretty sure I could have taken Jean-Guy if I’d really needed to.

Eventually, after yet another very close call that would have probably bruised my face, I could take it no more and pried myself from his grasp. I was tired of this charade. I didn’t need to be protected, so I didn’t know why I pretended that I did. I was doing a lot of things today and didn’t know why. I got back into the game and felt better, but Jean-Guy seemed miffed.

He decided that it would be fun for me and him to go into the clubhouse that was attached to our garage. He said he wanted to try a different kind of game, “kind of like dodge ball, but not really.” He told the other boys to stand near the window while we went inside.

My club house used to be a horse stable way back when, which was so much cooler than what it was used for now—holding things like the croquet set, the Shop-Vac, my dad’s golf clubs, the push mower, and all of the sports stuff we used when we played outside. Additionally, I had hung a handful of posters of Ralph Macchio that I had ripped out of the last few issues of Teen Beat. Like every other girl my age, I was in love with Daniel-san. No adolescent, boy or girl, was free from getting caught up in the romance of Daniel-san and Kumiko. Boys were in their bedrooms practicing their karate moves behind closed doors, and as for myself, I bought hand-held Asian fans and practiced dancing behind them in front of my full-length mirror. With Peter Cetera’s voice emanating from my boom box speakers, I was convinced I could be the American version of Kumiko if I could just catch the fan gracefully when I threw it up in the air. Unfortunately, it rarely happened.

Taking my hand, Jean-Guy led me into the tiny room with just one window. The other three boys were dangerously close to taking off and playing somewhere else, and loitered near the window throwing a ball up and down, weighing their options. What are we doing in here?” I asked, annoyed and wanting to get back outside. I started to make a move toward the door, but Jean-Guy blocked my path and pleaded with me.

“Just wait a minute.”

“No, let me out,” I said. He was being weird and I didn’t like it. I was trapped in my own club-house, shuffling my feet and trying to understand just what the hell we were doing in here. He moved me a little past the window so the boys were out of our view. I was not even ten yet, and was confused as to why he wanted to stay hidden from the other boys. Then all at once, he leaned forward, grabbed both my shoulders in his hands, and put his mouth on mine, trying to shove his tongue down my throat. I could feel it trying to pry my lips apart and I immediately felt like I wanted to vomit.

In an act of pure intuition and self-defense, I cocked my right arm, pulled my head back and punch him in the left cheek, my fist smacking against his flabby and sweaty skin as he fell backward into the corner of the clubhouse against Ralph Macchio, who was staring back at me with his hands clasped in prayer. I was scared, but also very furious. Jean-Guy let out a grunt, wheezed a bit, and had to catch himself against the wall, knocking over the croquet set in the process. Colored balls clanked to the ground, ambling in all directions while the wooden mallets knocked against one another under his weight. I stood there for a few seconds, watching him try to clamor back to his feet, but then quickly pushed open the door of the clubhouse and stormed back outside to where the other boys had gathered. They seemed to have no idea what just took place. I heard Jean-Guy come out a few seconds later, but didn’t pay any attention to what he was saying, as I quickly rounded up the boys and asked if they wanted to play soccer instead. I didn’t want them to leave.  I wanted to quickly forget what had just taken place.  I wanted things to go back the way they had been before Jean-Guy came and ruined it all.

.           At almost-ten-years-old, I’d had my first “relationship” that had lasted a whole 45 minutes. My most confusing and angering 45-minute relationship to date. Just because I was a girl didn’t mean I had to do what boys told me to. Sometimes being “nice” for someone else’s sake, or trying to make them happy and agreeing to do things you didn’t really want to do was the fastest way to misery, and the slowest way to self-respect. I learned that, for the most part, boys are decent enough and are much more interested in knocking your face off with a ball than trying to kiss it, but that once in a while there’s a bad weed. Most of all, I learned that it’s good to give someone the benefit of the doubt and to try to be cordial, but that when they’ve crossed a line with you, there is no room to worry about hurting their feelings or being “mean.” That, sometimes, a right hook is really the only way to get your point across.

So, do you think “DJ Bizzy Mom” has a nice ring to it?

It was only 7:45pm but I was already fantasizing about my pillow.  I’d had a hectic day of dropping the boys off at archery camp, clients, doctor’s office calls about the burn on my son’s foot, picking them back up, and our regular Tuesday evening hockey practice.  I was tired, and I had just inhaled two and a half pieces of pizza.

Oprah said never to eat after 7:00pm.

As I sat in the passenger seat of my husband’s truck, burping onion and mushroom pizza in between yawns, I casually looked to my right just in time to see a car-full of teenage-ish girls pull up right next to us.  There were four of them.  Sun-kissed with long blonde hair they all kept flipping back and forth with their hands.  Their windows were all down, music pulsing, and their bright white teeth sparkling as they laughed and looked up at me.  Surely, they’d seen my husband’s F-150 truck and assumed it would be carrying young, strapping sun-kissed boys.  I am assuming they were marginally disappointed to, instead, be met with an over-tired mom 20 years their senior who was about to unbutton the top button on her shorts.

I discreetly alerted my husband to the flock of beauties in such a way that my boys would not pick up on my shallow and vapid comments about the gaggle of giggling girls next to us:

” Hey…….honey, 3:00.  Check out the Talent over here”.  He gingerly leaned forward in his seat a bit, “Yeah, you’re right….that is a nice car”.

To be perfectly honest, they all looked exactly the same.  Tanned.  Bleach-blonde long hair.  Make-up.  Skimpy clothing.  I was less intrigued by their youthful looks and much more keen on the beautiful, naive look in their eyes.  A look we all had when we were on summer break from college, with our BFF’s while it was 88 degrees outside in mid-July.  That time in life when we’re still financially coddled by our parents, but have enough independence to spread our wings a bit more.  The perfect and safe balance of still being a kid, but thinking we’re adults.

Looking at them through my $8.99 pair of sunglasses that I bought at the local Jolley near my house, a big smile spread across my face.  I couldn’t contain it.  Yes, they may have all looked like clones of Malibu Barbie, but you could tell they were having So.  Much.  Damn.  Fun.

What I envied was the fact that they were at the point in their lives where they could go in a thousand different directions.  They had a million choices.  Their lives were still filled with more questions than answers:  “What do you want to study at college?  Which college do you want to go to?  Are you gonna hook up with Andy tonight?  Are you coming with us to Cancun next Spring?  Where are you gonna work this summer?  A time in their lives when their futures were still wide, wide open.

As any parent knows, when you decide to settle down with someone and have children, the decision greatly decreases the plethora of different paths you may have taken.  Of course, that is exactly why many of us chose to have children:  because we were sick of ourselves.  Sick of only thinking of us. We wanted to create and foster another life and love someone in a way we’ve never known.  And we would never want our lives any other way.

However…..

I’ve been daydreaming of learning how to become a DJ the last few months (does anyone know of any classes around Franklin County Vermont by the way?).  In Junior High I used to compose songs on my Yamaha keyboard, and overlay pre-recorded melodies with other melodies using my boombox and then call up Tami on the phone and torture her by making her listen to them.  (I love you Tami).

I’m also toying with the idea of a subtle, yet tasteful tattoo (okay, okay, it would be of my sons’ names, but hey, I’d still be slinging ink).

I want to write a book, and dye my hair and I want to wear my Converse sneakers to work sometimes and I’d love more than anything to go stay in a tiny cottage in Scotland for a while and learn how to shear sheep by an old, cranky, drunk farmer named Seamus (I know he’s out there waiting for me).

It’s a tricky balance, parenthood.  A tricky balance between sacrifice for your kids and your family, which you feel good doing most of the time, and which fulfills you in so many ways…… and an incessant desire to also indulge your own needs and wants as a human being, separate from making everyone’s favorite meal and making sure they packed their cleats.

I will be 40 in a few months and most people might say I’m having some kind of quasi-mid-life crisis, which I really don’t agree with at all.  I look at it more as me tipping the scales; balancing out the last decade of my life.   I spent my twenties indulging in my every whim and my thirties having babies and focusing on their all-consuming needs.  Now that my boys are older and don’t need me nearly as urgently and constantly as they once did, I’m hoping my 40’s will be more of a better balance for myself.  A new era that may or may not include me trying to pull a Maya Jane Coles.  Although I’ll really need to work on being able to stay up past 8:45pm.

As the car-full of shiny, laughing girls pulled away off into the sunset I yawned, keenly aware of the fact that at 8:00 my day would be ending and theirs would just be starting and I was happy for them and happy for me.  As much as I may miss the freedom that being an almost-adult can bring, I really wouldn’t want to be 19 again.

Okay maybe just for a day.  Or a week.

A month at the very most.

 

 

Another short-story in which I make a total fool of myself again.

You couldn’t just go about eating a Pop-Tart all willy-nilly, and I wished my little sister understood and appreciated this fact of life. From the corner of my eye, I watched Erin take random, careless bites and then set her Cinnamon Pop-Tart back down on her plate, all asymmetrical and crumbling, for who knows how long. Not only that, but the way she sat on the couch got under my skin as well: not actually on a cushion but on the gap between two cushions, her left sock pulled up tight and disappearing beneath her nightgown while her right sock fell scrunched up around her ankle. The whole haphazard situation forced me to look away and down at my own perfectly rectangular Pop-Tart that had finally cooled off enough for me to eat.

First, I nibbled away all four sides of the flakey, crusty part, holding the plate close to my chin in case any crumbs fell. Then, when all that was left was the smooth cinnamony part, I broke it in half, then took those two halves and broke them in half, and then took those four quarters and broke them in half as well, leaving me with eight perfectly square, bite-sized pieces that I could just pop in my mouth. It was like making your bed: there was a right way to do it and a wrong way to do it and I was just glad I was in the know. My sister (and her arbitrary socks) would have to figure it out for herself.

In the meantime, the two of us sat glued to our 27-inch box TV that sat on our living room floor, enjoying yet another viewing of The Goonies. Having watched the movie no less than 42 times, it had slowly become our morning ritual on the weekends: wake up, make our Pop-Tarts, park ourselves in front of the boob-tube and zone out until one of our parents told us “That’s enough TV! Get outside!” We would start the movie at 8:00 a.m. and loop it all day long if our parents allowed. It wasn’t unusual to come in from playing outside for a quick drink of water, and hear Data yelling “Fifty dawa bill! Fifty dawa bill!” at which point you had to watch for just a few more minutes before you went back out. Erin’s favorite part was Chunk’s “truffle shuffle,” and mine was when Chunk gave Sloth a candy bar and befriended him, even though he was terrified. Despite his lackluster physique and atrocious eating habits, Chunk just might have been the bravest one of the bunch.

            It was October, 1986 and I would be ten years old in just a matter of weeks. I was beyond excited to finally be in the double digits. My sister was only five-and-a-half—

practically still a baby, I thought. During the summer months, we would have long been outside playing, but during fall in Vermont 8:00 a.m. was much colder and more grey. As it was, the sun had barely risen by the time we awoke, what with the days getting shorter and more cloudy. My parents were both early-birds, already having been outside puttering around for a while now.

At five-and-a-half, Erin reminded me of a female Opie Taylor. Freckles and Friendliness. She greeted people who came to our front door with a wide smile and a, “Who’re you?” as she took hold of their hand, the absence of her two front teeth only making her all that much more adorable. Apparently, I was less hospitable, standing in the corner of the room glaring at them, suspicious. Everyone liked Erin better than me. Her strawberry-blonde hair was in a constant snarl—what my mother always referred to as her, “rat’s nest.” The back of it always stuck up in the air as if being perpetually pulled by static electricity, and bobbed up and down whenever she ran, no matter how hard my mother tried to tamp it down—much like Erin herself. Like most siblings, we couldn’t have been more different. She had red hair, I had brown; she was fun, I was serious; she was welcoming, where I was aloof; she was talkative while I was pensive and shy; she was more rational and down-to-earth while I was not so much.

For example, when our beloved cat Boots was hit by a car later that winter in the frigid month of January, my father found her one morning on his way to work. He placed our poor then-petrified Bootsy out back behind the garage and informed our mother, who was given the duty of breaking the news to us. So, as gently as she could, she sat us both down on the brown, plaid couch and told us, “Daddy found Bootsy outside this morning. She was hit by a car last night and died,” sympathy in her eyes. Before she could even finish what she was saying, I screamed angrily at her and ran upstairs a hysterical mess. Erin, on the other hand, remained as still as could be on the couch cushion looking dubious and perplexed.

“Was she frozen and stiff when you found her? Was she hard?”

I was all emotion and she was just about the facts. I would miss her sleeping around my neck at night, her purring lulling me to sleep. My sister seemed to have to fight the urge to poke her dead, frozen body with a stick. The only good thing to come of Bootsy’s death was that we finally both stopped sneezing.

On this particular autumn morning, while getting caught up in the heroic and courageous adventure of a bunch of kids trying to find One-Eyed-Willy’s treasure in order to save their neighborhood, I myself suddenly had the urge to try something brave. Something I’d wanted to try for a long time, but couldn’t, if my parents were around, because whenever I mentioned the idea to them, they always seemed to think it less an idea of bravery and more of stupidity. But they weren’t around.

My sister and I grew up in a moderately old house built sometime in the early 1930’s that sat on what had probably been the Main Drag years ago. Grand Avenue. An old black-and-white picture of the house in its original form hung by the front door and I would gaze at it and want to crawl into it and see what life would have been like back then. It had been surrounded by cornfields on all sides and was missing our garage. A beautiful roofed porch was attached to the front that was no longer there. I imagined all of the happenings that took place in our home back then, like women washing clothes by hand in a tub with a washboard, always donning aprons over their polka-dot dresses and listening to their favorite programs on their radios. Today, both sides of the street were lined with houses 50 feet apart. Everyone knew everyone, and obnoxiously loud Harley Davidsons could always be heard going by, drowning out the six o’clock news on TV, making my dad exclaim, “GodDAMN it, what did they say?” My mom never wore an apron.

In our dining-room, which was situated under my sister’s bedroom, there once sat a wood stove in the far corner. Its chimney pipe had snaked its way along the ceiling, up through my sister’s bedroom floor and through the roof from there. Because of this, my sister always had a big hole in her bedroom floor. Why my parents never covered the potential death trap, I don’t know. I imagined little girls warming their hands by the stove, or a mother stirring soup and asking Gretchen or Matilda to set the table in the older version of our house. In our version, you would often see Erin’s face poke through the hole asking, “Mom! What’s for dinner?” or my dad yelling up to her, “Get down here and pick up your wet bathing suit that I almost ran over with the lawn mower!” It also served as the perfect prop for snow scenes that took place in the plays that we put on for whatever poor souls happened to be in our vicinity that day. One of us stood below the hole in a scarf and mittens, shivering and chattering our teeth, while the other dropped handfuls of twisted-up paper that plummeted to the dining room floor in a matter of two seconds, looking nothing at all like snow. They always clapped for us anyway.

Thinking of yet another use for the hole, I set aside my plate on the end table, next to my father’s scanner, took one last swig of my milk and headed up to my sister’s bedroom. I had always wanted to shimmy myself down the hole in her floor and into the dining room like a graceful acrobat, but I knew if my parents were around they would never let me. I was scrawny, so I knew it would be an easy task. Once upstairs, and sitting on her pink carpet, I perched myself at the edge of the hole and let my gangly legs dangle down below, my feet and ankles peeking out beneath my nightgown, and contemplated how, exactly, I was going to maneuver this. Below, I could hear Sloth mimicking Chunk: “Baby? Ruth?”

“Easy,” I thought to myself. “I’ll just start with my feet, slowly lower myself straight down, and when I reach my armpits, I’ll straighten out my arms and gracefully glide through the hole and land on my feet.” No one would be the wiser. So, with all the confidence of Mary Lou Retton, I began my descent. With both hands planted firmly on either side of the hole, I hoisted myself up and slowly began to lower my feet, ankles, calves, knees, and thighs through the 12-inch-wide opening.

By the time I had reached my waist, I paused for a few seconds to re-adjust my hands, and my arms gave a little tremor. I persevered and lowered myself even further to just above my belly, but quickly realized that “gracefully” may have been an overshot. I hadn’t planned far enough ahead to realize just how far the dining room floor was from the ceiling—it seemed a lot closer just 30 seconds ago. Downstairs, Chunk had just accidentally smacked Sloth in the face with the Baby Ruth. Things were going downhill fast.

The strength in my spindly little arms and frail wrists was beginning to wane and I found myself kicking and swaying my legs in an attempt to keep from falling. I was also losing my breath. Too much weight was being placed on my arms, so that any attempt for me to grab something and pull myself back up through the hole was out of the question. Grunting and panting, I held myself up as best I could by keeping my legs moving.

Meanwhile, downstairs, my innocent and oblivious little sister sat comfortably on the footstool of our ottoman, nibbling away at her cinnamon Pop-Tart, eyes glued to the TV, while a mere seven feet behind her, just over her right shoulder, a pair of jerking and spastic legs dangled from the ceiling in a fit of silent frenzy.

Realizing too late that I had reached the point of no return, and that this was going to hurt, in typical Me fashion I launched right into freaking out. Instead of sounding like someone afraid to fall a few feet, one might have thought someone was actually hacking away at my knees with an ax, as I screamed at the top of my lungs.

“Eeerrriiinnn! Erin help! Help!” Since my parents weren’t around, she was my only hope.

Poor, oblivious Erin, who was simply trying to enjoy her quiet Sunday morning, had no idea about the torrent of bodily convulsions going on behind her—until she turned away from her cartoon to witness two flailing tube-socked legs floundering from the dining room ceiling, accompanied by screams and shrieks for help. Like any loyal sibling, she asked no questions, but quickly sprang into action.

“Help! Help! I’m stuck! Oh my God, I’m stuck! Help! Help! I can’t get through! Help me! Help me, Erin!”

Being more level-headed and less emotional than I, she immediately grabbed a dining room chair, situated it directly below my whipping limbs and climbed on to it. Standing precariously on the chair in her little floral nightgown, she tried to grab a hold of something, anything to get me under control, but was simply met with numerous kicks to the face and head by the discord of feet and knees thrashing about.

“Hold still!” she yelled up to me.

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even process what she was saying to me amid my own screams of “HELP!” and “DO SOMETHING!” and “I’M GOING TO FALL!” Briefly looking down through the hole, all I could see were my own feet in a windmill of terror and occasionally I would feel Erin’s cheek smack against one. In a valiant effort to avoid any more blunt force trauma to her head and face, and try to gain control of my legs, my poor sister tried in vain to grab ahold of my feet while ducking and dodging them at the same time.

How had our serene Sunday morning of Pop-Tarts and The Goonies taken such a ludicrous turn?

I can’t remember how long she tried to subdue me, as crises can easily skew anyone’s true sense of time, but finally, in what was most likely a Hail Mary move on my part, I straighten my arms up and over my head. My entire body fell through the hole, crashing first onto my sister, then to the floor in a decidedly un-graceful manner and causing both of us to fall off the chair onto the dining room floor in a heap of panting and gasping rosebuds and daisies.

For several seconds, all was quiet as the two of us tried to regain our bearings. Erin warily looked at me, then up at the hole, and back down at me again as I busied myself with putting the dining room chair back in its rightful place so that things did not look like they had been disturbed in any way.

I thought it would be a good idea. Maybe parents are parents for a reason. I sat, going over in my mind what had gone wrong with my execution, yet how lucky I was that no adult happened upon the situation, and Mom came breezing through the dining room holding a pile of clothes that she was taking upstairs. Sometimes it seemed like all my mom did was laundry.

“Whatcha doing?” she asked, fatigue in her voice. “I thought I heard you girls squealing earlier.” Sitting next to each other on the couch, neither one of us breathed a word of what just took place, but simply shrugged our shoulders and shook our heads, feigning confusion and ignorance as we got back to Chunk and Sloth, who were headed down into the caves to help their friends. She continued on upstairs with our folded underwear.

I turned to my little sister and her rat’s nest. “Sorry,” I whispered. I don’t think it even entered Erin’s mind to tattle on me, which was unlike my propensity to tell on her every chance I had. She seemed confused that I would apologize to her.

“It’s okay,” she said, with a subtle shrug of her shoulder, which only had the inadvertent effect of making me feel even worse. I was immediately reminded of the time I sprayed Windex straight into her eyes and thought I’d blinded her for life. Since Halloween was only a few short days away, I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist playing our favorite game outside.

“Hey, you wanna play The Worst Witch outside? You can be Mildred Hubble and I’ll be Miss Hardbroom.” Within minutes we were dressed and shoving our hats and mittens on as we ran to the huge pile of leaves that our parents had raked for us the day before. We jumped in them, and buried each other, and took two brooms from the garage and pretended to be witches at the Cackles Academy. As the first snowflakes of the season meandered their way down to us, I was filled with a feeling I didn’t know the word for, only that it felt so good.

If there is one thing I’ve learned from being part of a family it’s that there is nowhere to hide. We all have to sift through our own stuff right in plain view of each other. Our underbellies are exposed from the start, and there is nothing we can do about it. Every family is one big mess of flawed humanity and at some point, someone always ends up getting inadvertently kicked in the nostrils.

 

Petit Biscuit.

Silas and I got into my Jeep and headed out for a drive to bring my husband’s truck to the mechanic.  My younger son Sam wanted to ride with Jon in his truck because he loves him more than me and reminds me everyday.  That left me and Silas riding together, following them in my Jeep.  I prepped him before we left.

“Okay, so listen, I just bought this new album on iTunes and I was thinking we could start listening to it on our drive into town”.  Silas buckled himself into the back seat and pushed his glasses further up on his nose.  “Okay, what is it called?”.

“Petit Biscuit”.  He’s a 16-year-old teenager from France.  Do you know what the word ‘petit’ means in french?”

“No what?”

“It means small or tiny or little”.

“Oh, so his name is Little Biscuit?” Silas asked, dubious.  “I guess so!” I answered.

We started out the driveway and I hit Play. Petit Biscuit falls into the Electronic/Ambient genre I’ve been drawn to the last several years.  The first track I wanted to hear was called “Sunset Lover”.  I told Silas that was the title and was relieved when he didn’t ask what “Lover” meant.  Buying a new album for me is a process.  Especially if I really love the artist.  I have to slowly listen to one song at a time, over and over and over again until I’ve digested it enough to be able to move on to the next song.  I kind of have to become good friends with one song before I can move on to the next.

Riding in the car with Silas is much like riding in the car by myself.  Neither one of us does much talking as we’re both too much in our heads.  We  usually just sit there looking out the window, swimming around in our own thoughts, emerging every now and then to ask a question.

“Hey Si, what do you think of this song?” or “Mom, why do we have to have gravity?”.

There are times when I run across a picture of the boys when they were infants, looking almost nothing like they do now.  I reminisce about nursing them, being needed in such a fundamental way.  Being their world.  And for a moment I feel a bit sad that they have gotten so big and so much more independent.

But then, there are moments like this, when Silas and I are both loving the same song and talking about the different instruments and how the song makes us each feel, and I am reminded about how equally awesome it is to connect with him in this way too.  He’s going to be 9 in a few weeks.  He’s almost to the double digits.  He’s only 25 pounds away from weighing as much as me.  He’s up to my shoulders already.  Sometimes, if I can’t find any socks to wear, I’ll just dig through the clean clothes in the dryer and pick out a pair of his.  I sometimes look at him and can’t fathom that he came out of my body.

The song comes to an end and for a brief few seconds, the car is filled with silence.  If I were alone, I’d just put it on “repeat” the entire time, but I try to take into account that other people in the car don’t necessarily want to hear the same song for 35 minutes.  When abruptly, from the back seat, Si asks, “Mom, can we hear that one again?  And, can you please put that on my Boyz Jamz playlist??”.

I hit play again, turned up the volume just a bit more and enjoyed the ride with my Little Biscuit.

I would highly recommend putting some ear buds in and listening to this guy:

 

Accidental Felons

One early, Autumn afternoon on a Sunday, I went over to Tami’s house for the day, glad to have one more day of leisure before we went back to school on Monday. The air had that back-to-school feeling to it that wasn’t quite the end of summer, but also not quite the beginning of fall. The in-between place where the leaves were changing color, but you could still wear shorts; where you still spent most of your weekends outside, but the evenings were slowly getting shorter and cooler; where certain trees were already half-bare, while others had no intention of changing for another several weeks.  It wasn’t summer and it wasn’t fall. It wasn’t hot anymore, but it wasn’t cold. Everything seemed to be holding its breath and waiting for a clear line to be formed. Waiting for that moment when you no longer tried to stubbornly hold on to lazy summer days, but turned your head up, fully, to take in the sound of dried leaves bushing up against each other in the breezes. When you finally said goodbye to long shadows and sprinklers, and listened for the sound of geese flying south. The in-between places always hold the most change in them, and it’s uncomfortable and necessary, simultaneously.

For most of the day, Tami and I had found things to do inside, but kept getting into trouble. We had both decided to crank call old ladies. We’d look up names in the phone book and pick ones that sounded old like Helen, or Eleanor or Joan, and then call them up.

“Hello?” they would answer.

“There is an emergency involving your husband and you need to go to the hospital immediately!” we would say into the receiver. Or, “Something terrible has happened and you need to get to the emergency room right away,” then we’d hang up, vibrating and giddy with adrenaline. Until one time, one of the old ladies called us back and reamed us out, demanding to speak to our mother, so we frantically hung up and tried to act ignorant when Tami’s mom asked us, “Girls, who called?”

We also tried to play one of our favorite games that we called, “1800s,” where we pretended to be Colonial Women living on the Plain, tending to each other because we had contracted some deadly disease like Typhoid Fever. We lit a candle, placed it underneath a cleaned-out ash tray in an attempt to fry an egg “the old-fashioned way,” and ended up getting wax and egg and broken glass all over her bedroom carpet.  Our imaginations were rich, but our planning was poor.  Her mother knelt on the floor with a paper bag and her iron trying to get out the wax and clean up the mess, and hollered at us to get outside.

Unfortunately, that only transferred our trouble-making from inside to outside. We walked around the trailer park bored and looking for adventure. First, we took an old coffee can around to the back of her trailer and started throwing a bunch of stuff into it, like leaves and random pieces of paper and cigarettes, and small twigs, and then lit it on fire for fun. The two of us sat huddled over the coffee can and watched the small fire we had created like two little budding pyromaniacs, until her mother spied us from the kitchen window and hollered at us to put the fire out. We were on a roll though, and so from there, things only got worse as we transitioned from crank-calls, to arson, to inadvertently committing a federal offense.

Making our way to the back of her trailer, we climbed up one of the tall fences in her backyard separating her from her next door neighbor, Heidi. Heidi was an upper-classman with a muscular, stocky build and a shag of blonde hair with black roots that sat atop her head. She rode Tami’s bus. She was the kind of girl in whose direction you never looked for fear of her posturing and yelling, “What the fuck you lookin’ at?” We didn’t know Heidi, we just knew of her, which was plenty. We perched our feet on a slat near the bottom of the fence, grabbed on to the tops with our hands, and with our eyes slowly coming up over the fence in wonder, we looked through the nearest window and spied her gnawing on a piece of fried chicken at her kitchen table like a cave-man.

“Look at the way she’s eating that chicken!” Tami whispered in awe and horror.

“Disgusting!” I conceded, “She’s got it all over her mouth.”

Someone was sitting across from her, although we couldn’t quite make them out, and there was only the one light hanging above their heads, illuminating very little, except the ferocious way she devoured the chicken leg on her plate. She seemed either starving or very angry. We stayed on our tiptoes, grasping the tops of the fence and quietly giggling, when suddenly she turned her head our way, the mangled, half-eaten chicken leg poised in the air in her left hand. Hurriedly, we jumped off the fence, landed on the ground, ran away giggling, and made our way back toward the main road that led out to the country and a few farms. We came upon a mailbox.

“Whose mailbox is this?” I asked innocently.

“I have no idea. Maybe it’s the Shepherds’ across the road, or the Fitsimmons’ next door?” Tami said, continuing to walk.

“Let’s look inside,” I said, and we huddled over the front of the mailbox and opened the latch. Before we could even peek into it, we heard a, “Hey!” coming from behind us. Whipping around, we realized it was coming from Heidi’s trailer. Slamming the mailbox shut, we bolted back toward Tami’s trailer as she continued to yell at us from her screen door.

“I saw you guys lookin’ in my mailbox! I’m gonna get you!” She stood on her front steps, half-way in, half-way out of her trailer, eyeballing us and seething like a bull ready to be let out of its pen. We stood holding our breath and trying not to make eye contact with her, until we heard her slam the aluminum door shut and, presumably, went to get back to her chicken leg.

Time to call it a day. My mom would be by to pick me up soon as it was, and it being Sunday afternoon, I’d probably have some homework to finish. Sundays at home were somber. It wasn’t really the weekend anymore, but it wasn’t a weekday either. My parents were neither fighting, nor particularly chipper either. There were no long silences, but a sad contentment in the air. I would be glad to be home, I guessed. I could close myself in my room and organize things.

However, Heidi stayed true to her words, “I’m gonna get ya,” and didn’t soon forget about our illegal peek inside her mailbox. Only a few days later, Tiffany, Tami and I, all three of us, were hanging out at Tami’s house. Tami and I had not told Tiffany of our previous run-in with Heidi, but the both of us certainly felt a bit more cautious being out in broad daylight with a bull’s-eye on our backs. Maybe she had forgotten about the mailbox incident? Maybe she wasn’t home? We weren’t sure, but loitering around outside, we turned right and headed up the road yet again. And that’s when it happened.

Walking up the road toward the countryside, Tami and I were nervous, our eyes darting left and right as we neared Heidi’s mailbox. Tiffany chattered away, oblivious to the potential dangers that lie in wait. Just as we were walking right in front of Heidi’s trailer, we heard them.

“There they are!” Two figures hurriedly jumped up from the kitchen table and emerged from Heidi’s trailer, the screen door slamming shut behind them. Tami and I immediately took off in a dead sprint down the road in the opposite direction of her trailer. We had no idea where we were headed other than away from Heidi and whoever she had acquired in her hunt for our heads. Ahead of them both, I looked back and saw Tiffany, who lagged behind, completely oblivious as to why we were sprinting down the road, past the railroad tracks.

“Why are we running?” she hollered, confused.

“Just run!” both Tami and I yelled back, seeing Heidi and her accomplice gaining on us.  Tiffany looked over her shoulder, saw two girls at her heels and sped up the pace.

Tami knew the neighborhood better than we did, and quickly pointed to a house of another much nicer upper-class girl who also rode her bus, and who she was sure wouldn’t mind harboring us for a while. The three of us made a sharp left, crossed the railroad tracks and bee-lined it for her backyard, putting a bit more distance between us and Heidi and her friend. Frantically knocking on her door numerous times, we realized the nice girl wasn’t home. Had Heidi and her friend seen us? Did they know where we were? Were they going to come scrambling around the corner any second now? Feeling as though we only had mere seconds before Heidi and the other girl came barreling around the corner in their fury, we noticed the nice girl’s garage door slightly ajar and quickly squeezed ourselves through.

Once inside the garage, we squatted down below the windows, taking peeks every now and then while we caught our breath to see if they had followed our trail. Panting, we looked around the musty garage. It was much darker and cooler in there, and served as a safe hideout for the time being. A workbench sat against one wall, a push lawnmower was nearby, and hundreds of other little odds and ends were all around: tennis rackets, old sneakers, a chainsaw, potting gloves. It smelled like oil and there was a grimy feel to the floor. But it was better than the alternative, and it also gave us the chance to fill Tiffany in. We explained how only just a few short days ago, we had peered through Heidi’s kitchen window, had then innocently peeked in her mailbox, and how she came after us and threatened us with her menacing looks and “I’ll get you.” We filled in each others’ blanks and made sure to describe, in great detail, the caveman-like way she had eaten the piece of fried chicken leg she’d been gnawing on for dinner. She was no one we wanted to mess with, and we needed to get home as soon as possible.

We noticed a front window facing the road and decided to take a peek to see what exactly was happening outside. With the three of us crouched down, we put our fingertips on the windowsill and dared raise our heads to see what awaited us. And much to our dismay and horror, we saw Heidi and her best friend, Missy. Missy?! Not Missy! Missy was everything Heidi was not: tall, skinny and with long brown hair that she feathered back on either side of her face. She had a pointy, harsh-looking nose and equally menacing eyes. Each of them stood guard on either side of the railroad tracks. Railroad tracks that had to be crossed in order for us to make it back to Tami’s front steps. Railroad tracks that were now being guarded by two upper-class bullies who were resting their hands on their thighs with their sleeves rolled up, clearly intent on waiting for our return and pummeling our faces.

The sight of them filled me with a new level of fear. What had we gotten ourselves into? If only we could have gone back in time and not peeked into Heidi’s window, and not have opened her mailbox! Was it going to hurt when she punched us? Were we going to be covered in blood? Would we have to be brought to the emergency room? I’d never been in a fight before, except with my sister, who I now thought of fondly and with immense love. Oh how I wish I was home, playing in the leaves with her, or at least, organizing my bookshelf by author. Instead, here I was, a 13-year-old who had accidentally committed a felony, running for my life, trying to elude the inevitable torture that awaited us at the railroad tracks. Maybe someone would see us and intervene as they drove by? Sitting in someone else’s garage, the owner of which could be home at any minute, we tried to wait out Death. We became increasingly hysterical and terrified.

Looking around the dark, dank garage for something…anything…Tami noticed a telephone attached to the side of the work bench. “Let’s call my house and see if my stepdad will come get us!” Tami picked up the telephone hurriedly dialed her phone number and begged her stepfather to come up the road and get us. “You don’t understand, they’re out there waiting for us!”

His reply went something like, “Stop being babies and get home…now!” Tami slowly hung up the phone, despair settling into her eyes. She didn’t have to tell us, we understood that her stepfather had just thrown us to the wolves.

Heidi and Missy were the toughest girls you could find at Missisquoi Valley Union High School. They were rough, they were mean, and they were always angry. They were the kinds of girls that got into fights in the hallways at school because someone looked at them the wrong way. They wore t-shirts with skulls on them and made out with random boys at the Highgate Skating Rink in the bleachers section. They were terrifying and could mangle us just like a chicken leg if they had wanted to.

After sitting in the garage for what seemed like forever, trying to figure out how the hell we were going to get home, we decided to arm ourselves. We each grabbed a rake, a shovel, and a pitchfork. Planning to make our way back to Tami’s house wielding our weapons, we looked out the window one last time and couldn’t believe our eyes. Heidi and Missy were gone. We had out-waited them.

As good as this revelation was however, that was only half the battle. Heidi’s trailer was just before Tami’s. So, even if we made it past the railroad tracks, we still had to make it past her trailer. After discussing our options, we decided that our plan would be to walk hand-in-hand until we got to the telephone pole on the corner, just past the tracks, but just before her trailer. We would simply have to run our asses off from there. Slowly emerging from the half-open garage door, one-by-one, we implemented our plan. Walking hand-in-white-knuckled-hand, we kept our eyes on the telephone pole, my heart-rate increasing with each and every shaky step. We walked in a straight line, our steps in sync, our hands losing circulation. We were a unified front as we saw the tracks and the telephone pole and Heidi’s trailer getting closer and closer. We were in this together. Until, that is, we reached the telephone pole.

The second my foot hit that mark, I let go of their hands and ran faster than I had ever run in my entire life and probably ever would. I was the tallest of the three of us and so the fastest. I remember looking behind me at the two of them, Tami coming in shortly after me and Tiffany behind her. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two figures running adjacent to us through the almost-bare trees, clearly trying to cut us off before we reached her steps. “Get em!” I heard Heidi holler. With two blurry forms racing through the woods, I could hear twigs crack and dried leaves rustling as my own feet kicked up the gravel of the driveway in the trailer park. They had been waiting for us after all—just not at the tracks.

Thankfully, we again outran them. After what seemed like the longest 50-yard dash of my life, Tiffany, Tami and I reached the steps to Tami’s trailer where her step-father sat in his recliner, sipping a beer, watching t.v. and totally apathetic to our situation. Panting and gasping and looking all around, we stood there a minute to catch our breath and let the reality set in that we had actually made it home alive. The most menacing 45 minutes of our lives was finally over. We had escaped possible death. I felt like I had been given another chance at life.

I went home that afternoon and didn’t breathe a word of what took place to either of my parents. Glad to see my mom at the dining room table punching away at the calculator for work; glad to see my dad in his chair in the corner, watching a boxing match on TV. My sister was playing by herself in some of the newly fallen leaves on our front lawn, and I joined her, covering her whole body until all you could see was her giggling, freckled, little face. I remember being so happy to be Home.