If Ye Are Prepared, Ye Shall Not Fear

As a little girl, I remember listening to my mom, grandparents, aunts and uncle talk about "The Flood of '76."

This terrible disaster caused them to lose just about everything and they would reminisce about the days before and the events following. About seeing the two-holer outhouse dragged down the street and the poem my grandma wrote about it. About the people and the animals who actually lost their lives. About the never-ending mud.

They would laugh but there was always, always a twinge of sadness in the air.

This had a deep embedding effect on me and I became deathly afraid of natural disasters in all forms. I remember I had this prayer I would say every night before bed,

"Please Father,

Let there be no floods, fires, hurricanes, earthquakes or tornadoes."

We lived in Idaho and I was fuzzy on exactly what kind of disasters we were susceptible to so I covered the ones I knew of. Thank goodness no one ever told me what a monsoon was or the fact that Old Faithful is pretty much a volcano.

While in the third grade, my fear peaked and my obsession with the fact that we could all die at any minute started to really affect me. That is, until I went to a Sunday School class where the teacher explained that if we are to prepare for the worst, we will no longer be scared of what might happen.

Nowhere, in the history of Sunday School, has any lesson affected a little girl the way this one did for me.

I went straight home and found the box. That ordinary cardboard box became my saving grace. Every night before bed, I would put all my prized possessions in it. That way, if disaster did strike, I could grab my box and run.

In the mornings that I discovered I was still alive, I would unpack the box and put it in the closet so no would know my secret.

That silly box somehow made everything all better.

I am still afraid of calamity, but I learned that if we become proactive, even in a very small way, we will have peace with whatever might come our way.

Teenage Royalty is Not Always Glamtastic

I was not crowned Homecoming Queen.

Looking back though, I can honestly say I was not disappointed. It really WAS an honor just to be nominated. Especially because A- I was not popular and B-the senior class nominated me. When you are Senior Class Candidate, you get your own crepe paper arch with your name on it that is wheeled onto the football field for all to see. You also get to ride on your own convertible to make your grand entrance during half time. And the most touching thing of all-it is your own class that nominated you. (You like me! You really like me!)

At the homecoming dance that night, the quarterback (nice kid) asked me to dance. We made the customary small talk and then he leaned in and whispered, "I voted for you. You really should have won."

Tender!!!

It is important to note that he was the escort of the girl that did win. :)

That was prize enough for me.

The months passed and Prom time rolled around.

I did not have a boyfriend, I still did not claim popular status and I was doing moderately well in my classes. I think I had senioritis pretty bad.

Luckily, one of my guy friends had broken up with his girlfriend and was available to take me to the prom. We split the cost of everything so it worked out for both of us-at least we weren't stuck at home right?

We went in a group of our bestest pals and had a blast! We took the fam van to dinner and had one of our favorite teachers take our pictures. We laughed and laughed and sang along to the Beach Boys. Good times were had by all!

The dance was fun. We shook our groove things with reckless abandon. We stood in line for formal photos and mingled with the people.

Apon entrance, everyone is handed two small pieces of paper. You are supposed to write the name of one senior girl and one senior boy on them and then place them in the box to be tallied for the King and Queen.

I voted for my friend Mena and her date, Gavin.

The night wore on and the time had come to crown the royalty. I decided that it was a fantastic opportunity for me to hit the food table. I had been wanting to all evening but I was too busy dancing.

Oh beautiful food spread!!! How I loved you!

There were cookies and cheese bites. The punch was divine and no one spiked it so I could drink to my heart's content. But best of all, were the chocolate covered strawberries!!! They had little chocolate tuxedos on them, they were big and juicy and with everyone occupied with the King and Queen business, I could munch all I wanted!!!

The King was called. Woohoo. I clapped half-heartedly-good for him, whoever he is.

The Queen was called. Huzzah. Again with the clapping. I had to hurry, it was almost over and my chance at gluttony would be ending. The strawberries started to go in faster.

And then it got quiet.

What was going on? Did the Queen slip on the stairs? Poor girl, that would be embarrassing.

Suddenly my date was beside me. He leaned over, "Uh honey, they just called your name. YOU are the Prom Queen."

Whaaaa?

I spilled the punch I had been guzzling on my dress. (Good thing it was navy blue and didn't show too much.)

Date boy tried frantically to help me clean up the chocolate I had all over my face and fingers. And then I made the walk of shame up the stairs to claim my crown and have my spotlight dance with the King. (Who was ever so slightly drunk-I had to help him not fall over.)

I am hopelessly destined to mess up my chances for glamorous ladyhood. Oh well, the joy is in the journey right?

Those strawberries were worth it.

You Are NOT My Buddy

I am not one for the scary.

I will not watch horror movies-if I want to scare myself I will try skydiving or some such activity.

But when I was ten years old, my sister and I attended a slumber party at our friend Erica's house. There were the classic pajama preteen escapades: freezing underwear, pillow fights, junk food binging and the like. It was good old fashioned fun and I relished every minute. That is until we settled in to watch THE MOVIE.

My sister and I sat next to each other somewhat in shock as we viewed Child's Play for the first (and for me, the last) time.

It was awful and I was thoroughly frightened but the biggest scare came when we went home and noticed that our My Buddy doll looked exactly like Chuckie!!!!

In a panic, we shoved him into the tippy top of our closet. We essentially brushed our hands of that evil and went on with the business of living.

Several months passed and we forgot the My Buddy in the closet. More things were pushed into the closet (back then we called it, "Cleaning the Room").

And then one dark and stormy night, Buddy fell out of the closet. We woke up immediately and ran to the closet where the offender lay on the floor. We just KNEW that he had awakened and was coming for us.

We were completely terrified.

We did the only thing we could-we shaved his head, melted his face and pulled his arms and legs off. Being satisfied that he was dead, we stuffed him into a black garbage bag and put him outside to be taken away forever. (This occurring while the rest of the family slept peacefully-they were completely unaware of the danger lurking in the house!)

And what do we learn form this little memory of mine?

Don't mess with frightened preteens.

You too could be taken away forever in a black trash bag.

My Teenage Tragedy

My parent's rule was, "No dating till you are 16!"
So I waited...and waited...and waited. And then, Huzzah! 16 at last!!!!
I was free.
I could DATE.
Boys.
Oh yeah!

I was madly in love with the boy down the street. He was tall and handsome. He was broody and artistic. He was two years older than me and a senior. In short, everything my 16 year old dreams were made of.
Best of all, he was my friend.
He would come over most days after school and we would sit in the front yard and waste time. We would play with my cat, Mr Bailey, he would play the guitar and we would sing and we would talk.
Oh the chats we had people! "Intellectually stimulating" doesn't even start to describe the tasty meals we would consume with our words and ideas!

We talked about the importance of owning a rubber chicken.
We mused over the fact that parents really just don't understand.
We discussed the importance of not conforming to regular teenage fashion.
We agreed that being popular was beneficial.
We argued that age old question, "Cats or Dogs?" Cats, duh!

He was the white knight on the shimmering black horse. He could do no wrong. Oh boy-down-the-street, how I loved you so!

Of course, my curiosity got the better of me and I took my heart in my hands one fateful afternoon and placed it on the alter of teenage romance. I turned to that boy and asked, "Why don't the boys ask me out?"
Pause.
"Do you really want to know?"
"Oh yes, I've been 16 for a while now (5 months!) and no one has asked me out even once! If I am doing something wrong, I'd like to know so I can change it."
Dramatic pause.
"Well, a few of us guys got together and we agreed that you are pretty cool...you see, you are kind of one of us and kissing you would be like kissing one of the guys. So we decided we would keep you as you are and not ask you out."
"Oh" she said as all her dreams died and her heart fell off the alter.
"But since we are on the subject of dating, your friend Amber is really pretty. Is she available?"
"Um, yeah she is."
"Sweet. Do you think you could find out if she likes me?".........

I ended up putting and Amber and my lost love together. They dated the rest of the year and into the summer. He took her to the prom. I was devastated.

I learned that being, "one of the guys" has its benefits but it won't get you a date. Go figure.

"You Have No Talent!" And Other Lessons Learned As A Child

It was around this time of year in 1985 when I entered my first and last beauty pageant.

The mall (that has long since been abandoned and torn down), was hosting The Little Miss Slick Chick pageant and my sweet grandma convinced my mother to enter me.
I have since learned that little girls start training for this sort of thing from birth. I, at the ripe old age of four, was untrained and new to the pageant scene.

We had the white lace dress. We had the shiny white shoes and lacy socks. We even had the hat to match. Sadly, this is all we had. We showed up that fateful day completely unprepared and blind to the seriousness which many of these pageant goers view these mighty events.

I did the walk. I did the interview. I stood in line while all the non-smiling wrinkled judges looked us over. And then...oh and then, they announced the talent portion of the competition.
We were standing backstage and I watched my mom drain herself of all color (we are pasty as is, so this is quite impressive).
She turned to me in a panic and shouted, "You have no talent!!!"
Now she did not mean this as, "You are void of any and all talent." But I kind of took it that way. She was right, and I knew it.
As a four year old though, I didn't really care. What did I need talent for?

I watched wide eyed as one by one, each little girl (all very prepared) displayed their various talents. There was tap dancing (I have always wanted to learn how to tap dance). Several girls sang, "Animal Crackers In My Soup" while twirling batons. It was glorious to behold! A vision of taffeta, lace and patten leather.

My name was called, and my dear mother pushed me onto the stage and whisper/shouted as only a mother can, "Just do something!"

So I lolly-gagged around the stage for a bit. I played with my dress for a while. Then I walked over to the microphone and breathed in it. (This is really cool. Even when you are 28.) After that, I decided to share some recent information about my life. I looked right at those judges and said, "I have a dog named Charlie. He is black and white. He bites people in the butt and the policeman said if he does it again, they are going to take him away."
This is where I exited the stage.

The crazy mothers of all the prepared girls sneered. My poor mom blushed. Grandma giggled.

I won.

The mothers stopped sneering and started giving us the stink eye.
The judges thought I was a comedian.
It was pretty much awesome.

I learned that being prepared gives you confidence but it doesn't necessarily mean you are going to win. I also learned that at the end of the day, most people just want a good laugh.

Mom thought it best to keep me out of pageants after that.

A Not-So-Fuzzy Memory

There are a few events sacred to a child. Starting Kindergarten, the first sporting event or dance recital, learning to read and write, the first lemonade stand and most certainly the lessons leading up to that first real bike ride.

Unfortunately, I had to wait for this last grand experience. My sweet mom simply did not have time-as a single working mom, you probably would not have time either. My brother certainly did not want this chore (it would be embarrassing to be caught teaching a little sister anything, and as I had no bike-he would have to share his).
So I waited.
And waited ( a few years to a kid equals an eternity).
And waited....

Then a miracle happened!
Mom got remarried!!!! And not only did I get a dad, I got a little brother AND a SISTER!!!! Huzzah!!!

Olivia was just the sister I had always dreamed of. She had long blond hair and she didn't mind spending time with me.
She offered to impart her knowledge of the bicycle and I accepted with a thrill in my heart.
Mom and Dad bought me a bike from the Salvation Army. It was yellow with a banana seat. I vowed to make a treasure of it.
The fateful date was set.
I would learn to ride the aforementioned bike at the tender age of eight.

I was super excited and for some reason decided that it was appropriate to honor the occasion by getting all dressed up. I wore a long pink scarf someone had knitted for me and a pink floral skirt that went all the way to the ground.

We went to the parking lot of our apartment complex. The sun was shining and the skies wore their prettiest shade of blue in honor of this most important of events. Ollie instructed me to mount the bike and helped me place my feet on the pedals just so. Then, with her behind me pushing I started to RIDE A BIKE! She let go and I was DOING IT!

I pedalled with pride around that parking lot.
Pretty soon though, I felt a small tug at my skirt. It was caught in the spokes-but I was riding a bike and the skirt was long so I kept on.
Eventually the scarf around my neck tightened. It too, was caught in the spokes. But I was riding a bike and the scarf was long...

And then it happened.
It was not hard to distinguish where the rip came from. The draft was enough to explain. My skirt was gone.
I went red.
I wanted to run.
The scarf around my neck was stuck without mercy to the bike. I had no choice but to stand there in my day-of-the-week underpants with my neck attached to the devil bike. The neighborhood kids crowded around and the mocking started.

I have no idea how I finally broke free but I did. The memory ends there. I don't think I rode the bike again for a while and I certainly never again got dressed up to do so.