Aid for Marmalade

I have discovered that the fluffy orange-and-white kitty hanging around our place is declawed and has a distinctive mark in her left ear that I think might be a tattoo-identifier! Still no response to the ad I placed beckoning the cat’s owner, but I’m stepping up my efforts to find her proper home…or a proper home, anyhow, if she has, in fact, been abandoned. I called all the local vets’ offices and shelters yesterday to see whether she’s been reported missing (nope). Today, I begin my personal “Marmie Needs A Family” campaign. I’ve begun calling her Marmie, short for Marmalade, partly because of her coloring and also because the mark in her left ear looks like an M.

Interested candidates may contact me via email or post a comment here. I only hope the folks who took the trouble to have her paws surgically modified also thought to address her reproductive proclivity, so that we will not end up with several mini-strays on our back porch!

She’s really sweet and pretty. Can you take her in???

Broadway or Bus?

This is supposed to be Will’s bus blog post. You know—the one I insisted he write because of his noncompliance with TV Turnoff Week. Only he’s also being noncompliant with my blog-writing assignment, so I’m writing it for him. You probably think I’m just another enabling spouse. More on that later, but first, a bit about the bus:

The back-story is that Will attended a conference in Washington, D.C., last week. He left Saturday afternoon, and he was supposed to arrive back by plane Tuesday evening. But heavy fog grounded his connecting flight from NYC. Now, if I were “stuck” in New York for a night, you can bet I’d be On Broadway! I’d make a few phone calls, find a place to stay in ‘the city that never sleeps,’ book Amtrak for the next day, and secure myself a theater seat—stat!

I tried to talk Will into this route, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He’s not a seasoned traveler, so the prospect of maneuvering through Manhattan unnerved him. Plus, he planned to come home that night, and the airline people said they’d reimburse him for bus fare, so Greyhound it was—simple as that. Besides, for Will, the bus ride offered a chance to get to know some new, ordinary, interesting people. I think that’s what he loves best in the world. He’s fascinated by human beings.

Sure enough, when he arrived home shortly after 3 the following morning, he started sharing his seatmates’ stories. There was the boy from the Bronx headed back upstate after a break from Job Corps training. He finds quiet country life refreshing. Then there was the very young passenger who looked like Will Smith’s son in The Pursuit of Happyness. He kept wandering the aisle, hugging random strangers’ knees, until the gruff bus driver threatened him with a “whoopin’”. There was the octogenarian woman who slept most of the trip, snoring loudly. When she wasn’t snoring loudly, she was calling out to the driver: “Turn up the heat!” Most of the riders were stripped down to their shirtsleeves, accommodating the old lady. “I’m not God,” the driver rebuffed, “I can’t please everyone.”

Such tales and tidbits commonly come home with Will. He loves observing people, not just for his job as a journalist, but as a way of life. The fact that he sometimes drags his feet on little projects like my blog request doesn’t bother me because he is, overall, genuinely, quietly, faithfully helpful and good. I don’t consider myself his enabler, but his helpmate. And I am blessed. I’m grateful to God and to Greyhound for bringing him home, safe and sound.

And now for an almost pertinent Broadway tune to complete the post! Another one from Les Miserables (click here to see and hear a soulful rendition by Colm Wilkinson):

Bring Him Home

God on high, hear my prayer
In my need, you have always been there
He is young, he's afraid
Let him rest, heaven blessed.
Bring him home, bring him home,
Bring him home.
He's like the son I might have known
If God had granted me a son.
The summers die, one by one
How soon they fly, on and on
And I am old, and will be gone.
Bring him peace, bring him joy
He is young, he is only a boy
You can take, you can give
Let him be, let him live
If I die, let me die
Let him live
Bring him home
Bring him home
Bring him home.

Ratings Roulette

A series of fortunate events enabled me to see not just one but two movies this weekend: 17 Again (which I mentioned in my Saturday morning post) and State of Play, a much more mature film about a Washington, D.C. journalist and a rising-star Congressman, former college roommates who end up intertwined in a major news story—murder, mayhem, corporate corruption, cover-ups, and of course forbidden affairs (plural).

What really surprised me (besides the fact that I made it to the movie theater at all, nevermind 2 times in 1 weekend) is that both flicks—dramatically different in sophistication and intensity—are rated PG-13. I’m becoming more conscious of Motion Picture ratings as Vi enters the tween years. She really wanted to see Zac Efron in 17 Again when it came out April 17. (So did I.) But Will and I read several reviews and decided the movie’s themes were a bit beyond Vi’s mindset. Having “snuck out” and watched it without her, I think we made the right decision.

Still, even though I wished to shield my 9-year-old daughter from thoughts about teen sex, unplanned pregnancy, adolescent bullying, and “no-fault” divorce, those matters seemed meek-and-mild compared to the violence, greed, and general hard-heartedness depicted in the disturbing storyline of State. I found 17 light, fun, entertaining, even heart-warming, and its message, surprisingly moral. I awoke the next morning laughing about some of the scenes, particularly the silly software tycoon/best friend of the protagonist. I thought, “I’d like to see that again sometime!”

State of Play upset my sense of peace about the world and the way things work. I slept fitfully; I dreamt of impending doom. I’m not necessarily sorry I saw State. I think it’s good to be challenged by ideas outside my seemingly safe sphere—by films, by books, by reality! But I wouldn’t want to watch the murder/mayhem movie a second time. And I would certainly prefer to expose my tween to the relationship struggles and resolutions of 17 over the collective callousness portrayed in State.

I suppose, like many systems, movie ratings represent a sliding scale of relativity. The corresponding lesson I need to impress on my children: The world is complex and gray, but also wide and wonderful.

I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom for me and you
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world

I see skies of blue and clouds of white
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world

The colors of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces of people going by
I see friends shakin’ hands, sayin’ “How do you do?”
They're really saying “I love you”

I hear babies cryin’, I watch them grow
They’ll learn much more than I’ll ever know
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world
Yes, I think to myself, what a wonderful world

(song by George Weiss / Bob Thiele, made famous by the inimitable Louis Armstrong)

Zac-Mania, Sausage Sandwiches and Facebook

Saturday Snippets

I arose early today, went over to work for about an hour (wrapping up some time-sensitive stuff I didn’t get to on a particularly busy Friday), and then stopped at two places on my way home:

The local grocery store (as in, the only local one left), where the owner himself cashed me out with my coffee beans and newspapers, remarked amiably about the balmy weather we’re finally experiencing, and gave first-name greetings to pass along to my husband. (Oh, Small Town America—do not leave us! Our souls need the intimate cordially of your communities!)

My second stop was McDonald’s—I know, so corporate—where I bought 4 Sausage McMuffins off the Dollar Menu. With Will gone earlier this week, I treated the kids to breakfast sandwiches at the fast-food empire outpost which Vi used to call “Old MacDonald’s”; Ben and Pearl’s version is “Uncle Donald’s” (they have a relative by that name). On Tuesday, I had ordered the sausage sandwiches for the youngsters and an Egg McMuffin for myself. In the process, I discovered that the sausage variety was 1/3 the price of my egg favorite. So today, I shrewdly ordered the cheap kind, then resolved to fry up my own egg—breakfast sandwich bliss on a budget! Arriving home, I waltzed into the kitchen and chirped about my bargain purchases. “These McDonald’s sausage sandwiches are only a dollar,” I enthused to Will, who replied: “Yeah, but then you have to eat ’em.” (Health-minded spoil-sport!)

---

This is my final Facebook fast day (a deal I made with Vi during TV Turnoff Week). It’s been difficult to stay away from the steady stream of friendly greetings, witty 1-liners, and other interesting tidbits posted by friends and acquaintances in that virtual wonderland. I’ve especially missed playing online Scrabble. When life presents problems and other unpleasantness, Facebook feels like an oxygen mask of rejuvenation; it’s an oasis. Or, sociologists are saying, more like a mirage. It looks like real refreshment, but it’s deceitfully illusory. No one has bad breath on Facebook, this recent CNN Health article points out. I hope the 7 days away have snapped me out of my borderline addiction to the site. My next challenge will be total screen-media abstention for a full week—craziness! Baby steps, baby steps…..

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Last bit: My BFF and I went to the movies together last night—we saw 17 Again. Maybe it was the novelty of a night out sans kids. Maybe it was the fun of being with Jean, who lives across the Atlantic, who I don’t get to see as often as I’d like. Maybe it was momentary Zac-mania (gosh, what a beautiful boy). I know it wasn’t a truly good flick (I’ve heard valid complaints that it’s a poor amalgamation of It’s a Wonderful Life, Back to the Future, and Big), but I enjoyed it immensely—it made me feel…well, not 17 again, but close. (And how about that passionate pro-abstinence speech in the middle of the movie? Preach it, Z!)

Of Cats and Naps

Ah, springtime! Fresh air filling the house! Colorful bulbs bursting into bloom! Stray cats lurking on our lawn—hoping to be held, expecting to be fed, wriggling their way into our garage for the night, or just a snooze. One time last spring, I found a black cat dozing in the rafters out there. He came to be called “Midnight.” Then there were “Smoky,” “Jingle” and “Mangy Cat.” I found homes for all of them—two at nearby no-kill shelters, one with a neighbor, one with a rich guy in Rochester who dotes on the formerly feral feline like a proud papa. (Smoky’s living in the lap of luxury!)

Anyhow (sigh), word has gotten out, apparently. Our house was built in the 1920s. I’ve wondered whether there might not be one of those stray cat hobo symbols hidden somewhere strategic on our property—you know, the one that indicates: “Nice, generous, can’t-say-no lady lives here. Check it out!” The cats are drawn to the Waters residence like sharks to fresh blood, mystically, magnetically attracted to my compassionate, codependent nature. But this year, I’m drawing the line. I’ve placed the following advertisement in the local paper—and I mean it!

Missing Your Meow? Stray Feline Magnet seeks Concerned Cat Owner: Fluffy orange/white kitty found, (Our Street, A-Town). Can’t fund neighborhood feeding frenzy like last year. Claim cat by 5/1 before delivery to shelter. (our email address)

I know it’s a meager effort, but it’s all I’ve got to give this spring. I have other concerns, more-pressing projects, and less expendable income. “This is Bob Barker reminding you to help control the pet population—have your pet spayed or neutered!”

P.S. A TVTOW Update: His first day back—his first day period “participating” in TV Turnoff Week—and Will turned on the tube! He claims he needed a nap after last night’s grueling Greyhound bus trip back from the Big Apple. So he sought the assistance of a trusted tranquilizer: PBS Kids—more specifically, Calliou. As penance, I am insisting he post an entry describing the collection of colorful characters he encountered in his travels. Watch for that in the next day or two.

Cruel Mother Enforces National Pastime Prohibition (and it ain't baseball!)

It’s National TV Turn-Off Week, and the Waters Family is…well, turned off by this strenuous exercise of restraint and renewal. But we’re participating anyway, because Mommy is in charge!

We don’t normally watch a lot of regular TV, but we do DVD our way through many-an-evening—Little House reruns, Harry Potter snippets, Little Einsteins and other sing-song fare we can “enjoy” several times before we enjoy returning them to our local library. Honestly, I’d guess about 3-4 hours of “screen time” per kid, per day (including computer games—PBSkids.org for Ben and Pearl, Webkinz.com for Vi).

Most of the stuff we watch is arguably educational, engaging or otherwise edifying, especially when we discuss what’s happening and why, as we often do. On-screen characters and scenarios make their way into off-screen play and everyday conversation. My dear friend Jean stopped by from London the other night and experienced a common occurrence with Ben: He pulled up a chair to bend her ear about the merits and vices of various Star Wars characters. “Count Dooku is a bad guy—he has a red lightsaver; Han and Luke are good guys—they have blue lightsavers. Jar Jar doesn’t have anything to fight the bad guys, but he’s really funny.”

I’m not truly worried about television’s effects on our youngsters. They seem to be thriving, our household is (mostly) happy, and—hey—I watched too much TV as a kid, and I turned out OK. Even so, this is our third spring banning the boob tube for 7 days straight, and it’s a breath of fresh air. It’s a break in our routine. It forces us to come up with other things to do: At this very moment, Vi is upstairs in her room, racking up minutes for her fourth-grade reading competition. Ben and Pearl are perched on chairs at the kitchen sink, thoroughly soaked and soapy, discussing (what else?) the merits and vices of various Star Wars characters: “I’m the Emperor!” Ben declares in his scratchiest, scariest pre-K voice. “My get to be Darth Vader!” pipsqueak Pearl chirps enthusiastically. (Why are they role-playing evil characters? Hmmm…maybe I should be more concerned about their moral development.)

Will is missing the fun, experiencing a TV-free adventure of his own. After a few days of conferencing in our nation’s capital, he was supposed to land in Flower City later tonight. However, no planes will fly out of foggy New York tonight, he called to tell me, so he’s (ugh!) riding the Greyhound back to nearby B-Town. May the Force be with him. (I doubt their seatbacks feature flatscreens.)

For Fun, Not Fame—Freedom!

It worked! I got my Google stats up and running again (thanks, MFJ). However, my brief online investigation about blogging and blog promotion quickly crumpled any previously held fantasy that I might become a sought-after writer via this venue. And that’s OK—it’s freeing, actually, because now I know I want to write for fun, not for fame.

Fame!

I'm gonna live forever,

I'm gonna learn how to fly,

High!

I feel it coming together,

People will see me and cry,

Fame!

I'm going to make it to heaven,

Light up the sky like a flame,

Fame!

I'm gonna live forever,

Baby remember my name,

Remember, Remember, Remember,

Remember, Remember, Remember.

Blog Blues...No, Make That Green

So I thought I'd spruce up Life in A-Town for the season by changing my color scheme, from winter-blue to spring-green. I fiddled around in backstage-Blogger and ended up picking a new template altogether. I snickered at myself when I momentarily questioned the wisdom of this “marketing move”—as though my throngs of readers might be seriously thrown off by the jarring change of appearance.

The truth is (online confession #672), part of me secretly hopes this blog might get me noticed as a humorous writer/essayist/memoir maven—the next Anne Lamott or Eat, Pray, Love lady. (I had to look her up—it’s Elizabeth Gilbert…that was my first guess, but then I thought maybe I’d been watching too many Little House on the Prairie reruns and was thinking of Melissa Gilbert/Laura Ingalls Wilder’s actor-sister—the one who played the part of Roseanne Barr’s sardonic teenage daughter…but no, that’s Sara Gilbert. You see how my cerebral filing system fails me—thank God for Google!)

I realize there are…well, actually, I don’t know how many blogs exist on the Web World-Wide, but I do know, intellectually, that the chances of my ramblings being recognized as any cuter, cleverer or more marketable than anyone else’s is less likely than winning the lottery. And speaking of The Lottery, wishing to become a famous author might be a little like the classic short story by that title (one of the few assigned readings I actually completed in high school): Turning a cherished hobby into a professional obligation often results in the unnecessary death of an otherwise healthy part of a person’s life. Creativity is killed by compulsion; exposure eradicates enjoyment. Maybe writing for fun is the best way to go.

But back to my blog makeover…and my ego. When I changed the template from “Tic Tac Blue” to “Thisaway Green” (and subsequently “Rounders 4”), I apparently undid my Google Analytics code, the Web widget that tells me how many people have looked at Life in A-Town from day to day. Most days, I can count on 7 to 12 views. On days when I post a new entry, it might hit a “high” of 15-17. When I’m bold enough to incorporate the blog address into my Facebook status update, it basically doubles my readership—from, say, 16, to 32. These are obviously not New York Times Best Seller numbers. But I check almost every morning…OK, OK, every morning. And I like to think I’m summoning some smiles to my friends’ faces.

Two days ago, my Frumpy and Fabulous post celebrating Scottish songstress Susan Boyle brought an audience of 34 to my blog (humble indeed compared to Ms. Boyle’s new-found fame, but it was a “good day” for me). Next day—yesterday—down to zero! zip! nada! no visitors whatever to my trying-to-be-humble home online. I’m hoping to chalk it up to the Google Analytics glitch. Wish me luck (that is, if you’re out there) while I try to figure out how to reinstall the HTML mumbo-jumbo necessary to keep those numbers climbing.....

Frumpy and Fabulous: A Redemption Story

A matronly Scottish woman named Susan Boyle moved me to tears this week—me and millions of other You Tube viewers. If you have yet to watch the clip from the show Britain’s Got Talent (like American Idol, across the Atlantic), here’s what happened:

Boyle, a fairly frumpy 47-year-old with a short shock of gray curls and bordering-on-bushy eyebrows, walked out on stage in a mother-of-the-bride dress. The snarky audience immediately twittered and sniggered at her dowdy appearance. In a brief interview before her performance, she told the judges that she aspired to be a famous singer. The cynical crowd jeered openly. But Ms. Boyle was evidently undeterred—a tad oblivious, perhaps, but no matter: The music started, and she soulfully swept the house clean of every skeptical sneer.

Susan sang “I Dreamed A Dream” from Les Miserables, the poignant tale of the French Revolution. Now, I admit, this song almost always makes me cry—it’s so sad and beautiful and fraught with anguish:

I dreamed a dream in time gone by,
When hope was high and life, worth living.
I dreamed that love would never die,
I dreamed that God would be forgiving.

But the tigers come at night,
With their voices soft as thunder,
As they tear your hope apart,
And they turn your dream to shame.

On that stage, on that show, on that night, Susan Boyle stood up to those damned tigers! Tiger-people who claw at the tender souls of “misfits” whose clothes aren’t cool, whose bodies aren’t sleek, and whose faces aren’t sculpted or plucked or made up to perfection. “Weirdos” who simply don’t see the world the way most folks do—they’re “odd,” “strange,”…to-be-feared…and jeered. If we admit it, there are secret compartments in each of our hearts that nervously suspect we are the misfits. And sometimes, regrettably, our anxiety awakens our own inner tiger that tears down people around us, even—no, especially—those we love.

I had a dream my life would be
So different from this hell I'm living,
So different now from what it seemed...
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed...

Susan’s song—Susan’s story, as a woman who went from laughing-stock to “Who’s laughing now?”—represents redemption. That’s what moved me to tears. It wasn’t so much her strong voice that inspired me, but her strong spirit—her courage. While millions watched, she defied the spirit of scorn, in the room and in the world. And in doing so, she rekindled the deep-down dream of acceptance and love for everyone who watched her.

Bravo, Susan, Bravo!

Sofa Excavation (and other forms of procrastination)

I de-crumbed the couch today—thrust my bare hands into the mysterious crevices beneath the cushions and reached for who-knows-what. My dig yielded a few dozen stale crackers and pretzels (mostly crushed into coarse granules), a half-dozen writing utensils, and one white Matchbox tow truck. Surprisingly—disappointingly—zero cash. (I remember lean times in the late ’70s when sofa excavation would get us a gallon of milk.) Plus, I did discover the DVD remote, the disappearance of which prompted the unpleasant task in the first place.

Once the couch was semi-clean, I fought a fierce urge to rearrange the furniture. It’s a sure sign of a looming deadline in my life when the interior decorator in me rears her neurotic head. All of a sudden, I might decide, we need a bright-orange bathroom. Or a mocha-brown stairwell. Or a purple piano bench off eBay requiring a 1-hour drive each way to collect, with 3 kids in tow.

So, instead of postponing my freelance editing project by shoving our crayoned couches around the living room, I sat down to blog.

(Incidentally, in whiling away more minutes searching for a photo illustration for this post, I came across this Couch Cushion Cooties Contest. I’d enter, but I already trashed my stuff.)

Sweet Surprise

The truth is, I like surprises. When you’re Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy and the All-Purpose Birthday-Anniversary-Celebratory Event Party Planner and Present Wrapper for a family of five (plus a dozen grandpas, grandmas, aunts, uncles and cousins), unexpected moments on the receiving end of preconceived gift-giving are...well, nice. Last evening my “Easter Vigil” involved a trip to Walmart, followed by a stop at my brother’s house to pick up some eggs-tra “emptys,” followed by a late night of basket-filling, -hiding, and the painstaking process of stuffing and labeling approximately 100 bright-colored plastic egg-shaped containers. Don’t get me wrong—I enjoy doing this sort of thing (although I like it better when I do more of the work in advance, which I usually do). But I sometimes feel a little left out of the fun. It’s the kid in me, I suppose.

Well, lo and behold, after hitting the pillow at 3:44 a.m. and rolling groggily out of bed at 7:26, I found my very own Easter surprise this morning! My dear elder daughter—the one who almost daily drives me to the brink of insanity—had thoughtfully prepared a basket for me, containing: a handmade “Happy Easter” card with rainbow lettering (Signed, The Kidster Bunny); three decorated hard-boiled eggs, wrapped in paper towels and tied up with Christmas ribbons; a tiny vase of precious periwinkle flowers she’d found in our yard; a “Boo-Boo Bunny” for our freezer, fashioned from a washcloth, yarn, and googly eyes; and, perhaps best of all, a half-dozen coupons for various everyday favors: “Being Nice,” “Playing With the Little Kids,” “20 Minutes Practicing Trombone (no complaints!)”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get more stuff for you,” said my darling girl, innocently underestimating the tremendous value of her offering. I was verklempt.

Game Face & Amazing Grace

Recently, my oldest friend Jean reminded me of my life as a high school thespian. She remembered how I used to retreat to the wings of the auditorium to “put on [my] ‘game face.’”

Typically an outgoing, gregarious gal, before performances, I turned inward. I found a deserted bathroom in the building, I applied my own makeup, I fixed up my hair, I went backstage, and I tuned out my regular life. I pretended to be someone else. I found it relaxing, invigorating, and a heck-of-a-lot easier than taking the pressure straight on, “facing the music” as vulnerable, imperfect Me. I felt much more comfortable inhabiting another character, even with her inherent flaws and foibles, than accepting myself as…well, human. There are problems with this form of denial, I realize—probably requiring much more psychotherapy than I could ever afford. But tonight, it came in handy—in a healthy, helpful way, I think.

I was asked to sing a solo at the A-Town ecumenical Good Friday service. I agreed—too quickly, as usual. I don’t consider myself a “singer.” I can carry the tune and sound sort of pretty…sometimes. But I don’t have the pipes of a soloist. I’ve heard too many real singers to believe otherwise. This isn’t false modesty; it’s simply the truth. But, if a soloist is needed, and no one else is available, I can fill the bill in an acceptable manner…most times. My main problem, like lots of singers—even “real” ones—is nerves. I know I can hit the notes, and if I relax, I can make it come out nicely. But if I let adrenaline get the better of me, my vocal chords will constrict and wobble and basically obliterate the comfort level of everyone in the room—most of all, Me!

This Good Friday evening, I didn’t want that to happen. I wanted to focus on the real “Star” of the service, Jesus. And I wanted my song to help other worshipers do the same. So, I thought of Jean, and I tried my old trick. Instead of “going solo” as Me, I decided to play the part of Good Friday Service Soloist. I pretended the sanctuary was a theater, Jesus was the director, and he had asked me to sing the song as part of the play he had written. I hope this doesn’t seem sacrilegious. I truly believe in the Divine Sacrifice for us sinners’ souls. And going into my old “Game Face” prep mode accomplished its intended purpose: My nerves steadied, I sang from the heart, and I turned the proverbial spotlight on the Man of Sorrows, with these words:

Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?
Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble!
Were you there when they crucified my Lord?

Were you there when they nailed him to the tree?
Were you there when they nailed him to the tree?
Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble!
Were you there when they nailed him to the tree?

Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?
Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?
Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble!
Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?

How Many More...?

How many more miles?
How many more minutes?
How many more mess-ups?
How many more moments?
How many more mimbulus mimbletonia?

(This silly little “poem” was inspired by Vi, who asked several times during today’s mandatory 20-minute trombone practice session: “How many more minutes?” It reminded me of childhood family trips to Michigan to visit my paternal grandparents—our repetitious, sing-song refrain was: “How many more miiiiiilllles?”)

Junie B. Writer

A little over a year ago, Vi and I took a trip to Albany. It was part personal, part professional. I had some conference-y things to do, but Vi was able to tag along, and we had plenty of time to enjoy the state capitol between meetings. We rode the train there (fun), took a taxi into the city (also fun—although Vi was disappointed it wasn’t yellow), and went to a Children’s Expo that happened to be going on the weekend we were there. One of the programs at the Expo was a free presentation of Junie B. Jones, the musical. Attending the show reminded me of two things: 1) how much I enjoy live theater, 2) how much I want to write.

There’s something almost magical about musical stage productions that makes me feel more fully alive. The cast of about 6 performers charmed the audience of parents and kids with their portrayal of a first-grade classroom, starring Junie B. Jones. For those of you who don’t know Junie B., she’s a spunky, no-holds-barred kind of kid—a character (and I do mean a character) created by author Barbara Park. I credit Junie B. for turning my kid from non-reader to bookworm, laughing all the way (ha-ha-ha). I’m also grateful to Junie B. for inspiring me to get off my creative duff!

I’ve always enjoyed writing. Well, almost always. And maybe “enjoyed” isn’t quite the right word. Let me rephrase: Ever since I can remember, I have felt compelled to write. Like I was meant to write, made to write—designed for it. I think of British Olympian Eric Liddell’s famous line in “Chariots of Fire”: “I believe God made me for a purpose, but He also made me fast. And when I run I feel His pleasure.” I may not be an Olympic-caliber writer, but ‘when I write I feel God’s pleasure.’

It’s not always a pleasant process, mind you. Sometimes it’s hard—very hard. I nearly sweat. I occasionally cry. I often have to get up, walk away, do something else for awhile, and come back to the writing. When I was in seventh grade, I remember relating to a poster hung by my English teacher, Mr. H: “A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” (Thomas Mann) I tried to discuss the insight of this quotation with my pubescent friends. They either didn’t care or they disagreed. One of them told me it was ridiculous: Writing seemed to come easily for me, she said, while her assignments, while torturous to fulfill, yielded decidedly mediocre marks.

The difference, I tried to tell her, was that I cared. I cared how the words sounded strung together on the page. It mattered to me whether I inserted a semi-colon or separated my thoughts into sentences. I fretted over word choice. I wrestled with my characters’ development. I tossed and turned about my stories’ settings. A few times, I failed to turn in my homework because it simply didn’t satisfy my standards. For a goody-two-shoes-teacher-pleaser like me, foregoing a full grade-book on principle epitomized the junior high English concept of oxymoron.

When middle school gave way to A-Town High, my passion for words took a supporting paragraph’s role to the main subject of my adolescence: Boys. I used and abused my writing ability. It saw me through school; I took it for granted. The careful crafting of love letters were the only times I recall paying attention enough to actually improve my composition aptitude. I guess it wasn’t until college that I remembered Madame Muse. The agony of a particularly painful break-up prompted me to seek the solace writing proffered, a long-forgotten friend extending her arms to me in earnest welcome. My journal became a place of prayer, a source of strength, a haven of healing for my battered, bewildered soul.

I consider it no accident that I ended up taking my basic composition course in the second half of my junior year. It’s a long, boring story why, wrapped up in a couple rolls of red tape, but I ended up having to the fulfill the 3 credits that spring—precisely the season I found myself ready to re-enter the realm of reality and wholeness.

I don’t think that mere coincidence led me to the Albany Egg last March, either—where I sat next to my fidgety daughter, surrounded by dozens of similarly squirmy strangers, while a talented young woman conjured a spirited 7-year-old and moved me to tears—moved me to write—with her final song: “Writing Down the Story of My Life.”

I am writing down the story of my life:
what makes me scared or nervous,
what makes me sad or blue.

If I want to draw a weiner sausage
Or a picture of a beautiful day,
Or list my favorite colors and foods,
Everything I want is A-OK.

Your favorite kind of popsicle, your allergy to glue,
How much you love your family, or what friendship means to you,
A picture of spaghetti or a lovely mountain view,
No matter what you think or dream or feel or say or do!

Keep on writing down the stories of your life…..

I am, Junie B., I am!

What Ailed Us

I’m a tangle of emotions following a dramatic week of life and motherhood—much of which I don’t feel at liberty to describe here. But I’ll do so in this vague form:

Bronchitis
Shivering, sweating, sleeping, hacking—
days and days, short of breath.

Stage Fright
Wanting the part, dreading the part—
disappointment, embarrassment, relief.

Ear Infection
Shooting pain, crying out, intermittent dozing—
“I just miss my friends so much.”

Grace. Kindness. Medicine.

New Week!