"Good Morning, Mama, how are you today?!"
My 2 year old bounds, climbs, yanks himself onto my bed examining my face
I struggle to open one eye and suddenly we are nose to nose,
his bright eyes not only alert, but shining
As if I should already be impatiently awaiting,
at 6:23 A.M.,
The Grand Adventure that will be this day
"Too early, Ty, go back to sleep, o.k.?"
He deflates like a balloon, wilting back into the covers
and reaches to search for my hair with one hand,
tightly winding it around his chubby little fist
As if my hair is his safety latch,
a bungee cord,
He uses this harness to pull my hair to his face
He pops his thumb in his mouth, forefinger over the bridge of his nose,
face buried into my mane, and inhales deeply
The sweet smell of slobber mixed with suave.
He snuggles as close as possible
As if close can never be close enough,
Wallerin' my mama used to call it,
because there is always something that is closer than close
Then and only then, after his most important, personal ritual
Ty slips back to sleep,
Body peaceful and limp, hand sliding from my hair,
Thumb falling out of his mouth onto the pillow
As if there is no greater sleeping pill
than finding the spot that is closer than close,
wallerin' on mama, drifting away.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
An Ode to Fractions
Half it and Half it and Half it again
1/3, 1/4, 1/75th of the 10.
My fraction passion began as an innocent chile'
An engaging lesson taught with a cherry pie
Deviously fractions slunk into my life
Under the pretense of fun and vieling true strife
Cups of sugar, tablespoons, Bing cherries, flaky crust
How fun you are fractions, first impression was to trust
That math could be awesome, engaging, and true
Oh, what wicked webs, Fractions are lying to you
They are not just for cooking, measuring, and such
Later they cause headaches when divided and mutiplied much
You see fractions grab you as a child and place you under their spell
You've no idea how slippery the slope is to torture, but they know it well
Alas, after 1st grade Math had opened this portal, a dasturdly door,
Blindly I was tricked to stroll through and loathe evermore.
1/3, 1/4, 1/75th of the 10.
My fraction passion began as an innocent chile'
An engaging lesson taught with a cherry pie
Deviously fractions slunk into my life
Under the pretense of fun and vieling true strife
Cups of sugar, tablespoons, Bing cherries, flaky crust
How fun you are fractions, first impression was to trust
That math could be awesome, engaging, and true
Oh, what wicked webs, Fractions are lying to you
They are not just for cooking, measuring, and such
Later they cause headaches when divided and mutiplied much
You see fractions grab you as a child and place you under their spell
You've no idea how slippery the slope is to torture, but they know it well
Alas, after 1st grade Math had opened this portal, a dasturdly door,
Blindly I was tricked to stroll through and loathe evermore.
My Voice
This came from a lesson that a fellow teacher demonstrated for my summer institute on getting kids to recognize and demonstrate voice in writing. With many students they haven't enough writing experience to really decide what their voice is, but when I did this activity I really feel it put a concrete feeling to what your personal voice is in your writing.
Recipe for My Voice
Ingredients
2 cups of compassion
4 Tablespoons of playfulness
1/2 cup of respect for others
2 Tablespoons of glee
3 Tablespoons of encouragement
a dash of confidence
2 cups of anxiety
1 cup of eithera fear, uncertainty, or guilt
Sarcasm and humor sprinkles on top
Recipe
1. To form the base of this complicated souffle, pack down the 2 cups of compassion so that it forms a strong, solid layer underneath everything else. Sprinkle 4 TBS of playfulness on top of this compassionate base.
2. In a seperate bowl, stir 2 TBS. of glee with 3 TBS. of encouragement. At this point add the dash of confidence. (Note: Confidence is a rare ingredient. If it can not be found than imitation extract of confidence will fool you average taster, but unfortunately not the consumer with the very fine palate.) This will be the next layer.
3. The final layer, which does create an admittedly sour cream crust, is made of 2 cups anxiety (make sure anxiety has sat out and simmered for at least 24 hours) To the anxiety, fold in the cup of fear, uncertainty, or guilt. Pour this mixture on top of the sweet filling for a contrast of flavors. Finally, however, to tone down the bite of the top layer, sprinkle with humor and sarcasm.
Warning: When baking, timing is so important. The humor and sarcasm should, like yeast, cause the concoction to rise; however, depending on the air of the room, to humid, for example, or too cold, and the souffle may fall flat.
Recipe for My Voice
Ingredients
2 cups of compassion
4 Tablespoons of playfulness
1/2 cup of respect for others
2 Tablespoons of glee
3 Tablespoons of encouragement
a dash of confidence
2 cups of anxiety
1 cup of eithera fear, uncertainty, or guilt
Sarcasm and humor sprinkles on top
Recipe
1. To form the base of this complicated souffle, pack down the 2 cups of compassion so that it forms a strong, solid layer underneath everything else. Sprinkle 4 TBS of playfulness on top of this compassionate base.
2. In a seperate bowl, stir 2 TBS. of glee with 3 TBS. of encouragement. At this point add the dash of confidence. (Note: Confidence is a rare ingredient. If it can not be found than imitation extract of confidence will fool you average taster, but unfortunately not the consumer with the very fine palate.) This will be the next layer.
3. The final layer, which does create an admittedly sour cream crust, is made of 2 cups anxiety (make sure anxiety has sat out and simmered for at least 24 hours) To the anxiety, fold in the cup of fear, uncertainty, or guilt. Pour this mixture on top of the sweet filling for a contrast of flavors. Finally, however, to tone down the bite of the top layer, sprinkle with humor and sarcasm.
Warning: When baking, timing is so important. The humor and sarcasm should, like yeast, cause the concoction to rise; however, depending on the air of the room, to humid, for example, or too cold, and the souffle may fall flat.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Boxes 2nd edition
To an adult a box is a box. A cardboard cube, a boring bin. An adult packs boxes to the brim with knick knacks and this and that to be moved from here to there or anywhere.
They will not stop to play with the box, will not crawl inside the box, and grownups will not decorate the box. They don't understand.
But children know that a box is more than just a box. We know the truth because even though we are smaller, and younger, and somewhat more wild, we are also wiser, and relaxed, and somewhat more clever.
A new toy can only be that one toy...but the box it arrived in? The sky is the limit to what it can be. The sky is the limit as to what we can see.
Boxes turn into robots with holes cut for little arms, legs, and faces. We can’t draw on our new toys, it is a rule, but no one will fuss if we add life, and dials and switches to our machine suit. Grownups do not remember robot-speak, but kids CAN - BE - THE – ROBOT.
On a chilly autumn day, Mom will wrap us in our turtlenecks and scarves. We fill a box with red, orange, and yellow leaves and create a pit to pounce in. Beware! Creepy bugs may crawl up our arms and legs. Parents will only be happy that the yard is clean; they don't understand the prize in a fall blanket.
In the winter, if snow is scarce, flattened boxes are sleds that soar down steep, grass-covered hills. We love zooming down, down, down and tumbling in a pile at the bottom of the ride. Who needs snow to fly?
After a move to a new house, a million boxes are left empty. What a kingdom these boxes can make! Big, small, and medium sized, the boxes create a castle of turrets, drawbridges, dungeons, and moats. In a flash, we can escape to our fortress to defend our freedom from dragons, sorcerers, naps, and little brothers.
A giant box can be a candy land cottage. Let’s use Mama's old, red tablecloth for curtains. Borden milk cartons can be flower boxes, and we can draw our picket fence with a white crayon. Because we are decorating our box, we can color family portraits, wallpaper patterns, or a fancy chandelier its walls. Interior design by Crayola. Adults think walls are only to hold up buildings. If they only knew!
"All Aboard!" Several boxes create the boxcars of the Santa Fe Express rumbling along the Pecos Valley Railway. While exploring the Wild, Wild West, we are pioneers of the plains racing a buffalo stampede and escorting covered wagons from town to town. We barely escape an outlaw robbery by Jesse James riding past the freight cars, gun blazing.
In which season of someone's life does a box turn back into a box? Boxes don’t have to turn back into boxes, you know? Kids, when confronted with cardboard, we must promise to remind those grownups what fun it can be to think outside the box.
They will not stop to play with the box, will not crawl inside the box, and grownups will not decorate the box. They don't understand.
But children know that a box is more than just a box. We know the truth because even though we are smaller, and younger, and somewhat more wild, we are also wiser, and relaxed, and somewhat more clever.
A new toy can only be that one toy...but the box it arrived in? The sky is the limit to what it can be. The sky is the limit as to what we can see.
Boxes turn into robots with holes cut for little arms, legs, and faces. We can’t draw on our new toys, it is a rule, but no one will fuss if we add life, and dials and switches to our machine suit. Grownups do not remember robot-speak, but kids CAN - BE - THE – ROBOT.
On a chilly autumn day, Mom will wrap us in our turtlenecks and scarves. We fill a box with red, orange, and yellow leaves and create a pit to pounce in. Beware! Creepy bugs may crawl up our arms and legs. Parents will only be happy that the yard is clean; they don't understand the prize in a fall blanket.
In the winter, if snow is scarce, flattened boxes are sleds that soar down steep, grass-covered hills. We love zooming down, down, down and tumbling in a pile at the bottom of the ride. Who needs snow to fly?
After a move to a new house, a million boxes are left empty. What a kingdom these boxes can make! Big, small, and medium sized, the boxes create a castle of turrets, drawbridges, dungeons, and moats. In a flash, we can escape to our fortress to defend our freedom from dragons, sorcerers, naps, and little brothers.
A giant box can be a candy land cottage. Let’s use Mama's old, red tablecloth for curtains. Borden milk cartons can be flower boxes, and we can draw our picket fence with a white crayon. Because we are decorating our box, we can color family portraits, wallpaper patterns, or a fancy chandelier its walls. Interior design by Crayola. Adults think walls are only to hold up buildings. If they only knew!
"All Aboard!" Several boxes create the boxcars of the Santa Fe Express rumbling along the Pecos Valley Railway. While exploring the Wild, Wild West, we are pioneers of the plains racing a buffalo stampede and escorting covered wagons from town to town. We barely escape an outlaw robbery by Jesse James riding past the freight cars, gun blazing.
In which season of someone's life does a box turn back into a box? Boxes don’t have to turn back into boxes, you know? Kids, when confronted with cardboard, we must promise to remind those grownups what fun it can be to think outside the box.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Kid With Box on Head
During National Writing Project Summer Institute yesterday, my "class" took a mini field trip to USM's museum of art. They are exhibiting children's author and photographer Tana Hoban's collection. Her daughter, Miela Gallob Ford, donated the collection to USM after Mrs. Hoban passed away. It is a great exhibit, and I would highly recommend it to my elementary teacher friends. Text me and I will give you the information. I also highly recommend it to my photography friend, Chris Maul of Chris Maul Photography because I could see him creating similar projects with a writer (ahem, wonder if he knows any of those? ahem, ahem?). Here are some books that Tana Hoban is famous for:
Anywho, one of the pictures in the collection of children's photography inspired the beginning of a writing piece. The title of the picture was "Kid with Box on Head," original, right? This photo pictures a very young girl who has cut out a window in a box and placed said box on her head. She looks like a robot, causing everyone who walks past the picture to chuckle knowingly, and it reminded me of the passionate love that all children have for the simplicity of a box.
This is a very rough, rough draft. My purpose for presenting it on this blog is for you, whoever you are, to help me make it better. Please give me ideas, ask questions, etc. I have a vision of turning this, one day, into a children's book with real photography of children making use of boxes.
To an adult a box is a box. A cardboard cube, a boring bin. An adult packs boxes to the brim with knick knacks and this and that to be moved from here to there or anywhere. They will not stop to play with the box, will not crawl inside the box, and grownups will not decorate the box. They just have no clue.
But children know that a box is more than just a box. We know the truth because even though we are smaller, and younger, and somewhat more wild, we are wiser, and relaxed, and somewhat more clever. We recognize the potential of a box over shiny, new toys in crisp, colorful wrapping paper. A new toy can only be that toy, and the wrapping paper is torn and, therefore, of no use...but the box? The sky is the limit to what it can be. The sky is the limit as to what we can see.
Boxes magically turn into robots as holes are cut for little arms, legs, and faces. Dials, gauges, numbers, and such supply power to a machine friend. Though forbidden to draw on new toys, it is considered quite creative to add symbols and switches to android suits. Adults do not remember robot-speak, it is a language they no longer can hear, but kids CAN - BE - THE - ROBOT.(pic of child with box on head)
On a chilly autumn day, boxes are not just boxes, and leaves are not just leaves. Turtlenecked and scarved, we fill a box with red, orange, and yellow and create a pit to pounce in; Beware! Creepy bugs may crawl up our arms and legs, so there is some danger in diving pleasure. Parents will only be happy that the yard is clean; They also don't quite understand the prize in a fall blanket.
In the winter, if snow is scarce, flattened boxes are sleds that soar down steep, grass-covered hills. We love zooming down, down, down to tumble in a pile at the bottom of the ride. Who needs snow to fly?
Moving to a new house creates a treasure trove of boxes left empty and waiting. What a kingdom these boxes create! Big, small, and medium sized, the boxes create a castle of turrets, drawbridges, dungeons, and moats. In a flash, we can escape to our fortress to defend our freedom from dragons, sorcerors, naps, and little brothers.
A giant fridge box can be a cottage in the woods made picture perfect by Mama's old, red tablecloth hung as curtains, Bordon milk cartons as flower boxes, and white crayon-sketches as a picket fence. Though forbidden in the hallway, it is considered fine art to add any type of family portrait, wallpaper pattern, or fancy chandelier on the cottage walls and ceiling. Interior design by Crayola. Adults think walls are only to hold up buildings. If they only knew!
"All Aboard!" Several boxes create the boxcars of the Santa Fe Express rumbling along the Pecos Valley Railway. While exploring the wild, wild West, we are pioneers of the plains racing a buffalo stampeded across the plains and escorting covered wagons from town to town. We barely escape an outlaw robbery by Jesse James riding past the frieght cars, gun blazing.
In which season of someone's life does a box turn back into a box? Perhaps when one is too old to crawl inside a castle, fort, or cottage. Or perhaps when one can no longer see past the end of one's nose. This doesn't have to happen, you know. Kids, when confronted with cardboard, we must promise to remind our aged friends what the world holds for those who can think outside the box.
Anywho, one of the pictures in the collection of children's photography inspired the beginning of a writing piece. The title of the picture was "Kid with Box on Head," original, right? This photo pictures a very young girl who has cut out a window in a box and placed said box on her head. She looks like a robot, causing everyone who walks past the picture to chuckle knowingly, and it reminded me of the passionate love that all children have for the simplicity of a box.
This is a very rough, rough draft. My purpose for presenting it on this blog is for you, whoever you are, to help me make it better. Please give me ideas, ask questions, etc. I have a vision of turning this, one day, into a children's book with real photography of children making use of boxes.
To an adult a box is a box. A cardboard cube, a boring bin. An adult packs boxes to the brim with knick knacks and this and that to be moved from here to there or anywhere. They will not stop to play with the box, will not crawl inside the box, and grownups will not decorate the box. They just have no clue.
But children know that a box is more than just a box. We know the truth because even though we are smaller, and younger, and somewhat more wild, we are wiser, and relaxed, and somewhat more clever. We recognize the potential of a box over shiny, new toys in crisp, colorful wrapping paper. A new toy can only be that toy, and the wrapping paper is torn and, therefore, of no use...but the box? The sky is the limit to what it can be. The sky is the limit as to what we can see.
Boxes magically turn into robots as holes are cut for little arms, legs, and faces. Dials, gauges, numbers, and such supply power to a machine friend. Though forbidden to draw on new toys, it is considered quite creative to add symbols and switches to android suits. Adults do not remember robot-speak, it is a language they no longer can hear, but kids CAN - BE - THE - ROBOT.(pic of child with box on head)
On a chilly autumn day, boxes are not just boxes, and leaves are not just leaves. Turtlenecked and scarved, we fill a box with red, orange, and yellow and create a pit to pounce in; Beware! Creepy bugs may crawl up our arms and legs, so there is some danger in diving pleasure. Parents will only be happy that the yard is clean; They also don't quite understand the prize in a fall blanket.
In the winter, if snow is scarce, flattened boxes are sleds that soar down steep, grass-covered hills. We love zooming down, down, down to tumble in a pile at the bottom of the ride. Who needs snow to fly?
Moving to a new house creates a treasure trove of boxes left empty and waiting. What a kingdom these boxes create! Big, small, and medium sized, the boxes create a castle of turrets, drawbridges, dungeons, and moats. In a flash, we can escape to our fortress to defend our freedom from dragons, sorcerors, naps, and little brothers.
A giant fridge box can be a cottage in the woods made picture perfect by Mama's old, red tablecloth hung as curtains, Bordon milk cartons as flower boxes, and white crayon-sketches as a picket fence. Though forbidden in the hallway, it is considered fine art to add any type of family portrait, wallpaper pattern, or fancy chandelier on the cottage walls and ceiling. Interior design by Crayola. Adults think walls are only to hold up buildings. If they only knew!
"All Aboard!" Several boxes create the boxcars of the Santa Fe Express rumbling along the Pecos Valley Railway. While exploring the wild, wild West, we are pioneers of the plains racing a buffalo stampeded across the plains and escorting covered wagons from town to town. We barely escape an outlaw robbery by Jesse James riding past the frieght cars, gun blazing.
In which season of someone's life does a box turn back into a box? Perhaps when one is too old to crawl inside a castle, fort, or cottage. Or perhaps when one can no longer see past the end of one's nose. This doesn't have to happen, you know. Kids, when confronted with cardboard, we must promise to remind our aged friends what the world holds for those who can think outside the box.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
When I Was Young in the Anywhere, Everywhere Army
This piece was inspired by this book...
It is a great children's book, and if you have children, you should get it and have them write their own "When I was Young." Fun, fun activity. They would also love to hear your "When I was Young."
So hear goes...
When I was young in the army, we never stayed anywhere more than two years, that was the maximum that the Colonel would let you stay at HIS base.
When I was young in the army, every two years Dad made a choice from three options, exotic options like Hawaii or Florida. But Dad never chose the fun places. He chose North Carolina; Ft. Polk, LA; or Seminary, MS, always as close to our "home base" as possible.
When I was young in the Army, one time Dad DID choose the exotic place, Bitburg, Germany. My mom and I boarded a plane. I had never been on a plane before because the other places were within driving distance, if you count several days as driving distance, which my Dad most certainly did. BUT, we couldn't drive over the ocean, so we flew to meet Dad in Europe.
When I was young in Germany, many of the streets were made of rocks, and nuns would walk past us in the village outside the base as we headed to the ice creame shoppe for spaghetti ice, my favorite dessert. Spaghetti Ice was vanilla ice cream squeezed through a press to look like noodles. The sauce was strawberry topping, and the meatballs were crushed nuts and whip cream. For years my parents have tried to replicate this dessert with no luck thus far.
When I was young in Germany, we lived eight flights up in an apartment that was very small. No living conditions in the army are spacious, but it was nice and cozy and together.
When I was young in Germany, we would walk in Volksmarches, like volkswagon is the people's car, Volksmarches are the peoples' walks. We would walk for 500 million kilometers. I would last about .75 kilometers of the 500 bazillion before I shimmied up my dad's side to my perch on top of his shoulders. At the end of each Volksmarch, medals were hung around our necks. The exhausted crowd devoured Bratwurst, and Dad drank dark beer out of souvineer beerstiens.
When I was young in Germany, there were vineyards, windmills, durndell dresses, mountains, and sight seeing, a lot of sight seeing. The images of Europe are beautiful snapshots in my mind. Everyone in my family agreed it was the best experience ever, and we should definitely go back one day.
It is a great children's book, and if you have children, you should get it and have them write their own "When I was Young." Fun, fun activity. They would also love to hear your "When I was Young."
So hear goes...
When I was young in the army, we never stayed anywhere more than two years, that was the maximum that the Colonel would let you stay at HIS base.
When I was young in the army, every two years Dad made a choice from three options, exotic options like Hawaii or Florida. But Dad never chose the fun places. He chose North Carolina; Ft. Polk, LA; or Seminary, MS, always as close to our "home base" as possible.
When I was young in the Army, one time Dad DID choose the exotic place, Bitburg, Germany. My mom and I boarded a plane. I had never been on a plane before because the other places were within driving distance, if you count several days as driving distance, which my Dad most certainly did. BUT, we couldn't drive over the ocean, so we flew to meet Dad in Europe.
When I was young in Germany, many of the streets were made of rocks, and nuns would walk past us in the village outside the base as we headed to the ice creame shoppe for spaghetti ice, my favorite dessert. Spaghetti Ice was vanilla ice cream squeezed through a press to look like noodles. The sauce was strawberry topping, and the meatballs were crushed nuts and whip cream. For years my parents have tried to replicate this dessert with no luck thus far.
When I was young in Germany, we lived eight flights up in an apartment that was very small. No living conditions in the army are spacious, but it was nice and cozy and together.
When I was young in Germany, we would walk in Volksmarches, like volkswagon is the people's car, Volksmarches are the peoples' walks. We would walk for 500 million kilometers. I would last about .75 kilometers of the 500 bazillion before I shimmied up my dad's side to my perch on top of his shoulders. At the end of each Volksmarch, medals were hung around our necks. The exhausted crowd devoured Bratwurst, and Dad drank dark beer out of souvineer beerstiens.
When I was young in Germany, there were vineyards, windmills, durndell dresses, mountains, and sight seeing, a lot of sight seeing. The images of Europe are beautiful snapshots in my mind. Everyone in my family agreed it was the best experience ever, and we should definitely go back one day.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Peanut!
My cousins and my grandmother used to sit around her kitchen table with cheese straws, three decks of cards, and a scoresheet. The youngest, and only girl grandchild, I would peer behind each chair, making my way slowly and quietly around the table, so as not to be a nuisance and risk getting shoo'ed away. I would continue to circle like a buzzard, for the hour or so it would take, trying to make sense of this card game that caused Stewart's hands to fly rapidly in a blur from stack to stack.
This crazy game in which the concentration on H.B.'s face would become fierce, and so, so serious.
This curious pastime that would frustrate my Grandmother so, to the point of suddenly and piercingly squealing,
"Slow down! You are going too fast; I'm old!"
The big boys would grin and slow their Speedy Gonzalas hands a little. Grandma would cut a sly look out of the corner of each eye at each boy and proceed to cheat. Taking advantage of the boys' kindness, my sweet, loving, devious, mischevious Grandmother would manipulate those cards and her grandchildren terribly. Oh, yes, there was some serious cheating going on at that table, but we all loved the game, and I was fascinated.
I began to teach myself to play. Really, it was only abbreviated games of solitaire being played off of one another. The first to win their solitaire hand would scream (if that someone was Grandma) or squeak like a timid mouse (if it was a cursed grandchild who knew they were about to cause a dark cloud to ascend),
"PEANUT!"
The first step beyond simple observation was to teach my hands to soar. I played solitaire until I was FAST, until my hands could be blurs as well. Next step was to resume my position behind the chairs, namely Grandma's chair, and proceed to tell her where to place her cards. She permitted this for a short time, only because I was the only granddaughter, therefore preferred, and definitely the favorite. The boys never would have permitted this as I was, to them, an annoying little bug whose only positive trait was that I was incredibly ticklish and, therefore, capable of providing them with several minutes of entertainment. However, even to Grandma, I eventually bacame too much of a pest, and she finally became aggravated enough to spit out the words I had been waiting to hear,
"Quit telling me what to do, child, and sit down! Stewart, get her a pack of cards."
In that moment I realized that I had my own chair; I would forevermore be asked to play, at every visit, every holiday, and every sweltering summer afternoon.
Every now and then I won, most often I lost, and sometimes, even I...(gasp) CHEATED...a little.
This crazy game in which the concentration on H.B.'s face would become fierce, and so, so serious.
This curious pastime that would frustrate my Grandmother so, to the point of suddenly and piercingly squealing,
"Slow down! You are going too fast; I'm old!"
The big boys would grin and slow their Speedy Gonzalas hands a little. Grandma would cut a sly look out of the corner of each eye at each boy and proceed to cheat. Taking advantage of the boys' kindness, my sweet, loving, devious, mischevious Grandmother would manipulate those cards and her grandchildren terribly. Oh, yes, there was some serious cheating going on at that table, but we all loved the game, and I was fascinated.
I began to teach myself to play. Really, it was only abbreviated games of solitaire being played off of one another. The first to win their solitaire hand would scream (if that someone was Grandma) or squeak like a timid mouse (if it was a cursed grandchild who knew they were about to cause a dark cloud to ascend),
"PEANUT!"
The first step beyond simple observation was to teach my hands to soar. I played solitaire until I was FAST, until my hands could be blurs as well. Next step was to resume my position behind the chairs, namely Grandma's chair, and proceed to tell her where to place her cards. She permitted this for a short time, only because I was the only granddaughter, therefore preferred, and definitely the favorite. The boys never would have permitted this as I was, to them, an annoying little bug whose only positive trait was that I was incredibly ticklish and, therefore, capable of providing them with several minutes of entertainment. However, even to Grandma, I eventually bacame too much of a pest, and she finally became aggravated enough to spit out the words I had been waiting to hear,
"Quit telling me what to do, child, and sit down! Stewart, get her a pack of cards."
In that moment I realized that I had my own chair; I would forevermore be asked to play, at every visit, every holiday, and every sweltering summer afternoon.
Every now and then I won, most often I lost, and sometimes, even I...(gasp) CHEATED...a little.
My Solemn Vow
Ugh! I hate my name. Hippy on the one end and old-fashioned on the other. Crystal Faye. It sounds like an exotic dancer. When I was very young, my mother would try to appease my complaints about my name saying, "It means 'Crystal-Clear Faith,' and that is what I want you to have, so beautiful, named after your Grandmother." Awwww, how precious! We have a wide abundance of horrific names in our family, so I guess I should be delighted that I didn't get one of the others (sorry, Ronald Osborne).
Fast forward several years, to the day I uncovered reality. Suddenly, the truth was out there. By there I mean there in the living room. On a particularly lacking summer day, I was kneeling on the shag carpet, thumbing through my parents old vinyl records, for lack of anything better to do and because I have always found it interesting to see what Mom and Dad were like "back in the day" when they were real people, not parents. Suddenly, my thumb stopped,
"Surely NOT!"
I panicked, realizing that I had indeed discovered the cold, hard truth.
Right THERE, sandwiched between Pat Benatar and the Eagles, record after record after record, of a ridiculously long, long-haired, twangy-voiced, country singer that I had surely never heard of before now.
Crystal Gayle.
When approached with the offensive evidence, my Dad vehemently denied both his obession for this artist and that he would ever commit such a grevious sin as to inflict a preformer's name on his first-born child, like some silly teenage groupie. But...the proof is in the pudding and my mother's knowing smirk. So I did the only thing a tween could do to absolutely rebel with every fiber of my being against something that had been decided and thrust on me without my knowledge, permission, or even acceptance, I chopped all my hair off and vowed a solemn vow, my most special promise, to NEVER, EVER in my life let my mane grow past my shoulders.
Fast forward several years, to the day I uncovered reality. Suddenly, the truth was out there. By there I mean there in the living room. On a particularly lacking summer day, I was kneeling on the shag carpet, thumbing through my parents old vinyl records, for lack of anything better to do and because I have always found it interesting to see what Mom and Dad were like "back in the day" when they were real people, not parents. Suddenly, my thumb stopped,
"Surely NOT!"
I panicked, realizing that I had indeed discovered the cold, hard truth.
Right THERE, sandwiched between Pat Benatar and the Eagles, record after record after record, of a ridiculously long, long-haired, twangy-voiced, country singer that I had surely never heard of before now.
Crystal Gayle.
When approached with the offensive evidence, my Dad vehemently denied both his obession for this artist and that he would ever commit such a grevious sin as to inflict a preformer's name on his first-born child, like some silly teenage groupie. But...the proof is in the pudding and my mother's knowing smirk. So I did the only thing a tween could do to absolutely rebel with every fiber of my being against something that had been decided and thrust on me without my knowledge, permission, or even acceptance, I chopped all my hair off and vowed a solemn vow, my most special promise, to NEVER, EVER in my life let my mane grow past my shoulders.
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