Category: Blog (Page 21 of 101)

Even in the days of student populations that were minuscule by today’s standards, even in the days when students brought their own tissues, pencils, erasers, paper, and other needed supplies (the school did, however, supply toilet paper and paper towels in the bathrooms) (at least in the girls’ bathrooms), funds were always needed for something or other.

So . . .

Our parents laid out for We, the students, sold:
* Krispy Kreme doughnuts
* magazine subscriptions (Mr. Merlin O. Powers, the FCHS Principal, (and no, we never once called him MOP) gathered us in the auditorium one year and rallied us by saying how much you could tell about a person, about a person’s parents, about a person’s entire family by the magazines they had in their homes. I don’t know about everybody else, but that really helped me sell the heck out of The New Yorker to my Fayette County neighbor.) (Yes, singular.)
* ribbons on game days (gold foil footballs with 2 ribbons attached underneath: gold and black, our school colors)
* yearbooks
* gift wrap
* books
* those big, chunky candy bars in the white wrappers that came in corrugated cardboard boxes with conveniently located handles at the top
* ads for yearbooks

And . . .

We held:
* car washes
* car bashes (50-cents would get you one swing at the car with a sledge hammer.)
* bake sales
* cake walks

We paid a buck 50 to ride the student buses to away games, and we bought tickets to all the games, too. Home and away. There were no student id cards, unless you bought the school insurance. And that didn’t get you anything, really.

Every club had dues, and when I discovered that any funds remaining in club accounts at the end of the year automatically got quietly dumped into the football fund, I spread the word and advised clubs to spend every – last – penny. (Unfortunately for next year’s officers, this meant no seed money, but that simply couldn’t be helped.)

One year we had a business manager on the yearbook staff who didn’t quite understand bank account reconciliation or ledger books or math or something. She just kept saying “Sell more ads” – at every meeting, she stood and said “Sell more ads” – and we did. We sold more ads. Finally, when all eleven businesses in town had not only bought an ad but upgraded to a full page size ad, somebody had the good sense to look over the business manager’s shoulder. Seems she’d made a few mistakes, and instead of needing to – say it with me, Sell more ads – we were, in reality, flush with funds. So we held a Spring Fling (complete with invitations), laid out for the Deluxe yearbook cover, paid for two color photos inside the annual, and took the entire yearbook staff out for a steak dinner at the Dairy Queen to celebrate when the yearbook went to press. We closed out that year with nary a penny to go towards football funds.

And you wonder why I was never elected Homecoming Queen.

Today was the day.

They went to the chapel,
and they got married.

Larry and Becky Voyles.

Larry enters,

and takes his place, sighing audibly as if to say “Finally.”

Then here comes Bride Becky

who, in one of the most symbolic, meaningful, and foretelling acts ever,

is met halfway by Larry, who walks with her the rest of the way.

Afterwards there are flowers, food, and fellowship.

Jeanne and her Other Little Brother make merry.

and are joined by our spouses in The Classic Hewell Pose
where everybody looks in any direction away from the camera.

Eventually (though not nearly quick enough to suit The Groom)
the couple is bubbled out

where they take their seats in
Clifford, the Big Red Truck
and make their way into happily ever after.

I don’t use the word “joy” very often, but this was one of the most joyous weddings I’ve ever been to, and I’ve been wondering all day why that is. For one thing, they’re in love, and it’s an inclusive love. They invited us there because they want us to share in their love, to witness their vows, to infuse their union with joyous energy. They want us to support them, to stand with them, to celebrate right alongside them because they know that no marriage is an island unto itself.

“You made him laugh,” Becky whispered to me at the end of the first supper we shared last year. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear that again.” I knew right then and right there that I loved this woman as much as I love the man who is now her husband. Their union isn’t about possession and hierarchies of love. Their love is deep and pure and wise.

There is no tug of war, no drawing of lines in their love.
They make an opening in their circle and bid loved ones join them.
Their love is large enough and sure enough to let others in.

Yep, today set me to thinking a lot about weddings . . . but those are stories for other days. While this morning was devoted to wedding bliss, this afternoon devoted itself to napping. Alison overdid things yesterday, behaving more like it was six months after surgery instead of one week, and she’s paying dearly. And me, well, I guess it all caught up with me today. I’m giving myself two more days of moving slow and napping at will, though right now I’m not at all sure two days will prove enough restorative time.

~~~~~~~

Every day is a story. Feel free to join me here by mashing the black “right this way” button in the orange strip at the top of the screen and following the directions or on facebook. Either way, I thank you for reading along.

He squeezes her arm, her hand, her thigh.

She can’t stop smiling.
He can’t stop smiling.

They dance to music only they can hear.

They hold hands.

They tilt their heads back and laugh in unison.

Their eyes are wrapped in glee
and each other.

Becky and Larry.

They’re in love.
It’s the eve of their wedding
and they’re obviously, undeniably in love.
And their love makes those of us who love them
deeply, warmly
happy.

I’ve been asked to emcee the
pre-wedding dinner
and to offer the toast,
something I am honored
and downright delighted to do.

I tell a few stories –
embellished, as is the
storyteller’s prerogative –
and I close with a reminder that
Stories are the glue that hold us together.
Stories define who we are when we’re together
and anchor us when we’re apart.
Stories are souvenirs of a well-lived life.
And a wish
that their togetherness be filled with
stories that are more good than bad,
more on the richer side of things than the poorer side,
and that they have more healthy stories
than stories of woe and illness.

Glasses are raised to
their genesis story
and the journey stories
that will take them through
the happily ever after.

His sister Valerie died last year.
I talk to her this morning, asking her to
be with me tonight
to whisper what she wants me to say
and suggest that maybe she let me know
she’s near.

On the way to the pre-wedding dinner tonight,
the program from Valerie’s funeral falls out.

Signs.
And stories.
They’re all around.
Isn’t that wonderfully, delightfully, exquisitely
astonishing?

~~~~~~~

There may not be any free lunches, but around here there are free stories. Interested? Mash the “right this way” button in the orange strip at the top of the screen and follow the directions.

I was gonna’ write a story that would show off my wisdom by writing some breathtakingly clever piece likening cleaning house or feeding the pets to Being One With The World and Changing Your Life and the Lives of the Next Fourteen Generations – you know, that kind of thing – but then The Engineer comes in and turns on the Walker Texas Ranger Show, and all of a sudden I am leaning on the delete key and googling like nobody’s business to find out how how I can enroll in The Chuck Norris School of Kickass. Those kicks . . . those punches . . . those assumed identities have me drooling without snoring, and the timing couldn’t be better cause I am tired of living in chaos, and I’m long overdue for a new skill set.

Said another way: I am motivated.

And as if all that isn’t enough, I’m of That Certain Age when it’s all the rage to go out and save The World. But me, I stand with Chuck: What better way to save the world than to rid it of mean dumbasses.

I have found My Calling.

Fortunately, it’s also all the rage to get back into the body, so the way I see it, if I can rid the world of morons by using my body and leaving the knives and guns at home, I’ll be some wildly-hailed, politically-correct woman who people will fall all over themselves to hold a parade for. I can see it now: there’ll be book deals and magazine covers, tv shows and movie deals. I’ll probably wind up with more honorary Ph.D.’s than I can say grace over. Shoot, I may eventually start my own school or at least offer online classes or at the very least set up that little stool I kept in front of the toilet for my son when he was being potty trained on a street corner with my empty guitar case in front of me.

Make that a bass case cause I’m thinking positive.

And for the woman in a hurry with no time to study, I’ll sell cans of whipass – just pop the top and stand back.

Or maybe stand back first cause I don’t have a lot of insurance.

~~~~~~~

Took me 34 days to bust out . . . and I have 66 more stories to go! To get your free ringside seat to this circus of one, mash that “right this way” button in the orange bar at the top of the screen and follow the directions. It’s worth every penny you won’t pay for it.

You have to pick up speed so the boat will plane,
allowing you to see where you’re going.

Always pass on the Right.

The faster you go, the less the wake you leave.

You have to be in neutral to steer.

Sometimes one battery is enough,
sometimes you have to turn the button a little further
and give it all the juice you’ve got.

To make sure none of our siblings slid into our primo spot in from of the television when we needed to go to the bathroom or get a snack from the kitchen, we’d call “Coming back to my place.” As long as we called it before severing all bodily contact with our spot, nobody in their right mind would dare go near our seat in our absence. It simply wasn’t done.

When we wanted the best seat in the car – second only to the driver’s seat – we called shotgun. Even if you were opening the passenger side car door and had one foot on the floorboard, if the last person out of the house called “shotgun”, you moved to the backseat without complaint.

When we wanted first crack at something coming up, we called “dibs”, and it was honored, regardless.

It was a well-respected system that maintained order.

As we grew older, we developed more age-appropriate systems to ensure and maintain our rightful place.

Drivers, for example, controlled which 8-track or radio station we listened to, and, in the pre dual-system days, whether the fan for the car heater was kept on high, medium, or low. Cars had no air conditioning, so cool was determined by whether the windows were rolled up or down, and whoever sat closest to the window got to decide that. The worst place to sit – the seat with no power at all – was in the middle. You and to put one foot on each side of the hump, and somebody always complained about that and about you crossing the line into their space.

Being sick catapulted you straight to the top of the heap. Being sick trumped age, car seat, grade point average, or perfect attendance awards. When sick, people brought you whatever you wanted to eat; you got to sleep at will without anybody wagging a finger of dire warnings about not being able to sleep at night; you woke up when you felt like it. When sick, you got to sit and recline wherever you wanted to, and you didn’t even have to call coming back to reserve your place. Most important of all, you got to decide what everybody watched on television.

Today, Alison, having just been released from the hospital yesterday afternoon after surgery on Friday afternoon, chose to watch every Back to the Future movie in chronological order.

I’m ready for her to feel better.

Or at least turn on the documentary channel.

But I have even less say-so than the one sitting in the middle of the backseat.

~~~~~~~

Remembering When and Don’t Forget seem to be the prevailing themes of my 100 Stories in 100 Days. At least so far. If you’d like to read along, simply mash the black “right this way” button in the orange bar at the top of the screen and follow the directions.

on her first all-state chorus trip, she spent her spending money and her free time finding just the right gift for me: a butterfly wind chime.
she was so young, i was so touched.
she still is, i still am.

decades later, it hangs right outside my studio window. i see it when i look up from my writing table.

though i still look at the wind chime and see the loving face of my young eldest child as she handed it to me, eager for me to receive her gift with the same enthusiastic caring and love with which she selected it, i see more now . . .

i see two butterflies intertwined – sometimes crossing each other, always attached at the core.

it has been restrung many times, this wind chime, and still it moves – is active – doesn’t rust.

through storms and gentle breezes, it makes lovely, delicate music.

it is pink, her favorite color.
the color of tenderness,
of unconditional love,
of compassion, empathy,
insightfulness, intuition,
and nurturing.
pink is the color of hope
of comfort,
of the sense that all will be well.

we came home from the hospital today, my girl and i, and we are tickled pink about that.

~~~~~~~

i love being a mother, and i love telling stories. because i craved a challenge, i am writing 100 stories in 100 consecutive days. today’s story was an easy one with a good and happy ending. to keep reading along, mash the black “right this way” button in the orange bar at the top of the screen, enter your name and email address, then submit. doesn’t cost a thing but a few minutes of your time.