friendship

When third grade ended and school let out for the summer, I met my one and only best friend on the way home. We were both carrying bags full of junk collected from the school year and we both ended up crossing the street at the same time. Jennifer Manson* was a grade higher than me and lived a couple blocks away from me. We walked home together that day- I walked her home and then ran home to dump my bag of stuff and change out of my school uniform (Catholic school) before running back over to her house to play. 

Lovie and her BFF

Jennifer Manson and I became fast friends. Best friends. We spent all summer together and were inseparable; I even went on vacation with her and her family.  It was the best summer of my life: We were 8 and 9 years old, it was summertime, we didn’t have school, we could hang out all day and play- life was wonderful!

When school started again in September and Jennifer went on to 5^th grade while I started 4^th, we still remained best friends and still remained inseparable outside of school. I was even at her house that Fall late afternoon when my mom called- something she had never done before.  It was the night my world changed, when I was told to say goodbye to my dad while we packed the car up with brown paper grocery store bags full of our personal belongings and drove out to my grandparents’ house for a couple weeks.

Despite being miles apart for a couple weeks, despite my parents making me change schools (from private to public), despite the complete meltdown of my family and home life, Jennifer and I still remained best friends. In fact, she and her family really helped make me feel normal and loved in a time when my whole world had been rocked to its core.

But then, less than a year after my parents split, Jennifer and her family moved away. And so did our friendship.

We’d like you to explore friendship. You can talk about a current friendship or one from your past, a friend you met over kindergarten snacks or happy hour at your first job. Examine your emotional interest in the friendship and the role it plays, or played, in your life.
The word limit for this prompt is 400 words. While that may not seem like many words to devote to a friend you’ve known for thirty years, try to provide us with a snapshot that encompasses your feelings about the friendship.

*fake name

Kermit

I was in first grade and I loved going to gymnastics.

 

The clock in the living room was one I couldn’t read. It was brown with gold numbers and arms and took up half the wall the TV was against. The TV that showed cartoons that I was engrossed in. I was six years old and I loved going to gymnastics. Mama and Papa were both at work and my big sister (by 7 years) would have to take me. She was in the kitchen doing her homework and listening to music. I wanted to make sure she didn’t forget to take me to gymnastics.

 

A door separated the kitchen hallway from the dining room which opened into the living room I sat in watching cartoons beneath the big brown clock I couldn’t read. I tried pushing the door open but it sometimes stuck- and this was one of those time. I tried shouting through the door to ask what time it was, but the music was too loud. I tried knocking on the door to get Sister’s attention, but I apparently couldn’t knock hard enough.

 

I tried sitting back down on the rough forest green couch to watch cartoons and wait. But I really wanted to know what time it was and how much longer before we’d leave for gymnastics especially since Sister wasn’t fond of having to take care of me, having to take me places. I didn’t want her to forget to take me.

 

I went back to the door and peered thru one of its many windows to see if I could maybe catch a glimpse of her but all I could see was the doorway into the bathroom and the yellow and black tiles on the back wall of the house. I tried pushing the door open again. Nothing. I tried knocking on the door again. Nothing.

 

I took several steps back and ran toward the door, hoping my force would push open the stuck door. But instead of pushing on the wood panel of the door, my hand landed in one of the little windows.

 

CRASH!

 

My hand went thru the window.

 

Glass sprayed the linoleum floor.

 

“What the hell?!” Sister screamed from around the corner.

 

I was horrified and scared. Sister was always such a bitch to me, she was going to flip out even more when she saw what I just did. I pulled my hand back and blood started dripping everywhere.

 

Thick red blood... oozing out of my hand... making a puddle on the brown carpet.

 

I started to scream and Sister finally appeared at the doorway. She pulled me toward her and moved me into the bathroom and told me to sit on the closed toilet. She stepped into the hallway and reached for the yellow rotary phone on the wall and dialed some numbers.

 

The blood poured out of my hand.

 

She hung up the phone, picked me up and carried me next door, passing my laughing brother on the way while leaving a trail of blood drops from our house to the neighbors.

 

I can’t remember much more other than holding my hand over the open toilet at the neighbor’s house. Then I recall see my mom coming toward me in the hospital. She had her mouth covered with her hands and looked like she was crying.

 

I couldn’t sleep that night because the pain was unbearable. My hand was wrapped a million times in white bandages. I couldn’t see the damage but the pain… there was so much throbbing and it was just and so unbearable.

 

I still have the scars from that incident which happened well over 30 years ago! The cut on the ring finger of my right hand was so severe (due to pulling my hand back!), they nearly amputated. Instead, I can barely pull it back. The scar has always reminded me of a lizard of sorts so I started referring to it as Kermit. There are also two more scars, much smaller in size but still quite visible, on my forefinger and another on my thumb.

 

I never did get to go to gymnastics that day.

Today we’re trying a little something different. Are you ready? Your word is below. Take the next ten minutes to write about the first single memory that word calls up. Focus on the emotions and the experience, spend ten minutes really exploring that memory. Then wrap it up, publish, and come back to link up.  CRASH

Mama

I’ve always been kind of overlooked a lot in life- especially when it comes to pictures of myself. There are gobs of my sister, the oldest; quite a bit of my brother, the middle child; and not even an album full of me, the youngest. Such is life back in the day before digital, I suppose. As I grew up (and out), I hated getting photos taken of myself; I didn’t know how to smile (still don’t) and I was fat (or I thought I was… yet what I wouldn’t do to go back to the “fat” I thought I was back then!).

Then as I watched my nieces and nephews grow into adults, I often noticed how few pictures each of them had with their mothers. And that left me to think about pictures of myself with my own mother. They simply don’t exist. And that's incredibly sad to me.

So when Lovie was born, I promised myself (and her) that that wouldn’t happen with us. I was going to ensure there were pictures of me alone and/or me and her together. Even if that meant turning the camera on myself. Even if that meant begging someone to take a picture of us.

from end of August 2011

Lovie’s not even 2 and I’m proud to say that I can’t even tell you how many pictures there are of the two of us together. And I love them all. I may look fat and old and tired in some (or all) of them, but I absolutely love each picture. Mainly because of her, yes I admit it, but also because it’s a true representation of who I am:

Gray haired? Sure.



Tired looking? Maybe so.

Happy? Absolutely!

Mama? That’s me.

This week, I’m asking you to take us into the moment your favorite photograph of yourself was taken, to show us who you were then and what the photograph means–in 300 words.



My quiet place

Before I became a mom, my quiet place was driving the open roads, the moonlight vanishing every few seconds from the trees. No music, no talking, just the sound of the car’s engine roaring, the sounds of the tires gliding across the concrete, the sounds of the car cutting through the air. I did so much thinking while driving, sometimes a lot of times getting quite lost in thought.

But now, as a mom, whenever I’m in the car it’s generally with Lovie and there isn’t much to think about other than how to keep her happy and tantrum free. So these days, my quiet place is all about the shower… the absolute solace of a hot shower.

...the constant rhythm of rushing water enveloping a vulnerable me as I step onto the cold floor. Anything and everything gets washed away in the shower. Beads of water adorn the glass door while droplets slide down every so often. The heat from the water massaging my shoulders, my back. My ears drown in the sound of falling water. My thoughts become so clear and focused. I’m able to laugh, reflect, cry. I step out completely refreshed, yet yearning to return to the warmth of my quiet place.

This week we asked you to write about your quiet place. Where is it? What does it look like? What happens there? Our word limit was 200

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when it was good

I can smell it right now… I can taste it, too. Schnitzel.

My eyes are closed and I’m 8 years old again. My dark hair is straight and bowl cut shaped. I have no watermelon boobs and I’m wearing my favorite multi-colored striped sweater as I kneel on the bench at the cold aluminum kitchen table. My blond, long-haired cousin is kneeling next to me and we’re giggling while we each take a piece of meat (pork pounded thin) and dress it accordingly (dredging through the egg, then the flour, then the breadcrumbs), piling the finished pieces on top of the other. Oma is looking over us, smiling. The kitchen is warm. Her smile is warmer. Her blue eyes sparkle with wetness. There is German polka music coming from the radio behind us.

Around the corner is the bright dining room with two tables joined together to make one long one. It’s covered with table clothes and the tableware sits at one end, waiting for us to put everything out: small bowl on top of plate; knife, fork, spoon on top of napkin to the right of plate; glass above plate.

In the room next to the dining room, in the front of the house, is the large living room. Its brown and black carpeting is thin and the wooden floors are so golden underneath. While waiting for dinner, we play with Barbies or marbles and jacks. We play cards and dominos. My brother and sister sometimes join us. Sometimes my cousin’s little brother, too. He was the youngest and looked like Nicholas from Eight is Enough.

Ota’s tall frame enters the room and his voice sounds like thunder as he tells us, in German, that it is time to eat. Everyone gathers around the dining room table. Kids giggling, parents unfolding napkins onto their laps. Once everyone is seated, we can finally dig in… finally stab a piece Schnitzel to call our own. Mashed potatoes, coleslaw, carrot slaw would accompany the Schnitzel. Heaven on a plate. Clanking of silverware. And occasionally, “mmmm” and “tastes so good” in German would interrupt the clanking. Rarely was anything left.

Soon we’d slide down from our chairs and go under the table. Giggling ensued as we looked at everyone’s legs and shoes, untying my brother’s. After a couple minutes under the table, we’d make our way into the cold stairwell that led to Ur-Oma’s house. Immediately we’d go to the cabinet in her dining room and grab the Keebler fudge striped cookies and make our way into the living room to lie down on the floor in front of the big black and white tube. With cookies on our fingers, we’d watch the Disney movie on ABC until we heard clanking on the radiator pipes in the dining room- our signal from upstairs to return.

It’s a Sunday afternoon in the late 1970s and life is sooo good and the Schnitzel makes it even better.

This week, we’ve asked you to share with us a special recipe. But, we’ve asked you to do more than just list out ingredients.

We challenged you to take us back…to take us into your memory, in 500 words or less.

Life

As soon as she said, “It’s a girl,” I instantly covered my mouth. Tears flooded my sight; my body started shaking and jerking a bit as I tried to stop the tears, but couldn’t.

“She’s healthy then?” I managed to ask through my sobbing.

“Yes, everything looks really great and you’re definitely having a girl.”

I looked at my husband who sat beside me with the largest smile covering his face. His eyes marveled up at the black and white images shown on the screen before looking at me and smiling even more.

“Are you OK?” he then asked with a shrinking smile.

“I’m just…” I tried speaking, but the tears kept flowing out.  “Yes,” I whispered. “Yes.”

The tech left us for a bit to get dressed and compose ourselves.

We were having a baby girl.

Everything looked great and healthy.

And just like that, the fear was squashed. Of course there was always a chance that something bad could happen until or at birth, but for the first time in 24 weeks, I allowed myself to truly be excited; I allowed myself to connect with my baby.

It was so hard prior to that moment. No matter how guilty I felt, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t connect. I was too afraid of losing another baby. I was just too scared to go down the road I went down two years prior. I wasn’t strong enough to deal with it again, and I wasn’t strong enough to push the fear aside… Until that tech assured me that everything measured great and that everything looked good and healthy.

For the first time in over a year, I could finally kick Fear’s ass to the curb and enjoy the baby growing inside of me, enjoy Life.

 

In “On Writing” Stephen King wrote, “The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things can only get better.”

Write a memoir post – first-person and true – inspired by that statement.

Word limit is 300.

The Escape

The door bounced closed and her back kissed the inside of it, shrinking down till she was in a sitting position on the sleek linoleum. Backpack slapping the coffee table, her hands- collecting dampness- held her crumbling face.

Her body simply collapsed and folded over.

Her ears thumped, her body hiccuped to the baritone sound coming from deep within.

Soon, her back straightened so that it kissed the door again, hands now massaging the slick floor. Her water stained face pointed toward the ceiling.

Her eyes scrunched, her crooked mouth unhinged, and a maddening shrill erupted.

This week Galit asked you to conjure something. An object, a person, a feeling, a color, a season- whatever you like.  But don’t tell us what it is, conjure it. In 100 words.

Editor's note: Today's piece is a continuation from last week. Why not, right?

Opening scene

Falling dry leaves in yellows, reds, browns dance and twirl about before piling onto the ground. The gray sky emits a crisp breeze. A picture perfect October day. Schools have let out and groups of teens and pre-teens litter the sidewalks and alleys.

Two girls in their early teens walk slowly toward a big intersection, their Junior High School looming in the distance, several blocks away. One of the girls crosses the side of the street the school is on and enters an apartment building leaving the other, Christina, standing by an alley’s entrance. A larger group of about 8 teens, boys and girls, are slowly closing in. Christina enters the alley, and the others soon follow, some running to catch up.

“You think you’re such tough shit!” shouts a girl with short brown curls as she pushes Christina from behind.

Christina, with backpack in hand, turns to face the girl and is greeted by the group creeping in around her. She says nothing as the boys and girls trap her into the center of a circle. Another girl, with longer dark hair, darts into the circle to snatch Christina’s backpack out of her hands and immediately returns to the others, leaving Christina standing in the center of her laughing, pointing, and taunting peers.

“Now what you gonna do?!” one of the girls roars.

“Yeah, c’mon! You’re so tough, prove it!” screams another.

Christina stands and looks at the ground, her face contorted as if she’s about to cry.

“Not so tough now, huh?” someone barks.

The circle of teens move in closer, then move away almost like young kids do when playing Ring Around the Rosie. Laughter, shrieking, pointing close in around Christina who seems to try to break free for a moment.

“What about your bag?!” one boy taunts.

Tears start to flood Christina’s eyes and some trickle down her cheeks and make their way onto her flannel shirt.

The crowd of teens continue to laugh.

A boy with long black hair takes the backpack from the girl who originally snatched it away and throws it up and over everyone, including Christina. It falls onto the ground several hundred feet into the alley.

As everyone watches the bag fly, Christina runs through the kids blocking her, scoops up the bag, and runs and runs down the alleyway until she turns out of the alley at the next street.

The group of remaining teens all laugh and disperse into smaller groups as some continue walking thru the alley, while others continue toward the busy intersection on the side street.

This week we asked you, in 500 words or less, to describe the opening scene of a film. The film made from your best-selling memoir. What does the camera see? Who speaks the first lines of your story? Is there music?

The start of the dark

Cars, trucks, busses, trains, people swarmed around us until we made our way to the highway and started moving in unison. News radio buzzed from the speakers. The clock’s green numbers inched closer to “the” time. Highway exits flew past. Tears streamed from swollen red eyes as my hand never left my belly. Life is so fucking unfair sometimes.
 

We made our way into the hospital, past all the people darting about, and into the room we were told to go to. I added my name to the list, filled out paperwork, and sat down across from an older couple, avoiding eye contact with everyone. If I don’t see you, maybe this is all a bad dream.

 

Whispers, the scent of coffee, soft music filled the air. My head hurt, my eyes were so incredibly heavy and hard to open. His large, warm, rough hand squeezed mine tightly when my name was called. I feel so helpless.

“He needs to wait here until we get you all situated,” the nurse said.

I looked at the woman, then over to my husband who was ready to sit back down, and started crying uncontrollably to the point that I needed to sit down. She touched my shoulder and apologized, telling me it was going to be OK and that my husband could come after all. He knelt down in front of me and took my hands to help me up. This was really happening.

She asked a bunch of questions, told me to do a bunch of stuff, I took off my clothes and put on the hospital gown and laid my flabby body on the bed in the bright and white and sterile room. My husband looked down at me and smiled and rubbed my hand. Would we ever have a child?

Lying flat on my back they wheeled me into another room where the temperature dramatically dropped. Several people all dressed in white helped me scoot off the bed and onto another when I was told to scoot down so that my butt was in a hole. Is this really fucking happening?!?

My arms got stretched out so that I lay like Jesus on the cross. Everything was so white, so cold. Everyone scurried about opening packages, placing metal things on metal trays. My doctor’s friendly face finally made an appearance and he told me what was going to happen and then I woke up back in the warmer room with my husband by my side, holding my hand. What the hell is going on?

 
The doctor reappeared and told us both how things went, what we could expect, what we should look out for, what drugs he would prescribe for the pain I might endure. He was, of course, talking about the pain from surgically removing my dead baby from me, from the scraping of my uterus. What about my heart? What about the pain that my head and heart and soul would endure for the next several years?

For this week’s memoir prompt, we’re going to let narrative take a backseat. Choose a moment from your personal history and mine it for sensory detail. Describe it to us in rich, evocative details. Let us breath the air, hear the heartbeat, the songs, feel the fabric and the touch of that moment.

This was harder than I thought it would be... but it's good to be back to writing again.

Joey

Your assignment this week was to write about a time when you knew something in your life had to change drastically. We asked you to describe the moment you realized you had to make the decision and to use this as an opportunity to work on “show not tell.”

“Auntie!” Joey screamed from the top floor as soon as I closed the front door of the house. Even on the shittiest of days, of which there were plenty, that boy could always brighten my day.

After shouting out for me, his footsteps could be heard and felt throughout the old home as he darted his way to the stairwell and shouted again, “Auntie!” with a big smile invading his face.

His blond hair, blue eyes and big nose reminded me so much of his snatch of a mother. Poor kid.

It was 1999 and the idea of entering a new century was all the rage. I was living with my brother and his then 8 year old son at the time since my brother and his ex-wife separated 4 years prior. My nephew meant the world to me. I lived and breathed Joey.

My brother worked the overnight shift so he had to have someone there to be there if Joey woke in the middle of the night, to wake with him in the morning, to get him ready for school, to get him out the door and to school. That person was me.

I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

For four years I was there for him. I was there the day Joey learned to ride a two wheeler bike by himself. I was there to wave goodbye on his first day in Kindergarten and I was there when he came home that day. I taught him how to tie his shoes and I was there reading stories every night and going over spelling words during breakfast. I was there to give him high fives when he came home with 100% spelling test results…

I loved it all so very much. The boy and his innocence rocked my world in such a great way. He showed me what it was to love wholly and completely and oh so unconditionally, and I adored and loved him so deeply for it and for just being him.

But I think I loved him a little too much.

I had absolutely no life outside of him. I would go to work and come right back home to be with him. My weekends were spent playing with him, riding bikes with him, taking him to the movie, going to his soccer games. And while I absolutely loved doing all of this and being with him and loving him, I was and always will be just his Auntie.

And I wanted and needed more.

I was 28 years old and I had few friends and absolutely no love life outside of Joey.

I was 28 years old and living with my brother and his son.

I was 28 years old and had never lived on my own.

I was 28 years old and my life revolved around my nephew.

I knew things had to change. And drastically. I needed to live life for me. I needed to step out of the sidelines and actually participate in life. My life.  Because if I didn’t do it, nobody else would do it for me.

I stewed over all of this for months and months. I was sick over my realization. I didn’t want to make things harder on my brother and I had no desire to be yet another female figure to walk out on my nephew. I knew very well that it wouldn’t go down the way it did with his mom and sister and grandmother (all of whom lived with my brother and nephew before my brother and ex sister-in-law split); I wouldn’t just leave and wash my hands of the boy. But I also knew that at 8 years old, he wouldn’t be able to understand this.

When I finally told my brother of my decision, I broke down. My brother told me that it was all OK and that he knew I needed to leave and live my own life and that he was actually surprised it took as long as it did. I told him I wouldn’t move far and I would never leave Joey completely. He left it up to me to tell Joey.

The day I finally told Joey, just before starting to really look at apartments, was the hardest day of my life (at that point in my life). I was physically and mentally sickened by the thought of leaving this child, but I knew it was beyond time to do so. For all of us but especially for me.

I needed to live life for me.

Joey & Lovie, April 2010

He took it better than I expected and I think it’s because I gave him a lot of warning; I wasn’t just standing at the door with my bags saying good-bye. But when I did finally have to do that… man oh man, was it hard. I was excited to make the move into my very own place, but the thought of leaving the love of my life (at that point in my life), was just super incredibly difficult.

Of course I’m grateful I made the change today. I met my now husband months after I moved and we now have our Lovie. And Joey and I have always remained super close, and always will. He's the reason I wanted a child of my own and for that, I'm oh so grateful.

I saved an email he sent me a year after I moved... January 24, 2001:

I wan't to go to your house again.I' miss you and I love you why do you have to work so much if you didn't.I could sleep over more.Well eney ways good by

love Joey.

Heh, that's my Joey. Always bringing a smile to my face- then and now. : )

Mentor: Mr. Pfun

This week you were asked to write about a mentor, someone who guided or inspired you. How did your mentor impact your life?

If I were an artist, I would sketch him into a cartoon character. Easily. His head was super big- even for his 6 foot-plus frame. His nose reminded me of a sail on a boat, his dark eyes bulged out behind his thick silver trimmed glasses, and his hair... his floppy, thick, comb-over salt and pepper hair sent it over the top. Especially as it moved in unison with his big mouth when he yelled.

 

“Mr. Pfun” was a yeller. And he took no shit from anyone- especially the snotty kids whose wealthy parents didn't believe in setting boundaries and teaching respect.

 

CLS High School came straight from one of those angst ridden teenage films where all the kids looked identical, came to school in their parents’ BMW’s, and thought their shit didn’t stink. It was my fourth (and final) high school in three years (thanks to my mom who couldn't hold a job and was constantly on the run from bill collectors).

 

On the very first day of my CLS life, I finally found Mr. Pfun's history classroom at the end of a long hallway that had an emergency exit into the cornfields. The final bell already rang, I was the only person in the hallway and was greeted by a locked door.

Mr. Pfun unlocked the door and asked my name and asked if I knew what time it was. I explained that I was new and had never even been down the hall in which the classroom was, and he studied me for a minute before finally allowing me to take a seat and warning me, and the rest of the class, that next time there would be no unlocking of the door.

I was never late again.

 

What I thought might turn out to be a scary (because of the teacher), boring (because of the subject- History- never a favorite of mine) class turned out to be a lifesaver for me.

 

Oh how I loved his class. Oh how I adored the way he mocked some of the self-righteous pricks that littered that school and town. Oh how I knew that everything he said about "the real world" and what it would do to most of the students was spot on. Oh how he inspired me to continue to just be me.

 

It’s been over 20 years now since I’ve taken that class. {20 years!} And I still remember Mr. Pfun. I still remember how he inspired me to believe in myself when nobody else would even give me the time of day. He gave me/the underdog the courage to be different, to think beyond 17 years old. He taught us a lot about American History but did so in a way that allowed us to learn and open our eyes toward our future, too.

 

Mr. Pfun was a brilliant, yet very humble man. I’ve never had so much respect for someone (other than my maternal grandfather) like I did him.

I can only pray that Lovie encounters a Mr. Pfun or two in her life, too.

The Bouncing Boobs

It was hot and sticky that day.

I was wearing my favorite shirt at the time- a white tshirt with blue ¾ length sleeves. Under the tshirt I wore a bra to cover my growing boobs that I absolutely hated.

I was in 5^th grade and we were going on a field trip to be in Nature.

My mom and I sat on the school bus together- I had the window seat, she sat on the aisle. I was new at school so I didn’t really know anyone and was glad that my mom was coming along though, thinking back, I’m not really sure why or how this came about since my mom was never really involved with me after she locked my dad out of the house the year before. Maybe she was between jobs at that point and bored? Not sure and really, not the point.

All I do know is that my boobs seemed to be growing by the second and while I hated it and them, my mother seemed to love hers.

As we sat there, I couldn’t help but notice how far out from her body her boobs… jutted. I half expected arms to extend out from them and grasp the seat in front of us at one point, they were sticking out so much and bouncing around so much. Her boobs took on a life of their own and soon there were three of us sitting on the dark green, sticky vinyl seat of the school bus: me, my mom, and her boobs.

I hugged myself, hoping to prevent my own boobs from bouncing and continued watching her boobs bounce around. She looked happy- my mom. How on earth could she be happy with those things bouncing around? But she was. And as much as I hated my boobs and marveled over hers taking on their own life, I suppose I was happy, too.

I was wearing my favorite tshirt and I was going on a field trip with my mom sitting beside me and only me (well, and her boobs, of course).

(SO excited to be trying out something new this week with The Red Dress Club!)