Tiny Dog Security Team–Episode 1–Independence Day

Usually, during rainstorms, our three dogs go crazy whenever it thunders.  They run through the house with their little paws slapping frantically against the hardwood floors.  They scratch impatiently at my door until I finally let them into the room.  Then, they scoot quickly under the bed and hide until the storm is over.

Because of the dogs’ response to thunder, I was concerned how they would react to the fireworks on the 4^th of July.   I imagined that the dogs would be running around in circles and barking hysterically once the fireworks began.  However, to my surprise the dogs were holding it together much better than I was.

Once the fireworks started, I jumped in surprise every time I heard the loud sizzles, cracks, pops, and rumbles that echoed around the neighborhood.  It has been 25 years since I have experienced a Kansas 4^th of July holiday. For the last 11 years, I had been living in the deserts of Southern California.  Personal use of fireworks is illegal there due to the dryness in the region.  Fireworks are a huge fire hazard in such an arid environment and can only be used in professional displays like at baseball games and theme parks.  While I lived in California, my Independence Day celebration was quiet and calm.  I wasn’t used to hearing the constant explosions happening all around me now and was growing more unnerved as the loud booms continued late into the night.  Every now and then, I ran to the front door to peek outside.  I wanted to see exactly how close the fireworks were to the house.  It sounded like the explosions were happening right outside the front door.  I worried for a moment if I needed to move my car to a safer location.  Was the house secure?  Of course, I was worrying needlessly but the deafening roars of the fireworks continued to unnerve me.  I apprehensively shut the front door.  The light from outside flickered about the dark room and made me feel anxious.  I walked back into my bedroom, shut the door, and took some long deep breaths.

And then….

Oh, goodness, I could hear the dogs thumping down the hallway to my room.  Then, of course, they were soon scratching at my door.  “Okay,” I sighed.  “The dogs are freaking out now.”  I got up from my seat at the desk and opened the door.  The dogs didn’t run into the room, though.  Instead, all three dogs stood in a straight line on the threshold and stared up at me with concern in their eyes.  Then, they came slowly into the room.  But instead of scooting under the bed, they circled around me and looked at me hopefully.  I walked back to my chair and sat down heavily.  To my surprise, the three small dogs surrounded me and stood at attention.  I suddenly realized then that the dogs weren’t looking for comfort; they had come into the room to protect me!  Had they sensed my anxiety?  Did they realize that I was uncomfortable?  Could these three small, incredible dogs actually read my emotions?  They had come into my room not to hide but to unselfishly take care of me.

Once I began to settle down, Cowboy and Friskie returned to the front room.  Only Starburst remained in the bedroom with me.  Starburst is a tiny, older, furry-all-over, white-and-brown female mutt who usually is very calm and low key.  Tonight, however, she stayed on alert.  Though she began to spread out and relax under my chair, whenever I jumped due to another loud crack of fireworks, Starburst would leap up on her four stubby little legs and walk around my chair; she marched around the room as if she was on patrol.  She growled and hissed at any noise that threatened my sense of well-being.  Slowly, she would settle back down beside me again.  She would relax until the next boom occurred just a few seconds later.  And then once again, “Officer Starburst” was back on patrol.  Starburst stayed with me for most of the evening.  She only left my side when I finally turned off my computer and got up from my chair.  After telling Starburst thank you for taking care of me, I closed my door after I thought she had gone back into the living room.

A few minutes later, I opened my bedroom door as I was getting ready for bed.  Oh, my gosh!  To my surprise, I found all three dogs standing sentinel in front of my doorway again.  I was so amazed that the dogs were still protecting me throughout the night.  Little Starburst seemed to be the commander of the Tiny Dog Security team.  She remained stretched out in front of the door as if she was blocking entry into my room.  She looked alert—poised and ready to attack any threat to me.

I suddenly laughed out loud as I got down on the floor.  I happily wrestled and played with the dogs for a few minutes before assuring them that I was fine now even though the fireworks continued.  Though Friskie and Cowboy wandered back off to their bed in the living room, Starburst remained with me throughout the night.  Starburst is Friskie’s mom and I guess when she thought I was scared, her mother instincts took over.  She was, for that night, my protector and defender.  Friskie and Cowboy also continued to check up on me throughout the night.

So with Starburst remaining outside my door, I settled down into bed.  And though the fireworks continued to rage outside, I fell into a peaceful, calm sleep, knowing that I was protected by pure kindness and unconditional love.

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Those People

What was I thinking!?  I thought to myself as I stood inside one of the stalls in the small bathroom.  Why was I so anxious?  This moment hadn’t been a surprise.  I had spent the last several weeks reading through all of the Facebook posts describing the details, the “what, where, when, who, and why” of this event.  Each post made me feel alternately excited and depressed.  I couldn’t make up my mind what I wanted to do.  I debated continually back and forth.  I couldn’t decide if I really wanted to participate.  Because I was so unclear, I sought advice from many different people to give me some direction.  Unfortunately, I continually received the very same response from everyone without any diversion or counterpoint.  “God, why would you ever want to do something like that?  I never will.  Why would I ever want to see Those People again.”  “I wouldn’t go.  I couldn’t stand Those People.”  “  Well, you know, all of Those People were rude and mean.  They treated me horribly.  I never want to be around Those People again?”  The answer was the same again and again though everyone was talking about a different group of people.  But it was absolutely clear.  Everyone seemed to hate Those People….no matter who they were or where they came from.

And for a while, honestly, that’s how I felt, too.  It had been 35 years now seen I had seen Those People of mine!  Why would I even think about going back?  Well…maybe it was just curiosity…morbid curiosity, at best.  Maybe I just felt a horrible need to belong somewhere.  Maybe I just needed to reconnect with the past in order to move on with my life.  Maybe I just needed some closure.  Maybe I just wanted to show off that I had survived my teenage years…High school hadn’t killed me as I imagined it would at the time.  Had it made me stronger?  I can only hope so, but I do know this:  for good or bad, I have certainly come a long way since my high school days.  So, whatever the reason may have been, I was now standing, (oh, alright, I’ll be honest!), hiding in the bathroom  of St. John’s Catholic Club in Kansas City, Kansas, as I psyched myself up to join my classmates for our 35^th high school reunion.

As with most people, high school had been a traumatic experience for me.  I always felt unattractive, stupid, and awkward.  Gym class certainly didn’t help me gain any confidence.  Instead, the class seemed to reinforce  my negative feelings.  Many times, I was chosen last when deciding teams but, honestly, I can’t blame my classmates for this.  I wouldn’t have wanted anyone as uncoordinated as I was on my team either!  I believe I was the main reason my team always had to run laps around the gym for losing volleyball matches.  I would cower away in terror from any ball that came rolling, spinning, or zooming my way.

I fared no better in the actual classroom environment.  I was extraordinarily shy and quiet.  I never wanted to speak up in class and would continually play dead if the teacher called out my name.  I just could never seem to find my voice in a room full of people.  Giving presentations was torture for me.  I usually pretended to be sick on presentation days.  If that didn’t keep me out of the classroom, I would beg my teachers for any additional assignments to replace the presentation.  Many of them refused; they explained that the experience would be a good confidence builder for me.  It actually didn’t work.  I would stand up in front of the class with my paper shaking and rattling wildly in front of my face as I  mumbled through random information for the allotted five minutes of time.  I didn’t care about the grade; I just wanted to get through the experience without being laughed at or teased by my fellow classmates.

My social experience of high school was routinely painful.  I was the kid who continually seemed to have the runny nose, the drooping socks, and the untied shoelaces no matter how I tried to present myself.  I was overweight and wore thick, heavy glasses.  Every weekday, I just put on my green plaid school uniform, my sagging socks, and my arch-correcting saddle shoes (for my flat feet), and went off to school where I walked around with my head down and my shoulders protectively wrapped around my upper body.

In my senior year, I begged my mother to let me quit high school.  I am relieved and grateful now that my mother rejected all of my arguments for dropping out.  She refused to allow me to leave school until I safely had my diploma in hand.  But for years immediately following graduation, I failed to see the benefit of this at all.  I swore I would never go back to school or see any of those people ever again.

But there is one problem with the word NEVER.  It has a friend named KARMA.  Because no matter how much we hate certain experiences in our lives, they all happen for a reason.  And no matter how often we say NEVER, life has a way of recycling lessons until we learn them.  For example, even though I swore I was finished with my education, after a few years of working minimum wage jobs, I suddenly found myself drifting back to school.  I began attending Johnson County Community College and loved the experience of learning so much,  I transferred to the University of Kansas and found, quite literally, that the whole world slowly began to open up for me.  Over the next several years, I found myself in all kinds of interesting jobs and positions.  I worked as a model, a reporter, and a photographer.  I traveled the world, even waking up one morning to find myself in Thailand and soon I was backpacking by myself across Malaysia.  I lived successfully in New Mexico, Tennessee, and California.  After high school, I went on a 35-year journey to find myself.  I finally stumbled my way back to my hometown in Kansas last year.

I proudly put the information of my return on Facebook and was amazed that a lot of my old high school classmates reached out to me.  That was fine.  I could handle Facebook relationships.  But four months after my return, posts began to appear about our upcoming 35-year reunion.  I was surprised because it seemed a little ironic.  How was it possible that I would return to Kansas the very year a reunion was scheduled?  Maybe…just maybe…it was KARMA challenging my never-ending use of the word NEVER and my reluctance to see Those People again.

I was NEVER going to attend a high school reunion.

For years, I had agreed with Jase Robertson of Duck Dynasty when he said, “Do I go to high school reunions?  No.  If I haven’t talked to you in over 25 years, there’s probably a reason.”  For the 10, 20, and 30 year reunions, thankfully, I continually had the excuse of being “out of town” to avoid the events.  But now, I no longer had any excuse.  So there I was on Saturday night, April 23, 2016, in Kansas City, Kansas, at my 35-year reunion, hiding in the bathroom at St. John’s Catholic Club.  Of course, this brought back even more unusual memories of my high school experience.

Once a month, my school sponsored a mixer for all of the students on a Friday night.  I never wanted to attend these dances with Those People.  My mother forced me to go.  She thought it would be good for me to get out and mingle with my classmates.  I hated it!  I wanted to stay home and watch Donny and Marie.  I had a huge crush on Donny at the time, which I think my mother considered somewhat unhealthy.  It would be a good thing for me to get away from my teen idol for a while.  Mom and I would argue about the mixers before and after the events, but every month, I was expected to attend.  Once I was at the dance party, I would spend the first few minutes standing around the refreshment table before retreating to the bathroom where I would hide in a stall until it was time to go home.  I never danced and I never talked to anyone.  I would just stay in the bathroom and wish that I was at home watching Donny.  Though I have seen him in Vegas, I no longer watch Donny now.  I have traveled all over the world.  I have published.  I have modeled.  I have had my own business.  I have taught struggling students.  I have had an amazing life.  But here I was, at the reunion still huddled in a bathroom stall instead of facing my former classmates.

I took a deep breath and willed myself to leave the bathroom and yet I continued to linger.  I may have stayed in the bathroom all night if I hadn’t thought of Janice and began to feel terribly guilt.  Janice had been a good friend to me during my awkward elementary and high school years.  I was fortunate to  reconnect with her several years ago on Facebook.  Janice had confessed to me that she too had debated about attending the reunion.  But then she said something that really got my attention.  “If I don’t go,” Janice had stated, “I’m afraid I’ll regret it later.”  Her statement made complete sense to me.  What if this was my last chance to make amends?  Janice was right.  We decided then to go together so we would each, at least, have someone to sit with during the event.

Since I was still relearning my way around Kansas City and, especially, Strawberry Hill where the event was taking place, Janice offered to drive us to the reunion.  Because sections of the I-70 were closed, we got a little lost on the way to St. John’s and ended up in downtown Kansas City, Missouri.  If I had been driving alone, I would have used “getting lost” as an excuse to just go back home.  Janice took it all in stride, though.   She stayed completely calm; methodically and strategically, she  found the way back into Kansas.  She did a great job navigating the one- way streets and the closed roads to find St. John’s Catholic Club.  She never gave up.  She never got upset.  I need to be more like Janice.  Because now I realized that while Janice had gotten us to the reunion, I had suddenly deserted her to go hide in the bathroom.  What a horrible friend I am!

With that thought in mind, I forced myself move out of the stall.  I walked over to the sink and washed my hands while I stared at myself in the mirror.  Oh, God, what have I done?  My make-up didn’t look too bad, but my hair was a stiff, unnatural, badly blended mess.  I usually don’t fuss with my hair.  I tend to just brush it and run, but tonight I wanted to look good for the reunion.  So before I met up with Janice, I had taken the time to carefully curl and style my hair, which is something I never really do.  Once I had my hair in the design I wanted, I had grabbed the hairspray and didn’t stop spraying until I was sure not a single strand of hair would dare to move out of place.  Though I began to choke on the fumes, the spray hadn’t been enough to ease my hair anxiety.  I also had a can of spray-on hair dye to touch up my roots.  (Yes, I dye my hair to cover the gray…what of it!)  I didn’t have time to dye my hair earlier and I didn’t want any of my (gray!) roots to show.  I thought I would just touch up my hair with the red spray.  I had tentatively tried the dye on a thick strand first, and when that looked okay, I went crazy spraying the dye in a solid line down the center of my head.  Oh, my gosh, it wasn’t until I was at the reunion that I realized that the spray-on dye didn’t match my hair color at all.  The color from the can was much darker than my normal (I said normal, not natural) lighter strawberry blond color.  The spray had turned the center of my scalp horribly bright red.  I looked like I had a badly oozing wound on the top of my head.  Seriously, it looked like I had split open the top of my skull and blood was seeping out.  But I couldn’t wash it out now.  I would just have to make sure that no one could stare down at the very top of my head.  Man, I need to stay away from hair products when I’m in the midst of a panic attack.  Hair products are the bane of an anxious woman…well, at least for me.  I always go overboard in order to hide my scars and imperfections.  I try to save myself from ridicule but just tend to make everything worse and much more noticeable.  So, now, I was already at the reunion and had no choice.  But what was I really worried about anyway?  I just needed to get through tonight and then possibly NEVER see those people  again.

I took a deep breath, turned away from the mirror and walked out of the bathroom.  I stepped into the main room of the Catholic Club.  The lights were down low and a soft golden glow filled the room.  Ten tables were lined up parallel on both sides of the room and covered with white tablecloths and black beads.  There were several people standing around in small groups up by the stage.  And suddenly to my surprise, I began to smile…and it felt natural…and it felt good.  My smile did not feel faked or forced or strained.  For some reason, there was an energy about the room that made me feel excited and happy.  I don’t really know what brought on this feeling.  I had expected to find myself standing on the outside of any gathered group and out of my own comfort zone, but that’s not what happened.

Instead, I felt relaxed and happy when Cindy walked up to greet me with a hug.  I felt comfortable in her presence, but in all honesty, Cindy wasn’t a challenge.  She looked radiant and her personality always sparkles and shines as much as her physical appearance does.  She has always been welcoming and charming.  She makes everyone feel like a friend.  Cindy was my very first Facebook friend from high school and continually communicated with me through that medium for the last six years.  We had already met for dinner twice before this reunion, so I already thought of her as a friend.  I was pleased that she was the one of the first people I saw at the reunion that night.  That situation helped set the mood for the rest of the evening.

After a moment, Cindy moved away and I found myself talking to Gregory.  His soft, gentle voice and easy-going manner put me right at ease.  After talking to Cindy and Gregory, the rest of the evening suddenly became easier and, to my shock, I found myself connecting, hugging, and talking to many people I hadn’t seen in over three decades!  The conversations came easily, the hugs were heartfelt, the emotions sincere.    I talked to more people that night than I did in my four years of high school!  It was a surreal and unusual situation to see everyone again.  Most of the people looked just like older versions of their high school selves.  I felt completely disoriented whenever someone’s seventeen-year-old face suddenly superimposed itself over his or her current, older facial features.  Remember, I had never seen the adult version of any of Those People.  I only knew them as teens.  I felt for a moment as if I was in a time-travel movie.  Maybe I was actually traveling forward in time.  I suspected that I would wake up the next day and it would be 1980 once more.  But for now, it was fun to see everyone again after so long.

There was Julie looking as young as she did in high school.  And Mary who always had a great sense of humor.  She was a little more serious now, but still putting out positive, good vibes.  Joan still retained her good heart and sweet smile.  Teri continually displayed enthusiasm and pride in the school and her classmates.  Karen definitely had to be the most honest of all of us.  She confessed that she didn’t remember Janice or me at all.  Her candor made me laugh.  While some of us ran around the room trying to remember everyone, and cheating by deviously reading name tags first (well…I did…),  Karen was refreshingly open and straightforward, which was greatly appreciated.  I couldn’t help but smile when Brian suddenly sat down next to me and talked about his family.  And I was comfortable when Jeff did the same later that evening.

Most of my former classmates gave me sweet compliments on the way I looked that night and congratulated me on publishing my first book.  The most consistent compliment I received from Those People, however, was for my Facebook page.  I was completely stunned to hear people mention this.  After a few months of posting comments and statements about my life, both positive and negative, I decided that I wanted my Facebook page to be encouraging and motivating.  I have posted only positive quotes and stunning artwork on my page for the last five years.  I am not trying to be pretentious.  My Facebook page is my creative attempt to keep myself inspired and focused on the optimistic aspects of life.  I was thrilled that so many of my classmates, especially Therese, Terri,and Melissa, expressed their appreciation for my posts and asked me to keep the positive thoughts coming.  I was pleased that so many people felt inspired by my Facebook page.

Everyone happily conversed and engaged with each other, but sitting in a small group of five women later in the evening was a surreal moment for me.  I never had children and so as my former classmates talked about their families, I had nothing to add to the conversation.  But that didn’t matter to me.  I didn’t care.  I was absolutely fascinated by their words.  Thirty-five years ago, the conversations had been about tests, classes, homework, and teachers.  It was an unusual experience to listen to my classmates talk about their grown children.  “They just don’t get it.”  “I have been encouraging them to move on.”  Every comment was made with a mixture of joy, love, concern, worry, and stress.  There was no doubt that these people absolutely loved their children and wanted the best for them.  It was incredible to hear these same sweet teenage voices discussing grown-up issues.  I just sat there mute and quiet as I usually was in high school.  Only this time, I was fully attentive and could have listened to them all evening.

I also enjoyed seeing Steve, Jeff, Duke, Aldo, Nick, Joe, Chuck, Keith, Michael, and Brian again.  I think I talked to the “boys” more that night than I did through the four years of attending Bishop Ward High School.  This was an extremely bizarre moment.  What happened to all of the boys from my class?  And why was every one of them so tall?  They were not scrawny, little kids any more.  Now, I was surrounded by fully grown, handsome, strong men.  If I had realized that was going to happen, I would never have left Kansas 35 years ago!  I smiled as I looked around at all of these incredibly tall, incredibly attractive, older men.  I just prayed that none of them would suddenly look down on me and notice my “oozing” painted-red scalp.  That became one of my challenges of the evening.  I strutted around and kept moving just to make sure that my wayward vanity would not be discovered.

It had been a real challenge trying to make sure no one could look down on my red scalp.  Maneuvering away from tall men became easier when I got out on the dance floor where I was now  too happy to worry about my “bloody” hair.  Now, I could shimmy and move and turn without looking like I had to go to the bathroom.  Yes, I danced!  I was actually out on the dance floor with several of my classmates as we threw our hands up in the air, spun around, and kicked our legs.  I was not hiding in the stall now as I did at the mixers 35 years ago.  I was wiggling around in the middle of the dance floor.  I was actually dancing!  Look at me, Momma!  Look at me!  And I didn’t care at all what anyone else thought of me.  I didn’t care if I made a fool of myself.

The evening was perfectly summed up by Natalie’s comment about me.  “When we were in school, Jamie, you were so shy and quiet, most people didn’t even know you existed.  But look at you now.  Look at all of the amazing things you’ve done!  It’s incredible!”  I couldn’t help smiling at her statement.  I felt completely different than I did in high school.  And as I looked at my former classmates, I realized that we had all grown into a successful, good-looking, kind-hearted group of people!

And that’s when I suddenly realized something.  I was not the only one who had changed.  All of my classmates had grown up, too.  None of us were the same people we had been in high school.  As much as I have grown and changed, so have they.  How could I ever hold anyone responsible for what they said or did as teenagers?  I wouldn’t want anyone judging me now based on my 16-year-old self and I wasn’t going to do that to anyone else.  Those awful high school years when I felt so battered…well, I suddenly realized now that most of my scars had been self-inflicted.  It was my own reserved heart and negative mindset that had kept me locked up and hidden away in bathroom stalls.  But now, we were all (a little?!) older and a whole lot wiser.  And we were beginning to connect on a whole different level.  We were no longer the jocks, or the brainiacs, or the geeks, or the cheerleaders, or the nerds, or the loners.  Those were just labels we gave each other as we all struggled to find the place where we belong, as we all strived to find our own identities.  Those titles are laughable now and certainly don’t reflect who we have become…

And the strange thing was…I really wanted to keep partying with my former classmates because, on this night of the reunion, I truly loved those people…

So, at the end of the evening, I proudly gathered with my classmates for a group picture.  I was a little concerned when my high school crush walked over to me.  Oh, my gosh, he could still make me shiver as if I was sixteen-years-old again.  I quickly maneuvered myself away from him, though, and moved to the other side of Janice.  Well…okay, maybe a few insecurities still remain.  I just didn’t want my old crush to think that I was still clumsy enough to injure myself.  “Help, someone!  Jamie’s bleeding from the top of her head!”  So, yes, I definitely needed to move away from him.  I may never see him again and didn’t want that to be his last impression he had of me.

Hopefully, that will not be the last impression anyone has of me.

So here is my advice.  Do NOT go to your 10^th or, even 20^th, reunion.  Wait for the 30^th or 35^th reunion.  Do not see anyone from high school for at least 30 years.  Wait until everyone has had the chance to experience life.  Give everyone the opportunity to grow up.  See everyone again when they are seasoned, when they are weathered.  Become friends with high school classmates after everyone has had the chance to experience life.  Give each other the chance to experience life as God intended.  My classmates are people…real people.  People who are raising their families, working their jobs, and suffering their losses.  People who have cried and laughed and loved and hurt and grieved.  We are all really not that different after all…

Even though we had originally debated about going, now Janice and I really didn’t want to say good-bye.  We finally left the reunion around 10:30 pm because, unfortunately, I had to work early the next morning.  As Janice and I walked out of St. John’s Catholic Club and into the dark night, we turned right to walk down the steep hill to her car.  Suddenly, I gasped and had to catch my breath.  I stared at the scene in front of me.  From the top of the hill, I saw the beautiful, white, round moon shining down on the bright Kansas City skyline.  It was an amazingly beautiful image.  The sight filled me with wonder!  I now suddenly realized I was home.  I knew where I belonged.  I was loved.  I was safe.  The past had been put to rest…well, it had been put into perspective.  And the future, for my classmates and me, seemed even brighter now than it did 35 years ago.  Beautiful days loom ahead of us.  And though I may not always now where I am headed , I certainly now know where I have been, and where I come from…

I feel united and am proud to say I am one of Those People.

 

 

 

 

 

First Snowfall

Last summer, when I was making plans to return to Kansas, there was one thing that caused some anxiety for me.  It was the reason I had originally left the Midwest and the reason I had stayed away for over twenty years.  I have hated winter ever since I was a small child.  I never liked playing in the snow, catching flakes on my tongue, building snowmen, riding sleds, or having snowball fights.  I have faced many challenges on my own, but I still whine like a spoiled child whenever I am cold.

I have a fear of falling on the snow and ice, so I tend to walk with very tiny steps and my toes pointed directly to the middle whenever I have to go outside.  My mother noticed my little baby steps one time and laughed at me.  “Jamie, what are you doing?” she asked in surprise.  “You’ll be okay.  Just walk normally.  The way you actually pigeon walk on the ice is what makes you fall.”  I did not take her advice, however.  I still continue to walk in tiny little toe pinching steps across the snow.

I think my problem with winter began when I was just five-years-old.  My mother did not have a driver’s license, so my maternal grandmother always took me to my kindergarten class which started at noon every weekday.  One morning, Kansas City, Kansas, experienced a record-breaking snowstorm, which left over two feet of snow on the ground.  My father had taken my two older sisters to school on his way to work that morning.  As snow started to rain down out of the gray, wet sky, Mom was left at home with my baby brother, Tony, and me.  My grandmother called to say she would not be taken me to school that day.  She refused to drive in the snow.  Yay!  A snow day for me….no!

For some unknown reason, my mother was determined that I was going to school that afternoon.  She dressed me in a pair of red tights, a plaid red dress, a white sweater, big white plastic snow boots, and a small blue jacket.  She bundled Tony up in his little, puffy, blue snowsuit.  Then, with baby Tony in her arms and gripping me by the hand, Mom left the house.  She was determined she was going to walk me all the way up to school.

I was absolutely miserable!  I cried and begged and whined for Mom to take me back home as we walked the three miles to Stony Point North Elementary School.  The snow was so deep that it came to the middle of my tiny thighs.  I remember gripping Mom’s hand as I raised my foot almost up to my chest every time I needed to take a step forward.  I would put my foot back down on the icy surface and plunge into two feet of snow.  Every step was a challenge.  I was chilled to the very depths of my being as snow filled my boots and froze my feet and legs.  Twice, I lost my balance and fell face forward into the snow.  Mom would just yank me back up again by my hand and sigh wearily as she saw the snow encrusting my nose and mouth.

As Mom struggled to keep me moving forward, the challenge was made worse by my baby brother, who kicked and screamed and pounded his tiny fists.  He was fascinated with the snow and wanted to dive head first into the clean, white powder.  Mom struggled to keep me standing and Tony securely tucked into her arms as we made our way to the school.

I don’t know how my mother handled it all, but we made it to the school just fifteen minutes past twelve.  I had arrived in class with a red, runny nose and cold, soaking wet feet.  I don’t know how my mother was able to get me all the way to school and then make the long, wet, cold walk home. She never complained or talked about it again.  It was just something she did and a choice she made as a mother.

I did not have to walk home.  I was eternally grateful that my father had left work early to pick my sisters and me up from school.  I am grateful to my parents for the sacrifices they made for me…and, yet…I still hate winter!  This fact spun around and around in my head endlessly as I returned to my childhood home in Kansas.

At the beginning of November, I began to prepare for the upcoming winter.  I bought coats, sweaters, gloves, boots, ice scrapers, defrosters…I had been living in the desert of sunny Southern California for the past eleven years.  I didn’t even own a single pair of warm wool stockings!  I felt completely unprepared and at the mercy of a harsh cold winter season.  Throughout the months of November and December, I held my breath and waited for the snowstorms, freezing rain, sleet, and hail to begin.

November and December weather, though, was surprisingly warm, calm, and mild, except for a 5-day storm over the Thanksgiving weekend that was more rain than ice or snow.  I prayed that the weather would stay tame throughout the holidays.  Just let me get to Christmas, I prayed.

And it happened, my prayer was answered.  Friday, December 25, 2015, was dry, warm, and beautiful with a high of 46 degrees.  The first snow and ice storm didn’t occur until the following Monday, December 27, 2015.  I was a little apprehensive as I listened to the news reports about the approaching storm. The storm would start late Sunday evening and continue all day on Monday.   It would first produce rain which would later turn into freezing rain and sleet until a heavy snowfall closed out Monday evening.

I awoke Monday morning around 9 am to see the storm already in progress.  Light freezing rain was falling from the leaden sky.  “It’s not bad yet,” my brother, Tony, observed.  He has lived in Kansas all of his life, so I decided to accept his word for it.  Around eleven am, he stated, “Let’s go out for a while.  Let’s go to lunch before it can get really bad.”

Over big bowls of hot soup and salty chips at the local Chili’s, Tony, my sister-in-law, Mary, my nephew, Logan, and I laughed and teased and bonded as we told stories of our childhoods. It was an extremely pleasant, enjoyable lunch that made all four of us feel warm and safe even as the storm continued to rage outside.

The only confrontation came when Tony noticed the way I was pigeon walking and toe hopping across the frozen parking lot.  “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.  “Why can’t you walk right?”

Mary quickly stuck up for me.  “She hasn’t been in snow for years,” she said.  “She’s not used to it.  That’s why she’s walking funny.”  I nodded at Mary as she gripped my arm and pigeon walked with me across the snow and ice.

The weather had gotten much worse as we left the restaurant.  The sleet was now stinging our skin and pinging off the tops of the cars.  Large snowflakes were beginning to drift in the air.  “We better get home now,” Tony advised and I wasn’t going to argue with him.  I quickly pigeon walked to the car and climbed into the backseat.

That afternoon, when we were warm and safe back home again, Mary called me over to the back door.  “Come here but be very quiet.  I want to show you something.”  Mary was looking out of the large full-length window of one of the French doors that lead to the backyard.  Through the glass, Mary pointed at the large, beautiful, fir tree only five feet away from the porch.  She whispered, “Look.  Do you see them?  There are blue jays trying to find shelter from the sleet in that tree!  Look to the inside of the tree and you will see them.”

I looked where Mary directed and laughed.  Five beautiful blue jays were jumping from limb to limb as they searched for a warm, dry place to stay warm.  As the sleet and snow continued to fall, the backyard was suddenly coming to life.  Squirrels raced up and down the trees as they scurried around looking for food.  Birds flew from tree to tree.  Mary and I sat together for a while as we watched the animals running around the backyard.  Mary’s face glowed with delight and wonder as she watched all of the critters still preparing for the rest of the winter.

I realized then that winter did not have to be a cold, lifeless, hard season.  This day was a perfect example of what winter should be.  I had a great moment bonding with my family.  I had watched adorable little creatures preparing for the cold.  I had felt the peacefulness of watching large white snowflakes tumbling to the ground.

I think I could grow to love winter….

…As soon as I perfect my pigeon walking technique!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

World Series

Sunday, November 1, 2015, was one of the most exciting, nerve-wracking nights of my life.  That evening, my brother, Tony, my sister-in-law, Mary, and I sat in my brother’s living room and watched game 5 of the World Series.  Our hometown team, the Kansas City Royals, was up three games to one against the New York Mets.  As the courageous players on the field sweated, shouted, batted, and ran around the field, Tony, Mary, and I screamed, cried, laughed, cheered, bit our nails, passed around a bottle of Tums, and held our three dogs as if they were comforting, broken-in stuffed animals.

Though the dogs were part of our nervous ritual, they seemed oblivious to all of the excitement as they slept through the majority of the game.  The dogs finally roused themselves into a frenzy during the 12^th inning when the Royals finally broke the 2 runs to 2 runs stalemate and took charge of the game.  Tony, Mary, and I screamed, cheered, clapped, and jumped around the room as the dogs barked and yelped as they ran around our legs and nipped at our heels.  The whole surreal scene became even more erratic when a third strike was called on the batter at the plate, which created the third out for the New York Mets in the bottom of the 12^th inning.  The final score was 7 to 2.  The Royals had just triumphed in game 5 of the World Series and clinched the title of World Champions by winning four out of the seven scheduled games.  Tony, Mary, and I stood in the middle of the living room.  All three of us were welded together in a deep hug as we jumped up and down and continued to scream.  We laughed and cried simultaneously as we watched our favored team racing out of the dugout and onto the field as the players yelled, hugged, and danced in victory.  Then the first loud boom filled the air.

“The fireworks have started,” Tony shouted as he untangled himself from our embrace and ran across the living room to the front door.  Tony pulled the door open and all three of us stepped out onto the porch.  We listened for a moment as the fireworks boomed all around us.  Even our elderly neighbors across the street got into the spirit of the moment.  The senior couple opened their front door, tossed out two firecrackers, and then shut the door, turned off the lights, and went to bed.

But the celebration wasn’t over.  Tony, Mary, and I continued to listen to the booming until the night suddenly grew still.  Then, out of the darkness, we heard voices loudly screaming and shouting.  “WWWOOOOOO!”  The echo of the voices reverberated all around us.  I was surprised that the voices were coming in the direction of the next neighborhood to the north of us.   The sounds were so joyful and crystal clear I imagined a thousand angels were rejoicing.  Tony, however, was not going to be outdone on such a joyful night.  He took a deep breath, cupped his hands around his mouth, and hollered a loud “WOOOOO!” of his own into the starry night sky.  Within seconds, there was a response.  The disembodied voices shouted again.  “WOOOO-HOOOO!”  Tony, Mary, and I laughed uproariously before Tony once more sent out a cheer of his own.  “WOOOOO!”  Two seconds later, the answering “WOOOOO-HOOO!” came back to us from out of the darkness.  Tony, Mary, and I laughed again as I thought about Close Encounters of the Third Kind.  Our shouts into the night reminded me of the back and forth “do-do-do-do-do” music when contact was made with the aliens.  Some unseen, unknown living creatures had just made contact with us in the overwhelming joy of the Kansas City Royals wining the World Series.  The whole neighborhood and the brilliant night sky seemed to be joining us in celebration.  The whole effect was silly, funny, and incredibly thrilling.

“Let’s go back inside,” Tony finally suggested.  “Let’s watch the Royals celebrating their victory.”  Mary, Tony, and I went back into the house and once more gathered around the TV in the living room.  With tears and laughter, we watched the celebration from Queens, New York, for a few minutes before deciding that we really needed to get some sleep.  It was already after midnight and the exhilarating fatigue from the stress and excitement of watching the game was finally crashing down on us.  We all hugged each other one more time before retiring to our bedrooms.

I couldn’t sleep though.  I was still too excited.  I laid awake for a half hour more thinking about the game.  I was excited for my team, my family, and my hometown.  After just returning to Kansas from California two months ago, I felt connected once more to my community.  I lay in bed and thought about the games that I had watched over the last few months.  I suddenly realized that my attraction to the games was not about sport but about spirit.  All of the skillful players had proven themselves consistently on the field, but it is the team’s ability to rally back up to fighting mode even after a rough play that attracted the most attention.  The Royals have an amazing ability to come back fighting hard and putting in every effort even as they fall behind.  The team’s Never-Give-Up attitude kept them in the game long after many others may have already counted them out.  The players never lost focus of their goals or dreams even when the odds seemed stacked against them.  Their drive and determination never faltered even after losing the World Series to the New York Giants last year.  The Royals returned to the field stronger, faster, and better even after that downfall.  The loyalty and dedication the manager and players showed to each other created an steadfast foundation that could not be shaken.  The team was truly a “Band of Brothers” that stuck together during tough times.  The Kansas City Royals deserved the win!

Right before I fell asleep, I thought about how the spirit of the Royals and this World Series win, thirty years after their last World Championship in 1985, united the people of Kansas City and inspired a strong, determined, never-say-die community.  But again, I am beginning to realize that that is what sets Kansas City apart from any other place where I have lived.  I thought about my family, friends, and new contacts in Kansas.  I’m surrounded by hard-working, God-fearing, America-proud citizens.  Kansas, there really is no place like home!

Second Chances

Last October, I was living over a thousand miles away from my hometown of Kansas City, Kansas.  I had been living in Palm Springs, California, for the past ten years.  Of course, there were a lot of things I missed about Kansas: bar-b-cue, jazz clubs, season changes, and, of course, family.  But one special event last year made me particularly homesick.  My professional hometown baseball team, The Kansas City Royals, was playing in the World Series.

Though I have never been athletic myself, I enjoy watching sports.  I love going to live games and feeling the energy of the crowd as they cheer on their favorite players.  Though I hadn’t been to a game in years, I was still extremely proud of the Royals for their major field victories.

I also have to admit that I was extremely jealous.  Every day, new post would appear on Facebook from my Kansas friends about the Royals’ activities.  Every few days, I would receive emails with links to major articles that reported on the games.  Every time I spoke on the phone to my brother, Tony, he would talk endlessly about the excitement that was buzzing around the city.  My sweet cousin, Connie, sent me a t-shirt that showed the Royals in a victory pose when they won the pennant.  I loved the t-shirt, the articles, and the resonant thrill in Tony’s voice.  But I wanted to be there!  I wanted to share in all of the activities, games, and trash talk that happens during Series games, but no one in California really seemed to care.  I can’t blame them, though.  It would have been very different if the Dodgers had made it to the Series.  It’s amazing the amount of pride people can feel for a hometown team.

I was teaching most nights that the Series games took place in 2014.  On every break, however, I would grab my phone and check scores and stats.  When class resumed, I would exactly announce to my students, “The Royals are up by one point!”  My pronouncement was usually meet with blank stares.  “The World Series!  My team is in the World Series,” I would inform them.  “It’s so exciting!”  Several students would smile and nod their heads.  But after the second game, no one was showing any reaction at all.  But I didn’t care.  I still continued to enthusiastically support my team from a thousand miles away.

,,,.And then the Royals lost the Series.   They lost the seventh game to the San Francisco Giants, 3-2…

…Life went on…

My circumstances began to change in the spring of 2015.  With few alternatives, I moved back to Kansas City, Kansas, in August of that year.  The baseball season was in “full swing.”  (I hate clichés but thought this was a good metaphor for baseball!)  The Royals were winning a majority of their games…Oh, my gosh, the Royals were in the playoffs against the Toronto BlueJays!

For the next two weeks, the air was crisp with excitement and blue t-shirts, hats, and jackets were everywhere.  Bars and clubs were packed with people staring at large screen televisions, their eyes following every move, watching every play…And I was there!  I was in Kansas!  I was home!

And then, it happened!  Friday, October 23, 2015, following an hour-long rain delay during the 8^th inning, the Royals won the pennant, defeating the BlueJays and earning another trip to the World Series for the second year in a row…with home field advantage, I might add.

As I listened to game predictions and my friends’ plans for the first Series game this Tuesday, October 27, 2015, I can’t help but smile.  This year has been full of second chances.  I’m starting fresh, starting over again…I came back home after a long time away.  It had been 25 years since I lived in Kansas.  I have a second chance to renew old friendship, reconnect with family, plan new adventures, start new careers, and redefine my life.  I have another chance now to seriously concentrate on my writing career.  Who knows if I will succeed or not?  But what does it matter?  Second chances can be hard work and very scary, but it’s so much better than giving up.

The Royals did not give up on their “Road to Gold.”  It’s very rare for a team to make it to the Series two seasons in a row.  Who knows what’s going to happen?  Who can truly predict if the Royals will defeat the Mets this year and by how many games and runs?  Who cares actually?  The Royals have a second chance for success.  And it is scary and it is hard work and they may not succeed.  But the effort is so much better than giving up…

…And I’m proud to share this amazing experience with my family and friends.  I guess, even through all of my travels, I have always been a Kansas girl at heart…and I am so grateful for second chances!

Renaissance

I love going to fairs and festivals.  I love to see places where people gather to enjoy a shared passion.  I don’t care if it’s history, art, music, sports, crafts, or baking.  I enjoy events where people are allowed to express their true spirits and share a piece of themselves and the things that make them happy.  One of my favorite festivals to attend is the Renaissance Fair in Bonner Springs, Kansas.  I became enchanted with this festival about 20 years ago when I decided to attend just on a whim.  I think that is the best way to experience new things.  I had no expectations and no personal gain.  I just attended this festival because my heart and soul led me there.  There is something about the event that just seems to resonate with my heart and soul.  The celebration of Renaissance times always seems to soothe my spirit and places me in a different realm of existence.  I feel transported back to a time and place that seems so familiar to me.

I have been totally awed and captivated by the rustic nature and splendid design of the entire event since my first visit.  I am so enchanted that I have been to the festival about 15 times since it began in 1977.  It was one of the main events I truly missed when I moved away from Kansas in 1996.  Though I have attended other Renaissance Festivals in other cities, none can compare in scope and pageantry to the festival in my hometown.

Th e Kansas City Renaissance Festival is presented every weekend during the months of September and October.  It’s the perfect time for the festival.  This year, I roamed around all of the booths and attractions with the golden leaves falling like raindrops over the acres of festival ground.  After living in the desert of Southern California for the past eleven years, I was as enchanted by the autumn presentation as much as I was intrigued the festival’s dancers, singers, actors, magicians, and musicians.  It was a magical moment in a magical setting which was so refreshing to my soul.  I believe in magic.  I believe in fairies.  I believe in angels.  I believe that the world is blessed and beautiful, so beauty is normally what I find everywhere I go.  Maybe I’m too much of a dreamer.  Maybe I need to get my mind focused on more practical things.  But festivals, fairs, angels, elves, and fairies make me so happy.  Why would I ever consider living in the “real” world?

Several months ago, I went to a friend’s home for a much overdue visit.  My friend, Jane, and I sat in her living room and sipped iced tea while we talked.  Jane was frustrated and upset.  She signed heavily as she told me, “I was called up to my daughter’s school the other day.  The teacher and principal wanted to speak to me.  They had a lot of concerns about Maria.”  Maria is Jane’s beautiful, spirited, charming 5-year-old daughter.  I couldn’t imagine what this adorable young girl had done to upset anyone.  With a roll of her eyes, Jane told me the problem.  “Last week, all of the students in the kindergarten class were asked to pick their careers.”  At my wide-eyed, surprised expression, Jane informed me that the school was encouraging their 5-year-old students to seriously consider their future occupation.  Each child had to select a career, write a paper about it, and then present the information to all of their classmates and teachers.  Five-years-old…really?  I am MUCH older than that and still don’t know what I want to do with my life.

“All of the other children picked solid careers, you know, doctor, nurse, policeman, teacher.”  Jane paused to take a long sip of her tea as if she needed some kind of liquid courage.  “Only my daughter…” she sighed dramatically and shook her head.  “Only my daughter claimed she was going to grow up to be a princess!”

“A princess!?”  I repeated as my eyes lit up and a smile spread across my face.  “Really?  Maria said she was going to be a princess!?  That’s so COOL!”  I suddenly stopped as I noticed Jane’s exhausted, horrified expression.  The expression was a mixture of confusion, anger, and annoyance.  “Oh,” I now whispered as I settled back down into my seat, “that isn’t cool?”

“Of course, it’s not cool!”  Jane answered.  “The teachers, the principal, and I tried to explain to Maria what a career is but she just kept insisting that she was going to be a princess.  I told her she needed to choose an actual profession like a teacher or a lawyer, but she refused.  I told her she couldn’t be a princess when she grew up, but she wouldn’t listen to me.  My daughter is adamant that she is going to be a princess when she grows up!”  Jane sighed heavily and shook her head before saying, “I even asked her why she wanted to be a princess?  Maria said, ‘Because I’ll get to wear pretty clothes and people will do things for me.’  Can you believe it?  I don’t know what I’m going to do with that child?”

II just nodded my head now in obedient agreement with Jane.  I didn’t say anything, but I had an answer.  I know what I would do with a child like Maria if she was my little girl.

We would go to the Renaissance Fair.  We would dress in classic full long skirts and laced corsets.  We would have tea with the Royal Court, and visit with the Queen, King, Prince, and Princess.  We would chase after the fairies and play games with the jugglers.  We would wander through the glen and marvel at the colors of autumn.  We would try to catch the golden leaves as they fell from the trees.  We would eat turkey legs and drink punch as we marveled at the parade of knights in heavy armor riding strong horses as they made their way to the jousting arena.  We would cheer on our victor as he fought in the joust to defend our honor.  We would buy small crystals to plant in our home garden and daydream as we listened to the flute and harp music.

Later, we would go to museums and art shows.  We would dye our hair purple…or pink.  We would stare at the night sky on clear evenings and watch for falling stars.  We would play in the rain and jump in puddles.  We would love and respect all people, especially those who struggled to fit into society but believed in their souls they secretly were royalty. We would daydream in endless fields of wildflowers and look for four leaf clovers.  We would believe that life is fun and should be fully enjoyed.  We would believe that the world was full of endless possibilities.  We would continually count our blessings and be grateful to God and his universe for creating such a grand design.

If my daughter was a princess, I would behave like a queen.  I would love and respect myself so my daughter would have a living example of a confident, strong woman.  I would admit my mistakes and learn from them.  I would be artistic and let my imagination create a fantasy world that does not contain the tragedies of the world we currently know.  I would make solid decisions and take on new experiences and challenges so my daughter would have an example of courage.  I wouldn’t spend a single day living in fear.  I would not want my daughter to experience a single day of anxiety or depression.  I would not want my daughter to know the agony of contemplating suicide.  I would not want my daughter to experience a single moment of shame or guilt over her body, her thoughts, or her emotions.

But maybe I would not have to be a queen…isn’t this what all good mothers already do…

I don’t know…I don’t have children…I don’t know if I could advice my child on a profession like Jane had to…How could I help my child….I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up…

…But I do know this…

I go to Renaissance Festivals and art shows.  I dye my hair and wear long skirts.  I dance in the rain and believe in angels, fairies, and elves.  I live in a world of art and magic and imagination.  I don’t fit in to society.  I am the outcast, the one on the outside, the loser…I am laughed at, mocked, teased, and ignored.

But it really doesn’t matter…because in my heart…I truly know…that deep inside myself I am a princess and destined to be queen.