Yes, yes, the joys of publishing your fourth book - they don't hold a candle to the thrill, the excitement, the unbridled fear that you experience the first time you step out and decide to go that last step and PAY someone to publish your book because NO ONE seems to be interested in publishing it...sadly, I know that feeling well. The really cool thing about being a self-published author is the control - not that you actually have any, but you can lie to your friends, community, people on the street - anyone willing to listen really, and you can tell them all about the control you have. You can tell them that the publishing company has to wait on YOU to be ready to go the next step, that you have the last say, that you proofread, and that you edit, and that you are the master of your own destiny - not one bit of it is truth, but if they're not into paying someone to produce a book they won't know.
The first time I threw in the towel on trying to find a real house to publish my books was in 2005. I realized that sending out manuscripts to agents or potential agents just wasn't cutting it. I didn't even get the descent courtesy from most of them to even write me back a nasty little letter saying no thanks. All I got was dead-air, white space, nothing, time just wasting away - finally I had stopped the waiting game. I took my forehead off the wall, found myself looking up self-publishers on the internet and settled on Xlibris because I didn't like the names of the other publishers. I didn't like Author House for instance - too boring. I didn't like First Books - that said to the world that I was a new author. At least with Xlibris I had the chance to break the ice with someone who questioned the pronunciation of the name! I could spell it out for them, take the second or two to get their attention, maybe start a conversation about how they, the bookstore, could be willing to purchase or order a few of my books to put on their shelves. At least I had that.
So, Xlibris it was. Little did I know that Xlibris, for all it's fancy-schmancy name would be hard to work with - hard to manage at times, and certainly not willing to cooperate with ME the AUTHOR of the book I PAID them to publish. The first experience was a roller coaster to put it bluntly. I learned so much that first time around that the 2nd and 3rd times I went in fully armored, and with an attitude of the Grand Bitch just so I could get through the first few layers of watchdogs they put on the phone who are paid to not let you through to the people who actually do the work on the books themselves - or the finance people. Trying to get answers about the amount of books actually printed was a nightmare.
My first book "With a Little Faith" came back with so many errors after I had sent it off nearly error free (English professor, I do actually proofread my work) that I was compelled to not only complain, but threatened to fly to the Philippines where it is worked out to rip off a few heads. The distance notwithstanding, was not the issue. The issue was that my book, my baby, was being subjected to a rewrite or at least a once-over that included changing words. It was explained to me that several passages of the original had been lost in a "glitch" and that the editors had repaired my book. I asked for it to be changed, but it was not. The book was printed, and 37 typographical and/or grammatical errors later - I was livid. Not to mention the book was not the size I had asked for. It was the size I had marked down, but not the size I had subsequently spoken to the leader of the project about - after I saw the prototype. Oh, and speaking of the prototype, it took six extra weeks from the time I was told it would be in my hands. That made my 2nd editing go a bit faster. I was unable to go through the book entirely due to the fact that I was going on the Montel Show to showcase it in less than a month.
Well, needless to say - I did cry when it came out. Both because it was out, and because it was out with errors. Sort of like seeing your child for the first time and realizing its has a bigger nose than you thought possible, you cry - you're excited, but you're thinking "Where did that come from, is it going to go down?" There it was - in it's glory - yes, I got the e-mails for months. "I thought you were an English professor" and "I found a mistake in your book, you may wish to contact your editor." Thanks. Nothing like being reminded 300 times a week that you were the ultimate one in charge, you were responsible, it was up to you, after all didn't you say you SELF published?
Well, this time, the fourth time - I'll have a bit more say. I had a little more say after we were on Oprah, Montel, Maury, and a few other shows. After the 50th book signing at military stations, and after about 20,000 books were printed - and only 12,000 paid for - that's the other thing about self published books, you really DO NOT KNOW, and you can't know, how many books are actually printed. You'll never know how many of your books are really sold - you can't. How can you know? You can't stop them from printing and if they simply don't report to you - you won't know. The fourth time, this time - a little different. I'm going into it knowing the ISBN will be picked up by someone down the road if only because the others were - it works that way. Having the book out there, ready, on the shelves and in the system makes it easier for an agent, a producer, a film maker, anyone to pull it off the computer, buy it from Amazon, and make a decision about it - that goes for real publishing houses too. They can track the sales from Amazon, anyway - because THEY report correctly.
This fourth book? What will it be about? Oh, you're reading it. My blogs! Sort of like a modern day Erma Bombeck. She was my hero - always will be. What a gal - what would she say about the way self publishers treat their clients? Probably something funny, probably something profound, but she'd smile a bit too, because it wasn't available when she was writing - the pain of waiting and the game of kissing tail was a monopoly of a collective few - we've come a little way - soon, we, the self published authors may be the norm. But, will any writer REALLY be considered NORMAL? Gosh, I hope not.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Not Tested on Animals!
I picked up a bottle of Aussie brand shampoo - some of the best hair products are wearing purple. Just thought I'd let you know. One of the things that I found rather odd or off about the shampoo was their company or corporate claim that the products made by Aussie weren't tested on any animals - but it was OK for me to use. I thought about that. We can slaughter pigs, chickens, cows, goats, and sheep - but we can't shampoo or condition them - that may harm the animal. People cut off the feet of chickens for voo-doo, they chop off a rabbit's foot for good luck - at least they used to in the day - but we've actually stopped shampooing and we've stopped conditioning the hair of the hare! Does that concern anyone besides me?
Rats can run around in little mazes, be injected with steroids, the various viruses, AIDs, Hepatitis; monkeys too - but don't clean them. Don't put gel on their fur - don't deodorize them, and for gosh sakes don't put mousse on a mouse. This actually made me stop and think before I bought the product. I stood there in the aisle at Target - deciding rather to support the continued effort of animal friendly Australians, or to go with my gut instinct and buy the junk whose company's owners could boast about holding down the little varments and cleaning up their act before injecting them with something lethal - I want clean dead animals, I don't want dirty, stinking, filthy dead lab rats....lather, rinse, repeat!
OK, I'm lying, I didn't take more than a few seconds to think it over before laughing to myself, making myself look like the idiot I am - and I moved on. I moved to the checkout stand, but when I got home, I exploded into adventure. I grabbed the dachshund (well, he's 1/2 dachshund and 1/2 beagle) and I threw his tri-colored butt into the tub. I started the luke warm water flowing, and much - much- much to his chagrin I poured a healthy amount of Aussie shampoo onto his animal body! I worked that liquid goo into a plethora of foaming lather and I scrubbed the dog clean. There wasn't an inch of mutt left that wasn't interrogated, manipulated, forced into bubble-mania froth - that dog was tested! The 3-minute condition was another story, he did actually refuse to stand still in the knee-high water long enough for that to take effect. He had the 30 second conditioning, but he got conditioned by-golly!
After a tight toweling, and a few wiggle shakings that dogs do, throwing their ears into helicopter spins - the dog was pissed. He was clean as a whistle mind you, and he had been cleaned by some of the best human-tested products on the face of the Earth, but he was spotless. He smelled good too - but he didn't care. He's not really talking to me right now. My other dog Faith, she took the thrashing and the growling from Matrix to mean that her fate may very well be sealed - she may be next. That wouldn't be necessary actually, my fun was over. I just wanted to prove it could be done. Sort of like when chickens cross the road - to prove to the armadillos and the skunks that it can be done!
Rats can run around in little mazes, be injected with steroids, the various viruses, AIDs, Hepatitis; monkeys too - but don't clean them. Don't put gel on their fur - don't deodorize them, and for gosh sakes don't put mousse on a mouse. This actually made me stop and think before I bought the product. I stood there in the aisle at Target - deciding rather to support the continued effort of animal friendly Australians, or to go with my gut instinct and buy the junk whose company's owners could boast about holding down the little varments and cleaning up their act before injecting them with something lethal - I want clean dead animals, I don't want dirty, stinking, filthy dead lab rats....lather, rinse, repeat!
OK, I'm lying, I didn't take more than a few seconds to think it over before laughing to myself, making myself look like the idiot I am - and I moved on. I moved to the checkout stand, but when I got home, I exploded into adventure. I grabbed the dachshund (well, he's 1/2 dachshund and 1/2 beagle) and I threw his tri-colored butt into the tub. I started the luke warm water flowing, and much - much- much to his chagrin I poured a healthy amount of Aussie shampoo onto his animal body! I worked that liquid goo into a plethora of foaming lather and I scrubbed the dog clean. There wasn't an inch of mutt left that wasn't interrogated, manipulated, forced into bubble-mania froth - that dog was tested! The 3-minute condition was another story, he did actually refuse to stand still in the knee-high water long enough for that to take effect. He had the 30 second conditioning, but he got conditioned by-golly!
After a tight toweling, and a few wiggle shakings that dogs do, throwing their ears into helicopter spins - the dog was pissed. He was clean as a whistle mind you, and he had been cleaned by some of the best human-tested products on the face of the Earth, but he was spotless. He smelled good too - but he didn't care. He's not really talking to me right now. My other dog Faith, she took the thrashing and the growling from Matrix to mean that her fate may very well be sealed - she may be next. That wouldn't be necessary actually, my fun was over. I just wanted to prove it could be done. Sort of like when chickens cross the road - to prove to the armadillos and the skunks that it can be done!
You'd Have to Understand My Parents.
To try and explain my parents to you in a blog would be really hard to do. You'd just have to know them, know the type of person, the country souls that they are - in order to fully grasp the reasoning behind SO MANY things they say and do. Sometimes I stand back, shake my head, and just walk away. Other times I laugh boldly, and throw out a suggestion, something bringing them both back to the 21st century, because clearly, like you're precious parents probably, these people are from WAY OUT THERE.
This morning I drove the nearly thirty miles to the "farm", which isn't a farm, but an overgrown patch of grass out in the sticks that is literally surrounded by acres and acres of other people's patches of grass that is overgrown, thicketed, bordered by trails and endless winding gravely roads that lead to absolutely nowhere. If I told you the name of the township that they lived in you couldn't find it - except that it does actually have a strong connection to the historical Route 66 with its round red barn, and the borders which were ever important on the day of the land run for the unassigned lands, what most people believe to be the ONLY land run in Oklahoma, dated April 22, 1889. There were two subsequent land runs, no one really knows that fact. Nevertheless, this is the place, the spot that my parents decided was perfect to settle into about 22 years ago, and like the mud they live on top of, they are not going anywhere soon. They are stuck in their ruts, and the word "impasse" just won't scratch the surface to their stubborn nature when the topic of moving comes up.
Having explained that, I can now tell you that I found my dear mother at the kitchen table, which is never ever used as a table, but as a storage for food that could be easily stored in the cupboard dad made for her about a month ago. The cupboard, more or less an overtly ornate armour, suitable for display, as dad does happen to be a top-notch cabinet man, actually sits inside the closet where the washer and dryer would be, if they weren't out in the barn. Are you getting this? Do you understand? OK - there she is, at the table, and she's sewing - - wait for it, a new dust collection bag, one that fits a Rockwell drill that must be at least 30 years old. Why is my mother sewing a new canvas bag for my dad, and why is she using his old jeans to do it? Because the cat (Pretty Kitty, a 16 year old delicate feline) has killed yet another 1-pound pack rat out in the "shop" where dad stores his tools, and the rat's family has eaten through the canvas (rather than using the handy zipper at the base of the bag) to get to the sawdust that is inside the bag, rather than using the sawdust that is so readily already spilled out onto the floor of the shop under the table saws. Why must rats be so inconvenient?
Mom's making a dust collection bag out of jeans. Dad is de-ticking the 16 year old cat, but not sure if what he's pulling off of her is an actual tick, or if it is part of her body, a tumor or something, he's not a vet, but he's examining it - and muttering something. The house REEEEEEKS of a strange bacon fat odor, something that I'm not used to because I don't eat that stuff - and since their bacon comes from the real farmer down the road - it smells differently than the bacon that I would buy if I bought it - if I ate it, I don't. It sticks in the air, hangs there and won't let you go when you walk through the aroma like a paste over the stove.
Don't get me wrong. I love my parents, but if I were to call them and say "Hey, what's going on, what are you guys doing today?" I wouldn't hear a pair of happy, chirpy voices from folks in their 70's looking to have a little Saturday adventure in town - they're not the opera type, the concert type, the shopping type, they're not even the going to town type - except on those rare occasions that something they bought in bulk runs out. What I got was an old man muttering about a pack rat in the shop. It had more than 5 pounds of cat food stored away in a hidey-hole, and looks like the dang thing took a screwdriver, a watch band, a few nuts and bolts, and what appears to be a sock, but my dad didn't get the flashlight to work, so he couldn't tell. Didn't matter the cat killed another one. This one makes 4 now, in a week. She's old, but she's good.
Mom, on the other hand told me she was sewing - me, I assumed it was a dress.
I just went by to check up on them, skinny man - maybe 120 pounds at over six foot, and mom sometimes forgets to wear her knee brace when she gardens. I just never know what I'm going to get, see, hear, or find out when I get to their place - except one things always certain, they're still in love.
This morning I drove the nearly thirty miles to the "farm", which isn't a farm, but an overgrown patch of grass out in the sticks that is literally surrounded by acres and acres of other people's patches of grass that is overgrown, thicketed, bordered by trails and endless winding gravely roads that lead to absolutely nowhere. If I told you the name of the township that they lived in you couldn't find it - except that it does actually have a strong connection to the historical Route 66 with its round red barn, and the borders which were ever important on the day of the land run for the unassigned lands, what most people believe to be the ONLY land run in Oklahoma, dated April 22, 1889. There were two subsequent land runs, no one really knows that fact. Nevertheless, this is the place, the spot that my parents decided was perfect to settle into about 22 years ago, and like the mud they live on top of, they are not going anywhere soon. They are stuck in their ruts, and the word "impasse" just won't scratch the surface to their stubborn nature when the topic of moving comes up.
Having explained that, I can now tell you that I found my dear mother at the kitchen table, which is never ever used as a table, but as a storage for food that could be easily stored in the cupboard dad made for her about a month ago. The cupboard, more or less an overtly ornate armour, suitable for display, as dad does happen to be a top-notch cabinet man, actually sits inside the closet where the washer and dryer would be, if they weren't out in the barn. Are you getting this? Do you understand? OK - there she is, at the table, and she's sewing - - wait for it, a new dust collection bag, one that fits a Rockwell drill that must be at least 30 years old. Why is my mother sewing a new canvas bag for my dad, and why is she using his old jeans to do it? Because the cat (Pretty Kitty, a 16 year old delicate feline) has killed yet another 1-pound pack rat out in the "shop" where dad stores his tools, and the rat's family has eaten through the canvas (rather than using the handy zipper at the base of the bag) to get to the sawdust that is inside the bag, rather than using the sawdust that is so readily already spilled out onto the floor of the shop under the table saws. Why must rats be so inconvenient?
Mom's making a dust collection bag out of jeans. Dad is de-ticking the 16 year old cat, but not sure if what he's pulling off of her is an actual tick, or if it is part of her body, a tumor or something, he's not a vet, but he's examining it - and muttering something. The house REEEEEEKS of a strange bacon fat odor, something that I'm not used to because I don't eat that stuff - and since their bacon comes from the real farmer down the road - it smells differently than the bacon that I would buy if I bought it - if I ate it, I don't. It sticks in the air, hangs there and won't let you go when you walk through the aroma like a paste over the stove.
Don't get me wrong. I love my parents, but if I were to call them and say "Hey, what's going on, what are you guys doing today?" I wouldn't hear a pair of happy, chirpy voices from folks in their 70's looking to have a little Saturday adventure in town - they're not the opera type, the concert type, the shopping type, they're not even the going to town type - except on those rare occasions that something they bought in bulk runs out. What I got was an old man muttering about a pack rat in the shop. It had more than 5 pounds of cat food stored away in a hidey-hole, and looks like the dang thing took a screwdriver, a watch band, a few nuts and bolts, and what appears to be a sock, but my dad didn't get the flashlight to work, so he couldn't tell. Didn't matter the cat killed another one. This one makes 4 now, in a week. She's old, but she's good.
Mom, on the other hand told me she was sewing - me, I assumed it was a dress.
I just went by to check up on them, skinny man - maybe 120 pounds at over six foot, and mom sometimes forgets to wear her knee brace when she gardens. I just never know what I'm going to get, see, hear, or find out when I get to their place - except one things always certain, they're still in love.
Friday, June 22, 2007
MATH is a Four-Letter Word
Being an English major - well, an English professor, I have a tendency to not want to work mathematical problems in my head. When the need arises (because math happens to the best of us) I usually do OK writing out the problem, working it slowly, double checking to make sure I haven't carried over the wrong number or taken away a number when I'm suppose to be adding a number, and then I just throw up my hands and hand the checkbook over to the banker and say "You get paid to do this!" - and I just let him work through my mess.
I have a couple of accounts. One I don't mess with. It's the REAL account as I call it. The other account is a little checking that I use strictly for Ebay purchases, online payments for books, and other things I simply can't live without and have to get on sale - otherwise I feel as if I'm paying full price, and the Scots in me just gets all riled up. I love, love, absolutely LOVE www.half.com, and if you haven't gone - go! The 2nd account is the one that I mess with and mess up all the time. I can't seem to make it to the bank on time every time and it causes problems. It's not entirely my fault - I went to school to learn Humanities not Math. I do Math, but it's more like the way I speak Spanish - only when I have to, and only under stress as well as duress.
It would be great if during the 1960's someone thought to teach me Spanish, my educational path led me through my own native language, the history of it, the usage of it, the syntax, and the breakdown for every single type of clause plausible - but no one thought it good to teach me Spanish. I have tried. Oh, I try - and the students I teach who are natural Spanish speakers - they laugh at me. "Oh, Miss Stringfellow, you're so funny, so cute. Do you know what you just said?" I don't think I want to find out - I probably insulted their goat or something. Most of my kids had a pet goat - which of course they weren't allowed to have in city limits so they kept it inside - YOU do the math on that one. I laughed at them when they came to school and used the old excuse of their goat ate their homework. They weren't lying.
So my checkbook was out of whack because of the automated withdrawal from the gym that I no longer attend. My banker explained to me that putting money in my account from the other account would be best - so we set that up. Overdraft protection. God, I love my banker - he's so smart. I needed this in the 80's when I was young and stupid, now that I'm old and stupid, it's a great security blanket. $250 worth of screw ups....all covered. But I know I still won't be able to make it to the bank fast enough for it to count. Somewhere down the line someone will call me and say "You might want to raise that O.P. to about $300, maybe more, what do you think?" Or, here's a suggestion Jude, stop buying so much on Ebay! Oh, I shutter to think that! No, I can't do that. My post man would think I was mad at him personally. We see each other every day. Sometimes he stands around and waits for me to open the boxes and the packages to see what I got for nothing - plus shipping and handling.
English is good. I like English. Often (in these blogs, too) you'll question my use of the language. You'll say "Hey, she's an English professor, why would she say something like that?", but if you do - and you will - I'll just laugh at you and say something like "At least I left your goat out of it!"
I have a couple of accounts. One I don't mess with. It's the REAL account as I call it. The other account is a little checking that I use strictly for Ebay purchases, online payments for books, and other things I simply can't live without and have to get on sale - otherwise I feel as if I'm paying full price, and the Scots in me just gets all riled up. I love, love, absolutely LOVE www.half.com, and if you haven't gone - go! The 2nd account is the one that I mess with and mess up all the time. I can't seem to make it to the bank on time every time and it causes problems. It's not entirely my fault - I went to school to learn Humanities not Math. I do Math, but it's more like the way I speak Spanish - only when I have to, and only under stress as well as duress.
It would be great if during the 1960's someone thought to teach me Spanish, my educational path led me through my own native language, the history of it, the usage of it, the syntax, and the breakdown for every single type of clause plausible - but no one thought it good to teach me Spanish. I have tried. Oh, I try - and the students I teach who are natural Spanish speakers - they laugh at me. "Oh, Miss Stringfellow, you're so funny, so cute. Do you know what you just said?" I don't think I want to find out - I probably insulted their goat or something. Most of my kids had a pet goat - which of course they weren't allowed to have in city limits so they kept it inside - YOU do the math on that one. I laughed at them when they came to school and used the old excuse of their goat ate their homework. They weren't lying.
So my checkbook was out of whack because of the automated withdrawal from the gym that I no longer attend. My banker explained to me that putting money in my account from the other account would be best - so we set that up. Overdraft protection. God, I love my banker - he's so smart. I needed this in the 80's when I was young and stupid, now that I'm old and stupid, it's a great security blanket. $250 worth of screw ups....all covered. But I know I still won't be able to make it to the bank fast enough for it to count. Somewhere down the line someone will call me and say "You might want to raise that O.P. to about $300, maybe more, what do you think?" Or, here's a suggestion Jude, stop buying so much on Ebay! Oh, I shutter to think that! No, I can't do that. My post man would think I was mad at him personally. We see each other every day. Sometimes he stands around and waits for me to open the boxes and the packages to see what I got for nothing - plus shipping and handling.
English is good. I like English. Often (in these blogs, too) you'll question my use of the language. You'll say "Hey, she's an English professor, why would she say something like that?", but if you do - and you will - I'll just laugh at you and say something like "At least I left your goat out of it!"
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Bring Your Dog To Work Day.
Didn't you know - today was Bring Your Dog To Work Day - at least that's what I told my boss when I showed up to his Farmers Insurance agency with Faith. He laughed - took it well, he's cool like that. The building's occupants have been entertained and in one case outright amazed! The front door opened and an Australian man looking for a certain business came into the common lobby. He stood back and looked first, thinking something to himself before approaching and before sheepishly inquiring - "Is, is, is that Faith?" I smiled. Yes, this is Faith. He laughed out loud, immediately causing the dog to bark, dogs do that, they panic a bit when someone bends over laughing and grabbing their knees - she barked, he laughed again, my boss motioned for me to go to the lobby so he could finish his call. No doubt the service center for Farmers wondered where Will was calling from.
Faith is a cave-dwelling dog. She sits under or she'll lay under the desk, a chair, the bed, something where she can hide her head from the general public. We laugh at her quite often as she actually is the World's Most Photographed Animal, and here she is hiding - we should put a little pair of Ray Bans on her so she looks the part of the celebrity avoiding the paparazzi. She's hiding - shhh, don't look! She has in the past, come to my work place quite often, and in the past 15 months we have been working very closely together, so when I took the position recently to be Will Liebl's Agent Producer - something of a change for me, but definitely a change for the yellow one. She felt left out, left behind, forgotten. I'd come home and she'd burrow under the bed even further so I could reach her - only coming out when it was time to eat, go outside, or go to bed - she sleeps on top, but she still tried to avoid me due to her feelings being hurt a little. So, this morning, I used the words - gave the command "LET'S GO" and she was up! She was out of the house, in the drive, running to the car, and hopping like mad! She was really ready to go! She likes going - doesn't matter where, she likes going.
The work place is calm - we sell insurance. We have had some fun with the clients, and no doubt we'll use her status in the future to lure and persuade those hard to reach clients - come in, see the dog! She won't try to sell you anything - righhhhhht....pet the puppy!
Go ahead, ask your boss if you can bring Fluffy to work - see if he/she lets you. Just be sure and stop by your Farmers Insurance agent first to pick up that $1,000,000 umbrella policy for the hands that may suffer the worst from it. Heck, bringing my dog to work is a lot safer than bringing the kids. I used to tell the apartment managers to forget about the pet deposits, that kid-deposit needs to be enforced!
Faith is a cave-dwelling dog. She sits under or she'll lay under the desk, a chair, the bed, something where she can hide her head from the general public. We laugh at her quite often as she actually is the World's Most Photographed Animal, and here she is hiding - we should put a little pair of Ray Bans on her so she looks the part of the celebrity avoiding the paparazzi. She's hiding - shhh, don't look! She has in the past, come to my work place quite often, and in the past 15 months we have been working very closely together, so when I took the position recently to be Will Liebl's Agent Producer - something of a change for me, but definitely a change for the yellow one. She felt left out, left behind, forgotten. I'd come home and she'd burrow under the bed even further so I could reach her - only coming out when it was time to eat, go outside, or go to bed - she sleeps on top, but she still tried to avoid me due to her feelings being hurt a little. So, this morning, I used the words - gave the command "LET'S GO" and she was up! She was out of the house, in the drive, running to the car, and hopping like mad! She was really ready to go! She likes going - doesn't matter where, she likes going.
The work place is calm - we sell insurance. We have had some fun with the clients, and no doubt we'll use her status in the future to lure and persuade those hard to reach clients - come in, see the dog! She won't try to sell you anything - righhhhhht....pet the puppy!
Go ahead, ask your boss if you can bring Fluffy to work - see if he/she lets you. Just be sure and stop by your Farmers Insurance agent first to pick up that $1,000,000 umbrella policy for the hands that may suffer the worst from it. Heck, bringing my dog to work is a lot safer than bringing the kids. I used to tell the apartment managers to forget about the pet deposits, that kid-deposit needs to be enforced!
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Boys and Their Boogers.
I simply love my kid. I really do, but when I went to the car detailer today he told me not only that I had a kid, he was actually able to tell me that it was a boy. I asked him how he knew because I didn't have anything, not one thing in the car that remotely looked like a boy had been in the car. I have a few girl things - perhaps the detailed minded detail man assumed those items in the back pouch of the front seat were mine. His answer - BOOGERS. You have a bunch of crusty old boogers on the right side of both the driver's side and the passenger side. He then made it clear that he'd never assume I was the nose-picker in the family. He stated that more booger-seats come from boys than girls, and when the boogers are on both seats in virtually the same pattern (I think the man watches CSI) that he assumed again, that I had a boy. A tall boy he added - because the boogers were pretty low on the edge of each seat.
I tested the man's theory. I called a few of my friends who had boys and girls both. I asked them to let me talk to their kids, not to them, they wouldn't have admitted it if they were putting the nasty, sticky, gooey, nose mucus on their seats - kids will cop to anything if you make it fun enough. Sure enough, the boys won out over the girls 11 boys to 2 girls. That means either the other 4 girls were lying - or they don't do that sort of thing. I know these girls, they lie, but something tells me that this time they were JUST as amazed as I was. How many boys over the age of 15 did I speak with - 11. EVERY boy stuck their boogers on their parents' cars. EVERY boy without exception. Their parents were more than shocked - well, they were out-and-out, flat-busted amazed at what they had been subjecting themselves to because as one of the moms told me, she had to sit in the passenger seat of her own car on several occasions and now she's thinking she has streaks of grossness all over her clothes and legs - old or not, there may be a transfer.
How come we don't see that fact on CSI - speaking of CSI. I want Mac Taylor to do a segment where he's investigating a murder, and the suspect is unknown, but they DO KNOW that he or she was in the car JUST before the murder took place. (Lie and wait sort of thing) Mac could find fresh boogers on the side of the driver's seat and Stella could give him that upper-lip curled look of hers. She could shake her head and say "How did you know that?" Mac could be honest and say he doesn't always have a tissue handy when he's out in traffic - flinch! Oh, that would be priceless - another in depth human trait of yet another character - revealed, and now we love the guy that much more. Could be a skyrocket for the ratings - air it during Sweeps Week!
I paid the man. I drove my freshly cleaned Focus home (His name is Steve, named him after Steve Irwin in fact). I thanked Steve for being so patient and forgiving of my son. Then I got on MySpace and looked for my 3rd "friend" RUBY. We talked.
I tested the man's theory. I called a few of my friends who had boys and girls both. I asked them to let me talk to their kids, not to them, they wouldn't have admitted it if they were putting the nasty, sticky, gooey, nose mucus on their seats - kids will cop to anything if you make it fun enough. Sure enough, the boys won out over the girls 11 boys to 2 girls. That means either the other 4 girls were lying - or they don't do that sort of thing. I know these girls, they lie, but something tells me that this time they were JUST as amazed as I was. How many boys over the age of 15 did I speak with - 11. EVERY boy stuck their boogers on their parents' cars. EVERY boy without exception. Their parents were more than shocked - well, they were out-and-out, flat-busted amazed at what they had been subjecting themselves to because as one of the moms told me, she had to sit in the passenger seat of her own car on several occasions and now she's thinking she has streaks of grossness all over her clothes and legs - old or not, there may be a transfer.
How come we don't see that fact on CSI - speaking of CSI. I want Mac Taylor to do a segment where he's investigating a murder, and the suspect is unknown, but they DO KNOW that he or she was in the car JUST before the murder took place. (Lie and wait sort of thing) Mac could find fresh boogers on the side of the driver's seat and Stella could give him that upper-lip curled look of hers. She could shake her head and say "How did you know that?" Mac could be honest and say he doesn't always have a tissue handy when he's out in traffic - flinch! Oh, that would be priceless - another in depth human trait of yet another character - revealed, and now we love the guy that much more. Could be a skyrocket for the ratings - air it during Sweeps Week!
I paid the man. I drove my freshly cleaned Focus home (His name is Steve, named him after Steve Irwin in fact). I thanked Steve for being so patient and forgiving of my son. Then I got on MySpace and looked for my 3rd "friend" RUBY. We talked.
My Favorite Agent!
I have a few agents. I really do. As an author I have an agent - as a dog trainer I have another agent - I have two or three different managers who vie all the time for my time, my dog's time, my kids' time, and to be honest - I love it. I wouldn't have it any other way, because if I had it another way I wouldn't have any time to work. I'd be looking for places to go - book signings - deals, contracts, shows and engagements on my own. I would like it if THEY were busier than what they are, but that will come in time. Oh, but I have another agent - one I don't pay. I don't use him for much either, unless I have a desire to go look at $1,000,000+ houses so I can pretend and fantasize. He's my realtor, my sales agent! Jeff York of Keller Williams, Oklahoma City, and if you need one you can borrow mine, I don't mind - I let him out of the cage to prowl around every once in a while. A man has to be able to stretch his legs, right?
I met Jeff in the most unusual way - he was laying on a couch of a house he was showing. The owners left him there to fend for himself, and they trusted him to watch not only the house, but the pools, the land, the gates - everything. He even had his fingerprints all over the SubZero frig, the granite bar, the remotes for the 70" plasma and there he was - laying on the couch, eating hummus and watching a golf game. The fact that he literally lived across the street from his clients probably helped that he was trusted enough to man the place.
With his shoes off, and a waving hand from the 2nd living room, he ALLOWED us to enter. It was an open house Sunday. The house was just under $580,000 and around 6,000 sq. feet. In Oklahoma that's not a steal - it's an overpriced house, but he was willing and able to explain to me that the house came not only with land, an in ground pool, barbecue deck, and slate roof, it had alarms, two staircases, matching his and her full baths, and a 600 square foot closet on her side. All this information he gave to me while taking in the golf game, munching on crackers and spreading the hummus with a jalapeno pepper. (Don't bother getting up - I'll just look around.) The fact is, I don't think he had any intention of selling the house. If he did he wouldn't be able to get away from his wife when the neighbors were out of town! (She's wonderful, I'm kidding.)
So, Jeff has been my perfect realtor. We call him "Uncle Jeff". He takes us to mansions, through woods and dales to see garden-lined cottages far too far from town, but just perfect for pretending and for fact gathering for that next chapter of my fiction-based book "Wuthering Heights II", which of course will be written around a central character, a man with a flaw, an evil man with a sense of nobility, a mind full of contempt, but a woman's soul can crack his stoned heart and send him into fits of rage - or to the refrigerator to get another beer. I'm not sure which direction the sequel should go - anyway, the garden-lined cottages play a key role, and to get there you have to have an agent willing to take you when he/she knows you aren't going to buy anything - that's Jeff. Great man - he's waiting on me to strike it rich, then he knows I'll call him with a real offer...maybe I'll buy two!
I met Jeff in the most unusual way - he was laying on a couch of a house he was showing. The owners left him there to fend for himself, and they trusted him to watch not only the house, but the pools, the land, the gates - everything. He even had his fingerprints all over the SubZero frig, the granite bar, the remotes for the 70" plasma and there he was - laying on the couch, eating hummus and watching a golf game. The fact that he literally lived across the street from his clients probably helped that he was trusted enough to man the place.
With his shoes off, and a waving hand from the 2nd living room, he ALLOWED us to enter. It was an open house Sunday. The house was just under $580,000 and around 6,000 sq. feet. In Oklahoma that's not a steal - it's an overpriced house, but he was willing and able to explain to me that the house came not only with land, an in ground pool, barbecue deck, and slate roof, it had alarms, two staircases, matching his and her full baths, and a 600 square foot closet on her side. All this information he gave to me while taking in the golf game, munching on crackers and spreading the hummus with a jalapeno pepper. (Don't bother getting up - I'll just look around.) The fact is, I don't think he had any intention of selling the house. If he did he wouldn't be able to get away from his wife when the neighbors were out of town! (She's wonderful, I'm kidding.)
So, Jeff has been my perfect realtor. We call him "Uncle Jeff". He takes us to mansions, through woods and dales to see garden-lined cottages far too far from town, but just perfect for pretending and for fact gathering for that next chapter of my fiction-based book "Wuthering Heights II", which of course will be written around a central character, a man with a flaw, an evil man with a sense of nobility, a mind full of contempt, but a woman's soul can crack his stoned heart and send him into fits of rage - or to the refrigerator to get another beer. I'm not sure which direction the sequel should go - anyway, the garden-lined cottages play a key role, and to get there you have to have an agent willing to take you when he/she knows you aren't going to buy anything - that's Jeff. Great man - he's waiting on me to strike it rich, then he knows I'll call him with a real offer...maybe I'll buy two!
Never Say Never!
I woke up this morning and it hit me - I have a job! I haven't had to work in over 15 months, it was rather enlightening actually. I'm working for a couple of reasons really. When I set out to buy a house in March I was told that I couldn't because - get this - I didn't have a job. I had money, but I wasn't working and the mortgage companies frown on people who wing it I guess.
So, I'm working. I'm selling insurance again. It's a commission based position, so that's about the same as not working - at least for 6 to 8 weeks anyway. Maybe after that time I will be a millionaire - everyone will want to buy their life, health, car, and home insurance from me, and I'll be set for life. That, or maybe I'll win the lottery. I do actually spend money trying. Working for Farmers Insurance this time, and since I don't want to embarrass my boss I won't give you his name yet -- and I don't want the creditors finding me. Hahahaha, just kidding. (My mom is at home this very minute shaking her finger at me and saying "That's not funny!")
Working is great. It gave me an excuse to run to Stein Mart and get a few new outfits. I hadn't shopped at a Stein Mart in years but over the Father's Day weekend I heard about 10 commercials on the radio for them - had to go. Three skirts, six tops, pants and a few pairs of shoes later - I was set. That was until I saw that Ebay had a great selection of Antonio Melani shoes for less than $1.00 + shipping. Please...I'm now knee deep in gorgeous pumps, all being shipping to the post office box, my mailman is going to love me. With their 75% off rack, and my love for saving - mostly Scottish you know, I may never see a paycheck, but my closet will be full and I'll look great while I'm making those sales. I had a sale this morning that just sort of happened. You get that in the insurance business. A lady meant to walk into the landscaping business just down the hall - when she realized that she needed insurance for her car. That policy led to a house policy so she could get the discount, which led to a life policy so she could totally save another $200 a year off the house policy that she just bought to get the policy on the car that she realized she needed to cover - state law. I wonder - does she shop at the 75% off rack too? She's probably Scots like me!
Well, work is awesome. I drove the twelve miles in, blasted KANSAS up really high on the stereo - got a Starbucks and did the 9-5 thing - but I'm still here, and it's nearly 9:00 p.m. It's in me - it's in me. You can take the girl out of the insurance business, but you can't take the insurance business out of the girl - Viva La Farmers!!
So, I'm working. I'm selling insurance again. It's a commission based position, so that's about the same as not working - at least for 6 to 8 weeks anyway. Maybe after that time I will be a millionaire - everyone will want to buy their life, health, car, and home insurance from me, and I'll be set for life. That, or maybe I'll win the lottery. I do actually spend money trying. Working for Farmers Insurance this time, and since I don't want to embarrass my boss I won't give you his name yet -- and I don't want the creditors finding me. Hahahaha, just kidding. (My mom is at home this very minute shaking her finger at me and saying "That's not funny!")
Working is great. It gave me an excuse to run to Stein Mart and get a few new outfits. I hadn't shopped at a Stein Mart in years but over the Father's Day weekend I heard about 10 commercials on the radio for them - had to go. Three skirts, six tops, pants and a few pairs of shoes later - I was set. That was until I saw that Ebay had a great selection of Antonio Melani shoes for less than $1.00 + shipping. Please...I'm now knee deep in gorgeous pumps, all being shipping to the post office box, my mailman is going to love me. With their 75% off rack, and my love for saving - mostly Scottish you know, I may never see a paycheck, but my closet will be full and I'll look great while I'm making those sales. I had a sale this morning that just sort of happened. You get that in the insurance business. A lady meant to walk into the landscaping business just down the hall - when she realized that she needed insurance for her car. That policy led to a house policy so she could get the discount, which led to a life policy so she could totally save another $200 a year off the house policy that she just bought to get the policy on the car that she realized she needed to cover - state law. I wonder - does she shop at the 75% off rack too? She's probably Scots like me!
Well, work is awesome. I drove the twelve miles in, blasted KANSAS up really high on the stereo - got a Starbucks and did the 9-5 thing - but I'm still here, and it's nearly 9:00 p.m. It's in me - it's in me. You can take the girl out of the insurance business, but you can't take the insurance business out of the girl - Viva La Farmers!!
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Everyone Should be a Baptist - for the First Twelve Years of Their Lives
Being raised in the Fortieth Street Baptist Church in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, meant getting up really early on Sunday mornings and driving eight or nine miles to the church from where we lived. It's not like we didn't have another Baptist church around the corner from where we lived, or even somewhere in between - but you have to understand - we were MEMBERS of the 40th Street Baptist Church - so we drove to the 40th Street Baptist Church!
Often times when I'm asked what denomination of Christian faith do I claim I will answer that I don't claim anything - I'm a Christian. I attend a few different churches, and to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure I'll ever be a member of another one. I just don't feel as strongly about membership as others do - but I do believe that every single person who has even the slightest bit of interest in knowing what lies between the pages of the Holy Bible should become a Southern Baptist - for as long as it takes to get that information into your head, and then get the heck out of Dodge! I did, I think back on my upbringing, and yes, I'm extremely glad to have been trained, drilled, force-fed, and guided through the Word...it truly is a light unto my path at times - when I'm in the depths of the daze, sadness, depression, seemingly endless out-of-control life-spinning events - I have a refuge. I have that foundation! I have the knowledge, and because I'm allowed to have my own thoughts and can make my own decisions - I have the belief that I will be taken care of. God really is out there, and He really is interested in me.
Being raised in the Southern Baptist church, I learned every single detail of every single story - except, it did take the teachers and preachers a little longer to explain to us that the 12 sons Jacob fathered weren't just from his first wife, or his second wife, or his first concubine, there was a fourth - but you know, those types of details aren't that important really - not during Vacation Bible School, at least I know he had 12 sons, the became the 12 tribes of Israel, as Jacob was later called Israel - and I know that he had a daughter too. Which begs the question, why didn't Israel have 13 tribes? But, again - ours is not to ask at that tender age. Being raised a Southern Baptist I was encouraged to make a stand early on regarding my decision to follow Christ's teaching - I didn't really have a choice in the following part, but at the age of 6 I realized I might not make it to an adult age - having been as sick as I was all the time and I wanted to be sure that if anything happened, if I was sent to the hospital again and forced to breath from inside a plastic tent like I was, I wanted to be sure I was going to be able to see Jesus - and I made that point very clear to my Mom. Dad wasn't much help in that area - he always referred religious questions over to Mom, but he was there when I was baptised.
In the Southern Baptist faith a kid can't be baptised until they become a Christian, which literally means they have to give their heart and soul to Christ through prayer, and in most cases they're required to make it public by coming to the front of the church and asking to be publicly baptized. Although my kids were raised in the Baptist church, Caity was baptized in a creek in a wilderness reserve - of course, and there was nothing public about it - she wasn't raised a Southern Baptist. I was raised in the Southern Baptist church and therefore, when the time came, I was baptized in the big tank of water just behind the pulpit on the stage - you've seen them in pictures. Usually a big painted mural of the Jordan River is behind the plastic or in my case the metal tub-like pool - and I was asked to undress to wear the white robe that would be "washed" with me. My mom made me a little white dress too, she was good like that.
The day came, and I was presented to the church commonly. I was asked two questions before everyone - Do you know beyond any doubt that if you were to die today that God would take you to His Heaven? How do you know? I answered in the affirmative on the first question, and didn't hesitate a second on the last - because He said He would and I believe Him - that's a good answer from a snot-nosed brat - right? I was led into the metal pool. Just as I stepped off the last step the water encased me. I was just a little shy of being tall enough to be able to set my feet on the bottom of the pool and still be seen by the audience. No problem - I was hoisted up by the preacher! He held me, laughed, and as he was talking he even made a little hand gesture over the water and scooped up a little brown spider that was crawling its way up the glass of the tank. With a chuckle and a wave, I was lowered again, this time horizontally, and "raised to walk in newness of life."
Being a Baptist isn't a bad thing. I've returned to the church and am actively an attender - just not a member. The church holds more for me than it does for some I'm sure, but in my lowly, and self-aware opinion - NO other faith offers as much information about the history of the church, its people, its legend, its tradition, than that of the Southern Baptist - at least I know I usually beat the socks off anyone if they engage me in a trivia contest over the Old or New Testaments - at least I got that one covered. Another really cool thing about being a Baptist - we know about the Rapture, we don't have to rely on books about being Left Behind - although I love the series - I prefer the original.
Often times when I'm asked what denomination of Christian faith do I claim I will answer that I don't claim anything - I'm a Christian. I attend a few different churches, and to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure I'll ever be a member of another one. I just don't feel as strongly about membership as others do - but I do believe that every single person who has even the slightest bit of interest in knowing what lies between the pages of the Holy Bible should become a Southern Baptist - for as long as it takes to get that information into your head, and then get the heck out of Dodge! I did, I think back on my upbringing, and yes, I'm extremely glad to have been trained, drilled, force-fed, and guided through the Word...it truly is a light unto my path at times - when I'm in the depths of the daze, sadness, depression, seemingly endless out-of-control life-spinning events - I have a refuge. I have that foundation! I have the knowledge, and because I'm allowed to have my own thoughts and can make my own decisions - I have the belief that I will be taken care of. God really is out there, and He really is interested in me.
Being raised in the Southern Baptist church, I learned every single detail of every single story - except, it did take the teachers and preachers a little longer to explain to us that the 12 sons Jacob fathered weren't just from his first wife, or his second wife, or his first concubine, there was a fourth - but you know, those types of details aren't that important really - not during Vacation Bible School, at least I know he had 12 sons, the became the 12 tribes of Israel, as Jacob was later called Israel - and I know that he had a daughter too. Which begs the question, why didn't Israel have 13 tribes? But, again - ours is not to ask at that tender age. Being raised a Southern Baptist I was encouraged to make a stand early on regarding my decision to follow Christ's teaching - I didn't really have a choice in the following part, but at the age of 6 I realized I might not make it to an adult age - having been as sick as I was all the time and I wanted to be sure that if anything happened, if I was sent to the hospital again and forced to breath from inside a plastic tent like I was, I wanted to be sure I was going to be able to see Jesus - and I made that point very clear to my Mom. Dad wasn't much help in that area - he always referred religious questions over to Mom, but he was there when I was baptised.
In the Southern Baptist faith a kid can't be baptised until they become a Christian, which literally means they have to give their heart and soul to Christ through prayer, and in most cases they're required to make it public by coming to the front of the church and asking to be publicly baptized. Although my kids were raised in the Baptist church, Caity was baptized in a creek in a wilderness reserve - of course, and there was nothing public about it - she wasn't raised a Southern Baptist. I was raised in the Southern Baptist church and therefore, when the time came, I was baptized in the big tank of water just behind the pulpit on the stage - you've seen them in pictures. Usually a big painted mural of the Jordan River is behind the plastic or in my case the metal tub-like pool - and I was asked to undress to wear the white robe that would be "washed" with me. My mom made me a little white dress too, she was good like that.
The day came, and I was presented to the church commonly. I was asked two questions before everyone - Do you know beyond any doubt that if you were to die today that God would take you to His Heaven? How do you know? I answered in the affirmative on the first question, and didn't hesitate a second on the last - because He said He would and I believe Him - that's a good answer from a snot-nosed brat - right? I was led into the metal pool. Just as I stepped off the last step the water encased me. I was just a little shy of being tall enough to be able to set my feet on the bottom of the pool and still be seen by the audience. No problem - I was hoisted up by the preacher! He held me, laughed, and as he was talking he even made a little hand gesture over the water and scooped up a little brown spider that was crawling its way up the glass of the tank. With a chuckle and a wave, I was lowered again, this time horizontally, and "raised to walk in newness of life."
Being a Baptist isn't a bad thing. I've returned to the church and am actively an attender - just not a member. The church holds more for me than it does for some I'm sure, but in my lowly, and self-aware opinion - NO other faith offers as much information about the history of the church, its people, its legend, its tradition, than that of the Southern Baptist - at least I know I usually beat the socks off anyone if they engage me in a trivia contest over the Old or New Testaments - at least I got that one covered. Another really cool thing about being a Baptist - we know about the Rapture, we don't have to rely on books about being Left Behind - although I love the series - I prefer the original.
Stomping on the Grounds!
I took my friend Niki (with my daughter Caity) over to the area where I was raised, over to 2212 N. Mueller, Bethany, Oklahoma - and of course, surrounding neighborhoods. I wanted to show them where it began, maybe given each of them a little more insight as to why I ended up free, easy-going, rather stubborn, a little independent - OK, a lot self reliant maybe, but it was the hood I was raised in, blame it on the environment. The 60's in Oklahoma weren't really all that different from what they were in say - Chicago....except Chicago probably didn't have real, live-dead Indian bones just over the hill, or chained off, quarantined government reservations that were both dangerous and illegal to be traipsing through - but maybe they did.
Bethany wasn't crowded, it was in fact quiet - rather homely, a little woodsy, the neighborhood trees were young, but the woods and fields outside of our immediate homestead were certainly full of loud creatures at night, and scurrying little furry ones during the day. Snakes, lizards, anything that could get away from me did, and I was the first and the best at getting up real early to see the deer jumping over the chain-link fence clearly marked GOVERNMENT PROPERTY - DO NOT TRESPASS. Good thing the deer couldn't read - I used the same excuse for years. I'd actually USE the sign to hoist myself over the fence in order to get a better look at what lay just beyond the forbidden passage - not much actually, not in reality, but in my mind - oh yes.... a great deal of adventure. Sometimes real, and sometimes made up, but always vivid - always explored.
When I was old enough to go to school I had a half-mile walk to get to the building, but it wasn't a straight walk, it wasn't even a paved road walk. My first grade teacher, who just happened to live across the street from me, walked my happy butt (not so happy most of the time if we couldn't play along the way) through the orchards, through the meadow, over the dirt road called Rockwell that today is a 4 lane divided street - cars and everything, and we often hunted squirrels and rabbits along the way. 1967 - a woman in her 70's teaching at the public schools in our town was still allowed to bring her loaded 12-gauge to class with her, and to allow her littlest charge to hold on to the ammo when she wasn't actually shooting dinner. No, I'm not making that up - that part was real. The made up part was her letting me shoot the gun - I could no more have held it than anything - but in my head I did. I was the great hunter, the rabbit - my prey!
The neighborhood has certainly changed. The trees seem overgrown now, often where there wasn't a house before their are entire new sections of development, absolutely no orchards remain, and very little semblance to the days I used to hide out in the wickedly twisted creek rather than going to class - gone are the signs restricting anyone from venturing onto the grounds. That reservation became a park - and get this, it's still dangerous and illegal at night! I think God has something to do with that one, burial grounds should be sacred - or at least left alone so small children and deer can trespass just after dawn.
I drove the car slowly through the exact route that my good friends and I would take from 2212 N. Mueller, all the way to Dunkin Doughnuts on 39th Street, just east of Meridian - of course, I couldn't take the car over the fences, or through the backyards, and in one route diversion - through the living room of a friend's house, but I could go the way we usually walked if we had to walk like the kids do on Charlie Brown shows - taking corners very rigidly. Three point eight miles is the estimated distance - at 7, 8, 9, and 10 years of age - I'm surprised I'm even alive to write this blog - but those were different times. There was a day in 1966, I was just 4 and 1/2 years old, when my mom and I were on our way (walking just under three miles) to the bank to make a deposit - cash. The door wasn't opened for us, instead a very nice man tipped his hat at my mom. He held the door closed and told her she didn't need to make her deposit at this time. His buddy was making a "withdraw", he explained, and their car was still running - just outside the door.
That probably wouldn't happen in Chicago either - but it happened in Bethany that day. When I think about those days - when I let my mind wander - I love Oklahoma.
Bethany wasn't crowded, it was in fact quiet - rather homely, a little woodsy, the neighborhood trees were young, but the woods and fields outside of our immediate homestead were certainly full of loud creatures at night, and scurrying little furry ones during the day. Snakes, lizards, anything that could get away from me did, and I was the first and the best at getting up real early to see the deer jumping over the chain-link fence clearly marked GOVERNMENT PROPERTY - DO NOT TRESPASS. Good thing the deer couldn't read - I used the same excuse for years. I'd actually USE the sign to hoist myself over the fence in order to get a better look at what lay just beyond the forbidden passage - not much actually, not in reality, but in my mind - oh yes.... a great deal of adventure. Sometimes real, and sometimes made up, but always vivid - always explored.
When I was old enough to go to school I had a half-mile walk to get to the building, but it wasn't a straight walk, it wasn't even a paved road walk. My first grade teacher, who just happened to live across the street from me, walked my happy butt (not so happy most of the time if we couldn't play along the way) through the orchards, through the meadow, over the dirt road called Rockwell that today is a 4 lane divided street - cars and everything, and we often hunted squirrels and rabbits along the way. 1967 - a woman in her 70's teaching at the public schools in our town was still allowed to bring her loaded 12-gauge to class with her, and to allow her littlest charge to hold on to the ammo when she wasn't actually shooting dinner. No, I'm not making that up - that part was real. The made up part was her letting me shoot the gun - I could no more have held it than anything - but in my head I did. I was the great hunter, the rabbit - my prey!
The neighborhood has certainly changed. The trees seem overgrown now, often where there wasn't a house before their are entire new sections of development, absolutely no orchards remain, and very little semblance to the days I used to hide out in the wickedly twisted creek rather than going to class - gone are the signs restricting anyone from venturing onto the grounds. That reservation became a park - and get this, it's still dangerous and illegal at night! I think God has something to do with that one, burial grounds should be sacred - or at least left alone so small children and deer can trespass just after dawn.
I drove the car slowly through the exact route that my good friends and I would take from 2212 N. Mueller, all the way to Dunkin Doughnuts on 39th Street, just east of Meridian - of course, I couldn't take the car over the fences, or through the backyards, and in one route diversion - through the living room of a friend's house, but I could go the way we usually walked if we had to walk like the kids do on Charlie Brown shows - taking corners very rigidly. Three point eight miles is the estimated distance - at 7, 8, 9, and 10 years of age - I'm surprised I'm even alive to write this blog - but those were different times. There was a day in 1966, I was just 4 and 1/2 years old, when my mom and I were on our way (walking just under three miles) to the bank to make a deposit - cash. The door wasn't opened for us, instead a very nice man tipped his hat at my mom. He held the door closed and told her she didn't need to make her deposit at this time. His buddy was making a "withdraw", he explained, and their car was still running - just outside the door.
That probably wouldn't happen in Chicago either - but it happened in Bethany that day. When I think about those days - when I let my mind wander - I love Oklahoma.
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