I Write

I want to write today.

I want to write today, but I don't know what to write.

I want to add another episode to my short story that seems to be gaining some momentum. But I can't seem to get into my characters' heads today. I can't decide how the main character should spill some important news to her best friend. I can't decide how she should tell her or how her friend should react, or what either of them will do or say.

I want to write a piece about my son's wonderful experiences through scouting, but with my disappointment about their policy in regards to gay leaders. I want to put aside the stance on that issue and focus on writing about the beautiful photos I took out at the camp last weekend, and how the scout and scout leaders' experiences there over the years makes it as peaceful and at-home as their own backyards. But I don't know how to separate one from the other, and reconcile the duality one feels when they believe so much in an overall organization but question their stance on a specific issue.

I want to write an article for a professional publication, and start building my academic writing resume so I can pursue the next phase of my career in higher education. But I can't decide what the subject of that article should be.

I want to write about my husband on a journey this weekend- twenty plus hour road trip with a friend he hasn't seen in over twenty years. They drove from Florida to Pennsylvania to attend a funeral and memorial for one of their high school buddies who was killed in a motor cycle accident last week. It's a fascinating situation to me- tragic circumstance leads to reconnecting old friends. But I'm still waiting for details beyond the roadside phone calls during the trip.

I want to write today. A poem, a story, an article, an excerpt.

But today, I settle for a blog post.

I wrote today.

Tomorrow

You may want to read my post Tonight, from last March before reading this post. It's sort of a continuation.

You want love? We'll make it/ Swim in a deep sea of blankets...
She awoke with a pleasing smile to the sound of John Mayer on the alarm clock. Her eyes opened to the reality of a night she couldn't forget. She looked around the room seeking affirmation that it was all a dream. The wine, the jazz, the vodka. The guy. She surveyed the room for evidence. It was all there; her black silk dress dripping over the chair in the corner, and her sling backs on the floor by the closet door. And of course the mirror. Another fight, another cracked mirror. Though she wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved, she knew it wasn't a dream. Really, there was never any doubt. What now?, she said aloud with her forehead in her hand. 

She could see that Mark had slept home but she didn't remember him coming in, which could only mean she made it home and passed out before he even arrived. He probably didn't even notice the dress and the shoes. Probably wouldn't have given it any thought if he had. Pompous bastard would think she was dressed for him. She could hear the shower and smell his body wash. Saturday. That meant golf. A half hour of small talk and a cup of coffee is all she had to withstand. Then he'd be gone for the day and she could try to remember how her night ended, and how she got home. She was so preoccupied she didn't even care to discuss what time Mark got home or how his "case" was going.

In the shower, Mark was preparing his opening argument for this morning's charges. As cheaters do, he was going over his story, practicing what he'd say and predicting what she'd say in response. When he was satisfied that he had his facts straight, he rinsed the last of the lather, turned off the water, and dried off. Carefully wrapping himself in the plush towel, he made sure to tuck it in just low enough that his hips barely held it on. Exposure of his washboard abs and a hint of his tan line would at least suggest he was interested in make-up sex. It was a game they played. He knew she'd shut him out and he was grateful because the only thing on his mind this morning was getting out of the house and over to the the golf course with his buddies.

A bit glazed over and lost in her thoughts, she put on her robe and tied her hair up in a knot. "I'll go put on some coffee," she said and quickly walked downstairs, after checking on the kids who were still sleeping. Surprised he got off that easy, but unwilling to find out why, he let her go, telling her he'd be down in a minute.

Downstairs they barely said a word to one another, just took their vitamins and drank their coffee. "There's fresh granola from the bakery if you're hungry," she offered knowing he would decline.

"You okay?" he asked her reluctantly with fear he might actually have to hear why she wasn't.

"Fine," she answered genuinely as she recalled a moment from the jazz club when the bartender called her a knock out. She was thinking about the man she met last night.

"Good. See you tonight." He kissed her on her cheek, grabbed a bottle of water, and he was gone. At just about the same moment she was giving thought to it herself, he came back in and asked why she left her car in the driveway. "You know how it pisses me off when I have to move your car to get mine out of the garage!"

"Um," she was searching for the honest answer. All she could retort was, "I went out for a drink with the girls and I didn't want the garage door to wake the kids when I got home." She suddenly recalled that the bartender drove her home. He was the one who left her car in the driveway. It really didn't matter though because Mark would interpret it as a deliberate move to get back at him for not coming home for their date night last night. She didn't care what he thought, and besides, she did go out for a drink. So what if her friends weren't with her. He slammed the door behind him and she declared in a loud whisper, "Asshole."

She was happy to have some time to herself to review the events of her evening out. She was grateful not to be hungover, and decided to take her coffee upstairs and run a hot shower. Maybe the steam would help her defog. She walked by the broken mirror and made a mental note to call the company who replaced the last one she broke. Then she smiled as she picked up her silk and put it in the dry cleaning basket. It was all starting to come back to her. She left her mug on the counter and stepped into the shower. She sighed in relief as she assured herself the bartender drove her home, let her in the house and called for a cab. Nothing happened. Well actually, that depends on how you define nothing. She hadn't been unfaithful. She didn't sleep with him or even kiss him. But, she wanted to. She felt an intimacy with him that had long been absent from her marriage to Mark. The way he looked at her. The way he listened. The way he looked at her. She allowed herself a few more minutes to relax and daydream. Then it was on with her day. It was a nice night, but today was all about her kids. They had plans for lunch and the pool with Rachel and her kids.

***

She and Rachel had been friends for years, longer back than their memories. Their kids loved each other like cousins and were excited about their play date. "Mommy," a voice called from the back seat. "Is Aunt Rachel making a watermelon boat?" Her kids loved fresh fruit and Rachel was a regular Martha Stewart.

"I'm sure she is. She knows it's your favorite."

"What about lemonade? Is she making her own lemonade?"

"Let's see when we get there, okay? Did you remember to put an extra t-shirt in the bag?" Two gleeful voices responded in unison.

"Yes!"

Spending the day at Rachel's was great for all of them. Watching their kids grow up together always prompted warm memories and colorful childhood stories. It was a great way to keep her mind off last night. No matter how hard she tried so far it wasn't working. She wondered if she could get through the afternoon without telling her best friend, and by the time they arrived she had decided she shouldn't have to. If she couldn't tell Rachel, she couldn't tell anyone, and if she couldn't tell anyone, she thought she'd explode. "Alright, everyone out. Make sure you grab your towels and I'll get the bag. Remember, no running through the house in your wet bathing suits. When you get out of the pool, dry off!"

Rachel opened the door before they made it up the path. The kids went running and screaming and there were hugs and kisses all around. As the kids went out back, the moms sat on the patio sipping lemonade and cautiously admiring their beautiful children. "So how was the theater last night?"

"Terrific, Rachel explained. The lead was phenomenal. What a voice! How about you? Why were you so anxious to go out last night? What happened to Mark?" She asked knowing the answer. Rachel knew her like no one else did, and that included the state of her marriage. "He didn't come home? Not even for date night?" She tried to appear angry  in response to Rachel's questions, but her friend wasn't buying her act. "Weren't you pissed?"

"I was."

"But you're not now? What was his excuse?"

"Come on Rachel, does it matter what his excuse was? We both know what he was doing."

"Bastard. How long are you going to put up with his crap? I know you're worried about the kids. But I'm worried about you." She had been there through it all. Rachel was there when she and Mark met, and she was the maid of honor at her wedding. She knew her friend wasn't happy.

"I know Rachel. But..." She was trying to find the words to tell her friend about her night on the town. Just when she thought she was ready, they were distracted.

"Mooooom!" It was a call of many voices meant for both of them. Their children were lined up along the wall at the deep side of the pool. They both looked over and heard, "3-2-1- Can-non-ball!" All five children thrust themselves into the air and hit the water for a giant collective splash. The moms laughed as the water sprayed over them. They remembered doing the same thing as kids.

"Now, what were you going to say?" Rachel tried to coax her friend into sharing what was on her mind.

"I was so mad. As much as an ass as he's been, he never misses Friday date night. I shattered another mirror."

"Eeek."

"Yeah, but then I put on the dress."

Rachel gasped, "The dress?"

"Yup, and then I went to Blue Velvet." It had been years, but the two of them frequented Blue Velvet quite a bit in their single days. Before all of the ladies got married, they'd meet there for drinks several times a week. "The music was fantastic. I forgot how much we loved that place."

"Why do I get the feeling from your face that there's more to tell?" She smiled at Rachel. Nobody knows you like a friend you grew up with. It was time to spill the beans.

A Purge and a Promise

It's been a long time since I've blogged, longer than I thought. It's been almost two months. I've been caught up in the chaos of my life, feeling uninspired, unmotivated, and worse yet, guilty for feeling paralyzed by the not so catastrophic crises if my life. At a recent gathering of my writing circle, my friend Natalie reminded me of the absurdity of comparing our personal muck to one another's. To minimize or invalidate our own feelings of unhappiness by comparing them to the "worse" or seemingly more extreme circumstances of our friends and acquaintances, is to deny ourselves the right to feel what we are feeling. It denies us the right to the human experience.

Lately, I have been living my life, just going through the motions as they say, rather than living in the moments. I have not been finding, or honestly even been looking for things to celebrate, to inspire me, or to write about. It's a rather sad existence, one I am determined to make temporary as I grab ahold of myself and shake it out of me. I never wanted my blog to be a place to whine or complain. The reality is however, that I'm feeling relatively uninspired and rather than resolve not to write for another two, three, however many months, I've decided to plow through by writing what's on my mind. Quite frankly, when my friend Helen and I set out on a journey last year, to make writing a daily part of our lives by starting a writing circle and getting our blogs going, never did we say all kicks and giggles. We just said, let's write.

So first a purge, then a promise:

Purge:

I've been working too much and too hard. I took a new job that is quite challenging. I'm not sure it's exactly what I want. In some ways it's what I didn't want, the things that kept me from joining the admin pool in public school. It has it's rewards too though, and the people I work with are terrific. But when I interviewed I thought it was a new job for the new school year. I didn't realize I was going to have to leave my job of 7 years (and all the colleagues-turned-friends and smiling faces that became so routine it was like being home away from home) six weeks before school got out. I didn't realize even though I had already accepted 12 weeks of adjunct work for the late spring and summer, I was going to have a full time job on top of that. I didn't realize how much I have come to depend on downtime during the summer to treat my sleep deprivation, my vitamin D deficiency, and my writing spirit. I sure do realize now. Though I have the pleasure of double income over the summer, and an increase from my last job, money does not buy you time or relaxation when you work full time. 

Working all summer was going to suck, but it would all be ok because I expected to be in a brand new home. That's the next best thing to vacation, right? Moving into a brand new home. Our house was up on the market and within a couple of weeks of starting above mentioned job, we got a buyer! Negotiations started, a contract was drawn up, and a closing date was scheduled. We packed boxes, sold furniture, had a garage sale and donated unneeded items. We found a house in a neighborhood we loved and could afford, with the down payment made up largely from the proceeds of the sale of the home we were selling. Two days before the scheduled closing, we packed up a U-Haul, moved out, cleaned up, and went to stay with my gracious sister-in-law and brother-in-law. All was good. We were slightly inconvenienced, but it would all be worth it in a few days when we unlocked the door to our new home. So we waited patiently.

And we waited. And waited some more. The closing date was pushed a few more days and a few more days. Don't worry their realtor told us via our realtor, they're cleared to close. Just details he insisted. So our realtor helped stave off the company selling us our new home. People behind the scenes worked hard to try to keep all the pieces together for us, as the closing kept getting pushed. We had now been living with my sister-in-law for 2 weeks. My husband was a train wreck. We couldn't stand to come home at night. NOT because of his wonderful sister and her husband, but because once the day's business was over, it was another day gone by with no closing. 

We had just about thrown in the towel, given up on everything. Then over breakfast at Perkins, we decided to become a team again.  Arguing and crying all week really did a number on us and we weren't feeling like ourselves. We talked, hugged, held hands, and decided everything would be ok. It'll happen. We just had to be patient. We rented a storage unit to unload the U-Haul that we had now had for 10 days, racking up fees to the sum of near $800. Before you call us crazy, remember we were originally thinking two days at my sister-in-law's with a U-Haul was better than unloading into storage and moving again. Our closing dates were originally scheduled for two consecutive days. But now, there was no telling what would happen. So after that breakfast at Perkins, we moved into the storage and returned the U-Haul. The guy actually felt bad for us and knocked two days off the bill. Drop in the bucket, but kind of him nonetheless. The weekend wasn't so bad.

I don't remember if it was Monday or Tuesday, but it doesn't matter. My realtor, also a dear friend, called me at work and I could hear it in her voice. What happened? The buyers lost their financing and it was all over. Both deals dead. Just like that. Buyers without financing equals no sale. No sale equals no down payment money. We spent the next two days moving back into the same house, and we've been here ever since. Minimal furniture, ten percent of my kitchen, no personal photos or decor, and our house back on the market. There seems to be more to the story about the buyers, but honestly I don't give a crap anymore. Knowing what happened won't change the series of events. Most of our things are still stored in the hopes the house will sell again soon. There's no way we're unpacking to pack again.

Finally, I've developed some weird anxiety in the past month. I'm not prepared to go into detail here, because it's a very specific and irrational anxiety I seem to have developed in response to certain images to which I was exposed. I know that sounds cryptic, but the best way I can explain it is to tell you to think of a time you saw or heard something traumatic or disturbing, and you just couldn't get it out of your head. Now imagine it stuck in your head, and causing nausea, sweating, or just nerves. That's what has happened to me. I've never had any kind of clinical anxiety issues in the past, never suffered from clinical OCD or phobias. But this anxiety is a mild case of that kind of thing and it's really upsetting to me. I'm finding coping mechanisms and the longer time goes since I saw the images, the more the anxiety seems to dissipate. I'm not sure if it's the issue itself, or the fact that I'm having the issue that's bothering me more. Those who know I me, know I'm a bit of a control freak. I was talking to my husband about it, and I can't seem to separate the two. Either way, it's very real and very unsettling.

So the summer of transition, or what I hoped to be the gateway to the next exciting phase in my life- new home, new job- has become a disappointment. I try not to minimize my feelings by saying it's not a big deal, my family is healthy, my marriage is strong, blah blah. Because while all of that is true, Natalie reminded me that I'm allowed to be disappointed, saddened, deflated about my current circumstances. Yes, there are people in the world who are experiencing far more catastrophic things, but my shitty circumstances are shitty for me. And I am allowed to feel shitty about it!

And with that, I am purged of the crappiness of this summer and ready to make a promise.

Promise:

I've got to find some inspiration again. In two weeks, both of my summer obligations will be over and I'll be back to just work. I say just work, because one of the nice things about my new job is that because I am no longer a classroom teacher, I usually leave work empty handed. I think about work, and stress about things that need to be done, the way others do. But I don't have papers to grade or lesson plans. I work balls to the wall all day, and then I leave and come home. I don't have to do anything until I get back the next day. 

I promise myself, with you as my witnesses, that I will find inspiration again.

The NWP Summer Institute starts tomorrow. My friend and colleague, Stacey and I, are facilitating together. We have planned all sessions for the next two weeks, and I'm involved once again in my passion, writing. I look forward to participating with the other teachers and drawing on them for inspiration. I will be writing.

I promise myself, with you as my witnesses, that I will find inspiration again.

I have started several pieces and I have a journal page filled with ideas for new writing. I'm going to write more. I may work on a book, start a new study, or just continue with daily blogging, but I'm going to write. It feeds me, and starving myself of it does not help solve my problems or make them go away. Even if my writing is filled with sadness, I will write. I'm not going to worry about my mood or what others want to hear. When we do this, our writing can become disingenuous. Pat Schneider says all writing starts as nonfiction. If we write our stories and our feelings, and things the way we remember them, we can always alter details for the sake of story later. 

I promise myself, with you as my witnesses, that I will find inspiration again.

I look forward to the next meeting of my writing circle. These women give me the courage to write and to feel. They listen without judgment, they support without obligation, they write and they share and they write some more. I can't wait until our next meeting.

I'm going to chase my dreams and put plans in place to help make them come true. Starting now. 

Gone

Miles won't come between us

you're gone 

but not forgotten.

Forgotten are the days giggling, 

playing, 

telling secrets.

Can I tell you one now?

I was forgotten a few times,

quickly not gradually,

out of sight out of mind.

Like a passing car on the highway 

or a bird in flight overhead.

When will you be back?

Call when you're coming.

We'd love to see you.

But no one journeys here.

No one really wants to know.

It hurts to leave,

to say goodbye...

at fourteen

at twenty-two

at forty-one.

The sun still rises and

sets.

Days come and 

go.

Months and years pass by

and life goes on,

with or without 

you.

Change

Change is inevitable. At least, that's what they say. We all know (or are) people who do not deal well with change. Why do some people fear change so much? I suppose it is fear of the unknown. The devil you know is better than the devil you don't I guess. Me, I like change. A new house, a new job, a new friend, a new book, new restaurant- they all open up endless possibilities.

My husband says when it comes to my career I have a seven year itch. To look at my work history you would likely agree. I guess eventually you get to a time in your job, or even a home or a relationship, when you feel like you cannot grow anymore. Sometimes it is because you feel trapped or suffocated, maybe it is just because the job or place or relationship has run its course. Some people do not want to grow, or they are afraid of growth. Perhaps they are afraid to outgrow a person or place of comfort, some place they love or feel comfortable. They plant their roots, grow deep and solid, and they stay where they are forever. Some cultures value, even revere it… the old the man who lives in the house in which his father was raised, the business that has been in a family for generations, it is all quite commendable. But there is something to be said for changing too- growing up, moving on, shaking things up a bit. Sometimes we need to cut the cord, spread our wings, take a giant leap!

Great pep talk, huh? This week I made a change. Actually, I have made several changes. My life is in the midst of half a dozen changes. I left my job of seven years (yup, the itch), my house is about to get sold, I started a new job, and I am awaiting approval on a mortgage for a new house. I have a teenager learning to drive, a brand new schedule, and an aging body of 40+1 that among other things has brought gray hair and acne. But some changes we have little control over.

I have to admit, I have never felt so ambivalent about a job change before. I never felt nervous, or worried. I did not leave my first day feeling excited or invigorated about the endless ideas and projects I could be working on in the future, though these possibilities do exist. However, I did not feel regret about the decision, or negative vibes about my new co-workers. Many of them have told me repeatedly how happy they are that I am there. Maybe it is everything I have going in my life right now. Maybe it is the ease in approach with which I have been handled. I am a jump right in person. I am a you hired me because I can do this person. I do not want to be tethered or handled, I want to get going. I do not want to be gradually released, I want to be cut loose. I do not want hours of orientation, I want on the job training.

I wonder if this is the right place for me, the right job. I do not feel unhappy. I do not feel nervous or scared. I just feel meh. That is an unusual feeling for me. I am high energy- active mind, collaborative nature. For me, meh just does not cut it. So now what? Only time will tell. We acclimate to some changes more quickly than others. Some change just takes time. Patience has never been one of my best qualities (thanks, Dad). Waiting to feel good about work, wanting to finalize the sale of our house, waiting to move to our new house, waiting on some important professional news, it is a lot of waiting.

There is one thing in my life that will never change- the one constant thing in my life- my family, all of them. I am married to my best friend, my partner in life. Like everything else we have experienced together, we will make it through these changes. Side by side, hand in hand, holding each other up, this too shall pass.

Three Years in Three Hours

     "You ready?"

     "If I get caught, my parents are gonna kill me." I had never done anything illegal before. Actually, that's a lie. Technically, speeding is illegal. So is drinking before you turn twenty-one. Alright, so is smoking pot, but not for long.

     "It's no big deal. I did it last year in Detroit, and I never got caught." 

     "Oh, of course. That means here in Miami, I'll never get caught." Great logic. I looked at my roommate and saw the face of John Bender in Breakfast Club. "Being bad, feels pretty good, huh?" But I was not Molly Ringwald, and nothing about this felt good. As a teenager I did a pretty good job staying out of trouble, avoiding peer pressure. Why now? Why less than a year before my twenty-first birthday had I decided this was it?

     Allison turned the engine off, I took a deep breath, and we got out of the car prepared to spend a couple of hours at the DMV. With a crackdown on fake ID's around the college bars, this was the only way to guarantee full access. Gone was the old school art of peeling back the melted plastic layers of drivers licenses and altering the date of birth to make the holder legal. No longer was it good enough to find someone legal who kinda looked like you, and beg them to lose their license so you could find it. It was go big or go home. 

***

     By the second week of sophomore year, Allison was bragging to everyone around campus how she got her unchallengeable fake, but not-so-fake ID. She took the papers of a relative, went down to the DMV and convinced them she lost her license. She got her picture taken, they gave her a new license, and she walked out the door. No biggie. "It was easy," she insisted. Back before digital photos and ID cards, there was no permanent record of what people looked like at the DMV. As long as you had the right documents there was no disputing you were who you said you were. At least that's what my roommate told me.

     There was only one person I could ask to let me do this, and if I got caught there would be a world of hurt brought down on both of us. If I was going to take a risk this big, it had to be someone who was as close to me and I could get, someone whose persona I could wear believably. I called my sister, Jamie, and asked her to help me commit fraud. That's not actually what I asked. It was more like pleading a case. I repeated all the things my roommate said to me. "It's foolproof!" 

     "What are you stupid? You don't even really drink." She was right. I hated beer, and I needed control. Staying sober while out with my friends helped me stay away from the bloated feeling of barley and hops, and insured we all had a safe ride home. "So what the hell do you need a fake ID for? You'll be twenty-one in less than a year." She thought I was nuts. Heck, I thought I was nuts. But I pressed on.

     "I don't even need it to drink, I just want to be able to get in. All the best bars are 21 and over." I said it so matter-of-factly as though it was actually a good argument. I really never did drink much. I would stand around talking to my friends, smoke a half a pack of Marlboro Lights, and watch everyone get drunk. But dammit, I needed the ID to do it. It was simple. All she had to do was give me her Social Security Card and birth certificate, and then run down a list of anything and everything that might appear on her driving record. "And you have to swear you'll never tell mom and dad. Even if you're pissed at me for something." Somehow she agreed, maybe because she doubted I could pull it off and wanted to see what would happen. Who knows. But she gave in, with one caveat:

     "If you get caught, I'm playing dumb and you have to tell mom and dad you stole my stuff."

     "Deal." 

     I spent about a week memorizing her social security number, and learning all the things on her driving record. Her tickets, Dad doesn't call her leadfoot for nothing. The fact that she held a license in three different states, that she's had this car and that registered in her name. I was ready.

***

     If I could suppress the rising vomit in my throat and the guilty look in my eye, I would be 21 in a couple of hours. I took a last studious glance at my sister's Social Security card and gripped the documents in one hand. Allison opened the door and a chilling gust of air blew over my face. The Florida air conditioning would guarantee I stayed chilled and on edge. I took a number and we sat down. I continued to repeat the social security number in my head and tried not to think about what would happen if I got caught. I'm not sure I had ever been more nervous in my life, except maybe the night I lost my virginity. But at least that wasn't illegal. I thought about leaving, but I was too scared to move. My number was finally called, and I stepped up to the counter trying to act nonchalant. 

     "Hi. Um. I need a new license."

     "What happened to your license?"

     "I lost it."

     "Do you have any photo ID?"

     "No, all I had was my license." I swallowed. The lump in my throat continued to rise. I tried not to look nervous. "But I have this." I showed her the birth certificate and Social Security card. She had really long, dark, brick red nails. She placed her hand over my papers and slid them over to her side of the counter. She clicked around, flipped through the papers, and never made eye contact. For this I was grateful.

     "Have you ever had a vehicle registered in your name?" I was relieved because I knew the answer. 

     "Yes. A Nissan Sentra hatchback." I let out some of the breath I had been holding.

     "What color?"

     "Blue."

     "Was it ever in an accident?" Shit! I didn't study that, but I remembered. 

     "Yes." This was the reason my sister was a good choice for identity sharing. Many of her memories were also my own. The inquisition continued.

     "Have you ever been licensed to drive in another state?"

     "Yes, in New York and New Jersey." The questions continued and I banged them out one by one. My confidence rose and I was pretty sure I had gotten through the toughest part of this ordeal. She gave me my papers back, and pointed with her long red nail across the room.

     "Take a seat over there and wait to be called for your photo." I waved over my friend and we sat waiting to be called for my photo. I was almost finished. It's funny how guilty you feel when you know you're doing something wrong. I was relieved because at this point I had passed for my sister. I had recalled the important facts of her identity and her driving record. 

     As soon as I saw them, I thought I was caught. They would have no way of knowing what I was up to, but they walked in and I froze. Three uniformed police officers came in talking and laughing. They stepped up to the same counter I was waiting to be called to. Here they are, I thought. I didn't fool the lady with the long nails, like I thought I had. She called them and they're here for me. I could feel the fear and the flush in my cheeks. I looked at Allison and we looked like two stoned teenagers running into cops at midnight in Dunkin Donuts. Like two deer in the headlights. My number was called and we stepped into line right behind them. The lump in my throat was back, and I thought I was going to puke.

     "Go ahead." One of the officers waved me in front of them. I didn't dare say no. I nodded and proceeded to the counter in front of them, wondering why they had waved me on. It turns out they were there getting their photos retaken for new police ID badges. I took another deep breath, and I handed another woman my papers. She pointed me toward one of those background screens. I stood as calmly as I could and fixed my eyes on the spot where she directed me to look. Click. Flash. Done. I walked in Sharon Daniels, 20 and walked out Jamie Daniels, 23, Stone Cold Outlaw.

Earliest Memories

Forever on my journey as writer, teacher of writing, and professional development consultant in teaching writing, I am reading a book in preparation for my work this summer with graduate students. We selected this book, one of two texts for the course, on recommendation from the NWP site director at Morehead in Kentucky. Writing Alone and with Others by Pat Schneider is absolutely wonderful, and I am enjoying interacting with it and getting to know the content. Throughout the book, there are several writing and thinking exercises, and the first one I found a bit challenging. Schneider suggests writing with as many details as you can recall, about your earliest memory- your recollection of being an individual person. This can be difficult because so many of our early childhood memories are those given to us by our parents, implanted on our brains through stories of "Remember that time?" or "I remember the first time you..." I really had to go back.

I know I used to scare the crap out of my mom as an infant, by holding by breath when I didn't want to eat something (I was a picky eater from the get go), but that I loved plums. I know that my sister used to call me Wawie, and my parents would say, "No, Lau-rie," and she would respond, "Yeah, Wawie," and they'd laugh. I know that I attended playgroup (in home daycare) with a group of neighborhood kids who became my buddies in elementary school. I know my mom met my best friend's mom in the hospital because we were a week apart and my mom had to stay in the hospital because she had a C-section (that used to be a major thing). But all of these are memories given to me by my family. I don't actually have any memory of any of it. My husband on the otherhand recalls lying on a changing table at daycare and looking out the window to see his parents coming in to pick him up. Wow, that is a very early childhood memory!

What stuck with me as I rewound the days of my early childhood, was the part when Schneider asked, Can you remember when you were first aware of yourself as an individual person? Wow. When do I recall thinking of myself as an individual person. That's more than a vague memory, more than a story your parents tell about when you were little. I tried to get back there, and the earliest clear memory I could pull up with details, was when I was three or four years old and attending Beth HaGan nursery school at Temple Israel in Great Neck, Long Island where I grew up.

    Temple Israel, Great Neck, NY

The building was large. Not like a school, dfferent. Wide space when you walked in the school side entrance, there were early childhood classrooms forward and all the way to the right before continuing through a threshhold into an open lobby area. That was where the grand entrance (shown above) was, and where the sanctuaries and ballrooms were. Religious school classrooms were immediately to the left. The doors were the way many of us remember old school doors to be, wooden with a glass window opening almost the entire top half of the door to glances from passersby.

The classroom in my memory is big, though this may be due to how small I was at the time. The wall opposite the door was mostly windows, maybe to the parking lot or a playground. This part I do not recollect. But the room, ah the room was filled from one end to the other with what might now be considered toys and play areas to the modern pre-school. But they were important parts of child development and learning to the nursery school of the 1970's (I'll make no commentary here about what was and what should be). An entire play kitchen equipped with miniature wooden appliances, cabinets, and counters- yes wood. Ne'er do I remember a single injury, not even a splinter. We somehow survived. There were dolls and puppets, dress-up costumes, hats, shoes, and jewelry. There were lots and lots of blocks, solid wood blocks.

The rugs were colorful, and they provided the perfect area to lay your blanket out at rest hour- it was never called naptime. Though I am unable to recall anything about the way she looked or sounded, I do remember an endearing Morah Doris (Morah, pronounced mo-rah, means teacher in Hebrew. Most preschool age children in the 70's who went out of the home for "school" did so at their church or temple. I went to my temple). I have many vague memories of my experience there, but two things stand out to me most about Beth HaGan (loosely translated, beth hagan means the youth house or home to the youth). The first is a phase my Morah went through, when almost daily during rest hour she would play a record of Prokofiev's Peter and the Wolf. I cannot remember whether she read along with the record. 

    This version of Peter and the Wolf was very popular during the time period. 

To be honest, she didn't need to read the story, the music said it all. Even as a three or four year old, I knew the sound of the French horns. It was the intimidating and ominous sound of the wolf coming in and out of the story, and it terrified me! I would bury my head in my satiny ice blue blanket squeezing my eyes tight, waiting for it to end. Waiting for the flute to indicate the birds were back, or the violins that played when Peter was strolling along. I never told anyone. I never cried. I cannot recall if I would eventually doze into a nap or just ride it out, lying there awake and uncomfortable. But I can picture the record player. It was common in schools up through the 80's. It was a dark gray box-like model, where all of the parts were contained in the bottom, and a shallow lid would be taken off in order to play the records. The lid could be placed back on and secured with a buckle snap lock, and moved around from one outlet to another because the speaker was contained in the box. I miss the sound of crackling records, maybe not Peter and the Wolf specifically, but records in general. Even today though, hearing that piece even from a world renowned symphony, demonstrates for me the power of music to transcend space and time and place you back into a memory. It brings a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes.

The second memory I have of Beth HaGan is Friday mornings. Friday at sundown is Shabbat, the Jewish sabbath. Every Friday morning in nursery school we would each braid and make our very own individual challahs. Golden challah, egg bread, a staple at Jewish holiday and Sabbath dinner tables (except during Passover). At Beth HaGan we got to make our own. Morah would issue each of us a sheet of wax paper on which she would then place a blob of dough about the size of an adult fist. We would divide our dough into three parts and roll each part into snakes, equal in length. Then we would lay two snakes out from a point like sides of a triangle, one tip pressed on top of the other, and add the third one down the center with the tip pressed over the other two. The memory is so clear, I can smell the yeasty dough. FInally, we would braid the three pieces, over and under, all the way down to create the traditional Jewish challah. Morah Doris would then take them away on a tray and bake them. Before we were picked up from school at about noon, we were given our tiny loaves of challah to take home for Shabbat, some smaller than others because kids would always nip at the dough for tiny tastes.

         A full-size traditional challah.

Beth HaGan at temple Israel was the place I started so many things-my education both secular and religious, an understanding of my culture, friendships that would be an important part of my childhood. I remember attending children's services on Shabbat and during holidays. I also remember all kinds of special musical programs and events. I became a Bat Mitzvah at this same temple about 10 years after this memory, just before my 13th birthday.

My mom, sister, and me at a children's Shabbat service. Mom is lighting the Shabbat candles.