Precious

Groundbreaking. Unforgettable. Shattering. Don't miss "Precious" at Maiden Alley Cinema

Reindeer Games on Truman Drive

As always, I posted a link to my last entry on Facebook and it sparked a discussion about whether or not there exists any photographic evidence of me in my teacher garb. Sadly, I don't believe any pictures were ever taken; all that elaborate imaginary gaming was so the norm on Truman Drive as to go completely unnoticed. Just as me randomly engaging in five-minute handstands leaned against the hallway wall or studying my multiplication tables while sitting in the splits in order to prolong my stretch time was just another day in "Normal". Yes, the name of the town in which I lived.

It's occurring to me that I was a weird kid. Or, let's say, weirder than I ever before considered.

You see above Exhibit #2. Photographic evidence of my weirdness that DOES exist. That is me on the left and my cousin Diana on the right. I am still suffering from the Chocolate Hair virus. We are near to exactly the same age; a span of only three months separates our birth dates. We would have been 14-15 years old here (several years past my aforementioned teaching phase). This is our attempt at dressing terribly fashionably and then being insufferably cool posers while having our picture made by my mother with the 110 Kodak. We were far too haute to smile. It may be hard to tell by looking, but we have as much make-up on our faces as humanly possible; peer closely and you can tell our eyes are lined with what appears to be blue-gray crayon.

I have to, on some level, hand it to myself, I guarantee I staged that scene and masterminded both looks. As clothes go, it isn't too far off what was probably considered at least a little cool back then? I was an eager monthly student of all my Mom's Cosmos and Vogues and had my own subscription to Seventeen.

On the other hand....BWA HA HA! The flowers? No idea. Perhaps I thought them just the right additional touch. Baby's breath is, after all, so avante guarde. Kind of like those rich gold curtains and the plush, deep shag carpeting beneath our feet. It was the seventies, people. And we were rockin' it.

As it turned out, this was near the end of my time on Truman Drive. Six months after this picture was taken, my parents would split, and my connection to Diana interrupted in a way that, as life turned out, would not ever really recover. If you had told our younger selves that the day this picture was made, in June of 1978, we would not have believed you.

1801 Truman Drive

As it happens, I visited the exact site where this post took place just now. You see above, in all its glory, 1801 Truman Drive. My apologies for how dark that photo is [edited to add: this photo should appear somewhat improved now]. For various reasons, I do not have access to photo editing software and the house was terribly back lit (and I had only my bberry at the ready). You can likely tell the place is your average 1970s generican house, but like any one's childhood home (I lived there ages 7-15) it holds more memories for me than this beige exterior suggests. In my youth, the house was painted a barn red, was wood rather than vinyl sided, and those are not the original windows.

Like many houses on the frozen central Illinois tundra, the place features a full basement which equated for me to an enormous skating rink. Or rather it was what I THOUGHT was enormous at the time. (It is still enormous in my mind.) An average Saturday morning back in those days here would find me bounding out of bed, hopping down the steps, lacing on my skates, queueing up the soundtrack to, say, "Oklahoma" on my pea green record player and skating in endless circles as I sang along. I knew every word and note; the same can be said of the "Wizard of Oz" soundtrack, the "Sound of Music" soundtrack and others. I was a very show-tuney kid.

One corner of the basement was devoted full-time to my "classroom". In those days, there wasn't a doubt in my mind that I would grow up and be a teacher, an ambition that I now find abhorrent. Regardless, the corner classroom was elaborate and perpetually in session in case the mood struck me do to a little lecturing. I had a stand-up chalkboard, a bulletin board that changed seasonally (themed--pumpkins in October, snowflakes in the winter, hearts in February, etc.), my teacher's desk, an authentic gradebook just like the teachers used, curriculum books, and desks filled with my dolls and stuffed animals as students. Each student had a profile, there was the "smart" student, my doll, Elizabeth, the middle-of-the-road student, my stuffed Rabbit, and the problem student, Charlie, my ventriloquist doll who never studied or made more than a "D" and was constantly disruptive in class. Despite my best efforts, Charlie never improved as a student.

Don't think I was teaching in my street clothes and my skates either. Oh, heavens no. The getting ready for a teaching session often lasted as long or longer than the session itself. I had a separate wardrobe for my teacher self which included hand-me-down dresses from my cousins that I found appropriate, or cast-offs from my Mother's extensive (and I do mean extensive) wardrobe. My teacher's garb included high-heels, always skirts. And make-up. Full-face make-up with lots and LOTS blush, robin's egg blue eye-shadow and Maybelline Great Lash. (The make-up also culled from my Mom's cast-offs). Once appropriately dressed, powdered and coiffed (think Aqua Net), there was much time devoted to the choosing of the proper Teaching Jewelry. For this aspect of The Look, I had access to my own as well as my mother's jewelry boxes. Often, The Look would require earrings, necklace, bracelet AND a pin in order to make the proper statement. As a final, but still not-to-be-taken-lightly step, the Proper Perfume was spritzed on liberally. Very. Liberally. Normally, I chose from my own collection for same: Babe, Charlie, Love's Baby Soft, Heaven Scent, or Cache. Usually Cache. Cache was Serious Perfume. For Serious Teachers.

Once transformed, I spent a considerable amount scrutinizing my teacher self in the mirror from every angle, verifying that, indeed, I had perfectly captured the The Look. After that, I decorously pranced down the basement steps to face the daunting task of pounding the three R's into the reluctant heads of my students.

It was a lot of work.

I don't know...

Seriously. Am I ever going to start blogging again?

I don't know.

What happened last night?

I don't know.

But it was HILARIOUSLY funny. Like, so funny that I couldn't stop laughing. And thinking to myself,

HA HA HA, self! This is going to make one HILARIOUS blog post. No...NO...one AMAZING short story...HA HA HA! Boy, howdy, it's just WRITING ITS-OWN-SELF up in here! BWA HA! You can't make this shit up, self!

And then I woke up this morning. With my cell phone plugged into a charger that wasn't, in turn, plugged in to an outlet. And pretty much no recollection of what happened last night save for the thoughts outlined above.

It wasn't until tonight (24 hrs later) that I realized I have photographs taken last night stored on my blackberry. These are my friends. Wearing a cap that says, (because the photos make it too blurry to read), "Armed and Dangerous".

Folks? Let me tell you. Last night? This was THE FUNNIEST SHIT EVER. Armed and Dangerous...HA HA HA! Get it? "Armed and dangerous". Wow. It was pee-your-pants funny at the time, I assure you.

And then there was this. This was one very HILARIOUS and also very MEANINGFUL GESTURE last night:

Yah. No idea.

I think I had fun last night. I for sure need a notebook. And a crayon.

Grand Prismatic

(Click for larger)

The Ghost of a Winter Past

[First, a windy preface. Let me just go ahead an apologize for the lack of posting right now. This blog has been through dry spells before but never quite like this. While it's true that I'm taken up with work and school (but school again only very recently) and my social life, there's something else afoot. My last post of any substance was a bit of an oversharing departure, and often now when I sit down to write, something entirely different than my usual, chirpy blog fodder comes out. It is, in a word, The Past...my past. I'm not sure what to make of it--is it just therapy? Is it part of a larger story that needs telling? Is my blog voice gone? (Gotta say--doubt it.)

I've written here before about the creative process. It's a thing that is a little scary to me in that I'm not always consciously in control of what I write--oh I don't mean I fall into a trance-like state and channel the Almighty--but it's not entirely unlike that, either. Except in this case the Almighty is just me (and let me interject here that I think I just might be the Almighty and that you just might be too but that's a whole 'nother story). In any case, what I'm saying is that I can sit down to write about the weather or what happened at the drive-thru but then find myself for no particular reason at all back in 1974 sitting in my Dad's Gran Torino. Or smoking Marlboro Lights watching the Anita Hill testimony in 1992. I don't know why. I do know that when I write about the past, details that I would have thought were long forgotten come back to me. In technicolor. It's all still there. And writing is the miner's pick that unearths it.

To make a long story longer, the following is an example of one of my flights of fancy into my past. It's totally pedestrian, but it's a page-filler; a blog-safe example what comes out when I write these days.

To assuage my guilty conscience, and because I love you guys, I post it for those of you still pining for my blog fodder. Both of you.]

***

I was talking to a friend the other day about the changing definition of "Dad". This friend is my age, and we agreed that when we were kids, a "Dad" was something entirely different than it is today. Today? A Dad might quit his job to stay home with and attend Gymboree classes with his baby. Or, today's Dad might whip a delicious gourmet dinner for his family. He might even be a Room "Father". Okay, so I made that last one up. (Does anybody remember Room Mothers anymore? Do they still have those?).


Let me assure you, these are not the kind of "Dads" those of us of a certain age grew up with. Back in our day (the old lady reminisced, one liver spotted hand pressed thoughtfully to a withered cheek), Dads were forces to be reckoned with. They did not cook. They did not play (generally speaking). They were Serious about Stuff.


Dads were all about Work. Going to Work. Staying at Work. Working overtime. Getting Work done.


Weekends were a dangerous time with Dad. Because he might notice you lollygagging around sucking up all the oxygen and put YOU to Work. Your best bet was to slink off and be unobtrusive on the weekends. Just get the hell outta there, hop on your banana seat bike (with a playing card attached with a clothes pin so it made satisfying flapping sounds as it slapped the rolling spokes) and pedal your lazy little butt on over to a friend's house (no cell phones...HA!) until the Dad danger had passed.


Dads got up Early. They Made Good Time. They calculated gas mileage. They Grilled Meat (This is NOT to be confused with cooking. Proper grilling was a manly task.) They tended lush green weed-free lawns.

Dads ate red meat. And potatoes. And fried chicken. If they were feeling REALLY crazy? They ate spaghetti ("eye-talian food").


Above all, back then, Dads were the Keepers of the Car. This was extra Serious Business. The Oil must be Changed. The Tires must be Rotated. Only a certain brand of gasoline could be burned. If another brand of gasoline had to be burned it could cause the worse thing ever. It could cause...KNOCKING.


If the engine knocked? You could be rest assured it was going to be a very, very bad day. And if the dreaded knocking was going to happen? It was usually at start up in the driveway.


The setting here, then, is a brutally cold Central Illinois winter. I am eleven years old. My parents both worked at the same large company and thus rode to work together each day. They also deposited me at school on their way. Which is how the whole fam ended up in the car together M-F at an obscenely early hour. It went a little something like this:

DAD
(Turns the key.)

(The engine springs to life. Dad revs the motor.)


CAR
Rrrrrrraaaaaarrrrrrr. RRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAR.


DAD
Gaaaawd DAMN.


MOM
(startled)
What...WHAT IS IT?


ME
(Glancing up from my book in the back seat. I'm reading my latest "Little House on the Prairie" installment: "These Happy Golden Years." For the third time.)


DAD
Do you HEAR THAT?


CAR
(More revving...)
RRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRR... RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRR


MOM
(Putting a palm to her throat and glancing frantically around the driveway outside the car.)
What?! No....WHAT?


DAD
(Now a little red-faced. He revs again. ONLY LOUDER.)


CAR
RRROA[ttt]RRRRRRRRR......RRRRRRRROOOOOO[ttt]OOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRR...


DAD
(shouting over the engine revving)
You mean to tell me you don't HEAR THAT DAMN KNOCKING?!


MOM
(Calming down.)
Oh, uh, yes. Yes, I think I do hear it.


ME
(Eye roll. She doesn't hear it. Back to my book.)


DAD
(still revving)


CAR
ROOOOOOOOOOOAR.....ROOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRR...


DAD
Sheeeeit! DAMN MOBILE GASOLINE!

(Dad leaps from the car and pops the hood. Despite it being the dead of a frigid Midwest winter, the heat is not yet on. Because you have to let the car warm up first. Always. )


ME
I'm FREEZING.


MOM
Shhh.

(She draws a silver tube of lipstick from her purse along with a compact and begins expertly reapplying her bright pink lipstick.)


ME
Oh, GOSH, we're going to be here all day.


MOM
No, we won't. It won't be all day.
(She carefully slides a Kleenex between her lips, blotting them with a practiced motion, then purses them into a pout as she studies her reflection and re-checks her eyeliner.)


ME
Do you have any gum?

MOM
(She drops the compact and lipstick back in her purse and halves her last piece of Doublemint with me. We begin popping our gum in stereo. Dad returns to the car bringing with him a sub-zero blast of arctic winter air.)

ME
Can we turn on the heat yet?


DAD
(Slams the car door, cocks his head slightly left, and with squinted eyes begins listening intently.)


MOM AND I
(Simultaneously stop popping our gum.)


CAR
rrrrrrrrrarrrrrrrrr....RRRRRRRRRARRRRRRRRRRRRRRR....RRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRR[ttt]ROOOOOOOOOAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRR



DAD
(Exhales a defeated sigh, draws a Winston from the depths of his topcoat and lights up.)


MOM
Are we going?


DAD
(Peers at her incredulously through the smoke cloud he has just exhaled.)
We can't just drive around in a car that's knocking like this.

ME

I have a test today.

(I liked school. I was a freak.)

MOM
Well, we should go back into the house. It's awfully cold out here.

Understand, my Dad is, at this point, facing a veritable "Sophie's Choice". Will he pick work or will he pick the car? How can a man pick between the two?

Nikki Shops

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