Being 11 in 2010 vs. being 11 in 1971

My niece Nicole turned 11 on July 23rd. The party kicked off on a Friday evening with seven of her friends singing karaoke (Lady GaGa, of course) at FunHouse Pizza in Raytown. After that, Tiki torches and a fire-pit were lit for the backyard luau/swimming party. It was quite a production.

As I was taking this in, I remembered my own childhood birthday parties. They were usually on Saturday afternoons. My friends came over in their little dresses, we'd line up for a picture, I'd try not to race through the mandatory birthday card reading so I could rip open the presents--probably from TG and Y or Woolworth's--we'd have cake and ice cream, maybe play musical chairs, and then they'd go home. ( Geeze, is that true or am I confusing myself with Judy from "Leave It to Beaver?" Who knows.)

Anyway, that led me to thinking about how different the world is now, and about all the things my niece has that I didn't. On the flip side, I started thinking about all the things I knew as a kid that she never will.

She'll never know what it's like to only have three TV channels to choose from, or the anticipation of waiting until the one Sunday night a year when "The Wizard of Oz" is on. That was a huge deal at our house. Now kids can pretty much watch anything they want, whenever they want, repeatedly, if they want. Kinda takes the magic out.

She'll never know what it's like to wonder whose calling, thanks to caller I.D. I remember that rush of expectation before lifting the receiver--Would it be my friend Cindy? My mom checking to see if I'd done the vacuuming? My piano teacher calling to cancel my lesson? (Always a hope for me.) Fun little mysteries, gone.

She'll also never know what it's like to complete your list of chores on a summer morning, leave the house before noon, walk to the swimming pool, ("Don't forget to put zinc oxide on your nose!") and not be expected back home until 5 o'clock. Or what it's like to go back outside after dinner, roam the neighborhood chasing fireflies and putting them into a Skippy Jar with holes poked in the lid, just goofing off until it's 8 or 9 o'clock, and your Mom opens the front door, calls your name and says,"Time to come home."

Turns out even though she has a lot more than I did in many respects, I had a lot of irreplaceable things that she doesn't. Like growing up in a world that was much safer, a time that was simpler. Nothing matches the bliss of childhood freedom.

Geeze, do I sound old.

Anyway, even though I feel a little sad for what Nicole's missed out on, I know one thing she'll always have--an aunt who's impressed by her confidence and proud of her fearlessness, who's touched by her thoughtfulness, who's proud of her creativity, who thinks she's funny, and who's grateful for every numbered day she's still considered fun to hang out with.

i went to church last Sunday--but wait--it gets even better!

Two days ago, I went to Macedonia Baptist Church with my friend Keion Jackson. As I remember it, when I asked to go with him a few months ago, I also asked "Will I be the only white person there?" He answered "No, there might be four or five of you."

Last week, when I reminded him of that conversation, he said "Really? Did I say that? There might actually be two." He paused, "Including you."

But I was still up for it because the mystery behind a gospel church has always intrigued me. Now that I've been to Keion's church, I can tell you honestly I have never enjoyed a church service so much in my life.

Anyway, I tried to be inconspicuous which is challenging when you're the only white person. I sat all hunched down, thinking no one would notice me. Then Pastor Brooks asked the visitors to stand. Reading my panic-stricken look, Keion apologized, "I didn't know they were going to do that." After a slow-motiony minute of standing up in all my Caucasianess, the pastor asked the members of the church to share their hospitality with those of us visiting. I can't tell you how many people came up to me, shook my hand, smiled and made me feel as "right at home" as someone like me can feel at a church.

In case you forgot, I was raised Missouri Synod Lutheran. If you've heard Garrison Keillor make fun of Lutherans, you know why we are such an easy target. But sitting in Keion's church, I kept thinking "This is fantastic!" There I was, in the middle of people expressing joy in their relationship with God through testifying, clapping, "amen-ing" and singing like I've never heard. Lutherans just don't do that.

Here, when the congregation sang, they sang with their whole hearts and voices and bodies. Early in the service, the Men's Choir sang a song so moving, tears rolled down my cheeks. Even members of the Men's Choir had their hankies out. As a matter of fact, so many of us were weepy, a woman was handing out Kleenex. The lyrics were something like "When I think of all the things I've done that I should not have done . . . something something . . . I'm so graceful for His mercy." (Sorry for the bad paraphrasing.)

Watching those men sing and sway and sing some more like they really meant every word, and thinking about my own missteps and moments I wished I could undo, well, everything just came together. Or, more accurately, came apart. It was as if my heart broke open.

After the song, Pastor Brooks said "Something just happened in here. Either some of you all have done some things you feel bad about or you just like good music." Everyone laughed. He went on, "I have a feeling, it was a little bit of both, wasn't it." And before long, he had us laughing all through his sermon.

I'll never forget that church service.

I feel like I should have a point, but I'm not sure what it is. Maybe it's this--if you ever want to go to a church service that will stay with you in all the right ways, I'll put you in touch with my friend Keion. And I'll go with you too. I'll even bring Kleenex, just in case.

Guess who's learning how to draw?

I KNOW, can you even believe it? I can't remember the last time I've been so eager about learning something new.

Here's the deal--completely out of character, I signed up for a class called "Visual Essay" at the KCAI Northland Campus which, by the way, smells squeaky brand-new and made me want to paint my living room just so it could smell new too. Anyway, I was so excited to discover this class, I told my friends Pam K. and Keion J. about it, and they signed up too.

Necessary backstory--I have never, ever been able to draw. I don't remember a single time my artwork made it to the refrigerator for display. Did parents do that in the 60's? Had refrigerator magnets been invented? Hang on, let me check. Just as I suspected, refrigerator magnets have been around since 1924. So much for that excuse. I just wasn't any good at art. What kid is not good at art, you might wonder?

Well, this kid.

And what made matters worse is that my mom was really good at it. In fact, after she graduated from Paseo High School in the early 50's, she wanted to go to art school. Unfortunately, my German grandmother told her, "You vill not go to zee art school. You vill be a nurse." I wasn't there so I don't know if that's the exact dialog, but I knew Grandma well enough to guess that's probably pretty close. My poor mom. The house she grew up in was like Stalag 13 only without the Hogan's Heroes comedic relief. No wonder she died when she was only 48. Fortunately, I have a lot of her sketchbooks and a few paintings, but it still breaks my heart to think of her spending her life getting thrown up on and giving people enemas when she could have been doing something she really loved. But that's a whole nother story.

Back to my class--so on Wednesday, we met for the first time, and I have to say my teacher is great. I'd say that even if she wasn't a friend. Denise C. brought us all kinds of published journals to look at, and she even shared her very own sketch books with us. She talked about her semester in New York, and what she learned about drawing people and buildings. She talked about different ways we could keep our journals and that we could use "ephemera." (Is that not one of the floatiest words a mouth can say? It sounds like fluttery, fairywings and how can you not love that?)

Anyhoo, I was getting all jazzed about this class, even though at break there was no vending machine and all I could think about was that the only thing this perfect evening was missing was a diet Coke. So there I was, feeling 4-year old happy. It was heavenly. But then, after break, she made us DRAW! Right there, in front of each other! I was so scared, I kept making these little puppy-whimper sounds like I did back when I was in hip-hop class and kept running into the other dancers during my turns. (Ask my friend Meghan C. for details. It was a personal low point, but apparently very funny, if you weren't me.)

Anyway, we did this thing called "contour drawing" where we had to look at someone in the class and then draw them. We were supposed to glance down at our paper only briefly and keep our pencils moving. I drew my friend Pam who is about as pretty as a girl can get even when she isn't smiling beatifically but my drawing made her look like a T-Rex. I was mortified because, guess what? WE HAD TO SHARE OUR DRAWINGS WITH EVERYONE. Fortunately, Pam graciously giggled, and I think she may have even said "I LOVE this." Plus, she didn't strangle me, so yay for that.

Our journals are supposed to be 75% visual and 25% words which makes sense, but of course, freaked me out further so I asked could we just draw one giant thing, like a refrigerator on a page, as long as it took up 75% of the space? And Denise said, "Sure, I'd LOVE it if you drew a refrigerator." Which brings me to my point. (I know, finally, right?) She was so accepting and encouraging that the next day, on the bus, I brought my sketchbook and drew all the way to work. It was about the most fun thing I've done in a long, long time and that includes enjoying my Friday night Flirtinis. Plus now, my art won't have to go on the fridge because it will BE the fridge.

Anyway, sorry about all the rambling. And sorry I haven't renamed my blog. I think it's an unconscious problem admitting my age. Plus, I'm lazy. I hope you guys are still out there since I haven't posted in forev. I just didn't have anything very interesting to say until now. OK,

gotta go. I got me some sketching to do. Wish me luck!

This is how pathetic I've become . . .

. . . I'm looking forward to flying, not because I'm getting away, not because of the adventure that awaits, not because the last two months have tried me to the core, but because I love being the TSA dream come true.

I have reached a truly perverse low when I seek approval and validation from the person checking me in at Gate Whatever.

It is with more than a smidge of shame that I confess one of my proudest moments was shortly after the whole Ziploc rule became the norm for flying. The TSA guy held up my little quart-sized Ziploc with my lip gloss, mascara, eye drops and hand-sanitizer and announced in a loud voice to the line behind me, "See this, People? This is a lady who knows how to follow the rules. No last minute rummaging through her purse. No frantic tossing things out. She's prepared, People." Then in a quieter voice to me, he said "Good for you, Lady."

I'm not sure what's the worst part of that little vignette--the fact that I felt so incredibly validated or that I still, after all this time, feel compelled to follow rules. (Granted, you have to follow the rules at the airport, but you know what I mean. I follow rules even when they're not all that important. I follow them more than the normal person should.)

Anyhoo, that's all I've got this week. I wish it were funnier, more interesting or profound, but try as I might, I can't come up with anything better. I don't want you guys to abandon me because I post so rarely. I don't know how people can write something worth reading every single day. Some days, I delete every word I write.

Hang on. I'll be funny/interesting/informative soon. Scout's honor.

In the meantime, check out my friend Andrea's photography at http://brookfirephotography.blogspot.com/.

And wish me luck tomorrow. I could really use an ego-boost from the TSA person.

Hey, we take it where we can get it, right?

It doesn't really sound like a love poem . . .

. . . but it's supposed to be. Three years ago today, Dick and I stood on a beach in Cabo San Lucas and pledged our undying love before a minister we didn't know, a nutty, but great photographer and two fisherman. It was the best day of my life. And I'm pretty certain it always will be.

Here's a little poem I wrote about what it's like to love someone so much that it's as scary as it is great.

Dress Rehearsal

One night--

years from now, I pray--

one of us will go to bed

without the other.

I remember asking a woman

who lost her husband what the hardest part was.

“Night time” she said.

“Nights are terrible.”

And I wonder,

what if

you leave

before I do?

I can’t help imagining

lying down on my side of the bed,

leaving room for you on your side

as though you could return.

I would stare,

waiting to see if an invisible you would sit down,

make the bed sigh under your familiar weight,

and then, corrugating the sheets, lay down beside me.

I would hold your pillow and inhale,

filling my lungs until it hurts,

then worry that I would use up

all that’s left of you.

I would lie awake and wait

until morning came

to nudge the living from sleep

so they can make coffee, read the paper,

get the kids ready for school.

Why do I do this to myself?

Why rehearse what will be

the hardest thing I must do

at what will be the loneliest point

I will face?

Because on the nights

I go to bed before you do,

when I draw the shade,

slide underneath the sheets,

pull up the white bedspread,

and run my fingers over its fraying stitches,

it seems wrong

to be alone.

Even though I know,

I’ll hear your footfall

on the stairs before to long.

And sometimes I remember what she said.

“Nights are terrible.”

Then I open a book

and read the same sentence again and again

with intention and still

I don’t know what it said.

So I give up and reach over

to the lamp on the nightstand

and I turn it

off.

In the dark,

I weep

not for what I will lose--

but for what I am lucky enough

to have known.

Teaching: 101

Last week, I had the opportunity to address the Glendale Elementary Writers' Club, thanks to my friend Kathy M. and the founder of the group, Ms. Cindi Jones.

Well, of course, I was a nervous wreck. The only thing I'd ever taught was Sunday School for pre-schoolers when I was in my mid-twenties.

I was terrible at it back then. I used to bribe them to sit down at the beginning of class by giving them Kool-aid and those little gem-colored suckers on string-loops, the ones you could buy by the cellophane yard. The hyperactivity/sugar connection never dawned on me. Plus, they failed to appreciate all the work that went into each class. It took lots of colored felt and valuable Saturday night hours to cut out all those people, commandment tablets, doves, you name it, whatever was necessary to re-enact Bible stories on the magic blue-felt covered lesson board. As a kid, I'd always loved to watch Miss Furniss take out her little felt props--sheep, shepherds, the altar where that one guy was supposed to slay his son until God said, "Nah, not really, Abraham, I kid! I kid because I love."

Anyway, when it was MY turn to use the felt board, I was thrilled to work my magic. Only my kids weren't nearly as impressed. They had no idea how much work went into making my little gray felt tomb for Jesus, complete with the roll-away stone. My strongest memories of those years are mainly little kids jumping up and yelling "Hurry, take me potty, I'm gonna wet my pants!" Once, when the kids were actually listening to the lesson, a little boy raised his hand and I was elated. "Good!" I thought. He's interested, and he has a question. When I called on him, he asked in all seriousness "Does God ever jump?"

But I digress.

Partly because of the holiday weekend and partly because some of the writers chose to go to hiphop club instead (and who can blame them?), there was a small turnout. But I think it went OK. I bribed them with buttons and song cards this time, and they seemed to really enjoy writing their "Six-Word Memoirs." (Thanks for the idea, Mrs. Nixon. Anyone interested in what I'm talking about can go to www.smithmag.net/sixwordbook/sixword-storybook/.)

Anyway, the above pic shows some future writers of America. And I was happy and proud to meet them.

P.S. Kudos to Ms. Jones for starting a writers group for elementary kids. I wish we'd had one.

I'd have sucked at hiphop.

I'm baacccckkk! With fascinating new discoveries!

I am a lousy blogger.

The quickest way to lose followers is to let too much time go by between posts.

Guilty as charged.

I wish I had a hilarious story, but I don't. I wish I had something edifying, but I don't. What do I have? Three discoveries that led to further quandary.

Discovery: Life is unfair.

Question: I probably learned this truth at a soul-deep level immediately before or during my birth, so why does it continue to surprise me? Is it because, to quote Emily Dickinson, "Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul. . . ?" (Which, in turn, makes me wonder, is it truly possible to sing any Emily Dickinson poem to the tune of "The Yellow Rose of Texas?" Or was that one of those English major myths? You know those nutty English majors.)

Discovery: Eloquence does not necessarily equal intellect. Just because a person has the floor in a public forum, and they LOOK smart and use really big words (I intentionally did not say "polysyllabic"), doesn't mean that they ARE smart. Sure, sometimes they are. But other times, if you listen closely, you'll discover they're no smarter than you are. (Read Dan Roam's Back of the Napkin if you need further convincing. I LOVE this guy's theory.)

Question: Why am I only now discovering this? And am I choosing to believe it simply because personally validating? Or do you guys think it's valid? I'm curious to know.

Discovery: Hot flashes feel like an arsonist has started a four-alarm fire inside your body which, in turn, immediately triggers millions of teensy-tinsey personal sprinkler systems, one per pore. Uncomfortable, unpleasant and embarrassing, they often happen right after you've put on clean clothes and are ready to leave for work in the morning or when your significant other wants to sleep very close to you through the night.

Question: What, besides black cohosh, can alleviate such embarrassing moments? Does Vitamin E help?

That's it for me today. I hope you're still out there. And if so, I thank you.