An End. And A Beginning

i am going to share a story that begins seven years ago.

wait, i take that back.  this story really starts twenty-seven years ago, when a boy met a girl and was captivated by her eyes, her energy, her strength. 

his love, kindness and attention to her was persistent enough to win her heart...a heart that had been waiting eighteen years to be won by precisely those characteristics. 

soon they were inseparable, each receiving something they needed from the relationship, and each making assumptions about what it all meant.

three years later they got married. this event occurred during an inauspicious time, in suboptimal circumstances, but their friendship helped them to press forward, mostly together, but in some ways unbeknownst to her at that time, they were also moving somewhat apart. they were quite young. this is not uncommon.

six years passed and the loveliest daughter was born to them. 

after nine years of marriage, the dearest son arrived.

life was busy, school and work demands were neverending.  there was a feeling of disconnect between them in many ways.  the girl struggled to make things better, to keep the boy's interest, to raise their children, to fill life with love and wonder. the boy loved the girl as well as he could, and worked hard to be kind and supportive, but he always felt like he was letting her down in elemental ways that he couldn't change. the girl always believed that the challenges they faced would eventually disappear. 

they did not.

time passed.  seventeen years had passed since they'd wed. one day, (we now arrive at the seven years ago part of our story), without knowing about the other, they each sat down at the very same moment, and wrote letters to the other, sharing their feelings. they had both decided that they should part ways.  

this was not what the girl expected to happen. she had put much prayer, fasting, thought and tears into this decision. she didn't know why it felt like the right thing, because she loved the boy and still wanted things to work out, but the answer in her heart was unequivocal...

...it was also without a sense of urgency.  no "when" was attached to it. she thought maybe sharing her feelings would be the beginning of a new era, a catalyst that would bring them together.  so she was surprised to learn he'd written her and come to the same conclusion.  

as they shared their feelings, they were kind. they were supportive. they decided to wait several months to proceed til it wasn't quite so challenging for the boy, who was in medical school at the time.

during that time, small shifts in their interactions happened that helped things enough that eventually they decided to call off parting ways.  the answer had been clear, but the girl thought maybe the shifts had changed the right course of action. she had hope.

things went well enough for a while, but then began to grow even more difficult. twenty two years into their marriage, they again arrived at the point where things were untenable. for six months they were separated, ultimately deciding again to part ways.  but then for a variety of reasons, she decided to stay. it was the right decision at that time, and as long as she was staying, she redoubled her efforts to do everything she could to love, cherish, serve, and support the boy, and nurture their relationship as they continued raising their darling children.  

it was a good experience, and the girl grew a lot in the process.  but there was still a part of her that was so sad. a part that simply couldn't reach the boy. and a part of the boy that couldn't reach her. but it was livable. 

by early this year, things were essentially as good as they had ever been when one day, the answer came; "now".

"now" it was time to part ways.  the girl was not prepared for this. it seemed like she could hang on a mere three years at least, til the boy was done with all his training, and their children were done with school. she would be much better off financially if she waited. they were in a reasonable place with each other. they had never fought or been acrimonious.  there was obvious logic to waiting. the girl questioned and resisted. she fasted, prayed and begged god for a new answer. the whole idea consumed her thoughts for weeks as she wrestled with it. 

one day in response to her petition to god, the words D&C 6:22-24 came to her mind.  she looked it up and read those verses, and from that moment forward, a peace filled her and carried her forward through the hardest thing she had ever had to go through.

until a solid month after it was done and over.  

only then, when things were actually official, and she and the boy were no longer legally tied one to another, did the grieving process set in. 

it occurred to her that our wise god knew if she'd glimpsed the mourning that was to come, she would have probably just decided to go back to the familiar again.  go another round or two. we have our systems for coping, we humans. she had them growing up, she had them in their marriage.  even if a situation wasn't a good one, it was known.  she was surviving. there were moments when she even seemed like she might be starting to thrive.  she could keep living that way. it wasn't a bad life.

but none of that hit her until it was over, and the boy had moved out and moved on. there hadn't been any real question in his mind about him leaving in the next few years during his training, but he admits he felt it would eventually happen.  it's certainly not an easy experience, but he admitted he's grateful she set him free. he had felt like he was living a lie for a long time but couldn't bring himself to move on because of how it would hurt her. and despite all their struggles, the boy loves the girl. still.  instead, he slowly changed, and these changes were too hard for her to assimilate, and brought them to this point. 

it was always going to be easier for the boy, she knew.  he's so beautiful. he's so fit, healthy and strong, he's intelligent and kind, talented and good. and he's a doctor who will be financially sound in a few short years. she knows his combination of traits are as rare as a unicorn in a non-magical world. girls will flock to him.

he knows she's sad, but he also believes that someday she'll be happy. he hopes someday she'll find someone who is a much better match for the person she is and the type of life she wants to have with her partner. and they both hope to make it through this transition and come out on the other side still friends. he will always be family to the girl, and she will always be someone the boy loves in a way. but it's hard right now.

so the girl is grieving. the girl is trying to move forward. the girl has noticed the hand of god in her life. it's especially manifested in the lives of their children, who have managed to navigate this transition with astonishing peace. they are thriving and progressing and not letting the situation with their parents undermine their lives.  this is the most significant blessing the girl could have ever hoped for. she has moments when she feels peace, followed by moments of being pulled under the rogue wave of grief over losing the boy. it's like a death but not as bad because he's still here and still being the wonderful father to their children that he's always been, which is of course much preferable. but it's also more complicated. 

this is the story of the past. this summer was the end of a chapter...maybe the end of a book. but it's also a beginning.  the girl and the boy spent nearly 27 years wrapped safely in a cocoon of their own making, becoming new creatures. they've finally emerged, and while his wings have dried and he's taken flight, the girl is getting there.  soon, this little blue girl will fly. 

~the end. and the beginning.~

grateful for:  god

Letter To My Younger Self

Letter To My Younger Self

Dear Little Blue,

You don't really need this letter, because you'll eventually figure all these things out on your own, but if I could share a few insights with you, I'd let you know that even though it feels like there's not a soul on earth who would really care if you ceased to exist, in just a little while that will change. Some angels will appear in your life, in the form of a school teacher, new friends, and a church leader or two. Their kindness will carry you through the next few years, and you will start to feel what it's like to be nurtured and cared for (and believe it or not, someday your sisters will be your dearest friends; maybe consider being nicer to them in the meantime).

Your sense of your identity is going to drastically evolve.  There's no way you could know yet that you're not utterly worthless, or that that's even how you think of yourself. Eventually you'll start to notice some of the internal beliefs you have, and question them. This is good.  Examining everything we believe is an important exercise in life, and requisite for growth. You'll start to feel something inside--called resonance--when things are true for you.  If you honor that, you'll be led and directed in ways that will be good for you.

Despite being told (and accepting as fact) that you're the ugliest girl in the world, in a few years you'll to meet people who don't hold that opinion of you.  It'll mess with your head a bit, but just hang in there.  In this world, appearance does matter, but really, it doesn't. Your dearest relationships will be based on the only kind of beauty that counts, that of the heart.

It's going to take years, but someday you'll forgive your parents and older sibling. They probably won't ever be a significant part of your life, but you'll find peace with that situation. Be okay with that.

Even though it's really scary sometimes, you're going to learn the most from the hard stuff you're going through, so I'm not going to tell you much, but someday you'll understand that even though you love them, some friends will move on without you. They get to. Also, you might just want to turn and walk the other way when you meet a dude named Kevin.

Throughout your life, a lot of the people you love most will lose their faith in God.  You'll struggle for a long time with your faith, too, and part of it will just be the shock that this even happens.  No one ever told you, nor did it cross your mind, that that was A Thing. Now you know, so just remember to trust what resonates within you, prove all things, and hold fast to the good. Proving requires study, thought, prayer, and righteous living. That's just how it works. Be fastidiously honest with yourself, no matter what other people believe. Eventually you'll find your own, bona fide faith, and it will be worth the effort. God really is always there with you...even when you're hiding from him.

Depression. You're going to deal with it, but it's not the boss of you. Ditto for the things you're anxious about.

When you're 18 years old, you'll meet a truly wonderful boy who will be nice to you and care for you and accept you, loose ends and all. You'll come to love each other and provide a safe harbor for each other to heal, evolve, and grow for a long long time.  Despite all that, sometimes he'll break your heart, and you'll break his...that's just how relationships go. Hold on when it seems bleak or hopeless ~ the end of this story hasn't been written yet, but no matter what happens, you will have a happy life.

The best thing about your entire life is you'll have the privilege of raising two amazing, precious children. You have no idea...I'm so excited for you, just thinking about them. I don't know how this story ends yet, but it'll be so great to experience it together!

You won't believe this now, but you are not going to be lonely. Or alone. There are unbelievably fantastic people in your future, and you will many times be simply overwhelmed with gratitude for the goodness and beauty in your life.  You're going to discover some things about yourself that will surprise and delight you, including fun interests and talents that haven't even crossed your mind yet. You're going to bless the lives of many others, and that will give you the most satisfaction of anything you do.  

It'll be a wonderful life, on a glorious planet (which you will get to explore, by the way). So be brave and strong.

With so much love,
Blue 2013

First Flight

First Flight

“Can we puhleeeeeeeeese stop and watch the planes take off?!” 

For a few years as a young child, we passed the John Wayne Airport while driving to and from church.  Week after week I'd plead with my parents to stop so we could watch the planes.  I was mesmerized by all of it: the roar of the engines, shimmery mirage-effect the jet exhaust made in the air, and the miracle of these massive machines taking flight.   

I don’t understand why my parents ever indulged me.  Perhaps because it was something to do that didn’t cost anything, or just to get me to stop pestering them. Maybe because they concluded it was a suitable activity for the sabbath…because one day they obliged, but rather than satisfy me, it just whetted my appetite for more.  I was hooked.  

Despite all this, it never occurred to me that I would ever go on a plane myself, because I had this notion that only rich and famous people got to fly…something we decidedly were not. 

So I honestly have no idea how this all came about, but the summer I was eight years old, my parents asked if I would like to fly to Idaho and spend the summer with some former neighbors of ours.  The Morgans had moved there two years earlier and had agreed to have me come stay them.  For two months.  

“Of course I want to go!”   

Now lets pause for a moment here. I can’t fathom why anyone thought this was a good idea.  I had never been away from home before, wasn’t a particularly mature child, and I hadn’t seen or talked to these people in two years--a quarter of my life.  They were retired, their children were grown, and they lived on a small farm in a small town in the middle of nowhere.  

But they had me at fly on a plane.  I didn’t actually think the trip through beyond the flight itself.  

The big day arrived and was it was fantastic!  Everything my eight-year old mind had imagined it would be.  I got a new outfit for the occasion (a rare occurrence), and was treated to a special breakfast. It was a big deal for someone in our family to be going on a trip of any kind, but this was especially significant. After snapping a quick picture of me on the sidewalk in front of our house in my new duds with my favorite stuffed animals, all seven of us loaded into the car and drove to the airport.  

Going in to the tiny shoebox of a terminal (as it was in 1977), we handed over my suitcase and they gave me my ticket. Fairly jumping out of my skin with excitement, I said good-bye to my family. And then for the first time, I got to venture past the chain link fence onto the tarmac.  Walking to the aircraft stairs, I paused to look back up at my family who were on the second-floor observation deck waving goodbye. 

My ride was a sweet, solid yellow Hughes Airwest Boeing 727. I'd dubbed them “Flying Banana” jets and they were my favorite planes at the time. It was a thing of beauty.  I considered myself super lucky because the stewardess directed me to the place of honor on the front row!  Wearing my new sweater, and with beloved teddy bear in hand, off we went into the wild blue yonder, leaving all my troubles behind. That first lift off was a complete life-rush. What a feeling!

During the flight the stewardesses were kind and attentive to me. I was amazed that they just gave you stuff, like food, for free.  Food was always a tricky issue in my childhood; it was kind of hard-scrabble a lot, so someone making me a meal always made me feel cared for.  I adored the tiny lavatory--I'd always loved small spaces...like the forts I regularly built out of boxes, in cupboards, closets, or in the shed out back.  Everything about the plane just seemed so cool.  I stared out the window at the top-side of clouds, and was amazed at the patterns on the land below. It looked like a beautiful, cozy, patchwork quilt was wrapped around the earth. I fell in love with the view.

You know how time seems slow down to a crawl when you’re a kid?  Well I discovered that that phenomenon doesn’t hold true on planes, because all too soon the fun was over.  Toward the end of the flight I thought up one of the two complete lies I made up as a kid. I was otherwise a very honest child, but decided I could use a whopper of a story to tell my friend, who had visited Vegas many times before. ("We had to switch planes in Las Vegas on the way, and because there was so much time before we took off again, the flight attendants and pilots took me over to Circus Circus to see the show, and I got picked from the audience to feed the elephant peanuts.")  Had no idea Circus Circus was a hotel.  #busted

We landed and I told my nice stewardesses and pilots goodbye.  Mrs. Morgan was waiting for me in the terminal and helped me claim my baggage before heading out to her car. I was just getting seated when I suddenly realized that I’d left my new sweater on  the plane.  Security being slightly different back then, I raced at top eight-year-old speed straight back out to my favorite Hughes Airwest Boeing 727 Flying Bannana, where the stewardess handed me my sweater and sent me on my way again.  

We got to the farm and put my little suitcase in the attic room that I would be sleeping in with the 1970's bead curtain door.  Mr. Morgan was a character.  His name was simply the letter “K”…and was one of the few adults I wasn’t required to address in more formal terms.  They showed me around the house and then sat me down for a talk.  

“When we lived near you, we noticed that you were a pretty hyper kid.” K said.  “We think it’s because you eat too much sugar, so we’ve decided that during your  visit, we’re going to put you on a no-sugar diet.”  

Huh?!  No sugar?  No treats at all?   But Mrs. Morgan explained that she would make me special carob treats to eat when everyone else was having chocolate, for example.  I had no idea what carob was, but when she showed me it looked like chocolate, and sounded something like caramel, so I thought it might not be too bad.  I had no idea.

When they sent me outside to play, I ventured into the heat and started poking around their property.   There were a few chickens, and I made a game of hunting for their eggs…Easter in July!  It was scorching hot...a kind of heat I was totally unaccustomed to. So hot that I decided to see if I could actually cook the eggs on pieces of scrap metal lying on the ground.  How twisted would you think I am if I told you it worked, and that after they were cooked, I fed them to the chickens?

Chicken-fun aside, there just wasn’t much to do. There was a new kind of silence out there in the country.  Miles up the road I could just barely make out the farmhouse of their nearest neighbor.  It looked smaller than my fort at home from that distance.  I was an extreme extrovert from a large, noisy family, growing up in a suburban neighborhood chock full of kids, and suddenly I was very alone.  As I gazed off into the endless horizon that hot summer day, I experienced the first pangs of homesickness in my life.  

One of those stories...

Friday night, I went to the opening of an art exhibit that my friend Leslie had a piece in. I was making my way slowly through the masses of people attending, when I ran into a former acquaintance (I'll call her Ally), whom I hadn't seen in a number of years. While we were chatting, a friend of hers approached, and for some reason this person looked familiar to me (though, as it turns out, I'd never seen her before).

 I asked Ally "who is that?", and when she told me her friend's name, (I'll call her Christine X), I asked "is she Steve X's sister?" Christine heard my question, and said "no, I'm Steve's wife. Who are you?"


Realizing I knew Steve, Ally introduced us to each other, and this is when I got embarrassed. Because I didn't know how they might respond to the truth. So I told them "I don't think I should  answer that question", which of course made them even hungrier to know. 

They pressed, I quickly caved.  "Well, as it turns out, Steve was the first guy I ever kissed"... the admission of which fact seemed to fill them both with crazy juicy delight.
 
Encouraged, I further explained, "I was fourteen. We met at a church dance in Newport Beach. He was cute and I was enchanted. Outside after the dance, he took me behind that mosaic wall, and then he kissed me."

Ally and Christine are both laughing now, clamoring for more details.  And since there were details to be had, I did share them.

"I floated all the way home, convinced that this kiss of course meant that WE WERE GOING TO GET MARRIED someday. I mean, naturally, he was clearly THE ONE.  So that night I wrote Steve a letter...with all the earnestness, heartfelt sincerity and oozing conviction of any newly lovestruck fourteen-year-old-fresh-out-of-junior-high girl.  And I had every intention of giving it to him, too, but I put that letter behind a photograph of the temple hanging above my cot in  the garage  for safekeeping, and eventually forgot about it because I NEVER SAW HIM AGAIN."

Ally and Christine are both hooting with laughter at this point.  And then, who should walk up but my once-upon-a-time-intended. Christine and Ally couldn't pounce upon him fast enough.

"Steve, do you recognize this person?"

And then, in what was for me the weirdest moment of all, Steve looked at me for only a few seconds and then replied "Sure I do. You're Blue.  Blue Jeuls."  (substitute my maiden name).

Shut the front door!

I thought someone must have told him before he walked up...or that he'd overheard our conversation.  But he hadn't.  He just remembered me, even though we only met once, TWENTY NINE YEARS AGO!

We chatted for a few minutes about that day and our lives since then. He and Christine are darling people, and it was fun to meet her.  He told me that three days after that dance he left for college, which is why I never saw him again.  I honestly didn't expect him to remember me, out of all the girls I presumed him to have met/kissed.  


He of course stood out for me because he was my first, and, well, because of THE LETTER--which, I should note, I didn't rediscover until I was packing up all my stuff to move out of the garage when I got married, seven years later. I pulled that photo of the temple off the wall and this mysterious envelope fluttered to the floor. After reading it, can I just say you have NOOOOOO idea how glad I was that I hadn't had the opportunity to completely mortify myself by actually delivering it to him!

In the end, I guess the only thing I can conclude from this experience is, dang, I must be a REALLY good kisser!*

How about you? Tell me your first kiss stories!!!


*or an amazingly terrible one.

Ex-Boyfriend Encounters. Sort-of.

Hi lovelies! A friend did a blog post today about running into ex-boyfriends and asked us to share our ex-boyfriend stories. I've had a few awkward encounters, but this one, while not entirely about an ex-boyfriend of mine, was one I thought worth sharing.

I had recently turned eighteen years old when a woman I had been babysitting for off and on for six years asked if I could watch her kids overnight.  I really liked their family, so I agreed to it.

I got to her home and we were catching up a bit before they left on their getaway, and she asked if I was dating anyone.  I told her about a guy I’d just met, who I'll just call "Dave". We hadn’t gone out yet, but Dave had gotten my phone number and said he’d call me. 

Turns out she knew him, and upon hearing this asked, “Do you know how old he is?” 

 

Now, Dave did strike me as older than any other guy I'd gone out with, but that didn’t really bother me at the time because I (naively) fancied myself super-mature and able to hold my own with anyone. Besides, he was quite good-looking, in that George Clooneyish kind of way. The type that could have claimed any age within a twenty-year span and you could credibly believe it. Also, he seemed to be well-off, based on his car and wardrobe...which had it's own kind of appeal.  The fact that he was older and still single was probably just indicative that he was looking for the right woman. And lo, that might just be me, I reasoned.

In fact, Dave himself had asked me how old I thought he was when we met (which was at a church singles dance). I admit I was low-balling it to be polite when I said 29, to which he replied “Close. I’m 31″.

I hadn’t ever dated a man that much older than me (Would have been jail bait till just a couple months before.) (Though not, actually, because I was, after all, a virtuous Mormon girl.)

So I told the friend I was babysitting for “He’s thirty-one″, to which she laughed out loud and shared the following story, related to her by her sister Karen, who knew all the parties involved:

Karen had gone to school and worked with Dave for many many years and knew him well. When he was in college, Dave had a girlfriend named Jane for a couple years. Jane loved Dave and wanted to take their relationship to the next level, but it seems Dave was something of a ladies' man, and when it became clear that he wasn’t interested in settling down, they parted ways and life moved on. 

Jane met and married a wonderful guy, and they raised a family together. One evening Jane’s daughter, now 19 years old, was upstairs getting ready to go out on a date. The doorbell rang, Jane opened the door, and was surprised to see her ex-boyfriend Dave, whom she hadn't seen in twenty-four years, standing there.

Dave, upon seeing Jane, seemed flustered, and stammered out a greeting followed by some lame excuse about "just being in the neighborhood and thinking he’d stop by and say hi and see how she was doing", but that "something had come up and he had to go". He wished her well and abruptly left.  "That was bizarre", Jane thought to herself as she shut the door.

A few minutes later her daughter comes downstairs to wait for her date to arrive. A little time passes, the date hasn't shown up. Jane asks her daughter "Who are you going out with tonight?"  Her daughter tells her the date's name. 

Sure enough, it's Jane's old college boyfriend, Dave.  Dave, who who was still out there, playing the field, chasing one girl after another for all these years, while a whole lifetime had passed for Jane as she raised her family. 

Needless to say, after hearing this story from my friend, who informed me that Dave was actually forty-eight years old (!), I didn’t return his call when he rang to ask me out. But I couldn’t avoid him a couple months later when he cornered me at the punch bowl during another dance. 

“You didn’t return my calls!” he says with a flirty grin. 

“You lied to me about your age”, I stated, looking him straight in the eye. 

"Yeah, I heard you found out about that", he cheekily responds “But how could I tell you my actual age when you thought I was 29?” 

“How can you attempt to start out any kind of relationship with a flat-out lie? To say nothing about what on earth a 48 year old would want with an 18 year old. Let me guess. Was it my keen mind that fascinated you?” 

A few months later I met the guy who would eventually become my husband…he was 5 months younger than me, and it probably wasn’t my keen mind that fascinated him, either, but at eighteen, that was understandable. At least he wasn't two years older than my father!

So, tell me your ex-boyfriend encounters. Any good ones?

Unexpected Call...

Dropping the bags of groceries I was carrying on the table just now, I answered the phone. It was an unfamiliar number on the caller ID. Expecting a telemarketer, (delay after answering and a poor connection), it took me a moment to catch what the caller was saying, but he asked for me by name. I said it was me, and then he told me his name. I replied "oh..........hi."  

He either didn't catch my response, or thought perhaps I'd misheard him, so he further clarified, stating his name and adding "your father". 

I haven't heard his voice in 3 years...since the last time I saw him.  It's been 4 years since I had talked to or saw my mother.  

"We're at Temple Square (downtown Salt Lake City) and even though it's last-minute, we're wondering if we can take you guys to dinner."

I'm not usually quick on my feet in such situations, so my default tendency is to decline. But I surprised myself (and probably him) by being open to the possibility.   "Let me check...can you hold on for a minute?"

I asked my family what they thought.  They agreed to the idea. So here we go...20 minutes till we meet them at a restaurant. I don't know what will happen, but I do know it won't be nothing.  Here goes...

Kibbles and BIts: The Piano

"Would you like to take piano lessons?" my mom asked me one day. 

It was summertime, and I was five.  Of course I wanted to take piano lessons!  Five year olds want to do everything.   

I had just finished a round of ballet, tap and tumbling lessons with Ms. Arlene Higbee at the community center.  I wasn't a natural at any of them, tap being especially confusing what with all that clicking and whatnot.  (Side Note: this trend has continued to this very day, and you can see an example of my dancing prowess here. I was Elaine's body double for this scene.)
(Okay, I wasn't really Elaine's body double, but I do believe they found the inspiration for that clip by spying on me at youth dances when I was a teen.) Anyway, in ballet I was constantly forgetting to "tuck my po po in" as Ms. Higbee called it, though that wasn't even close to my biggest problem.  Maybe piano would be my thing!

We hadn't had our piano for long. I can hardly begin to convey the excitement we felt the day it arrived at our house.  Years before, Dad had made a deal that if mom had dinner on the table before our fake coo-coo clock bonged at 6:00 pm, he would pay her a dollar, which he always stuffed down he shirt for some reason.  We had no idea this wasn't how every couple operated.

Every night, we'd scurry around setting the table and putting the food on, (and if you were tasked with putting the silverware on, you gave yourself a complete set of "the good pattern"...the one with little flowers on the handles.  And you made sure to lick it so your pesky siblings wouldn't be tempted to switch it.)
 With hardly a moment to spare we'd finish and then throw ourselves onto our seats, all so daddy could come in with his reward money and stuff it down mom's shirt.  She saved all those dollar bills until she had enough to buy our baby grand, and we celebrated its arrival with the prettiest grand piano shaped cake you can imagine....a gift from a neighbor.  It was almost too beautiful to eat, but we did anyway because Rule # 1 in my family was you NEVER EVER EVER passed up a chance to ingest sugar.  (Side Note: I make lots of cakes, but I have never yet come close to making one as beautiful as that white grand piano cake was...at least in my mind. It's seriously a magical memory for me.)
Back to my mom's question.

"Piano lessons would be so fun!" I exclaimed, excited at the prospect of a new activity and the chance to play mom's new toy which we'd been routinely shooed away from. 

She explained that she would sign up me and Mike, who was fifteen months older than me, for lessons with the lady who played the piano at church.  "You'll go to her house once a week, but you'll practice every day at home".

I readily agreed, and we got started. 

Mrs. Feldon was a sweet lady.  Soft spoken and gentle, she could play well enough.  Each week when Mike's lesson was over, it was my turn to sit down on the bench.  Mrs. Feldon would open my music book up, play through a song for me, and then ask me to try it.

I had watched closely to see where she put her hands, and would listen carefully while she played the song.  Then I would put my hands on the same starting keys, and try to figure out what notes to play next.  Using this method, I was able to replicate the song well enough to pass it off and earn a sticker to paste on the page.  

Mrs. Feldon and my mom were convinced that I was making good progress, but the truth is, I had no clue about those odd little dots on the page.  They were about as meaningful as drops of water on the bathtub wall to me.

My lessons progressed in this manner for a couple months, but I was quickly growing restless with them.  It was hard to sit still, I didn't understand anything about the printed music, and besides, there was an in-ground swimming pool in the Feldon's back yard.

I could hardly think about anything else during my lesson.  Swimming pools were  seriously about the most exciting thing I could imagine at that age, and I dreamed about being allowed to go in it.  It was especially hard when the Feldon kids were swimming while I was there.

Maybe if I can just keep up the lessons long enough, they'll invite me to join them!   I pined away for the chance to swim in a real pool. 

My mom had decided that I should practice for thirty minutes a day.  That was an eternally long time for a kid like me but I tried.  I made decent progress initially, and pretty soon had moved beyond The Boatman all the way up to the Irish Jig song my teacher had assigned me for my recital piece.  As far as I was concerned, Irish Jig  was one of the most complex songs ever written, and I was really proud of myself.

It is a sad truth that for most kids starting something new, within a few months the novelty wears off, and I was no exception.  We'd already had our recital, complete with refreshments, and from my perspective, having master the Irish Jig, there wasn't really anything left to look forward to.  Even the swimming pool was closed for the season.

"I'm done taking piano lessons" I announced to mom one day. 

"Oh no you're not" she informed me.  "You have to take it for at least a year before you can quit." 

A YEAR?! That tidbit hadn't been mentioned when I'd agreed to the lessons.  Had I really missed that clause when I'd signed up for this gig?  A year of anything when you're five is like a life-sentence.  I wasn't even in kindergarten yet.  I couldn't even imagine that much time.

"But I don't want to any more" I explained.

"You'll be glad you did" she assured me, as she sat me down on the bench to practice.  Perhaps she thought there was virtuosity in me or something, and that if she could just get me to hang in there, I would become magnificent.

One day as my lesson came to an end, Mrs. Feldon assigned me a song for the week that she hadn't played through yet.

"Can you play it for me?" I asked her.

"We're out of time for today" she said. "Just follow the notes."

But I didn't know how to "just follow the notes".  I'd been faking my way through lessons for a few months by then, and could only eek out tunes I'd actually heard.  This became a problem the next day after lunch, when mom told me it was time to practice.

"I don't want to practice today" I announced.

"You have to get your practicing in every day," she explained to me.

 "I want to quit taking piano".

"I already told you that you have to stick it out for a year."

"That's too long. I don't like it!" I whined.

"You're going to sit on that piano bench until you've put in your thirty minutes today," she informed me. 

I'll just sit here then, I thought, full of five-year old defiance.

It became a horrible power struggle between us.  It was the first time in my life that I openly defied my parent's wishes, and she tried her best to stand her ground, believing it was in my best interest to do so.  In the end, neither of us was a winner, because every half hour for the next six hours, mom would come in the living room with "The Brush". 

The Brush was a fish-shaped wooden bristle brush with a glass fish eye on it.  She and dad had bought on their honeymoon in Canada, and it had become her tool of choice for spanking us.  Dad preferred his hand.  Sibling lore is that they actually bought it specifically to use in disciplining their future children, but I'm not sure if this tale is strictly true or not, because who is thinking about spanking unborn children on their honeymoon?!

"Get up," she ordered me, but I'd seen The Brush in her hand, and wasn't one to willingly give in to spankings.  I sat there crying and feeling desperate.  

Mom yanked me up with one hand, and with a swift movement laid a few strokes of The Brush on my back side.  Then, while I howled in pain, she threatened to do it again in another thirty minutes if I didn't start practicing. 

After six hours of crying mutely at the piano interspersed every 30 minutes with a round of spankings via The Brush, she finally relented and let me get off the bench.

"You can go to your room for the night" she told me.  It was not our finest hour.

It wasn't long after this incident that I quit taking lessons.   It became an epic struggle between us, and even though it had only been a few months, mom had four kids at that point, and frankly, there wasn't enough energy in the world to fight me over the piano every day.  I'm a pretty strong-willed horse.  I think the only time she got her way over my preferences was when it came to having a line at our wedding reception...which I vehemently did not want. But that's another tale for another blog post.

It's really unfortunate that no one ever noticed I was playing by ear, because a I think a different approach would have resulted in a vastly different outcome for me.  But I didn't know my ability was in any way unique…I thought that's how everyone did it.  (Side Note:  With my own daughter, I've taken a different approach. My #1 priority was to find a teacher that inspires her who could actually teach. While it hasn't been cream and chocolate all the time,  she passed my paltry technical abilities up after about 4 months of lessons, and has really blossomed in musical ability this past year.)

As soon as I stopped lessons, I kept a wide berth around that big ole' piano in our livingroom.  In fact, I didn't lay a finger on any piano for the next decade, but when I finally did, I could play every song I'd ever learned without skipping a beat.  Even the Irish Jig.

Kibbles and BIts: The Part Where I'm Heading to The Pokey

Part I of this story can be found here.

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I was quite fortunate as it turns out. The Man wasn't one of the Hillside Stranglers.  So I at least had that going for me.

We pulled into a parking lot and he opened my door and carried me into the police station.

This was my first visit to the police station, and while it wasn't altogether a bad one, it seemed to have turned me off to a life of crime, making me think that perhaps every four-year old should take a field trip there.
The Man set me on a chair and then went over to talk to the officer at the desk.  A moment later,  a different officer came over and carried me into a back room.  I didn't see any other prisoners along the way, and I also never saw The Man Who'd Rescued Me again. (See how quickly I elevated his status?!)

I was feeling considerably relieved by now. The officer helping me seemed nice. He set me down on a table and asked me lots of questions as he washed The Blood off my scrapes and stuck on Band-Aids.  Plus, bonus, he gave me a Popsicle AND a lollipop...which was almost as good as Christmas in my book. I was busy working on the Popsicle while he questioned me.

"What's your name?"

"Blue" I told him.

"How old are you Blue?"

I held up four fingers and kept licking.

"Do you know where you live?"

"At our house." (duh.)

"How did you end up in the middle of the street?"
Ahh, he'd finally gotten around to the tricky question that I knew could decide my fate.  And while it was a pleasant surprise to find that they had popsicles and lollies in the pokey, I wasn't sold on staying there.

"I fell out when I was playing hide and seek with my brother."

About half an hour later, dad finally arrived, with Mike trailing behind.
He explained to the officer how Mike and I had been playing hide and seek in the back of the car.  "When Mike finished counting, he started looking for her."

"Daddy, I can't find Blue." he said.

"She's hiding." dad had replied.

"But I can't find her.", Mike insisted.

"Keep looking" Dad encouraged as he drove along. 

Mike re-checked both sides, just in case he'd missed me in the dark somehow.
After further frustration on Mike's part, our dad finally said, "Okay Blue, you win.  Come on out."

No response.

Knowing me to be highly competitive, Daddy asked me to come out a few more times, with the same result.

They had driven a couple miles from my intersection by then.  Dad pulled into a parking lot, lifted up the seat, and confirmed that indeed, no Blue there.  Which meant he had no idea where his kid was!  

Mike wasn't of much help, under the circumstances (Dutifully counting. Eyes closed.  At least this whole incident confirmed that he hadn't been cheating.)  With no small amount of panic, Dad re-traced their route, but there was no sign of me.

Of course this was long before the advent of mobile phones. (Side note number one: It was during the year that I was born that the first 9-1-1 call was made.  This momentous event took place in Haleyville, Alabama, when the Alabama Speaker of the House placed a call from City Hall to the town police station where the U.S. Rep was waiting.  He answered the call on a big red phone with a cheery "Hello!", after which they rendezvoused for coffee and donuts, proving the long-standing connection between All Things Police and The Donut Industry.

This was all well and good for the people of Haleyville, but this vital service wasn't available anywhere else so it wasn't doing my father any good on the night my story takes place. But in fact, it was during the very year of my story that the Federal Communications Commission [FCC] recommended that 9-1-1 be implemented nationwide.  Interesting coincidence? I like to think NOT.)

So back to my dad.  As a parent, I can easily imagine how distressing these minutes must have been for him.  I mean, for all he knew, I could be DEAD.  "Death by Hide and Seek!" the headlines would read.

Dad found a pay phone and started calling around.  I don't actually know if he called my mom to tell her the situation or not, but if it were me,  I'd have waited till I had more info beyond "Blue is missing and I don't know where she is," because once, when Bunch was about five, Doc took her skiing and while they were gone, he calls me to tell me that he "didn't know how it happened, but they were on a lift that had a stop half-way up the mountain, and he thought that they were both preparing to get off the chair at that half-way point, and so he did, but Bunch didn't." So our five-year old is on the big chair, WITH THE BAR UP, heading to the top of the mountain all by herself. And it's her first time on a chair lift!  And it's a long ride up to the top, and even longer and more difficult to the bottom!

It was at this point that Doc decides to call and tell me the situation. Which sent me into Mommy Panic Mode even though there was absolutely nothing I could do about the situation except hit my knees and pray, which might have helped because as any regular readers of my blog know, she lived to tell and all is well, but I think I would have preferred to be told the story once there was a happy ending, which is why I'm predicting that my mother would have preferred it, too, but I could be wrong about that.

 Upon hearing I was at the police station and not some hospital (or morgue!), they had come straight there to get me.

While Dad explained the situation to the officer, Mike was eying me with envy.  I had finished the Popsicle, and was working on the lollipop, acutely aware that he was jealous of my good fortune at getting a treat.  To my annoyance, the officer noticed Mike's interest in the lolli, and gave him one too.  After all, this was my dramatic situation.

Apparently, my dad's tale was convincing enough to the policemen that they decided I was free to go--No hard time for me!

(Side note number two: It was also during the year I was born that the first federal law requiring all vehicles (except buses) be fitted with seat belts was passed. But unfortunately, my Powers of Influence didn't have quite as expeditious an effect on seat belt use.   Laws requiring them weren't enacted by individual states until the late 1980's or 1990's in some cases. As of today, New Hampshire is the only state that doesn't have any seat belt laws at all. Live Free Or Die!)

This experience is, in fact, my earliest memory.

Kibbles and BIts: Hide and Seek

Several years ago I started writing down some of my experiences starting with early childhood, but I never did anything with them except send them to my sister.  I know, the poor thing.  I really owe her something chocolaty.

But then (in an act of revenge?) tonight, she emailed them back to me with a note.  She said she "laughed out loud at parts",  and I know this must be true, because, when you are really honest, dysfunction is actually pretty funny.  In hindsight.

Anyway, because of her comments, I've decided to share some of them here.  I'm calling this series of posts Kibbles And Bits: Pieces of My Life.  The Kibbles and Bits part is a reference to a name that the boys in my school gave me.  I really hated it then, because let's face it, Dog Food. But really, isn't it just the perfect title?!  

I plan to add art work eventually so you're in for a treat because there is nothing more awesome than me+art.  But for now, here's the first installment. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hide and Seek

 

Suddenly, I was falling. Falling out of a moving car.

While on the one hand it happened too fast for me to manage a scream, it  felt like slow motion, like time simply stopped just to allow me to fall for ten minutes, before resuming regular speed.

We'd been out running errands, including an exciting trip to the drug store for new toothbrushes. My brother Mike and I were playing hide and seek while daddy drove, and he was in the back corner with his eyes shut.

"One, two, three…" he counted.  

It was my third time hiding.  The bench seat of our 1960's station wagon was folded down, concealing the floor area.  The only place to hide was on one side or the other of the hump running down the middle of the car.  I was heading for the left side.

The previous two turns I'd hidden under the right side, so I was hoping Mike would think I was there again.  I would win the round if he looked for me on the wrong side first.
But as I quietly squeezed down between the door and the edge of the seat to scoot under, I unwittingly depressed the lever-style door handle, and it swung open just enough for me to spill out into in the middle of the road.  (After falling for ten minutes.)

At this precise moment, we were making a left turn at one of the busiest intersections in the region. Which was  fortunate, if you think about it. Moments before we'd been hauling along at 40mph.  That would have been worse.

I hit the asphalt, and the first thing I noticed was all the rubble that had collected on the road; discarded cigarette butts, bottle caps, bits of rock and concrete, and pieces of glass...which had dug into my skin when I landed.

I looked up, expecting our car to be pulling to a stop, only to see it's cat-eye tail lights disappearing in the distance.

"He must just be turning around", I thought.  It never occurred to me that he wouldn't realize I wasn't there.

There was a slim concrete divider in the middle of the road, and I scooted onto it to wait for my daddy who would surely be right back.  It was a dark, chilly night in a commercial part of town.  Eight lanes of scary traffic raced past on either side of me as I shivered in my thin pajamas.

Cars had streamed by for several minutes (or maybe hours) when suddenly one pulled up and came to an abrupt stop beside me.  The driver's door opened and A Man got out.

"What are you doing?" The Man asked.

I wasn't sure what to do.  I was waiting for my daddy, but he wasn't anywhere in sight.  Clearly, The Man was a stranger, and every four year old knows you  simply don't talk to strangers.  But I did anyway.

"I fell out of my car".

"Hmpf", The Man replied.
And with that, he reached down, scooped me up, and put me in his car.  The sound of the passenger door banging shut echoed in the silence as The Man walked back around to his side of the car.  

"I'm taking you to the police station", he said, as he climbed into the driver's seat.

I didn't say anything as we drove.  I wasn't sure why I was going to the police station...maybe being in the middle of the road was against the law. But it was  better than staying with The Man so I hoped he wasn't lying.  We were miles away from home when  and I didn't know the area.  I could see only the tops of  buildings, lit by the orange glow of street lights as we drove along.

Scientific Research has shown that frightening events are associated with richer and denser memories, and that the more memories you have of an event, the longer you believe it took.
As far as my kid mind is concerned, the drive to the police station lasted all night.

   I really didn't want to cry in front of The Man, but  that didn't stop a few tears from leaking down my face.   After all, my dad hadn't rescued me!  And now I was in The Strange Man's car.  And I had cuts! And they were bleeding.  BLEEDING red BLOOD!  And I was maybe in trouble with the police.
Things seemed to be at an all-time low.