Zip Line

I stepped up to the edge of the wooden platform and felt the ropes tugging on me. The harness was tight, but I was still nervous. I turned and looked up the hill behind me.

Uncle Roger was up there watching. I gave him a look that would obviously tell him how incredibly nervous I was to throw my body off of a cliff as I was about to do, but not so nervous that I would back out of the deal. That was the whole reason to go to Catalina Island this past weekend, after all. I swallowed loudly with Uncle Jim, the Producer of the show, standing at my side. He was harnessed too, and I was fairly certain he wouldn't be far behind me once he passed off the video camera to my Uncle.

I took a deep breath and barely remember the guide counting to three as she put a slight amount of pressure on the small of my back, urging me onward. I stepped out over the edge...

"If ever there was a chance to step off a cliff and not die, this would be it," I thought to myself.

I nearly held my breath, but instead managed to breath out slowly as my feet left the platform and I huddled into the Cannonball formation as I was told to do. There I was watching all around me as my body was flung gracefully from one side of the green canyon to the other as fluid as a bird in flight. I opened my mouth and screamed as loud as I could, not in fear but in the pure thrill of the moment. When I ran out of breath, I sucked in another mouthful (completely ignoring the bug I inhaled) and screamed again. I echoed all the way across the canyon, overjoyed at the momentum and propulsion. Physics was truly a wonderful thing.

There were 6 platforms in total, meaning a whole 5 zip-lines from one platform to another. I didn't scream on the second line nearly as much, though I did do my signature scream-giggle that I always seem to let loose with on roller coasters. On the third, the guides encouraged us to scream, so I let loose with a whopper. It was faster than the others had been, so screaming came naturally.

Each time I walked to the edge of the platform and jumped into the abyss, I half way thought I would fall, but in no time at all I was flinging myself off with a running start at the edge. I felt like the fearless teenager I once knew myself to be, bold in the face of danger, laughing when others would cry, never afraid to try anything at least twice. I was a kid again, thanks to my Uncle Roger.

On the very last platform, they encouraged us to play around a bit, but never to take both hands off of the zip line handles over us. I instantly knew what I was going to do.

Just as I flung myself off of the platform, I switched hands and turned around completely. Then I removed one and began to wave directly at the camera, and at Uncle Jim holding it. I waved for a while, completely backwards and hurdling through a wooded terrain towards a platform not 20 seconds away from me. Finally I turned back around and air-walked the rest of the way in to the finish line.

The Zip Line tour at Catalina Island was an incredible adventure and one I'll likely never forget as long as I live. The next time I have an out-of-town guest with me, I know that's something we won't miss out on. I'll have to make our reservations way in advance though, they're usually booked solid.

Be sure to catch the episode on "Out and About with Roger Martin" when it airs soon!

Target Practice

Growing up a military kid as I did, I was exposed to elements a lot of kids never got to experience. I've heard accents from all over the world, moved more times than I dare to count and met people I never otherwise would have. I've gotten to participate in USO shows, decorate banquet halls for the coming home parties of War veterans, swim with Colonels and dance with hero's. I also got to know my Dad - he was my first hero.

Stories of my dad's early years in the military always interested me. I'm a bit of a history buff, so the stories he would tell me of his own father always left me on the edge of my seat as well. Possibly my most favorite story would be during the time we were stationed in Germany - around the time I was born. That's when he was the Sharp Shooter (sniper) for the on base S.W.A.T. team.


Dad grew up in the back woods of Up-State New York. His yard was nothing but trees, and his stomping grounds were also his hunting grounds. He could hardly be found without a rifle of some sort in his hands, out hunting deer with Grandpa Frank or milking cows for Woodrow for pocket change. He told me that even though he got very little money by today's standards, back then a dollar was a lot of money and could go a long way. That part always fascinated me. He said even five dollars would help pay the bills in his family. He helped to support his two sisters while (as my mom puts it) being a Football hero in his school.


He used to make a joke about growing up in Roscoe and going to school in Livingston Manor. He said they lived so far out in the sticks, they had to pipe in the sunshine, and sometimes that took days. Very few people knew where Roscoe was on the map, and that fact remains today. It's a very rural area even now, quite the contrast to what most people think of New York. Looking at the maps, I even recall the street named Beaver Kill Road from his stories.

When I was just a kid we went to visit my Grandfather and Grandmother in New York. I remember even visiting with the neighbors next door to where my father grew up. The brothers were still there, aged and crippled with arthritis. Dad had always thought of them as uncles, the two kind, old bachelors. As he sat visiting with them, my Mother took my brother and I wading in the Willowemoc river. She told us stories my father had once told her about swinging on a tire swing way out over the river and splashing down at just the right moment. All of these stories made my father into a hero in my eyes. He was an adventurer, just like me. He had stories to tell - if I could just get him to tell those stories!


I tried for years to get stories out of my father, but he didn't really talk much about his childhood. Something about it seemed shaded, as though he had been severely hurt somehow. Finally, we discovered a common interest in the love of target shooting and I would work on him during our long drives to the rifle range.



I don't remember what the first gun was that I shot, but it was likely at 10.22 rifle. It's a great starter gun with not much kick to it. All I remember was that it was a lot of fun and the big "bangs" I heard from his hunting rifle as he worked on sighting it in for the hunting season made my heart skip a beat every time. Eventually I learned how to zone that out.

Mom got her own .22 rifle when I was a teenager, and on the weekends she was stuck working, Dad and I would load up the truck and borrow her rifle. We would head to the range on the side of the mountain with all the gear and set up for the day.

Dad would set me up with Mom's .22 rifle at the pistol range. The smaller caliber was the only rifle allowed over there. He would stick little orange stickers on the target for me to aim at, he'd teach me how to sight the weapon and he taught me breathing practices. I would breath out slowly as I pulled easily on the trigger. When the gun would fire, at first I would jump. It would startle me. In no time at all, I was shooting like a pro.

We gathered our targets and looked at our progress. I remember by the end of the first day shooting with my mom's brand new rifle, I had not only shot the little orange sticker, but had blown it completely off the target leaving nothing but a 2 inch diameter hole where it had once been stuck. Not a trace of it was left. Dad was amazed.


Next he pulled out the Swinging Squirrel. The squirrel was set up on a metal bar that we would push into the ground. When shot, the squirrel was meant to swing back and forth, indicating the person aiming had hit their mark. Before long I had the squirrel doing flips over the bar like an Olympic gymnast. The orange sticker on its belly was all but gone.


When we went to survey the damage, the squirrel was no longer black, but the shiny metal surface was showing through nearly every inch. It has bent nearly in half and resembled a banana more than a squirrel. Dad decided it was time for the Big Boy range. Never in my life had I ever seen him more proud of me for anything, even the year I made honor roll.

The very next time we went shooting, he brought out the AR 15, the military version of the M16 assault rifle. It looked big and burly. It was the meanest looking gun I'd ever seen with it's matte black finish, flash supressor on the end and banana clip with 15 rounds. I was in awe.


Dad loaded the clip for the first three rounds and had me finish it. Then, with the clip out, he walked me through the dynamics of the gun. Before ever touching it, I knew how to load a round, eject the round, load and remove the clip, clear a jam, set the safety and fire my first shot. Going through all of that, my intimidation of the AR 15 no longer existed.


My first round sliced through the top corner of the target at 50 yards. The weight threw me off and I yanked the trigger instead of squeezing. The second grazed the field before the target, never even getting close. Then I settled in.


The rifle only had sights. With a gun as dependable as the AR 15, no scope was needed. It was dead on accurate. I grew that rifle as an extention of my arm. I began to squeeze shots off like a pro. Again, he placed the orange stickers on the center of the target, and before long I was as accurate with the AR 15 as I had been with the .22 rifle at 75 yards. Dad beamed.


"Nice shootin," another man at the range said to me as he looked through his binoculars at my target. Dad patted me on the back with his corse, rough hand. He and I both beamed. When I was really little I would proudly say "That's my Dad!" I could feel in his hand as he patted me that he wanted more than anything to tell this stranger "That's my kid."


After a while of blasting groups of 15 in a pattern smaller than a silver dollar, Dad was so proud I thought he would pop. "Hey Kiddo," he said to me, smiling. Mom had just arrived at the range after a long day at work, and he wanted to show off to her. I set the gun on safe, pulled out the clip, ejected the round in the chamber, and set the firearm down on the table. Mom smiled at me.


"Hi!" she said to me. "Your Dad tells me you've done really well today!"


"Thanks!" I said, surely blushing. Nearly all the eyes at the range had been watching me for an hour and I never realized it. Here I was just a 13 year old girl shooting better than most of the guys out there sighting in their yearly hunting rifles.


"Hey Manda," Dad said, "Show your mom your targets." I grabbed them up (I had kept them close to me all day. I was so proud!) and handed them to Mom. As she leafed through them with oohs and aahs, Dad called me back over to the AR 15 rifle. "Lets do one more target for your Mom and then we'll have to get going. I'm hungry!"


"Ok," I said, eager to finish off the clip. Mom came over to watch. I put several more holes in the target before Dad interupted me.


"Hey Kiddo, you see that shining thing up there on the next mountain over?" I looked where he was pointing.


"Where?" I saw a reflection of light against something, but surely that wasn't what he was talking about.


"Right there." Indeed it was.


"Yeah, I see it."


"Look through the field scope, maybe you'll see it better." I looked. "That's the Gong. Do you think you could hit that?"


"I think so," I replied. I didn't even notice when the rest of the range went quiet, watching and listening. I picked up the rifle again, sighted the gong and squeezed the trigger while breathing out gently. The gun fired. One second went by with nothing. Then two. On the third second, we heard it.


"CLANG!"


"You, you DID it!" Dad jumped up from his seat and his face lit up like the 4th of July. I still didn't notice, but people within ear shot of my father all stood amazed. "Do it again!" I smiled, took a breath, and repeated the action. Again, three seconds went by and we heard the loud "CLANG!" once more. Dad prompted me to do it again, but the magazine was empty. He had said to finish off the magazine and we'd have to go. I set down the rifle and took out the magazine. Proudly, with the broadest smile I've ever seen on his face, he handed me the box of shells. "Again," he said, as eagerly as a kid wanting another piggy back ride.


I went through three more clips with only missing twice. By the end of that third clip, I had a full audience behind me watching. Dad stood proudly by my side, my mother stood back in awe with the masses watching my performance. Each shot rang out, and each time the gong clanged. When my eyes were finally strained and I couldn't do it anymore, I set the safety, pulled the clip and stood up. As I turned around I finally noticed the shining faces behind me. They had all watched my every move.


"Nice job, Kid," a few of them said. "Way to go."


Dad and I rode back to the house that day with him telling me stories of his hunting adventures when he was a kid. He told me about his first gun, his qualifying scores in the Military academy, his days in Germany as the Sharp Shooter for the S.W.A.T. team, and all the stories I had longed to hear growing up.


When I told my father that I wanted to be a Cop many years later, he asked me if it was because I was dating a cop. Though I will admit that it was the reason I decided to try out for it finally, (I never had the courage to try before, but if that monkey could do it, it would be no problem for me), what my father failed to realize is that this memory and the stories he told me were the reason I had wanted to be a Cop since the day I spent at the range with him shooting the AR 15 rifle. I wanted to be a Sharp Shooter, just like my Dad.

My Most Memorable 4th of July

I was never allowed to play with fireworks as a kid really. They were seen as dangerous, and my mother's family knew just how dangerous they were. They also knew I was a bit of a fire bug and didn't see any good from me having fire in my hands.


When her father was a young boy, he threw a cherry bomb at a little girl as a joke. When it went off, it was directly in front of her face and it blinded her for the rest of her life. Of everything he ever did, that was the one he regretted most. He never forgave himself for such a cruel act. He hadn't meant to blind her, but the fact that he had haunted him for the rest of his life.


When Mom was growing up, she was the middle child and the only girl. She and her two brothers used to light Bottle Rockets and aim them at one another. They would shoot out of the classic Coke bottles, screaming as they went almost louder than the pursuee would scream. Rarely did they make their mark, but having the flaming, sizzling sticks pursue them was enough to scare them into running for their life. When they finally popped, they would sting wherever they touched. One of my uncles still has a scar from one going off on the small of his back. The scorching, searing pain was hardly soothed by ice cubes.


Dad never told me stories of him as a kid with fireworks, but judging how alike we are, I can imagine he had some wild stories to remember. Bottle Rockets, Roman Candles and Sparklers weren't allowed in the house, and if ever we were camping where someone else had fireworks, we weren't to touch them or offer help of any kind. Our parents would chide us for even trying. Sparklers always looked like so much fun, but I wasn't allowed to wave them through the air like the other girls writing their names in brilliant, dazzling, glimmering shower of blues and reds.


Finally LaDonna and her husband invited Mom and me to light fireworks with them on the 4th of July one year. My mother relented to my begging and pleading. LaDonna brought her 4 year old daughter Kaycee with them and we giggled the whole way to the Pic-n-Sav parking lot that night in Victorville. Kaycee was considerably younger than me, as I was around 11 years old at the time, but she was a sweet little girl and I really enjoyed playing with her. We had spent hours playing with My Little Pony's up until this point in time.


LaDonna and her husband had brought a variety of fireworks with them. They set off the Roman Candles first, and we oohed and aahed the way only an innocent child would. The bottle rockets were set up in a 2 liter bottle weighed down with a little water, kept as a reserve in case anything caught fire. They had thought of everything, and my mother began to ease a bit.


When finally they brought out the sparklers, they handed one to Kaycee who started to spell her name in the air. They offered one to me, but I declined; I knew what my mother would say.


"Go ahead, Manda" she said to me. "You can have one."


I squealed in delight, my voice squeaking slightly. "Really??"


"Why not," she said. My mother often had a way of surprising me like that. "It's the 4th of July after all."


I took the sparkler offered to me by LaDonna. She lit it with the small red Bic lighter she held in her left hand, and the world in front of me was magical. I was holding fireworks. I had this dazzling display of color in front of me that I alone controlled. I had wanted this moment for so long that I just stood there for a moment staring into the lovely little light.


"Write your name with it," Kaycee said. "I can do it, see?" She wrote her name in the air again, spelling out the letters as she went.


I had been taught cursive a number of years before, and all of my school assignments were to be done in cursive. Never before that moment did it make sense to me, but holding that little lighted sparkler out in front of me, it all made sense. Cursive was invented for sparklers, because you can't pick them up off of the page!


I wrote my name in broad, sweeping strokes, starting with a huge letter "A" and continuing around my body.


I was in paradise as I made the loop tall and strong for the "D" in my name. I had almost finished when I suddenly heard screaming.

When I turned around, I noticed Kaycee's father running towards her. She was still blissfully waving her sparkler through the air, oblivious to the fact that her head was very much on fire. I had accidentally bumped the top of her head with my sparkler and never noticed. The products in her hair instantly caught, and the flames leaped from her scalp like rabbits dancing in a field on a warm spring day.

Kaycee's father began to slap at the flames, struggling like mad to put them out before his daughter resembled a scorched cue ball. He slapped and pounded, beating poor, oblivious Kaycee in the head. She dropped her sparkler to the ground and reached up to defend herself against the unprovoked attack. She screamed and cried, her father yelled at her to hold still, and LaDonna stood back in a panic. All of us had forgotten about the water in the 2 liter bottle right at Kaycee's feet.

When finally the flames were put out, I gave the rest of my remaining sparkler to Kaycee and sat down in a lawn chair by my mother. To this day I've never finished writing my name with a sparkler. LaDonna never invited us go to with them again, and I wasn't allowed to play with Kaycee for a while after that; at least until her hair grew back in.

Happy 4th of July, Everyone.

Just - don't light anyone on fire. It's not as fun as it sounds.

Go Away! (poem)

Just Go Away!!!


You’ve asked me for a date.
Go away.
You want more time with me.
Go away.
You’re too impatient to wait.
Go away.
Why cant you let me be?
Go away.

You’ve called me every day.
Go away.
You’ve given me so many things.
Go away.
I don’t know how else to say.
Go away.
I wont be one of your flings.
Go away.

Its not ok in my eyes.
Go away
Please don’t cheat on your wife.
Go away.
I once thought you so wise
Go away
I wont be your second life.
Go away.

I wont be how you break your vow
Go away
You’re not who I think of.
Go away.
There’s someone else in my life now
Go away.
I found someone I love.
Go away.

Do not come by my house anymore.
Go away.
Please don’t call me again.
Go away.
I will not be your dirty whore.
Go away.
I am something you'll never win.
Go away.

Amanda Blackwood
08/04/06

(This was written and dedicated to a stalker.)

Big Black Snake

The first snake I ever saw was in the middle of a dirt road tire track. He was black and slimy in my opinion, though I learned much later in life that it wasn't slimy at all. He sat there, sinister and shining in the sun, glinting as though it was encrusted with exquisite jewels.

In mid-pedal, I dumped my bike, jumped several feet backwards, and ran for home like it was chasing me. I could practically feel that forked tongue lapping at my heels as I ran. I stepped high, lifting my knees nearly to my chest. At some point, a blood curdling scream escaped from my mouth as I ran the half mile back to the house. By the time I got there, I had morphed that into screams of "Snake! Snake!"

My mother was waiting outside for me when I rounded the corner and leapt over the ditch in one tremendous bound. As I flew through the air, I suddenly realized that there could be any number of snakes in the grass I was about to land in. Just the week before my mother told me about a snake she had run over with the lawn mower over by the wood shed. My feet landed and I sprang straight back into the air, throwing my body wildly over as much ground as I could cover with each leap. I looked like a cross between a gazelle and a baboon, I'm sure. I was a rather lanky 7 year old.

By the time my mother convinced me to walk back down the road with her to retrieve my bike, I had stopped shaking and the sun had stopped shining. The stars began to peek their heads in the darkening horizon. The crickets chirped, telling of the coming evening. I walked slowly, not wanting to face that snake any more at that time than I had the first time I came nose to nose with it. A rabbit bounced across the path in front of us. The birds flitted from tree to tree and the cows grazed in a near by pasture, occasionally calling to one another. Arkansas in the spring was the most beautiful place I had ever seen.

The snake was long gone by the time we got to where my bike rested in the middle of a small mud puddle. I still laugh at myself and how afraid I was of that little snake. I remained terrified of snakes for many years until one day I was face to face with a pet snake belonging to a boy I liked. So completely bent on impressing this boy, I reached out and gingerly took the snake from his hands. I wrapped it around my neck and over my shoulders the way I had seen him do. Then I smiled my most winning, fetching smile for an awkward girl of 12 years old. I was still terrified, but I was too stupid to show it.

At times I have moments of that same type of stupidity. My judgement lapses and when fear tells me NOT to do something, I challenge myself to do it anyway. I've learned a few tricks for doing this, such as convincing myself that when I reach the number 1 counting backwards from 10 I will attack whatever it is I'm afraid of. I've used this method for saying things that needed to be said and I was afraid of saying. I've used this to pick up snakes, hold spiders and tarantulas, ride glass elevators and climb into a VERY tall roller coaster.

This past weekend I tried to do something along these lines and I failed. I'll try it again the next time the opportunity presents itself - and I'll do it by remembering the big black snake. It's the first time I've failed at this method... and I won't let it happen again.

The Handshake

That initial attraction speaks volumes about a person. Sometimes all it takes is a smile across a room, a greeting, an introduction or a handshake.

He shook my hand with eagerness. It was obvious he thought I was an attractive female. I'm not one to see myself for my physical appearance, and actually ignore it completely unless applying my makeup in the morning. I don't see myself as pretty or attractive, but rather as smart, driven and determined. I blushed instinctively.

I could tell just from looking at him that my head would fit perfectly on his shoulder, but I also knew that I shouldn't have such thoughts the first time I met someone. His eyes burned into me, his smile warmed me, his touch made my hand burn with a pleasant tingle. There was no denying it, there was something special about him.

That was too long ago to want to admit. I didn't do anything about it.

I won't let another opportunity like that to pass me by.

I'm doing something about it this time...

My Greatest Addiction

There are many things that the human race has been addicted to since the beginning of time. Probably one of the first and most primal addictions was adrenaline. The cave man knew not why he enjoyed the hunt so much other than the feeling of accomplishment once the kill was on its way home to feed his fellow tribesman and woman. What he didn't realize was that a catecholamine secreted by the adrenal medulla in response to stress was stimulating an autonomic nerve action; in other words, an adrenaline rush. A day in the life of a Neanderthal wasn't overly exciting, I imagine. Suddenly, during the thrill of a chase, the danger of the kill, he felt alive. He felt new and refreshed, like there was a reason he was alive. His body tingled with the very sensation. His hearing was more keen, his sight more honed in, and his nose far more sensitive. He could feel every breath of air that swept past his bare arms.


Man has had the grand misfortune of finding many more highly addictive substances over the past couple of million years, some of which we've discovered how to fabricate for ourselves. The number of drug and alcohol addictions in this country is staggering!


One must wonder who it was who discovered that this horrible, tiny, hard, bitter bean would be wonderfully pungent and delicious once ground into dust and hot water was filtered through it. Did you know that Americans use more than 2.3 billion pounds of coffee beans each year? We are addicted to caffeine!


But my addiction is none of these. My addiction is something much more serious, and taken with a much more lighthearted attitude. My addiction is love. Some of you may sneer, jeer, jest, heckle, and just plain roll your eyes at this. Others may say that I'm either crazy or headed that way. Maybe so! All I know is that I love to be loved. I enjoy that feeling. I crave it! And I know that when I cant get the love I crave from the source I so desperately want it from, I become a very sad person. Its a horrible addiction, and one that I feel I am on the road to recovering from. I do not wish to live for that feeling. I don't want be depressed, sad, or lonely when I feel I don't get the attention I want. There will be times in my life when I wont be able to have that attention and I must learn to live with that. Just knowing that the one I've decided to give my own heart to loves me should be enough but I crave that interaction between two hearts and souls; that beautiful moment when nothing else in the world matters but the two in love.


I have known many that said they loved me, far less that meant it, and far fewer than that whom I have ever loved in return. Still, I let those who loved me believe that the feeling was mutual so as not to loose their love. Was that bad? Was it wrong? I believe it was, and yet I could not help myself for so long. Every time I had the opportunity to let one of those people I did not love fade off into the background, I seemed to pull them back in and dangle that carrot just out of reach once more.


It took so long to grow into the person I've become. I know now what I want in life, I know how to let go of those I do not and can not love, while at the same time holding tightly to those I do. I know finally what real love feels like. I know it's waiting for me - just patiently waiting. He's right there. Maybe he's waiting for an email or a text message from me... but he's out there. Very soon now, I'll be looking into his eyes as he looks deep into mine, soul mates seprated too long ago and forced into strange lives we were never meant to live appart.

The Wreck

"... and here we are, going round in circles, wondering if the lie will be discovered. I’ve told some big ones, but never really on this grand of a scale. And to what end? Actually, strangely enough, it covers her tail end in several different directions. She’s a crazy one. Perhaps someday she’ll let more people in on the secret, but for now it’s only me. For now she won’t even tell her own family. For now, nobody knows. Nobody but herself, me, and the driver of the small pick up truck that crashed into us..."

Exerpt from my book three days before Heathers death.

Purpose

I was awe struck as I walked into my little appartment last night. I had just climbed out of the shower and was going to settle into bed to read for a while before drifting off to strange and erratic dreams when I heard a noise below. The cats were settling in to bed. The lights outside filtered through the wooden slats covering the window, eluminating the room with a pleasant, faint glow. I couldn't help but to smile, remembering fondly the wonderful memories I've already made in that room with my own friends and lovely little pets.

I climbed down from the loft to fetch myself a bottle of water. I walked through my very own living room and saw the computer on the desk still open to a project for work. I had managed to feel highly successful yesterday in the mid-year meeting and was ready to attack my job with a new sense of purpose and determination. My smile grew for reasons I couldn't yet share. Oliver jumped down from his carpeted tree and nuzzled my bare leg.


I've been in some hard spots, and I've had a really hard time trying to find my place in this world. Even now it's a daily struggle for me, but I know where I'm meant to be. I know what I want to do for my career, and getting there has been a challenge, it's one I'm eager to face every day when I wake up. I look forward to going in to work. Even now that path isn't guaranteed, but I know that I'm well on my way and I have a support system greater than any I've ever known. And yet, as I walked through the appartment last night, I realized something that maybe I had known all along and just hadn't realized.

I have my home. It's the first time I've felt like I belonged somewhere and had my own place in my entire life. I belong here. This is my sanity, my safety, and my savior. My career has just begun and I have great plans for my direction, but I have everything in my life that I've ever really searched for - stability, self-sufficiency and confidence.

This was an eye opening walk through my own place. I found something in the past year I guess I never really lost - my inspiration and my soul. They've just been waiting for me to realize that all I had to do was reach out for them, held captive in the recesses of my own mind. If not for people like my boss, friends and co-workers who have stood by me in this most difficult time, I may never have taken this walk to the kitchen on this warm and humid night in my house coat and slippers and seen the magic of my own home around me. I wouldn't have that glorious appartment. I wouldn't have my two cats, warm and friendly, loving and giving. I wouldn't be where I am in this world, with dreams, desires and determination to not only succeed, but to conquer.

Yes, I am still me. I am that vibrant, energetic little girl I knew growing up. I'm that sassy, somewhat crazy redhead I knew in my teens. I'm that young, ambitious adult I knew in my early 20's who saw the world as nothing but a game to win. I'M BACK, and nothing can stop me this time.

My job has opened new doors to meeting new people and trying new things. I've become more empowered than ever before, and after so many years of searching and never knowning, I've found my niche. I've found where I belong.

I've finally found my purpose.

Lost in Prague

For many, many years I had a terrible sense of direction. I would get lost walking from my house to the bus stop. It didn't help that the house was situated at an odd angle on the corner of a 5 way intersection. I wouldn't know my North from the West if my life had depended on it. I knew how to get home and how to get to school, but for all else, I depended on others around me. In the middle of the night, in a foreign country where English was barely spoken, I had a rude wake-up-call at 23 years old and to this day I have a hard time realizing how lucky I am to be alive.

Bill and I had gone to Germany for Stefan and Barbara's wedding. It was the first time I had been back to Germany since we moved away in 1982. I hadn't remembered anything about the beautiful Country in which I was born except for the briefest of flashes during that moment I found myself reminiscing over my life with my grandfather while stuck in that layer between death and life. Even then it was too limited to really know anything about where I had been born. All I could tell anyone was that I was born in Kaiserslautern.

I had dreamed of going back to Germany for many years. For my 16th birthday my parents bought a VHS tape about tourism in Germany and took me to the only German restaurant in Ogden. It was a birthday worth remembering. So when I found out that there was a chance to go see where I was born, I jumped at it, eager to see the world.

We flew into New York City with the aspirations of seeing a Broadway show with some other people who were also headed to the wedding over seas. I couldn't believe it - this trip was going to give me two of my greatest dreams! Next to Germany, my other top item on my 'bucket list' was to go to a Broadway show!

Unfortunately things happen and my dreams of seeing the show were dashed upon the rocks like a ship lost in a storm. With Richard and Gloria, things often "came up" at the last minute, so that trip we never made it to Broadway. We had a quiet dinner in a restaurant with a 2 hour wait for a table. All I kept thinking was that we could have spent that 2 hours at Broadway, Damn the meal. The next day we were boarding a flight to Germany though, so I didn't let it dampen my spirits.

We flew into Frankfurt on a 14 hour flight with me stuck in a broken seat that wouldn't recline. Gloria's snide condescension drove me up the proverbial wall. I'd never truly liked her very much anyway, but I had always been good at being 'pleasant' to her in social situations. I grabbed out my ear buds and popped them in when the movie started with the intention of drowning her out. My in-flight head set didn't work right for the movie though, and by the time we got there I was so bored with word search puzzles that I never wanted to see another for as long as I lived and it was all I could do to restrain myself from knocking Gloria unconscious - but we were THERE. We had made it to Germany!

My nerves were a bit frayed at this point from lack of sleep and the occasional condescending blast from Gloria. Society cant pin that many people into a cramped space with screaming kids and falling hat boxes without expecting those who know one another to be cranky with one another. We're constricted by social graces to be kind to strangers, but with people we know, we can be our cranky selves. By the time we loaded up in the rented diesel station wagon, the four of us were snapping like bears in the salmon run. We were each out for blood and we knew it.

Even the ever-patient Richard grew testy. I was ready to claw Gloria's eyes out with just one more snide comment about how I was too young to know about this or that, or that I didn't know about a particular social grace because I didn't "grow up with money" as she put it. I couldn't help but think to myself that she most likely didn't either. Due to the way she spoke to those around her, I guessed that I had more class, dignity and grace in my little finger nail than she possessed in her entire body. There were certain things I'd never understand according to her because she was a nurse and I wasn't. There was something about Gloria that I truly despised. Later on I discovered what the underlying reason was for her condescension and knew that I was justified in my dislike of the woman. I'll save that story for another day.

Gloria had been rude each time she thought even for a second that it couldn't be overheard by the men. I wasn't the type of person to complain, so when some of her remarks were overheard inside the car, Bill started to realize there was something going on. He knew me well and could tell when I didn't like someone, but he didn't say anything to me about it. He thought it was all in my mind, most likely. She proved that it wasn't all in my mind, Gloria really did NOT like me. She made that trip almost unbearable for me, but vindicated me at the same time.

We drove from Frankfurt through East Germany and straight in to Prague, only getting lost once or twice on the way. We got there late at night and settled in to a Bed and Breakfast where we would be staying for the next few days. Before even 10 minutes passed, we were settled into bed for the night, exhausted from the long journey. Each of us felt as though we either had a plane or a car growing out of our buts.

The next day we found ourselves wandering Prague. We visited the famous sights, took tours of castles far removed from the city and purchased typical "tourist" items like watercolor paintings of the famous clock tower. We watched the fire eaters and sword jugglers on the Charles bridge, we peered in awe at the blue glass in the shop windows along every street. The church was stunning. Prague was one of the most beautiful cities I'd ever seen in my life. By the time we stopped into the bar for a quick meal though, we were starving and tensions were high once more.

We drank fresh Pilsner beer, marveling at the massive difference between that and what we get in the States. With the beer, lips became loose and we all began to have words. Gloria had pushed me to the limit, and when Bill said something to me, I took in a negative way. Honestly I don't even remember what he said, but tempers were flared and I was more frustrated than I let on.

Without warning, I snapped. I walked out of the bar leaving the three of them sitting there. Gloria huffed behind me, complained about my being so immature because of my age, and sighed in complete impatience and ignorance.

Bill thought I would be right back. My own stubborn pride refused to allow me. I stayed outside for a few minutes, but Bill came out and I couldn't handle a discussion right then. He strode out with purpose and told me that he wanted to talk to me. He didn't sound happy and I really didn't want to start screaming at him in the middle of the crowded street. I walked away into the crowd and didn't look back.

If I were to guess, I would estimate the time was around 5 in the evening. I was hungry and angry, a dangerous combination for a redhead. Had anyone messed with me right then, they would have had the fight of a lifetime on their hands. I didn't stop walking. I walked past familiar shop windows, my face steaming. I practically sped across the Charles Bridge, striding with purpose past the stunt performers and street dancers. I blazed past the musicians with open guitar cases. When I passed the station, I dug into my pockets. I had no money so I couldn't take the train anywhere - I just kept walking. By the time the sun went down, I strongly wished I hadn't left my jacket at the table. It had been hours since I walked away from the table and my hunger was getting the better of me. I told myself to remember the Saltine crackers, and I just kept walking.

Dark, shady cars filled with dark, shady faces slowed down to look at me. Taxi's offered me a ride, but with no currency there wasn't much I could do. I ignored the young men making eyes at me. When the three men carrying hand guns down the middle of the road with the large, scary guy carrying an assault rifle walked past me, I refused to make eye contact. Prague turned out to be a little frightening at night.

I tried to tell myself that I was going the right direction, but I wasn't really sure. Some of the streets I wandered down started to look familiar, like I had seen them once or twice before. I walked past the Prague clock tower at least three times. I walked back across the Charles bridge no less than three times, too.

The smiling faces of the flame throwers became the grimacing mugs of tattooed fire eaters as the sun set. The sword jugglers became the night's assassins, out for my blood. The shops with the lovely blue glasses were suddenly dark and empty recesses filled with sinister shadows. Around every turn I found something waiting to swallow me into this strange world.

When finally I found the main street leading out of Prague, it was nearing 11 at night. I was all alone on the streets of a foreign country where I didn't even speak the polite words like please and thank you in the native tongue. Even if someone were to attack me, I couldn't beg for my life properly. Not that I would do something like that. I couldn't cry out for help. I didn't know the streets, so I couldn't even run away. I had no allies. I was stranded and alone in the dark night of a dangerous land.

In the year 2003 the Czech Republic had some of the highest crime rates for several of the surrounding nations. When the sun goes down in Prague, girls get kidnapped and sold as sex slaves. I couldn't believe as I wandered the frightening streets of Prague at midnight that I had once again put myself into that position.

I was certain that by now Bill had gotten Gloria and Richard to agree to look for me. I was lost, cold, alone and frightened. I was hungry and tired. But I knew that since I was finally on the main road, it was only another 2 hour walk back to the Bed and Breakfast just outside of town. I could see a possible shortcut in front of me to cut about an hour off of my travel. The scariest part would be having to walk parallel to the railroad tracks, trying to avoid eye contact with the street bums. I was no stranger to that tactic, so I decided to go for it.

The industrial section of Prague spewed black smoke into the air, making the dark night even darker, enveloping the stars in a thick soot that settled on everthing around me. Flames spat into the air from the chimneys, allowing brief glimpses of my surroundings. I stumbled once and fell on my hands and knees. When I stood up to dust myself off, I looked to see what it was I had stumbled over. There behind me was a leg poking out from under a blanket. It was cold to the touch, like ice. The blanket wasn't wrapped around the body at all, but rather just tossed on top. I wondered if the body was even alive. The chimney vomited more flames and black soot, and under one corner of the blanket I saw the face.

His eyes were dark, hollow shells. He stared off into nothing, vacantly resting on a pile of broken wood and shattered bricks. Even staring straight into his face I couldn't tell if he was alive or not, but I strongly assumed he wasn't.

I bolted. I ran for all I was worth, tearing up the ground beneath me with each foot fall. I clinched my teeth together to avoid screaming. Bones were littered here and there; I couldn't help but wonder if they were human or not. The chimney kept belching out black, ominous clouds over bright flashes of evil flames. The world had never seemed so dark.

I shivered, partially from cold but mostly from fear. I stumbled my way down the tracks. Dogs howled and barked in the distance and I suddenly had flashes in my mind of running from a pack of German Shepherds as they tracked me down and ate me for trespassing. I splashed through an open sewer and up the side of the embankment, scrambling and clawing at the hill side for something to pull myself up. The dogs sounded closer with every second. I grappled my way over the chain link fence and fell in a heap on the other side.

An hour later, I realized I was damn lucky I made it all the way back.

Bill was rightfully angry at me when he found me at 3:30 in the morning snuggled up in bed after a hot shower, sound asleep, I don't remember what was said or for how long he said it, but looking back on that frightening night, I'm sure I deserved every moment of it. What I had done was incredibly impulsive and ridiculously dangerous. I don't know exactly what I was thinking that day, if I was thinking at all.

I had been so scared and cold that night wandering around in a strange city thousands of miles from home that I didn't care how long he yelled at me, I was just happy to be back.

Until now I never told a soul about the train yard of Prague. Not even Bill.

 

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The Sea Doo

Mom liked to brag about me when I was a teen, telling her friends at the Post Office about what a daredevil I was. I obviously got it from her, and I think that's why she enjoyed it so much. Her Utah co-workers enjoyed the days she would stop in at work on her day off to pick something up and she would happen to bring me with her. We would stop and chat a while at each of the carrier cases and I would watch them laugh together like the old friends they were. Wendy and Jo Ann were my favorite carriers other than Lynn, otherwise known as "Pee Wee" at 6'5" tall, and Dale. They weren't just my mothers friends. When I went in there, they were MY friends too.

They all decided to have an office picnic one year out at the lake. Mom and Dad had a boat that they brought out with them and we spent a day eating hot dogs over an open fire, going for boat rides, slathering up with the sun block and playing in the water. When my mother found out that Dale would be bringing his SeaDoo though, she told him ahead of time that I was her little daredevil.

"Scare her, Dale. Scare the $hit out of her," she said to him without my knowledge.

"Really," he asked. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, scare her as much as you can. She doesn't get scared of anything. Just have fun out there and abuse her a bit."

"You're sure?"

"Dale, just do it."

"Ok, Beth - you asked for it." He thought for a moment. "Just don't be mad at me for it."

Dale saw me coming up the beach and asked me if I'd like to go for a ride on the back of his Seadoo. I had never been on one so I jumped at the chance. It sounded like a lot of fun to me! For a few years I had been the only one in my family able to get up on the knee board. I had jumped many waves in the inner tube. I'd mastered the art of getting up on the water skis. I loved water sports in any form and this was one I'd never had the chance to try but always wanted to.

"When are we going," I asked Dale, ready to spring into action like a dog eager to go for a walk. I nearly pranced with excitement.

"Let me finish my burger," he mumbled through a very full mouth. Bits of honey oat hamburger bun fell out onto the sand only to be quickly snatched up by the Utah State Bird, the California Sea Gull. I always have laughed at that fact, the Utah State bird being from another state entirely.

He finished eating and it was all I could do not to drag him to the water monster waiting on the sandy strip below. We climbed on board with my mother shouting "Hang on, 'Manda," over behind me. I barely heard her. I hooked my hands into the back of Dale's life jacket and away we went.

Dale took it easy at first. He asked if I was ok, and I would shout back that I was fine and that so far it was fun. Each time that exchange of words took place, I could feel the gas revving a bit more. Pretty soon I felt like we were doing a whole 15 miles and hour. It was a very mild ride.

My Dad went screaming past in the boat and I shouted to Dale that I just knew we could catch up to him. Suddenly the challenge was on. Dale slowly started to increase speed and within a minute, we were doing around 30 miles an hour. I was squealing with delight, fully ready to go faster and overtake my Dad.

Dad killed the motor to the boat ahead as one of Mom's coworkers climbed over the side and prepared to try water skiing. Dale and I went speeding past and kept on going. We turned around just in time to see Dad taking off, creating a wake behind him. Dale goosed it, I held tight to his life jacket, and we hit the wake at around 35 miles an hour. The jet ski soared into the air higher than I thought was possible. We sailed with nothing under us but air, finally landing with an abrupt sputter and jerk as we took off through the water once more. I squealed with delight, screaming at Dale about how much fun that was and that I wanted to do it again.

He took wave after wave, increasing speed each time I squealed with delight. Finally we wiped out and both of us tumbled in a syncronized cartwheel formation over the surface. We splashed into the water and I came up laughing. The jet ski was close by and we both swam over to where it rested.

"Ok," Dale said to me when we managed to climb back onto it, "I think I'm going to let you take it out on your own for a while."

We cruised at a low speed back to the shore where Dale made a direct line to my mother. Talking with animated hand movements, I knew he was telling her the stories of our hour long ride. He asked her if it was ok for me to take it on my own for a bit, then walked over to show me how it worked. I couldn't wait to get it out in the open.

What I didn't know was exatly what they had talked about.

"I tried, Beth. I really tried," he said to my mother. "I even scared myself a few times, but I couldn't seem to scare her at all. When we wiped out, she came up laughing and I came up thankful to be alive! She's a tough kid, Beth. I don't think you have to worry about her."

"That's what worries me," she said to him. "Without being afraid, how far will she push it?"

I took the jet ski out for hours that day. I went all over that lake on a motorized vehicle - the first time in my life I had ever had something with power completely to myself. I didn't have to answer to anyone or listen to directions. There was no "Go here" or "head there" or "you're going too fast" that I expected to hear the first time I ever drove anything with a motor. I didn't have a back seat driver - it was just me and the open water of Pine View Dam. What glory!

I flirted with boys, I cruised into the docks, I wandered from finger to finger among the many that made up all of Pine View. I coasted through reeds, watched for fish, jumped boat wakes and had a glorious day.

"Hey," one of the boys of a passing boat shouted out. "Can I have a ride?" I looked around. I didn't see anyone from my group close by, so I told him to go for it. He lept over the side of his family boat and dove with grace and ease into the murky, dark water. When he surfaced, I told him that I wouldn't take him anywhere unless he was wearing a life vest. His brother tossed one in the water beside him and he pulled it on. He was very fit and was probably a basketball player in High School, tall and lean. He pulled himself onto the jet ski with ease. He wrapped his arms around my mid section and we took off like a rocket. I felt him as he smashed his face against the back of my shoulder and hung on for dear life.

"You ok," I shouted back to him after a little way out.

"Yeah," he said quietly. I slowed down.

"Seriously, are you ok," I said, turning to look at him. His face was white.

"I've never been on one of these things before," he admitted sheepishly. "I didn't know they would go that fast." I didn't dare tell him I'd never been on one before that day, too.

I took him around at a lower speed for a while, jumping wakes and exploring the lake. After about an hour I took him back to the boat and he thanked me with a kiss on the cheek.

I never really thought of myself as a tough kid before that. I was certainly adventurous, but to have scared a High School jock when I was only 15 years old by driving a Sea Doo over water - water! That substance that gives when you land on it! - really drove home a point to me. I guess most people just can't handle the adrenaline rush of it all.

I never stopped looking for that adrenaline rush. I love Zombie movies and haunted houses. I love pretending to be the toughest person in a group no matter how frightened I really am.

Mark Twain once said "Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear."

My story is not to say that I didn't feel fear. I wasn't numb to being afraid - but the fear made the ride more fun for me. In certain moments of extreme danger I'm smart enough to get away when needed, wise enough to protect others when that's more urgent, and determined enough to stay until I see it through to the very end whenever possible.

I wondered for the briefest of seconds if I would break my neck as I tumbled end over end, turning somersaults and cartwheels over the water beside Dale. As my feet dipped into the wave and my body twisted its fall to follow, I knew that fear had no real meaning. I would be fine, even though I had bruises on my body for weeks.

The fun outweighed the fear. The adventure outweighed the pain. The determination outweighed the danger.

That's how I live my life, one wave at a time.



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Uneven Bars

On my way to work this morning I heard a song that reminded me of my childhood. The singer mentioned something about calloused hands and I looked at my own now dainty and feminine hands. They weren't always that way. My nails weren't always long and could never keep a coat of red on their surface. They were once the hands of a tom boy, and then the hands of a gymnast, and finally the hands of a roofer before they became the gentle hands they are today.


Callouses used to line the edges of my palm, just at the base of my fingers. I would spend hours climbing trees as a kid. I thought I was half monkey in all honesty. I wanted to be half horse, graceful and beautiful, but I was never a graceful child, and I couldn't have been farther from beautiful. I would play in the mud and always have mud caked under my nails. Mom would spend long periods of time trying to clean under them with a brush. When I was around 5 years old, she painted my nails pink after my begging her for what seemed like forever. All the other little girls in the neighborhood had their fingers painted pretty colors, I wanted pretty hands too. The first thing I did when she finished was go dig up worms with the boys out in the pumpkin patch.

I used these hands to punch a hole in a glass window once. I've used them many times to defend myself, to place shingles on the roof of many houses, to build towers with blocks and to escape miraculously from impossible situations. They were damaged, worn and bruised most of my life, up until just recently.

I used to play on the uneven bars at school when I was in the 5th grade. The playground was a lonely place for me back then. I didn't have many friends. When I discovered the uneven bars, I saw the things other kids were doing on them and wanted to learn how. Instantly I jumped onto an empty one and tried to swing around it by my legs. I fell, landed in a heap on the ground, brushed the sand out of my hair and tried again. The first time I made it all the way around the bar by hooking one leg over and one leg under I was amazed. I learned how to swing my momentum to get me around more often at at a faster pace. I learned how to stop swinging around and swap legs. Then I learned how to swing around the bar with both legs over the bar and using my knees and hands. The callouses ripped open on my hands and I would be in pain trying to write in class, but it was worth it. The adrenaline pumped in my veins and I felt like I was learning something I could be good at.

It took weeks and months to get to where I could transition my hands from one side of my body to the other. I eventually tried swapping legs in mid swing on a continuous cycle and got quite good at that. Another kid dared me to do the Cherry Drop, so I tried. I fell on my head and again brushed the sand out of my hair with my dry, calloused hands. Then I jumped back up and tried it again. I learned which bars were too close to the ground by smacking my skull a few times on the dirt, but I never forgot those lessons.

The Cherry Drop was a challenge. I would hang upside down on the bar from my knees and swing back and forth. When I felt that I was swinging out widely enough, I would unhook my knees from the bar and flip around. I was supposed to land on my feet, but that took a while to get. Most of the time I landed on my butt. Finally one day I got it. I landed on my feet and felt like I was on top of the world!

I had gotten so good on the uneven bars that other kids began asking me how I did it and what my secret was. Feeling proud of myself for having mastered something so well, I started to push myself harder. I wanted to not only be good at it, but I wanted to be the BEST at it! I worked harder and harder. One day, as I swung around the bars with both knees hooked on, I swapped hands in mid swing. I would put both on my left, then both on my right, then both in the middle. Again I heard a dare. Someone dared me to take both hands off of the bar.

The world whizzed by in a blur as I swung wildly by just my knees. I saw the sky race past, the swings behind me, the sand below me, the brick wall before me, the crowd of kids beyond that, and then the school off in the distance. I grabbed the bar again with both hands and went around once more before stopping. My heart raced. I had done it!

Kids everywhere were asking me how I had done it. I didn't know what to say, other than I had just tried and somehow it worked. Others began trying and several were sent to the Nurses office for head injuries. I just kept on.

Each day I would practice at recess. Kids would come from all over the soccer field, the 4 square and tether ball areas and kick ball practice area way off in the distance just to watch me. I felt like I was on stage. Each day I grew more brave. I would start to swing around and do a complete show, always changing things for the 'performance' and always wanting to push myself just a little farther.

One day I decided to incorporate the Cherry Drop with my routine. The kids all knew not to stand too close to the bars in case I lost hold and went flying out in front. Knowing there was a clear space in front of me, I began flipping backwards around the bar and let go with my hands. I rolled around backwards on the bar using nothing but my knees for a full 12 rotations before I picked up the courage, and when the timing was right, I let go. I launched out in front, soared up into the air, and landed squarely on my feet. The other kids applauded and ooohed and ahhed. I had done something nobody else had been able to do and it was coined the Death Drop.

The Death Drop became my signature move. Other kids wanted to copy it, but they were too afraid. One day a boy came and asked me to teach him the basics on the bars, and so I began to mentor the 6th grader. He was a year older than me in school, but he wanted to learn so I started to teach him. In no time he grew to be quite good and we would give dual performances at school during lunch. Within a few months, he landed a Death Drop and amazed everyone. I couldn't be more proud - my Student had gotten to be as good as I was. In due time, kids started asking him to teach them. Pretty soon we were teaching side by side. We would have anywhere from 5 to 20 kids a day we would work with together. We worked as spotters, making sure they didn't fall. After having learned the hard way myself, I made sure none of them ever got on a bar that was too low to the ground so that they didn't skid to a halt grinding their heads through the sand.

Once or twice we had a kid fall off the bars, but with the other kid there to help me, nobody was hurt. The kids that refused help and wanted to do it all themselves often ended up in the Nurses office by the end of recess. The audience grew, and the school threatened to either add more uneven bars or to remove the ones out there due to the danger and attraction they provided.

I was still the best at what I did. My first student and then co-teacher was very good, but there were certain things I wouldn't teach him. I was selfish. I wanted to be the best at what I did. To some degree there's still that competitive side to me, I want to be the best.

Mom came out to the school one day for Parent - Teacher conferences. I told her there was something I wanted to show her on the playground, so she followed me out there. She was thinking I was going to swing across the jungle gym or go really high in the swings. She was unprepared for what followed.


I went through my very best routine, and she stood back in awe. She had no idea I was able to do all of those tricks on the bars. Finally, in my moment of grandeur, I performed my Grand Finale with the Death Drop.


She screamed.

She yelled and screamed at me. She made me swear I'd never do it again. She threatened to go to the office and ask what they were thinking by allowing me to perform such stunts at recess.

That was the end of my pseudo-career on the bars at school. In two years I transitioned to 7th grade soon and didn't have the bars at recess, or even a recess at all. Lunches were spent from then on eating food alone until we moved to Utah. I had no friends in Jr. High and had a hard time for the first time in my life forming new bonds with total strangers. Nobody liked the little nerd girl with too many freckles, a stick figure for a body and crooked teeth. The other girls had begun to blossom into young ladies and I was still just a kid. I became a wall flower. It was a hard transition to go from being a Bar Celebrity to being nobody in an eager sea of strangers.


As I sat on the grass alone eating my lunch one day, I looked out into the lawn between buildings and saw a kid off in the distance. A crowd gathered around him in a long line. There was a ton of room behind and in front of him, so I watched. I was curious to know what was going on.


The young man suddenly sprang into the air and did a series of back flips and front flips and amazing stunts I'd only ever seen performed on television. He had a full Olympic routine memorized from the looks of it. I completely forgot about my sandwich and went over to watch...


When he finished, the crowd clapped for him. I looked close and knew he was familiar...


The Student had surpassed the Teacher.



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