Kathy and Louise

All of us have had pivotal moments in our childhood. Whether its an epiphany of age versus time or friends who helped to shape who we have become in our adult lives, there's always those ear mark moments that we remember throughout life, like a favorite poem in a book with the corner of the page folded down so we don't forget where it is. I've had MANY of those moments and I've been blessed with a good memory to remember most of them in immense detail. Some people I know (including my own brother) have managed to block out most of their own childhood.

When I first moved to Victorville CA at the ripe old age of 8 years old, I knew right off that I would have a hard time making friends. It was a while before I had even one friend, and that was my Great Dane named Lady. The neighbor girls Rachel and Rona were friendly, but both were quite a bit younger than I was. They were ok to play with, but we didn't become real friends until we had all been neighbors for a few years. Tina next door was older than I was and nearer my brothers age than mine, and her younger brother was still in the "girls have cooties" stage of life. By the time I was 9 I had all but given up on making any real friends.

I think Kathy and Louise moved into the "Circle" around the same time. They made friends with one another before I discovered the two of them while walking my dog one day. They invited me to play with them. I still remember the game.

It wasn't long after Christmas and all the scraps of used wrapping paper were fluttering in the ditch looking very much like one large gift to us, while to others it looked like a massive junk pile. The three of us (and my dog) spent the day right there in the ditch. We would pick up little bits of trash like old coke bottle lids and discarded nickles and then wrap them in the old bits of paper without using any tape. Then we would give them to one another and play "Christmas Morning" over and over until all the bits of paper finally blew away. They were never bits of trash to us though. That old coke bottle lid was a Barbie hat. The discarded nickel was exactly that - money! Even the used Popsicle sticks had a purpose when we were building rock castles for our toys.

Once all the paper was gone and we were looking for another fun activity, we went to Kathy's front porch where we would pick up the flat desert rocks from the garden and build things on the sidewalk with them. We would build as high as we could before they would tumble all over and we would have to sweep them up. Eventually we developed the Pony Playhouse system. We would build open-top castles for our toys at first. We couldn't figure out how to keep a roof from caving in on them. With the Popsicle sticks we collected with the Christmas game, we finally figured out a plan. They would hold the roof and door frame together so things wouldn't go crashing in around the My Little Pony inside. Later on we abandoned that idea though. It was too hard to get the ponies in and out, unless they were in prison.

Kathy and Louise were easily the best friends I ever had in my childhood. I spent every waking moment with them. Sure, we had our arguments and I would spend a couple of days sulking on my own, or Kathy wouldn't come play with Louise and me. But as best friends always do, we got over it and we moved on. In no time at all, we were like the three amigo's all over again.

Both Kathy and Louise had beautiful blond hair. I always wanted to be like them when I was a kid. I didn't know too many blond kids, and both of them were so pretty. They had the faces of angels, while I looked much more like a troll. Kathy had bangs that were often cut too short and usually always had a pony tail, while Louise had gorgeous naturally wavy hair, like Sleeping Beauty herself. Kathy always had an extremely high opinion of herself while Louise was too humble to take credit for anything she did. It seemed the blond hair was the only thing my two best friends had in common, other than an overwhelming love of all animals.

Louise was obsessed with Bugs Bunny (and loved rabbits everywhere) while Kathy shared my adoration of horses. Louise wasn't allowed to have friends over very often, just like me, while Kathy was always wanting us to play in her room. Louise and I both had an older brother, but they didn't get along much that I recall, other than a brief month one summer where they went into the desert and dug a fort into the dirt. Kathy had one older brother and one younger, named John and Mikey. I had such a crush on John back then. I didn't dare ever tell Kathy that. Kathy and I were both very competitive while Louise was very relaxed and patient with us. Louise was always kind and gentle to all thing and people, while Kathy occasionally had a cruelty streak in her that frightened a lot of other kids that didn't know her very well.

Finally one year at school, Louise and I had the same class with Mr. Steinerson. It was the 5th grade and there were a lot of exciting things coming our way. And yet...

As was the way of Military life, eventually we had to part ways. Louise was the first to move, and Kathy went two weeks after her. I was left alone in that town without a friend to turn to. I went to school the day after she left and Mr. Steinerson asked me to come up to his desk.

"Louise wanted me to give this to you," he said, handing me her eye glass case. I gasped. Did this mean she was coming back? Surely she would need her glasses! I opened the case and I began to cry. There were no glasses inside, but instead a note and a photo of her from the previous school year. I was nearly inconsolable for a week. Every time I started to miss her I would open that eye glass case and see her picture and I would feel better. I truly loved Louise. I missed her terribly. Military life destroyed my childhood, but Louise and Kathy had somehow saved it from complete disaster.

Kathy and Louise had become more than my friends. They had grown to become my sisters in those years we spent together. Kathy sent a Christmas card once, but as with all kids, we loose interest in writing and the three of us completely lost contact.

That never stopped me from looking though. I never gave up the search.

TO BE CONTINUED...

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.

Cousin Kyle

Kyle, my cousin, was a troubled kid. He was my fathers’ sisters’ son. I don’t know why he was troubled, and I don’t know what he did, but I do remember the summer I met Kyle.

He came to stay with us for a few months. I was so excited to have a new body in the house! “Someone new to play with,” was the first thought in my mind. I didn’t realize that my cousin was 16 and I was 5. He wasn’t interested in playing with me. He wanted to go smoke nasty smelling paper things out behind the bushes. I stayed away from him when he went there. I remembered those bushes all too well. I knew what people did when they went to hide behind bushes.

I wanted to impress my cousin; make him think I would be fun to play with. Maybe then he wouldn’t want to hide behind the bushes with his burning rolls of paper. I loved the swings. I played often on the playground and had calluses that would make a professional gymnast proud. Still, my favorite things at the playground were the swings. I used to lie on them on my stomach and swing back and forth, pretending I was Superman. The day I decided to impress my cousin, I really did impress him, but not the way I had planned.

I took off running toward the swings, arms over my head as if in a diving position. Suddenly, about 2 feet from the swing I was aiming at, I soared into the air. For a split second I felt like I was flying. Then I landed. Not with my stomach making contact with the swing, but rather with my head making a stunning, sickening thud when it contacted with the sand underneath. My legs hung limply over the swing, my butt in the air. I had soared right over the swing completely and landed on my skull on the other side.

Kyle and my brother both came racing over, asking me if I was ok. Once I could get the dirt out of my mouth, I grunted that I was all right. I claimed that it didn’t hurt at all, and even got up to show Kyle the cautious way to do the Superman, forcing back tears the whole time. Kyle marveled at how tough I was not to cry at landing directly on my noggin.

Kyle had to suddenly go home one day. I remember coming in the house with my mom yelling at him. I wanted to stay out of the whole thing, so I tip toed upstairs to my room. On the way I smelled a funny odor coming from the bathroom. It smelled like the funny smell my nose sensed every time Kyle went behind the bushes. I had never smelled it in the house before, except on Kyle’s clothes. I figured that was why mom was mad a Kyle. Years later, I found out I was right. Kyle never came to visit again.

The Igloo

The winters were rather harsh in Maryland. The snow banks piled up to immeasurable heights when the wind blew. Our first winter in Maryland, the snow drifts covered the back of our building, completely blocking the back door and nearly allowing for a fun snow slide from the 2nd story windows. I remember fondly an igloo my dad made for my brother one winter when I was around 4 years old. It was the one and only igloo I ever really enjoyed. Even at an early age I hated the freezing cold.

My dad had gotten a snow shovel and had worked for hours out in the chilled air to clear the sidewalks for the neighbors. I remember the way my father piled up all the snow next to the building where the laundry machines sat running on the other side of the red brick wall. The drier heater vent pumped nice, warm air out of that vent every time it was turned on. My dad hollowed out the igloo over the top of that vent.

The first time my brother and I went out to the igloo, I remember my hands were freezing from wearing the only knitted mittens I had. They were nice and warm, as long as you didn’t attempt to pick up snow with them. Once inside the igloo, I started feeling warm and cozy, as if I were in the house sitting on the floor in front of the television. The heat from the laundry machines warmed the igloo up so much that it began to melt and drip on us just a little.

It started to get late. The sun was setting. We began to get cold and decided to go back in the house before our teeth chattered out of our heads from the freezing water. That night, after my mom got done running the laundry, the night air was chill. The parts of the igloo we thought would melt away refroze as we slept, but this time they formed a thick layer of solid ice. Our igloo had become an impenetrable fortress, complete with ice cicles hanging from the doorway like sharp daggers.

Every time my brother and I went out to the igloo and shimmied on our bellies to avoid breaking the hanging ice carrots, my mom would run the drier again. Every time we came inside, the process would repeat. The igloo would refreeze as another sheet of ice would form. Eventually, we no longer had an igloo. We had a dome made entirely of refrozen melted snow, as see-thru as the glass blocks forming the walls of the shower in my mother and fathers bathroom. It was a magical, crystal kingdom belonging only to us.

That igloo still stood that spring long after the rest of the snow had melted and the only things left of the neighborhood snowmen were the coal eyes in the grass by the sticks some child had used as arms for their chilly friend. The neighborhood kids were jealous of my brothers’ igloo. One day a band of young boys were seen jumping on top of the igloo, trying their best to cave it in. My brother started to panic! His fort, his mighty indestructible fort, was tumbling like the Alamo!

My mother came up with an old saying then. “If you can’t beat them, join them,” she told my brother. He instantly ran out and decided he was going to be the one to cave in his precious fort. They didn’t deserve to! He jumped with the other boys for nearly an hour before the roof of the ice castle finally gave way, tumbling all of the boys inside the walls. Peering out of the window, all I could see were about 12 snow boots sticking up at odd angles. When he came back inside, my brother was extatic. Soaked from head to toe, he proclaimed that it was the most fun he had participated in since he could remember.

I've never seen another ice fortress like the one my father made for us in all my travels, but just like my family, that ice fortress was special because it was a one of a kind. It was chilly and cool to the touch, but when it took us in, its warmth lasted long after the rest of the world had forgotten the snow ever touched our lives. It remained when all else had long since faded into distant memories of coal black eyes and stick figure arms in the budding grass.

Windy the Pony

The first gift I can really remember ever wanting very badly I had to lobby for night and day. I begged my mom and daad to buy this silly little toy for me! At the time it was the most important thing I could think of. I wished on stars every night, and every morning my wish hadn’t come true yet. I didn’t have my precious toy. Still, every night, I wished on a different star, thinking maybe I had wished on the wrong one the previous night. I don’t know if there was any special reason, like a birthday or Christmas, but one morning I woke up to discover my wish had finally come true.

Mom and Dad had paid attention. They found Windy at a store and brought her home for me. I loved that purple My Little Pony. She had a decorative pattern on her flank depicting wind. I thought she was the most wonderful thing I had ever seen. Then again, I was 3 years old.

I played so much with that pony! I loved her hard plastic purple body and multi-colored flowing mane. She was beautiful in my eyes. I cried inconsolably when I lost her on the playground near the house. I begged for another pony, but to no avail. My mom and dad said that if I lost her, I would lose her again. I never saw her again.

In my youth I had many My Little Pony toys, somewhere nearly numbering 50 to 60, I'm sure. I never saw another “Windy” pony for many years though.

Though I no longer have Windy, at one time I ended up with two of her. When I originally posted this story on my Myspace blog in 2004, two of my biggest fans found my PO Box and mailed me Windy toys they had managed to find somewhere. One even came with the hair brush and accessories that would have been in the box at the time of purchase.

Sadly, the two Windys went the way of the uHaul - but it's not the end of the Windy story. Someday I'll have another. I displayed Windy prominently for as long as I had her. She was always a reminder of simpler days when the only things in the world I wanted were a popsicle and a little purple pony.

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Not long after posting this blog, I got a message from a friend on Twitter... you've got to see the Seranading Unicorn they sent to me! It went so well with this blog that I had to share it with you.

"Seranading Unicorn"

Dirty Magazines

My brother and I had a babysitter somewhere around the time I was about 5 or so. She was a rather portly Hispanic woman. My brother and I loved her at first. She used to take us out for ice cream, read to us, and color in my coloring books with me. We always had such fun.
Eventually, she showed her true side though. She started telling my brother she was going to tell our daddy on us if we didn’t listen to her. My brother and I really didn’t care about that, or at least I didn’t. I loved my daddy. I adored and idolized him. There was no greater being on the face of the earth than my daddy when I was 5 years old. I couldn’t understand why my brother always acted so scared when she would use these silly threats on us. It wasn’t until years later my mother told me why. Now that I look back on it, it makes a lot more sense.

I loved my brother. He was my best friend. When he started acting scared of this woman, I started feeling a bit odd toward her, too. If my brother were scared of her, I most certainly would be. I drew my strength from him. I looked up to him. It escaladed to the point where he and I would hide in his closet when we were at home. I was more terrified of this woman than I was of being in a dark closet. We didn’t want her finding us.

I think eventually she was able to find us in his closet, and we had to find another hiding place. For a while we chose the old car trailer my dad had in the back yard. We would climb under the middle of it and huddle together in the fall, freezing cold, but refusing to come out until we knew either Mom or Dad had come home. My brother would often hold his arm over me to keep me from shivering so hard my teeth knocked together.

This woman used to take my brother and I in her station wagon every time she had somewhere to go. I don’t remember anything about where we went, but most of the time we had to stay in the car while she went in somewhere. While she was gone inside one day, my brother and I decided it was our business to be nosy. It didn’t take us long to find the Play Girl magazines on the seat behind us, laying in a pile on the top of a cardboard box.

I will never forget the face the woman made when she realized what it was my brother was looking at in the back seat of her car. It took her until we were almost home to realize what he held in his hand, snickering at behind her seat. Suddenly the car swerved violently, scaring both of us kids more than I care to admit, and the tires screeched to a halt. This big, angry Mexican woman spun around in her seat, ripped the magazine out of my brothers’ hand and smacked him over the head with it.

If my memory serves me right, she then called my brother a pervert. In my mind, that doesn’t make much sense. She was the one with two kids under double digits in her care, toting porn magazines around in the open space of a back seat, inches from the children. I remember her screaming and yelling at us all the way home, though I don’t remember a word she said. I think most of it was in Spanish.

My mother fired that woman not long after that, but I don’t remember ever knowing exactly why.

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.



.

Shack in the Woods

WARNING - THIS STORY IS NOT
FOR THE WEAK OF STOMACH.


By far I think some of the most unusual friends I had in my youth were brothers, Steve and Dan Stakely. For years I had an incurable crush on Steve, who was my age and grade. I was always boy-crazy, but my mother was convinced I would someday marry this crush. Steve and Dan’s mother was convinced equally that Dan would one day marry his crush as well. His crush just happened to me me. It made for many interesting stories involving the bus ride to and from school. At the time, I wasn’t being a very good role model, but I also didn’t realize that Dan looked up to me as much as he did.

I was a rather poor student at the time one particular adventure took place. Well, I wasn’t exactly a bad student. I was actually quite a good student, when I was at school. I had started skipping classes the year before, and eventually it elevated to entire weeks the next year. At this point, it was just a day here, a day there. I suppose I must have been about sixteen at the time, or almost that age. Dan was most likely somewhere around the age of fourteen.

In the beginning, Dan and I would just decide not get on the bus in the mornings. Instead, we would walk down to the park and meet at one particular place. From there we would decide on where to go and what to do. Sometimes we walked to Sheplers and filled out job applications. Other days we would go browsing through Media Play or Walmart. Nobody ever said anything to us about not being in school. He and I had quite a few adventures, but none so memorable as the day we decided to stay at the park on a snowy, cold, frozen day and tried to find some shelter.

Dan and I had explored the woods behind the Cinedome at the park many times. We knew the trees and the paths through them almost as well as we know our own back yards. We headed up the winding sewage creek towards the top of the hill. We climbed and scrambles our way up the muddy embankment past where the sewage pipe submerged from the sheer mud cliff. We emerged in a clearing and could see nothing around but trees, a wrecked, stripped, and rusted old mail van, and a tiny old wooden shack off in the distance.

For a moment, we lingered in the old van, neither of us wanting to do what was coming next. At this point, it was already clear to me that Dan thought I was the toughest girl he had ever known, and had taken liberty to tell me as much on several occasions. To one person, I stood out in a crowd. I was finally important to someone. I didn’t want that to change in his eyes, or my own. I’m not entirely sure if it was ego or pure stupidity that made me do what came next, but one thing that will never change is that I did something I had thought I would never do.

Dan and I picked our way across the snow dusted field, being sure to only step on the tufts of grass on alternating sides all the way up the path. With each tip toe step on the grass we tried to leave footprints indistinguishable from the grass itself. We continued this way until we reached the old wooden shack. One window looked into the building but was too high and too dirty to see into. I pulled my brand new gloves out of my pockets with frozen hands, and slipped my fingers into the leather extremities. My body heat had warmed the gloves as they snuggled deeply in my jacket pockets, and the warmth felt wonderful on my Popsicle fingertips. I clenched and unclenched my fist a couple of times in order to stretch the leather to my hand just so. When I was ready, I struck. The sixteen inch high, one foot wide pane of glass shattered.

Dan stood back in awe. His mouth hung slightly ajar, and his eyes were wide with surprise. I opened my fist inside the window and with a flat palm, pulled more of the glass out through the fresh opening. I picked the broken glass out of the back of my now serrated brand new leather glove and tossed it into a nearby bush. In my heart I knew that what I had just done went against everything I had ever been taught, but at that moment, it just didn’t matter to me. I wanted to hang on to that feeling of being important and needed. I suppose then that it was my ego getting the better of me. I wanted to remain someone who stood out in a crowd. I suppose that was the turning point. I’ve stood out now nearly every day since.

I drug an unearthed tree stump under the broken window and pulled the loose glass from the sill. Making sure I was properly covered everywhere first, I grabbed the rotten wood lining the window and shimmied into it up to my waist and looked around. The opening was so small that I would have to turn sideways to get my hips through. I was much skinnier in my youth, and looking back on this incident, I know now that I wouldn’t have been able to make this same move only a year later.

An old workbench lined the tiny wooden floored room to my left, it’s edge nearly under the window. All the way on the opposite wall on the right, an old glass-handled door remained closed. I couldn’t imagine what treasures lay just beyond that door, just beyond what I could see. Even the room I was in was filled with treasures. Old rusted tools with fifty years of dust or more were scattered across the workbench. An antique tin tool box sat on the wooden floor under me, it’s lid slightly warped to remain forever open. This was a child’s paradise, a teenager’s fantasy come true, and a history fanatic's paradise.

I tested the workbench with my left hand for stability and found it mostly trustworthy, so I slowly pulled my twisted hips through the opening and turned to my left in order to put one knee on the workbench as I pulled the other leg through the window. I felt like a gymnast performing for the circus, but somehow I made it all look graceful.

Once through and on my feet, I turned to help Dan climb inside. The wooden floor was elevated about a foot off the ground, so the window didn’t seem nearly as high from my vantage point. I peeked out and could still see the short boys blond locks poking out in every direction under his knit cap. He elevated himself on his toes, and his blue eyes came into view.

"Step up on the wood," I whispered to him. Hi hands gingerly reached for the windowsill, cautious as he should be with no gloves on.

"I’m already on it," he said with a bit of a sneer, thinking I was poking fun at his short stature. I couldn’t help but smile to myself. I pulled on his arms as he braced his feet against the wall of the shack. Somehow, he got turned around and ended up looking at the ceiling.

"Eww! What’s that," he asked, completely disgusted. I followed his gaze to the corner of the ceiling nearest the two of us. From a distance and in the natural dark, they looked like chicken drumsticks hanging on wire hooks from the ceiling. It seems like not only a weird thing to hang in a workshop or shed, but a rather gross thing to leave around anywhere until slightly molded and covered in cobwebs. I told Dan not to worry about it, as was my usual answer, and pulled him the rest of the way inside. I was never an extremely graceful person myself, but Dan’s entrance made me look like a prima ballerina. He was all arms and legs, getting tangled crazily. He landed on the floor in a pile.

As Dan looked around, I became curious about the drumsticks in the corner. I crawled cautiously onto the workbench, still not fully trusting the rotten wooden blanks. They held my weight though, and I inched closer to the dangling pieces.

I nearly screamed. I bit my tongue to avoid shouting out loud. Those weren’t just old chicken legs. They were bats that had been tied upside down from wires around their feet so long ago that the flesh was rotting off the bones. Part of the skull was protruding in the area of the mouth and the eyes were mere empty sockets of complete nightmare. They seemed to stare straight through me with complete nothingness. Just about the time I was going to jump down from the workbench and onto the floor, I saw one more hanging only inches above the window, It also happened to be only inches from my nose. The stench rolling off the rotted corpse gave away its location long before I saw it. I gulped and scrambled down from the table, not letting a syllable utter from my lips. Dan turned and looked at me.

"What’s the matter with you," he asked. "You’re white as a ghost. You feeling OK?" I didn’t say anything for a moment, but I guess the way his expression changed as he watched me that he could see the wheels turning in my head. An evil grin slowly spread across my face.
"I got us in here," I began. "Now it’s your turn." He looked puzzled at first. His eyes darted to the corner of the room and back to me again. Suddenly his face completely melted.
"No way!" he cried out. His shout echoed off the snow covered ground outside.

Much to his rejection at the thought, we searched around for something to help Dan to get what he still thought were chicken legs out of the old shack. The two of us finally decided a pair of pliers and some old wire cutters would do the trick, so I grabbed an old key chain flashlight out of my pocket and got back up on the workbench. Dan followed behind me, tools in hand.
Dan clutched the base of the mystery object with the pliers and something crunched under the pressure of his light grip. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the decaying smell something similar to that of road kill after it’s been in the sun a few days came wafting out, turning both our stomachs.
Dan couldn’t see the wire in order to cut it. I knew that would be the case, though I really resisted using my flashlight. Finally, I knew I couldn’t avoid it anymore. I tried to catch only the thin line of wire in it’s beam, but the bony toes were caught in the light. Dan made lurching noises, and for a moment, I thought he was going to burst. He rocked back on his heels and I just barely caught him before he fell off the table. Unfortunately, the light jarred in my hand when I reached for him and the dim illumination fell squarely on the now crushed head of the bat. Something like oatmeal oozed out around the pliers. Every bit of color drained from Dan’s face, and I’m sure mine was a mirror image.

Dan flung the last of the bats out the window as I stood back ’supervising’ his task. I’ve since blocked out everything in between, though glimpses of the process to get the to the opening still haunt me at times.

Dan and I met at the old shack nearly daily for a while that winter. We’d have to meet outside and I would have to help Dan in since he was too short, but it quickly became one of our favorite places.

The same day we had given flight back to the long dead bats for a few seconds, we’d explored beyond the door at the end of the workbench. The room beyond had once been a carriage house. Dirt floors had long since been cluttered with various things, but faint wheel marks could still be seen from a history long past. A pedal powered knife-sharpening wheel sat by where the double doors once opened outward. Antique brass headboards and foot boards leaned against the wall. Rusted spring-loaded animal traps hung from nails in the framework. Ancient chains covered in grit and grime dangled next to machetes on the ceiling. An old mule-pulled plow sat heavily on the ground next to the door inside. It was truly a treasure chest.

I knew Dan was as tired as I was of climbing through the tiny window opening, if not more so. My mind, ever-devious back then, came up with a plan one day.

"Hey Dan, why don’t you check out the side doors from the outside, see what they’re locked with. Maybe we can find a key and use that as our door from now on," I explained after finding an old she box full of keys under a floorboard in the small room. Delighted at the idea, he hurried out the window as fast as his fat, short body would allowed, and ran around the building to the other side of the doors. After explaining to me what the lock looked like, I began to make guesses as to which key would be the right one. I slid the keys one by one under the door, and one by one Dan tried them all and passed them back.

"I got an idea," Dan said to me, after the last key was safely back in its box. I heard him run back around he building and I met him at the window in the next room "Hand me that saw," he said, pointing to the workbench. I handed him the wood saw, not knowing exactly what he was going to do with it, and went back to the inside of the double doors as he tossed his jacket inside along the wall.

First, Dan tried to saw a bracing board in two, and when that didn’t work, decided to try the metal chain and lock that held it in place. Finally fed up with the resistance, Dan grabbed a rock, determined to smash the lock apart. All the noise he was making should have raised the dead bats from their shallow, snowy grave. Just about the time I was going to tell him to stop, to be quiet, I heard a strange voice.

"Hey Kid," a deep, growling voice yelled. "Get away from there!" Heavy footsteps outside warned me that whoever it was decided walking wasn’t getting the m to Dan quite fast enough. I heard Dan’s rock drop to the ground and I knew he was gone, running like a mad man through the woods. I was trapped inside.

There were apparently two men who had come to investigate. I could over hear them talking as they made their was around the inspection of the shed. I crawled, silent as a mouse, into the smaller room and hid under the corner of the work bench closest to the window.

"Aw, shit. Look at this, Chuck," the one who had yelled at Dan said. I didn’t need to look in order to know what he was talking about. The man was standing right over me, looking in through the window. I held my breath. "That damn kid broke the window."

"I s’pose we should nail it up before it snows again tonight," the other replied. "Let’s get a board and some nails." I heard the two start walking back the way they came and my spirits lifted. They were just about back to the double doors when I heard them pause.
"Wait," the one named Chuck paused. "What if the brat comes back?" he asked. "I better wait here while you get the stuff."

My body sprang into action before my mind had time to think. I jumped up, my head glancing off the table above me, and stood before the window. I knew without a doubt that they heard my head hit, and I didn’t have much time.

I lept into the air and twisted my body miraculously like an Olympic diver would ff a high dive and instead of diving into water, I sailed through the open window. Just before passing all the way through, I saw Dan’s only winter jacket on the floor by the wall where he had left it. It was too late. I could only pray he didn’t have any identification in it.

I landed on my hands and rolled roughly onto my back, catching a sharp stone right in the kidney. An old branch tore at my leg. I heard shouting behind me and didn’t take the time to catch my breath after the landing knocked it out of me. I pulled my feet under my sore butt and fled down through the woods, I imagine much the same way Dan had.

It wasn’t long before I caught up to Dan and passed him. My legs were much longer.

Neither of us skipped a single class in school for a month. Eventually Dan’s mother began asking where his jacket had gone. Not knowing what else to tell her, finally he just said that I had it and would get it for him. The retrieval of his jacket was the last time I ever went back up that hill in the woods, but that’s another story.

Childhood Pranks

My mind has been just reeling in excitement and energy because of a few conversations I had yesterday and today. Suddenly memories have been sparked within me that have caused me to do something I've not done in a very long time - take notes.

Yesterday I started a notebook of the stories I want to tell, things I've been reminded of, and things I think all of you, my friends and readers, would appreciate. I write them down with two or three words that will remind me of the entire story later on. More likely than not, these will end up being the titles to the blogs. So far, and this is no exaggeration, I have three and a half pages of JUST TITLES, just since yesterday!

One of my favorite memories was a moment of cruelty in my youth. Though I feel bad about it now, I will admit that I still laugh each time I tell this story. My brother doesn't laugh quite so much, though... It still brings back sour memories for him - literally.

I was rotten to him. For a year as children, he and I were very close. We lived at the end of a long dirt road with nothing and nobody around for a mile. When we moved to a more populated area, we made our own friends and moved on. That's when my mischevious side came out. I didn't exactly have a reason to cause him such grief, but I was certainly good at it.

The first time, all I did was put liquid soap in his toothbrush. I say "all I did was" because the story got better as time went.

He walked into the bathroom, picked up his toothbrush, put some toothpaste on the top, wet the toothpased top, and placed the toothbrush in his mouth. He began to scrub and then he froze. His face wrinkled up like an old mans as he stood looking in the mirror. He spat and sputtered and coughed and gagged and choked for a full 5 minutes before my mother came to see what was going on. I'll admit that I got a belt across my backside that night - fully deserved - but not until after both of my parents laughed so hard they had tears streaming down their faces. It was worth the spanking I got that week. I will fully agree that I deserved that one.

It was an ongoing prank from then on. We would do things to one another and not tell our parents. He tried to put soap in my tooth brush, but I rinsed out my brush before I ever put toothpaste near it. To this day I still do that. More often than not, it's completely instinctive.

My next trick was to not only put the soap in his toothbrush, but to take a thin layer on my finger and run it around the inside of his bathroom drinking cup. That way, if he discovered the soap in his toothbrush first, when he got done brushing and went to rinse, I still had him. That one worked, too. He gagged for a while, finally composed himself, and walked past my door glaring at me like he could have killed me easily in that instant.

He tried to set cups of water on the top of the door so they would fall on me when I opened the door. More often than not he ended up wiping up the water on the floor with a bath towel so Mom didn't find out. They nearly always missed me. Nearly.

My next stunt was to take wads of toilet paper and wet them in the sink. Then I would climb over the side of the tub and throw them straight up at the ceiling. They would stick there and linger, waiting for my brother to get in the shower. The steam from the warm shower would then heat the toilet paper wads, filling them with more moisture, and causing them to grow heavier. That's the way it worked in my mind, anyway. Unfortunately it didn't work, the wads never bombed him from above, and I moved on to the next project.

I had a few failures like that. I didn't realize that a person was supposed to remove the shampoo from the bottle before adding the "Nair" product or it would be too diluted to work. My brother still has a very full head of dark hair. The jar of dead bugs in his laundry basket didn't really work, either. The lid was on too tight to stink at all, and the only person who found it was my mother. She screamed at me for a while over that one.

The pranks went on for a while that way, back and forth, constantly trying to get one another. He would hide somewhere and scare me so bad I nearly peed my pants. I would get him back by putting salt in the sugar bowl for his cereal (and end up with it going into Dad's coffee). He would use a pink marker in Barbie's hair (I always hated pink), and I would hide his most prized comics or baseball cards. He would take all of my shoes and I would find another hiding spot for his porn collection.

One day I came home and heard everyone upstairs talking. It sounded like they were in the bathroom, but I hadn't put liquid soap in my brother's toothbrush for a week or more. I went upstairs, wondering what was going on.

"Manda, come here right now," my Mother's voice commanded. I knew I was in trouble, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out why. "Did you do that?"

She pointed at the ceiling over the shower. I had completely forgotten those dried up, crusty wads of previously wet toilet paper were up there. It had been more than a year since I had tossed those up, hoping to have them plop and splat on my brother's head durring a shower. I poked my head around the corner and smirked. My dad was standing there with a broom and it frightened me, thinking surely he would wallop me with it, but I couldn't help it. I broke into a grin and then a chuckle. My ever-so-stern father cracked too. He started to chuckle, my mom snorted, and I laughed so hard I hurt.

The crusty toilet paper had begun to mold slightly around the edges and nobody had noticed because my brother and I were the only two to use that bathroom. We were both fairly short back then. We didn't look up at the ceiling - why would we?

Dad stopped laughing and we followed suit. He handed me the broom.

"I want you to get every single piece down from that ceiling right now, Young Lady. I don't ever want to see this again."

It was a good two weeks before I pulled any other pranks on my brother. Just when he thought he was safe - the liquid soap was back.