Looking Past the Obvious

I wasn't the worst behaved child in Mrs. Kasper's sixth grade class. I don't doubt that at least one has a nice mugshot plastered on a post office wall somewhere. But if she ranked the students who made her head--and her ears--hurt most at the end of the day, I'm sure I'd rate right there at the top.

At age eleven, I'd finally managed to step out from the shadow of my two, more outgoing older sisters. I'd acquired my first boyfriend and experienced my first kiss (a closed-mouth, snot-smeared meeting of shivering faces on a sledding hill). And I was just popular enough to enjoy a bit of attention through my adolescent wisecracks and ill-advised antics.

Looking back, I realize I was exactly the kind of preteen girl whose screeching dialogue and megawatt giggling at the movie theater now makes me want to bury my head in my bucket of popcorn.

When you're in the sixth grade, however, you embrace whatever notoriety you can get.

Mrs. Kasper was no newbie to irreverent young girls though. I spent more than my share of time banished to the hallway or repenting my classroom sins in the office of our Catholic school principal, Sister Mary Sadistic.

Yet strangely, even as I knew Mrs. Kasper frowned on my endless chatter and bad behavior, she never once showed signs that she disliked me as a person. God knows a few other teachers throughout my academic career weren't so thoughtful. Such as the one the very next year who glared at me and announced in front of the entire class: "Miss Stanfa, for such a little girl, you have the biggest mouth I've ever heard." (Granted, the embarrassment shut me up for the rest of the day.)

Mrs. Kasper saw every one of the faults and failings I displayed as an annoying and immature adolescent. Yet she also managed to look past the obvious. She sought the diamond in the rough.

By sixth grade, I'd already taken an interest in writing. Our English class assignments encompassed a number of creative writing projects. Throughout the school year--even as she punished and pleaded with me to change my wayward behavior--Mrs. Kasper encouraged my writing ability. An occasional compliment in front of the class, a few nice words when we talked one-on-one and a host of supportive comments noted on my papers.

The last note she wrote, in her impeccable cursive script, read: "You better do something with all your talent, or I will come back to haunt you."

Given what I'd dealt her all year, she easily could have written instead: "Your smartass remarks and incessant chatter will come back to haunt me." But she didn't. She pushed aside the obvious negatives and focused on the single, most positive attribute she could find.

That sixth-grade short story, with her last comment, is stored away in a box of school mementos. Her encouraging words have lodged themselves in my memory for nearly forty years. They still bring me confidence in moments of self-doubt. Because, all else aside, someone believed in me.

I'm sure Mrs. Kasper has nearly forgotten me, yet I will never forget her.

We may never know the impact our words have upon those we meet, however brief our relationship. Most times, we never even consider it.

But maybe, if we choose to look past the obvious in people, we can give them just what they need to search for their own diamond in the rough.

Falling from Leaps of Faith

I've lived my life by a simple motto: "Try everything once. If you enjoy it, don't stop." This adage served me well when I wrote my first story; not so much the night I tried my first rum and Coke.

My adventurous spirit took me to many highs and lows in my life. Yet none were as demeaning, demoralizing or dangerous as my athletic pursuits.

I attempted a wide range of physical activities throughout my youth. The most benign, like my second-grade ballet class, only resulted in public humiliation. The worst, such as horseback riding, ended with a trampled ribcage.

Some people are born athletes. Others can't manage the mere ability to clap in sync with the cheerleaders at a football game. I would be the latter.

Still, I continued to run (only figuratively--man did I suck at track) through the gamut of athletic endeavors. Once I realized I failed at every traditional activity, I attempted to diversify.

When snow skiing became the hot new trend in high school, I joined the ski team. My first trip ended, surprisingly, with both my body and my pride intact. So I signed on for a second trip, just confident enough to venture beyond the tow ropes and bunny hills to the chairlifts and "intermediate" hills.

My eyes traced the height of the hill, with some trepidation, as the chairlift approached. But as I ascended several feet upward, I quickly learned that my fear of losing control on the hill and crashing into a tree was fully unwarranted.

Because I fell off the chairlift.

(Note: I wrote this post last night, before I read today about a chairlift accident in Maine. Unlike that catastrophe, my fall cannot be blamed on any mechanical failure.)

The lift was stopped for several minutes while the ski patrol tended to me. And while the entire crowd watched.

Fortunately, nothing was broken. Nothing except my spirit. I spent the rest of the day in the lodge, sneaking contraband beverages.

My skiing career ending prematurely, I traded in the snowy hills of Michigan for the green hills of southern Ohio. I tagged along with a youth group to Hocking Hills State Park, where we planned to repel down a cliff. The good news was that we were already on top of the mountain--no chairlifts could turn traitor on me.

With my first leap off the cliff, I took my usual leap of faith, too. With each step down the rope, my feet landed safely against the mountain. My heart soared. Repelling down mountains--who could have guessed this might be my athletic calling?!?

And then, halfway through my descent, I happened to look down. The harness was caught in my shirt. Every step I took yanked my shirt higher. It was already hiked well above my belly button. I struggled to pull my top out of the harness, to no avail. My choices were either to slip out of the harness and fall to my death, or keep descending and provide the crowd below with a full view of my lace-trimmed bra. Wait. Was I wearing a bra?

Eventually, the crowd got its peep show, I plopped safely onto the ground, and I gave up that repelling shit for good.

I should have, right then, forsaken every physical endeavor forever. But through my typical marred judgment, I continued to seek my athletic fortune. Not one ended well. The workplace softball league in 1982 resulted in a line drive to my face, and the rollerblading incident of 1999 ended with a CT scan in the ER. (Some people still maintain the hospital missed my residual brain damage.)

So now, I will finally proclaim: I am done with them all. Through with dancing, horseback riding, skiing, repelling, softball, rollerblading and with any activities that even peripherally involve animals, mountains, balls, or anything clamped onto my feet. For my New Year's resolution, I vow to never again attempt such trickery.

I shall live the rest of my life purely as a sports spectator, even if I do clap to the beat of a different drummer.

The sad reality is, the Olympics wouldn't award me even a cheap plastic medal. And Bristol Palin dances far better than I could ever hope to.

Talk about the agony of defeat.

Ho Ho Ho to All!

Ho Ho Ho! Happy Holidays to everyone in all my networks! (Click on the image below to see.)

Letter to Santa, Reprise

OK, this one really, is a final blast from the past. Santa's elves promise you a new blog post for Christmas...

Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

I know it's been a few years since I've written. Thankfully, you haven't forgotten me. The vacuum sweeper you brought in 1986 was truly splendid, as were the ones you brought in 1993, 1998 and 2004.

I'm not writing to complain (I've already written to Hoover twice). I do appreciate your continued generosity and thoughtfulness. Household appliances don't come cheap, I know, and besides--any guy who's willing to clean up after eight reindeer who've consumed 1,000 tons of carrots in a single evening is OK by me!

Anyway, thought I'd get a jump on all those greedy children. Although I must pass on the Twilight action figures this year, I've been thinking a few toys might be nice after all this time. Sadly, my mother sold off many of my favorites at garage sales ($2.50 for a prime condition Easy Bake Oven? I still haven't forgiven her). And my sister DC confiscated all my Barbies to use as voodoo dolls (I was too terrified of her to complain).

So, here is a list of my favorite toys from my childhood, which I've concluded would have new purpose and merit for a middle-aged woman. If the elves can't make these, Wal-Mart probably sells them cheap, and I promise not to tell the unions where you got them:

1) Sting-Ray Bike with Banana Seat: Because why is it that, as our butts grew bigger, the bike seats grew smaller?
2) Rock'Em Sock'Em Robots: After forty-five minutes of listening to a client's rants, even a pacifist wants to knock someone's block off.
3) Mystery Date Game: But don't bother including the "Dreamboat" in the white tux. What a goober. Give me the scruffy-looking "Dud" date. Yes, by my age I should have learned my lesson, but there’s still something about those Bad Boys…
4) Easy Bake Oven: Cooking's never been as much fun since; the calories in bite-sized cakes are surely too paltry to matter, and I need to make peace with my mother.
5) Creepy Crawler Oven: Can you make the goop liver-flavored? Because goopy edible creatures probably don't have the same horrific crunch as the live moths and spiders my cats now enjoy eating.
6) Magic 8 Ball: I'm way tired of making important decisions. I'd rather leave it up to the wisdom of a toy plastic ball. Sherry: "Shall I get that colonoscopy?" Magic 8 Ball: "My sources say no." Well, OK then!

If you can't bring all of these, a gift card would be fine. But no gift substitutes please. My vacuum sweeper, when I last used it a month ago, appeared to be working fine.

Love,
Sherry

Reflections on a Reunion, Reprise

One last look back on the past year:

Reflections on a Reunion

A few remembered everyone. Everyone remembered at least a few. We insisted a couple guests never even attended our school, clearly there just to crash a good party.

Some couldn’t be identified without our scrutiny of a nametag. Several retained a hint of their former selves. A few looked inconceivably young or simply damn good. We empathized and sympathized with the heavier, the grayer, the balding, because that comprised nearly all of us. We tried not to begrudge those who looked far better than we did.

Most appeared to have gotten through life with a few hiccups. Some flourished in lucrative careers or long, secure marriages. A handful hadn't fared so well. We made small talk with them before edging away, uncertain how to respond to their stories of misery and grief.

Several still live within blocks of our old school. Many converged upon the nearby suburbs. Others scattered to the coasts or to far-off homes in Germany or Australia. Those who remained midwesterners felt thankful to have family and old friends nearby, yet envied the more adventurous.

We made each other smile with high school tales of classroom pranks, football wins and unsanctioned parties. Some hungered to return to those days. Others were grateful to move on.

Eleven among us have died. Few remaining were spared the loss of a close classmate. Nearly everyone has also lost a mother, a father or even both. A number have parents who are ailing or impaired. All of us wished we’d appreciated them more.

Some are still raising young children. Several are grandparents. The majority of our children are grown, or nearly grown. We who are empty-nesters nodded in recognition at each others' contradictory sentiments of both weepiness and relief.

Most who were remembered as reckless or wild teenagers somehow morphed into respectable or more conservative adults. Others never made that transition. Nearly all of us still feel sixteen in our hearts.

Very few left early. Many stuck around until we were forced to leave. A good number continued the conversation and camaraderie at a nearby bar, staying late. As the bartender announced last-call, we disregarded the toll it would take the next day on our not-so-sixteen-year-old bodies.

And as we wandered across the parking lot, returning to our cars and to our middle-aged lives, two things remained clear.

We all changed. And we all remained the same.

I'll Get Right on That, Reprise

Another blast from the past. But this year, I swear, I will surely be on top of things:

I'll Get Right on That, Reprise

It all started, I believe, with my intention of paying a late bill.

I remember logging onto the computer, figuring I'd best ensure my checking account wasn't once again in the red. Lo and behold, I spied an email from Ticketmaster, announcing an absolutely MUST-SEE concert which, deficit funds be damned, I could conveniently put on my credit card.

So I hurried to the kitchen to check my desk calendar, which was buried beneath a week's pile of unread newspapers. As I scooped them up, I caught an interesting headline. Whoa, what's up with this global warming shit; well, aren't those polar bears screwed?

Halfway through reading the article, I remembered tomorrow was recycling and trash day. I tossed the entire heap of papers in the garage (figuring an ignorance of current events never hurt many elected officials), and decided I should take a moment to clean out the molding leftovers from the refrigerator too.

I threw some days-old chicken bits to the cats and lobbed four indistinguishable food items, plastic containers and all, into the garbage. Before I closed the fridge, my eyes lit at the sight of a hardly-touched bottle of Bloody Mary mix in the back. Might as well finish that up before it went bad, so I could recycle it, too. Plus that soon-to-be emptied vodka bottle. First, however, I should clean up that steaming pile of cat-puked chicken bits from the carpet.

But cat puke on carpet is best left to harden, I deduced, so it can simply be peeled off the next day. (I'm all about time management.) Which led me to recall that I hadn't yet checked with the pet-sitter about the date of my impending vacation. So I rummaged through my purse for my cell phone, and broke a friggin' fingernail.

The second broken nail in two days, which TOTALLY pissed me off, because it undermined the aesthetics of an otherwise unflawed, candy apple set of eight. The others, sadly, would have to be filed down to a more uniform length. I headed down the hall to the bathroom for the nail polish remover which, I astutely reasoned, should be my next step.

Holy Mother of God, do I live in the desert or what? What's with these giant, threatening tumbleweeds in the hallway?!? Clearly I needed to brush the dog more often. Which I decided I must do, immediately. But as I reached for the brush, I chuckled. Tumbleweeds of dog hair? Haha! Terrific concept for a blog post in that.

So I sat down at my computer. With broken fingernails, an insanely potent Bloody Mary, and a nearby pile of drying cat vomit.

Oh! But look who's on Facebook now!

Call me ADD or diagnose me with early senility, if you'd like. I choose to label myself a busy overachiever.

Yet it's a good guess I'll find myself too damn preoccupied tomorrow to talk on the phone, when the collection agency calls.

The Moan in the Mirror, Reprise

One of my early posts. And sadly, I haven't gotten any younger...

The Moan in the Mirror

Mirror, mirror, on the wall: Who’s the fairest of them all?

Not you, oh Demon Glass of Gloom. No, you aren’t playing fair at all these days. In fact, you have some ‘splaining to do.

First off, what’s with the chins? Didn’t I used to have only one?

Though I’m lucky I can see the chins at all, what with this big honking nose in the way. Perhaps you thought I couldn’t smell adequately with the old one? Yes, a funny joke indeed, your lopping an inch or two off my already inadequate stature. But must you shift every lost inch to my nose?

The mushrooming nose might be tolerable if it weren’t for that bump on the end of it. And the bump on my chin. And the one on my other chin. Apparently, you’ve adopted a catchy new advertising slogan: “Big Zits: Not just for teenagers anymore.”

And speaking of my teen years, remember when I used to stand before you and actually PLUCK my eyebrows? Oh great mirror, where did my eyebrows go? As you’ve been busy focusing on amplifying my pores, you seem to have misplaced my eyebrows altogether.

Ah, but fortunately, my tweezers have not been rendered useless by the mere disappearance of my eyebrows. Not with this stray hair you show sprouting from one of my chins. Thank you for that.

Not to despair. I am not saddened by the state of my eyebrows, my chins or my nose. No, I welcome this metamorphosis with much joy and mirth, if the crow’s feet and laugh lines you’re presenting are any indication.

So, should I wear these fabulous new additions to my face like a badge of honor? Yes, I will do so. And when these odd gray hairs, which are now promptly yanked from my head, start to multiply like fish and loaves? I will wear them proudly, too. Or perhaps I will consequently go bald.

But don’t expect to see me smiling about it. An unlikely scenario, now that you’ve decided to do away with my lips.

Final Goodbyes, Reprise

Continuing with blasts from the past. Here's a favorite, though bittersweet, post from last fall.

Final Goodbyes

It wasn't the kind of goodbye I envisioned.

I knew saying goodbye was inevitable, once the plastic tubs crammed with clothes and electronic equipment and a thoughtfully packed first-aid kit were unloaded from the van, once the futon and lofts were assembled and arranged, and once $400 worth of textbooks were procured (and most thankfully, paid by a blank check from his father). We'd enjoy one last supper together, not really tasting the bites of sandwiches consumed amidst our animated discussion about the campus and classes and crew practice.

And then, before I left for the long drive home, we'd have our goodbye scene. I'd offer a farewell speech, peppered with insightful parental advice, and we'd have lengthy mutual proclamations of love. It would end with a final hug on the sidewalk in front of his dorm.

But dinner ran late, and he had just minutes to make it to a mandatory student orientation meeting. I pulled up in front of the classroom building. He eyed the clock in the car--two minutes to get inside and find the room. He opened the car door and quickly slammed it shut.

No opportunity for any of the elements of the scene I'd already drafted in my mind.

"Good luck, honey," I told him. How did I condense a ten-minute speech into thirty seconds? "I'll miss you."

"I know." He offered a sympathetic smile. "I'll miss you too."

"So, see you in six weeks."

"Yep." He glanced toward the building and gave me a quick wave before backing away. "Love you," he yelled.

"Love you too," I called after him. But he was already several feet away, his back turned to me.

I inched forward before the line of cars behind me honked and I was forced to hit the accelerator. My last glimpse of him was a fleeting image, through the open car window, as he raced toward the building.

"Just as well," my sister told me the next day. "Short and sweet is better than a long painful goodbye."

Perhaps she's right, I thought. Although even short goodbyes can still be painful, at least they preclude massive emissions of tears. And I'd promised myself on the drive to Milwaukee that I couldn't cry.

For several weeks leading up to this, I prepared myself for a tear-filled farewell. It was, after all, the Ritual of the Strings-Cutting Parent. Particularly in the case of a youngest child, it was normal. It was justified.

But nothing makes you reassess your own life more than someone else's death.

Three days before our departure, a boy down the street was killed in a car accident.

He, too, had just graduated from high school and was preparing to head off to college. He, too, was the youngest of two children. While his parents had been helping him plan and pack for the start of his new life, on a campus three hours away, I'm sure they were filled with excitement, trepidation and grief at the idea of him leaving for school.

But in the instant it takes for an out-of-control car to strike a tree, their grief was the only emotion that remained.

Jake would be starting college next week. The event is probably still scribbled on a family calendar. No doubt it is etched upon his parents' minds.

I'm certain they would welcome, so very gladly, the opportunity now to see him off to college. To hear him say, "I love you," before they drove away, perhaps teary-eyed but knowing they'd see him again in six weeks.

As I maneuvered my way out of downtown Milwaukee that day, leaving behind my child to live the life yet awaiting him, I did cry.

But not for the reasons I once imagined.