I never went to Prom. Thanks for reopening that wound.
However, I did go to the winter formal, “The Sno’ball” because it was girls’ choice.
Newt and I were looking at old embarrassing photos of my glory days this morning and came across a couple of real gems. Want to see a picture of 15-year-old me having the time of her life with shoes dyed to match? Awww, aren’t we cute?
If you are wondering why I look so incredibly thrilled, I imagine it’s because this picture was taken two days after my first big break-up. And yes, it was with the boy standing next to me. (Hi, Shane!)
That fact could explain why I got out my scissors and paste (pre-photoshop days) and doctored up the official Sno’ball photo. Obviously, I had my mind on a real winner.
I’d also like to note, those shoes dyed to match? Not so good in Oregon rain. My feet were green for days.
Those photos were from my second year attending the Sno’ball. Sadly, the ones from the year before didn’t seem to survive my adolescence. But I can still paint you a little mental picture of the wonders of that night.
I attended with a nice boy named Dustin. We were just friends. He wore a classic black tux with a red vest. I wore a black dress with a red shawl and had my orthodontist place red rubber bands on my braces to match. I used half a can of blue Aqua-Net and arranged my hair into the stiffest cloud of perfection ever to grace a 14-year-old head.
After a fancy dinner with two other stunning couples at the local Red Lobster, we loaded into an extra fancy horse-drawn carriage.
Before our carriage had gone a block, it was rear ended.
I remember screeching tires and panicked neighing. Then the canvas door ripped off, my date fell out, and the carriage tipped over on him. Aside from a few bumps and bruises we were all okay. And once the police report was given there was still time to dance the night away–in a rain soaked dress and with dissolved hairspray shellacking my face.
You know, now that I think of it, not attending my prom was probably a good thing.
I’d love to hear your formal dance horror stories. I might even send a little consolation something or other to my favorite. Leave a comment or a link to your blog.
one This car: “Heidi being haunted by creepy dolls” continues to be a real thing. I saw this car several weeks ago on my way to church. I was alone, but had the presence of mind to snap a photo. When I passed by later the car was gone. Where it went with that flat tire, I have no idea. I have not seen it since.
two Roadkill. Apparently this is going to be that kind of post. I posted a picture to my facebook page of a dead raccoon. Someone had tied a “Get Well Soon” balloon to its little paw. I was unjustly accused of being the ballooner, but in this case I’m afraid that honor belongs to someone else. However, it did remind me of the following true story:
Once upon a time, several years ago, the woman next-door and her children went out of town, leaving the dad home alone. Shortly after his family left he called and asked if I had seen their cat, Shadow. She had run off and he was concerned. Sadly, I had not, but I promised to keep an eye out for her. A few days later, on the very day that the wife and children were to return home, I saw a black cat, dead, along the side of the road not far from where I lived. I tried calling my neighbor, but couldn’t reach him. I didn’t want the neighbor children to see their poor cat like that, so I loaded my car with a garbage bag, a shovel, and some gloves, buckled Newt into her car seat, and steeled myself to do a good deed. I parked and told Newt I needed to do something for a second, and that she should just look at her book. Then I got out my tools and…handled things. When I got home, I put the garbage bag in my freezer and left a message for my neighbor to give me a call. He did not call that evening or the next morning. Finally, I walked over to let him know that I had found Shadow. He answered the door and…a black cat came out on the porch and rubbed up against my ankles. Apparently their cat had come home a few days prior and I had a random dead cat in my freezer. The End
three This:
four Um… Nope. That’s pretty much it: creepy dolls, roadkill, Indy. Sounds about right.
A few years ago, Hannah and I were discussing some of the terrible events of World War II. We spoke of great evil, and great heroism. I was surprised at her depth of understanding when she told me something along the lines of: “Mom, I hate that Hitler and the people that believed in him did all those terrible things. He hurt people and that makes me really sad. But because of him people like Corey Ten Boom and Winston Churchill did great things to really help people. And because of them, I want to help people too.” At only nine years old, but with innocent wisdom, she taught me something important. In times of great darkness, there will be many that choose to turn up the light. There is goodness and beauty in this world, even in the face of evil. Sometimes especially in the face of evil. The acts of bravery, heroism, and kindness that were committed in Boston yesterday are an inspiration to me. They are the bright, shining lights in the darkness, and the things I am trying to hold to. “And because of them, I want to help people too.”
Shall we make a new rule of life from tonight: always to try to be a little kinder than is necessary? — J.M. Barrie, The Little White Bird
Change is in the air. I don’t know if it’s that certain slant of February light through my living room window–you know, where it hits the piano, just so? Or if it was the string of days we’ve had this month where there was no rain, that our hens are beginning to lay again, or the return of Girl Scout Cookies–whatever the cause I can feel spring peeking around the corner.
All week this feeling of almost-spring has been giving me a case of almost-spring fever–and I’m not the only one. “What are we doing today and can it please be fun?” has become Newt’s chorus.
On Wednesday my answer was, “Library. I’ll bring my laptop. You bring a friend.” And even though it wasn’t new or exciting, it was enough. That is until I received a text saying that Newt’s friend wasn’t going to be able to make it.
What are we going to do today and can it please be fun?
Suddenly the library wasn’t going to cut it. I made a quick phone call to Walt then told Newt to pack an overnight bag. Twenty minutes later we hit the road for some much needed girl bonding time.
Luckily, our favorite little getaway wasn’t booked. We spent the next 24 hours reading, giggling, eating amazing food, and talking about the things that are truly the most important: family, faith, good books, and boys.
Change is in the air for Newt too–she’s growing up so fast. Our little adventure was an opportunity to hit the pause button, if only for a moment. I didn’t know how much I needed that, how much we both did, until we were already there.
The Sylvia Beach Hotel was made for book lovers. Each room is themed around a different author. We stayed in Tolkien and read aloud favorite passages from The Hobbit late into the night. The hotel has no phones, televisions, or even wi-fi, but it has beautiful beach views, a well-stocked third floor library, and even a resident cat. (I forgive it that last one.)
In the morning, after a breakfast that nearly made Newt cry for sheer goodness (hello, oven-glazed pepper bacon) we put on our boots and jackets for a walk on the rainy beach.
As we stomped our rubber boots in the surf a tiny miracle happened: a floating glass bottle washed ashore.
Though at first we were both disappointed to find that it did not contain a secret message, we brought it home anyway. I think I’ll save it until we return again. I’ll toss it back out to the sea, this time with a message of my own:
Today is all you have. Make it meaningful. Make it fun.
one This girl. Last week, she suddenly grew up. When I look at her I no longer see a little girl, but I do like what I see. And I love who she is becoming. She is just so herself, you know?
two I saw this on twitter yesterday afternoon:
If you say the word “batteries” really fast, it sounds like you’re saying “Paris” in a French accent.Note: Only works if you’re American.
I must have said it 57 times, all the while thinking it was like that time in fifth grade that Randy Someone-or-Other told me if I wrapped my hand around my chin, grabbing it tight in a fist, and held it long enough my ears would go numb. I had the feeling he was trying to trick me so I refused. No matter what he said to try to convince me, I was not going to be fooled into following his instructions–until I got home that evening. A full ten minutes didn’t do a thing to my ears, though it did leave a giant purple hickey on my chin–a giant purple hickey that Randy Someone-or-Other noticed the moment I walked in my classroom the next morning. I’m happy to report that Kiersi is far less evil than Randy, and that by the time I’d said “batteries” 58 times, the emperor put on his clothes and I heard it. Try for yourself.
three We are all suffering various degrees of illness. Newt has been sick, with one thing or another, all month long. Walt is recovering from a nasty cold. As for me, well, I just put my back out from coughing so hard. Some time laying on a hard foam roller on the floor seems to have put it back in, but I am tender, sore, and still coughing. As a result, I have taken NyQuill for the second night in a row. That’s right, I am currently blogging under the influence. See if you notice a difference.
three-point-five Newt handed me a beautiful drawing last night, saying, “Thank you for taking care of me today, but I probably would have given you this anyway.” I love it.
She also drew this (she’s been reading my Edward Gorey books):
four This was Monday night’s fortune cookie. I hope it comes true, though I would have preferred it say extra-terrestrial, for precision’s sake.
A little while ago, I posted the following important information on my facebook page: (Note: For those of you who may not know, Hannah is Newt. Or Newt is Hannah. Whichever you prefer.) This posting led to a discussion about animals–including zombie rabbits, something about a dog and a Taco Bell wrapper, and the time I had to give a lifesaving enema to a chicken. Yes, really. Don’t you wish you were me? You can read the entire thread here. The discussion reminded me about some childhood shenanigans I have yet to share here. Since it has been quite a while since I whipped out my magic markers for an Adventures of Heidi Story, I did just that.
Adventures of Heidi: Backyard Surprise
Once upon a time there was a Heidi. On this particular day in her life, Heidi was seven years old. Heidi’s much older sister loved to sew for Heidi and put her long hair in rag rollers for beautiful seven-year-old blond curls. (None of that back story is relevant, but sometimes Heidi likes to say things to remind her much older sister how much younger Heidi is. Heidi can be a bit of a terror to those closest to her. She is working on it. [She is not working on it.])
Heidi and her family lived in a house with a big backyard. Heidi’s dad grew a marvelous garden that attracted all kinds of hungry beasts, of both neighbor-child and animal varieties. One of Heidi’s brothers, just a few years older than her, liked to set traps for the creatures–and he often caught them. Those poor children. One day, Heidi’s dad came in the house with a treasure he had found on the garden ground.
“Well,” her dad said, “it’s pretty clear what is eating my corn. Looks like a pheasant feather to me.” And it was. Heidi’s brother’s eyes gleamed with the idea of catching that pheasant. It was all he could talk about for days minutes. Young Heidi didn’t really know what a pheasant was, but to hear her brother talk, it was something special. Perhaps even something like this:
Heidi decided she would help in any way her brother needed. He settled on a plan to catch the pheasant the same way they caught frogs–with a baited fishing hook.*
However, the next day, when Heidi and her brother checked the trap, this is what they found:
Clearly, more drastic measures were called for. Heidi’s brother decided to BREAK THE LAW. In other words, he decided to defy Heidi’s dad’s law to NEVER ENTER THE SHED WITHOUT PERMISSION. Heidi’s brother sneaked the keys from their kitchen hook and entered the forbidden shed. He made Heidi come along because, as he explained to her, “If we both do it, you won’t tell.” Inside the shed, the pair found just the thing: a live trap.
It was a wire cage with a trigger bar inside. If an animal stepped on the bar, the cage door would slam shut, trapping the creature inside. Heidi and her brother congratulated each other on the fact that they would have a pet pheasant before breakfast the next day. The trap was baited with corn and set far in the back of the garden, where it would not be visible from the house. The next morning, Heidi and her brother arose early, eager to meet their new pet. As they made their way through the tall stalks of corn, they could see that something had been caught in their trap, but it wasn’t until they got near they were able to discover that it was most definitely not a pheasant. It was a possum. Please note, in Oregon, we do not say opossum, we say possum. If you say opossum where you live, that is fine–even though you are wrong. The possum did not look like this:
It looked like this:
The possum was not a happy little creature. The possum was a hissing and spitting ball of evil dressed in a giant rat skin. With teeth. Really pointy ones. Heidi was afraid of the possum. Heidi’s brother was afraid of getting in trouble. “Let’s kill it,” he said. “Okay,” Heidi agreed. “But let’s not hurt it.” “Okay,” Heidi’s brother said. “That sounds good.” You see, Heidi and her brother may have had murder on the mind, but they didn’t actually want to injure anything–even a soul-sucking rodent demon. Their solution was to create a pair of weapons, items they could “stab” the possum with, but without actually breaking its skin.
Heidi and her brother (mostly her brother) crafted their weapons with more items pilfered from the forbidden shed (and the less forbidden silverware drawer). Once their lances were ready they used them to poke the ferocious beast. Heidi did not poke hard. Her brother did not poke hard. Both hoped the beast would sense their intent and oblige them by dying. That way they could avoid getting in trouble. The possum had other plans.
If you would like to see a very accurate photo of what the animal actually looked like, click here. After several moments of trying to annoy the possum to death, Heidi and her brother realized they needed adult help. They faced the music and told their mom about the monster in the garden. Heidi’s dad came home from work and shot it sent the possum to live on a rainbow farm, far in the country. Heidi grew up a little bit that day. She was sadder. She was wiser. And her smile developed a tiny hint of evil around the edges.
Possums beware.
The End
*Yes, we really did catch frogs with fish hooks. We tied colored yarn to our hooks, then standing on a highway bridge over a creek (because every successful childhood includes playing, unsupervised, on the highway) we lowered our hooks and danced the yarn in front of frogs’ faces. They always took the bait. We’d reel them up, remove the hook, load up our backpacks, and take home dozens of new friends. Isn’t that how everyone does it?
Lies to children for fun and profit. NYT Bestselling author of Hook's Revenge, Hook's Revenge: The Pirate Code, and Giraffes Ruin Everything.
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