Tag Archives: judy dykstra-brown essay

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Fitting In

I can’t remember ever wanting to look like anyone else.  I have always just wanted to be unique. Sure, I had a doctor blouse (remember them in the sixties–prompted by Dr. Kildare and Ben Casey?) and the later refinement of the the doctor blouse, the sissy blouse–merely a doctor blouse with ruffles added?  I also wore pedal pushers, madras and short skirts–all in their day.  But the purpose never was, as I recall, to look like everybody else.  It was because I liked the fashion, but wanted to be unique within that fashion.

In the past thirty years or so I haven’t really even known what the fashion was.  I just saw clothes and bought them because I liked them and they didn’t make me look fat! (Even if I was–ha.) I have friends who come to Mexico and buy the wonderful embroidered blouses, then tell me when they go home they never wear them because they just don’t seem “right” in Wyoming or even California!  This seems so weird to me.  If I like certain clothing, I wear it wherever it is climate appropriate.  Why would anyone want to wear what everyone else is wearing?

The same goes for hairstyles.  I don’t know what is “in.”  I just know when I have a hairstyle that makes me look like how I feel. Certain haircuts make me feel “right” and I am happy for the time it takes for them to grow out and for me to get a new haircut that isn’t right–such as the one I have now. I think perhaps this is why I never quite fit in anywhere until I went to a culture so foreign that I wasn’t expected to fit in and was accepted because I was different.  Somehow, the American culture has never quite evolved to the point where those who are different are accepted.  Perhaps that’s why I have always preferred to live abroad.

(The picture is from my New Years Eve poor taste party several years ago. I’ve staged these in three countries–so much fun.  In addition to dressing as tacky as possible, everyone brings a dish they are secretly embarrassed that they love, in spite of the fact that it isn’t “in style.”  Mac and cheese and homemade Twinkies and hostess cupcakes were three of the dishes.  Can’t remember the rest. If anyone pictured or who was there remembers, please comment!)

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Style Icon.” Describe your personal style, however you’d like to interpret that — your clothing style, your communication style, your hair style, your eating style, anything.

                                                   Revisioning a Life

I don’t know if it helps much to revision the past.  I think we make decisions according to our background and our chemical makeup and genes and “knowing” that different choices might have contributed to your life turning out differently doesn’t necessarily mean that you would make different decisions even if you knew how they would play out.

When I was a little girl, I always wanted to be around people.  I think this was primarily because I didn’t have a clear enough idea about what to do when I was alone.  If I’d had art classes or someone who encouraged me to write stories when I was small, I might have developed a need for lots of time alone earlier.  As it was, I started reading to fill out my days and nights, but even then, I probably would have traded in those books for more activity.

By the time I got to college, I was accustomed to “wasting” large amounts of time by doing nothing or by playing games, watching TV and listening to music.  I had never been anyplace where there had been clubs and activities to join other than the band, choir and MYF (Methodist Youth Fellowship) of my junior high and high school years.  I don’t know if it was lack of confidence or lack of interest that kept me from joining activities in college where I would have met more people, but I am quite sure that I had a small town inferiority complex that made me think people would probably not want to meet me.

Although in the dorm and around female friends I was outgoing and a leader of sorts, at mixers with fraternities, I was shy and held back.  I didn’t go to the student union much–preferring the smoking room at our sorority house, playing bridge with the hashers and watching soap operas with the Lenzi twins–my partners in prevarication.  Somehow I fell back on the lazy habits of my youth, even though I was now in an environment that provided more stimulating possibilities.

I see this tendency spreading like a stain throughout my life.  Yes, I traveled all over the world, but once there, in an exotic or  unfamiliar place, I didn’t necessarily make use of all the possibilities for socialization or discovery.  Once again I fell back on nights spent alone, reading or puttering around the house.  It wasn’t that I didn’t meet people and make friends.  I gave dinner parties and big parties and went to the houses of friends.  It was just that I also held back.  Pulled out by friends, I would go, but if I had to make the decision myself, I would stay home.

Now that I am in my retirement years, I still feel this pull and push of life.  If someone asks me to do anything, I do it.  I have had a few big parties but in recent years I prefer dinner with one to four friends.  The vast majority of my time, however, is spent alone, even though I know I could be busy every minute of the day with one or another social activity.  I fill out my days with writing or, in month or two-month spurts, working in my art studio.  I belong to three writing groups, two of which I go to regularly.  The reading series I coordinated, I let die a natural death when the coffee house where we met closed.  Others have urged me to resuscitate it, but i haven’t.

The reason I know I would probably not change my college habits even though I now know I should have been more active is because now that I am in possession of this knowledge, I still choose not to change.  I am a social person who has an even bigger need for privacy and alone time, but now it is because I have two worthwhile activities with which to fill that alone time. Whether there is much value in what I produce is a moot point.  I think we create in order to recreate our selves, in a way.  It is a place where we have a power we grant to ourselves and perhaps in a way this is a success which, although unheralded by the world, creates a smaller world of our own where we can become whatever we want to be.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Revisionist History. Go back in time to an event you think could have played out differently for you. Let alternate history have its moment: tell us what could, would or should have happened?

Kewpie Dolls and Churros

Some of my favorite memories when I was small involved the traveling carnivals and circuses that would set up in my small town.  The rides seemed incredibly large, thrilling and exotic to me.  I loved being turned upside down and jerked this way and that and spun around in circles on merry-go-rounds and more adventurous rides by the name of  “Tilt-a-Whirl” and “The Bullet.”

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There were strange sights sealed up in tents that my mother never let me go into, but I overheard her discussions with her friends of just what shocking sight they had seen.  It wasn’t until I read Truman Capote and other southern authors that I first heard the term “geek show,”  but coming from  a northern state, I never would have heard these shows referred to by this pejorative term.

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There was cotton candy and candied apples, be-feathered kewpie dolls made of plastic so thin that you could dent them if you squeezed them too hard during the thrills of the ferris wheel. There were nickels skimmed across carnival glass plates with carnival glass bowls and cups as prizes for getting one to stay on a plate.

IMG_1105 IMG_1089 IMG_1086There were cheap toys, cheap thrills and, as we grew into our preteen and teen years, exotic carnies from out of town.  We looked beyond their grubby clothes, grease-encrusted fingernails, ruffled too-long hair and too-wise leers to imagine them as romantic gypsies or James Dean come to discover us in our small prairie town.  Nothing ever came of these dreams, for we ran at the first suggestion of anything remotely sexual, but they fueled our dreams as surely as the Saturday night show and Emily Loring romances.

These memories are fueled by a festival of a different sort, and these pictures were in fact taken last night when my friend and I strolled through the streets of San Juan Cosala during their 11-day yearly religious fiesta in honor of Saint John the Baptist, the patron saint of the pueblo.  We ate pizza cooked in gas ovens on the spot, waffle cones filled with galleta ice cream and strawberry ices and churros–the Mexican extruded donuts–dipped delicious from their vat of hot oil and rolled in sugar.  We passed over the micheladas, tacos, tamales, the thick hot pancakes and the egg bread that was as much of an art form as a comestible.

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We did not throw darts at balloons or ride toy cars or swirl through the night on Dumbo or plastic giraffes.  We were tempted by the bumper cars, but could not bring ourselves to bump the small children who were their only other occupants.

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Instead, we strolled by the Hospitalito–the remains of one of the oldest churches in Jalisco, whose ruins now consist of merely this dome with cacti growing out of it and the one remaining broad wall that supports it.

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One sinister detail of the otherwise image-filled night was the small girl–perhaps 10 or 11 years old, who peered over my shoulder, coming very close as I photographed the cotton-candy spinner.  “She must be interested in photography,” my friend told me, “because she was looking so closely at your camera.”  As we walked away, she followed us, and asked a question of me that neither of us could understand.  She was not asking for money.  We asked again what she wanted, but again could not understand what she said.  As we walked away she followed–down row after row of booths offering toys, cookware, cosmetics, religious statues and games and eatables of many varieties.  Finally, it grew sinister.  We would spin and face her and walk in the opposite direction and she would spin and walk after us.  I finally refused to walk to the end of any rows, preferring to stay in more frequented areas.  I kept hands in pockets over my money and camera.

My friend, too, felt strangely threatened.  She revealed that while at the cosmetics booth, the girl had crowded her close on one side while a seedy-looking man had come up close on her other side.  When she looked at him, he feigned an interest in the lipsticks in front of him, picking one up and examining it closely.  Not very convincing, this interest in women’s cosmetics. My friend said she backed up quickly and walked away.  The girl  continued to follow her.  The man didn’t.

The calm demeanor of this girl came to feel specter-like.  She was a ghost child following us through cobblestone streets, never speaking, never varying her distance. We started to devise excuses to look behind us, but we needn’t have bothered.  She was always there.  After 45 minutes of being followed, we devised a plan to spin around and face her and walk in the opposite direction.  We did this four times in rapid succession, but she just calmly turned around and followed us each time.  When I paid for a purchase, she looked closely at how much money I took out of my pocket. I was very aware of her interest, as she followed closely with no obvious attempt to talk to us and making no effort to escape our notice.

Finally,  my friend said, “Why don’t you ask her why she is following us?”  Instead, I had another idea. Turning around so quickly that she almost ran into us, I said in Spanish, “Do you know where the police are?  I need the police!”  My friend said she saw a brief emotion flick over the girl’s face before she looked to the right and looked to the left, as though she really was looking for the police.  Then I looked at the vendors in the booths near by and asked the same question–very loudly.  One woman said they would be there later that night.

Both my friend and I did not see the girl leave.  It was as though she’d been conjured and simply disappeared.  We did not see her again that night, but we continued to scan the crowd for her as we sat on the steps of the plaza surveying the crowd and eating our guilty pleasures.  At one point, another small girl and her smaller brother approached me and asked a question.  Again, she used a term I’d never heard before, and my friend did not understand either.

“She is asking you for the time, said the woman frying churros.”  “Ten after nine,” I told the small girl, in Spanish, and she walked away.  “I think that’s what the other girl was asking us,” I said, and eyed my watch, glad to still be wearing it. I squeezed my pocket as well.  I was still in possession of my camera.  We took the best-lit route back to my car and went home perhaps an hour before we would have chosen to, but suddenly the night had turned just the slightest bit sinister again.  We sought the comfort of locked doors and the short drive home.

(Disclaimer:  I need to add here that this is the first time in 14 years that I’ve ever felt targeted in my pueblo or perhaps anywhere in Mexico.  It was complicated by the fact that this child looked like a well-mannered little girl who would be a teacher’s pet–the smartest girl in the class–one you’d choose to babysit your kids.  That she was the accomplice in some little robbery scheme was rather heartbreaking.)

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/toy-story/

Baby Bird Saga IV

Well, a few updates.  When my friend went down to check on Lenny, he had flown the nest!  It was almost impossible to find him as he was in a fenced-in area full of plants and vines and there was no room to enter–just to try to look.  We couldn’t even reach past the chicken wire that held up the vines that obscured the heating unit.  Nonetheless, we both looked for what added up to an hour, I would imagine.  Finally, we just had to give up, but I stayed down in the hammock, hoping the parents would fly over and Lenny would somehow extricate himself.

When my friend came home, she took my place in the hammock and a half hour or so later I heard her call out that she needed help.  She had spied Lenny and was able to reach in and extract him from his jungle prison.  Back to the big rock, where lo and behold, his parents spotted him and his mother came and fed him one more time.  Then it was into his cage and into the house before a COLOSSAL rainstorm hit.  Buckets of water, crashing lightning and thunder that sounded like it was cracking the world open.  So glad our baby bird was not out in that!

Later I discovered two interesting facts on the internet.  #1. that just because we share a common last name, Lenny Dykstra does not serve as a good role model to name anyone after, even a bird.  So, I’m up for suggestions about what to rename him.  #2. that baby bird is most probably not a vermillion flycatcher but rather a house finch.  He looks exactly like the image online and male house finches do get rosy coloring around the head and chest, which accounts for the rosier birds we’ve seen accompanying the dull females.

So, very early Monday morning, my house guest departs leaving my family two creatures larger.  Hopefully the parent finches will continue to feed their baby and I’ll take over at night.  I’ve done some reading about the diet of finches and will provide sunflower and thistle seeds to attract the parents and give them a close by place to feed so hopefully they’ll continue to feed him. Looks like I’ll be spending a lot of time in my hammock in the lower garden, since the rock is a familiar feeding spot for both baby and birth parents.

Morrie, in the meantime, is leaving  a pathway of chaos in the front garden: pots tipped over, plants ripped out by the roots, little round stones from a mocajete spread over the terrace.  Diego is complicit in the chasing games that created some of this disorder, but with the baby bird feeding in back, I dare not put the dogs there.  I fear they don’t understand about inter-species family fealty.

Now it is 11:22 PM.  Morrie is curled up beside me in bed, I can hear strains of banda music from the town down below.  It is the festival for the town’s namesake, St. John the Baptist, who has done a good job of baptizing us all this day and for the week preceding it.  The bird formerly known as Lenny is literally asleep with his head tucked under his wing and I am about to do the same.  Your mission, if you should choose to accept it, is to help me think up a new name for baby bird.  Sweet dreams to all, or, more likely, good morning.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/all-about-me/

Baby Bird Sagas III

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Has it been just 27 hours since Morrie brought the baby bird in? So many gerrymandered solutions to keeping him alive in that time. (For the first two episodes of this saga, go HERE) This morning led to this one. Since Lenny (our makeshift name for the baby bird.  It’s explained in an earlier chapter of the saga) has taken to hopping and jumping with great vigor, yesterday’s solutions wouldn’t work. I resorted to building a sort of fortress on top of the table that I thought he couldn’t get out of, but the parent birds could get to him to feed him. The heater, set on low, would keep him warm as it had during the night which he spent in a covered cage in the spare bedroom, away from marauding dogs.

That should have worked.  Right?  Wrong.  Within minutes, he had hopped up on the back of one of the chairs and fluttered to the stone floor of the terrace and was headed for the cover of the ferns!

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OK. Plan 2. I sopped all the remaining water out of the otherwise empty hot tub, plugged up all the vents, drains and bubblers with masking tape, and put baby bird in the bottom. (I later moved him up to the ledge–easier for his mom and dad to see him and get to him.) Mom and Dad flew overhead, but I was unable to see if they fed him anything. Lenny is that little brown blob up on the hot tub bench level.

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Here’s a better view of him. I was so relieved to find him awake this morning. He looks better than yesterday, don’t you think? He seemed more content in the hot tub, but when my friend got home, she thought she had a better idea.

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Her idea was to put him on the grass. He seemed to enjoy this, but there were so many potential dangers and hiding places.

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Then came the flying lessons, but alas, although he is very good at fluttering, without tail feathers, Lenny has no lift or rudder. The grass furnished a soft landing, though. Do birds think? If the parents were watching , I wonder what they thought.

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She then put him on the same rock as yesterday. “Be careful. He’ll hop away and he’s fast today,” I warned, backseat driving. About a half hour later, she called up from babysitting duty in the hammock of the gazebo. ‘”I need your help!” The good news was that the parents had fed him seven times since he’d been down there. Bad news was that afterwards Lenny had hopped down from his perch and scampered across the lawn and hidden somewhere within a cave created by two huge rocks surrounded by dense plants. We looked for awhile before I was sure I heard him cheeping from the deep recess between the rocks. My friend started to reach in and then remembered scorpions!

Finally, however, he hopped out from behind the rocks on the other side and we captured him again. With the skies starting to become overcast, we had run out of solutions.  Bring him back in and take him outside each day for feeding?  We could see the mother bird ripping material from an old nest in the huge cactus tree and flying off with it.  If she was building a new nest, there would soon be new babies.  Would she forget this one?  We called Animal Rescue and they suggested we do what I’d thought we should do in the beginning.  Build him a nest and put it in a sheltered tree for the parents to find him.

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Building the nest was no problem. A plastic storage dish with holes poked into the bottom, stuffed with stripped bark and other fibers wound into a sort of nest, covered with fresh grass.

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My friend found the perfect spot. The air intake of my water heater for the hot tub (long out of disservice) was under a teja awning. The opening was the exact size of the plastic “nest” container so it could be tucked securely down into it .

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Lenny settled down immediately. No more cheeping or flapping or scrambling or running. We are hoping the parent birds have found him. Wind is rising and it is getting overcast. What will win out? Will we let nature take its course or go rescue him for the night? Wildlife rescue says wild baby birds will not survive in captivity, although some Youtube videos have shown otherwise. Problem is, he will not eat anything we’ve prepared–even the recipes suggested by the bird rescuers on Youtube. So, for now, this is the end of our saga. Perhaps I’ll go down just once to peek to see how he is doing, though. And perhaps put on a jacket and go hang out in the gazebo to see if the parent birds are coming around.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/festivus-for-the-rest-of-us/

“Holy Beginnings”

Holy Beginnings

I always wanted a set of those panties that had a day of the week embroidered on each one, but I grew up in an era when kids didn’t ask for things.  I know my mom would have bought them for me if she’d known, or my grandma would have ceased her endless activity of sewing sequins on felt butterflies or crocheting the edges of pillow shams long enough to embroider the days of the week onto the baggy white nylon panties jumbled into my underwear drawer. I never asked, though.  Never told.

So it was that on Sunday I’d arise and put on the same old underpants, cotton dress with ruffle, white socks, patent leather shoes. I’d take a little purse no bigger than the makeup case in the suitcase-sized purse I now carry. Into it I’d drop a quarter my dad had given me for the collection, a hanky and the lemon drop my mother always put inside just in case of a cough. I never coughed, but always ate the lemon drop, sucking on it during Sunday School and sometimes asking for another from the larger supply in her purse during church.

Why my mom never sang in the choir I don’t know.  She had a fine true voice.  Both of my older sisters did and so did I, once I was in high school.  I remember when I was little watching the choir in their fine robes that looked like they were graduating every Sunday.  They sat facing us, in three rows to the preacher’s left, as though checking up on us to make sure we didn’t misbehave or yawn or chew gum.  In addition to lemon drops, my mother always carried Wrigley’s Spearmint Gum in her purse.  Sometimes the gum was a bit red  from the rouge she always had on her fingertips on days she applied makeup. It seemed to me like the rouge flavored the gum a bit.  It tasted of clove and flowers.

“Just hold it in your mouth,” my mother instructed, my sister and me; and if we chewed, she would take it away from us. “Just chew it enough to make it soft and then hold it in your mouth.”  This was an almost impossible challenge for a child and actually even for a teenager.  By then, we’d learned to crack the gum and to blow bubbles even when it wasn’t bubble gum.  That fine pop and final sigh of air as the bubble broke–so satisfying. The threat and memory of everything we could be doing with that gum resided in each small wad of it held in our cheeks as we sat lined up like finely dressed chipmunks listening to the minister drone on.

Hymns were like the commercial breaks on television–a chance to move around a bit and look at something other than the preacher–to ponder the curious lyrics such as, “Lettuce gather at the river,” “Bringing in the sheets” and “Let me to his bosom fly.”  (Just what was a bosom fly and what had lettuce and collecting sheets from the clothesline to do with religion? Once again, we didn’t ask.)

Then we’d sit down again for the Apostle’s Creed or a prayer or benediction or the interminable expanse of the sermon–half an hour with no break.  I’d listen to the drone of the flies buzzing in circles at the window, or the sound of cars passing in the summer, when the front and back doors were left open to encourage  breeze where no breeze existed.

Now and then a curious dog would wander in and be ushered out by the man who stood at the door to hand out church programs.  Everyone would hear the scramble of dog toenails on the wooden aisle and turn to watch and laugh.  Even the minister would laugh and say say something like, “All of God’s creatures seek to commune with him upon occasion.”  Then everyone would laugh softly again before he turned his attention back to telling us what was wrong with us and how to remedy it.

That afternoon, Lynnie Brost and I were going to play dress up and have a tea party under the cherry trees and bury a treasure there.  We’d already assembled it: my mom’s old ruby necklace, a handful of her mom’s red plastic cancer badges shaped like little swords with a pin at the back to put on your collar to show you’d given to the campaign,  my crushed penny from the train track, her miniature woven basket from South America that her missionary sister had brought her, a tattered love comic purloined from her older sister. (We’d “read” it first–which at our age meant looking at the pictures.)

I fell asleep thinking of what else we could add to our cache, to be dug up again in ten years or for as long later as we could stand to put off exhuming it. I leaned against my mother as I slept, and if she noticed, she did nothing to awaken me.  She shook me a bit, gently, as the congregation stood after the sermon, singing “Onward Christian Soldiers” as the minister marched down the aisle, smiling and greeting parishioners and the choir followed him, as though they were being let out early for good behavior.  At the door, we greeted the preacher again, standing in line to shake hands and be blessed, then ticked off his mental list of who had been among the faithful on this fine summer day when they could have been out mowing the grass or rolling in the piles of grass emptied from the clipping bag.

Then we drove the block home, for no one ever walked in a small town.  Well done rump roast for dinner, as we called the noon meal. Mashed potatoes, brown gravy, canned string beans, a salad with homemade Russian dressing and ice cream or jelly roll for dessert.  All afternoon to play. Another small town South Dakota Sunday of an endless progression strung out from birth to age eighteen, when I departed for college and the rest of my Agnostic life.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Early Years.”  Write page three of your autobiography.

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Music is a mirror, not a map. Looking in it we may see what we are and what we were, but looking at someone else’s song as a prediction of our own future is like looking in a fun house mirror and believing it is reality. All representations are a fun fiction–a hope, a faulty remembrance.  If you want to know your future, just live it.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Mix Tape” -Put together a musical playlist of songs that describe your life, including what you hope your future entails. 

Campaign Financing and Other Political Solutions

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If you had been a fly on the wall at Linda and Steve’s house last week when Dan and Laurie and I came for dinner, this is some of the silly (or not so silly) discussion you might have overheard.

About the ridiculous amount spent on political campaigns in an attempt to “buy” the election or slur the other candidate:

Judy says, “No candidate should be able to spend any money on campaigns. Radio and TV stations should provide an equal amount of time for each candidate to state their beliefs and platforms and that is it!”

Linda added, more entertainingly: “I think that they should make every election into a reality series.  What American could resist watching Obama and Romney swap wives?  I would have loved to have seen Michelle chew Mitt’s ass in twenty different ways.  Or, determine the election by means of duels. Every single election, you’d get rid of 50 percent of the politicians.”

Judy: “What about survivor? You put them all together, naked, on an island with only the amount of health care they support for the masses to come to their aid in case of snake bite, sunburn or heart attack.

Dan and Laurie: “Or make it an amazing race. Put “I support gay marriage” on their bumper sticker and send them through the deep south. Or “The Earth is Flat” through California.

I lost track of who said this: “Or, create a bumper sticker that would make them all face a similar risk no matter where they go: Nuke a Gay Whale for Jesus–and see how adept they are at getting out of difficult situations.”

Okay viewers, a challenge. What sort of reality show would you like to suggest for political candidates to prove their mettle?
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Boxed Salad

                                                               Boxed Salad

The story of my life is like a salad–more palatable when someone else does the cutting up and the mixing. I don’t know what to leave out of a salad.  I put everything into it every time–lettuce chopped so fine it’s better eaten with a spoon, carrots, celery, purple onions, avocado, apples, walnuts, cranberries, green olives and croutons, blue cheese, balsamic vinaigrette. All chopped up and blended to within an inch of its life so that each bite contains a bit of each.  Delicious, yes, but not enough variety between bites, perhaps. All of the elements mix up so much it is impossible to taste the flavor of each.  They blend into a fresh hash that becomes another thing entirely.

And this is what my life is like, as well.  Everything is remembered in such detail that I can’t sort out the relevant facts.  No one thing stands out as being the thing to feature.  I can’t get the gist of events.  What does it mean–that year or more in Africa? Somehow, after a lifetime of reading books that  imply reasons for things, nothing in my own life makes sense anymore.

I try to look at myself objectively. What in her makeup made her fall in love with a man who would become her stalker? What makes her leave places where things seem to be working out fine to jump into a new location and situation where she is thrust once again into the role of stranger?  Does she think, perhaps, this time she will come closer to finding herself?  Or does she think it will be a chance to try out a new life without the censure of friends who expect her to be the same person she was yesterday or last year?

What writer more competent than myself could find the pattern where all these pieces fit together into a recognizable whole? Perhaps Barbara Kingsolver could determine more easily how I fit in to my time or Joyce Maynard could extract those details that would make my life read like a mystery. Anne Tyler could describe those eccentricities that make my family readable, even if they aren’t from Baltimore; and I could certainly use the help of Abraham Verghese in writing the portions of my life that took place in Ethiopia. But undoubtedly, these favorite writers are all embarked on projects of their own, so it is not likely that any will be forthcoming in helping me to solve the conundrum of my own life story.

It’s like all of the details of my life are jumbled together in one of those big boxes out in the garage that I haven’t opened in fourteen years.  Even if I could bring myself to open those boxes, how could I ever make sense of them?  Yes, there are all these little boxes as well–where I’ve sorted the very best details into stories or poems or essays.–but where do those little boxes fit within the shipping container of my life?

In spite of a lifetime of writing, I have to face the fact that I don’t have the skills to write my own biography. Perhaps my task was to get famous enough to prompt someone else to do the deed, but it is getting late in my life and that seems unlikely to happen.  My chances to become infamous are equally long past, or at least I hope they are.  I have no wish to become famous due to my misdeeds or eccentric behavior.  Perhaps it is enough to unpack these tiny boxes one by one on my blog–like little parts of the entire tossed salad of my life.  Not biography.  Just bites.

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The Prompt: Ghostwriter–If you could have any author –living or dead – write your biography, who would you choose?

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/ghostwriter/

John Wayne and I

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When the Union Pacific Railroad was finally completed on May 10,1869, it was a cause for great celebration. A very good source describing the somewhat hilarious ceremony may be found here, but a segment from that source follows as a background for my own story:

A railroad linking America’s east and west coasts had been a dream almost since the steam locomotive made its first appearance in the early 1830s. The need for such a link was dramatized by the discovery of gold in California in 1848 that brought thousands to the West Coast. At that time only two routes to the West were available: by wagon across the plains or by ship around South America. Traveling either of these could take four months or more to complete.

Although everyone thought a transcontinental railroad was a good idea, deep disagreement arose over its path. The Northern states favored a northern route while the Southern states pushed for a southern route. This log jam was broken in 1861 with the secession of the Southern states from the Union that allowed Congress to select a route running through Nebraska to California.

Construction of the railroad presented a daunting task requiring the laying of over 2000 miles of track that stretched through some the most forbidding landscape on the continent. Tunnels would have to be blasted out of the mountains, rivers bridged and wilderness tamed. Two railroad companies took up the challenge. The Union Pacific began laying track from Omaha to the west while the Central Pacific headed east from Sacramento.

Progress was slow initially, but the pace quickened with the end of the Civil War. Finally the two sets of railroad tracks were joined and the continent united with elaborate ceremony at Promontory, Utah on May 10, 1869. The impact was immediate and dramatic. Travel time between America’s east and west coasts was reduced from months to less than a week.

The ceremony at Promontory culminated with Governor Stanford of California (representing the Central Pacific Railroad) and Thomas Durant (president of the Union Pacific Railroad) taking turns pounding a Golden Spike into the final tie that united the railroad’s east and west sections. As the spike was struck, telegraph signals simultaneously alerted San Francisco and New York City, igniting a celebratory cacophony of tolling bells and cannon fire in each city.
“It was a very hilarious occasion; everybody had all they wanted to drink…”
http://www.eyewitnesstohistory.com/goldenspike.htm

It will probably come as no surprise that in 1969 it was decided to have a huge ceremony honoring the 100th anniversary of the “Wedding of the Rails” in Utah. To that end, two trains set out—one from the easternmost point of the track and the other from the westernmost point. These trains were destined to meet at the original point of their joining, but since they were filled with dignitaries, they made numerous stops along the way with celebrations at each point where they stopped.

In 1969, I was attending university in Laramie, Wyoming. It was announced that John Wayne and Glen Campbell would be on one of the trains and that they would do a whistle stop where they would both say a few words before continuing on to the ceremony. Now it just so happened that this event coincided with Sigma Chi Derby Days—an annual event that consisted of a number of challenges whereby campus groups could assemble points. What the prize was I can’t remember, but I do remember that one of the contests was to gain the signature of the most famous person, and I happened to know that John Wayne himself had been a Sigma Chi. If I could somehow gain his signature, we would have it made in the shade for that particular challenge.

And so on the prescribed day, we were off, fully laden, with five of us filling the seats of my little red Ford Galaxy. How we would get close enough to the train to gain the autograph, I did not know, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.

There was, as may be expected, a huge crowd at the Laramie train station, and we waited in anticipation for the train. Finally, it came up, sounding its whistle, flags waving. Several men came out to a small stage that had been constructed just in front of the train. Finally, Glen Campbell came out, but no John Wayne. We were puzzled when the speeches started without him. What could have happened to John Wayne? Finally, I was hit with one of those instant inspirations often depicted by a light bulb going off over someone’s head in cartoon bubbles.

“I bet he got off the train to fly back to California!” No one disagreed and it was my car, so off we sped to the airport, which was several miles outside of town. We drove well over the speed limit down the two-lane nearly carless road. As we approached the airport, we could see no larger planes loading, but there was one smaller private plane. We went speeding up to the airport. “I’ll go see what’s going on with that small plane,” I told my friends, springing from the door almost as soon as the car had come to a screeching halt. I went running out onto the field—not hard to do in a small airport in those years before airport security­—and ran smack dab into a man who was walking toward the plane from the opposite direction. “Well, whoa, there, little lady. Where ya goin?” said the brick wall I’d just run into.

“I’m trying to find John Wayne. Do you know if he might be in that plane?” I asked.

“Nope, I’m pretty sure he’s not,” said the man, “because he’s standing right here!”

I looked up—way up—and sure enough. There he was with his hands still on my forearms where he had caught me just before I ran into him broadside!

Yes. It was a surreal experience. And it was even more surreal when I explained about the points and he said, “Well, would it give ya more points if instead of delivering my autograph you could deliver me?” I said it sure would, and we had reached my car and my somewhat astonished friends had piled four in the back for him to climb into the front seat with me when a harried looking man came running out from the landing field shouting, “John, John! What are you doing?”

Long story short, John Wayne did not come back to campus with us. His manager managed to persuade him it was not in his best interests given that something in California was important enough to warrant his immediate return. But, I did get his signature and no, I did not turn it in for Sigma Chi Derby Days. To this day, it resides in a square of a memory box—one of the kind popular in the sixties and seventies that is made out of an old newspaper print box—and as proof, I include a picture below.

And yes, of course John Wayne was three sheets to the wind, for in keeping with the original rail-joining ceremony, “It was a very hilarious occasion; everybody had all they wanted to drink…”

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/whoa/

DSC00166
For another great story about how Garry Armstrong met John Wayne, go here: http://teepee12.com/2016/01/08/the-duke-and-garry-a-pilgrims-tale-garry-armstrong/

The Prompt:  What’s the most surreal experience you’ve ever had?

My earlier post wouldn’t pingback to the Daily Prompt site, so I had to repost.  Here are comments from that earlier post:

lifelessons
grieflessons.wordpress.com
jubob2@hotmail.com
189.169.119.208

This seems to be a day for synchronicities. Did you read Mark Aldrich’s piece? Today is also my best friend’s birthday and I need to call her as well. Your mentioning your birthday reminded me of hers, so the chain goes on. Thanks for your kind words, Anton.

Mark Aldrich
thegadabouttown.wordpress.com
markaldrich68@hotmail.com
68.174.46.193

I wonder why that did not ping properly.

That is a treasure of a story.

Anton Wills-Eve
antonwillseve.com
willseve@aol.com
78.144.91.230

Judy you should have been a journalist! One of the best and most interesting posts I’ve ever read.Well done, but tell me, how did you know May 10 was my birthday? Seriously, it is. Anton. 🙂