Tag: memories

Legacy Writing 365:25

Who is this girl? Because the girl I knew:

Could outrun any boy. Could sit on him and make him holler uncle. Could raise a knot on his arm by socking him as she walked by.

Could shimmy up a tree in nothing flat. Was always out in front of the bike pack.

Sneaked across the highway to ride horses.

Came home from school with one sock down, one sock up, shoes scuffed, sash dragging the ground because one side was torn loose.

Could navigate monkey bars better and swing higher than any kid on the playground.

Was one of the boys, with skint knees and elbows and tangled hair pulled back in a ponytail.

Cut the hair off all the dolls. Threw Betsy Wetsy in the creek to see if she’d float. Dolls were stupid anyway.

After being stuck as a fortune teller one year at Halloween, the next year she demanded a cowboy outfit for Christmas.

“You mean cow girl? Like Dale Evans?”

“I mean cowBOY.”

And she got it, six shooters and all.

She was her father’s shadow and her brother’s sparring partner.

Then all of a sudden she was Haley Mills and Doris Day. Wearing pearls from her father and HEELS on her white pumps. She had a white satin dress from her mother and curled hair. She was fourteen and graduating from eighth grade.

On the floor is the symbol of the infantry’s motto, “Follow me!” Much to my big sister’s dismay, I always did follow her everywhere.

Legacy Writing 365:24

On Twitter the night of the Golden Globes, people were tweeting about the celebrities, the fashions, the awkward moments, the strange occurrence of Americans with British accents, and all I could come up with was “I despise this Calvin Klein commercial.” I don’t know why it rubs me the wrong way. Best I can figure, I loathe the minimalism, the monotones, the idea that we’re meant to aspire to a lifestyle of infinity pools, glass houses, private jets, expensive cars, fast boats, or men with girls who look like they’re fifteen. If you’re in the One Percent and that’s your life, you’re not reading this blog enjoy!

It made me contemplate what places I do like to visit and why. And it always comes back to anywhere there’s creative energy. Galleries. Little shops where people sell their hand crafted arts. Places where the air vibrates with street musicians. Watching street performers. Watching people paint. Looking at people’s paintings. Seeing people on their laptops and imagining they’re writing great stories or poems. Or seeing older people sitting comfortably around wood stoves or on front porches telling stories. You can find these moments and people and places and objects anywhere–large cities, small cities, small towns, barely villages.

One such place is Yellow Springs, Ohio. When I took the time after Christmas to organize my decorations, ornaments, lights, and such, I opened what I thought was an empty box in a bin and found these.


Items handcrafted of clay, painted, and fired. I shot them with a quarter to give an idea of their size. The date on the quarter, coincidentally, is 1994, the first time I ever visited Yellow Springs with Debby, Mother, and Tom. I loved all the stores there–jewelry, art, books–and I remember eating great pizza. This was one of the years we traveled at Christmas. I don’t like leaving home at Christmas, so the only compensation is seeing family. Like here, in this 1994 shot, while Josh tries to nap on the floor after a big Christmas dinner, Sarah upholds the family tradition of sneak-attack Bunny Ears.

I bought the little clay pieces on a subsequent trip to Yellow Springs, with the idea of turning them into ornaments to give as gifts. Somehow they got misplaced. That was also the year I saw a flyer in one of the shops protesting censorship because of controversy over a new book everyone was talking about. I sure hope they kept Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone from being banned. 😉

If you follow the Yellow Springs link above, you’ll see that the town has an interesting history. Or you can learn more about it on their web site. I feel like I’m way overdue for another visit there.

Legacy Writing 365:23

I had a run of bad science teachers, and then as a high school senior, I took physiology with the superb Mrs. Rhodes, who I’ve talked about on my blog before. After the thoroughness of her class, and my unbroken streak of “A”s in it, I had no qualms about signing up for my first biology course in college. I had to take four science classes, and the two freshman classes in biology were prerequisites for any others.

There were hundreds of students in my class, which was similar in size to this, but had red plastic chairs and those half-desk tops that flip up:


Image taken from Internet.

I went to every class, took notes, did my once-a-week lab, took my first test–something like 75 multiple choice questions–and couldn’t breathe when I got it back and saw a “D.” Had I somehow skipped a question that caused all my blackened circles on the answer sheet to be in the wrong places? Because I felt like I’d prepared, that I’d known the material.

Next test, I was meticulous about my answer sheet. I finished the test and read every question again, making sure I’d marked the correct answer. Turned it in. Got it back the next week: “C.” People I knew who were taking the same class were making “A”s. What was I doing wrong?

I got tutoring before the next test: another “C.” I managed to get out of the class with a “C,” and I spent my holidays dreading the second survey course. On my first exam in that one, I read the first ten questions and couldn’t answer them. I wasn’t sure if I didn’t know the material or was having a panic attack, but I kept my head down, tears dripping onto my blue jeans. I realized that two different people were deliberately sitting and positioning their answer sheets in such a way that I could have copied from them. Touched as I was by the show of solidarity, I couldn’t cheat. It wasn’t a moral choice. I was just beaten down. I didn’t care. I felt like I was stupid, and the tests were somehow skewed to weed out people with no natural aptitude in the sciences. In fact, rumor had it that this particular professor had missed questions on his own tests, so my mind shut down to him.

I stopped going to class, since no roll was kept. I used someone else’s notes; let other people re-explain the material to me; took my “C”s and was happy to get them. The experience soured me on that side of the campus (the opposite from “my” side, with the literature and history and sociology classes that I loved). During every pre-registration, my stomach would knot when I’d look at the science pages in the catalog or on the schedule. Then someone I trusted took a class called “Earth Science.” He advised me to take it the next semester; I wouldn’t be sorry.

That’s how I ended up with Dr. Neal Lineback, undoubtedly one of the best teachers I ever knew. I never skipped one of his classes. I stopped feeling stupid. And even though I ended up with “B”s, I knew that if I could have written all my answers instead of dealing with multiple choice questions, I probably would have received “A”s. I’d learned a lot about my strengths in the years between science classes, but I also had the confidence that flourishes in students who feel a teacher wants them to succeed.

One of the topics in “Earth Science” was atmosphere, including the study of tornados and hurricanes. It was timely, because we had an active tornado season that spring. Dr. Lineback’s ability to create a learning experience out of the daunting conditions that set off tornado sirens was a gift to us.

I took another course from him in the fall. As the Iron Bowl approached (the big football game between fierce rivals Alabama and Auburn), he broke “teacher” character one afternoon to share something with us. Though he’d gone to a different school in the SEC (Tennessee), he honored the proud football tradition of the Crimson Tide. He evoked the hallowed name of our coach, Bear Bryant. He had us eating up his praise of our school. Then he clapped his hands and said that was enough of that; it was time to get back on topic. He shrugged out of his jacket, turned to the chalkboard, and pretended not to hear the class’s burst of laughter as we saw Auburn’s “WAR EAGLE” battle cry emblazoned across his shirt back.

The only other time he broke out of his lecturer role was the last day of class, when he explained what teaching meant to him. He encouraged any of us who planned to be teachers to bring not only our passion for our subjects to the classroom, but to remember that teachers are actors. They owe every class, every day, their best performances, and if they give that, their students will learn and succeed. Dr. Lineback was later department chair, and then chair at another university, where he is now a professor emeritus. I wish everyone could have teachers with his commitment and enthusiasm.

Thinking of Dr. Lineback and the things he taught us still manages to refocus my fear when we have tornado warnings in Houston. Last spring, when an EF-4 tornado destroyed a mile-wide, six-mile-long swath of Tuscaloosa, I wondered if current students had a Dr. Lineback of their own, or if some of his former students are still there and became part of the recovery efforts. I follow various social media sites to keep up with the city’s clean-up and rebuilding. I ordered these awareness bracelets for Tom and me–the houndstooth design used on them as well as on ribbons and other items is an homage to the houndstooth hat Coach Bryant always wore. But for me, the bracelets are also a reminder of Dr. Neal Lineback, who embodied the best that a university can offer its students and its city.

Legacy Writing 365:22

When Lynne and I were just into our teens, her cousin, who I’ll call NC, was shooting an 8 mm movie. I don’t remember all the details, but I believe I was a vampire (see? it started early), and it ended with Lynne’s sister Liz running into the night. Some ten or more years later, NC shot another movie, a sequel to that first one, and this one began with Liz running toward the camera. During the intervening years, she’d lost quite a bit of weight–makes sense if someone’s been running for ten years, right?

I’d gotten a movie camera in college–a Super 8. It didn’t have sound, and movies had to be sent away for developing. After I graduated and moved back to our little town, making movies was a way to have harmless fun on the weekends. It was a more innocent age, when everybody and her/his boyfriend didn’t make sex tapes. I can’t imagine having access to all of today’s technology, when practically every digital camera and phone have video capability. I can only say that what we did create, wholesome though it was, is better left in the vault, including a little gem titled “Friday Afternoon Virus.” Though there were several of us playing muppet characters in a Muppets/Saturday Night Fever mashup, only two of us were breakout stars. Our friend Cathy, who was a great Kermit in a white disco suit, and Lynne, who was a sensational Miss Piggy. That’s why she ended up with the button featured in Button Sunday.

I regret that I’m failing you, because I have no photos of this event. It’s possible Lynne does, but that doesn’t mean she’ll share them. Unless maybe I ORDER HER TO. Because that night is when it became clear that my personality best lends itself to the role of director. When Fozzie Bear accidentally knocked over a glass that shattered on our dance floor, I yelled, “Keep moving! The film is rolling!” And everyone stayed in character.

MY POWER…

Legacy Writing 365:21

I’ve spent hours each day for the past few days looking at old photos, fitting them into the archives, and ordering prints of some of the thousands of photos on my computer. I’m combining these with other items in my scrapbooks. I’m suffering photo nostalgia overload!

I went to the shelves and randomly pulled an older binder and opened it to a page, vowing that no matter what it was, I’d use it for this entry. And look: SHINY!

In 2000, I went to San Diego for our friend Steve C’s big birthday party thrown by his friend Dale. On the day of the party, Steve had to run some errands, so Jim and Bill, who’d come down from Long Beach, took me to lunch and then to La Jolla for shopping. On our way back to Steve’s, we saw this SDSU rugby team raising money via a car wash. Of course Jim needed the dust of La Jolla off his car. Plus we wanted to help these young men out. We’re GIVERS! Afterward, we picked up Steve and drove back by. It was his birthday, after all.

Legacy Writing 365:20

In November of 1990, That Old Woman was living in Salt Lake City, as was my brother. Tom and I, and my sister and her husband Len, decided to visit there for Thanksgiving. It was gorgeous and snowy, and David, who skis, offered to take anyone interested skiing. The day before their planned ski date, he wanted to drive to the desert. My sister, Len, and Tom went along, and they saw all kinds of wildlife including eagles and I don’t remember what else. Mother and I opted not to go because she wanted to see a movie. It was a new release that I’d never heard of: Dances With Wolves. We both loved it–which seems weird to me now, as I’m afraid to see War Horse even though I don’t think the horse dies, yet every freaking animal was dying in Dances With Wolves. But I digress.

That night, while Tom and Len were getting ready for their big ski date the next day, we tried not to tell Debby too much about the movie. This photo was taken then and is one of my favorite pictures of my mother and Tom.

The next morning, my brother picked up the guys. Mother, Debby, and I went shopping and to the movie. My sister did love it. Then we went home to hear about the Great Snow Adventure of 1990. I’m not saying Tom and Len were bad skiers, but at one point after Len came to a–let’s call it less than graceful–stop, they heard someone’s voice call out from the ski lift overhead, “Now that’s entertainment!”

Legacy Writing 365:19

We moved to Georgia sometime before I began kindergarten. We couldn’t get into quarters at Ft. Benning immediately, so we lived in a place called Benning Park. I think I remember three things about Benning Park: a dirt yard, a roach infestation, and a mother who wanted OUT.OF.THERE. By the time I started kindergarten, we were living on post. I looked up our old street, and HELLO. I don’t know if it’s still NCO housing, but if so, they have it a lot cushier than we had it. Big ol’ two-unit houses. (On the other hand, Benning Park sounds even worse than when we lived there. With more than seventy-eight percent of children there below the federal poverty line, Benning Park has a higher rate of childhood poverty than 99.5% of U.S. neighborhoods. Thank you, Wikipedia, for not being dark again on Thursday.) I’ll bet some of those same roaches are still stealing food, too. Those bastards NEVER DIE.

We lived on post twice, since my father was stationed there before and after a deployment to Korea. (This was NOT during the Korean War. I may not really be 35, but I’m not that old.) Here’s a photo of Debby and me with Daddy from our second stay there; you can see the quarters across the street, which looked just like ours, because it’s the military.

I’m thinking there are six to eight units per building. I remember: hardwood floors, because I can still hear our dog Dopey’s nails clicking on them. Central air, because I remember yelling into the unit outside to make my voice sound funny. Some other kid taught me to yell into it, “What’s your name? Puddin’ ‘n’ tame. Ask me again, and I’ll tell you the same.” I don’t know what that means. At either end of the building, or maybe at one end, I don’t know, was a cement slab enclosed by a gray (I think) wooden fence. Inside this fence were clotheslines. Women didn’t have dryers then. I remember sitting in there while my mother hung or took down sheets and listening to the wind flap them around. I love the smell and crispness of line-dried sheets.


I think this is Elizabeth, little sister to Stephen. Their mother, Gwen, was British. She had red hair, too. I loved her accent. They lived across the street from us the first time we lived there. The second time we lived there, a woman who lived across the street used to make hamburgers with steamed buns which I never ate because they smelled like dirty socks.

You’re welcome.


Did I mention that my father used to paint scenes on our windows at Christmas? My sister is probably making this face because her brain is fiercely trying to find a way to eliminate me since the previous times didn’t work. (I wasn’t nicknamed “Roach” for nothing.) My brother is in none of these photos because he’d reached the age when 1. We weren’t his family. 2. A camera steals a boy’s cool.

Now we get to my first best friend, Linda Bishop.

I’m starting to wonder if it wasn’t Linda who had a big brother named Stephen. Maybe everyone did. Most of the people in my life have been named Stephen, Tim, Jim, Jeff, and David. It’s weird.

Our dog Dopey had a sister named Beebee. I think Beebee lived next door to Linda but became “her” dog during the day so we’d both have one. When the ice cream truck came, Linda always got a banana Popsicle. I think I preferred grape. We sat on the curb to eat them. Linda would take a lick, then give Beebee a lick. I never gave Dopey a lick of my Popsicle. That’s probably why I’m diabetic today. Linda’s undoubtedly healthy as a horse.

Of course I can’t bring up Linda without repeating my public confession, just in case she ever finds this. We were both in Miss Harris’s kindergarten class. One time when I opened my crayon box and looked at all my broken crayons, I secretly switched my crayons for Linda’s, which were perfect: unbroken and with all the paper intact. Linda cried when she opened her box, and I said nothing. I’M SORRY, LINDA. I WAS WRONG. If you ever find me, I’ll buy you one of those damn 96-count boxes of Crayolas–no generics!–with the built-in sharpener.

Hey, I named a character in Three Fortunes after you. She wasn’t my favorite character, it’s true, but just ask Lynne if she has a character named after her. I think not.

I’M SORRY, LYNNE. I WAS WRONG.

It never ends.

Legacy Writing 365:18

As usual when I’m trying to find a specific photo, it’s as if it never existed. I’ll keep looking. However, in my search, I stumbled over one from June of 2004.

The Deal was a brand new book just out. Tim and I were also promoting Timothy James Beck’s It Had to Be You (2001, trade paper 2002) and He’s the One (2002, trade paper 2003). Borders (RIP) set up a signing for us during Empower Business Expo at the George R. Brown Convention Center. We had a blast, and this photo shows us meeting Jai Rodriguez of the then very-popular (and Emmy winning) Queer Eye for the Straight Guy on Bravo. Jai guest emceed at Lift-Off, the opening party for the Expo and the 2004 Pride Parade. He was happy to take a copy of The Deal with him when he left. I wonder if he read it…

Eagle eyes who know them may recognize those two handsome lads standing next to Tim and me as Matt and John (hosts of the Pumpkin Carving event this past Halloween).

I don’t do readings, but I love signings, especially when they’re part of events like this one. There is nothing like meeting readers who enjoy our novels or meeting people who want to be readers. Seriously, if you have author signings in your city or town, especially at your independent bookstores, GO. Events are more fun with a lively audience.

And finally: TIM’S HAIR! (Jai liked it.)

Legacy Writing 365:17

I do remember things from long ago. I couldn’t tell you Tom’s cell phone number now, but I can tell you my family’s phone numbers from my seventh through twelfth grades.

I have to look up Jim’s address every time, even though I’ve sent him a zillion pieces of mail over the years, but I can remember our street address from when I was six.

And I remember events, too, because since the days when I was still chewing my tomato sandwiches with my mouth open, I was mentally filing stuff away for future writing and calling it “research.”

Also, in case I need my memory jogged, I have a big plastic bin full of journals dating back to when I was fourteen. I don’t look at them. I’m glad they’re there, deep in the recesses of a closet. I kept them for a reason, and the reason continues to feel valid.

Now, about my friend James.

James purges. I swear he can get rid of anything. He can hold something sacred for years and then decide it would be more meaningful if he let it go, so–POOF! Gone. This makes me–the journal hoarder–a little crazy to think about. But it’s history, I wail, your personal history. And he says something insane like, “What I need to remember is in my head. If it’s not, I probably forgot it for a reason.”

Whatever, Mr. Mature and Logical.

When Tom and I began seriously thinking of estate planning, that bin of journals weighed on me. Because–I know this will shock you, so brace yourselves–I’m just like everyone else in that shitty stuff has happened in my life, and sometimes it was my fault, and sometimes it wasn’t, and I have known rage and jealousy and pettiness and a vicious desire to say cruel and hateful things. But I mostly said them with a pen to pages that no one would ever read but me. And the thought of people reading those things, things that were maybe about THEM, made me squeamish. Because how you felt that night in nineteen-eighty-whatever was real, but it passed, and you no longer feel that now. (If you do, you need to get rid of a lot more baggage than a bunch of journals.)

So when a large gathering of people I know and love converged in Manhattan in 2001, I took James aside and spoke to him about that bin of journals.

It went something like this.

“If something happens to me, I know you are the one person who will never let anyone else read them. And will never read them yourself. I know you’ll have some kind of Zen ritual in which you put a match to them and set them adrift on a lake, releasing all the ashes and smoke to the Universe. And that you’ll never even tell anyone you smuggled them out of my house or had access to them. That no one will ever know from you that they even existed. This is how much I trust you.”

“I’m honored,” James said. “And I will do what you say.”

Then we walked into the Renaissance Diner, where all our friends awaited us, and he turned to me and quite audibly said, “I can’t believe if you die I get all your journals!”

I only wish I’d just taken a swallow of Coke or something, because I laughed so hard I could have left a Jackson Pollock on the wall.

A year or so after that night, I actually took out some of those journals and looked at specific time periods, wondering how bad it would be.

And it wasn’t. Even the people who did damage to my soul so deep that you’ll never hear about them on this blog–I seem to have understood that we were all just bumping up against each other in that great effort called “growing up,” and sometimes bumping into each other hurts.

From time to time, someone from my past will surface and apologize, or at least think an apology may be needed, for something that happened long ago. It surprises me, because when I think of them, I think of them with affection and remember tons of good stuff about them and fun (and maybe a little crazy) times we shared. Their tentative apologies have actually been a relief because they help me believe that people who I think I wronged or hurt probably don’t even remember those things that haunt me on nights I deal with insomnia.

If they do remember, I hope they don’t blog.

Fiction is good. A fiction writer can access that mental filing cabinet of “research” and weave it into stories. Accuracy doesn’t matter. A fiction writer can blend and reshape and revise events and people into composites. I suppose for some people, fiction writing is a type of therapy. For others, it’s a weapon. I don’t want any of my writing to be either of those.

Before there was Bart Simpson, Matt Groening created one of my favorite characters, Bongo, featured in the Hell series that I shot for the top photo: Love Is Hell, Work Is Hell, School Is Hell, Childhood Is Hell. In my Legacy Writing blog entries, if there’s ever a need for accountability and blame, I’m with Bongo, who borrowed a phrase from certain Nixon aides and also Reagan.