My Holiday Masterpiece.

Christmas cards always enlightened my days as a kid...especially if my name was on the envelope and impressively if my name was spelled correctly on the envelope. Mom had a ceramic Santa whose large green toy bag was opened to hold all of our cards, and I carefully stacked them according to size day after day as they would arrive. My favorite card always came from Mrs. Cohenour, my childhood art teacher. While other cards displayed humble images of a quiet manger, joyful children romping in the snow, Jolly St. Nick wiggling his nose, and Christmas trees being dragged across a snow laden field to a country home, Mrs. Cohenour's card always displayed a worldly piece of Christmas art from the Met in New York City. Long after my days of washing her brushes and filling the classroom kiln, I still receive my holiday greeting from Mrs. Cohenour, and I cherish each one a little bit more every year.





While the art displayed on Mrs. Cohenour's cards is from the hands of masters, the art displayed on my card this year is of the hands that raised me. Very rarely do I slow down long enough to take pictures of my life, but back in the fall, I simply asked Mom to sit down and play. I told her she didn't even have to smile, and I snapped this picture. In the time that it took for the flash to fire, I managed to take a picture that really needs no caption.





When I was in middle school, Mom's piano students started filing in and out of our home as she carefully guided their little fingers to play. Carefully, I listened as she encouraged each of them to make a joyful noise unto the Lord with every stroke of a key. As the holidays rolled around, she'd review her record books and order small statues of the great composers for each child. She kept a running list of which students had acquired what masters. To this day, I am convinced Cindy Collins Code must have the largest collection. The statues would arrive from the distributor, and Mom would wrap Bach, Beethoven, Mozart and friends with love in each detail of the pretty paper and bows. I'm now a middle school teacher instead of a student, and the great composers still arrive at Mom's house each holiday season as she assigns each a new home during the holidays.





This picture isn't just about piano lessons though. Those are the hands that raised me. You should put your hands together and aplaud her massive undertaking and success. Those hands hugged me, brushed my hair, tied my shoes, fluffed my dresses, tucked me in, and busted my butt. Those hands taught me how to count, read, write, and pray. Those hands checked my temperature, drove me to Clancy's, made me chicken and dumplin's and led me carefully through all the wonder that a child's life offers. Those are my momma's hands, and they've patted the head of at least a thousand students who passed in and out of her classroom doors through the years, too.





To be her daughter is my life's greatest blessing, and I should have thought to capture this moment long before now. Playing the piano fills her soul with joy like nothing else. After all the papers are graded, Sunday's music is practiced, the piano students are gone, and life falls quiet on the hill....listen very carefully on your porches. Not only should you listen for Santa and his sleigh....you should listen for my momma to play, "When They Ring Those Golden Bells."





Merry Christmas!

Mom...I Mean Santa....Always Knew This Would Happen

Upon first glance at this photo, you might be tempted to notice the doll I'm holding. That's Cher. I remember the eyelashes being too long on that doll. The doll's hair got tangled in the lashes, and that frustrated me. As a result, I cut the lashes off. Perhaps that was a precursor to the cosmetic enhancements Cher would have in the years to come. Regardless, I liked that doll a lot. But this photo is NOT about Cher.

I was five years old when this was taken. Thirty-five years ago, my mother knew this love of writing was coming. Look behind me on the table. See that typewriter? That's the device that launched me on my way to madness behind a keyboard.

If you look to the right of me under the tree, you'll see Ragedy Ann and Andy heads peeking up. One was a pencil sharpener, one was a clock, and one was a pencil holder. These are also known as office supplies...yet more tools necessary to help me learn how to put my insanity down on paper.

From the time I first heard the sound of a fingers flying across a typewriter, I wanted to learn how to do that. The picture shows my first typewriter, but I can count of at least five more that Mom gave to me after this one. I remember running the ribbon from this one under water so I could get just one more alphabet out of it. I remember feeling grown up when I had plain white paper instead of notebook paper to put in the roller. Every typewriter that followed was a little more advanced, but I had no idea then that a computer would ever be part of my daily happiness now.

Just sending this out as a little warning to all you Santas out there. When you buy gifts that encourage expression, imagination, and thought for your small children, those gifts have the potential to create a love of creativity for a lifetime.

"We didn't say those kinds of words."

I have embraced the fact that I'm four decades old, and I find it to be quite an astonishing accomplishment on my part. Must say I'm proud of my mom for not killing me when she would have been perfectly justified to do so. I don't spend a lot of time reflecting on woulda, coulda, and/or shoulda. I teach English and just used those last three expressions as actual words; forgive me. If a human had survived as long as my career, she or he'd be 19 years old and counting. Within those nineteen years, I've noticed a change in the adolescent vernacular surrounding my desk top Disney characters and me. Necessity fosters invention, and perhaps invention fosters our vocabulary. Nevertheless, many of these words have been snuggled up in the pages with Mr. Webster, and they have become popular ramblings of the generation whose thumbs will be more agile than all the digits of Mozart combined. Whether their embrace has formed from texting, social networking, or just using something new....take note of how often these words are thrown about by your tweens at home. Back in our day, we just didn't say these words.

"random" - I remember using it in Mrs. Rutherford's biology class...maybe...something to do with selection and a Petri dish. Tweens use it today to describe little mini-surprises throughout their days, and they use "random" often. I can't decide if the connotation of its new use is negative or positive. What are your experiences with the word?

"beast" - Once upon a road trip, Bridgette and I rode a roller coaster with that name. Today, the cool kids use it to describe encounters or individuals that are above average, or, dare I say, distinguished.

"like" - Our generation used this to refer to how we felt about Clancy's cheeseburgers, roller skate pom poms with jingle bells in their center, Friday Night Videos, and Wiggles blue jeans from the Little Loft. Today, the Bieber generation can seldom speak a sentence without inserting this new form of an unnecessary comma. Omitting its use from their daily discussions would be the equivalent of tying my hands behind my back while I speak. They nor I would manage to communicate very effectively under either circumstance.

"epic" - For us, this described the torture we knew as Homer and the Iliad, and even the Odyssey. Based on today's standards of usage, we should have been using it for the number of Tuesday nights we spent standing in line to buy Top Gun tickets on cheap night at the movies.

"hoodie" - We wore them, but we didn't call them that. I remember, as do many of you, those faded out MHS hooded sweatshirts that rarely maintained a chord through the actual hood. Washers and dryers across our small town devoured the strings along with socks and underwear, so the hoods were left to lie flat on our backs. Sometimes we wore them on test day. Those hoods were excellent hiding places for cheat sheets. Did I just write that? Nah.

"180, 360, 540, 720" - Visualize if you will a math teacher, any math teacher, trying to teach us about how to find the circumference of a circle. Today, kids know all about how many revolutions of a skateboard or MX bike each number represents. We talked in terms of fast, faster, and fastest; they talk in terms of complete revolutions.

"goth" - Upon first impression, that's a term that looks like it might be the name of a bottom dwelling fish, but it's a term used today to describe kids who wear black at every possible opportunity. Black hair, pale skin, black makeup, black clothes, and black shoes. Back when we were kids, we had another word for "goth." We called him Ozzy.

"bank" - I remember the steps inside the lobby of Home Federal that allowed me to climb up and look the teller in the face when I was a curtain climber making my deposit into Homer's Club. My money was kept in a building called a bank. Today, "bank" is used by tweens to describe the monetary possessions of a celebrity.

"stalker" - Maybe when we were teens this word was surfacing with news "reports" published by the National Enquirer but I don't recall us using it as a term to describe people just for being annoying and refusing to accept the rejection they had been dealt. Kids today accuse each other of stalking everything from their lockers, their papers, their phones, and their social network pages. Again, I can't tell if the connotation is negative or positive.

My list could go on and on, and one day, it will. But for today, give my selections a thought and share your observations with me, please. I will never be as bright as the children I teach, but it's important that I always know how to interpret their English compared to mine.

Now, for those of you who thought I'd write about adolescent use of profanity based on the title of this rambling, I gotcha! In the words of Dr. Sheldon Cooper, "Bazinga!"

That "One" Photograph

I had access to a pawn shop growing up...too much access. Dad had enough sense to keep the pocket knives and other sharp objects away from me, but he decided I'd be safe with a camera. He started out by letting me goof around with a Kodak Disc. Remember those? One little odd shaped disc just dropped in the camera and only allowed 15 shots per disc. As soon as I thought I was getting good, my disc would run out. His first store was next door to Jackson's Studio. I am certain that I drove Joyce Skidmore and Mr. Jackson absolutely nuts, and I apologize for that now; however, I just couldn't resist REAL Cabbage Patch Dolls in the front of the store AND a real photography studio in the back. It was too much temptation. Dad had pocket knives and Mr. Jackson had baby dolls with Xavier Roberts's signature on their tush. No plastic faces on those dolls. No way. They were the real deal, and I loved them, and I took pictures of them with a camera that had no film. My love of photography started with a doll hatched in a cabbage patch in Georgia and a camera from a pawn shop on Cumberland Avenue. If Annie Lebowitz only had a story that amusing... But that love was noticed early by my mother, and to this day, she encourages me with every picture I take.

But each album, each stack, each file folder, and each year has that "one" picture. For all of my life, I've had that "one." I can't call them off in chronological order, but I can describe them and strike smiles on many of your faces. A groomsman who won me over just by hearing his voice on a race radio long before I should have been listening and smiling. A big yellow truck filled with college girls and country music. A rotten little sister who ate a brown cow and licked her fingers just the right way. A beauty queen rocking a Skynard shirt. A spelling bee champ who'd pass the BAR. A coal miner wearing snakeskin boots. A baby girl kicking giggling while her daddy made the most hideous noises in the background. A little bald boy holding a lobster at the horse show. A blue eyed girl peeking over her shoulder on prom night. The world's greatest big brother holding his baby sister beneath a Christmas tree one year after the next. A mother's hands held delicately between those of her two daughters. A little boy (holding a bottle rocket) who'd grow up and surpass NASA. My very best friend snuggled up with her precious twin daughters. A triad of fabulous on Halloween at the beach. A mother holding a basketball, talking on a phone, and styling her daughter for prom all at once. A momma named Joni (pronounced Johnny) and her daughter whose middle name happens to be Campbell. My mother's hands on a piano keyboard. The Coigns' beautiful flowers. The list goes on and on, but every year there is one, and this is the one.

I had never actually met Ciara until Saturday...as in a few days ago. She was a student of someone I know quite well, and during her time as student, I heard lovely stories about her kind heart, vibrant spirit, and endearing parents. At least once a week, I heard about Ciara, and once Ciara left that class, the teacher missed her very much.

I have, however, known Ciara's mother much longer than we should admit since we're still both very very young. Camilla came to Middlesboro High School as a freshman with a force like a hurricane and never looked back. She was beautiful. She was that kind of beautiful that girls couldn't buy at any salon, make up counter, or fashionable department store. She had eyes that were alive with just enough rotten to let you know she was having fun and she was serious about it. She could whip both her brothers with one hand tied behind her back. She had the most beautiful hair, and she'd cut it off without a care in the world. The rest of us couldn't imagine whacking off the long locks of poorly permed hair we had, but for Camilla, she knew it would grow back the same beautiful blond she had to start with. And, she was right.

She had this unbreakable spirit about her then. If she wanted to be an athlete, she ran faster than anyone else. If she wanted to be a cheerleader, she jumped higher than anyone else. If she wanted to put a lift kit on a truck, she jacked it up higher than anyone else. If she wanted to be a princess, she put on the most beautiful dress and floated in the room like she owned it, and despite the assumptions of many jealous older girls, she did own it. She set her sights on exactly what she wanted, and she never flinched at a challenge.

And by the time all that gibberish of high school was behind us all...life sent us in various different directions. I always knew Camilla would be a mother to a girl who'd have that same fiery spirit. I knew she'd marry a man whose love surrounded her with a calm she had never realized she wanted. I always knew she'd devote every single minute of her day and every breath she sighed to raise a daughter with her smile, glimmer, and shine and his gentleness, calm, and ease.

My "One" picture for this year is of that daughter, her mother, and her daddy.

When we were teenagers, Camilla and I had a few things in common. We loved fast cars and the bad boys who drove them. We giggled way too much. We thrived on powder puff football. We were just a little bit sneaky but smart enough to never, well seldom, get caught. We each found an office in which we could "work" in high school so we'd escape the torture that was study hall.

And now, we're adults, and we have one experience in common that I certainly wish we didn't.

I'm grateful I got to take this picture of Ciara, her momma, and her daddy. I take pictures all of the time, but I seldom ever take pictures that make time stop and make me remember that there are angels above us....but only a few who can make their baby girl smile like that while she shows me and the world that she and her mother are an unbreakable pair as they hold each other up. With Camilla watching behind her, her daddy watching over her, and Ciara looking forward, the blessings yet to come are endless.

Visions of a Holiday Thief.

It's important that you know my mom seldom ever asks for anything for any holiday. However, in 1988, that was not the case. Long before our WalMart in Middlesboro became "super," Mom wanted a purple dumplin pot made for a brand of cookware called Visions. Aptly named because the substance allowed her to see through the glass and watch my dumplins simmer. At least that's what she hoped would happen.

I'm always supportive of any device that will increase Mom's dumplin production, so I was determined to buy the Visions cookware piece for her or die trying.

During the first day of Christmas vacation from school, I sped to WalMart to purchase the dumplin pot. As I moved my cart through the aisles, I could see the lovely lavender cookware resting on a shelf in the housewares department, but the store was so crowded, I had a difficult time getting to the piece I needed. Within an instance, a lady reached up above her head and took down the dumplin pot I was hoping to take home. After I fought even harder to get through the madness, I navigated my way to the Visions location only to find myself terribly disappointed. There were no more lavender dumplin pots for me to buy. The mysterious lady had packed off the last one.

It was with that realization that I committed my only act of thievery.

I continued to plow ahead with my buggy, and I was no longer looking for the dumplin pot. I was on a search for that lady who had it. I went through the fabric department, the sporting goods department, and then to health and beauty. She was no where to be found. Finally, I spied her back in the hardware department. I kept a safe distance but followed her throughout her WalMart journey. With every stop she made, I made an equal stop. I was careful not to be spotted; this was long before "stalker" became a commonly used term. After nearly a half hour, she finally wandered off away from her buggy back into the cleaning supplies. I don't know if she was buying a broom or not, but I was about to conduct a clean sweep. Quicker than you could say, "Dash away, dash away, dash away all!" I had swiped the Visions dumplin pot from her buggy and headed toward the cash register.

I am 99% sure I lost control of my bladder while en route to any open lane. I felt as though I had just completed a jewelry heist at the Smithsonian. I was incredibly paranoid, and I kept my eye on the service desk to see if the lady had come up to report the incident. It took an eternity, but I finally got the dumplin pot paid for and double stuffed in WalMart bags so I could run with it to my Buick and escape a certain doom.

Sure enough, on Christmas Eve, Mom opened up her dumplin pot and was most pleased with my gift for her which basically caused me to risk life and limb. I never told her the story of my struggle to land it until today.

The joke ended up being on me though. Mom tried to use the Visions dumplin pot to conjure up a bucket full of dumplins for me on Christmas Day, and it was then that we realized the Visions cookware was NOT non-stick. Many poor defenseless dumplins left this earth without fulfilling their true purpose because I was greedy and swiped a pot in which they met their doom. The image of their burned little bodies still haunts me today.

Here's hoping that all of your holiday cookware be non-stick and that your bellies are filled with every delicious delight you love.

My Little Neighbor...

Any time I receive a letter and the heading says, "Investigative Request for Information," my heart falls to my stomach, my mouth becomes parched, and I have to remind myself that it's not about my dear daddy.

As a teacher, one of the highest honors I can earn is to be listed as any reference on any job application a former student fills out. I've always taken great pride in filling out each question with as many complimentary terms possible to fit in the allocated space on the page, but when it comes to my little neighbor, there's not enough room on a single page for me to tell any "official" how fabulous he is and always has been. To say that I love him is such an understatement, and with every leap and bound he makes with his career, the information arrives in my inbox; and today, in my actual mail box, and no one ever asks me, "How much do you love him? Please tell us."

He, in fact, is the greatest teacher I've ever had. When he was little, I paid attention, and I saw potential in his interests that made me understand my "real" students as they came along. He is that child who took electronics apart so he could learn how they worked. He is that child who chose the company of adults because kids just didn't "get it." He loved anything that involved precision, accuracy, and repetition. He loved fireworks. He loved mythical cartoons and was his own little Harry Potter in a sense. He loved competitions that required brains instead of brawn, and yes, he always won. Now, he could make a bully feel stupid and kick his ass, which makes me more proud than I ever dreamed possible. He knew a Commodore 64 was outdated before he ever plugged it up but it was the best available at the time. He fought dragons in his back yard and he won every battle. I am the luckiest teacher in the world because I got to witness his brilliance unfold one day at a time. I am the luckiest girl in the world because his parents love me as much as they love him....well...almost.

That little boy gripping a bottle rocket with all his might and daring the camera to interfere with its launch is what brilliance looks like. I would load him up in my old Buick, trek him across "the mountain," and we'd bootleg a haul of explosives back to Balmoral many hot summer days. I loved him like Linus loved his blanket, and I kept him just as close if possible. Soon enough, he figured out that if he played his cards right, he could hang out with me and go see Van Halen while other kids his age were at home watching Nick at Night. He could go with me to a midnight premiere of a movie while his peers were home asleep before ten. Before he ever thought of being my little traveling partner, I had already declared him my permanent passenger. I had also figured out that Mom would let me go anywhere as long as he was with me because she knew I'd never put him in harm's way, and she was absolutely correct.

When I think about what his life has become and how all of his curiosity, precision, accuracy, and wisdom have come together to form a mind that far exceeds beautiful, I'm so grateful to have him in my world. I'm past the age his parents were when they learned they had one child...and a kid next door. I've been able to reflect on how they raised this precious yet precocious baby boy, and I now understand that they knew he had something amazing to offer this world, especially with regard to science and math. And all they did was love him and let him play until he couldn't play any longer. He built castles. He slayed dragons. He fixed lawn mowers. He destroyed a jungle gym. If he could slow down long enough, he watched Sesame Street. He loved Star Wars. His parents loved each other, and they loved him. From that...I got my little neighbor.

So, I'm going to, yet again, sharpen my #2 Ticonderoga and fill out another form confirming that my little neighbor is not an alien. Toward the end of the file, "they" say, "Additional information which you feel may have a bearing on this person's suitability for..blah...blah...blah...rocket science..blah...blah...blah" I always write, "I love him the most."

Still Standing in Cedar Fork

Earlier today, I drove through Harrogate when the "Stand in the Gap" participants were prayerfully beginning their journey into Cumberland Gap, and I felt like I was supposed to stop in mid traffic like I would do for a funeral procession to show my respect. I did not participate, but witnessing this epidemic of perscription drug abuse has been a part of many aspects of my life for over a decade now, and I'm drained to my core from exhaustion and worry.

I've learned the most about prescription drug abuse from children. I've encountered children who have brought me pictures of themselves on the beaches of Florida, but they told me they were at Myrtle Beach. Some even said they had found a beach in Gatlinburg or Knoxville. Surely they had been coached to say that. To my knowledge, there is no mile marker one at Myrtle Beach, in Pigeon Forge, and in Knoxville. Totally innocent children were frolicking on the beaches of Florida when they barely had a roof over their heads at home. No parents on the beaches though. Wonder why? Those photos, of course, were more numerous before states started connecting data bases for medical information, but I still wonder if there are still children who are going to Universal Studios when they can't even go to the city pool at home.

Forgiveness is my greatest flaw. No parent on this planet has worked harder to teach her daughter the differences between right and wrong more than my mother, and no matter my age, I struggle with forgiveness the most. I feel like I hold grudges in spite of my mom's teaching, and that bothers me. I feel mature enough to handle any challenging situation that may come up, but I feel like a horrible failure when it comes to forgiveness. Letting go of disappointment is difficult for me, and I'm not sure I will ever truly live a life that is reflective of 7 times 70.

As I watched the news and read the reports about today's awe inspiring gathering of those whose faith led them to the geographical center of my life's story, I found myself prayerfully resisting the urge to be critical. I do not think I'm alone in this emotion. My first thought upon some recognition of familiar questionable faces in the crowd was to be bluntly verbal and critical, and I came so close to resisting my urge, but here I am tonight writing this blog because I feel like my heart will burst if I don't write it. It is my most sincere prayer that I will truthfully be able to express my forgiveness toward those who have harmed so many by illegally providing prescription drugs, but getting there is more than a 2+ mile walk for me.

(On a humorous note, let's all face it, if I had tried to wobble 2+ miles, I'm sure God would have carried me to the Gap, but I would have required some major oxygen once I got there.)

Among the crowd and its leaders were humble Christian leaders of our community who have worked tirelessly for months in organizing an effort to raise prayer to God and ask Him to heal our broken yet beautiful tri-state area. I have watched those leaders in interviews, observed their consistency from afar, and thanked God that they decided to do something to help from a very authentic and genuine place of prayer and faith. To say that "Stand in the Gap" was a step toward healing is true, but it wasn't until late tonight that I realized how that healing must affect me.

I know what I have to do, and I know it's going to take a while. I must foster and develop a shift in my perception. Until tonight, I have been focused on those whom I KNOW are guilty. I have been focused on those whom I KNOW are making this epidemic of addiction spread far and near. My worry has been consumed about children who are being exposed to far too much far too early, and we don't have enough safe places for them to go. My thoughts and my energy have been directed toward those doing what is wrong instead of those who are fighting for what is right. I have been emotionally and spiritually consumed with what is wrong instead of how I can do my part to make anything right.

The local paper dedicates its earliest pages to listing those who have broken the law. My name has been there before because I felt the urge to break the sound barrier as I drove north on 33. I've often wondered if that portion of the paper wasn't there, would the Progress sell any copies? What does that say about our community of readers?

I wonder if those who break the law feel some sort of empowerment and pride when they see their names repeatedly listed for dealing. What if we took that recognition away? I wonder what the result would be.

I wonder what would happen if we dedicated equal listing to positive announcements in our weekly news. The majority of the Progress is positive, and that's wonderful, but does "positive" sell papers? Goodness knows my friend, Allen Earl, does above and beyond his requirement to provide photos of student athletes to encourage their hard work. Considering that I'm not an editor, I have no idea of knowing if listing positive notes instead of negative legal reports would be feasible. But still...I wonder.

I also wonder how much effort I'd make to provide happy information to the Progress. Would I be willing to do my part and do so consistently? I'm willing to make a prediction that the Progress would suffer a great financial loss if its staff stopped listing the court records, and that says something about its audience. I'm a member of that audience, and I need to develop a shift in my thinking and start seeking out the good instead of the negative.

As a result of spectating "Stand in the Gap" for just a brief drive-by today, I have decided that I must start being attentive to what is good and positive first. I must focus my prayers and energy on those who are trying to make a change for the better in ours and neighboring counties. I know the difference between authenticity and hyprocisy, and I must let go of focusing on those who are masters of the latter.

Oh, how difficult that will be for me to do!

As with every societial movement, the question that determines its success is, "How will you do your part?" I promise; I will focus on those members of our community who are raising us up, who are doing that which is right, and those victims who are trying to start over. My focus will be on moving forward instead of lingering behind. I'm not much of one for talking about "energy," but I do truly believe that my efforts to exert positive energy through prayerful support of this work will be helpful.

Surely my small portion will help move us ahead of this epidemic that has supressed more citizens, destroyed more families, and made me question my own faith more than any crisis I have ever witnessed in my lifetime.

Today is my day one.

A Mother Always Knows...

If you can't read the above photo, it says, "Sept. 3. 73 - Danna rode the cars at the carnival held on City Parking Lot by herself & loved them. Had to take her back next night."

Does this sound familiar? I had never read it until this week, and I felt my heart swell up with happy after I finished. I've read it a hundred times in the past several days, and I have smiled so very big because a mother always knows.

Twenty-four years after Mom wrote this note, I found my happy place. What do cars at a carnival do? They go around in circles. In 1997, my dear friend, Lori, invited me to Tazewell Speedway and changed my life forever at a place where cars go in circles just like they spun at the Middlesboro carnival many years before. I went back to that little piece of dirt track paradise the next Saturday and never looked back. And not long after I started working there, I met (and loathed) H.L. Smith.

Twenty-eight years after my momma wrote this simple, pink note, I received a call on a late August Saturday morning from the despicable Mr. Smith. The race track was closed that night, and Mr. Smith invited me to come to the Claiborne County Fair (which, by the way, included a carnival) where he was working like he had done since he was a kid. I didn't even know what the Fair Barn was much less where it was, a disgrace for anyone who had spent as much time in Tazewell as I had. Dad took me there as a kid, but I didn't recall him saying, "Fair Barn."

Since the mere sound of Mr. Smith's voice made my skin crawl, I drove to Knoxville, bought a pair of "Tommy" jeans (horrible fashion error), matching shirt, and new shoes (of course) to wear to the stupid fair. That's exactly what a girl does when she can't stand a man. Right? Sure. I remember being a nervous wreck, and I remember walking through that Fair Barn alone just like I rode those cars in Middlesboro as a toddler.

Before I found my host, I found Noble. That dear, sweet Noble. He had witnessed the race track battles Mr. Smith and I had exchanged, and Noble had protected me from evil. As I walked past the 4H displays, Noble smiled so big, shook his head, and knew I was headed for trouble...the kind of trouble Travis Tritt sang about.

Around the corner at the concession stand came my perfectly rotten companion for the evening. He was smiling because he knew he had finally broken me down. He was smiling because he was genuinely happy. He was smiling because he was going to get me on that Ferris Wheel at the end of the night, and my life would be changed forever.

So, my momma knew what she was doing when she took me to the carnival so many years ago. She wasn't worried about germs on the ride like so many worry about today, and she knew early that I was tough enough to get through any adventure on my own. She carefully guided me in the right direction, and then she let me go. With one simple decision to take a little girl to a carnival, she set me in motion toward my only true love.

Today is technically my birthday, but the stories of these past 40 years always lead me back to my mother. She knew me best when I was a small child, and I let her guide me. She knew me best when I was a teenager, and I shamefully resisted. She knew me best when I was a young adult, and I started to listen. She knows me best today, and I know am thankful she is and always has been right.

I'll be adding more madness here at hellofuzzy as the day progresses. The posts are set to automatically upload at various times throughout the day. Writing is what I do best, and many have known that since I was a kid. The fact that I get to write and entertain my friends on this blog brings me great happiness. Are my words a shameful promotion of me? Perhaps. Should you be shocked? Absolutely not.

In the end...nothing I write is ever going to be just about me. I'm a product of a lot of love from a lot of people for four decades.

Hang on tight while you read like you're at the top of a Ferris Wheel while feeling scared to death yet happy beyond happy, too.

The best is yet to come.

My Very First "Facebook" Visitors

If you think for one second that I'm going to sit quietly by and let November 4, 2011, come and go without acting like it's a big deal, you have obviously forgotten whose words you're reading. Praise the Lord; I'm turning 40 in a couple of days! Regarding this "age," I am not sad, depressed, angry, disappointed, or remotely afraid. Four decades. That's quite an accomplishment, a tribute to my momma, a celebration of my dad, and my reminder of the many people who have helped me along life's way. Many of those names are signed on the pages above. Isn't it amazing how technology has changed the way we welcome babies to the world within an instant of their arrival?

I am the product of a lot of love with a dash of rotten and eternity of faith, and one who has been blessed with forgiveness, second chances, and a constant reminder from my parents that I am part of something much bigger than myself.

For those of you mothers who think your kids won't appreciate all the scrap books you have tirelessly worked to create, this is proof that you're giving them a priceless gift.

epidemic

    I will never be a morning person, and if teaching night classes for tweens was an option, I'd certainly take it. As I came barging through the doors of my beloved institute of punctuation and capitalization this morning, I was met by a little girl whose face was soaked with tears. She was standing beside the door waiting on me because she knew I'd come through eventually. Thank goodness I had nothing in my hands; she just broke on me. The most promising eyes you've ever seen, and that broken heart that only a daughter can have. A tired, terrified child who hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, and hadn't stopped worrying.
    We made our way to my happy place within the building, the furnace room. That dark, musty, enormous room was her place of peace for the moment - a welcome salvation from her own nightmare. I didn't have to ask. She barely had to explain. Another broken soul. Another statistic to add to the ever growing epidemic here and elsewhere in these hills. Her hero and her provider had fallen prey to the numb feeling so many promising futures have crashed into.
    She needed to collapse for just a second. She needed to tell the story to anyone. Not once did she question why; she has come to accept it as her normal. She is one of hundreds children who have stopped asking.
    They know more than adults. They are typically silent, but they seek out peers who know their fear. They rely on each other. They will find an adult to tell. We will listen. Today was my turn. My colleagues share my concern and compassion. There are no state standards that tell us how to deal with this. Nothing in college prepared me for this engulfing hell that is slowly creeping through too many front doors.
And after a few minutes, she could exhale. I reminded her that her only job was to be a smart and fabulous girl. She desperately wants to fix what is broken.
    Carefully, she resumed her daily routine. Algebra. Literature. Social Studies. Science. Language Arts. Library. Homework. She won't miss a step. The things she can make perfect will be.
    Surely you know; I do pray in school...and especially in the furnace room.

Ouija Confession

This is my favorite season of every year. A wise 7th grader once told his language arts teacher that a term called "Halloweenian" might exist. If such a word does exist, then that's what I am. I am a Halloweenian, and I love to write. This month's blog experiment is supposed to let me vent my warped and wicked thoughts to celebrate witches and monsters and zombies, oh, my! Today, the star will be my faithful Ouija board. Oh, I miss it so.

First of all, if you're going to go down that dark and dreary Halloween road that assumes my beloved holiday is about all things evil, let me just encourage you to stop in your tracks. Seriously. My mom was and is a strong proponent of my Halloweenian lifestyle, and she doesn't do evil. Halloween, just like any other holiday, is what we make it. I choose to make it another excuse to never grow up. My mom chose to make it the most fun she could possibly provide for her daughter, and she did that very well. However, I don't think she knows about my Ouija antics...until now.

I was never a fan of slumber parties even though my poor mom hosted a couple. I was and am too set in my ways of sleeping. Slumber parties interrupted my slumber, which made me an ill and hateful girl in the days that followed. Eventually in this blog, I'm going to crack open the great Ambleside scandal of 1989, but you're going to have to wait for that one. Take the time to prepare yourselves now. But back to Ouija.

The Ouija board came into my life during middle school. I'll give you a moment to think back on your life to that time and cringe. Worse than nails across a chalk board; I tell ya. I have no clue where the Ouija board came from. I'm assuming it was either one of Doug's flea market finds or a hand me down from a KISS impersonator. Literally KISS. Long tongues, scary make up, high heels, fake blood. Yuck. I was dressed up as Casper and someone answered the door as Gene Simmons on Chester Avenue...you can figure the rest out yourself. Regardless, the board sat in Mom's basement on the top shelf in the back corner. I never played Clue, but by golly, I could rock an Ouija board.

For those of you who haven't had the Ouija experience, I probably need to tell you that there is an Ouija app for iPhone. Either download the app or Google Ouija. Ignore anything evil about the board. It's made by Parker Brothers. It's a game. It's a toy. It is not evil...unless, of course, I'm sitting there playing with you.

During middle school, I tried to believe the mystery surrounding Ouija. For many hours, I along with other silly girls, sat and held our fingertips ever so gently on the gliding needle heart. We usually sat in dark rooms with candles lit. As if candles serve some magical power to cause a piece of plastic to speak to us Halloweenians. The heart would fly over the slick surface without a bit of traction. The felt pads on the bottom of the heart prevented any sort of friction that might disturb the mighty center pin. We always had a recorder on standby...a person...not a device. We would call out the letters that were "spelled" by Ouija, and the recorder would frantically write them down. After we got tired of holding our hands up like Madge from the Palmolive soap commercials, we proclaimed that Ouija was tapped out, and the recorder would call off the letters and symbols Ouija "spoke" to us. After that, we stayed up until daylight interpreting the results. This is absoultely when I learned about the importance of elaboration in story telling.

I continued to lose my logical mind in high school, but I did have one brilliant idea. First of all, I'm terribly claustrophbic. I didn't like sitting in that close circle with all those other people while we slid the Ouija pin across the board. I could stand it for a couple of minutes, and that was all. At some point, I made the conscious decision to own the Ouija board like no other. I silently declared that I could be the power of Ouija all by myself. Depending on who was sitting with me, I could get Ouija to spell out names that would make any homecoming queen's crown tarnish. I used my fingertips to spell out pure facts that led the guilty to truly believe the powers of Ouija. Sorry guys. It was I. The more I spelled out, the more torn up people got. They could not stand to stay seated for one more minute, thus freeing me from close quarters and a game that I had learned to master.

In retrospect, the Ouija board provided my friends and me with a long list of hysterical antics and memories. The board was never about black magic or supernatural powers. The game is about someone willing to be sneaky (me) and those who are willing to believe. I think my Ouija board is still in Mom's basement in a closet. That is probably its final resting place after I dragged it to college. Ouija in Dupree? Yes, I took it with me.

Here's hoping that you find your inner Halloweenian and enjoy the weeks ahead with great fun, great friends, and glorious children.

My Happy Place...

The checkered flag flew for the last time in 2011 on Saturday at Tazewell Speedway. The end of the race season is here. I need to have a beginning to even out this end, so I'm going to work my way through this blog experience as a rookie. Before long, the spring thaw will arrive, and I'll hear thunder coming from Petty's Garage to remind me that it's time to go green once again. Until then, stay tuned. This is probably the time for those afraid they'd end up in my book to take cover and hang on tight.