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.

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.