Blast From The Past: Adventures of Crazy Hair

Today I’m a little nervous as I have a doctor appointment and there may be some cuttin… its minor, but still. In an effort to entertain myself before its time to go I went to this website: www.yearbookyourself.com. It hasn’t been pretty. But, if you knew me then, this is what I would look like in the year:

 

1950

1958

 1964

1968

 1972

 1974

 1978

 1980 (year I was born)

 1994

 

And finally, 1996

 

 

 

 

 

Today, is the day…

When I was about 8 years old, I can remember tinkering around my grandfathers garage listening to one of his many speeches. I would play with the hank-crank jack while he worked on something in the vice grip, and he would teach me a thing or two about life.

“Today is the first day of the rest of your life” he preached as I looked at him confused.

“But I was born on June 4, 1980 Grandpa!” I replied. Not many times did I know what I was talking about, or that I could debate him on, but this I knew for sure. That was the day I was born.

I should have known the moment I said that, we would be encased in a long conversation about what that really means. Some of it I understood then, some of it I didn’t. What I know now is that I understand what I did not know then.

I can remember during these many conversations, that I would look around the garage in disbelief. It was so disorganized. Dirty. Messy. Although I hadn’t yet developed my addictive label maker habit, I knew I could do something about the chaos in the garage. So, I would grab a broom and I would tell anyone standing in the way that I was going to sweep the entire thing out, sort the nuts and bolts, organize the tools and make things easier on everyone.

In all honesty, I probably had that goal of cleaning out the garage most of my life. I have attempted, and failed. I failed because I thought going riding through the dune-buggys was more fun. I failed because I thought all the ant hills in a one mile radius needed to be abolished so they wouldn’t bite me anymore. I failed because I was having too much fun with the next door neighbor. I never forgot about my personal hopes for the garage, and no one really held me to it, it was just put to the side.

And thus, 20 years later I have found that I am that garage. I have high hopes for myself, but I have pushed myself off to the side for a few years, which makes for an unhappy Deanna.

I say all of this of course to say that I am actively in the process of trying to make a better me. I’m telling everyone I am sweeping things out, sorting out the nuts and bolts, and finding happier me. Today, I am changing things. Today, is the first day of the rest of my life.

Today.

 

 

Enough Graffiti

There are a lot of beautiful things in life. An early morning sunset, a bouquet of fragrant stargazer lilies a close friend sent you (wink), a quiet walk down a wooded trail with a canopy of branches hanging down over you, or an hour spent sitting on a sandy beach watching the tide roll in.
Then there are other beautiful things. Like going to the grocery store before the sun comes up and avoiding a mass of people while everyone cart battles down every aisle. The quietness is soothing… where you can take your time and shop for what you want, and not have to wait in line to check out.
This morning after my “beautiful” trip to the grocery store as I was driving home and was stopped by a freight train passing. The sky was still dark, but a tiny sliver of light was beginning to appear in the horizon. I sat in my truck and watched loads of carts go by, and being rather hypnotized by it all. I started noticing the graffiti on each one… every cart had some sort of something on it… things like, “decisions, decisions” and “free rider”. Now I’m not one to call graffiti beautiful, but I must say a lot of it was really artisitic and amusing. So, it got me thinking…
If someone gave you a can of spray paint, and told you mark your legacy on the side of a train car, what would you write – knowing a lot of folks would be reading it? Would it be your name? State? Favorite flower? A qoute of some kind? Maybe some words someone said to you that hurt?
So as I sat there waiting for the train to pass and pondered this very question … because I don’t have enough on my brain as it is, I came up with something I would write if I was given the opportunity. It’s one word. People who would read it might not know how it is to be taken… it could be in a positive sense, or a negative sense. And here is my one word:

ENOUGH

Yeah, it’s kind of an everyday word. It’s a title of a movie, but that’s not what I would be referring to. I’ve always felt though, that this sort of represents how I feel about my life… past, present and future. It’s also used as a reminder for me. But the best thing about this one word, is that it can be used in oh-so-many ways.
I have been through Enough.
I have fought Enough.
I have forgiven Enough.
I have forgotten Enough.
I have loved you Enough.
I have sinned Enough.
I have taken Enough.
I have given you Enough.
I have proved Enough.
I have sustained Enough.
I have been selfless Enough.
I have watched Enough.
I have tried Enough.
I have struggled Enough.
I have overlooked Enough.
I could be Enough.
I have had Enough.
I have cried Enough.
I have yearned Enough.
I have doubted Enough.
I have praised Enough.
I am deserving Enough.
Above all… I am Enough.

I am Enough. Sometimes we forget to remind ourselves of this. Circumstances and situations may sometimes alter our perceptions of who we believe, or what we believe, we truly are. This can make or break a person. Right now, I feel broken. I feel like there’s been, enough. On so many different levels. In so many different ways, and in so many different areas of my life.

And the sad part is… I’m not the only one in the world that feels this way. There have been billions before me, and there will be billions after me. It’s hard to grasp sometimes how much pain we all carry around. How much self-work we have to do in order to make things better and to be able to get a grip on things that may seem wrong to us. There is a whole heck of a lot of wrong.

 

She Who Waits For You At the Bottom…

She Who Waits For You At The Bottom

Given this entry title, I should warn you now that this post is not about fruit-at-the-bottom yogurt, a tequila worm, random things you find at the bottom of the your washer, nor is it about scuba diving or cleaning out your husbands lunch box.

 

A random fact about me: I’m afraid of heights.

 

Not all heights… I can do roller coasters, planes, even bungee jumping… but if I’m in charge of holding on- forgetaboutit!

 

I suppose the only reason I can really explain this fear of mine, is from an incident that happened in first grade gym class. That particular day, Mr. S, the snazzy gym coach, had the class do an obstacle course of sorts inside the gymnasium. There were different stations set up, and everyone would move around the room through the different stations.

 

So there I was, looking up at this huge rope ladder called, “Jacob’s ladder”, which is in no relation to my brother, Jacob. It was quite wide, yellow, and looked like a huge fishing net, and probably was in a former life. It was big enough for 3-4 kids to climb up at one time, side by side, with room to spare. It started about a foot off the mat, and ended about a foot from the steel beams of the gym ceiling. I stood there, two kids on either side, ready climb this monstrosity of a ladder- which was especially big to a first grader.

 

The whistle blew, and we began our trek up. The climb up wasn’t bad… the goal was to get up to the top, then make your way down by climbing, preferably. Activity was going strong throughout the gym, kids were buzzing through the different activities while talking and laughing. By the time I got to the top, I decided it wasn’t so bad afterall… and began to take my first downward step and before I knew it- I felt wind. It was the kind of wind you feel when you know… this won’t be good. The next thing I knew, all of the air was knocked out of me and a huge slam was echoed throughout the gymnasium, stopping kids and teachers at all the stations. The room went quiet. I realized that I landed flat on my back on the mat after free falling all the way down from the top of the ladder. Mr. S blew his whistle and people rushed over to me. I began to cry and shake, and I couldn’t catch my breath right away. Mr. S made it clear I was not to get up, and I needed to stay perfectly still while he made some phone calls. So I laid there. Shaking, crying and trying to breath.

 

For the most part, I tried to keep my eyes closed. I hated opening them and seeing the ladder right infront of me- what an evil piece of equipment it was. I was equally embarrassed, even though every kid in my class was bent over peering at me and making sure I was okay. When I did open my eyes, I could see a little sweet face to my left- another kid in my class. This wasn’t just any kid though… she was a girl, my age… my next door neighbor, classmate, and my best friend- Tammy. She was bent over me just as the other kids were, but the look of concern on her face just worried me to death… not to mention, she had tears in her eyes. She was really concerned for me. I felt it.

 

Mr. S came back to the huddled-over-me class and told everyone to go ahead and go back to the class because school was about to end, and he had called the principle, school nurse, and my parents to come pick me up and to see if I needed medical attention. As the class bid their well-wishes and get-betters to me, Tammy said she wanted to stay. So our teacher and Mr. S allowed her, and there she sat right next to me on the mat, and holding my hand while we waited.

 

Needless to say, I was okay and didn’t suffer any injuries at all – miraculously. So I can only assume this is where my fear of heights began… or maybe, first appeared?

 

However, that wasn’t the only thing I realized that day.

 

—————————————–

 

Friends come over to see if your okay once you’ve fallen off a ladder.

 

Good friends allow you to cry.

 

True friends cry with you when your laying on your back recovering.

 

But, Best friends stay with you, long after you are both done crying and have walked away from it. And they never have to ask you… “Hey, why are you afraid of heights?” Because they know. They were there. They felt it too.

 

 

Orange you glad I told this story…

Sometimes I don’t know why I write. It sure is a lot of all over the place stuff… from dusty roads to invitro fertization, this is your one stop shopping people. I’m pretty random… but I’m honest, and I tell my truth here. Today, I am going to tell you a story about pain and a certain product on the shelves today. You might have it in your fridge. You might have had it this morning on your english muffin. You might be twisted enough to go get some after I talk about it. I won’t judge you… but I won’t join you either.

 

A confession: I have a restraining order against orange marmalade.

 

Yes- you heard me right, one day I walked straight into the sheriff’s office and demanded that it be abolished from our society and Smuckers be arrested. I told them we needed to save lives, save our children, our pets… and at the very least, give me safety from this orange goo that evil lies amidst its chunkiness and grant me a restraining order! They laughed at me. So I walked out and got a frappicino. Hey… you can only try.

 

It all started when I was about 3-4 years old. My father, brother James and I were living with my now stepmothers sister’s family. (get that?) I was only a wee bit, but every morning before the sun came up I could hear my father getting ready for work. I would race downstairs and sit on his lap while he drank his cup of coffee. I can still smell the sweetness of it. I probably knew it was sweet because I took a sip, or two. (shh, don’t tell anyone.) While dad would drink his coffee he would read the paper and try to calm me down. I remember this because every morning I had tears in my eyes and every morning I begged him not to go. It was a huge crisis to me. He never not came home, and I knew he would be back… but I was daddy’s little girl and I wanted him to stay home with me. I was his little girl. He was my only parent that I knew. He always protected me and spoke softly to me. Who else was going to dig for the tiny orange pellets from James’ toy gun I stuck up my nose? He needed to stay home… at least in my eyes. Or, I needed to go with him.

 

Unfortunately, that’s not the way the world works… and as dad walked drove down the driveway, I would smash my face up against the glass door and completely drench it till I couldn’t see through it anymore.

 

Of course I wanted him there because he was my daddy. But here is a confession: a lot of it has to do with the orange marmalade sandwiches I was served for lunch. Everyday around lunchtime, I would try to hide. Behind the TV, in the coi pond, in a closet. It never worked. I was always called to the dining room by the babysitter and she would prop me up on a booster seat and there before me would be the dreaded orange chunky evil with rinds. The babysitter would go back into the living room and watch soaps, but I would just sit there and avoid eye contact with the evil that lies between my bread and hope she would forget about me. I was always remembered.

 

I tell you this story not to warn you about the marmalade (consider yourself warned though), but to show you at the age I was, this jarred citrus insanity was a real pain for me. I didn’t want to face it, I didn’t want to think about it, I didn’t want to be left alone with it, I hated it and I wanted it gone.

 

Orange Marmalade + me = P A I N.

 

One day the beginning was all the same. Hear daddy, wake up, run downstairs, cry, sip coffee, watch him leave, try to hide, lunchtime. When I was found… perhaps in the bathtub shaving the skin off my kneecaps, I was put in the booster seat just like every time before. I painfully looked down at my paper plate and there before me with no warning of a change coming was grape jelly on my peanut butter sandwich. Whoa!! The angels sang. Twinkled happy dust fell from heaven. I could hear the birds singing, people laughing and puppies playing. Grape jelly? Oh how I loved grape jelly. I happily gobbled it up and lunchtime was over in no time flat. I probably got down from my booster and danced and twirled in circles in praise for the sudden abolishment of the dreaded marmalade.

 

Well nowadays, I still won’t touch the orange stuff but when I’m shopping and I reach for my grape jelly I always glance at it and remember “back when.” It always reminds me to keep the faith. To believe that pain eventually stops. That you never know what will happen- because anything can happen. You just have to trust that it won’t last forever. And that change can happen at any moment… so be open to it.

 

I’m sorry if you are going through your own marmalade right now.

 

Your grape jelly is coming.

 

Just hold on.

 

Solutions…in the mouth.

One of the greatest things about being human, is having the ability to overcome obstacles with solutions. We all have solutions, and we are great problem solvers. It’s just how we roll. Although hearing about peoples problems and solutions is really a drab subject, I think its more entertaining to hear what solutions children come up with. And since this blog is about me and my humility, I’ll go first. I have to warn you though… there is absolutely no logic in my solutions as a child. Actually, sometimes there is no logic to my solutions as an adult either. Just like the other day when a stray cat kept throwing himself against my window screens and hanging on for dear life, my solution was to feed him. Now, he lives in my garden under my hydrangea bush and every morning about 9:30 he lets me know he’s ready to eat by doing his suicidal window tricks… so I open my garage and feed him. Doing this in the first place was not a good solution… get my drift?

 

When I was younger, I asked my moms boyfriend who was a wrestling fan, how those wrestlers bodies got so shiny? He replied, “They use baby oil.” Oh, I thought. So I went upstairs and washed my hair… with baby oil. Not a good solution. Kids!!

 

… and then there was the time I was looking at my hair in the mirror one day, and I didn’t like the fact that my hairline had a slight peak at the forehead. I looked like a vampire in my opinion. So what did I do? I took some scissors and cut just the peak of hair off. Not a good solution. Kids!!

This picture was actually taken I believe when a family members house was being built, but what I am standing on brings back memories for me. One in particular was not-a-good-solution.

 

My father worked construction, and one day I believe around the age 5 or 6, I went to work with him. While I watched him push piles of dirt around driving that big ol backhoe, I would play in the piles and try to keep myself busy. But something was really bothersome about that summer, cicadas. (If you don’t know what cicadas are, google!)

 

Now to a little girl, these ugly crispy bugs were something to be afraid of. They were all over, it was hard not to get away from them.

 

I stuck close to dad that day because I was afraid they would eat me alive. I felt like I was safe playing near dad while he was working, on the red dirt mounds.

 

All the sudden, I heard my name.

 

“Deanna, will you go fill my two thermos with water at the spigot at the office?” he asked. I looked at him… wondering if he really wanted me to be devoured by cicadas in two seconds if I stepped outside of the “safe zone”. I don’t think he really knew my fear… but looking at him, I could tell he was really hot and sweaty and I knew he was really thirsty. He deserved water, and that was the least I could do for him. So I walked over and grabbed the two thermos’s and started my trek towards the construction office with great fear.

 

While walking, I could hear the cicadas more and more the further I got away from the sound of the heavy machinery being used. I looked around and noticed no one was really going to hear my should I scream if I were in danger.

 

Then, it happened. Ping! Thump! Pong!

 

I was getting hit by the flying insects left and right and they were flying right into my hair, and there was nothing I could do. Should I walk fast? Should I crawl low to the ground? Should I stand my ground and swing the empty thermos’s at them like I was at batting practice? I decided none of these would do. I was almost to the spigot, so I ran.

 

After filling up the two thermos’s, I realized they were quite heavy as I started walking back. I couldn’t use my arms to shoo anything away, so I had to be creative. In my childlike mind, I decided that I should sing… because if they could hear me, they wouldn’t fly into me… right?

 

So there I was, a heavy thermos in each hand walking… and I started singing.

 

“…. Jesus loves me, this I know…” It seemed to be working. They were missing me. I started singing louder and almost crying because I had finally found something that worked and guarded me against these stupid pointless crunchy insects.

 

I was almost back to dad. I was full of glee. I found the secret! And then suddenly, it happened.

 

I threw down the thermos’s and splashed water everywhere, throwing my hands up and screaming in distress while turning in circles like I was being attacked by a swarm of killer bees.

 

While I was singing, one had flown into my mouth. Worst-idea-ever.

 

After I had spit out the carcass of what used to be, and picked the wings off my tongue, I saw dad just looking at me in confusion. I picked up the thermos and continued on to him like nothing had happened. And I realized in those moments… I would rather them hit me than fly into my mouth again.

 

I now know that I was too young to understand, you don’t have to make solutions for something that isn’t a problem in the first place.

 

Just keep your mouth closed and you’ll be alright.