Monday, July 13, 2015

An Interview with Bob Moulesong

Recently, I was honored to be interviewed by Bob Moulesong. He is interviewing several "Hoosier authors" for his own blog.

Thanks again, Bob!

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

After the Honey Bees Died.

On Byall Avenue, a modest neighborhood in Bowling Green, Ohio, our neighbors owned a thick trunked apple tree.  Their father built a treehouse up in the knotty palm of the branches and a rope swing swayed over a patch of dirt.  It was a test of strength, a rite of passage to sit on that swing and let someone twist the ropes as far as they would go and then let go.  If you could stand the spinning still standing at the end, you passed.  I never made it.  So dizzy, I tripped over a tree root, knees pounding the dust, and I wet myself—laughing too hard. 

Swings were a large part of my childhood: the rope swing and our porch swing.

Our porch swing served as a place my parents would sit on sweltering summer nights sipping sun tea and various flavored lemonades.  We never owned air conditioning, only rickety, rattling box fans we placed in our screen windows.  Even now, on even the coldest nights, I sleep best with a fan running; the hum, nostalgia, the vibrations of childhood simplicity and comfort.

That porch swing symbolized both love and death. 

One night, after evening church on Sunday, we came home and flung open our front door as usual on a humid summer night, and there sat our neighbor across the street and her boyfriend making out on our porch swing.  I was the one who swung open the door to find the lovebirds kissing on a darkened porch.  I think I was more fascinated that they chose a neighbor’s porch swing—rather than some other shaded, private space for their tryst—than the actual kissing.  I was young, still young enough to be curious and shocked by people kissing, but even now, so many years later, I find their choice of our porch as odd.  Could porch swings hold so much sway over young lovers?  Perhaps.

A neighbor and I sat on the porch swing the morning our friend died.  Nancy Roth was unlike any other person I knew.  I could not have been more than eight-years-old when she passed, and I thought Nancy was the coolest.  She was ten years older than I, and used to come and go from our house as freely as if she lived there.  She was barefoot a lot or else wore “thongs” (flip-flops, these days). She ate dinner with us a few times and even went to church once. 

One of my favorite memories was the time that Nancy washed my hair in our kitchen sink.  I was so young.  It was a hot, humid, sticky night, and I climbed up on the wooden kitchen chair and put my head under the tall nozzle.  There is much I could explain about Nancy—medical issues, her desire to graduate high school, and maybe her want of more from Life—but under that lukewarm water, gentle fingertips massaging the shampoo into my scalp, I think I understood.  Nancy had a heart condition.  She was never “supposed” to live as long as she did.  At eight years old or younger, you don’t think about people dying or wondering about a life they know they can’t have.  Nancy was hilarious.  I idolized her.  She washed my hair one night.  What was going through her mind, I can only speculate.  Suffice it to say, now that I am older and understand more, I think she would’ve made someone an amazing mother, and I was privileged to experience a mere glimpse of that.

And, so, it was on that porch swing, my neighbor (an older boy) and I sat, swaying, talking about life after the ambulance had taken Nancy away earlier in the morning.  We spoke about the best way “to go.”  In our sleep, we both decided, almost like a pact.  Nancy’s death impacted all of us.  We were close to her but not related.  We loved her, but we weren’t related.  The neighborhood children grappled and discussed this for days and days afterwards.

Months later, that rusted porch swing would drop on one side, while my older neighbor boy and I were swinging.  We would laugh and laugh.  Good thing your legs weren’t under there.

That porch swing, so like a pendulum, back and forth, swaying between life and death, childhood and only the memory of childhood.

Which brings me back to the apple tree and its honeybees. The apple tree dropped more apples than were ever collected and eaten.  Bees would come, especially in late summer and swarm the fallen.  The cruelty of innocence often led us to take plastic cups and place them over an especially favorite apple.  We smothered the bees until we saw their silhouettes abandon frenzy, only to curl and drop.  

As a child, I felt godlike, the one who could bring life or death.

But, the ghosts of those honeybees haunt me. They buzz, buzz in my frenzied dreams. 
I sit on that porch swing, swarmed by the sting of memories.

Sunday, April 26, 2015

Ways Joining A Writing Group Will Help You Survive the Zombie Apocalypse

Let’s get honest.  The zombie apocalypse is coming.  We all know that.  If you haven’t been saving up your canned goods and extra toilet paper, then you have not been paying attention. 

One thing we do know is that people don’t read any more.  They don’t seem to like poetry and print newspapers, and unless that book comes with batteries, they probably aren’t checking out fiction and nonfiction.  I mean, I’m sorry to be the messenger, but facts are facts.

So, it’s time to pick teams now.

You might think that local writing groups are only for hobbyists. Guess again. It’s time to get serious and face the music. 

Your local writing group is going to save your life. You could do the math if you weren’t an English major.

The reasons are obvious:
  1. Foremost, you can enjoy your anti-zombie underground bunker in solitude.  That’s right.  No endless prattle or listening to pretentious indie bands or relentless DVD viewings.  Your bunker mates will want to read and write in silence.  In fact, most of them will be such awesome introverts, you may not even have to worry about awkward “good mornings” or “when do you think the zombie apocalypse will end” chitchat.
  2. Your writing group connections will have read manuals for how to build cool things out of coconuts and tree roots and dirt.  That’s right.  They’re readers.  They will know things.
  3. You will have books to use for fuel. Writing group friends will probably own box after box of those things once known as “printed books.”  AND, because they are avid in their pursuits, they will have more than one copy of just about any Jane Austen, William Shakespeare, Chaucer, or Virginia Woolf book—likely Penguin editions.  These can be used to entertain each other by reading various marginalia AND keep the bunker warm at night…provided there is adequate ventilation.
  4. You also have to account for the fact that they are writers.  This means that they will have draft upon draft of early versions of their novels (yes, of course, they have more than one).  They may even still have drafts of their stories from undergraduate and graduate workshops stowed away in the boxes they are sure to bring with them into the bunker for safe keeping.  Nobody wants pages gnawed on by a desperate zombie.
  5. Most importantly, your writing group friends have brains—the things that zombies crave.  So, in a pinch, you might just be able to survive.

In the meanwhile, before the zombie apocalypse inevitably hits, if you join a writing group, you will be able to enjoy intelligent conversation, a thriving artistic community, and a much more stimulating evening than watching some mindless zombie show.

Consider it.

You might just save your own life.

Tuesday, February 17, 2015

No Child Left Behind

On a quiet snowy night, I sat on my lumpy couch, watching Netflix, not finding anything to watch beyond the first ten minutes, and so I turned off the television and decided to read the news.  Depressing headline after depressing headline--parents harming children, children murdering parents, shootings, and worse.  Politicians all jockeying for the spotlight in yet another presidential race that has begun far too soon--a bit like Christmas decorations appearing in stores even before Halloween.

Some headlines and statements caused me to consider one current issue in particular.

As most will agree, Jesus did not mention “gay” anything.  Sure, he did say that a husband would leave his parents and “cleave” to his wife, but that was about it.  We can find ambiguous talk regarding eunuchs and Centurions guards wanting their “servants/younger lovers/who knows” healed. 

I was raised Fundamental Baptist, but I’m not a translator of Hebrew/Greek/Roman.  But, even as a child and teenager, David and Jonathan in the Old Testament often gave me pause, and the Centurion made me think deeper, too.

Still, maybe Jesus didn’t mention “gay stuff” for a reason…

Why wouldn’t He?

He was God incarnate.  Certainly, He knew that 2000 years into the future people would obsess about it—particularly people who claimed to follow Him.

So, why not throw a bone to the faithful?

Is it a test?

What if Jesus didn’t say anything about homosexuality because He wanted to see if any of His teachings were actually learned and practiced?  

He taught that hypocrisy was wrong (“judge not, lest ye be judged likewise”); He condemned divorce and remarriage unequivocally; He preached forgiveness, love, acceptance, and that pesky thing about not throwing stones…

Perhaps He is testing our current generation? 

If so, the results are interesting.

I am a teacher for whom assessment is paramount. 

As a believer (judge or not judge), I think this is an interesting notion, and I sit back and wonder…

Which child will be left behind?

Thursday, February 5, 2015

How to Grieve A Pet In Five Steps

1. Denial and Isolation

“Thanks. Yeah, well, she was just a pet. Yeah, it was hard.” Such a grief suffocates you. What is the socially acceptable amount of grief for a pet? When does it veer into too much?  People offer well-wishes and sympathies. You try to breathe deeply and stay composed, but as soon as you can, you go and sob in the bathroom, at home, in your car.  She was your friend, one of your dearest companions who knew your heart for years. She would nestle into you, cuddle you in dark times, cheer you up when you felt sad—every morning, she slept against your neck to feel your warmth, to feel the beating of your heart.

2. Anger

I already took you to the emergency vet clinic last week. Why are we going again?  Why are we doing the same process of a week ago? 

I grit my teeth.  I slam my fist.  I cannot even cry because I am frustrated, powerless, a blood tempest swirling in a cage of skin and bone.

We already did this.  Why isn’t the problem fixed? 

I try to keep a level-head.  I know that decisions will need to be made, life-changing decisions. 
My friend knows, too.  She sulks, depressed in her crate with a catheter and e-collar again…again…again.

3. Bargaining

I prayed more than one night that my friend would improve, that the infection would heal, that an x-ray would reveal that she could come back home.  But, such prayers came with guilt, and I hear the words—she is only a cat—whose voice is it?   I wrestle with conflicted feelings. I stared hard at my ceiling, closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, and spoke a prayer out loud.  I didn’t care if my neighbors could hear me.  Such words were raw, authentic, honest. Those were the words of a friend desperate to save another friend.

4. Depression

I couldn’t eat, didn’t want to eat.  I drove the hour and a half south to West Lafayette, spent my time with her in that stuffy room designated for owners who need private, emotional good-byes. They were patient.  They did not push.  You have as much time as you need.  But, my friend was not interested in hugs and kisses.  She didn’t know this was the end of her life.  She just wanted outside.  Outside of crates.  Outside of e-collars.  Outside in that sunlight and fresh air.  She stared out the windows.  She wanted to jump and slink and go places her catheter didn’t allow. 

I wanted to hold her tightly, hug her close to me, and translate through my heart beat and pores the love I had for her. 

But, she was my animal friend who was more interested in opened windows she had not seen in days.
I broke down in bitter sobs as I paid the bill.  Everyone in the waiting room hushed.  All eyes were on me.  They knew my pain, hoped it wouldn’t be theirs.  Me, too.  I made that awful choice.  I had to decide the time of death.  No matter how right people tell you such a choice is there’s always the doubt.

I cried the entire drive back to Michigan City—the entire two hours.  I would not eat for two days.  But, who mourns with you when your friend is of another species?  There are no casseroles or meat trays.  Buck up, it’s just a cat. I told myself that and then felt guilty for it. I tried to quell the pain by thinking but remember she was an animal.  

But, no, this was my friend. I knew her eight years…just a cat…just a friend.

5. Acceptance

Pet.  Grandmother.  Grandfather.  Brother.  Friend.

If acceptance means wishing those lost were still here, then I can accept that.

Still, on a quiet night, I almost believe I see her moving along the wall, or sitting on her empty cat tower. 

Loving another for years is the hardest habit to break.

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Come Forth: A Poem at 13-Years-Old

We went to Mary that day
we had heard about Lazarus.
I didn't know what to say
when a man came called Jesus.

Many people recognized his face.
We wondered why he had come the this place.
We thought maybe he knew Lazarus.
Who was this man called Jesus?

He asked to see where Lazarus had been laid;
Someone said, "Lord, come and see!"
I wondered why they called him Lord, why?
Then I saw this man Jesus cry.

People around began to talk
about this man who had made the lame walk.
They talked again about this power he possessed;
They said it was special, a certain kind.

They said this man called Jesus had healed the blind.
Some people asked, "Why then did Lazarus die?"
We all turned and watched Jesus cry.
He spoke, "Take ye away the stone."
What kind of power did he own?
I wondered what he planned to do.
Surely, he couldn't raise Lazarus from the dead.
Then the man called Jesus raised his head

It sounded like he started to pray.
I'll never forget what happened that day.
Suddenly, he brought his face back down.
Then he shouted, "Lazarus, come forth!"

I could see movement in the grave.
Then a bound man came out of the cave.
I couldn't believe what I just saw.
Then Jesus turned to me and said my name.

I stood in disbelief, how could this man know me?
Suddenly, it all became clear
I turned to him and said "Lord!"

And He said, "Come forth."

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

A Child in the Wardrobe

With the metal wardrobe doors closed, I sat in the darkness on the Paper Mill box where we kept the Lite Brite.  I smelled the mothballs hanging in nylons, aged woolen sweaters, and the leather of shoes outgrown and cluttering the wardrobe floor. 

I could not have been more than five years old.

Not every child’s bedroom has a wardrobe, but I needed one.  There were no closets in my room.  Our house was small.  Floorboards creaked and crackled with each step, no matter which room, and the whole house would waken from coughs or sneezes in the night. 

I had a vent that peered down into the living room in my bedroom floor.  I would hold my breath and peek down and listen to my parents speak in low tones about serious things after my brother and I had gone to bed.  I learned one Christmas Eve that Santa was just my father in tighty whiteys setting out presents.  I watched him in the soft, multi-colored glow of the lights strung around the tree.

My older brother Matt had been fanatical about three books in his life: Charlotte’s Web, Dune, and The Chronicles of Narnia.  He owned a set of the entire Narnia series, and he read them through until their covers faded.  When he was older—after he’d tried to end his life and spent some months in the mental hospital—he stuck stickers with a selected Bible verse onto the front pages of each of the seven books: II Corinthians 1:2-7.  He was 19-years-old at the time.  A few years before, at the age of twelve, he had written the date, the year, his name, phone number, hometown (B.G.O.), and the price of the collection into each book in the series.  I guess he didn’t want anyone to ever steal them.  

When I was 19-years-old, after he decided to exit this life, I inherited those books.  Each sticker and scribble suddenly transformed into the story of a boy who struggled with adulthood and chose to escape the day to day burden of existence.

Before all of that, I sat in the pitch black of that closed wardrobe with my chin in my hand.  I had not read the Narnia books myself.  But, after listening to my brother and watching the 1979 “special television presentation” cartoon, my childish imagination ached with a craving for the magic of Narnia. 

I fell in love with Aslan who I recognized as a Jesus-figure from my many hours spent in Sunday school and church.  I cried when Aslan allowed himself to be taken captive, his mane shaved and his majesty mocked. But, my heart swelled at his triumphant resurrection and the destruction of the Ice Queen (who I also secretly admired).

What stuck with me most, though, was how that wardrobe, filled with oppressive fur coats, suddenly opened into another world, a world full of crisp snow, talking animals, and kings and queens.  

I climbed into my own version, that familiar darkened place, closed the doors, closed my eyes, opened my imagination, opened my mind to the boundless possibilities, stretched out my fingertips to push through to the other side of the world, but I never felt the cooling chill, never felt more than the metal back of the wardrobe, the suffocation of my own dresses and shirts and skirts. 

My disappointment felt all too real.  And, there I sat, on the Lite Brite box, never less afraid of the dark.

I had reached the limits of my own imagination; it was a stirring that propelled me towards an understanding of time and space and reality that I did not yet know how to fully accept.

On that afternoon, so many years ago, I became aware of the full force of Narrative and storytelling. 

That wardrobe, that mystical magical wardrobe in C.S. Lewis’ books, that portal back into a childish belief in limitlessness was like the book itself, to step into, climb into, and escape into. 

I had only to open the cover like a door and enter and escape the burden of day to day existence.

And, yet, there are times that this 40-year-old woman looks at closet doors and pines, closes her eyes and craves the taste of snow on her tongue, listens for the babble of talking animals, and loses herself in a world where a boy she once knew disappeared... 

She hopes that on the other side of that door and darkness he finally found himself a home.

Friday, June 27, 2014

The Summer of 1984

A few years ago I had the privilege of participating in a podcast and blog called Not Your Mama's Gamer. You can still find several of my blog posts on the site.

One that still means a lot to me is called "The Summer of 1984."

You can find that post here.

This day with its blue sky, green grass, and slightly humid air reminds me of that summer 30 years ago almost to the day--one that contains many of my favorite childhood memories.

The blog post pays tribute to my cousin Becky White-Schooner and my mother Marsha White.

I hope all who read it enjoy the memories I share, and, hopefully, it will rouse a few of your own.


Wednesday, May 28, 2014

What It Feels Like For A Girl

He started stalking me after my twelfth birthday.  Just after my body developed curves and cars started honking at me when I walked down the street.  He lurked in every shadow, hid around every corner, crouched poised to strike behind every shower curtain. 

He follows me.  I can hear the scuff of his shoes on sidewalks.  He waits until my bedroom light goes out.  Is he outside my window?  In my closet?  Behind those bushes?

He holds his breath, listens for me to fall asleep, so that he can pounce on me at my most vulnerable. 

I close my eyes but surrendering to sleep is slow. I've heard the stories.  A friend woke up in the middle of the night and found a man on top of her, intent to rape and murder her.  Another woman, the wife of a friend, was raped and strangled by a maintenance man. He had the keys.  He let himself in.  He stole her last gasp of life.

The movies air 24/7 on cable, in theaters, in the imaginations of middle class women awake after midnight.  Psycho, Silence of the Lambs, Kiss the Girls, The Last House on the Left, Halloween, Captivity--Hollywood loves a good mix of sex and murder.  In fact, there's even a genre called torture porn.  

Society celebrates the notoriety of grisly serial killers--Jack the Ripper, the Black Dahlia murderer, The Boston Strangler, Ted Bundy, The Green River Killer, and the list goes on.  The headlines romanticize these deeds with sexy names.  Who were the victims?  That's incidental to the fascinating story of a psychopath--a man who stops living by the confines of society's mores, a man who takes what he wants when he wants. 

He is glorified, my stalker.

When I step onto an elevator, I wonder if that's him in the business suit, or hoodie, or polo.  He's white, black, brown, yellow, orange, purple, pink--it does not matter.  His violence can be found in the shadows, a leer.  When I go out after dark, I know that he is somewhere in the rustle of the trees, in the face of a stranger who might soon make me famous.  Victim #4.  There's more than one way to get your fifteen minutes of fame in America. 

That's what I've been taught and shown since I was a little girl too frightened to sleep.  The darkness makes you prey.  And pray.  The weaker sex, the one too innocent, too naive, too ditzy to understand how dangerous the bumps in the night can be. 

This why we all sleep with ball bats, mace, weapons even more potent.  We learn self-defense and kick boxing.  We prepare ourselves.

It's time our screams stop being entertainment.

It's time that girls stop having to fear the faceless threat.

When can we stop being afraid of the dark?