Last night I dreamt about the first day of school.
The morning began as every other morning in high school begins: I was standing in the hallway observing the students strolling casually to class, or searching for items in their lockers, all the while scanning the crowds for secretive handoffs of Ritalin or whatever was hot on the teenage market that week. As the seconds before the final bell rang, I clapped my hands in a cheerleader-like manner yelling, “Let’s go!” for those who did not quite believe that this year, we were really cracking down on habitual tardiness.
The second bell rang and I started toward room 234 to welcome my first block of freshmen to high school, and more specifically, English 9. I smoothed my black skirt which was carefully selected because it sent the message that, “I am older than you even though I don’t look it, so shut your trap and take out your writer’s notebook.” As I walked through the door, a strange scene unfolded: most of the freshmen were seated in the back rows, while a handful of others were picking and punching at each other, an incessant flock of roosters, establishing some sort of pecking order.
“Stop touching each other and join us.” I said with a smile. The children looked up, realizing a real life teacher had entered the room. Three of them took seats along the side of the room. The other two sat on the floor, almost on their friends’ feet as if breaking up the touch fest would be too much for them to handle.
“Only because this is high school and sitting on the floor might get a bit uncomfortable, not to mention the fact that there are more than enough chairs left, I think it would be a great idea if the two of you would find chairs to park yourselves in for class.” I said, with just a touch of sarcasm in my voice. The duo giggled like freshmen boys do, and awkwardly made their way to the closest chairs.
After the normal first day formalities like going over the syllabus, setting up writer’s notebooks, taking a tour of room 234 (in case things like Kleenex, dictionaries, or the homework basket needed to be found), like any good teacher, I wanted to get to know these strange little beings so that I could make fun of them whenever the occasion called. “Open your WN to the journal section we just created.” I said to my flock.
“I don’t have a notebook yet.” A boy up front called out.
“What page is that?!” said a confused girl.
“Can we write in pen?” Two kids said at once.
“Why can’t we go to the “What Should I Write About” section?” said the kid who was obviously going to be the cause of my next three gray hairs.
“A, borrow a sheet of paper from someone, B, you already went through your entire notebook after making a table of contents with coinciding page numbers, so think about that for a minute and you’ll figure it out. I don’t care what you write with as long as it isn’t yellow highlighter, and we will have plenty of time to use the ‘What Should I Write About’ section this quarter for some heavier writing. Right now, all you have to do is get to that journal section and write about two things that I do not know about you, which should be pretty easy since today is our first meeting.” About half of the class had found the journal section of their notebooks and eagerly started writing about things like breaking an arm in the fourth grade, getting a BA (bad ass) new skateboard this summer, going to Disneyland, or setting a cow on fire. It happened. Others were gazing toward the ceiling, thinking about what to write, while some compared funny stories that might be appropriate for this writing exercise. I wasn’t quite sure what the remaining few were doing or thinking, so I decided to mosey on over to each and every one of them until they had something going.
As I closed in on Heather, she noticed my close proximity and began writing. Adam was not as attentive but stopped staring at the wall and shook his daydream off once kids started giggling because I was standing right next to him smiling. But Dane was a different story. He was doing a bang up job of writing; however, he did not have a notebook and decided the desk would suffice. I strolled over and read over his shoulder for a bit.
“Oh Dane, we really have a problem here.” I said as he jumped in his seat and threw a skinny scabbed arm over his masterpiece. “You wrote ‘Ms. Glaus is a DIKE,’ which really confuses me because that would be like saying: ‘Ms. Glaus is a structure that holds back water,’ and that just doesn’t make any sense! Perhaps you meant to write: ‘Ms. Glaus is a DYKE,” implying in an incredibly derogatory way, on this first day of school when we have not even gotten to know each other yet, that I am a female homosexual. That doesn’t really make sense either, but using context clues, it’s the only one that really could be it. So you see, we really have a problem here.”
Dane sheepishly nodded his head while the rest of the freshmen sat completely straight in their chairs waiting for me to haul him down to the vice principal’s office.
“Here is what you need to do: grab a dictionary since you now know where they are, go to the “Spelling Demons” section of your writer’s notebook, and get both definitions down so that you never have this mix-up again.” He did so, and I was pleased to discover this teachable moment because we got a jump start on vocabulary building, and they were sure to remember this one.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
bb gun war (creative non-fiction)
“I need another pillow”
“Where is my winter coat?”
“I don’t know, throw me that other pillow.”
My brothers Mike and Will had the idea of holding a BB gun war against each other and found it necessary to suit up in a protective layer of bedding and winter garments. Never mind the sweltering summer heat and humidity. While these two young geniuses prepared for battle, I sat observing, silently, wondering and worrying if a person could die from being shot by a BB gun. Mike and Will did not seem to be concerned as they secured their armor and dumped BB’s into their pump action rifles.
“Let’s go out to the other side of the cement shed,” Will suggested to Mike as Will finished tying the last knot on his bailer twine and pillow armor.
I had to speak up.
“What if you get shot in the face?”
Will did not dignify my question with an answer, unless rolling his eyes counted.
“You don’t aim for the face, idiot. Just the chest and below.” Mike responded.
This was the first I had learned of my brothers’ expert aiming abilities. Guns had always been present in the house, locked in the cabinet with deer horns etched on the frosty glass. Actually observing my brothers handle their firearms seemed awkward and unnerving; they had only shot at crows prior, so graduating to a scene right out of “The Most Dangerous Game” called for an audience. Without an invitation, I followed the two sharpshooters from the basement into the crippling heat. Their bravado started to waver.
“So you’re going to start on the other side of the cement shed?” Mike said with a hint of concern in his voice.
“Yeah. You start by the barn.” Will replied.
I took my seat as the lone audience member for this epic battle on a five-gallon pail outside of the milk house. I saw Will trotting around the corner, his pillows riding up, revealing a bare line of stomach skin. Visions of intestines and stomach contents spilling onto the crushed rock entered my mind. Mike’s ankles were showing too. Once, when I was four and I thought deer hunting meant my uncles and cousins brought home Bambi to play in the yard, I was met with bloody carcasses and black insides of Bambi’s mothers. One family member even blew the head and right shoulder off one of my mistaken playmates. I didn’t know what kinds of guns they used, however.
For many minutes, absolutely nothing happened. Even the cats and chickens holed up somewhere; they probably sensed a grave danger in the air. The smell of manure entered my nose, which made me realize that the bucket had a rim of dried cow dung that had scraped onto my bike shorts. Not thinking much of it, I scratched off some crusted dry milk replacer from my five-gallon bucket seat when I sensed movement off to the right. Will was stealing quick glances from around the backside of the cement shed. His dark hair would appear for one second, then snap back behind the white bricks for cover. It made me dizzy. I tried using hand gestures to signal to him that I didn’t know where Mike was during Will’s staccato peeks, but I didn’t think he could interpret them in such a short time, nor did I really know why I felt the need to keep silent and use hand gestures.
Several minutes went by in such a fashion—Will scrambling his brain with the jerky back and forth glances around the corner of the cement shed, and Mike completely missing in action. The oppressive heat lulled the farm into a heavy mood. The barn boards seemed to expand and the dust licked at manure droppings splattered from a horse ride the day before. A silent sense of relief crept in while I sank a little deeper into the five-gallon pail. I quickly forgot my purpose on this disturbingly warm day as the sole witness to what could be some juicy morsels to report to the lieutenant colonel we called mother. The importance of my role on this day could not be diminished: I didn’t get calf manure and milk replacer on my spandex bike shorts for nothing.
Soon thereafter, Mike’s padded form appeared on the opposite end of the barn by the blue silo. I immediately knew what his strategy was: attack from behind, because judging by Will’s assumption that Mike would attack from the front side of the barn, Will would be completely ambushed with BB’s before he could even turn around to realize how he had been outwitted. My heart started to pound.
Mike tiptoed closer displaying the biggest shit-eating grin ever. He took tiny tip-toe steps, drawing nearer his intended target. His winter coat was bouncing up and down at the shoulders signifying a stifled giggle. Mike raised his firearm and squinted in aim. His index finger pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Will didn’t even turn around; however, Mike had no choice but to pump his rifle again, but that sound gave away his backdoor strategy. Will snapped around, gun poised for battle. Mike shrieked and giggled like a little girl, which made Will do the same. I found this scene highly amusing and joined in—until Will turned his BB gun on me. I screamed as if a six-foot bald eagle were about to claw out my eyes, and flailed in protest. I sank almost to the bottom of my five-gallon pail, rendering myself helpless, but Mike fired another shot at Will. The BB bounced off of the crushed rock and ricocheted off the side of the cement shed. Will jumped as if surrounded by poisonous snakes then took aim at his enemy.
“You’re dead!” Will screamed.
Mike screamed in reply.
Will shot and hit his now victim in the pseudo chest plate made out of whatever it is they put in winter coats to keep one warm. Mike’s free hand immediately went to his wound. A look of disbelief, then one of triumph spread over his tanned face. Mike raised his rifle one more time, pulled the trigger, and shot Will square in the thigh. Will uttered a half scream, half laugh, and I struggled with everything in me to get the hell out of my five-gallon pail before they completely lost it. I kicked my legs as hard and fast as I could, trying to loosen the grip the bottom of the pail had on me. Little chips of dried milk replacer and manure flew off the bucket and the wire handle bounced up and down. Soon, the pail tipped over, which did nothing but strengthen the helplessness of my situation, until Grandpa came bouncing down the drive on his the ancient Allis Chalmer tractor.
Will and Mike took off running toward the feed room and I waved at Grandpa from my trap as he idled by. He parked the tractor and mumbled something incomprehensible to me, then started in my direction.
“You need some help there?” He asked, looking down at me.
“Yeah, I was watching Will and Mike shoot at each other and fell in.” I explained.
Grandpa didn’t seem to catch that last tidbit of information, or at least he didn’t let on that there was anything disturbing about it. Grandpa grabbed my arms and hoisted me, along with the five-gallon pail butt attachment up into the air and started shaking. When that didn’t work, he put a brown boot on the rim of the pail, pushed down, and pulled on my arms at the same time. The mid-section of my body popped out of the bucket. Grandpa mumbled something else that I didn’t quite catch and ambled across the yard. I stared after him while rubbing my legs to get the blood circulating again. Will and Mike’s screams could be heard down by the lagoon by now, but I no longer wanted to bear witness to that insanity.
“Where is my winter coat?”
“I don’t know, throw me that other pillow.”
My brothers Mike and Will had the idea of holding a BB gun war against each other and found it necessary to suit up in a protective layer of bedding and winter garments. Never mind the sweltering summer heat and humidity. While these two young geniuses prepared for battle, I sat observing, silently, wondering and worrying if a person could die from being shot by a BB gun. Mike and Will did not seem to be concerned as they secured their armor and dumped BB’s into their pump action rifles.
“Let’s go out to the other side of the cement shed,” Will suggested to Mike as Will finished tying the last knot on his bailer twine and pillow armor.
I had to speak up.
“What if you get shot in the face?”
Will did not dignify my question with an answer, unless rolling his eyes counted.
“You don’t aim for the face, idiot. Just the chest and below.” Mike responded.
This was the first I had learned of my brothers’ expert aiming abilities. Guns had always been present in the house, locked in the cabinet with deer horns etched on the frosty glass. Actually observing my brothers handle their firearms seemed awkward and unnerving; they had only shot at crows prior, so graduating to a scene right out of “The Most Dangerous Game” called for an audience. Without an invitation, I followed the two sharpshooters from the basement into the crippling heat. Their bravado started to waver.
“So you’re going to start on the other side of the cement shed?” Mike said with a hint of concern in his voice.
“Yeah. You start by the barn.” Will replied.
I took my seat as the lone audience member for this epic battle on a five-gallon pail outside of the milk house. I saw Will trotting around the corner, his pillows riding up, revealing a bare line of stomach skin. Visions of intestines and stomach contents spilling onto the crushed rock entered my mind. Mike’s ankles were showing too. Once, when I was four and I thought deer hunting meant my uncles and cousins brought home Bambi to play in the yard, I was met with bloody carcasses and black insides of Bambi’s mothers. One family member even blew the head and right shoulder off one of my mistaken playmates. I didn’t know what kinds of guns they used, however.
For many minutes, absolutely nothing happened. Even the cats and chickens holed up somewhere; they probably sensed a grave danger in the air. The smell of manure entered my nose, which made me realize that the bucket had a rim of dried cow dung that had scraped onto my bike shorts. Not thinking much of it, I scratched off some crusted dry milk replacer from my five-gallon bucket seat when I sensed movement off to the right. Will was stealing quick glances from around the backside of the cement shed. His dark hair would appear for one second, then snap back behind the white bricks for cover. It made me dizzy. I tried using hand gestures to signal to him that I didn’t know where Mike was during Will’s staccato peeks, but I didn’t think he could interpret them in such a short time, nor did I really know why I felt the need to keep silent and use hand gestures.
Several minutes went by in such a fashion—Will scrambling his brain with the jerky back and forth glances around the corner of the cement shed, and Mike completely missing in action. The oppressive heat lulled the farm into a heavy mood. The barn boards seemed to expand and the dust licked at manure droppings splattered from a horse ride the day before. A silent sense of relief crept in while I sank a little deeper into the five-gallon pail. I quickly forgot my purpose on this disturbingly warm day as the sole witness to what could be some juicy morsels to report to the lieutenant colonel we called mother. The importance of my role on this day could not be diminished: I didn’t get calf manure and milk replacer on my spandex bike shorts for nothing.
Soon thereafter, Mike’s padded form appeared on the opposite end of the barn by the blue silo. I immediately knew what his strategy was: attack from behind, because judging by Will’s assumption that Mike would attack from the front side of the barn, Will would be completely ambushed with BB’s before he could even turn around to realize how he had been outwitted. My heart started to pound.
Mike tiptoed closer displaying the biggest shit-eating grin ever. He took tiny tip-toe steps, drawing nearer his intended target. His winter coat was bouncing up and down at the shoulders signifying a stifled giggle. Mike raised his firearm and squinted in aim. His index finger pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Will didn’t even turn around; however, Mike had no choice but to pump his rifle again, but that sound gave away his backdoor strategy. Will snapped around, gun poised for battle. Mike shrieked and giggled like a little girl, which made Will do the same. I found this scene highly amusing and joined in—until Will turned his BB gun on me. I screamed as if a six-foot bald eagle were about to claw out my eyes, and flailed in protest. I sank almost to the bottom of my five-gallon pail, rendering myself helpless, but Mike fired another shot at Will. The BB bounced off of the crushed rock and ricocheted off the side of the cement shed. Will jumped as if surrounded by poisonous snakes then took aim at his enemy.
“You’re dead!” Will screamed.
Mike screamed in reply.
Will shot and hit his now victim in the pseudo chest plate made out of whatever it is they put in winter coats to keep one warm. Mike’s free hand immediately went to his wound. A look of disbelief, then one of triumph spread over his tanned face. Mike raised his rifle one more time, pulled the trigger, and shot Will square in the thigh. Will uttered a half scream, half laugh, and I struggled with everything in me to get the hell out of my five-gallon pail before they completely lost it. I kicked my legs as hard and fast as I could, trying to loosen the grip the bottom of the pail had on me. Little chips of dried milk replacer and manure flew off the bucket and the wire handle bounced up and down. Soon, the pail tipped over, which did nothing but strengthen the helplessness of my situation, until Grandpa came bouncing down the drive on his the ancient Allis Chalmer tractor.
Will and Mike took off running toward the feed room and I waved at Grandpa from my trap as he idled by. He parked the tractor and mumbled something incomprehensible to me, then started in my direction.
“You need some help there?” He asked, looking down at me.
“Yeah, I was watching Will and Mike shoot at each other and fell in.” I explained.
Grandpa didn’t seem to catch that last tidbit of information, or at least he didn’t let on that there was anything disturbing about it. Grandpa grabbed my arms and hoisted me, along with the five-gallon pail butt attachment up into the air and started shaking. When that didn’t work, he put a brown boot on the rim of the pail, pushed down, and pulled on my arms at the same time. The mid-section of my body popped out of the bucket. Grandpa mumbled something else that I didn’t quite catch and ambled across the yard. I stared after him while rubbing my legs to get the blood circulating again. Will and Mike’s screams could be heard down by the lagoon by now, but I no longer wanted to bear witness to that insanity.
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Smell of Royalty--another creative non-fiction account
The Smell of Royalty
“Marci? Marci? Marci look at me. Marci open your eyes.” Dad was yelling at me while shaking my face with his hand. The fight to open my eyes persisted even though I could hear parts of what was going on. Ben was on the gas station phone with the hospital shouting orders while Tom knelt beside us.
“Get her outside in the fresh air and wake her up!” Ben ordered after receiving the advice from the nurse on the other end of the line. Dad hauled me out to the parking lot, knelt down on the pavement while the level of alarm in his voice heightened. The first time my brain allowed my eyes to open I saw my little brother Tom walking soberly behind us in a halo of white fuzzy light. I remember trying to say his name but fell into black unconsciousness before anything came out.
****
At the age of twelve, my wildest dream of becoming a real live saddle club queen almost came true. The idea was planted into my brain when my father mentioned that the Trail Blazers, our saddle club, needed a representative for the horse show in Rochester, Minnesota to hand out trophies. My heart fluttered and my eyes widened as I pictured myself dressed in purple sequined western wear, parading around the arena in front of thousands of people. Or at least hundreds. I would salute like all of the older girls did during their queens’ ride, flashing a perfect white smile as my horse carried me at mock speed around the arena. Usually a young girl would have to try out for the position of queen in a saddle club; however, I was the only female within two decades to even consider running for queen, so the title was mine.
Tom and I had many deep conversations about what to pack for such an important event. Tom, being two years my junior may or may not have looked up to me due to my expertise in all equine matters. He had not yet fallen off the horse-loving bandwagon I had been riding since birth, but he would later, after finding his next love affair with different kinds of motorized two-wheeled animals my brothers called dirt bikes.
Three nights before the actual event was to take place, Tom and I discussed exactly what we needed to pack.
“I’ll sneak downstairs after we go to bed and get the box of twinkies,” Tom stated, as his first item to include. I approved this choice as one that would fit in our blue plastic suitcase with a green handle and continued naming off other items imperative to this trip.
“My western outfit has to go on top so it doesn’t get messed up, so we’ll put the Twinkies on the bottom next to my brush and the jolly ranchers.”
“I need my outfit too!” Tom exclaimed, running to his closet and throwing his white western shirt and wranglers on top. After explaining that boy outfits didn’t matter as much as mine did, he agreed that throwing his clothes into the back of the old red Ford would be the extent of his packing. I did allow him to stash a pair of underwear and some rope in our suitcase. The makeup kit mom didn’t know I had and my pajamas took up the rest of the space.
Our next course of action was getting our horses ready. We had been to horse shows before—but not where I had been royalty. This meant that my sun-bleached black horse needed a lot of work. After some intense pleading, three trips to the grocery store, and a lot of head scratching, I tied my quarter horse to the hitching post next to the seventeen boxes of Clairol Nice n’ Easy permanent black hair color. My older brother Mike helped us figure out that seventeen boxes would do it for an animal of Magic’s size after he figured out the surface area compared to what the boxes said a normal head of hair would take. Magic stood complacently flicking flies with his tail, watching the other horses grazing in the lagoon pasture in front of him.
****
Dad and Ben opened the topper window and called out our names saying that we had to stop for directions to the arena. Ben was Dad’s “horse friend” from across the Chippewa River. Whenever Dad had to be in the fields for planting season Ben would ask if I needed a ride to whatever horse show was going on that weekend. I always looked forward to riding in Ben’s blue Dodge because the radio was broken, which meant no country music. Country music had been a musical staple for a brief period in my life when Mike showed an interest, but my cowgirl genes just did not include a taste for twang. Ben was also a two pack a day smoker, so he never missed the one or two Winstons I would grab when he was signing me up for barrels, poles, and jumping figure eight competitions. He rarely rode horse himself because his quarter horse, Oni was getting too old. With no kids, no wife, and a lot of time on his hands, I think he lived vicariously through my brother and me as long as our interest in horses held.
Ben gently placed his hand on top of mine when I didn’t wake up at Dad’s call and whispered my name a few times. Tom threw his legs over the tailgate and jumped onto the parking lot of the Shell gas station. I sat up dizzily and paused to clear my head while hanging onto the tailgate. Ben took my hand and helped haul me out of the Ford. With feet planted, I took a step forward and stepped onto a pillow. With difficulty, I forced my other leg to take a step, landing on that same pillowy softness. I paused.
“Feels like I’m walking on pillows,” I said to Ben.
“Oh yeah?” He replied as he kept walking.
Not thinking much more about what was going on, I made a jellowy jaunt into the gas station. Dad was talking to the worker about directions to the arena, while Tom was playing with the hot dog turner machine. Ben asked if I was ok. I found myself unable to respond because things were starting to get blurry around the edges. The last thing I remember for several minutes was the display of Nacho Cheese Doritos—the bright red and orange colors, and the sound of crushed chips and plastic as I fell into them.
****
Bottle number fourteen fell to the ground when Magic nudged it off the hitching post with his nose. His shoed front right hoof violently pounded and dug at the ground—a sign of his gaming horse spirit and declaration of boredom at having to stand there while I massaged the Clairol hair dye into his coat.
“Easy Madge—three more bottles to go, then you can go roll in the dirt.” I laughed out loud at the thought, knowing that rolling in the dirt would be the first thing he would do after getting his hair done. I didn’t care though. The black dye was really taking and his deep black coloring—the color he only had in the winter was brighter than it had ever been. The idea that permanent hair dye made for humans might not be good for a horse hadn’t really phased me. The people who make the stuff test on animals all of the time, right? Doc Tom rolled down the drive with his silver veterinarian logo temporarily blinding me when it caught the sunlight just right. I waved him over, a huge grin on my face.
“What are you doing to that horse?” He bellowed.
“Coloring him for the Rochester show. I’m going to be the saddle club queen there and hand out trophies for the morning!” Doc Tom pawed at his stubble and shook his head laughing.
“Your dad know about this?” He asked.
“No. Mike helped me figure out how much to use though,” I replied, wondering what Dad had to do with all of this.
“Where is your dad? I need to check out a twisted stomach.”
I pointed to the steer shed where the faint sound of the bobcat could be heard scraping manure out of the aisles. Doc ambled down to the shed and I opened bottle number fifteen. Magic twisted his neck around and nudged my rib cage. I pulled an apple-flavored biscuit out of my pocket and fed it to him.
****
The morning we left for Rochester, I was awake and spreading peanut butter on my toast when Dad opened his bedroom door rubbing his eyes. He asked if the coffee was going and I nodded. I hated the smell of coffee so early in the morning. It made me feel sick to my stomach and sometimes gave me headaches, so I went out to the barn to eat my breakfast. Magic was dozing in his makeshift stall. His ears perked up when he heard me come around the corner. The smell of calf manure would never leave the walls of this part of the barn. Dad had hung a few old iron gates around the walls where calves used to romp around in order to put horses in the barn. We never really had stables or fancy offices to keep records or tack and equipment. But being able to tell people that I had a horse and could sometimes put him in a stall at night before important events was enough.
I unhooked the rusted chain that served as a door to keep him in and he walked eagerly over. Eyes bright, coat brilliant black, he seemed to feel like a two-year-old again. He pawed at the ground and I rubbed the white blaze on his head. I fed him the crusts of my toast and then snapped a lead line to his blue halter. We emerged from the barn into the chilled dewy morning, only to be greeted by a whinny from Spur, Tom’s horse—both had beaten us up and outside, much to my chagrin. Moments later the back door slammed. Dad trotted out to the truck and trailer calling out orders in between bites of his ham sandwich leftover from yesterday. Ben’s truck roared down the drive and groaned to a stop next to the barn. Tom opened the trailer door so we could lead both horses in and tie them up for the two hour ride.
It wasn’t quite five o’clock in the morning and we were on the road. Dad and Ben sat in the cab of the Ford while Tom and I hunkered down under the topper in the bed of the truck. Tom lay closest to the cab window while I was positioned toward the rear of the truck. Tom and I bantered about who was going to win in barrels, but the noise from the tires quickly lulled us to sleep.
****
Once we reached the arena my cheeks were scarlet from Tom’s “gentle” slaps to keep me awake. I was unable to say much and remember being completely pissed off at the fact that my little brother was slapping me while I was powerless to do anything. After hanging up with the nurse Dad decided that we didn’t need to go to the hospital despite my breathing in carbon monoxide that seeped up to my slumbering head through the eroded tailpipe of the farm truck. Farmers didn’t go to the doctor, much less a hospital unless something was severed, which actually happened to my brother Mike, and even then Grandpa called it “just a scratch” as Mike held up his hand displaying an index finger hanging by a piece of skin.
Dad set up shifts for Ben, Tom, and himself, to sit with me in the truck to keep me awake until the poison had time to work its way out of my system. Tom kept saying “you’ll die if you go to sleep Marc,” which was the only phrase that I remember hearing for several hours that morning.
It was Ben’s second shift when I became lucid enough to walk around a bit. He took my arm and guided me to the arena to see the youngest competitors running barrels. A little girl on a gray dappled pony was galloping around the three barrels in the triangle pattern. I knew all was lost for me that day. The youngest kids always competed last at a horse show which meant my queen’s ride had taken place at least two hours ago. Ben patted my hand. I looked to the left, then to the right and saw Dad walking toward us. Something like relief formed on his face. When he reached us he placed one hand on the top of the arena fence and threw a boot up onto the bottom board. His other work-worn hand found its way to my shoulder and stayed there until the last rider had finished.
“Marci? Marci? Marci look at me. Marci open your eyes.” Dad was yelling at me while shaking my face with his hand. The fight to open my eyes persisted even though I could hear parts of what was going on. Ben was on the gas station phone with the hospital shouting orders while Tom knelt beside us.
“Get her outside in the fresh air and wake her up!” Ben ordered after receiving the advice from the nurse on the other end of the line. Dad hauled me out to the parking lot, knelt down on the pavement while the level of alarm in his voice heightened. The first time my brain allowed my eyes to open I saw my little brother Tom walking soberly behind us in a halo of white fuzzy light. I remember trying to say his name but fell into black unconsciousness before anything came out.
****
At the age of twelve, my wildest dream of becoming a real live saddle club queen almost came true. The idea was planted into my brain when my father mentioned that the Trail Blazers, our saddle club, needed a representative for the horse show in Rochester, Minnesota to hand out trophies. My heart fluttered and my eyes widened as I pictured myself dressed in purple sequined western wear, parading around the arena in front of thousands of people. Or at least hundreds. I would salute like all of the older girls did during their queens’ ride, flashing a perfect white smile as my horse carried me at mock speed around the arena. Usually a young girl would have to try out for the position of queen in a saddle club; however, I was the only female within two decades to even consider running for queen, so the title was mine.
Tom and I had many deep conversations about what to pack for such an important event. Tom, being two years my junior may or may not have looked up to me due to my expertise in all equine matters. He had not yet fallen off the horse-loving bandwagon I had been riding since birth, but he would later, after finding his next love affair with different kinds of motorized two-wheeled animals my brothers called dirt bikes.
Three nights before the actual event was to take place, Tom and I discussed exactly what we needed to pack.
“I’ll sneak downstairs after we go to bed and get the box of twinkies,” Tom stated, as his first item to include. I approved this choice as one that would fit in our blue plastic suitcase with a green handle and continued naming off other items imperative to this trip.
“My western outfit has to go on top so it doesn’t get messed up, so we’ll put the Twinkies on the bottom next to my brush and the jolly ranchers.”
“I need my outfit too!” Tom exclaimed, running to his closet and throwing his white western shirt and wranglers on top. After explaining that boy outfits didn’t matter as much as mine did, he agreed that throwing his clothes into the back of the old red Ford would be the extent of his packing. I did allow him to stash a pair of underwear and some rope in our suitcase. The makeup kit mom didn’t know I had and my pajamas took up the rest of the space.
Our next course of action was getting our horses ready. We had been to horse shows before—but not where I had been royalty. This meant that my sun-bleached black horse needed a lot of work. After some intense pleading, three trips to the grocery store, and a lot of head scratching, I tied my quarter horse to the hitching post next to the seventeen boxes of Clairol Nice n’ Easy permanent black hair color. My older brother Mike helped us figure out that seventeen boxes would do it for an animal of Magic’s size after he figured out the surface area compared to what the boxes said a normal head of hair would take. Magic stood complacently flicking flies with his tail, watching the other horses grazing in the lagoon pasture in front of him.
****
Dad and Ben opened the topper window and called out our names saying that we had to stop for directions to the arena. Ben was Dad’s “horse friend” from across the Chippewa River. Whenever Dad had to be in the fields for planting season Ben would ask if I needed a ride to whatever horse show was going on that weekend. I always looked forward to riding in Ben’s blue Dodge because the radio was broken, which meant no country music. Country music had been a musical staple for a brief period in my life when Mike showed an interest, but my cowgirl genes just did not include a taste for twang. Ben was also a two pack a day smoker, so he never missed the one or two Winstons I would grab when he was signing me up for barrels, poles, and jumping figure eight competitions. He rarely rode horse himself because his quarter horse, Oni was getting too old. With no kids, no wife, and a lot of time on his hands, I think he lived vicariously through my brother and me as long as our interest in horses held.
Ben gently placed his hand on top of mine when I didn’t wake up at Dad’s call and whispered my name a few times. Tom threw his legs over the tailgate and jumped onto the parking lot of the Shell gas station. I sat up dizzily and paused to clear my head while hanging onto the tailgate. Ben took my hand and helped haul me out of the Ford. With feet planted, I took a step forward and stepped onto a pillow. With difficulty, I forced my other leg to take a step, landing on that same pillowy softness. I paused.
“Feels like I’m walking on pillows,” I said to Ben.
“Oh yeah?” He replied as he kept walking.
Not thinking much more about what was going on, I made a jellowy jaunt into the gas station. Dad was talking to the worker about directions to the arena, while Tom was playing with the hot dog turner machine. Ben asked if I was ok. I found myself unable to respond because things were starting to get blurry around the edges. The last thing I remember for several minutes was the display of Nacho Cheese Doritos—the bright red and orange colors, and the sound of crushed chips and plastic as I fell into them.
****
Bottle number fourteen fell to the ground when Magic nudged it off the hitching post with his nose. His shoed front right hoof violently pounded and dug at the ground—a sign of his gaming horse spirit and declaration of boredom at having to stand there while I massaged the Clairol hair dye into his coat.
“Easy Madge—three more bottles to go, then you can go roll in the dirt.” I laughed out loud at the thought, knowing that rolling in the dirt would be the first thing he would do after getting his hair done. I didn’t care though. The black dye was really taking and his deep black coloring—the color he only had in the winter was brighter than it had ever been. The idea that permanent hair dye made for humans might not be good for a horse hadn’t really phased me. The people who make the stuff test on animals all of the time, right? Doc Tom rolled down the drive with his silver veterinarian logo temporarily blinding me when it caught the sunlight just right. I waved him over, a huge grin on my face.
“What are you doing to that horse?” He bellowed.
“Coloring him for the Rochester show. I’m going to be the saddle club queen there and hand out trophies for the morning!” Doc Tom pawed at his stubble and shook his head laughing.
“Your dad know about this?” He asked.
“No. Mike helped me figure out how much to use though,” I replied, wondering what Dad had to do with all of this.
“Where is your dad? I need to check out a twisted stomach.”
I pointed to the steer shed where the faint sound of the bobcat could be heard scraping manure out of the aisles. Doc ambled down to the shed and I opened bottle number fifteen. Magic twisted his neck around and nudged my rib cage. I pulled an apple-flavored biscuit out of my pocket and fed it to him.
****
The morning we left for Rochester, I was awake and spreading peanut butter on my toast when Dad opened his bedroom door rubbing his eyes. He asked if the coffee was going and I nodded. I hated the smell of coffee so early in the morning. It made me feel sick to my stomach and sometimes gave me headaches, so I went out to the barn to eat my breakfast. Magic was dozing in his makeshift stall. His ears perked up when he heard me come around the corner. The smell of calf manure would never leave the walls of this part of the barn. Dad had hung a few old iron gates around the walls where calves used to romp around in order to put horses in the barn. We never really had stables or fancy offices to keep records or tack and equipment. But being able to tell people that I had a horse and could sometimes put him in a stall at night before important events was enough.
I unhooked the rusted chain that served as a door to keep him in and he walked eagerly over. Eyes bright, coat brilliant black, he seemed to feel like a two-year-old again. He pawed at the ground and I rubbed the white blaze on his head. I fed him the crusts of my toast and then snapped a lead line to his blue halter. We emerged from the barn into the chilled dewy morning, only to be greeted by a whinny from Spur, Tom’s horse—both had beaten us up and outside, much to my chagrin. Moments later the back door slammed. Dad trotted out to the truck and trailer calling out orders in between bites of his ham sandwich leftover from yesterday. Ben’s truck roared down the drive and groaned to a stop next to the barn. Tom opened the trailer door so we could lead both horses in and tie them up for the two hour ride.
It wasn’t quite five o’clock in the morning and we were on the road. Dad and Ben sat in the cab of the Ford while Tom and I hunkered down under the topper in the bed of the truck. Tom lay closest to the cab window while I was positioned toward the rear of the truck. Tom and I bantered about who was going to win in barrels, but the noise from the tires quickly lulled us to sleep.
****
Once we reached the arena my cheeks were scarlet from Tom’s “gentle” slaps to keep me awake. I was unable to say much and remember being completely pissed off at the fact that my little brother was slapping me while I was powerless to do anything. After hanging up with the nurse Dad decided that we didn’t need to go to the hospital despite my breathing in carbon monoxide that seeped up to my slumbering head through the eroded tailpipe of the farm truck. Farmers didn’t go to the doctor, much less a hospital unless something was severed, which actually happened to my brother Mike, and even then Grandpa called it “just a scratch” as Mike held up his hand displaying an index finger hanging by a piece of skin.
Dad set up shifts for Ben, Tom, and himself, to sit with me in the truck to keep me awake until the poison had time to work its way out of my system. Tom kept saying “you’ll die if you go to sleep Marc,” which was the only phrase that I remember hearing for several hours that morning.
It was Ben’s second shift when I became lucid enough to walk around a bit. He took my arm and guided me to the arena to see the youngest competitors running barrels. A little girl on a gray dappled pony was galloping around the three barrels in the triangle pattern. I knew all was lost for me that day. The youngest kids always competed last at a horse show which meant my queen’s ride had taken place at least two hours ago. Ben patted my hand. I looked to the left, then to the right and saw Dad walking toward us. Something like relief formed on his face. When he reached us he placed one hand on the top of the arena fence and threw a boot up onto the bottom board. His other work-worn hand found its way to my shoulder and stayed there until the last rider had finished.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
The 80- a creative non-fiction account
The 80
As an eight-year-old little girl, crashing a motorcycle into the side of the barn and burning my leg was almost a tragedy. Being the only girl four children, I consider it a right of passage.
Mike was the only brother who had patience enough to teach me to drive the Yamaha 80, or perhaps he was the only one who thought it would be entertaining enough to watch an abnormally short girl with coke bottle glasses try to figure out shifting gears, using the foot break, steering around corners, and other minor details.
Lesson number one began on a Sunday morning. My brother Tom was pretending to be sick so we were not in church. Instead, Mike and I were sitting on the sun-warmed black seat of The 80. Mike sat behind me, as my little butt took up the front-most part of the seat, and the blue gas tank. Mike talked me through my first automotive attempt.
“You have to turn the key first. Then when the green light comes on, that means you are in neutral and can pull the clutch in to start it.”
My big blue eyes stared intently at the green light, wishing I could have that color on the walls of my Barbie house.
“Then you push the gray button to start it while holding the break at the same time. Here,” Mike said, motioning to the handle, “you hold the break.” My sweaty fingers grasped onto the metal bar as Mike’s hand released it, but I was not prepared for the force this was going to take, snapping the metal bar back into its original place. We rolled forward.
“MARCI. You have to hold the break!” Mike yelled.
“I’m sorry, this is hard!” I replied.
“Well hold onto it!” At his command, my brave fingers wrapped around the stupid metal bar and turned white for want of blood.
“There. Now you press the start button and shift with your foot to put the cycle in first gear.”
I pressed the gray button and the little blue 80 roared into an impressive attempt at sounding like a big motorcycle. Now, the start button, I had down for sure, but shifting into first gear was another thing. Mike kicked my foot back onto the foot peg, which jammed the top of my right foot under the shifter.
“Push up with your foot,” Mike told me. Something clicked when I did this. “Ok, now I am going to let out the clutch and we will be in first gear.”
As promised, Mike let out the clutch with ease and the 80 growled into a five-mile per hour pace. Mike was yelling something out behind me, but over the noise of the little blue motorcycle, all meaning was lost. We drove right through a small shrub. This small roadblock caused a lapse in balance basics for the both of us, which prompted my first real ass chewing on what was supposed to be one of the most important days of my life.
“What the hell did I tell you?” Mike fumed. “You can’t steer like that—you have to lean with me!” I figured these instructions were lost somewhere between the roar of the engine and the calf hutches.
“But,” I began.
“If you are going to drive the 80 by yourself, you have to know how to steer.” Mike informed me again. I told myself that deep down, he was mad at me because he cared—not because he was giving up time away from his speed-reading tapes to teach his stupid little sister how to drive a motorcycle. I swallowed my tears.
The next several minutes consisted of steering exercises and practice in the art of leaning. Sweat was starting to roll down my back into my butt crack. I desperately wanted a Mr. Freeze.
“Let’s go.” Mike snapped me out of my tasty treat daydream.
Again, we went through the correct order of key, clutch, break, pretty green light, shifter, and roar. Everything was quite pleasant on the tour of our farm. But all good things must come to an end.
“Shift into second,” Mike shouted at about thirty decibels into my ear. My tiny hand squeezed the clutch in, my sweat-soaked foot clicked the gear shift up a notch, and my over-confident hand released the clutch; we, along with the 80 came to the most abrupt halt ever invented. I braced myself for ass-chewing number two.
When this did not happen, even after we repositioned ourselves from the handlebars back to the leather seat, I cowered down and looked back at my brother. Was his face red or was the heat just getting to him? I did not venture a guess.
The next phase of this lesson that Mike had to be second-guessing was basically a sink or swim, winner takes all, balls to the wall session of starting in neutral, shifting into first, and me killing the 80 every time. This method did not work with me. Finally, Mike had a genius idea.
“I’m going to get it going in first, then after you get the hang of shifting up and down in the higher gears, I will just jump off the back and you can drive it yourself.”
Brilliant.
As promised, Mike got the little beast going in first gear. I eventually proved my ability to shift into higher and then lower gears, which satisfied Mike enough to actually go through with the next step. I felt him bracing his body with his hands in front of him, getting ready to push himself off the back. I slowed down a bit. Mike’s hands pushed off—his left thumb snagging my pink shorts and Tuesday underwear, causing a sudden spasm in my arms, which took the 80 with them. I dodged back and forth violently a few times, but did manage to save the overheated motorcycle, and myself then took eight successful laps around the farm.
I had to pee. Peeing requires stopping. Completely. On lap eight, I yelled for Mike to come back out and stop the 80 for me. On lap eleven, he still hadn’t showed and I started to get anxious. Laps fourteen and fifteen proved just as fruitless, causing me to wonder if the bike would ever run out of gas. This didn’t happen either.
Perhaps it was the intense bursting sensation I had in my bladder, or the heightened feeling of anxiety, but my hand just bent the throttle back a bit farther, creating a snappier pace as compared to my previous fifteen laps. This was the biggest mistake of the day; or greatest, depending on how you look at it.
Lap sixteen was about to come to a close as I rounded the wide corner just before the barn; however, the next corner was not as wide. My virgin motorcyclist instincts were not yet strong enough to tell me that at this faster pace at which I was traveling, the next sharp corner and I were not going to get along.
Three seconds too late, I felt the need to shift down a gear, but the damage was done and I didn’t even know it yet. Moments later, the 80 and I made contact with the whitewashed boards of the milk house. The engine killed on impact. My little body somehow ended up caught between the building and the motorcycle, so I started jerking myself up and out of the wreckage, only to press my shin against the burning flames of hell some people call an engine. My entire body recoiled up and back. I landed in the dirt and immediately bent over to touch the searing burn on my lower leg. As my index finger touched the bubbling flesh, the skin that used to be there slid down like melted wax. The girl in me started to whimper and expected tears to fall. The farm boy in me punched that girl in the face and told her to stop being such a pussy.
I sat up, tearless, and walked into the barn to show my dad my new wound. I hoped it would scar over and be with me forever: proof that I could be as tough as my brothers.
As an eight-year-old little girl, crashing a motorcycle into the side of the barn and burning my leg was almost a tragedy. Being the only girl four children, I consider it a right of passage.
Mike was the only brother who had patience enough to teach me to drive the Yamaha 80, or perhaps he was the only one who thought it would be entertaining enough to watch an abnormally short girl with coke bottle glasses try to figure out shifting gears, using the foot break, steering around corners, and other minor details.
Lesson number one began on a Sunday morning. My brother Tom was pretending to be sick so we were not in church. Instead, Mike and I were sitting on the sun-warmed black seat of The 80. Mike sat behind me, as my little butt took up the front-most part of the seat, and the blue gas tank. Mike talked me through my first automotive attempt.
“You have to turn the key first. Then when the green light comes on, that means you are in neutral and can pull the clutch in to start it.”
My big blue eyes stared intently at the green light, wishing I could have that color on the walls of my Barbie house.
“Then you push the gray button to start it while holding the break at the same time. Here,” Mike said, motioning to the handle, “you hold the break.” My sweaty fingers grasped onto the metal bar as Mike’s hand released it, but I was not prepared for the force this was going to take, snapping the metal bar back into its original place. We rolled forward.
“MARCI. You have to hold the break!” Mike yelled.
“I’m sorry, this is hard!” I replied.
“Well hold onto it!” At his command, my brave fingers wrapped around the stupid metal bar and turned white for want of blood.
“There. Now you press the start button and shift with your foot to put the cycle in first gear.”
I pressed the gray button and the little blue 80 roared into an impressive attempt at sounding like a big motorcycle. Now, the start button, I had down for sure, but shifting into first gear was another thing. Mike kicked my foot back onto the foot peg, which jammed the top of my right foot under the shifter.
“Push up with your foot,” Mike told me. Something clicked when I did this. “Ok, now I am going to let out the clutch and we will be in first gear.”
As promised, Mike let out the clutch with ease and the 80 growled into a five-mile per hour pace. Mike was yelling something out behind me, but over the noise of the little blue motorcycle, all meaning was lost. We drove right through a small shrub. This small roadblock caused a lapse in balance basics for the both of us, which prompted my first real ass chewing on what was supposed to be one of the most important days of my life.
“What the hell did I tell you?” Mike fumed. “You can’t steer like that—you have to lean with me!” I figured these instructions were lost somewhere between the roar of the engine and the calf hutches.
“But,” I began.
“If you are going to drive the 80 by yourself, you have to know how to steer.” Mike informed me again. I told myself that deep down, he was mad at me because he cared—not because he was giving up time away from his speed-reading tapes to teach his stupid little sister how to drive a motorcycle. I swallowed my tears.
The next several minutes consisted of steering exercises and practice in the art of leaning. Sweat was starting to roll down my back into my butt crack. I desperately wanted a Mr. Freeze.
“Let’s go.” Mike snapped me out of my tasty treat daydream.
Again, we went through the correct order of key, clutch, break, pretty green light, shifter, and roar. Everything was quite pleasant on the tour of our farm. But all good things must come to an end.
“Shift into second,” Mike shouted at about thirty decibels into my ear. My tiny hand squeezed the clutch in, my sweat-soaked foot clicked the gear shift up a notch, and my over-confident hand released the clutch; we, along with the 80 came to the most abrupt halt ever invented. I braced myself for ass-chewing number two.
When this did not happen, even after we repositioned ourselves from the handlebars back to the leather seat, I cowered down and looked back at my brother. Was his face red or was the heat just getting to him? I did not venture a guess.
The next phase of this lesson that Mike had to be second-guessing was basically a sink or swim, winner takes all, balls to the wall session of starting in neutral, shifting into first, and me killing the 80 every time. This method did not work with me. Finally, Mike had a genius idea.
“I’m going to get it going in first, then after you get the hang of shifting up and down in the higher gears, I will just jump off the back and you can drive it yourself.”
Brilliant.
As promised, Mike got the little beast going in first gear. I eventually proved my ability to shift into higher and then lower gears, which satisfied Mike enough to actually go through with the next step. I felt him bracing his body with his hands in front of him, getting ready to push himself off the back. I slowed down a bit. Mike’s hands pushed off—his left thumb snagging my pink shorts and Tuesday underwear, causing a sudden spasm in my arms, which took the 80 with them. I dodged back and forth violently a few times, but did manage to save the overheated motorcycle, and myself then took eight successful laps around the farm.
I had to pee. Peeing requires stopping. Completely. On lap eight, I yelled for Mike to come back out and stop the 80 for me. On lap eleven, he still hadn’t showed and I started to get anxious. Laps fourteen and fifteen proved just as fruitless, causing me to wonder if the bike would ever run out of gas. This didn’t happen either.
Perhaps it was the intense bursting sensation I had in my bladder, or the heightened feeling of anxiety, but my hand just bent the throttle back a bit farther, creating a snappier pace as compared to my previous fifteen laps. This was the biggest mistake of the day; or greatest, depending on how you look at it.
Lap sixteen was about to come to a close as I rounded the wide corner just before the barn; however, the next corner was not as wide. My virgin motorcyclist instincts were not yet strong enough to tell me that at this faster pace at which I was traveling, the next sharp corner and I were not going to get along.
Three seconds too late, I felt the need to shift down a gear, but the damage was done and I didn’t even know it yet. Moments later, the 80 and I made contact with the whitewashed boards of the milk house. The engine killed on impact. My little body somehow ended up caught between the building and the motorcycle, so I started jerking myself up and out of the wreckage, only to press my shin against the burning flames of hell some people call an engine. My entire body recoiled up and back. I landed in the dirt and immediately bent over to touch the searing burn on my lower leg. As my index finger touched the bubbling flesh, the skin that used to be there slid down like melted wax. The girl in me started to whimper and expected tears to fall. The farm boy in me punched that girl in the face and told her to stop being such a pussy.
I sat up, tearless, and walked into the barn to show my dad my new wound. I hoped it would scar over and be with me forever: proof that I could be as tough as my brothers.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
And so it begins
With most of my time wrapped up in teaching school, going to school, or preparing for the next phase of school, I have regretfully floated away from the side stories, poems, and funny memories that used to cover my desk, waiting in various stages of the writing process for my return. This maks me sad; therefore, I dedicate this post and all future posts to those partial pieces.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
