Category Archives: Personal Essay

Yearning to be Popular

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            My mom was an isolationist. Even though I didn’t know the term when I was little, I still felt the effects. No one was allowed inside the family home, and when I was old enough to have friends, I wasn’t permitted inside anyone else’s/

            When I was in college, I finally understood her reasoning. My family had moved while I was away at school. My dad ventured, almost daily, up and down the street, talking to anyone he found outside. This rankled my mom. She believed that the only reason people wanted to befriend either of my parents was so they’d have gossip material.

            So, back to when I was a kid. When we moved to a house in Dayton, a couple of little girls lived across the street. They played outside nearly every day, riding bikes, playing with dolls, or just sitting on the porch talking. I’d watch them through our front windows, yearning to be part of their group.

            When my mom finally grew tired of my whining, she let me go over to speak with them. The girls were hesitant to let me join in, but after they had a side conversation, they agreed. I told them I wasn’t allowed inside their house and that they couldn’t come in mine.

            They tormented me, teased me, belittled me, until after laughing about my supposedly torn shorts, I gave up on trying to be a part of their group.

            When I went to Kindergarten, I had no idea what to expect. My mom had told me I was stupid and so needed extra schooling (that my older, smarter brother didn’t need).

            It turned out she was right, for while I worked on preschool skills, my classmates were learning to sound out letters and to do basic math. When playground time came around, no one would play with me, so I made tracks in the sandbox, over and over, day after day.

            First grade my parents enrolled me in a Catholic school, a good long walk downhill in the morning, uphill in the afternoon. It didn’t take my teacher long to figure out that I was far behind my peers. My seat was changed to be in the first row, and I was assigned the lowest reading group, which was too advanced for me.

            Outside in the playground, my classmates called me all the expected names: retard, dummy, idiot and so forth. I walked the perimeter of the playground, day after day. Until one little girl joined me. We quickly became good friends. We’d walk together, and eat our lunches sitting side-by-side on a bench.

            One morning when my mom was brushing my hair, I told her I wanted braids like my friend’s. She was willing, until I explained that they were all over her head, with cute plastic barrettes at the end of each.

            The next day at school, my friend didn’t play with me. I didn’t understand what had changed, and she wouldn’t tell me. She went off to her side of the playground, leaving me to my side.

            When I got home, I cried as I told my mom what had happened. She told me she’d called the principal and told her that I was not to have a “N….” as a friend.

            I went through the next several years without a friend, my eyes following the popular girls, wishing I was included. There were many reasons, in my mind, why I stood out. My uniforms were hand-me-downs, faded and baggy. I was painfully shy and if one of them did speak to me, I couldn’t answer. I was still at the bottom of my class, in the lowest reading group, which marked me as being stupid.

            One time, I think I was in fourth grade, I really had to use the restroom during recess. When I entered, the popular girls were in there. They laughed when they saw me. Once I was inside the stall, they made comments about how I smelled of urine, that all fat people smelled, that they could smell me even in the classroom.

            I leaned over and smelled my panties, but didn’t find an odor. I didn’t understand why they’d say such lies, but it hurt my feelings. I stayed in the stall, listening to their taunts, until the bell rang.

            That same year I got invited to a slumber party. I don’t know why as I wasn’t part of that group, or any group. My mom insisted I go. She drove me into downtown Dayton and bought me brand new pajamas and underwear. I knew we had little money and understood this would be a burden on the family.

            On the day of the party, I feigned illness, but my mom didn’t believe me and so made me go.

            The girls were already in the bedroom, gathered on the bed, looking at a magazine. They made me sit at the foot, far from them. They shared an article about how to tell if someone was a lesbian. I’d never heard that term before, so had no clue what they were talking about.

            One of the hints was hairy arms and legs. They examined mine and declared I was a lesbian. For the rest of the night, they treated me as if I had cuties. I begged to go home, and eventually the parent called mine. On the way home I was lectured about overreacting.

            Well, I wasn’t. The next day at school, those girls told everyone I was a lesbian. When in line, everyone gave me a wide berth. When eating lunch, no one would sit near me. I church, they’d leave a huge space in between us.

            Fortunately, I was “punished” by being sent to lunchtime detention. You’d think I would have been miserable, but sitting in the upstairs classroom with a kind sister who helped me with my schoolwork, turned out to be the medicine I needed.

            Because of her kind attention, I made slow but steady academic progress. For the rest of the school year, I climbed those stairs.

            I still kept an eye on the popular girls, dreaming of being one of them, despite knowing how cruelly they’d treated me.

            The next school year I transferred to the public middle school where I knew no one. Being thrust into this strange environment was terrifying. Just like I’d done all my life thus far, I sat by myself during recesses and lunch, worked alone even on those few times when the teacher assigned group work (no one wanted me in their group).

            I knew who the popular kids were in this school. It’s easy to spot them. They walk in groups with heads held high. They wear the nicest clothes, the most fashionable shoes and jackets, and speak and laugh loudly. They stare at the outcasts, point fingers, make rude comments and do anything that makes them feel better about themselves.

            By this time, as I entered high school, I gave up all dreams of being popular. I kept my head down, did my schoolwork, and found quiet places on the playground where no one could find me.

            Thanks to the kind sister back in the Catholic school, I was no longer behind academically. In fact, my grades were now the best in the class. When a math teacher needed someone to work a complex problem on the board, I was chosen.

            We moved to California after I completed my freshman year.

            I hoped that a new school, in a new state, would be the fresh start I needed on the road to popularity.

            It wasn’t. Nothing had changed except that I excelled academically. I completed high school with no friends.

In the play “Wicked” one of the songs is about being popular. Elphaba, who has been ostracized by her family and her classmates for being green, is assigned to share a room with the ditsy Galinda. Galinda decides to remake Elphaba in her image, guaranteeing popularity.

We know the end of the story, that it doesn’t work because nothing can change that Elphaba is green.

In my case, nothing could change the fact that I was shy, convinced that I was lacking in many ways, that despite my academic success that I was a failure. My parents reminded me of this whenever I was home from college.

As a teacher, I was well aware of how these groups form and how they close out anyone who doesn’t fit their definition of popularity. I tried to keep those divisions out of the classroom, but it takes constant monitoring which changes nothing.

We see it in our daily lives. The popular adults win elections despite not having a platform, they get the promotions even though others did the work. They are put in charge of committees and assign others to do the grunt work, but when the task is complete, they take credit.

Popular adults are invited to parties, to go to the theater, to go out for lunch, to join even more groups where their popularity is enhanced.

At my age I no longer to be one of the popular ones. I’ve learned how very shallow they are, how they value idol worship and ring-kissing about all else. How they only want sycophants around them, how they yearn for more and more accolades not caring who they hurt on the way up.

I wish there was a way to go back in time and show the little me that popularity is not a value to strive for. Imagine how different my life might have been!

Overwhelmed

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            Things keep happening that distract me from writing. Health issues are at the top.

I’m still struggling with long Covid, which makes me lethargic, makes my body ache, makes my limbs feel as if they are being sucked down into the earth. It freezes my brain, stealing written words before they can be written. Before they are even fully developed into thoughts.

There’s nothing that can be done that my doctor hasn’t tried. She’s constantly searching for new ideas, but no one really knows what to do to help people like me.

Then there’s my big toe. The nail decided to crumble, then had to be removed. Once the anesthetic wore off, the pain was incredible. Worse than before. It made sleep difficult. With a fuzzy brain, I had another excuse for not being able to write.

On to my knee. Getting out of my car, there was an audible pop, followed by intense pain. I’d partially torn my MCL and quad on my right knee. Once again, throbbing, while the big toe on the other foot still hurt.

Next came the pinkie on my left foot. It decided to swell up so much so that it couldn’t bend. Try walking when your toe won’t bend!

Once the toes settled down and the tears began to heal, the “hitch” I’d had in my right knee worsened. Whenever I want to straighten my leg, I have to hook my left foot under my calf and pull up.

There’s an audible pop, followed by pain. I’ve had this for a couple of years, but after the tears, things worsened. It’s now excruciatingly painful, so much so that I cry out.

This week I learned that the knee will have to be replaced, for a third time!

Then there are the pleasures.

My husband and I love going to the theater for live performances as well as to see a movie. It seems like all of our reservations popped up within the same two weeks! I’m not complaining as I got to see three amazing plays and two fantastic movies, but when I’m sitting in the theater, I’m not even thinking about writing.

Well, that’s not exactly true, but close.

Anyway, those are my excuses for falling behind on my posts!

Changes

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            Around the time our daughter turned twelve, she morphed into an angry, sullen young woman. She refused to be seen in public with me, wouldn’t let me braid her hair, and if I did take her to the mall to buy new back-to-school clothes, she’d walk behind me as if we weren’t related.

            Her new persona made the entire family miserable, but it struck me deep in my heart.

            As months passed, she distanced herself further and further away, essentially cutting the family out of her life. She hurt her father deeply and was so mean to her brothers that both were afraid to initiate conversations with her for they’d only end up in an argument that they couldn’t win.

            At that time, I was the primary cook for all three meals. I’d get up early, stoke our wood-burning stove, then prepare a hot meal. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, oatmeal: something to begin a productive school day.

            Then I’d pack their lunches, trying to put something in each that they’d like. I often also included a positive note, something upbeat to warm their hearts. I imagined that my daughter ate hers, but found out, when her younger brother caught her, that she was throwing the food away. Food we couldn’t afford to waste.

            Despite having little money, we’d gotten by. No one went hungry unless they chose not to eat (I refused to cook separate meals), no one wore rags or faded or stretched out of shape clothes, even though the majority of our clothes came from thrift stores. They had toys, which also mainly came from thrift stores, even as Christmas gifts, and they all got to play some kind of sport.

            By winter of that year, our daughter refused to eat anything I’d cooked. It felt like she thought I was trying to poison her, something I’d never do despite how obnoxious she behaved.

            Since our first child was born, I’d always included something in the meal that he would eat. By the time our third child arrived, I generally had two things they’d eat in every meal. With our daughter, however, she began screaming, “I’ve never liked…ham or pancakes or corn.” Even though that was an outright lie.

            I couldn’t keep up with what she no longer ate, what she would eat.

            On top of that, every meal was bound to turn into an argument. The only “safe” meal was a silent one. She’d claim the sky was purple if someone commented on how blue it was. Or she’d blame one of her brothers for not putting away the Lego when she was the one who had refused.

            She created a combat zone in our house. We were all miserable.

            A year in, and her health became impacted. At thirteen she should have been developing, maturing, but her body was on hold. She was frequently ill, with me getting calls at school to come pick her up, time I didn’t have.

            My husband began helping with dinner, even though it meant eating later than we preferred. He’d come home, quickly change clothes, then chop onions or form hamburger into patties.

            If our daughter saw him doing to cooking, she’d eat.

            We began “fooling” her. When she was busy in her bedroom, I’d start meal preparations. When my husband came home, he’d finish the meal, plate it and put it on the table.

            This worked for several months until she walked into the kitchen as we were making the switch.

            She became quite thin, and I was concerned that she was anorexic.

            One afternoon, I was called by her school, once again, to come pick her up. Apparently, she’d feinted during class. By this time Kaiser had opened an adolescent unit, and we were taken in shortly after arrival.

            The doctor met with our daughter first. After about thirty minutes, I was called into the room.

            The doctor told me what she’d said to our daughter. That her heart wasn’t beating regularly, that her kidneys and liver were in danger, that she’d die if she kept up her “eating” routine. I cried, shrugged, and told the doctor that I didn’t know how to change things.

            The doctor made our daughter promise to eat one full meal a day, two smaller ones as well. She told us both that unless the changes were made, our daughter would die.

            Something must have hit home.

            Beginning that night, she ate some of the dinner. She nibbled at breakfast the next day, and took the three dollars I gave her to buy something at school.

            The road to recovery continued to be rocky. We’d think we’d overcome one hurdle only for her to toss another in our faces.

            In high school she met up with several nice young men who both fell in love with her. The one she preferred was from another faith, but he seemed to make her happy. Most importantly, he’d invite her to his house for dinner.

            Of course I spoke with his mom, so she understood some of what had been happening. She offered to continue having her for dinner, so we knew she had one good meal per day.

            Several years later, during her junior year of college, they married. Something about being a wife, and very quickly a mother, change my daughter.

            I’d like to report that we still walk carefully, not wanting to upset her. But, when we talk on the phone or get to spend time together, we have lovely conversations.

            Time doesn’t heal all ills, but it can reduce the pain.

Seeing the Real Person

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            I recently saw a musical in which the teen suffers from an aging disease. It’s impacted the entire family, with the parents afraid to have another child in case he is born with the same genetic abnormality. As the character nears the end of her life, her parents decide the time has come to try again, in a way, replacing the teen.

            Toward the end, the teen sings about shucking off the ghost of the girl you wanted to really “SEE” the one before you. To appreciate their daughter for who she is, not for who she is not.

            The song struck me deep in my gut.

            I was not the daughter my parents had in mind. Even when quite young, I wanted to run and play with the boys. I was a pretty good athlete: not always on the varsity teams, but still wearing a uniform and competing.

            I hated dresses, but that’s what all girls wore to school in my town. At home I always wore shorts or jeans, t-shirts and sweaters. I didn’t “walk” like a girl, as my mom told me many times. I had no skills or interest in painting my nails, wearing makeup or styling my hair. I had no interest in learning to cook, something that annoyed my mother, as she claimed to have given birth to me only so I’d take over household chores. And be around to watch her when she grew older.

            I did have assigned chores. One that I hated the most was cleaning my older brother’s bedroom. Why did I have to pick up his dirty underwear? Change his sheets? Clean his bathroom?

            My mother’s excuse was that he needed to spend his time studying so as to go to college.

            I wanted to go to college as well, but that wasn’t important to her. She wanted me married as a teen and producing grandchildren, one after another.

            I wanted out: out of the house, out of her life, out of the family. The only way I could see to make that happen was by getting into college, earning a degree, and then being able to support myself.

            My brother was allowed to study from the moment he came home from school. I couldn’t study until all my chores were done. He finished his schoolwork by dinnertime: I began mine around nine o’clock, or later.

            Because I graduated from high school without a boyfriend in tow, I was a lost cause. I hated dating. All the sweaty hand-holding and sloppy kissing and front seat make-out sessions. I had been told repeatedly that I wasn’t pretty, that I was unlovable and so I couldn’t be picky,

            I was picky. If I married, I would choose a man who respected me for who I was, not who my mom wanted me to be. Therefor in college I dated a series of men. One, George, I thought I loved. Until he insisted that I change faith once we got married. End of that relationship.

            By the time I graduated from college, marriage became an actual thought. I dated a guy I met at the bowling alley, a too handsome guy who probably only took me out expecting something in return. He didn’t get it, therefor, no more dates.

            A couple of years later I walked into my new office to see a tall, smiling man who immediately warmed my heart. We worked a few cases together and had time to get to know one another.

            In time, we began dating. Then I enlisted in the Army Reserves because I wanted to go to the Monterey Institute of Languages, run by the military. I was sent to Alabama at the end of August, where the humidity was miserable and the constant drilling oppressive.

            I was only there two weeks, and was allowed only one phone call. I didn’t call home, which angered my parents. I called my beau, who met me at the airport with a hug and a kiss.

            Our relationship was sealed.

            We’ve been together 50 years. He’s always “seen” the real me. He’s never tried to make me into someone I didn’t want to be. He encouraged me to return to college to get my teaching credential, even though it was a financial strain and it meant he had to put the kids to bed.

            He’s my best friend, my partner, my fan club, my everything.

            If years ago my parents had seen the real me, I wonder if things might have been different. If our relationship would have been more amicable. If I wouldn’t have been a disappointment to them.

            Although I wasn’t the perfect parent as I made plenty of mistakes, I always tried to encourage our kids to be the person they wanted to be. As long as they kept their grades up.

            So this is a cautionary message to all soon-to-be parents out there: give your kids room to grow, to explore, to discover who they are supposed to be.

Deadlines

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            Over forty years ago a good friend taught me how to make various flowers for decorating cakes. Hers were always perfect: mine not so much. What made it special was working side-by-side as she demonstrated, then talked me through it.

            After every session I’d go home with containers of different kinds and different colors of flowers, plus tips and bags and even spare icing so I could make some more. When my kids’ birthdays arrived, I experimented with cartoon characters, truck shapes, and even a swimming pool since our older son was doing well on his swim team.

            From a distance, my flowers and vines and leaves looked pretty good. Only someone like my friend, who was quite talented, would see the flaws.

            My younger sister had been in and out of quite a few relationships. She’d married one older man, but he was looking for in-house babysitting. After a few months, that marriage ended.

            There was a second marriage to a seemingly nice guy, but apparently when no one was around he was violent and abusive. That marriage also fell apart, and for good reasons.

            By the time she married for the third time, I was pretty experienced at cake decorating. My mom volunteered my services, at no cost, of course. My family failed to tell me what flavor of cake and filling, nor what color scheme for flowers. Or even if there were to be flowers.

            The only instruction I had was to make a three-tiered cake. I thought that was interesting, as my parents had few friends and no relatives other than myself and my brother lived nearby.

            A week before the ceremony, I baked the three cake layers. Once they had cooled, I covered them and stored them in the freezer, as my friend had taught me to do.

            At that time, my kids were in elementary school, plus I was teaching part time. So, in between my real job and caring for my family, I spent evenings making flower after flower. Since I had no idea how many I’d need, I made tons.

            Two days before the wedding I removed the cakes from the freezer to thaw in the refrigerator.

            I made a buttercream frosting, white, then stored it in the fridge as well.

            The day before I covered each layer with the frosting, making sure the middle layers were thick.

            I covered the bottom layer with green vines and leaves. I stacked on the second layer and covered it with vines and leaves, then did the same with the third.

            I still had tons to do and was panicking about not finishing in time, when someone knocked on my door. I was expecting company, so I was surprised, and truthfully, annoyed, to see my pastor on the front step.

            He claimed he was dropping by for “a visit.” As he’s talking, I’m trying to listen, but mentally all I’m seeing are the ticking hands of a clock.

            He finally got to the real point of his visit. I’d half-heartedly applied to be on the new-to-be-formed Parish Council. I really didn’t want the position, but church friends thought I was a good candidate.

            He said that I wasn’t a “good candidate” and that I wasn’t approved. I thanked him, then stood and headed toward the front door. Of course he followed, talking all the way, piling on one excuse after another.

            Truth be told, I was relieved even though it hurt to be rejected.

The most important thing, at the point in my day, was to get him out of the house so I could finish the cake before I had to pick up my kids from school.

I might have been a bit rude, but he’d made his point. It should have been obvious that I had an unfinished cake on the dining room table. How could you miss a three-layer cake?

I was up against a deadline.

As soon as he stepped out of the door, I told him goodbye, shut and locked the door, then returned to work.

It wasn’t until after dinner that the cake was complete. To me, it looked pretty good. I had used the best flowers which I arranged in a pleasing design. A happy couple was imbedded in the top layer.

It wasn’t my responsibility to get it to the reception, which was important as I had no intention of going.

The most important details were complete: a finished cake sat on the table, and despite my fears, it looked beautiful.

I never heard from my sister if she was pleased, but that’s another story.

An Old Friend Reappears

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            I was sitting outside a friend’s house, too early to meet her. I didn’t mind the wait.

            The weather was pleasant, so it wasn’t hot in my car, plus I was listening to an engrossing novel through my radio.

            An unexpected car turned onto the street, a somewhat familiar gray-haired woman driving. I watched her through the side mirror park a bit down the road, so I assumed she was visiting that house, not my friend’s.

            About that time my friend Carol appeared, standing near the rear of her car.

            That was my cue to turn off my engine and meet her. As I approached, I asked her who the woman was. Carol’s face lit up as soon as she recognized Izzy, someone neither of us had seen in years.

            As soon as Izzy got near, she spoke and her voice took me back to the pre-COVID pandemic years, the last time the three of us had been together.

            As Carol drove to another friend’s house, the three of us caught up. It was wonderful to hear Izzy’s voice, to know that she was okay, and that she was still the kind, soft-spoken person I’d met years ago.

            During lunch, she sat at the far end of the table, next to another friend she hadn’t seen for years.

            Because I was at the opposite end, I shared stories with the three women closest to me.

            On the drive back to Carol’s house, Izzy was overjoyed at being with our group once again. I asked if she would join us next month, and her face lit up as she firmly stated, “Yes.”

            Not all old acquaintances are ones we want to see again, but in this case, I think all of us were pleased.

Missing Gift

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            We didn’t have a lot of money when our family was growing up. We’d skimp and save in order to replace a broken washer, or purchase off-brand foods that were usually bits and pieces of canned fruit, broken noodles, dented cans. We only bought what was essential and always, always on sale.

            When our oldest son was about to graduate from eighth grade, we thought he should have a reliable watch to see him through high school. I checked every ad, looking for the best deal on a good watch.

            I finally found one during the pre-Christmas sales. It wasn’t too expensive, it was a well-known brand, and better yet, it was on sale at a price we could afford.

            My husband entertained the kids while I supposedly went out shopping. In actuality, I snuck around the side of the house, past a large sliding glass door, then crawled in through a window in our bedroom. I had to stay completely silent, so no radio blaring, and keeping the cutting of wrapping paper and the application of scotch tape as quiet as possible.

            We heated the house with a wood-burning stove in the family room instead of using the furnace, so it was quite cold in the bedroom. I wore a heavy coat, stocking cap, and long-sleeved sweatshirts.

            At the end of a specified period of time, I’d hide the gifts in our closets, climb out through the window, slink around the side of the house and open the garage door. I’d always have packages to carry in, items I’d left in the trunk of the car for just that purpose.

            After the kids had fallen asleep, my husband and I carried all the wrapped gifts out from our bedroom and place them under the tree.

            According to tradition, the kids couldn’t get out of bed until my husband went into the front room, turned on all the lights and pronounced that Santa had been there.

            With a great amount of shrieking and laughter, we gathered around our tree and opened gifts, one-by-one. Mounds of wrapping paper were soon all over the floor, accompanied by ribbons and bows, all of which we’d recycle for next year.

            I kept track, and all gifts but one were accounted for: the watch.

            As the kids built Lego structures or played with new toys, I scoured the house, searching through all my usual hiding spots. The watch was nowhere to be found.

            There was one possible place left, one that I didn’t cherish searching: the large garbage can outside.

            This event took place before formal state-wide recycling took place, which meant that everything would be in the can! Food scraps, greasy food coverings, tin cans, crumpled aluminum foil, newspapers, and even lawn cuttings.

            I put on a pair of my husband’s yard gloves and began sorting, moving things one way, then the other, alternating sides, digging deeper and deeper into the much.

            My heart was pounding, harder and harder, as disappointment took over. I wasn’t going to find the watch, our son wouldn’t have a nice gift to take him into the future.

            Imagine my relief when the rectangular box finally appeared!

            And it was unsoiled, a true miracle.

            I tucked it under my sweatshirt and carried it inside and down the hall. I hastily wrapped it, then hid it behind the tree when no one was looking.

            When our son discovered it, unwrapped it, opened the box, his face lit up!

Childhood Memories

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            When I was beginning fourth grade, my family moved from Dayton, Ohio, to a rural part of the state: Beavercreek.

            I wasn’t sad to move because the only girls on the street humiliated me over and over, all because I was fat and poor. They’d invite me over, then insisted on playing Wheelbarrow. It’s an embarrassing game, in which one player walks on hands while the other two players lift the feet up high, creating a human wheelbarrow. It’s not like the intent was to gather things, but rather to split the legs apart, showing the crotch.

            I was always the wheelbarrow, even after complaining, whining, really, that it was someone else’s turn. Whenever I crossed the street to play, I made sure my bottom wasn’t damp or stained or smelly. It wasn’t until this had gone on for several weeks that it finally dawned on me that those two girls weren’t looking for a friend, but someone to ridicule.

            When my parents announced that we were moving, I was excited to get away from those awful girls. My hope was that I’d make new friends. It also meant starting over in a new school, which I looked forward to.

            In my current class, I was the dumbest kid. From the time I enrolled in the Catholic Elementary, I was well behind in first grade. I fell further behind in second. Before the principal would let me return for third grade, I had to have my eyes examined.

            No surprise: I couldn’t see long distance, which meant I’d never read even a single word the teacher had written on the board. And close-up I dealt with a severe astigmatism that made the rows of letters buckle and slant. Once I had glasses, things became somewhat easier, but I was so far behind that there was little hope of catching up.

            The new house meant a new school.

            The girls in that class, at a different Catholic school, were just as mean as in my previous school. Not one befriended me. Not one invited me for birthday parties. I was pretty lonely, and spent playground time either walking the perimeter of the blacktopped area, or assigning myself to lunchtime tutoring. I preferred the tutoring as that nun was kind and helpful.

            Just as things were looking up for me, my brother and I got permission to explore the woods behind our house.

            We spent countless hours deep in the forest, imagining that we were explorers. We’d climb trees, well, my brother would climb pretty high whereas I’d get one foot off the ground.

            By this time I’d taught myself to read, and since my brother, who was one year older, needed the library to research, I got to go along and check out books.

            I refused the picture books as they were for babies. I wanted to read about what I then called Indians, to learn where they lived, what they ate, how they dressed, anything and everything.

It was that interest that introduced me to the idea of a treehouse.

I decided to build one in a spindly tree at the end of our yard.

My brother and I had spotted lots of downed wood on the forest, but we never carted any of it home. I wasn’t allowed in there by myself, so I raided my dad’s supply of boards and nails he kept in the garage.

The nails went into the pockets of my shorts, along with the hammer. I balanced the boards on my right shoulder, held in place with both hands.

I spread the boards out in front of the tree, arranged from smallest to longest.

With one hand on the tree, I lifted my right leg as high as it could comfortably go. That was where the first step would go. Using a nail, I scratched a mark in the bark.

I placed the first board on top of the mark and held it in place with my hip. I had put the nail in my mouth, so now I rested it toward the center of the board. I took the hammer out of my pocket, and while leaning against the tree, pressing the board against its bark, I struck the nail.

It seemed to pierce the board. I hit it again and again, the nail moving a tiny bit each time.

And then it bent over. I was angry, but convinced myself that it had actually gone in far enough. I added a second nail, not too far from the first.

The step was a bit wobbly, but in my little girl’s mind, it would do.

I added a second board, just above the first. It too, had bent nails.

Then with a huge stretch, I added a third, equally wobbly, but I shrugged it off.

The time had come to begin the climb. Holding a longer board in one hand, nails and the hammer in my pocket, I reached up to the second board, raised my right foot, and pulled.

I got it up on the first step, quite pleased with myself.

I pulled hard enough to get my left foot off the ground, but just as I was suspended in air, the first board broke. I fell.

And as I feel, the sharp edge of a bent nail sliced down my left arm, leaving a bright red streak. Blood seeped through, at first random spots of red. Quickly it turned into a small stream.

I knew my parents would be angry, so I couldn’t let either of them see what had happened. I wrapped my arm in my shirt and ran for the house.

My mother had a rule that my brother and I had to stay in one place all morning long, changing locations only when it was time for lunch.

My brother had gone to the garage where he loved tinkering with a transistor radio that he had built, so I didn’t have to worry about him.

My mom had eagle eyes and the hearing of a bat. And when angry, as ferocious as a lion.

She terrified me.

That meant I had to get inside without letting her know. I opened the screen door slowly carefully to keep it from squeaking. Once inside, I crept down the hall, avoiding the known noisy spots.

Somehow I made it to the bathroom without disturbing my mom. I knew how to care for an injury, so I got down the mercurochrome and the box of bandages. I cleaned the cut with soap, covered it with the mercurochrome and then a slew of bandages.

I snuck down the hall and back outside. Using the hammer, I removed all the nails, stacked up the boards and carried everything back to the garage, all the while worrying not about a potential infection, but how hard of a spanking I would receive.

Fortunately my brother was out riding his bike, so he didn’t see me sneak in. It also meant he couldn’t tattle on me, either.

Somehow, I got away with it.

The cut didn’t get infected, no one said anything about why I wore long-sleeved blouses in the summer, and my dad never counted boards.

For many years I wore a scar on my right arm. In time it faded away, but the memory of what I had tried to do never left me.

Existing with Long Covid

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            Back in October 2023 I flew to Arizona to visit my long-time friend. We had a wonderful time, visiting a zoo, aquarium, bookstores and driving all over the Phoenix area. We were never caught in a crowd, even at restaurants.

            On the flight down I wore my mask the entire time. I intended to do the same on my flight back home, but my asthma was acting up, and I had no choice but to take it off.

            Three days later I tested positive for Covid. My doctor put me on meds that left a nasty taste in my mouth, but did help me get better faster.

            Unfortunately, the symptoms never went away. Brain Fog took away my ability to write and made it challenging for me to process the written word. I got agitated in crowds, so much so that I couldn’t think, make rational choices, and often found myself leaving lunch dates early.

            I spent hours on the couch, lacking the strength to hold a book. Every morning, I went to the gym, but seemed to get weaker and weaker as the days went by. Before long Covid blindsided me, I could lift ten pounds with one arm, twenty-five with two.

            Things got so bad that lifting a light-weight ball wore me out.

            My doctor referred me to a Physical Therapist who knew less about long Covid than I did. I told him about PEMS, Physical Exercise Malaise Syndrome, a condition that leaves a person weaker after exercise than they were before. I only saw him twice because he had nothing to offer.

            I was given an exploratory medication to take every night. It made a difference after a few days, then as weeks went by, I seemed to improve more and more.

            I was able to write again, but only in short segments. At first I’d work until my head felt like it was going to explode, give up, and go rest on the couch.

            Now I write for a bit, go do something else, write some more, do something else, and so on. I’ve been able to finish a short story!

            I used the same strategy with reading. I read for a bit, change activities, read some more. I can now read for about fifteen minutes at a time.

            I discovered that I could often get an audible copy of books I was reading. I’d listen to then in the car, at the gym, and at home when the TV wasn’t on. Switching between text and voice helped me get back my understanding of words.

            Some days I am able to do quite a bit at the gym. I begin working with weights. Pre-long Covid, I’d do three sets of ten. The PT said to reduce how many repetitions in a set (his one good piece of advice). So I’d lift five times, rest, five more, for two sets.

            Now most days I can complete two sets of eight. And I’ve gone from playing with balloons to five-pound weights.

            What I’ve learned is that I have to read my body. Some days I am still couch-bound. My joints hurt, my arms and legs too heavy to lift. On those days, all I can do is curl up and play games on my iPad.

            When walking with my friend or my husband, some days I can only make it to the bridge. Other days I can cover the entire loop.

            The same with swimming. I used to swim 32 laps, or half a mile. Once long Covid hit, I could only do four laps, not worth the bother. As time passed, I worked up to twelve laps: on good days. Last week I was exhausted after six.

            It feels as if I’m improving slowly, a little bit day by day. It’s two steps forward, one step back. Or maybe one step forward, one step back.

            My advice to anyone suffering with long Covid is to not give up. Don’t sink into the couch and stop living. Visit understanding friends who will work with you, going places when you have the energy, hanging out together when you don’t.

            Don’t quit trying. Instead do something you enjoy for a few minutes, come back to it after a bit of a rest.

            Ask for support. Call on family and friends to help with chores. That way the build-up of dust won’t bring you down. Maybe they can cook something for you, or drop food off, so you’re not stuck eating whatever junk food happens to be lying around.

            Get out of your house every day. If the weather is bad, walk inside a shopping center. When it’s good, walk your neighborhood, if it’s flat, or try out others for a change. Begin going around the block, then slowly going a tad further.

            Don’t give up when you have a bad day.

            Shrug it off, then the next morning get up with renewed determination.

            You can exist with long Covid. It’s not easy, but it’s possible.

Being a Teacher

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            When I was placed in Kindergarten, I didn’t much care for my teachers. They seldom helped me, instead giving me very simple tasks such as coloring shapes with the correct crayon, cutting on dotted lines or tracing letters and numbers. Granted, those were the skills I most needed, but it was humiliating when I saw what my classmates were doing: learning to read and do math.

            What I did like about school was that it was a safe environment. No adult ever spanked me, shook me, threatened me with anything more serious than losing playground time. For the most part, until high school, most teachers acted as if I wasn’t in the room. I could sit in my desk all day without the teacher ever looking over my shoulder.

            When asked what I wanted to be, clear up into high school, my response was always, teacher. Teachers were sort of like heroes to me. They gave off an air of authority without, for the most part, threatening violence. There was an occasional crack of a ruler on my desk when I wasn’t paying attention, and I think only once, being sent to stand in the corner.

            Only one high school teacher seemed to care about me, Mr. K, my math teacher. He was kind, patient, and saw my innate mathematical skills. In other classes I feared going to the chalk board, but in Mr. K’s classes, it seemed like an honor. Why? He normally only asked me up there after several of my classmates had tried to solve an equation and failed.

            When I applied to college, I did so as a potential math major. Not to teach, however, but to be a statistician.  I liked working with numbers, but not with people. It seemed like an ideal job for me.

            All that changed during my junior year when the Department Chair called me to his office. He asked what I was doing there, and accused me of only choosing a major in math so I could find a husband. He insisted that I change my major.

            Since I was on a full scholarship that only covered four years, I didn’t have time to switch to a new major. Unless I chose one based on the number of completed credits I already had. That’s how I got a degree in Russian Languages and Literature. I didn’t see myself as a college professor or writing the new Russian novel. The only possibility that came to mind was working as a translator.

            When that fell through, and I had to find a job, quickly, I applied for anything that didn’t require impressive typing skills. I finally got hired by the IRS and made a nice career out of it, even though I hated every minute of every work day.

            When our first child was born, I knew nothing about little kids. I found a Parent-Child Education class being offered by the local Recreation Department. I learned music, art, dance, singing and activities of all kinds. It was fun, but intimidating when my turn to lead the class came on the rotation.

            I decided to apply to the community college to earn an AA degree in Childhood Education. I complete the program, got a job in the Rec. Dept. teaching Tot Time. There were ups and downs. Ups happened when the kids did what I asked and seemed to be having fun while they learned. Downs were when a snaked invaded my classroom or when a kid soiled themselves or threw up on themselves or on the equipment.

            The job became boring after just a few years.

            I then decided to earn an Elementary Teaching Credential. My sister-in-law paid my tuition, at the college where she worked. Some of the classes were fun, such as teaching PE or designing bulletin boards. Some were incredibly boring, such as the pedagogy of learning, phonics and writing lesson plans.

            After graduation I got hired at a Catholic Elementary where I taught for four years. This was my dream job, something I’d wanted since I graduated with my BA in Russian.

            The first three years were amazing. The fourth, the principal decided she wanted to push out all the older teachers, so she made my life miserable. I left.

            The next several years were ones of fruitless search. I discovered that all the PE teachers in my district were aging. I began work on a PE credential, but got bogged down when it was mandatory to referee a college-level soccer game.

            I kept getting sub jobs in Special Education classes as there was a chronic shortage of qualified teachers. I knew nothing about Spec Ed, but there was a need and I felt I could fill it.

            Back to college I went and after completing only six credits, I was hired.

            I experienced some difficult kids, but obnoxious parents. My Director of Special Education supported me, listened to me, stood by me. There was no established curriculum, so I had to devise my own, a combination of 4th and 5th grade subject-matter.

            I went to conferences, workshops and all types of sessions, learned something at each.

            At the end of those four years, I wanted something more.

            Back when I entered university to get my first credential, I weighed the differences between elementary and secondary curriculums. I felt as if I had no strengths in any of the subject taught at the high school level, but I could be the teacher of this and that. That’s why I chose elementary.

            A position opened up at the high school. My elementary school was getting a new principal, someone who had no idea what I had been doing and didn’t care as long as I kept my students out of her office. It was time to go.

            Little did I know that teaching high school Special Education students was the career I should have been pursuing.

            For 23 years I taught ninth and tenth grade English and an occasional Social Studies class.

            I loved those teenagers, offered them respect, treated them with dignity and challenged them to push themselves academically. Some did improve their reading and writing skills quite a bit over the two years they sat in my classes. Most improved somewhat, and very few made no progress whatsoever.

            In a rather roundabout way, I pursued my dream job. I did become a teacher. I did love what I was doing. I did enjoy going to work.

            Many of my high school students had unrealistic dreams, such as becoming a famous actor when they were too shy to speak in class. Or playing professional football when they didn’t get much field time during games. I even had one who wanted to be an airplane pilot when he had no control of his legs.

            We all need dreams. Dreams are what motivate us to move forward. Realistic dreams can become true, leading us to fulfilling lives.

            I learned to pursue, to never give up even when faced with challenges, to be open to change and to accept opportunities that had never popped into my brain!