That’s me.
As far as I know, I was never popular. I never won any beauty pageants and the one I came in first runner-up at was a fluke because I wasn’t there. At the time my accomplishments were great enough (for a 16-year-old) that I nearly won the whole thing. On paper.
The smart one. The bookworm. The wallflower. Sometime in either late elementary school or early junior high I figured out the labels that best fit me and embraced them. I was clumsy and would never be athletic. I was chubby and awkward and would never be a cheerleader. Never be homecoming queen.
Words that came from my mouth were never eloquent. I stumbled and stuck my foot in my mouth all the time. Give me a piece of paper to write on though and I could spin you a yarn. Write you a poem. Plot out a letter to make you change your mind. Make you believe.
I was a dreamer and a thinker. Content to read my books and revel in my hopes and wishes for the future. Always watching, I can be truthful about it now — I never felt like I was a “part” of anything. Ever. In my entire life before college, I never felt like I fit in. It’s not something that I lament nowadays. Looking around me, I see some of the things that I was spared. One thing that does stick with me though is that I never felt like I was anyone’s best friend. Throughout my life I have gone through a handful of what I believed to be bosom friends (there I go with the Anne-speak again), but I never felt (or knew) that there was anyone who would choose me over everyone else. As a child I chalked it up to me being different from everyone else.
It was as if I had figured out my place in the world (for the time being) and I was going to sit quietly and wait my turn.
I’m not sure what I expected. When “my time came,” what was it going to look like? My senior year I was voted “Most Likely to Succeed.” I would like to know what my classmates thought success was back then. To be honest, I can’t remember too much about what my view of success was.
What I knew, from a very young age, was what I was good at. If there was nothing else in this world that I could do, this would sustain me.
You see, I could write.
In my mind, there was very little hope for me outside the pages of a book. I can remember sitting at a slumber party in middle school, watching Never Been Kissed and being petrified. Luckily in my school experience, I had never been really terrorized. Never had an entire cafeteria full of kids shouting a cruel name my direction. But seeing that character onscreen…all I could see was me.
And all I could think was, I have to stop this from happening.
Because, the frump thing? Totally plausible. Spouting off ridiculous grammar rules and thinking they’re impressive? Oh yeah. And the whole, I never had a boyfriend until I was 21-years-old, much less had I been kissed – thing? Ding ding ding!
This entire post is some kind of crazy tangent, but I promise you there was a reason I started it and I’ll get there somehow. Just circling the barn a few times.
Good on paper. I could ace any research paper or essay exam you handed me. Write my way out of a rabbit hole. Draw up a resume to impress the best. And I could cover letter my way right into your heart. Somewhere along the way, I let the “me” on paper define who I was. It wasn’t until I reached a point in my life where my accomplishments didn’t impress anyone outside of my little town that I was able to let go and just be.
There were moments in college when I thought that big university was going to swallow me whole. There wouldn’t be anything to it. I could disappear into that mess. But I didn’t. When I started out, I had gone the practical route. I was going to be a teacher. After a few semesters I realized, however capable and qualified I was to be an educator, that was not my passion. I changed my major and took my first writing class. And in that class I wrote a monologue about a little girl, a whole lot like me. It wasn’t until I was up in front of that class, giving that monologue, that I realized she was me. That voice in the story was the same one from my mouth. When her voice cracked, so did mine. When her sorrow became apparent to the audience it was because it was authentic and personal. And mine.
I was always good on paper. It’s where I found myself. And I’ve never been the same.
I have a few neuroses. I can admit that. When I was in 2nd grade my teacher handed out an award to each of us that was made personal by acknowledging us for one particular thing that we contributed to our class. My award was “Most Imaginative Student.” I don’t remember it, because I was too beaming and proud as I marched across the stage to take my piece of paper, but I’m certain my mom and granny were somewhere in the back stifling their laughter. Because “most imaginative” was really just the tip of the iceberg.
People, I’m the one who had an imaginary husband at age 2.
Second grade was a somewhat disturbing year for me. While I never stopped making the good grades that would follow me all of my days through public school, that year I spent a lot of time drawing pictures of “Charlie Bronw” (as I spelled it back then), writing stories, and sharing my latest nightmare with my classmates during recess. That last thing? Yeah, doesn’t go over well with teachers and definitely not with the other parents.
I was always into shocking people though. In 1st grade I got in a lot of trouble for going around to all the kids I knew that believed in Santa and telling them that he wasn’t real. It’s a wonder I never acted out as a teen.
Along with the shocking, I loved to be shocked. Stories of the macabre gave me a thrill. Probably because it was forbidden. My parents didn’t let me watch or read anything (that they knew of) that dealt with subject matter that was the least bit questionable. The school library, however tame, served to whet my appetite.
Now, thankfully, my interests in the bizarre are pretty much limited to time travel. Because…yeesh. Life was hard enough anyway. No need to ostracize myself as a freak.
All this to say, you’d think that with my love of all things freaky and weird and shocking to my mom, there wouldn’t be much that would make me shudder. Nothing that I’d find so disturbing that I’d have to turn from the TV and shout, “Change it! Change the channel!” But you’d be thinking wrong.
The first time I can remember reacting to something in this way was when I was watching a show that I wasn’t allowed to view anyway — My Little Pony (I know, but there was magic…are you starting to understand now?). I don’t remember how we landed on the show. Maybe it came on after Duck Tales. Either way, we were watching it and on this particular episode some of the ponies had fallen into quicksand and were in it up to their stomachs. My 6-year-old eyes interpreted something very different though.
I saw ponies with no legs.
There were ponies and they were missing their legs. Not cut off or injured, but cleanly removed. Nowhere to be found. It was a deformity. Something I’d never seen. And I reacted like a lunatic.
“CHANGE IT!”
Luckily my parents raised me better and I knew never to respond in such a way to a person with a birth defect or abnormality, or to someone who lost some part of their body to injury. (My dad lost part of his finger in an accident when I was in high school.) Still, my response to such things on television as a child, and to some extent even now, has been to wince in pain. Turn my head. Ache for that person or animal and just pray that it goes away. I don’t think anyone outside of my family (if they even noticed) ever witnessed this. And the one time that it happened in a group of people…well, let me tell you. It is, after all, the title of this post.
Last weekend, while I was pukey, Kevin looked over at me from behind his laptop and said, “Hey, Netflix has Johnny Tremain now. Mind if I move it to the top of the queue?”
I stared back. “Johnny Tremain?”
“Yeah. The Disney version.”
“Umm…”
–
I don’t remember what year it was. Maybe 6th or 7th grade. We were studying the American Revolution and a number of different patriots. Our reader had featured a short story on Johnny Tremain and so our teacher thought that it would be a good time to incorporate the Disney film. Not knowing what to expect, I settled in to watch what I thought would be a gentle, possibly goofy, tale of the patriot’s life. You know, like Davy Crockett. A good movie to pass notes in the middle of.
They need to put a warning on these things.
I watched, in horror, as Mr. Tremain’s hand was enveloped in molten silver. And then the bell rang. The video was stopped and we were going to finish it the next day. I sat there.
Wait. Dude. DUDE. (That was my word back then.) The guy just had his hand covered in molten hot metal! What does that do to a person? I wanted to know the facts. What was I going to come back to the next day? Severe burns? It’s not like you can pick metal off the skin like a bad sunburn. Yuck. Missing fingers? Was he going to lose his entire hand? What happens when you dip your hand in something that hot? Does it just fall off?
I had so many questions. And I was thoroughly freaked out. I had always wondered what would happen if you stuck a limb in lava. Do you pull back a stump?
I never found out the answers to my questions. Something came up and we didn’t get to finish the film. And so, for the past 13 years, I have lived in fear of the Disney film, Johnny Tremain. It never occurred to me that I might have to watch it in its entirety. Tonight I will. Not because I want to. Marriage is full of sacrifices.
But you’d better believe I’ll never watch Freaks.
Yanking this from Misti and making my list before I forget anymore of what’s happened to me in the past ten years. Oh, and before I forget, for all you sticklers out there I realize that the decade isn’t over until the end of this year. The sticklers. You never cease to amaze me.
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
And here we are. Wooboy. Glad to be done with that.
But it’s not over. Oh, no. Sufficiently grossed out? Good
It’s really difficult to go back to real life after 1.5 weeks of no responsibilities and lots of seafood. Tomorrow morning I’ll be bringing you our last day of travel and our arrival back in Norman. You don’t want to miss it. There’s some elderly road rage, smuggling across a border, and maybe some carrying across a threshold.
In case you missed any of the other installments, here’s a complete list:
Day 1 – On a plane, no entry
Day 2 – Portland, Maine
Day 2 – Part 2, Cape Elizabeth & South Portland
Day 3 – Portland to Bar Harbor
Day 4 – Part 1, Acadia National Park
Day 4 – Part 2, Sand Beach
Day 4 – Part 3, Dinner at Geddy’s
Day 5 – Part 1, Cadillac Mountain
Day 5 – Part 2, Bar Harbor
Day 6 – Part 1, Leaving Bar Harbor
Day 6 – Part 2, Arriving on Prince Edward Island
Day 7 – Green Gables
Day 8 – Lighthouses & Charlottetown
We were lucky that my dad called us that morning to wake us and say, “Come home” because if we hadn’t left when we did, I’m pretty sure that we would not have made it 50 miles south. We were out of bed at 7am and both showered and packed everything in the car ready to go by 8am. It took us a few minutes to put gas in the car and by the time we were on the road out of Norman there was already a mix of freezing rain falling.
As always, people were driving like nuts in Norman and ignoring the slick roads. By the time we made it to the interstate it looked like the road was pretty clear, but it only took driving south about 10 miles before we saw an accident happen and had to call the highway patrol. That one was pretty scary and to see the car I think you’d be surprised to know that the guy was out of his car and on his cellphone just about the time that we were.
My route to Mom and Dad’s house is usually a winding one. I take one of the earlier exits and spend most of my time on small state highways instead of the interstate. There was no question on Christmas Eve — we were taking the interstate as far as we could. Cars littered the shoulder until we reached Pauls Valley. South of there it was much clearer. I chalk that up to the fact that, no apologies, people from rural areas are generally better at handling this kind of weather in an automobile than their city mouse counterparts.
As we had expected, the state highways were already rather slick and turning on to Highway 76 south was quite a surprise: the highway that runs in front of my parents’ house was the most treacherous we had come to. Finally, a few miles and one tree in the road later, we were home.
The rest of the day I watched the snow accumulate while my husband played video games with my younger brothers. Younger as in 23 and 21, in case you don’t know. I documented the snowfall throughout the day.
Back yard:
Front yard:
I had never seen anything like it. And it wasn’t so much the snow that was remarkable, but the wind with the snow. Forty to fifty mile per hour winds blowing snow across the rolling hills of southern Oklahoma is really something to see.
Our traditional Christmas Eve did not happen because we couldn’t travel the 35 miles to Duncan, Oklahoma, where one set of my grandparents are, to celebrate with them. Their area of the state really got hit the hardest with a ton of sleet and freezing rain dumped on the main highway that runs through town, shutting down most travel. Since we couldn’t make it over there my parents made the call that we were going to do our Christmas that night with dinner followed by opening gifts. Now, in my 25 years of living, they have never let us open a gift on Christmas Eve, much less made us open all of them. This was a record-breaking Christmas in more ways than one.
For my mom, I took a family picture of our snowed in selves right before we opened our gifts.

It was really a great time getting to celebrate with my immediate family and our new addition, even if nothing so far this holiday season had seemed to go right.

For the first time in my life, I woke up to a glittering, white Christmas morning.

Wanted to give a little update because I’ve had some people texting and what not, wondering if Kevin and I made it to our final destination…well, not that final destination. As you can tell by me typing this, we made it safely to my parents’ house in Pernell, Oklahoma, which is right square in the cross-hairs of the only blizzard I can remember seeing. It’s blowing like no other out there and we have huge drifts already. We’re snowed in and really don’t expect to get to leave for a few days, depending on how quickly this nasty business starts melting.
But I can deal with snow. It’s the ice that’s a killer. Please please please, though, if you are not bleeding from the ears or missing a limb, don’t leave your house. Someone got killed on a highway north of us after having a minor accident, walking for help, and being struck by another vehicle. We witnessed an accident on our way south and stopped to call the highway patrol for them, but even that is not always the best decision. Remember *55 for the state troopers in Oklahoma (I don’t know about other states). Keep yourself safe though. It’s good to help however you can, just stay safe.
Hope you all enjoy your Christmas Eve. I’m going to go enjoy a cup of hot cocoa and The Children’s Blizzard. Just seems appropriate.
Stay safe, my blizzardy friends!
Our Sunnyview
Redneck Diva
But I digress…
Maternal Maddness
Boy, this is just the Christmas of throwing a kink in things, huh? First, we don’t get to go to Philly and now it’s looking like I will be getting a white Christmas for the first time in my life. It’s been quite a year.
With that knowledge though, and the new forecasts, we are going to be heading out this morning to try and beat the storm to my parents’ house. It’s in the southern part of the state and is expecting more snow than us here in Norman. It’s likely we’re going to get snowed in down at Mom and Dad’s, but we’d rather do that than be stuck up here and miss Christmas altogether.
Have a blessed Christmas and I’ll be seeing you soon!
Brr. Well, Philly, it would have been nice to see you in all your snowy glory. It wasn’t meant to be though.
We were heading up to Philadelphia to celebrate Christmas with Kevin’s parents, but plans changed. A lot.
We arrived at St. Louis right on schedule only to find out that our flight from St. Louis to Philadelphia had been canceled and that there was very little chance that we would make it onto one of the later flights to Philly, assuming that those didn’t end up canceled. And they had arrival times after 9pm — no my cup of tea. I’m disappointed, but Southwest took care of us and we are going to try to fly out again after Christmas. I was so looking forward to being at my in-laws. I’m sure the house is toasty warm with the fire going and I don’t know about you, but a nice fire makes everything better for me.
Instead we are back home. My mom and dad are in OKC doing some last minute Christmas shopping and when they are all finished with that they are coming by to see why my washing machine is leaking when it drains. Eep. Yeah, that is a new development as of yesterday. After that, I think we’re going to head out for dinner somewhere. While we enjoy an evening with family, even though it’s not the side of the family we’d planned on spending our evening with, I wanted to share with you all a few memorable posts related to our families that this Christmas season had me thinking about.
As you may recall, when we last left the blissful honeymooners they were turning in for a long-awaited night of sleep on a foggy island in the northeast. We join them once again the next morning as they awaken to sunny skies with tummies ready for a big breakfast…
When we woke up that morning (it was Saturday by now) we headed out to find some lunch and find it we did. It deserves an entry all its own because we ate more seafood than was probably healthy, but after that fine meal we were off to do what I had been looking forward to all along — see Green Gables. You see, I was raised in the south so I always take the precaution that things may be closed on Sunday. Green Gables, as it turns out, was not closed on Sunday, but Saturday worked out just fine for us.
After arriving at Green Gables we decided that we wanted to take a walk before looking through the house. Off into the Haunted Wood we went.
And through the woods and across the road to the homestead where Lucy Maud Montgomery lived.
I took pictures of this little critter because he looks so different from the chipmunks and squirrels we have around here.

And this is why I think I connect so much to L. M. Montgomery as a writer. One word: place.
Of course, we couldn’t visit Green Gables without taking a stroll down Lover’s Lane.
Back up the hill…

…to the house.
It’s the stoop. I have a think for front stoops. Especially those that are worn and have really old rugs on them.
Inside…
I loved this little plant. The way it looks like lace, and how that looks next to the curtains. So pretty.
Anne’s room
I don’t remember if this was Marilla’s room or the guest bedroom, but I loved the quilt and the pillow shams either way.

That was Green Gables. I don’t really know what to say about it except that it was a magical experience. Maybe not what it would have been when I was 11, but magical nonetheless. I hope that someday I will be able to take daughters back. It is something to be enjoyed and experienced with a young heart.

