No particular order to these memories, but there are some choice things I suppose will stay with me forever:
First grade. MF sits in the row beside me in class. One afternoon during 'art,' M carefully colors each of his teeth a different color from his box of crayons as I watch, fascinated. When finished, he sighs with contentment, and flashes a wide grin, revealing a rainbow-colored mouth. I could never figure out, all through first to fifth grade, whether MF was brilliant or a complete idiot. I tend towards the latter.
Second grade: Dad drives us to school every morning (my brother is a year and a half older). This day as I exit the car, I detect an immediate breeze. I realize I've forgotten my underwear! As I am in a dress as usual, this is a problem, particularly during recess when I usually climb the monkey-bars. I sit back in the car. Dad looks at me quizzically. When I tell him what I've forgotten, to his credit, he laughs and we head back home.
Third grade. A boy throws up his lunch immediately after recess, and is forever branded with the nickname "Earp," which follows him through grade school. Today he is a writer, but unfortunately for him, I can't forget the nickname or how he came to acquire it.
Fourth grade. The school nurse asks me what's wrong, and when I tell her "I dunno, I just feel crummy," she dissolves in fits of laughter.
Fifth grade. Weeks are spent on the playground playing Lost in Space. We enact the episodes we watch that week. I am always elected to play 'Penny,' because of my long brown hair.
Eight grade. When I tell mom a boy in my class is named Ronny Hinckleheimer, she makes me swear I am not making it up (I am prone to flights of imagination). She does the same thing a few years later when I tell her about Herron Higgenbotham.
The games we played in our neighborhood were epic. It was a golden age, and the entire block was filled with a tribe of kids roughly the same age. Hide & Go Seek is played with all the seriousness of War Games. This afternoon, I am a half-block from 'safe' and the opposing team is closing in. I jump into the back of a laundry truck making deliveries and order the startled driver when he returns from the house, to drive me down the street as I dive under a load of laundry bags. For some reason, without saying a word, he does this, delivering me right up to the designated safe point. The other kids can't figure out how I eluded capture.
What, you thought I was going to talk about school subjects?!
Having lived in the east and the west, I've found myself back in my home state of the south - not the 'deep' south; we like to think of ourselves as pioneers and our state as the 'jumping off place' to beginning a westward journey, like so many migrating pioneer families considered us to be in the 1800s.
My husband "Excy" and I run a wild mustang sanctuary (www.wingspur.org -- that's our 'wild bunch' running across the header up there), and are being bossed around by tons of wild and domestic animals. We seldom get a chance to get away anymore, but that's okay.
I am a former magazine editor and was working for a national nonprofit when I had to go on disability in '97. Now I freelance articles and edit for a publishing house and private clients. Like most everyone out there, I have a few screenplays and mostly-completed novels in a drawer. I'm also failing to learn how to play the hammered dulcimer. Can't read music, just play by ear. But I have slowly mastered some civil war-era and folk songs.
I started blogging because a friend thinks I'm funny and I'd be good at it, and because it's way more fun than Facebook.