Photographs; A Collage of Memories

Fragments of time, they cover my walls, adorn my dresser, sit next to me as I write. Snapshots that cause me to remember, laugh, smile and at times cry.  A collection of moments, scattered vignettes, glimpses of where I came from, reminders of the love that transformed me, made me who I am. Portraits spanning over a hundred years; sepia tones, black and white, and vibrate Kodachrome encompass me. Beautiful reflections captured, framed, treasured and loved; everlasting memories that will survive long after I have left this earth.

A photo floats in a glass frame. In the background, a small wave is rushing in from the Atlantic, small shells dot the wet sand, bits of sea grass pierce through the white foam as it recedes back into the ocean. Sitting center stage, against summer's backdrop, my daughter, Kathryn, and grandson, Cole. The loves of my life.

My daughter's hair is pulled back, a few loose strands silhouette her sun kissed cheeks, accentuating her sad eyes and playful frown. My little girl's whimsical pout cannot mask the truth, she is all grown up. A brightly colored shark hat shades my grandson's face, casting a shadow across his tears. At a year old, the ocean is too big, too loud and too scary, even in his mom's arms.  The moment captured for eternity, Cole's reaction to the Ocean greeting his toes for the first time.

A series of white framed 8 x 10s displayed against a vibrant purple background are testament to my daughter's patience and perseverance. Cole running along the beach, exploring the sand searching for seashells, watching dogs play in the surf. Proof love and time can conquer all fears.

Cherished photos of people I have never met stare back at me. Their journey, their love is a part of my soul.

In the midst of ambers, beiges and browns is a photograph of a chubby baby in a long white dress. He sits on the lap of a large woman. Her hair is pulled into a tight bun. Her tailored white shirt and long dark skirt are hints at her stern German upbringing. Behind them a beautiful young girl with a short bob. The only thing bigger than the bow in her hair is the collar on her blouson checkered dress. I smile at her Mary Janes, remembering how much I loved mine. On the other side of the woman, stands a young boy. His bow tie barely visible, he looks uncomfortable in his knickers and dark stockings. The occasion for the family portrait, my grandfather's christening. A joyous celebration yet all they expressions are sullen. The portrait taken at a time when smiles were not acceptable on celluloid. "People of good character did not grin, smirk, or, smile."

Directly underneath hangs a faded color Poloroid from Guadalcanal, 1944. My grandfather left for war when my mother was one, returned when she was five. A year later, in 1946, my grandfather died at the age of 36 while stationed at Camp Lee, Virginia. My mother was too young at the time and  has no memories of him.

I should know my grandfather's voice, recognize his laughter but I don't. His embrace should have been a part of my childhood but it wasn't. He is a stranger to me, yet as I stare at him he is not. Standing in line with the other officers of the Quartermaster Corps on the beach of Guadalcanal I see my nephew's stance. My mom and sister have his blue eyes. My daughter shares the same rosiness in her cheeks when she smiles. His photograph reminds me there is a part of my grandfather in all of us, and so, in a way I know him well.

When people remark I don't look my age I am reminded of a simple black frame that holds a stoic portrait of my great grandparents, Jacob and Amanda Jane. Jacob's bushy mustache, pronounced ears, and slicked back hair make him look more like Wyatt Earp than a turn of the century Iowa farmer. The bump on his nose is the giveaway to his roots; it is a definite male Robinson trait. The image of my great grandmother stunning, my Aunt Jane, her namesake, is an almost identical reflection of her beauty.

Most amazing, the photograph was taken when my great grandparents were in their late fifties. Jacob farmed all his life and Amanda Jane had given birth to eleven children.  Together they raised their family in a small Iowa farm house, not an easy life, yet nary a winkle on either face. Proof the way we age is a product of genetics not cosmetics. Or, could it be, love is the best anti-ager?

One of my favorite photographs I was not part of the moment and have no memory of the time or place it was taken. I love it because it gives me a glimpse into the life of the man I love (and lost) while we were apart.

Inside the bamboo frame sits a photograph of Bobby, taken while he was on cruise, during a Navy tradition called steel beach. Aviator sunglasses, bare-chested, black jams with bright flowers, holding a microphone and singing with a band on the flight deck. He was most definitely 'Officer and a Gentleman' handsome. Even now he takes my breath away.

Most days I smile when I gaze at him. I confess there are days, usually in March, when his image brings tears to my eyes. The photograph, the moment, I was not a part of, reminds me of one I was; the first time Bobby sang to me. Thirty years have passed yet the night seems like a blink ago. The memory so alive, I can still feel traces of his heartbeat, see reflections of us in the mirror as we danced. Carefree, doors cast open, the ocean breeze swirling around us as we turned, the moon casting our shadows across the room as he serenaded me with Springsteen. Life was large and beautiful.

I often reach out and touch his picture. What I wouldn't give to hear his voice again, share one more dance, have one more photograph to place on my wall. There is no sorrow, I am truly lucky to have the memories I do.

My healing photograph is displayed in a brown frame with an off white mat insert. The trees in the outdoor chapel created a lush green backdrop for the portrait of my father cradling my daughter at her baptism. Dad's crew cut showing the first hints of gray. Kathryn's short flowing white dress pops against Dad's favorite tan Guayabera shirt.  Kathryn's feet in their lace trimmed socks kicking at his little belly bulge. Dad is healthy and strong.

After his death I clung to the photo, looked at it often, trying to erase the memory of his cancer ridden body. For five years I watched cancer whittle away his 6'3", 210 pound frame down to 135 pounds. My mind was haunted by the helpless feeling cancer gave me. I needed to remember Dad before cancer, when he was most alive, when he was with his buddy, Kathryn.

When Kathryn was younger, she would run and jump into Dad's arms. He carried her on his shoulders, in his arms, on his back, upside down, right side up, every way imaginable. Her giggles, his cadence as he walked. Kathryn was Grandpa's little girl, and she was the light of his life. I often joked Dad was the oldest kid on the block. To survive, I needed to remember him strong and playful. The photographs on my wall, exorcised the cancer from my memory.

As I type I look around me and I see my daughter, grandson, birthdays, graduations, weddings, regattas, football games, cheerleading teams, dances, Christmas, Easter, cousins, nephews, my sister, parents, family reunions; so many imagines creating a halo of love. Reminders of the many blessings God has given me. Memories I have clung to during the hard days.

I treasure my collections of 3x5, 5x7 and 8x10s, the patchwork of browns, blacks, pewter, and whites that decorate my apartment. My prayer, as I grow older my collage of memories expands and continue to give me inspiration and guidance as I commit memories to paper.

Writer's Block- Accepting What Was

Since the beginning of November I have been suffering from writer’s block and bouts of insomnia. Each night I would spend hours writing, only to discard the pages before heading to bed. My brain would agonize over the repeated failed attempts to start writing this particular chapter. 

My mind refusing to shut off, would sort through the interactions of the past year(s), grasping for anything that would allow me to do what I have been trying to do since I first began my book; merge what I thought I meant to one person, how I viewed him, to how it actually was and how it all led to my purgatory in January 1984.

The impossible tasks I gave myself, not only to abrogate the sin I have carried for so long, but record what I have refused to speak of or acknowledge. Somehow compose the wonderful, the ugly, the happy, and the transgression into sentences, paragraphs, and pages; a well written completed chapter.

Trying to define two characters, particularly one, was proving more difficult than I imagined. My problem, how do I keep him likable when he allowed the unthinkable to happen? Will my words be enough for the reader to understand both were good men, taught to live by the same code but only one was truly a man of honor? Perhaps the reason I can’t properly bring his character to life is because I have not fully absolved him for what happened? In order to forgive, I must acknowledge it, own it, am I ready to do that?  

One might ask, why is it so hard? Everything that was and wasn’t between Bobby and I was set in January 1984. Our fates with each other were sealed by the acts of others. It was what bound Bobby and I; my confession. It was the secret he took to his grave, the reason he swore no matter what he would always be here. It is why I always wondered, was it his sense of duty and obligation that kept him coming back, the knowledge he had or were we always meant to be together? Was it, as he said, something he always knew? The root, the complexities of it all, begin in this chapter. The one I am afraid to author.

When I first began my book, the stress of trying to portray everyone fairly, reliving every moment was too daunting, so I skipped the chapter and proceeded to the next. Now I must find the words that have eluded me and finish my book.  My frustration growing with every failed attempt.

Last night was the same, hours spent struggling to camouflage enough of the truth so certain people would not be seen as who/how they really were. After deleting seventeen or so pages I lay in bed staring at the wall, then the ceiling, next the door and finally reaching for the photo tucked behind my iPod on my nightstand. Praying his photo will ease my confusion. As I shifted from one position to the next, my brain shuffled through question after question until they seemed to swirl above my bed and haunt me.  Why was it so hard writing what was?

A hint of light was beginning to peek through the transom when I gave up the notion of sleep. Hoping my confusion and weariness would somehow filter out in a coherent form I turned on my computer. I was wrong. Frustration came quickly. Type a few letters then hit backspace, backspace, backspace. Join a few words, finish a sentence then highlight and delete; the maddening cycle was repeating. His character and mine, our relationship still not melding, the truth lost beneath the sugar coated illusion I was trying to create. One I had clung to for many years.

I closed word, pulled out a few pieces of his mail from when he was at the Academy and in flight school. I signed onto Facebook and Gmail to read the last couple years of correspondence. As the sun rose an epiphany occurred. I stared at his letters, remembering all that happened between us. The boldness of the truth screaming between the lines, his words were hollow. As empty as the love he gave me. I loved him but in 1983/84 I was never sure if he really loved me. Every I love you he wrote was followed by a but; real love never has a qualifier.  Why was I afraid to show the lopsidedness of our relationship? Thirty years later, was it my pride stopping me from conceding the truth?

He may have said he loved me countless times, written it a hundred more yet his actions proved otherwise. Reality, he was the only person who could have stopped what happened and he didn’t. As much as I want to cling to the idea I meant everything to him, he treated me well, I can’t. He may be a good man now but in 1984 he was a confused self-centered jackass and I was an immature fool who believed my love would change him. We were both young, naïve and stupid. I had no trouble portraying myself as such, why couldn't I do the same with him? 

Reading his letters I understood, I couldn’t connect with his character because I was writing how I wanted everyone to perceive him, our relationship, not how it actually was. My blindness, my stupidity, put in place the circumstances that gave a truly wonderful man guilt he did not deserve. Regret that should have been carried by him, Bobby borne willingly. Did he do so because they were friends or because Bobby and I would become lovers? The questions ricocheted in my mind while my writing was gridlocked.

The sun was halfway through the morning sky when I read a passage in my journal from 30 January 1984, “Why didn’t you look for me? Do you care? You turned your back on my tears. Did you ever love me? I will always love you but more than anything I wish I’d never met you.”

My journal from thirty years ago reminding me of the damage he had done, how badly he hurt me. Peace would only come with the truth. My twenty year old self demanding I show him how he truly was, not the illusion developed over the years. In 1984 I loved and hated him at the same time.  I finally comprehended It was okay to show the side I hated, the part of him that was conflicted. I was trying to characterize him, us as perfect, when none of us were. 

If we had been perfect, I would have never been damaged so deeply and Bobby wouldn't have had to put me back together. The difference I needed to show between the two. Bobby never said or wrote he loved me, but he proved it through perseverance. Something he never did. 

In 1987 I let the truth be buried with Bobby. One of the reasons I decided to write, to let everything finally be told.  I owe him that much. I owe him more, I owe him my life.

Now that I have accepted it all for what it was, the words are flowing once again.

The Mist of a Boo

My phone rings, I answer to hear,  "Happy New Year Coach!" 

"Happy New Year!" I respond. 

I apologized for not recognizing her voice, explained unavailable showed on my phone screen, so I didn't even know where the call was coming from and I asked who it was. I heard her laugh, "It's been a long while, I am not sure if you will remember me but its Boom, your mist of a boo!"

It took me a second to make the connection, place a face with the nickname. because I had never technically coached her. The two of us laughed as we walked down memory lane, filling in each other's memory gaps.
.

She was this little bitty thing, cheering on a younger team. She would stay after her football game to watch my older kids cheer.  I dubbed her Boo because she always tried to sneak up behind me, make me jump.  She was one of the kids who constantly told me she couldn’t wait to get older, cheer on my team and be one of my girls.

   

I remember the many conversations between the cheerleading commissioner and myself. Her coach was frustrated with her team, especially the young girl I called Boo. She was too small to base and because she had been dropped to the ground the year before she was afraid to fly, she constantly gave up on builds and bailed. Kim our of frustration joked, the team was a stunting nightmare and asked if I could go help with the younger team, “work my magic”.   Never one to say no, or turn down a stunting challenge, I agreed.

Boo showed up at our next game and I asked my kids a favor. I asked a few of my more experienced bases to put her up so I could see what she was like in the air. I was hoping with the help of my girls, the ones she looked up to and admired, together we could start chipping away at her fear of being dropped. Give her the confidence to go back in the air and fly. The first time the girls tried to put her up, she bent her leg, crumpled and came right back down.  I saw the panic in her eyes as they took her up, much faster than she was used to. I told them to try again. 

   

As she stood in her load in position, her head was down, shoulders dropped; I had seen that look before, that was the position of giving up. I knew it didn’t matter who was under her, she did not trust herself or them, she was afraid. I told Boo to look me in the eyes. I ran through the basics, always keep her head and eyes up, shoulders and hips squared, elbows up so she could push off, then prep, and stand up and lock the leg out. It was a piece of cake she just had to want to do it.  I lifted her chin, smiled and assured her, she could do it. I would never let her get hurt; she had my girls underneath her, she would not hit the ground as long as I was around.  She could do it, I had enough faith in her for the both of us. I reminded her, a single leg lib is a simple build. Next I asked my girls to take her up slow and keep her up there until I said bring her back down.

    

This time she stood up, my girls had her fully extended but once she was up, she kept bending her knee, trying to bail, force my girls to bring her down. My girls even more stubborn than I am, followed my instructions and refused to sweep her. Every time she bent her knee, waved her arms, one of my taller kids extra spotting would push her butt back up, forcing her to stand up. I stood in front, instructing her, keep your head up, lock your leg, don’t swing your arms, you are up there, you can do this, you are not coming down until you lock it out and stand.  Elizabeth who was basing her, yelled, “You are light. We can stay here all night so just lock your leg out.”  Boo finally steadied herself and stood in perfect lib. I gave her a thumbs up, yelled "That’s it you are doing it!"  As promised once she hit and held the lib I gave my bases the 1,2 to cradle (bring her down, catch her).  I saw a huge smile when they caught her, and that confirmed her heart loved to fly but her brain was afraid of falling.   

As long as the heart is in the game, you can eventually get the brain to get with the program.  I told my girls, load up do it again, reminded her to lock out, show everyone watching she was a flyer.  I reminded her if she wanted to be one of my kids one day,  number one rule, don’t give up, fight for every build.  We went through the drill several times, load in, up, hold, cradle.  The more she hit the happier she became, I still remember her yelling at her Dad to take her picture. She was proud; so was I.

The following week I showed up at her practice to help their coach work on team stunting.  I watched as my Boo loaded up, bend her leg and fall before she ever got close to standing up. Each time I would correct her bases, correct her form and say let’s do this again. It was obvious, she was scared and her bases were scared. Her entire group was defeated they had no faith in themselves or each other. They were giving up before they even started.

I pulled Boo aside to give her a personal pep talk. I reminded her she could fly, she had flown with my girls; she was beautiful in the air. If she could fly with my girls, there was no reason why she could fly with her team. She was always in control, it was up to her if she hit or she fell. She tried to give me the excuse, it was her bases they always give up first. I explained, her bases were afraid because she was afraid. How would she like to be a base, and be under a girl who constantly gave up?  Fear was contagious and so was fearless.  She controlled which one her group would be infected by. Instead of giving up she needed to fight, she needed lead, to show everyone underneath her she was not afraid, they could do it together. I could tell by her expressions she was still not convinced. Again, she gave me the excuse her bases moved, it was hard to stand, she was afraid they were going to drop her, she would hit the floor again. 

As a coach, my kids will tell you I use some really ‘different’ analogies for my motivational talks. I use what pops in my brain at the time, which at times can be a bit interesting. 

  

It was raining outside so I asked her if she was afraid of Thunderstorms, she rolled her eyes and said not since she was a little kid.  I explained she could always be a mist of a boo, the flyer who comes down in a simple drizzle or she could become a BOOM, the flyer who goes up and stays up even in a heavy thunderstorm.  She needed to think of her bases as the wind, the wind doesn’t stand still, it always moves and shifts. No matter how much her bases shifted, she had to be fearless, lock her leg out and stand up.  Thunder never stopped or gave up because the wind was moving. I always believed the stronger the wind the louder the boom. As a flyer, the more her bases moved the stronger she had to be. No matter what was going on underneath her, she had to be fearless, squeeze everything and lock out. If she did that, her bases could get her up and keep her up. I added personally I thought she was more of a Boom than a Boo. In fact after watching her fly with my girls I knew she was a Boom, she just needed to see it to. Have faith.

I patted her on her back and sent her back to her build group. They loaded up and down she came.  I told them it was okay, made a few corrections and adjustments, then before I said 1,2 I heard her small voice say, “We can do this.”  Once again she came down. Not allowing the frustration to build, I told them it was okay, that is what practice is for, to learn, falling was a part of learning. I lifted Boo's chin, smiled at her and instead of hanging her head back down, this time she said a little louder, “We can do this.”   By the end of the night, her constant, we can do it, her determination caught on and her stunt group was hitting and staying up. More importantly they were smiling and starting to gain confidence they were missing before. They even learned to twist in a half.  When I left, I gave my boo and her group each a high five and I told her to keep booming away. 

I would go back to her practice several more times, helping them learn and master new stunts. I will never forget at counties; watching my little bitty flyer who weeks before was terrified of stunting, hit all her builds. She ran off the floor with a huge smile, gave me a high five, a hug and proudly announced "I am officially a Boom."
    

My little boom never cheered for me, her father was in the Army and they were reassigned/moved the following year.

After reminiscing, I asked her after all these years why she called? I was happy she called but technically I was never her coach so her call truly surprised me.
She explained, she was home on leave before being deployed. She was helping her mom go through some old boxes, organize her things, when she came across some of her old cheerleading photographs and papers.  My cell phone number was on the bottom of one of the GORC contact sheets.  She was happy I still had the same number. I confessed that is why I always kept it, so my kids could always find me no matter how long it had been.

She was excited to learn I was still coaching. She envied my girls; she had always wanted to cheer on my squad.  She told me she cheered in high school, was a flyer and I would be proud she never bailed, she always fought to stay up. It didn't matter how many times she was dropped, she stayed fearless and got back up.  She always remembered to lead with confidence not fall with fear.

She called because she wanted to let me know when she was in OCS (officer candidate school) there were times she was tired, hurt, sore, ready to give up, for some reason she reflected back to her days at GORC and my crazy faith in her.  She reminded herself, she was always a Boom she never again wanted to be the mist of a boo that gave up. 

She wanted me to know how much it meant to her that I took time to talk to her, encourage and work with her. In her eyes I was the cool coach, I taught the older girls. She would watch the interaction I had with my cheerleaders at football games, the fun we shared and she wanted to be one of my girls. In a way I was her idol, she looked up to me, my girls and I paid attention to her, made her feel special and taught her she could do anything. Before she deployed she wanted to make sure I understood how much it helped her grow. 

Sometimes we never realize, it’s the moments, the conversations, the practices we forget. They are inconsequential at the time. We never recognize its the small tidbits of our life that can have the biggest impact on another’s.  

For most of my adult life I have coached either gymnastics or cheerleading.  I have worked with hundreds of children. I teach them for a few years and as in all things in life, they move on, they leave me. As a coach, I hope, I pray I have had a positive influence on them; I have been able to help them grow, reach their full potential.

Without a doubt, my kids have helped me to become a better me, a better coach and I pray I have done the same for them.  I hope they always look back with laughter and smiles at the times we worked, played, and accomplished many goals together, as a team.

I confess there are days when I leave practice and I am never quite sure if I used the right words, if I am really reaching them, are they listening, and I wonder all things a coach wonders.

…then the phone rings and a voice from my past is there reminding me exactly why I coach. Confirmation, crazy analogies and all I am not doing such a bad job.
Today's phone call also reminded me how neglectful I have been.

When I coach, instruct,encourage, give my crazy speeches and pep talks, it's not just me; the words, the methods are all formed from the influences of my past coaches, friends and teachers. I think it's about time I let those wonderfully special people know how much they have meant in my life. How much of what they taught me, I have absorbed and passed on to my kids. It really is a wonderful legacy we coaches share. 

So maybe a great resolution for 2013, is to reach back, remind all the people in our past how much they have meant to us.  How much they have influenced us all. 

Happy New Year everyone!! Be safe and God Bless.   

Letters: A Gift From Our Past to Our Present to Our Future

True, mail is slow, email is instantaneous. I love how in a matter of seconds what I have written via email will reach its destination, whether it is next door or the other side of the world. Questions can be answered within a day verses a week.  Email has many remarkable attributes but will never be as wonderful, as intimate as an actual letter.  ‘Dreamy’ is holding a piece of paper, a love note, next to your heart that a sweetheart has written.   There is something magical seeing a person’s handwriting verses the font that appears on a computer screen.   Mail gives us something tangible to hold on to, cling to after someone is gone.  Email is a virtual correspondence, to me not as personal. Hand written letters are our own personal time machines, they allow us to glimpse into our past, remind us of whom we were, the people who traveled in and out of our lives.

In the process of searching the basement for a box of old family photos to give my sister I rediscovered one of my many boxes of old letters and keepsakes.  Feeling nostalgic I grabbed the box, spent the next few hours journeying back into my past.  Sitting on my bed I took out the bundles of mail neatly held together by rubber bands, smiling as I separated them, reading the names and location on the return addresses. It felt as if it was Christmas in May as I pulled out souvenirs of my younger days; old football and graduation programs, a few business cards, an unused airplane ticket, soap on a rope and a few other “interesting” trinkets.  The letters tied together by a simple white scarf I held for a few minutes, not wanting to let go.  I ran my fingers over his last return address, HC-5 Box 84, FPO San Francisco, Agana Guam 96637. Twenty five years ago his hands wrote my address, my beautiful last letter.  I leaned my head against the wall, sighed, amazed at how much time had passed, saddened at how much life he has missed.  I put his letters aside; I wanted to read the letters I had forgotten, not relive what my heart has memorized.

The memories that had lapsed, long forgotten in the recesses of my brain, came to life as I sat Indian style with a pillow on my lap and read. When I finished each letter, I placed them neatly in piles around me.  Notes from high school had me laughing the hardest. Apparently thirty cents bought a soda, because that is what my secret sister gave me to buy a coke “to go with that scrumptious dinner.”  A small faded piece of paper reminded me my first secret sister was Jennifer McCarthy, who lived on Camelot Drive in Odenton.  Teenage frustration at life, being forced to move during high school was clearly evident in a single page letter dated 14 November 1977 with one sentence written over and over again, “I hate LA” (Louisiana) from my friend Margaret. However, the subject did change in her P.S., “What do you mean- you are close to having a boyfriend?”   I must confess I am curious now who the close to was as well??  Other than a handful of correspondences from St. James School (my first boyfriend) most of my high school letters are notes passed between friends discussing what boys were cute, recalling the countless dateless dances and heartbreak over not being liked by a crush. Most amusing were the notes discussing what happened over the weekends. The letter post marked May 1981 Colorado Springs, Colorado reminded me how much and how often my ‘big brother’ worried about me.  He was busy studying for finals but wanted to take time to write, remind me to be safe, have fun but be good at prom.  My last letter as a senior in high school; would be the first of many letters I would receive from the zip code 21412.  Dated 20 May 1981, 3rd class midshipmen, 2^nd company 83, wrote to thank me for our walk the weekend before, “I think you’re a doll unfortunately awkwardness prevailed much of the time we were together.  Time however, does have a way of seasoning people. You are beautiful… Don’t close the door to romance.”   I don’t remember Midshipmen Evans so I think the door must have closed.

The letters from my college years were much different than the ones previously; they are evidence of my transition from a teenager to young lady, no longer school girl notes, the majority were from men vying for my attention. The many various relationships witnessed and recorded by pen and paper delivered by the U.S. Post Office. Sifting through the piles I was reminded of the Rugby player from 5^th Company who wrote me in August of 1981. As I read his letters my memory came alive; he was from Tucson, Arizona and I met him while walking downtown with my friend Helen.  Our introduction; he made a funny remark about how my ice cream cone was bigger than I was.  It was melting down my hand faster than I could eat it.  He came to my rescue, retrieved a napkin and while I cleaned my hands he finished my cone.  I believe his pick up line was something to the effect, since we had officially shared germs I had to go out with him. He introduced me to the game of rugby and I introduced him to how fickle girls could be.  Another 3^rd classman quickly caught my attention and I dated him for the next several months.  My mailbox was now receiving mail from 7^th company no longer 5^th.

 I couldn’t help but laugh at the Christmas card I received dated 12 August 1982. “I was thinking about you, and that made me think about Christmas.”  A post card from San Francisco reminded me at one time I was called Wild Woman #2 by my brother-in-laws friends.  My first card of 1983, came from Ann Flight, 1/1/83 a quick note telling me the cookies I made were delish and Happy 1983. I smiled at her signature, “Ma”.  There were many letters and cards from ‘Ma’.  The largest Valentine’s Day card I have ever received arrived in February 1983 from “Sunny California.” It cost 33 cents to send. Less than a month later, post marked March 9, 1983 San Diego, my introduction to the world of break-up letters.  He was a pilot, gorgeous, he was intelligent, he was sweet and I was not meant for him. The ‘break-up’ was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.  The first letter to break my heart was sent December 1^st, 1983 from Pensacola, Florida.  At the time it brought tears to my eyes, now I see the humor in it.  He was responding to a letter I had written him on my plane ride home from the Army Navy game in California. I was confused and needed to know what future he saw with me. He wrote all his friends were getting married and he was not ready for any kind of ‘formal commitment’.  He went on to explain he was pretty sure he loved me, but maybe he should refrain from using the word love so often when we spoke and wrote each other. What made me chuckle, he signed his letter, “Love you always.”  Two weeks later I received a Christmas card inviting me down to Pensacola to visit, he missed me. The uncertainty of love and life born on the pages of my letters, now stored in the basement.

Definition of bad timing: Christmas 1984, I received cards from Corpus Christi, Texas; Pensacola, Florida; San Diego, California; Alamogordo, New Mexico and Norfolk, Virginia.  It seemed every man I had seriously dated or had secretly been in love with sent me a card letting me know they were thinking about me, asking how I was, they missed me and were hoping I would consider visiting them.  I never answered any of them; I was pregnant with my daughter.  At the time it was painful, but now it is almost comical at how ironic it all was.

The funniest letters, the best illustrators of my younger years, the numerous correspondences I received from friends; some asking for the latest dirt, others teasing me about the current love of my life.  Letters from California, New Mexico, Florida, Texas, Alabama, Pennsylvania, my friends dotted across the United States and some stationed overseas. Postcards from Christmas, spring and summer break ; August of 1982 I am sure when Mark wrote from summer cruise he had no idea 30 years later I would be once again be reading his postcard and saying out loud, “That’s right he bought a mustang”  and laughing at his predictions for 1^st class year!  I smiled at the letter from California asking if the latest rumor was true, was I dating a certain Lieutenant in Norfolk.  The answer was neither yes nor no, I really didn’t know. There were dates asked and confirmed via the mail for sailboat rides, drinks at friends and beach volleyball games on the shores of Norfolk. They all made the summer of 1982 one of the most fun I ever had. It also added to my confusion; San Diego, Annapolis, or Norfolk, where did my heart really belong.

Many of my personal dilemmas were solved with the help of my friends via pen, paper and the post office. Other problems were compounded by them.  Letter dated 20 January 1982, “You can’t seriously consider liking him, his friend is a complete jackass and that means I would have to be nice to him. You know how hard that will be?”  One of the most wonderful letters was written to me the early morning of May 25, 1983 and left for me at the Flight’s house, it was  from a good friend Ed, “Just wanted to drop off a letter in case I didn’t get to a chance to talk to you again” (after graduation) He gave me advise on the rest of my college years, about a certain man in his company and ended his letter with; “You never know what will happen in life I wanted you to know I have never seen you as an “average” person, I have come to know a pretty extraordinary girl. Never sell yourself short. (Which you tend to do)  Please write or call if you are ever frustrated, pissed off. (Or happy as hell.) Don’t sweat it dude. Later D, it’s been fun. Going to miss you. “ Hellertown, PA I had forgotten his hometown but the address he left me, a place where they would always be able to forward his mail, triggered my memory.  A simple letter reminding me of all the wonderful friendships I had found at the Academy and lost through time.

There is such a beautiful creative process to letter writing.  No spellcheck, no backspace delete, what flows freely from your brain is transcribed on paper with no alterations or corrections.  Back in the day there were no icons; hearts and silly doodles were hand drawn then sent to a sweetheart.  When I was younger, I kept a writing pad in my nightstand, before going to bed I would use my knees as a desk and write to the people who meant the most to me. Then I would anxiously await their reply. At the time I didn’t realize with the help of my friends, I was documenting a history of me, my crazy confusing life.   

After reading my old letters, recognizing how truly magnificent they are; it now saddens me the vast majority of correspondence takes place today via email.  Letters that at one time would be stored in boxes are now kept in virtual folders. The delete button or a computer crash can erase every thought, every sentence, and every feeling, forgotten memories. As email takes over, there will be nothing tangible to hold on to.  I am afraid years from now there will be no new signatures to run my fingers over, no postmarks or return addresses to document where the correspondence came from in 2012,  no funny hearts and doodles to make me smile, there will be nothing to actually hold next to my heart that someone actually held in their hands from this century. Our history will become as impersonal and as sterile as the computer keyboard I am typing on now.

The latest trend seems to be book clubs. Everybody is anxious to meet and discuss “Fifty Shades of Grey” or the latest ‘in’ book. As I sit here with the box of remnants from my past next to me, I wonder, maybe a ‘new’ movement should be started; may I suggest a letter writing club?

Relationships- Lessons Learned

A few weeks back I was out with a group of friends when the conversation turned to previous relationships. I was surprised at how many of my friends did not like their former partners. They dreaded the thought of running into them. I was perplexed that a vast majority of my friends believed they did nothing wrong, the relationship ended because the other party was one hundred percent at fault. As gently as possible, I tried to question, if they had done nothing wrong, if they were the perfect partner, wouldn’t they still be in the relationship? I was showered with an instantaneous and unanimous, “I had nothing to do with its failure.”

Why do people believe if a relationship ends, it was a failure? For me the answer has always been, it ends because it was never meant to last. For some reason or another, we, me and whomever, were not perfect for each other. A break-up is only a failure if you do not learn from it.

When a union dissolves the fault lies with both parties. It takes two people to make a relationship work and it takes two people to end it. One may carry more blame than the other but each person must own their share for its breakdown.

I can hear the chorus now; how can I be responsible if my partner cheated on me? A significant other does not cheat is their partner is perfect. I have had boyfriends cheat on me and it hurt me deeply. I also realized they cheated because I was not listening to them; I was not giving them what they needed. I did not see the signs I needed to pay more attention to him.

I have friends who would ask how could it possibly be their fault when their ex cheated on all their previous partners. The fault lies in dating a person you know to be a serial cheater. Why would you ever think they would be different for you?

I learned a long time ago if you own your part of the responsibility, what you did wrong, it is easier to understand their actions. Why they went in search of someone else. It does not make what they did right but it does make it easier to forgive and move on. Until you forgive, as long as one holds anger, you are in essence still tied to your past, tied to them. It is impossible to move forward until you are free.

Of course I also understand there are people in this world who defy explanation, no ifs, ands or buts; they are jerks, evil, bad. These are the abusive partners. They have the ability to suck all the happiness and joy out of a person. They fool everyone around them, hiding their true ‘personality or character’ until it is too late, a person is already deep into a relationship. The time they steal from a person can never be regained but with God’s grace and with a lot of help from family and friends the person who is sucked into a relationship with an evil person can survive the damage and move on. The lesson is looking back and trying to recognize the hints, the clues they subtly dropped at the beginning of the relationship, understanding why one refused to see them. The only true fault is usually being too nice, too naïve and not leaving sooner.

I have heard friends state they have the divorce or the break up from hell, but why was it hell? I have never been married or had a bad break up so I have no personal experience. From what I have witnessed, nasty endings are because one or both parties are hurting, feel wronged. The 'injured' party feels they have done nothing wrong, they have every right to impose their wrath. They are still suffering therefore they must cause the other person to feel as much pain as they do. They are not ready to admit or own their fault in the collapse of the relationship. They honestly believe they hate their previous lover, not recognizing it they didn't love them so much, they wouldn't be hurting so badly. My grandmother once told me the difference between love and hate is pain and anguish. The only cure, recognize the difference and forgive.

I look at my previous relationships as building blocks, life’s lessons until I find the man I am meant to spend the rest of my life with. My past boyfriends made me who I am and I am thankful I dated them. I am grateful most are still a part of my life. It always saddens me when I hear people talk about how much they hate their ex. If they saw them they would turn away, leave where ever they were. Maybe I am not the norm, but I know if I saw one of my exes I would walk up and hug them. Catch up over lost time and laugh over old times.

I have often wondered why is it so hard for some people to remember the good parts of their relationship, what first attracted them to their ex? Why instead do they choose to dwell on the ending, all the bad parts of the relationship, the character flaws of their ex? We all have our imperfections, just as I had to learn to adjust to their quirks, they had to deal with all my peculiarities. I am not perfect and I have never expected my partner to be as well. Besides perfection is pretty boring!

I have been pretty lucky in the boyfriend department. Most of my relationships have been with some pretty amazing men. I may not have realized it at the time, but looking back I recognize how truly fortunate I was. I would be lying if I did not confess that a few of my exes devastated me and it took me a while to get over the pain of the hurt they inflicted. For a time, because of them, I built ‘walls’ to protect myself from feeling too much, never wanting to experience that kind of hurt again. As I matured I recognized and accepted my part in how the relationship deteriorated, why it fell apart. I had to take my responsibility in causing my own pain. The most eye opening moment, when I realized in a few of my relationships I was more at fault than my ex. Time has a way of disclosing the truth if you are willing to search your soul.

The only way I have ever been able to liberate myself and move forward, examine the relationship. Identify what was wonderful, what hurt, what was my fault, and what would I change. To move forward, never make the same mistake, I had to be honest, look deep within myself and admit my faults. It was never important what my ex did, that was for them to accept and own, I had to concentrate on what I could take away from the relationship. I had to ask myself the hard questions. I had to learn how I could grow, forgive and move forward; be ready for the next man in my life. Sometimes examining my mistakes in a relationship was a difficult lesson but I understood if I did not learn from them I would constantly repeat them and I truly hate repetition of a bad nature!! Who knows maybe my next boyfriend will be 'Mr. Right' and after learning from all my mistakes, my faults hopefully I will be ready for him.

'Channel' Surfing for the Perfect Sleeping Partner

I feel like I should have to type a disclaimer before this post, a warning label of such. Today once again my brain is a cluttered confusion of fragmented thoughts, feelings, disjointed words and emotions. Planes are taking off in the distance and for a time I watched, wishing I could hop on one heading to destinations unknown. Since I am stranded in Maryland, I sit outside trying to get lost in Springsteen. I see dark clouds rolling in from the distance, rain is definitely on the way. Like the blue sky trying to keep the storms at bay I am doing my best to lock away the erratic mixed up emotions I am feeling so I can put pen to paper and write on the subject I briefly scribbled about last night before heading to bed. Forgive me as I build another wall around ‘crazy’, lock everything away where I no longer feel and allow myself to concentrate on the subject at hand. So if this is not my best piece I apologize…maybe in the future I will re-address the issue.

‘Channel’ Surfing for the Perfect Sleeping Partner

There is this entertaining restaurant and pub called the Irish Channel. My friends helped me discover the wonders and fun of this neighborhood gathering place in Crofton. Every weekend the place is packed with new faces as well as the regulars, together they form an eclectic lively crowd. Televisions overhead play sports programming, bands serenade the dance floor, darts fly and the drinks flow. It is constantly amusing and always fun. I love hanging out at the Channel with my friends, I feel safe, comfortable in my surroundings. I know some people may find this hard to believe but there are nights when I still feel like the ugly duckling trying to fit in a pond of swans. There are times when I believe I don’t ‘fit’ what people expect of me. Where my circle of friends is small and comfortable, my friends are part of a larger group. Through them I am able to meet more people, sit, observe and be a part of the conversations and interactions that encompass me. As I listen I become more at ease with my environment, more importantly I discover more about myself and how similar we all are at the ‘Channel’.

A few weeks back shortly after I posted on Facebook that I was heading to the ‘Channel’ with friends I received a rather odd phone call. An old friend called asking why I was heading there. He had heard that the only reason one goes to the ‘Channel’ was to get drunk and pick up a person of the opposite sex. Somewhat annoyed and angry at him for making that assumption about my friends and me, I defiantly answered, “Not true! Besides why does it matter to you? We are all adults. Sometimes a girl needs to be held, danced with and yes have sex! Which FYI we are there to hang out and have fun, nothing more, period.” After listening to a conversation last night at the ‘Channel’ I wish I could have a do over retort to his declaration of our intent. I would definitely have a much better response to his allegations. A series of exchanges between friends, commentary meant to be funny, spoke volumes of truth if you really understood what was being left unspoken.

What were the assertions that grabbed my attention, registered in my brain as the underlying true motives of the single crowd that heads out to surf for companionship at the ‘Channel’, “I have met plenty of women I could have sex with, not interested. I am still searching for the woman I am willing to let stay for lunch.” Another, “Sex is great but I am searching for a man I want to take a nap with.” Last, “Perfection, really sleeping after sex.” I, the woman who has spent years building walls around my emotions, at times more reinforced than Fort Knox, understood what was being said. I shook my head in agreement.

Yes, I cannot deny, there are some people for one reason or another that are not ready or searching for anything more than sex. However, the overwhelming population ‘hanging out’ are looking for and wanting more. They seek not someone to simply have sex with; they are in a pursuit of someone to ‘sleep’ with. It is easy to go to bed with someone and have sex, it is much harder to wake up next to them and stay. Ultimately we are all searching not for sex but to find the person we are comfortable enough to relax and ‘sleep’ with after the 'fun' is over. Wonderful, is when you reach a point in a relationship when you fall asleep in their arms as you watch television, or read. So at ease with each other you are no longer nervous, you can relax and dream in their embrace.

Let’s face it unless you have set up a video camera to record yourself sleeping no one truly knows the things we do when we sleep or nap. We have all awoken to a drool stain on a pillow a time or two. We have all jolted awake or cried out loud at least once from a bad dream. What woman hasn’t looked in the bathroom mirror and seen the horror of smudged mascara in the morning? We can control nothing when we sleep; not tossing, turning, snoring or drooling. Anything can happen while we slumber. When we fall asleep with someone, we are letting them into our unknown territory. We are trusting them to do us no harm, keep us safe while we are lost to the world around us.

We are all searching for that person, be it a friend, lover for a short time or a lifetime that we can trust enough to fall deeply asleep next to. We seek a person who can make us laugh over the drool stain; tease us about our leg stubble as our bodies are entwined. So at ease, we don’t feel the need to rush to the bathroom to fix our face when we awake, they won’t care. We want to find the person who will brush our hair out of our face, kiss us softly as we dream even when they know we probably can’t feel it, but they simply have the desire to. We long for the person who not only can we get naked in front of, but we can safely bare our souls to while we are in their arms. We can trust them with our secrets, our dreams and even our fears. How do we know when we have found the perfect ‘sleeping’ partner? When they prefer us first thing in the morning, our natural selves, over the illusion they took to bed the night before. When the perfect Sunday or Saturday afternoon is spent dreaming in their arms and we wouldn’t want it any other way.

In a way I guess my friend was correct, we all go to the ‘Channel’ in search of someone to sleep with. Just not the way he thinks.

The Magnificence of Eye Candy

Eye candy, ah the beauty of someone that makes our heart rate increase, our eyes lust and our minds wander. I am not sure anyone can truly define who is the perfect eye candy?

We all have different taste; different desires. What one may consider appealing another may not but we all share one similarity, there is one mutual truth to eye candy. When you find it, when the ‘hot button’ has been tripped, our minds delve into a wonderful world of want and lust; our very own fantasy land of desire, a one way ticket we would love to take to trouble.

Sometimes eye candy is an actor or actress we see on television, other times it is the gorgeous thirty something year old man with amazing eyes we meet at a bar from Ohio. They make us wish we were younger, hotter or could be an actress for one day on our favorite show. (Burn Notice ...Please!!) It doesn’t really matter, either way those moments of eye candy discovery are to be treasured, they awaken us, remind us we are still alive, still young, wanting more, wanting them. Something about the person arouses our sexual being and drives us wonderfully crazy.

For me, his age does not matter; it is all in his eyes. There is nothing sexier than a gorgeous set of eyes that looks deep in my soul and doesn’t release the gaze. It is not the look, it is the feeling they give me when they catch my eyes. Add a casual touch, or a brush of his body against mine, stick a fork in me I am done, done, done! I may be talking to someone else, trying to concentrate on the conversation but my mind is lost in a day dream as I keep looking over at him trying to get a glimpse of his eyes one more time. I have often thought if he could read my mind I would be arrested, smacked or who knows maybe even asked out on a date? Either way I am happy to be lost in my own private Disney World where I am not so goofy and he is most definitely Prince Charming.

I have discovered I am more thankful for eye candy in my forties than I ever was in my twenties. When I was younger I did not appreciate the magnificent tonic for the soul that a gorgeous man can be. I did not understand sometimes it is better not to touch, ruin the illusion our mind has created. Too many times in the past I discovered what I imagined as the perfect, gorgeous, magnificent man was anything but wonderful. Even more tragic, when I realized my new found eye candy was 'Mr. Wonderful' and not interested in me. The sting of rejection, the reality of the situation ruined my fantasy. And yes I would be remiss if I did not disclose there was a time when I let the most delectable eye candy confection in my life, it truly was magical and for a brief period of time he ruled my world. Our memories I will always cherish.

I am at a point in my life where it is rare that I will deem someone as eye candy. Age and experience have made it harder for a man to spark the ignition that lights the “holy shit he is gorgeous” button. My brain has long since been in protection mode, discounting what I am initially attracted to as too young, too quiet, too this, too that. But when for some unexplainable reason the lust alarm in my brain sounds, I happily get lost in desire and my wonderful rated R imagination. After all dreams can be so much more fun than reality!! And with eye candy who really wants to test reality??

Okay maybe I do!

The People Who Know Me Best

Saturday night I visited with some old schoolmates at Kaufmann’s. It was great to be able to spend time with some of my friends I have not seen in twenty years. I marveled at how long it had been since we had all last hung out together. Yet time seem to melt away as we all laughed, ate, drank and swamped life stories. There is something extremely comfortable about sitting around a table with the people who shared your awkward years, who witnessed your metamorphosis from scared child to a young adult. I came to the realization during our conversations, my high school friends no matter how much time has passed, how much I thought life had changed me, they are the one group of people who understand and know who I am. They have no wild expectations of me, no preconceived notions of how I should act or feel. They never compare me to or expect me to be anyone but myself. They accept me mistakes, faults, quirks and all.

Some people believe when they lose touch with old friends they no longer share as close of a connection they once had, time had some how diminished their relationship. In fact it is the opposite. It may be unfathomable to some, but I have discovered time does not weaken or erase the bonds we developed in our teen years. There may be a little dust but some connections defy explanation, the bonds are unbreakable. The revelation occurred to me during a conversation over a few drinks with an old friend.

Whenever I am out, at some point during the evening someone will usually bring up the topic of my blog. I don’t mind, I find it flattering that they take time to read what I have written, my crazy ramblings. Last night was no exception. I was asked a couple questions about a few posts then quickly scolded for not posting anything new. I apologized for in essence ignoring my blog, not writing more, then explained why, the debate that was raging in my head. I informed him about some of the private messages I had received since January. The especially hurtful emails and attacks over my last post. They all left me wondering why I expose so much of myself when I write, I questioned should I remain so open? I further explained over the past year I learned because I have been so honest with how I feel or felt I was labeled by some people as emotionally irrational. To them it was not normal to care so much. I understood I should ignore them but it was hard to when their attacks were in essence meant to hurt me, attack who I was. He laughed told me not to let morons who did not understand honesty, compassion, love and loyalty to bother me. He made the correct assumption that the more hurtful comments and emails were coming from people who had never met me, had never taken the time to get to know me. He pointed out they did not understand me, they read what I wrote and made assumptions based on their life not mine. They were trying to understand me through facebook status messages and my blog. He stated I was much more complex than the two sites would ever allow them to see. My words were at times too honest, so open, they allowed the unfamaliar reader to see the depth of my emotion without them understanding that was not abnormal, that is who I have always been, extremely compassionate and loving. They only saw a partial picture of me. They were seeing me through my blog in black and white when I lived in a world full of color, full of emotion. To him “I was a labyrinth of beauty.”

He went on to tell me the reason he loved my blog, it was the honest me, the girl he remembers from junior high and high school. The sweet girl who wanted everyone around her to be happy, the constant peace maker between friends. The girl who kept everything hidden inside. The girl with all heart. The girl who cried at a party because I had hit a squirrel with my car. He chuckled made the statement, I probably still felt guilty over killing it. (By the way, yes I do thanks for reminding me) He laughed at my one blog when I made the statement I was and would never be the woman who turned men’s head. I was wrong in that assumption. It brought back the memory of the first time I showed up at the pool in a bikini, plopped down on a towel next to him and began talking about Orioles baseball game from the night before. He confessed how hard it was for him to concentrate on the conversation while I was applying suntan lotion, then laid down and untied my strings so I would not have tan lines. He confided he had to get up mid conversation so he would not be ‘embarrassed’. He explained at lunch I was surrounded by the guys not because I was one of them or they wanted to steal my food but rather they wanted to be around me. I never seemed to grasp that concept. He could never figure out who I liked, none of them could. I was a constant mystery. To him and many of his friends I was almost unobtainable in high school because they had watched me transform from this shy insecure funny looking little girl in junior high to this amazing, talented, bubbly, beautiful, intelligent free spirit. I had grown from the band geek to the captain of the pom squad, from tom boy to wow. I was naive to my own changes. That was my charm to him, I was real in a world of very fake girls. Added bonus, I knew the starting line-up and stats of the O's.

He loved how I was always extremely innocent and genuine with how I felt, I expected others to be the same way. I was the one person he knew could never lie, I didn’t have it in my soul. He could tell through my writing I was still very honest and passionate with how I felt and thought others should be. He reminded me of the time I walked up to him in the hall and very bluntly told him he was an utter jackass. Not for something he had done to me but to a friend. When I confronted him, he knew he had to be a complete jackass probably worse because I was the one person who hated confrontations, never said anything bad about another person. Then true to “Denise form” two periods later he was passed a note from me apologizing for being so blunt and rude. He loved how I always defended my friends, stood up for them. He was amazed no matter how badly someone had hurt me I always forgave them and it was never mentioned again. I always seem to simply move on, continue to push forward.

As he continued reminiscing about some of my more goofier defining moments, I looked at my high school friends surrounding me. We had shared so much together, the connection was immeasurable. We all experienced those incredible gawky teenage years. The pimples, the bad hair days, the horrible gym uniforms, the first awkward moment in front of the opposite sex, we lived it all together and survived. Our friends made us laugh after we had been ignored by the 'love of our life' at a party. We sat with them during lunch shared the joy of our first “you wouldn’t believe it” kiss by our locker between classes! We passed notes and shared secrets. They rejoiced in our excitement when we were finally asked to a dance and experienced our pain when our hearts were broken. They never left our sides as we pushed our limits, tested our boundaries. They were the ones banging on our window when we were on restriction bringing us McDonald's fries or trying to convince us to sneak out. Our high school friends were our compass to life. Sometimes they pointed us in the correct direction, other times we strayed off the path but no matter what route we took, they were always by our side.

I have close college friends, work friends, neighbors but they will never be as extraordinary as my high school friends. My friends who watched me spread my wings, help define who I am. They kicked me in my butt and kept me in check. They witnessed me as I grew, developed my character, my personality, my uniqueness. They taught me how to be a good friend. They are the foundation I built all my other friendships on. No matter how much time has passed hanging out with my high school friends will always be like coming home. There is no breaking or weakening that undeniable bond.

The connection I shared with my friends was confirmed when we all parted ways, headed home. As my friend hugged me goodbye he let me know if anyone ever caused me pain, questioned who I was, I simply had to give them his number. He would gladly catch my back, explain to them who I was, how much I was loved, how they should be honored that I was allowing them to be part of my life. He always felt that way. He was positive if he put the word out there would be a long line of Arundelites right behind him coming to my rescue, my defense. I did not doubt him, I knew what he said was true because I would do the same for him. I will always be there for my 'buddies'. I will always have my ‘friends back’. My high school friends are my rock, my strength, they will always be a part of me. They know and understand me better than anyone ever will, sometimes better than myself. I love them dearly and they will always be my family!

The Beauty of Imperfection

We all bear scars. Some scars are visible while others are hidden deep within ourselves, sequestered in our soul. Happiness is allowing the camouflage to fall away from our scars allowing someone in. Someone to tell us our wounds are not ugly, they are beautiful. They help us understand our scars are a part of us, they made us who we are. We are all a beauty of imperfection.

High School

After the Super Bowl I watched Glee for the first time. I wanted to see what all the hype was about. Why everyone seemed to love the program. I have to be honest, admit I kind of liked the show. The songs, the dances were enjoyable, the cheerleading coach was hysterical, the female football coach amusing but mainly I loved the show’s underlying theme, high school is a place where we all struggle to fit in. It is a place where we can either define our self or allow others to define us.

It seems no matter how much time passes, how different the music or fashion may be, how many years the calendar has clicked off, high school is still the same. It does not matter the year, the place, the state, 9th -12th grade are the years where we struggle to discover ourselves. High school is where we as little fish are first tossed into the big pond. Sink or swim, it was our option. Our freshman year, our lives, how we saw ourselves, how we fit in, for a time were ruled by seniors, jocks and the popular crowd. Anyone who says they didn’t care how they were viewed, lies. We all entered high school hoping to be accepted, wanting to become a member of the 'popular' crowd. Some of us were lucky, we had older siblings who gave us a free pass into the ‘in’ clique. Slowly we all found our own crowd, a place where we fit in on our own. A family of friends where we felt secure in our own skin. Some stayed in the same clique all four years of high school, others of us, floated between various groups not really sure where we belonged, where our perfect fit was. We were the people who had no true definition of ourselves. Or maybe we simply did not understand we were the lucky ones, we were accepted by all groups.

Jocks, popular, band geeks, nerds, potheads, rich kids, the cliques were numerous but everyone longed to be in the top two. The cafeteria had the strange designation of determining who fit into what piece of the puzzle. Where you sat at lunch characterized which clique you were part of. Thirty years later I can’t remember which table I sat at, yet some people have never forgotten they were not allowed to sit with us. I never realized the table I sat at was considered the popular table. I saw my friends as popular, but never myself. I always considered myself on the fringe of the group not really caring who I sat with or talked to. I was happy to have some one to hold a conversation with. For the first two years of high school I was labeled Debbie’s little sister. My last two years I was me, I lacked a definition. I took classes with the geeks. I went to the parties with the pretty girls and the jocks. While others had beer at cry baby bridge I drank my big gulp of soda, never feeling the need to conform and drink beer with the rest of them. I laughed and joked with the potheads in line at lunch but never once did they offer me pot, they knew better. I played in the concert band so I was a band geek. I was in the school play so I was a drama nerd. I was captain of the pom squad, took stats for jv football and basketball team so I hung out with the jocks. I fit in everywhere yet at times I felt like I fit in no where. I longed to be accepted yet at times really did not care what anyone thought. That was high school to me, a mixing bowl of clarity and confusion.

I took all types of classes in high school, physics, french, major British writers, pre calculus, 'family life' etc. they gave me the foundation I needed to help me earn my degree in college. To me, the more valuable lessons were learned in the halls and through the “extra curricular” activities. High school is where we all learned how hurtful gossip can be. We saw the first acts of revenge undoubtedly because someone liked someone else’s boyfriend/girlfriend. High school is where we first learn how to forgive, forget and move on. The halls were where we first learned of rejection whether it was from the posting of who made a sports team or being passed by that certain guy who you had a crush on without as much of a smile. In those fleeting moments we learned how to handle life's ups and downs. We learned right from wrong, how words hurt more than a punch. In a strange sad way, it was a time of conformity, trying to fit in, wanting to be liked, wanting to be popular, not understanding why. We all struggled to be mature while still holding on to our youth. It was the beginning of our freedom, the gateway to our adulthood.

High school had a way of separating the leaders from the followers. We all have stories of our many defining moments, some create a small part of our personality, while others illustrated our underlying character. Leaders were the ones who stood up, did what was right, no matter the consequence. Even it if cost them a spot at the “in” lunch table for a while. Eventually the followers realized they had the wrong leader and the ‘in’ table would change. High school was the revolving soap opera of life. A series of moments and events. Some events left us with small scars while others made us stronger. High school helped us to define our character, who we would eventually become. It is the place where we became autonomous.

I have learned time does not change the person we became in high school. Years later, the social queen is still the social queen, the flirt is still the flirt, the gossip still gossips, the jock is still the jock, the leader still leads and the followers still follow. This weekend as many of my high school friends and I gathered at the Irish Channel I found myself laughing and smiling at the realization of how much we had all changed, yet had not changed at all. At first we all mingled, caught up with each other. Then it seemed after the “ice” was broken, we were all back in the cafeteria of Arundel, everyone was sitting with their respective cliques. Thankfully unlike thirty years ago no one cared who was at the “in” table. At least I hope not!

Our Crazy Girl Scout "Camping" Trip

When one spends nine hours in a car, you have a lot of time to think, contemplate and remember. Driving back from Ocean Isle, North Carolina, as Kathryn and Cole were sleeping I had time to myself, to reflect and remember the many times in the past when I had visited the ocean with family and friends. As I was driving down interstate 40 I couldn’t help but to recall one of my favorite trips. The year I took 16 girl scouts on a “camping” trip to Ocean Isle. We shared a fantastic week at the beach, but I believe most of the fun for me was gearing up and preparing for our beach week.

I still remember the phone call, summer of 1995. My daughter's old Girl Scout leader had retired, they needed someone new to take over the troop. Margaret was convinced I was the perfect candidate, the kids loved me, I had a great imagination and was extremely responsible. I was flattered by her invitation but I reminded her that I don’t camp. Over the years if she had recalled, I had volunteered at bake sales, dances, slumber parties everything but the yearly camping trip. I had done my camping duty when I was younger, now I preferred my accommodations to have running water and electricity. Margaret informed me the yearly camping trip didn’t have to be a “roughing” it through the wilderness trip. As long as the kids and their parents agreed, the Girl Scout Counsel approved the trip, I could take the girls camping anywhere. That was definitely a challenge I could not pass by. I told Margaret I needed to talk it over with my daughter, make sure she was fine with me being the leader of her troop. That evening after dinner I sat Kathryn down and asked her how she felt about me possibly becoming her Girl Scout leader. She was definitely my child, she had no problem with the idea as long as I didn’t embarrass her. Then after a long pause she added, “I guess there will be no camping trip this year?” I assured her there would be some kind of “camping” trip. I was going to work on something special. Something they would always remember.

The next week I went to meet with Margaret to pick up my leader handbook. Learn all the ins and outs, dos and don’ts for a Girl Scout leader. I went home that night and with my highlighter marked all the important regulations that I was going to need to address for the “camping” trip I had in mind. I also went through my daughter’s handbook and marked the badges I wanted to work on during the year. I had three weeks to prepare for our first juniors meeting. I had a plan, I needed to show the parents we were going to address major badges during the year, and as a reward for such great service and hard work at the end of the year we would take a trip they would remember fondly for the rest of their life. Hopefully the girls would chose a one week stay at the beach. I looked through rental books, found two perfect houses, one was ocean front, the other across the street. I came up with a week itinerary complete with jeep tours, day at Myrtle Beach including a lunch at the Hard Rock, water park, “sea shell” hunting and other goodies. I estimated a budget and cost. It was then that I decided I needed the perfect Assistant leader, a person who thought like I did. So I called a good friend of mine Cindy Pulls. I filled her in on my agenda/thoughts and she agreed to help. She like me realized that if we did a good job, this would be a year the kids would never forget. She was also like me, she did not like to "rough it" either.

The day finally arrived for our first troop meeting, the room in the basement of St. Joseph’s Church was filled with excited parents and girls. I outlined our theme for the year, democracy/government and how to become a more responsible citizen/person. I reviewed the badges we would be working on, guest speakers, volunteer work and goals for the year. I was a bit nervous when I approached the last item on my agenda for the meeting, the yearly camping trip. Before I brought up my idea I asked my parents keeping it in the context of a democracy, the kids had two choices for their annual camping trip. I had already agreed with myself that I would honor the kids wishes which ever trip they choose. I asked the parents if they could do the same, they all agreed. I then presented my two “camping” trip ideas. The first, we could go to Rocky Gap State Park in Western Maryland, we would stay at the youth campgrounds complete with outhouses and group showers. Hopefully the weather would be beautiful, it wouldn’t rain or be too cold. OR we could rent two beach houses down at Ocean Isle, North Carolina. We could enjoy a week of fun, sun and sand. If it rained there was plenty of other options, Hard Rock Café, shopping, movies. I put the two choices up for a vote. Not surprisingly, the vote was unanimous, all the girls wanted to go to the beach. I then handed out my budget, how much it would cost each girl to spend a week at the beach. The parents were surprised to discover the cost for the week was only $231.00 per girl, or $33.00 a day. This did not include any souvenirs the girls might want to purchase. We recommended that each girl have at least seventy five dollars spending money, just in case. I reminded all the parents at that price, it was a bargain vacation!! The one problem I had not counted on, how many parents wanted to volunteer to go on this “camping” trip.

Before I continue with the rest of my beach story, the continued comedy that can only be described as “only Denise” I should point out the other projects, lecturers we hosted during the year. I had a police officer talk to the girls about safety. How to protect themselves. How making smart choices can save your life, safety in numbers, what to do if they saw someone being abducted, what to do if they were abducted. We had a small class on self defense. At Christmas the troop went Christmas Caroling in the senior citizens development. A few girls and I went to a retirement home to visit with cookies and cards.. When the Girl Scouts had a food drive, our troop collected the most donations. In the spring I had a Holocaust survivor speak to the girls. The next several meetings were discussions on how to stand up for what is right, how people out of fear allowed the holocaust to happen. Cindy and I tried to stress the importance of personal responsibility, how it is our duty to not allow anything like that to happen again. A Vietnam veteran came and spoke to the girls about patriotism and the sacrifices the military makes everyday for our freedom. Throughout the year, I tried hard to find a good balance for the girls, a true learning experience in perfect symmetry with fun projects. No one quit so I must have done something correct?

I had eight months to organize our trip to the ocean. I made my way through all the rules and regulations, the forms I needed to complete, to have the trip sanctioned by the Girl Scouts of America. I was very well aware that the troop needed the sanctioning to allow us to hold fundraisers through out the year to cover the cost, more importantly to have their insurance cover our trip. I submitted my proposal, cost and safety plan. Ten days later I received tentative approval, one hurdle down several more to go.

Over the course of the next few months, I can honestly say I don’t think the Girl Scouts of America were quite prepared for me and all my “gray” area exceptions. I knew I had to have everything sanctioned or our trip would not be covered by their insurance or the girls would not enjoy it as much. I started first with their requirement that whenever the troop traveled together on an excursion they must all be wearing the same “identifiable” girl scout t-shirt. When you are at the beach, shopping center, just about anywhere in public, between the ages of 11-13 the last thing you want to be seen in is a girl scout t-shirt. I petitioned the counsel to allow me to have the girls where matching bright color easily identifiable t-shirts. I reasoned, the standard girl scout t-shirts were white and grey, two colors that would easily blend into a crowd. Since we would be traveling in well populated sights I needed something I could find quickly and easily. Bright colors were a much safer option. Three weeks later I received a letter stating that an exception was granted. A personal note was written on the paper by the local administrator, she simply wrote, “That was brilliant. Have fun.” With my exception in hand I went online to Hot Potatoes and purchased fun beach stamps and bright color fabric paint. A week later the girls were told to bring a white t-shirt to the next meeting. The girls had a blast creating their own beach themed t-shirts with stamps. No two shirts looked alike, but when they all had them on, you could tell we were a group! They fit the Girl Scout standard, they were "easily identifiable."

Next up on the exception list, bathing caps. According to girl scout regulations when swimming each girl must wear a color coded bathing cap. The color of the bathing cap would correspond to their swimming ability. In 1996, no one wore bathing caps anymore, especially at the beach! The Girl Scout reasoning for the swim caps, the leaders and chaperones would be able to tell who should be allowed to swim in the deep end and who should only be allowed to swim in the shallow end of the pool. The Girl Scouts mistake, not defining how many levels of swimmers are allowed. Once again I submitted my request for an exception, this time my argument was that we had 4 levels of swimmers in our troop. I searched in vain, but I was only able to locate two different colors of bathing caps. For safety reasons I was not comfortable combining moderate swimmers with novice swimmers. I requested that we be allowed to make brightly colored hair scunchies for the kids to wear when they swam. The colors would allow us to find them easily in the water or on the beach, at the same time the colors would help us keep them in “swimming groups”. I also pointed out at the beach there is not shallow or deep end. No one would be allowed to go in water deeper than their waist. A deep end was defined by the Girl Scouts as five feet and over. Additionally we would be with them at all times. I included a sample scunchie. A little over two weeks later I received permission to use scunchies instead of bathing caps. This time the local administrator wrote on the approval sheet, “You are good, next”. On a side note, all the girls in my troop could swim, very well in fact. Each girl had to do a test to see how long they could tread water. (the average was five minutes twenty seconds) As a group, the bottom girl was within a minute of top girl. Since the girl scouts did not define how to break up the levels of swimming it was up to me.

The last hurdle with the girl scouts was their policy on swimming. Understandable they had a rule that did not allow the girls to swim in any areas where there was not a life guard present. Ocean Isle Beach has no life guards. I had planned a swimming day at North Myrtle Beach, where the city supplied life guards. I understood the rule, but at the same time I wanted the girls to be able to enjoy the beach where we were staying. We had planned another swimming day, a trip to the water park. Keeping in mine that there were no lifeguards in Ocean Isle, I wrote a letter asking the counsel to please define swimming. Would seashell hunting be qualified as swimming or an outdoor activity? I stated that as part of a “learning” experience I had planned an afternoon of seashell hunting where the girls would collect seashells and learn about the ocean. The best area on the island for shell hunting did not have lifeguards available. A few days later I received a letter stating that swimming and sea shell hunting were two different activities. Only if the girls were swimming/diving would there be a requirement for a life guard. I took due note of swimming and diving. The local administrator once again left me a hand written message, this time it read, "Can I go on your trip?"

I need to add, I don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression. I was not trying to “break” the rules, put the girls in any kind of danger. Every chaperone, including myself could swim and would be willing to die trying to save one of our girls if need be. Their safety was my number one concern. At the same time I did not want any rigid unreasonable rules to stop them from having a fun time or make them embarrassed to be on a girl scout trip. I wanted my girls to have a trip that when they looked back on when they were older, they smiled.

As the trip got closer Cindy and I prepared the rules and regulations for each girl and her parents to sign. My rules of conduct were strict and no exceptions would be made. If a child broke a rule, their parents would be required to meet me at the Virginia/North Carolina border to pick them up. I informed my kids, break my rules and fifteen minutes later you will find yourself in my car heading home, the time of day or night does not matter. I remember as I said this Christina, who was I believe 12 at the time, added, “She means it folks” from the back of the room.

The last problem to overcome was the rental policy in Ocean Isle Beach. Before I placed a deposit on the houses I called the realtor, told her I noticed their no group policy. I asked, since I was coming down with my daughter, a friend of mine and her daughter was it allowed for the girls to bring “friends” with them. Her answer, of course it was, friends are always allowed. I asked her name, wrote it down, said thank you very much and hung up. Yes we were a Girl Scout troop but I was Kathryn’s mother and the girls were all her friends. So technically we were not breaking any rules.

The day finally arrived, all the paperwork, exceptions, everything had been handled in the appropriate manner. We arrived in Ocean Isle a little after 4. I went into the realtor's office to pick up the keys. As I was signing all the paper work, Mindy came running in the door and asked to use the bathroom. Mindy’s parents, as well as herself, were all born in Guam. While she was in the bathroom, the realtor very sweetly said to me, “You are aware that we do not rent to groups” Without hesitation I answered, “ Do you have a problem with my daughter? Do you not believe in inter-racial marriages?” I could tell she was embarrassed, she didn't say another word. I did not lie to her, I never said Mindy was my daughter, I just asked if she had a problem with my daughter. She just assumed by the nature of my questions that Mindy was my child and her father was my husband. You know what they say about assumptions.

We arrived at our houses. We sat the girls down, reminded everyone of the rules. Gave each girl a job to do to get the houses in order. We also went over the schedule for the next day. We were to set everything up (kitchen, bathrooms, bedrooms) tonight, order pizza , watch a movie, go to bed. Sunday’s alarm would be set for 8:00 a.m., we would all have breakfast then head to the grocery store. At one am that night my house was still wide awake and giggling. I walked across the street to Cindy’s house and discovered the girls in their house were also wide awake. So I made the executive decision, Food Lion was open 24 hours, we would go grocery shopping now. We told everyone to get dressed and we headed out to the grocery store. When we arrived at the store I looked at my watch it was a little after two. We divided the girls into 4 groups, each group was given a grocery list. They were instructed to find the best value. At that time of night, only one door was open at the store, Kim stayed at the front to make sure no one tried to leave. There was one poor cashier working at the time, 16 giggling girls tend to liven a very dead store up very quickly. Instead of reading the signs at the end of the aisles to find out where certain foods were, many of the girls would run up to the cashier and ask her where the items on their list could be found. I think we may have given the cashier a headache. The kids were having fun, she was being paid, so no harm in my book. I was standing in the back of the grocery store next to the bacon/ lunch meat area when this older woman was being escorted by 4 of my girls to me. As they approached I heard them say, "That is Miss Denise, our leader." My first thought was oh no I am going to be driving some kids home tonight. It was just the opposite. The woman thought it was just great I was taking them grocery shopping in the middle of the night. The girls were having a blast and she wanted to shake my hand. I learned a valuable lesson, in the middle of the night, teenage girls can find the best bargains. They actually divided price, weight and numbers to see what item had the best value for the dollar. I had estimated our groceries would total a little over three hundred dollars. With coupons, their best bargain shopping, the total was less than two hundred dollars.

The next afternoon as low tide was coming in, my Uncle Chuck arrived to take the girls sea shell hunting. Uncle Chuck had retired to live on Ocean Isle full time several years prior. He knew all the prime locations to find the most seashells. More importantly Uncle Chuck knew all the sandbars, drop off points, crevices and gullies in the ocean. All the girls were lined up, instructed to not stray away from the group, follow Uncle Chuck’s lead. All the chaperones were evenly spaced between the girls. Since I had been on the island and knew the sandbars as well, I brought up the rear. I reminded everyone we were not swimming, we were sea shell hunting so no diving in the water or chasing waves. As we were wading through thigh high water Natasha asked me, “Miss Denise what is the difference between seashell hunting and swimming. They are both done in the ocean.” I smiled and said, “It’s simple Tasha, as long as you can walk and there is no diving or swimming, then we are seashell hunting. And that my dear we are allowed to do without a lifeguard” She smiled then answered, ”Okay that makes sense.” After several successful hours of seashell hunting, as the tide started to change, everyone headed back to shore with their many treasures in tow. They had bags full of sand dollars, whelk shells, scallops, olives, moon snails, a couple conch shells and Mindy even found a starfish. (after everyone took a look, the starfish was gently put back on the bottom of the ocean.) When we arrived back at the beach in front of our house, all the girls bid Uncle Chuck goodbye. In unison they very loudly said, “Thank you Uncle Chuck”. As he was heading down the beach to his house a woman stopped him and asked, “Are they all really your nieces?” Uncle Chuck replied, “Yes they are! Wait until next week when my nephews arrive!” The wit and humor is definitely a family trait.

The rest of the week was filled with much adventure and fun. The girls toured a haunted grave yard, took an alligator jeep tour, spent the day at a water park, invaded Broadway at the Beach and Hard Rock Café. The kids had a blast swimming in the water at North Myrtle Beach. (They all wore their color coded scunchies.) Took a couple midnight walks on the beach with flashlights. Celebrated mid week with a BBQ. A BBQ which I am proud to say, I did not burn anything or catch anything on fire. (I am not grill savvy) On Friday we even invaded Crackel Barrel with the left over money the girls saved from shopping. The girls bought me a hot fudge sundae and sang Happy Birthday to me. To this day it is still one of my favorite birthday memories. I am happy to say we only had two small "incidents" while at the beach. Molly our fair skin redhead, forgot her sunscreen and did not bother to tell anyone. Within an hour on the first day her skin matched her hair color. Luckily we noticed before she was too burned. Heavy duty sunscreen and a long sleeve t-shirt solved all future problems. Christina our one child with braces had a wire break. That is when I discovered how hard it is to find a working orthodontist in a resort town at night. Through all the side trips, tours and detours we never lost a child. (my biggest fear). Nor did I ever wish to lose one. The girls were complimented on their brightly stamped wild t-shirts and their polite nature. I was extremely proud of them. The main goal was accomplished, everyone had a safe and fun trip.

Saturday morning, as we were packing up the vans to head home, Michelle, Mindy and several of the girls came up to me and said, “Miss Denise we want to let you know, we like your camping trips best. Can we do this again next year?”