E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 52
January 18, 2017
Playing the Fiddle for a Dying Soul
I stepped into a bedroom with a four-poster bed and a poofy white comforter. A little head stuck from the top of the comforter. She was smoking, completely horizontally, and with her head barely visible! A bottle of whiskey sat on her end-table, but it looked pretty full. I blinked hard, then stared--this must be the cantankerous DYING woman. What was she, recovering from a frat party?
"So you're the fiddle lady? You're not what I expected at all. You're much older."
I studied her, then before stopping myself, responded with, "You're not what I expected either. You don't even look like you're dying."
Her daughter, who had led me into the room, turned very pale. Then, so did I--the queen of saying the wrong crap, always.
I thought I'd get the smack-down from "Old Smokey," who still puffed away at that Camel Gold, but as she looked at my apologetic face, she suddenly burst out laughing...and coughing, and laughing again.
"Awe, kid. You're too damn honest. But so am I."
I bit my lip and smiled at her. "Mrs. Beck, I like you."
"Ya, that happens from time to time. I'm usually an acquired taste, but the people who like me right off, I figure those are the good ones." She grinned so wide, showing several missing teeth and even a big silver one that Lil Wayne woulda gone crazy for! "So what do you got, kid?" she asked, and I bent over to begin taking my violin from the case.
"I'm gonna play some oldies. That's what I heard you like." I snapped my shoulder rest into place, tightened my bow, and was ready in 20 seconds flat! "Mrs. Beck," I said, because I'm super direct, "you keep calling me kid, but you said I'm older than you expected."
"That? Anyone under fifty is a kid to me! And they keep bringing pre-teens over to see me--like they're doing a good deed or something. Why are you here anyway, Elisa? Why did you come?"
I thought for a minute. "I guess, I just want to make you forget whatever it is that you're going through--even if it's just for a minute. Focus on something else, and enjoy." I set my violin on my shoulder. "So, I have a favor to ask you. Set down your cigarette, and close your eyes."
She kinda snort-laughed, set her ciggy down, then snuggled into that huge white pillow and closed her eyes.
"Now, as I play, I want you to picture a story."
And I started. First I played the beginning of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" by Simon and Garfunkel. The music started out quiet--a trickle of spring rain. "When you're weary, feeling small." The words swam around my head as I played. "When tears are near your eyes, I will dry them all... I'm on your side when times get rough, and friends just can't be found. Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down."
Little tears seeped from the sides of Mrs. Beck's eyes. She looked so utterly beautiful, like an elderly Snow White or somethin' with her sheered, dyed-black hair, and leathery face. But instead of lying there, waiting for the kiss of her prince, she was dying, waiting for the kiss of God.
Tears suddenly came to my eyes too, and I told myself to quit being such a freakin' pansy. I shut my lids and instead of letting my emotion escape through the weakness in my eyes, I pushed that pain into my arms, my hands...my fingertips. And I played that violin, like a flippin' lover--it cried in my arms, wailing over the melodies and having so much power it couldn't help reacting to the sheer feeling flooding my body. I knew Mrs. Beck and her daughter could feel the very sorrow that was deep in my soul--for them. Because that violin was a magnifying glass, exemplifying exactly why I was there, who I was, and that I wanted to offer at least some semblance of peace.
"Sail on by. Your time has come to shine. All your dreams are on their way...."
Then my bow grew with deep friction and strength, and I transitioned into notes and melodies that just came to me. My fingers and violin took over. That's the funny thing about me and my fiddle; I think I have control, then that damn thing takes over like an addiction. I have the roadmap, but my fiddle has the details that always take me there--a good friend, leading me home.
The song swelled, over and over. At one point, I realized the window at the foot of Mrs. Beck's bed was open, because a gust of wind rode in on a high note. It was right after that, when my fingers and bow slowed to a stop. The notes descended to my D string, and the weight of the music left my body. The song...was over.
I held my violin at my side, that freakin' extension of self. I faced the window and closed my eyes. I didn't want Mrs. Beck or her daughter to see that I was crying. I even prayed the wind would come again, and God would dry my tears. The Becks were sad enough. They didn't need to see some kid--over thirty--crying because she "felt bad."
"Elisa," Mrs. Beck rasped. She beckoned me to the side of her bed. I wiped my eyes, then obeyed. She reached out her wrinkled hand, with that soft, paper-thin skin, and grabbed my fingers. "That...Elisa, that was beautiful."
"What did you see," I asked, "when you closed your eyes?"
"Something from when I was a kid. Something I thought I forgot. Me and my mom and dad were walking in a field." She took a very deep breath. "I miss them. They were good parents."
I had to twitch my nose just to keep from crying. After all, she'd probably be reuniting with a lot of people soon. I put my violin away, then hugged both Mrs. Beck and her daughter.
"It was nice meeting you both," I said. Then, I left the house, and I never saw either one of them again.
Life...it's a gift, but sometimes it sure is a strange thing.
Sincerely,
A 33-year-old kid
"So you're the fiddle lady? You're not what I expected at all. You're much older."
I studied her, then before stopping myself, responded with, "You're not what I expected either. You don't even look like you're dying."
Her daughter, who had led me into the room, turned very pale. Then, so did I--the queen of saying the wrong crap, always.
I thought I'd get the smack-down from "Old Smokey," who still puffed away at that Camel Gold, but as she looked at my apologetic face, she suddenly burst out laughing...and coughing, and laughing again.
"Awe, kid. You're too damn honest. But so am I."
I bit my lip and smiled at her. "Mrs. Beck, I like you."
"Ya, that happens from time to time. I'm usually an acquired taste, but the people who like me right off, I figure those are the good ones." She grinned so wide, showing several missing teeth and even a big silver one that Lil Wayne woulda gone crazy for! "So what do you got, kid?" she asked, and I bent over to begin taking my violin from the case.
"I'm gonna play some oldies. That's what I heard you like." I snapped my shoulder rest into place, tightened my bow, and was ready in 20 seconds flat! "Mrs. Beck," I said, because I'm super direct, "you keep calling me kid, but you said I'm older than you expected."
"That? Anyone under fifty is a kid to me! And they keep bringing pre-teens over to see me--like they're doing a good deed or something. Why are you here anyway, Elisa? Why did you come?"
I thought for a minute. "I guess, I just want to make you forget whatever it is that you're going through--even if it's just for a minute. Focus on something else, and enjoy." I set my violin on my shoulder. "So, I have a favor to ask you. Set down your cigarette, and close your eyes."
She kinda snort-laughed, set her ciggy down, then snuggled into that huge white pillow and closed her eyes.
"Now, as I play, I want you to picture a story."
And I started. First I played the beginning of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" by Simon and Garfunkel. The music started out quiet--a trickle of spring rain. "When you're weary, feeling small." The words swam around my head as I played. "When tears are near your eyes, I will dry them all... I'm on your side when times get rough, and friends just can't be found. Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down."
Little tears seeped from the sides of Mrs. Beck's eyes. She looked so utterly beautiful, like an elderly Snow White or somethin' with her sheered, dyed-black hair, and leathery face. But instead of lying there, waiting for the kiss of her prince, she was dying, waiting for the kiss of God.
Tears suddenly came to my eyes too, and I told myself to quit being such a freakin' pansy. I shut my lids and instead of letting my emotion escape through the weakness in my eyes, I pushed that pain into my arms, my hands...my fingertips. And I played that violin, like a flippin' lover--it cried in my arms, wailing over the melodies and having so much power it couldn't help reacting to the sheer feeling flooding my body. I knew Mrs. Beck and her daughter could feel the very sorrow that was deep in my soul--for them. Because that violin was a magnifying glass, exemplifying exactly why I was there, who I was, and that I wanted to offer at least some semblance of peace.
"Sail on by. Your time has come to shine. All your dreams are on their way...."
Then my bow grew with deep friction and strength, and I transitioned into notes and melodies that just came to me. My fingers and violin took over. That's the funny thing about me and my fiddle; I think I have control, then that damn thing takes over like an addiction. I have the roadmap, but my fiddle has the details that always take me there--a good friend, leading me home.
The song swelled, over and over. At one point, I realized the window at the foot of Mrs. Beck's bed was open, because a gust of wind rode in on a high note. It was right after that, when my fingers and bow slowed to a stop. The notes descended to my D string, and the weight of the music left my body. The song...was over.
I held my violin at my side, that freakin' extension of self. I faced the window and closed my eyes. I didn't want Mrs. Beck or her daughter to see that I was crying. I even prayed the wind would come again, and God would dry my tears. The Becks were sad enough. They didn't need to see some kid--over thirty--crying because she "felt bad."
"Elisa," Mrs. Beck rasped. She beckoned me to the side of her bed. I wiped my eyes, then obeyed. She reached out her wrinkled hand, with that soft, paper-thin skin, and grabbed my fingers. "That...Elisa, that was beautiful."
"What did you see," I asked, "when you closed your eyes?"
"Something from when I was a kid. Something I thought I forgot. Me and my mom and dad were walking in a field." She took a very deep breath. "I miss them. They were good parents."
I had to twitch my nose just to keep from crying. After all, she'd probably be reuniting with a lot of people soon. I put my violin away, then hugged both Mrs. Beck and her daughter.
"It was nice meeting you both," I said. Then, I left the house, and I never saw either one of them again.
Life...it's a gift, but sometimes it sure is a strange thing.
Sincerely,
A 33-year-old kid
January 17, 2017
She Was Dying--How Could I Possibly Make That Better
I got a call one night, right after dinner. "Is this Elisa?" a woman asked.
"Yes," I paused, " how can I help you?"
"A friend gave me your number, said you played the violin at her mom's funeral. You've played at a lot of funerals?"
"Quite a few." And the truth was, that I've played the violin at more funerals and weddings than I can remember.
Loads of people have asked me what it's like playing at funerals; it might sound crazy, but the funerals are almost more wonderful than the weddings. The funerals I've played at--well, I've never met the people who died beforehand. So, meeting them through the eyes of those who know them best and loved them most, well, that's beautiful. It's how I wish the world could be: that we'd each see the best in everyone, and be the best version of ourselves, always. Freakin' rainbows and lollipops...instead of smog and facades.
"Are you looking for a violinist to play at a funeral?" I finally asked.
"No." She took a very deep breath, and when she spoke again, her voice had weakened. "My mother is dying. They said she probably only has a few days left. She's old and ornery. Nothing seems to make her feel better anymore. But...she loves the violin. Can you come play for her tomorrow night?"
Bring it on--a cantankerous old lady--she'd be right up my alley. "Of course." It wasn't until after I got the details about her taste in music, and where she lived, that I got really nervous.
Playing for a funeral is weird because I've thought, If I don't play well, will this person haunt me? I've only been to one funeral where the man wasn't spoken very well of. Not many people showed up to that shindig. I played these super sad songs, Irish-style. And I was sad because looking into his casket wasn't my favorite moment. He seemed so unhappy--had huge frown lines and everything. I wondered what his life had really been like.... Especially since his wife wasn't even that sad that he'd died. He must have been selfish--that's the only reason I can figure why someone wouldn't be spoken well of at their own freakin' funeral.
But I'm getting off-track....
Anyway, it's one thing to play for someone who's already died, but to play for someone who's about to die...that was a lot of pressure. She could actually reach out and smack me if she didn't like my melodies. And if she was as cantankerous as her daughter said, I was in for an adventure--in the flesh!
I put on my big girl panties, and told myself I could do this. I would brighten this lady's day, make her forget her sorrows if even by the upstroke of my bow. That's when I drove to her daughter's house the next day, and knocked on the door.
"She's waiting for you," her daugther said.
And I walked into a quaint house that smelled like whiskey and cinnamon.
"Let's do this." I nodded to the daughter, and followed her to a little bedroom that was down the wallpapered hallway, and to the right.
To be continued tomorrow.
"Yes," I paused, " how can I help you?"
"A friend gave me your number, said you played the violin at her mom's funeral. You've played at a lot of funerals?"
"Quite a few." And the truth was, that I've played the violin at more funerals and weddings than I can remember.
Loads of people have asked me what it's like playing at funerals; it might sound crazy, but the funerals are almost more wonderful than the weddings. The funerals I've played at--well, I've never met the people who died beforehand. So, meeting them through the eyes of those who know them best and loved them most, well, that's beautiful. It's how I wish the world could be: that we'd each see the best in everyone, and be the best version of ourselves, always. Freakin' rainbows and lollipops...instead of smog and facades.
"Are you looking for a violinist to play at a funeral?" I finally asked.
"No." She took a very deep breath, and when she spoke again, her voice had weakened. "My mother is dying. They said she probably only has a few days left. She's old and ornery. Nothing seems to make her feel better anymore. But...she loves the violin. Can you come play for her tomorrow night?"
Bring it on--a cantankerous old lady--she'd be right up my alley. "Of course." It wasn't until after I got the details about her taste in music, and where she lived, that I got really nervous.
Playing for a funeral is weird because I've thought, If I don't play well, will this person haunt me? I've only been to one funeral where the man wasn't spoken very well of. Not many people showed up to that shindig. I played these super sad songs, Irish-style. And I was sad because looking into his casket wasn't my favorite moment. He seemed so unhappy--had huge frown lines and everything. I wondered what his life had really been like.... Especially since his wife wasn't even that sad that he'd died. He must have been selfish--that's the only reason I can figure why someone wouldn't be spoken well of at their own freakin' funeral.
But I'm getting off-track....
Anyway, it's one thing to play for someone who's already died, but to play for someone who's about to die...that was a lot of pressure. She could actually reach out and smack me if she didn't like my melodies. And if she was as cantankerous as her daughter said, I was in for an adventure--in the flesh!
I put on my big girl panties, and told myself I could do this. I would brighten this lady's day, make her forget her sorrows if even by the upstroke of my bow. That's when I drove to her daughter's house the next day, and knocked on the door.
"She's waiting for you," her daugther said.
And I walked into a quaint house that smelled like whiskey and cinnamon.
"Let's do this." I nodded to the daughter, and followed her to a little bedroom that was down the wallpapered hallway, and to the right.
To be continued tomorrow.
January 12, 2017
The Man With The Teardrop Tattoo
The job didn't go as expected, and here's why: I am sassy.
When I waitressed as a teenager and in my twenties, I remember when men would say crude comments and it didn't bother me. Apparently, now that I'm in my thirties, this is something I just can't tolerate.
I stood in front of the cooks, waiting to get some waffles with a side of fruit, whipped cream, and strawberries. That's when the cook gave me a really weird look. I turned, feeling a bit...naked. Then he said, "Look at that ass. What I'd like to do to--"
"Yeah--no!" I said vehemently.
#1 Scumbag in the kitchen, with the whipped cream!
#2 He had a teardrop tattoo, and local legend stated that he'd killed a man in prison!
#3 My main job was at a hospital--people learn about a thing called "sexual harassment" there.
#4 My hair is naturally strawberry blonde, but it might as well have been all red--because when I get mad, I get mad.
The powdered sugar sat next to me gloriously. I had a flash of dumping some in my hand and then blowing it fairy-dust-style into that butt-lover's face! And just when I picked up the powered sugar--another waitress grinned at me. "Isn't he the nicest? And he's so cute, too."
"No! That wasn't nice. THAT was disgusting. I'm standing here with only my head and hands showing, and I feel completely naked!"
I remembered waitressing about ten years prior. When the cooks, guests, or even waiters said crude things, I would laugh, thinking they didn't know any better. But now I'm a grown woman--and I'm not naive anymore. They have lips, and they can learn how to shut them....
"He says stuff about my boobs all the time," the waitress said. "But I never get mad."
I just blinked at her. "Listen, when I was in high school, a guy touched my boob and I gave him a bloody nose. Now that I'm an adult...I wouldn't do that, but we still don't need to take crap from people. If you're not comfortable with what he says, you don't have to take that."
"But I love what he says. It's nice to be appreciated."
"If it's for the right reasons."
Later that night I got a twelve-top, and when I put the order in, the butt-lover freaked out. "Twelve people!"
They were the only ones in the whole restaurant, but I couldn't help being sassy. "Yeah, and twenty-four more people just showed up. Sucks to suck."
He untied his apron and threw it on the floor. "What the hell. You're kidding, right."
"Yep. As a matter of fact, I am kidding. There's only the first twelve." I fake laughed, turned and walked away.
"Hey, red! I'd like to meet you outside. After work."
I turned back to him and he licked his lips like a hungry wolf who'd just spotted dinner.
And I really wanted to kick his trash. All hundred-twenty pounds of me, ready to beat down that ex-con who was about 6' 3" and built better than Alcatraz.
Defiantly facing him though, both of us sneering, he probably wanted to shank me. And I wondered how big the new teardrop tattoo would be--on his face--the one he'd get for offing an Italian waitress.
Then it was my turn to take off my apron. "You know, now I'm turning into the barbarian. This isn't the right job for me anymore."
I took my break, but ended up going in the next day and quitting.
I'm still stunned. I do feel bad for stereotyping that cook. But I also realized I can tolerate a lot less than I used to. Life can be strange. I guess we learn stuff about ourselves every day.
When I waitressed as a teenager and in my twenties, I remember when men would say crude comments and it didn't bother me. Apparently, now that I'm in my thirties, this is something I just can't tolerate.
I stood in front of the cooks, waiting to get some waffles with a side of fruit, whipped cream, and strawberries. That's when the cook gave me a really weird look. I turned, feeling a bit...naked. Then he said, "Look at that ass. What I'd like to do to--"
"Yeah--no!" I said vehemently.
#1 Scumbag in the kitchen, with the whipped cream!
#2 He had a teardrop tattoo, and local legend stated that he'd killed a man in prison!
#3 My main job was at a hospital--people learn about a thing called "sexual harassment" there.
#4 My hair is naturally strawberry blonde, but it might as well have been all red--because when I get mad, I get mad.
The powdered sugar sat next to me gloriously. I had a flash of dumping some in my hand and then blowing it fairy-dust-style into that butt-lover's face! And just when I picked up the powered sugar--another waitress grinned at me. "Isn't he the nicest? And he's so cute, too."
"No! That wasn't nice. THAT was disgusting. I'm standing here with only my head and hands showing, and I feel completely naked!"
I remembered waitressing about ten years prior. When the cooks, guests, or even waiters said crude things, I would laugh, thinking they didn't know any better. But now I'm a grown woman--and I'm not naive anymore. They have lips, and they can learn how to shut them....
"He says stuff about my boobs all the time," the waitress said. "But I never get mad."
I just blinked at her. "Listen, when I was in high school, a guy touched my boob and I gave him a bloody nose. Now that I'm an adult...I wouldn't do that, but we still don't need to take crap from people. If you're not comfortable with what he says, you don't have to take that."
"But I love what he says. It's nice to be appreciated."
"If it's for the right reasons."
Later that night I got a twelve-top, and when I put the order in, the butt-lover freaked out. "Twelve people!"
They were the only ones in the whole restaurant, but I couldn't help being sassy. "Yeah, and twenty-four more people just showed up. Sucks to suck."
He untied his apron and threw it on the floor. "What the hell. You're kidding, right."
"Yep. As a matter of fact, I am kidding. There's only the first twelve." I fake laughed, turned and walked away.
"Hey, red! I'd like to meet you outside. After work."
I turned back to him and he licked his lips like a hungry wolf who'd just spotted dinner.
And I really wanted to kick his trash. All hundred-twenty pounds of me, ready to beat down that ex-con who was about 6' 3" and built better than Alcatraz.
Defiantly facing him though, both of us sneering, he probably wanted to shank me. And I wondered how big the new teardrop tattoo would be--on his face--the one he'd get for offing an Italian waitress.
Then it was my turn to take off my apron. "You know, now I'm turning into the barbarian. This isn't the right job for me anymore."
I took my break, but ended up going in the next day and quitting.
I'm still stunned. I do feel bad for stereotyping that cook. But I also realized I can tolerate a lot less than I used to. Life can be strange. I guess we learn stuff about ourselves every day.
January 11, 2017
Waitressing...Again--what are personality-based questions
So, there's this little breakfast joint in town. I absolutely loved eating there. And last summer when The Scribe and Hippie told me they wanted to do cheerleading and soccer, we happened to sit there eating crepes and hashbrowns.
"Cheerleading. Well, that sounds neat, but that's over a thousand dollars. And soccer, that's about seven hundred--after all of the traveling fees and everything."
The kids faces drooped. Their eyes turned into pools of complete sorrow. I felt like a true failure, so before we left, I grabbed an application at the restaurant and decided to get a second job.
The restaurant had amazing food that they'd discount for employees, AND I've been a waitress before--and I'M great at eating! I thought we'd make the perfect pair.
Link here Boy, was I wrong!
The first interview was with the main manager. He's the sweetest man; kinda reminds me of King Candy from the retro version of Candy Land. We laughed and joked. I really thought he'd offer me the job right off, but instead he set up a second interview.
The second interview was with another manager--one who believed in personality-based questions. "Tell me about a time when you've been inappropriate," she said.
I wanted to say, every day of my life. For crying out loud, I'm too honest! But of course I couldn't say THAT.
"Inappropriate, huh?" And I could hardly think of anything. "Well, I pretty much tell things like they are. My oldest daughter had a bunch of friends over last weekend. I overheard one of them talking about sex. So, I burst into the room--and showed them pictures of STDs on Google. I always thought I'd be the cool mom, but now I'm turning into THAT mother. You know, the one who flips out when kids say the word boy or makes veggies trays with ranch dip, and then hovers, watching as the kids eat every last bite. Or the elderly mother who insists on acting young, wanting to do makeovers WITH the teenagers even though she's not just over the hill, she's about to be 6 feet in it...."
The manager just looked at me, then laughed. And, apparently it had been the right answer because that night she called me. I was confident she would offer me the job. And I had my acceptance speech all prepared...when she asked me in for a third interview?! What was this--an internship with Google? No! This was a job--AS A WAITRESS!
So, I almost didn't go. My mom thought it was craziness. My neighbor said it was bizarre. My kids thought this was "the real world." And I, well, I dressed up and went just for the hell of it.
You know when you have a weird feeling about something, like maybe you shouldn't do it, but you go anyway? That's how I felt right before the third interview.
I walked up to King Candy, and instead of him interviewing me, he beamed and shook my hand. "You got the job! We just call people in for third interviews to see who will show up--then, if they do, we offer them the job."
I stared at him stunned--because it's rare to meet a true genius. Then I took the offer. That's when the fun truly began.
"Cheerleading. Well, that sounds neat, but that's over a thousand dollars. And soccer, that's about seven hundred--after all of the traveling fees and everything."
The kids faces drooped. Their eyes turned into pools of complete sorrow. I felt like a true failure, so before we left, I grabbed an application at the restaurant and decided to get a second job.
The restaurant had amazing food that they'd discount for employees, AND I've been a waitress before--and I'M great at eating! I thought we'd make the perfect pair.
Link here Boy, was I wrong!The first interview was with the main manager. He's the sweetest man; kinda reminds me of King Candy from the retro version of Candy Land. We laughed and joked. I really thought he'd offer me the job right off, but instead he set up a second interview.
The second interview was with another manager--one who believed in personality-based questions. "Tell me about a time when you've been inappropriate," she said.
I wanted to say, every day of my life. For crying out loud, I'm too honest! But of course I couldn't say THAT.
"Inappropriate, huh?" And I could hardly think of anything. "Well, I pretty much tell things like they are. My oldest daughter had a bunch of friends over last weekend. I overheard one of them talking about sex. So, I burst into the room--and showed them pictures of STDs on Google. I always thought I'd be the cool mom, but now I'm turning into THAT mother. You know, the one who flips out when kids say the word boy or makes veggies trays with ranch dip, and then hovers, watching as the kids eat every last bite. Or the elderly mother who insists on acting young, wanting to do makeovers WITH the teenagers even though she's not just over the hill, she's about to be 6 feet in it...."
The manager just looked at me, then laughed. And, apparently it had been the right answer because that night she called me. I was confident she would offer me the job. And I had my acceptance speech all prepared...when she asked me in for a third interview?! What was this--an internship with Google? No! This was a job--AS A WAITRESS!
So, I almost didn't go. My mom thought it was craziness. My neighbor said it was bizarre. My kids thought this was "the real world." And I, well, I dressed up and went just for the hell of it.
You know when you have a weird feeling about something, like maybe you shouldn't do it, but you go anyway? That's how I felt right before the third interview.
I walked up to King Candy, and instead of him interviewing me, he beamed and shook my hand. "You got the job! We just call people in for third interviews to see who will show up--then, if they do, we offer them the job."
I stared at him stunned--because it's rare to meet a true genius. Then I took the offer. That's when the fun truly began.
January 10, 2017
What is a...shock pen?!
Do you remember years ago when The Scribe (my oldest daughter) put cat poop on the teacher's chair? Well, apparently it runs in the family, because a couple of weeks ago I got a frantic call from The Zombie Elf's principal. "Your son brought a weapon--A WEAPON--to school...."
I paused on the phone. Seriously? He's the sweetest eight-year-old ever. What was his weapon, kindness?!
"Several people were injured," she said.
"Injured? My gosh--what did he bring to school?" I worried momentarily. Had he brought a pocket knife or something. I mean, this sounded pretty serious.
"He brought...a shock pen. And I need to talk with you about this in person. Can you come to the school?"
"Yes. I'll be right there."
#1 Shock pens, will give you a little shock, but I wouldn't call that an injury
#2 Back in the day--when I had to walk two miles in the snow--just to get to school--I'd play bloody knuckles with the boys.... We played mercy until one of us cried! We'd get that shock gum and see who could hold it down the longest. I was a tomboy--and by golly I was a good one! And our school--a bunch of tough people went there! We didn't have pansy contests like they have today--in Utah they have "contests" where everyone gets the same prize. No, when I was a kid, there were three prizes, and if people got their feelings hurt they were free to either try harder next time, or go cry in the corner.
*stepping from my soapbox
As I drove to the school, memories flooded my mind. The Scribe had given me a run for my money when she was in elementary school. One of those stories is HERE .
And look at her now!
#ImInTrouble
Anyway, so I got to the school and sat down with the principal. She really is a sweet woman. And I know she's just trying to do her job.
"Your son," she said, "IS a very nice boy. But today he tricked several students and the teacher."
"What did he do?"
"He brought this pen to the teacher." She set the pen, so carefully, on the desk in front of me--as if it contained the zombie virus. "He asked if she could help him spell one of his spelling words, then he watched her get shocked. She said it injured her entire lower arm, including her elbow."
I didn't say much, other than apologize. He shouldn't have brought it to school--but I doubt his teacher needed a cast or something!
I brought the shock pen home, and that night asked my son what had happened. "I feel so bad," he said. "Good thing I gave it to my teacher when it was running out of power. She should have felt it before--it was like lightning. But now--" he grabbed the shock pen and held it down. "Now," he struggled saying the words, "I can hold it...down...forever!"
I took the pen away and laughed. "All right, Thor. Give that back!"
My kid could have walked two miles in the snow. He wouldn't mind not winning a prize, and then trying harder so he could win next time. He could probably even play MERCY!
"Buddy, why did you bring this to school anyway?"
"The teacher kept saying we should make learning fun! And you wouldn't believe how many people started writing spelling words, just to use the shock pen!"
Raising kids isn't easy, but it sure is entertaining.
Note to self: Don't buy any more gag gifts. Cat poop, shock pens, disappearing ink...they get my family in trouble!
I paused on the phone. Seriously? He's the sweetest eight-year-old ever. What was his weapon, kindness?!
"Several people were injured," she said.
"Injured? My gosh--what did he bring to school?" I worried momentarily. Had he brought a pocket knife or something. I mean, this sounded pretty serious.
"He brought...a shock pen. And I need to talk with you about this in person. Can you come to the school?"
"Yes. I'll be right there."
#1 Shock pens, will give you a little shock, but I wouldn't call that an injury
#2 Back in the day--when I had to walk two miles in the snow--just to get to school--I'd play bloody knuckles with the boys.... We played mercy until one of us cried! We'd get that shock gum and see who could hold it down the longest. I was a tomboy--and by golly I was a good one! And our school--a bunch of tough people went there! We didn't have pansy contests like they have today--in Utah they have "contests" where everyone gets the same prize. No, when I was a kid, there were three prizes, and if people got their feelings hurt they were free to either try harder next time, or go cry in the corner.
*stepping from my soapbox
As I drove to the school, memories flooded my mind. The Scribe had given me a run for my money when she was in elementary school. One of those stories is HERE .
And look at her now!
#ImInTrouble
Anyway, so I got to the school and sat down with the principal. She really is a sweet woman. And I know she's just trying to do her job.
"Your son," she said, "IS a very nice boy. But today he tricked several students and the teacher."
"What did he do?"
"He brought this pen to the teacher." She set the pen, so carefully, on the desk in front of me--as if it contained the zombie virus. "He asked if she could help him spell one of his spelling words, then he watched her get shocked. She said it injured her entire lower arm, including her elbow."
I didn't say much, other than apologize. He shouldn't have brought it to school--but I doubt his teacher needed a cast or something!
I brought the shock pen home, and that night asked my son what had happened. "I feel so bad," he said. "Good thing I gave it to my teacher when it was running out of power. She should have felt it before--it was like lightning. But now--" he grabbed the shock pen and held it down. "Now," he struggled saying the words, "I can hold it...down...forever!"
I took the pen away and laughed. "All right, Thor. Give that back!"
My kid could have walked two miles in the snow. He wouldn't mind not winning a prize, and then trying harder so he could win next time. He could probably even play MERCY!
"Buddy, why did you bring this to school anyway?"
"The teacher kept saying we should make learning fun! And you wouldn't believe how many people started writing spelling words, just to use the shock pen!"
Raising kids isn't easy, but it sure is entertaining.
Note to self: Don't buy any more gag gifts. Cat poop, shock pens, disappearing ink...they get my family in trouble!
January 9, 2017
I got to ride in the back of a cop car PART II
I'm not here to be nice; I'm here to be honest. Most cops are awesome, really. But 90% of the female cops I've met act like they have something to prove. I've tried befriending them if they've ever pulled me over for (slightly) speeding. Yeah, they don't wanna be friends. They're all business. Have you ever tried talking your way out of ticket, with a chick cop? Good luck if you're a girl. They'll see ALL of your excuses before you even use 'em! It's like my mom back in the 90s! She knew freakin' everything!
So--to recap--I broke down on my way to work, did my best to get my car off the road (aka pushed it into a snowdrift next to me) and then, after ariving to work, got a call from the sheriff's department.
"You lost a car?" the female cop asked, like the biggest theft of 2017 had just happened.
"It broke down. My husband should be there any minute to move it to a parking lot." Yep, that man is so happy he married me--like I said last week, it ain't boring.
"Well, your car is causing quite a scene. Traffic is jammed," she said. "You have to move it now! Or I'm gonna tow the thing!"
#1 We live in a small town in Idaho.....
#2 Can you have a traffic jam--when people think a two-minute-wait is rush hour?
#3 What, were all ten people in town stuck behind my car???
#4 This was the most excitement she'd had in days.
#5 Wait, we actually have a tow truck driver in town? *fistpump
I remained silent for a second too long.
"You need to move your car!" she yelled.
"Great. I can run there right now. I'm just a couple of blocks away," I said. And I was trying to be understanding, really. My car was to the side of the road--with its flashers on. The town had called a snow day. And it was -18 degrees. And maybe it was causing problems....
"It'll be cold. But I'll make it." I could picture myself at the "crime scene" icecicles hanging from my nose. My skin would be Elsa-blue. My eyes would be clear pools of sadness as I crawled, reaching out with frostbitten hands.
"Hold up, hotshot!" she said. "You ain't walkin' in this weather. I'll send the boys over to bring you to your car."
"Ummm.Okay? In a cop car?" I blinked, seriously.
"Yep. That IS how us cops get around."
This could be awesome! "Okay!"
"Where you at, hon?" I'd gone from "hotshot" to "hon" in less than 30 seconds.
I gave her the address, ran to the front of the building and called my husband.
"Where are you?" I asked.
"Got held up with my boss. I'll be there in just a minute."
The cop car SUV pulled up at that exact moment and two huge dudes stepped from the front cab. "Ma'am, you're the one with the Honda?"
"That would be me."
The first cop opened the back door. This was like getting a ride in a limo with a chauffeur! At least that's what I thought until I got in.
"Normally we handcuff people who get in here. Do we need to handcuff you?" he joked.
I shook my head emphatically. "No way."
"Do you have any weapons on you?" he asked.
"Just a pen." I laughed.
He. Did. Not! Think that was funny. Instead of even cracking a smile, he buckled me in and slammed the door.
The seats were so hard. The glass was right up in my face! How do criminals even handle that?!
Then I realized there wasn't even a handle on the inside--which totally makes sense, but still!
Good thing it wasn't a long ride because I was about to start clawing the door!
After a minute, the SUV stopped and the driver let me out. "So what did you think of your first ride in a cop car?"
"Well, it's not a good profession for someone who's claustrophobic. And the seats are so hard!"
"It makes them easier to clean up, for when people throw up on them."
My face went from whiter-then-death, to I-just-threw-up-in-my-mouth. "I've only been a criminal for 5 minutes, but I'm ready to turn from my life of crime!"
My husband showed up shortly after, and that superhero even got the car to start. I told him the whole story and laughed because the "traffic-jam" only involved MY car!
Anyway, all in all it was amazing day--and I loved it.
A lot of crazy things have been happening lately though. Like my son bringing a shock pen to school. Maybe I should tell you about THAT tomorrow!
So--to recap--I broke down on my way to work, did my best to get my car off the road (aka pushed it into a snowdrift next to me) and then, after ariving to work, got a call from the sheriff's department.
"You lost a car?" the female cop asked, like the biggest theft of 2017 had just happened.
"It broke down. My husband should be there any minute to move it to a parking lot." Yep, that man is so happy he married me--like I said last week, it ain't boring.
"Well, your car is causing quite a scene. Traffic is jammed," she said. "You have to move it now! Or I'm gonna tow the thing!"
#1 We live in a small town in Idaho.....
#2 Can you have a traffic jam--when people think a two-minute-wait is rush hour?
#3 What, were all ten people in town stuck behind my car???
#4 This was the most excitement she'd had in days.
#5 Wait, we actually have a tow truck driver in town? *fistpump
I remained silent for a second too long.
"You need to move your car!" she yelled.
"Great. I can run there right now. I'm just a couple of blocks away," I said. And I was trying to be understanding, really. My car was to the side of the road--with its flashers on. The town had called a snow day. And it was -18 degrees. And maybe it was causing problems....
"It'll be cold. But I'll make it." I could picture myself at the "crime scene" icecicles hanging from my nose. My skin would be Elsa-blue. My eyes would be clear pools of sadness as I crawled, reaching out with frostbitten hands.
"Hold up, hotshot!" she said. "You ain't walkin' in this weather. I'll send the boys over to bring you to your car."
"Ummm.Okay? In a cop car?" I blinked, seriously.
"Yep. That IS how us cops get around."
This could be awesome! "Okay!"
"Where you at, hon?" I'd gone from "hotshot" to "hon" in less than 30 seconds.
I gave her the address, ran to the front of the building and called my husband.
"Where are you?" I asked.
"Got held up with my boss. I'll be there in just a minute."
The cop car SUV pulled up at that exact moment and two huge dudes stepped from the front cab. "Ma'am, you're the one with the Honda?"
"That would be me."
The first cop opened the back door. This was like getting a ride in a limo with a chauffeur! At least that's what I thought until I got in.
"Normally we handcuff people who get in here. Do we need to handcuff you?" he joked.
I shook my head emphatically. "No way."
"Do you have any weapons on you?" he asked.
"Just a pen." I laughed.
He. Did. Not! Think that was funny. Instead of even cracking a smile, he buckled me in and slammed the door.
The seats were so hard. The glass was right up in my face! How do criminals even handle that?!
Then I realized there wasn't even a handle on the inside--which totally makes sense, but still!
Good thing it wasn't a long ride because I was about to start clawing the door!
After a minute, the SUV stopped and the driver let me out. "So what did you think of your first ride in a cop car?"
"Well, it's not a good profession for someone who's claustrophobic. And the seats are so hard!"
"It makes them easier to clean up, for when people throw up on them."
My face went from whiter-then-death, to I-just-threw-up-in-my-mouth. "I've only been a criminal for 5 minutes, but I'm ready to turn from my life of crime!"
My husband showed up shortly after, and that superhero even got the car to start. I told him the whole story and laughed because the "traffic-jam" only involved MY car!
Anyway, all in all it was amazing day--and I loved it.
A lot of crazy things have been happening lately though. Like my son bringing a shock pen to school. Maybe I should tell you about THAT tomorrow!
January 6, 2017
I got to ride in the back of a cop car PART I
Let it be known that yesterday--at approximately 9am--I got to ride in the back of a cop car.
I'd like to be nosy and ask if YOU'VE ever been in a cop car....
[image error] But that's rude. So, back to MY story. Yesterday--at approximately 7:15am, my car started overheating. #1 How can a car overheat when it is 20 below zero?! #2 Why me? #3 Today my dishwasher broke; what will be next? This crap comes in 3s, right?
Anyway, I was almost to work, less than two blocks away, when suddenly--my "hot car" as I'd like to call it--rumbled to a stop. "Weird, after driving it on high heat for 10 mins.," my husband said. Ya know, every freakin' day he must be thankful for me. It's not boring. So I sputtered to a stop, and that car gave up the ghost. A nice man pulled up behind me and I freaked out momentarily. He hadn't even stepped from his car, but I could imagine what he did in the quiet of his home, probably found desperate break-downs, then invited them over for dinner...asked them to stay. When they politely declined, he'd lock them in his basement! But reality is never quite as scary as I imagine. I swear, I'm 33 and my imagine is ridiculous. Shouldn't I have outgrown that at some point? So out steps this man--my rescuer and all. And he's not a beady-eyed serial killer. Instead.... "Phil!" I said. "I haven't jammed with you forever." He's a badass really. He plays the harmonica like you wouldn't believe--and he makes an amazing mocha. He ended up helping me push my car off the road into some random snowbank by the university here in town. Then, that musical angel even drove me to work. "You gonna come to the coffee shop and jam soon?" he asked. "Hell, I better! I owe you. Phil, you did your good deed for the year--and to think--the year JUST started." What can I say, every person I've met who plays the harmonica is pure gold, really. So I walked into the building, and less than an hour later, guess who called me? The sheriff's department! Some people are pretty great at overreacting; that female cop, was one of 'em.
To be continued... :)
I'd like to be nosy and ask if YOU'VE ever been in a cop car....
[image error] But that's rude. So, back to MY story. Yesterday--at approximately 7:15am, my car started overheating. #1 How can a car overheat when it is 20 below zero?! #2 Why me? #3 Today my dishwasher broke; what will be next? This crap comes in 3s, right?
Anyway, I was almost to work, less than two blocks away, when suddenly--my "hot car" as I'd like to call it--rumbled to a stop. "Weird, after driving it on high heat for 10 mins.," my husband said. Ya know, every freakin' day he must be thankful for me. It's not boring. So I sputtered to a stop, and that car gave up the ghost. A nice man pulled up behind me and I freaked out momentarily. He hadn't even stepped from his car, but I could imagine what he did in the quiet of his home, probably found desperate break-downs, then invited them over for dinner...asked them to stay. When they politely declined, he'd lock them in his basement! But reality is never quite as scary as I imagine. I swear, I'm 33 and my imagine is ridiculous. Shouldn't I have outgrown that at some point? So out steps this man--my rescuer and all. And he's not a beady-eyed serial killer. Instead.... "Phil!" I said. "I haven't jammed with you forever." He's a badass really. He plays the harmonica like you wouldn't believe--and he makes an amazing mocha. He ended up helping me push my car off the road into some random snowbank by the university here in town. Then, that musical angel even drove me to work. "You gonna come to the coffee shop and jam soon?" he asked. "Hell, I better! I owe you. Phil, you did your good deed for the year--and to think--the year JUST started." What can I say, every person I've met who plays the harmonica is pure gold, really. So I walked into the building, and less than an hour later, guess who called me? The sheriff's department! Some people are pretty great at overreacting; that female cop, was one of 'em.
To be continued... :)
November 18, 2016
All That Remains Is Love
Today is Zeke's birthday--happy birthday to my baby in Heaven...
On January 30th of this year, I drove through treacherously snow-filled mountains. Flakes shot down, forming an unwanted curtain around the truck. My eyes darted to the right of the canyon, but I could barely see, let alone remember any turnouts in that area. The lights from a huge semi bounced off the road behind us, shining increasingly closer. That driver loved tail-gating people--for a living. Who gave that idiot a CDL? But I didn't say the words aloud; instead, I white-knuckled the steering wheel in terror and realized from the icy breath of my family around me, they were terrified too.
And maybe they should have been. This was an unlucky day for us--the same day my son died 13 years before.... Normally each year I'd visit his grave, read my journal--the book I wrote about him. (More about that HERE .)
But this January, I didn't do any of that. After all it's his Death Day. I don't want to go back to that damn memory--of a hospital that reeks of iodine and rubbing alcohol. Those stupid machines whirring and beeping to keep OTHER parents' kids alive. But. Not. Mine. Because the damn doctors said he would never live. THEY said he'd die despite all their fancy gadgets and his will to live. His fight...was for naught. So he died that day, amidst the stench of medicine, after my ex-husband and I removed him from life support, and he suffocated in our arms....
As I drove through the snow-infested mountains, with the wind nearly ripping our truck from the road, I couldn't help thinking about Zeke. I shook my head telling myself not to. This drive was dangerous enough, without me trying to see through tears as well.
But what happened next, surprised me.
This year, I didn't recall all of the sad circumstances of his death. Instead, I simply remembered a specific day nearly a month before he died.
Zeke's nurse had said I could hold him in a rocking chair. Right before she was about to pass him to me, he started crying really hard. Another nurse came by and said I shouldn't hold him, that they needed to up his vent settings. But I pleaded, BEGGING them to let me hold my baby. So they handed him to me.
I rocked so slowly, careful since he had so much tubing in him. And instead of crying harder like they'd thought he might, he melted into my arms, as if he was always meant to be there. I put my pinkie near his hand and he wrapped his little fingers around it, holding on so damn tight. Tears filled my eyes as I rocked him forever. And in that moment, it didn't matter how sick he was or how hard this was. We loved each other. Nothing could take that away, not time, not sickness, not death. And that moment, admist the stench of medicine and all those whirring machines...that was a perfect moment.
I could hardly believe it had been 13 years this January. I blinked, focusing on the road ahead. The weather began clearing a little, and it wasn't quite so terrifying.
After we were safely home and all of the kids were in bed, I told my husband about the memory. "I can't remember the complete details of the bad parts of Zeke's life anymore, but I do remember every detail of when I held him in the rocking chair for the first time."
Mike squeezed my hand.
"It's crazy, Mike, but I feel so much peace right now. When time has passed and everything else is gone, all that remains--all that really matters--is love."
And so now when I think of Zeke, the memory of his love is in the forefront of my mind. I hope that's what he remembers about me as well....
Happy birthday.
On January 30th of this year, I drove through treacherously snow-filled mountains. Flakes shot down, forming an unwanted curtain around the truck. My eyes darted to the right of the canyon, but I could barely see, let alone remember any turnouts in that area. The lights from a huge semi bounced off the road behind us, shining increasingly closer. That driver loved tail-gating people--for a living. Who gave that idiot a CDL? But I didn't say the words aloud; instead, I white-knuckled the steering wheel in terror and realized from the icy breath of my family around me, they were terrified too.
And maybe they should have been. This was an unlucky day for us--the same day my son died 13 years before.... Normally each year I'd visit his grave, read my journal--the book I wrote about him. (More about that HERE .)
But this January, I didn't do any of that. After all it's his Death Day. I don't want to go back to that damn memory--of a hospital that reeks of iodine and rubbing alcohol. Those stupid machines whirring and beeping to keep OTHER parents' kids alive. But. Not. Mine. Because the damn doctors said he would never live. THEY said he'd die despite all their fancy gadgets and his will to live. His fight...was for naught. So he died that day, amidst the stench of medicine, after my ex-husband and I removed him from life support, and he suffocated in our arms....
As I drove through the snow-infested mountains, with the wind nearly ripping our truck from the road, I couldn't help thinking about Zeke. I shook my head telling myself not to. This drive was dangerous enough, without me trying to see through tears as well.
But what happened next, surprised me.
This year, I didn't recall all of the sad circumstances of his death. Instead, I simply remembered a specific day nearly a month before he died.
Zeke's nurse had said I could hold him in a rocking chair. Right before she was about to pass him to me, he started crying really hard. Another nurse came by and said I shouldn't hold him, that they needed to up his vent settings. But I pleaded, BEGGING them to let me hold my baby. So they handed him to me.
I rocked so slowly, careful since he had so much tubing in him. And instead of crying harder like they'd thought he might, he melted into my arms, as if he was always meant to be there. I put my pinkie near his hand and he wrapped his little fingers around it, holding on so damn tight. Tears filled my eyes as I rocked him forever. And in that moment, it didn't matter how sick he was or how hard this was. We loved each other. Nothing could take that away, not time, not sickness, not death. And that moment, admist the stench of medicine and all those whirring machines...that was a perfect moment.
I could hardly believe it had been 13 years this January. I blinked, focusing on the road ahead. The weather began clearing a little, and it wasn't quite so terrifying.
After we were safely home and all of the kids were in bed, I told my husband about the memory. "I can't remember the complete details of the bad parts of Zeke's life anymore, but I do remember every detail of when I held him in the rocking chair for the first time."
Mike squeezed my hand.
"It's crazy, Mike, but I feel so much peace right now. When time has passed and everything else is gone, all that remains--all that really matters--is love."
And so now when I think of Zeke, the memory of his love is in the forefront of my mind. I hope that's what he remembers about me as well....
Happy birthday.
April 25, 2016
Random Acts of Kindness -- Yoshi Gish
Let me give you some background....
We moved to Idaho last November. You'd think I'd be used to it now--the deer, the millions of rock chucks, the beer on tap at the gas stations--but it's still an adjustment. Mike, the kids, and I have made some awesome friends--and I love Idaho--yet there are some things I miss, like playing the violin in a band.
A week and a half ago, I stood in an eclectic coffee shop simply thinking about how much I miss playing the violin in a group, getting lost in the chords, connecting with people through the language of pure melodies.... Anyway, I'd just gotten my mocha bolo (yes, that's a coffee with custard in it--BAM) and as I walked away from the counter, this really tall guy called out to me: "You should come to my show tonight."
I stood stunned for a minute, studying his long hair, black clothes, and kind eyes. I still couldn't figure why he'd called out to me, but somehow I knew instantly, I'd met a kindred spirit--that's how some musicians are. You can catch their vibe, really 'cause music practically eminates from true musicians, even when they aren't playing.
So, I stepped over and before I knew it, I'd told him I play the violin. I'm still not sure why, but that saint of a man asked me to play with him during his show.
When I got there that night, excitement coursed through me. Yoshi (the singer) and Chris (the drummer) had given me such a gift by letting me jam with them. Had Yoshi somehow known how terribly homesick I was, or how badly I'd wanted to play my violin in a band again?
Yoshi and Chris were amazing, truly: not merely how they played, but how they engaged the crowd as well. And at the end of one song, Yoshi Gish told some local bands that if they didn't offer me a spot in one of their groups, they were crazy. I got two offers that night and one yesterday.
So, from a small-town girl who needed this more than anyone might really know, thank you, Yoshi Gish and Chris the AMAZING drummer. The two of you are badass!
Signing off,
A Very Happy Elisa
Check out a clip of the show below--a mashup of some covers:
Random Acts of Kindness: Because Life Really is Good
Check out Yoshi's Facebook Page
here: CLICK ME
We moved to Idaho last November. You'd think I'd be used to it now--the deer, the millions of rock chucks, the beer on tap at the gas stations--but it's still an adjustment. Mike, the kids, and I have made some awesome friends--and I love Idaho--yet there are some things I miss, like playing the violin in a band.
A week and a half ago, I stood in an eclectic coffee shop simply thinking about how much I miss playing the violin in a group, getting lost in the chords, connecting with people through the language of pure melodies.... Anyway, I'd just gotten my mocha bolo (yes, that's a coffee with custard in it--BAM) and as I walked away from the counter, this really tall guy called out to me: "You should come to my show tonight."
I stood stunned for a minute, studying his long hair, black clothes, and kind eyes. I still couldn't figure why he'd called out to me, but somehow I knew instantly, I'd met a kindred spirit--that's how some musicians are. You can catch their vibe, really 'cause music practically eminates from true musicians, even when they aren't playing.
So, I stepped over and before I knew it, I'd told him I play the violin. I'm still not sure why, but that saint of a man asked me to play with him during his show.
When I got there that night, excitement coursed through me. Yoshi (the singer) and Chris (the drummer) had given me such a gift by letting me jam with them. Had Yoshi somehow known how terribly homesick I was, or how badly I'd wanted to play my violin in a band again?
Yoshi and Chris were amazing, truly: not merely how they played, but how they engaged the crowd as well. And at the end of one song, Yoshi Gish told some local bands that if they didn't offer me a spot in one of their groups, they were crazy. I got two offers that night and one yesterday.
So, from a small-town girl who needed this more than anyone might really know, thank you, Yoshi Gish and Chris the AMAZING drummer. The two of you are badass!
Signing off,
A Very Happy Elisa
Check out a clip of the show below--a mashup of some covers:
Random Acts of Kindness: Because Life Really is Good
Check out Yoshi's Facebook Page
here: CLICK ME
April 20, 2016
Fishing with Jeremy Wade
Well...I'd like to go fishing with Jeremy Wade (ya know, from River Monsters ). It would be unforgettable--like when I went sky diving, hooked my husband, or realized channel cats were finally likin' my lures. Some people might not understand this, but fishing has grounded my life. After my divorce when my ex had my kids, fishing took my mind off of things. I'd sit by the water for hours, never knowing what surprise I might hook. Fishing always reminds me of Christmas--you just never know what surprise you'll discover next.
As the months dragged on, and the divorce really sunk in, my kids and I somehow started watching River Monsters each weekend on Netflix. We got so into it that we started fishing together, everywhere we could find around our hometown: ponds, lakes, you name it. We learned how to hook trout, bluegill, large mouth, and all the catfish we could find. Other fishermen--usually men--would always comment, laughing about a single mom who would bring her kids fishing. Didn't they know fishing is my therapy? And by teaching my kids how to fish, they've learned a whole lot about life as well.
Anyway, back to my point.... my kids and I started fishing together because of Jeremy Wade's enthuism. Sure my kids wouldn't swim in a pool for a few weeks after a couple of episodes--especially the one with the piranha, but that's beside the point. And now since I've remarried, my husband is even starting to like fishing.
See, I even posted about Mr. Wade on FB last year. Here: http://tinyurl.com/j5ued84
NOW there's a contest: submit the best pic to win a fishing trip (for two) with JW.
So--to make a long story even l.o.n.g.e.r., I'm going to submit a pic; I just haven't figured out which one yet.
Here are some of the "blopper" pics we took. Mike, our oldest daughter, and I had way too much fun together taking these pics.
I'm so lucky I didn't lose this smaller pic in the water.
Yep,this is me...after almost falling in a hole. As little Jeremy just floats along like nothing's wrong.
Mike is such a good sport to help me with all of this.
He thought of some pretty hilarious pic ideas, too! As you can bet, people at the pond kept looking at us like we were nuts. We didn't catch any fish that day. BUT we made another hilarious memory. Is there anyone you've wanted to meet? I asked my mom and she said, "Elvis." Yeah, Elvis has nothing on a biologist who can fish!
Sincerely, -A Hopeful Fisherwoman-person--who still has a TON to learn about fishin' (Elisa)
P.S. If you'd like to submit a pic of your own, here's the link to the contest: http://www.animalplanet.com/…/riv…/reeljeremy-photo-contest/
#DreamBig #LoveFishing #GetErDone
As the months dragged on, and the divorce really sunk in, my kids and I somehow started watching River Monsters each weekend on Netflix. We got so into it that we started fishing together, everywhere we could find around our hometown: ponds, lakes, you name it. We learned how to hook trout, bluegill, large mouth, and all the catfish we could find. Other fishermen--usually men--would always comment, laughing about a single mom who would bring her kids fishing. Didn't they know fishing is my therapy? And by teaching my kids how to fish, they've learned a whole lot about life as well.
Anyway, back to my point.... my kids and I started fishing together because of Jeremy Wade's enthuism. Sure my kids wouldn't swim in a pool for a few weeks after a couple of episodes--especially the one with the piranha, but that's beside the point. And now since I've remarried, my husband is even starting to like fishing.
See, I even posted about Mr. Wade on FB last year. Here: http://tinyurl.com/j5ued84
NOW there's a contest: submit the best pic to win a fishing trip (for two) with JW.
So--to make a long story even l.o.n.g.e.r., I'm going to submit a pic; I just haven't figured out which one yet.
Here are some of the "blopper" pics we took. Mike, our oldest daughter, and I had way too much fun together taking these pics.
I'm so lucky I didn't lose this smaller pic in the water.
Yep,this is me...after almost falling in a hole. As little Jeremy just floats along like nothing's wrong.
Mike is such a good sport to help me with all of this. 
He thought of some pretty hilarious pic ideas, too! As you can bet, people at the pond kept looking at us like we were nuts. We didn't catch any fish that day. BUT we made another hilarious memory. Is there anyone you've wanted to meet? I asked my mom and she said, "Elvis." Yeah, Elvis has nothing on a biologist who can fish!
Sincerely, -A Hopeful Fisherwoman-person--who still has a TON to learn about fishin' (Elisa)
P.S. If you'd like to submit a pic of your own, here's the link to the contest: http://www.animalplanet.com/…/riv…/reeljeremy-photo-contest/
#DreamBig #LoveFishing #GetErDone
