Linda L. Zern's Blog, page 33
February 12, 2014
C is for Chump
I married my high school sweetheart. My husband married his high school sweetheart. Which means that we married each other. It also means that we went to high school together. He followed me around for all of my sophomore year. I had no idea. Back then it was called ‘kind of cute.’ Today it’s called stalking.
After the stalking phase, we actually took a class together—some kind of writing class, I can’t remember what it was called—Word Mongering, Essays Anyone Can Understand, How to BS Your Way Through the Rest of your Life, something.
The first thing our public school teacher told us was that no one in that class, not one of us, was college material.
I believed her.
I’m not sure if Sherwood cared enough to believe her. I think he was still mildly stalking me at this point.
The second thing our public school teacher said left most of us shocked and shaken.
“I can smell plagiarism. And I mean smell it, not to mention recognize it when I see it,” she said, fixing her plagiarism-detecting eyes on us as she looked down her plagiarism-sniffing nose at us. She repeated her plagiarism spotting abilities, many times. We trembled.
Okay, I trembled. Sherwood was checking out my Sweet Honesty t-shirt.
I went home and sweated over our first writing assignment, two pages of ‘something that interests you,’ every word mine, every thought from me, every sentence coming out of my head. What was my paper about? I have no idea. But I know one thing, IT WAS MY ORIGINAL WORK.
Sherwood went home cracked open the Funk and Wagnall’s Encyclopedia and copied one of the articles—WORD FOR WORD—straight out of the book. I remember what his TOTALLY FAKE essay was about—The Boston Freaking Marathon.
We handed in our papers to the fake paper-sniffing teacher.
Okay, let’s recap. I wrote a totally original essay. Sherwood cheated like a guy selling fake Gucci’s in New York City.
Sherwood the Cheater made . . . wait for it . . . an A, with “Very Interesting!” written across the top of that fake paper like a going out of business banner.
My paper? I made . . . wait for it . . . a C . . . for chump.
Later, he had the effrontery—how’s that word for a C for chump writer—to claim that he didn’t copy the article word for word. He left out words like written by and see reference.
I admit; it was a little discouraging, but I got over it and had the effrontery to finally go to college and keep right on writing. I also married the boy, but I encouraged him to pursue a career in computers rather than wordsmithing.
Linda (Tattle Tale) Zern
After the stalking phase, we actually took a class together—some kind of writing class, I can’t remember what it was called—Word Mongering, Essays Anyone Can Understand, How to BS Your Way Through the Rest of your Life, something.
The first thing our public school teacher told us was that no one in that class, not one of us, was college material.
I believed her.
I’m not sure if Sherwood cared enough to believe her. I think he was still mildly stalking me at this point.
The second thing our public school teacher said left most of us shocked and shaken.
“I can smell plagiarism. And I mean smell it, not to mention recognize it when I see it,” she said, fixing her plagiarism-detecting eyes on us as she looked down her plagiarism-sniffing nose at us. She repeated her plagiarism spotting abilities, many times. We trembled.
Okay, I trembled. Sherwood was checking out my Sweet Honesty t-shirt.
I went home and sweated over our first writing assignment, two pages of ‘something that interests you,’ every word mine, every thought from me, every sentence coming out of my head. What was my paper about? I have no idea. But I know one thing, IT WAS MY ORIGINAL WORK.
Sherwood went home cracked open the Funk and Wagnall’s Encyclopedia and copied one of the articles—WORD FOR WORD—straight out of the book. I remember what his TOTALLY FAKE essay was about—The Boston Freaking Marathon.
We handed in our papers to the fake paper-sniffing teacher.
Okay, let’s recap. I wrote a totally original essay. Sherwood cheated like a guy selling fake Gucci’s in New York City.
Sherwood the Cheater made . . . wait for it . . . an A, with “Very Interesting!” written across the top of that fake paper like a going out of business banner.
My paper? I made . . . wait for it . . . a C . . . for chump.
Later, he had the effrontery—how’s that word for a C for chump writer—to claim that he didn’t copy the article word for word. He left out words like written by and see reference.
I admit; it was a little discouraging, but I got over it and had the effrontery to finally go to college and keep right on writing. I also married the boy, but I encouraged him to pursue a career in computers rather than wordsmithing.
Linda (Tattle Tale) Zern
February 6, 2014
Poppy Love
My husband and I are halfway to a hundred. Or as I informed my college editing class, “I’ve lived half of a hundred years, and I have a lot to say.” And then I said some crazy crap about needing to take the grammar class so that I could say what I want to say more clearly. Then I failed my first grammar test.
Here’s what I’ve learned so far in Editing Essentials. Human beings can take the fun out of just about anything. Just. About. Anything.
“Hey there, Grog, I sure like those spear chuckers’ spears you’ve painted on that cave wall. Spear chuckers’, plural possessive, right?”
Not my husband, he’s a man who knows the value of simple pleasures and simple fun. He knows that grandchildren would rather play “Monster” with Poppy in a dark yard, than join a league of any kind, ever.
Monster is a simple game. The children run screaming in terror while Poppy sneaks up on them, leaps out at them, or hunts them down like a spear chucker stalking baby bison. The game is considered successful when one or more of the younger children are booger crying from fright, and the older children are so sweaty from running around they smell like baby mammoths.
It’s a little known fact that a romping good game of Monster can cripple Poppy up for two, even three days. But still he answers the call of “Play Monster, Poppy. Play Monster.”
And that’s why when our ten grandchildren walk in the front door they take one look at me and then ask, “Where’s Poppy?” Because he’s fun, that’s why. No quizzes. No tests. No note cards. No stupid, endless rules. Just fun. Just screaming, adrenalin pumping, heart stopping fun. And what’s wrong with that? Not a single thing.
Linda (Chopped Liver) Zern
Here’s what I’ve learned so far in Editing Essentials. Human beings can take the fun out of just about anything. Just. About. Anything.
“Hey there, Grog, I sure like those spear chuckers’ spears you’ve painted on that cave wall. Spear chuckers’, plural possessive, right?”
Not my husband, he’s a man who knows the value of simple pleasures and simple fun. He knows that grandchildren would rather play “Monster” with Poppy in a dark yard, than join a league of any kind, ever.
Monster is a simple game. The children run screaming in terror while Poppy sneaks up on them, leaps out at them, or hunts them down like a spear chucker stalking baby bison. The game is considered successful when one or more of the younger children are booger crying from fright, and the older children are so sweaty from running around they smell like baby mammoths.
It’s a little known fact that a romping good game of Monster can cripple Poppy up for two, even three days. But still he answers the call of “Play Monster, Poppy. Play Monster.”
And that’s why when our ten grandchildren walk in the front door they take one look at me and then ask, “Where’s Poppy?” Because he’s fun, that’s why. No quizzes. No tests. No note cards. No stupid, endless rules. Just fun. Just screaming, adrenalin pumping, heart stopping fun. And what’s wrong with that? Not a single thing.
Linda (Chopped Liver) Zern
February 4, 2014
MOONCALF: A 1st Interview
MY FIRST INTERVIEW: VERY EXCITED TO TALK BOOKS WITH MYTHICAL BOOKS * Here's how it shook out. And a big, big thank you for taking the time to read and wonder.
Mythical Books’ Interview Questions for
Mooncalf by Linda L Zern
1. A reviewer said: “There are several moments in the book that hit me as a reader like a punch to the chest and subsequently ripped my heart out.” Having in view that the book is for middle school readers, did you felt the need/wish to leave room for hope? Why so?
2. The most of Amazon reviewers (if not all of them) are adults and they enjoyed the book. How different is to write a book for young / middle grade readers and to send them a deeper message?
3. My personal opinion is that many authors of our day forget to use figures of speech. What do you think about these? Are they obsolete, do the contemporary stories still need them?
4. What do you think about young adult literature trend in our day?
5. Do you have a message for parents?
English is not my native language so I was “amused” about the “Mooncalf” word because it can be translated differently: from dreamer, monster to idiot. If you think useful for readers, I would want to ask you “What is the significance of the title?”
Cremona
Dear Cremona c/o Kathy,
First, thank you for taking the time to read and comment on Mooncalf. I can’t thank you enough.
1. Your observation about the “heart ripping” aspect of the story is actually my observation. Often, my first question to reader’s is, “Is it too sad?” And I’ve been surprised by their focus on the love between the main characters, rather than the tragedy of it all. Several readers of that age group have said to me, “But they loved each other.” That surprised me, but that seems to be what they are taking away from the book, for the most part. However, one of my readers did comment, “I liked them so much I just wanted them to go off and make a baby sitter's club or something.” Alas, it’s not that kind of story, but more importantly, it wasn’t that kind of time in our history.
2. It’s a little book about big hard issues. As for the deeper themes and messages, I was hoping to tell a story that could be read on several levels--crazy I know. My granddaughter (4th grade) sees a story about bullying, on the school bus, at school, etc. Older children seem to be able to bring more to the table as they read, focusing on the dynamic between the adults and the children, because, grownups sometimes get it wrong, the little calf encapsulating that hard fact. And adults tend to key in on the societal aspects of passing racism on to the next generation through the metaphors of the orange grove and grafting.
3. I agree with you about modern literature. I was raised on The Yearling, Where the Red Fern Grows, and Sounder. Books that left me shocked and shaken and changed. These were stories that touched my soul, and I have never forgotten them. I would like to believe that our children are still capable of being taught the power of symbol and metaphor. I would like to believe that our children still need books that touch their souls, rather than just entertain for a time. But let’s face it. Literature has become a hard sell.
4. A lot of young adult literature is fun, and I love escapism as well as the next reader, but I hope that society isn’t ready to completely abandon little books about big hard issues.
5. Yes, I have a message for parents: read with them, not at them; read with them and then discuss. Buy two copies or more, so that everyone has their own book. Start a family book club and make it a tradition.
6. I love words. Mooncalf is a word that brings so much to the table. Once upon a time, mooncalf was a term used by farmers and ranchers to describe malformed or stillborn animals. Over time, the word morphed to mean someone who is overly trusting, even ridiculous. Who has not been a mooncalf at one time or another?
Again my sincere thanks,
Linda L. Zern
Mythical Books’ Interview Questions for
Mooncalf by Linda L Zern
1. A reviewer said: “There are several moments in the book that hit me as a reader like a punch to the chest and subsequently ripped my heart out.” Having in view that the book is for middle school readers, did you felt the need/wish to leave room for hope? Why so?
2. The most of Amazon reviewers (if not all of them) are adults and they enjoyed the book. How different is to write a book for young / middle grade readers and to send them a deeper message?
3. My personal opinion is that many authors of our day forget to use figures of speech. What do you think about these? Are they obsolete, do the contemporary stories still need them?
4. What do you think about young adult literature trend in our day?
5. Do you have a message for parents?
English is not my native language so I was “amused” about the “Mooncalf” word because it can be translated differently: from dreamer, monster to idiot. If you think useful for readers, I would want to ask you “What is the significance of the title?”
Cremona
Dear Cremona c/o Kathy,
First, thank you for taking the time to read and comment on Mooncalf. I can’t thank you enough.
1. Your observation about the “heart ripping” aspect of the story is actually my observation. Often, my first question to reader’s is, “Is it too sad?” And I’ve been surprised by their focus on the love between the main characters, rather than the tragedy of it all. Several readers of that age group have said to me, “But they loved each other.” That surprised me, but that seems to be what they are taking away from the book, for the most part. However, one of my readers did comment, “I liked them so much I just wanted them to go off and make a baby sitter's club or something.” Alas, it’s not that kind of story, but more importantly, it wasn’t that kind of time in our history.
2. It’s a little book about big hard issues. As for the deeper themes and messages, I was hoping to tell a story that could be read on several levels--crazy I know. My granddaughter (4th grade) sees a story about bullying, on the school bus, at school, etc. Older children seem to be able to bring more to the table as they read, focusing on the dynamic between the adults and the children, because, grownups sometimes get it wrong, the little calf encapsulating that hard fact. And adults tend to key in on the societal aspects of passing racism on to the next generation through the metaphors of the orange grove and grafting.
3. I agree with you about modern literature. I was raised on The Yearling, Where the Red Fern Grows, and Sounder. Books that left me shocked and shaken and changed. These were stories that touched my soul, and I have never forgotten them. I would like to believe that our children are still capable of being taught the power of symbol and metaphor. I would like to believe that our children still need books that touch their souls, rather than just entertain for a time. But let’s face it. Literature has become a hard sell.
4. A lot of young adult literature is fun, and I love escapism as well as the next reader, but I hope that society isn’t ready to completely abandon little books about big hard issues.
5. Yes, I have a message for parents: read with them, not at them; read with them and then discuss. Buy two copies or more, so that everyone has their own book. Start a family book club and make it a tradition.
6. I love words. Mooncalf is a word that brings so much to the table. Once upon a time, mooncalf was a term used by farmers and ranchers to describe malformed or stillborn animals. Over time, the word morphed to mean someone who is overly trusting, even ridiculous. Who has not been a mooncalf at one time or another?
Again my sincere thanks,
Linda L. Zern
February 1, 2014
FLASH CARD DAFFY
Exceptional-ism. I’m for it.
Everyone can do something better than a lot of other people. No! Really. One of my granddaughters can correctly identify sixty-four flashcards of citrus tree diseases while wearing fox ears on her head. She’s flat out amazing.
The problem with modern day exceptional-ism is making it look like everyday brilliance, so folks won’t feel sad when they can’t name sixty-four different kinds of citrus tree diseases while wearing fox ears.
I get that, because I’m exceptional . . . well not sixty-four flash card memorizing exceptional but I think I can hold my own around a subject and a predicate.
“I’m exceptional, you know,” I inform my children, quite frequently.
They say, “Can I borrow six hundred bucks?”
I say, “I’ve written books, you know. One almost won a prize.”
They say, “Oh wow, that’s almost wow but not quite. Now about that six hundred bucks.”
Sigh.
It’s hard to be the exceptional when nobody notices. Or it could be the number of times I’ve done unexceptional stuff while they were hanging around.
“Hi, Mrs. Zern, are you here for your semi-annual teeth cleaning?”
“And floating,” I chirped as I winked and laughed. (Floating is what you call what the vet does to old horses so their oats don’t fall out of their old, yellow teeth. And that’s why that’s funny.)
Absolutely no one gets the joke about floating. I laugh my exceptional laugh alone.
“Well, Mrs. Zern, there’s a bit of a problem.”
“Did I get the appointment wrong? It’s Thursday, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, your appointment is Thursday—six months from now.”
Then there’s the whole losing your car in the parking lot, in the rain, while wearing a white shirt/skirt/caftan with socks and high heels. I’m an artist. I don’t have to dress normal, or have to know that the black Nissan Titan I was trying to break into wasn’t MY black Nissan Titan. It’s a kind of exceptional-ism—really exceptional daffiness.
It’s genetic. Once in a dash for the SHOTGUN seat in our white van, our four daffy children pushed, shoved, and argued their way across the parking lot at Sea World. They jumped into a white van. It wasn’t ours. My husband and I started up OUR white van and pretended to drive away.
Which proves how completely not brilliant it’s possible to be. We only pretended to abandon them. We had our chance and blew it.
No one is great at everything. Being great at everything isn’t exceptional it’s just annoying.
Linda (Flash Card Daffy) Zern
Everyone can do something better than a lot of other people. No! Really. One of my granddaughters can correctly identify sixty-four flashcards of citrus tree diseases while wearing fox ears on her head. She’s flat out amazing.
The problem with modern day exceptional-ism is making it look like everyday brilliance, so folks won’t feel sad when they can’t name sixty-four different kinds of citrus tree diseases while wearing fox ears.
I get that, because I’m exceptional . . . well not sixty-four flash card memorizing exceptional but I think I can hold my own around a subject and a predicate.
“I’m exceptional, you know,” I inform my children, quite frequently.
They say, “Can I borrow six hundred bucks?”
I say, “I’ve written books, you know. One almost won a prize.”
They say, “Oh wow, that’s almost wow but not quite. Now about that six hundred bucks.”
Sigh.
It’s hard to be the exceptional when nobody notices. Or it could be the number of times I’ve done unexceptional stuff while they were hanging around.
“Hi, Mrs. Zern, are you here for your semi-annual teeth cleaning?”
“And floating,” I chirped as I winked and laughed. (Floating is what you call what the vet does to old horses so their oats don’t fall out of their old, yellow teeth. And that’s why that’s funny.)
Absolutely no one gets the joke about floating. I laugh my exceptional laugh alone.
“Well, Mrs. Zern, there’s a bit of a problem.”
“Did I get the appointment wrong? It’s Thursday, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, your appointment is Thursday—six months from now.”
Then there’s the whole losing your car in the parking lot, in the rain, while wearing a white shirt/skirt/caftan with socks and high heels. I’m an artist. I don’t have to dress normal, or have to know that the black Nissan Titan I was trying to break into wasn’t MY black Nissan Titan. It’s a kind of exceptional-ism—really exceptional daffiness.
It’s genetic. Once in a dash for the SHOTGUN seat in our white van, our four daffy children pushed, shoved, and argued their way across the parking lot at Sea World. They jumped into a white van. It wasn’t ours. My husband and I started up OUR white van and pretended to drive away.
Which proves how completely not brilliant it’s possible to be. We only pretended to abandon them. We had our chance and blew it.
No one is great at everything. Being great at everything isn’t exceptional it’s just annoying.
Linda (Flash Card Daffy) Zern
January 29, 2014
STORY MONGER
It’s one of our granddaughter’s favorite stories. She begs to hear it again and again. Her dad tells the story—over and over. It’s the tale of how Aric, our oldest son, fashioned a homemade bolo (bolas) out of two wild Florida yams and a hunk of grapevine and attempted to kill our youngest son and their cousin, Daniel, with it.
In the family lexicon, it’s called The Great Wild Yam Bolo Attack of ’93.
Our oldest son enjoyed heavy infusions of adrenalin from a young age; You know, the way some kids enjoyed pizza.
Our youngest son enjoyed pizza.
Aric liked to build tiger pits and Argentinean bolos.
Adam liked to avoid tiger pits and Argentinean bolos.
The way Adam tells it, Aric appeared out of the misty Florida fog one day, carrying a bolo he’d constructed out of two wild yams connected with a length of twisting vine. Note: Wild Florida yams are as hard as rocks and about as useful.
Also Note: No one ever discovered where Aric stumbled upon his homemade bolo making skills, except that he did.
The way Adam tells it, Aric said not a word to either one of them. He simply appeared and began to twirl the homemade bolo around and around over his head.
The way Adam tells it, they began to yell, “No! No! Don’t do it Aric. Please don’t do it.”
All they heard was the searing whir of rock hard yams slicing the humid air.
Then they began to run. Adam swears he outran Daniel, knowing that no mercy would be shown. At least that’s the way he tells it.
Racing for his life, Adam remembered looking over his shoulder to see Daniel thundering along behind him. As he watched, Aric let fly his homemade bolo. It flew true. Daniel went down in a tangle of legs, arms, dirt, humidity, and yams.
Adam knew better than to stop running. He wished Daniel safe passage to Valhalla and kept right on running.
At least that’s how Adam tells it, over and over and over again to Emma, who laughs uproariously every single time.
It’s good to have stories to tell. Good to have stories that make little girls laugh. Good to have survived long enough to be able to tell the stories to our children that eventually become our family histories.
So to Emma and all the other grandchildren, I say, “Let the stories begin.”
Linda (PAX) Zern
In the family lexicon, it’s called The Great Wild Yam Bolo Attack of ’93.
Our oldest son enjoyed heavy infusions of adrenalin from a young age; You know, the way some kids enjoyed pizza.
Our youngest son enjoyed pizza.
Aric liked to build tiger pits and Argentinean bolos.
Adam liked to avoid tiger pits and Argentinean bolos.
The way Adam tells it, Aric appeared out of the misty Florida fog one day, carrying a bolo he’d constructed out of two wild yams connected with a length of twisting vine. Note: Wild Florida yams are as hard as rocks and about as useful.
Also Note: No one ever discovered where Aric stumbled upon his homemade bolo making skills, except that he did.
The way Adam tells it, Aric said not a word to either one of them. He simply appeared and began to twirl the homemade bolo around and around over his head.
The way Adam tells it, they began to yell, “No! No! Don’t do it Aric. Please don’t do it.”
All they heard was the searing whir of rock hard yams slicing the humid air.
Then they began to run. Adam swears he outran Daniel, knowing that no mercy would be shown. At least that’s the way he tells it.
Racing for his life, Adam remembered looking over his shoulder to see Daniel thundering along behind him. As he watched, Aric let fly his homemade bolo. It flew true. Daniel went down in a tangle of legs, arms, dirt, humidity, and yams.
Adam knew better than to stop running. He wished Daniel safe passage to Valhalla and kept right on running.
At least that’s how Adam tells it, over and over and over again to Emma, who laughs uproariously every single time.
It’s good to have stories to tell. Good to have stories that make little girls laugh. Good to have survived long enough to be able to tell the stories to our children that eventually become our family histories.
So to Emma and all the other grandchildren, I say, “Let the stories begin.”
Linda (PAX) Zern
January 27, 2014
We Can Hear What You're Really Saying!
In a heavy southern accent, the DMV examiner asked our seventeen-year old son, Adam, if he had ever been convicted of a DUI?
He said, “Yes.”
Adam didn’t drink. Or drive. Or have a license. What he really meant was, “I’m a little nervous.”
Communication is a tricky, tricky business these days. Political correctness, rampant hypocrisy, personal agendas, and the fact that everyone with fingers has a website and is selling something has put a crimp in getting the straight story with veracity.
Veracity?
Crap. What does that mean? Technically, it means “habitual truthfulness.”
Truth? Oh boy, but I’ve heard that truth is a relative term, because I go to college where simple things become as nasty and complicated as a knot in the shoelace of a toddler’s tennis shoe—that has been urinated on all day.
Relative?
Relative means that your truth is not my truth or our truth is not their truth unless it’s true on Comedy Central. I think.
How is truth supposed to work if we can’t agree on whether or not there actually is a knot in that shoelace? Or whether or not the smell wafting up from that shoelace is urine when we have to untie that shoelace knot with our teeth.
Examples of relative truthfullness include:
Hearing politicians call their LIES misspeaking. “I know I said that there would be a chicken in every pot, but what I meant to say is that everyone should smoke some pot, and then you won’t care one way or the other about getting free chicken.”
Hearing politicians caught in their LIES, claiming that they could have said something more “tightly.” More tightly????? “I know I said that I was born in a log cabin without a pot or a chicken to put in the pot, but what I should have said is that I made all that stuff up.”
Hearing politicians deny their LIES. “I had no idea that I said that stuff about free chicken. I found out when you found out on the news. And they never get anything wrong. Right?”
Don’t even get me started on the phrases “cutting edge,” “mean-spirited,” or “stupid doo-doo head.”
It is my grandchildren’s “reality” to call me “mean” when I refuse to let them overdose on Otterpops. “You are a mean old YaYa for not letting us eat enough frozen sugar water to give a whale diabetes.”
But I know that what the children are really saying is, “It’s so hard learning to be self-controlled.”
Truth. Civility. Semantics. It’s a relative minefield out there.
Linda (Doo-Doo) Head) Zern
TO GET YOUR COPY OF MOONCALF: http://www.amazon.com/Mooncalf-Linda-...
He said, “Yes.”
Adam didn’t drink. Or drive. Or have a license. What he really meant was, “I’m a little nervous.”
Communication is a tricky, tricky business these days. Political correctness, rampant hypocrisy, personal agendas, and the fact that everyone with fingers has a website and is selling something has put a crimp in getting the straight story with veracity.
Veracity?
Crap. What does that mean? Technically, it means “habitual truthfulness.”
Truth? Oh boy, but I’ve heard that truth is a relative term, because I go to college where simple things become as nasty and complicated as a knot in the shoelace of a toddler’s tennis shoe—that has been urinated on all day.
Relative?
Relative means that your truth is not my truth or our truth is not their truth unless it’s true on Comedy Central. I think.
How is truth supposed to work if we can’t agree on whether or not there actually is a knot in that shoelace? Or whether or not the smell wafting up from that shoelace is urine when we have to untie that shoelace knot with our teeth.
Examples of relative truthfullness include:
Hearing politicians call their LIES misspeaking. “I know I said that there would be a chicken in every pot, but what I meant to say is that everyone should smoke some pot, and then you won’t care one way or the other about getting free chicken.”
Hearing politicians caught in their LIES, claiming that they could have said something more “tightly.” More tightly????? “I know I said that I was born in a log cabin without a pot or a chicken to put in the pot, but what I should have said is that I made all that stuff up.”
Hearing politicians deny their LIES. “I had no idea that I said that stuff about free chicken. I found out when you found out on the news. And they never get anything wrong. Right?”
Don’t even get me started on the phrases “cutting edge,” “mean-spirited,” or “stupid doo-doo head.”
It is my grandchildren’s “reality” to call me “mean” when I refuse to let them overdose on Otterpops. “You are a mean old YaYa for not letting us eat enough frozen sugar water to give a whale diabetes.”
But I know that what the children are really saying is, “It’s so hard learning to be self-controlled.”
Truth. Civility. Semantics. It’s a relative minefield out there.
Linda (Doo-Doo) Head) Zern
TO GET YOUR COPY OF MOONCALF: http://www.amazon.com/Mooncalf-Linda-...
January 25, 2014
Highly Modern Carp
Heather, our oldest daughter was four years old when she started taking ballet classes. It helped her grow up graceful, cultured, and beautiful. We have been watching her recitals, productions, and shows since she was four years old.
She is swanlike. We are swine-like. Of course, her dad is the head swine, and I am the swine queen.
When our daughter danced in a showcase at her college we packed up our pork rinds and ball caps and tromped right down to sit in the front row to watch her. We’re swine, but we’re supportive.
The production included traditional dance numbers, a stunning number choreographed by our daughter, and then . . . a dance piece in the . . . um . . . er . . . highly modern style.
I consulted the program. The highly modern dance was called Viscous (as in, the thickness of liquids, also goo.) During the highly modern dance, dancers (we think they were dancers) were covered head to toe in muck green leotards (we think they were leotards.) The mucky green bunch began the dance piled up in a moldy looking heap. I knew we were in trouble when I realized the title of the piece might mean sludge.
When the moldy pile of dancers began to crawl, creep, and convulse around the floor as the music (we think it was music) moaned, I began to worry. This was not going to be received well by my husband, the computer analyst math geek whose idea of modern dance is standing up and stretching.
The dancers continued to twitch and creep. I tried hard to look contemplative and to think deep thoughts about thick liquids. I prayed that it would end quickly.
Alas, no. On the music moaned. On the dancers rolled and oozed. On and on until, like that kid in that story “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” my husband pointed out the glaringly obvious.
“This is crap!”
Or he might have said, “They look like carp.”
I’m not sure. At this point it all gets a little blurry—crap, carp. Who knows what he actually said? But I’m pretty sure he said it right out loud, not yelling out loud, but loud enough. You know? I don’t think he pointed.
However, what he did next is seared into my memory. He laughed.
First it was only a muffled chuckle, trapped behind his hand, but then as the green muck folk quivered closer he laughed through his nose, mouth, and possibly his ears. It was loud. And like an infection, the laughter spread from my husband to the others, row by row. It radiated out like ripples on a weedy pond. Several audience members tried to control their laughing by stuffing their own fists in their mouths. This caused more laughing—a lot more.
I was desperate as the levity rebellion spread, and I snapped, “If you don’t stop laughing right now, I will take you out of this meeting, Mister.”
Later, Heather reported that one of the dancers backstage with really good hearing observed, “Hey, someone out there is laughing.”
Heather said, “That’s not someone. That’s my dad.”
After the show, one anonymous critic was heard to say, “Those dancers looked like those danged slugs in my garden.”
Sherwood had no further comment. We went to Dairy Queen.
Actually, I love the way my math wizard loves to point and say, “Hey, the Emperor has no clothes on. That dude is naked.” Of course, usually, the naked dude is Sherwood. Oh, wait. That was in high school when streaking on motorcycles was all the rage.
What we lack in culture, we make up for in bravado.
Linda (Pass the Pork) Zern
She is swanlike. We are swine-like. Of course, her dad is the head swine, and I am the swine queen.
When our daughter danced in a showcase at her college we packed up our pork rinds and ball caps and tromped right down to sit in the front row to watch her. We’re swine, but we’re supportive.
The production included traditional dance numbers, a stunning number choreographed by our daughter, and then . . . a dance piece in the . . . um . . . er . . . highly modern style.
I consulted the program. The highly modern dance was called Viscous (as in, the thickness of liquids, also goo.) During the highly modern dance, dancers (we think they were dancers) were covered head to toe in muck green leotards (we think they were leotards.) The mucky green bunch began the dance piled up in a moldy looking heap. I knew we were in trouble when I realized the title of the piece might mean sludge.
When the moldy pile of dancers began to crawl, creep, and convulse around the floor as the music (we think it was music) moaned, I began to worry. This was not going to be received well by my husband, the computer analyst math geek whose idea of modern dance is standing up and stretching.
The dancers continued to twitch and creep. I tried hard to look contemplative and to think deep thoughts about thick liquids. I prayed that it would end quickly.
Alas, no. On the music moaned. On the dancers rolled and oozed. On and on until, like that kid in that story “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” my husband pointed out the glaringly obvious.
“This is crap!”
Or he might have said, “They look like carp.”
I’m not sure. At this point it all gets a little blurry—crap, carp. Who knows what he actually said? But I’m pretty sure he said it right out loud, not yelling out loud, but loud enough. You know? I don’t think he pointed.
However, what he did next is seared into my memory. He laughed.
First it was only a muffled chuckle, trapped behind his hand, but then as the green muck folk quivered closer he laughed through his nose, mouth, and possibly his ears. It was loud. And like an infection, the laughter spread from my husband to the others, row by row. It radiated out like ripples on a weedy pond. Several audience members tried to control their laughing by stuffing their own fists in their mouths. This caused more laughing—a lot more.
I was desperate as the levity rebellion spread, and I snapped, “If you don’t stop laughing right now, I will take you out of this meeting, Mister.”
Later, Heather reported that one of the dancers backstage with really good hearing observed, “Hey, someone out there is laughing.”
Heather said, “That’s not someone. That’s my dad.”
After the show, one anonymous critic was heard to say, “Those dancers looked like those danged slugs in my garden.”
Sherwood had no further comment. We went to Dairy Queen.
Actually, I love the way my math wizard loves to point and say, “Hey, the Emperor has no clothes on. That dude is naked.” Of course, usually, the naked dude is Sherwood. Oh, wait. That was in high school when streaking on motorcycles was all the rage.
What we lack in culture, we make up for in bravado.
Linda (Pass the Pork) Zern
