Adverbally Endowed
I waited impatiently all week for my husband to say something incredibly sweet or laughingly stupid, so I’d have a really good topic for my blog, but he stubbornly refused to be sufficiently amusing.
So I had nothing. Except…
I do have the overly adverbed sentence above.
Yes, I confess.
I am an adverb addict. A truly excessive addiction.
It started very young. With two adorably smart older sisters, I resorted to highly extreme tactics to overcome what I astutely considered to be my extremely disadvantaged family position. So I was really dramatic.
It started with ‘really’. Dolls were not just beautiful, they were really beautiful. Beets were not just horrible, they were really horrible. School was not just boring, it was really boring. (that one was also really true.)
And when my highly coveted little brother was born, I was really no longer even the baby. And life was really, really unfair.
But ‘really’ served me very well for a considerably long time.
In college I was extraordinarily lucky to have a roommate who was adverbally advanced. Lisa’s fabulously dramatic word was ‘absolutely’. Our dorm room was absolutely perfect; lemons were absolutely delicious; her foreign film class absolutely life-changing. Did I adopt ‘absolutely’? Absolutely.
Throughout my happily successful adulthood, I’ve branched out significantly. My supply of adverbs is amazingly bountiful.
And why, you might curiously ask?
Exactly like all addictions, adverbialism is definitely a sickness. But it is a joyously optimistic sickness, except for when it is passionately sad. It is truly the manic-depression of expression.
For the hopelessly addicted like me, mere verbs and adjectives cannot adequately express my enormously deep thoughts.
That, and incessantly reading Tom Swift books as a child.
Recently, there was an app on Facebook that interestingly analyzed your posts to see what words you consistently write. For me, I repeatedly used ‘I’, ‘myself’, ‘very’, and ‘really’. Ego and adverbs – that’s definitely me.
And my utterly favorite adverb? ‘Quite’ of course. As in Not Quite Old.
*****
Expiration Date
Well, it only took two days after I wrote about my mother’s vanity (Not Quite Fourteen) to find out I was wrong. I don’t need a full retraction, but a slight modification is certainly in order.
Last night I discovered that there may actually be an expiration date on Vanity.
It just might be that Vanity has a shelf life of eighty-eight years.
My mother got her driver’s license renewed yesterday, just in time for her 88th birthday.
In Connecticut, a driver’s license usually renews for six years. But after a certain age, you can renew for shorter period if you wish. It costs a little less. Mom decided to go for the two-year renewal. “I’ll decide again when I’m ninety if I still want to drive,” she said…which is a bit disconcerting.
Mom only drives now to the supermarket, the hairdresser, and the senior center. But those destinations are extremely important, so she needed that license. (Two years ago she helped my father renew his license, even though he couldn’t drive anymore. She wanted him to have it in his wallet. For his own self-esteem. You can see why I adore her.) So my brother-in-law drove her to the DMV. She didn’t see any irony in needing a ride to get her driver’s license.
She still has enough pride to make sure her makeup was perfect. Especially her eyebrows. In these later years, her eyebrows have all but disappeared. This troubles her, and so if nothing else, she’s always careful to add some eyebrows. She still has a pretty steady hand.
And although she intended to get her hair done, she’s got a bit of a cold, and just wasn’t up to a trip to the beauty parlor. But she took out her curling iron, and made sure the front of her hair looked ‘done’. She has a difficult time reaching around in the back, but she knew it wasn’t going to be a panoramic shot.
I brought her a pizza last night, and while we were munching away, I asked her how the big photo shoot went. And she laughed. She took out her new driver’s license to show me.
Evidently, the lady who took her picture felt so bad about my mother’s photograph that she apologized. This doesn’t sound like the DMV, but my mother assured me it was true.
“It doesn’t look very good,” the lady said. “Let me take it again.”
And I guess Vanity has an expiration date.
Because my mother answered her,
“You can take it again if you want,” she said. “BUT HOW AM I GOING TO CHANGE?”
My beautiful mom and me on my first Christmas
Mom on her 87th birthday with her youngest great-grandchild.
Not Quite Fourteen
Last week I heard someone say, “Oh no! I’ve become my mother!”
Well, I HAVE become my mother. And I couldn’t be happier. Becoming my mother has always been my goal. She’s smart, sweet, pretty, and best of all, funny.
And the more I’m like her, the more I like myself too.
Except for one tiny thing.
Vanity.
I care way too much about how I look. And how others see me.
With her eighty-eighth birthday next week, Mom still won’t go to the supermarket without her makeup. Neither will I.
And Mom’s influence goes back a long way.
When I was thirteen, I got to be a grownup for a few hours on a Sunday afternoon. I went to the hospital to visit a friend.
Children under fourteen weren’t allowed to visit patients. But my friends and I figured we could pass for fourteen. We had multiple phone conversations that morning. Back in 1964, you couldn’t just conference someone in. No. Linda called Jean and Jean called Shirley and Shirley called Linda back and then Linda called me.
We decided we would dress up and visit Elizabeth. On Friday, Elizabeth had been take to the hospital in an ambulance right in the middle of the school day. She had an ovarian cyst. I had no idea what that was. But they said she was going to be able to have babies. That was good, but it didn’t clarify anything for me.
I was a very young thirteen. I didn’t understand the brochure from the Kotex box (which I didn’t even need at thirteen). I still secretly played with dolls. But I figured it was bad to have your ovary explode, and that Elizabeth was lucky she had two of them
I was also feeling lucky that Jean, Shirley, and Linda asked me to go with them to the hospital. They were pretty popular, and I really wanted to be popular too. They were more grownup-looking that I was, though, and I knew it was going to be harder for me to pass for fourteen.
But I watched an impressive amount of TV. And I had older sisters. I knew what teenagers should look like. I figured I would try for Patty Duke.
It took me over an hour to get ready. I teased the top of my hair (which I had never done before and didn’t exactly succeed at.) And I put on my idea of grownup clothes:
my favorite red windbreaker (I thought the chest pocket could substitute for a chest)
my sister’s plaid skirt (rolled up and pinned)
my beige tights (which were almost stockings…baggy stockings)
my white sneakers (which I can’t explain)
I looked like this:
And I went out to meet my friends. My mother was working that Sunday. She was a nurse in the very same hospital I was heading for, but that is only peripheral to my story. My father was watching the game, and didn’t see me leave. And I sort of snuck out.
I look at that drawing, and I think I looked rather cute. But it was 1964, and punked-out hair and windbreakers with pleated skirts was not exactly the height of fashion. (Also, I drew this…just try and draw yourself stupid looking…you still come out pretty cute.)
I met my friends at Noveck’s Pharmacy and we walked to the hospital. A pretty long walk in a cold spring day. I’m not exactly sure what my hair looked like upon arrival. We put on bright pink lipstick before we went in.
Jean and Linda had sizeable chests, and so I stood between them and we walked quickly to the elevator. No one stopped us. We passed for fourteen!
We visited Elizabeth. She was in her pajamas, and she walked kind of bent over. But she was okay, and happy to see us (happy to see Jean, Linda, and Shirley anyway). And I noticed (because of the PJs) that Elizabeth was as flat-chested as me. This concerned me a little, because I thought for sure I would get breasts as soon as I got my period, and now I could see that the two might not be related.
We stayed a long time, and it was a long freezing walk back in the dark.
I arrived at home to find my parents frantic. My mother had come home from work to find me gone, and my father clueless. They had called my friends and searched the neighborhood.
All mothers are good at picturing their kids lying in a ditch, and my mother was one of the all-time best ditch-picturers. My father was furious. My mother was distraught.
Until she saw me. THEN she was furious.
“You wore THAT?” she yelled.
Spam-a-lot
I try not to remember George W. Bush. But I do remember that he liked to call himself “The Decider.”
I have my own “Decider”. It’s my spam filter.
I’m not talking about my Blog spam filter. That filter has yet to make a mistake. Why just today, it blocked:
“This is pointless, why am I even reading it and not enjoying glutenfri gulrotkake? I should learn to spend my time better.”
I looked it up immediately, and it appears to be from someone who likes carrot cake a lot better than they like my husband. This could be my ex-sister-in-law. But I think it’s probably spam.
No, I am referring to my spam filter at the office.
It decides what I should read. It is a devious Decider.
One day it decides that I should not see the letter from our worker’s comp insurer. But a letter from an online popcorn vendor is okay.
The Decider has determined that the legislative updates that I pay for are not worth my time. (Umm, it’s correct, but that’s besides the point.)
And The Decider keeps sending me notices of job openings. In Michigan. And even though I slept through most of “2001-A Space Odyssey”, I know that it isn’t good when your computer wants you to apply for another job.
The Decider enjoys insulting me.
I’m the controller of a small, but well-known business. So The Decider has assumed that I am a man.
The Decider has decided that I must be in need of Viagra. It forwards all the emails it can find that start, “Dear Nancy”, and then recommends penis boosters. Of course, any man named Nancy probably needs some medicinal encouragement, so The Decider might think it is being sensitive. I suspect that The Decider has written some of these emails itself.
On Friday, The Decider tipped its hand. It revealed to me a disconcerting but unavoidable clue: The Decider has been reading my Blog!
Under the guise of “Give yourself the edge in your business deals” – The Decider sent me this:
The Decider has seen my Flexees drawing. (“Mentionables“). It’s offering me the executive version!
“For professional men on the go.”
And speaking of “on the go” – why doesn’t the men’s version have little hooks and eyes in the crotch (like my ‘shapewear’ does)? Now that’s a men’s room yoga position I would like to see!
The Next Twenty
Remember – and even though you may old like me, you might remember, since it was JUST THIS WEEK – when I wrote all those sweet loving things about my husband in honor of our twentieth wedding anniversary?
Well, I meant all those endearing words about his endearing charms.
However.
Friday I learned that I am married to another guy.
I think perhaps while I was at work those pod people from “Invasion Of The Body Snatchers” came to my house and surprised my real husband before he could pull out his new gun.
The day started out okay. He was normal at breakfast. He was cranky and had a lot of coffee. That’s him all right.
And when I first got home, he seemed okay.
I had made my Cheater’s Turkey Soup. When I roast my turkey on Thanksgiving, I add broth, carrots, celery, and onion in the bottom of the pan. By the time my turkey is done, I’ve got the soup pretty much on the way. I just put it in my big stockpot, and add the carcass once we are through scavenging (that’s the word when you pick at a carcass, right?). An hour later…turkey soup.
My husband was excited about having that nice turkey soup, and he had said at breakfast he would put it on in the morning and let it simmer all day. I reminded him that everything had already cooked a really long time, and he agreed to wait until 3:30 to put the soup on the stove.
When I got home, he had forgotten. Naturally.
But now I see. This was just a ruse by the alien to make me think it was my normal husband.
When we sat down to dinner (an hour later than I had planned), I noticed something very odd. My husband was eating his soup with a fork!
“Why are you eating soup with a fork?” I asked.
“I’m eating the meat and veggies first,” he explained.
“But it’s SOUP!” I pointed out, as it seemed to require pointing out.
“I’ll have the broth after I finish the insides. That’s how I like it.”
That’s how he likes it? Since when? We’ve been married twenty years. Never. Not once. No. Never.
My husband is eccentric, but he’s a consistent eccentric.
I was suspicious.
Then the clincher.
My husband has sore hands from all the yard cleanup he had to do after our big storm. This includes a small cut on his thumb. The cut was still there, so the alien is not sweet E.T. who can heal these injuries.
As we finished dinner, my alien/husband said, “My hand really hurts, so I would appreciate it if you could do the dishes.”
Huh?
I won’t say my husband never does dishes. I still work full-time, but he is retired, so he puts the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher ever morning. And he occasionally helps with the dinner dishes.
I figured it out. In twenty years,that would be 7,305 days (with leap years). If we eat out once a week, that means 260 days with no dishes. That leaves 7,045 dish-washing days. I would say he has helped at least 100 times.
That means I have done the dishes 6,945 times, or approximately 98.7% of the dish days.
And yet he asked me if I could do the dishes. Like it was a special favor to him. Just this once.
So at sixty years old, I figure I have another twenty years to live with this alien.
I just hope he can still fix stuff.
Calendar Girl
It’s December. That means it’s time to shop for a new calendar.
The calendars above are my work calendars from the last four years.
You may have noticed that there are six calendars. In four years.
I am incredibly picky when it comes to calendars. If I buy one and it doesn’t work out, I discard it and buy another. Well, I don’t exactly discard it… it’s here still. I’m not sure why. Maybe there was a week I wanted to save. Maybe I thought I might go back. Maybe it was just too pretty to toss. Maybe I thought I could donate it to a poor calendar-less orphan.
My calendar has to be beautiful. Or classy. Probably both.
I need clear dates and plenty of room to write. I’m very flexible though. It can be weekly or daily. And although I prefer to start the week on a Sunday, I can live with the new stupid trend that starts the week on Monday. See how flexible?
I’ve bought calendars online. That doesn’t work. I have to feel the texture of the cover. And the paper has to be smooth. But not slippery smooth. It can be lined, but only narrow lines. It has to lie flat when opened.
It must not be too big or too heavy, since I like to take it home in my purse. But it can’t be too small either, since my handwriting is cramped enough.
And it can’t have any decoration. I love flowers but they can’t take up writing space. Don’t even talk to me about inspirational quotes. And although I love my cats like they were children from my womb (which I often pretend they are), I can’t exactly demand budget cuts with any authority if I open my calendar in a staff meeting and Richard gets a glimpse of an adorable big-eyed kitten.
It doesn’t need conversion rates from drams to ounces, but I can ignore that. Maps are nice. It gives me something to look at in boring meetings.
I will travel for miles to look at a calendar. Last year I drove thirty miles to see a calendar that I saw on the internet (but had to feel). I didn’t like it. I went home. The next week I went thirty miles in the other direction. I found one I rather liked, but I didn’t buy it. I wanted to see everything else first.
So after two more weeks of shopping, I decided on the one I saw in the second thirty-mile trip. But I made the drive back only to find my choice was sold out, so I ended up ordering it online after all. But I had felt it first, so I was okay.
It has worked out quite well. So I might order the exact same one again. But I want to shop around first. I might find something better. I’m gassing up the car.
I’m not sure how I got this fussy. After all, it’s only a matter of time before it looks like this:
Let Me Count The Ways
Today, on my twentieth wedding anniversary, I am re-posting this tribute to my sweet husband (originally posted on Sept 11):
*******
I laugh at my husband – a lot. This is because I find human behavior very funny, and I get to observe his behavior more than most other humans. Except myself of course. I watch myself obsessively… and I am a riot.
My husband can be ridiculous and he can be annoying, both of which are fun to write about.
But today is a day for reflection and an appreciation of the sweetness of life. So here are some of the reasons why I love my husband:
1. He’s a genius. (and not just because he can see how awesome I am.) He can fix anything – furnaces, cars, computers. He can put a clasp on a bracelet and an axle on a trailer. He can look at the innards of stuff and figure out what each gizmo should or should not be doing, and then he can get them to behave.
He built our house. It’s fabulous. And he installed a generator. It comes on automatically when we lose power. That was very handy a few weeks ago. And although it doesn’t provide power to every outlet in the house, my husband made sure that there is power to the outlet where I plug in my hairdryer.
2. He’s protective. I’d taken care of myself for a very long time before I met him. It’s nice to relinquish some of that. I have a champion. He offered to beat up a boss who was mean to me, and although I declined, I did enjoy envisioning it.
When we first got married, we lived in a quiet neighborhood. But my husband still worried about me crossing our mostly deserted road to go to our mailbox.
“How did I ever cross the street before I met you?” I asked jokingly.
“I don’t know. It’s a miracle you’re alive,” he answered solemnly.
3. He likes bad music. When we take a long car trip, he makes sure to pack all his Gene Autry CDs. If, after several hours, I politely request something more modern, he’s ready with The Beach Boys.
“The Beatles ruined everything,” he often states, knowing full well that I adore The Beatles.
He doesn’t want music that will change the world. He wants a dude singing about his car. But if he’s stuck in time musically, he’s also stuck in a very appealing way. To him, I’m still young, and pretty… and thin.
4. He’s a very serious guy. He worries. He’s not lighthearted. He’s never silly. He’s a built-in challenge that sharpens my wit. It thrills me to get him to laugh. Of course, if I can’t, I can always turn on “World’s Dumbest.” There’s nothing like a teenager smacking himself in the head with his own skateboard to make my husband roar.
5. He can find common ground with anyone. While I sometimes don’t know what to say to a stranger, my husband possesses an incredible talent for making everyone comfortable. Shy people confide in him. Sad people feel comforted. Shrewd salesmen give him a deal. He creates an immediate rapport. Getting ready for a big event one evening, I looked out the window and saw him having a friendly chat with the garbage man. One hour later he was having a friendly chat with the CEO of a television network.
6. He married me. This sounds like a pathetic, needy gratitude. But hell, it’s true. I met him when I was thirty-eight. My life up until then was full of men, each briefly, with long stretches of solitude in between. I wasn’t unhappy being single; as a matter of fact, the older I got, the more I liked it. But at thirty-eight, I did begin to wonder if, just maybe, I might be the teensiest bit unloveable. But I’m not. One crazy, but very smart, guy loves me.
Image via Wikipedia
Twenty-Year Rewards, Part Two
My husband has very good taste in jewelry. He has given me pearls and diamonds and emeralds and sapphires. He has educated himself quite well in gemology. He had to approve my new diamond-encrusted wedding band. He doesn’t like cheap stuff. I sometimes think he shops in the same store as Queen Elizabeth.
But while he loves to see me decked out (I could go to work in a tiara; he’d been fine with that), he’s a manly man who is content with a good watch and a wedding ring.
For our twentieth wedding anniversary, I wanted to give him a present he would love.
He spent a week thinking about it. And yesterday was his day. So at breakfast he told me where he wanted to shop.
Cabela’s.
For you girly-girls like me (who had never heard of Cabela’s) – well, it is a Sportmen’s store. But not just any Sportsmen’s store. It’s HUGE, and I hear that there are even much bigger stores in places where there is actually a population of sportsmen. But even the store in genteel Connecticut has fifteen zillion square feet. It has its own aquarium. It has a restaurant. A shooting gallery. Fish electronics. A fudge shop that also carries beef jerky. And every inch of space not taken up by merchandise has some big taxidermied specimen of wildlife – it’s sort of a natural history museum for folks who don’t mind shopping amid dead things.
Second floor display of dead stuff - right near the restaurant.
Most importantly, Cabela’s has guns. They have big guns, little guns, new guns, used guns. And ammo, ammo, ammo.
Yup, that’s what my romantic husband wanted for our anniversary. A new gun.
My husband used to be a hunter, but he doesn’t hunt much anymore. Once we moved out into the country and the deer and turkeys became our outdoor pets, he lost his enthusiasm. He is a very tender guy (for a manly man).
But he loves to go to the firing range. He likes target practice – and even girly me can see the pleasure in it. I like to get the golf ball within a few dozen yards of a little hole once in a while myself. And he likes explosions very very much. And firing a gun is a little explosion.
So off we went to Cabela’s. Little did I know that we would be there for five hours. Even with a permit, it takes an extraordinary amount of time to select, buy, and register a gun. Even if you think you know what you want. I was tempted to remind my husband that he put a quarter in the parking meter when it was my turn to shop. But I didn’t. As I may have told you a time or two (or twenty) already, I am a saint.
The first couple of hours were fun. (The last three, not so much).
I was amazed at what I saw:
– The dead critters of course
– A George Harrison look-alike eating an elk burger
– A ear-flap hat in pink camo
– A guy in a kilt
– Purses with hidden compartments for your ‘piece’
– A Christmas tree decorated with bear repellents and deer attractors (because nothing says Christmas like deer estrous)
And on the subject of camouflage, it is a miracle you can even find your way through most of the second floor. The aisles could be teeming with marines, and you’d never see them. But I have a question: Why are some hunting clothes orange and some camo? Do you want to be seen or NOT?
Well, I made my dear husband extremely happy. I won’t tell you what kind of gun he bought, but suffice it to say you should probably call first before dropping by for a visit.
And it stirs my heart to think that every time he squeezes off a round, he’ll be remembering our wonderful wedding day.
Twenty-Year Rewards, Part One
Twenty-year younger hands. (Dennis' photo)
This week is our twentieth wedding anniversary.
Neither of us can quite believe that it has been twenty years. At the same time, it feels like we were married yesterday and that we have been married forever. Really forever.
As part of self-congratulation week, we decided to treat ourselves to special gifts.
I went first. (naturally)
I decided I wanted an upgrade to my wedding band. My original wedding band has five very small diamonds. I wanted to keep the band for sentimental reasons; after all, my husband put that ring on my finger in Church, for God’s sake (literally, for God’s sake). But I could upgrade to bigger diamonds and that would look awesome with my engagement ring – which we awesomely upgraded already on our tenth anniversary.
I ducked out early from work. When we parked in front of my favorite jewelry store, my husband put a quarter in the parking meter. A quarter! That’s thirty minutes. I knew what I wanted, but the notion that I could look at jewelry and make a decision in a half-hour was just insanity. Of course, the store was only open for another hour, or he would have needed eleven quarters.
One hour barely gave me enough time to check out everything else in the store, which I absolutely had to do despite knowing what I wanted. I loved the sapphires, the pearls, all the mysterious and beautiful stuff in the estate case. I did the full circuit while negotiating for the wedding band. We got a great deal on a beautiful setting, offset slightly by the cost of the parking ticket.
Of course, the parking ticket wasn’t the only additional expense.
I had to leave my ring with the jeweler. He estimated that, given the Thanksgiving holiday, it would take two weeks to get the new setting and make the change.
But it’s my twentieth anniversary. I don’t want to be without my ring. I don’t consider myself superstitious. But I suddenly felt very queasy walking out that store without my wedding band. I felt horrible all evening. I had to have a ring.
I considered going to a pawn shop to pick up a wedding ring, but that doesn’t exactly fit with the whole superstitious thing. I mean, how did a wedding band get to a pawn shop anyway? I don’t want to wear someone else’s problems, even for two weeks.
So the next day I went to Wal-Mart and bought myself a gold (albeit plated) wedding band.
I figure I can pawn it when my newly-enhanced ring comes in.
*****
Tomorrow: Part Two – HIS turn.
Not Quite Pulitzer Material
I’m swimming in awards these past two weeks.
I’ve been nominated for Versatile Blogger and Liebster Blogger by
Prairie Wisdom
sandylikeabeach
Lorna’s View
whatimeant2say
kiwsparks
Rita’s Reflections
as well as nice mentions in blogs by RVing Girl and BigSheepCommunications.
I could get really conceited (okay, I already AM really conceited). But I know these compliments are due to a group of fabulous bloggers out there who are a lot like me. We are all travelling on the same middle-aged journey (Tickets Are Nonrefundable), and we have become great friends.
A few months ago, when I was nominated for the Versatile Blogger award, I made light of it (Welcome To My Ponzi Scheme). Having run the math, it appears that it only takes five iterations of nominations before everyone in WordPress gets an award. Twice.
But, this time, I don’t want to be cynical. You know, it’s NICE that other writers like what I write. That’s WHY I write, after all.
Remember Valentine’s Day in grade school? You got a valentine from everybody in the class, because mothers make sure their kids are nice to everyone. But it sure felt good. (And when Curtis did not send me a card, I was heartbroken, even though I hated Curtis. My mother assured me, however, that Curtis was very poor, and his mother just couldn’t afford to buy thirty cards.)
Which is not the point at all. Going down memory lane can be a very meandering walk.
Here’s the path I meant to go down:
When I was a senior in high school, I entered an essay contest. I wanted to win this contest more than anything I wanted that year. (Except for wanting John H. ask me to the prom. John, it’s been forty-two years and my heart is still a little broken...)
The contest was the Voice Of Democracy. You had to write an essay on what democracy meant to you, and then record your entry as a three-minute speech.
I could write. I could write a three-hour speech for William Jennings Bryan. But speaking myself for three minutes is a different story. (Although I love to talk. Ask anyone. I mean ANYONE.) I just hate to hear myself. I won’t go as far as to say I have a speech impediment. I just have a little trouble with my Rs. When Gilda Radner played Barbara Walters as BaBa WaWa, I was confused. I don’t hear anything wrong in Barbara Walters’ speech. She sounds normal to me.
Several kids decided to enter, and we all went to a teacher’s house one night to practice. She was a new young teacher, full of enthusiasm who lived in a tiny attic apartment, decorated with a decidedly Greenwich Village flair. It just occurred to me how much my first apartment years later looked like this teacher’s place. I was at her house only once; but she made an impression I guess. (I’ll stop meandering soon.)
The next day we went to the local radio station and recorded our essays.
It was the Fall of 1968. I am an idealist to this day, and in 1968 I was a naive seventeen-year-old idealist. I preached for three minutes that Democracy meant not only the right, but the necessity to stand against your government if it is wrong. Democracy meant taking to the streets to stop an evil war.
Did I mention that the sponsor of this contest was the American Legion?
I thought I would win. I really did. I thought the veterans of the American Legion would be amazed by my argument and immediately vow to stop the war.
I didn’t win.
The winner in my school was a girl whose father was a high-ranking officer in the military. She went on to the finals in the state competition. My father was a purple-heart veteran, but I didn’t say so in my speech.
I was devastated by my loss. It had never occurred to me that my speech was not only offensive to the judges – it was just not very good. I’ve learned since that you can be as offensive as you want; the only crime in writing is poor writing.
As a senior, I was also on the Yearbook staff. I don’t remember exactly what I said to the student editor of the yearbook. Not much, I don’t think. But Dennis obviously saw my disappointment in losing the Voice of Democracy contest.
When Dennis took the picture of the winner of the contest, the photograph was terrible. Her eyes were closed. The teacher-advisor suggested that he take the picture again.
“I took a dozen shots,” Dennis said. “She closed her eyes in every shot. If I take it again, it will just be the same.”
I kind of knew what he meant. That girl was very blinky.
The teacher signed off on using the closed-eye picture. As she left the room, Dennis did the oddest thing. He winked at me.
Here’s the photo that Dennis took of me for the Yearbook:
Here’s the picture he took of the Voice of Democracy winner (in the same location, by the way):
Twenty-two years later, coincidentally, Dennis was the photographer at my wedding.
There is actually a point to this wandering story.
I wasn’t the best writer at seventeen. But I love to this day Dennis’ small act of loyalty.
I am still not the best writer I could be. But I love the loyalty of all my blogger friends. Thank You.
****
P.S. I can’t resist one final meandering. In the photo above, I was wearing YELLOW tights!
notquiteold 