God Killed My Gerbil When I Was In Fifth Grade

It always marvels me where thoughts come from. Ideas, dreams, and memories bubble up to the surface at the weirdest of times. I was at my parent's house a few weekends back looking at a tree as I rocked back and forth on their patio. I was studying the way the leaves clung to one particular branch. Not for any rhyme or reason. It was more or less because I was there, it was there, and it was something to look at.

As I sat there rocking, gazing up at the branch a memory sprang up. Something I hadn't thought of in ages. In the technical sense I hadn't remembered it happening until that very moment. This is probably because I chose to forget the whole situation due to guilt.

I don't know exactly what my father said. All I remember was that I was sitting in our old van and I got the impression from him that my mother was going to have a baby. If you know my father, you know he has a very snarky, sarcastic, dry sense of humor. I am going to assume my father was being sarcastic. Either way, the seed was planted that I would pretty soon no longer be the youngest child in my family.

This was an Earth shattering moment for me. I was the baby of the family. That was my identity. Think of it as a midlife crisis in fifth grade. If I wasn't the baby of the family anymore who was I?

What was worse was my mother never talked about it. For what seemed like weeks I sat there waiting for my mother to break the news so I could properly grieve over my lost status. But it never came. Which was worse.

In school we were studying parts of the Old Testament. In case you didn't know God was very vengeful in the Old Testament. Burning cities, flooding the Earth, and making people walk in the desert for forty years. I know I am paraphrasing. Still that stuff can be pretty terrifying for a child.

With Old Testament God on my shoulders, I couldn't help thinking I did something wrong. He was punishing me with a younger sibling for something I had done.

One day after school my mother brought my sister and I into the car. She said she had something important to tell us. I prayed, "Dear God, let it be anything else. Anything but another kid. Please anything, but that."

"Laura, your gerbil is dead," I started crying. But not for the reasons that you would think.

I loved my gerbil, PJ. Don't get me wrong. He could do back flips. He had a slightly grey butt that made it look like he was wearing underwear. He also didn't bight very often. Minus the fact his cage could get pretty smelly he was an awesome pet. Still my crying wasn't from grief over him like it should have been. It was from fear and guilt.

Fear because I thought God granted my prayer but took my gerbil as payment. Guilt because if that was the case PJ's death was my fault.

I didn't know what to do. It wasn't fair. While PJ wasn't the dog I always pushed my parents to get, he was still MY pet. I was responsible for him. I kept thinking of what I could have done differently. What would have kept that from happening? My thoughts kept creeping back to Old Testament God. How PJ's life was sacrificed to answer my prayers, like a lot of animals in the Old Testament. Nothing could get rid of the guilt I felt.

PJ was placed in small white card board box from a department store. The kind of box that normally housed jewelry was taped up with my dead gerbil inside of it. I cried as I held it. Stroking it. Thinking of how I would do anything to have PJ back.

Then my thoughts bounced to Lazarus. It could be because that was the name of the department store on the box. I am not too sure. Either way the story of Jesus resurrecting Lazarus came to mind. If my prayers took away PJs life why couldn't they bring him back? Jesus did it so easily. If I prayed hard enough then it could potentially work. In case you were wondering, yes this was my first big brush with death.

I prayed as hard as I could with my hand hovering over the box. Asking God to forgive me for what I had done and telling PJ to rise. Moments later I started to panic. Realizing that if PJ did wake up he was pretty well taped up in that box and was probably suffocating to death again.

I begged my mom to let me open it up. I didn't tell her it was because I thought he was alive again. I think I simply told her it was because I wanted to pet him. Neil Gaiman said it right when he wrote, "I knew enough about adults to know that if I did tell them what had happened, I would not be believed."

Thinking back as an adult I know my mother was right to not open the box. Gerbils carry a lot of bacteria when they are alive. Who knows how much they carry when they are dead? But in my childhood brain PJ was not dead. Well not dead yet. It was a classic Schrodinger situation. Although I didn't know who Schrodinger was at the time.

After a couple minutes passed I felt doubly guilty. I not only killed my gerbil with prayer, I brought him back only to kill him again.

PJ was laid to rest on the side yard of the old house. Mom read some prayers from a children's prayer book. I placed some small purple flowers on his grave as well as a rock to mark where he was. After that I think I had to go to basketball practice.

It is strange to remember the thoughts that I had then. Thinking back I still feel a small amount of guilt. I know it is irrational. But I can't help thinking, what if it was true?

Surprise Fireworks at a Bookstore

I walked into a bookstore the other day for the first time in a long time. Which makes it sound like I don't read. I do. It is just that every bookstore near me has closed within the past three years. The only place I can buy books without going out of my way now is my Kindle, Target, and the internet.
It was like coming home. I've always felt that way in any place that has a good deal of books. How could you not? There before you are hundreds of friends who are willing to let you read their minds. Thousands of people waiting to meet you. So many opportunities for you to be whoever, whatever, wherever, whenever you want.
I walked around the store for an hour or so before settling on the new Neil Gaiman book The Ocean at the End of the Lane. I brought it up to the coffee shop and settled into a seat that looked over the river and city skyline. I was passing the time. Waiting for a movie that wouldn't start for another hour.
I sat in my chair drifting off to another world. Occasionally drifting back in to check the time, observe the city scape, and people watch. There was a couple not too far from me. I could tell they were either on their first or second date. She stated that the reason she doesn't like the NBA is because of the Korean War. I wish I had recorded her argument. It was beautiful, scary, and stupid. All rolled into one.
Thirty minutes before my movie was to start I started taking bigger gulps of my coffee. I debated staying and reading a little longer, but I have this thing about being on time. I hate being late. Even with the previews for the movie taking up 15 minutes, I had to be there right at the start time.
As I picked up my book and threw away my cup I heard a loud boom and a succession of loud crackles. I thought a bomb had gone off until I saw the colorful sparks out the window.
Large loud fireworks were being set off half a football field away from the shop. I walked out on the store's balcony in awe. I was later told they were professional fireworks setup for a festival going on across the river.
At that point I didn't care. There was no space to. Everything was filled with colors, sounds and vibrations. First there was the colorful sparks, followed a boom that reverberated off of your chest. Then ricocheted off of the city then back to you and into your ear.
There were three other people with me on the balcony and a handful below. It was such a sight to see. I felt like a child.
The show went on for 30 minutes. I was late for my movie, but strangely I didn't care. I wish I could've taken a picture. I tried with my phone, but it simply didn't do it justice.

Traffic Sucks: A Short Story

Below is a short story I have been mulling over in my brain for a very long time. I think of it often when i am stuck in traffic. I have finally given it an end but I do not think I am finished writing it. So the something new here is sharing fiction.

____________________________________________________________________

They often carpooled since their offices were a block away. She, however, went into work early that day. They were leaving for Florida that night and her plan was to leave work early to make sure she packed everything they needed.

Mike loved Sarah but her attention to detail often drove him nuts. One of her favorite sayings was, "When you are 5 minutes late you may as well be 5 hours late."

He could hear her say that to him as he inched his car a little closer to the Ford Focus in front of him on I71.

"She is going to kill me," he thought.

She told him to be home at 5:30pm which had come and gone a few minutes ago. He was surprised she hadn't called him.

"The phone," he laughed.

That's how they first met. He was a salesman for an office supply company. She was an administrative assistant. Every week like clock work she would call at exactly 2 o'clock and list supplies she needed. He never really said much to her, and never really cared to until he heard her laugh. He doesn't remember why she laughed, he just remembers thinking it was the strangest laugh he had ever heard. Almost like a horse. On a whim he asked her for a date. Later she would admit she only said yes because she was in shock. For the months she ordered things from Mike she thought his real name was something else and he lived in India.

They dated for three months then moved in together. A few months later they got engaged then married the following week, to their parents surprise. She was Jewish and he was Catholic. Neither were practicing but both of them came from big families who loved to voice their opinions. He really didn't like his in-laws but since Sarah admitted they were crazy he could tolerate them on normal holidays.

They were going away for their ten year anniversary. The car in front of him moved a little further forward. His phone began to ring but he ignored it. He knew it was her. He knew what she'd say.

He thought it best to wait until he got home to explain why he was late. The radio traffic report just came on. Apparently a few miles a head from where Mike was there was an accident. A car slid under a truck and now there was a helicopter on the scene. The radio personality basically said Mike wouldn't be moving for a while.

"Great," he said, "Thanks to some moron I'm going to miss my flight and not have sex for a month."

His phone started ringing. He waited for her picture to pop up and smiled a little before he hit ignore and turned it off. She'd tell him it was his fault for leaving so late. He knew it probably was but he didn't need her to remind him.

He started thinking of what he would tell her when he walked in the door. How his working late paid for the trip in the first place.He wasn't that late anyways, and besides she already packed for him. Mumbling something about being underappreciated as he made his way past her to hurriedly get the suitcases in the car. She'd be pissed the whole ride to the airport and extremely passive aggressive. That was her fighting style. Subtle but loud. But he knew he would be okay if he got her on the dang plane on time.

"Move it!" he yelled. His thoughts drifted to the moron that was holding him up. He wondered if said moron woke up that morning and decided to cause such a mess or if they came by it naturally. Did they know how their actions affected other people? Did this stupid idiot realize how many lives they would be impacting by doing what they did? At the root of it all was the big question, did they know they were keeping Mike from what was to be the greatest vacation ever? Did they even care?

As the song ended the radio personality said that they had shut down all lanes of traffic. He kept saying it would be hours. Hours of Mike being stuck where he was. Because there were no exits between where he was and the accident.

"Stupid, fucking, day drunk idiot!" he slammed his hands on his steering wheel. He sat there waiting. Looking around, the faces in the cars began to become familiar. He could tell most were just as frustrated as he was. He made up life stories for them to pass the time. 

There was Tony in the Toyota. Based off of the empty kid's booster seat in the back, poor Tony too was headed toward a pissed off wife at home. He seemed less frustrated than Mike about this fact. More interested at looking at his cellphone screen than anything else.

Karen in the Kia just looked like a zombie. She had a long work day and just wanted to get home to her three cats Jim Bob, Jonas, and Gemini He could tell she drank a great deal of coffee. "Do zombies prefer caffeinated brains or decaf brains?" he wondered. He then proceeded the create a whole zombie human coffee franchise, before realizing it was entirely implausible. There would be no way to ensure a steady stream of product to the consumer in a zombie apocalypse. 

Looking over at Henry in the Hummer he felt the urge to get out of his car, drive the Hummer over everyone in front of him to give the driver in the accident a piece of his mind. 

An hour had already passed. They were going to miss the flight no matter what now. They used this stretch to get to the airport and from what he could tell traffic was stopped in all directions. "Thousands of people's evening plans are being interrupted because of this dumb ass." He simply couldn't get over how the driving mistake of one person could cause trouble for so many people.

He knew he would be in hot water. An hour of no word was bound to leave her clawing at the curtains.He picked up his phone and turned it on. Instantly it began to ring displaying his wife's picture.

"Hey honey, sorry I'm"

"Who is this?" a person interrupted. It was very hard to hear them. There was a lot of noise in the background.

"Who is this? Did Sarah lose her phone again?" Her phone had been dropped, kicked, stepped on, run over, and thrown in water. A traditional Nokia flip phone. She often joked about how they were war buddies and she could never let go of it. Though she often left it behind when she was in a hurry.

"Sir, you are listed as the in case of emergency contact in this phone. Do you know the number uhhmm I am calling you from?"

"Yes it is my wife's number."

"Sir, I saw the whole thing and found her her phone in the car. It works and so I've been trying to call you."

"What? Who is this? What's going on?"

"I've got someone on the phone. Her husband," he could hear the person yell. There was some ruffling and then a different voice, "Sir, I've got some news for you. A Mrs. Sarah White has just been in a car accident. We just got her out of the car and will be transporting her via medevac to Good Sam. Do you have any questions?"

My interview at JC Dillarcy

So, I've had a lot of free time lately. I decided that it might be a good idea for me to get a part time job for a little while. Not to toot my own horn but I am very good at customer service. Also landing a job in customer service isn't that difficult. With my five years of experience it wouldn't be that hard to get a job. With that in mind I applied for a position at a department store. We shall call in JC Dillarcy's.

I received a phone call the following day requesting an interview. I set it up for two o'clock. The woman that I talked with on the phone told me to go to the customer service desk on the second floor. There I would find a computer with a red phone. I was to fill out some information on the computer and dial a number on the red phone. Someone would then come out and interview me.

Pretty straight forward. I didn't even think to write down the name of the woman I talked with on the phone. In hindsight that was a bad call. If any of my younger cousins are reading this, always write down the name of the person you are going to interview with.

So I managed to make it to the mall on time, but failed to make it to the store on time. This strange happening is due to the stupid dummy that designed the parking lot. I could see the store. It was simply too far away to walk to, and I couldn't get my car over there. Sometimes I think the all encompassing "they" should come up with a gps for mall parking lots.

I arrived to the interview about 10 minutes late. I wasn't too worried. Dear younger cousin, if you are reading this, NEVER SHOW UP TO AN INTERVIEW LATE. That is unless you are me and are simply looking for something to keep you from being bored.

So I walk in, head up to the second floor and couldn't find customer service anywhere. Eventually I ran into a very nice sales associate working in the home goods, we shall call him George. I explained that I was there for an interview and needed to find Customer Service. He then told me to walk to the Salon and off to the left I would find the Customer Service Desk.

Sure enough, I walked to the Salon and off to the left, through a slightly hidden door was Customer Service. There was no computer or red phone, like I was told there would be. Only a slightly perturbed woman sitting at the desk.

"Hello, my name is Laura. I am here for an interview."

"Okay," was all she said.

"I was told there would be a computer for me to fill out some information before hand."

She sighed and looked up at me, "Do you know the name of the person you are interviewing with?"

"No, unfortunately I forgot. I am interviewing for a sales position though."

"Go upstairs you will find a computer right when you walk up. Take the test and follow all of the directions. Someone will then interview you."

"Where are the stairs?"

"Right next to the door you just walked in."

Sure enough right next to the door hidden in the Salon was a super sketchy set of hidden stairs.

I walked up the steps and instantly felt like I was on a set for an apocalypse movie. I can never get over how clean retail stores can be on the sales floor and extremely dirty they are in the back. This is the most extreme case I have ever seen. It was pretty much an abandoned cube farm with many likewise abandoned offices off to the side. It was dimly lit with manikins placed sparsely throughout. Every other light was on. There were no windows.

Sure enough as I walked up the stairs directly in front of me was an early 2000s Windows computer and a red phone. I could tell the computer was on but I couldn't get it to wake up. I touched the mouse, pressed some keys, turned the monitor on and off, even tapped the power button. Nothing happened. I then turned it off and turned it back on again. It took five minutes to load. By this point it was 2:30 pm.

I got through the survey that was basically trying to surmise if I am an axe murderer. Those surveys are so easy to fool. With questions like, "Do you go out of your way NOT to talk to people?" and "Is it moral to steal office supplies?" It is pretty much a no brainier for the average bear.

After getting through the survey a screen popped up telling me to pick up the red phone and dial some numbers.

"Customer Service, how can I help you?"

"Hi, I just got finished with the career survey. It told me to dial this number to setup an interview."

"Do you know the name of the person you will be interviewing with?"

"No, I forgot to write it down."

There was an audible sigh on her end, "Hold on, I will call you back."

I sat there for a minute or two. The phone rang.

"Hello."

"Do you have time for an interview today?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Wait five minutes and I will call you back."

I waited. I eventually caved an got out my phone and started texting people. The red phone rang again.

"One of our Sales Managers, George, will be up to see you shortly."

"Great, is there a restroom I could use?"

She told me it was along the far wall to the left of where I was sitting. I walked down the aisle through the abandoned cubicles. They weren't filled with storage. In fact they were setup with desks, chairs, phones, keyboards, and mice, but no computer monitors or computers. Either everyone was on vacation and works on laptops, or no one sits there anymore. I was leaning more towards the no one sits there.

As I walked out of the restroom, I could see the George I met downstairs. He was walking around the cubes. A couple of times he looked right at me. I smiled at him and waved, but he just kept on looking. I walked back over to the desk and sat down at the computer with the red phone. He then approached me and said, "You must be Laura!" in a really high sales pitch voice.

I wanted to say, "No shit. Do you see anyone else up here?" I opted for the more polite, "That's me."

He took me to a small dusty conference room where he proceeded to talk about his career for 30 minutes.

He would ask me a question, "How many years have you worked in retail?"

"I have five years of experience working in retail."

"Oh, really? You look so young. I hate it when people say that to me. They tell me I am too young to be a manager, but I've been one for two years. Not here though. I've only been here for a few weeks. I've had four other jobs before this one. All in management. I enjoy working with people. All of my jobs have been retail..."

Suffice to say that was the easiest interview I've ever been on. All I had to do was smile, nod, and say "Oh that's interesting" every couple minutes. I passed with flying colors.

He then proceeded to ask me if I had time and who I was initially here to interview with. When I told him I didn't remember he proceeded to run through the names of all of the managers. First names only. All of the names were ones like Ashley, Jill, Samantha, Holly, Jennifer, and Tiffany. Then asked if any of those sounded familiar. Of course they all did. I said Ashley and Jill but I wasn't sure.

"Well Ashley is off today and Jill is on maternity leave. I doubt it was any of them. Stay here for five minutes and I will see what else needs to be done."

By this point it was 3:30. I had nowhere to be that day, so I just hung out in the dusty conference room. I found the interview more entertaining and less serious.

"Hi, what's your name? I'm the store manager."

"I'm Laura," I got up and shook her hand.

"Well Laura, do you know who you are going to be interviewing with?"

"Unfortunately, no. I don't remember her name."

"Okay well you will be interview with my Assistant Store Manager. Follow me." She led me through the cubicles, down another hallway, and through some double doors.

"Is it nice out?" she asked.

"Yes, a little hot. I am told it will rain today.

"I can't tell from in here."

I wanted to say, "because you don't have any windows." but I opted for, "You should get out and enjoy it at some point."

"I think I have grown too use to my controlled climate. I don't have to worry about rain."

We reached the Assistant Store Manager's office when I said to the Store Manager, "Ya, if it rains in here you've got bigger issues."

The Assistant Store Manager wisely told me that it can't rain inside. The Store Manager left without saying goodbye. With no introductions I simply said, "My name is Laura."

"I know, please take a seat." She had my resume in front of here. There are a lot of experience she could have asked me about on that piece of paper. I should know. I wrote it. Every single one of them stretching back to 2005 lists where they were located and how long I was there. She chose to ask me why I decided to move here from Alaska. I worked in Alaska for one summer in college. The remainder of my time has been in or around Cincinnati.

That's how the interview went. She would tell me about the job, then ask me a random out of the blue question.

"So you aren't commission based. However, higher sales mean a larger salary in the long run. What was your reason for leaving your job in 2010?"

This interview went on for maybe 15 minutes. She told me the amount the position made, and the hours it required. She then told me I had class on Thursday. Never told me I had the job. Just told me I had to be at class on Thursday at 10am with two proofs of ID.

When I told her I had plans for Thursday, she then moved the class to Friday. I ended up not taking the job that was never technically offered to me. Oddly enough not because of the interview process. More because of the distance from my house.

BB Riverboats

A few months ago I bought a pass for the BB Riverboats. It was literally the day I decided to challenge myself to do new things. I know I went on a cruise for a field trip in grade school. The key things I remember are, I got to hold a tarantula and they had good burgers.

I scheduled a cruise for my mom, 2 sister and myself for Saturday May 4th, Derby day. That Friday it was decided that we were all going to dress up for the cruise like we were going to the Derby. AKA we were going to rock the biggest brimmed hats we could find. Which is a great idea, minus the fact I can never find a hat the fits my large head.

That's right, a long with my size 13 feet I have a head that is too big for most hats. I could joke about how it means my brain is just that much bigger, but it kind of bums me out. Seriously I would have such an extensive cute hat collection if they could fit on my noggin. Like shoes, it is normally impossible for me to find a cute hat the fits. Which might actually be a good thing. It isn't so much of a drain on my bank account.

My mom and sister Michelle took me to Target that night. They had me try on cute hat, after cute hat. There were royal blue hats with cute flowers. A hat that reminded my of Mary Poppins. All of which looked cute on the rack. Really they were darling. But after plopping them on my head and trying to force it on as hard as possible, the effect wasn't so cute. 

The normal look I manage to accomplish
while trying on hats.

I wanted to give up. Seriously, I was half tempted to just forgo the whole hat thing. But Michelle, Julie, and my mom weren't as ready to give up as I was. When I got to my parent's house that day my mom gave me another hat and told me to "Just try it." It was a wide brimmed beach hat I got for Christmas a few years ago that never fit. I donned the hat to prove my point. Low and behold it fit! My mom cut the band at the base and stretched it. That my have ruined the integrity of the hat, but it would at least hold up for the day. Which is all I needed.

 Derby Day Attire

The ride to the boat was a little nerve wracking. In my traditional fashion we some how ended up getting lost on the way there. I am the queen of getting lost. I have a Garmin in my car and Google maps on my phone and I still manage to lose my way. Honestly, I think that takes some kind of genius. We found ourselves at Big Daddy Liquor. From there Julie guided us to where we needed to be.

We managed to make it in time but at the back of the line for the boat. Which meant we got slim pickings for seating. All of the seats on the perimeter of the deck were taken. Leaving us with 4 seats in the middle. I was kind of bummed. I really wanted us to have fun. This was the first outing like this I ever planned for my sisters and mom. I didn't want it to be a let down.

Mom trying to get people
on the shore to wave

I should have known better. Honestly, I think I could have fun with those ladies simply sitting on a mound of dirt. We got some drinks from the bar after the boat got moving and listened a little to the tour guide. I didn't really pay much attention to the tour. The scenery was beautiful and it was nice being on a boat. I love boats. The stories coming out of the mouth's of the ladies I was with were more interesting.

Half way through we managed to get seats around the edge of the boat. It ended up being a really lovely day.

When the cruise ended we walked down to Claddagh Irish Pub and sat looking at the river some more. I had such a great day. Anytime we have girl time in the family is great. I love all the boys in my family. But girl time with all three of these crazy ladies is so rare, that when it happens it is bound to be special.

The History of Signs

Let it be known that I love history. You may have heard me argue before that without a healthy appreciation for reading you cannot understand any other subject to its full extent. I still maintain this argument. I love reading as well as history. If reading and history were people reading would be like my parents. History is more like my sexy husband.

I am extremely fascinated with every age in history. It is hard for me to choose a favorite era. I do hold a flame for Queen Elizabeth but WWII is pretty amazing. Not the battles really, but the people and the cultures, and even the art of that time.

One of my favorite things to look at are things that were not meant to last. Items that were truly made to serve a purpose and be disposed of quickly. I feel that these items tell you more about the culture at that time than any political document. I wrote one of my final papers in college on WWII propaganda. Primarily Norman Rockwell's Four Freedoms posters. When the bulk of the WWII propaganda posters were made they were usually printed on extremely poor paper. They were meant to hang in public areas for a time and then be thrown away. Not kept, or really thought of as art. But they are art and invaluable historical documents. Likewise could be said for a Campbell's Soup can.

I could go on about these topics, but I will stop myself for now. The reason I wanted to share that with you is because I wanted to present you with the type of mind set I was in when I went to the American Sign Museum in Camp Washington. You may have heard of it before. You might have scratched your head and thought, "Well that is odd." Honestly, it is odd in the greatest sense of the word.

I traveled there with my father and very pregnant sister one rainy Sunday afternoon. They kept asking me how long it was going to take and what they should expect. The answer was simple and a little annoying to them, "I don't know." I had read about it in the newspaper months ago. All I knew was that it was a collection of signs throughout the years.

The building it is in is really in more of an industrial district. Unless you are looking to get something black oxided, heat treated, or welded the only reason you would be there is for the museum. As we pulled up my dad instantly recognized an old Holiday Inn sign. I honestly forget where he said it was from. Still, it was the first sign we saw.

When you enter the building, the main lobby is very stark and plain. We had just made it for the two o'clock tour of the museum with founder Tod Swormstedt. He is a pretty cool fella who knows his way around signs.  I highly recommend going on the tour for your first visit. There are a lot of plaques and so forth throughout the museum but Tod really knows his stuff.

The signs are set up to take you through the progression of technology and design through the ages. The materials and styles used are very indicative of the time. There is one room I walked into and instantly felt like I was on Madmen. The signs in the museum are local as well as national.

I could go on and on about the history and how cool it is. But honestly, I want you to discover it for yourself. On any given rainy day go up there and learn something new.

There are three neon lights around each wheel.
They alternate turning on to  imitate spinning. 

At the end of the tour we took some time to talk with Tod Swormstedt about all of his different projects. He talked about how they got the Mail Pouch Tobacco barn in the building. We heard a few stories about some signs he wants to acquire. The trickiest thing was keeping him on topic. He tended to go on tangents that didn't really answer our questions. Still he gave us interesting facts and stories.

The coolest thing was he took us to the back warehouse and showed us a "Fergi" sign that got a little banged up. Now I honestly don't remember the Ferguson Car Wash but I do recognize this sign. He is the car that is on top of the Trotta's Pizza sign. My family never frequented there or the business that was there before. It still is a sign that I remember looking out for when I was a kid. He sat on top of a sign a couple of stories up. I thought it was funny because he was in a car with no place to go. I also thought the shine spots were explosions, or balled up pieces of paper
. This "Fergi" is from a different location, and isn't the one I I giggled at as a child. Still, it is nice to know that someone is keeping him safe. Preserving him for another generation of young kids to giggle at and question.

The Saddest Sound in the World: Memories of Grandpa Hand

I woke up on Monday morning in my old room at my parent’s house. Mounted on the wall is a picture of sailing ships. In the picture there is a brown spot. Looking through an adult’s eyes the spot is either a rock or a person’s head. In the old house, on Glenhaven, the picture hung in the family room.  As children my sister Michelle and I said it was a gerbil. An odd memory to have, still it was the first thing that popped into my head when I woke up that morning.

After that, thoughts ran rapid fire through my mind. I wondered if Michelle was up. Normally when I stay the night at my parent’s it means it is a holiday and she and Tom would be there. I couldn't think of what holiday it was. I checked my phone and realized it was Monday, and Michelle was in Louisville, and there was no holiday. Then I remembered why I was there. This whole process took less than a minute.

Memories are funny that way. When you forget sometimes you work very hard to remember a minor detail. Then you remember one key fact, and it all comes back to you. Not in waves, or any kind of rush. That means it is coming back to you in a series. For me anyways, it is as if it all appears. One recalled item brings into existence every other fact again. Most of the time I am pleased when this happens. That morning, I wasn’t.

I was at my parent’s house because my Grandpa Hand died. It is surprising how hard it is to type that previous sentence, let alone read it. I know it is a fact, but I don’t think it is. I’m not ready to. It is not because I have any kind of regret, or unresolved issues. He knows I love him. Some people would say that since he lived well into his 80s that he lived a full life, and it is somehow okay that he isn’t here. I, however, am selfish.

I am one of many cousins. When I was in grade school my Grandpa would invite us all over for what he liked to call Spoil Your Dinner Parties. There we would drink root beer floats until we burst. Grandpa always said there was nothing sadder than the sound a straw makes when you reach the end of a root beer float. There really is only one way to make the best root beer float. That is, fill a glass up with the cheapest vanilla ice cream you can find and stir in A&W. I honestly don’t know why it has to be the cheapest ice cream. It really does make a difference.

All told my Grandpa had 7 children and 31 grandchildren. All of us are bound to have different kinds of relationships and memories with him. Some good, others not so much. He was human. Memories are all that are really left of him now. There are videos and pictures. Polite reminders. But looking at those without the memory to go with it, you can’t aptly describe or understand that moment in time and what it meant.

I’ve been going through old photos with my mom. There is one picture we found of him with my two older sisters. They are in his backyard, wearing their bathing suits, covering him with either shaving cream or whip cream. Whichever it was you can almost feel the happiness radiating from that picture. My sisters were kids. Julie was probably no older than 7 so I must have been around there somewhere. However, I do not have any memory of that moment in time. I don’t know why they are doing what they are doing in that picture. Only that they did it, and had a lot of fun while it was happening. That is not my memory to hold onto.

There are some memories that aren’t particular moments. There are traits. Things that happened or were said and done multiple times. Grandpa liked to whistle. There was one song in particular that he whistled often. I had asked him what it was from or the name of the song. He said he couldn't remember. If you knew him I am sure you know the tune I am talking about. The song might not come to mind instantly. In fact, you might be wracking your brain for the first few notes right now. I am sure though that if I whistled the first three notes you'd remember it all.

 I think at this moment a lot of us are grasping for memories. Things that at the moment they happened we thought were of little importance. Now we dig down into the trenches of our minds to uncover every detail and facial expression about each moment. It seems that even if the moment is one month ago or twenty years ago we want to store it now and save it.

All those times playing Michigan Rummy. When I was brought to his house after getting sick at school. When we ate at Perkins and I picked up a plastic duck out of the toy well. Scavenger hunts with invisible ink. Getting in trouble for playing with cars on the treadmill. Watching King Kong in Florida and It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World. Hiding our gag gifts in the house after the Christmas party. Eating pie. Playing Dungeon Dice. Wheel of Fortune and Frogger on the old computer. Learning how to tie my shoes, multiple times. I wasn’t a quick learner. A wind chime made from AOL discs.

I don’t remember how old I was or the time of year. I was standing in the dining room at Grandpa’s house and there was a crystal hanging from the window bouncing rainbows all over the walls. I stuck out my hand and thought it was so cool that I was holding a rainbow. These are the memories I have the privilege of keeping.

I am 26 years old and in a way I am lucky. I have only had 3 people I love pass away. My Grandpa Schwendenmann, Uncle Mark, and now Grandpa Hand. All three of them gave me great last memories to hold onto. It is actually strange looking back how perfectly each moment encapsulates each one. You may say I am looking into each past moment with rose colored glasses, and you might be right. But they give me comfort.

The true last memory I have of my Grandpa Schwendenmann is unconscious, and hooked up to a ventilator. I don’t count that really. The last time I spoke with my Grandpa Schwendenmann was at Price Hill Chili. The image forever burned in my brain is him looking at the first pictures of his first great grandson. He wasn't able to ever meet my nephew, because Grandpa was very sick. But I could see the anticipation in his eyes. He tried to tell me how special I was, and what great things I would do. I say tried because Grandma Schwendenmann kept talking over him trying to get me to trade purses with her. I don’t remember if I did. Grandpa Schwendenmann always said things like that to me, in hindsight though maybe he was saying goodbye. He rarely ever said it, but goodbye was his last words to me.

Uncle Mark was at my graduation party. He was sitting on the floor of my parent’s tv room showing us a silly video he made for his sister-in-law’s birthday. A lot of laughs went on that night because of it. He would rewind some moments and tell us to pay close attention to others. He was proud of that video and had every right to be. It was funny, like him.

I was at the Delhi library a few weeks back. I couldn't actually tell you the day, again it didn't seem important at the time. I was checking out my books when I felt an arm come around me. I was at the library alone so my automatic reaction was to swing my arm. Luckily I noticed it was Grandpa before I swung. He told me how he stopped in the library every time he drove by because he and Sharon sometimes forget if they have anything on hold. He asked me about my crazy future plans, and told me what he thought I ought to do. He then told me about how if he ever saw any book us grandkid’s put on hold he would write little notes on the slips. As I turned to leave, I was in a hurry to get somewhere, I said that I loved him. The reason I remember that is because all he said in response was, “Okay, goodbye.”

I didn’t see my Grandpa Hand every day, or even every month. I think that is why it is so easy to deny that he is gone. Monday I will have to face that fact. It will be hard. But Allison Hand actually provided me with a very comforting image. She said that she now pictures Grandma and Grandpa Hand sitting on a park bench listening to Uncle Mark playing the guitar. I think that would be a pretty good memory to have, someday. It isn’t mine yet. I got a lot more living to do before then.

I lost 55 dollars thanks to Bobby Knight

My Grandma is a pretty cool lady. The bulk of my friends know and love her. She is a fun lady with lots of advice, which she will tell you to take with a grain of salt. Prime example, when I met up with her for my birthday this year she offered me $100 to get up on the table and dance. I don't think she realized how much I am my father's daughter. I am still waiting for her to divvy up.

I went out with her this past Saturday to Rising Star Casino. She had free tickets to see Bobby Knight and I had nothing else planned. I'm not going to lie and say that I am an IU fan. I am not. When it comes to college basketball the only team I am a fan of is the team that is playing against Duke. Duke just rubs me the wrong way.

That said, I was still interested in what he had to say. In the general sense I am interested in what anyone has to say. If I could get a job where all I had to do was listen to people talk about themselves I'd take it in a heartbeat. Everyone's life is a story. Whether or not I agree with what they have done, believe, or want out of life isn't important. There is something to be learned from everyone. Even if the only lesson is, don't feed outside cats because they might one day take over your house and whole existence. That is still a good lesson to know.

We got to the casino at around 5:30 pm. Again, I am my fathers daughter and by that point I was starving. Growing up my family ate dinner with the blue hairs. Originally it was because it is easier to find a table at that time and cheaper. Now it is because our bodies have adapted to it.

We ate at the casino's buffet, which when my Grandma originally mentioned it made me laugh. All I could think of was this scene from Vegas vacation. Then again it seemed like the right move, seeing as how casino and buffet are synonymous in some way.

I was actually very surprised. The buffet's theme was seafood. I wasn't daring enough to try the lukewarm sushi they had there but I did try the crab legs. I've never had crab legs before. In truth I am terrified of crabs. They look like mean aliens. They didn't taste amazing. They weren't to die for. It was, however, strangely gratifying to crush and eat the limbs of something that would normally make me scream and run in the other direction. They also had prime rib at the seafood buffet. Which either means it came from a manatee (a sea cow) or someone's confused about land and water. Still, my usual objection to buffets aside it was good.

After that was when we made our first round to the slot machines. There were some signs I should have listened to before I started playing. Sign number one, I did not bring money with me. I had to go to the ATM, which charged me $3. Sign number two, before I started playing, the person at the slot machine next to me put in a $100 bill. That made me cringe. In the 5 seconds it took for the person to do that I thought of 1,000 cooler things to do with that $100. Sign number three,  I won $8 on my first spin and thought, "Maybe I should stop now."

I am normally very much a scrooge with my money. For the past three months I have been thinking about buying a new lens for my telescope. The ones I've been looking at run around $30-$40. I've been doing research and digging around to make sure I would get the best ones for the right price for three months. Keep in mind this is my normal mentality. I coupon for crying out loud.

Yet Casino Laura seems to be much different than Normal Run of the Mill Every Day Laura. In one hour I managed to gamble away $20. At the time I thought nothing of it. Had that been the whole story of my gambling night, it really wouldn't bother me. What I did get was about $20 worth of entertainment at the time.

An hour into my run with gambling, we headed to the casino's entertainment hall. It was festival seating. We actually managed to get pretty good seats. The pictures don't make it look that way. The lighting messed with the picture on my normally okay camera phone.

Not so great picture

I really didn't know what to expect. If you had asked me about Bobby Knight before this night all I could tell you was he coached at Indiana University and threw chairs. When he came out on stage, he reminded me of a foul mouthed Mr. Rogers. I don't know if that was because of the sweater he was wearing or the moral of the stories he was telling.

The message he preached was focus on the negative to bring about positive results. The thought behind that is to focus on all of the negative things that could happen. If you do that and prevent them from happening  in theory only good things will come your way. It is a very good message. Especially in sports.

It was actually a message that I already knew, and just needed a reminder. Growing up my Dad coached me in a lot of the sports that I played. My family is very competitive. We worked our butts off and had fun doing it. Honestly, I miss those days of being able to get out on the court. Not to sound stuck up or mean, but there is nothing like that feeling you get when you know you outplayed your opponent.

In grade school I was a very good volleyball player. When I served the ball I could place it anywhere I wanted to on the court. My serve was considerably fast and hard for my opponents not to shank. I am normally a modest person, but this is a fact. By grade school standards, I was good. My Dad though was that constant reminder of no matter how good you are, you can always be better and you can always get worse.

Most teams when they made a good play would celebrate. They would have some kind of cheer for before they got out on the court. They would have some prepared rhyme to say when they made good plays. They would chant stuff at you when you messed up.

Any team that I was on with my Dad as the coach, that was not allowed. We prayed before each game and said somethings to pep ourselves up, but nothing overtly saying "We are amazing". The most celebrating on the court we were allowed to do was to high fives between plays. His motto was, "Pretend like you have been there before." Five points up or ten points down. You focus on what you can do better, and don't get overly excited. How much more intimidating are you if you don't jump up and down and scream for joy when you managed to score a difficult point? How much easier is it for you when you take the game one point at a time and don't focus on how many points you are down?

I make my Dad sound like a hard ass. He wasn't. He gave us our props when they were due. However, he didn't sing them to high heaven. It would be more along the lines of, "That was great guys. Now let's focus on staying on our toes before each play. A lot of you had flat feet out there." Whether he intended this or not, I learned from him that it is better to stay in the moment than focus on the past. Yes, that could have been a good play. I could have just recently made the worst play of the game. Either way that doesn't matter. If you don't put more focus on what is going on in the game now, you aren't playing at your best. Come to think of it, that is a pretty good motto for life.

Bobby Knight spoke about all of that. He used more colorful language than I did. But still in general that was his message. It is strange to think that I would put my Dad's way of coaching in line with Bobby Knight. My Dad isn't a yeller. There are a few times I can remember him disagreeing with an official, but not yelling at them. Maybe that had to do with the fact that at that age most of our officials were high school students. Either way he would never throw a chair.

The talk went on for maybe two hours. He shared a lot of stories and answered questions. He drilled into people's heads that they should buy his book. In the end I did enjoy his talk. I could have done without some of the potty mouthing. Then again that seems to be who he is.

My Grandma and I left after the speech. As we got on the road she said, "Let's take a detour to Hollywood Casino." It was late. In the back of my mind a little voice was screaming, "NOOOO!" It was a little voice though and very easy to ignore.

Walking in I had to sign up for a players card. The whole time in the back of my mind I was thinking, "What the heck am I doing?" Again, that voice was in the back of my mind. Probably locked in the broom closet.

I sat down next to my Grandma, and the next thing I knew I blew $35 without even thinking about it. No, I wasn't drinking. I had a drink earlier but nothing that would impair my judgement. It was just that easy to let that money slip. On the machine they don't show the $20 you put in as $20. They display it as 80 credits. It is a lot easier to bet 8 credits than it is to bet $2. We left shortly after that.

That was 5 days ago and I keep kicking myself for it. I lost $55 and don't have anything to show for it. With Casino Laura safely locked away

and Normal Laura back all I can think of is, "I could have bought one heck of a lens for my telescope with that money." I actually told my Dad about it. He even said that was not like me at all and at least I know better for next time. Taking my Dad and Bobby Knight's advice into play, I am going to focus on all of the negative things in the future when it comes to going to the casino. That way it will only bring about the positive result of my money staying where it belongs, in my pocket.

Jewish Cemetery

Entrance to Covedale Cemeteries

I like to walk through cemeteries. They are a quiet place to sit in normally busy areas. I would never live by one though. I've seen the movie Poltergeist too many times in my nightmares to even think that would be okay.

There is a Jewish cemetery on the corner of Sidney and Anderson Ferry. I am sure you have seen it. I've driven past it countless times without a thought. The day I stopped I really hadn't planned on it. I was driving past on my way to Hobby Lobby, when I saw it. An opportunity to try something new in a familiar setting. I pulled my car into the small parking lot, with no designated spots.

I walked down the path through the individual rows of head stones. All labeled with names, dates, and markings in Hebrew. I wish I knew what they said. I wish I could understand the words. I imagine they are prayers and thoughts chosen by loved ones. Maybe they provide more detail as to who the person was. Even though I couldn't understand the meaning, the symbols alone were beautiful.

On many of the headstones there were little lockets. The idea being you could lift it up and see a picture of the person whose grave you were visiting. Unfortunately time has not been too friendly to most of these. Some have been stolen or scratched out by vandals. Others the rusting metal leeched through to the photos causing them to disintegrate.

The cemetery was a lot larger than I had originally thought. It is always so strange to me when I think of how each gravestone represents at least one person. Imagine if the stones themselves were the actual people. What would they say?

There were a number of them that had marks on their stones signifying they had lived through the holocaust. I went through a phase when I was in seventh grade, where I had to know everything about the holocaust. I watched movies, documentaries, and read as many books as I could. It wasn't the Jewish traditions I was interested in. I think the question I wanted answered was "Why?" Think about it. At that age seeing the number 11,000,000 and knowing that it was not an accident that all those people died. Back then I still believed in definitive truths. If this then that. I never came up with a good answer. Who honestly could?  The closest I came was "hate" and "because".

In the background there is a headstone with the photos scratched out

I wish I had been more interested in the traditions back then. I walked through the rows of headstones. Some were very new. Most were older. A great number of them had stones resting on them. There was no rhyme or reason to the placement. I knew that stones are like flowers to Jewish people in cemeteries. I don't know exactly why. The only reason I knew this was because of the last scene in Schindler's List. The idea seemed strange to me before. Why not bring flowers? After having been through the
cemetery, I think I get it.

Each stone represents someone who cared enough to come out and place it. There were many stones that could have simply been picked up off of the gravel path and placed. There were others though that you could tell were specifically brought to the cemetery to be placed on the grave of a loved one. To me there really is no greater memorial. Flowers die, but stones take forever to erode. There is no telling how long each stone had been there. I think that is the beauty of it. Stones stay, and are a perpetual reminder to anyone who sees them that indeed that person was loved.

The placement of this cemetery isn't ideal. Its neighbors are houses and an H.H. Gregg. Through the smattering of trees I could tell someone had lived there not too long ago. When I walked along the back fence there was a never ending chorus of dogs barking. When I would escape the earshot of one dog, I would walk past the backyard of another.

 This cemetery is beautiful in its own right. Its placement is in the thrum of people's lives. The grounds are well taken care of and serene. Still the bulk of the population seems to not see it. Maybe it is because we don't want that reminder of the inevitable while we are loading our new washer and dryer into the back of our truck. Or simply it isn't worth thinking about because we don't know anyone buried there. I don't know. All I do know is that it is worth a stop, when you have time.

Gifted With a Learning Disability



“Her affect was generally flat as she rarely smiled, was quiet, did not make eye contact, and did not initiate interactional conversations. At times she would make a statement which was completely unrelated to the specific topic or activity. An example occurred during a written language task. Laura was responding to questions about writing and writing down words when she stopped and said, ‘Do you know why I go to the meat store with my dad?’ This may have been an attempt to initiate conversation, but Laura did not continue to talk about the topic.”



                This and many other things were said in a report about me when I was in first grade. According to the report I could only read 23 words a minute and basically I could only write six words from memory.

                It wasn’t for lack of trying that I could not read or write. I wanted to, desperately. I wanted to be like my sisters and my classmates. It always seemed like the only thing that was keeping me from doing so was myself. When I was younger I was constantly at odds with what was going on in my mind. No matter how much I wanted to learn something or to know something my mind would either shut off or tune out.

                When I would pick up a book the words would blend together in a mess of long strings of letters that I could not even begin to decipher. I knew that letters made sounds and that sounds made words and words had meaning. Still, I had a hard time believing this. No matter what, when I tried to read the words the sounds always came out wrong and the meaning was lost somewhere in the middle.

                I was an awkward kid. My parents didn’t know what to do with me. Both of my older sisters were labeled as gifted and talented.

                My Mom tried labeling everything in the house in order to help me with my spelling. My oldest sister Julie, who was twelve at the time, complained about how it made her feel like she was in preschool.

                “Why should I have to suffer because she is stupid? I know how to spell T.V. because it has the letters in it. Laura knows how to spell T.V. too. Don’t you Laura?” She said as she covered the label on the T.V. I just stared at her. I didn’t know how to spell T.V. I knew what a T.V. was, and how to use it. But I definitely didn’t know how to spell it without looking at the label.

                “Stop it Julie,” Mom would say.

                “Are you serious? She can’t even do that?”

                At that point Mom sent Julie to her room and tried to comfort me. By this time I had gotten use to my Mom saying, “You are special Laura. You don’t know it yet but there is a reason God made you the way you are. You are smart, and someday you will do something great.”

                Mom then went back to making dinner. I ran to our playroom and got out a piece of paper and a crayon. I wanted to make Julie learn a lesson. I wanted to prove to her that I was smart too. I wanted to let her know how I felt. I wanted to write a letter that said, “I hate Julie” and tape it on her door. However, the letter I ended up writing did not say “I hate Julie,” it said, “I hat Julie” and she promptly made fun of me for it.

                I can’t blame Julie for making fun of me. She did not know any better. My parents left my sisters and me in the dark. Julie later told me, “Michelle and I didn’t know there was anything wrong with you. Mom and Dad never let us ask questions. The only time I can remember an adult saying anything out loud was when Mom and Dad were picking me up from a friend’s house after they went to a meeting with you. My friend’s mom said, ‘Well, thank goodness it was your last child and not your first. Otherwise, you might have stopped having kids.’”

***

While my parents and the school never told me I had a problem, I figured it out on my own. When you get tests and worksheets back that are completely covered in red marks; when the teacher gives you fewer spelling words than everyone else; and you are constantly sent to rooms that aren’t your regular classroom for tests; it is fairly easy to realize that you have a problem.

                My teacher did not know what to do with me. According to the report an observer did about me, I spent seventy-five percent of my time doing things other than what the teacher wanted. I would put my head down on my desk. I would play with things inside my desk. I loved rolling pencils and playing with glue. In fact that is one thing I vividly remember doing while being in class. I loved pasting my hands together. The teacher would let me get away with it too. It wasn’t because I was good at hiding what I was doing. The teacher let me do it because I wasn’t disturbing the class and they didn’t know what else they could do with me.

                I don’t know why I did these things. The reports certainly don’t say. After years of intervention, I know that when I do not know how to do something I generally avoid doing it. But I cannot truly say that that alone was my problem.

                I went through a lot of testing when I was in grade school. It always took place in a place called the vans. At first, the vans were campers that sat alongside of the building. Later on the vans were a trailer that sat in front of the school. I always thought it was funny that they called them vans, because they were never vans.

                All of the specialists I had to see were crammed together in that tiny space. It was always dark because there were hardly any windows. The specialists would always try to make me feel comfortable by offering me candies and such while we were going through testing.

                The tests were always tricky. I had to put pictures into sequence, I had to use blocks to make shapes, and then there was the puzzles. The puzzles were always hard, in particular, the puzzle where you had to make a soccer ball. I knew what a soccer ball looked like. I knew that puzzle pieces only fit together a certain way, but I just couldn’t get it right during the time they gave me.

                I later found out that they were giving me an IQ test. The average person’s IQ is around 100. On the IQ test they gave me I had an IQ of 115. This stunned my teachers. I could hardly read or write but I had a high enough IQ to be in the school’s gifted and talented program.

                The school said I had a learning disability. All that means is that my IQ was considerably higher than my performance level. They wanted my parents to send me to a psychiatrist for more in depth studies. My parents refused.

                “I wanted them to help you,” my Mother said, “not label you. I figured that if you went to a psychiatrist, that since I was paying them they would have to give you some sort of label. Who is to say it would have been the right one? They said that you had a learning disability. That alone gave you the help you needed. What could more labeling do?”

                I was placed in my school’s then developing special needs program. At that point my teachers and parents were still at a loss, they didn’t know what to do with me. At first the teachers thought that if they could redirect my attention in class, my skills would improve. Between first and second grade my ability to pay attention did increase. The observer in my class even stated that only every now and then, on difficult tasks, I would put my head down on my desk and color.

***

Even though the teachers were able to keep me on task, my understanding of the content they were trying to teach me did not improve. By second grade I could still hardly read or write. I barely grasped the concept of what adding was.

At that stage in my life I remember being frustrated a lot. People expected me to do things I didn’t want to do because I didn’t understand. My Mom wanted me to write letters in purple sand when all I wanted to do was make a sand castle. My teachers stopped answering my questions during the class period and would make me come in on recess to go over the things I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand why I had to do the things I did and my sisters and other classmates didn’t.

I thought that when I got to be my sisters’ ages I would be alright. I thought that when I was older I would be just like them. I thought that such characteristics came with age. I thought that I would be a smart, neat person who was expected to get A’s on tests. I thought that because that is what I wanted. I wanted to be like my sisters. More than anything I wanted to be normal, just like them.

***

When I was classified with a learning disability it did give me the help outside of the classroom that I needed I visited with an intervention specialist for an hour every other day during music class. Together we would go over basic phonics and spelling skills.

Inside the classroom however, I still struggled. The lessons being taught seemed so far above me that I quickly lost faith in myself. Some of my teachers did try to help me. Many failed to see that even with the help I was receiving outside of the class I still needed their help in the classroom. Most became frustrated with me when I asked questions. They did not know how to help me, or what to do with me.

My third grade teacher grew tired of me asking how to spell basic words. She put a dictionary at my desk at the beginning of every day. Any time I asked her how to spell a word she would say without looking up at me, “Look it up in your dictionary.”

I would return to my seat and attempt to look up words such as “house” or “flower”. The problem was I hadn’t the slightest idea how to spell the words. I knew that house began with an h but after that it was all jumbled.

My teacher was constantly shocked when I would misspell words on writing assignments. After grading my paper she would call me to her desk.

“Laura, do you own a horse?” she would ask.

“No,” I would reply to the floor. I hated looking people in the eyes. Particularly my teachers’, because all I saw in them was judgment.

“Well in this sentence you say, ‘I have a small horse made of bricks.’ If you do not have a horse, what do you have that is made of bricks?”

“A house.”

“A house,” she would say, “You spelled horse. How do you spell house?”

“H-O-S-E” I would say to the floor.

“That is hose. Look up how to spell house and write it five times before the end of class.”

During lessons, whenever I had a problem understanding something the teacher would assign another student to help explain the concept to me. While this may seem unimportant, it played a key part in my psyche all throughout grade school.

                Anytime another student would have to explain anything to me, it brought on many different feelings. I felt embarrassed because I didn’t understand the concept being taught and the other students did. I would feel jealous of the student who had to explain things to me because they were smart enough to understand what was being taught. It also made me feel alone and stupid.

                “You don’t know how to spell house?” The student next to me would say, “How do you not know how to spell house?”

                “I don’t know.”

                “It is H-O-U-S-E,” they would say quickly, “Now stop talking to me.”

***

                By the time I was in fourth grade my reading skills had gotten better. I was not reading at a fourth grade reading level, but I had vastly improved over the years. I however did not see this progress. I had grown accustomed to the idea that I was not very smart. I never volunteered to read out loud in class. I never raised my hand to answer a question. I never voluntarily did anything in class because I knew that even if I thought I knew the answer, I was probably wrong.

                It wasn’t until one not so extraordinary day, while riding in the car with my mom, that I started to gain faith in myself. We were driving somewhere new, and my mom was trying to figure out where to go. I was sitting in the front seat while my sisters sat in the back.

                “Keep an eye out for Clark Rd,” she said while looking at my sisters through the rearview mirror.

                “We just passed it, one light back,” I said.

                “Are you sure?”

                “I don’t know.”

                My mom turned around and sure enough it was the street we had just passed. “Laura, can you read that sign?” Mom asked.

                “Clark Road,” I said.

                “What about that one?” she pointed off to her left.

                “Chinese buffet.”

                “Try that one,” she pointed to her right.

                “Smith Family Restaurant.”

                It continued on like that for the remainder of the ride. She would point out streets signs and billboards and then I would read them. I do not remember where we were going that day, what the weather was like, or which car we were driving. I will forever remember the pride I saw in my mother’s eyes and the sense of accomplishment I felt in myself. Reading signs may seem like a simple task for the average person, but that day it made me feel like I could do anything.

***

                I never read much outside of the stuff I had to read for school or things my parents made me read. I found little joy in it because I viewed reading as work. It was something that I had to do. When I had free time, reading something was the last thing on my mind.

                In sixth grade there was a program called Independent Reading. Each student had to earn a certain number of Independent Reading points per quarter. The points were earned by reading books that were on a preapproved list. Each book was allotted a certain number of Independent Reading Points. The idea was the harder the book you read the more points you earned. In order to prove that you did read the book you had to take a quiz.

                When they told us about the program my friend and I looked over the list for an easy book that was worth a lot of points. At the very top of the list was the book Peter Pan. We both thought it was too good to be true. We thought that Peter Pan was a child’s book and probably the easiest on the list. Yet there it was at the top of the list. It was worth all of the points we had to earn that quarter.

                That day we both went down to the library and checked out a copy. We said that we would police one another and make sure that we each at least read a chapter a night. When I got home that night I finished all of my homework and started reading. The first chapter was easy and actually very enjoyable to read. Since I had gotten through it so quickly I decided to read the next chapter. That way I could brag to my friend that I did not only read the first chapter, but I was also a chapter ahead. When I finished the second chapter I moved on to the third without thinking. Before I knew it, it was time for dinner. I hurried through dinner then ran back to my room to continue reading. I stayed up well after my Mother told me to go to bed, and finished the book that night.

                That was the start of my love for reading. After that I devoured books. I couldn’t wait to go to the library. Not only did I read books like Harry Potter, I also loved to pick up obscure ones. Books that had collected dust on the library shelves. Books that not even the librarian knew about. It made me feel special knowing that I was one of the very few people to enter the world that was written on the book’s pages.

                My new found love of reading seemed to be the final connection I needed to make. I was by no means a perfect student, but I had the tools in my mind that the school deemed necessary for me to succeed.

                The following year I was released from the intervention program I was in. Throughout the rest of my academic career I had my share of ups and downs. High school was by no means a cake walk for me. It took me a long time to realize that I would never be like my sisters. Because I am myself, and that is okay. Not everyone is the same. That is what makes us human. If we were all the same life would be very boring.

                Through my struggles during grade school, high school, and even college I have seen the best and the worst teachers the world has to offer. In the end that is why I decided to become a teacher. I wanted to be an advocate for students some teachers may not know how to deal with. I want my students to know that with hard work they will eventually gain understanding. I want to help students help themselves. I want my students to know that I care whether they fail or succeed.

                Most of all I want my students to know that you are only stupid if you are not willing to try. I want my student to know that you can actually accomplish anything you put your mind to. I want them to know that they should see themselves as individuals and not try to be carbon copies of one another. But above all else I want my students to know that if they have faith in themselves and the will to succeed the world is already theirs. No matter what anyone else says.