Missives from Wonderland

This is my entry for this week of LJ Idol, Season 20. The topic was "Sin-eater," a term that refers to a person who ceremonially consumed a ritual meal (such as bread, cheese, and ale) placed on or near a dead body to spiritually absorb the unconfessed sins of the deceased.

My mother taught me to love cemeteries. On a sun-drenched afternoon, surrounded by sparrow song, we'd meander past mossy stones, careful to walk between the hillocks and dips.

"We don't want to walk on anyone's heads," she'd joke.

The cemeteries belonged to the Twin Churches, the local nickname for two identical brick sanctuaries from the early 1800s that had been built directly across the road from each other. Our favorite haunt was the older cemetery, the White Deer Cemetery, which contained the more historic markers. We loved the names, and we would celebrate them in our walk, saying them out loud, rolling them around in our mouths. Imagining stories for the people whose names we uttered like a chant: Elizabeth Auld, Jacob Barnt, Rion Benfer, Uriah Dieffenderfer, Matilda Gemberling.

How sad, we'd say, finding an entire family interred together, with multiple small stones indicating children. How would you even navigate such a loss? We'd imagine that they have little family parties on nights when they're alone.

What about that row with four Florences? Did they mind being put so close together? We surmised that some of them hated sharing a name in life, and now they were resigned to spend eternity with such confusion.

We'd muse on mysteries: Why did so many children die in February through September 1858? Did an epidemic claim Charlotte Aumiller (age 5), Elizabeth Brunner (age 4), Peter Geyer (16 months), Mary Guyer (2 months), Wilson Hafer (5 months), Daniel Hollenbach (8 months) and George R. Kling (age 3)? Or was that simply what mortality looked like back then?


A gravel road through old tombstones in White Deer Cemetery, with the twin brick churches in the distance


Flanked by a row of mixed deciduous and evergreen trees, the cemetery provided a buffer from the surrounding fields, so that we were as invisible to the farmers as we were to those driving by the front of the church, on the lazy country road.

Nearly always, we had the space to ourselves. We'd joke that we were the only living people present. Most of the burials took place at the newer cemetery on the other side of the road, known as St. John's Evangelical Lutheran Cemetery. But when we did encounter the telltale tents, the open grave, the chairs on astroturf, we'd stay well away so as not to disturb the ceremony.

In addition to talking about the names and possible life stories of the people whose space we traversed, Mom and I would talk about a myriad of other subjects. The cemetery was a safe space to divulge my preteen worries, my anxieties, my hopes. She listened with an open ear, always. A boy I liked, a test I was worried about, my hopes to be a poet and writer someday. Where, I didn't know yet, but I secretly knew it probably wouldn't be where I'd grown up.

As we walked, living guests, among the historic stones, I was reminded how much we were transplants, even though I'd lived there nearly my entire life (having moved to town with my parents when I was a newborn). Around us, the stone names echoed those of people in the community: Baumgardner, Bennage, Coup, Criswell, Cronrath, Danowsky, Deitrick, Dershem, Engleman, Harpster, Huntington, Keefer, Kling, Meckley, Metzger, Noll, Pawling, Ranck, Schreck, Seitz, Snyder, Stahl, Troxel, Tyson, Wagner, Yocum, Yost.

No Wilsons amongst them, nor Starrs or Hinkles from my mother's family. To find her kin, you'd have to travel to another cemetery I know well, in her hometown of Frackville. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

These cemetery walks came at the end of a cross-country bicycle ride that we'd take, just the two of us. Always on a Saturday when nothing else was going on. Three seasons of the year could find us rambling through the countryside, our gears clicking down hills, our breathless conversations following us as we downshifted for the upside (usually ending up walking).

So, by the time we made it to the cemetery, propping our bikes on their kickstands just off the gravel parking lot, we had to find our land legs again. The first few steps in the graveyard felt like baby steps, or an astronaut's first attempts upon returning to Earth. I realize now, with adult eyes, that our leisurely ambulation fulfilled multiple purposes: not only as a way to unburden the mind but also a gradual cool-down for our burning calves and quads. We'd sip on tap water, brought from home in canteens or water bottles, as we perused the names.

Then, often, when we had finished our impromptu storytelling, we'd take a seat on the marble church steps overlooking the cornfields, as we munched on snacks. A granola bar, or a hunk of cheese in a paper towel, brought in a little saddle bag that hung from the rack on the back of Mom's red Schwin. The same rack where, when I'd been too little to have conversations, she'd carried me in a baby bike seat, I'd been told many times, although if there were ever photos I haven't found them.

Can it be any surprise, then, that these shimmery memories have forever cemented my view of graveyards? Far from spooky, I find them welcoming. Peaceful. Safe. After all, when I visit them, I'm often the only living person present.


The stone wall and stairs leading to the Watsontown Cemetery, built in 1866


When I was married to my first husband, we lived in Watsontown, Pa., between railroad tracks on one side and the Watsontown Cemetery a block away in the opposite direction. I see now that many people thought that was not a desirable place to live, but I was happy to have a little cemetery within easy walking distance. Unlike White Deer Cemetery, this one had mausoleums that, I had to admit, did look a little spooky. That was the one cemetery I'd have to admit that I had less of an affinity towards, though it was nearby and I did walk there occasionally.

After we divorced, I moved a little closer to home, to a place in Milton, Pa. I'd grown up on the other side of the Susquehanna River but had graduated from the Milton Area Senior High School. My second-floor apartment in a brick house that was split into four rentals was several blocks away from the Harmony Cemetery, known by locals for the massive stone arch at the entrance.


The unique stone gate to Harmony Cemetery, with an arch over the road and one for pedestrians


Even though I lived by myself, there were times I felt a need for a quiet place to ponder. I would walk the few blocks, past a couple factories, through the stone arch, and make my way up the gravel road to one of my favorite large trees, where I could sit and look out over the town. I can remember at least one time when I went there in the early hours of the morning, unable to sleep. From there, I watched the first inklings of the sunrise and made my way home in growing light.

(Which suddenly brings back an unrelated memory, of walking my hometown village's streets in the wee hours of the morning, once a long time ago. On my walk, I ran into a large black dog, which accompanied me quietly for several blocks as I talked sweetly to it. The dog didn't have a collar, and I don't remember ever seeing it after that evening. But I digress.)

Sad to say, in recent years, I no longer have a nearby cemetery to traverse and, therefore, have not passed along to my son the pleasures of graveyard jaunts. However, he sort of discovered such diversions on his own, in a virtual sense: watching show after show on the Science Channel about ancient Egyptian tombs. When he was very young, I used to worry these shows would give him nightmares, but he was simply fascinated by the stories behind the tombs and the people whose remains resided there.


Tombstones and a stone path in Odd Fellows Cemetery, photo by me


Today, the cemetery I have frequented the most has been the one in Frackville where my mother is interred next to her parents, Odd Fellows Cemetery. It took me a while to find them, at first, but I now know that you can walk in a diagonal line across the center of the small graveyard to find my great-grandparents, John and Senora (Hampton) Hinkle, and then my great-great-grandparents, Ethan and Hannah (Yoder) Hampton.

You might not believe me, but though I knew they were all buried there, and that Mom had shown me their graves, after she died I didn't remember how to find Hannah's grave. Walking through the cemetery, I found another Yoder, and recognizing the name as one of her relatives, I quietly asked them to point her out. Almost immediately, I felt a warm feeling pulling my attention towards the very section where she and her husband lay. So, it seems that sometimes, when you talk to them, the graveyard occupants can talk back.

When I visit Odd Fellows, I bring flowers, talk to my ancestors, and then, of course, walk between the graves to look for distant relatives and to see who lives next to them now. While my mom liked to joke that she would haunt us from the grave when we did something that she disliked, and while I feel her presence there, I also feel that she still walks with me, from time to time. Every time I take a walk through new places, whether graveyards or otherwise, and wonder about the stories embalmed there, I can hear myself relaying these stories to her.

From her, I learned not just to love cemeteries but that, at the end of it all, it is our stories that matter.


Sunlight in the Odd Fellows Cemetery

---

For an aerial view of the Twin Churches and their cemeteries, view it on Google Maps.

This is my entry for this week of LJ Idol, Season 20. This week's topic was "Vampire Load."

Feeling exhausted? Stressed? Unexplained aches and pains? To put it another way, do you feel drained? Gut-punched in your psyche? As if something (or someone) were sucking the ever-living lifeblood out of you? You've come to the right place.

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PSYCHIC VAMPIRE IDENTIFICATION AND MEDIATION

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SOCIAL MEDIA EVALUATION AND SAFEGUARDING

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Psychic Vampire Home Hunter Kit: Daily journal for tracking activities along with the people encountered; biometric smart ring to monitor emotions (optional); guidebook to recognizing psychic vampires; mirrors to project energy back at the pesky vamp; protective amulet to cleanse personal auras.

Social Media Toolkit: High-gloss, fun poster to hang near computer stations, reminding users of the rules for healthy online interactions; analytic tools to mark "red flags" in online communications and suggest remedies; guide for how to minimize negativity; timer app to monitor social media usage.

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A ray of sun bursting through deciduous green trees

This is my entry for this week of LJ Idol.

Today is my birthday, and I am spending it doing the usual things. Last night, my family took me out to dinner at a Japanese place that offers gluten-free sushi (yum), which made me very happy. But right now, after my morning transcription work (I've transcribed cable news for a transcription service for 25 years), taking a nap, playing The Sims 2, and doing a weightlifting workout, I'm at my son's weekly piano lesson.

These days, to introduce myself, I have to start with him. At 16, he is creative, smart, kind, funny and an all-around good human. For that, I'd like to take a little credit.

In addition to transcription work, I also teach aqua fitness classes at local YMCAs (where my students consider me to be caring and fun, at least according to their holiday cards), and I also teach a weekly after-school science club at a local school through the Science Explorers program. I fell into both of those jobs by accident, being called up to lead by people who saw my potential when I wasn't even looking for any opportunities.

So much of life is like that: being in the right place at the right time, letting yourself be guided by your heart, and then ... profit!

In all seriousness, it's a pretty good life I've got going. My husband (previously nicknamed The Gryphon in my online journal), my son (nicknamed KFP, which is a more grownup version of Kung Fu Panda, a nickname he acquired as a baby due to his incredible grip and sweet bear-like nature), and myself live in the Philadelphia suburbs. We are super geeks and proud: my son's two "sports" are competitive marching band and the robotics team.

I write poetry and play The Sims and read biographies and do genealogical research.

Since we last spoke, I've become an orphan, losing my dad this spring after a short rollercoaster ride to the end of days. I'll probably write about that at some point, but I'll try to stay true to his optimistic personality and not drag everyone down too much into the grief pit.

Dad always used to tell me, when something went wrong, "At least you'll get a good story out of it." And as a writer (which had always been the key way I've defined myself, no matter what else I do), I believe him. Let the story-telling commence.




Me, KFP and The Gryphon on the Battleship Massachusetts in August. KFP is definitely taller than me now!

This is one of my entries for Week 17 of LJ Idol: The Wheel of Chaos. This is our Portfolio week, which involves a couple original entries plus some other things. Follow the links in this page to get to all of my other entries for this week, plus a recommendation or two of previous entries.


Welcome back to my mindhouse. I've been spending a lot of time in here for the last week, enough that I had to add a special room for my ponderings. Follow me, please, past the busy room of tasks and errands that need attention, then walk past the cave-like worry room. Even further now, and put your fingers in your ears to bypass the bright newsroom of current events, or you'll never get through. Thank goodness, we're nearly there. Just step into the inviting creativity suite, with its atmospheric music and alluring scent of peppermint and vanilla (updated for the holidays).

Just a few more steps, please, across the cushioned floor, past the windows draped with filmy curtains. There, in the back corner, can you see the new construction? That archway, made of warm wood and emblazoned in gold across the top: "The Wheel of Chaos." Let's step inside.

Far from chaotic, this room feels welcoming. As you enter, you'll see shelves lined with chapbooks, with the names of a variety of writers on the spines. Some are thicker than others, but all of them give off the air of being well-read by someone who has carefully ruffled through the pages, poring over the words.

To give you an idea of what I mean, pull out the volume marked "marjorica" and turn to page 9, to the piece marked "Edgelord". You'll find that the book opens neatly to that page, as someone has clearly reread it multiple times. Read it, and you'll see why. Though written in prose, the piece distills the energy of a poem: suffused with vivid description, using carefully crafted wording, and allowing space for the reader to make connections. Note that the reader has underlined these words in the final paragraph: "There is power in the spaces in between for those who know how to look for it." How very true.

As we traverse a little further into the room, you'll see a rolled-up scroll on a little walnut table, draped with a tablecloth that's embroidered with daffodils. Next to the scroll are china bowls containing honey, milk, and a sprig of asters. If you untie the ribbon and open the curled-up linen paper, you'll see that it's an open letter to bleodswean, who ran in the Wheel of Chaos but, sadly, was eventually kidnapped by werewolves.

After a suitable period of mourning, please pull one more volume off the shelf, marked with my own name. Turn to page 3, and you'll find a poem titled "Behold." Before you read it, I'll explain why it's my favorite entry that I wrote during the Wheel of Chaos. In it, I was able to put into words a moment that has followed me for 15 years. Truthfully, just as I say in the poem, I feel that same connection with my son all these years later, when I look into his kind, expressive eyes.

Step further into the room, and you'll see that, in addition to the bookshelves, there are seating areas that seem to be focused on themes. Over there in the corner are some fantastic-looking antique thrones, perfect for ruminating on fictional worlds, such as an alien mother or a remorseful witch. You can tell I've spent a little time there, but not as much as two larger areas.

First, I'll take you to the poetry corner: the walls lined with hand-written rough drafts with crossed-out lines, circles, and arrows. Poetry is never pretty, until it is. And even then, it's not always delicate or contemplative. In fact, poetry can be a fun adventure, or even a scientific experiment. With that in mind, please sit in the overstuffed armchair and read my newest poem, "Adventures in Science". Don't be alarmed if, after reading it, you start repeating "six seven, six seven, six seven." That will wear off soon enough, as long as you're not near any elementary school or middle school kids.

As we continue our tour of the room, you'll find an area filled with yoga mats and straight-backed floor chairs, designed for those who'd like to contemplate deep thoughts, such as the meaning of nothingness, or, say, visualizing your inner thoughts as a house you can walk through.

The final seating area invites you to lounge on comfortable couches, or beanbag chairs, or a rocker recliner. Photos decorate the nearby walls and end tables, many of them containing a boy with light brown hair and chestnut brown eyes. On the coffee table rests an album, stuffed to overflowing with pictures, playbills, journal entries, and other memoranda. This place, you realize, is perfect for sitting down with an autobiography, or perhaps something more manageable, like a personal essay. I've got one ready for you, "A Banner Year," about the parallel experiences that my son and I had in high school marching band.

There's one last area, as we complete our circle and grow near the same archway that we originally entered. On a decorative stand lies an open book with a filigreed cover and lightly lined pages. A sign on the wall above it says, "Thank you for visiting. I hope you've enjoyed your journey through my mindhouse. Please leave your comments, well wishes, or memories."

And that, my friend, completes our tour.


A clear glass rose bowl, containing an arrangement of pale pink roses and snowberries, sits on a dark wood accent table, in front of a bookshelf loaded with antique books.


(If viewing this entry on your phone, turn it sideways for the best view of the photo.)

This is one of my entries for Week 17 of LJ Idol: The Wheel of Chaos. This is our Portfolio week, which involves a couple original entries plus some other things. Here's the link back to My Portfolio Page. This entry tackles the prompt, "Banner Year."
(If viewing this entry on your phone, turn it sideways for the best view of the photos.)

Like heavy-footed kangaroos, the members of my son's competition marching band bounce down the metal stands to the field. Usually at the end of a competition, only the drum majors and section leaders go down to represent the band for results. But today was the season-ending championship, and the announcer has invited all band members to the sidelines to support their leaders and watch results.

My husband and I remain in the stands, along with a handful of adults from the other bands. We've been the voluntary "stand parents" throughout the season: keeping the band company in the stands after their performance, just in case they needed any adult help or guidance.

This has been my son's first year in the competition marching band.* Watching him from the sidelines reminds me of my own days in high school marching band.

~~~

"I need to figure out how to make a C-3PO costume," he told me, one sweaty day after band camp. In response to my questioning look, he explained: "Each section will be dressing according to a theme on Thursday. The trumpets are dressing like Star Wars, and I'm going to be C-3PO."

We brainstormed for possible ways to pull off such a costume in the dog days of summer without sweating to the point of heat stroke. After consulting with a crafty friend, we settled on a yellow T-shirt and yellow shorts, with added-on cut felt to imitate the droid's physique.



KFP dressed as C-3PO, in yellow t-shirt and shorts, with felt affixed to resemble C-3PO's torso, and with one white and one gold sock to indicate his two-toned legs.


That Thursday, when I picked him up at the end of the day, he regaled me with stories about the different groups. The trumpet section's "Star War" costumes were a hit: complete with Princess Leia, Yoda, Darth Vader, and even BB-8.

In addition, he related, the practice field was full of color and whimsy, with characters from "Family Guy," "Peter Pan," "Scooby Doo," and "Clue," along with cowboys and a whole flute section of Tinkerbells.

Despite the exhausting heat, he related, that day transformed into one of playful camaraderie. They were no longer trudging through to their marks but gliding in character.

~~~

While it would have been far easier to dress as Alice in Wonderland, that connection was a little too much on-the-nose for me. Our director had encouraged us to wear costumes for our participation in the annual Halloween parade in a nearby town. I was going as the Mad Hatter.

For my costume, I'd studied the original illustrations by Sir John Tenniel. I got myself an oversized top hat, affixing the label reading "In this style 10/6." In addition, I wore an oversized shirt to resemble his ill-fitting suit jacket, and tied a polka-dot tie around my neck. As I remember, my mom helped me make one out of painted cardboard and elastic.

Because I lived in a time before Instagram, I'm not entirely certain there were ever any photos of my fabulous costume. But I know that, of all the costumes I wore in high school, that one was my favorite.

I didn't care that people had no idea who I was, as I ran around insisting that 'We're all mad here" and asking people why a raven was like a writing desk.

My best friend, who was in the color guard and dressed as a black cat, followed me around, purring and mewing until even those who had no idea what was happening joined in on the fun, acting in character as Frankenstein's monster, or a witch, or a heavy metal star. We rocked that parade!

~~~

The announcer makes her way through the results for each division, and we shuffle our feet in the cold and clap for everyone. As the bands, in turn, receive their results, their contingents of band leaders salute and step forward, to cheers from their band mates.

Gradually, the announcer works through the smallest divisions to reach our school's division, Liberty A, for bands with 51 to 70 students. As far as I can remember, that's roughly the size that my marching band was, as well, although it felt larger at the time.

The announcer reads out the rankings, starting with 15th place. For each, she reads the scores, along with any special awards that group won. We know the competition is tight, as this comprises not only the bands my son's band has already competed against this season, but also some they've never met. While his band has always done well, today, they were competing in a much larger pool.

As the announcer makes it to 10th place, and creeping higher, the scores climb, as well. We know that the previous week, we'd been in the high 80s, and the scores soon overcome that mark. No matter where we land now, we've improved.

My husband and I cross our fingers and wait while the band, barely visible across the field, stomp their feet in anticipation.

~~~

Competition marching band today has changed in key ways since I was a high school student 40 years ago. Our shows resembled the kind of half-time shows that college bands still perform, with precision marching between set forms, playing traditional marching band instruments.

Even then, the practices and expectations were changing. One year, for example, we used an amplifier in order to allow a piccolo player (also our drum major) to play a solo during a John Philip Sousa piece. (Our band director was a huge Sousa fan). Other bands sometimes threw in fun moments, like a dancing drum line. But those were the exceptions, not the rule.

Now, all these years later, inspired by innovative techniques and driven by a new generation of directors, the field performances most closely resemble a theatrical performance. Nearly every band wheeled out set pieces that sometimes acted as mere backdrops and sometimes became a part of the action, such as a pirate ship that could be stood on by members of the color guard. Often, band members would dance while playing or move between their marks either at double-time or with dramatic movements, such as lunging like zombies for a show set in a world overcome with those monsters.

The use of traditional marching band instruments has also been augmented. Some bands used amplifiers to play sound effects, or recorded narration, or to allow them to field an electric guitarist and bassist, for example.

My son's band performed a show called "Desperado," with a cowboy theme that included wooden fences that could be wheeled around. They wore black cowboy hats and western-style shirts with their black uniform pants. The color guard wore pink hats and a fabulous pink and purple jumpsuit with dramatic white blousey sleeves.

At the beginning of the show, many of the band members danced without their instruments, modern style, with graceful reaching arms, telling a story with their entire bodies. My son was one of this group and was proud to have been picked. He and his partner in the color guard appear in a photograph that was published by the Cavalcade of Bands, who run the competitions.

As my son explained, the story was a day in the life of a Western town, with a welcoming open number, active midday -- including a trombone solo with color guard framing the soloist with pink fans -- and finally, an end to the day, where everyone falls down again, asleep.



My son leans on one of the wooden fences, while his dance partner stands on it from behind with one foot on the bottom rung, one knee resting on the middle rung, and her large pink fan poised in her right hand.

~~~

My son relates another fun memory from the year, where they were practicing their field show. One of the trumpets made her way towards a chair that marked where one of the fences would be and, in a moment of whimsy, tried to vault the chair but collapsed on the ground instead.

Hearing about this later, one of the freshman trumpet players scoffed that vaulting a chair was easy. He tried to do so and also failed spectacularly. Seeing this, one of the tallest trumpet players announced he would jump up onto the chair in a squat. He, too, failed.

My son, not to be deterred by the previous failures, took his own shot at jumping onto the chair in a squat. "It was easy," he told me. That, however, was when the drum major took notice of what the trumpet line had been doing and shouted at them to "Stop jumping on chairs."

Sheepishly, they returned to their line, finding it very hard to play with smiles stretching across their faces.

~~~

I know we worked very hard on our routines and took competition seriously, but I'll be honest that I have no clear memory of any scores or standings. Instead, I remember moments like the one my son shared with me: silly jokes, shared between band mates.

Buying "Happy Meals" at a McDonald's on the way to a competition and playing with the toys in the bus aisles.

My friend and I making our fingers dance like can-can dancers on the back of the bus seat.

Crushing on one of my fellow clarinet players, and then finding out a different clarinet player was crushing on me. (He was a nice guy, but was relegated to friend material by my adolescent brain.)

Some of the more entertaining moments on the field, such as the show where we got to pull little flags out of sleeves and wave them in a pattern. Or "Fanfare of the Common Man," where our trumpet soloist always blew the judges away.

Or stories people would relate of judges being so close to them on the field that they nearly had to run over them to make their marks. (These days, I've been told, judges stay more to the sidelines to avoid collisions, which happened more often than you'd think.)

Along with the camaraderie, marching band heralded my growing awareness that I could be myself, as silly or as different as I wanted to be, and be accepted. Along the way, I developed newfound independence and confidence. I think for many of us, band was our safe space.

~~~

The announcer gets closer to the top. Whatever they get now, they've well-surpassed their original scores this season. I think of that first show, when they all seemed green and uncertain, compared with tonight's performance, where they hit their marks with precision. Their dance routines seemed more heartfelt than ever before, and the music both powerful and sweet.

So as the numbers climbed higher, and as they surpassed some bands they'd lost to in earlier competitions, our excitement grew. Then, the announcer said, "Placing 4th in the Liberty A division, scoring a 93.563," and read the name of our son's high school. Even from the stands, we could see the explosion of cheers and bouncing brown-pink-and-black figures.

The band director and assistant band director, who'd joined us in the stands, told us it was the best the school had done in nearly 10 years!

After all the competition results were delivered, the announcer invited all the bands to run onto the field and celebrate with their band leaders. Which, of course, they did. And since we were no longer needed that evening, the band director dismissed my husband and me. We walked through the cold November air on our creaky middle-aged legs, full of joy for the young people running like gazelles across the white-lined green field, riding waves of friendship, self-confidence, and excitement.


At left is me in my sophomore year of high school, wearing my black and orange band uniform and holding my clarinet. At right is my son, KFP, who's currently a sophomore, wearing his red and black band uniform and holding his trumpet.


* Unlike many other schools, my son's high school has two distinct marching ensembles. The football marching band is mandatory for anyone who will perform in the concert band the rest of the year. There are also color guard, who take the course as an elective, I believe. The football marching band learns a traditional half-time show, marching in formation to music. They participate in a couple community activities, as well, including an annual parade and performing at the Memorial Day ceremonies.

The competition marching band is voluntary and treated as an extracurricular activity instead of a class. There are additional practices, including an additional week of summer band camp. They learn a separate marching show, which is more theatrical and uses props, set pieces, and special uniforms. Throughout the competition season, they compete against other bands of similar size, gaining points that dictate their start for later competitions. For each performance, they receive points for Music, Visual, and General Effect, with penalties subtracted.

This is my entry for LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos. This is my second of two entries, this one on the topic "There Was Only One Bed."

On New Year's Eve 1999, I attended a party at West Chester University with a bunch of art majors, and at the end of the evening, several of us ended up in bed together. But before we get to that, let me set the scene.

The party took place at the off-campus place of my sister's good friend from high school, whom we'll call Tatiana. Even though they'd gone to different colleges, they tried to see each other during holidays and breaks. As I remember, Tatiana shared her place with one or two roommates, and she introduced us to her girlfriend, so maybe that was one of the people who lived there.

My sister was home for the holidays, and I lived in my hometown, having finished college and grad school and burned through my brief first marriage. I was dating someone, but he was out of town for the holidays. So, knowing I had no other plans, my sister invited me along. I was relieved to be spending time with her and Tatiana, whom I knew as a witty, creative person and a loyal friend. It was much better, I reasoned, to spend time with my sister than be a third wheel at my mom's New Year's Eve plans with the woman she was dating at the time, or falling asleep in front of the TV with my dad in his apartment over his medical office.

Tatiana rented a place on a quiet street. I remember it as a free-standing quaint house of only one floor, but it's possible that the house was a duplex and that there was an upper floor that was a second apartment. All I know is that the kitchen was large and filled with delectables that the guests had brought; much better than the food you'd expect from a college party. The alcohol was a cut above, as well. Tatiana was practicing her bartending skills in hopes of getting a job in a local restaurant to help with bills.

Her living room, where we all hung out, reminded me of a dance hall, with wooden flooring and plenty of space. Music played throughout the evening, and I spent time admiring the fantastic collage that Tatiana had made on one of the walls. She'd covered it with images pulled from magazines: arty photos, landscapes, and celebrities she admired. Because she's a tall woman, Tatiana was able to cover most of the wall without even stepping on a stool.

The guests were mostly art majors, as I said above, many of them LGBTQ, including another male friend, Brayden +, who had gone to high school with my sister and Tatiana. The party guests were great company: chatting and making jokes, dancing along with their favorite songs, and accepting me, the stranger tagging along with her much younger sister. (Seven years separate the two of us, although it seemed more significant of a difference back then.)

Behind my smiles, I was also harboring sadness. Not for my failed marriage, which had ended more than a year previously, but for a guy I was dating at the time who, for reasons known only to him, had gone to visit his family for the holidays and had not made any effort to contact me since he'd left. In those days, I didn't yet have a cell phone; nor did he. We could have emailed each other, or he could have called my place and left a message. But my emails fell into the ether, unread, and my answering machine remained empty.

You wouldn't know this, but saying that I was "harboring sadness" is also a bit of wordplay. You see, he called himself "Sadness" on some of the online forums he frequented: the sort of message boards that attracted people like him, who were former punks and forever renegades, still wearing leather jackets and bleaching their hair as they approached 30, but without any real prospects or current art/film/music projects to brag about. Someone like that could be charming enough for a while to entice people like me, who were, admittedly, on the rebound. It would take me a couple of years of off-and-on dating with this psychic vampire before I finally gave him the proverbial Doc Marten on his backside and then painted my windows shut.*

As it turned out, I wasn't the only one missing someone. A girl with black swirling curls lacquered to her forehead lounged on a couch, telling anyone who engaged her in conversation about her boyfriend, who had been a drummer in the band Bloodhound Gang before they became famous.

Famous is the kindest possible way to put it, because they were mainly known for "Fire Water Burn," which was three years old at the time of the party. No other hits or successes followed, so I think most people, even then, would have considered the band a one-hit wonder. Not to mention that, admittedly, her beau had left the band before that single was even recorded.

But, if the other guests shared my view of the Bloodhound Gang, it didn't show. They were very kind to her about her missing boyfriend who, for whatever reason, was not at the party. I believe she made some vague reference to him being away on tour, but she didn't mention the name of the band, so I guess they weren't even as famous as the Bloodhound Gang.

I don't remember talking much about Sadness at the party, because I was aware that the more I talked about him, the worse he would sound. Why couldn't he just call me? Or answer my emails? There was no good reason that I could think of, except that he probably wasn't thinking about me. To me, that was worse than if something bad had happened to him, making him incapable of reaching out. I mean, if he'd been in an accident and acquired amnesia, for example, he couldn't be blamed for this cone of silence. And, likewise, I couldn't be blamed for holding out hope for a guy who clearly didn't deserve it.

The night wore on. The lighting in the dancehall living room was mellow as we made a giant circle, clinked classes together, and danced in the new year. Then, one by one, the guests started to leave. Those who lived within walking distance, that is. Tatiana insisted that no one who'd driven was allowed to leave if they'd been drinking.

That included my sister and me, plus the Bloodhound Gang girl, plus Brayden and about three others. Bloodhound Gang Girl stayed on the sofa where she'd been holding court all night and soon was asleep, sleeping on her back so as not to mess her hair.

The roomies disappeared to their own spaces in the rental, leaving the rest of us with our host. "OK, we'll stay, but where do we sleep?" someone asked timidly.

Tatiana thought for a moment, then directed all of us into her spacious bedroom, off the living room. In the center of the room was a king-sized bed, but no other comfortable furniture. A couple of the guys were resigning themselves to making do on the throw rug, but Tatiana would have none of it.

"We can all fit," she declared. "We'll just have to sleep sideways."

"I'm sorry, what?" Brayden questioned.

Patiently, she explained. "Everyone sleeps with their head on one side of the bed and their feet on the other side. It'll work."

We were a little unsure about the awkward arrangement at first, but we were also tired and did not want to test Tatiana's resolve about letting us out her front door. So after talking about the arrangement, we found ourselves arranged like human logs, side-by-side from the headboard to the foot of the bed. She was right; we all fit. We didn't have a blanket over us, because would have made it even more awkward. But the heat was on, and the warm bodies on either side kept us fairly toasty.

I remember being between my sister and someone else that I tried not to encroach upon. Back then, I could sleep through the night without waking up from hot flashes or emergency potty runs, so I did fine with this impromptu sleeping space.

Although I do remember lying there for the first several minutes, thinking of Sadness and what he was doing; whether he was thinking about me. If I'd had it in me, when I finally saw him again after the holidays, I would have told him that I didn't miss him a bit. "In fact, I slept with five people on New Year's Eve," I would have told him, and then refused to elaborate.


+ Not his real name.
* I literally did paint my window shut in my second-floor apartment, because he'd once let himself in that way when I was out. I thought he might kidnap my dog or something worse.



The official video to "Fire Water Burn" by the Bloodhound Gang

This is my tiebreaker entry for Week 15 of LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos. It was an open topic.

Come closer. I'd like to share a secret.

When I fall silent, seemingly lost in thought, I am probably wandering through the cluttered hallways of my mindhouse. Depending on how far in I've gone, I may take longer to respond. Here, I'll show you.

Step inside this first door, to the side of the entrance hallway. Whew! Busy, right? Inside this bright, colorful room, you'll see visual representations of all the tasks, errands, and requests that compete for my attention. A digitized envelope bearing wings flies by: an unanswered email. Whizzing clocks line the walls, along with a jumbled calendar, overfilled and pulsing. If you look carefully, the calendar contains images relating to the waiting tasks, such as a pool deck for my aqua fitness classes, and a trumpet in a car to indicate picking my son up from band practice. Don't spend too much time in here, or you'll get dizzy. We'll see it again on the way out, anyway. It's pretty hard to avoid.

Not much further down the hallway, follow me into this damp, cave-like space. Here live my worries. They thrive on discomfort. Right in front of us, an increasingly blob-like simulacrum of myself, rolling in pain as she becomes more and more unfit and immobile. She keeps demanding to be seen, especially every time I stub my toe or catch a cold. Dangling from the ceiling like stalactites, there's a dripping assemblage of minor fears: like sleeping through my alarm clock, forgetting someone's name, and failing to complete a task from the previous room. You probably shouldn't venture into the darker caverns; they contain more primal fears like the death of loved ones, major losses, and even the impairment of my mind. Step carefully as you exit, so as not to drag any of these denizens back with you.

Next, we'll visit one of the loudest rooms, dedicated to news and events. Try not to trip on the headlines, jetting like tickertape from the never-ending news apparatus in the center. This spacious place is abuzz with more than headlines. You might think those are TVs on the walls, but look closer. They're giant smartphone screens, zoomed into bulletins from friends and family, or sometimes a fragment of an article I read somewhere. Wish I could remember where, because it's interesting enough to tell other people about it. Please note: these are only memories of the news items, so their veracity may be even more in question than the original newsflashes.

You may be able to hear the next room from the hallway. The creativity suite lures you in with atmospheric music, cinnamon and chocolate aromas, softly suffused sunlight from the wide-open windows. Hang out here on the comfy cushions and reach for the ideas as they waft by in a sea of filmy colors. Look. The one you've got in your hand. It looks a bit like a house, right? I caught the same one right before I started this piece. Hold it in the sunlight and let it grow. Don't worry. If you have to leave it here while you visit another room, you can easily find it again when you return. Just don't wait too long, or it will start to fade again.

If I had it to do over, I'd never have built this next room. Why, you ask? You'll see. Mind your head on the doorway: it's a little too small to walk in normally. You don't want to hear how many times I've hit my head on this archway and kicked myself. Regrets roll, slither, and seep throughout this dingy room. Though every surface is grimed with an unpleasant combination of dust and grease, you can see the circular path I've worn clean. These regrets vary in size and importance: from a misspoken word, plinking like a rolling marble; to a missed opportunity, shriveled and mummified on a shelf. I'd rather you didn't notice how many of these memories have been misshapen by my noxious habit of holding them close to my chest. I really wish I knew how to quit them.

Still with me? I'll confess, I'm impressed. We've traversed through some unpleasant territory, but I promise I've saved the best for last. In this room, suffused with golden light, you'll see nothing but delights. Replaying on a loop, you'll see holograms of happy moments. If you look closely, you'll recognize the same person in many of them: growing steadily over the years but always with his warm brown eyes. My son, standing on wobbly legs, or enjoying a soft pretzel as we sit on a sun-soaked lawn. My son, wearing his glasses for the first time, or swimming across the pool in water beams of light. My son, growing steadily, but still the same kind, laugh-filled spirit. Definitely the best thing I've ever done. Go ahead and tour this room. You'll see other loops, containing people I've helped. An aqua fitness student thanking me for making her mobile again. Or a stranger I helped yesterday by pointing out that her headlights weren't on in the darkening twilight. In this space, you'll also encounter satisfying scents, sounds, and feelings, with walls the brilliant hues of sunset, with soft grass underfoot, with a very purring of the air. Feel free to linger as long as you'd like.

Now perhaps you can understand how, sometimes, I get a bit lost in here. If you're perceptive, you might be able to guess which room I'm visiting by the expression on my face: a micro-expression of despair, or a distinct upturn of the mouth, a light in the eyes. Maybe you'll hear me hum a little tune, or mumble briefly to myself, as if sending away a bad thought. I've been told my face is expressive enough that these inner journeys often show through.

Thanks for coming along with me on the tour. I hope you've enjoyed it. No, you don't need to walk all the way back. Simply open your eyes.



A miniature carnival, part of a train set. A blurry umbrella ride rotates on the left side of the photo, while a red swing ride dominates the right side. The background is dotted with blurry white Christmas lights, with the indistinct green and gray shape of a hill rising in the middle distance.

This is my entry for LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos, with the topic "Ambuscade."

The dusty chandelier suddenly dropped and nearly hit her head, but stopped with a jerk. She stifled a scream, then reminded herself to breathe. Staying calm was the only way out of this place. Against her will, she continued moving forward, stepping into the darkness.

Something brushed against her shoulder and scuttled away. A giant spider? She shuddered. "It can't hurt me," she told herself, the mantra she kept repeating, as she took each trembling step.

Through the doorway, a light flickered. Shadows grew on the wall as she approached, and then she saw a piano, sitting in the center of the room, which her eyes now realized was a sort of dilapidated ballroom. The piano was spotlit by a patch of moonlit, shining down through a hole in the ceiling. She couldn't stop looking at it, but knew that she probably shouldn't because...

Behind her shoulder, a spooky voice growled deeply. "Are you here for the party?"

As she turned to look at the phantom voice, the vacant piano suddenly started playing, an ominous tune that grew louder as she whipped her head back around to view it. Frozen in space, she didn't know what to do. Should she walk closer to that damned piano? Or try to find a way around it?

Her decision was made for her as the voice behind her said in booming tones: "Get ready for the dance of the dead!"

A cadre of skeletons emerged from the corners, their faces wide with toothy smiles as they clanged their bony knees together in the rough semblance of a dance. They chased her into the next room and then, just as suddenly, stopped at the doorway and slunk back into the shadows.

How long had she been in this place? Ten minutes? More? It felt like hours, as her legs shook with every step. Naturally, she was in another featureless black corridor. No way to see what surrounded her, but she felt feathery things brushing her face. "They can't hurt me, they can't hurt me," she breathed.

A red light grew ahead, flickering like a fire. She didn't know where this hallway was taking her but figured it couldn't be worse than the Dead Can Dance party.

A squealing sound next to her -- like a cat whose tail had just been stomped -- forced her to walk faster, despite her desire. Before long, she found herself in a cave-like room, with alcoves lit by flickering candles. In the center lay a sable coffin, with a barely perceptible name carved into the sides: D-R-A-C-U was all she could make out.

To her dismay, she knew she would not be able to get through this room without walking right next to the coffin. Perhaps if she sucked her breath in, she could go by unnoticed. Or maybe the right thing to do was just run? As terror drove her knocking knees forward, the lid of the coffin creaked open. Her breath caught. Then, behind her and much too close, she heard a heavily-accented voice: "I vant to suck your blood!"

By instinct, she whipped around and punched blindly into the dark, colliding with a surprisingly warm and soft body.

"Damn it!" the vampire shouted, bent over in pain. His black leatherette cape hung over his shoulders like an oversized towel. "They don't pay me enough for this," he gasped.

Immediately, her brain cleared, the fear that had clouded it dissipating like a bad dream. "I'm -- I'm so sorry," she muttered.

Like a prizefighter who had just lost the match, he remained bent over. "I know, I know. They all say that," he said. "But you're the last one. I'm done with this." He straightened up, he threw up his hands and started marching out of the room, to a door she hadn't even noticed before. As she watched, agape, he turned around and asked, "So, are you coming, or what?"

"You'll show me the way out?"

"Yes, of course," he said. "No reason for you to fight your way out."

The door he opened didn't creak: it barely made a sound. And once they were through it, the lighting switched to a dim fluorescence. The floor was clear of obstructions. She could see on both sides of her: nothing but a nondescript hallway of simple boards.

As they made their way through the snaky hallway, she could hear phantom moans and groans through the walls. Occasionally, she heard an unprogrammed scream, often followed by nervous laughter. She felt ridiculous, having ever been fooled by all of the sounds and visual tricks.

She wanted to talk to the vampire, but she didn't really know what to say to someone she'd gut-punched. Other than to apologize again, profusely, and assure him she'd never done anything like that before.

The pain must have worn off, because he brushed her apology aside with an easy laugh and said, "Don't sweat it." While the first part of her journey through the haunted house seemed to take hours, exiting it this way seemed to take mere seconds. She was almost sorry for the experience to end.

He opened the last door, the one that led to the carnival outside. A blast of color and noise met her, and she laughed at herself for ever being afraid. A carnival barker drew her attention, asking her if she wanted to win a purple gorilla. She said no.

Then, she turned back to her hero. "Thank you," she said, but her words trailed off, unheard. He'd already disappeared into the brightly-lit carnival grounds on the crisp fall evening.

---

This was based on a dream I once had. I used to have recurring dreams about going through a terrifying funhouse. While I knew it was fake, I was still very frightened.

Then, one night in a dream, I actually punched a vampire who jumped out at me. We had an exchange very similar to the one recounted above, with him leading me out of the haunted house. Since then, not only have I not had this recurring dream, but I've been more at ease with visiting real-life haunted houses when the opportunity arises.





A blurry photo of some of the day-glo spooks in my favorite haunted house, at Knoebel's Grove Amusement park in Elysburg, PA.

This is my entry in LJ Idol: Wheel of Chaos. This week, the topic is "Happiness Pump."

Happiness Pump

On the deck, my jumps stay
grounded. My knees creak
when I sink into squats.
Small pops accompany each
twist (side to side, drive
with your waist, lift the heel
to protect the knee.) I am
cautious with big movements,
to minimize slippage. Urging
my class to "get your knees up,"
"make it big" as my calves
complain, at this, my third
aqua fitness class today.

In the pool, they bounce --
buoyant and carefree. Their legs
push them higher than gravity
allows. Water cushions
their landings, is their
exercise partner for
strength building. Smiles
spread across a myriad of faces.

And I am swept up
by their excitement, egging
them on to greater heights.
My creaks subside as I lead
them through what they later
say is a great workout. Then,
I hobble home.



In this selfie, I'm wearing a wireless mic and a blue floral swimsuit, standing on the pool deck with the empty pool stretching behind me, ready to teach a class.

This is my entry for LJ Idol: Wheel of Fate, Week 11. This week's topic is "Tiger Team."

"What should I put on my section of the shield?" one of the Cub Scouts asked me.

"Something that you think represents you or represents the group," I suggested.

As the den leader for a group of first graders, I loved activities that encouraged creativity. Usually, I tried to help them work towards their own ideas rather than just giving them specific suggestions of what to create.

We were working on the Good Knights elective adventure. For those unfamiliar with Scouting America (formerly Boy Scouts USA), "adventures" are thematic units. Upon completing them, the Cub Scouts receive a metal belt loop they can slide onto their uniform belt. The den had voted on Good Knights as one of two electives required to complete the rank of Tiger, along with several other required adventures.

This was the first year of scouting for my son, KFP, and my first year as den leader. I'd shown up at the information meeting at the beginning of the year, because my brother had had such a great time in Scouts. Recently, he'd given me his old Cub Scout shirt and a bunch of Cub Scout hats and neckerchiefs that his son had outgrown. The main reason we attended the info meeting, though, was because the Cub Scout pack was being run by the mother of KFP's good buddy, whom we'll call Connor.

Not only did we walk away from that meeting with KFP registered as a Cub Scout, but I'd somehow volunteered to be the den leader for his den. Since then, it had been a learning experience for us both.

KFP, of course, had learned the many things that Scouting provides to kids: useful real-life skills, camping and outdoor knowledge, and tips on how to be a good neighbor and friend.

I, on the other hand, had learned that I'd better include a hands-on activity if I really wanted these youngsters to listen to any concept I was trying to teach. Although I had purchased the den leader workbook that was supposed to provide me with instructions on teaching each adventure, I soon learned that some of the activities were too involved or too off-topic to get through in a one-hour weekly meeting. And some activities mostly consisted of me, as the adult, talking to them about something like the meaning of the flag.

I spent hours online, researching suggestions from other den leaders and being active in a Facebook group for Cub Scout leaders. And still, I found that some of my well-planned activities just didn't resonate. Like the time we were supposed to draw on construction paper with chalk, and one of the boys spent most of the meeting creating a big, messy pile of chalk dust.

The rewarding moments, where the kids were engaged and seemed to be picking up new concepts, were at constant war with the frustrating moments, when kids were, for example, shooting rubber bands across the room instead of making the wind-up cars I'd planned. Even with the Scoutmaster regularly praising me for helping my den advance towards earning their rank, I still doubted myself and often got a little nervous before the meetings.

My son's journey was a bit different, as he didn't fret about advancement but mostly cared about the social aspect. While KFP already knew Connor, having met when they were babies at library storytime, he was still getting to know the other Tigers. This included one guy, whom we'll call Cyrus, who had joined the pack halfway through the school year.

The Good Knights adventure taught about the ancient concept of chivalry, and the Scouts were encouraged to compare the concepts of chivalry with the Scout Law: "A Scout is Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, Obedient, Cheerful, Thrifty, Brave, Clean, and Reverent." They also learned about heraldry, built a castle out of recycled materials (destined to become a favorite hang-out for our kitty Luke), and now, they were making a shield that represented the den.

I'd drawn an outline of a shield and then divided the shield into portions for them to fill in their own way. On the bottom edge and down the center, I'd affixed some beautiful die-cut appliques created by Cyrus's mom, who had her own die-cut machine. I provided the kids with markers, crayons, colored paper, scissors, and glue. They then were asked to fill in their section. But they were all stumped at how to begin.

To get them past their creative block, I asked them to think not just about how they defined themselves but also how they defined their little group. "There are no right answers," I said. "Do whatever you feel fits."

Much to my surprise, they started a conversation about their memories of the den. For them, it came back to one key moment: a "backyard nature hike" we'd taken the night that Cyrus first joined us.

That hike had been part of a different adventure. We were supposed to go outside and use our senses to take notice of the nature around us. Because we met in the evening, and it was fall, we'd stepped outside into the grassy area near the church, only to be met with inky darkness. At first, the kids joked that it was too dark to see any nature.

I told them to listen to the sounds around them. Once they stopped giggling, they could hear a few lonely crickets chirping in the November chill. We could hear the rustle of leaves underfoot.

Our eyes having adjusted, I told them to look around. We saw the silhouettes of trees, backlit by street lights. And then, in a voice suffused with wonder, Cyrus spoke up: "Look up, everyone! The moon!"

Through tree branches, we could see the crescent moon, hanging like a silver smile, beaming down at us. It seemed closer to Earth than usual: as large as a first grader's imagination.

"Wow" was on all of their lips, as they marveled at the moon that seemed to have been hung for their pleasure. When we talked about the experience after going back inside, the moon was the one thing they all remembered.

And now, all these months later, they agreed that that moment had been special. As they worked on their individual sections of the shield, they all chose to include their version of the moon: a symbol of the first moment they came together as a unit.

We'd had plenty of fun experiences as a group before Cyrus joined the den, but in their intuitive way, they'd gotten to the heart of the activity. The moment that defined them as a group was the first time they'd all shared something meaningful. I realized, then, that this journey we were all taking together meant something to me, as well.


The Pack 63 shield, on fading dark blue card stock, with a shield drawn in black marker. Each of four sections is filled with cut and glued paper and a few marker and crayon line drawings. They all include either a crescent moon or, in one case, a full moon.

---

A couple hours after posting this, I learned that Dave Biche, the assistant Scoutmaster of KFP's troop, died suddenly over the weekend. We had just spent a happy time with him the week before, building LEGO structures at a meeting. He became the primary instructor of Scout material for KFP once he moved up to regular Scouts, and his good humor and unflagging community spirit set a good example for those he led. He will greatly missed. I'd like to dedicate this post to him.