Category Archives: childhood

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David McCullough is Fishy

Winner of the Pulitzer Prize multiple times, David McCullough knows how to tell a good story by putting together all the forgotten scraps of letters and records no one else is patient enough to read. He breathes history.

At a lecture he gave at Rollins College, David discussed his craft on writing. “Look at the fish,” he kept repeating to stress the importance of noticing every beautiful detail. He said the secret of writing effective prose was in drawing out your emotions about minute characteristics of the subject matter.

According to David, history and art are the most significant school subjects because they feed off one another and teach man how to live rightly. For every person, there is at least one teacher who changed his life. He asked each of us to recall the teacher who inspired us to push ourselves farther than we thought we could go.

And for me, there was one. We will refer to her as, Ms. SciWi because she had a black mole sitting at least a fourth of an inch high on her chin. Two long hairs, that curled at their tips claimed domain of the mound.  Ms. SciWi didn’t approve of my wearing three-inch Candies with sundresses. She was probably right about it being inappropriate for an eighth grader but those moments when my red-headed, brainiac friend – oh, excuse me: strawberry blonde (wink wink) – would throw back her head, cackling so hard tears ran down her cheeks whenever the teacher leered at my shoes was so precious, I couldn’t give them up.

Science was always my best subject. I scored in the ninety-ninth percentile on standardized tests, but in our class, no matter how high my grade was, Strawberry Girl outscored me by one point. After the teacher passed out our graded tests, Strawberry Girl would lean over and ask, “What you get?” I’d proudly hold up a test showing where I earned 107, or maybe 110, and other scores I didn’t even know existed above 100. Every single time, Strawberry Girl would hold out her paper to show me it had one number greater than mine. And then she would bust out laughing, her eyes rolling into the back of her head and her feet flying off the floor.

I sat in the back of the class next to a girl we shall refer to as Sunny because she put Sun-In on her hair. She played soccer so much, her whole body was like a piece of steel. Beautiful as she was, flawless even, she walked around with a scowl on her face. On days when the class passed forward their assignments, she would turn to me and ask, “Will you draw a picture for me?”

Well, it was a science class and I never drew pictures with my multiple-choice answers and essays. So, “Sure.” It wasn’t like it was cheating if it didn’t have anything to do with dissecting live rats, or the chemical reaction when a person digests drugs, or reasons why a person looses her mind.

Our elementary school didn’t have an art class. Anyone interested in pursuing art had to wait until high school. The art program wasn’t available to just anyone, either. Students had to follow strict guidelines for preparing three still-lifes and complete a questionnaire.

One day, Ms. SciWi asked Sunny and me to go with her into the hallway to cut construction paper. I had no cutting experience. My dad was an eye surgeon and the kids in our house weren’t allowed to walk across the room with scissors because they might suddenly fly from our hands and poke out an eyeball. He’d seen it happen many times. Plus, whenever I used a knife, I cut myself. My mother devised a rule for only me: I wasn’t allowed to use sharp objects.

As the three of us were cutting paper, Ms. SciWi said to Sunny, “Are you going to try out for art in high school? You are extremely gifted.”

I looked up, laughing. Sunny’s eyes grew round and she shook her head, begging me not to tell the teacher I drew all those pictures.

“Do you think I should try out for the art program?” I asked, still laughing. The moment was too priceless for me to tell the teacher I was the genius she had complimented.

Ms. SciWi said, “You don’t have any artistic talent. You can’t even cut a straight line.”

Based on our conversation, I applied for the art program and was accepted. I won so many awards during high school, I automatically qualified for partial scholarships at numerous colleges. Two times, my art portfolios were stolen. A professor said my drawings were so good, whoever did it probably planned to pass my work off as his own in a job interview. My first job out of college was rendering buildings and preparing complex drawings at an international architectural firm. I designed hospitals and banks. Although I took hiatuses from the art world, whenever I returned, I won additional awards. At the International Fabric Exhibition in New York, out of four hundred designers, I was one of ten featured at their show. Fashion designers introduced themselves to me and  praised my success, and later used my designs. I’ve been featured in several newspapers and magazines.

David McCullough was absolutely right. There was a teacher in my life whose belief in my talent gave me the confidence to explore avenues I never would’ve considered. It’s been a fun ride I wouldn’t have had without her encouragement.

Art reflects man’s thinking at the time, which includes political views, scientific advancements, the economy and religious beliefs. Pottery, paintings, tools not only are history, they provide details about man’s past.

According to David, the study of art and history are critical for developing man’s intellect. And teachers are the most valuable servants in our society. Despite all our teasing, I thought Ms. SciWi was adorable and I knew she liked and respected me, as well. She changed my life for the better. Her giving me the high scores boosted my self-esteem and expectations for my future. I intend to follow David’s advice: To find the story within a man’s life, all a person needs to do is look at the fish. How does the man feel about his experiences and what did he do as a result of them?

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Hippies Strengthened My Beliefs

One fall morning during my eighth year, a life-changing visitor arrived at my house. Sick with the flu, I stayed home from school that day. The doorbell rang and I ran to see who was there.

I swung the door open upon two tall, beautiful men. They glowed in the humidity. Both angelic beings had long hair framing their faces. They emitted tranquility by clasping their hands across their chest. Shocked by their presence, my waist-length hair stood on end and I screamed.

“Momma, Jesus and one of his disciples are at the front door!” I left them standing outside to let her know the great news.

Never in all my days had I expected to meet Jesus Christ in person. My mother taught Sunday school at the Presbyterian Church. I won a Holy Bible the prior year for not missing one class during 365 days. Having Jesus stop by my home was even better than when the preacher paid his tri-monthly visits to see if everyone was well.

To my disappointment, the disciple was my Texas cousin and Jesus was his mere mortal friend who happened to have been blessed with strawberry-blonde hair, hence giving him a nickname having to do with wine. After graduating first in his class from college, my cousin and his pal refused to submit to society by joining the masses. In search of truth, they embarked on nomadic wanderings. Crossing the Mississippi River and stopping for a rest in Tennessee satisfied their awakening. They made their political statement by loading boxes at a warehouse.

“Well, they must be hungry because it’s lunchtime,” my mother said after a few visitations.

“Why do you think that?” I asked.

“Because, whenever we eat they show up,” my mother said.

“Just like Jesus. That’s how he and his disciples got fed, too.” I wasn’t ever completely convinced they weren’t angelic.

For several months, the two boys gathered at my house at mealtimes. They never came out and asked for food, but somehow as I watched cartoons with a bag of Ruffles potato chips, their hands would sneak inside.

They were endearing. They never complained about wrestling our 120-pound Airedale. I told them silly stories and we had tickle contests. My cousin carved the highest quality pumpkin faces I’d ever seen. The guys were peaceful and benevolent, making a huge impression on my life. I loved how we all gathered together without any expectations or resentments as to what the other was doing. No judgments whatsoever.

My mother said they must’ve gotten tired of needing money because, eventually, they relinquished their protests against the “Big Man.” My Texas cousin became a hot-shot CPA attorney, still fighting the system but within luxurious surroundings.

The way my mother welcomed my cousin and his friend into our home gave me a sense of security in knowing people took care of each other. I felt extra love in watching her fuss over the charming boys. She didn’t mind that they wanted free food. She accepted them as her own children and always encouraged them stay longer.

I modeled the mother of Shea Tabor in the Stone Zone Mystery to accept her daughter’s carefree idol with the same love. Everyone deserved the comfort of trusting his neighbor and the confidence in us all being here, struggling to survive together.

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My Childhood as a Fire Starter

When I was at the glorious age, too young to ride a bicycle and overjoyed to cruise the cove on my Big Wheel, my younger brother and I played with fire. Actually, he was my older brother but the youngest of my siblings, leaving me with the permanent nickname, “Doc’s Baby,” since my father was a surgeon.

Having a ten year gap with our older siblings, my younger brother and I ate meals in a separate room in front of the fireplace. It was a fabulous set-up allowing us to discover the variety of colors flames created. During warmer months, we were lucky enough to have candles on our miniature dinner table. We burned napkins, wrapping paper and Dixie cups, unwanted brussel sprouts and string beans. Even our leopard print hearth cushion caught on fire a few times. We made wax art with soda bottles and melted crayons.

When we got bored with burning, we created new condiments. We mixed into Ketchup bottles everything left on the table, including the unwanted beans and radishes and hot sauces. We didn’t taste our experiments but laughed our heads off, all the same.

Early on a Saturday, my brother woke me so he could show me how quickly matches burned in a Charles Chip cookie container. After lighting several dozen, we decided to go outside and ride our bikes.

“Where’s Momma?” I asked.

“She’s not here. We’re all alone,” my brother said.

Just before leaving the room, I got the clever idea to cover the metal container with my grandmother’s bedspread to keep it safe. I put on my white, go-go boots and we headed outside.

In an adventurous mood, I recommended we go beyond the end of our cove. We turned one way and another, until we were completely lost. Nothing looked familiar. There were new sounds in the foreign neighborhood.

“What’s that noise?” I asked my big brother.

”It’s a police car. He’s chasing someone,” he said.

“Let’s follow!” I said.

“No. We’ll get arrested if we do that,” he said.

Even though my big brother thought it was a bad idea, I convinced him to follow the sirens. They led us to the end of a wide hill.

“Hey, that’s our house,” he said.

“No. We don’t live anywhere around here. Why would the sirens go to our house?” I asked.

Sure enough, firetrucks led us home. I felt relieved and confused at the same time. The firemen were amazing to watch. I couldn’t help getting excited about the whole thing. They carried hoses across our patio and stomped around, determined and fast.

A young firefighter noticed me and asked in an irritated tone, “Are you the kids who were playing with fire?”

“Who me? It must’ve been a very small fire.” I didn’t think matches counted as actually being irresponsible.

“A neighbor called the fire department. She saw flames rising from your window. Why did you leave the house without telling your mother?” the firefighter asked.

Well, it ended up we weren’t alone that morning, after all. Somehow, my brother and I woke up before everyone else. Momma was taking a shower when we left.

My brother and I were grounded, which meant we had to sit in a leather chair all day long. We weren’t allowed to talk, either.

My oldest brother strutted across the den and grabbed our experimental bottle of Ketchup. We tried to stop him, but since we weren’t allowed to speak it was difficult for him to understand our warnings. He poured the dark brown mixture of Tobasco sauce and unwanted greens and crusty condiments onto his sandwich.

As he shushed me for shouting, he took a big bite to go with that adorable, “Smokey and the Bandit,” Burt Reynolds attitude he flaunted. Needless to say, our time-out on the leather chair was extended.

I couldn’t believe my fortune when Grandmomma Shelton’s furnishings were replaced with a pink Holly Hobby decor and a fancy new headboard with a cushy mattress. Certainly, no excuse for starting a fire.

I incorporated my fire starter experiences into an accident caused by Ivy Clearwater in Evangabella. Like me, she didn’t intend to be a delinquent. Fate and all the supernatural powers of the universe invoked a punishment on her that was more fitting than a few hours in a time-out chair by forcing poor Ivy into the enchanted underworld of Florida.

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Mud Wrestling with Pigs

Throughout my childhood, I resided in the suburbs of Memphis with weekends at the cotton farm around Longtown, Tennessee. It was the best of both worlds. Although I appreciated modern conveniences, I never forgot the difficult life-styles experienced by some of my friends who were raised in the country.

Beside our barn for the horses, two boys and a girl lived in a dilapidated shack without electricity or running water. Their outhouse was a rotting board with a torn wool blanket hung on rusty nails. I referred to their toilet as an “outing-house,” making them laugh at what a silly city-slicker I was. Even though all but one of the children had repeated several grades in elementary school, on more than one occasion they taught me a thing or two.

It was a hot summer day during junior high when I decided to frolic with farm animals. I couldn’t believe my friends didn’t realize how amazing it was to keep pigs a few feet away from their house.

“Let’s play with the pigs.” I leaped into the pig pen and wrestled the large critters. I kicked up mud and danced around the pink guys as a dozen grunting, rolly-pollies circled me.

“You shouldn’t do that,” the girl my age said. She was the oldest and didn’t like to talk about it, but her brothers had passed her grade in school. While extremely kind and quiet, she preferred napping on the porch with the flies swarming around her over anything else.

“Come on. It’s fun,” I called out, tickling the unresponsive oinkers behind the ears.

The three children stood on the fence, open-mouthed with their eyes three times their regular sizes.  The youngest one, he was the smartest, he shook his head while his siblings stared in disbelief.

“Ut-ah. I ain’t going in there,” he said.

The following Monday, I returned to my city-slicker personae. I had play practice at an all-boys’ Memphis prep school. Sitting in the red theatre, I propped my feet up on the chair in front of me as I chatted with a close guy-friend, who happened to be an heir to the largest chain of jewelry stores in town.

“What’s that smell?” He wrinkled his nose and sniffed.

“I don’t smell anything,” I said, more interested in the people on the stage.

“Oh yeah. There’s a smell.” He squinted and inhaled another drag of air. “It’s your shoes.”

I pulled my foot up to my nose and took a whiff of my Tretorn tennis shoe. It was putrid.

Bleaching and washing failed to get rid of the pig smell. I burst into laughter. How could my privileged friend understand what I’d been doing over the weekend? He had an aquarium and solarium in his gigantic home bathroom.

It hadn’t occurred to me at the time I jumped into the pig pen, but there was a reason they lived in mud while the rest of the yard remained arid. Pigs defecated, urinated and vomited within their living quarters. I did notice trash in the mud, too. My country friends had told me their father fed the pigs garbage. Why hadn’t I realized how gross that was at the time?

I might be a slow learner, but I never played with pigs after that day. And I don’t eat them either. My protagonist in Evangabella captured the same sense of never fitting in with the majority. She grew up in the ritzy suburbs of Orlando but kept strong ties with her rural relatives. Luckily for her, the survival skills she learned in the country saved her life.