Fall at school smells really good. The playground has dry, crunchy, swirly leaves all around the edges and wet, mushy ones are stuck to the seats of the swings. The grass on the soccer field still gets cut every week and the chilly breezes of October carry the smell of fresh cut grass up and down the hallways when a door is propped open by a custodian or an unruly kid.

We can’t decide if we need coats or not. Actually, we know we don’t need coats but our teachers aren’t sure they should let us go to recess without them. We don’t notice the slimy snotty crusty noses wiped on our long sleeves or the deep, hacky coughs that we bring back in from the chilly fall weather after lunch recess.

The hallways are lined with class projects. Mrs. Burke’s Kindergartners have decorated leaf cutouts with crayons that are lined along the hall next to their classroom. Mrs. Gredy’s 3rd graders have bug collections while the 4th graders build birdhouses and miniature log cabins that line the opposite hallway – The Big Kid Hallway.

The bus drivers give us little treat bags full of Tootsie Pops and Pop Rocks tied with orange ribbons. The lunch ladies find ways to fancy up apple slices with caramel and cider. Mr. Simon teaches us Christmas songs already because we’re practicing for our big Christmas concert at the end of the semester. Sometimes on nice days, we’ll sit outside under the trees while he plays guitar and teaches us a brand new song.

Our hot, foggy breath on the bus windows is smeared with initials and hearts and tiny footprints made from the side of your curled fist pressed into them. The floor of the bus is hot and we can feel the heart burning against the backs of our feet under the seats. Everyone’s nose runs and everyone coughs in the hot, closed air of the school bus. It is not wonder we’re all catching the same colds.

We take fieldtrips to farms and pastures and historic places, tying our sweatshirts around our wastes at lunch while the hood of it drags the floor behind us. By the time we get on the bus to head back to school, we’re all wearing our sweatshirts again as the sun already begins to dip in the sky.

When we get home from school, we carve pumpkins with our parents and start asking for hot chocolate and watching “13 Nights of Halloween” on ABC Family. We go shopping for our Halloween costumes weeks in advance but forget to get Trick-r-Treat buckets until the day of. We have Fall Break Sleepovers and you can start to see smoke rising from more and more chimneys on the way to school in the mornings. We forget all about Thanksgiving between the excitement of Halloween candy and the Christmas Kleenex commercials that have been playing for weeks.

The hot blowing air of furnaces that have been still and silent all summer tells us that Winter is almost here, with its own set of treats and activities. But I really like Fall at school. It just smells really good.

Back to School

I got a letter! It’s from my new teacher. She writes to tell me that she hopes I had a good summer and she’s looking forward to meeting me and this is the list of supplies I’ll need for the school year. I am ready right now! Let’s go to the store! I need notebooks and markers and an extra box of Kleenex.

The night before school starts, I’m a wreck. I can’t sleep and I keep thinking about my First-Day-of-School Outfit and if we’re going to miss the bus. I lie awake most of the night, watching the clock and counting down the minutes until the alarm goes off.

I can barely eat. Cereal tastes like wood shavings this morning. I get dressed way too quickly and now have nothing to do until the bus comes. My new backpack smells like plastic and possibility. I tug the zippers nervously, killing time, waiting.

Morning cartoons have changed a bit in the past three months. They have a new line up. Hercules then Saved by the Bell then VR Troopers. I see them but I’m not watching. My mind is elsewhere. My mind is wondering where my desk will be and if there will be any new kids and what we’ll play at recess.

The afternoons still feel like summer, but the mornings have grown chilly and damp with dew. We trek outside to the porch, Mom with her camera in hand. We stand by bushes and trees and sit on the porch swing as she snaps photo after photo. We aren’t trying to be models. We are trying to wait for the bus.

Finally, someone spots it coming around the bend. My stomach does flip flops and I think I might lose those Cheerios I ate a half an hour ago. I’m excited! I’m nervous. I’m itchy in my brand new Back-to-School outfit. I’m getting on the bus.

Dad’s Day

We’re playing basketball. We’re always playing basketball. When it’s hot out, when it’s cold out, when I still have 10 chapters to go in the book I’m reading, we’re playing basketball.

I whine and cry and give up trying, but it’s no good. He insists. We play more basketball.

He shells peanuts and munches them on the couch, watching basketball on TV. Sometimes he paints or draws or sings, but most often he’s somehow involved in a basketball game.

He doesn’t usually have a job. He sleeps a lot. He makes homemade donuts. He finds me a kitten for Christmas. He rakes the biggest leaf piles, and we jump in them.

He and Mom argue and yell. A lot. In kindergarten, I tell my teacher, “My dad moves in and he moves out. He moves in. He moves out.” It doesn’t occur to me that that might not be normal.

He cleans the house from top to bottom sometimes. We go to school and it’s a mess, but when we get home it’s spotless.

He writes love letters to Mom, or sometimes apology letters. My brother and I find them when we’re snooping in drawers in desks we’re not supposed to get into. He has the prettiest handwriting.

He thinks I am going to be the best basketball player the world has ever seen.

He yells sometimes, using the really big bad cuss words.

My sophomore year in high school, he is diagnosed with Schizophrenia. He moves out of the house….again. He goes to the hospital and takes medicine and then moves in with his sister.

I lose him for a long time. I vow that he will never be invited to my wedding or welcomed at Christmas time. I promise myself lots of things when I’m hurt.

As an adult, I learn a new perspective. I begin to accept him as he was and as he is. He remains very much a gentleman to me as a grown person, and bows gracefully out unless asked to attend. His presence becomes an awkward, almost-welcome shadow in the outskirts of my life.

This year, I feel the urge to call and wish him a Happy Father’s Day for what I believe is the first time ever.

I have to ask my sister for his number. I haven’t spoken with him since maybe before Christmas or maybe even Thanksgiving. I haven’t seen him in even longer.

I call. He answers. I can hear the pleasure in his voice when he realizes it’s me. We chat. Nothing heavy or personal, just the sort of stuff you might share with someone sitting next to you on a train.

For my own reasons, I keep it short. I say Goodbye and that I don’t mean to keep him. He stops me just as I’m about to hang up and says,

”You know I love you, right?”



Buddy and Papaw
Last Summer

 Where’s Buddy? is a running joke at all of our family functions. Let me explain. 

 My brother and I have been playmates, best friends, always-together friends since he got here. Okay, actually first I hated him a little because I was only a year and a half old and suddenly nobody thought I was that cute anymore with a new baby around.

The little booger grew on me, though. At the time my brother entered my life, I dragged around a battered and beaten “My Buddy” doll, popular with late-80s toddlers. Though my Mom had nicknames in mind for my brother, he instantly became my new “My Buddy.” The real life version!

The name stuck, was shortened to “Buddy,” and here we are today.

We played and hunted and skipped rocks and drank Nana’s Kool-Aid and rode around on Papaw’s tractor and basically lived the life dreams are made of, the one I write about here. That is, until I started kindergarten.

Suddenly, I’m told, I no longer had time for my pesky little brother. I had new friends, cool ones, and we went to school and did big kid stuff while he got left in the dust. I don’t remember this at all. In fact, since the time I actually can remember, I’ve been chasing him down, trying to be friends.

Three years ago, that no-good, pesky little brother of mine joined the Air Force. He hopped on a plane, had a few weeks of training, and made something of himself before we ever got out there to celebrate with him. Currently stationed in Korea, my brother has been missing family functions, get-together, holidays, birthdays, etc. for a few years now.

When I call home to chat with Nana, one of the first questions she asks is, “Have you talked to Buddy lately?”

For Father’s Day last year, Papaw was late to lunch by 45 minutes. Buddy called and he didn’t want to cut him off, so I sat waiting in the parking lot at the restaurant for an hour (after driving an hour to meet him there), fuming.

At Thanksgiving, Sissy makes deviled eggs that are to die for. You’ll never guess who she cites as the one who most enjoys those deviled eggs of hers… Every time we have a large family meal, the presence (or absence) of deviled eggs ensures a mention of my illustrious sibling.

Seeing that it irked me, my lovely family members couldn’t let up about it and so without fail, someone in the family always asks at an opportune moment, “Where’s Buddy?” It’s all (mostly) in good fun now, and we even took a moment to highlight this little Matlock family tradition at our most recent gathering – other little brother’s high school graduation. Can’t you just see the joy?

Oh, by the way, before I forget – Have you talked to Buddy lately?

Hot Summer Rain

Hot, hot breezes blow through the yard while we play by the warm glow of the Security Light. Lightning bugs waver unsteadily in the force of the wind. Glancing up from our game, we see bursts of light behind the dark clouds in the distance. A thunderstorm is rolling in.

The first fat raindrops fall one at a time. Plop. On my elbow. Plop. On top of my head. Plop. On my brother’s eyebrow. Plop. Plop. Plop. As the hot dust under our feet turns to gooey muddy madness, we run and jump and shout and twirl, soaking the rain into our skin.

“Get in here! You’re going to get struck by lightning!” Nana calls from the front door.

Grudgingly, we take our time trudging, jumping, splashing our way back to the house.

The inside air is sharp and cold against our hot, wet skin. We shiver and toss our wet clothes on the floor, instead piling on socks and sweats and blankets. Nana brings us a Zebra cake and sweet tea as we watch blocky images dance across the TV screen. The jolting, robotic voices and stuttering scenes mean that the storm is blocking satellite reception. Soon we only see a black screen with floating blue words telling us we need to check with our service provider. The signal has been lost. Outside, rain drums against the windows and thunder threatens to shake the whole valley awake.

We lose power. Nana starts lighting candles all over the house, which were standing at the ready just in case of an outage. We all end up in the living room, our faces glowing warmly in the candlelight, and I feel like we’ve stepped back in time. Every Little House on the Prairie story I’ve ever read is coming to life in our living room. Well, except for the one about tying up a pig’s bladder and using it to play catch.  In this moment, we all sit quietly, almost reverently silent, watching the flames dancing at their stations around the room and listening to the rain.

In the morning, the ground is damp and springy and giant earthworms slither and creep through the yard. Grandma Dori told me once that a little boy found a bunch of earthworms and picked them up, but they were actually baby snakes and they bit him and he died. I have been terrified of making that same mistake ever since. When the worms get too wiggly in my hand, I’m certain I have made that fatal error and toss them quickly to the ground.

In the misty morning sun, our yard has become a tropical rainforest with trilling birds and chirping insects and heavy humidity. Another summer storm has come and passed. We race to the creek knowing it will be full and flowing. Our next Summer Adventure awaits.

Mr. Fitzgerald teaches health class. He was my mom’s health teacher too when she was in Junior High. When you raise your hand in class and ask to go get a drink, he always says, “As long as you make it non-alcoholic!” with a wink and a smile. In his class, we study the effects of smoking on the respiratory system by running up and down the hallways and then trying to breathe through straws. We make carb charts and present about whether apples really help you avoid the doctor.

Mr. Fitzgerald has a very special talent. On afternoons when we have taken all of our notes, graded our homework, and finished our tests, he lets us play a game. He has a key that he keeps at this desk. He hands one of us the key and leaves the room. We then scramble and pass it from hand to hand and decide who will hide it for when he comes back in the room.

People stick it in their shoes or under their seats or up jacket sleeves. Mr. Fitz, after several minutes, comes back into the room. We all sit still and try not to look at the real key holder. Some of us act as a red herring, attempting to trick our telepathic teacher.

He takes slow, measured steps up and down each aisle. He pauses here and there, a finger to his lips, considering this student and then that one. He makes idle remarks that offset the deep concentration it takes for him to play this game.

We always think we will fool him. We are always wrong. We never play a single key game that he doesn’t win. It remains a mystery, how he does it. How he knows every single time. Is he psychic? Telepathic? Does have a way of seeing into the room from outside in the hallway? A mystery.

– except –

I know.

I sit here, over 10 years later, and I know. I know the secret to the key game. Even now, I’m not sure I should reveal it. Who knows? Maybe everyone found out before we left BCJHS. But then again, maybe there are still a few believers out there. And I was entrusted with this secret. I think I slipped up a few days after I learned it. I vaguely recall telling a girl who was only at school one class period a day, thinking she wouldn’t have a chance to tell anyone. I have no way of knowing if she ever did.

A decade later, I still feel inclined to keep the secret; it’s not mine to share.

That’s what you get for being the nerdy girl with her giant Harry Potter or Christy novel tucked under her desk during lecture, reading with the book balanced on your knees. For stopping in the middle of the basketball game to tell the referee that you traveled and he should take the ball to give to the other team. For having to sit next to the weirdest kid in 6^th grade because you were “mature enough” and your classmates weren’t, so you suffer through a year of him studying the hair growing on your arms and calling you the Jolly Green Giant.

And one day, after the bell rings, Mr. Fitz asks you about the book you’re reading. He walks with you down the hall a little ways and then stops. He looks straight into your eyes, something teachers hardly ever do unless you’re in trouble, and he says, “Sarah, I have something I would like you to help me with, but it will only work if you keep it a secret.”

At recess, we’ve been training for Track and Field Day. Mrs. Klinger makes us run relay races around the playground and hosts sprints that the same people win every time.

Only fifth and sixth graders get to go to Track and Field Day. It’s in Nashville at the high school. Mom says they did Track and Field Day when she was in fifth grade too. The Nashville Elementary kids always win because they get to practice on the real track. Lucky ducks.

I already kind of hate running, so I sign up for one race and all of my other events are field events. High jump. Long jump. Shot-put, which is really a softball throw since they don’t want to injure our little muscles.

We all get matching t-shirts to wear that day. It is easy to spot the Nashville kids when we get to the track. They are walking around like they own the place. I’ve heard about them. Their parents run shops in Nashville and they are bit more citified than the rest of us at the elementaries on the outskirts.

I know some of the girls from basketball teams. Natalie B. goes to Nashville and she’s as tall as me. She has her long dark hair pulled back in a pony tail too. It is no surprise that we are two of the top contenders for the high jump. We tie for second, she and I. I’m excited. I know that everyone gets a participation ribbon just for showing up, but the first three places get special ribbons awarded to them at assembly on Friday morning.

The relay race is the last event. We all gather in the middle of the track and watch our teams duke it out for the title. Our boys put up a good fight, but of course Nashville wins.

Nonetheless, we are all abuzz on Friday morning, sitting in our class rows on the gym floor, waiting for assembly to begin. We all stand and face the flag, and you can hear Mrs. Donovan’s wobbly voice louder than all the others as we sing the National Anthem. Announcements are made - special reminders for the Spring Concert and a Grandparents luncheon next week.

Finally, the ribbons! They are all displayed on a rolling cart that Mrs. Klinger pushes to the center of the gym. Into the microphone she begins announcing names and scores and placements. We clap and clap. It takes forever for her to get to the high jump. I know a second place ribbon isn’t blue, but it’s mine and I can’t wait to show it off to Nana and Papaw when I get home!

She announces the high jump winner, followed by Natalie B. in second place, and my name is called for third. What? I approach the front, puzzled by this turn of events. She tells me later that they could only award one second place ribbon, and since Natalie was alphabetically before me, I got third by default. “Congratulations!”

I am devouring another Romance Novel.

I found a box of them in an old storage shed when Nana and Papaw bought land on Borders. We were exploring these strangers’ things that they just left here, and I came across this entire box full of books. Most of the front covers are missing. Bookworms made little tunnels through the pages. The back covers tell me they were 75 cents brand new back in the early ‘80s.

I am in love.

I read about Marnie, a model turned recluse after some tragedy or other, who is wooed out of her misery by a handsome, stubborn contractor who won’t stand to see her so gloomy. And Rachel, whose grandfather owned a game reserve in Australia that she surprisingly inherits and so must deal with the argumentative albeit insanely attractive foreman.

I read them over and again. I cry when hearts are broken or when another happy ending is resolved. I stay up until 2:00 am on school nights because I can’t bear to sleep until I know that these wayward lovers finally reconcile and live happily ever after.

On the bus, in study hall, at lunch time, riding in the back of the car. I tune out the entire world and let my imagination run away with these beautiful people in preposterous circumstances who are destined to be in love. Pirates, vagabonds, kings… and the women who love them.

My English teacher tells my family that she was initially concerned that I read novels through her class each day, but that my grades are good and I keep up with the assignments so she lets it slide. My teammates on the basketball team show no interest in interrupting my silent descent into these salacious stories, and for the most part I’m happy to not have to awkwardly interact with them. When I have friends over, we read aloud and giggle at the scandalous affairs, inappropriate dinner time behavior, and blushing virgins who become vixens on their wedding nights.

In time, I get picky about my romance writers and am no longer able to simply enjoy them like I used to. Some of the writing is just too awful. I look back on that time, though, with fondness. I fell in love so many times and lived so many stories and enjoyed it all so much.

Real life love, I soon learn, is not really like the kind in books. Better to enjoy those fictional characters and their guaranteed happiness than to risk too much of yourself when it comes to matters such as this.

Mom is about to pop.

Her feet are swollen and she eats salt straight out of the shaker and her long, long hair keeps slipping out of the tight little bun on the back of her head. I have been playing basketball every weekend, as usual. The other moms ask about the baby and the due date and what they’ll name her. Mom smiles at them all, but as soon as we get in the van to go home, she’s a very cranky pregnant lady once again.

I get to skip school on Friday because Mom is being “induced.” I don’t know what this means other than supposedly it makes the baby come out on time instead of as a surprise. She got to the hospital super early, and Dad wakes us up at our regular school time and takes us in to visit her.

She and her enormous belly are propped up on the hospital bed, hooked up to buzzing, whirring machines and dripping bags of clear liquid. The TV is on, but turned down very low. My brothers are restless and Dad takes them to McDonalds when he goes to find brunch. By lunch, they are terrors, so he takes them home. Mom tells him to hurry back or he’ll miss the baby.

The baby needs to hurry up. I have to leave for a basketball tournament by 4:00pm. It’s after 1:00 and she’s still not here. Finally, Mom starts contracting and having pains and nurses rush in, and then a doctor. They don’t know that I’m not really supposed to be here. You have to be 14 to be present during delivery, according to hospital policy. I am three years too young, but I’m taller than most of them so they don’t question me staying in the room.

Good thing, too, because I am fascinated by this birthing process. I’ve only ever seen it in movies. The amount of blood and guts is unreal. And then the baby?!

Yuck. It’s covered in cottage cheesy stuff and bloody and all squenched-up in the face. The umbilical cord is disgusting. After the baby comes out, I think it’s over. I am wrong. Suddenly, Mom is pushing again and I learn about the existence of after-birth. Double yuck! That stuff is as big as the baby! They never show that part in the movies.

The nurses are busy prepping my little sister for life on the outside. They flip and flop her around, pulling on arms and legs, sucking liquid out of her lungs, pricking toes for blood samples, and eventually cleaning her up for a proper viewing. It’s all very thorough and routine.

When we get to hold the baby, you would think she was a landmine about to explode. It’s all soft, soft touches and slow, deliberate movements. Her tiniest activity causes the whole room to freeze in an instant. Each is afraid one of the others of us will be the one to drop her on her head. A few minutes later, I have to leave for the tournament. My head is so high in the clouds about my new little sister that I accidentally score a layup for the other team. What can I say? I’m smitten.

Here comes Summer.

Spring rains made the Creek rush and rage for a few days, but now it’s perfect for wading and crawdad catching. We find patches of clay that we use as a Slip-n-Slide, hurling our bodies toward the creek bank only to go rushing under at the last second when our feet hit the slick, blue patches of clay in the creek bed.

We run our fingers along the surface of the water and collect handfuls of the slimy green moss that floats on the top. Squeezed dry, it makes a clump the size of a kitchen sponge. We use it to wash rocks, then dunk the moss back into the water so we can squeeze them dry again.

I walk over a snake. Every time. My brother is behind me and I hop from rock to rock or let miniature waterfalls rush over my bare feet, and suddenly my brother calls out, “Snake!” I jump, shriek, and search frantically. It’s always right where I stepped last. They are skinny, short water snakes curled up on dry rocks, enjoying the Summer sun. They don’t even blink when we pass them. Sometimes, we pick on them with twigs and long pieces of grasses, poking at their faces. Mostly, we leave them be and keep an eye out for their comrades.

We collect crawdads in large-sized McDonald’s cups. Mama Crawdads have small, bubbly eggs attached along the sides of their tales. You get extra points for finding one. We find itsy-bitsy baby Crawdads that are all but impossible to catch. Very rarely, we find a Big Daddy. The closest thing to lobster that we’ve ever seen in the wild. We jump backward when they rush under rocks, evading our grasp. When you do catch it, you hold it by the middle, pinchers facing out. He’ll flip his massive tail and clamp his claws menacingly, but he can’t get a hold of you if you hold him by the middle.

We collect rocks of all colors, scratching and grinding them together to make face and body paints. We draw designs on our arms out of clay, and it gets stiff and crusty as it dries. When it gets too hot, we get down on our hands and knees and slurp the water straight from the Creek. It tastes like dirt and fish and Summer.

Trash. Broken bottles. Old tshirts. Lots of things come floating down the Creek. Papaw collects the glass bottles if they’re in decent shape. He digs the mud out of the neck and sets each one out on a shelf in the barn. They are green or blue, fat or tall, and we wonder if they were ever used for moonshine.

When a big rain comes, the Creek turns into raging rapids. The water gets so high that sometimes they close the road and we get to miss school because the bus can’t get through. Sissy and Papaw wade across in their giant rubber boots. Nana fusses the whole time the Creek is high, certain my brother and I have a secret plan to jump in when she’s not looking and get carried away forever.

I get to be the Chiquita Banana in the Spring Concert!

I tried out for a solo in the Christmas Concert because there were a bunch of them, but I did not get picked. I almost didn’t try out for this one because I was afraid I would lose again.

Mr. Simon left after the Christmas Concert and we have a new substitute music teacher for the rest of the school year. Mr. Simon has been playing his guitar and wearing his shaggy hair cut ever since I can remember. When we’re good in class, he’ll play “Cats in the Cradle” for us. Once, we went to see Mr. Simon perform with his band at The Daily Grind in Nashville. He waved at us from the front and played “That Filthy Cockroach,” which he sometimes sings for us in class too.

But he’s gone now. His wife got a new job and so he had to move away. And we have a new lady. She’s young and excitable and needs someone to be the Chiquita Banana since we’re singing the jingle in the Spring Concert.

I can’t even really say that I auditioned. Her selection process started with,

“Boys in one line, girls in another” then

“Line up by height” specifically

“I need someone tall to wear the skirt because it’s very long” and so

“Sarah! You get to be the Chiquita Banana! I even have a basket of fruit for you to wear on your head during the song!”

We have the concert in the gym. Rows and rows of folding chairs fill up with our parents and grandparents and baby siblings. We stand nervously at center court and warble a few tunes.

Half way through, I leave my spot in the back row and tie a red skirt around my waist and someone’s mom plunks a heavy, plastic fruit basket onto my head. When I hear the opening chords and “I’m Chiquita Banana and I come to say I come from leetle island down eQUAtor way” I shimmy and snap my upheld arms just the way I was told.

Everyone in the audience smiles. A few of my classmates snicker. I don’t care.

I get to be Chiquita Banana!

I sing a song about bananos.
I sing it low and I sing it hi-igh.
I make big hit with ‘mericanos
singing songs about bananos.

The Easter Bunny came!

Easter morning, we wake up to big, brightly colored baskets full of eggs, candy, and sidewalk chalk. We gulp down as much chocolate as we can before we have to get dressed for Sunrise Service.

Getting up early on Easter morning is so much easier than other days in the year. I know a brand new Easter outfit will be laid out for me on the couch. The baskets will be lined up in a row in the living room floor, one for each of us. And at church, they will be making pancakes.

During the whole sermon, you can smell sausage and syrup wafting through the sanctuary. The new Easter dress is fabulous, of course, but the tag is kind of itchy and my tights are very tight. We pass babies from one lap to the next, straightening Easter bonnets and trying to look like we’re paying attention.

Finally, the minister asks us to bow our heads and we pray in thanksgiving for Christ Our Savior, His Death and Resurrection, and the Food We are About to Receive. The race to the food is demure. Everyone is on their best behavior. We have visitors today who don’t usually attend the service. People tend to come to church on certain Sundays, like Easter and Christmas, regardless of their habits the rest of the year.

In the afternoon, we head out to Cousin Mickey’s. She has a big yard, picnic tables, a basketball hoop, and a swing set at the bottom of the hill. We pick our way through the muddy, Spring grasses in search of tiny pink and blue plastic orbs loaded with chocolate and dollar bills.

We eat way too much. The kids are shooed outside to play, but we end up back under the grownups feet any chance we get. We gorge on pop and candy and fried chicken.

When it’s time to go home, we load up the van with leftovers and twice as many baskets as we came with. We will be pulling green and purple little strips of Easter grass out of the seat belt buckle for months. We are exhausted, sugared up, and cranky.

My brother and I squabble in the back seat and fall asleep before we reach home. The twenty minute drive is all it takes to knock us out. Tomorrow, we have to go back to school. Today, we doze away the rest of the afternoon, watching The Easter Bunny Is Coming to Town on Channel Four, munching on jelly beans while Nana, with glasses perched on the end of her nose, reads aloud the Easter story again from her leather, large print KJV Bible.

I never get up for school when I’m supposed to. Papaw comes to my room the first time, “Time to get up, Sarah!” A few minutes later, he comes by and flips on the light. Finally, he hollers out, “One foot on the floor!” and that’s when I know it’s really absolutely time to get up or I’m going to miss the bus. Then, I scramble, rush, and forget to brush my teeth and zip my coat, and run out to the end of the driveway as the bus starts to pull away. Our bus driver, Gail, always stops for us though. Those Matlock kids, always late for the bus.

On those rare days when I have time to eat Cheerios before the bus comes, I watch cartoons with my brother.

VR Troopers – kind of like the Power Rangers, except they wear digital headgear and are kind of nerdy.

Histeria! – a ridiculous cartoon with Big Fat Baby and Father Time and a museum tour guide who is always saying, “We’re walking. We’re walking. We’re stopping.”

Power Rangers – obvious.

Hercules – I love the movie Hercules and the cartoon is cool too. I love the singing statues and the little demon guys who are always messing up Hades’s plans.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles – obvious. Also obvious that this is the original, well before the digitization, computerized version. Yuck.

Sailor Moon – Oh, I want to be her! "Fighting evil and moonlight. Winning love by daylight. Never running from a real fight."

Animaniacs – “Hellooooo, Nurse!”

Tiny Toons – kind of like Looney Toons, except they are all really young and at school together and still getting into all kinds of trouble.

Fraggle Rock – My absolute favorite! Puppets that live in a cave and try to avoid the giant trolls that are always hunting them. Fortunately, the trolls aren’t very smart. Man, those Fraggles sure love to sing.

Gummy Bears – "bouncing here and there and everywhere! High adventure that’s beyond compare!" This is probably where I develop my sense of “high adventure” that will last well into my twenties.

Care Bears – I am such a softy. I cry easily and I can’t take being teased and I love everything the Care Bears stand for. They just want to love and hug and help and treat people well. If I could, I would move to Care-a-Lot and live the rest of my life there.

Uh oh! I have to go! The bus is here!

Girls Scouts is a lot of fun.

We meet on Wednesdays after school in the library and do crafts and read books and earn badges. Once a year, we have to sell Girl Scout cookies. Mom schedules us a table right at the checkout at IGA and we sit there giving our best puppy dog eyes, hoping to lure in unsuspecting cookie cravers.

The bathroom at IGA is all the way in the back, and you have to go through swinging doors and a stock room to get to it. Brooke and I come back from a restroom trip, and then a manager comes stomping out to our cookie table, furious.

“Who made such a mess in the bathroom?” she demands to know.

Brooke and I don’t look at each other. Maybe, after we peed, we pulled out some paper towels and smeared soap on the mirror. Maybe we didn’t.

When the other girls leave, Mom makes me sit at the Girl Scout cookie table all by myself. I hate it. I’m alone and responsible for all these cookies and no one else’s mom is forcing them to stay. Instead of selling cookies, I sit in the shop window and cry. When Mom gets back, she scolds me.

“What were you thinking? Why would anyone want to buy cookies from a crying girl? Get it together.”

We also get to go camping as a whole big Girl Scout Troop. We head out to Belmont, a caravan of minivans, moms, and Daisies. Rather than staying in outdoor cabins, we end up in a cozy little suite with running water, heat, and television. This is not camping, but we’re not complaining.

When we do dishes after dinner, Allison teaches me about only using hot water to wash dishes. The cold water won’t get it as clean, she explains. At least, that’s what her dad told her. We make sit-upons and foil pizzas and learn about different countries around the world.

In May, we get to march in the Spring Blossom Parade! Dad rents a giant pink bunny suit and plans to walk along beside our troop. The parade gets rained out though. We don’t get to march.

Dad puts on the suit anyway, and I wear my Girl Scout uniform, sash and all, and we have a photo shoot in Nana’s living room. It’s so dreary and wet outside; we enjoy some Peppermint Patties and Thin Mints to cheer us up.

Girl Scouts is a lot of fun.

“Would you like to dance?”

The whole school buzzes and hums with excitement the whole day leading up to the dance. It’s my first real dance and I’m not quite sure what to expect. It starts right after school lets out on Friday.

We stand in line and pay $3 to get in to the dark, decorated gym. Streamers on polls, flashing lights, and plenty of empty space. Groups of friends separate off into sections.

It is instantly clear how much more comfortable the 8^th graders are than us, the puny 7^th grade kids. They form dance rings in the center of the gym, and shake it to *NSYNC selections. Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears for the girls, some peripheral rap and rock for the boys.

I love to dance. I jerk and spasm and spiral and rock my way into a sweaty mess in a short time. Most of my friends are bopping or tapping along. About half way through the dance, I have to stop for water.

When I come back from hydrating, I take a seat next to the bleachers in the back of the gym to watch the others. It’s dark and I can’t really tell who is who in the mass of people who have finally loosened up and are shimmying and grooving in the center of the gym.

We hear the opening notes to a slow song, and roughly half of the Jr. High population immediately disburses to the far corners of the gym. Jiving is one thing; holding someone close and being romantic and stuff – that’s a whole other beast that most of our awkward, hormonal selves aren’t quite prepared to face.

I am content to sit next to the bleachers here. Someone else has other plans, though. A tall, blond boy approaches from my right side.

“Hey! I don’t know if I’ve met you. What’s your name?” he says, his words coming out all mushed together and rushed. He’s an 8^th grader. I’ve seen him before. I am fairly certain I’ve never actually met him though.

“Umm. I’m Sarah?”

“Hi, Sarah. I’m Ryan. Would you like to dance?”

“Umm. Sure?”

So we dance. Awkwardly. So incredibly awkwardly. The dance ends soon after the song, and he walks with me to my locker. “Where do you live? What’s your number? We could hang out?” he chatters non-stop all the way.

I am completely frazzled. I’ve never really done this boy-girl thing before and I don’t even know this guy and I don’t know what to say and what comes out of my mouth is, “Listen, it was nice dancing with you. Thanks for asking. But I don’t think it would be a good idea if you just started showing up at my house, and calling me on the phone, and ….”

“Oh,” he says, crestfallen. “Oh. Okay. Yeah. I mean. Yeah. Okay.” He walks away.

Monday after school, a group of girls is hanging out at the library. One girl asks me,

“How did you get Ryan to dance with you?”

I am puzzled.

“He just came up and asked me.”

“Really?” she asks. “He was my boyfriend all last year and I tried to get him to dance with me at every single dance, and he never would.”

“Oh…” I reply. This is easily the most uncomfortable ‘boy talk’ of my life. “Well, I don’t know then. He just asked me. Sorry.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Weird.”

“Ten and Two, Sarah. Check your mirrors. Foot on the brake. Now, ease it into Drive.”

I officially started Driver's Education last week. So far, we sit in the auditorium at the high school, and Mr. Helmrich lectures us about not chewing gum while driving and how “There are no such things as accidents! Every crash is a direct result of Driver Error!”

I’m going to be a senior this year, and I feel like I’m the only person in this program who’s old enough to get zits. They’re all freshman fifteen-year-olds. I’m a late bloomer, I guess.

Now that I have a Learner’s Permit, Mom decides it’s time for me to drive The Jeep. We haven’t actually driven in Driver's Ed yet, but Mom doesn’t know that. And I don’t volunteer the information. We head towards Crouch’s.

I make the widest left turn you’ve ever seen. The speedometer is seemingly stuck at 24 MPH.

“Go,” she urges me. “You have to at least go the speed limit.”

I start to speed up. And suddenly a police car is right behind me. We may see one police car a week on these back roads. Unbelievable. By this time, Mom has begun to notice that I don’t actually have any driving experience yet.

“Okay. Don’t freak out. Just use your signal and pull off the road up here into this driveway.”

The driveway she chose just so happens to have two large, stone columns on either side of its entrance. I am beyond intimidated and definitely panicking.
I brake.
But not enough. The columns are seconds away from crumpling the front end of The Jeep.

“Sarah! Stop! Stop!”

We come to an abrupt halt in the ditch next to the driveway. The policeman speeds on around us. Mom looks at me.

“I think that’s enough for one day. I’ll take it from here.”

Three Weeks Later

“Check the board for your assigned driving groups. Meet out front at the assigned time and don’t be late! I will leave you.”

And so we are dismissed from our last in-class Driver's Ed session. Next stop: Behind the wheel.

I get grouped with a couple of freshman girls who have known each other for years.

We drive around at the high school at first, getting used to the pedals and mirrors and various knobs. Then, the streets of Nashville. We make backwards figure eights in the Little Nashville Opry parking lot. As I’m making my first loop, I see the light pole in the rearview mirror looming closer and closer.

“StopStopStopStopStop,” I’m begging the car.

“Why don’t you try using the brake instead of talking to it, huh?” my compassionate instructor replies as he applies his handy instructor-side brake.

After a day or so, it’s time to tackle the interstate.

“Accelerate up the ramp, use your signal, check your blind spot, and merge into the interstate traffic going with the flow and speed. NEVER use your brakes on the interstate, understand?” Mr. Helmrich advises as we sit at the stoplight, awaiting my first interstate merge of a lifetime.

The gum he told us never to chew while driving, I am chomping furiously.

Up the ramp we go. -- Not so bad.

Indicate with left turn signal. -- Got it.

Anybody coming? -- Not that I can see.

Begin seamless first-merge onto the highway. – Flawlessly perfor--

 “STOP!” Mr. Helmrich cries out as he slams on the instructor brake.

I turn to look at my instructor, perplexed.

“Tell me you saw that semi,” he says, though it sounds more like a question.

I start to ask, “What semi?” but the behemoth truck in question goes flying past my side mirror, zooming ahead, barreling through the space I was about to fill with this little sedan. The girls in the back are giggling nervously, glad to be alive.

Mr. Helmrich is still looking at me expectantly.

“Umm... It was in my blind spot?” I answer.

Mr. Helmrich’s eyes widen. Is he amused? Amazed? Going to throttle me?

“Sarah,” he begins, but has to take a calming breath before going on.
“Sarah, an entire semi does not disappear in your blind spot!”

He takes another breath.

“Okay. Let’s try this again.”

Super Bowl Party!

*Betty’s parents are letting her throw a Super Bowl Party! So far to me, the Super Bowl just means Dad hogs the tv all day, and every now and then a cute commercial comes on. But today is the real thing.

When I get to Betty’s house, Juniors and Seniors and even a few kids who have already graduated are piled on couches in her living room. Dips. Salsas. Chips. Cookies. Cheeses. Sodas. Her dining room table is piled high with all the goods.

Two –day-old snow lingers on the frozen ground, but Betty’s parents have a hot tub outside the back porch. I forgot a swimsuit. I borrow one of her mom’s, and gratefully slide into the hot, steamy water. I have zero interest in football. If it weren’t for Junior High Cheerleading and some Color Guard / Marching Band halftime action, I doubt I would have ever seen a game. Feeling no compunction to break my non-viewing streak, I am content watching hazy wisps of steam rise from the surface of the scalding water and into the icy branches above us. This is how you spend a football game.

The hot tub lives up to its name. It makes the surrounding winter air feel even chillier. Stepping out of the warm, frothy bubbles to grab snacks or to use the restroom is torture. It is on one of these treacherous excursions that I barely miss the infamous “wardrobe malfunction” of 2004. As I walk into the living room, I hear boys hooting and hollering and high-fiving.

“What’s going on? Did we win?” I ask.

“No! Janet Jackson just showed her nipple on national television!”
More hooting. More hollering. Even more high-fiving.

These are the future leaders of our community, of our country. Pride and joy.

So back to the hot tub I go. A few of us spend most of the game out there, while others come and go. After a while, we notice two of our classmates are staring rather dreamily into one another eyes. *Steve keeps going under water.

At the school the next day, we learn that “Snorkeling Steve” (as he comes to be known) was into some shenanigans under the water in that hot tub that day. Risky business. We tease the two of them mercilessly. Betty’s Super Bowl Party goes down in BC history as a smashing success.

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent… and the not-so-innocent.

The church is small and white and is built into the side of a hill.

The pews are dark red and are dotted with crocheted throws, old Bibles, and baby toys.

The windows face just south enough to let a blinding amount of sun shine through during the Sunday sermon in late spring and early fall.

We have pitch-ins, baby showers, graduation parties, and Vacation Bible School in the shelter house that stands behind the church, up the hill, in front of the cemetery.

Every week, the minster asks if anyone has a song? Sister Mary reads us poems and excerpts and sings songs to us that we’ve never heard, and she doesn’t have the accompanying music, so it’s a capella, off-key, and amazing. Uncle Harry sings “Near the Cross” often, and we all sing along to his particular melody -- “til my rap-tured soul shall find rest bee-yond the ri-ver.”

We are having a foot-washing. Clyde and Flo are here. They are 100 years old if they are a day, and still as dapper as can be. Clyde, in his bomber jacket, and Flo sporting sassy lipstick and sassier spirit. For the foot-washing, we separate. Men to one room. Women to another. As the ladies chatter, and we nervously yet enthusiastically participate in this age-old tradition, Flo tells us how it is.

“Isn’t it just a like a man to spring this on a person? Men, they don’t think about some things. Like a woman wears pantyhose to church. When you get to be my age, you can’t just pull ‘em off so easily to do things like this. You’d think they would warn you. I'll just do it anyway, right through the stockings. Men, they just don’t think about some things.”

We are having a yard sale out front to raise money for a youth trip, or camp, or VBS. We start early. Fortunately, breakfast tastes even better when you eat it at church.

Sister Louise can’t have any sugar, but she loves coffee. It is in that moment that I learn that coffee doesn’t have sugar in it. It had never occurred to me. Occasionally, when I’m adding sugar to my coffee, I’ll remember that moment of clarity and see Sister Louise smiling at me.

We put on Christmas programs, and everyone who wants to gets a chance to sing. No auditions, and no one is left out here. We gather for weekly Youth Group, and giggle about things that are new to our developing bodies and minds.

We form bonds. We are a family. Nothing designates where my family ends and your family begins. We are all one.

My first concert!

Mom works at the Post Office. Sometimes, after school or on a Saturday, we get to go hang out “behind the scenes.” There is a sing-a-long tape of classic Christmas songs, with clay-mation Frosty the Snowman, Rudolph, and The Island of Misfit Toys. We watch it over and over and over. Sometimes, there are treats at the table in the lunch area. Usually not, though.

I get to put bulk mail into the post office boxes from the inside, and sometimes a key turns from the outside and I hide from view. I don’t want to spoil it if the mail-seeker thinks all the letters get in there by magic.

There are rubber bands everywhere. And little plastic sleeves for your thumb to help you snag one piece of mail at a time, allowing you to keep sorting mail, even if your hands are dry.

Papaw also works at the Post Office. He’s a mailman. He gets there really, really early, sorts stuff for his route, loads up his car, and heads out on the road. He’s usually back to the post office by 2:00. And home by 3:30.

I love being “behind the scenes.” Seeing the different slots for “Local” or “Out of State” mail sorted, packages piled high. When Mom works the front counter, people buy stamps or send letters or come to pick up a package and she sends me back to the stacks to find it.

One day, Mom comes home from the Post Office and tells me she has a surprise. The Backstreet Boys are playing a concert in Indianapolis and one of the ladies from town came in to drop off a package and offered us her tickets to the show! Aah!

The Backstreet Boys are a big deal. Hearing “I Want It That Way” is the first time I ask Mom to keep it on that radio station in the car. I am in love with Brian. I know that he’s shorter than me. And from Kentucky. But I love him. I just know I’ll get to meet him at the concert!

We get to the concert a little late, which is the usual when you travel somewhere with Mom as the pilot. We sit next to tiny children who are way too tired to be surrounded by screaming adolescent girls. I can just make out the band members on stage, but I can see their faces on the huge screen facing our high, high balcony seats.

None of it matters. For one moment, Brian flies through the air in a harness; he looks right at me through that screen.

It is magical.

Nana, Sissy, and I are taking line dancing lessons. Well, we’re taking a lesson. Mike’s Dance Barn is out by Ski World on the way to Bloomington, so you have to be on your way there to get there. You never just end up at Mike’s Dance Barn on accident.

We wear jeans and tennis shoes. We don’t really know any line dances. We don’t even know all the music the live band is playing. We are beginners.

The others in the session are hardcore. Worn, scuffed boots. Blue jeans. Cowboy hats. Giant belt buckles. The men have handlebar mustaches and the women have large permed hair with tall, poofy bangs in the front.

We stand in two rows, facing each other. The man on stage calls out turns and steps and moves and I am beyond lost. I have no idea what I am supposed to be doing, but what I am doing is trying not to get stepped on or throw off anyone else’s groove.

Finally, it’s break time. Nana gives me some cash for the concession stand. Score! I get a soda and some candy and head back to the table where she and Sissy are sitting. The “barn” is set up with a dance floor in the center, the stage at the front. The entrance, bathrooms, and concessions are at the back of the dance floor. Along both sides, long tables with several chairs each line up along the walls next to the windows.

We have homecoming here. We have a winter dance here. And we have line dancing lessons here.

The band plays a note or two, signaling that it is almost time to get back at it. I look at Nana. She looks at me. I am done. Nothing in me has any desire to rejoin the herd, ending up a casualty in the synchronized stampede.

Instead, I make my way out to the car where I have my latest romance novel stashed in my backpack. I no longer care if the lessons last 10 hours straight. I have a book. I climb into The Jeep, stretch out in the backseat, and lose myself. I jump when someone taps on the glass.

It’s been an hour. The sunset a while ago. I’ve been reading by the security light through the car window. Nana and Sissy are sweaty and tired and feel all exhilarated from the dancing. They chatter and bicker good-naturedly all the way home.

Luckily, someone in the car behind us has really bright headlights. I hold up my novel and read by the glow of the low beams.

I guess line dancing isn’t so bad after all. 

Celebrating the New Year.

We watch I Love Lucy reruns from 10pm to midnight, sitting on Nana’s lap in the recliner. My brother on one side, me on the other. Papaw went to sleep ages ago. Mom and Dad are out celebrating at a party for grownups. All of the lights are off and it’s cozy and I barely make it until midnight. I am snuggled up in bed by 12:03 am.

An Elvis Presley marathon started at noon and lasts through the New Year. I watch Elvis sing in a convertible, wear leis and play a ukulele, blush awkwardly as a shy country boy asking out the prettiest girl in town. I stay up well past midnight. Everyone is in bed. I vow then and there to watch every single Elvis movie ever. A resolution, I guess.

Mom makes cheese and veggie trays. We fondue and dip bread and crackers in the chocolate. We string “Happy New Year!” banners across the living room and turn up Dick Clark as loud as we dare. Whistles, blowers, and streamers. Shiny gold and silver top hats are swapped and traded with the  shimmery paper tiaras that say “1999” or “2003.” Everyone gathers around the tv when we get within a few minutes of the new year. The ball finally starts to drop in Times Square and everyone is kissing and streamers are going everywhere. We blow our whistles and toot our horns and fight for the bathroom because all of the cheese and chocolate is leaving us in quite a bind.

The interesting thing about ringing in the New Year with the television set is watching them clean up afterwards. They show Times Square at 12:33am and it is barren. Trash is everywhere. Some lonely street sweeper is out there with a broom and a bag, cleaning up everyone’s mess. I hope he gets a big bonus on this night each year.

Finally old enough to go out for New Year’s! Four of us head out in the big, huge, gigantic city of Indianapolis. We pay $20 just to get in. I am simultaneously appalled and intrigued. We toast our “free” champagne at midnight. It is terrible. We see a man physically restraining and nearly abusing his girlfriend on the dance floor. Someone grabs my butt. We are done here.

My friend is hosting a New Year’s party in his penthouse overlooking The Circle in downtown Indianapolis. I ride the elevator all the way up. There are people everywhere. We pop bottles of champagne on the balcony and toast at midnight. My love is here. Champagne and a kiss at midnight? This is what I’ve waited for my whole life. It is just as magical as I ever expected.

My family keeps having chocolate and cheese and crackers. They call me when the ball drops. They post pictures of everyone wearing those silly, shiny hats and blowing the blowers. Nana and Papaw look exhausted by 10:30pm. Kids are passing out on the couch in the background.

I miss that.