Phone Home

“Taylor, will you please turn off your alarm?”

It’s more of a groan than a question, with fair reason. Taylor’s response is, in fact, also a groan. Because she didn’t set an alarm. Plus, this doesn’t even sound like her alarm. And she was still sleeping.

She tells this to her roommate, Brooklyn, who says, “Well, it’s loud and it’s coming from your phone.”

Taylor flips over in her bed, reaching out toward where she last remembers leaving her phone. The noise is still happening. It sounds close enough that her phone is probably still on the bed. It probably didn’t fall over the side and plummet to the floor below. Probably.

It takes a solid minute to find it, though, because Taylor hasn’t mastered sleeping in a lofted bed yet. In her defense, her eyes are also closed. Once the phone is in her hands, she hesitantly opens one eye and then the other.

Her mom’s smiling face fills the screen.

Oh right. It’s not her alarm. But it is Mom’s ringtone. 

Her thumb hovers over the red DECLINE button. But let’s be real, Mom will just keep calling. So she hits the green button and mutters, “Hello?”

“Oh, honey, were you sleeping? I’m sorry! Hold on, what time is it? Henry! Henry, what time is it?” Pause for Henry to tell Mom the time is on the thing she’s holding in her hand. “Can’t you just help me?” Pause for Henry to tell her it’s 10:05. “Goodness gracious, Taylor you’re still in bed at 10:05?”

Taylor makes a mental note to set the alarm clock in her brother’s bedroom two hours later the next time she’s home. “Yes, Mom. I’m still in bed.”

“Don’t you have class or something?”

“It’s Saturday.”

“Well, surely something is going on. Don’t you have homework? What am I paying for?”

“You’re paying for me to go to class all week, get overloaded with homework, and then reward myself for surviving by not setting an alarm on Saturdays.”

“I thought you joined some clubs.”

“Activities Fair is next week.”

“So you can’t join clubs yet?”

“Mom, clubs don’t do things at 10 in the morning on Saturdays.”

“I doubt that! When I was in college we had things to do every Saturday morning. Like I remember this one time . . .”

This is the part of the phone call when Taylor gets distracted because usually the words “when I was in college” in her mom’s voice are followed by “we had to yell, ‘Boy on the floor!’ every time there was a boy on the floor because there weren’t co-ed dorms.” And that story, now that Taylor truly understands what it is like to live in a dorm, leads to a train of thought that ends with her thinking that it’d be so much nicer to be able to not have to take a change of clothes to the shower.

“Taylor, are you even listening to me?”

Lots of blinking. What was she saying? “Umm, sorry, Mom, got distracted. Brooklyn is trying to sleep.”

A groan of affirmation from Brooklyn’s side of the room.

“Oh! Well, apologize to her for me. She needs her rest, I’m sure.”

“What happened to it being too late to be in bed?”

“Well, I’m not her mother. But I am yours. So get up, get moving and don’t forget to phone home. I want to hear all about your first week of school!”

Taylor almost asks, wasn’t that the point of this phone call? But she stops herself. If Mom just hangs up now, maybe she can fall back asleep.

“Okay, Mom. Got it.”

“E.T. phone home!”

“Gosh, Mom, I’m at college, not outer space. And it’s the twenty-first century.”

“Doesn’t change my point. You better get out of bed. Love you! Talk to you later!”

The phone beeps to make sure Taylor knows her mom really did hang up. But at this point, Taylor is awake, so what difference does it make? She sits up and bangs her head on the ceiling. Another groan. Giggles from Brooklyn’s side of the room.

“Guess Saturday isn’t going to be any different from a weekday after all,” Taylor mutters. 

Brooklyn responds, “Except for the part where E.T. needs to phone home.”

Taylor groans and clicks the volume down on her phone.

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Originally published at https://tmn.truman.edu/blog/lifestyle/arts_and_entertainment/phone-home/

Peopleflowers

Dear Marcie,

Getting mail is especially exciting now that we’re quarantined. Even if it’s just junk mail. It’s something. It’s communication. I read every word. Anyway, I thought I’d write you a letter.

The typical question of “What’s new?” really doesn’t seem to apply anymore. What’s new? Well, I bought some clothes. Not that I can wear them anywhere. Just something to get a package. Because packages are even more exciting than letters.

I sat on hold for an hour and a half to cancel my subscription to mailed groceries and household products. Even the toilet paper. I’d rather tough it out at the stores. Scour the aisles for that last pack of two-ply. Gives me something to do. Because going places is even better than getting packages.

My social media usage is up. Surprise, surprise, I know. I’m trying to limit it, I really am. No one is really posting anything so it’s mostly ads and memes and other things that don’t include the faces of people I know. The faces I so desperately wish to see in person.

There was something interesting the other day, though. You know how sunflowers always face the sun? Well, I saw someone say that when sunflowers can’t find the sun, they face each other. How cute is that? It’s been raining all day and all I can think about is sunflowers in a field somewhere, facing each other. Weathering the storm together.

That’s the worst thing about this quarantine. It’s taken away our people to weather the storm with. Especially people like us who live alone. We don’t have anyone to face now that it feels like the sun is gone.

But then I think about how crowded the parks were. You know, before they closed them. So many people. People who probably never went to parks. People who would normally be cooped up in offices and schools and stores. They were out, enjoying the sunshine. Breathing fresh air. Smiling and waving at strangers. 

And even now that the parks are closed, I have this urge to go walking around the neighborhood. Not typical for me, as you know. I’m usually Example A of cooped up in the office. But I’m learning it feels really good to just be somewhere that feels so open. The walls can’t close in when there are no walls. 

Anyway, all of this got me thinking. Maybe we’re like reverse sunflowers. We’re peopleflowers. We always turn toward people. But maybe when we can’t turn toward each other, maybe we can turn toward the sun. I mean, hey, at least it’s something that can’t get you sick. It’s basically taking a vitamin, right? Isn’t that a thing? People who take their vitamins don’t get sick, that’s what my mom always said.

I hope you find a good friend in the sun, Marcie. Stay well.

Until we can face each other once again,

Amy

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Originally published at https://tmn.truman.edu/blog/lifestyle/peopleflowers/

Elizabeth’s Garden

I was standing in my new living room with my hair pulled up in a headscarf and strokes of paint marking my arms looking at blobs of paint options on the wall. Somehow I managed to miss my tank top and jeans. Feeling both messy and put together and having looked at the paint colors long enough to be on the verge of a dramatic outburst, I felt like I’d been transported to the “Mary Tyler Moore Show.” I was certain I had a tired and flabbergasted look on my face from spending the last hour staring at paints called things like Venetian Yellow and Adrift: Timeless Blue. Granted, I was in a house, not an apartment and I had a husband who would come home from work soon, so maybe I felt more like the Mary Tyler Moore of “The Dick Van Dyke Show.” Either way, I felt thrown back in time and thoroughly aware of my new status as a homeowner and housewife.

We had moved to the suburbs of St. Louis for Tom’s new job. Since I didn’t find work before we moved, I decided to take some time off and get the new house in order. We’d only been married for about a month and I still hadn’t unboxed various wedding gifts. We had spent a week and a half in my old two room apartment in Kansas City after our honeymoon, and since we knew we’d be moving, it seemed pointless to open up that which wasn’t absolutely necessary. It would only get repacked.

Honestly, as I stood staring at the paint samples, I had the strangest feeling that the decision didn’t really matter. Who was to say I would ever find work here? What if we ended up moving again once I was tired of being cooped up in the house? What if Tom didn’t even like this new job? And we wanted kids eventually, right? Would we really want to be hours away from our parents? 

I was startled out of my thoughts by a knock. Confused, I walked over to the front door. Tom didn’t have a key yet, but I could’ve sworn I left it unlocked.

The person smiling at me through the glass was definitely not my husband. It was a woman, for one thing, and she looked old enough to be my mother. I cracked the door open and said, “Can I help you?”

“Hello, dear,” she said, once again making me ask myself if I really had been transported back to a 1960s sitcom. Was this woman going to be the Gladys Kravitz to my Samantha Stephens?

“Hello,” I said without opening the door further.

“Oh, silly me. I suppose I should introduce myself. I’m Betsy. I live right up the street. I saw the moving trucks and I wanted to give you a few days, but I just can’t resist the chance to give a housewarming gift. Those are some of the best gifts there are, you know.”

Stunned, I managed to tell her my name was Elizabeth. She laughed, informed me that was what Betsy was short for, and said we must be destined to be chums. Not friends — she really used the word chums.

“Anywho, this is for you,” she added and held out a wicker basket. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said, taking it from her. There was a loaf of bread, a candle, a throw blanket. Even a bottle of wine. 

She must have seen it catch my gaze because she said, “I hope it wasn’t presumptuous of me to assume you two drink. It is two, right? I didn’t think I saw any youngins or playthings.”

I nodded. “Just two. And yes, we drink. Thank you.”

Her smile stretched from ear to ear. “Oh, good. And don’t worry, dear. Children come quick once you’ve got the space to make ’em.” She winked and I had visions of weekly check-ins with this woman asking if I was pregnant yet and suggesting home remedies. 

“Well,” I said, deciding it was time to nip this in the bud. “I do really appreciate the gift. It was very nice to meet you.”

“You’re welcome, dear. And don’t miss out on the best part.” To my shock, she reached out and dug through the basket, pulling out a small packet of sunflower seeds.

I felt a blush rush to my cheeks. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a gardener.”

She shook her head slightly. “Nonsense, dear. Women are hardwired to know how to make things grow. Why do you think we’re the ones that incubate the youngins? Besides, a garden is about more than success. In the end, it doesn’t really matter if your garden grows. It’s not the Old West, we have supermarkets. I’m not one of them off-the-grid hippies. But planting a garden shows faith in the future. Planting a garden shows you intend to be there to at least try to take care of it, that you want to be there to reap whatever the sowing gives ya. And that’s something we all need when we’re trying to put down roots in a new place.”

I opened my mouth, but I didn’t know what to say. It was as if she knew what I had been thinking. Maybe I had been on track with the “Bewitched” references, but this woman was no Gladys Kravitz. If anyone had magical abilities, it was Betsy, not me.

Finally, I just said, “I’ll try my best, ma’am.”

She nodded warmly. “I know you will, dear. Well, I’ll let you get back to it. Those walls won’t paint themselves.”

She was far down the sidewalk before I remembered that one didn’t have to be a witch to notice the paint on my arms. When I couldn’t see her anymore, I closed the door and went back to my paint samples. I had picked these colors because they were trendy, but suddenly I found myself drawn back to my collection of swatches. I had always wanted to paint my living room lavender. I’d always promised myself that when I finally owned my own house, I would do it. I’d even gotten Tom to agree to it back when we were engaged. And why wait? We owned this house. No matter how long we ended up here, it was worth making it a home.

And as my great-grandmother always used to say, it isn’t a home if there isn’t a garden out back doing its best to grow.

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Originally published at https://tmn.truman.edu/blog/lifestyle/elizabeths-garden/

Handsome, Charming and Six Feet Away

The most amazing thing happened to me the other day at the grocery store. It started out like any other day in March 2020. I got up, put on my long-sleeved shirt, jeans and gloves. The mission that day was focused and meant to be fast, an in-and-out grocery run for the essentials, so I opted for tennis shoes and a sleek high ponytail. Once I was dressed, I grabbed my purse, doubling-checking that my hand sanitizer hadn’t somehow fallen out, and then stopped by the door to select a face mask. I’ve got quite a collection of them; one for every outfit. I hung a bunch of command hooks right inside the front door. Good reminder not to leave without one. That particular day, I chose the sky blue mask to go with my navy shirt, blue jeans and trusty white Converse. Honestly, I attribute some of the luck of the day’s coming events to that choice. That sky blue really makes my eyes pop. Or, at least, that’s what Danny says.

You see, as I was in the midst of my mission, I became distracted. There, surrounded by produce was a breathtaking man. He was very handsome, with a charming face and a practical red hoodie and jeans. His face mask was a shiny silver color. Most amazing of all, he held a tall walking stick. Squinting proved the stick to be two yardsticks duck taped together to create a measuring stick as tall as the man himself. There he stood, a modern-day Moses, extending his staff to ensure proper social distancing was taking place around him.

I had to meet this man.

Taking a mental count of how many people were around — luckily, it was less than ten — I got as close to him as I dared. Timidly, I said, “The yardsticks are a phenomenal idea.”

He was looking at me, but didn’t respond. The pause made me fear he couldn’t hear me through my mask. I was so taken by him in that moment that I thoughtlessly threw caution to the wind. Sliding my mask down to uncover my mouth, I repeated my compliment.

His eyes grew wide. “What are you doing?”

My brows furrowed before I realized what I had done. I would have gasped had I not been afraid to take in one more breath of the likely contaminated air. What a fool I had been! Not only had I risked exposing myself to infection, but I had likely ruined any chance of catching this man’s fancy. No man forward-thinking enough to carry around a six-foot walking stick would waste a passing glance on a woman who removed her mask to talk to a stranger.

Yet to my surprise, he continued speaking. “Please put the mask back on. It’s better for your health, and besides, it compliments your eyes. Really makes them pop.”

I slide the mask back up over my growing smile. “Thank you,” I said. “May I ask your name?”

His eyes smiled. “Danny. And what name is paired with those lovely blue eyes?”

“Mabel.”

“Well, Mabel, I must say, between your natural beauty and your clear consideration for the CDC’s recommendations, you make it tempting to offer a handshake.”

I grinned. “You don’t make a bad impression yourself, Danny.”

There was another pause and it occurred to me this was probably the end of the conversation. What else was there to say? It wasn’t as if we could go get coffee or agree to meet for dinner. No matter how cautious he appeared, I had no way of knowing whether he’d been exposed to the virus. He was surely thinking the same about me. Probably even more so after that faux pas with the mask. 

Then he asked, “Do you have a pen?”

Confused, I opened up my purse. Rummaging produced a Sharpie. “I’ve got this. Did you need one?” Surely he didn’t want to borrow it.

Next, he did the most astounding thing. He extended his yardstick of social distancing and said, “Why don’t you write your phone number on there?”

Well, how could I refuse? And much to my delight, that encounter in the grocery store led to many enjoyable conversations via the safety of phone calls and text messaging. Eventually, he even came and spoke to me through one of my windows. Even then, ever armed with his trusty staff, he made sure to stand the conscientious six feet away.

One night as we spoke on the phone, he told me, “If and when this plague shall pass from our land, I look forward to taking you on a traditional dinner date, my dear Mabel. But until then, I shall be the perfect, social-distancing gentleman. You can count on that.”

And oh, he has not disappointed. I’m so taken with his regulation-level charms that I almost wouldn’t mind if the quarantine lasts quite a bit longer. Who needs a dinner date when you’ve got a knight in a shining face mask?

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Originally published at https://tmn.truman.edu/blog/lifestyle/handsome-charming-and-six-feet-away/

If the Coronavirus Struck in 2075…

DAY 7 OF SOCIAL DISTANCING:

I still haven’t gotten used to this GPS anklet they’re making all of us wear. I went over to give my mom a hug this morning and it screeched at me as if I was shoplifting from Tiffany’s. 10 feet apart at all times. That’s hard to remember. I feel like I need to carry around a yardstick just to be safe. I don’t want to hear that noise again. If they could, I bet our neighbors would have come over to complain.

DAY 13 OF SOCIAL DISTANCING:

I chanced going outside today. Apparently the government is taking the rule that we have to stay on our own property very literally. I stepped onto the sidewalk and three drones appeared out of nowhere. In their dreary monotone they ordered me, “Return to your registered permanent residence. All necessities can be delivered to you.” Over and over again until I was over the threshold and back inside. I suppose they aren’t allowed to get more specific than “registered permanent residence.” I know for a fact some people have been stuck this whole time in places they definitely don’t consider home.

DAY 21 OF SOCIAL DISTANCING:

I had some junk food delivered today. Chocolate covered strawberries, sugar cookies and Cheez-It crackers. My mom didn’t exactly look pleased. What can she do, though? She’s not allowed to get any closer to me than I am to her. Social distancing includes moms, too. That’s what the president said. All necessities can be delivered to you. That’s what the drones said. Chocolate covered strawberries are a necessity. That’s what my stomach said. “Really, Mom,” I told her. “I’m just following the law.”

DAY 25 OF SOCIAL DISTANCING:

I got bored enough that I did some research. Apparently, in one of the alternate universes we’ve discovered, this pandemic happened back in 2020. They went totally nuts and didn’t know what to do. Apparently social distance didn’t include moms back then. Sappy optimists posted things about returning to family dinners and getting more time with their kids. Dogs reported being 150% happier. Meanwhile, my dog is included in the social distancing rules of 2075. I wonder how he’s doing. I assume he’s still down in the basement. Are all necessities being delivered for dogs, too?

DAY 47 OF SOCIAL DISTANCING:

No one is getting coronavirus because no one is in contact with anybody else. No one wants to stop social distancing because everybody thinks as soon as they’re less than 10 feet apart they’ll get sick. Don’t ask me how two healthy people are going to spread the virus to each other. 

I think I’ve eaten my weight in chocolate covered strawberries. I could really go for a family dinner. Maybe the optimists of 2020 weren’t such saps after all. Social distancing might have its perks, but those perks have their limits. I don’t care what the drones say. Not all necessities can be delivered.

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Originally published at https://tmn.truman.edu/blog/lifestyle/if-the-coronavirus-struck-in-2075/

Felix and Hazel

When Felix and Hazel were teenagers, they lived in a town that was big enough for Felix but too small for Hazel. When Hazel was a teenager, her favorite thing to do was take walks around the town and its outskirts, and daydream about the place she’d live when she grew up. When Felix was a teenager, his favorite thing to do was be around Hazel. Ergo, he went on a lot of these walks.

Every day it was something different. “When I grow up,” Hazel said, “I will live in a house that’s pink like a cherry blossom.” On another day it was, “When I grow up, I will live close enough to a body of water that I can go and sit on a dock and read.”

Hazel watched the houses and the trees, willing the houses to be pastel and the trees to be sand. Felix watched Hazel, wishing he could hold her and that her awe-filled blue eyes spent more time looking at him.

When Felix and Hazel were in their twenties, they experienced not living five minutes away from each other for the first time in their lives. When Hazel turned twenty, she was at a university on the east coast and majoring in interior design. When Felix turned twenty, he was finishing up an associate’s degree while working full time at the local grocery store. Hazel was deciding that she might like to live in a big city, maybe move to California. Felix was deciding that he’d like to own his own grocery store one day. But he wanted to do it the old-fashioned way. He wanted a small shop and to know his regular customers by name. He wanted to employ the future versions of himself, kids who needed to pay the bills without being stopped from accomplishing their dreams.

Hazel wrote him letters every Sunday and Wednesday. She didn’t dare ask him to spend the money for a long-distance call. She knew once she started speaking to him, she’d never stop. It’d been too long since she’d heard his voice. So she let her insides spill out onto the page — her plans to see the Pacific Ocean, her shift toward modern design, her newfound love for veggie burgers — and sealed each letter into its envelope with a kiss. And Felix read every single word at least three times, always wishing for the invitation to call.

When Felix and Hazel were teenagers, they missed every high school dance. Hazel always tried to make her own dress, but it was never ready on time. There were always more embellishments to be added or last-minute changes to be made. By the time she’d finish the dress, the dance would be long past. So Felix would pack up his boombox and take her to one of the local parks and ask her to dance.

Hazel’s favorite “high school dance” was the one when she had made a dress the same cherry blossom pink as the house she dreamed of. It hugged her torso but billowed out into a full skirt that stopped at her ankles. The whole thing sparkled like it was covered in stars. She curled her hair, let it drape over her bare shoulders. Felix had looked at her like he was seeing an angel. 

Then, during their second dance — the song was “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” by Aerosmith — it began to rain. Not just rain, pour. Hazel’s makeup was running down her face, her curls were disappearing and the beautiful corsage that Felix had spent his allowance on was crumpling fast. They ran off to a nearby gazebo to wait out the storm.

Hazel looked down at her water-soaked dress, tears welling in her eyes. “My dress! It’s ruined!” She ran her fingers through her hair. “Oh, I must look like a mess!”

Without hesitation, Felix grabbed her by the shoulders and began examining her, his face serious and thoughtful. Hazel’s eyebrows furrowed. “What is it?” she asked.

Felix looked her right in the eye, still as serious as a heart attack, and said, “You’re the most beautiful girl to ever attend a high school dance.”

When Felix and Hazel were 24, Hazel came home. She was getting ready to move to California and went to Felix’s apartment to say goodbye, worried she’d never see him again. According to her mother, he was seeing one of the girls they’d gone to high school with — Hazel never liked that Mindy Mae Brown anyway — and was likely going to marry her.

She knocked on the front door. Felix answered within seconds. Before she could say anything, he grabbed her arm, pulled her inside and sat her down on the couch.

Then he told her, “Hazel, I’ve been too scared to say any of this for a decade and if I don’t say it right now I might burst.”

Hazel’s eyes widened. She nodded for him to continue.

“Hazel, I don’t know if you know this, but I think you’re amazing. I think I would have had a much sadder existence without you and I don’t know what I would’ve done without your letters these last few years. And I know you want to move to California and have a pink house and read on the docks and dance in the rain and decorate every room with fairy lights. And I want you to do it all.”

“That’s, um, that’s good to hear Felix, um, because I came to, um, to tell you that —”

He interrupted her, “I bought a house in San Diego. It might be the wrong shade of pink, but we can always paint it. The first floor is meant to be a shop, but there are two floors for living above it. And there are public docks within walking distance and parks to dance in and there’s even a gazebo in the nearest park.”

Hazel could barely get the words out, “You bought yourself a shop and a house in San Diego?”

He shook his head and his face reminded her of that time in the gazebo all those years ago. “I bought us a shop and a house in San Diego. That is, assuming you want this.” And then he got down on his knees in front of her and suddenly there was a ring box in his hands. The ring was rose gold with a beautiful cherry blossom stone in the middle.

When Felix and Hazel were in their twenties, they moved to San Diego. And the daydreams became reality and the walks were by the ocean and the kisses were placed on faces instead of envelopes and there was no need for long-distance calls.

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Originally published at https://tmn.truman.edu/blog/lifestyle/felix-and-hazel/

Phillipa’s Tattoo

My mother was anything but materialistic. Her closet held nothing but the essentials. The only jewelry she owned was her wedding band and a pair of gold stud earrings shaped like butterflies. No knick-knacks, not even picture frames. Our house was the epitome of minimalistic design. Almost everything in our house was black or white.

I sigh, looking around the house as I put on my black Panama hat. My eyes stop on my reflection in the gold rimmed, full length mirror on the wall across from me. Black velvet turtleneck. Black pants. The only thing that stands out about me today are the circular gold rims of my glasses. I’m usually so much more colorful than this.

My mother would have never owned something as frivolous as a Panama hat. Everyone has always asked me where my “fashion gene” comes from. “Who knows,” I always say. “Maybe one of my ancestors was the top fashionista in Madagascar.” 

For a moment, I consider taking off the hat. Would she have approved? She never said anything about my clothes. She never forced her way of life on me. I instinctively glance down at my right hand, the skin still a little red around the fresh black ink. She definitely would not have approved of that.

That which was not black or white in our house was either gold or green. Gold accents like the mirror. Gold doorknobs and curtain rods. And plants, so many plants. There was not a single room in our house without at least one plant. Raindrop peperomias, Chinese evergreens, snake plants and English ivies. Even the bathrooms had little succulents strung along the counter or hung from the ceiling.

Grandmother always used to say that the happiest homes allow the world in, allow the natural to intermingle with the manmade. My mother had taken that to heart. 

I often wonder if my house will look like this one day. It seems as though my “fashion gene” came at the expense of my “green thumb gene.” I’d never managed to keep a plant alive for more than two weeks. Meanwhile, my mother had seemed to know how to care for a plant without any instruction. She always said it was in her blood, which only made me wonder more why it wasn’t in mine.

I force myself to walk out of the door and meet my father down in front of the house. He is already in the car. The white Honda Pilot feels out of place today. I can’t remember the last time I saw my father wear a suit. Perhaps on a different day, I’d make a joke out of this fact. Today, I simply sit down in the passenger seat, buckle my seat belt and silently watch the garage door shrink as he backs out of the driveway and then heads for the church.

The leaves on the trees that line the road look plastic as the car whizzes past. Mother always said that meant it was going to rain. I say a silent prayer that the sky holds off its tears until after the ceremonies are finished. Just before the amen passes my silent lips, I add a request to help me do the same.

My mother named me Phillipa because it meant lover of horses. She called me Ponygirl when I was a toddler, always telling me to stay gold. I would never forget reading “The Outsiders” together for the first time and hearing the origin of the words I’d heard so many times before.

“They stole your saying, Mama!”

She smiled gently, somberly. “I’m afraid they actually had it first. I stole it from them.”

My eyes widened at the idea that my mother would ever steal anything. Years later, I would bring up that moment after receiving reprimands for plagiarism on an essay in fourth grade. I had urged my reader to stay gold.

When I was in middle school, my mother started calling me Butterfly. I asked her why. She said, “Both butterflies and horses fly in their own ways. I always knew you’d be a flyer. It just took me a while to realize that you were going to blossom into a butterfly.” 

That was the day I decided to become a pilot.

Breaking the silence, my father shakes me back to reality. “Phillipa, do you want to see in the casket?”

“What?”

“It’s a closed casket, per your mother’s request. But before the visitation begins they will offer you and me a chance to see her one last time.”

I swallow. “Are you going to look?”

He doesn’t answer.

I study my father’s face. Deep creases had surrounded his eyes for weeks now. His dry dark skin and his tired hazel eyes make it clear to me that he hasn’t been taking care of himself. I make a mental note to call the airline and ask for an extra week off. I need to make sure he is taken care of. I need to make sure I don’t end up losing him to his grief. 

I can’t lose him, too. Not yet.

My tattoo catches the corner of my eye and draws my attention away from him for a while. I wonder how long it will take for me to get used to it— to not feel like something foreign is stuck to my skin. I considered gold ink but decided I wanted the subtlety of black. For a little over a week now, a small butterfly had called the space between the bottom and middle knuckles of my right index finger home. Next to it, on the side of my middle finger in small capital letters were the words “stay gold.”

I know my mother didn’t approve of tattoos. I know she thought they took away from the natural beauty of the human body and that there was a touch of immorality in the purposeful scarring of God’s creation. But I couldn’t help it. I needed to know her death wouldn’t mean everything about her would fly away from me. I needed something to keep me grounded in this new reality where she wasn’t here.

I glance up at the grey sky as we pull into the church parking lot. I wonder if I will feel closer to her when I go back to work. I wonder if all my flying has been preparation for this moment. Maybe even though we weren’t connected by style or gardening skills, maybe we will be connected in that grand expanse that now exists between us.

“I’m not going to look in the casket,” I whisper to my father, still looking at the sky. He nods as if to say the matter is now settled. Neither of us will look.

I won’t look in the casket because I trust I’ll see her again, smiling and laughing and telling me to stay gold. And until that day, I’ll keep flying.

---

Originally published at https://tmn.truman.edu/blog/lifestyle/phillipas-tattoo-epiphany/

Clara’s Chick Flick

She rolled her eyes and turned to go, to leave him there standing alone in the woods like the brooding bad boy character from a chick flick. Except he wasn’t misunderstood and she wasn’t going to fall in love with him. 

As they say, been there, done that. It wasn’t gonna happen again. Her heart had put on its armor.

“Clara, stop,” he said. He reached out and grabbed her elbow, pulled her back toward him, made her face him. But she wouldn’t look at him. She stared at the ground. 

“Clara, please. Let me explain.”

“Explain what exactly? What about all of this do you think I don’t understand?”

“I didn’t mean —”

“Yes, you did, Jeremy.” Clara’s eyes snapped up to his and her gaze broke straight through the piercing blue ice to his soul. 

Her voice was stern, compelling. “You mean that there’s more to the story. You mean there’s a way to redeem yourself. Well, there’s not more and there’s no hope. I don’t want to hear your delusions.”

They were standing in the woods behind her house, far enough to be out of earshot but close enough for Clara to know the lights were still on inside. She wondered how far the evening’s potential for clichés was going to go. Was her father sitting inside, waiting with a shotgun in his lap? She was pretty sure there was one packed away in the basement somewhere. Not that she believed for a second he knew how to shoot it. 

Jeremy pursed his lips. “I’m not delusional.” He halved the distance between them and added, “And from what I remember, you like trying to redeem me.”

Clara faked a smile. “Do you know the difference between medicine and poison, Jeremy?”

His brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

She leaned in closer and whispered, “Dosage.”

Jeremy was unimpressed. “So, what, now I’m poisonous?”

Clara shrugged. She turned to go again and this time he moved to block her rather than pulling her back. To Clara’s surprise, there was actually a trace of pain on his face. 

He sighed. “Clara, look. I know I screwed up. I screwed up bad, but please, give me a second chance.”

“Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, oh wait! You won’t get the chance.”

“Clara, I was drunk! I wasn’t behaving like myself!”

“Alcohol doesn’t give you a free pass, Jeremy.” Clara swallowed, no longer able to joke. “You got drunk, the training wheels came off and you decided to cheat on me. The bridge has been crossed. There’s no going back. I’m burning it.”

“You know I never meant to do this, that I wouldn’t have done it sober.”

“No!” Her eyes went ablaze and Jeremy took a step backward in shock. “No, I don’t know that.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Jeremy tried to blink away the tears gathering in his eyes. He wasn’t sure what hurt the worst: the fact she was in pain, the fact he had caused it or the fact that she was going to leave him.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. Out of all of those movies she’d made him watch over the last couple years, none of them had ended like this.

“It was my best friend, Jeremy,” Clara whispered.

His voice broke as he said, “I know.”

“I was only down the hall.”

“I know.” Gravity was steadily increasing its weight on his shoulders. It was taking everything in him not to drop to his knees.

Tears streamed down Clara’s face and Jeremy didn’t know what to do. He wanted to hold her, to cry with her, to apologize over and over again until his voice gave out. But he also wanted to run away, wanted to forget her pain, forget he’d caused it. He didn’t want to acknowledge this truth. 

It was never supposed to end like this.

Timidly, half expecting her to brush his hand away, Jeremy reached out and caressed the side of Clara’s face. Instinctively, her eyes closed, her body leaning into his touch. But his hand was cold and her skin didn’t come to life with the flames it once had. The intimacy couldn’t survive without the foundation of trust it had been built on. 

“I love you so much,” Jeremy whispered.

“I loved you, I trusted you, with my whole heart,” Clara responded, voice shaky and high pitched. She allowed herself one last moment of his presence, one last time to feel his hand against her skin, one last moment knowing he loved her. And he did love her. She knew that. She knew he’d walk through fire to take back what he’d done.

The sad reality that the chick flicks never mention is that walking through fire doesn’t fix everything. And it wouldn’t fix this, even if he could do it.

So Clara straightened her spine, stepped out of his reach and cleared her throat. With a more confident voice, she told him, “Goodbye, Jeremy.”

Then she walked away and left him brooding and heartbroken in the woods. The perfectly understood, unwitting bad boy no doubt would one day be someone else’s Prince Charming. But not Clara’s. 

It was sunny and the birds were singing and the woods didn’t appear in any way magical, because it was not a chick flick. If it had been, maybe it wouldn’t have ended this way.

---

Originally published at https://tmn.truman.edu/blog/lifestyle/claras-chick-flick/

Mr. Thompson’s Smile

When I was six, my great grandma lived in an assisted living home called Oasis Retirement. She had a room on the second floor. It was just big enough for a queen-size bed, a dresser and a chair for guests with an attached bathroom. Great Grandma was always saying she felt claustrophobic in that room. (I asked my mom what it meant. She told me it’s the feeling that a place is too small.) I wasn’t sure how anyone could think a bedroom with a bathroom attached was too small. I had to walk out of my room and down the hall to get to the bathroom I used at home. Plus, I had to share it with my sister, Tammy. Both of us being in that tiny bathroom together seemed like a much better example of feeling claustrophobic to me.

When we visited Great Grandma, she always insisted we stay for lunch or dinner, whichever was next. She always said, “It won’t be great — these cooks aren’t what I used to be — but it’s food and it’s my treat.” Dad always made sure she was distracted when he slipped $30 to one of the waiters to cover our meals.

If there was ever anyone in that dining room less pleased than Great Grandma with the food, it was Mr. Thompson. He didn’t like anything about Oasis Retirement. When I asked Mom why, she asked me, “Do you remember the months your dad and I and your aunts and uncles spent convincing Great Grandma to move here?”. 

I nodded.

“Well,” she said, “Mr. Thompson’s children simply sold his house and told him he had a week to pack everything that he planned on taking with him.”

I frowned. “I guess nobody would like that, not even if their new bedroom had a bathroom attached.” 

Mom agreed. 

Mr. Thompson complained about everything to everyone. The chicken was dry. The water was too cold. The silverware wasn’t clean enough. Most of the complaints I heard were about food since I only ever saw him in the dining room. He was grouchy toward the waitresses and he was grouchy toward the other residents. Great Grandma always tsked whenever we walked into the dining room to see him sitting at one of the tables. She was not the type to join in with Mr. Thompson’s complaining, not that he ever let any of the other residents carry on a conversation with him. Instead, she just complained quietly about how he complained so loudly.

Mr. Thompson didn’t speak to anyone unless it was absolutely necessary. Except, of course, to me. For whatever reason, Mr. Thompson’s frown lessened slightly whenever he saw me. Every time I saw him, he’d raise his hand and gesture for me to come over and say hello.

“Hello, Little Roth Girl,” he’d greet me. He didn’t seem to care what my real name was. No matter how many times I reminded him that I was Hannah Roth, not Little Roth Girl, he never changed his greeting.

“Hello, Mr. Thompson,” I’d say.

Before telling me to shoo back to my parents, he’d give me whatever tidbit of information was on his mind that particular day. Once, he told me that the sky was really another ocean. Another time, he assured me that butterflies have eyes on their wings. “That’s why they die if you touch them,” he said. “You’ve just smashed their eyeballs.” The next time, he told me Earth was flat. When I was six and even seven, I believed a lot of what he said. Now that I’m eight, I only believe a little bit. 

Mr. Thompson died seven months ago. Great Grandma said the cooks had probably poisoned his food to get him to stop complaining. Mom said he actually died of a disease inside his brain. It was a big long word that I don’t remember. (I only remembered claustrophobic because I say it to myself every time I’m in the bathroom with Tammy.) We went to Mr. Thompson’s funeral. There were other kids there who Dad said were Mr. Thompson’s grandchildren. I wondered whether they had believed all the things he’d said and whether he’d only said them to me. A line of people walked through to look into a box Mom and Dad said I couldn’t look in. It seemed to have something sad inside it, so I didn’t mind not being allowed to look. We all had to sit down so the pastor could tell us about how he knows we all loved Mr. Thompson, but now he’s in heaven, which is better than here.

Remember how Mr. Thompson said the sky is another ocean? It sort of makes sense. They both change colors based on their moods and what time it is. One hold boats, another holds airplanes. One holds fish, another holds birds. Or maybe there are fish up in the sky/ocean, too, but we’re too far away to see them. Like when you stand on the beach and can’t see any fish even though you know they must be there.

I remembered the time Mr. Thompson told me the stars aren’t stars at all. He said Earth is inside a big box and what everyone calls stars are actually holes in the top of the box so we can breathe. I asked him how the sky/ocean stays full if there are holes right above it. He told me that’s what gravity’s for.

After the service, I asked Mom where heaven is. She said it’s “up.” My jaw dropped and my eyes grew wide. 

“You mean Mr. Thompson is in the sky/ocean?”

Mom looked confused. I turned to Dad. I knew he knew about the sky/ocean. I guess Mom had forgotten.

Dad thought for a moment. “If he were in the sky/ocean, he’d still be inside the box, right?”

I nodded.

“Heaven is like being taken outside of the box. It’s even above the stars.”

Outside of the box. That sounded like something Mr. Thompson would like. The pastor said heaven is a nice place. I remembered Dad telling Great Grandma the assisted living home was a nice place. She always responded by pushing her lips together and out like a fish. I don’t think Mr. Thompson ever thought the assisted living was a nice place either.

“Do you think Mr. Thompson smiles now?” I asked Mom as she tucked me into bed.

She kissed my forehead. “I think he does.”

---

Originally published at https://tmn.truman.edu/blog/lifestyle/entertainment/mr-thompsons-smile/

Marla’s Martian Fashion

“Where do you think you are? The fashion capital of Mars?” 

I identified the voice through the buzz of the school cafeteria before I had even turned around. Once I was looking him in the eyes, I smirked. “Don’t you have better things to do than theorize about Martian fashion, Brad?”

“Clearly you don’t,” he replied.

I batted my eyelashes. “Well, I’m just not as important as you.”

Brad rolled his eyes and maybe he would have left me alone, but then he saw Kevin. He smiled at me like a predator baring its teeth at its prey before saying, “Hey, Kevin! Why is your sister such a weirdo? She looks like she escaped from a circus.”

My twin looked at me with tired concern. He was used to this. We were both used to this. Brad was just being his normal self. I hoped Kevin would just leave it alone.

Instead he set down his lunch tray at his usual table, walked over to us and said, “Brad, go pick on someone your own size.”

“What, someone like you?”

“Why can’t you just leave us alone?”

“Why don’t you make me?”

Kevin rolled his eyes. As if talking to a toddler, he said, “Oh, does the big bad bully need some validation? A chance to feel strong and powerful over —”

And that was when Brad punched him in the face.

I yelled, rushing to Kevin’s side. “Kevin! Kevin? It’s me. It’s Marla. Can you hear me?”

“Stop shouting,” he mumbled. “I’m fine.” The skin around his left eye was already turning dark purple, like the sky before a thunderstorm. He was not fine.

I whipped around to unleash a fury on Brad that I hadn’t been able to muster on my own behalf. “You pompous, arrogant jerk! Why did you hit him? Because of my clothes? How on earth is that logical? How on earth does that get you anywhere other than suspended? Seriously, if you’re going to be evil, at least go for evil genius. Evil doofus doesn’t get you anywhere in real life. This isn’t a cartoon and you won’t be fighting a platypus anytime soon!”

Brad blinked at the Phineas and Ferb reference. I could almost see his blood boiling beneath the surface of his skin, lighting his eyes with barely contained rage. I think he would’ve swung at me, too, if my tirade hadn’t drawn the attention of the teacher on lunch duty, not to mention the surrounding students.

“What’s going on here?” Mrs. Robinson squinted at us through her lavender readers. 

“Brad punched my brother,” I said before anyone else could manage to speak.

“Brad?”

He didn’t react. Mrs. Robinson took that as evidence of his guilt.

“Off with you to the principal’s office.” She turned to Kevin. “Are you alright?”

He nodded. “I might go to the nurse and grab an ice pack.”

The teacher gave a curt nod and then marched off in the direction of the principal’s office, presumably not trusting Brad to actually turn himself in.

Later that afternoon, as we walked home from school, I kept my hand on Kevin’s shoulder to help guide him as he held the ice pack over his slightly swollen eye. As we turned onto our street, he said, “Marla, why can’t you just dress like a normal person? I’m happy to take the hit for you, I’ll do it again and again, but wouldn’t it be easier on you to just blend in a little more?”

I touched my free hand to the bright red beret that sat atop my head and looked down at the rest of my outfit. I was wearing a red turtleneck under a black and white checkered jumper. I had on black tights and red converse and I had kept my oversized, fuzzy green jacket on all day even though it was late April.

Quietly, I said, “To quote the Addams Family, ‘Normal is an illusion. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.’”

Kevin sighed heavily. “Marla, you know I’m trying to —”

“Yes, I know! You’re trying to help me. But I don’t need that kind of help. I know what I’m doing and I didn’t ask you to take any punches. Mom and Dad taught us to help people when and where we can. I’m fifteen years old, I’m five foot two and I weigh a hundred pounds. There’s not much I can do. But I’m thick skinned and I can draw the attention of bullies away from people who can’t cope with it as well.”

Kevin was quiet until we got to our front door. Before walking inside, he told me, “I’m your big brother, even if it’s only by twenty minutes. You’ll never have to ask me to take a punch for you.”

The next morning, I woke up and put on an oversized blue sweater with fuzzy clouds sewn onto it. I paired it with my red beret and a flowy pair of plaid pants. I wondered which planet Brad would accuse me of being from today and which teachers would stare at me in confusion. When I walked into the kitchen to grab breakfast, I found Kevin sitting at the table and all my wonderings disappeared. He’d covered up his black eye with an eyepatch that looked as if it had been specifically made for a pirate Halloween costume.

He winked at me with his uncovered eye. “You’re not the only one who’s thick skinned.” Then he got up and walked toward the front door, calling out over his shoulder, “Let’s go!”

I grinned, rushing to follow him. “Aye, aye, captain!”

---

Originally published at https://tmn.truman.edu/blog/uncategorized/marlas-martian-fashion/

The SS Warrimoo Wedding

Disclaimer: The SS Warrimoo was a real Australian/New Zealand passenger ship that sailed from 1892–1918. In the 1940s-50s, a story began circulating that the SS Warrimoo had managed to cross the intersection of the International Date Line and the equator right at the turn of the century. This story is based on the unlikely event that the story from the 1940s-50s is true. After encountering the story on Pinterest, I did a little more digging and I couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if Captain John Phillips of the SS Warrimoo had been officiating a wedding on that night in 1899. Well, 1900 if you were on the other end of the boat.

I don’t think my grandkids ever did believe the story I told them of their grandma and I’s wedding. Well, maybe Penny. She was always one for a story. But the others, they tended to throw in my wedding story with the stories of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. I remember little Evan once told me, “Why Grandpa, you can’t even find a picture of your Captain John Phillips on the internet! That proves he isn’t real!”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” I retorted. “The internet is no match for an old man’s memory! Besides, where was the internet in 1899? What could it possibly know about way back then?”

Evan rolled his eyes. His cousins, Lucy and Quin, shook their heads. But Penny, hugging her knees to her chest in a way that made her 8-year-old frame look five years younger, suggested, “Maybe if you tell us the story again, Grandpa. Maybe that will help Evan understand.” She stole a glance at her brother before adding, “Now that he’s 11, he thinks he’s not supposed to believe in anything anymore.”

“That’s not true!” Evan crossed his arms. “I just don’t want to be lied to like a little kid.”

“Well, why don’t you ask Grandma for the story and see if it’s different?”

“Grandma just tells me that Grandpa tells it better.”

I chuckled. “Kids, calm down. Everybody knows that 11-year-olds have it rough. Why, how can you know who to believe? So many stories are turning out to be untrue! But, trust me, grandfathers don’t lie. Especially not about how we met grandmothers.”

Evan remained skeptical. Penny looked quite satisfied and Quin seemed to be leaning toward siding with her. I believe Lucy had heard the word “Grandma” and decided to go find her, perhaps hoping for a tea party. No bother, she’d hear the story again sooner or later. I’d make sure of that.

I cleared my throat. “Well, you see, Captain John Phillips had agreed to take your grandma and me along on his journey from Vancouver to Australia. We’d get married on the way and then do our honeymoon over in Australia. We thought it was pretty perfect. Little did we know what sort of captain we had agreed to sail with.”

“Captain John was always testing his crew. He’d want them to sail as close as possible to something or have them wait until the last minute to make a turn. All sorts of strange tasks. He said it would keep them on their toes. Well, on the 31st of December, the first mate happened to point out that we were only a few miles from the intersection of the International Date Line and the equator. Of course, Captain John immediately thought of a brand new test for his crew.

“He told them to position the boat exactly across that intersection. And by golly, that crew never did disappoint him. They anchored the ship right over the intersection at a quarter to midnight. Then the captain told your grandma and me to get into our wedding clothes.”

Penny, asking the same question she always did at this point in the story, said, “Can you still wear a wedding dress if you get married on a boat?”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“Did she look pretty?”

“The prettiest anybody has ever looked.”

Penny smiled, whispered to her brother, “I think I’ll get married on a boat someday,” and then turned her eyes back to me.

That was my cue. “So Captain John brought us out to the middle of the boat and he told each of us where to stand. We said our vows before God and the crew and then he pronounced us husband and wife. The salty breeze had the hair on both our heads — I had hair back then, you see — all over and I had to push hair out of her face to give her the wedding kiss.” Pause for the disgusted noises made by children who don’t yet wish to be kissed by anyone. “And then Captain John told us exactly what he had done.

“You see, your grandma was standing in the Northern Hemisphere in the middle of winter on Dec. 31, 1899. But I was standing in the Southern Hemisphere in the middle of summer on Jan. 1, 1900. So we got married in two different hemispheres, on two different days, in two different months, seasons, years and centuries! So, for the last sixty-five years, your grandma has celebrated our wedding anniversary on the 31st of December and I’ve waited to celebrate on the 1st of January. Every year each of us tries to convince the other that they’ve got the wrong date, but so far neither of us has succeeded.” Then I leaned in real close and told them, “Don’t tell her I said so, but I’ve always liked having two anniversaries. So I don’t really mind that I haven’t convinced her to celebrate on my day.”

Of course, after that, all of them, even skeptical little Evan, ran to tell Grandma my “secret.”

---

Originally published at https://tmn.truman.edu/blog/lifestyle/arts_and_entertainment/the-ss-warrimoo-wedding/

Franny Jellyton’s Engagement Ring

“I’m fine,” Rachel said, hugging her arms across her chest. The porch bench rocked gently back and forth as she swung her feet.

“Why are you lying to me?” Danny sat on the other end of the bench, twisted toward her. “You look like you’re about to cry.”

“I’m not going to cry over you getting engaged again, Danny. I shed all the tears I had for you a long time ago.” She thought back four years to the way she had curled under a pile of blankets and refused to move for hours. It had been days before she left the house and weeks before she smiled.

“Rachel, I don’t mean to hurt you, but —”

“Now who’s lying to who?”

“Stop.”

She hugged herself tighter.

“Stop,” he repeated, halting the bench’s movement by planting both of his feet firmly on the ground.

Rachel stared at him. She wanted her eyes to throw daggers. She wanted to look angry. But she felt the blankness in her mind reflected in her eyes. She knew all he was seeing in her at that moment was numbness.

Danny halfheartedly threw up his hands in defeat.

Rachel chewed her bottom lip.

“You know why I’m here,” he said.

She nodded, got up and walked inside the house.

Upstairs in her bedroom, there was a tiny ring box covered in red velvet. Inside it was a yellow gold band with seven diamonds. One large and princess cut, framed on either side by three small, round ones. The prongs holding the middle stone were noticeably worn.

Franny Jellyton’s engagement ring. Made circa 1954. Inherited by Danny Cooper. Once worn by Rachel White.

Soon to be worn by Jennifer Snow.

Rachel’s mother had warned her back in the days when Rachel’s smile was just returning. “He’ll be back for that ring,” she said. “He may be too sorry to ask for it now, but the time will come.” The prediction had been paired with advice that if Rachel felt it necessary to throw the ring in the river, she best do it now. If she did it now, it would be the result of a fit of heartbroken rage. Danny would be angry and hurt, but he’d be convinced there was only himself to blame. He was the one who left a precious family heirloom in the hands of his ex-fiancée. He was the one who didn’t ask for it back in the moment.

But Rachel hadn’t thrown it in the river or in a fire or any of the other places her family and friends had suggested. She had worn it until she was ready to leave her cocoon of blankets, and then she had placed it back in its box. Even the box was the original — Danny’s mother had felt the two shouldn’t be separated.

Danny had proposed to Rachel when they were 17 and still in high school. She had worn the ring as a necklace — under her shirt so no one but her and Danny knew it was there — until their graduation. Then after graduation, once she was enrolled in the local community college and he had a steady paycheck from the local factory, they had told their parents. A wedding date had been set. No one had questioned anything. Of course, they were going to get married.

When he told her he was unfulfilled at the factory and wanted to go to college, she hadn’t thought anything of it. “Sounds good,” she said. “Where?”

When he said he wanted to go to the other side of the country, she said, “Good thing this is my last semester. We can go straight from our honeymoon to our new home.”

But then he said he wanted to start over. He said he thought he needed to leave all of this behind. He made no effort to separate “all of this” from her.

He was sorry, she knew that. She also knew he was being illogical. So when he didn’t ask for the ring back, when he didn’t send anyone to collect the things of his she’d borrowed . . . she told herself it was a phase. She told herself it was part of the way they’d been together so long. She told herself that he’d realize soon enough that she wasn’t just his childhood. She was his future, wherever that happened to be.

When the day that was supposed to be their wedding day came and went, she told herself not to mourn. There’d be another one.

But then he went away to college in August and didn’t come back until December. And when he did come back, he brought Jenny.

Rachel walked back down to the front porch, the red velvet ring box in her pocket. Danny stood as she came out of the door.

“For what it’s worth,” he started.

To her surprise, Rachel didn’t want to hear what he had to say. Which was lucky for her, because he thought better of whatever he had started to tell her and never finished the sentence. In her heart, she told herself that he had wanted to say, “For what it’s worth, I would’ve let you keep this for the rest of your life if I didn’t have to give it to Jenny. For what it’s worth, I still know you’re the one who was supposed to wear it and pass it down.”

She’d never know how far or close she was from the truth.

But she did know that Franny Jellyton had refused to be buried with the engagement ring on her finger because she felt it should go to Rachel White. Because she thought that even if she had to miss the wedding, at least she could say she’d known the bride-to-be.

Jennifer Snow would never have that.

---

Originally published at https://tmn.truman.edu/blog/lifestyle/arts_and_entertainment/franny-jellytons-engagement-ring/

The Witch of East Valley High School

October Jones was a force to be reckoned with. She walked the halls of East Valley High School with her head high, her armful of books organized and well-contained, her eyes somehow staring both straight ahead and above the buzzing crowd of students. She walked with a purpose, every step determined and forceful. The slight bounce of her body as she walked was not one of peppiness, but the reactionary force brought about by the smacking of her soles against the linoleum. 

Yet along with all this confidence and power, she had the unfortunate circumstance of having parents and genetics that were working together to create a systematic irony within her very being. October Jones was 5’11” and utterly unable to hide the fact that she had bright green eyes and carrot-colored hair. Or, as many have pointed out over the years, pumpkin-colored.

I will never forget the first time I saw her, the first time any of us saw her. She was new to town, it was freshman orientation and none of us could believe our ears when the pale, lanky new girl stated that her name was October. Her hair was so orange she could barely be called a redhead. Her all-black outfit only added to our growing collective concern that we had a witch in our midst.

Even as a freshman she exuded confidence. Her poise came across more cold than graceful — she almost never met anyone’s eyes and rarely said more than five words at a time. Even in class, October Jones was a brisk wind. She left us on the edge of our seats, never quite sure what she would do, even though she always did the same thing. October came to school always wearing black, or dark jeans, or dark purple, or navy. Never yellow, or red, or orange. Not even green. She spoke to no one, raised her hand once per class and ate her lunch— a peanut butter sandwich— alone. When the day was done, she went straight home. She was far more predictable than her namesake. 

In our Midwestern town, the chill of the October month knocked on our doors a different day each year. Sometimes September would suddenly turn frigid; sometimes Nov. 1 would have a high of 70. But October’s falling temperatures and ever-earlier dusks always came eventually.

I never saw October Jones arrive late to anything. And that included fall. Somehow she knew before any of us exactly when to switch from shorts to pants, from sandals to boots. Not that I ever mentioned that observation to her. What I would have meant as a lighthearted compliment, a “tell me your secret” kind of moment, she would have taken as just another stab at her name. No one mentioned anything about fall or Halloween to October. No one.

And this was why: by our freshmen year of high school, October Jones’ skin was already so thick that no one could bear to raise her defenses any higher. Anything so much as a snicker turned her eyes into daggers and sent her arms into a protective crossing over her chest. Her heart had enough of her existence’s blaring ironies by the time she was fourteen. And since all of us assumed she had a long road ahead of her, we did our best to keep the comments to ourselves, sharing looks and whispering jokes when we thought she wouldn’t notice. High schoolers always think they’re clever enough to know when the object of their snickering won’t be listening.

In reality, October Jones spent most of her life listening. She sat in the back of classrooms, observing everyone around her. She never took notes. It was as if she could absorb information through her skin. That girl could repeat any fact she’d ever heard and recount any scene she’d ever watched. 

But for the thirty-one days of October, she had everyone else’s attention. Because for thirty-one days, without fail, October Jones wore the brightest colors imaginable. 

Bright yellow boots, sky blue shirts, magenta sweaters, bright green pants, any and every bright shade of purple. All of the colors that belonged in the other months. All of the colors no one else was wearing.

Our freshman year, some people thought she was trying to start a new trend. One boy supportively dug out a bright blue pair of jeans and a lime green polo. But when he tried to strike up a conversation with October, she frowned at him, her eyebrows furrowed. 

“You’re trying to be funny?” she said. She was definitely not laughing.

“No!” Arthur Darnell replied, his cheeks turning red. “I thought it was some sort of . . . I don’t know . . . a tradition! Maybe where you come from you wear bright colors for fall!”

“Where I come from?”

“I mean —”

“You think I’m weird?”

Not even Arthur was brave enough to answer that question. He wasn’t even brave enough to lie to her. He simply walked away.

For the rest of our high school experience, everyone but October wore bright clothes in the warm months and everyone but October wore fall colors in October. When October missed school on Halloween four years in a row, no one said a word.

Our senior year, I finally asked her where she spent every Halloween. We were sitting in the library in mid-November and with no one else around, I thought I had a chance at a real answer.

She seemed startled that I was speaking to her. “What?”

“I totally get why you wouldn’t want to be here,” I said. “But where do you go?”

Her lips parted, but she bit her tongue. I could see her trying to determine my end goal, calculating the odds of this turning into a joke at her expense.

“I’m honestly just curious,” I promised.

She still hesitated, but eventually, her lips curled into a small smile. “I go to the children’s hospital for the day and hang out with the kids.” She reached over to her backpack and pulled out a long, skinny, plastic wand painted to look as though it was made out of wood.

Her green eyes sparkled when her smile grew, her orange locks framing her face. “They think I’m a witch.”

---

Originally published at https://tmn.truman.edu/blog/lifestyle/arts_and_entertainment/the-witch-of-east-valley-high-school/

Becoming Aunt Lydia

It was dark and raining and my mind was going one thousand times faster than the car I was driving. I wasn’t in the mood to be in this kind of traffic, caused by late-night rain when it’s that mid-December kind of dark that makes you wonder if the stars still exist. Everyone was slowing down and the world was being inundated with blurry red lights and no one seemed to notice that I needed to get somewhere. 

Seriously, could Abigail have picked a worse time to have a baby?

I had gotten the call from Daniel about an hour ago. He was rushing my sister to the hospital because they really thought tonight was going to be the night. Nine months of waiting and I could hear in his voice how desperately my brother-in-law wanted tonight to be the night. 

Except no one else wanted tonight to be the night. My mother, afraid of driving in the dark, had been texting me for the last hour. Can you pick me up and take me to the hospital to see Abby? Are you on your way? Will you be here soon? I’ll never forgive myself if I miss this, Lydia.

The “myself” was meant to be read “you.”

I had told her I would pick her up. I had told her there was traffic. I had told her that I was 45-minutes away from her house without traffic. Eventually, I reminded her that she had taught me to not text and drive and threw my phone into the backseat.

My mother wanted to be a grandmother, but she didn’t want it to happen without her there. Daniel’s mother lived three hours away and, having been told the due date was still a week away, was not prepared to magically get to the hospital in time. Personally, I had been on the first decent date I’d been on in two years. But apparently my happily married, soon to be a happy mother, sister just couldn’t wait.

The driver of the car in front of me slammed on their breaks. I followed suit, a groan escaping my lips. My phone vibrated. I should’ve turned the thing off before I threw it.

No one likes to be outdone by their younger sibling. Not on the things that matter. Like, of course, it never bothered me that Abigail was a better basketball player than me. I played volleyball. It was a superior sport. But when she got her first kiss before me? Or when she got engaged before me? Or when I was her maid of honor, instead of matron? Those things mattered. Those things were too backwards. 

And the “funny” thing about your younger sister getting married before you is that it never stops. She’s the first one married. She’s the first one pregnant. She’s the first one handing Mom the baby she’s been waiting our whole lives to hold.

And then there’d be me. Sitting in the corner. Drinking wine because I’m not pregnant. Sitting alone because I’m not married. Talking to no one because once that baby comes, it’d be all anybody cared about. Until there was another baby. Which I wouldn’t be having anytime soon by the looks of things.

When I pulled into my mom’s driveway, she ran out with two gift bags in her hand, hunched over in an attempt to keep them dry. She hopped into the passenger’s seat and didn’t even bother to say hello. Just shouted, “Go! Go! Go!”

I wondered what she had been like the night she had me.

It didn’t take long for us to end up back in standstill traffic. Abigail just had to pick the hospital on the side of town that put us right in rush-hour traffic. I watched the cars on the other side of the cement boundary whiz past at the speed they were supposed to go on the highway. 

My mother, now that she was finally in the car and felt certain that she would in fact make it to the hospital, was unfazed. Every few moments she’d say something along the lines of “I wish your father was here to see this,” or “I hope Abby isn’t in too much pain.” I told myself to be thankful for the change. “I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandma” had been the main thing I’d heard my mom say for the last nine months.

“That’s the exit!” she said suddenly.

I jolted the car over to the exit lane, thankful I had only been one lane over. “Oh, thanks.”

“Would’ve been awful to sit in all that traffic only to miss it!” To my surprise, she was

genuinely laughing. What had happened to the woman who had been frantically texting me?

“Yeah,” I said. I couldn’t manage to muster any more enthusiasm.

The hospital was a jagged collection of concrete buildings that could never pass for being newly built. The hospital on the other side of town was newer and better respected. Not to mention it was closer to all of our houses. But Abigail and I had been born at St. James Oasis Hospital and that was where Abigail wanted her baby to be born.

I got off the highway and found the parking garage. We had to circle up to the fourth level to find a spot. I put the car in park and twisted around to look for my phone, about to tell my mother that I would just meet her inside. She had to be dying to get in there and find Abigail.

But to my surprise, she was holding out of the gift bags.

“What’s this?”

“It’s for you.”

Confused, I took the small yellow bag from her. I pushed aside the pink tissue paper to find a coffee mug that read, “Aunts are the coolest member of the family.”

I bit my lip, startled by the tears that began welling in my eyes. Maybe tonight wasn’t going to lead to me drinking wine alone in a corner for the rest of my life. Whether the guy from the date called me back or not, from this night forward I was going to be someone’s Aunt Lydia. And that wasn’t nothing.

And even if Abby got to be the first newlywed and have the first baby, I got to be the first aunt.

---

Originally published at https://tmn.truman.edu/blog/lifestyle/arts_and_entertainment/becoming-aunt-lydia/

George and Martha’s Knickknacks

“What are you doing?” George flinched a little as he heard the way his voice tilted upward at the end of his question. Upon entering their kitchen, he had found his wife sitting on the floor, haphazardly moving various items from one container to another.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Martha responded. “Spring cleaning.”

“It’s September.”

“Well, the cleaning is well overdue.” Martha continued to transfer knickknacks from the plastic tub on her left to the trashcan on her right, muttering something about charity. “We never use any of this junk!”

“That’s not true!”

“George, when was the last time you opened this box?”

George, crossing his arms, positioned himself between his wife and the trash can. “My point exactly! You hid these from me. How was I supposed to use them?”

“Hid them?! Excuse me for deciding they could collect dust just as well in the basement as they could spread all over our bedroom.”

“And how exactly was having them ‘spread all over our bedroom’ not using them? How else is a person supposed to use knickknacks?”

Exasperated, Martha offered a compromise, not that she expected her husband to be able to hold up his end of the bargain. “George, if you can tell me where this one was before I boxed it up, I’ll let you pick five to keep.”

George stared at the little glass duckling she held in her hand. It was the color of lemonade and wore a small hat that was not unlike an ice cube. “Um … it was in our room.” He knew he wasn’t helping himself, but he just needed time to think!

“Where in our room?”

“On a piece of furniture.” 

“Which one?”

George swallowed. No time left to stall. “Your dresser?”

Martha promptly dropped the duck into the trash can. They silently listened to the clinking of glass hitting glass.

“I bet you just knocked off his hat,” George said.

“I bet Goodwill accepts ducks without hats,” Martha said.

“Martha, do you remember where the duck used to sit?” George knew it was unlikely, but he really hoped she didn’t.

“On your nightstand.”

Of course, George thought. He tried to think of a way to turn this into a positive. If only he could remember where they had gotten the duck, or why it had been on his nightstand in particular.

His wife didn’t seem willing to wait for him to come up with a proper response, though. “Oh, I’m sorry, was that supposed to make me want to keep it?” Martha deposited another glass figurine — this one was a moose — into the trash can. She was slightly gentler, but the clinking was just as loud.

“Martha, what harm does it do to have one more box in the basement? What if our kids want these someday?”

Martha thought back to the horrifying stacks of cardboard boxes that had been discovered in the basement of her childhood home after her mother’s death. So many things she had been left to feel guilty for not knowing where they had come from or why they were saved for so long. “You know what I think our kids will want someday? I think they’ll want to rummage through our house and see the things they gave us. Not some glass duck that was a wedding present from a great uncle they’ve never met, or a moose missing an antler that you just had to buy on a camping trip twenty years ago.”

George, finally feeling victorious, brought up their oldest daughter. “Jeanie was on that camping trip! Maybe it would bring back fond memories. Why don’t we hold onto it for her?”

Martha sighed. “Jeanie was two when we went on that camping trip. All she remembers is that we all survived. Really, all she remembers is being told we went on a camping trip and survived.”

“It was a good camping trip!”

“I was seven months pregnant! The last thing I wanted was to be in the woods with a toddler!”

“Doesn’t mean we didn’t have fun!” George pushed the trash can far enough to the right that he could sit down between it and his wife. “Doesn’t make it any less of a memory.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Martha fidgeted with a tiny glass strawberry. “Happy Mother’s Day” was inscribed on the side. George noticed it and recognized it instantly. It was a souvenir from one of the best days of guy’s life: the day he’d found out he was going to be a father.

George nudged her. “Remember when I gave you that?”

Martha smiled. “It was a few days after I told you I was pregnant with Jeanie.”

“Two days after you told me. Four days after Mother’s Day. I can still feel the excitement of finding out they had something left. You deserved to get to celebrate your first Mother’s Day, even if it was a few days late.”

“Why a strawberry?”

“Well, I really wanted Jeanie to end up a little carrot top like you. Of course, they don’t sell glass carrots for Mother’s Day and I’ve always thought your hair was more red than orange. So when I saw the strawberry, I thought it fit perfectly.”

Martha did not want to acknowledge the water droplets in her eyes. Eyes still glued to the strawberry, she told her husband, “Getting rid of the knickknacks doesn’t mean we’re getting rid of the memories.”

“I know,” George said. “But I still don’t see why the kids can’t be the ones to do it. You know, once we’re dead and buried.”

Martha’s eyes took inventory of the box’s contents. More glass knickknacks that had been presents from one member of the family to another. Vacation souvenirs from Florida and Chicago and Boston. As much as she hated to admit it, George had a point. Here was her family’s history. Maybe not the milestones, but the small things. The things that gave proof of their love for each other and their desire to spend time together. And maybe she could make it so that this box could someday comfort her children by keeping the memories alive as long as she was. 

She hid her smile from her husband and gently placed the strawberry back in the plastic tub. Maybe some things were worth allowing to collect dust in the basement. 

---

Originally published at https://tmn.truman.edu/blog/lifestyle/entertainment/george-and-marthas-knickknacks/

Betty Twillman’s Plot Twist

When I was young, at least one out of every three visits to my grandparents’ house involved me asking to hear their love story. My grandpa would smile softly and lean back in his chair. He enjoyed hearing Grandma tell the story as much as I did.

As she got older, some of the details got fuzzy. Her memories would get tangled and the story would be muddled by, “No, that’s not right,” and, “Well, I suppose that actually happened after this.” But no matter how confused she got, the story always started the same way: “15-year-old Betty Twillman had her life mapped out to a T.”

“I had a plan,” Grandma would say. “I was going to finish high school, and then I was going to go to college. I didn’t see myself going steady with any of the boys at the high school, so I decided that finding a husband could wait until after I got my teaching certificate. I’d get comfortable in the classroom while I searched for a man fit to marry. Then I’d get married, have a couple children.”

At this point, she always liked to interject that her plan was tethered to the belief that it was important to be a life-long learner. Yes, she would learn at school. But once she was done with college, she would need time to learn how to be a good teacher. Then once she was married, she’d need time to learn to be a good wife before she could, God willing, learn to be a good mother. Of course, she’d continue learning in all three stations of her life, but her 15-year-old self was certain it would be much more manageable if she added each job one at a time.

“Of course, before I managed to start that degree, something happened. I was three days away from my 16th birthday, I was in the middle of a very good book, and then suddenly, I met my plot twist. His name was Martin Byrd.” She would look straight at Grandpa, the corners of her lips stretching up toward her warm, happy eyes, and she would continue, as if he weren’t in the room. “You see, Marty Byrd was new in town and rather handsome. We bumped into each other a few times. Eventually, he asked if he could walk me home after school. He accompanied me on my walk every day for two weeks before I learned that he lived in the opposite direction.

“When he asked me to let him take me to dinner, I said ‘Yes,’ even though it interrupted my plans. When he asked me to be his girlfriend, I told him I was going to go to college. He said he knew, he thought it was a great idea. So, I agreed to a more official courtship. I told myself my plan wasn’t truly changing.”

At this point in the story, my grandma would sit up straighter as if she was preparing herself to relive the fears and uncertainties of Grandpa’s military service. “After six months of going steady, he told me he was going to enlist. It was short term. He promised he’d be back in time for my high school graduation.” Even 65 years later, my grandma’s eyes got shiny as she described waiting for him to come home. But young Marty Byrd kept his promise. He was there to watch Betty Twillman accept her diploma. And then he asked her to accept a ring and a name change.

“This was the difference between when he asked me to be his girlfriend and when he asked me to be his wife: the second time around, I didn’t even think about what would happen to my plan. I simply said ‘Yes.’ There was no other answer.” And the smile that always accompanied that memory made it clear to every listener that she was telling the truth. Betty Twillman never had a moment of doubt that this change in her plan was exactly what she wanted.

My grandparents got married nine months later. Within a year, Grandma was pregnant. Three beautiful children later — that was the other consistent piece of the story, the children were always beautiful — she finally went to college. 

“Betty Twillman believed that by 29, she would be a seasoned teacher, married five years, a mother of toddlers. But by 29, Betty Byrd had been married a little over a decade, her oldest child was almost ten and she was proudly accepting her teaching certificate. And I’ll let you in on a secret, she couldn’t have been happier.”

My grandma was a strong believer in plans when she was a child. She wanted to plan everything — she thought she could plan her whole future. But she found that just like the plot twists in her favorite novels, the things she hadn’t planned brought her life the most vibrant happiness. In her career as an English teacher, she told her students that surprises and changed plans could make all the difference in a story. 

“One of the beautiful things about these surprises is that sometimes they even surprise the author,” she’d tell them. “And those are the best surprises of all.”

---

Originally published at https://tmn.truman.edu/blog/lifestyle/entertainment/betty-twillmans-plot-twist/

Dress Shopping with Melissa

My feet hurt. Words like blush and violet and chartreuse and sapphire were swirling around in my brain. We had been shopping for three hours.

Melissa and I had been best friends since the 10th grade. We met in biology. She helped me pass the class and I told her bad science puns. It took me two months to realize I was in love with her.

Now we were 23 and it was wedding season. Her old teammate was getting married the next day and she didn’t know what she was going to wear. She wanted a new dress, but when she had woken up this morning, her car wouldn’t start. So she called me. 

This is what you do when the girl you’ve been in love with for seven years calls you to tell you she needs a ride to the mall to buy a dress that she will look stunning in for a wedding she will go to with a man that is not you: you tell her you’ll see her twenty minutes. You roll out of bed, you cancel the lunch date your friend set up for you and you put on a slightly nicer outfit than she will expect you to be wearing. Always wear a slightly nicer outfit than she will expect you to be wearing. You get in your car and you drive to her house and you take her wherever she wants to go. Even if it means a three-hour shopping trip in five different stores. Even if it means you don’t do anything all day other than tell her over and over again that every dress looks stunning on her.

You cannot tell her she is beautiful, but you can tell her the dresses are. 

You cannot kiss her, but you can make her smile.

So when she pops out of the fifth dressing room showing you the fifteenth burgundy dress — it was on the seventh one that I learned that burgundy and maroon are different things — you smile at her.

“How about this one?” she will ask.

“You look great,” you will say.

“You’ve said that every time!”

“You look great.” 

Melissa’s smile grew. “I think this might be the one.” She stepped in front of a full-length mirror and twirled three times. The skirt of the dress filled up with air and the tiny gold sequins reminded me of the night skies we used to stare at in the summer. By the summer before college, I was usually looking at her instead of the stars. Watching her eyes glow with excitement. Watching as her lips slowly parted in awe. She was always too captivated by what was above us to notice my eyes glued to her face.

“Do I look fit for Penelope Andrews’ wedding?” she asked me, pulling me back into the present. Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip while her eyebrows lifted ever so slightly.

I did not know how to answer that.

Her teeth released her lip and then her lungs released all their oxygen in a heavy sigh. “How do I look, Tommy? Say something other than great. Tell me this one is better than the other ones so we can stop shopping.”

How did she look? I knew what I wanted to say. She looked like what I wanted the rest of my life to look like. Of course, I thought that whether she was wearing a sparkling navy gown or an old high school t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts.

“You look beautiful,” I finally admitted.

Her smile grew again and it didn’t fade away. She smiled as she bought the dress, she smiled the whole way back to her apartment and she was smiling when I said goodbye.

“I hope everything goes well tomorrow,” I told her.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

And she did. She called and she told me about how the dress had worked out perfectly because it turned out she had just the right color ribbon in her dresser for her hair. She told me that her date had worn a black suit, which had bothered her because it clashed with her dress. She told me that she liked him anyway and that he was a great dancing partner.

We spent almost as long on the phone as we had dress shopping. I didn’t mind. Every time I closed my eyes I could see that smile. That smile was worth as many hours as she wanted.

So I told her I was happy for her. I told her to let me know anytime she needed a ride. I held in my disappointment when she said her car was fixed. I pretended that I didn’t hope she would call me the next morning and ask her to take her somewhere again.

And like the hopeless romantic that one has to be in order to love a girl for seven years and never tell her, to love her as she falls for countless men, but never you . . . I never reschedule that lunch date. Because the irony of the hopeless romantics is that we are never quite able to give up hope.

---

Originally published at https://tmn.truman.edu/blog/lifestyle/entertainment/dress-shopping-with-melissa/

Playing Chess with Miss Smite

“But John… The rumors. They’re growing vicious.” 

My voice carried in the open air like a wind chime. The rickety gazebo in which John insisted we held these late-night meetings was barely large enough to accommodate the six of us, hardly kept out the rain and did nothing to preserve the secrecy of what we said.

With an unnerving calm about him, John replied, “My dear friend, there will always be rumors. One must simply learn how to manipulate the beneficial ones.”

I scoffed. The beneficial ones? As if such a thing existed for people like us. Perhaps they benefited those who started them. What other reason was there to spread such lies? But for us, rumors were nothing but trouble, and that’s putting it lightly. Rumors meant people suspected something. The fact that there were names tied to these rumors meant people would point their fingers at us when something went wrong.

John Barton was planning for things to happen that were very, very wrong.

Apparently my scoff did not fit the attitude John wished me to have toward him. Rather terse, he asked me, “Do you wish to share an opinion, Miss Smite?” 

I stared him right in the eyes, something no other soul had dared do on this wretched evening. They had mumbled excuses about the rain getting in their eyes, but in truth, they were too afraid. 

I wasn’t afraid of this con in the slightest. I knew, even if he didn’t, that I had a much better poker face than him. And a better hand.

“Merely an observation.” I used the tone that my grandmother had taught me during the tea parties of my childhood: airy, aloof and a tad arrogant. 

“Oh, please enlighten us.” His lips curled into a sickening grin and his eyebrows pressed down toward his eyes. I enjoyed these games, but I also knew how twisted he truly was. I saw his end goal more than he realized. 

“It seems to me that my reputation means nothing to you,” I said. “And while I truly commend your ability to throw away everything someone has worked for without batting an eye, I’m afraid I cannot stand for it. Maybe if it was someone else, but not when it’s me. I’m too proud of what I’ve accomplished.”

“That’s quite selfish, don’t you think?”

I mirrored his grin and replied, “That’s the only way to win the game.”

He chuckled. He probably found my comment quaint. I bet he thought I had merely stumbled on the metaphor. I doubt he saw my deeper meaning. “A skilled chess player knows that pawns must be sacrificed to protect the king.”

I retorted quickly. “But a player left only with his king is rather weak, is he not?”

John Barton was no longer smiling.

There was silence after that. Not only from John and our co-conspirators, but also from the sky. The thunder stopped. The lightning stopped. The rain slowed to a patter.

John ignored me and continued laying out his plan. I was not bothered.

Let me explain something to you, my dear reader. I am supposed to be the hero of this story. When it was all said and done, that’s what they called me. The hero who stopped a catastrophe, the scared young woman blackmailed by a horrible, conniving man with evil intentions. However, though I hate to admit it, I am nothing of the sort. I just happened to be the one who did the least evil and finished my share in the horrors the quickest. While the others were just beginning to carry out their roles in the chain reaction, I was coming to the end of my part in John Barton’s scheme. And then I enacted the final step in my own hidden plan. I laid my cards on the table and left my so-called partners to shoulder the destruction. I did what John Barton had planned to do to me: I exposed him and left him to be eaten alive by the populace.

Then, on the day of his conviction, I looked John Barton right in the eyes and said, “Checkmate.” Because in the end, I wanted him to know. I wanted him to realize that I’d known his game all along, from the first day he wrapped me up in all this. And that, somewhere along the way, I had switched from being his pawn to being his opponent. I had looked at the board and seen just how many weaknesses he had.

I had taken advantage of those weaknesses and I had won. 

---

Originally Published at https://tmn.truman.edu/blog/lifestyle/entertainment/playing-chess-with-miss-smite/

Noelani’s Story: What’s in a Name

Our village was small and its traditions ran deep. The small community only saw a few babies born each year and those children were seen as children of the community more than children of their parents. The village would raise them and so the village had a part in choosing their names.

Boys were named for summer; girls were named for winter. The year of my birth there were three girls born. The first had eyes pale blue color of a winter sky. They named her Kalani, which means heavens. The second was born on the windiest day the village had seen in a long time and so they called her Makani, which means wind. 

I was the third baby girl that year. Three was a good number, the elders said. Three is strong. Some had concerns that we would strengthen winter too much. Many prayed the next year would bring balance through the birth of three healthy boys. Nonetheless, as rain trickled down from the grey December sky, they deemed me Noelani, which means heavenly mist, and completed the trio of sky, wind and rain. 

We grew up together in the village and just as our namesakes were kindred spirits, so were we. My friends’ names seemed to fit them perfectly from the start. Kalani was ever-changing and yet had a sense of stability within her. She could adapt to any situation, but her composed, serene personality always shone through. Makani had shy tendencies — everything she did was quiet. When she wished to have her desires made known, however, she was persistent. And just like a strong wind, she could push any person in any direction she wanted, given the right motivation.

I, on the other hand, felt my name had been chosen incorrectly. I watched silent and brooding every time the rains came and every time I felt saddened and confused. The rain made the village stop: no one could work, no one could play. It left everything cold and muddy. Is that what the elders had expected from me? Sluggishness and frigidity? Oh, how I wished to be named for something lively, such as Makani’s playful wind, or something beautiful, such as Kalani’s painted sky!

One day, when the sky was hazy and the wind was forceful and rain’s smell tainted the air in warning of a storm, I sat by the window of our hale. The grass hut we lived in protected us from the rain and wind, but not from the daunting sound of thunder. My mother was resting, her eyes closed. Thunder rumbled and I ran to her side, my tears spilling over with the first drops of rain. 

“Mama! Why did the elders name me after this awful thing!” My words came out more like an exclamation of grief than a question.

My mother opened her eyes and stared at me in hazy confusion. “What do you mean, Noelani?”

“The rain. It is an awful thing to be named for!”

To my surprise, Mama smiled. She sat up and wrapped me in her arms. She leaned her head against mine and the wispy ends of her chocolate-colored hair brushed against my neck and shoulders. “My dear,” she said, “the rain is not what you think it to be. The rain is a blessing. It means there is still too much warmth in the ground for there to be snow in the village. Rain confines the snow to the high places.”

I remember looking at my mother in awe. What a thought! My namesake was good for the village? Could she possibly be right?

The idea of being named for something warm felt so foreign to me. Girls were named for cold things, like winter. And yet . . . it felt right. Something in me had always felt more tethered to the spring than to the winter. I felt much more alive in April than I did in December. Maybe that’s why the elders had named me for rain. Maybe they had understood after all.

---

Originally published at https://tmn.truman.edu/blog/uncategorized/noelanis-story-whats-in-a-name/