How can 10 sentences be so powerful and long remembered, yet for a 10 year old be the beginning of what most people fear...public speaking? To me, there was nothing grand and glorious about it. In fact, The Gettysburg Address lives on in infinite anguish inside my head.
It was 5th grade at Vine Street Elementary School (1964) and I was assigned to memorize The Gettysburg Address with the purpose of standing in front of the whole school and saying it (from memory). I wasn't allowed to have a cheat sheet. Since I have no clear recollection of that day, I'm assuming it wasn't one of my most stellar moments in life, but rather one that festers for a long time and comes to a head in some quirky, twisted way.
When I think back, I get flashes of standing there with my skinny legs shaking as I stood tall and scared shitless next to the America flag as I looked out at the whole student body staring at me. Damn you, President Lincoln! And Damn you, Mrs. Shitforbrains! Thank you for reinforcing all my negative feelings about being an awkward, unattractive beanpole who was mistaken much too often as being a boy. Oh yeah! Me and Abe have it going on, bitches! Eat your hearts out!
Did I vomit? No! Did I wet myself? No! I suppose I did what I was assigned to do, but as I type this post I have a painful knot in the pit of my gut making me feel uncomfortable and nauseous. With that thought, I leave you with the words of our beloved 16th president.
Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
Before I start today's gobbledygook, if you listen very carefully, in the far distance you can hear Morticia Addams seductively whisper, "Denouement."
Gomez Addams, her husband responds, "Oh that's French!" as he slowly slides up Morticia's arm with passionate kisses.
The dog never ate my homework, but I think the Grinch stole my denouement a time or two. You may be wondering why he stole it, when he stole it and how he stole it. Let me begin by revealing that it always seems to happen when I'm writing what I think is the perfect post.
The action builds as the climax grows near. My anecdote reaches a fever pitch and then ZAP...nothing! My thought process goes haywire and the next thing I know I'm left without any strings to tie my story together. It's a frustrating predicament to say the least.
What I need to do to resolve the issue is to write a post and have several denouements. Surely, The Grinch couldn't steal all of them. When my children were young they always loved choose your own adventure books, so I thought it might be fun to have a choose your own denouement post. I'll start working on it just as soon as The Grinch returns with my brain.
Until then, let me share the why, when and how. First, why? That's simple! The Grinch loves to steal things...especially meaningful things like good endings. When? He cleverly sits back waiting for me to become momentarily distracted (toothache, phone call, text message, Facebook notification, bathroom break, sleep, etc.) How? The Grinch has this amazing superpower ability of being able to cause extended brain farts. Some call it writer's block, but in reality, it's The Grinch causing raucous short circuits everywhere.
We all know no one slams The Grinch better than good old Dr. Seuss:
You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch
You really are a heel
You're as cuddly as a cactus
You're as charming as an eel, Mr. Grinch
You're a bad banana with a greasy black peel
You're a monster, Mr. Grinch
Your heart's an empty hole
Your brain is full of spiders
You've got garlic in your soul, Mr. Grinch
I wouldn't touch you with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole
You're a foul one, Mr. Grinch
You have termites in your smile
You have all the tender sweetness
Of a seasick crocodile, Mr. Grinch
Given the choice between the two of you
I'd take the seasick crocodile
You're a rotter, Mr. Grinch
You're the king of sinful sots
Your heart's a dead tomato splotched
With moldy purple spots, Mr. Grinch
You're a three decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce
You nauseate me, Mr. Grinch
With a nauseous super 'naus'
You're a crooked dirty jockey
And you drive a crooked hoss, Mr. Grinch
Your soul is an appalling dump heap
Overflowing with the most disgraceful assortment of rubbish imaginable
Mangled up in tangled up knots
You're a foul one, Mr. Grinch
You're a nasty wasty skunk
Your heart is full of unwashed socks
Your soul is full of gunk, Mr. Grinch
The three words that best describe you are as follows, and I quote
'Stink, stank, stunk!'
Note to self: Find Grinch repellent and buy a case or two from Amazon and write Jnuts a thank you note.
Each summer during my mother's vacation from work my family would go stay at my Aunt Leah's camp on Eddington Pond. My family wasn't fortunate enough to own a camp so we had to rely on her generosity. As I got older, my brothers stopped going to camp and opted to stay home so they could have legendary parties. While the cat's away the mice will play and play my brothers did!
I hadn't reached the "I don't want to go to camp" stage yet. The highlight of my days at camp as I got older were the boys who had a camp next door. As with any 13 almost 14 year old girl, I immediately developed a crush on one of the boys named Jimmy. I've always had a run of bad luck with guys with that name, but I finally learnt my lesson after marrying one. This "ginger" Jimmy gave me my first real taste of what rejection felt like. How humiliating it is to feel like the ugly duckling and the odd man out. I hated feeling not good enough. I hated being me. Why couldn't I have been born a small, dainty beauty instead of a lanky-legged, awkward ugly duckling?
I've always had self-destructive tendencies as far back as I can remember. Although I've only halfheartedly tried the big "S" a few times, I now wonder what was my actual goal when I downed a whole bottle of aspirin chased by a massive amount of straight whisky. Did I have any idea that it could have killed me? More importantly, was I disappointed when it didn't kill me?
My mother brought a whole gallon of Canadian Club whisky to camp that summer and now I wonder why she did that. My mother wasn't a drinker. Did she have plans of entertaining after the children were tucked snugly into bed in the loft overlooking the pond? If so, I never saw any evidence of it. Were my actions a cry for help or was I just looking for the attention I obviously wasn't getting? So many questions in hindsight, but never any beforehand.
After going on a very animated teenage tirade that probably resembled the Tasmanian Devil going after Bugs Bunny and ingesting the only things available to me at the time...a bottle of aspirin and whisky, I remember continually vomiting until all I could do is dry heave and heave and heave. At that point the desire to die was more than just a fleeting impulse. I felt so bad, dying would have been a welcome relief. The next morning when asked about my "illness" I passed off what was wrong with me as being some type of intestinal ailment when in reality I probably should have been in the hospital.
It always amazed me how strong my mother's sense of denial was. She was a nurse and never "saw" all the classic signs I exhibited of a teenager in crisis. All my stunts went unnoticed until I eventually overdosed on barbiturates at school less than two years later and was rushed to the ER. Since she worked at that hospital, it was out of the question for me to try to cover up that one. Oops! I got too high and forgot how many pills I had taken! Actually, that was the truth. In those days, I ate pills like candy. If 3 were good, 6 or more were spectacular. Who knew how many drugs I had in my system at any given time? Like an alcoholic, one could never be too high unless it resulted in being unconscious or comatose. Oh, what a wonderful gene pool from which I come!
My ears rang so loudly for the better part of a week that I could hardly hear anything, but the ringing. I felt like I had a severe case of the flu. I hurt all over and I couldn't keep anything in my stomach for several days. My best friend, Margie witnessed my descent into a dark, dangerous place. She had accompanied me to camp that summer and fretted over me. When I look back, I wonder how close she came to ratting me out. It must have been difficult for her to watch me be in so much pain and to self-destruct without saying a word. How frightened must she have been for my well-being and ultimate survival. (I'm sorry for doing that to you, Margie! I'm sorry for doing that to myself.)
Now, I look back and wonder where my mother was during all my brouhahas and why she had left Margie and I unattended that evening out in the boondocks in a place without a phone. The unattended theme carried through the next summer as well. By that time, I had a boyfriend (BTW, his name was not Jimmy) and that boyfriend was allowed to come stay at camp with me. Oh, what a summer that was! Skinny-dipping, frolicking in the summer sun and lazy nights and early mornings spent listening to the loons echo their cry across the pond while wrapped in each other's arms. For awhile, I got the attention I needed and wanted and then poof! It was gone and so was I. I stayed "gone" for quite a long time until I eventually allowed myself to start healing, but to this day, just a faint aroma of whisky still makes me nauseous.
ON THIS DAY IN HISTORY:
The day - May 3rd
The year - 1937
Margaret Mitchell wins Pulitzer Prize for "Gone With the Wind"
ON THIS DAY IN MILDRED'S LIFE:
The day - May 3rd
The year - 2018
Mildred threatens to pull the damn demon tooth herself like she has with all the others in the past. I bet you didn't know Mildred is such a hardcore masochist and is well on her way to becoming toothless too!
Note to self: Maybe a lobotomy will work better!
I wish this meme had been tattooed/carved/stenciled on my body somewhere I could have seen it as a constant reminder when I was young and foolish. Oh the things I did (that we all do at times) in the name of love when it's not really love at all. I've been single for 20 years now and I'm far better by myself than I ever was with all the wrong people who I allowed to trample my heart and take up space in my life. As soon as I regained my self-respect and learned to love me, I no longer felt that constant craving to be loved occupied by someone else. In my younger years, I truly felt like a puppy in search of a yummy.
