Believe it or not, I’m published!

No, not by Warren Books or anything. Just in the county I work for. I attended a nine day Writing Institute, and much to my surprise I was told that I had to write and publish a story by the end of the nine days.

This was extremely painful and difficult for me. Every day we would have lessons about looking for “seeds” to write about. Most of these seeds stemmed from where we are from, memories that we have, firsts and lasts. One day I began writing about my grandfather who recently passed, and I began crying like a baby in front of 28 strangers. Talk about embarrassing!

After hearing a story about someone’s first kiss, I came up with an idea. The first time I ate okra. I am pasting it below. Critics be gentle. This is my first short story. Although, with the right illustrations, it could be turned into a pretty cute children’s book…

My First Fried Okra

I sat at the table with my plate almost all the way cleared off. My fried chicken had been devoured, my gravy wiped clean with lots of help from my biscuit, and my fresh green beans had been eaten and rather enjoyed. But one thing remained: my okra. Even though it had been fried, I could not bring myself to eat it.
So many times before, I had successfully found ways to hide my least desired delicatessens. Often they were wadded up in my napkins. Occasionally I “dropped” them into my drink. Last time I tried this one, I was forced to drink it anyways, and I couldn’t be certain enough time had passed for my parents to have forgotten. On the rarest of occasions, I would hide food in my hands or clothing, ask to be excused to the restroom, and SWOOSH! it was taken care of. This tactic had yet to be discovered, and I saved it for sandwiches covered in mayo. It wasn’t worth risking.

Suddenly I had an idea. I’ll just act as if everything is normal!

“I’m done,” I casually mention as I stand to dismiss myself.

“Not so fast young lady,” my father came back. “You haven’t cleared your plate.”

“Shoot,” I thought to myself! “But I don’t like okra,” I whined.

“You haven’t even tried it,” my father pointed out.

I had to think about this one. Surely my father was wrong. I planted the okra. I kept the weeds from growing around it, and this was no easy task considering every mosquito within a ten mile radius loved to feast on my white scrawny legs. I cut off the scratchy and prickly stalks being careful not to cut myself with my pocket knife. But had I ever actually eaten it? I couldn’t remember a time that I had, but how could anything so aggravating to grow taste worth a flip?

I glanced around. My parents’ eyes were on me. There was no chance of slipping my okra into anything… except my mouth! Disappointed and aggravated that I had been outsmarted, I figured I could at least draw out and dramatize the event. I puckered my lips, rolled my eyes, and tilted my nose up while pinching it. This technique worked well with green peas, so I figured it was worth repeating. Much to my dismay, the texture of the cornmeal batter made the swoop and swallow-whole method extremely difficult. I had no choice but to chew…
Slowly I brought my teeth down upon the small slice in my mouth. Instantly my tongue tasted the grainy, salted layer. As I continued to bite down, I discovered an unexpected texture. Even though the outside layer was rather tough, the inside layer was slimy and seedy. Just as I was about to gag and spit, I noticed something.

“This isn’t like anything else we’ve ever tried before,” my taste buds shouted. They encouraged me to keep going.

Slowly, I reached for another bite. I chewed a little faster this time, and to my surprise, I kind of liked what I tasted. I continued to proceed, and each bite ended more quickly than the last. Before I realized it, I had finished what was on my plate. While choosing to ignore the eye-rolling, I casually reached for seconds.

My latest discovery…

One of my favorite past times ever is shopping at yard sales and flea markets. It stems from warm childhood memories of Saturday mornings with my dad. Sometimes we would go to the flea market and haggle over anything, eat boiled peanuts until our tummies ached, and drink cold, glass-bottled Coca-Cola. Other times, we would ride through the country for hours with no real purpose in mind, looking at the beautiful Georgia hills and mountains, and stop at every yard sale we stumbled upon.

Anytime I am able to do either, I’m taken over by strong feelings of nostalgia. As an adult, most of my favorite pieces of furniture, books, or other items are not pieces I spent lots of money on. They are odd items I’ve picked up here and there: an unheard of flea market I happened to stumble upon while out driving, or an awesome yard sale. There is always a memory connected to how I found the item and the bargaining involved to get an awesome deal, thanks to the haggling and bargain-hunting skills I inherited from my dad.

Unfortunately, a jam-packed schedule prevents me from finding the time to take advantage of this kind of shopping as often as I would like. It’s not easy finding such rare finds. It requires time, patience, and luck.

Fortunately, I’ve discovered something new:Craig’s List! It’s the most awesome thing. It’s a huge online yard sale! You can find anything, and for cheap. Usually pictures are posted, and you can do all the haggling through email instead of face to face, which allows me to be more ruthless because I’m not worried about insulting anyone. If I don’t like the price I’m given then I don’t have to even look at it. It’s the best thing ever! I can go to yard sales and flea markets whenever I want, right from the comfort of my own home. So far I’ve gotten a futon frame someone originally purchased from Ikea (which was much needed because my students destroyed mine), a basketball goal for my son’s Christmas present, and a television stand for Chris’s house.

If you’ve never heard of it, or if you’re looking to buy anything new or used and want a good deal, check out the website. www.craigslist.com

You might just be as surprised and excited as me. Happy shopping!!

Punishment: Justified or Not? (Continued…)

What is the toughest punishment you ever received as a child (or an adult)? Do you remember a certain punishment because of its nature or because you felt it was unjustified? What is the harshest punishment you’ve ever rendered out? These were the questions I asked earlier this week.

I have taken some time to reflect on these questions, and I have came up with the following answers:

The harshest punishment I ever received as a child was not a spanking or scolding. It was a simple action that spoke volumes. When I was in middle school (seventh grade to be exact), I would get up every morning at 5:30 in the morning so I could spend at least an hour curling my hair. It would take me forever to get ready, and then off my merry own way I’d go. One afternoon I came home and discovered that my curling iron was missing. After an exhaustive search, I asked my stepmother if she had seen it. Her answer was simply, yes. She had seen it, and it was plugged up after I had left for the day. I had forgotten to turn it off one too many times, so she took it (and all my hair products) away for a week. I was humiliated! I went to school the next day in tears. I remember my best friend taking me to the bathroom with a bottle of hairspray and fixing my hair to the best of her ability while the tears streamed down my face. What I remember most was the feeling of my pride being stripped and being slowly restored through the love my friend showed me.

Did I feel the punishment was justified? At the time, absolutely not. I remember how embarrassed and self conscious I felt. I thought the world would come to an end (it didn’t) and that no one would want to be seen with me looking so homely. How do I feel about the punishment now? I think it was more justifiable than I ever realized as a teenager. To this day, I make it a point to unplug heated hair devices before ever leaving the house. I learned a lesson, a life-long one at that. Isn’t that the reason we punish someone? To teach them a lesson so that the mistake isn’t repeated?

I’ve come home before to find the iron plugged in and on after being gone for extended periods of time because Maddie forgot to unplug it. When I see this, I become angry, and I’m tempted to make her go to school in wrinkled clothes for a month. What stops me? The memory of how I felt that week. The love for my daughter is so deep that I can’t imagine enforcing anything on her that could cause her to feel the way I did. But, am I doing her any favors by showing her this mercy? Am I being too lenient?

I think that the fair thing to do is show her what she did wrong and issue a warning. “Maddie, you left the iron on all weekend long, and we’re lucky it didn’t catch the house on fire. If this ever happens again, you will not be allowed to iron your clothes for a month.” Why do I do this? At the time, I felt that my punishment was unjustified because it was so unexpected. No warnings had been issued, except me being told I had left the curling iron plugged in and not to do it again. Why this was an issue was never made clear to me, much less what would happen to me if it ever happened again. I know that it is impossible for discipline to always follow a warning, but it seems more fair when it does.

This leads me to the third question I’ve been pondering. What is the harshest punishment I’ve ever handed out as a parent? The sentence is still being carried out. Take a look for yourself.

Yes. That is a monkey leash on my nine year old’s back. A repeated habit of willingly disobeying boundaries and wandering off without another person’s knowledge has resulted in him being harnessed and escorted everywhere he goes…for a week. The only time he is to remove it is when he’s in class, when he bathes, and when he goes to bed. Those are the only exceptions. Failure to comply results in another day being added. My hopes are that the lesson is learned and that he thinks twice before “monkeying around” in the future.

“The Tweenager Years”

Maddie will be 12 this Sunday. For some reason, this has felt like a milestone. She will celebrate the last of her “tweenager” years.

In an attempt to understand the “New Maddie” that’s been developing the last year or so, I’ve tried to remember back to when I was her age. Oddly enough, I don’t even remember turning 12. The only way I can remember being her age is by reflecting to the sixth grade and seventh grades. What thoughts did I have then? Who were my friends? Where did my interests lie?

Basically, my memories sum up to this: Friends were a big thing to me. The more hip they were, the better. Although I don’t know where any of them live now or what they do for a living, at the time my world revolved around them.

We didn’t have razor phones, ipods, Hollister hoodies, Abercrombie jeans, or Nike Shox, but there were Swatch watches, Coca-Cola shirts, Guess blue jeans, and Converse high-tops. Countless morning bus rides were spent oooohing and aaaahing over each other’s new items.

And of course there were boys. We were just beginning to notice that the male species wasn’t created just for aggravating the snot out of us. We had crushes on many, and the comments we would make about them make me blush as an adult. We were beginning to experiment with sexual jargon and profanity even though the meanings were unclear.

As I monitor my daughter’s internet usage and try my best to stay connected with what’s going on in her life, things are really not that much different. We didn’t have computers and the internet, so we were a bit more ”sheltered” to the outside world, but the dangers were still out there. Kids were having sex and getting in trouble for things like vandalism and drug usage. These are not new issues. Perhaps they’re just more publicized today.

So, the next time you’re tempted to say, “When I was a kid, we didn’t…”, stop and think about it. Are you for certain that things really were all that different? Or is it just our memory that’s changed?