I am a woman of great enthusiasm, slightly above-normal persuasive powers, but minimal forethought.The wearing of post earrings means being continuously poked in the neck. Every time you hold a phone to your ear, every time you lay on your side, that insidious little metal shiv shanks you.
My delicate, sensitive nature precludes me from wearing such jab-happy jewelry. I now only wear the tiniest hoops they make; literally, they’re made for babies. 
A normal human might ponder such pain-inducing side effects well before the piercing and rethink the whole enterprise.
But as I said, thinking before doing is neither skill nor talent that I possess.
Pestering however, so is.
When I graduated from kindergarten, I also received a doctorate—in beleaguering. Give me a cause, and I could nag all four guys at Mount Rushmore into submission.
In the first grade, I was obsessed with getting holes poked through my tender little earlobes into which I planned to hang sparkly bits of metal and/or stone. My poor mother bore the brunt of this unbridled obsession. I brought it up and argued in its favor multiple times a day.
Finally, on the very last day of school that year, Mom said yes. A man was coming from away to our local Belk Tyler’s for ear piercing.
Even though my mother said she’d take me, I knew I had to be on best behavior until those holes were actually in my ears or the opportunity could be snatched away. So, all day, I did my very best imitation of a meek, obedient child.
When we got to Belk’s, there was the piercer, a dapper, charming man in the fanciest suit I’d ever seen in Elizabeth City.
Mom had told me they would probably spray my ears with something that would numb them, and then slip the earrings in—it would be quick and painless.
So, imagine my surprise when he wiped my lobe with some alcohol, put an actual cork, like from a Gunsmoke whiskey bottle, behind my ear, and stabbed me with the sharpened post of an earring.
My eyes and mouth were three perfect O’s in my face. I wanted to cry and run away, but I also wanted both of my ears pierced, so I remained silent.
My mother, however, did not.
The first ear was assaulted so quickly she hadn’t registered what happened until afterward. Completely out of character and against everything I’d been taught by her since birth, my mother proceeded to make a scene in Belk Tyler’s.
“What is wrong with you? How could you do that? Take your hands off my daughter and get away from her!”
Meanwhile, I was paralyzed from pain and the shock of my mother raising her voice in public.
The swank disappeared from the man as he spun around to face her and growled, “So, whaddya want lady? You want the kid to walk around with one ear pierced? ‘Cause I don’t care, you already paid.”
At that point, Mom was shocked into silence along with me. Taking her stillness for acquiescence, he finished the job. Struck dumb, we left Belk’s and went home without a word.
When you get your ears pierced, you must leave the original earrings in for six weeks. Wearing those sharpened golden daggers and being continuously stabbed by them bred a loathing for post earrings deep inside my soul.
Hence, the baby hoops.
My mom?
It was like a logjam broke that day. My mother was never again hesitant to speak her mind in public. Which is very honest and extremely healthy. But sometimes, for her daughter, a bit less than comfortable.
Thanks for your time.
The horse originally belonged to Hank Hitch, the angriest kid I have ever, ever known. If 1 is totally emotionless, and 10 is running around, shrieking, and tearing your hair out in rage, Hank got out of bed every morning at about an 8.5.
He and his family lived in Puerto Rico when we did, on the same base. His dad ran the base exchange; it’s a military general store. Everything from perfume to bicycles. When they moved there, they joined the on-base ranch, Lazy R, and got a couple of horses for the kids.
Rufus was a run of the mill buckskin. That’s a horse with a blond-ish body and a black mane. The thing was, though, Rufus was kind of a jerk..jpg?ver=2017-06-21-123040-550)
One morning our little base, our Mayberry with palm trees woke to an exciting scandal.
Homer had bought Bud and me a couple of sodas, so Mom decided, as a joke, to pay back the $1 by buying him a raffle ticket for Rufus.
A couple of times a year local youth would come to Lazy R in the middle of the night and take seven or eight horses. It was the equine equivalent of a joy ride.
In a day or so, a message would come that our horses had been found safe, and for a small finder’s fee they would be returned. The fee was a ten spot, six-pack, or a carton of smokes (remember, this was the seventies). It was a game, the horses were never harmed, and everybody involved kind of enjoyed it. A little innocent skullduggery to break up the day.
It was unprecedented. But ranch members knew the temperament of the beast, and completely understood his choice.
Thanks for your time.
It will come as no surprise to a student of the human mind, or frankly, anybody with a lick of sense, my view of Christmas was informed by the first one I remember.
That earliest Christmas memory, when I was five or six, was spent on the couch. I had pneumonia, and just enough energy to observe. My holiday was whatever went on around me. I had a Disney Christmas anthology book and many seasonal Little Golden Books, including my favorite, “The Night Before Christmas”.
I watched all the Rankin/Bass shows of Santa, Frosty, Rudolph, and the Island of Misfit Toys. And of course, Charlie Brown’s Christmas. The Peanuts gave me an appreciation for jazz, in the form of the Vince Guaraldi Trio, and the beautiful, majestic Shakespearian language of the King James version of the nativity.
In 1973 I was nine, and it was all about my brother Homer’s wedding. He was marrying Kelly, a very sweet young woman. Mom told me she’d sew my outfit for the wedding and it could be whatever I wanted. She probably regretted that promise when she found herself stitching together a purple velvet skirt and vest, with a coordinating lavender frilly-fronted shirt.
Mom was panicked because the order she’d placed in mid-September for my gifts hadn’t yet arrived. My little brother’s presents had been received and wrapped weeks ago. I knew nothing of this drama.
Until my dad asked me to go into the kitchen and fetch him a cup of coffee. I was more than a little grumpy. C’mon, I had just opened my gifts!
Later I proudly wheeled it outside for a ride. Along with twenty or thirty other kids. It seems the exchange had received a huge shipment of one particular model of cantaloupe-hued 10-speeds. That day a horde of tween Mongols mounted on tangerine bicycles was released upon the streets. We traveled in packs as wobbly as new-born colts on our brand-new, slightly too-big bikes.
But it was that 1960s holiday convalescence on the sofa which deeply and irrevocably set a reindeer on rooftop, joyfully over-decorated, scary fruitcake, white Christmas in my heart.
It made my expectations high, but my standards low. In my head is a Currier and Ives print set to the dulcet tones of Johnny Mathis. But to make me think, “Best Christmas ever!”, all I need is the sound of bells, a glimpse of ribbon and tinsel, a few thousand Christmas carols on a playlist, and the pure crystalline happiness when passersby smile back.
The Kid calls this annual lunacy my Chistma-thusiasm.
Effusive adjective (as defined by Google)
I looked forward all week to sitting in front of the TV watching Saturday morning cartoons and eating Lucky Charms with my brother Homer. I loved the Sundays when I’d go along with him on his paper route and then we’d hit Hardees. We left before sunup, it was so early Elizabeth City was deserted and belonged only to us. Eating a Hardees roast beef sandwich at 8AM feels to an eight-year-old like delicious rule-breaking. Sometimes we’d even go fishing after eating.
In elementary school in Puerto Rico, there was an annual event that I eagerly anticipated, but which my parents dreaded and feared—the arrival of the Scholastic book catalog. We’d get the brochure early for browsing and for our parents to write a check. For me, it was the catalyst to week-long negotiations with my own parental check writers. I always got less than I wanted, and they always spent more than they’d planned.
In junior high in San Diego, I loved our twice-yearly trips to Disneyland. And this Greek diner, Troy’s near our house. It’s where I had my first patty melt; cheesy, grilled ambrosia, and liver; a horrible, horrible practical joke played on my taste buds.
I loved that library. It was small, quiet, and had a great young adult section. But best of all, the library had one of my very favorite things. I mean it’s up there with potato salad and new boots. It’s a nook. A little semi-private corner somewhere, preferably a padded window seat, made for curling up, reading and daydreaming. 
I think my personality was pretty much finished cooking by junior high. Looking over my list, all that stuff still makes me happy—even Lucky Charms, and the clumsy Sesame Street pastry chef. Although, now I’d add Petey and The Kid, and walking in the woods with my dog, oh, and mowing the lawn, and lattes, and the State Fair, and Costco, and my Hunter wellies, and new sweats, and…well, you can probably sense my enthusiasm.
Thanks for your time.
Dad spent years saving souls off the graveyard of the Atlantic. Every time a foolhardy captain made the decision to leave harbor during bad weather like hurricanes and nor’ easters and ran into trouble, the Coast Guard, and my father, was there to jump in the ocean and save their reckless, irresponsible kiesters.
The state of being lost brings us to this week’s tale.
One afternoon we were playing with her Barbies and decided it was time for the dolls to go to sleep. So we put our heads down too and closed our eyes for a minute to while our ten-inch friends slept.
As I was walking down the street, I ran into Homer. He was furious. Evidently, we had been asleep for quite a while, and every adult in the neighborhood was searching for us. I told him where I’d been, and what had happened.
And, instead of all the neighborhood moms looking for him and his buddies, it was the US Army.
The Kid likes to project a certain image. Being raised in the city has convinced the child of possessing colossal amounts of “street cred” accumulated from years of living on the mean streets.
Don’t get me wrong; there’s a certain amount of the aforementioned street cred. My spawn is afraid to go nowhere and is in no way gullible or a soft touch.
I have seen this “misanthrope” walk out of restaurant carrying takeout, only to give it away to someone who needs it. I also have seen, on more than one occasion, the effort to make things right when we’re in an establishment and another customer is being an arrogant butthead. Whether it’s doubling the tip or giving the put-upon employee an opportunity to vent, The Kid tries to make it better.
“Do you have somebody that loves you?”
So, that’s The Kid—a stealth altruist.
If, Gentle Reader, you’ve read more than a few of these published psychological exsanguinations of mine, then you probably wouldn’t be very surprised to discover that most of what I think is either spontaneously spoken to all present or written down for public consumption.
This means that I’m constantly striking up conversations with strangers. And through this I meet awesome people every single day.
What my kind, but uber-reticent child resolved to do is when observing something that deserves praise, gives it. If speaking up can brighten someone’s day, why stay silent?
And, inspired by my bambino, I’ve worked hard to overcome my innate bashfulness and attempt sharing as well.
Every base where my Dad was stationed was on the water. I’ve lived on both coasts, the Gulf of Mexico, the Caribbean, the beautiful Pasquotank river, and Lake Michigan.
My watery tale has a heartbreaking ending.
Thanks for your time.
I’m a fan of Walgreens because of two things.
It’s a treasure hunt under florescent lights. The other day when I was in they had fancy little Batman and Superman 8 GB flash drives. Each was nine dollars and the size of a hushpuppy.
The “equipment” turned out to be a 5 GB hard drive. That’s almost 50% less capacity than the superhero drives at Walgreens.
I, and every kid I knew rode in the back seat of a car that didn’t even have seat belts, let alone anchored, padded, car seats made of space age polymers. We rattled around station wagons like BB’s in a Pringles can. My folks had a VW bug, and when the car was filled with riders, they’d fold me into the little cubby behind the back seat—right above the engine. I often rode in the same spot in our next car, a pinto; which was eventually recalled due to fiery explosions that occurred when the rear bumper was tapped.
Pill box hats, 15 cent Cokes, and Captain Kangaroo have all gone away, and that’s a crying shame. But some disappearances are nothing but good.
Thanks for your time.
bull city mom 