My Real Life

We hit the beach for a week with my parents this week and it was so much fun.

Here are a few scenes from our week:

The movie, Still Alice chronicles a relatively young woman and her descent into Alzheimer’s disease.

I haven’t seen it, as watching my Grandfather battle the disease was hard enough.

I don’t want to watch someone else go through it.

So, I title this post, with a bit of tongue in cheek, a bit of humor, but a bit of real fear, as well.

I know my father worries that he will develop the disease, as his father did.

But, I worry, too.

And not just because I seem to have inherited every health issue trait that my parents had to share with me (diabetes, asthma, migraines, legal blindness in one eye) but because I’m forgetful.

I don’t mean, like, run-of-the-mill, “Oh, I lost my keys” forgetful, although I do lose mine at least once a day.

I mean, like, I used to be the collective memory of Kim, Erin, Michaela, and I, able to recall things that had long ago fallen out of their brains, and now I find myself struggling to find words and saying things like “You know…the thing you use to roll around on the carpet to pick up crap,” when I can’t remember the word “vacuum.”

I thought about writing this blog post about four months ago.

I never got around to it.

Wanna guess why?

I forgot.

I actually started a little notebook where I was writing down the things I forgot.

Here’s how far I got:

Day One:

• thought I forgot my keys in Kim’s apartment in the city…checked my bag three times, because I kept forgetting that I had already checked.
• left my portable charger plugged into the wall at Kim’s apartment, despite saying aloud “Don’t forget the portable charger” four times.
• why I walked into the family room at home (this one happens multiple times a day)
• my credit card number, which I have had memorized for twelve years…I went to type it into a website for payment and drew a complete blank

Day Two:

• why I had opened up a blank email screen – couldn’t remember who I was going to email or why
• to change the laundry from the washer to the dryer, despite the fact that if I didn’t dry those clothes, I’d have nothing to wear
• to close the garage door
• that I had already eaten dinner

Day Three:

• how to get home from our doctor’s office…the office she has had for the past ten years
• to buy sunblock, despite that fact that is the reason I went to the store

On the list, each of those days, I could have written “To write what I’ve forgotten in this notebook” because I had many more things that I forgot to write down.

And then, I eventually just forgot the notebook.

And this post.

People tell me it’s just a normal side-effect of aging.

That it’s because I’ve got so much freaking nonsense in my brain at any given time, it takes the neurons a little longer to fire and get to where they need to be to retrieve the info I need at that exact moment.

That it’s “Mom-Brain.”

And maybe they are right.

But when Monkey Boy runs in the house and says “I found it!” with my Dad’s cell phone in hand, for which we have been searching for over an hour, with me actually calling three different stores to see if anyone found it,  because I completely forgot that I had tucked it into the back pocket of the passenger car seat so we didn’t have to take it into the store with us, it feels a little scary.

We were at the beach, on vacation, and as it happens every year, there was a rainy day, and we took the kids to the movies.

Well, some of the kids.

Monkey in the Middle and Tiny didn’t want to come, so we just took numbers 1 and 3.

There were some amazing previews, and Baby Monkey kept saying “Ugh, when will it start? I just LOVE the Fantastic Four!”

And then it started and he was literally shaking with excitement.

When it was over, he said “That was the best movie I’ve ever seen.”

For me…

Eh.

I mean, it’s a movie, and what’s not to love about a movie, but it didn’t wow me.

In fact, I didn’t like it as much as I liked the one that they made a few years ago.

I didn’t feel like the characters were as likable or as sympathetic.

Good action, sure, and Dr. Doom was pretty cool, but overall, not so great.

Maybe it’s also because I really wanted to see “Pixels” and got outvoted.

But that would mean that I’m petty and bitter and we all know that’s not true.

Right?

Like Baby Monkey, I am a huge fan of the super hero genre, and there aren’t many movies in the genre that I don’t like.

Heck…I even enjoyed “Daredevil.”

But this one…

You know how, sometimes, you have an author, and he/she is a great author, and you love his/her books.

But then they become a little too prolific, and you find the latest books to be not as good as the earlier ones, and you realize it’s because they are just writing books for money and not for the story any more?

Yeah, this was like that.

I mean, who remakes a movie that just came out 10 years ago?

So, to sum it up, save your money, because, while the special effects are cool, the movie, overall, is a bore.

When I was a teenager, the youth group at my church traveled for one week, each summer, on a “mission trip.”

We would go to an impoverished area of the country and build homes, fix fences, serve meals, and do whatever needed to be done.

It was always an amazing experience, and along the way, we worked with youth from other churches around the country, some of whom we are all still in contact with, today.

Monkey Girl is now in that same youth group, and this summer, they were heading to Niagara Falls for their mission trip.

Coincidentally, Niagara Falls is the first mission trip that I went on as a teenager.

About a month or so ago, the youth leader sent out an email stating that one of their chaperones had backed out at the last minute and they needed someone to fill in.

Now, while I’m not the strongest in the religion department, my main goal in life is to help others as much as I possibly can, so after making sure Monkey Girl would be on board and that Real Man had no issues with me leaving him and the boys for a week, I signed up.

I’m sure when I say “Niagara Falls” the description “an impoverished part of the country” isn’t exactly what comes to mind.

However, the Niagara Falls of our imaginations and the Niagara Falls of daily life are two very different places.

The trip was coordinated through YouthWorks, which is an organization that finds areas that are in need, and then spends the summer coordinating church youth groups to come together and work within those communities.

The leaders of the Niagara Falls YouthWorks group, Miss K, Blake, Mia, Rachel, and Ryan were wonderful at placing each group (there were about four other church groups from around the country there at the same time we were) with members of the community who needed their help, and being a liaison between the community and the youth.

The entire trip was wonderful.

I was able to build relationships with some pretty amazing youth, and we had a fun time together as we took care of the community.

My group was tasked with three different assignments.

The first was at the Niagara Falls Meals on Wheels.

The Niagara Falls branch of Meals on Wheels is run out of a church, and while Lori, the coordinator is paid for her time, the cooks, the packers, the deliverers…are all volunteers.

While we didn’t cook the food, we made sandwiches, buttered bread, packaged food, and did a few deliveries.

It is amazing how efficient these women are, and how the whole operation runs like clockwork.

There were approximately 65 people that were receiving meals the week that we were there, and the coordinator has to be on top of who is in the hospital, who is out of town, who has what dietary needs, etc.

If one of our youth had a question about what a marking on a paper was, the volunteers were able to pull the information right out of their heads.

“Oh, Betty? She’s low sodium, no milk, only juice, only wheat bread.”

It costs a lot of money to run Meals on Wheels, and it is all done through donations.

It is more than just the purchasing of food, as well.

They need to pay bills, they need to purchase supplies, etc.

Our youth got to interact with some of the recipients, as they made deliveries, and all reported not realizing how hard it must be to rely on others for your meals, and how often, that would be the only human interaction these people would get all day.

It was a very humbling experience.

Our second assignment was serving food at The Magdalene Project.

Our youth worked as servers, waiters, and clean-up crew as they served a hot lunch to approximately 100 walk-ins.

While half of the youth prepared the meals, the other half and I drove to a hospital to take delivery of 15 mattresses they were donating to the project.

We drove them back to the church, and then carried them up a few flights of stairs to be stored in the attic until they were able to be put to use.

We also unloaded a garage full of bags of clothing donations and organized them for the church.

We had a great time serving the food, alongside the other volunteers, pretending we worked in a restaurant, making up names for the meals.

For example, if someone wanted an adult plate with everything, we called it a “biggie.”

If they didn’t want the string beans, we’d call for a “biggie – no strings attached.”

No thank you on the rice?

“Biggie with a Chinese detour.”

Five kiddie plates?

A “playground.”

We served with smiles, but again, the conversations in the cars focused on how does this happen in a town where so many people around the world come to visit?

One of the statistics we learned was that 20-30% of the houses in Niagara Falls are abandoned.

What was once a booming tourist town became a town where industry vacated in the 90’s, but the people stayed.

As kids grew up, they left town to search for something better, leaving their parents behind.

People who were middle aged when the businesses left lost their jobs, and then their homes, accounting for the abandoned houses.

The elderly whose children had moved far away were the Meals on Wheels recipients.

And the people who had lost their homes?

Where did they go?

Niagara Falls has terrifying winters, and the number of homeless people in a town that had more feet of snowfall than ever before, last year, is horrifying to consider.

Which brings us to our third assignment.

One of the abandoned buildings in town was a YMCA.

The YMCA association sold the building to the Niagara Gospel Rescue Mission for $1, and they are working hard to turn it into a homeless shelter.

Again, working through donations and volunteer labor.

Our task was to clean out some of the rooms in order to begin to prepare them to become living spaces.

Our kids scrubbed, swept, mopped, scraped, and worked up a sweat as they began the work of converting the abandoned space into one that would be welcoming and safe for those in need.

The youth really seemed to get it…that this would become someone’s home…a small room to us, but the entire world for someone who was, that night, sleeping on the street, and they put their all into the process.

Throughout the entire trip, the thing that stuck with me the most was the fact that all of the volunteers were people who, themselves, did not have much, and that it was the people with little who were giving all they had to the people with nothing.

We weren’t working with wealthy people.

These were people who were working other jobs, scraping together to make their own ends meet, but they saw that there were others out there who were struggling more than they were, and they were determined to make life better for these people.

I want to carry that with me and remember, always, that what I have is nothing if I can’t share it with those in need.

So, I share all of this with you, today, for a few reasons.

One, of course, is to share my experience.

The other, though, is to ask for your help.

If you have the desire and the means, pick one of these places, and help.

Send money.

Send supplies.

Send whatever you can.

Because people are in need, and who are we if we don’t reach out to those who need us?

YouthWorks

Niagara Gospel Rescue Mission

The Magdalene Project

Niagara Falls Meals on Wheels at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church

Main Contact: Lori Gantt

1920 18th Street Niagara Falls, NY 14303

Oh, my friends…

It’s been so long.

I have so many reasons why I’ve fallen out of the blogosphere.

One could be the job that I’ve had for the past two years.

Moving into administration at school completely ate up any and all free time that I had.

It also ate up quite a bit of my creativity, if I’m honest.

Another could be that, last year, Monkey Boy spilled orange juice on my MacBook.

While, amazingly, it continues to work fine, the keyboard functions without the use of the “l” and “.” keys.

I tend to use those keys a lot.

As do we all.

So, I have this external keyboard that we got for free, years ago, but the truth is, I like typing directly on my MacBook better.

This external keyboard leaves me…uninspired.

I don’t like the way it feels or sounds when I type.

It distracts me from my thoughts.

Does that sound like an excuse?

It does to me.

But, it’s true.

I have others, but when I have said them, out loud, over the past year or so, they may have given reason to my absence, but they haven’t filled the hole inside where writing used to live.

And so…

I’m back.

For real.

The problem is, I need to make sure that I stay back.

That I don’t let excuses get in the way, again.

So, my solution is this:

I read that it takes 21 days to form a habit.

This blog, this…mental space…used to be my number one habit, and I need to re-inspire myself and reform that habit.

So, for the next 21 days, I’m posting.

I can’t say that they will all be interesting.

But it will be something.

And, my hope is, that by the end of the 21 days, I’ll be back.

For good.

This coming year is bringing a lot of change in many ways, and there are a lot of things that I hope to work on.

Getting back to me…the real me…is one of them.

Selling a bunch of our crap and getting the keyboard on the MacBook fixed is another one, but that’s a garage sale for another day.

So, let’s consider this as day one, and I hope that you’ll come along for the ride.

I’m a fan of horror movies.

A big fan.

My quest, each year, is to find the scariest movie of the year.

I love to get goosebumps and be so scared I feel the need to hide my eyes or grab on to Real Man’s arm or let out a shriek.

I love being scared.

I always have loved being scared, and I’ve also always loved scaring others.

When I was a kid, my friends and I would sit in my closet with a Oujia board and try to scare the bejesus out of each other.

I watched Poltergeist again and again and again, despite the fact that every time I watched, it further solidified my eternal fear of clowns and dolls.

In college, one night, after watching “It,” my roommate, DeeDee, snuck into the bathroom, where I was showering (in the large communal shower…don’t ask…it was not the best way to make freshman feel comfortable), turned off the lights, and started throwing things at me in the dark, ala the “It” shower scene.

I was terrified, but still, had a good laugh, because I enjoy being terrified.

Cuz I’m weird like that.

——-

There have been other things that have happened that are more real, which makes them even stranger, in my life.

When I was 13, I was sound asleep in my bed, one night.

I wasn’t in the throes of a nightmare or anything like that, but I woke up, sat straight up in bed and began to sob like my heart was broken.

I honestly had never cried like that and couldn’t get control of myself.

About 30 seconds later, the phone rang.

It was my Grandfather calling from Ohio to tell us that my Grandmother, my best friend, my favorite person in the world, had passed away.

Every now and then, I’ll catch a whiff of my other Grandmother’s perfume in the air.

Except, I’m usually home when it happens and there’s no perfume in my house.

——-

So, I have a history with the strange and I’ve enjoyed it thoroughly.

Going back to movies, the things that have always scared me the most are the things that could really happen (dolls coming to life and scary clowns aside) and things that build up with a slow burn and leave you in suspense.

Gore isn’t scary to me.

It’s just gross.

But, build up that tension, or show me a scenario that could actually happen?

I’m in.

The original “Halloween?”

Suspenseful like crazy.

“The Strangers?”

There are crazy people out there, folks, and I believe that there are some who would absolutely do those things.

“The Ring?”

Would never happen, but the slow movements, the camera shots, the slow burn as you are figuring it all out, and that girl making her slow, jerky way out of that tv?

Probably the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.

——-

However, this post isn’t about scary movies.

It’s about scary life.

Or, at least, strange life.

Real Man and I moved into our current house in the summer of 2011.

The monkeys were 10, 7, 5, and brand spanking new, and we were thrilled with our new space.

I’ve written before about the phantom cat that would rub up against our legs while we would be standing at the sink or at the changing table, whose scent we could sniff out in the air, every now and then.

Creepy.

Over the years, on my blog’s Facebook page, I’ve written about how Tiny has mentioned seeing people in his room that weren’t there, but those incidents were few and far between, and although they gave us the heebie-jeebies, they were quickly forgotten.

Until recently.

——-

A few weeks ago, as we were getting ready for work and getting the kids ready for school, Real Man pulled me aside and said, “So, something really weird happened last night.”

“What?  Did I not steal the covers and you didn’t know what to do with all that warmth?” I replied.

“Ha, ha…no,” he said.  “I woke up in the middle of the night because I could hear water running.  I went down the hall, and the faucet in the bathroom was on, full blast.”

“Maybe one of the kids got up?” I asked, hopefully, because a few nights before, Baby Monkey had gotten up to wash his hands in the night (who does that?) but, apparently, this night, it wasn’t him.

“No.  I went into their rooms to check and they were all completely out.”

“Weird.”

A few nights later, I was in the kitchen with Tiny, making dinner.

We were doing our usual dinner-making dance party thing, and having a great time, when Tiny suddenly stopped.

“Mama, who is that man?”

I stopped dancing.

“What man?”

Tiny pointed to the laundry room, which was empty, and said “That man.”

I walked slowly to the laundry room and peered out the window, thinking maybe he saw a neighbor in their backyard, but there was no one outside.

Or inside.

“Baby, there is no one here.”

Tiny pointed again and said, “Yes he IS!  He’s right there!”

I jumped out of the laundry room, back into the kitchen, and said “I’m sorry, sweetie, I have no idea who he is.”

Tiny kept looking, gave a sweet smile and then said, “Okay, he’s going now.”

I closed the laundry room door and finished preparing dinner faster than I have ever cooked in my life, and all through the meal, sat feeling the hairs on the back of my neck up, because my chair has it’s back to the laundry room door.

The faucet could have been explained by a child getting up.

The man in the laundry room could have been explained by the active imagination of a four year old.

I could have forgotten it all.

Except, a few mornings later, Real Man was getting ready for work, and I was still in bed, sleeping, as I wasn’t working that day.

The kids were all downstairs, eating breakfast, and we were the only people upstairs.

We have all hardwood floors and no carpets, and the floors on the second floor creak and groan mercilessly when anyone, even Tiny walks on them.

There is no sneaking up on anyone in our house.

Well, if you are a human, that is.

So, our bedroom door was closed, and Real Man was bending over, putting on his shoes, and suddenly, a lone, unpopped popcorn kernel rolled under the door and across the room.

He immediately flung open the door, but, surprise, there was no one there.

He went downstairs and they were all still eating their breakfast in the kitchen.

Nothing amiss in their little worlds.

——-

So, what does this mean?

I don’t know.

What I do know is that it’s freaky, but it’s okay.

My whole life has been full of these strange occurrences, and I’m fine with it.

None of it ever hurt me or anyone I loved, so I’m good with whatever is going on.

Maybe it’s all coincidence, and that’s fine, too.

But, I’m happy letting my imagination run wild and envisioning all the things that it could be.

Until it happens again.

I’ve had this post rolling around in my head for quite awhile, but I haven’t been sure how I wanted to approach it.

Originally, my post was going to be called “Why I Love Church,” but a conversation with Matt, my colleague and office-mate, reminded me that I actually don’t love church, and that I have huge issues with organized religion, in general, and that …

You get the point.

So, Matt said, all that being true, there is something, though…something there that you do want to write about, so you need to get to the bottom of it.

I started sharing with him what I was thinking, and by the time I was done, he said, “I don’t think you want to write a post saying ‘Why I Love Church,’ but instead, want to write a post about that particular little church you’ve fallen in love with.

And he’s right.

______

I’ve spoken, several times, about the fact that my Dad is a Presbyterian minister.

He retired many years ago, and now does supply pastoring for ministers who are ill or on vacation.

This position takes him far and wide on Sunday mornings, and on occasion, he has asked me to come with him.

And preach.

This always makes those who know me well giggle a little, because I am not quiet about my issues with “the church” and my questions about faith.

So, the idea of me, up there, always takes people back.

But, let’s face it.  I grew up in church.

I probably spent more hours in church in my childhood than some people spend there in their entire adult lives.

There are two places where I am completely comfortable, outside of my home, and those places are schools and Presbyterian churches.

I’m also a pretty good public speaker.

So, my Dad uses my strengths and combines them with his, and we deliver some pretty good sermons, where he deals with the theology, and I share stories and anecdotes that illustrate the point.

A few weeks ago, for two weeks in a row, we worked at a little church, about 15 minutes away from my house, but tucked in, where I never would have known it existed.

It’s probably the smallest church I’ve ever been in.

It would fit inside the auxiliary chapel that is next to the main sanctuary at my church.

And I loved it, instantly.

It’s an old church, and I love old churches.

This one was established in 1758.

I have a friend who works at a church in Georgia and it’s modern and technical and I don’t know…to me, something gets lost in the modernity.

Real Man and the kids go to a local Catholic church and it’s all sharp edges and modern decorating and it just doesn’t work for me.

There’s something about the simplicity of an old church that rings true, to me.

“Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade” (which I like to call “Indiana Jones and his Dad”), is, by far, the best of the Indiana Jones trilogy.

Yes, I realize there was a fourth, but seriously?  “The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull” doesn’t really count.

I digress.

My favorite scene is when Indy finally makes it back into the room with the ancient knight and he has to choose the cup that is the Holy Grail.

When he sees it, he knows it instantly, for a simple, wooden carpenters cup.

A movie, yes, but that’s how I feel about church.

If Jesus came back to life today (we’re not talking end of days, here…just talking like I do when I say, “I wonder what George Washington would think of this if he came back”) I don’t think he’d be impressed with the massive, modern structures full of statues and nonsense.

The cathedrals of Europe?

Perhaps.

But, I think, son of God or not, he was the kind of person who would be completely at home in the simplest of surroundings.

I am a 100% believer that there is beauty in simplicity.

So, we go in, and we are greeted by the man that opens the church in the morning.

He and my Dad chat, while I organize my papers.

By the time the service started, there were about 30 people in the congregation, which pretty much filled the pews.

It was a normal church service, but there were pieces that just made me fall in love.

At one point in the service, a woman stood up and walked to the front and asked people to share their joys and concerns.

People randomly called out things that they, or people they knew, were struggling with, or good things that had happened in their lives.

A woman sat, near the windows, and wrote down what people shared, and that is what, I assume, was the list that showed up in the bulletin, each week.

After the scripture readings, but before the sermon, the bulletin called for the “Chancel Choir” to sing the anthem.

Six people got out of their pews, went to the front, stood and sang a lovely song.

They wore no robes, didn’t sit in a loft, were backed by a piano, and it was beautiful.

While we preached, I was able to make eye contact with most of the congregation, and I could see them listening…really listening.

Children got up to explain that they would be collecting for the Souper Bowl of Caring, which would donate the proceeds to a veteran’s organization, and I know now, that they were able to raise over $300 that morning.

When the service ended, people talked to each other in the aisles and talked about bringing meals to the people who were sick, and asked how they could help the others who were in need.

They laughed and shared and caught up with each other, and slowly moved toward the back of the church.

They shook my hand and thanked me for coming and were gracious and sweet and welcoming.

The next week was similar, as we went back, again, with a different sermon, and this week, the church was packed, as it was Scouting Sunday, and the Cub Scouts, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, Brownies, and Daisies all participated in the service.

That day, my Dad and I joined the congregation for the coffee hour, next door, and again, there were conversations and connections and community.

My Dad went back, again, last weekend, and I did not.

My gig with Dad was over, and I spent my Sunday morning at ShopRite with Tiny.

But, I gotta tell you… I missed it.

I missed being at that church, with those people.

Even not knowing a soul, it felt…good.

Don’t get me wrong.

I still love my church.

The church in which I grew up will always be home.

But there is just something about this place.

In the tiny narthex, there is a painting on the wall of the church, at Christmastime, and it just encapsulates how the place, and the people, makes me feel.

On my last Sunday with them, they came up to me and said, “Surely this won’t be your last Sunday with us.  You’ll come back again, right?”

And despite the fact that I don’t go to any church, pretty much at all, anymore, unless I’m preaching or one of the kids is doing something special there, I have a feeling that, yes, I’ll be back for a visit.

I’ve been thinking, a lot, lately about the power of music.

Music has the power to take you to another time, another place…with just a few notes drifting at you, through the air.

You hear those opening notes and you remember where you were, when it was, what was happening.

You see a picture in your mind, smell a phantom scent, and your body starts to move.

You laugh.

You cry.

You think, “What if?”

Couples don’t have “a book,” “a food,” “a piece of silverware.”

Couples have a song.

Real Man and I have a song.

Well, technically, we have two songs.

Our wedding song is “Crazy Love.”

We were sitting in the movie theater, seeing “When a Man Loves a Woman” and Andy Garcia was driving across a bridge, and the song began to play and we just looked at each other and we knew.

This was our song.

However, we have another song.

We danced to it at the Junior Prom and over the past 26 years, whenever we have heard the song, we look at each other and remember.

But songs aren’t all about romance.

Songs are happy memories.

The opening strains of The Romantics (Hmmm…they seem to be recurring players in my life) “Talking in Your Sleep” bring me to Judy’s basement where we are dancing, singing, and trying on her big sister’s awesome shoes.  I am happy, and life is good.

When I hear Alicia Bridges, “I Love the Nightlife,” which, admittedly, doesn’t happen to often, I am with Erin.  I am 8.  We are dancing in my bedroom to my 45.  I am happy, and life is good.

Howard Jones, “No One is to Blame” and I am 14 and I am with Michaela.  We are at her house.  We are at the beach.  We are playing with hair and makeup.  We are on a boat.  I am happy, and life is good.

When I hear those first notes of “Oh What a Night,” I am 18 and I am driving in the car…to anywhere, really…with Kim.  The windows are down, we are singing at the top of our lungs.  We are talking about boys and college.  We are laughing.  I am happy, and life is good.

—–

I was in the grocery store the other day, and I was singing along with “Party Lights” and an older gentlemen came up to me and said, “How on Earth do you know all the words to this song?  This is a song from MY youth, not yours!”

I smiled and said “My Dad.”

So, any song from the 50’s or 60’s and I’m in a car with my Dad and he’s turning up the volume as loud as it will go, yelling over the music “Amy…listen to this bass line!” or “Amy…can you believe the brass section on this one?”  He’s educating me, and although I doubt he had any idea what he was doing, he was setting basis for how I would feel about music for the rest of my life.

That it was to be played loud, to be really dissected, to be thoroughly and utterly enjoyed.

—–

Not all musical memories are happy ones.

We all have them.

I love Journey…always have, always will.

But, when I hear “Faithfully,” I’m taken back to my college boyfriend, and a relationship that started with such promise and turned sad and sour and felt more like a prison than a relationship, toward the end.

—–

One of my favorite things that I have taught, over the past 18 years, was a “Music with Meaning” unit in an 8th grade Social Studies enrichment class.

The students and I would discuss how music used to be the best way for people to communicate what they felt was wrong in society.  How, in a time when the media could be bought and it wasn’t proper to talk about certain things in certain circles, artists took to their music to make sure that the world knew exactly what was happening.

Music was a way of letting everyone know about social injustice.

I opened up by asking if anyone had ever heard of Reuben “Hurricane” Carter.

Very few had.

Those who had said, “Oh, yeah…he was a boxer who killed some people.”

So, I would cue up some Bob Dylan and let them hear the whole story.

I’d ask if, after hearing the whole story, that they thought the media was reporting all of the facts.  If they thought, in a world torn by segregation, racism, and hate, that people were really understanding what had been going on, and if they understood how music was the way to get the story out there.

We listened to “Revolution” by the Beatles and “For What It’s Worth” by Buffalo Springfield.

We listened and talked and then I asked them to find music, in their own lives, that told a story, that meant something, whether to the world or to them, personally.

And I had 100% participation.

Because music is a universal language.

Even if you don’t consider yourself “a music person,” there’s that one song…those few notes…that take you there.

So, what’s your song?

What song makes you remember?

What notes make you feel?

I haven’t done a Five Question Friday in awhile, so I thought, maybe, I’d give it a try today.

1. What is your favorite color?

So, it’s not particularly popular, but my favorite color is brown.

Probably because I love fall, and the different shades of brown and orange that come on the trees, as they turn, but whatever the reason, I’m a fan of brown.

I prefer unpainted and stained wood over painted wood, and will go for earth tones over pastels or bright colors any day.

I tried to dye my hair brown in high school, but it didn’t take.

So, my favorite color?

Brown.

2. If you could switch places with someone else for a day, who would that person be?

That’s a tough one.

My life is far from easy, but I’m not sure there is anyone I’d rather be.

Well, Jimmy Fallon.

Maybe I’d like to be Jimmy Fallon for a day, because I don’t think there is anyone in the world who enjoys their job more than he does.

I think that would be a good choice for just one day.

Or, maybe Kate Middleton.

Because I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have to cook or do laundry.

And she lives in a castle.

3. What is your very first memory?

I don’t know if it’s a real memory or something I made up over the years, but, the first memory that I think I have is from when I was 3 years old and we lived in upstate New York.

We had an exchange student, from Yugoslavia, who was staying with us, and I remember being in my bedroom, making a ton of noise, and Martina coming in and telling me I was driving her up the wall.

I got on my toy car and immediately began to pretend to drive it up the wall.

I thought it was hysterical.

She was not as amused.

After that, my next memory is accidentally punching my Dad in the nose on our porch in the house we lived in, once we moved to New Jersey.

He was holding me, and I was pretending to punch him, or something, and followed through and gave him a bloody nose.

He was not happy.

The one after that was when I cut all my hair off.

It was so long, I could sit on it, and I was watching Sesame Street, and they were making a nest for Big Bird.

I thought that made sense, so I looked at my long, yellow hair, that easily resembled straw, and got some scissors, and cut it off, above my ear, on one side of my head, only.

Immediately, I heard my mother coming downstairs to do laundry, realized what I had done and ran to hide.

I hid under the ironing board, because that is so concealing.

I was caught and oh, was I in trouble.

I was saved, only, because my Grandma was visiting from Ohio and she was a hairdresser.

So, my earliest memories…not my best moments.

4. If you had three wishes, what would they be? (And you can’t wish for more wishes. 

My first wish would be that my children would live long, happy, healthy lives, full of love and joy and laughter.

I just want my kids to be healthy and happy.

My second wish would be for the financial freedom to pursue our dreams, whatever “financial freedom” might mean for our family.

I don’t necessarily know what that would look like for us, but it’s definitely a dream for me.

Financial freedom would allow me to write, allow us to travel, allow us to do many things that we haven’t been able to do, thus far.

My third wish?

That’s tough.

I’d like to wish something for someone else, but I don’t really know who, or what, to wish for.

World peace?

Is it responsible to wish for something global without really understanding what the effect would be on the planet?

I don’t know.

So, I’d just hold on to that third wish, and really think about it.

And, if I know me, I’d wind up wasting it on a whim, in a moment of weakness, yelling something like, “I wish that for just one night I could make a dinner that no one would complain about!”

And that would be that.

5. Have you ever wanted a pony for your birthday? If not, what has been the craziest thing you’ve ever wanted for a birthday/other celebration present?

Funny question.

No, I’ve never wanted a pony for my birthday, but that’s only because I thought I was getting a pony for Christmas, one year.

I was an only child, and I was a sneaky, sneaky squirrel around the holidays.

Although I was able to locate, unwrap, and rewrap my presents by the time I was a teenager, when I was a little kid, I wasn’t quite as sneaky as I thought I was.

So, when I snuck downstairs to eavesdrop on my parents, one December evening, they staged a conversation.

“Do you think she knows?” my Mom stage-whispered.

“No, I don’t think she has a clue!” my Dad replied.

“How are you feeding it?” my Mom asked.

“I cut a hole in the basement ceiling and I push the hay up through the hole.”

“It’s such a good pony…it never nickers or makes any noise!”

Now, you should know that there was a large box in my living room, next to the tree.

In my 8 year old mind, that box was big enough for a pony, and so, I spent the remaining weeks, prior to Christmas, fully believing I was getting a pony.

I was a smart kid, but it just never dawned on me that it would be nearly impossible to keep a pony in a cardboard box for that long, never mind the smell that should have been emanating from the living room.

I was getting a pony.

That’s all that mattered.

Until Christmas morning when it turned out that I was actually getting a stereo for my bedroom.

Not a pony.

So, no…I never wished for a pony again.