Smack-Dab-in-the-Middle

Please join me over at Smack-Dab-in-the-Middle today.  Our July theme is "The Sweetness of the Writing Life".  While you're there, consider sticking around to see what some of my author friends have to say!   

Watch Out for the Snakes

"Watch out for the snakes," the guide said.

"He's kidding, right?"  I felt the buzz of panic rising from the soles of my feet.  Every tiny brush of the wind became  a snake inching its way toward me on the trail.

My FSIL* (*Fearless Sister-in-Law) trudged ahead of me.  And it was a happy gait, a looking-forward-to-something walk, not a cautious one.

"You can put everything in here,"  GuideNumberTwoWithTheConfidentDreadlocks pointed to the outdoor lockers.  "You don't want anything to fall out of your pockets."

We stepped into the harness and helmet line.  What could possibly happen to us?  I asked myself. This equipment looks plenty safe.  If there was any doubt, they would have had us sign a waiver, right?

As if he had read my mind, my brother said, "Does Mexico not require waivers?" 

I pointed at a woman waiting off to the side.  "If they'll let a pregnant woman do it, it's got to be fine."

That fizzy feeling disappeared from the bottoms of my feet.  Temporarily.  But wait.  Were they going to make me hold the parrot?  Didn't I hear they have really sharp talons?

I wedged myself safely in between husband and daughter for the parrot picture.  The inside person didn't have to hold anything but those ultra-padded leather gloves.  They were like part of a super hero costume.  

They sat us down on wooden bleachers for the Rule Talk.  I scooted a safe distance from the long, pointy lizards who were lounging on the middle step.

As GuideNumberOne gave the talk, GuideNumberTwoWithTheConfidentDreadlocks demonstrated.  

This was important, but my mind was doing this fizzy thing, and all I was hearing was: blah blah blah... Don't Put Your Hand in Front of the Pulley...blah blah...Slam Into Tree...blah blah blah...Hanging Two Hundred Feet Above the Ground...    
And my favorite:  We highly recommend you go upside down.

Both guides paused and smiled at us.  "So raise your hand if you're going upside down!"

18-year-old niece's hand shot up, along with my FSIL.  

I can do this.  If they can do it, so can I.  My hand crept halfway up.

"Let's go!"  The guides pointed up the trail.

And then came the endlessly steep and rickety steps.  Or maybe it was my legs that were rickety.  

"These don't feel that sturdy,"  Husband Who is A Mechanical Engineer pointed out behind me.  

And then it was my turn.  

"You ready?"  GuideNumberThree had mysteriously appeared at the top of the platform.

My hands searched frantically for something to hold onto on the tree trunk.  Nothing.  Of course.  I don't think there were even any branches left that high up.  "I'm not going upside down," I told him two or three (or seventy-five, maybe) times.

"It's okay, amiga.  Sit down.  You can try that on the third one.  Now lean back and go!"  

And he shoved me.  Fast.  I guess that's why they call it a zip line.  

Was that a tree right in front of me?  I hurled closer to it.  Faster and faster.  I am going to slam into the tree.  

My stomach lurched.  Would I still be able to stop myself if I was throwing up?  

Something else was in front of me.  Wait.  It was someone.  My brother.  So not only was I going to die, I was going to take out my brother, too.

Suddenly one of The Rules popped into my head.  Pull on the wire.  Create friction to slow down.  Don't touch in front of the pulley.  It's not protected.  

I can do this.  I pulled on the wire.  It was working! I felt myself slowing down.  Uh-oh.  I was slowing down a little too much.  I was stopped.  

And then came the humiliating part.  I still had about a dozen feet to go.  GuideNumberFour mysteriously appeared, pulling himself backward toward me from the next platform, and towed me in.  He wasn't happy.  I could tell.

Miraculously I made it to the next platform.  This wasn't so bad.  I literally sailed above the trees.  I was feeling pretty proud of myself.  Until...

"Okay,"  Guide Number Five said.  "Now for the real one."

That couldn't be possible.  I almost died on a practice one?

I searched futilely for a bathroom and/or an exit.  There were ten more zip lines and ten more narrow, steep, rickety ladders to go.

But I couldn't think.  My mind was mush and my legs were rubber.  Meanwhile, FSIL is getting happily strapped in a couple people ahead of me--upside down.

I shouldn't have watched her, but I did.  She was literally dangling upside down from her waist, her arms reaching for the ground almost two hundred feet below.  And she was smiling.

"I'm not going upside down," I told the next guide on the platform.  

"You lost your name tag," he said, obviously trying to distract me.  

"It's Ann," I said, thinking those could very well be my last words.

"Oh, I remember your name,"  he said, with a hint of a smirk.

I made it, as you might have surmised, since I'm writing this blog.  All twelve of them.  Right side up, but I only had to get hauled in on the first one.  

We sat together on the ground later, me with my extended family.  The Seven Victors who had conquered the Extreme Mexican Zip Lines.  

They brought over the pictures that had been mysteriously taken along the way.  The video was starting on the monitor, and I settled in to watch.

There is my daughter, my nieces, my brother, and my husband, zooming toward the camera.  And there is my FSIL (upside down, of course), sailing toward me on the screen.  

So which part of my daring, brave trip got videoed?  Yep.  There I was--getting hauled to safety by the guide at the end of that first zip line.  

But I couldn't dwell on it.  There was no time.  It was over.  It was time to go to the alligator infested swimming pit.  Back to the trail.  

Wait.  Was that a snake next to me?

   

Happy Mother's Day

You didn't get to see me teach first grade, yet I strive to do it just like you did--with love and humor and patience.  I continue to pass on your wonderful lessons and art projects to my students.  I hear your voice when I teach my kids to read and to love books.  

You didn't get to see my first book on the shelves of the library and the bookstore, but I can still remember you dropping whatever you were doing to read the book I'd stapled together out of typing paper and newsprint. 

You didn't get to see my daughters grow up, but I see you every day in their beautiful smiles and kind eyes.  

Because of you, I am the teacher, writer, and mother that I am.  

Happy Mother's Day, Peggy Conway Haywood! 

Have Fun This Summer

I found it on the bottom shelf of one of my bookcases.  I knew exactly what it was, just from touching the narrow spine.

And when I opened it up, the days came rushing back. We were all writing our innermost thoughts on the endpapers of the Olympic Cougars eighth grade yearbook. 

I now live three thousand miles away, but it doesn't seem like such a distance.  That time seems as if it was three weeks ago.  And my nerdy, silver-braces-wearing, wants-so-desperately-to-be-popular thirteen-year-old life drifts back to me, etched into the light blue inside cover, superimposed with a faint shadow of Mount Rainier.

I really did think I was on the brink of cool.  But when I read the messages to my eighth grade self, I see how far away that brink really was.

Some of my favorites:

    "...we had fun these 2 years trying & trying for cheer (leader).  But at least we tried.  Have a great summer."

    "... I think you are a swell person even if you did get straight A's in Algebra.  See you maybe this summer."

    "...It's been fun having you in band.  See ya next year."

    "...Keep playing the clarinet.  See you this summer, probably most of the time on Sundays."

But my favorite one was:

     "...Have fun this summer.  Don't get into to(o) much trouble."

Sure, because there was a ton of trouble you could get into in the spare time not taken up by playing the clarinet or doing Advanced Algebra problems or chatting up a boy or two at a thoroughly supervised Sunday School activity?

So why would I write for this unsettling, uncertain time?  Why would I write for middle-graders?  I get to bring it all back, if I want to.  I can relive it or completely change it.  I can switch up the heroes and villains.    

Go Ahead ... Try to Make a Mistake

Make a mistake with a first grader, and you can pretty much slough it off, letting it trickle away unnoticed.  

But with a third grader?  Not so much.  I now have eighteen new personal assistants in my life.  These kids could charge for their services.  

Don't even think about making any kind of technological snafu on the giant smart board, because they will sniff it out and point it out in three seconds or less. 

"Mrs. Leal...um...you might want to minimize that screen.  Here.  Let me show you..."

"That's not how you get there (impatient, trying-to-be-polite sigh).  It should be in your Favorites file."

Then a few grumblings and looks my way that clearly said, Who let her in here?  And, My second grade teacher knew way more than this bozo.

I get up at 5:00 a.m., but I might have to bump it back to 4 if I want to stay ahead of this game.

But it's worth it with this group.  I can already tell.  They won me over from the very first second, because they may love books and writing as much as I do.  

It's so quiet when I'm reading aloud Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, that you can almost hear all eighteen of their heartbeats.  They laugh and look crestfallen at all the right places.  When Charlie Bucket's family was starving, they had expressions of devastation.  And when Charlie found the Golden Ticket, they gave a collective gasp that could have been heard from down the hallway.

I can't wait to read what they write today.  I'm dying to hear what happens with the alien spacecraft and the next chapter of "Man Vs. Vampire".  Eight is definitely not too early to think about a writing career.

And they can always put themselves through college with their personal assistant gigs.

The Sweet Life

When we drove up, my niece was in full sprinkler regalia, also known as, just her underwear.  I want to be a two-year-old again.  You can get away with pretty much anything.


"We're going to go to dinner," my sister-in-law told her.  "Let's go get some clothes on you."


"Nope," she said.  "I want to be naked."  She then proceeded to peel off her remaining clothes, and she settled in on the front step where she had an excellent view of the neighborhood.  That doesn't go over very well if you're not two.  


The life of a two-year-old is sweet.  There are so many perks that sadly go unappreciated until many years later.  


If you decide you don't want something, you merely cast it aside, and somebody else picks it up for you.


You get hungry, and all you have to do is say, please, and a super delicious fruit roll-up magically appears for you.


You decide you're tired of walking, and you merely go boneless, and somebody has to pick you up.  It's the rule.  


Sometimes we get tired of listening to other people go on and on and we just want to hear the sound of our own voice.  It's nice to have the floor.  When you're two, you can make grand announcements and nobody thinks you're crazy or pompous.  This thought must have occurred to my niece when we were all having dinner.  She sat up a little straighter in her highchair and called down the table, "I have no hair!" Then, perhaps realizing that didn't quite make sense, she added, "I have no hair on my knees!"


That got a good laugh from the adults, and suddenly it was as if she'd just written a really good op-ed piece for the New York Times.  Her audience continued to laugh and quote her.


Another thing that's great about being two, is that you don't have to politely pretend that you're too full for dessert, even though you've been secretly plotting how you're going to grab a chocolate chip cookie on a faux bathroom break.  My niece just raised her voice above the table din and called out, "I'm ready for my cookie!"

Yet another perk for the two-year-old set is the great napping option.  Others might look at you disdainfully if you should choose to take a power nap, say, on the job.  But if you're two, it's encouraged.  You can nod off pretty much anywhere and a soft, comfy blanket is bound to automatically appear.  There's also the fantastic pajama option.  Should you desire to do so, you can don your pjs at virtually any time of the day, even on a trip to the grocery store,  and no one will call you white trash.


So to all you Judgy McJudgers out there:  Should I happen to nod off at work in my jammies with a little cookie drool in the corner of my mouth, just move along, people.  Nothing to see here.

A Finders-Keepers Place Book Trailer