Explanation Plus

I'm going to revise the previous "Mixing Seasons" story. I'd forgotten the experience, but recorded most of the details in my journal. As far as storytelling goes, I can probably improve it. I won't have time to revise today. We will have the pleasure of babysitting our grandson all day. 

I did chop off the small-print explanation from the previous post and pasted it below with an update:

In the fall of 1986, instead of writing in a regular book-like journal, I wrote on loose papers that I'd shoved, out of order, into a binder. The binder itself had words on it that I painted over with the blue self-portrait. The papers barely survived a basement flood when we lived in New York. Yesterday, I was tempted to throw away the whole mess. I wasn't sure I wanted to remember anything from that era. Instead, I forced myself to type it all up. I'm glad I did. When I was done, I cut out the self-portrait and threw away the rest. The background in the photo, behind the self-portait, is part of a large frisbee.

Mixing Seasons

Halloween 1986, my older sister and I, her roommate, our boyfriends, and some of our younger siblings used my parents' box of collected Halloween costumes to dress up and go trick-or-treating. Just for fun, we figured we'd be Christmas carolers. Our high-school-aged brother and some of his friends, who were in the school band together, would accompany us. On weekends, these boys had a business playing a dirge-like birthday song at what they called "birthday funerals." Of course, they could also play Christmas carols.

We looked an odd bunch of carolers. My Mexican boyfriend and I switched identities; I dressed up like him and he dressed up like an English woman. My sister was a gangster. Her boyfriend was a Norseman. My sister's roommate was a pink-haired punk rocker. Her friend was one of the three musketeers. My twelve-year-old sister came too and dressed up like a cute little mouse. I don't remember my brother's or his friends' costumes. Collectively, the boys played the trombone, two trumpets, and a French horn. We looked strange, but we sounded impressive.

 

First, we caroled around my parents' neighborhood. Everyone was very happy to give us candy, even though most of us were between 17 and 21 years old. We knew what we were doing was weird, so we only went to the homes of people we knew. After we'd been to all my parents' neighbors, we drove to my brother's friends' neighborhoods. Up and down their streets, we walked as a group, knocked on doors, and sang our Christmas carols. It was great fun. We were surprised people gave us an amazing amount of candy.

On one street, an old lady that nobody knew left her home and followed us up and down through the neighborhood. I thought it was a little creepy. Eventually, we must have passed her house, because she stopped there and stood by a tree in the front yard. While we caroled next door, my older sister noticed her watching us.

After we finished playing and singing at the house next door, my sister said we needed to turn back to sing to that lady by the tree. We gathered on the sidewalk in front of her.

My sister announced, "We're dedicating our next song to you." Then we sang "Jingle Bells."

When we were done, the old lady thanked us and smiled. "I'm sorry, I don't have any candy to give you," she said.

"That's okay, we have something for you," said my sister. She reached into her pillow case and presented her with a banana.

With tears in her eyes, the lady told us she didn't have much longer to live. She said this would probably be her last Halloween. She might not even live until Christmas. She was so happy to hear us singing Christmas carols. It brought back a lot of memories for her. That's why she'd been following us.

I was glad my older sister talked us into singing to her.

I was also impressed by my twelve-year-old sister's sensitivity. As we left the lady to go back to my parents' neighborhood, the little mouse looked into her bag full of candy. Then she said happily, "Now we've had our spiritual experience for the day too!"

Reflecting on True Stories

I've been writing in journals since 1978. The last I counted, I had 27, but I've filled at least three more since then. About a year ago, I began to transcribe them into one document.

Some journal entries are meaningless, even ridiculous. The writing is stream-of-consciousness. I wrote some entries late at night. They remind me of dreams. Some dreams are clearly the mind's way of cleaning itself up. They're senseless and pointless. Other dreams matter. They're the ones we might share with someone else or even write down. 

I'm trying to only transcribe journal entries that matter. There are some that represent factual aspects of my life. Some tell about people who I knew. There are entries that capture significant experiences. These are life-changing moments. Matthew Dicks would call them, "five-second transformations." Those times turn into the most interesting stories. They are the ones most likely to influence someone else. They are the ones that really matter.

I've written up several of those moments on this blog. I'm planning to write more.

As far as I know, I'm not writing fiction here. The stories I've shared are as true as I can make them.

I took a break from transcribing my journals about a year ago, once I reached 1986. I'd wrapped tape around the 1986-1988 journals to seal them up. I didn't want anyone to read them. I didn't want to read them. I wasn't ready to be confronted with some of the events that happened during those years. 

A couple of days ago, I wrote the story, "Who Am I?" which happened during that era. After I finished writing, I was interested in verifying a few facts. So I took off the tape. That experience was such a powerful one that I wasn't too surprised almost everything I wrote in the story is accurate. The only difference is I left out one of our roommates. 

 "Pat" arrived the second semester of my freshman year. She roomed with "Carrie" after her sister "Mary" left. I had a tiny idea she existed, but I wasn't sure. Even after reading about her in my journal, she's still a shadow. According to a letter I wrote to Carrie, there was some financial drama surrounding this girl. She had to leave school early. 

So is that story wrong because I left out this girl? No. I'm not going to bother adding her in. She was rarely there at the apartment. Come to think of it, she was possibly much like I was at the beginning of my freshman year. If I hadn't been motivated to get to know myself and the other roommates, that story wouldn't exist.

It would be interesting to compile a journal of only transformative moments. I guess they call that a memoir.

Snow Way

The morning of January 17, 1996, we looked out the window and saw a snow storm raging white. Already, there was at least a foot of snow on the ground. Eighteen inches would fall that morning. Surely, school would be cancelled, right?

It wasn't. 

My five-year-old daughter was nearly crying about the possibility of not being able to go to school that day. It was the first day the kindergarten children would be able to eat lunch in the cafeteria. Plus, it was a show-and-tell day. She needed to be there. 

We lived in a tiny, old, cinder-block home our landlords called "the icicle." It was at the end of a long private lane behind our landlord's massive garage. Ken plowed the lane himself with his own small four-wheeler. There was no way he'd have the road clear before it was time for school to start. We lived fairly far from the school. Our little car was snowed in. If my daughter was going to school, we'd have to walk.

We had three small girls when we lived in that place: a tiny two-year-old who had Down Syndrome and wasn't yet walking, a four-year-old preschooler, and our five-year-old who would soon be turning six. My husband had already left to trudge through the snow to catch a bus to the university, so I was on my own. My daughter was too young to walk there alone even when the sun was shining. We'd received special permission to go to this school, so it wasn't like she could ride with a neighbor.

We bundled up. I put the girls in snowsuits. I figured the only way I could get there was to put our youngest in a baby hiking backpack that had a sunshade. Now it would have to act as a snow shade. It wouldn't keep the snow off her face, but it would surely help. I would pull the four-year-old on a sled. I'd hold the five-year-old's hand. It would be an adventure. That could be fun, right? 

It started out feeling possible. The snow was so deep that we had to walk in car tracks in the middle of the unplowed streets. Very few cars braved the way. It was a total blizzard. The wind was blowing the snow into our faces hard and fast. 

When we were about half way to the school, I didn't know if we'd make it. I could barely see because my glasses were wet and fogged up. I turned to look over my shoulder at my daughter in the backpack. She was gasping as snow blew into her face. The snow shade had come undone and her hat had blown off. Snowflakes stuck to her eyelashes and her blond, duckling hair was sticking straight up and covered with melting white. The daughter in the sled was grimacing and also covered with snow. The sled was getting heavier. How could I keep going? My five-year-old still looked determined. Turning back wasn't an option.

Then I thought of Utah pioneers. They'd pushed handcarts for miles through winter storms with less clothing than we wore. Many lost their lives along the way. Surely this was a character-building experience. I could do this.

By the time we walked into the coat and backpack area at the school, a few minutes late, the teacher was surprised to see us. 

"They should have cancelled school," she said. "They're going to let the students go home early today." 

School would be over in an hour. The kindergarteners weren't going to have lunch in the cafeteria after all. We could have stayed home. 

I didn't want to leave my daughter there and come back. There was no way I was going to make it home and back again in an hour.

"Do you mind if we stay?" I asked. The teacher agreed. 

I sat down amid wet boots and backpacks with my miserable, wet-haired two-year-old. That's when I found out my oldest daughter forgot to bring her show-and-tell toy. 

It turned out okay. My four-year-old was allowed to join the class to be the show-and-tell for her very happy older sister.

Who Am I?

(Most names have been changed.)

When I was a freshman in college, I lived in an apartment dorm with five other girls to whom I was a stranger. (That's me on the bottom left in the picture.) For the first few months, I didn't spend a lot of time in the apartment, especially on weekends, since my parents lived only an hour away. I'd go home. I was often gone on weeknights too, spending time with my older sister and her friends who lived off campus. 

One afternoon, I returned to the dorm earlier than usual. I was just about to enter my room, when I heard my roommate who shared a room with me, Margo, say my name. (She's the second one from the right on top.) Our room was right next to the kitchen. The kitchen's door was cracked open, so it was easy to hear what she was saying. I stood there for a moment to listen. Clearly, she was in there with Mary and Carrie. (The girls on either side of Margo in the picture.)

"What about Debi?" Margo said.

"She's nice, I guess," said Mary. "But she doesn't have any personality."

"Well, obviously she has a personality, but she doesn't have any character," said Margo. 

Carrie was silent, but I was sure she was there too.

Mary and Margo were super close friends. They'd roomed together the previous year, but now Mary's sister Carrie moved in, the sisters shared a room. I roomed with Margo. Kate and Leanne slept in the third bedroom. (The other girl in front and the one on the top far left.) Clearly, Mary, Margo, and Carrie were discussing us freshmen: me, Kate, and Leanne. 

They kept talking, but I quietly went in my room. I was devastated. There's nothing like hearing what people really think of you when they don't know you're listening. I closed the door, lay down on my bed, and cried.

I cried not just because they were talking rudely about me, but also because they were right. I didn't have a lot of personality or character. They didn't know me, but I also didn't know myself. I'd been living under the shadow of my older sister and in the grips of opinionated parents. I was finally on my own. I could now make my own choices without worrying about following in footsteps or being controlled by parents, but I was formless. I was developing that personality and character the roommates were saying I lacked.

I didn't say anything to Margo or anyone else about what I overheard. Instead, I was determined to become someone. I was going to show them my character and personality. 

After that, I spent more time at the apartment. I spent a lot of time hiking in the hills above the university, thinking and writing about who I wanted to be, and figuring out what I wanted to do. I spent less time with my sister and her friends. The persona I developed became outdoorsy, artistic, poetic, and a little nerdy. I became me. 

By the next semester, I felt more secure in who I was. At least Margo got to know me. Mary left school to take a break. Carrie then had her own room. Kate and Leanne continued to share a room. So did Margo and I. With Mary gone, Margo and I spent hours talking late into the night. We got to know each other. We became real friends.

Sadly, a couple of months later, Margo was killed. She'd gone to a wedding in California. The bride's brother was giving her a ride back to school when he fell asleep at the wheel. They were a mere hour and a half from campus. The car rolled. Margo wasn't wearing a seat belt and was thrown from the car. They said she died instantly.

As a result, Kate, Leanne, Carrie, and I bonded over the tragedy. Even though I was probably her closest roommate since she slept in the bed next to mine, I had to be the stable one when Margo died. Kate was hysterical. Carrie seemed lost, especially with her sister gone. I don't remember Leanne's reaction. She spent a lot of time away from the apartment too. The roommates probably looked to me because they knew I was closest to Margo. Somehow, I'd become the peaceful, strong person.

I'm thankful I became friends with Margo. I'm glad the roommates had time to get to know me before Margo died. I'm especially thankful I had extra motivation to get to know myself.

Sea Fear

In March of 2012, my oldest daughter and I traveled to the island of St. Thomas to visit my parents who were living there as missionaries. Our first morning on the island, my mom drove us to the beautiful beach of Hull Bay so we could snorkel. She would use my dad's snorkeling gear to show us what to do and where to go, while my daughter and I would take turns using my mom's gear.

That cool, early morning, I was happy to sit on the white sand and read while my daughter used my mom's mask, snorkel, and fins.

I actually had no desire to go in the water that day, partly because I was afraid of the sea and its creatures. I figured I'd gradually warm up to it. Oceans have made me a little nervous since I was four when I was trapped in a wave that pounded sand into every part of me off the coast of California.

My mom said they often saw stingrays when they were snorkeling around the Virgin Islands. That made me think about Steve Irwin who was killed by the barb of a stingray in Australia six years earlier. I had no interest in encountering a stingray or any other sea creature. I would be fine watching and safely reading on the beach. I figured I might eventually try snorkeling on this trip, but definitely not today.

Unsurprisingly, my brave daughter quickly got the hang of snorkeling. Every once in a while, I’d look up and watch her and my mom kicking their fins along the top of the sea with their heads down in the water. They’d rise up occasionally with big smiles on their faces.

Eventually, my daughter walked like a duck back toward me on the beach with water dripping off the mask on her forehead, the snorkel dangling to the side. She was smiling. When she got closer, I was a little worried she’d get my book wet.

"Mom, I swam with a sea turtle!" she said excitedly, "You should see it before it swims away!"

A sea turtle! Her joy was contagious. I was intrigued. I’ve always loved turtles. It was easy to envision my daughter swimming with the sea turtle. I wanted that experience.

 Immediately, all hesitation left me. My desire to swim with a sea turtle overwrote all my fears of the sea and its creatures. My daughter couldn’t get the mask and fins off or hand them to me fast enough. I had to see that sea turtle before it swam away.

After very little instruction, I sat down in the waves and scooted myself into the clear, warm water. With blue sky above and white sand below, I kept my face down and kicked along the surface. I swam in a big circle in search of the turtle. I hoped I hadn’t missed it. 

Then I saw it! The sea turtle was probably no bigger than a pillow, but it was amazing how it moved its flippers through the water. It turned and looked at me as if inviting me to follow. So I did.

After that morning at Hull Bay, I snorkeled fearlessly at other St. Thomas beaches where I touched a rainbow fish and saw a lot of other beautiful sea life. I never did see a stingray on that trip, but my daughter did, and I was happy for her.

Explaining Myself

I'm currently reading a book called Storyworthy: Engage, Teach, Persuade, and Change Your Life Through the Power of Storytelling by Matthew Dicks. I'm not done yet, but so far I highly recommend it. 

We all tell stories at the dinner table, with our friends and family, maybe in church, or in other settings where we want to share or teach something. I want to tell interesting stories. Dicks has won many storytelling competitions. I wrote the previous two posts in an effort to practice what he teaches. 

I was only half way through the book when I wrote the first "Artist" post. Now I'm about 3/4 into it. After learning each new concept, I have gone back to the "Artist Revised" post and fixed a few things. Even last night just before bed, I read about how endings shouldn't be bold statements. So, I went back and chopped off the ending this morning. It's possible I will continue to revise that post to make it a better story. Or I may just move onto the next one.

My plan is to occasionally practice true storytelling here. I may or may not post the pre-revised versions. I may change names. I probably won't remember everything accurately. The stories won't be perfect. I'm okay with that. 

By the way, I feel like every post needs a picture. I took this one a few months ago when I was on a walk. It's part of an east-facing door to a maintenance access area at our local rec center. I love the blue, the shadows, the weeds, and the reflection. 

Writing stories about the past will cause me to reflect on transformative moments in my life. I'm looking forward to it.

Artist Revised

Almost two years ago, I walked into the beautiful International Folk Art Museum in Santa Fe, New Mexico behind my older sister who is an artist. Everywhere, bright colors, unusual shapes, and wild textures surrounded us. I felt instantly overwhelmed. I didn't know where to look or where to go. At first, I stayed close to my sister as if she could guide me through the maze of exhibits and glass cases. After a while, I sensed she didn't love my shadow, so I ventured off alone. 

Feelings of inadequacy and ignorance around art took me back to sixth grade, to when I stood in front of Mr. Trimble's tall wooden desk and handed him my pastel still-life drawing for grading. I was proud of my work. I'd tried hard and wanted his acknowledgement. I wanted to believe I was good at art too. He looked over my work, nodded, turned over the paper, and wrote an "A." 

Then he saw my name. "Are you Jenni's younger sister?" I nodded. Jenni was just one year ahead of me in school, so he knew her well.

As soon as he found out I'm her sister, with a flourish, Mr. Trimble added a plus next to the "A." Suddenly, it was Jenni's A plus, not mine. I was hurt and a little angry. I wanted a good grade because I deserved it, not because of her. 

It was the last art class I took until a required course in college. In high school, she took art classes, took private art lessons, and was the art editor of the yearbook senior year. I intentionally avoided art and took a lot of math and science classes. 

So here I was feeling lost in the folk art museum in Santa Fe. From a sign, I learned much of the art there was created by uneducated artists using materials they had on hand. Not a lot of it was realistic or perfect. Faces and limbs were out of proportion. Colors weren't always consistent. The work was often quirky and misshapen. But the artists' passion was palpable. It was imperfect, but it was still overwhelmingly beautiful. As I wandered around by myself, it was as if I could hear those artists giving me permission to create.

Turned sideways

When I went home, I purchased several blank canvases. The sunflower picture is the first one I painted after Santa Fe. Ever since, I've been boldly painting on canvases whenever I feel like it. 

Artist

Painting in process

I used to wish I was an artist like my older sister. She was just one year ahead of me in school. She took private art lessons, participated in art shows, and was art editor of the high school yearbook. It was part of her identity. In high school, I intentionally avoided art and took a lot of math and science classes.

It isn't that I didn't have potential. I just didn't want to take art after an elementary-school teacher gave me an "A" for something I drew, then found out who my older sister is, and deliberately added a plus. It was her A plus, not mine. I was angry. It was the last art class I took until a required course in college.

Once my sister left our high school, I discovered art in Mrs. Hewlett's humanities class. I learned to love it. It filled a hole in my heart I forgot was there. After that, I dabbled, but knew I was untrained, especially compared to real artists like my sister. I could appreciate art, but felt nothing I created was good enough. Eventually, I began to think of myself as a "shadow" artist. As in, I could shadow artists and admire them, I could long to be like them, but I could never be one.

Then, almost two years ago, I went to the International Folk Art Museum in Santa Fe, New Mexico. The experience was powerful and overwhelming. Much of what was there was created by uneducated artists using materials they had on hand. Even so, the artists' passion was palpable. Their work was quirky and colorful. It was imperfect, but it was still overwhelmingly beautiful. Those artists gave me permission to paint. 

When I went home, I purchased several blank canvases. The sunflower picture is the first one I painted after Santa Fe. Ever since, I've been boldly painting on canvases whenever I feel like it. 

Am I an artist? Absolutely.

Where I've Been

I'm a communicator. So where have I been for a year and a half? I've been posting on Instagram. Recently, I decided to make my debrogfrog account public.

I may have posted the picture to the right on Instagram. Maybe not. Doesn't it look like a curled-up hand, especially like an index finger?  

This is sort of what I see:

I took the picture February 11, 2021 at Antelope Island. It's one of our favorite places here in Utah. 

The new story I'm writing begins there.

I Wrote a Book!

Today I submitted a middle-grade novel to a publishing company. I won't find out for months whether or not they will publish it. If they aren't interested, I'll search for a literary agent to help me. Meanwhile, I'm preparing to market the book. 

Here are some representative pictures to give a little hint on the subject. My sister painted my son's room when we lived in New York years ago.

Here's part of a mural I created in our hallway a couple of months ago. I used purchased, removable stickers for the spaceman and silver fish: