Puzzle

Another one of the library challenges on the summer bingo board was to do a puzzle. I don't do puzzles very often; it can feel like a pointless activity, but I know they have some value. They help pass time. There is a sense of achievement once a picture is complete. If you work on one with someone else, it can be a bonding experience. I was glad for the challenge.

I thought about buying a new puzzle. I didn't want to do one I'd done before. I wanted to make sure we had all the pieces. Then, I found one in our home that appeared like it had never been done because it was the only one in its original, resealable bag. After I'd already started working on it, my youngest daughter informed me she probably did this one years ago. At least it was new to me.

I started working on it by myself. I completed the entire border and a lot of the inside pieces. Then, my daughter offered to help me finish. We happened to put the last two pieces in at the same time last night. We gave each other a high five.

What do you do with puzzles after you complete them? Normally, we display them on a table for a few days then deconstruct them. I've seen them glued and turned into a permanent picture. With all the hours invested in them, I see the appeal of keeping them together. I haven't wanted to redo puzzles, but as long as all the pieces are included, letting someone else have a go at it makes sense.

Short

For a library summer reading challenge, I'm filling out a bingo sheet that includes, "Write a short tale." I'm going for blackout. Yeah, I know, they probably meant to write a short story, but I thought I'd take them a little more literally. This is my "short tale."  

The name "Deb" suits me because it's short, like I am. I've been five-feet-two-inches since I was twelve. I was sure I'd eventually grow up and be taller, but that never happened.

As the second oldest of nine children, I was tall for a long time. Almost all (maybe all?) of my siblings eventually surpassed me in height. The only reason I'm not the shortest in my family with my five adult children is because my sweet, twenty-seven-year-old daughter who has Down syndrome is only four feet, ten inches or so. She's a gift.

When my older sister and I were in high school, a friend of hers asked, referring to me, "What's your sister's name?"

"It's Debi," she answered. (I haven't been Debi since high school; but that's another story.)

He heard my sister say that as one blended word.

"Stubby?" he asked her. She thought that was pretty hilarious.

I probably laughed too when she told me, except it wasn't really funny because I felt a bit stubby. I have small hands and feet. They're not at all stubby (well, maybe my toes are) but still, as an insecure teenager, descriptions and self-perceptions mattered. 

When I asked my husband if he could think of any stories about me being short so I could write about one he said, "Only that song you sing, 'I'm short, fat, proud of that.'"

The rest of the Winnie-the-Pooh song popped right into my mind, "Speaking poundage-wise. I improve my appetite, when I exercise.'"

"No! I don't sing that anymore," I said to him.

Thankfully, I don't feel fat now. Besides, I have learned to not objectify myself. I'm a hundred times less self-conscious and body-obsessed than I was when I was younger. Now, I'm grateful for my body as a tool and facilitator of my life. I'm glad for who I am and for what my body lets me experience. I'm definitely More Than a Body, which is the title of a book by the Doctors Kite that I just started reading yesterday. It's good so far.

My husband also said, "Short implies a comparison." He pointed out that I'm taller than a lot of things. Compared to whom am I short? By what standard? It turns out an average adult woman in the United States is five foot, four inches. So, I guess by that standard, I'm short.

I used to feel inadequate because I'm short until I was about nineteen. At that time, a male friend of mine (who happened to be seven feet, two inches tall) told me not to worry about being short. He said, "Some guys like short girls." His simple reassurance changed my self-perception. Suddenly, it was okay to be a short woman in the world. I believed someone, someday would find me attractive.

I always felt my insides were taller than my body. I used to think when I grew up I'd be tall and slender, the way the media portrayed women. When I pictured my future self, not only was I tall, but I was also wearing an emerald-green ball gown, standing on a hillside overlooking the sea, with wind blowing through my thick, blond hair. When I reached that ideal, I knew I'd feel grown up, like a real woman. That "perfect" image didn't happen, but I'm okay with that.

In reality, I didn't feel like a grown-up woman until after my second child was born. I was twenty-four. Before then, as a newlywed and mom of one, I felt like I was playing house. Something about being a mom of two children changed everything. We were living in England at the time, so sometimes I'd say, "I grew up in England." 

There, finally feeling like a grown-up woman, my husband and I took our girls on a camping trip around England. I remember one evening, I stood outside our tent on a green hill on the western coast of England. The wind blew through my long, light-brown hair. I looked out over the sea toward Wales. I was still short, but it was truly a beautiful moment. Our tent blew down in the middle of the night; but that's another story.

I'm still short, but so far, I feel like my body has let me experience all the things I've wanted to do. I'd call that living pretty large.

Porcupine Quill

I've been hiking. It's brought back memories of times I spent in the mountains when I was a teenager and a young adult. 

When I was thirteen, I went to a girls camp for a week up in the Uintah Mountains with an acquaintance from my neighborhood. We had young-adult camp counselors, enjoyed fun activities, slept in cabins, ate all together in a big lodge, and learned a lot of funny camp songs. It was great.

For one of the group activities, the counselors blindfolded us. They called it a P.O.W. activity, but I think it must have been some kind of faith or trust walk. I'm not sure exactly what it was supposed to be because I missed out on some of the experience. 

After we were blindfolded, we stood in a long line. We had to follow the person in front of us with one hand on their shoulder. My acquaintance, Lisa, walked in front of me in the human chain.

"Absolutely no talking," the counselors told all of us. "You can't laugh either." 

I took those instructions very seriously. I was a trusting and obedient young girl. I fully intended to follow every rule. I wasn't going to peek under the blindfold or talk for any reason. 

"Don't be afraid. You will be okay, even if unusual things happen to you. It will be a very powerful experience," said our counselor.

We blindly, silently followed in the line around trees and through meadows. The leaders used walking sticks to guide and nudge us along and around bushes.

After a long time of quiet, except for the wind in the trees, buzzing insects, and singing birds, I felt a quick, sharp stab on the side of my right foot. Was this one of the "unusual things" that was supposed to happen that I shouldn't fear? Was a leader trying to teach me a lesson by poking my foot?

Whatever it was, the pain was intensifying, but I was determined not to peek and to stay quiet. My foot was incessantly throbbing. Why were they still hurting me? Was I really supposed to learn something from this?

Even though it was against the rules, I finally peeked under my blindfold and saw a thin white thing stuck through my shoe and into my foot. Was this happening to everyone?

Even though it was against the rules, I whispered to Lisa, "Did you get poked with a stick? It really hurts. Should I say something?"

With no hesitation, Lisa lifted her blindfold. Her eyes went wide when she saw my foot. "Help!" she yelled. I told her to be quiet; I reminded her we weren't supposed to talk, but she must have recognized what happened to me.

Lisa's yell got the attention of the counselors. They pulled me and Lisa out of line to find out what was happening. I'm pretty sure they told Lisa to get back in line, but my counselor immediately took me to the lodge to get help. 

A counselor didn't poke me. There was a porcupine quill in the side of my foot. I must have brushed past a hiding or sleeping porcupine.

The camp nurse and camp director were both busy, but another counselor came to the nurse's office to try to help me. 

Porcupine quills can be a little difficult to remove because they have barbs on the end, like tiny hooks. You can't easily pull them straight out. To spare me pain, the counselor first cut the quill shorter with scissors. Then, she made a small hole in my white canvas tennis shoe around the quill. After wiggling the quill, it still didn't come out, so they carefully pulled off my shoe to try to get easier access. During that painful process, the quill fell out on its own. 

Finally, the camp director came to help. She washed my wound with green antibacterial soap, then put a band-aid on it. 

They sent me back to finish the activity, though I don't remember anything else about it. I do remember everyone kept telling me I was very brave. I liked the attention, but didn't feel particularly brave even when they gave me the bravery award at the end of the week. 

To me, it's almost a sad story because I was so unnecessarily trusting, submissive, and slow to get help. I have since learned to feel more compassion for myself. I have learned that powerful experiences don't have to be painful. There are times rules should be broken. Maybe Lisa should have received a bravery award since she had the courage to ask for the help I needed despite the rules.

I kept the tip of the quill. Six days later, I taped it into my journal (pictured here) and wrote very little about the experience and almost nothing about the camp. Even so, I remember.

Night Noises 2

Thanks to the experience I wrote about in the previous post, I became a light sleeper. If there was a noise in the night, I’d immediately wake up and couldn’t get back to sleep until I identified its source.

In the first home we owned here in Utah, my nighttime worries intensified. The home was a split level. Upstairs were three bedrooms and a couple of bathrooms. The main floor held our kitchen and living room. We had four children at the time, so us parents and the youngest children slept upstairs. Downstairs was a big family room that we used as a bedroom for our two pre-teen daughters. Also in the basement, was a door that led to a laundry room that held a door to the backyard as well as a storage room. That laundry room door had a large doggy door cut into covered with a plastic flap. We didn’t have a dog, but clearly one of the previous owners had a big one.

Each night, we tried to make sure the outside basement door was locked. I also liked to lock the door between my daughters’ room and the laundry room, but I didn’t always remember to lock it.

One night, I woke up because I heard something in the basement directly below us in the storage room. For a long time, I sat and listened, but couldn’t identify the sound. I couldn’t remember if I’d made sure the basement door was locked. Could something, like a racoon or a neighbor’s cat, have come in through the doggy door? Could there be a rat in the storage room? Did a person break in? As I continued to hear unidentifiable sounds coming from below, I gradually felt more and more terrified. I especially feared for the safety of our young daughters.

Eventually, I was so scared I couldn’t take it anymore. I felt it was a man’s job to protect his family, so I turned on my nightlight and woke up my husband.

“Roger, wake up,” I said as I shook him. “There’s something in the basement.”

He’s a deep sleeper, but he slowly sat up. “What?” he said, all bleary eyed.

“Did you lock the basement door? I think I heard something in the basement.”

“I didn’t lock it, but it’s probably locked,” he said.

“Will you go see what it is?” I asked. I explained I was worried we had an intruder. Or maybe it was a raccoon.

In my mind, like a scene from a movie, my husband would find a baseball bat and go down to deal with whatever was making the noise. He didn’t move.

We both sat and listened for a while. It would be quiet for a long time. Then I’d hear something.

“Did you hear that?” I’d say. He was listening carefully, but seemed unsure.

“There!” I said, “What was that?” I said. That time he heard it too. I’d managed to convince my husband we had an intruder.

“If there’s someone down there, I’m not going down there!” he said. “That’s what the police are for.” He reached for the phone.

I didn’t want him to call the police, but before I knew it, he had called and was telling them our address.

Not much later, a police officer arrived at our front door. After we explained our concerns, the officer consulted with a couple of others outside. One officer went toward the backyard, two came inside. One of the officers was a short, dark-haired woman. She stood at the top of our basement stairs with outstretched arms close together and held a gun in both hands pointing toward the basement door, just like they do in the movies. The other officer edged his way down the stairs. I followed from a distance to tell them the way.

The room was dark, but one of the police officers turned on a flash light. There were toys and clothes all over the floor. I remember feeling embarrassed and apologized for the mess. I was also glad my girls were safe, sound asleep in their beds.

I left the room when the police officer opened the door separating the bedroom from the laundry and storage room area. It turned out the basement door was locked, so they let the other officer in.

There was nothing down there: no human, no raccoon, not even a rat. We had no idea what we’d been hearing. The police officers assured us that it was better that we called them even though it was a false alarm. They also strongly recommended that we nail a board over the doggy door. They cautioned it was large enough that a human intruder could easily get in that way.

My husband thinks the whole thing is funny now, but I thought he would have felt humiliated that a woman with a gun was there to protect his family instead of him. I realize now that is sexist. Women can protect their families too.

After that time, I no longer woke him up if I was scared at night. I was embarrassed that we’d called the police for what seemed like nothing. Instead, I repeatedly pushed past my fear. I’d either talk myself down from my scary imagination, or I’d go investigate the noises myself. I also made sure, every night, all doors and windows were locked.

Now, we live in a safer-feeling neighborhood. However, I’ve learned that a locked-up house won’t stop determined intruders. It helps that I more easily sleep through night noises since I’m deaf in one ear, wear an ear plug in the other, and we have a fan on for white noise. We also have adult children who are up at night. 

Most of all, I’ve learned to value my sleep more than my fears. But that’s another story.

Night Noises

In 1980, when I was almost thirteen, my parents moved us from Iowa to Utah. They soon divided the basement of our 1920’s-built home into smaller bedrooms to accommodate four of us older siblings and a teenage cousin. 

In a corner of that basement, I finally had my own tiny room with a squeezed-in twin bed, an upright dresser, and a small shelf. My closet and my light switch were in a walkway that eventually became a bedroom for one of my little sisters. My older sister’s room was through a make-shift tunnel right next to my room. If we talked loudly enough, we could hear each other through the walls.

One night a year or two later, I woke up to my sister’s frantic scream.

“Jenni, what is it?” I asked her through the wall.

“Shh, be quiet!” she said. Then I heard a rustling noise outside her room.

We had mice in the basement of our house in Iowa, and rats in the large backyard of this house, so it was easy to assume she’d seen a mouse or a rat. I thought it was strange she was telling me to be quiet, but I was too tired to get up and ask why. I obediently stayed quiet, and eventually fell back to sleep.

Because I thought my sister had seen a rodent, in the morning, while I was still in pajamas, I cautiously came out of my room wearing very high dress-up heels. It felt silly, but I wanted to be as far up and away from the assumed mouse or rat as possible.

After I wobble-walked upstairs into the kitchen, I found out why my sister really screamed:

In the night, a red-bearded man broke into our house through a downstairs bathroom window. He’d put a pair of jeans that was hanging on a nearby clothesline into the door of our big freezer to keep it open. By the freezer's light, he found his way through the maze of our basement, passed through the laundry room, opened a door into the dark bathroom, and went to my sister’s bedroom door. She woke up when he entered. She turned on her night light. He leaned over her while she was still in bed, showed her he was holding a knife and said, “Don’t make a sound.”

So, she screamed.

Maybe it was her scream, or maybe the intruder heard my dad who had gotten up to rock my baby brother in a rocking chair; but whatever the reason, thankfully, he quickly left the way he broke into the house. I found out my sister stayed awake all night in her bed, terrified the man would come back or hurt her family. She’d told me to be quiet because she was worried he’d come after me next. My parents called the police, but the man was long gone and, as far as we know, never prosecuted.

After I heard what really happened, I shook and cried with fear. I kicked off the silly heels.

My dad ended up rigging a security system through our bedrooms, with wires and panic buttons, for all of us girls in the basement. We each had a doorbell-like button by our beds that we could press to set off the alarm. I think it was accidentally triggered enough times that my parents disconnected that system pretty quickly.

After that, I always locked my bedroom door at night. It was easier to imagine scary things could happen to me and my family. For years afterward, I was often frightened by night-time noises. It wasn’t unusual for me to lie awake and afraid for hours. I carried those fears into adulthood. They influenced another situation that I will write about soon.