"Life Is Like A Box O' Chalk-Lits," said Forrest.

My dear artist friend Emily Lisker -- check out her astounding work here:                       

emilyliskerpaintings.blogspot.com  -- suggested to me this morning that I should write plays, in large measure because I am good at writing dialogue.  

I should tell you that I did once write a comedic play about the first charter school I worked for, but that school is pretty famous these days, and super-tight with the Department of Education, so I’d probably get sued if I produced it.

But I gave thought to Emily’s suggestion. I know something of dramaturgy. I have taught theatre, and I've taught drama (the latter is when English teachers force students to read plays).  I’ve directed plays, been in plays, attended plays, so I feel confident telling you that plays can involve “dialogue.”  Something Emily insists I am good at. (All that other stuff – blocking, lighting, set design, costumes -- I’d hire all that out.  Directors change it anyway.)

Her suggestion that I become a playwright got me thinking about other talents I don’t believe I have.  Like music. I played the flute as a kid, and in five years, I ended up being the youngest person in Norfolk County to achieve a score of 1 in Division One in our annual District Music Festival.  It wasn't "talent." I was a lonely only child who spent way too much time practicing. 

At one time I was crazy-good at running

But I do keep forgetting that writing dialogue is not as easy for others as it feels for me.  It certainly wasn’t easy for unpublished professors at my college.  One of them did inform me, once, that I had talent for writing dialogue.  She would go on to give me a C- on a  Final Exam on three novels we had studied because, as she wrote, “It is clear you did not read any of these.” 

I only passed that exam because I was good at writing dialogue.  I answered the essay questions in the voices of characters I knew nothing about, but I used believable dialogue, PLUS – and this part is key so pay attention -- I was particularly deft at use of “quotation marks.”       " . . ."     <---See?

And by the way, dialogue is just people talking. How hard is that?  I talk to people all the time. Sometimes I even listen to what they say back.  

Writing dialogue is putting down conversations that characters have with each other.  It doesn't feel any more 'talent-dependent' than going to a chicken farm with the hope of buying eggs and -- by the gods, what is this?? They have eggs for sale!  

Without some context, I have no way of knowing if I'm any good at something.  It feels more like a warm mess of good fortune simply fell into my lap.

Take running.  At one time, I was crazy-good at running, but had no clue. This was back in the 1960s at an event sponsored by Quaker Oats. My father literally worked his whole life at the Quaker Oats Company starting in the cliché’d mail room. My mom was quite a bit younger than he, so I was only 8 when he was months from retirement. By then, he was the territorial manager of sales for the Quaker Oats Company. His "territory" was much like those you’d find in Canada.  His included all of  "New England" which back in the 60s was like... a ton of states.

Quaker was my first entree to the concept of conglomerate.  It meant that Quaker Oats also owned other businesses.  They owned Burry Biscuit which I believe owned all of the Keebler Elves.  Despite my discomfort that my Dad was connected to slave trafficking, I loved their rainbow-chip cookies. And any time a TV ad came on for Quaker Oats, I would try to inform my friends, "Did you know that the people who make Cap’n Crunch cereal also own the Keebler Elves and make them bake Girl Scout Cookies?"   

Same when an ad for Fischer Price toys came on. I would tell my friends that Quaker Oats, where my Dad was a Territorial Manager, OWNS Fischer Price. 

My talent for explaining how conglomerates worked went unnoticed.

Quaker Oats also owned Ken-L- Ration and Aunt Jemima, Gatorade and Atari which, if you think about it, the latter SHOULD go together. 

And Quaker also financed the movie Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory after the producers agreed to reference a Quaker product – which they DID using dialogue.

Of greatest fun for me, Quaker sponsored TV shows meaning I attended promotional meet-and-greets and acquired autographs of local celebrities... like Major Mudd, Rex Trailer and Miss Jeanne from Romper Room.  I also got to meet national celebs like Sally Field from The Flying Nun and Elizabeth Montgomery from Bewitched.  There were other show-events where I could have met and gret, but they came on after my bedtime so I didn’t bother attending their promos.

Anyway, one year, Quaker Oats sponsored an event related to the Presidents’ Council on Physical Fitness.  I was 8 years old at the time because my dad was still working. One event was a foot-race. Contestants of all ages and gender were to run around an indoor track a total of three times. 

I paced myself and sprinted that last lap, leaving everyone behind.  Only I thought I was 'catching up' to them, having likely “miscounted to three.” I got a D in geometry that year and didn’t trust math, so I kept on running.  I’m pretty sure the whole Forrest Gump movie was based on someone watching me in that race.

There was such a GAP between me and the other kids (mostly boys who were older, taller and stronger than I) that I assumed I had finished in last place.

My parents -- unaware I had any running talent -- were off giving away free conglomerate samples of kibble and elves to dog-owners and missed my big finish.

The Race Sponsor had my 'award' ready and approached me with it.  There were no official barkers at this event. No announcements.  No media, podia or medals strung ‘round winners' necks. What we received was a sample of an event-sponsor’s “product” which was handed off informally by marketing reps. In this case it was some cool kids' game -- maybe a train set. Doesn't matter, because I had come in last so I was baffled a stranger was coming at me with a big box of game.

I kept walking AWAY from the lady. “But sweetie, you WON this.”

"But I came in LAST," I screamed, hysterically, at her.

Her eyes darted nervously around as she took stock of a potential scene she'd somehow triggered with a mentally challenged child. But also because I was practically sprinting away from her.  Clearly she could never keep up.

More likely, she felt like a pedophile.

Within seconds, however, I discovered I HAD come in first when the bigger and stronger and -- I thought -- faster-than-me boys congratulated me for winning.

Where the fuck was that Game Lady? I thought frantically.  Only I had not yet heard the eff word.  I wouldn't hear that word for another six years and even then, I wouldn’t know it represented every part of speech until I earned a degree in my own language decades later.

Well, the Game Lady was off giving my prize to the idiot that came in second.

That was my first experience with 'talent' I did not know I had.

Around the same year (third and fourth grades were apparently my banner years) our classroom teacher had us copy a cartoon image of a duck during art class. I copied it pretty exactly.  My dad was an anateur artist who pored through countless books of country and wter scenes, which he 'copied' using either charcoal or oil pastel.  So 'copying until it looked precise' was not rocket science.

My teacher whipped my finished product from me and raced it out to show her colleagues.  Back then it was acceptable to leave an entire class unattended, as often as necessary. We believed deeply that teachers had invisible sensors all over their bodies that informed them of even thoughts of wrongdoing.  I should have been born Catholic. I'd have done great with nuns. Sigh. More unnoticed potential.

Anyway, hordes of teachers gathered and murmured there in the threshold of a door that joined grade 3 with grade 4.

Suddenly, there was silence when my teacher pointed to me, and the four other teachers just stared.

There was more whispering after that.  I assumed they were trying to decide what to do with my duck, based on 'who I was.'

"Should we tell her this is good?"

"Not sure about that. We COULD ask her parents to send her off to private school."

"Oh, that's an EXCELLENT idea, Beth."

"Have you seen the dad, though?  I hear he's retiring. I think he's almost 100."

"You're right, Sue. On a pension, private school is outta the question."

"We could just encourage her art."

"Jesus CHRIST Lois, we CAN'T let her know she has talent.  My gawd, as it is, her hand is ALWAYS up to ask a question, give an answer, ask to go to the bathroom.  I've never seen a kid more starved for attention."

"It's called ONLY CHILD Syndrome."

"Well it is ruining my career."

"Let's just forget we ever saw this."

"Great idea."

My teacher came back inside our classroom, closed the adjoining door, and placed my finished product back on my desk.

When everyone's cartoon ducks were later displayed in the hallway, I finally realized what the fuss was about.  My duck was the only one that did not resemble a Picasso-rendering of an asshole.

"Oh. They must have LIKED my duck.  Because it doesn't look ... like  -- THAT," I mused, reflecting on the wall of assholes.

The only other time I realized I had 'talent' for something, defined as 'a thing one does with exceptional ease that others cannot do at all, after years of expensive lessons' is shooting a rifle at a paper target.

My first boyfriend that owned a car was a real gun aficionado and on our second date, he took me on a tour of the local Rod and Gun Club, and then we went back to his Mustang where he reached across the stick shift and kissed me.

Anyway, he kiddingly asked me that afternoon if I wanted to join the gun club and learn to shoot a rifle.  Only I didn't know he was kidding, or speaking in innuendo, so I said yes.

I'd never even shot a BB gun.  Nor a sling shot. In Girl Scouts I shot a bow and arrow once, but had Arm Warble, so they took away my weapon. Not sure I did much bowling as a teenager, either. 

But lying prone and taking aim through the site of a rifle attached to my arm with a sort of stablizing 'sling', then squeezing the trigger -- and hitting the center of every bulls eye -- seemed to bring my boyfriend disquiet.  This seemed somehow important.

Since he didn't react too much, I assumed everyone got bulls eyes.

Eventually, after we went twice a week for an entire season of rifle-shooting, he explained to me that I was hugely good at this, and he showed me all of my scores.

Without context, they were just numbers.

So he showed me scores of OTHER people -- all of whom were neither female nor brand new at this.

Suffice to say, that year I was awarded a trophy and a wall plaque for being "HIGH JUNIOR OF 1975."  Or maybe '74.  

That 'award ceremony' was just as special as my previous dabblings in public recognition.  The rifle shooting participants stood in a voo doo circle.  The Grand Master awarded the lower scores first.  I forget what they were called.  The Year’s Super-Lowest Junior, and The Low Junior. Then they awarded the trophy and plaque to “CAROLYN SMITH, who is brand new to our gun club and to shooting.  Join me in congratulating this year’s High Junior of 1975 or maybe '74. Congratulations!’

No one applauded.

I was old enough by this point in my career as a human to recognize they were jealous. Not only was I afflicted with beginner's luck.  I was a girl. The notion was inconceivable and, so, all 20 young men pretended this award circle was not happening.  A murmur slowly broke out and the circle dispersed.

I did not go back for a second year at the Rod and Gun Club.

I did, however, out-shoot the shit out of a woman touting herself as a professional marksman (I was already a marksman first class but it didn't mean anything to me) at the 1996 Boy Scout Overnight Mom and Me Camp.  We had to do Boy Scout-style Tri-athalon stuff.  One event was the dreaded bow and arrow and I, fortunately, only injured a canoe.

There was also a very tense knot-tying race and my sheep shank pretty much resembled a magician’s slipknot – or a noose. 

Then came rifle shooting.

Without having touched any weaponry except my Vitamixer in three decades, I out-shot the Mommy who was a professional marksman – I mean like for the Olympics.  

I walked past her with my target, all clean in the middle, and she just stared.  

We never spoke after that, not even during the big Wienie and Marshmallow Roast / Improvisational Comedy Bonfire that night.

Anyway, writing dialogue for me is the same.  Which probably means I could write a play. 

And that’s all I got to say bout that.

Mommy's Great Evacuation -- Happy Spring!

  Dearest Best-Friend Anna,

    Did you ever hear about Saint Augustine’s “Confessions?”  He was beatified by the Roman Catholic Church back in the fifth century for confessing his sins in emotion-drenched sermons he delivered throughout all of Europe and parts of Eastern Minnesota.

     You’re still Catholic, right?  So I am wondering if there is, at least, a Christian Forgiveness Card I can redeem at Shaw’s if I confess my sins. I know that I, for one, will feel better getting this off my chest, so allow me to confess to you my… special journey … with unspeakable physical atrocity.

     So there we all were, all of our available family members, together for Movie Night: it was me, Jonathan, Abigail with Zachary due in a bit later. We were watching Robin Hood, Men in Tights. I'm lying on the sofa and Abby is lying with me, her head on a pillow on my hip, and we're laughing and laughing. At the movie.  At each other.

     Jonathan is in a rocking chair by the staircase, and he's about to get up to go catch a little cat-nap, but the movie is too funny. He's had a long work day -- plus I made him meet me at a tennis court for a rousing one-hour game. (I am about to become a mother-in-law in five weeks, so I have embarked on a crucial fitness craze and carb-restricted diet.)  Anyway, I am TEEMING with energy.  Jonathan is laugh-yawning.

     Ten minutes before the movie ended, Jonathan took his case of Bilateral Eyelid Dropsy off for a rest. But Abby and I finished the movie, laughing and laughing. Which is when a strange rumbling in my belly started. I laughed at a particularly funny part of the movie... and unexpectedly experienced what I thought was indigestion.  A spontaneous ...  southerly belch.

     That is not – precisely-- what happened.

     Abby bolted upright, taking her pillow with her -- stood -- and screamed.

     You know last year’s TV ad for Travelocity, when the vacationing husband tells his wife she looks like a beach angel, and his wife scream-giggles? Exactly the sound Abby made.  Check it out here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mSVEQHDyC9A

     Plus, Abby’s face was wearing the same trauma-expression I’d seen in 1998 when she got off a now-condemned rollercoaster:  her mouth wide open, tears brimming, face purple, and the only noise issued from her throat was a strangled gasping snort.

     Finally she managed, "My pillow is ... MOM! WHAT KIND OF GAS WAS TH... OH... Mom... UGHHH!"

     I had forgotten the secret side effect of sudden exercise and diet change: malaria-style dysentery you don't know is en route because there is simply no warning. One minute, you’re lying sideways enjoying a movie, and the next, misadventure ensues.

     I’d experienced this side effect only once before on a similarly-unsafe fad diet. But at least I had been in my own powder room, startled … but safe. I surely was not prone on a leather sofa with my daughter’s head resting on my haunch, giggling uncontrollably.

     I am now collecting the saggy sisterhood of the traveling pants ... giggling and screaming myself. I couldn't recall ever before experiencing a public befouling.

     That is when Jonathan appeared in the hallway roused from slumber, unaware of the tragedy that befell my compression shorts, and he inadvertently blocked my path to the bathroom.

     "Why," he began, "are you guys so NOISY and--UGH... my GAWD.  Something in the house smells like …”

     "Uh, Dad,” clucked Abigail, hands on hips. “Your WIFE just crapped herself."

     "Is THAT wh—Jesus, Carolyn. You smell like dead people. My GAWD."

     I am still laughing... still evacuating...  he is still in my WAY.

     I’d never experienced this kind of 'people proximity’ in a moment of personal crisis.

    Abby is jumping up and down next to Jonathan, micrometers away from me, and I can barely squeeze over the bathroom threshold for the crowd... trying to contain as much of myself and my trail of sadness as I can.

     I close the door... they are LEANING on the door, talking directly ONTO it...in Wood-Muffle voices.

      "I bet," Jonathan boomed, (he is enunciating carefully, so the hollow door can BEST amplify his words) "that you're feeling pretty unhappy you didn't wear cotton foundation garments today. Without SOME kind of barrier, all the evacuation just runs downward from gravity and-- "

     Abby is now making gurgling snort-squeaks but I can't worry if she's choking because I'm busy with the holocaust in my loose, nylon-mesh tennis shorts.

     But I managed to answer Jonathan.

     "It's not so much anything running from gravity.  It's all pretty contained in the seat... but I'm worried about the sofa and pillow because this sports-mesh is designed to expel liquids. I'm wearing... an atomic SEIVE. OH LOOK! Hot PEPPER seeds!"

     There is a thud outside the door where Abby has collapsed from hypoxic pig-squeals and Jonathan is still speaking directly into the door... "I hope you don't think WE are cleaning the sofa. My GAWD this hallway smells. Why don't I hear the bathwater running?"

     Abby has regained her ability to speak, but can only discuss Depends Undergarments. And also, "Why are we pinned against the bathroom door?"

     "I am thinking the same thing," I shouted, still fairly occupied with Dante's Fifth Circle of Hell in my ex-pants.

     Now the two of them are pretending to talk to each other, but they are using the Door Speaker Phone. Abby is noting the "essence" is eeking through the space under the door.

    Assuming they're both flat on the floor like caught fugitives -- nostrils flaring to huff as much evac as possible through the gap -- I open a bottle of peppermint conditioner and squeeze the whole thing at the bottom of the door.

     "Gawd," Jonathan gasps, "It smells like shit and a breath mint. I still don't hear the bathwater running."

     There is conversation about the use of sponge baths and face cloths -- the hope that everything I use in there will be sent to the landfill -- more hope that I find the bottle of Febreze in the linen closet and use it on myself. AFTER I fill the tub and put me in it.

     Eventually, Jonathan returns to his nap.  Abby gets online.  She did not share my story. I asked. It would, she said, be far too embarrassing. For her.

     I did actually throw away my sieve pants and got the sofa et al springtime fresh. Tilex, Murphy's Oil Soap, Orange Pledge with a Febreze chaser. I did eventually turn on the bathwater. And I did get in it.

     I also wore a clean pair of Abigail's pajama bottoms.

     "Oh. I see you're wearing my Sushi Swimming Fish PJ bottoms. You know WHAT? They look REALLY cute on you. They're yours."

     That's when Zachary came home. We decided not to say anything to him... about any of this.

     He didn't seem to ‘notice’ anything, so I assume the exorcism was successful.

     I have SOOO much energy-adrenaline from the Great Evacuation. I may never sleep again.

Gurgle, rumble... :)... I am SO glad I am sending this confession to you. Does this qualify me for canonization?  Please do not post this on the internet,

xxoo carolyn   

Summer and the Smell of De-Comp In The Morning

     The last time summer beckoned with me teaching in a classroom, my school remained in session  until June 30th, making July 1st my first formal day of intensive and purposeful torpor. 

     But this was not to be. 
     My husband learned he had an emergency business trip for several weeks that began on this same day.

    In decades of marriage, I'd learned these 'extended business trips' coincided with local apocalypse:
    Storm doors blew off hinges.  Pets and children went missing.  Roofs leaked, about which I was happy: I stuck plants underneath the drippage. It was the only way they'd get watered.

   Nothing like this happened when he was home. 

Not my corpulent vermin-corpse: this one was too fresh

   So on July 1, 2011, Jonathan leaves, and I wake up to the smell of death.

   I realize it must be coming from outdoors and the wind is blowing the stench inside -- but I need to rid myself of death-smell as I was writing curriculum, right by the smell window. (Okay, I lied about purposeful torpor. But writing curricula in a balmy morning breeze was a welcome change in routine and I greatly enjoyed the process.  Just not with corpulent-rot wafting over Unit Plans for Oedipus at Collonus).

      So I donned chain mail and football helmet, brandished a scythe and Tilex; my third hand grasped a flashlight and out to my front lawn I repaired.

      But there was no befouling odor outdoors.

      It was coming from inside the house.

      This is my favorite line from horror movies: 'We've traced the call. It's coming from inside the house! Get out! Get out NOW!"

     So I trudged back inside and huffed every nook and cranny that would hold the melted vermin, used my flashlight to look under all the baseboards. 
     That's when I spotted a shadow... turd-shaped... of a being resting its corpse on the top tier of the square aluminum conductor-fins that wrap around the pipe inside the baseboard.

     How did a mouse or mole or death-rodent get UP in there?

     More important was how something so small could emit a Level-Five Death Vapor.  This one harbored the typical fruity de-comp -- but with notes of ammonia and a low-tide crab finish. I sure was not going to feed my fingers inside the little half-inch space and start yanking at its dead parts.

     So I pondered and fretted… “What should I DO?”

     I called every English teacher I know.

     I even phoned Jonathan who said, "Oh, yeah. I smelled that this morning, after I came back inside for my sunglasses I'd forgotten."

     "You SMELLED the death and left ANYWAY?"

     "Well... yeah."

     Reina, a grade 6 English teacher, suggested I phone the Boy Scouts of America who could dispatch an Area Scout in need of a Badge.

     Her other helpful suggestion was to call the Fire Department.

     Or Mark. (Grade 7 English)

     Or wait for her to get back from Kennebunkport, so her ex-husband (employed in green, renewable, sustainable energy) could remove the beast.

     I hung up.

     I bought myself time to hatch a plan by spraying half a bottle of Tilex over the area and covering it with a towel I didn't want anymore, then sealing the site with opened Ziploc Freezer Bags duct-taped around The Zone.

     The only way I could DO any of this was… pretending I was the star investigator in an episode of CSI.  Because our college-bound daughter, Abigail, was not of much help. 
     Actually, in fairness, once I’d spied the turd-shadow and enjoyed a panic attack, I scream-handed her the flashlight to get a closer look. Abby went in like a pro, got close, then announced, “I see a tail … and one eye looking up at me.”

     That was the last I saw of her.

     I pushed a piece of furniture toward the containment-site, turned on a fan, and burned Rainforest-flavored incense OUTDOORS so it could waft its fragrance IN. It was a very Medieval experience, smelling death-rot conjoined with incense.   I am glad we live in the 21st century.

      Satisfied I was safe from inhaling rodent rot-spores into my lungs, I was able to calmly hatch a plan.      
      The beast was resting inside a baseboard. Using my literary-device skills, I thought about THEME.

      I will call…. my OIL COMPANY. They INSTALLED these baseboards.

      They arrived in an hour.

      It is a good thing I did not have Mark, an innocent Boy Scout, Reina’s husband OR the Fire Department come.  This job needed Professionals.  It needed… Sochia’s Gas and Oil.

     This intrepid team comprises our Plumber Contingent. In the past 26 years they have come to our home to snake toilets and sink-traps; they have disassembled entire drains to retrieve things too horrific to report using words.

    Once, when one plumbing artisan decided I had clearly dropped a candle or cellphone from the tank top into my acutely-clogged toilet (saying very Top Gun things like, "YA GOTTA KEEP THE TANKTOP CLEAR OF MISSILES!"), he began to begrudgingly disassemble the upstairs toilet, then carried it off to our front lawn to retrieve some child's toy or my cellphone or candle missile...

     . . .and discovered a poop the size of a Buick lodged inside the toilet trap curve.

     I know which child was constipated at that time, but I will protect her confidentiality.

     Suffice to say, I trust these guys to come to my home to retrieve things only Stephen King could write about; and they did not fail me yesterday.

     The creature had decomposed to some anti-corporeal melting point and leaked itself onto the series of conducting fins serving as coffin. And there were entymological beings that begin with the letter that comes before N. They are the opposite of black in color.

     He had to disassemble the entire baseboard...

     He had to use needle nose pliers to remove six inches of aluminum finning.

     He had to take pieces and parts out-of-doors with a brush and Tilex and scour them.

     He asked for paper towels.

     He wore Hazmat gloves.

     He is my hero.

From my son Zach, by phone, after I reported our mis-adventure on his answering machine. 

"Lovely story, Mom.  My favorite part is the imagery of football gear and Medieval armor.  I'm off to Yoga Class."

Me to Zach's voicemail.  "I am blogging the second half of this story since your machine has limited memory."

  Death Smell, Part II

     I just this second had to have Abby help me push a dead, obviously pregnant, female rodent in the driveway onto a paper plate so I could cast it into the wilderness out back.

     It was freshly dead. Or sort of fresh. Maybe six hours old... starting to stiffen.

     It had a big belly and nipples -- I assume the rodent feti were also dead.

     I decided, as I have no gloves and I’m now OUT of Ziploc baggies, I had to use the plastic packaging to a bag of mouse-traps to nudge the beast onto the paper plate. Talk about theme!

     I flung the plate, the beast and the mouse trap wrapping frisbee-style into the woods, beyond dad's woodpile at Abby's recommendation: "Dad puts his HANDS into the wood pile... you have to go much FARTHER."

     She taunts me, that girl. I was happy casting it just short of the wood pile so I didn't have to walk with pregnant-death balanced on a festive Dixie plate any longer, “Happy BIRTHDAY!”

     I am going to stop thinking of the rodents... because EVEN WHEN I JUST WENT TO THE MOBILE STATION JUST NOW the actual SOCHIA’S DEATH-WRANGLER-Expert who removed the carrion AND all the aluminum fins was there... at the Mobile Station... and he SPOKE to me.

     "Hi, did your problem get resolved? Did we get... you know... everything taken care of?"

He meant the smell, of course -- but I am in a deep and purposeful amnesiac state about this Event so I had no idea who he was or to what her referred.  I had to make him be more specific.

     “Who ARE you?”

     He struggled, as he was trying to be SO appropriate. He said,

     "Yesterday, when we captured -- your little friend."

     THEN I remembered who he was.

     Actually, post-trauma, he looked younger and kinder and softer.

     DURING the capture of my death-creature, he looked older, more formidable and rugged.

     I had that same psychological context-memory of Nick's hematologist, when he was diagnosed with a bleeding disorder. Before we knew it wasn't anything like leukemia, I pictured her with spiky, dark teeth, an overbite, garrish red lipstick and dark, over processed hair.

     Actually, she had a blonde, choppy stylish cut, perfect teeth, kind smile, and wore no makeup except mascara.

    I didn't recognize her, either, upon our second meeting: this time, after Nick was diagnosed as healthy... just a reaction to his theophylline medication.

     Trauma memories, at least for ME, are terribly unreliable.

I know, yuck, right?  :(

     Oh, please, can we see one more picture of corpulent rodent-rot so I can feel confident I DID experience trauma?

     . . . and thank you for your attention to this matter. Moreover, thank you to my oil company and their Intrepid Plumbing Contingent for so many years of service, care and recovery.

Bang Camaro's Easter Show, Where my Son Nick and Vocalist Nate Went Missing

Speaking of terrorist hijackings, do you remember how in the 60s and 70s that was all terrorists could do? No one worried about an Underwear Bomber or concealed knives and C-4 inside sneakers or nerve gas sprinkled in greeting cards.  

Back In The Day, we were just afraid that our planes might be hijacked to Cuba, causing a delay.

Those were good times.

Meanwhile that is not what this evening's post is about.

 This post is about EASTER!  I love writing posts about Religious Holidays and I sort of forgot to update you on Easter, which was not precisely the Easter I had planned in my musings.  I'd planned on being out of the country, and when I found myself still here, I pretty much threw a ham together and went out with a couple of my kids to play Viking Chess.  It was uneventful, but fun. This forces me to offer a retrospective humorous vignette about an Easter from my past.  Let's get to it, shall we?

THE CHRONIC MISADVENTURES OF NICK AND NATE -- 2007

(…This Easter, Jesus Had Nothin on Them)

                         

Easter: a deeply spiritual Christian holiday, punctuated by Mystical Bunnies who lay chocolate eggs and colored bonnets in the yards of unsuspecting children. 

A time of renewal and rebirth.

And this year, a time to traipse to Philadelphia to enjoy Bang Camaro’s Spiritual Easter-Eve Show.  In fact, this Easter we experienced Resurrection Itself via the Very Missing For Eighteen Hours Nick Given and Nate Wells – each of whom draws breath because, this Easter, I let them live.

This… is their Holy Story.

“Carolyn,” gushed our children’s father, several weeks ago, “Did you hear about Jake and Zach?”

“I’m making a sandwich for lunch and I have to concentrate. Is this important?”

“Well, only if you consider Jake and Zach BEING IN BANG CAMARO WITH THEIR BROTHER, NICK, IM PORT ANT … WOO HOOO!!”

“Did someone die?”

“Um, they had a NEED for two BC Choir-ists and our own SONS were—”

“Who quit?”

“I don’t know.  Aren’t you EXCITED about your S—”

“I wanna know who quit and if it’s temporary or permanent but I have to go cuz of the mayonnaise and the meat.”

That was how the Unconfirmed Deaths of Nick and Nate began.

Once news was confirmed that Zachary and Jacob had officially been added to the BC Choir Roster, AND that the Easter-Weekend Tour to New York then Philadelphia was on with all three of our boys included, the GIVEN FAMILY-CAMARO WAS DOWN, AGAIN!  Only this time, we didn’t have to drive Zach and Jake to the shows since they were IN them. They Rode The Camaro-Convoy in the professional driving-hands of Nate Wells with Nick Given as Co-Pilot … like God and Jesus Christ.

What could possibly go wrong?
-----------------------------------------------

Nothing went wrong en route to NY.  And the NY show was to die for, though, technically, no one did. This performance was the second where the Givens-Three performed together without us in attendance, and both shows were HITS! Could everything go RIGHT with us IN AUDIENCE??

We believed so.

Which is why we boarded a Philadelphia-bound plane the morning of the Philly Debut with Abby, and Jess McGuire – our adopted Given daughter – both in tow. (Notice how her name begins with the letters Jes ??)

Once our plane touched ground and we bustled into the hotel, Jessie discovered she’d left her green purse-satchel on the airport-to-hotel shuttle … a deja-vu replay of my New York LEAVING OF OVERNIGHT BAG IN MASSACHUSETTS last November. I took this as a sign, and sent up to the Rock Gods a Prayer of Thanksgiving for this Portend of Good Things To Come.

Within minutes, Jessie’s purse was resurrected and delivered unto her, and we cried out, “Amen.”

That evening would hold another miracle with Dinner Reservations hours before kick-off of the Philly Show. We’d reserved a table for 7 at a restaurant across the street from the Khyber venue. *DISCLAIMER: The Given Family WELCOMES Spontaneous Dinner Guests (which Given-Camaro-Bros brought) but which Evil Restaurants Who Depend on Actual Reservation NUMBERS… Do Not.

Before our eyes, a rotating choreography of musical chairs afforded our ensemble sufficient time and space for all apostles to eat … almost together.  It was the Loaves and the Fishes… at the Last Supper.

Given this Rock-Solid Beginning, how could I have EVER questioned the safety of Nick and Nate when they Went Hopelessly Missing for Eighteen Hours After the Philly Show?

The Easter-Eve Philly Show was a phenomenon. The crowd was ecstatic, engaged, enraged (did Dirty Dan or Diamond Dick die that night?) arriving steeped in Camaro-lyrics and accompanied by celebrities such as ALEX’S MOM AND BROTHER, AND ALEX’S IN-LAWS WHO KNEW NOTHING OF THE ACTUAL CAMARO CAR THE BAND GAVE HIM AS A WEDDING GIFT but rest easy Alex cuz I told them. Also there was a girl in studded skull-and-crossbones T-shirt that matched my hat, attending with half dozen of her friends who’d seen the northeast Comcast promo of BC who fell SO in love with this band, they were prepared to convoy to Boston. Fortunately, they conveniently lived in Philly this particular Easter weekend.

Best of all was my proximity to Bang Camaro Documentarian, Rob, grabbing video of multiply poignant Philadelphian moments. I was positioned up front, just behind Rob, but technically beneath him due to height-disparity which brought my face to precision-armpit level and I have to tell you: Rob smells wonderful.  All evening I enjoyed his deodorant fragrance and hoped to learn its name.

The evening ended with Pete and Jake dancing with Abby, Nate convincing her to purchase a drum kit and take lessons, Nick dancing with me, last call happened, the Camaro Van was being loaded. And that is when the Badness began.

Jake and Zach were joining us back at our hotel, then flying with us to Providence Easter morning.  Nick and Nate would convoy back to the Fant’s house in New Jersey, then we’d all connect by phone Easter afternoon and settle on a restaurant rendezvous at suppertime. (Since I’d apparently agreed to adopt Nate, Graeme and Doz that evening, I excitedly made mental restaurant-reservations for 11 that could be bumped to 13 without stress or need for miracles.)

At 2:00 AM, Nick and Nate headed off to the parking garage with Zach and Jake to retrieve their overnight things. 

Four of them entered the garage. 

Only two would emerge.

Meanwhile, Jess, Abs and I had hailed a cab and climbed aboard, so when the two boys approached the car with their gear and boarded with their dad, it seemed natural to call into the darkness, ‘Safe trip, Nick and Nate! See you Easter afternoon,’ as we sped into the night.

Easter morning involved check-out and Easter brunch and a rush to our flight and Zachary being patted down and detained by Homeland Security. (They released him). Then came the near-crash landing in Providence. This still felt pretty natural.

The phone call Jake made to fellow Camaro-ists at 4:45PM after no one had heard from Nick was not, however, natural. It seems Nick’s third Pink Razor Cell in about as many days supernaturally died and Nate, of course, the Given that he’d become, left his cell in Massachusetts.

Jake on cell w/Clifford:  “Yeah, so since Nick and Nate have no phones, we’re wondering if maybe they could borrow one of yours so we can plan an Easter rendezvous with them and--     Oh.   Really.   No kidding.   Eh, no, dude, we left them in the parking garage after the show.   Huh.  Well, okay, then – thanks.”

 -click-

“What’s up?”

“Mom, I’m sure it’s nothing, but it seems Nick and Nate never made it to the Fant’s in New Jersey last night. And ahh – apparently everyone at the Fant’s figured they’d stayed at our hotel in Philly.”

“I see.”

“I’m sure they’re fine.”

“Mom, they’re FINE,” yelled Zach. “They’re FINE,” smiled Abby and Jess.

We drove in silence from Providence to Douglas, each absorbed by his own personal hypothesis on Nick and Nate’s demise.

I won’t prolong the agony. Naturally, they were fine. But just yesterday when I was reading the Boston Herald’s write-up on Nick’s band The Vershok releasing a new CD, I closed the paper and was assaulted by the 150-point, bold front page headline, WHERE IS MY SON?  with subhead: Anguished Mom’s Desperate Plea.  See Disappearance, page 7.  While Nick and Nate evaded police across three state lines and countless counties to arrive in our driveway at 8PM, not all families are so… lucky.

But Nick and Nate are too Rock-Crazy for sad fates to befall them. And we enjoyed this notion in the three-hour wait between discovering they’d gone missing, and when they rolled in alive.  Some of us used laptops to look up Mercedes SUV mileage and crash-test ratings; others phoned the New Jersey Turnpike Authority and alerted four sets of state police that Nate Wells’ car was “overdue.” We exchanged witty, bemusing tragedy-free scenarios that might have caused delay. (Please note that each proved true. In fact, Nate and Nick would relay additional events that Chevy Chase -- on Fudgeweisers -- with Hardening of the Arteries -- could never fancy in his wildest musings.)

Before I share Their Plight, huge thanks to the Local Douglas Police Authorities and their Heroic Dispatcher whom I contacted on the advice of a Boston-based State Policeman.  Our Douglas Dispatcher ran a Safety Check on Nate’s car – and checked on their status throughout Pennsylvania, NJ, NY and MA. (The New Jersey Turnpike Authority and their TRUSTY ANSWERING MACHINE were of no help, nor was the Philly PD or the PA, NJ and NY staties combined.)

Indeed, amid the incoming 911 calls where our dispatcher coordinated ambulances, fire trucks and rescue choppers to quell area-disasters, he managed to extract the following Nick and Nate data:

• A white Mercedes SUV had, in fact, experienced “difficulty” – but it wasn’t registered to Nate Wells.  PHEW!
• Nate was born on Christmas Eve in the late 70’s; his parents live in Vermont.
• He has no outstanding warrants; he has no criminal record.
• The same could not be said for our son, Nicholas.
• Nate has an active, viable driver’s license and no recent moving violations.
• The same could not be said for our son, Nicholas.
• We know the VIN number of Nate Well’s Mercedes SUV, which our dispatcher learned had been tagged for tow in Philadelphia. (How come the Philly Police Force was unable to extract THAT data but 300 miles away our fearless dispatcher acquired it in one keystroke I ask you, HUH?)
• Nate’s car is registered legally in Massachusetts, is insured, and is in his name.
• Nick’s last cell phone call was made early the previous morning – then All Went Silent – according to the report our Dispatching Wizard obtained from Verizon itself.
• Neither Nick nor Nate nor their dismembered body parts had turned up on even a single of the involved highways where state police were summoned to crash scenes.

The list below comprises scenarios we all GUESSED CORRECTLY had taken place – as well as outlandish events too bizarre for conscious thought that Nick and Nate swore actually happened.

To distinguish between each category, I have placed a smiley face :) after those situations we’d accurately predicted.  The frowns :( are for those ADDITIONAL events that actually took place, despite all laws of physics and human decency.

• Nick and Nate got lost trying to leave the parking garage :) -- asked local STREET WANDERERS for directions back to the Khyber :( several times:) :) only to find themselves WAY outside the city limits hopelessly lost.  :) (The muffled giggles from the Street Wanderers echo through Philly today.)
• Nick and Nate genuinely drove for hours, in circles :) still hoping to find the Khyber :) where the Camaro Convoy last was.  By this time, The Camaro Convoy had been in sleeping bags at the Fant’s in New Jersey for more than half an hour. :)
• Nick and Nate Drove and Drove Until The Day-Moon Rise… :)
• Which is when they ran out of gas :)
• After getting gasoline –then an Italian Sub -- :(  Nick discovered he’d managed to park between two intractable barriers at such an angle that it was impossible to get the SUV out :(
• After an 18-point turn, they were back on the road :(
• They decided to check into a motel :)
• It was a motel harboring a troupe of cute, black transvestites :(
• The notion of learning to use a Pay Phone to alert the BC or families as to a “delay” never occurred to either of them :)
• In fact, they told themselves that if they JUST woke up early enough and drove safely, NO ONE WOULD EVER KNOW. :)
• And when they DID wake up at 11 AM :) and got back on the road with maps and directions :)they realized they were in VISUAL SIGHT… of the Khyber :(

By 7:55PM, I’d started absently braiding and unbraiding a lock of bang-hair to release tension.

At 7:59, Zach peered through the diningroom window then perked up, “There they are! They’re pulling into the driveway now!”

From the kitchen someone said, “They are Risen.”

Apparently I DID adopt Nate Wells.  In my Relief-Hysteria where I threw open Nate’s car-door and shoved my braid at his face screaming “DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS NATE THIS IS A STRESS BRAID” then burst into tears – Nate calmly responded as would any Given.  “But neither of us had a PHONE.”

You know, I am reminded of a lovely church hymn from my childhood:

              As it was in the beginning –

               Is now and ever shall be: 

                Nick & Nate … Without End

                    Making Amends …

                      Amends.

(Also the anthem, Fists Up If You Believe in Us.  I’ll never doubt again.)

  Thanks again to Douglas PD… (and the Rock Gods who smile upon us).

                                  xxxxxxxxoooooooo –cg