Deadlines ...

… this is not what I want to be writing about.

I want to write about “no-mance” … I want to write about romance … I want to write about transitions … I want to write about discovery … I want to write more about remembering … I want to daydream endlessly.

But there is this lump in my chest.  

I want to deny that it’s there.

I only feel it at night … when I lay there … drifting … thinking happy thoughts about my day … happy thoughts about great moments with Z … great conversations … the interesting stuff that I have read … how it inspires me to write … and my eyelids drift closed … gently … … gently

gently …

Toss.

Turn.

Leg cramp.

Deep breath.

Toss.  Turn.  Leg cramp.  Deep breath.  Visualize five … … four … … … threeeee … 

THAT’s when I can no longer avoid the pit in my chest.  There, all wrapped up in a duvet of nighttime quiet, I can no longer be distracted from it.  It’s dull ache and heaviness press down on me.  

Dead.

Lines.

Why do they cause me panic?  Why do they call them deadlines?  Is it because the effort … the sprinting … the creating … the assembling … the cramming … the printing … the typing … the everything just ends when you reach that line?  It dies.  But isn’t the whole point of all that energy to get to a new place?  A place where I’m … I don’t know … smarter … where I’m more alive? 

Historically the word deadline derives its meaning from the boundary line in a prison yard.  I imagine the prisoner after careful contemplation, plotting, preparation, deciding, and submission to his plan.  I imagine him running towards that line.  The deadline.  Fear of the inside overwhelms fear of the other side …  no longer worried about what waits across that line.  Sentries watch … guns trained … ever-ready to reward him for his efforts.

Dead.

Lines.

They loom.  They hover.  If I sprint at them, I will surely feel like death.  So I won’t.  

Soft and slow, I will tip toe and creep.  

And I will cheer when I’ve crossed the line.

Live.

Line. 

Smarter and more alive.

Milestones ...

NovemberJuliet turns four today.

It seems like it should be one hundred.

Like this space has always been here.

But it’s only four.

I look back on early ramblings and reflect on who I was then.

It was not a fun time.

But I remember laughing.

In the storm.  In the pit.  In the desert.

I remember laughing.

It was T who answered “write,” to my airy daydream of becoming a writer.

“Start writing.”

So I did.

Thanks T.  

From the Archives - Remembering . . .

Their fears.

Their hunger.

Their shivers.

Their volleys.

Their commands.

Their commitment.

Their determination.

Their comraderie.

Their sacrifice. 

I thank them, and I thank you for remembering yesterday’s soldiers and supporting today’s. 

There is so much to remember and to be thankful for.

Update on Tuesday, November 11, 2008 at 09:42PM by Norma Jean Barrett

Sooooo, a cool thing happened to me today …

a.m.  As Z and I approach the school I see one of his classmates run back to her Mom’s car. 

“Mama … mama” she wails, and I wonder what’s gotten her so upset. 

“H must be having a hard time getting to school today” I say to Z. 

I decide to approach the car to say hello to H and her mom.  As I lean into the window, her mom says “H has forgotten her poppy and she’s upset.”

I see in her Mom’s expression that she has appropriately drawn the line and will not entertain the thought of going home to retrieve the poppy, instead choosing to console H by reminding her that she will likely get another poppy later in the day.

I reach around and pull the poppy off of Z’s backpack.  The very poppy he nicked off my coat just five minutes before.  I pass it to her and whisper “Shhhh, don’t tell Z.”  She wipes her tears and we stroll up the walkway after Z.  

1030ish - I duck into the local pharmacy next to Z’s school to grab a fresh poppy for my tunic.  I’m in uniform now and walking with pride in my step, my medals clapping against my chest creating an upbeat that matches my mood.  I observe Remembrance Day with Z at his school this year.  As the only one present in uniform, I create quite a stir.  The room is especially abuzz when I rise to salute.  I speak with his class for a few minutes afterwards, and am reminded how sharp and witty young fresh minds can be.  This is truly my most memorable day of Remembrance yet.

p.m. - I return to Z’s school at the end of the day to pick him up.  I’m plain clothed again, having returned my formal uniform to its usual spot hung neatly awaiting the next occasion for wear, my poppy still pinned to the lapel.  As I walk, I hear footsteps behind me.  They seem to pick up speed, but I don’t look back.  I realise they are now beside me and glance at the hi-tops their owner is wearing.  I look up at the tall teen with curly hair tousled under his toque.

“How are you doing today?” he says.

“I am good” I say with a hint of curiosity layering my tone.

“I notice you’re not wearing a poppy” he remarks.

“That’s right” I say.  “I gave mine to a little girl who needed it this morning” I say with a smile, and add “and I’ve left the replacement on my other coat.”

“I have an extra here” and he passes it along, adding “it’s important to support our troops you know.”

“I know” I say.  “Thanks” I add, hoping he can sense just how thankful I am.

I pin the poppy on and at the edge of the same schoolyard walkway H and I strolled up earlier that day, I turn back to catch his eyes and say “Thanks again … keep spreading the word to support the troops.”

Karma …

It’s a cool thing.

Seven Up and Sandwiches

There weren’t any desks in my grade 1 classroom, just tables.

There were four or five to a table and we were grouped by reading ability.  At my table, the enriched reading table, there were five of us.  Me, my best friend Melanie, my other best friend Heather, my other best friend Verna, and Tony … who was most definitely not my best friend.  I had a lot of best friends then … I still do, but none of them is Melanie, Heather or Verna.

I was stuck beside Tony.

Tony told me about his fish and fish books every day.

He had a lot of fish.

He also had a lot of fish books … or maybe he just had a lot of stories about that one fish book.

I wore skirts with prints of flowers and soft cotton t-shirts.  White cotton undies that rode up my butt, long blonde pig tails that tickled my back, and velcro sneakers.  My hard plastic lunchpail had a thermos inside that most days held sugary tang, but some days it had ravioli - and ravioli days were the good days.

I loved craft days and gym days and library days with read-aloud time.  Losing myself in a book or in my rendition of the voice of the character in a book was not losing myself at all - it was like finding a home where everything smelled of fresh-baked cookies and every surface was covered in cozy just like my blankie.  

I especially loved game days.  Game days were a lot of fun.  Seven-up was my absolute favourite.  I loved the anticipation - would somebody tap me, would I be able to guess who, would I get to do the tapping, would I steal a quick snooze or snatch a momentary daydream?  We’d sit there at our tables … our heads nuzzled into our elbows to block out the light.  Except for Melanie … she told me on the playground that she always let just enough light in to see the passing shadows.  She did not like to lose.  

Melanie sat on the other side of me at our enriched reading table.  “Do it”, I heard her whisper through the crack under her arm.  

Sure our heads were down on our desks poised and ready to be tapped, but there would be no seven-up that day.

“Say it was yours”, she coaxed, “and hurry up - I really have to pee”.

“GIRLS!” Ms. Appleby said harshly.  “There’s no need to be whispering.  Now class, we are going to sit here as long as it takes for whoever threw out this whole sandwich from their lunch to come forward.”

Melanie nudged.  I could see her eyebrows egging me on.  I felt my hand go up.  I didn’t want it to go up.  I didn’t want it to be my hand that went up.  It was not my sandwich.  But there I was, hand up.

My shoulders, my everything stiffened up in anticipation … in fear of what was to come next for me from Ms. Appleby.  The room buzzed with relief and whispers and energy.  

“Everybody but Norma Jean can head outside for recess.”

“QUICKLY!”

Thank-God she said quickly.  I know I had to pee.  I know I wanted it to be over with.  

She set the sandwich in my lunchbox next to my pink thermos.  She told me I would have to take it home - I was not to eat it, and I had better not throw it out again.  Her knowing disappointed look stayed with me throughout the day and during the long bus-ride home.

************

“What’s this sandwich?” my Dad yelled from the kitchen.  

I told him the whole story.  The heads on desks … Melanie … Ms. Appleby … the pee … the lie.  The lie, the lie, the LIE my best friend made me tell.  

“Uh-huh,” Dad would say periodically as I went through my long sordid tale.  I am sure I shed tears, because I always shed tears.  I still do, but not over sandwiches.

When I had finished, he leaned over and lifted me up and set me on the counter.  He got up really close and pressed his nose against mine, so close that our eyelashes kissed like butterfly wings.  Then he said,

“Looks tasty.  Want half?” 

**************

If you liked my story, return to http://www.thegirlwho.net and vote for me by typing “I vote for Norma” (or words to that effect) in the comment block of the post that contains the links to “The Great Experiment - Childhood Memory”.

Update on Monday, November 2, 2009 at 08:41PM by Norma Jean Barrett

YIPPEE!  I won thegirlwho’s great experiment contest for October, which asked us to share a childhood memory.  Thanks to all who visited and read my submission AND a big thanks to all those who voted AND to all those great teachers like Ms. Appleby (not her real name) who toil away in the classroom and encourage students to find, do, and be their best.  Finally a big shout out to my Noonie, who didn’t always have the right thing to say, but struck gold when he did.

The Elastic Marriage

A law school assignment required students to consider rules for marriage.  This was my answer.