"In the Library" - 1974 One of my favorite students - a second-grader named Jackson - came running out to my car today to tell me he was a finalist in a district-wide writing competition. The story, about a boy who changes places with a macaw and then doesn't know what to do when the macaw refuses to change back, was inspired by his summer trip to Brazil, and the friendship he formed with a macaw that lived in the hotel's outdoor lobby.
When Jackson found out his name had been printed on the district website, he looked at me and said - quite seriously - "I guess people are going to be asking for my autograph." (The kid just kills me. Later in today's class, when asked to write a brief biography of himself, Jackson's paragraph began: "I have faith in God. I believe in science. Also I like Dreyer's Double Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream.")
I completely understood Jackson's exuberance over his writing success. It's truly a thrilling feeling when someone (let alone a lot of someones) responds to something you write.
When I was 11 years old, my elementary school spent big bucks on a new library, and to get everyone excited, they offered a cash prize - and publication in some silly kid's magazine - for the best student poem about the new digs. The librarian (oh-so beautiful Miss Northwood) took me on a tour, after which I sat down and wrote my poem. I remember Miss Northwood reading it over my shoulder and laughing, impressed. It was music to my ears.
That night, on my parents' typwriter, it took dozens of tries before I got off an error-free copy. I won the contest, and the poem was published.
The poem was awful. Really truly awful. Jackson's macaw story is a whole lot better.
But that's really not the point. The point is how that dumb poem stands as one of the early milestones in my career as a writer. It helped solidify my love of writing.
Listening to Jackson today - hearing his confidence, how much he loves to write - made me smile. 
My family got even smaller this week with news that my great Aunt Ruth recently died. This brings the number of living blood relatives I actually know down to ... let's see ...
Three.
I've never had a whole lot in the way of family, partly because I don't know my father (or anyone on that side). I'm an only child, my mother has only one brother (who's crazy and single), there are no grandparents left, and what few second cousins I have are scattered and unknown to me.
I only met my Aunt Ruth and Uncle Jack five or six times, but because Aunt Ruth always sent me $100 every Christmas (and because she and my great uncle were multi-millionaires who owned a national chain of drugstores that still bears their name), they always stood out. Funny how money does that.
I used to fantasize about cozying up to good ole' Aunt Ruth in hopes that I might make it into her will, but truth be told, I never had the heart to follow through. Uncle Jack was a hardcore Republican, one whose views were too far right even for his home state of Florida (he spent millions trying to get elected governor back in the day, and he still couldn't win the election).
More than the money, I wanted the family (at least before I figured out the Republican thing). I wanted the connection. I've never been satisfied being an only child; growing up, I perpetually bugged my mother and stepfather to give me a brother or sister. I wanted someone to hang with, fight with, live with, travel with - I wanted a built-in friend. I also knew - even then - that I'd want a sibling as an adult. It was a lifelong bond I felt I was being cheated out of. When people said that joke about being able to pick your nose and your friends but not your relatives, I'd nod inside ... Exactly. I still do.
(Note: Given the wholly unsatisfying relationship my mother had - and continues to endure - with her little brother, I can't say as I blame her for seeing this topic a bit differently. I'd say her experience is, however, atypical.)My desire for a sibling (or two or five or ten) was best represented by my wholehearted devotion to a certain '70s television show. This was not a hip show (nor a particularly good one), but its gooey family themes struck a chord of desire in me that couldn't be ignored.
I'll never forget being in fifth grade art class one day when the teacher had us all stand up and say our favorite TV show before leaving class. Everyone else was choosing The Six Million Dollar Man, Land of the Lost, Emergency!, Kung Fu, Happy Days ...
When it was my turn, I stood up and said - with a straight face, completely earnest - "The Waltons."
Everyone laughed - even the teacher. It was one of those seminal childhood moments in which one realizes exactly what it means to be uncool. I cared, but I didn't back down. I just wanted all those brothers and sisters ... not to mention a white mule named Blue.
And so, in the immortal words of any one of the Walton clan, "Goodnight, Aunt Ruth."
A Most Unwelcome Houseguest - 2006
I don't usually steal ideas from other people's blogs, but when you read something and literally yell out "Me too!" you feel kind of compelled to thieve.
(It should be noted that this is the same blog that got me started on Johnny Cash, so I guess I've thieved there before, but why focus on details?)
Anyway, the entry touched on what would be the most desirable superpowers. The one that made me blurt out my camaraderie was about your eyes being able to take pictures.
I wish that at least once a day - hell, I'm so queer I even blink my eyes shut sometimes and pretend they're shutters. Then I try and see if the image is seared on the backs of my eyelids like an instant photograph. (No, I don't bob my head - i.e., shake it like a Polaroid - but I've thought about it.) Without question, eyes that take pictures is the power I most consistently dream of possessing.
Flying was mentioned as the other most-desired superpower, but I can't say as it makes my Top Three. Sure, flying would be amazing (and it would make my Top Five), but if I'm only listing three, then time travel would clock in at number two.
I daydream about time travel with frightening regularity. It's rarely in the context of wanting to go back and change something; it's more about seeing places, time periods and people that are no longer available to me. For instance, I've always wanted to walk the streets of London in the mid-1800s. I long to wake up at my grandmother's house in Virginia Beach so I can bask in the early morning sun that spills through the picture window facing the ocean. I'd like to see Nick Drake, Nirvana, and the Doors play live. I wish I could hang around Los Angeles circa 1950. I want to spend the afternoon with Emily. The list goes on and on. I almost never fantasize about traveling into the future.
My third superpower choice is less set in stone than the first two, and might be different if I wrote this post tomorrow. Right now, though, it would be to become invisible at will. I realize this superpower has a potentially creepy edge, but when I think about being invisible, it's not to spy inappropriately (well, not usually, anyway). No, I think about getting into sold out, pricey or otherwise off-limits events. I think about thwarting the Heisenberg Principle (the act of observation alters the reality of that which is being observed). I think about disappearing in moments of danger, and the freedom that would allow. I think about making it look like stuff is floating. And that's just the beginning.But most of all, I wish my eyes could take pictures. I realize that's what memory is - the ultimate mental slide show - but to actually hold and look at life's fleeting moments, well, that would really be something.
Do As They Say, Not As They Do - 2006
Pipe Dream - 2006
