BOO!... RADLEY

This time of year always brings back memories of sitting in Mrs. Taylor's Honor's English class, shivering.

Whether due to an ice cold desk or the fact I might have been misplaced; in over my head with much more honorable English students, I held my hands and arms close to my body between my knees and legs, waiting for Mrs. Taylor to call on me. Whether define a prepositional phrase or correctly place an adjective, I was nervous the whole hour. The only thing that saved me was when she gave me a book and let me read it and write about it;--- dissecting it's wordy body parts was akin to a foreign language.

One day, as I sat in the dim lit room, ice cold upon my desk, we watched: 'To Kill A Mockingbird' in black and white.

Movies made with amateur footage should be rated R; the unfocused footage of the 70's time period alone gives me the hibbie-jibbies. Now movies are so full of gore and laser, life-like treachery, it isn't that scary. Or maybe my senses have dulled.

Yet, they go beyond life-like so when you walk outside, breathe in open air and see the birds chirping, squirrels foraging for the upcoming winter and it seems quite boring. Your vision has changed.

For instance imagine being near-sited and not knowing it, but your mother takes you to the Eye Doctor. Sitting in a Barber shop chair with your poor eye sight, a mask is lowered in front of you like Aniken in Revenge of the Sith, strapped to the table after being badly burned; his computer mask slowly lowered then secured over his once hot face.



With the first: "kuuuuhhhh" he takes, you know his outlook on life is going to be forever changed. (because they show you the computers goin on inside of it that he gets to see through from then on.)


In the Dr.'s office the letter E similarly comes into such crisp, clear focus, you, like, Vader, about fall out of your chair.

Movies now are so clear, our once fine tuned senses make it initially thrilling and fun but gradually our expectations are amped and it's: "ho-hum" after a few viewings. That is until the next bigger n better thriller!

For me, you put on ANY movie made before technology got hold, and all they have to do is show a shadow, some fuzzy fake scenery footage and I am spooked. It makes the simple task of pulling back a shower curtain,


disturbing.

Because I am a visual wimp, I have to be careful what I watch, especially scary movies. So I banned them from my near-sighted eyes.

However, I could not ban the consequences of this Sophomore English class. Whenever my classmates and I saw or heard: "Boo!", we'd instinctively chime: "Radley" at the end of it due to Harper Lee's memorable book.

For those who don't know, Boo Radley is a character in Harper Lee's book, rumoured to have been a maniac; one day cutting paper with his scissors, his Dad walked by and Boo sunk the long sherling scissors into his thigh. yikes. The town put him in prison, but conditions were so bad Boo's Dad brought him home and didn't let him leave, except at night.

Newly re-located to the little neighborhood, Jem, Scout, and Dill all peer at the Radley home and wonder about the mysterious locked up lunatic that only walks the neighborhood when the sun has been tucked into bed and the moon keeps a dim eye on things for her.

Old movie, black and white and lots of night footage and a character that only shows up at the end behind Jem's bedroom door!



The actor, Robert Duvall's impersonation of the young man forced by his father to stay inside the creepy Radley home,



a recluse, held hostage from the rest of the small town society because of his unpredictable behaviour, was DEAD ON Scary.

Little Jem and Scout all dressed up for a Halloween pageant, walking home sends shivers up my spine. The old school house out in Osgood (out cropping farm land west of IF.) built up my anxiety about "old school" Halloween parties. Set out in the country. Creaking building. Smelling of chalk and old wood mixed mixed with the polish coupled together with that eeriness built up by movies.... pure creep for me.

Scout trapped in a restricting ham costume, with 3 inches of a rectangular cut out for her to see but limiting her overall vision, clumsily walking along a dirt path for home was spooky. Then to happen upon a drunk man ticked off that my good looking attorney father was defending a black man,



during a time period of major racial tension, whose daughter had been caught flirting with the black man, Tom Robinson; was just plain horrifying!

Filled with anger, hate and vengeance the drunk lies waiting in the brush for the children of lawyer, widower, and dashing Atticus Finch.....



"Old school" Halloween pageants are spooky by themselves especially in "old schools". Like the one out in Osgood, just west of IF, Idaho. Add losing your mom like Scout, livin' through the Great Depression in the south with all its tumultuous times along with a mysterious man that is holed up in his house.........

AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Heck, even the parallels that tom boy, Scout, has with Dill, brings to light the differences with women and men and when they start; age six. Dill's promise to be her companion for life but hangin with her brother, Jem, more than her; ignites the 6 year old to beat poor Dill to a pulp. Which resonates with poor J's girls woes at school.

I had to bolt to the library and get the last copy of Harper's book and rent the video to show J. Not only will it answer his question to me the other day about why girls are so vicious and then sweet with his but it will surely scare him!!!!!!!!!

(author side note: he watched it and said: "That wasn't scary." humph. kids these days.)

These days we don't make kids go to churches and old town meeting halls to have Halloween pageants. Parking lots, maybe, for safe Trunk or Treating. They are lucky to have parents accompany them and x-ray all the candy they've received, wearing their store bought costumes.

When J complained that we weren't Halloween Festive, I had to tell him that in the old days, a picture in the window and the school crafts he brought home were all we had to have a 'Happy Halloween'.

Now we have to compete with with lights, graves, and ghost ornaments hanging from tress. Sam's Club peddles blow up decorations used to only be seen at auto dealerships. It causes kids to feel oppressed with their meager Xbox, Guitar Hero and Ipod.

So days until the spooky day, my guilt ridden heart motivated me to try and do just that, make us happy halloweeners.




But by Wednesday the ghost of Halloween present was waning. I listened to the incessant costume woes of a 2nd grader, in a Dr.'s office none the less, the child was mauling the chair, blanketing me and my magazine and flailing on the exam table-- all along begging me to answer: "What am I going to be for Halloween?"

Under our limited options and the sad fact the Jedi costume didn't come into fruition, I was horrified as well. Thankfully, the nurse came in, notified me they were out of butterfly needles (the small ones for your hand veins and diverted J a moment as he watched me bristle at the horse needle she brought out.

Inside I grincheshly started to loathe the holiday. Single mom, limited resources, child born in age of store bought costumes; sinking into me like that straw into my vein. I tried to read a magazine whilst the begging commenced again.

When I tried to convince him that wearing last year's costume which was worn at Dad's in a different state, and putting the holiday ordeal into an eternal perspective; fell on deaf ears.

He countered with convincing evidence: falling limp- like onto the floor and groveling.

Sooooo... I made him work. If we couldn't have his Jedi costume made in time, we would have to improvise, just like in the old days!The spooky spirit revived in me and we headed home to get to work!

While he mowed the neighbor's lawn for dinero we found that she had some items to pull together a costume that he will be uncomfortable in while at school all day.

We finished up as the last star light finally reached earth. Thankfully, our stomach es took in a hot cooked meal; Funeral Casserole, unknowingly made for the holiday by Madre. When I asked a sibling to pass the Funeral potatoes, J said: "These potatoes are dead?"

He ate likety -split and was ready to go to Halloween City with his money to buy a hat. "Want to come Poppa?" J asked excitedly as the clock neared 7:30; past my bedtime.

"Nah, those places scare me." he replied and pulled the WSJ up to eye level.

So we drove across town to Halloween World, picked the perfect Pirate hat, stood in line for 20 minutes and he plunked down his money for the hat. Wearily, we drove home, set out his costume and slept like the dead.

MOrning came and I knew we'd need time to put his costume together so I woke him up early:

"Well, come on Cinderella! We've got to get you ready for the ball!" I said excitedly. (Watch Dumb and Dumber)



he shot out of bed like it was Christmas morning.

By 6:30 he had a gold hoop dangling from his ear, an old bandana of mine with a red zorro mask tied to the side so as to dangle like Cap'n Jack Sparrow. He finally agreed to wear a white dress shirt. The first time in months. (he hates church clothes) But with the button undone, sleeves and denim jeans rolled, waste sashed in red and belted with gun holster; he was ready to mop the galley.

He opted out of facial paint which the school said to avoid any "obscurruing make-up" which confused me, but J flinched at the idea of me putting chest hair and a goatee on his chin with an eye-brow pencil. He obviously has not got the true Halloween spirit.



I thought I could enjoy making breakfast and quizzing him on his spelling words, but no. He was too busy whining about WANTING to go to school! It wasn't even 7 yet!


This attitude did give him the perfect pirate personality: onery, AAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGH



Improvising to buy time of peace and quiet I carefully placed lil sis's chincy parrot on his shoulder and snapped a few pics to remember the holdiday fun.



While wearing an apron to avoid spillage J at french toast from a spider web plate, put on his coat and hat and raced out the door like a flurry of leaves in the Idaho wind smelling of maple syrup.

I poked my head out and talked to him till he was passed the Bradley's scary yard with it's Grim Reaper,



etc. ONce the I could close the door I let out a sigh of relief. However, I had to decide what to be for school! Where is Cinderella's fairy Godmother when you need her!

She magically appeared, sprinkled some dust on us renegades and I ended up a Boarding School Teacher.


Or I liked the nice compliment Cubby, a sorta sibling said to me: "You looked like Nicole Kidman in: The Others, Amanda!"

Why, that was the nicest compliment- seriously. My pale face looking even somewhat like the woman who suffocated her children and was stuck in some spirit prison in the house they lived in suffering with amnesia, well, made me almost cry.



Rapping the naughty child's knuckles!



All the hard work, sweat and tears paid off once we hit the Bradley's house. The mannequin that has stood menacing day and night in their yard made the children shy to go and get candy but when I offered J 5 bucks to go touch it with his sword and he gathered the bravado and some Capn' Jack fortitude to slash at Grim only to have Reap sweep his sword down at him and chase him, wulp I had to grin and it turned out to be a:

Paper Girl: Take Two

I was a paper girl for The Post Register. This evil, oblivious to "stranger danger" form of slavery known as a job for children, was a family heritage.

When you were of "age", whether a her or a he child, you inherited the family paper route. Passed down from the older sibling once the older child could work a "real" job.

The Torment had his first route down fireman's hill by the school, so I was lucky to inherit the one by our house that he and my father had earned by pressuring The Post Register with the long line of Paper Carriers in our family. (or we got lucky)

Which assauged my parents fears of strangers taking newspapers from unsuspecting children.

The fact that my father had a paper route defaulted to all of his children suffering the same fate. He was my mom's folks' paper boy so this had to be destiny that we, his offspring, carry on the back breaking tradition.

HIS father was a paper boy in Franklin County, Idaho. Which was waaaaaaaaaaaayyyyy worse than having to deliver to the houses on a few of your nearby streets.

"The driver from Salt Lake said that Grandpa (T.R.) was the only kid waiting for him to drop off the papers." (At 4 am.) Padre told me the other day. He had to ride his bike all over Franklin County, a farming community."

This made me feel a twinge of guilt about the whining I would delve out on a daily basis, especially on Sunday mornings, gouged my conscious.

Padre went into the story I'd heard a million times. But J had only heard a few times.

"After his father, Rolla, died, [he] was the bread winner along with, Ruby, his mom.
He bought the living room furniture and kitchen dining room set."

"whoa." J

"At age twelve." Padre waited to add for empasis on our blessings.

The "whoa" part of my Great Grandfather's death of Scarlett fever was the Dr's attempts to save his life. I picture his wife, Ruby, who lived to be 97, by his bedside as he struggled and the consequent mantle put upon the oldest son, T.R.

However, that was the legacy left to me--- paper delivery. And thank goodness my friend had a paper route, too, or it would have been that much more brutal to my reputation.

Chelsea lived around the block from me from the day we were born.

In elementary school, I was the other half of a dominating three-legged race winning duo with Chelsea.



One of those few things that many, if any, have the fame to claim. My kitty corner, backyard neighbor, Chelsea, and I could work together like conjoined twins in that race. When I wanted to play with her, I headed out the back door, into the yard down to the southeast corner, where I slunk behind the lilac bushes to the telephone pole.




Instead of huffing it around the corner, I'd hike my foot up on the steel step, smash down the splinters on the cropped pyramid tops of the fence with my hands and using the strength from my shoulders and arms, elevate my body up against the fence, draw my left leg up and the rest of my body over in smooth swoop.

Arms out ready to do a graceful ballet move, I balanced one foot in front of the other as I walked the thin plank.


to the intersection of Neva's, Larry's and Chel's yard. (there wasn't as much tree growth to duck under back then.) Finally, I'd draw my hands in, tuck my knees up tight, and Jedi-rise over the fence triangle, landing cat-like onto the prickly grass.

Phoebe, Chel's hound, usually was there to greet me with her hot dog body and bark along with talent equal to my graceful fence balancing act of avoiding her ears while running after me up to the M's back door. Me avoiding tripping over her ears was a whole other story.

If no one came to the door fast, she'd chomp on my pant leg until I heaved myself up onto the banister,




holler at her to stop, simultaneously pulling my legs up to my chest and balancing on the thin rail. Thankfully, her stumpy legs didn't kept her from climbing up too high.

Chel's back yard also had the greatest play house. Her Dad's crafstmanship was the first aching in a young girl's heart for her own house one day, replete with a balcony, bay windows and a Laura Inghalls ladder leading up to her bedroom.





Despite the stuffy attic of the play house, we begged for sleep overs in the summertime. Pulling our sleeping bags up the ladder



we climbed up to the top level, spread out our bags and excitedly talked about leaving the kiddie school of elementary and moving on up to the prestigious Junior High.

With the book series Sweet Valley Twins and their steamier mishaps in HS (Sweet Valley High);


we had an arsenal of topics to cover late into the evenings. But it was an addiction we had to keep paying for to keep satisfied and so we delivered. In rain and snow, wind and hail.

Using our paper route money, we would go to the Grand Teton mall book store, purchase, exchange amongst each other, and covet Cindy's sisters' collection of the Wakefield twins woes and "oh! whoa!"'s of HS.

Back then, the book store was no Barnes and Noble. (See below) NOW, you can take your own mug and the coffee shop guy will fill it with hot water. (I bring my own tea bag, too.)



Hot water was what we girls eventually got into with the help of the Wakefields and hormones. However, reality was that we were required to earn money and this hard work kept us, for the most part, out of trouble.

To satisfy our parent's desire for us to learn to work or punish us, Chel and I would leave our homes quite sullen around 3:45, and rendezvous at the paper drop off. From afar I could see her round the bend of her street, wearing the same downcast/obligated face; we'd intersect on the corner of Harper and Mars (street names changed), to load The Post Register into our bags.

The grave mood, cooupled with a smoldering loathing that brewed in our hearts until the cold Idaho weather froze them, we attacked the task before us. Our breath hitting the cold air permeated the atmosphere we waited for the paper drop person.

Like a farmer kicking bales of hay off a wagon for farm animals to eat, a hired driver in a car, trunk open to dispense of the goods like a dead body into a ditch, would rapidly whip around the corner and with a shove of his foot our bundles would slide to a halt on the cement next to our cold feet.

But there on the cement sidewalk, where they dropped off our yellow, nail breaking banded bundles



every afternoon and Sunday morning we nodded to each other, commiserated about delivering those black ink smudging, neck breaking, dog attack invitations of a newspaper, and solemnly vowed not to tell anyone that we delivered papers. Thanks to the Torment,however, the word got out to my classmates in JR. High anyway!

If you became absorbed in your walkman or a day dream, that load would turn lop-sided and necessitate being turned round and unloaded from the other end. In my dream like state I would occasionally sling it around so quickly the bag would slash a razor burn around my neck. This typical paper-kid behavior often meant you walked passed people's houses that needed to receive the daily news and they would call the Post Register, who would then call mom and in the pitch black night you'd take the leftover paper in your green bag to the disgruntled customer.

But on summer evenings, instead of donning the notorious faded green and torn carrier that resembled an adult bib, we would be in our jammas, cocooned in our sleeping bags, despite the sweltering heat; our faces glowing from the light of an old flashlight.

Due to the Wakefield twins experiences in the books we read, we had an arsenal of topics to discuss such as dealing with boys at dances. Giggling with anticipation we wondered and fantasized that an Edwardian (twilight vamp) good looking guy would ask us to dance.


"Where art thou Romeo?"

"What if the guy tries to kiss you?" Chelsea asked, as if the possibility were very high. (Jessica and Elizabeth dealt with this kind of dilemma on a daily basis!)

Oh, boy! I sighed and laid back on my pillow. Thinking about this amazing character of a man with his arms around me, all the others dancing, how could I escape his lips at such a close proximity????????????

Looking at the ceiling with my arms folded behind my head I contemplatively played out the scene, what I would do. Nancy Drew-like I sleuthed a concluded answer: "I'd just turn my head and he'd have to kiss my cheek!"

That seemed to satisfy the dilemma.

After we graduated from 6th grade, earned our final ribbon for the 3-Legged Race and entered the harmone charged halls of ER Jr. High, we were shocked to find that we didn't have to avoid boys trying to kiss us at the dances.

Stumped by this false premise, we girl huddled in a corner of the gym by the bleachers and wondered why the guys were so stinkin' scared to part the waters of our un-ease and self consciousness and ask us to dance, let alone try to smooch us!

It was rare that one boy trembled across the basketball court amidst the staring eyes of the amoeba huddle to ask if I wanted to dance.

HIs cold hands on my waist, and my sweaty palms on his shoulders we stiffly held our arm's length distance from each other. Instead of talking with each other I would look around at the others, what they were wearing and that the older ones were holding each other a lot closer.

If my partner happened to get my attention and say something I'd have to un-kink my stiff arms, lean in closer and yell: "What?" over the loud 80's music. (Think a-ha, Foreigner, Bon Jovi, Chigago, Milli-Vanilli, Def Leapord, Poison, Bangles, Tears for Fears; all endless reminders of my cobra teased hair.

Don't get me wrong, Chel and I came up with some good strategies in the attic of that playhouse. And I only had to pull out that game plan once when a Tongan stranger tried to kiss me before entering Le Bus after a day at Hawaii's PCC. (Polynesian Cultural Center- the aloha spirit is very alive there)

So it took until I was 21 to be stuck in such a situation. But that is a whhhhhhhoooole other story. I know you can't wait to hear how Jen missed the whole thing as she walked up the steps and found her seat while the old driver watched as if he saw this every day (with the same guy) and didn't come to my aid! But you will have to wait for that post. Maybe in November I will recycle those days.

The sub dispatch called and asked if I would aide at the very Jr. High Junior High that belted out Madonna's Vogue video, spot light showing the moves of the 9th graders mechanical dancing and running man in their cardigans; the likes of pros like Carrie and Jayme, who already so boldly wore hair dye, right alongside them.

(now little elementary girls have acrylic nails, have my manicures, high and low lights in their perfect hair, and don make-up better than I did in Jr. High. But there has to be Pioneers, People!



I proudly stand up as one who plowed a path- that others found to be a wrong turn= by twisting my hair in the pink and purple hot sticks every morning in a desperate attempt to copy Olson girl's locks of hair, only to achieve a teased, and broad winged mass with so much hair spray that not even the Idaho wind could tame it.

I Vant to Suck Your Blood- Be my guest, Dracula!

The other day a young woman wearing an Office inspired T: I AM: Better Than You Are, excitedly showed her Science teacher that she was almost done with Bram Stoker's Dracula.

It brought back memories of reading the dark book in High School. Curled up on my couch I let Stoker lure me down a tunnel



like the Phantom leading little Laudie down the stairs into his lair on a horse. The dark mood immediately drew me in.



Castles, night time. A cold and very thin Vampire a snooze in his planked coffin as the moon cast a glow through a small window onto the lid.

Bats flying in the dark clouded sky, circling the cement walled castle atop a mist shrouded hill.

Unbeknownst to an innocent woman with a fair neck, wearing a Victorian dress for protection The bad lighting from my lamp at night casting a holy terror upon me!

If I hadn't had been scared half to death by an old movie of the book back in elementary, I could have kept it in perspective. Unlike kids these Twighlight days,



that movie made me resort to cuddling my scriptures like a security blanket instead of posting Taylor Lautner's poster in my bedroom and dreaming of Edward at my neck.

I had to laugh. Because now that protective garlic neclace, instead of perfume to entice Eddie, precautionary step dissolves in my mind now that I have to succumb to blood suckers on a regular basis.

Now, I picture Count Dracula trying to get blood from this "hard stick"; (the lingo phlebotomists and nurses have for those whose veins are pathetic and won't give blood.) and a different scene swells in my head.

Drac trying to get blood isn't as frightening. Except it does drag out the pain at times you will want to hold a Bible to your breast and pray hard.

No, now I see a flustered Dracula..




hovering over me,



feeling for a good vein,sinking his fangs in me and getting nada.

Instead of fighting and succumbing to blood loss, I am directing him like I do nurses





to where the vein may make the draw easier.

"You're hitting a valve right there Dracula, you won't get it there."

"Try here, Drac." I would direct him to another vein, "Try that." pump my hand a bit and let him slap it.

Frustrated, Dracula hungrily try my wrists, get nothing and ask: Where do I get Gatorade this time of night?"




then fly to the store, return and pace impatiently back and forth in front of the big window of his emaculate bedroom until I could get some volume.

With the subtle streams of light coming over the mountains he would grab his cape by the sides, rush to the bedside, and try one last time to extract the life blood from my neck! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Nothing.

Finally, he searches my hand




and asks: "Do you mind if I tried your hand."

Exasperated I say: "Yes, only if you don't 'fish'".

Searching his vest breast pocket,





seeing the seconds tick on his pocket watch, he would draw a butterfly needle from it.





Kneeling by the bed





or recining chair, he would hang my hand down and use his bow tie for a turnicate.




Disatisfaction showing on his pale face he'd impatiently wait as each of the viles slowly dropped blood from my vein.




The sun starting to show, and the vein starting to suck on the needle would let Drac know that there was nothing left. Quickly he would place the viles in his pocket, draw the needle out and ask me to hold the cotton ball over the opening.

"Apply pressure!" he'd say hastily as he threw the windows open, swooped from the balcony simultaneously downing the viles like shot glasses,



and disappear into his basement bedroom, exhausted from such a long night's work.





I would throw back my head and laugh if it weren't for all the fang marks over my body. So the next time I would be prepared and drink LOTS of Gatorade before the wolves howled......

The Power of Fear

Edvard Munch's: ' The Scream.'

Despite a beautiful day yesterday, my son willingly sat up to the kitchen table and completed the whole week's homework packet.

He asked if he could practice writing his spelling words with his yummy cinnamon smelling pencil.

Suspicious, I eyed him, "Is this about the mountain lion?"

"No!" he acted casually. I just want to get my homework done!"

Yeh, right. I have to drag him in at night like a beast dragging its kill in after the hunt. kidding.

I am actually kind, like this:




I looked at his work. His penmanship was perfect. Exploiting the situation, I handed him his journal and milked more learning from him before I reassured that it was okay to go out.

Still, he waited for Papa's early return to go out and rake leaves, and help as the men mowed the lawn. He was wondering what Padre would do if it showed up. He was only armed with a rake...





Fear is a Powerful motivating factor. I feel somewhat guilty for using it to my benefit to get homework done. But now I know my child can diligently sit for a couple hours, with some chocolate milk and sandwich to fuel his growing body, and pound out amazing results. (insert evil laugh here)

Aunts and Uncles invited over for dinner were unmerciful with their teasing. One Aunt had brought him sea shells from the coast.



Because they were fresh out of the ocean, he had to clean them outside under the hose Sunday night and hang them to dry on the clothes line.



They were powerfully saturated with the smell of the sea. Uncle Dan pointed out that it was the perfect way to lure in the Lion and it was no doubt hovering in one of the trees waiting for its prey to exit the house.

"Mom! I'm prey!" he exclaimed. "You better pray!!" the mocking continued. (you have to have a tough shell in this bunch)

This little Mountain of a Lion is coinciding with all the Halloween decorations in neighboring yards. So I do feel a bit bad for his having to walk passed Bradley's house, so I drove him to school today. They better catch that animal-

But tomorrow he has to face the lions, skeletons crawling from under the ground and the Grim Reaper on his own. (Gas prices are sky high!) And today, I have to go out and check the shells for smell and take the burlap potato sack blanket off the pumpkins and tomatoes! AAAHHH! (Edvard Munch anxiety felt here, too.)




However, we do pride ourselves on our athletic prowess, work ethic and sense of humor (sarcasm and shaming in some parts, but nevertheless are powerful motivators.) here in Eastern Idaho. I am happy to pass on our secrets!