Two weeks ago, Hubby and I attended Visitor’s Day at our son’s camp. Eager to see us, Tech waved his long arm at us as we approached his village. After he introduced us to his counselors, showed us his bed, and shoved the treats we’d brought into his trunk for safekeeping, we went for a walk. As we strolled, Tech explained that a bunch of campers had been temporarily quarantined because they all had bumpy rashes on their torsos.
Tech stopped in the middle of the road and pulled up his shirt. “Check it out,” he said, pointing to his midriff.
Hubby inspected the boy’s belly.
“Looks like heat rash,” I said dismissively.
“But it could be something,” Hubby said.
“The Health Department let us go,” Tech said.
“The Health Department was here?” Hubby and I said in stereo.
Rolling his shirt back down, our son resumed walking down the road. “They said it was nothing. The nurse told us we could go back to our bunks.”
Despite the fact that Tech seemed fine, I found myself arranging for him to have a throat culture.
As you can imagine, the Health Department was right.
All’s well that ends well, yes?
At noon, the boy came home for intersession: a few days where folks go home and drink and sleep and do laundry before returning to camp for the remaining three weeks. It’s a LoveFest over here.
And by that I mean, the boy is loving his technology.
Once in a while, I seem to manage to get a smooch in.
Spotted in natural habitat.
How’s your summer going? And to those of you with kids who went to camp, what’s the word? Any weird rashes?
Rivki blogs about being a mother, a wife, a woman, a musician, a friend, a writer. An observant Jew, Rivki combines the big stuff (religion, ethics, personal development) and the little stuff (laundry, dishes, meal planning). Because that’s the challenge, right? Making meaning amidst the mundanity.
In addition to being a wife and mother, Rivki is also a musician. She plays the piano and the clarinet — maybe other instruments, too.
I’m telling you, that Rivki is so clever!
She integrated her love for music into her letter.
One side of her letter features the Yiddish folk song “Tumbalaika”; the other side, her handwritten letter to my boychik! Here’s an excerpt:
The song I included here is one of my favorite Yiddish songs. The gist of it is that there’s a boy who asks a girl a number of riddles:
What can grow without rain?
What can burn & never end?
What can yearn, cry without tears?
The girl responds:
“Silly boy! Why do you have to ask?”
A stone can grow without rain
Love can burn and never end
A heart can yearn, cry without tears.
Now I don’t know about the whole “growing stone” thing. If you have insight into that, I’d welcome your input. Also, I don’t know why the girl was so sassy in her response; they seem like reasonable riddles to me. My suspicion is that the girl has a crush on the boy & that’s why she was being a little rude. I don’t know if you’ve discovered that yet. Girls don’t always make the most sense (even to ourselves, sometimes) buit we’re great anyways! Keeps life interesting, right?
In her letter, Rivki not only teaches my son about the balalaika (a traditional Russian instrument with 13 strings), she also gives him some cool lyrics to think about and she aplies them to his life as a teenager!
And just when you think it can’t get any better, it does. Rivki included artwork from her children! Oh yes, this letter is a treat for anyone who loves the arts! Check out piece #1.
I call this “Ladybug, Stars, Scribble Scrabble People”
Somehow Rivki remembered Tech will be celebrating his birthday in August, while he is away at camp, and she got her little guy to make my son a birthday card in advance! Look how hard her little guy worked to make all those 14’s! That’s a labor of love.
I call this one “Fantastic 14 & Falling Bananas.”
So you’re probably thinking, that has to be everything, right?
But it’s not.
Rivki included another letter.
This one was written to me.
I won’t share her words here, but I will say that I pressed the pretty lavender card against my cheek before I ever read it. And I sighed aloud — several times — alone, to myself, in the room as I read her words, and I promise I felt a bit of Rivki’s spirit being transmitted right through the ink.
Because that’s the way it’s been.
Reading everyone’s handwritten words has been a profoundly personal experience for me. I’m sure I’ll have more to say about this eventually.
For now, I’ll just express my gratitude to Rivki by adding these few sentences. If you’re trying to get organized, trying to figure out what to feed your children, if you’re a lover of music, or if if you’ve someone interested in reading one woman’s views about Orthodox Judaism, consider subscribing to Rivki’s blog. Her posts are so beautifully crafted.
Just like her letter to my son.
• • •
To see other posts in this series read letters from:
Thanks to Val Erde for letting me use this image. Click HERE if you’d like to use her images, too!
As a child, I was supposed to keep my room neat. My bed needed to be made the moment I awoke each morning; hospital corners were not optional. My clothes were to be folded and put away while they were still warm. Fortunately for me, I excelled at neat.
I remember watching the 1976 Summer Olympics with my father. Sitting next to him on the couch, I wore a yellow leotard. He pointed to Nadia Comenici as she waved to the crowd after earning her first perfect 10.0 on the uneven bars.
“You see!” my father said. “Being perfect is possible.”
In my house, failing was not an option. No one told me it was okay to mess up. No one ever said people learn by failing, by falling, and getting up again, that it takes a different kind of strength to persevere despite sucking.
I learned that sucking brought misery. When I sucked at trigonometry, it meant I had to complete endless math problems written on the back of placemats at restaurants until the meal arrived. Feeling my father’s frustration comingled with his disappointment, by the time our food came, I often felt like vomiting.
“It’s not that hard,” my father would say.
But it was that hard, and I didn’t get it. And I hated feeling dumb.
I learned if I sucked at something, I needed to avoid that thing at all costs.
So I stuck to my strengths and only tried the things at which I could excel.
You want someone to sing or memorize lines? Awesome. Need a crafty-critter? No problemo. I can make pinch pots and macramé, turn beads and fishing lures into jewelry. Watch me sketch and draw and paint fearlessly in watercolors and acrylics and oils. Need a dancer?Check out my smooth moves. Seriously, I can hustle and shimmy and shake my groove thing. I can twirl and do pirouettes. I can do back-flips off the diving board and handsprings on the lawn.
There were 3 of these! Three!
In 2nd grade, Mrs. Church told I could write. She loved a story I’d written about a red-breasted robin, and she made me to read it to the “big kids,” in a different wing of the school. Later, Mrs. Oliver told me a poem I’d written moved her. It moved her. In middle school, Mr. Baron drew three big stars in my notebook next to the words “squishy red beanbag chair on the lime carpet.” Three stars.
I dreamed of being a writer.
In college, I received attention and praise, earned awards and validation from my professors.
I felt like a magician, able to amaze people with my words.
In December 2012, I found a writing partner. We worked together for six months, sending each other pages of our fiction manuscripts to read. We provided feedback for each other. I poured myself into her project, believing that – eventually, she would give mine the same kind of love.
Last May, I took a hiatus to prepare for my son’s bar mitzvah. My writing partner knew this when we started working together. I reassured her I would be back in the saddle after the festivities ended.
“I’ll be here, pardner,” she promised.
She promised.
When I called to let her know I was ready to start collaborating again, I caught the hesitation in her voice.
“I had so much momentum, I couldn’t stop! You know how that is, right?” she said. And then she told me she’d found a new person to work with.
My legs shook when I hung up the phone.
Besides feeling abandoned and betrayed, I felt like her actions said something bigger about my abilities as a writer.
The cosmos provided me with the words. I read between the lines.
My writing must have really sucked.
Because if it didn’t suck, she wouldn’t have been able to stop working with me. She wouldn’t have been able to put down my manuscript.
To make matters worse, my computer crashed shortly after my former partner dumped me.
I didn’t have anything backed-up, and I lost everything: twenty years of teaching curriculum, twenty years of photographs, decades of poetry and short stories.
A non-fiction manuscript. And a fiction manuscript.
Gone.
For most of my life, people have made me believe I could do magical things with words. But this past year, I’ve felt like someone took my black hat and my cape and my wand. Like someone stole my white rabbit.
Suddenly, what had always come naturally for me has became dreadfully difficult.
I’m not going to try to explain the theory behind this kind of therapy. Let’s just say EMDR is often used with individuals who have suffered major traumas, sexual or physical assault, combat experiences, accidents, the sudden death of a loved one: any kind of post-traumatic stress, really. But EMDR therapy has also been used to help athletes, performers and executives to achieve a state of “peak performance.”
If facilitated properly, EMDR helps people replace negative or stressful thoughts with positive ones.
Or something like that.
During my first session, VJ took a detailed history where we focused on what I perceived to be the major traumatic events in my life. I thought about the things I’ve been through in my 45 years on this planet and realized I had a lot from which to choose. She demonstrated a breathing exercise, which was familiar to me from my experience with yoga.
Then she had me hold these little buzzing paddles, which felt like cell phones set to vibrate.
Apparently, some therapists have clients track flashing lights but, over the course of her career, VJ said she’d found pairing the gentle, rhythmic buzzing from the paddles with conversation just as effective.
On my third session, Vickijo instructed me to put the buzzing paddles under my thighs, and she asked me to tell her about what I perceived to be my strengths as a writer.
I couldn’t think of one.
Not. One.
Unfazed, VJ asked me to close my eyes and describe a writer I admire. I thought about one particular blogger. “She can write about anything. She has amazing range: sometimes she’s funny; other times, she’s serious. She uses fresh images. She knows how to tell a story so it is unique and yet universally true. She responds to everyone. She’s generous, and her audience loves her.”
“You can open your eyes,” VJ said, so I did. “Do you think you possess any of the same qualities as this writer?”
I wasn’t sure.
Earlier in the session, I had talked about how much I sucked.
VJ asked me to think of an affirming sentence to replace my negative thoughts.
It was hard.
The voices were loud in my head.
“Let’s start with: ‘I suck,’” Vickijo suggested. “Can you turn that on its head?”
I closed my eyes and feeling the slow, rhythmic vibration of the paddles under my thighs, I saw myself sitting at a table, eating words. I literally ate the word ‘apricot’: chewed on it and swallowed, while my hand moved, scribbling letters inside a black and white composition notebook. I saw all the words I’d ever written in my life penned on a cozy fleece blanket and draped over my shoulders. I read the words I’d written on the lined paper.
“I’m a writer,” I said.
Except when I said it, there were eleventy-seven question marks at the end of the sentence.
“You’re a writer,” VJ said it as a statement. “And what does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “For me, writing is like eating or pooping. I can’t not do it. Whether or not I ever publish a book, I’m always going to write. It’s what I do.”
Vickijo laughed. “And that’s because?”
“I’m a writer.”
When I said it the second time, I believed it a little bit more. Weird, right? I have a hard time explaining how or why it’s working, but it is. EMDR combined with 5 minutes of daily meditation has been doing wonders for me.
And my writing.
For CREDIT click HERE. It was VERY hard to determine the origin of this image, but i have done my very best.
I’m feeling less compelled to be perfect.
In fact, perfect hasn’t even been on my radar.
I know it sounds whack-a-doodle, but the science supports this stuff. It’s incredible to me to think we have the ability to reprogram the way our brains have been hardwired to think. If you have suffered a trauma — or any kind of anxiety — EMDR can really help.
A few months ago, I would have felt like a bad person because my bed isn’t made, I’ve got a sink filled with dishes, and very little food in the refrigerator.
But today? I’m soooo not.
Progress.
•••
Here’s a video I found on YouTube that does a good job explaining EMDR, if you are interested.
Have you ever heard of EMDR? If you’ve tried it, did it work for you? What do you think about the idea of reprogramming your brain to think happier thoughts?
tweet me @rasjacobson
Check out my friend, author Kasey Mathews’ post on her experience with EMDR. We’ve known each other for decades, she guest posted on my blog HERE, and can you believe we’re both having positive experiences with EMDR?
Click on the eyeball to be directed to other writers who are participating in this series!
Blogdramedy recently took an extended trip to Italy and France, and she wrote long, dreamy posts along the way. She also likes to write about Karl Urban. I’ve known for a long time that Blogdramedy enjoys wine. After reading today’s post, you’ll all understand why. In sharing this piece, Blogdramedy has raised the bar for #SoWrong posts. Or maybe lowered it, depending on your take. Click to check out Blogdramedy’s blog. Follow her on Twitter at @blogdramedy. Or both. You won’t be sorry, but you should probably bring some tissues.
• • •
How a Corkscrew Let Him Put a Ring On It ~ by Blogdramedy
Four months after the divorce, I arrived at work for a meeting and that’s when I saw him.
Tall. Dark. Beautiful. Dressed in a deep blue suit with mauve pinstripes. It was his shoes I really noticed. Burgundy loafers with a slightly pointed toe; polished to a gleam.
No one wore shoes like that where I worked.
No one wore shoes like that in the entire city.
I wanted to ask him where he had bought them and if he polished them or if he had someone do it for him.
I shook his hand instead.
By the end of the meeting, I could tell he fancied me. All the signs were on display.
He was a male peacock flashing his colors and I was blinded…he was a kaleidoscope of light and I was a moth.
He interpreted my moth-like eye fluttering for flirtatious behaviour (it was) and called me later, asking me out for a drink.
A month later and we’d been on 18 dates. We still had not slept together. I don’t know if it was me sending out the “damaged” vibe or him being kind of shy underneath his spiffy suit but we didn’t rush. It was nice.
And then he said he wanted to cook for me and to introduce me to something rather special.
Cue alarm bells.
Introduce me? What…like to a person? Another woman? Another MAN? HIS MOTHER???
When I arrived, the lights were low and the fireplace was flicking. Sade was playing on the stereo.
I took a quick scan and relaxed when I saw we were alone. Not totally relaxed, mind you. Constant vigilance had been my motto ever since a grasshopper jumped up my ballerina dress at the age of six.
After we’d chatted and caught up on our day, that’s when he sprung it on me.
The wine could have been one of these for all I knew back then. Now I’m a wine slut. (Image via thewinecellarinsider.com)
The something special was a bottle of Bordeau that had just arrived from his wine club. (Yes, I know. Screams pretentious but it was the 90s.)
Now, I was never a lover of fine wines. I really didn’t like white and red had to be sweet and fruity before I let it pass my lips. He uncorked and poured, all the while describing this particular wine’s characteristics.
It was smokey. [sip]
It was plummy. [sip]
Lush. [sip] Ripe. [sip] Full-bodied. [sip sip]
Mouthy. [swallow]
By the end of the second bottle, I was ready. And so was he.
Somehow we made it into the bedroom, where I pushed him down onto the bed and proceeded to demonstrate my take of a slow striptease. Unfortunately I was not wearing one single thing with a button or a zipper. The best I could do was tug my sweater up over my head…slooowly.
That got me a little dizzy so I fell to my knees and as luck would have it, the latitude of my face and his crotch? About the same. So, what’s a girl going to do? I leaned in, unsnapped the top button of his jeans, and…
…vomited all over his lap.
It was like something out of the Exorcist. I did Linda Blair proud that night.
And that’s the last thought I had before passing out cold on the floor.
I woke the next morning laying next to him, in the spoon position, still dressed and chastity intact.
He’d cleaned up and put us both to bed. The sex that morning was sublime and has been ever since.
In 2008, I married my Mister and we’ve been happily drinking wine ever after.
What did I learn from this embarrassing moment?
Always drink in moderation and wear something appropriate to the occasion. Something with buttons and zippers.
How did you meet your spouse? Was there vomit involved?
Here’s the thing you have to know about Misty. The girl loves to send cards. This isn’t the first card that’s shown up via snail mail from Misty. She sent me a birthday card when I turned 45, and I got a little verklempt. Besides my mother and my husband, I don’t think anyone else gave me a handwritten card. Oh, I received plenty of Facebook comments on my timeline. And I got a bunch of texts. But the electronic stuff can never replace the joy of receiving and opening a personal letter.
In her letter to my son…
Misty writes as if she is a former bunkmate who didn’t return to camp this year.
Click HERE to see Misty’s letter bigger-er!
Here’s an excerpt:
I remember all of our previous camp experiences, don’t you? Like that time we all went hiking & silly Mikey walked through all of that poison ivy. He was itchy for days! Ha. And do you remember when we went canoeing & our boat got stuck in those marshy reeds? It took forever to get out of there! And who knew mosquitoes really liked marshy reeds? Talk about itchy. Yikes. Ah, good times.
Misty “remembers” singing John Jacob Jingleheimerschmidt, roasting marshmallows, and canoeing out to the marshy reeds where the itchy mosquitoes live. She hopes my son isn’t living with He Who Shall Not Be Named — which is perfect. Because everyone who ever went to camp knows there’s always one kid in the bunk you’d like to paddle out to the marshy reeds and leave with the mosquitoes.
Misty’s postscript is going to destroy my boy.
P.S: As I know you are suffering without your beloved Minecraft, in your honor, I have vowed to play an extra 2 hours of video games every day to make up for it. You’re welcome. It’s really nothing. I’m a giver.
The thing is Misty really is a giver.
If you read her blog, you know Misty goes all out to celebrate birthdays and anniversaries and takes care to make everyone feel special. She buys silly stuff she knows readers of her blog will enjoy and hosts fun giveaways on her blog from time to time — just because. And she gifted me with a most delicious guest post when she shared her#SoWrong momentnot long ago.
Thanks to Misty for making my kid’s summer camp experience even funner-er.
Whaaat? It’s summer. I can break a few grammar rules.
• • •
To see other posts in this series read letters from:
One day while shopping, my friend Jan pointed at this awful table.
“That’s a cute table,” she said.
Kinda drab, right?
I looked at it, nonplussed.
Because it was gray.
Where was my color? Where was my whimsy?
But it was made well enough, and it was cheap the price was right.
So we jammed that sad, gray table into my rental car.
I figured it could always be returned.
That afternoon, Hubby bought a couple cans of spray paint.
Everyone knows a fresh coat of paint can transform a room.
Why not a drab piece of furniture, right?
Duh.
Thirty minutes later, Hubby killed the can of spray paint.
And I was dancing in the middle of the road.
(Sorry, new neighbors.)
But that table?
Totally awesome sauce.
Inspired, I forced Hubby to take me to Sarasota Architectural Salvage: nine jazillion square feet of crap treasures like old lobster traps and wooden oars, brass ship lamps and carved wooden mermaids, concrete urns and gargoyles. I could go on. The place is huge. We picked up a couple of knick-knacks, and voila.
Our foyer is on its way.
Now, if only we had some window treatments so the gators out back don’t see us walking around naked.
What Do-It-Yourself Project have you done where you got it right?
When I tore open the envelope, I found a miniature piece of art because this little card? It’s hand-painted on one side.
Remember that guy who was following me on Twitter? @Stuart_Sheldon? I wrote about him HERE? Well, Stu wrote a letter for my kid. How cool is that?
I call this one “For a Bro.”
Because Stu penned “For a Bro” in ink on the front of the card.
See?
Letter 2 – From Stuart Sheldon
Stu’s letter contains some profound advice.
On the surface, Stu’s advice may appear to be for the heterosexual male.
But.
If you look deeper, you’ll understand that his words are really a life metaphor for anyone of any sexual orientation.
In fact, Stu’s letter is so profound, the counselors at Tech’s camp should read it to all the campers in the village and then launch a 3-day mass program based on his words of wisdom.
Check it out.
Click to make Stu’s words bigger-er!
In case you can’t read Stu’s words, I’ve translated here:
So Tech, here’s the thing about camp –
Talk to that girl you think is ALL THAT. You know the one! She makes you feel all shy cuz she’s so pretty and nice and natural and smiley. And maybe you think, “I could never talk to her; she’d never like me. She’s out of my league.” WRONG! She will like you and think you are kind and a gentleman…BECAUSE YOU ARE. Worst case, she will be your friend. Best case…who knows.
But life is about marching up to what you desire most and introducing yourself.
Trust me, little brother. I got your back.
Stu.
Are you crying? I kinda teared up a little when I read Stu’s words.
The tone found in the letter is a lot like the one inStu’s blog where he writes beautiful, heartfelt pieces about being a father to two young sons. About being a husband and a father, a writer and an artist, a thinker and a dreamer, finding his way in the world.
I know it’s easier to type or text these days, but typed letters don’t feel the way a real letter feels in your hands. I don’t care how many emoticons you use.
There is intimacy in the ink.
I love Stu’s loopy letters, the lightness of his hand in some places, and the places where he chose to linger and make things dark.
For emphasis.
And I love Stu’s message, too. And I assume Tech will, too. Once a counselor reads the letter to him. You know, because he can’t read cursive since they don’t teach it in school anymore.
Read Stu’s latest piece HERE, and poke around a bit. He likes that.
Who sent you the last handwritten letter you received? Do you feel the difference between typed and handwritten letters the way I do?
After being cooped up inside the airplane for thirty minutes, a cabin filled with passengers learned we would not be taking off.
“We can’t seem to locate the pilot,” the flight attendant announced over the loudspeaker.
Everyone groaned.
“We’re doing our best to remedy the situation. In the meantime, sit tight.”
Sit tight.
Is there really any other way to sit on an airplane these days?
Can you tell this guy is in my space?
The man next to me had claimed the armrest and, as he began to snore, his legs relaxed into a wide stance, his knees encroaching into my tight space.
I thought about the Good Ole Days.
Before we had to take off our shoes. Before we had to be patted down and swabbed. Before we had to be x-rayed and scanned and probed.
Once upon a time, people loved to travel by air. Folks even dressed up to look nice in the airport because air travel was for the elite. Cheerful clerks gave us our boarding passes, tagged our bags, and placed them gently on the conveyer belt. So long as our suitcases didn’t weigh over eleventy-seven tons, we were allowed to check two bags through without any additional charges.
(It’s true.)
In the good ole days, security was minimal. A man could carry a whole case of rubbing alcohol onto the plane if he wanted; no one would have thought a thing about it. No one had to remove his shoes or belts or jacket. We did not have to be x-rayed or scanned or swabbed or probed. Our gels and liquids did not have to be segregated into quart-sized baggies.
Click to see other uniforms from the past!
Once upon a time, air travel was sexy. Flight attendants were women. We called them stewardesses. They liked their jobs and seemed interested in passengers’ comfort.
In the 1970s, stewardesses had names like Kimberly, Debbie, Julie and Susie. They wore starched uniforms and easy smiles. Tall and tan and leggy, stewardesses looked like life-sized Barbie Dolls.
Appearing quickly at the touch of a button, stewardesses wore starched uniforms and easy smiles, prepared to offer an extra blanket.
But back then, everyone had blankets. And pillows. And if you got on the plane early enough, there were even magazines to borrow. Good ones.
(It’s true.)
People rarely needed anything. After all, our bags had been checked and were out of the way, so we read books or napped. No one walked around admonishing passengers to turn off their electric devices because those things hadn’t been invented yet.
Once passengers buckled up, they started to think about the meal they were going to receive because for a time, every major airline served 4-course meals. And these meals were gourmet.
(It’s true.)
The Transportation Library archival collections at Northwestern University lists scores of old airline menus. United Airlines’ coach class meals included salads, desserts, sandwiches and beverages, with menu items such as “Broiled Tenderloin Tips a la Deutsch” (1973, Chicago – San Francisco) and Continental boasted ” Breast of Chicken Vodkaliano” (1979, Washington to Denver).
My husband remembers United Airline’s Sunshine Flight that departed daily from Rochester, New York to Florida in the 1970s. “Everyone got crab legs and a slice of key-lime pie,” he says with a faraway look in his eye.
I remember airline meals coming on silver trays with cloth napkins and real cutlery. Everyone was given knives. And no one worried about getting stabbed.
On my recent trip to Florida, I felt fortunate to have received my tiny pouch of pretzels and half can of soda.
While we waited for the pilot to be located, the woman on my right read over my shoulder as as I typed my words. “I see you’re writing about the way air travel used to be.” She crossed and uncrossed her ankles. “There used to be a lot more legroom.”
She’s right.
Once upon a time, there was more legroom.
And more space between seats, too.
And they never misplaced the pilots.
What do you remember about flying in the Good Old Days?
tweet me @rasjacobson
I’m hooking up with the wonderful people from Yeah Write again this week. Click on the badge to be transported to the grid & consider joining us!
As my regular readers know, my son decided to go to overnight camp for 7 weeks this summer. Before the school year ended, I asked folks to consider sending him a letter. You know, to supplement mine.
To sweeten the pot, I promised that the author of the best letter would win a $25 gift card to somewhere, to be negotiated later with the winner.
Before we get to that, let me tell you about the postcard I received from my son the other day. A simple form letter, the no-nonsense blue postcard features a bunch of check boxes to let parents know our kids have arrived, been assigned to cabins, and unpacked a bit. Yadda yadda yadda.
Normally, my kid just checks things off and signs his name at the bottom.
This year, he had demands.
I can’t find my clipboard. Did I leave it at home? Also, I need a white collared shirt and long socks. Thanks.
{Note: Next year? The boy is packing himself so we avoid moments like this.}
I hunted down a white shirt, found several pairs of tall socks, and tossed everything into a tiny pile on my son’s bedroom floor.
And then I went to find the clipboard.
My old clipboard.
I was sure I knew exactly where it was.
Except I didn’t.
I must have spent an hour ripping apart the house. I searched the main closet, the basement, my car — where I discovered the remains of a green salad I’d brought to a friend’s house a few nights before. The bowl was slimy and covered in mold.
But no clipboard.
I looked in my son’s bedroom, in his closet, in his dresser.
I was all: Did he take it to school? Did he leave it somewhere?
Then I got pouty.
My father’s gave me that clipboard when I became a counselor three decades ago. Over the next six years, I covered every square inch of it with stickers.
Most people throw away stuff like that, but I’ve held onto it.
Since 1983.
Annoyed, I walked into my closet. It was the only place I hadn’t looked.
And, there it was.
I have no idea why my old clipboard was in my closet, but it was.
My clipboard, circa 1983-1989.
Yesterday, I learned my niece would be home for her first day off. She agreed to deliver the goods to the boy, so I bundled everything up and brought the bag of odds and ends to her.
He’s probably got the package in his hot little hands right now.
In fact, he’s probably reading the note I stuck inside the bag right about now.
Dear Tech:
Here’s the stuff you asked for. Are you impressed I found a way to get everything to you just 3 days after receiving your requests? You should be.
About the clipboard. PLEASE don’t lose it. I know it’s just a clipboard, but I kind of love it.
Plus, it’s just a wicked good clipboard.
Also, you’ll notice I threw in a raincoat for you. Dude. The rain? Holy torrential downpour. Do you think it’s going to rain every day this summer? I’m guessing you don’t think you need a raincoat. Just take it. I’ll feel better knowing you have it and that you could be dry. If you wanted to.
xo Mom
See how lame my letters are?
Thank goodness BrickHouseChick wrote him an awesome letter, which I forwarded to him a few days ago!
Look at it? All orange and filled with cut-outs and swirly handwriting! Now that’s what I call a fabulous old-fashioned letter.
Entry 1: From BrickHouseChick! Click on the image to super-size it!
I’m grateful to BrickHouseChick for sending a fun letter to my kid. After six years of sending him faboosh letters, I so appreciate the assistance. If you haven’t met Maria yet, you should. She’s a wonderful blogging buddy, and I’m hoping she’ll submit a #SoWrong moment here sometime in the future! *hint hint*
If you’re interested in writing TechSupport a letter, it’s not too late. And you could win a $25 gift card if he thinks the letter you’ve sent is the best! Details about this contest are found HERE.
What are the odds that I’ll ever see my old clipboard again? Do you think he’ll wear that raincoat? What’s your favorite part of Maria’s letter?
Summer camp was the best gift my parents ever gave me. At overnight camp, everyone shared clothes, shaving cream, stationery, and secrets. There were no locks: only doors that creaked and banged to announce comings and goings. On Friday nights, I sat at a fire-circle facing the quiet lake, chanting prayers and singing songs in Hebrew: songs, which, until then, had felt strange and foreign to me.
At camp, everything made sense, and when I linked arms with my friends, I felt a peaceful connection to nature as if G-d had fashioned a golden cord that started from the sun, zig-zagged over to the stars, dropped down to earth, and connected every one and every thing. All at once, I wanted to stay there forever.
In 1979, I was 11-years-old. Our camp director invited a bunk of boys and girls to his cabin for a “special” evening program. It was dark outside and the yellow glow from a single bug light cast strange shadows over everyone’s faces. I remember sitting outside his cabin, the one with the peeling paint, feeling excited. Expectant.
Click photo to see other work by Sonia Poli
When the director emerged, he carried an empty wine bottle tucked under his arm. He explained the rules of a game called Spin-the-Bottle. Before that night, outside of relatives, I’d never kissed a boy my own age before.
After what seemed like hours, the bottle pointed at me. Shimmying to the center of the grassy circle on my knees, I leaned in toward my partner and when our lips met, I gave his bottom lip a little tug with my teeth. He pulled away from me, looking terrified.
“What happened?” somebody asked.
“She bit me!” The leery recipient of my wonky kiss moved back to his place in the circle where he checked to see if I’d drawn blood.
Later, when we girls laid in the darkness atop skinny mattresses, we dished about the game, rehashing who had smelled nice and who had the worst breath and who we wouldn’t mind kissing again. If we had to.
Don’t get me wrong.
It wasn’t appropriate.
But it was fun.
Looking back at the summers of my youth with an adult sensibility, I see how the tail end of the 70’s “free-love” ideology contributed to a climate and culture that became unsafe for campers and staff and, in some ways, that carefree mentality precipitated the desire, perhaps even the need, for the tedious forms we parents have to complete today.
But for a little while, it worked.
Once upon a time, overnight camp was a place where it was okay to be a wee bit naughty.
No one cared if we scribbled our names on cabin walls.
Or if we snuck into canteen to eat a few extra candy bars.
If we showered during a thunderstorm.
Or if we practiced kissing.
Mmmm.
I suppose I’ll always feel nostalgic about the summers of my youth. For a few weeks, we got lost in a kind of magic.
Nature provided the perfect backdrop: the lake sparkled in the sun; blackberries hung from bushes heavy and ripe, waiting to be picked and shared; leafy trees rustled in the darkness as we hurried down dusty roads toward something that felt close to love.
Without television, email or Internet, we really were cut off from the outside world. Together, we pretended time was standing still even though we knew it was racing forward. Is it any wonder we fell into each other with our mouths wide open, without asking questions?
What do you remember about summer camp? And if you didn’t go, do you wish you did?
tweet me @rasjacobson
{NOTE: Sunday, my son left for 7 weeks at overnight camp. He’d better not do any of the things I did. Also, I’m joining the peeps at Yeah Write. Such a great community. Come check us out.}
I was prescribed Klonopin for insomnia in 2005. Seven years later, after a slow, medically supervised wean, I became cognitively impaired, and after 30 months of intense suffering, I have been resurrected - a phoenix, come from the ashes, ready to battle doctors and big Pharma, while offering empathic support to those still suffering protracted withdrawal symptoms.
A perfectionist by nature, I'm learning to find beauty in the chaos. I'm the girl with the big ideas and the big hair. And words. Always words.
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