All posts by Corbyn Hanson Hightower

Insufferably long-winded, aging ne'er-do-well, raconteur and moon-y gadabout

What Led Me to Having Thanksgiving with Tyranni-Sue at a Mental Hospital


Prologue: I was prepared to post this four days ago, until I got some truly horrible, absolutely devastating and completely unexpected news in the mail, which put me into such a cycle of hopelessness that I . . . forced, I guess?–through a bereft text to someone I thought was a trusted confidante–my psychiatrist of dubious professional judgment (okay, he had a half-star on Yelp, which should have been a red flag, but I have always had a thing for the underdog) to 5150 me to the local psych ward, which led to a transport to a Mental Facility. So I spent Thanksgiving Day–and the three days following–in a psychiatric hospital, acknowledged to be misplaced and thoroughly unjustly admitted by any of the few qualified experts who actually spoke to me. The rest of the time, I tried sleeping (pillow-free) while tears pooled on a bolted-down vinyl bed, all my personal belongings removed from me, prohibited from anything pleasure-giving including exposure to outdoors, touching or being touched by anyone with loving reassurance on the shoulder, reading (until my husband delivered one paperback book and some magazines,) or even using my own toiletries. I watched a young man gouge bloody chunks from his arm with a plastic spoon until he was given enough Norco and Valium that he became a tree, swaying slightly, a fixture on the perimeter of the short hallway that I paced tearfully for hours. I watched one woman go down into a prostrate pose–unresponsive for two hours–as I cried and called out “Sue! Tyranni-sue!”–her name for herself,) and tried to get help from any source, frantically alerting the nurses and ultimately the custodial staff, (who never in the days I was there cleaned the feces-smeared, solitary water fountain.) They finally pulled her away when her bladder let loose. We never found out what happened to her, but she did make off with pieces of all of our clothing. Tyranni-Sue loved to take people’s clothes, even Clarissa’s, who outweighed her four-fold.

Never in three days did I see anything therapeutic occur. I was never told anything but NO, never responded to with anything but “that’s our procedure,” and when I asked for a library, there was none. Music? No. A visit outdoors? Absolutely not. It was the darkest and most soul-murdering three-plus days of my life. I am so glad to be home. I wonder if that’s part of their therapy: show you hell, so that no matter how bad things get well, hell, you’ve seen worse. Following, the piece I had been about to publish before my slow-motion tour through a psychiatric hospital. It is my deepest hope none of you ever find yourself at a similar institution. If you do, we’re pulling a One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

*       *       *

I was earning five figures a month in sales commissions when the economy melted down in 2008. With shocking suddenness, my retail clients stopped ordering, and the checks stopped coming. My husband couldn’t readily help. He left the IT field when our two younger children were born in order to be a stay-at-home father, and of course found his skills had become too outmoded for him to jump back in. If we had only bought a house outside our income bracket and had been forced to foreclose, it would have been a complete cliché. Either way, my family and I were now at least one version of poster children for the Great Recession.

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For about a year, we spun our wheels, trying to adjust to our new reality. I began a much-lower paying job in my industry while concurrently starting an upbeat blog about downsizing and simplifying after living comfortably and well during the boom times, and at first I got lots of hits. Our survival decisions were often dramatic and made for good reading: superficially-speaking, we notably downgraded our lives. We gave up our tame and tidy suburban comfort and sold our only car. At the time, and for a while after, it seemed that people were paying attention and respected our choices. But eventually our story got old enough that it felt like a caricature of itself: what I dourly called, “Chicken Soup for the Recessionista’s Soul.” “The New Poor” is no longer at the top of every news feed—even though in our greater metropolitan area, Sacramento, the number of unemployed now exceeds all previous records. 

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When I was a child, the one unforgivable crime in our house was laziness. In the family’s oral history, my ancestors’ work ethic was granted near-mythological status. They were solid Midwesterners and Southern Protestants, of Scottish and Scandinavian background, and like most Oklahomans, they had a bit of Cherokee blood—but above all, they were stalwart and duty bound. My grandparents were of the generation that soldiered through the Great Depression as children, and through World War II as young adults. They planted victory gardens. They doubled-up and doubled-down in hard times, bunking with relatives and reducing their quality of life in order to Do The Right Thing while it was required of them. Through everything, they worked. And worked. And when he retired, my grandfather left behind a job he had held for 40 years, but he kept working. Every morning he put on a pair of coveralls and looked for Something To Do. Idle hands? No such thing, not in our family. There was no room for the sort of chair-sittin’ and atrophy that marked the retirement years of other types of people.

My parents had sternly warned me on occasion as I was growing up that my chosen profession, to write, to be an “author,” I said, (actually, the profession that chose me . . . the one that came most naturally, fed me at someplace deep in the dark good roots of nerves and sinew, and rolled out through my fingertips as surely and easily as crayons in that factory montage we all saw on Sesame Street, the answer I gave to anyone who asked “what do you want to be when you grow up?” from as early as I can remember, the one that led to teachers nominating me for school-wide awards year after year) was not a realistic career path. So I reluctantly set that wish on a shelf, and, after years of foundering in one college, and then night school after failing the first go ‘round, doing things I didn’t want to be doing, I earned my degree at twenty-five. This led to years of a stunning study of mediocrity, progressing on through the decades through menial jobs of varying levels of enjoyment, until I eventually got plucked out of the crowd by some keen-eyed corporate executives and became their traveling salesperson. An “independent sales rep.” Quite like my father had been—perhaps not coincidentally—and finally making very good money in a job that I was at least competent in doing. I had done the right thing by denying myself the creative path, I thought, despite decades lost and friends rediscovered always asking first of me: “What did you ever do with your writing?”

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That’s partly why the first months of the recession left me dumbstruck, blinking slowly and wondering what would come next. I had done the right thing. I had pushed aside my creative aspirations and joined the flock of coffee achievers. I was a business traveler. My family wanted for nothing. Everything around me was beige and new and safe, plush and hushed by the wall-to-wall carpeting and the hum of the ice-maker and the central heat and air.

Now we find ourselves heading into our fifth year of living at less than half of the the poverty line for our family size, and I’m sitting at a café, writing with the vague hope of being paid for my work sometime in the future. It has happened before, sometimes consistently—we have been on national TV for our lack of car in suburbia (because that is worthy of note, and gets shocked reactions still, I’ve found, which shocks me, as it has become normalized in our lives.) My husband is at home with our three kids; we’ve been taking turns since he started a full-time job doing the shipping and receiving at a women’s clothing store—a job beneath his intellect that he was lucky to get. So today he is making lunch and picking up Legos while I do my best to shake money from trees. I know that my extended family would respect me more if I stopped doing my freelance writing and social media management and started taking a bus to an overnight fast-food job an hour away. Do I owe it to our children to put away the laptop and take the most grueling, menial job I can get? Is that the highest moral decision? Does that match the ethics of “the best I can do?” And could I survive it, and how would it work with biking the kids to and from school, do their homework with them? How do I act in my greatest good, for my family, without obliterating myself and my sanity in the meantime? The answer was: I didn’t maintain. I didn’t keep my sanity. 

I’d been encouraged by several sources to pursue Social Security Insurance for at least a while  based on what has become a lifestyle I can’t maintain while concurrently operating the happily functioning part of my brain. I had some sort of nervous breakdown, and a lifetime of dysthymia and depression did the Tasmanian Devil spiral dance, transporting me into fully-flowered Nutsville. So being that I’ve had the kids for much of the day, I’m legit bonkers, I have no car and can’t work full-time anyway, I’ve turned a lesser-version of what used to be my fantasy career into the only logistical way for me to earn money right now. Combine the writing with social media management for small businesses, and I can scrape quarters into the trough like in that arcade game that always looks so promising. Not the kind of money I earned in my sales job. But if I stay awake late enough, scour enough content mills for writing gigs, I can get small assignments that pay $15 or $20, and if I manage to amass enough of them in a month, it can mean paying the electricity bill on time instead of chasing the city worker down the street after he’s just shut off the power. And sometimes I get an ongoing client for a few weeks, and that’s like having a bouquet of fresh flowers on the dining table . . . until that client’s needs have dried up, and with it, their steady payment. Then it’s like brackish water in a vase with a drooping Gerbera Daisy and peonies dropping browned petals.

One week in a winter past my husband, the kids and I rode our bikes in the cold, eleven miles roundtrip, to enjoy a rare, cheap meal out at a favorite restaurant we had loved in Austin that opened a location out here in Northern California. We don’t make things easy for ourselves, and the self-flagellator in me likes that. Our resources are always stretched dangerously thin, though, and the $45,000 we salted away in plummier days is long gone. We’re not the only ones, and I know that and don’t pity myself for the destruction 2008 wrought. All around us (neighbors as well as relatives living farther away)—for years—people have been losing their extended unemployment, living in houses where renovations were begun and then abandoned, walls just spackled and left to be finished in better times, kitchen floors exposed boards. Some have abandoned previous professions and followed artistic paths, handiwork, humbler tasks. It’s a different sort of support when everyone is on the same sinking ship. They can’t help, they can only bear witness, grab elbows, barter resources, skid backwards as the tilt becomes more acute.

I’ve done some undignified things I never thought I would do and asked for help from people I never thought I would ask, after the bottom of the barrel we were scraping became well and truly bare. Not long ago, I made such a comfortable living that we never had to scrimp. It’s at this time of year I am forced to remember when I had to leave our Thanksgiving groceries behind on the checkout belt because my debit card was declined. I feel humiliated when I think about how my children are not at all surprised when utilities are shut off, or when they ask, “can we get donuts? Does that cost money, or card?”

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We have learned to be creative to get by. We have kept chickens, we have a large vegetable garden that did better when working didn’t occupy my “free time,” we barter those aforementioned resources and my social media skills for needed goods and services. One year, a few days before Christmas, I went online to sell a bicycle that my oldest had outgrown. Craigslist is strange and wonderful. It’s like this complicated and nuanced recession marketplace, and sometimes we’re one another’s saviors there. A woman wanted a not-too-expensive Christmas present for her school-age daughter, and I needed money to buy for my own kids. It was painful to remember that in past years we’d always received fat Christmas catalogs in our mailbox—and no wonder, since every marketer probably had us pegged as big spenders. It wasn’t unusual for us to drop over a thousand dollars on gifts. Now, we don’t get the J.Crew catalog, or Hearthsong, or Hanna Andersson, Sundance, or Williams-Sonoma. Just as well. Looking back, I feel stupid for not heading first to thrift, consignment, DIY, swap-meets, garage sales. Garnet Hill has not yet given up on us, but I’m not biting. It’s a game of chicken, and I guarantee I will win.

The potential bike buyer and I met on my porch. It was only 7 pm or so, but dark enough that the dangling strand of half-lit Christmas lights hanging from the leaf gutter provided the only illumination. I was glad for the forgiving darkness; maybe she wouldn’t see the slight scratches on the bike’s frame. I doubted her daughter would notice, and I knew the marks would buff out with minimal effort if she did. But then my words stumbled over themselves, and I heard myself trying to give this stranger an excuse not to buy it. “It’s not perfect, but I could come down on the price,” I said, trying not to think about what the $125 would mean to us.

She bought the bike, hurriedly handing me some folded bills. I thanked her and put the money in my pocket without counting it. It was a business transaction, but so intimate that it felt like a social one as well. We worked together to fit the bike into the backseat of her sedan, negotiating its position by micro-amounts to allow both doors to close. It was the kind of thing you do with family when you’re wedging an oversized purchase from Ikea into your car in the parking lot. Very few words, body language conveying the small adjustments that need to be made. I was struck with the urge to hug her good-bye and made a darting movement in that direction before thinking better of it. My already loose boundaries are becoming even looser as these emotionally challenging times continue.

The other day at the park, I spent hours chatting with another mom from the kindergarten, an affluent woman wearing yoga pants and driving a Lincoln Navigator. She had funny things to say about her twins. She expressed respect at seeing us on our bicycles in the rain, explained in too many words spoken too quickly about how even though they live very close to the school, there is this reason and that for why they don’t take bikes but drive instead, and I said, “Oh, if I still had a car, I would likely find any excuse, every day. I’m not holier than thou.” She complimented me on my thrift shop dress. It was only later, when talking about the vacation house her family rents in Tahoe and the ski boots she bought for the boys, that she stopped short. It was awkward. She ceased speaking as if I had poked her with a stick. The silence hung for a few beats, and then she continued but haltingly, as if embarrassed. She talked about scouring Groupon for deals, and about her religious Sunday coupon clipping. She mentioned having been poor as a child and how that’s not what matters, that it’s not what she remembers and that it’s not what my children will remember. I would like to believe her. I was taken aback that knowledge of my family’s economic situation is something that preceded us, that was such a part of our identity that it stopped our conversation cold. (And no, she doesn’t read this blog.)

I can be abrasive (who, moi?), and when younger, I wore my convictions like a blazing cloak of righteousness. I hope that now, at this vulnerable time in my life, I have become less judgmental and more approachable. I had not wanted this other woman, this mother like me, to feel anything but at ease. Still, there was this chasm between us, of needs and not-needs, and she filled it with her own embarrassed rationales. I smiled and nodded, full of sympathetic head tilts and raised eyebrows. I touched her arm, reassured her with dismissive noises. That would have been me had the recession not hit us so hard and so relentlessly.

So I’m writing this in the dark on the front porch swing, as brutally cold as it is, because I just need to get out of the house. There’s been a lot of rain, and I’ve felt uniquely trapped and what with the kids all being home from school and nothing to get them out of doors. (We did take an afternoon to adventure along the creek where the salmon are making their journey to spawn. Although it’s very much against the law, it was fascinating to watch a young boy—he couldn’t have been older than ten—trudge upstream in nothing but cut off blue jeans carrying a fish as large as his torso: “I done wrassled it and knifed its haid,” he shouted proudly to his waif-like mother. “Good work, boy, that’s dinner for tonight and then some!” It’s been a few weeks since our monthly food stamp card was re-upped. Armed with $340 for our family of five, we can just barely fill some gaps on our refrigerator and pantry shelves. No, there’s nothing romantic about being poor—but there is joy in small things. This morning, as I slept for the last precious hour or so before waking, I dreamed of eating bacon. I could get bacon, maybe. Soon, even, I think. And there’s a waffle-maker somewhere in our house of too-much-stuff, which I’ve been slowly but surely selling on these buy/sell/trade groups on Facebook. But I won’t sell the waffle-maker: because dang it, one of these weekend mornings, I hope my future holds a plate with a waffle soaked in butter and good, real maple syrup, and bacon on the side.

And that leads me to this admission: The color and clatter of our chaotic existence now gives me more pleasure, (when I’m able to claw with un-manicured fingernails and raise my tear-weary eyes just high enough to see beyond the edge of my dark and cavernous hole of paralyzing guilt, fear, and worry—insert sardonic laugh,) than my corporate affluence ever did. There is a joyous, delicious jangle and pop to this sort of freedom, (when I’m not deep in depression and anxiety—more sardonic laughter.) My northern European ancestors populated Oklahoma Territory, and my Cherokee relatives, having been relocated against their will, endured the Trail of Tears and joined them. That land, that time, and the people who embraced those challenges mark those aforementioned sinews and synapses deep at the heart of me. Maybe it is those ancestors who made me a writer and a survivor, although of late, I feel like I’m not doing the “surviving” part very well. But each day my children feel loved and go to bed with full bellies is a successful day, and those keep happening, so I’m going to call that “survival.” Can I get a group agreement on that? At any rate, it feels like an evolutionary imperative: I just need to concentrate on the map inscribed at a cellular level and summon the strength and capability to lift us up and carry us through these hard years. Then I can see the sparks of light that illuminate and inspire me, more than any empty material successes ever had. And days come when I get an email through Facebook or somewhere that says, “Hey, I’m with such-and-such company. We’re very impressed with your writing, and we’d like to pay you to do some for us. May we trouble you for your phone number?”

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Today was a day like any other. The children emerged from their beds, as pink and helpless as mewling kittens, and skittered downstairs where they could cocoon themselves in blankets and cluster near our one wall-heater against the early-morning chill. Regardless of the weather, my plan is to straddle my colorfully-festooned bicycle and head out the door to the food bank, as we are so close to the only holiday that isn’t commercially commodified to death, but one in which I hope my family will add to the neighbors’ feast we’ve been invited to join, and have abundance in the weeks that follow. (If I’m lucky, I’ll get a ride. We’ll see.) Later, I will purge some of the soil from the neglected garden and use it to fill the pots on the porch that have been holding plants donated by a friend, but remain root-bound in their plastic shop containers. Maybe I’ll fill the empty slow cooker with simple soup components . . . or maybe I’ll rely on my husband’s far-superior culinary abilities. Yes, that. I might wield the pick axe and continue my work on the side yard, cut down the dead branches from the pear tree, and check on the ripeness of our obscenely overloaded orange tree (our traditional Christmas offering to neighbors and loved ones or anyone who wants oranges, they’re ready right around Dec. 22, consider yourself notified. I deliver,) because the instinct for hard physical labor is built into me, too, and just like my elderly grandfather who kept dragging brush and cleaning leaf gutters into his nineties, it flat-out feels good. And feeling good has been hard to come by for me, as late. (I’ve not been doing well in the state-of-mind aspect of surviving. Molly says, “I love my crying mom.”) Then I will open my laptop and do the work I was meant to do, which sometimes pays well but, for a long time, has not. Throughout, I will keep my knees (metaphorically) slightly bent so I am ready for movement, my back strong and locked straight, my eyes cast forward, ever forward.

Amanda Bynes, Robin Williams, and the Spectacle of Mental Illness


Corbyn Hanson Hightower:

Tears of grief, fury, and recognition as I read this. And there are some who mention that Robin Williams’ particular comedy schtick may have been him in the throes of manic phases, but that’s pure conjecture. Interesting potential truth, though.

Originally posted on Let's Queer Things Up!:

Internet, we need to have a talk.

I’ve had a number of readers ask why I’ve neglected to write about Amanda Bynes this last year. It’s simple, really. I don’t believe that celebrities are “fair game,” and that, when they have very human and very difficult struggles, I should capitalize on those things by writing an article, however well-intentioned. I believe they are deserving of privacy and respect, by virtue of their being people.

However, I’m making an exception here, because in the midst of the negative and callous press that Bynes has received, I think it’s time we had a chat about it from a different perspective. And then, after we’re done, I think it’s time we stop speculating about it altogether. Deal?

First and foremost, there is no way for us to know what, if anything, Bynes has been diagnosed with. The family has denied schizophrenia and bipolar…

View original 1,176 more words

Robert Cockerham is Smarter, Weirder, and Funnier Than You


Robert Cockerham and Yours Truly
Robert Cockerham and Yours Truly

(This piece was originally commissioned by MAKE Magazine, but ended up on Yahoo.com, from where it has since disappeared. I feel it is only right and just to reprint it here.)

Nerd Crush For the Connoisseur

When I first heard about this guy Robert Cockerham’s website, cockeyed.com, I pictured something along the lines of an amalgam of clever backyard engineering projects mixed with some of the milder exploits from Jackass, minus the penile injuries. I wasn’t far off, but what I didn’t know was of Robert’s righteous place in Internet pioneer nerd-dom.

And when I told a few of my friends that I had befriended Robert and, eventually, that I was going to be writing an article about him for the redoubtable Make Magazine, the din of giddy squeals from both male and female nerds of A Certain Age was deafening. My friend Summer said, “my ex-husband and I were so geeked out on him and Cockeyed! Oh my GOD!” She put her hands in her lap forcefully as if to calm herself, and was quiet for a tense and excited second or two.

“Have you met him? WHAT’S HE LIKE?” Her cheeks—I’m serious—were flushed. Flushed! Based on things like his parabolic solar concentrator, “The Light Sharpener” and the prank he played at the Roseville Galleria Hyundai Dealership display, which involved his adding a pseudo-time machine made out of a repurposed component of a Korean boxing robot (more on that later.) Ahhh, sapiosexuality. The boon to all of us who are smarter than we are cute (though Robert is cute by any measure.)

I explained to her that Robert is best described in the exact way he describes himself, on his very own website: “I feel my strongest traits are 1) my overall knowledge of material handling and properties, 2) an unnatural ability to complete projects and 3) a good sense of humor through good times and hard times. Oh, and one more, I don’t mind asking basic questions.

“If you liked any of this stuff, or have valuable suggestions, project proposals or lawsuits pending against me, please email me.”

I’ve spent some time with Robert, and what I can tell you is this: his cautious, mild-mannered demeanor does not match what one would expect from a person who once facilitated the flaming detonation of a giant, ketchup-packet-filled, wire-crafted teddy bear on the streets of his neighborhood, like a horrifically-misunderstood prescience of Burning Man. What he does seem reminiscent of, in fact, is a tech employee at a corporation like, for example, MCI, which in fact he was, when he began to gradually lure friends over to his house on weekends for help making manifest his plans for elaborate (and often surprisingly expensive) pranks, with building his mad scientist-meets-Willy-Wonka useless whirligigs, flux capacitors, and shitty-shitty-bang bangs, as well as his heartbreaking works of staggering genius.

He also started using the web in ways no one really was, yet. Back in the days of Alta Vista and Geocities, he got himself a personal URL and started blogging. In days of yore, when it was hard to find images online that were larger than a microchip, he bought a digital camera and started uploading big pictures that got lots of excitement and attention. He predated all that stuff we share like mad on social media now, the “wow . . . why?”–inducing links from eccentric engineering-types who make machines that maybe don’t do much but they’re just plain cool, the smart humor sites and the just plain weird stuff, and even the embryonic concept of flash mobs and the wildly-elaborate pranks that we see on YouTube that go viral before we even get a chance to log on in the morning.

When he and his coworkers got laid off from MCI, they used their severance pay to take a tour of Europe, and he blogged it all. He blogged it. With his (at the time) high-res camera and his growing online readership, he wrote and photographed his experiences. Robert and I are almost exactly the same age, and I, as a writer, am left slapping my forehead at my own lack of foresight: I didn’t even own a personal computer until . . . 2005? When I was thirty-five? All the opportunities missed! But he saw the potential, or maybe he was just enjoying what he was doing, and kept rolling with it.

But is he a “maker?” And where was the seed of it all, really? Way back when, when rocks were formed, little Robert, son of a forensic scientist and one of four kids, developed something of an unnatural fascination with Makita drills, and the first thing he made was a set of speaker boxes. He never lost his desire to create and build–sometimes functional objects, and sometimes things one would more accurately describe as junk sculptures, with a strong bent toward prodigal genius. And he always liked to make people laugh. His nature, then and now, was low-key and more introverted. So, how to get an audience, how to get participants, how to become the charismatic mad scientist and ne’er-do-well gadabout who is the Robert Cockerham of cockeyed.com?

The Early Days: Internet Pioneer, Mad Scientist, or Sex God?

(I’ll give you a clue: he doesn’t own any leather pants, nor does he have a profile on FetLife, nor–sadly for us all–any beefcake posters.)

He ended up at University of California Santa Barbara, struggling to survive in the oh-so-challenging environment of beach-meets-mountains geography, when he discovered a long-standing tradition there that was to inform the person he was to become: their famous annual costume parade. “I realized,” he told me, leaning forward with something of a conspiratorial tone, hands clasped together and resting on his knees, as we sat on stools across from each other in my hoarder-trashed, pink-painted, uh, office, “that with a couple days’ effort, I could be, like, a rockstar.” His eyes open up a little wider, like he’s sharing the secret to insta-fame and glory, to getting-laid-in-a-hurry, to BMOC-status.

But what he chose for his first foray into rockstar-dom says a lot about Robert. He decided to be a kiosk.

“A kiosk?”!

“Yeah, you know, the kind they always have at college campuses, I guess, with the pagoda or kind-of Kremlin-looking top? I made it out of cardboard, and stapled all these flyers to it. I cut out a small sideways oval for my eyes, and made shoulder harnesses so I could wear it. People were all, ‘oh my God, look! It’s a kiosk!’ and stuff like that. Just shouting and pointing. All night it was like that! Man, it was great.” He smiled and shook his head at the memory. The glory, the reveling.

They were pointing and shouting. At a cardboard cipher.

“But no one could see you.”

“Yeah. I guess there was that. Someone did pop under and up and got in there with me for a minute, but that was it.”

I brightened. “Did you have crazy on-the-spot sex? Set the kiosk down and get bizzay?”

“No. No, I didn’t do that.”

“Some kind of rockstar you are.”

“I guess I’m the quiet, anonymous kind.” (Introspective silence.) “There was one year I went as a map of Africa. My face poked out somewhere around Chad. It wasn’t nearly as big a hit, though.” He looked solemn and regretful.

Ultimate Success, Ultimate Prank . . . and he’s not stopping

But the crazily-creative costume-creation would become something of a specialty for Mr. Robert Cockerham, and they would bring him as much glory as some of his other famous inventions and legendary pranks. Sometime back, he had the great good fortune of attending a costume contest at Industrial Light and Magic (YES, birthplace of Star Wars and headquarters for George Lucas’ special effects creative team,) and he went as an old-school crowd of paparazzi, complete with flashing, popping cameras made from deconstructed and somehow re-purposed disposable point-and-shoots that he found, dumped by the hundreds–all the film used up but the flashes still intact.

What you need to know is this: Robert Cockerham won the freaking costume contest at freaking Industrial Light and Magic. He won. that. shit. But what made him most happy is that, apparently, in addition to that insane achievement, George Lucas’ child favored Robert’s costume over all the others as well, and came over to marvel and comment.

But my personal, favorite cockeyed.com creation got him mentioned on the morning talk shows and written about in all the expected places: his piece de resistance, the Disneyland Costume. An absolutely stunning display of attention to detail and hilarious lack of self-consciousness (easily my favorite Robert-trait,) the Disneyland Costume is like the world’s most gigantic hat (when I say gigantic, I mean gigantic: 6’5” in diameter,) worn at a steep angle for maximum view-ability, with his head poking out at the Matterhorn!

“You’ve come a long way from Chad.”

“Indeed. I started the process by studying satellite maps, and, using Adobe Fireworks, printed that all onto seventy sheets of paper, then simplified it so that it was sort of an augmented reality, highlighting the attractions that people would want to see.”

“What made you choose to do a costume of Disneyland?”

He stopped, paused, looked at me, spoke slowly: “Well, because everybody loves Disneyland.” I heard the unspoken word at the end of that sentence: “DUMMY.”

But as a resident of the conservative, moneyed, highly-law-abiding suburb of Roseville, the cockeyed.com story that intrigued me even more was the one he told about how he pulled one over on the infamous Westfield Roseville Galleria. (You know the Getty Museum in LA? The Met in NY? This is our equivalent. Marble-floored, cameras everywhere, a hushed and posh quality.) He had found an enormous . . . object . . . elaborately electronic, printed with unreadable characters and pegged throughout with blinking LED lights, along the roadside. (This sort of thing happens to Robert.) After a whole lot of Google-fu, he learned that it was half of an incredibly expensive Korean boxing robot “toy.” Like, $10,000-range expensive.

“So I got this idea . . . “

He realized that the only way he was going to get it into the rarefied confines of the plush, Nordstrom-anchored church of consumerism was to put it on a dolly and walk with casual confidence right by the front desk. You know, where Information and Security are. So he did exactly that, as-big-as-you-please, and made his way directly to where Hyundai had set up a large promotional area, complete with two parked cars, information KIOSKS [I still smart at the missed opportunity for costumed  shenanigans,] and signage. He “installed” his addition in what looked like a natural spot within, marked with a very professional-looking warning note that said: “CAUTION: TIME MACHINE OUT OF ORDER. CALIBRATION OFF BY THREE DAYS. FOR MORE INFORMATION, CONTACT [and here he put the number of the Roseville Hyundai dealer’s service department.]”

“It lasted three months.”

I leapt off my stool and screamed, laughed, clapped.

That’s Robert. He’s not in it for the glory. He’s in it for the fun.

Hasty Pudding


When, several years ago, we succumbed to unavoidable financial pressure and sold our only family vehicle to help cover the rent for awhile, it was my son, Zeke, the analytical type, the scientist, who wanted to run to the window to watch—solemn, stoic—as the new owners drove away. He was about five at the time.

“Are they going to bring back our Honda Pilot?”

No, Zeke. They’re not bringing it back.

Today, he asks me things like this: “The next time we make a turkey, can I watch it cook from beginning to end? I would like to do that. I’d like to watch it no matter how long it takes. That means you’re going to have to clean the oven window, and I don’t know how you’re going to do that, because it’s dirty in between two panels. So you should research. But I want to watch that. I like to watch the changes happen to things, slowly.”

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He notices now, on the relatively rare occasions when we’re in someone’s vehicle together, that he doesn’t have time to take in his surroundings. Things pass too fast for him to observe and integrate. “The only things I can see better when I’m in a car are other cars. Instead of them just speeding by, it’s like they’ve slowed down. I guess because I’m traveling with them. So I look at zooming cars when I’m in a car, because they’re the only thing I can really see. They become slow.”

Zeke has always talked like this. He used to refer to people smoking cigarettes as “humans operating small smokestacks.” I think of him as a real-life equivalent of Charles Wallace from A Wrinkle in Time, better friends with his fifteen-year-old sister Rainer than with his peers. 

On our bike rides to school, we travel down one long boulevard we’ve come to call “weather street,” where back in late August we noted its late-summer status quo and watched, with little sister Molly, as the densely green trees and the short shadows they cast turned into the golden lens of early autumn. Our morning ride became more softly-lit and forgiving, with even small hedges and rosebushes casting long silhouettes like puddles beneath our wheels as we pedaled. Later, we took pleasure in the crunch of dry leaves underneath our tires, and avoided the carefully-made sleeping mounds at the curbs, representing hours of raking and optimism that no blustery day would carry the work away before green waste pick up.

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We saw the change as autumn gave way to the parchment scratch of winter’s branches against a colorless sky. “It always comes after a really big windstorm,” Zeke said, when we rode to school one Monday amidst streets littered with the smaller branches and limbs from a weekend of near-relentless gusts. I told him that’s when autumn’s last leaves lose their grip, to which he replied, “that’s sad, but it’s okay, I guess.”

“Sometimes you have to let go in order for the next thing to come in, right?”

“Yeah, but what if it’s not better? Like, the leaves are leaving the branches just to be crumbly dead leaves. And a gray branch with nothing on it is what’s left behind.”

“Well, sure, but that’s the order of things. And that’s why they bend with the wind, see? They’ve got time to adjust before they let go of the branch. It’s not so sudden as all that. We’ve seen the change. They haven’t even been green for weeks and weeks now.”

That’s not to say Zeke’s okay with anything and everything nature has to dish out. He’s less impressed when things happen with alarming quickness. A couple times this year, we’ve been “blessed” with a most shocking and sudden fungal display in our yard, known colloquially as “dog vomit fungus.” The fact that it appears seemingly overnight—in addition to its profoundly repulsive appearance and consistency—is deeply disturbing to The Boy Who Likes Things Slow.

Part I of the Dog Vomit Fungus that Appeared in the Nighttime:

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Part II of The Dog Vomit Fungus that Appeared in the Nighttime:

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You can hear me extolling the horrifying “virtues” of the oddly instantaneous appearance of what looks, from a distance, like wet quinoa rejected and tossed out of a pot in in the middle of the yard, but as you approach seems more like tapioca pudding, and only becomes repugnant when the incongruity hits you. Wet tapioca? Soft, fresh, cooked quinoa? In the middle of the yard, in great quantity, at seven a.m.? We approached, in an uneasy darting fashion, and because this was our second-go-‘round with this, and because and I had been told what it was by my friend Nicole, who’s an admitted fungus enthusiast, we took a few extra minutes out of our morning to chronicle its appearance. I told Zeke to fetch a stick; Molly appeared with one instead. [And yes, it dawned on me later that despite my insipid comment in the video, the grass didn’t grow through it, it grew around the grass.]

But something about the suddenness of its appearance was unnerving to our Ezekiel. I tried to rally the native scientist within, but he kept making noises about saddling up and riding as far away from that hasty pudding as fast as we could.

“Just drop the stick and leave,” he implored.

“Why, Zeke?” I was shocked he didn’t want me to poke and prod more.

“Because . . . because it might be . . . unsanitary?”

Laughter all around. “I think that’s pretty much a guarantee.”

Nervously, from Zeke: “Let’s just go.” Black screen.

That’s where the video ends. I obeyed his request, because it came from the very root of who he is. He’s a boy who likes to take things in in his own time, and I am thankful for that, because whether it came before getting rid of the car or was a result of our having gotten rid of the car, it now makes him uniquely well-suited to our lifestyle of biking and walking everywhere. We are able to see small changes—both natural and man-made—as they occur. He enjoys watching new houses go up, and will comment on the roofing paper being rolled out, the stucco getting sprayed on. He likes watching people’s garden beds get seeded, grow into plants, bear fruit.

And so we take our notes, make our observations. And nothing need be rushed. Because in the end, I’m looking for any clinging crimson leaf left on the gray branch, and the last thing I want to do is leave a pile of dog vomit fungus for the child to integrate when he’s in no way ready to handle that.

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. . . and thank you for making it possible for me to write for you!

Buddha’s Journey


I’ve had amazing experiences since I started writing semi-professionally. I’ve seen my byline in The New York Times. I’ve filled out my IRS tax forms with my profession listed as “writer,” and seen that yes, indeed, 95% of what I’d earned had come from my craft. I’ve landed–and lost!–not one but TWO big-shot NYC literary agents. I’ve been on national television. I’ve gone into Safeway and walked up to a rack and opened up a mass-market magazine to show my children an article I wrote. I’ve seen my son walk solemnly, proudly around kindergarten Open House with a copy of Yes! Magazine open to my editorial layout. But this season has been filled with professional (and, yes, personal) disappointments, heartaches, and losses. I just got dealt few more of them today. So instead of crying about the money situation and feeling sorry for myself, I did something fun and creative. Because the only thing that’s saved me . . . really . . . through an incredibly rough year is the circle of support I’ve got around me, not just in my real life, but the one that’s grown around my virtual, writing life. Through this website and through my social media connections.

A woman I’ve never met but with whom I share many mutual friends admired my fat green Buddha statue in a video of my daughter playing piano. She also happens to have been one of my most stalwart supporters, always there to elevate my work, message me when she spots a low in my tone, or crow over my children. I hope she’s not embarrassed or offended by my gentle shout out: this is for you–and all who are like you, Lisa Choate McGovern. You live on Love Street.

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. . . and thank you for making it possible for me to write for you!

For Amy, With Love and Squalor


Ruby was walking her five-year-old son, Cash, home, and we were keeping them company on the journey. I was pulling the kids in the trailer, but peddling so slowly that my bike was wobbling to maintain equilibrium. I was in happy conversation with Ruby; she’s an artist and a like-minded soul in this suburban enclave.

Children often point and smile when they see me riding around town. If I’m in a good mood, I grin back and hold my arm up high like a salute to the sky. If I’m feeling grumpy, I’m just annoyed that anyone thinks it’s unusual or worthy of remark to see a flower-bedecked, rainbow-striped retro cruiser pulling a trailer full of children down the side of a busy street.

And oh, this challenging winter and spring we’ve had . . . I can’t endure the struggle anymore! Day after day of glittering sunshine, crisp mild breezes, and skies so clear you can glimpse the purple snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada mountain range in the distance, between the strip malls and rows of redwoods. Such hardship. Such complain.

I keep waiting for my teen daughter to announce that she hates me and the jangly sort of lifestyle that has formed around us in these lean times, or at least to be embarrassed by our shabby home and lack of car. It’s actually been sort of disconcerting, as she seems to not care at all. Maybe it’s because of the circle of support and friendship we have around us. We never find ourselves stranded without a ride if we need one, for example.

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So this afternoon, on this fine sparkling day, Ruby’s son asked, in the guileless way of the kindergartner: “Why don’t you have a car?”

“Because they’re expensive to own and operate, and we decided we couldn’t really afford it if we wanted to stay where we’re living.”

“No one really does that,” Cash said, in his lisp that’s an artifact of his toddler days, so recently passed. “No one doesn’t have a car.”

He paused, and Ruby had the grace to avoid filling the silence with embarrassed, polite excusing and correcting. “It’s actually kind of weird,” he said after some thought.

My children–possibly in a precocious desire not to hurt my feelings, which upon reflection gives me great parental satisfaction–don’t ever say anything like that; they’d censor the word “weird” from their commentary as naturally as we censor “stupid” from ours. I even press them sometimes, gently trying to goad them into confessing the frustrations and embarrassments that sometimes come with being a “poor” family. We review what we do have instead of a car: electronics we wouldn’t otherwise be able to afford, a biggish house instead of a small apartment, a yard where we can grow vegetables and swing from fruit trees.

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When I was growing up, it was forever in the most polite corners of suburbia, worlds of genteel middle class-itude, where no one leaves toys in the front yard, paints their homes controversial colors, or parks their cars on the street. (And I never knew curbs symbolized a certain affluence until I was an adult and lived in neighborhoods where my parents would mutter, “no curbs,” with some distaste.) I wasn’t even allowed to tack posters to my bedroom walls, which were always painted “Navajo White”–a blandly popular neutral–in an effort to maximize resale value. There was the ticking of a clock in the living room, its carpet ever striated with vacuum cleaner markings; you could hear it in the silence like a metronome.

For a few years while I was a teenager we lived in a leafy suburb of metro New York, on the so-called “Gold Coast” that borders Long Island Sound. I made a friend there, Amy Hendrix (no mean feat when you’re an outspoken, acne-riddled wearer of grandpa’s overcoat and unflattering vintage sheath dresses,) who was also a self-identified writer and social outcast. I remember the first time I went to her house. It was one of those experiences that, looking back, showed me what life’s potential held, and it wasn’t all painted in Navajo White and at a decibel that wouldn’t be heard by the neighbors.

They had a small artful sign decoupaged to their front door, made of letters cut from magazines: “criminals are not as intelligent as other people.” Amy explained that her sister thought it both wise and useful as a burglary deterrent. The parents let her glue it above the doorknob! On the front door! Inside, they had a giant black-and-white photograph over the mantle. It was a picture of the older daughter, who was possessed of the most phenomenal head of hair I’ve ever seen: platinum ringlets, wild and long, dancing around and above her head, down to the dip of her lower back. This picture was of her, clearly topless but discreetly posed from just below her clavicle up to that balletic face and hair that had its own life and will.

The only other art in the living room was a framed album cover, and walls and walls of bookshelves filled so that some had to be laid on top of the others. I couldn’t remember whether the album was of the Velvet Underground, Neil Young, Frank Zappa, perhaps? But since Skyping with Amy, I’ve learned it  that it was Bob Dylan. And couch-matching was of no concern.

In the dining room, they had painted the walls a deep bordello rose pink, and hung dozens of faded old portraits in dark frames, mostly of somber-looking men and women, looking dolefully at the camera. “Wow, are these all relatives?”

My friend and her mother made eye contact and snorted knowingly. Apparently they had bought the whole lot of framed photos –which were, of course, of complete and utter strangers!–at a yard sale, the same yard sale where they had bought this rather wild paint color. “See? We ran out. They only had one container.” The bordello pink ended three-quarters of the way around the room with some halfhearted W- and M-zigzag swipes, before giving over to the unattractive wallpaper they’d been attempting to cover.

I’d never seen any family make such carefree aesthetic choices. We’d lived all over the country during the course of my childhood; I had attended five elementary schools and two junior high schools in areas as diverse as Oklahoma, Florida, Texas, and New Hampshire. Yet still, my exposure had been limited to the sorts of families (“corporate transients,” my parents called them, our familiars,) who lived the sorts of lives we did, families where there were two cars, tidy garages, well-kept lawns, and tastefully-appointed homes. Families who moved often, as one does in the military, when promotions or new career opportunities arose, leaving the houses easy to empty, scrub down, and stage for sale as we kids stared out the back windows of station wagons awaiting the next application of Navajo White.

So, I hadn’t met any artists, until then.

I hadn’t met anyone who was bucking tradition, or flying in the face of convention. When I met this family I felt this strong “YES,” feeling inside me; it made me feel whole and thrilled and gave me a deeper sense of belonging than I ever remember having felt.

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One thing I’ve noticed since we, as a family, moved out of our tidy suburban enclave and “downsized” to a shabbier existence in line with our new-found financial straits: we are meeting and bonding with more artists, eccentrics, and cheerful outcasts. There is this feeling like we’re pioneers in a new sort of Wild West. Bartering is common, urban homesteading is a survival mechanism, and looking and acting “right” for the neighbors never enters the picture. Mostly, the neighbors are “weirdos,” too: underemployed engineers creating bike trailer modifications and popping up their welding masks to say hi, people giving over more time to their art than to their accounting ledgers, folks learning to monetize their creative impulses because that’s all we really have right now.

So today, walking alongside one of my dearest friends, I listened to her son’s un-coached commentary. He spoke ingenuously and without hostile judgment. Just this: “not having a car is weird.”

“Yes, but I think it’s a good weird, don’t you?”

My Summer Ghost


Everything I’m about to tell you is true, except for two things: one, it wasn’t my grandmother (although I am part Cherokee, and I have had many sage grandmothers and great grandmothers.) It was my friend’s full-blood Cherokee great-grandmother, but it fit perfectly. Two, his name is.

“My Summer Ghost”

A ghost spent some time with me this past summer, and he lived in my computer. He knew my name, where I had lived in 1972, where my pain had begun. When he said his dad had been at Fort Sill I froze and waited, feeling a NO and a YES all together, it can’t have been?!

My Cherokee grandmother had warned me of this type of ghost, in her way. She had a saying, something like, “there are three types of friends. Those that are there for a reason. Those that are there for a season. Those that are there forever. Two out of those three will leave you before you’re ready.”

This man—my ghost–had skin brown as the good dark soil you never find in Oklahoma, where the dirt is red. Legend says the dirt is red in Oklahoma due to all the blood that’s been shed there. That is where my pain started, in my home . . . and where his started, too . . . my ghost. He came up on my screen and he said, “I knew you, little girl. I knew you when you were being hurt and started feeling very afraid of home, because I was the little black boy down the street whose father killed a man in our living room. My stepfather raped me throughout my childhood. I’m here to show you the path to climbing out and away.”

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He had dreadlocks and wore a Buffalo Soldier hat his great-grandfather had kept, long stored, he told me, a source of pain that he reclaimed and wore with defiance. He smiled at me lovingly, and with a facial expression that held both pity and understanding. He told me the tears could keep coming if they needed to but they would have to stop sometime if I was going to be strong. If I was going to shed this baggage, this weight I carry around, if I was to be a Queen. He told me he had never spent a lot of time crying–that actually, it was something he rarely if ever had indulged in–but that he got into a lot of trouble, instead, in the years after he escaped from his abuser.

I told him that I always cry when I’m angry.

 Right then, when I said that, there was a long pause, and this was the first and the last time I ever saw my ghost cry. He told me, “I spent a lot of time breaking kneecaps for you, girl.”

 He put his strong hand to his forehead and his chest shook. I cried and touched the screen impulsively and told him I wish we could have helped each other back then, grasped small hands, black and white, and run far and fast across the tarantulas and bleached-white sidewalks, across the dry spiky grass, but to where? The farthest I went was on my yellow metal tricycle, riding slowly, steadily, along the long straight ribbon of concrete. How far can I go. How far can I go.

My ghost went far. He went to prison, eventually . . . for fighting his way out of this pain. Now he works for the poor and in need, around the world. He’s an innovator, a change-maker, raising people up with his strong hands. Spreading love and charity after a lifetime of pain and anguish.

 Whenever, during our computer screen chats, I started repeating self-defeating things, how the things that had happened had turned me into a broken person, and possibly a bad person, too, he’d get up from his chair and sort of hunch his back, slapping his thighs, shaking his head low and fast, eyes closed, singing this kind of crazy scat until I’d shut up. He’d ask, “are you quite done?”

When I’d cry hard about the burdens I carry and the boulder on my shoulder, he’d start to pick up all the furniture in his house, ALL of it–please don’t think I’m exaggerating–until he was this small figure under a catawampus collection of chairs, ottomans, boxes, busts of David, books, halogen lamps, “and let me get this here, too, let me add this, Corbyn, is this enough? What about this here? Wait, I can get one . . . more . . . thing . . . that enough, Baby? That enough? What else you gon’ add, Baby? That enough for you?” Then after I got a goooood long look at how silly and overwhelmed and unnecessarily burdened he looked, he’d stare me down good and hard. A long, quiet stare. And he’d start to put each item down, while never losing eye contact with me. Never losing eye contact. Just silence. Just those beautiful eyes and those wild locks, that black skin, that hat, while I cried with relief and understanding.

For as long as I can remember, as an adult, I felt like if I were asked to paint a self-portrait–the internal kind, how I see myself, not the mirror’s lie–I’d see a well-muscled black man with a snarl and tattoos, one whose fists are clenched and whose face challenges you to just Go Ahead, MUTHUHFUCKER, Try!2pac

That’s who I call on when I need that feeling of invincibility, like none of it ever happened, the red dirt, the years of unpredictable anger and violence, of being afraid of your own parents, of your own home, the feeling of having no place that was safe. And in short time this summer, my ghost became my safety.

A text of “today is going to be a great day for you. You are stronger than what happened. I love you. R.” And that was like a sweet guitar strum in my ear, and my eyes would close and my head tilt with an almost drunken feeling of peace, just with those words. Because my ghost was there. He knew Everything. I could rewrite every hurt with his strong arms around me. I could paint a whole new painting, one where I didn’t hide behind bushes and under beds, where I didn’t cut huge bleeding sections out of the bottoms of my feet where no one would see, but where I could march, add to the red dirt, add to the red dirt.

I sliced these huge bleeding sections off my feet for years, and at night I would have to peel off my blood-soaked socks and throw them away. My mother had to wonder what was happening to all my socks. Periodically, I’d find new replacements–the kind that came in multiples, in a bag–laid on my bed without comment.

And yet there came a day when I wasn’t ready and he wasn’t there. He vanished, and it was if we had never met. All contact ceased. A DVD of a favorite movie I had sent to him came back marked “Undeliverable.” And the crying came back, and it came back harder than ever, because I wasn’t ready, and I thought maybe it was time, finally time for the hospital, that I had created my fantasy healer, someone who could make it all better, and I still don’t know if that’s not true. When I try to contact him now, he responds as if we’ve never met or doesn’t respond at all. He said a stranger is trying to stalk him, and that’s me, but I know because I REMEMBER HIM MORE THAN I REMEMBER ANYTHING ELSE IN MY LIFE. But he turned away from me, and it hurt like a thousand things hurt, it hurt me bigger than big, and I’m not sure if it broke me more than helped me.

That’s the thing about ghosts. They’re damned unreliable.

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Sleep for the weary/And dreams for us all/Rest your head on a pillow /And I’ll tell you a tale


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Oh! An oldie but a goodie. I remember then-kindergartener Zeke walking around slowly on Back to School Night with the magazine in which this appeared, solemnly holding it open to my article.

I was looking for something to cheer me, as I just lost a sah-weet summer writing gig that would have covered my part financially. <pfft.>  Steering the schooner a different direction, avoiding rocky waters.

 

I Am Crumbly All Over


I’m forty-freaking-four years old as I write this in the spring of 2014. And NO, I’m not surprised by that. The years didn’t “fly by,” I don’t still “feel like a teenager,” I don’t “wonder how I got this old,” and I roll my eyes when people say, “I just don’t know where all the time went.” I allow myself to feel flattered when I’m carded for alcohol, and my pat response is, “I’ve been legal to drink since before you were born, young cashier-friend,” because they are almost all in their early twenties, at least at Trader Joe’s, where I get my fancy two- to three-buck Chuck. Once, at Grocery Outlet, a slightly older woman carded me. I quizzed her as I sometimes will, do I seem under twenty-one to you? Really? At times I think it’s because of my nose piercing and penchant for dying my hair blue or pink, or affinity for glitter-covered accessories. So as she considered my question, I was looking down, fumbling through my wallet, searching for my I.D., and when I looked up, we made strong and steady eye contact. (I’m good at that, I think it’s important.) It was then that she said, “oh. Oh. Now I see it. It’s in your eyes. I can see the life you’ve lived.”

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I remember every cycle ’round the sun. There are whole epochs I’d just as soon forget, but no such luck. I do what I can to look better out of sheer vanity, not to stop the passage of time. I use the oil-cleansing method, keep my brows plucked, and treat/moisturize with some pretty-damn-potent AHAs (picture me dressed like Walter and Jesse in full hazard gear while I pour from flacon to beaker.)  I buy the medical grade goooood shit you can’t get in stores, so don’t even ask, it’s like super serious and stuff. And sure, I soften my profile photos to flatter my visage. I’ll do it for you; I’ve got apps and I’m not afraid to use ‘em.

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And of course during all this silliness, I’m charged with the raising of the first of my hunnert-summat babies, one of the most blessedly gorgeous teens I’ve ever lain eyes upon, who does not seem to be suffering through any sort of awkward stage, that lucky little sumbitch, my tawny balladeer Rainer, who is built like a Barbie who mated with a fairy and who also has the personality of a poetic, dreamy, musical drama geek who loves watching science fiction TV with her dad and reading, and who cares little for make-up and artifice, and she’s watching my every move like I’m supposed to be teaching her what it means to be a woman. No! Just no, because my high school memories (I attended the infamous Northport High School in Long Island at the time of the murder with the boulder in the center of town that was spray-painted “SATIN RULES!” and shopped at the–NOT JOKING Walt Whitman Mall) are fraught with a face so awfully, oozily, bumpily textured with acne I slathered eighties-era orangepink foundation from stem to stern and held my head down, long curtain of blond hair to cover, combat boots and black coat threatening anyone to say ONE THING, JUST ONE THING. I left after eleventh grade because none of us could take it anymore. Here is Rainer. Can you stand it?

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But in real life, I don’t mind my crinkly smile lines, or as my youngest kids say, the way I look “crumbly all over.” I don’t mind my swinging boobs and “imperfect” butt and legs, the ridges that have shown up in my fingernails, etc. I DO mind the molars I’ve lost and cannot afford to replace, and if $6 or $7K extra just shows up in my lap (HAH), I CANNOT GUARANTEE I won’t run to get implants for the holes they’ve left that, when I smile widely, make me look like I did a dance with meth at some point. (Double Breaking Bad reference, go me!). But never, ever, any plastic surgery, even if millions came flying through my front door.

Molly says, “I’ll be old like you someday.” I say, “YES! Yes, you will be. And I’m not even that old. But I remember having everything feel and look soft and new and perfect. But that will change, Love, that will change. You will change, and each experience will etch itself on you. Have great experiences. Build your old woman.”

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photo credits of two above images In Her Image Photography

And then sometimes I sing to her one of my favorite Michelle Shocked songs, “When I grow up I want to be an old woman . . . when I grow up I want to be an old woman . . . oh, an old, old, old, old, old, old, old, an old WOMAN. Then I think I’m gonna find myself an old man . . . then I think I’m gonna marry myself that old man . . . an old, an old, an old, an old, a really old man. We’re gonna have a hundred and twenty babies! A hundred and five, ten, fifteen, twenty babies. Uh huh, that’s what I said a hundred and twenty babies. We’ll raise ‘em on tiger’s milk and green bananas . . . mangoes and coconuts and watermelon . . . we’re gonna give ‘em that watermelon when they starts yellin’. Here’s what they’ll yell [then I imitate the harmonica solo.] In the summer we’ll sit in a field and watch the sun melt . . . in the winter we’ll sit by a fire and watch the moon freeze . . . me my old man and a hundred and twenty babies. Me my old man and a hundred and twenty babies.”

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And one of the sexiest things about my husband is the way his eyes crinkle with smile lines when I truly amuse or please him (not so easy!) And the gray that shows in his beard, and how I get to be there for each new one that appears. And the other thing is knowing that long after those hundred and twenty babies finally leave our banana patch, I’ll be walking down to the end with that skinny fella, “dreaming of the pleasures I’m gonna have watching your hairline recede my vain darlin’ . . . watching your hair and clouds and stars, I’m rocking away in a sleeping car . . . “

Ahhhh, yes. I don’t mind growing old, because it means I get to do it with dang ol’ Larry Joe Hightower, Junior. The man I married with our wedding song the realistic and thus, incredibly romantic “Old College Try,” by the Mountain Goats. “But I will walk down to the end, with you . . . if you will come all the way down with me.” And when he dies, I’mma do the crappy pappy dance on his grave while I swig xx moonshine from a bottle in my tall boots and petticoat. I’ll cackle, “he finally GONE, goldurnit, YEEHAW!” And I’ll kick the dirt and spit. “See ya down in hell, darlin’! Save a spot for me baby!”

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. . . and thank you for making it possible for me to write for you!