Mommy dearest

I find that I am almost bombarded with hilarity every day. Take our recent trip to a “Mexican” restaurant here in Minnesota. We asked the waitress for some extra green chili on a burrito. She looked at Jeff, confused, and responded by saying:

“Oh, we don’t have green chili here. We only have chili verde.”

Hmmm...

How about the conversation that I found myself in over dinner with the family last night? We were discussing odd parenting methods when someone mentioned eating soap as a punishment for profanity. Jeff’s mother was recalling one of her childhood memories. As I laughed in agreement, I continued the conversation.

“Yeah, I hated it when my parents cut a chunk off the bar of soap and made me chew it up and swallow it.”

I was met by crickets…total silence and looks of bewildered shock on both Jeff and Linda’s faces.

“They made you chew and swallow it?” Linda asked, incredulous.

“Yeah, and they wouldn’t let us brush our teeth.”

“That’s horrible!” She exclaimed, disbelieving.

I wondered just what she meant. Wasn’t this a normal occurrence in parenting? I refrained from bringing up the time that my parents had made me and my brother, Cameron, scrape the wax off of the kitchen floor with a butter knife, a project that took us over a week.

I also figured she might not understand if I were to tell her about the time that my parents saved a punishment from an earlier sin until later that evening…well, more like early the next morning. My mother woke me up at 4:00 AM to tell me that I had to stand in the corner, face the wall and remain that way for an hour. I was 9. Seems like the typical punishment for whatever cookie or soda it was that I stole out of my mother’s bedroom closet full of food, right?

My personal favorite occurred when I was a senior in high school. On New Year’s Eve I was invited to a party and was given a curfew of 12:30. I tried to explain to my mother that the New Year’s celebration usually begins around midnight but, poor thing, she just didn’t get it.

I arrived home right on time and, as I walked in the door, I found my mother perched on her trusty corner of the sofa. The TV in the living room and kitchen were playing the same show, creating a cheap surround sound effect. I greeted my mother and she rose from her cushion to come and smell my breath.

“You have been drinking.”

If it had been on another night I would have been up shit creek without a paddle, but on this particular evening I had spent much of my time smoking weed and having unprotected sex in the cab of a truck. Good thing for me!

“I have not had anything to drink tonight, Mom. I promise.” I said, defending myself.

“Don’t you lie to me. I smell it on your breath.”

I smelled Diet Coke and chocolate on hers.

“I swear,” I said, raising my voice a little. “I had a root beer tonight and that’s it.”

“Oh, bullshit, Amber. You’re drunk.”

“Drunk?!” I yelled. “What the hell are you talking about?”

About that time I would have killed for a glass of water, some Cheetos, and a good stretch of my overworked quad muscles, but I didn’t say that.

“Jesus, Amber, your hammered!” She yelled back. “Listen to the way you are slurring and yelling at me.”

“SLURRING???!!!! DO I SOUND LIKE I AM FUCKING SLURRING??!!!”

“Oh my god, Gary, she is so drunk she is completely violent.” She said to my father, who stood watching the progression of this argument without offering assistance to either side.

“VIOLENT??!!”

By this time, tears streamed down my face and my voice cracked with rage. I felt hurt, I felt betrayed and, most of all, I felt like knocking my mom on her ass. So, maybe I was feeling some violent tendencies.

“I think it’s time we called the police, Gary.”

My father casually walked to the phone and dialed. I am pretty sure that by this time our family had the Broomfield police on speed dial.

The police arrived about 10 minutes later to find me in hysterics and my mother wearing a bogus look of motherly concern.

“Hi, Mike.” I said to one of them between my emotional gasps and hiccups. I probably looked pretty worse for the wear upon first impression.

“Hi, Amber. What’s going on with you tonight?”

“Absolutely—hic—nothing. My insane—hic—mom —thinks that I have been—sniff—been drinking and I have—hic—had absolutely—sniff—nothing.”

The look of skepticism on his face was apparent as he explained to me that he was going to have to give me a breathalyzer.

“Fine.” I said, confidently. “Bring it.”

The other officer pulled out the machine and I obligingly blew in to the little straw.

The officers waited a moment and then looked at each other. They looked at my mother, then me, then back at my mother and then said something I will never forget.

“Donna, the amount of alcohol that is in Amber’s system could have been caused by a breath mint or a dose of Nyquil."

Or a couple shots of breath freshener to cover up the smell of cigarette smoke.

"We have better things to do, so goodnight."

Mike gave me a hug as he left and whispered in my ear, "Sorry, sweetheart."

"It's cool," I said as I wiped my nose with the tissue Cameron had brought me.

I looked at my mother. Swollen eyed, cotton mouthed and satisfied, I lifted my middle finger and held it in front of her face. I then went to the phone, made a call and had a chariot on the way to pick me up. I didn’t come back for two days and my mother never apologized.

So what is wrong with all of that? I never thought it strange that, as children, my 2 younger brothers and I knew the Broomfield police force on a first name basis, or that we knew every creek in the floors and doors of our home so well that we could sneak in to the same room in which my mother slept and steal chips, cookies and any other food we could find after picking the lock on her closet. It just never occurred to me that these things were abnormal. I just figured everyone’s parents sucked as much as mine did.

Observations over Camels and Crown

Just sitting here...people watching; wondering where they are going and where they are coming from. The 3 "kids" next to me, for instance...they are shaking the table, for one. Good friends, Hat offered to buy the first round. Beanie is pretty quiet, drinking Newcastle, hasn't said a word. Then there is Girl, slightly pudgy with dishwater hair and studious glasses perched on a pixie nose. They chain smoke and make casual conversation about the weather. Joined by Mother and Son, they exchange stories of destinations and arrivals; Milwaukee and San Jose.

The four people to my 12 o'clock are beginning their Vegas vacation early. Man doesn't appreciate his wife. His gaze lingers on the tight ass of the chocolate haired waitress leaning over the bar. I wonder how many of his thoughts he acts upon. But, who am I to judge? I am just a spectator.

Son with baby-blues smiles and laughs as he talks to Mom about life and where it is taking him. Beanie still hasn't said a word and Girl lights another Marlboro.

Parker, the 3 year-old on a mission, scurries at my feet as his frustrated parents try to nab him from under the bar table. Busboy changes my ashtray and smiles while catching what he may have thought was a smooth glance at my chest.

Ahh…and the Fraternity Trio. They sit across from me and order light beer. Wimps...I sip my Crown on the rocks and chuckle to myself.

"Quit shaking the damn table!!!" I think to myself.

I glare at Beanie who seems to be getting fulfillment at my expense. Girl decides it's time to go and the weather conversations cease. They are replaced by Maroon-haired boy. Perhaps a theatre junkie? Artist? Meth-head? There I go, judging again...

The Trio talks about throwing a kegger in the bar and exchange grief over drink prices and the fact that they received Lanky for their server instead of Chocolate-hair.

Goodbye to Mother and Son, 2 dollars, 10 cents and 3 Camels later. Their warmed seats are quickly occupied by Grandma in navy blue. Definitely not her natural hair color. Virginia Slims...I wonder if they make her feel more graceful in her quest for cancer? Maroon is talking on the phone and while hiding his face (not a conversation about the weather, I assume).

I smile at Frat 1 and 2 and ask about their college. Yep, I was right...frat boys. I make small talk, then I leave without introducing myself. Not that it matters; it is not like I will ever see them again. They head off to San Fran, and I to Michigan.

I walk past the crowds of people, not making eye contact for fear that someone may see straight in to my brain.

Now at the gate; this crowd is completely different. Most are impatient and fatigued from their travels thus far. Baby cries and Mommy coos, Broker talks a few decibles too high, and 2 year old squeals with delight while watching the 747 outside.
I wait...and watch...and wait.

Where are these people going, and why? Some for weddings, some for funerals. Some for business and some for pleasure. Graduations, anniversaries and birthday parties; reunions and separations. These people pass through my thoughts as quickly as 5:00 traffic. I wonder, and then I forget. A thousand lives pass before me without any interaction save a simple glance. Grandparents, friends and CEO's. Divorcees, Newlyweds and entrepenuers; not affecting my life, but infesting my thoughts and arousing my curiosities about others and where they are going...and whether they wonder about me too.

What happened to the simple things?

I took a trip to Nebraska last year to allow me some time to be alone. No better place to be alone than in the insignificant town of Wauneta, population 600ish. There was not much opportunity for distraction in my mother’s home town. The drive to Nebraska is straight, flat and, to some, boring. Not for me. I revel in the idea of physical solitude, and in the company of Robert Smith, Dave Matthews, Trent Reznor or any artist who may cause a stir inside of me. Listening to The Cure under the stars of the middle-of-nowhere HWY 6 is what I would call a spiritual experience. I remember stopping the car on a small dirt side road surrounded by the browning stalks of recently harvested corn. I lay flat on the hood and stared in to the universe. Looking up in to a sky like this was like looking in to the eyes of my son the day he was born. I could not help but to feel a sudden sense of awe and reverence. Millions…no…billions of stars lit the night sky. Each one a force beyond my wildest dreams; each one a distance I would never be able to travel. And, as if by instinct, the radio in my mind tuned in.

Somewhere out there...beneath the pale moonlight...

“Somewhere out there, indeed.” I said aloud.

There was no moon this night, but it didn’t matter. The light created by the spectacle of stars was almost as bright as the moon. Before I lost all sense of time, I got back in to the drivers seat and sped away.

After a 4 hour drive, I arrived in Wauneta and headed for my grandmother’s house in the center of town. The old brick house had been added on to more times than I even know. The "flow" of the house was never considered. So it is now a series of square rooms attached to one another, each one gaudy in its décor. From the completely finished, yet meaningless, attic, to the recently remodeled, windowless, dungeon of a bedroom at the far end of the basement, each room is a collection of things from the past and things from now.

I cannot say that I do not enjoy the oddity of the house. There is something still so familiar about it, even now in my adulthood. It still smells the same and there are still the same creaks in the floors, even if the carpet is brand new. There is still a shiny Cadillac in the garage. Although, this is Sinner’s Cadillac XII, or something close.

Yes, my mother’s family name is Sinner. We will get to that later.

The poor car sits in the garage and racks up a sorry ten thousand miles at best before being traded in for something better. Oh, to get that Deville on the back roads of south western, who-gives-a-crap Nebraska…out where no one cares because there is no one to care...

When I was a young girl my grandmother seemed so wise and so exciting. She now seems more, well, like a grandma. That is really the best way to describe it. I find that conversation is a bit slower these days because her daily routine has not changed in the last 27 years. She still gets her hair fried and permed at the same salon, in the same little town an hour away from her little town. She still tells me all about how great Mike, her stylist, is.

“How meticulous he is, Amber!" She exclaims. "Why, he has the most spotless shop in town, and the girls there just love him. I cannot understand why he can’t find a nice girl and settle down.”

I think what I cannot say; “Because he’d rather find a nice boy and go down.” I chuckle to myself.

One thing I hope never changes is her food. This seems to be true for just about every family I know. How is it that the generation of our grandmothers can be a collective group of geniuses when it comes to throwing things in pots, ovens, and crock pots and, as a rabbit from a hat, pull out something that makes mouth water in anticipation?. My grandmother made the best cornbread. Today, I cannot stand cornbread as it is made everywhere else in the world. My grandmother’s was a light, almost crispy, delicacy that complimented fresh green onions and cherry tomatoes from her garden with perfection. Every meal was planned and prepared for immediately after the previous. My grandmother still lays out the serving utensils, bowl, napkin and cup for my grandfather’s breakfast, the night before.

I wonder what has happened to the percentage of the 1950’s culture, other than my grandparents, of course, that actually made it through their lives as the Cleavers. If it worked out for my grandparents, how many other wives are still planning every meal to perfection, cleaning daily and making weekly trips to the same salon they have been going to for 20 years? How many of them are there to wait upon their John Wayne at the end of the day with devotion and love? Are there really women out there who are truly meant to be a housewife and excel at doing so above anything else? It would seem that is the truth for my grandmother.

This particular road trip was due, in part, to my need to study for my Colorado real estate license. Something that I never wanted to do in the first place, the test was now becoming the only thing seemingly holding me back from “unparalleled success.” I spent much of my 3 days in Wauneta studying and trying to absorb useless information about a subject that made me nod off with boredom.

I tried, I really did. But, I have learned now that if your gut is telling you not to do something, then it is not in alignment with what you are really supposed to be doing. Thankfully I have learned that at a relatively young age. This real estate license thing was definitely not for me. I didn’t want to be one of them and found it embarrassing to tell people what I was doing for a living. It only took me 3 months after this little road trip to figure that out.

While I was in Nebraska I spent most of my time alone. I went to the park that my brothers and I used to play at as children. It is much different now. The metal twisty slide that existed when I was young was replaced by a more modern plastic slide. Good thing, too. A metal slide that has been sitting in the intense summer heat is capable of doing horrible things to a young butt. I speak from direct experience.

The park is still right next to the public pool. A place of many memories for me, the pool seems much smaller and shabbier than it did when I was growing up. Back then it was a haven for the children of the town. It was an exciting place where I was taught to swim by the same girl that worked as a secretary for my grandfather. It was the place where I would be rewarded with a 3 foot long licorice rope at the end of the swim day. I would walk back to my grandmother’s house eating the licorice until the red, sticky juice would run down my arms.

They recently added a tennis court immediately behind the pool. I find the idea idiotic. I cannot for the life of me think of a single person in the town who is a big tennis buff. These people are into Cornhuskers football and whose tractor is bigger than whose. In my grandfather’s case, it is whose Big Rig is bigger than whose. These are the same people that look at me as if I were an alien when I jog past their house in the morning. Yeah, physical activity is not the norm in Wauneta. It makes me wonder if there was one person on the city council who really wanted a tennis court, or if they are trying to increase tourism.

I slept in the original master bedroom upstairs. It is the creakier, older side of the house. I love every minute of it. It smells like an old bed and breakfast. The sheets are spotless and stretched to fit the hard mattress with military precision. Most people may not be thrilled with a hard bed, but being a person who has slept in far worse conditions, I thought it wonderful. The pillows are always big and soft and the cases smell like Downy. When I am there, I am family and a guest at the same time. While I am expected to help with the dinner dishes, I am also allowed to sleep in as late as I like with no interruption.

Amusingly, I have been trained as a parent to wake up in the morning so the latest I make it is usually around 9:00. I awoke around this time each day and went out for my run. The humidity in Wauneta is more than that of Denver, which lacks it altogether. A relatively moist morning is something that I enjoy completely. I enjoyed it when living in Texas and appreciate it every time I experience it now. I relished in the feeling of the morning on my face and the complete silence of the sleepy little town. Traffic consisted of more than 2 cars traversing the immense 3 block stretch of what locals call Main Street. The silence was intoxicating.

Taking the time to observe how the people of Wauneta lived I was struck by the wonderful simplicity of it. I started to think that I was missing something. The harder and harder I worked to make my life better, the more stressful and complicated it became. This brought my thoughts back to the real estate licensing exam and the seemingly impossible mountain I was expected to climb. I felt nauseous.

"Fuck it." I thought to myself.

Three months later, after I had attempted the practice exam for the third time and failed, I told my boss that I was not heading in the right direction. After a few heated words and a few tears shed by both of us, I finally made the first step in walking away from 5 years in career that I hated every minute of. Shortly thereafter, the whole thing collapsed.

This evening, I read articles about the impending depression the US is facing which began with the collapse of the subprime mortgage market. This was the field I had studied, fought and agonized over for half a decade. Then it hit me. I am done, completely done, with that entire period in my life. I am so happy I find my eyes misted and the prospect of tomorrow exhilarating.

God in the waterbed

I have tried over and over to recall the earliest memories of my childhood. When I think of my youngest years, I can specifically recall the way my car seat felt. I can feel the cheap velour material under my hands and the straps over my shoulders. I remember how it used to feel to sit in a hot car seat while my parents talked to someone outside the car. The sweat would build up uncomfortably between my chubby legs and the skin under the straps would grow hot and damp against whatever frilly dress I was most assuredly wearing.

I remember traveling to Northglenn Mall one day, which was customary in my family. The mall is, to this day, a most popular destination for my mother. I would find it hard to believe if anyone visits the mall more than my mother, unless they are employees therein. The sounds and smells of a mass-commercialism still make me a bit queasy. I avoid these horrible places with a passion that cannot be described. It is a wonder I have seen the Mall of America without vomiting. On this particular day, my then 8 months pregnant mother brought me to the mall to buy supplies for one of her many baby showers, weddings, or other odd celebrations of life. My mother has a unique gift when it comes to cake decorating. While some may chuckle at the idea, it is really quite fascinating. She could have been a very successful woman, but that is another story altogether.

During this trip to the mall, which has now been all but shut down and replaced with even gaudier versions of it’s predecessor, I remember wanting so badly to watch the huge fountain in the interior courtyard rise and fall while changing all the colors of the rainbow. The fountain was surrounded by a rod-iron fence, which I grabbed hold of with all the might my 2 year old strength could bear. I don’t remember exactly how long it took my mother to get me away from the fountain, but I know it ended up hurting. My mother tells me that she yanked my arm away from the fence and I proceeded to do what any 2 year old scorned would do, I threw a tantrum and made sure everyone in the mall knew that my mother had violated me. Once back in my sweltering car seat, made even worse by hours in the sun, my mother told me that if I wanted my arm to feel better, I needed to pray to god to make me a better girl and he would make the pain go away.

When we returned to our small, drafty trailer, I proceeded to take my issues up with God immediately. My mother recalls preparing dinner that night and noticing suddenly that she could not hear me. She called for me and I did not answer. The trailer being small as it was, it did not take long for her to find me. I had made my way to their “master” bedroom at the rear of the mobile.

The waterbed era was a unique one. Whatever possessed someone to fill a mattress with water is beyond me. Being sensitive somewhat to motion sickness, I find the prospect of sleeping on one daunting at best. My parents had one. They had many over the course of my childhood, in fact, and still have one to this day. In the trailer was no exception. I had seen my parents many times kneeling over the edge of the bed and clearing their conscious with the god we believed in then. At 2 years old, it is easy to understand why I may have been confused in these circumstances. After all, why would you kneel over a bed of water and talk to it if it weren’t for a reason?

My mother found me in this tiny room, much of it impeded by the gigantic bed frame, with my face in the bobbing mattress, chattering in a language that we all forget with age. My mother asked me what I was doing and I looked up at her, with my innocent grey-blue eyes and said, “I’m talking to God, Mom. God is in the waterbed.”

Suckers on parade

I was recently listening to a radio program in which the disk jockeys were accepting calls from listeners. These listeners felt the need to share their strange phobias with the public. One caller, a woman in her 30s, explained her belief that inanimate objects have feelings.

“If I have a tootsie roll and throw away the wrapper, I will have to eat another in order to throw away a second wrapper.”

Her girlie high pitched chuckle made me picture her as a Mouseketeer.

“We all need friends; I didn’t want the first wrapper to be lonely.”

“Gosh, I could think of nothing worse than the wrapper spending eternity in a landfill alone,” The DJ sarcastically responded, “What horror!”

Again, the girl giggled. It’s always funny to listen to someone being made fun of, especially when they don’t know it.

The disk jockeys asked if the tootsie roll itself had feelings and, if so, why it did not scream in terror when being chewed brutally between molars and then swallowed and digested in stomach acid. The caller said that being eaten was the tootsie roll’s mission in life, and it would therefore be a most joyous experience.

Well, that explains everything. Suddenly I feel very sorry for the leftover Kung Pao chicken that is molding in my refrigerator.

I find humans, especially Americans, incredibly compelling. I love to sit and watch people pass me by. In Boulder there is an outdoor pedestrian mall called Pearl Street. It is a hub for swanky restaurants, head shops and book stores; a stage for street performers and a hangout for all of the highly liberal residents of Boulder. It is the only place that I have visited where I met a Buddhist monk, a protesting atheist, and a Jamaican contortionist in one day.

On my last visit to Pearl Street, my path was crossed by a very large group of streakers who were protesting some local political issue. Unexpected full frontal nudity is always a bonus in people watching. My close friend, Eydie, called me recently to tell me that during her drive to work she had seen a 60 year old man casually “strolling” down the street in naught but his birthday suit.

Some people have all the luck.

I applaud people who have no problem flaunting their privates in public. People who have no issue letting their insecurities waggle and bounce for all to see have to be among the strongest or most medicated people around. As exciting as that is, however, there are only so many flaccid penises and overgrown bushes one can see before it just gets boring.

Driving always brings out an interesting side of people. Just like reading is conducive to a pleasant bowel movement, driving makes nose picking both satisfying and rewarding. I admit that I have fallen victim to the inevitable urge to dig for gold on the interstate. I often wonder what other people do with the booty. Do they flick it out the window? Are there pickers who are responsible enough to have tissues on hand? Or do most people fall in to the “wipe it under the seat” category?

I never really bothered to ask the people who I have seen in the act of nose picking. Typically when I find someone busily digging, they either look away in horror, pretend they don’t see me at all, or they look me right in the eye, pull out a huge specimen and then pop it in their mouth before smiling merrily at me and speeding away. Next time I see someone, I will be sure to roll down the window and ask where they intend to put the booger. I may have to yell to be heard over traffic, but I am willing to give it a try.

While the various groups of humans provide hours of fun and education for me, none will ever quite measure up to frustrated parents. Parents may not be naked as the streakers, but they are nevertheless dangling their insecurities out there for me to scrutinize. Nothing makes me feel like a better mother than venturing out in public to watch all of the parenting examples in my community.

Jeff and I witnessed a young boy throwing a tantrum in a local restaurant recently. I watched, engaged, as his parents grabbed at flailing arms and legs, rushed to wipe up spilled milk and begged in a loud whisper for the child to stop.

“PLEASE, Little Johnny! You need to calm down!” They would beg.

Mommy, wiping strands of sweaty hair out of her eyes, dodged a left hook from the toddler.

Another beverage spilled, 3 “SHHHH’s” from the surrounding patrons, and one thrown fork later and the husband signaled for the waitress.

“Good,” I said to Jeff. “They are finally leaving.”

I had spoken too soon.

“GET US SOME ICE CREAM! QUICK!!!” The husband pleaded to the waitress.

Within moments, there was a peaceful silence. The toddler now swung his legs with glee, back and forth, back and forth. He wore a chocolate syrup smile and had whipped cream on the end of his nose.

Mommy and Daddy smiled at each other. A beautiful moment occurs in parenthood when mother and father are completely on the same page, when they share in the joy of knowing that they have accomplished something big. Like the first word, or the first step, parents will always credit themselves with some measure of success for these things. Moments of success in parenthood also include those in which there is a moment of peace, a moment of joy, and a moment of knowing that you are a responsible parent and you can overcome anything. Mommy and Daddy shared this moment with each other with a quick squeeze of hands and a smile.

I watched the toddler for a few more moments until, I swear, he closed his eyes, savoring the whipped cream, smiled to himself and whispered, so only I could hear…

“Suckers.”

I am huge in Japan

Shortly after our performance, Sara and I happened upon each other. I am not sure who was looking to bum a cigarette, though the chances are good that it was me. We stood in the parking lot satisfying our cravings before we boarded the bus and made our way to the next city.

Mid-drag, Sara and I were approached by a shy young Japanese boy with a camera. He was no more than sixteen and was wearing a nervous smile.

“Roo ahh booteeful. I ruv a piktcha.” He said.

Sara and I both chuckled and put our arms around him to pose while his friend snapped a few pictures. Once done clicking, the friend posed with us to have pictures of his own taken. I looked at Sara and smiled between shots. Sara was blonde with blue eyes. I, brunette, although sun-streaked, had grey-blue eyes and a dark tan. I guess we looked a little different than the girls back in Japan.

Have you ever wondered who the random people are in the backgrounds of the photos of your family album? Even better, have you ever wondered how many pictures you are in all over the world? How many families have shots of you walking behind Mickey Mouse at Disneyland, or you shoving a turkey leg in your mouth at fair? How many books and albums is your mug gracing, and are there places where you can be seen bending over in the background of the Johnson family camping trip photos?

I had this exact thought after Japanese boy number two had finished posing. When I looked up, I could not believe what I saw. A line, easily composed of all one hundred fifty members of the Japanese Drum and Bugle Corps, had formed in front of us. All of the boys were chattering nervously and every last one held a camera. Now, I am not usually one for stereotypes, but what is it with Asian people and cameras?

Each boy lined up to have his picture taken with two fabulous American women. We laughed until our stomachs hurt, but made sure each and every Japanese boy had the opportunity to get their photo taken with us. I have never felt more famous. When I think of all of the places where my face can be seen, I like to tell people that I am huge in Japan… because I am.

Louisiana

I will avoid the state of Louisiana for the rest of my life. Given the events of the recent past, I could not, in good conscience, begin this story with the statement I would really like to make about Louisiana.

It was August during this leg of our tour. The Blue Knights caravan, which I mean in all truth, arrived at a small high school in Southern Louisiana. I remember it was raining on this particular day; the kind of rain that I have only experienced in the South. It falls in gallons and leaves the air thick and the ground crawling with various fascinating insects. The plants and trees, all larger and greener than those of my home state of Colorado, sagged under the weight of the water and the gutters flooded, washing debris from the street. The smell of ozone was thick in the back of my nose when I stepped off the bus. I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Mama Pickett, our colorguard bus driver and mother to one of the soprano players, was a huge fan of the air conditioner on our bus. We had all grown accustom to sleeping with multiple layers while on board, including winter caps.

The rain had stopped. The buildings and trees dripped and sound of cicadas was almost deafening. The heat of the warm southern evening hit me as soon as I stepped on to the asphalt. I shivered with delight as warmth and feeling returned to my toes. I immediately stripped off the extra layers and waited for my bag to be unloaded.

Moments like this were ones I cherished. I stood with friends reveling in the nicotine I had been craving for the last 6 hours. Many people find it amusing that there is such a large smoker population in Drum Corps. Given the fact that we were athletes and musicians in one, it really does amaze me that we could all handle it. We endured 16 hour rehearsals on sweltering black asphalt, or worse, Smurf Turf. Boise State University has Smurf Turf. It is bright blue and horribly hot when in the summer sun. Our 2 days in Boise resulted in over a dozen cases of heat exhaustion. Yet, regardless of that and the many other physical challenges we endured, there was still a band of us who gathered to light up at every opportunity. Tonight, we talked about the next show and about the fact that we had a “nice” grass field to rehearse on at this high school. That was always exciting. Being on the Colorguard meant that dancing was involved at every moment. Doing so in sneakers is never the most graceful, nor the easiest. A good grass field meant bare feet, and that was great for all of us.

My bag unloaded, I rolled my belongings in to the high school gym and quickly found a place to unfold my small travel mattress and put my trusty sleeping bag on top. All finished with that, I took my bathroom bag and towel, which had not seen a laundry day in weeks, in to the girls locker room.

It’s always a bit disappointing to arrive at a high school to find that the bathroom facility is not just less than accommodating, but totally horrifying. I immediately noticed the yellow slime that ran down all corners of the locker room. Once glance at the lockers themselves, and I decided to keep my bathroom bag with me. I expected the sink to be as bad as the rest of the bathroom, but I wish I had been more prepared. As I approached one, movement caught my eye. A roach, about the size of my thumb, scurried over the edge of the sink and underneath in to a hole in the tiled wall. I screeched and drew the attention of a few others. The state of the bathroom was no news to anyone here, and had most likely reached the staff already. I took a deep breath and let it out. I was no stranger to this. I had showered in troughs, been eaten alive by mosquitoes while trying to pee, and had been forced to drink water that in no way resembled water. So, this was the first challenge that Louisiana had for us.

“Bring it on, you Cajun bitch,” I thought to myself.

I did what most of us did when checking out the water conditions. I filled a cup with water and peered in to check it out.

I have been so blessed to live in Colorado, with Rocky Mountain water, for so long, that I had no idea what other people have to deal with. I have seen the green water of Indiana, the cloudy water of Ohio and the eerily blue water of Tennessee. Louisiana water is brown. Not just brown, brown with UFOs; unidentified floating objects. Regardless, water is water, and there was no way that I would survive without it. Almost as bad as the prospect of drinking it was facing the fact that I was still wearing show make-up that simply had to come off. I closed my eyes and washed my face as fast as I possibly could. Watching the water swirl down the drain and resisting the urge to heave, I decided I would use my own saliva to brush my teeth…but I would have another smoke first.

Chico and a few others were already outside. When I walked out I made a mental note not to wear a white sports bra for rehearsal in the morning. Humidity like this was certain to cause problems for any female who may be sweating profusely while wearing white. I came up beside my friends and lit my Marlboro light without interrupting the conversation that was already in progress.

“Fucking nasty…!”

“…totally not showering until right before the show!”

“Put a lot of ice in your jug…you won’t notice the taste.”

I agreed and filled them in on my bathroom encounter.

Chico laughed, “Check this shit out, girl…”

We walked around the corner of the building. There was a fluorescent light perched on the roof of the school, 15 feet above our heads. At first glance, I could see nothing but the triangle of light cascading down the brick wall. But, after a moment the brick wall outside of the triangle of light seemed to shift. Upon closer inspection, I discovered that it was moving and I let out a girlish squeak and walked very quickly in the other direction, shaking imaginary bugs from my shoulders.

I purposefully made sure not to lean against any walls, or any objects at all when I came back to the small group. Cancer meetings, we used to call them. I stood 10 feet away from anything and made sure I was smack in the middle of the pool of light from a lamp overhead.

“How long are we here?” I asked, anxiously.

“Two days, girl.” Chico answered, coming up behind me.

“Great.” I said, as he put his arm around my bare waist.

“Let me know if you need protection from the bed bugs.” He said with a grin. His eyes were cashed and I could smell the lingering scent of a joint thick in his hair. I rolled my eyes and laughed, but returned his sideways hug.

We lingered for a few more minutes, most of us having a second cigarette, before heading off to whatever sleeping arrangements we had procured. I made a thorough inspection of my sleeping bag before sliding in and assuming a comfortable position.

To this day I can sleep like a baby on a hard floor with nothing more than a couple blankets and a pillow. Being crammed into a bus seat and forced to sleep sitting up is much like being rocked to sleep for me.

This night was no different. Even with the relatively eventful evening, I slept soundly. Morning, however, was a whole different story.

“GOOD MORNING BLUE KNIGHTS!”

This, to me, is much like having a rooster crow directly in your ear. There was always a split second each morning that I wanted to cry, or throw something at our drum major.

“Fuck you, Andy!” Molly yelled from somewhere in the gym. Most of us chuckled. Molly had a way of just making everything humorous.

I opened my eyes and stared up into the gym lights as they slowly warmed and brightened. I let out a sigh of defeat. No sense in wasting the precious time I had before stretch. I rolled my head to the right and clamped my hand over my mouth to muffle the involuntary scream. About 4 inches from the side of my pillow was a cousin of my bathroom friend, legs stiff in the air, frozen in death.

I leaped out of my sleeping bag and danced around wildly to assure there were no visitors in my bra or shorts. I shook out my sleeping bag, and finding no more threats, I found the nearest object I could to sweep the hideous insect far away from me, and under the bleachers.

Several others had visitors as well and I heard the random exclamations echo through the gym as we all awoke. What bothered me more than the dead roach was the fact that it was alive before it ended up there. I shuddered to think of what may have passed in the night and decided, again, to assure that I had no stowaways on my person.

I dressed quickly in the cleanest bikini I had, and threw on a pair of men’s boxer briefs. I secured my long, curly brown hair in a knot at the top of my head before tying a bandana around it, grabbing my water jug and field bag and heading outside.
The heat of the day was intense. I could feel the temperature change long before I reached the double doors, and the metal of the handle was warm under my hands. I walked out in to the blistering morning sunshine and immediately lit a cigarette. I spent a few moments with the collection of people who had gathered near the equipment truck, a massive 18 wheeler, our beautiful logo painted on the side. This truck was loaded with all of the horns, drums, marimbas, uniforms, and colorguard equipment. I grabbed my ratty flag bag and walked away. Most of the girls in the colorguard had the time, money or motivation to create a decent equipment bag. I had none of the above before we left on this tour. My bag was made of one leg from an old pair of jeans that I had sewn closed at the bottom and which was barely long enough to hold my 2 rifles, saber, 3 flags, and one 8 foot long piece of bamboo that, with a spectacular flag attached, was the big effect in the closer of this season’s show.

I found a home for my equipment and field bag before making my way to breakfast. All meals were prepared in our other 18 wheeler, which had been converted to a mobile kitchen. I found my trusty Golden Grahams at the end of the serving table, choosing to skip the pancakes and sausages that were already being investigated by the local flying insects. I ate quickly, noting that I had exactly 15 minutes left until stretch. Enough time to use the bathroom, apply a liberal amount of sunscreen, fill up my water jug (eek!) and have one more cigarette.

Water filled and sunscreen on, I made my way to the frightening restroom where I had decided, once more, to “hover.” I enjoyed the last few drags of my cigarette outside the double doors, and then joined the slow procession that had begun in the direction of the football field.

The “nice” grass field that we were promised was anything but. The grass itself rose to mid-calf, leaving sufficient area near the roots for various life-forms to creep and crawl. I grumbled to myself. I guess bare feet weren’t an option. Too bad I had left my fly fishing boots back at home. My sentiments were shared by everyone else in the corps, and I heard Kendra’s pitchy squeal of a voice complain about the circumstances. I took a deep breath and prepared myself for what was shaping up to be a very interesting rehearsal.

Four hours later, much to our relief, we broke for lunch. I had re-applied sunscreen twice in the time period, but I could feel the warmth of the fresh sun on my shoulders. By this time in the season, many of my friends referred to me as “Mexican.” However, regardless of the amount of SPF 45 I applied each hour, my skin would still feel slightly well-done by lunchtime.

Hamburger Helper ingested, I made my way a distance from the food truck to the side of the building where I took a few moments to shut off the rest of the Corps. Living in such close quarters for 3 months straight made alone time nearly impossible. I was thrilled to find that I had 20 minutes left until we returned to rehearsal. This seemed like an eternity and I smiled to myself. I found a place to sit and as I did so, I grimaced slightly. I had broken out in a heat rash right on my behind. Something that happened in the roughest climates, it had become an issue today. I decided to grin and bear it. Not much that I could do right now and it would be a while until I had a chance to sit down, especially by myself. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. The smell of flowers and trees filled my nostrils. I stayed this way for a few moments until I heard a throat clear behind me.

“Hola.” Chris said.

“Need a smoke?” I asked, handing out my pack, opened for the taking.

“Thanks.”

Chris lit the cigarette, inhaled slowly and then let out the smoke, only to inhale it again through his nose. I laughed and he smiled, his crooked teeth hidden behind thin lips.

“Field fucking blows, right?”

“I can’t stand it here. I have to jazz-run 40 yards at the beginning of the ballad and I have to do so through a damn swamp.” I explained, annoyed. “I am ready to get the hell out of here.”

“I am kinda used to it.” He said. “This ain’t much different than Victoria.”

“Well you can have it. I will stick with good ol’ Colorado.”

“Yeah, I am thinking about staying there after tour.” He replied. “My dad is in Parker. I may live with him for a while.”

I smiled. “That would be great. We will have to hook up sometime.”

He returned my smile and blushed a bit.

We sat in silence for a moment before I put out my cigarette and threw the butt in the closest trash can.

“I had better get back.” I said, making my way back toward the field.

“Talk to you later.” He said and took a drag.

I walked in the other direction, feeling his eyes on me, and laughed a bit to myself. I was not sure what it was about Chris. He was not all that impressive to look at, other than the fact that he could hold a cigarette in the crease of his 8-pack abdominal muscles. He was a bit of a loner and about 2 inches shorter than me, but he was my friend. We had a few great conversations during training and since tour had started. There was a part of me that could see us maybe dating casually in the future.



I shook off the idea and made my way back to the field, growing anxious for the end of this very challenging rehearsal. As the day wore on, we were all afflicted with the incessant, biting insects and beating sunshine, but we marched on. Several of us were forced to rehearse in soggy shoes and most of us were covered in grass and mud. But, through it all, there was always laughter and smiles. We had worked hard to be here and, damn it, we were going to push through the petty obstacles.

Near the end of the day, as the sun began to set and the mosquitoes came out in droves, we finally heard the words that we had been waiting all day to hear.

“WATER UP FOR A RUN!”

The Corps cheered and a second-wind seemed to wash over all of us. We would all take a quick water break, set up all of our equipment, run through the entire 15 minute show from beginning to end, and we would be done for the day. My stomach growled loudly at the thought of imminent food. It seemed like it had been forever since lunch.

After setting up all of my equipment, I made my way to my starting point on the field, right on the 50 yard line. Chico met me there with his snare drum in tow. I smiled at him and put my arm over his shoulder, then rested my head on top in our beginning pose.

“Have a good run.” I whispered to him.

“You too, mama.”

The adrenaline of performing, even when we are only performing for our own staff, is exhilarating. I found myself flying on a new-found wave of energy as I made my way through the opener without a flaw.

The ballad music began softly and, with my hands trembling from nailing all of my opening rifle tosses, I took a deep breath and made my way to my spot halfway across the field, trying to look graceful as I did so.

40 yards cleared without incident, I danced my pretty self through the ballad and onto the loud and powerful closer. After the rifle introduction, we switched to flag and I made my way to my spot on the left side of the field. At this point, I was in place for 36 counts performing the already choreographed material. Counting in my head, I went through the routine.

“Six, seven and eight, and up two, three, toss and freeze.”

And freeze I did. As soon as my foot hit the ground, I felt my leg light on fire. The pain was so intense and so unexpected that I made no sound. And then I felt the white-hot sparks erupt on the backs of my legs, making their way up my boxer briefs. I felt a wave of dizziness and headed to the back of the field where I immediately and violently became ill. I stood swaying for a moment, my damp flag sticking to my skin and the metal pole sliding from my hands. I absently brushed my hand down the back of my legs and felt the sparks once again. I grimaced and began to walk clumsily around the outside of the field, drawing sideways looks from all those still performing.

Once I reached the track, I collapsed to my knees and dropped my flag. Kevin, one of my instructors and also and old friend, was making his way quickly toward me.

“BUFFY!” He liked to call me, “What the hell are you doing?! Get the hell back out there!”

I tried to respond, but as I turned my head I felt a wave of nausea and fell on my side. I did this in time for Kevin to see the damage that had been done to the backs of my legs and he gasped.

“ROBBIE!” He called to our caption head.

Robbie came running to the track and came down to his knees in front of me. He and Kevin chattered nervously back and forth for a moment. I found the moment oddly amusing. I thought they were queens before, but the excitement made them seem even more gay.

“THEY’RE KILLING MY BABIES!” Robbie cried.

He and Kevin lifted me up and put my arms around their shoulders to help me to the trailers. I felt as though I had not slept in a week. My head was foggy and my legs felt the size of tree trunks.

One of our Corps Moms was with us in moments, bringing with her Benadryl and a large tube of hormone cream. I swallowed the Benadryl with water and was lead in to the gym, stripped and greased down with a massive amount of the noxious-smelling cream. I felt disgusting, but the pain started to lessen. My head was still spinning as I was laid to rest on my sleeping bag. I looked around with blurry eyes to make sure that I was not lying down on any unexpected friends and sank my head in to the pillow. Kevin knelt beside me and took my hand. I felt him put something small in to my palm and hand me some water. I opened my hand to find a tiny white Vicodin. I smiled and thanked him, grateful to have friends that came prepared. I washed down the pill and put my head back down.

I don’t remember anything until noon the next day. I did not hear the Corps come in after rehearsal the night before, nor did I hear Andy’s wake up call that morning. I could have slept through a hurricane, I thought to myself when I finally opened my eyes to look at the clock on the gym wall. I shivered a bit to think that I was in the perfect location for one, and then tried to sit up.

I felt like Jell-o. My body was not at all used to this much sleep. I immediately noted that my ears felt plugged. I yawned a couple times to get my ears to pop before I realized that I had headphones on. I slid them off my head and followed the cord to the CD player that was tucked neatly under my pillow. It was Alicia’s. She had put a Dave Matthews Band CD in it for me. I smiled and said another silent thank you to the powers that be for blessing me with such wonderful friends.

It was several moments before I realized that I was not alone in the gym. On the far corner someone sat, nose buried in a book.

“Tater?” I said.

He looked up from his book and gave me a quick nod.

I slowly rose from my make-shift burrow and walked in his direction.

“You okay?” I asked. I looked at the clock again. I could hear horns and drums in the distance along with the incessant beat of Andy’s block. Something most definitely was wrong with him for him to be here.

“I don’t wanna fucking talk about it.”

Tater was always a bit on the gruff side, but his grumpy countenance was even more apparent today.

“Ooookkaayyy….Is there anything I can do to help?”

He laughed, almost merrily, and then shook his head and said, “Yeah right.”

I grabbed the necessary items for the field and left, wondering if I should just go pretend to still be sleeping. I could not do that, however. It was a show day and I needed to make sure I was prepared. This many hours of inactivity was sure to put me a little behind.

After reapplying some cream to my sore and half-eaten legs and hastily eating a granola bar, I walked down to the field and found Kevin and Robbie. I learned from them that I had most likely stepped on some sort of fire-ant hill and had been appraised as a fine supper for them. After assuring them both that I was perfectly okay to march, I joined the rehearsal.

At this point in the day, there was only 3 hours left before we loaded everything in the caravan and prepared for our evening show. This time passed without incident and my run-through at the end of rehearsal was fantastic.

When rehearsal was over, I sat on a half wall outside the school to relax before dinner and a shower. Brandon came over and sat beside me.

“Yo.” He said. I smiled and offered him a seat.

“Hey, what’s wrong with Tater? I saw him in the gym earlier.” I asked. Brando, as I call him, sat and lit a cigarette.

He started laughing, but with an almost-grimace on his face.

“DUDE! You will not fucking believe this shit.” He began. I was immediately intrigued.

“So, I don’t know if it is the climate or if Tater was attacked or what, but he has the most god-awful case of jock-itch I have ever seen!”

I gasped and clasped my hand over my mouth.

“That’s why?!” I said, incredulous. “Christ, it must be horrible if he left rehearsal”.

Brandon shook his head and laughed again.

“Amber, he is fucking cracked and bleeding!”

“Oh my god!” I exclaimed, involuntarily brushing a hand over the testicles I did not have. “That is the most horrible thing that I have ever heard!”

I glanced around to see if I could find him somewhere, but did not see him among the clusters of people. I suddenly felt very sorry for him, and very grateful that my incident seemed so mild in comparison.

“The guys have already started calling it the Chatch,” He said, chuckling, “There are a couple others who aren’t looking so hot, either, so I am gonna have to be very careful. Hopefully this shit’s not contagious.”

“Good lord,” I said, laughing and shaking my head. The whole thing seemed terrible and horribly funny at the same time. “Louisiana...”

“Cut it off the fucking map for all I care.”

“Seriously.” I agreed.

Tater didn’t march that night. Apparently walking was excruciating, let alone marching balls-to-the-wall and playing a Mellophone all at the same time. No one blamed him.

The Blue Knights Colorguard was spectacular vision just before a show. We were the only Division I Corps in all of Drums Corps International with an all-female guard. We wore white this season. All perfectly tan and amazingly fit we were a troop of blondes, brunettes and one fabulous red-head that demanded not only turning heads, but full-on serenades from other Corps.

As soon as we stepped foot on the field that night, the bright lights from the stands instantaneously washed away everything that had happened in the last 48 hours. I thought of nothing more than the high I was feeling. I leapt higher, threw faster and sent shudders through my body with every crack of a rifle catch. I found a handful of people in the front row to flirt with and winked at the camera man and I flew by. The crowd cheered when we began and roared during the standing ovation at the end. My heart pounded in my ears and the sweat poured down my face, across my neck and down my bare stomach. When the last note sounded I stood, facing the crowd, arm stretched in the air. Gasping, sweating, aching in my legs, and loving every second of it.

This was the reason that I came to this awful place. This was the reason that I sacrificed my modesty and my privacy. This was the reason that I risked my health and body. This was the reason that I trained, and the reason that I left everything behind. This was the reason, at least for now, for my existence. This was the reason; for this moment.