Balancing Mind Ogre Patterns

On Wednesdays, I get toothpaste in my eye. I’m not sure why this occurs every week without fail. It’s not intentional. Wednesdays are not good days for me in general.

There’s a pattern.

Sundays, I forget to do everything and wind up frantic at 10:00 at night, wondering how I’m going to do it all with no time.

Mondays are like New Years Day. I’m bright and shiny with intention and purpose. It will be a phenomenal day. I will exercise, plow through my pending work, clean the house, volunteer for a charity, and find a cure for the common cold. I wait until about 3:00 to admit none of that happened, but the dream has not yet died.

Tuesdays, I take another stab at it, but it’s like January 2nd. You can’t recapture the magic of that electric determination. By lunchtime, I stop even pretending to be a productive member of society.

Wednesdays are toothpaste. There’s often an afternoon nap involved, too.

Thursdays, I don’t give a damn about anything. I do what needs doing, but it takes effort. If someone asks me to participate in some event or activity on Thursday, it ain’t happening.

Fridays, it’s a toss-up whether I’m even going to get dressed.

On Saturdays, my resolutions come back, only this time I swear to go out and enjoy the world, see art, watch a play, and enjoy life. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining, the birds are singing… I’ll just finish this chapter in my book, and then I’ll get going. Yep.

Then I keep reading straight through to Sunday evening.

The pattern of my life is one I would love to change. My therapist would love for me to change it, too. If nothing else, I would get more work done, which would enable me to afford my therapy sessions. It’s a vicious circle.

Every night, I lie in bed and imagine worlds and adventures and people, forming them into stories in my head. Everyone tells me to write them down. I don’t.

When you talk to people about depression, this is not what they would imagine, I think. How it wears you down, dragging at you in whispers that hold you back with subtle force. I’m not sad. Like I said, it’s a beautiful day, the sun, the birds, etc. My mind is just not under my complete control. And yes, it’s frustrating as hell.

There are rare days when I am hypo-manic and can take on the world. Those are the days when work gets done, stuff gets cleaned, and I am the mistress of all I survey. Brimming with focus, burning to explore the world. It doesn’t last, though. I pay the price afterward with an unusual low. This is kind of like a kid on a sugar high passing out when they come back down.

So low is bad, high is bad, and I have to learn to ride the line between the two. My pattern allows this, but I need to change my pattern. How to stay balanced while doing this is a conundrum.

My friends and family want wonderful things for me. That’s great. I want wonderful things, too. And I understand it’s hard to watch from the outside while I continue with the same old behaviors and making the same old mistakes. It’s impressive these people stick around, really. I’m annoying.

There are these voices in my head. (No, not like that. I’m not schizophrenic.)The encouragement, faith, love, and admiration I receive from the people in my life is a quiet chorus, whispering at me over and over to remind me that there is something more, and that I can have it. These soothing voices join together against the loud clamor of my own inner voice telling me I suck in every possible way. It’s hard to hear past that barrage of negativity.

I hear everyone, though. I do. No one should ever think that their words have no effect on me. Often those words are the only weapons I have in the fight to do SOMETHING today, even if it’s brushing my teeth. Without those voices in my mind, it would be a fight I couldn’t win.

Mental illness is invisible. Sure, you can see someone flake out and do some weird shit. You can see cuts, scars, weight gained or lost, mood swings, seizures and meltdowns. It’s below the surface that the true symptoms do their damage, however. Each depressive person’s experience is unique to them, but there are many near-constant similarities. The biggest is that depression has the potential to tear apart everything they care about and want to build for themselves. It’s impossible to do your taxes, wash the dishes, or manage your workload when you’re fighting a sumo wrestler in your head. Your hands are already full.

I’m not sure where this is going, but here it is anyway.

In my case, depression is a fact of life. I’ve never been without it, even as a toddler. There is no “me” without depression. I’d be a completely different person. That means that there is no clear way to unravel its effects from the rest of who I am. It feeds my creativity, informs my decisions, and influences my relationships. So I have no frame of reference for what “normal” would mean for me. I don’t think I’d like it.

My imagination walks hand in hand with my illness, giving me words and images and characters to bring to life in my writing. The books I read come alive, dynamic and immersed in detail. That would be hard to give up.

Having been judged and marginalized all my life, I am much more accepting and accommodating in my interactions with others. I embrace the huddled masses yearning to breathe free. (Metaphorically. I’m not a hugger.)

It makes me want to help others, support those who are suffering, particularly when their circumstances are more heartbreaking or perilous than mine. I want to fix all the problems in the world, even though I can’t fix mine.

Depression gives me those gifts, but it keeps me from using them. And that’s a dilemma that makes me run around in mental circles day and night. I want to use the talents and strengths. I want to achieve my potential. I want to tap into the creative spring inside me. If only I manage to be strong enough to fight the ogre who lives in my thoughts and tears apart my confidence.

My ability to feel any self-worth is significantly impaired. I can’t accept that it’s not my fault, because I’d get past it if I didn’t suck. I can’t defend myself against criticism, because it’s true that I suck. It’s hard to believe that anyone really loves me because I suck. There’s no point in working to become healthier, since I’d suck regardless. Every time I meet someone new, they can tell right away that I suck. No one will ever read my books because they suck. I will never, ever be good enough, because I’m not good at all.

This is the ogre that lives in my head. This is the voice that I hear ALL the time. It’s constant. It’s there right now, telling me to stop typing and just go back to bed with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and a spoon to mourn the loss of my dignity.

I may not be dignified, but I did write this. The quiet voices of hope helped me write this, and so even this small step is an accomplishment.

Suck it, mind ogre.

Time Machine

My mother fell today. She got hurt but not badly, and it got me thinking. She’s seventy-two now.

It wasn’t a doddering-old-lady accident. She just tripped. I do that all the time. We Lawrences are a graceful bunch. All the same, I couldn’t quite put it out of my head. This is where we are now. As an only child, I have always known that the day would come when the balance of our relationship would shift and I would become the caregiver. There is still a bit of a shock when you find that long-anticipated day has arrived. My mind went automatically to whether she needed a doctor, how to get the kids home from school, whether my father needed me to be there, and on and on. This is a woman who used to run a department of a major corporation with such laser focus that I swear she only came home to sleep. She got a PhD at fifty because she just wanted to. She learned Italian in her sixties. She knows exactly which lines were cut from that Shakespearean production and can recite them on demand.

My father, whose mind has always been brilliant and whose composure has always been coma-like, is seventy-six. He’s started to forget things. He’s started to make mistakes. It’s disorienting to see such a razor-sharp intellect lose the edge my mother and I always relied upon. It’s a bit sad it happened gradually enough for me to become accustomed to having to double-check with him. I couldn’t even tell you when “reminding Dad” became standard operating procedure. The change snuck up on me like a ninja. We’re talking about a man who wrote out the grocery list in order of where the items were located in the aisles. From memory. In pen.

It shouldn’t have surprised me. I’m forty-two. But frankly, it’s still way too early to start talking about my parents’ twilight years. People in my family tend to hang around quite awhile. It may be another twenty years before we’re really talking about “The End.” However, my parents are no longer comfortably nestled in that catchall period known as middle age. The scares will become more frequent, the list of doctors and specialists will become longer, and my separateness from them will shrink.

Shorty is turning eleven this week. Seven more years until society labels him a legal adult. My time as the parent of actual children is coming to an end, but I will continue to be a caretaker. If family patterns hold, I will only stop when my parents have gone, and it becomes my boys’ turn to worry about my aging body and how much longer they can cling to their independence before the separateness from me is no longer possible. I’d hoped that by having two children, neither would have to shoulder that alone. It may not work out that way, but at least I gave it a shot.

My teen is fast approaching his seventeenth birthday, and our recent conversations have revolved around driver’s ed, college searches, and potential careers. Never have the sands fallen so quickly through the hourglass. I’m nearly out of time, I think. Now I frantically bombard him with all the life lessons and tools I hadn’t gotten around to yet. I’m cramming for the exam, although he will be the one tested. I hope that if I forgot an assignment, he will call me and ask for my notes. I try to trust that he’s ready, and I remind myself to let him fail.

My husband and I have begun to realize we need things to talk about outside the kids and our careers. We need to remember how to hang out. How to just sit and shoot the shit for hours about all sorts of nonsense, like we used to back when we were young and had all the time in the world.

This is why people have mid-life crises, I think. I’ve always been aware that time was passing, but never before has such a sense of urgency been tied to it. The next steps along the path are all big ones, but none of them are mine. This gives me a sense of powerlessness that I am having trouble adjusting to, even though I know that control has always been an illusion. My life now has a different flavor, and my mind is reacting the same way the world did when New Coke was introduced in the 1980s, with a loud cry of “What the hell is this nonsense?”

Time is passing, and there are no guarantees. So I sit and wonder, in the midst of scheduling SAT prep classes and learning about end-of-life care options, what about me? Am I content to just bounce back and forth from daughter to mother to daughter to mother to (perhaps) grandmother? What about my writing? You can prepare for some eventualities. Get life insurance so your family can pay your final expenses. Get health insurance so the life insurance won’t be needed prematurely. Get auto and home insurance so your assets stay around as long as you do. But there isn’t an insurance company out there than can protect against untapped potential.

I’m weirdly comforted by that. It doesn’t give me the sense of anxiety that other things do. It’s nice to know that there are some things that will only exist if I create them. There’s a footprint only I can leave behind. This is an excellent reminder to me that the things I love best, beyond the family and friends I cherish, need me to give them life. My writing is mine, and it is me—independent of my health, my appearance, my social skills, my number of friends, even my self-esteem. It is mine in the purest sense possible.

Somewhere in between being a daughter and a mother, a wife and a friend, I am a writer. I will be a writer the next time my mother falls and the next time my father forgets. I will be a writer while my children take their first steps into their own slice of the world to learn who they will become. I will be a writer when my husband and I are left to our own devices, when we suddenly notice that we’re still seeing each other as twenty-three and so clueless, even though the world around us calls us “Ma’am” and “Sir” and our children have started worrying about our falls and forgetfulness. I am so, so fortunate to have this gift I can carry with me always, and now I am taking the time to remember that what I have to share with the world is just as important as my other roles.

November is National Novel Writing Month, and (shocking, I know) many of my friends are writers. I have heard nearly every one of them in the past ten days question their abilities. The words won’t come, the story is stupid, the characters are jerks, the world will laugh (or worse, ignore) their paltry offerings. Each of these friends has real talent. No one of them could write the story any other has written. Their uniqueness is remarkable. The qualities I see in each of them, the reasons I call these people friends, come across on the page. I know they can’t see it. I know they are frustrated, maybe a little scared, feeling foolish for even trying. But they are so, so brilliant. They have so much wonder and truth and heart that I want to scream at them, “Can’t you see how totally remarkable you are?” So this is me, yelling at each of you. Use your time. Create something new. No one else can tell your story.

Conversations in my Life

I recently came across a little log I was keeping of strange little exchanges I had (or overheard) throughout the course of my days. It's a couple years old, but some of them made me laugh, so I thought I'd share.

May 7, 2012

Shorty: "What does the S in 'socks' stand for?"
Me: *guzzles more coffee*

May 13, 2012

Teenager: "Mom, Shorty is messing with my room's protons."
Me: "Shorty, no messing with other people's protons without permission."

May 15, 2012

My mother: "You can't be a maverick when you're married with kids."
Me: "Watch me."

May 17, 2012

Board of Education employee (all excited): "Do you write children's books?"
Me (choking slightly): "Um... no."
Awkward pause.
Board of Education employee: "Oh."

May 27, 2012

92-year-old great aunt (and Joplin, MO, resident): "I haven't been going to church since it blew away."

Me:  "Way to get off on a technicality!"

May 29, 2012

92-year-old Great-Aunt: "I go to the beauty shop, and all the magazines have articles on how to lose weight. It makes me mad. Where are the articles on how to GAIN weight? I don't even have anything to sit on anymore!"
Me: ---

Mother's Cousin: "He got up from the dinner table to go to the bathroom, and he showed up a week later in Mexico."
Me: ---

Mother: "I miss Daddy. There's no one to say 'There's where the poop goes' when we drive past the water treatment plant."
Uncle: "I don't think Dad ever said 'poop'. He wasn't a 'poop' kind of guy."
Me: ---

Driving through area of Joplin destroyed one year ago by a tornado:
Mother: "If you think it looks bad now, you should have seen it a year ago!"
Me: *biting tongue*

June 10, 2012

Teen's friend: "I got $120 bucks for graduation!"
Teen: "So? I got a sonic screwdriver, a TARDIS USB hub, and a Minecraft t-shirt. That's WAY better."

June 14, 2012

Shorty: “Can I go to Grandma & Grandpa's?”
Me: “No, they're meeting with the President today.”
Shorty: “The President of what?”
Me: “The United States.”
Shorty: “Okay. How about tomorrow, then?”
Me: “You are a hard kid to impress, you know.”

July 2, 2012

Shorty: "What are dogs' armpits for?"
Me: ----

July 5, 2012

Me (to cat): "Aw, who's my precious girl?"
Hubs (raises hand): "ME!"
Me: ---

July 12, 2012

My Teenager: "The worst part about being in the Legions of the Undead is that you get killed quickly."
Me: "Okay, but did you do the laundry?"

July 14, 2012

Me: "I really don't want you playing violent games."
Shorty: "It's not violent. It's just guns."
(pause)
Me: "Wow. I really am a crap parent."

July 15, 2012

My Mother: "We have a present for you. Your father and I had a portrait done, and we got you a framed print."
Me: "Um... okay..."
My Mother: "It's too late to bring it over tonight, but we'll get it to you as soon as we can, okay?"
Me: "No rush, really."

July 18, 2012

Teenager: "Mom, your accent is slipping again."
Me: "Damn."
Teenager: "You have a real problem with that."
Me: "Oh, shut up."

July 30, 2012

Me: "Hey, I need you to watch Shorty tomorrow for a bit. I'm going with Aunt Sydney to get a tattoo."
Teenager, without even blinking: "Okay."

August 8, 2012

Me: "Okay, quiet please, because I'm working."
Shorty: "Okay."
(Pause)
Shorty: "Hey, Mom - guess who the king of the beavers is!"
Me: *sigh*

August 18, 2012

Shorty: "Mom, where's my Doctor Who backpack?"
Me: "I ordered it, but it's not here yet."
Shorty: "When's it gonna get here?"
Me: "In about a month."
Shorty: "?!?!? Whyyyyyyy? That's no fair!"
Me: " 'Gee, I sure am lucky my mom will get me cool stuff from halfway across the world. I'll have to wait patiently to show my gratitude.' You are really spoiled, you know that?"
Shorty: "But Moooooom..."
Me: "Oh, go blow something up and leave me alone. Brat."

Me (to Husband): "You're such a jerk."
Hubs: "Thanks. I practice in the mirror."
Me: --- (Can't speak because I'm laughing too hard.)

August 22, 2012

Shorty: "Look what I found in my pocket today! A missile!"
Me: .......

August 27, 2012

Shorty (to his father): "Dad, do me a solid."
Me: "BWHAHAHAHA!!!"

Hubs: "Hey, get Shorty some orange juice."
Me: "I gave him life - can't YOU give him orange juice?"

September 6, 2012

Shorty watching the last episode of Doctor Who 2005 season: "He just left Jack behind?"
Me: "Yes."
Shorty: "That was rude!"

Shorty: "Is the sun ever going to expand?"
Me: "Sure, eventually."
Shorty: "What day?"
Me: "How should I know? We'll be long gone, so it's not like it matters."
Shorty: "LONG GONE! YAY! WEEEEEEEEEEE!!!"
Me: ----

September 8, 2012

Teenager: "But, Mom, I can't go to bed yet! Somewhere out there, someone is being wrong on the Internet!"
Me: "Fine. Two more hours."

September 25, 2012

                Me: “No one takes themselves as seriously as the young and the rich.”

Flirting with Poetry

In recent months, I've written a handful of poems. While they may not have much merit, they're mine, so I thought I'd share them here.

We Were Green

It was green.

We were flying and the sun-dappled wonder

Became our hearts while our minds

Clasped hands to burn sunlight

The wonder so hard to reach and the blue

So far away.

But the wisps of dream colors would stay

Until the breeze carried thickening down

To the sparkling dark-diamonds of farewell.

We were young.

The warmth kept us safe

So that hearts could pound

Arms could reach

Feet could dance

Songs could soar

Until the day when they couldn’t anymore.

But I recall how it felt back then

When it was green.

More

I loved you so much more

When you were waxy and gray

And the whole world stood on you

While I whistled

Now you are golden and untouched

And it’s all very sad to me

The only thing that I like

Is your plinth

And only because of the word

Plinth

Rolls off the tongue

And if you rolled

Your perch would be precarious

And you might say

No more rolling for you because

Even if you fell

I don’t think I’d love you anymore

But I would still enjoy saying it

Plinth

Won’t you miss it, though

The bombastic abuse

And the unicorn-fiction

Of your hopes that someday

I’d stop whistling

And they’d see you

Waxy and gray and so lovely

The way you were to me

When I whistled

Boarding House Requiem

When open, the eyes do sing aloud and long and shimmer

But closing, bend the weight of care along forgetful paths

So, too, must I go before you to open, close, and fade

The garment worn when open still is shed and shreds and shatters

Your persistent face I think will stay upon my path the longest

Though mine was a shadow to you even before we met

And my garments now bear the print of your eyes

Can I walk this way without your hands having laid the very stones

Or do my works mark the measure of the steps of your own

Sight unwavering though I fail to blink and blush and stammer and hold

Because if I were to lose myself now…

Where would you go?

There is a requiem that has played since that birth

We together constructed these worlds, these hearts, these pains

The children of our hearts did sing so loudly for a time

Until clasped hands unclenched and the clock advanced

Eyes close even as the cloth wraps more tightly

My lips form the truths that I cannot speak aloud

I know you; I know you; I know you—

And that truest heart for which we both mourn is the one we created together.

Bound

I am selfish and childish

Out-of-turn, wildish

And still, here I stay at your feet

Your vanity is apparent

But my devotion is inherent

The balance clings you to me

Cruel and so brittle

Bitter and uncivil

Cold was the day we did meet

Trapped and constrained

In love have I changed

There is no will in me to be free

If you were kinder

Or if I were blinder

Two different people we’d be

So I worship your claws

You adore all my flaws

And in mutual pain we do cleave

Parisian Mime's Lament

I could hold you close, but you’re gone

I’ve lost any hope of you, and you’re gone

And I’m miles away from who you are today

I could have held you once, but you’re gone.

I could face your fears, but you’re gone

Those battles you lost, and you’re gone

And my arms reach out to soothe your doubt

I could have helped you once, but you’re gone.

I could kiss your lips, but you’re gone

I tried but missed, and you’re gone

And though I ache for you like I expected to

I could have loved you more, but you’re gone.

Regrets are like Roses

Regrets are like roses,

Their tender thorns

Do prick and wound

With beautiful scorn

And e'er the soul know discontent

The flower blooms and soon is spent.

Why

If I asked

Why

Would you even

Try to find

A lie

That might quiet me

Make my question

Silent

As my words so often

To you are

Unheard

Refracting off

Diamond-hard conviction

That your reasons are

So much better than mine

But you still

Will not even say

Why

My Love is Like

My love is like a red, red rose

My hate is like a garden hose

And all the spaces in between

Fertile with words I didn't mean

Disgustingly Sentimental Christmas Blog

It is perhaps both typical and telling that my Christmas blog post begins with a recent conversation I had with a psychologist. After all, the holidays are all about families, and if ever a family existed to stun therapists the world over, it’s mine. 

This particular doctor asked me to describe a typical Christmas celebration in my family.

"Typical? Um..."

Now, I actually do feel some pity for the mental health care professionals who deal with me and mine, so I didn’t laugh in his face. Bless the man, I’m sure he was envisioning a large, rowdy get-together with shared jokes and stories and children’s laughter amid bows and ribbons and eggnog. I can’t honestly say I’ve ever actually encountered eggnog in the flesh. It’s always seemed like an exotic myth, like flying reindeer or benevolent carolers who weren’t paid to be there.

Nowadays, Christmas in my home consists of loosely organized wrapping paper carnage first thing in the morning, followed by the requisite pilgrimage to my parents’ house for dinner. There, we eat on fancy plates we’ll have to hand wash, and there will be at least one or two properly strange contributions to the menu. One year when I was very pregnant, it was fresh mint in the green beans, which my sensitive nose did not appreciate. There is no children’s table, so we all participate in one central conversation, which sounds really lively and convivial until you remember who is sitting at the table.

The older generation governs the ebb and flow of conversation. In my case, these wise forebears are my father, mother, aunt, and uncle. For the uninitiated, that’s a Doctor of Inorganic Chemistry and former Director of Technology of a major international corporation; a Doctor of English Literature and former Executive Director for yet another international corporation; the former head of Literature for the area’s most important library and current darling of theater luminaries, who are forever begging her for research and copies of long-forgotten musical scores; and a history scholar who also is something of an expert in oriental rugs and organic fruit for reasons that escape me. Two Republicans and two Democrats. Two Episcopalians and two Roman Catholics.

To say that the dinner conversation is a tad academic would be putting it mildly. 

The evening ends with a frankly bloodthirsty game of Monopoly between my mother and aunt. The rest of us have learned not to interfere. The noncombatants swill glasses of port, nibble ginger cookies, and stare at the fire until a decent interval has passed and we can disperse.

However, this is my father’s side of the family. When I was a child, we spent Christmases with my mother’s family.

"Sing it, Perry!"

Christmas in Kansas was possibly my favorite childhood memory. Granny would make chocolate and peanut butter fudge, my grandfather would smoke his pipe and growl at everyone, my mother would dither, and my father would immerse himself in a crossword puzzle. My cousins and I would dress the Pomeranian in felt dolls’ clothes, hammer at the organ until our elders yelled, and laugh late into the night when my mother’s eyes would bulge with rage and we’d finally settle down. We sometimes wandered down to what was rather optimistically called the park, but was really a stone arch that gave way to a muddy clearing with a couple of large, cement pipes half-embedded in the grass. 

The shed at the back of the house was perfect for exploring, and I remember laughing over my mother’s impossibly pointed shoes from the 1950s and my grandfather’s naughty magazines. 

Do they still make Shrinky Dinks? Those things were pure genius. This was also the era of Star Wars. What 1970s childhood could be complete without a Princess Leia doll with real hair? Of course those gigantic buns didn’t last long, but she was still one of my favorite toys. I had an Uhura doll, too. I know you’re jealous.

The tree was plastic and glorious, the long drape of tinsel falling from star to floor, providing tantalizing peeks at the gaudy World War II era ornaments beneath. Perry Como would be crooning Christmas carols over the eight-track player, and I would scamper out in my prim Muppet Show nightgown with the frill at the ankle and bask in the excitement and anticipation. We children were always well-rested on Christmas morning, thanks to the administration of Granny’s famous hot toddies the night before. In later years, Granny got lazy and would just hand out shots of vodka. All I know is that we never stayed up late on Christmas Eve. 

Ho-ho-hangover

It’s amazing how many of your childhood experiences can’t be repeated with your own children just because it would land you in jail.

"Keep 'em coming, Granny!"

Anyway, the thing my children have missed out on (other than being knocked out with high-proof liquor) is the large, chaotic family get-together. I suppose I could get melancholy about it, but I think they’re happy with the less social, more sedate celebrations they’ve grown up with. As the only children in the house, and the only grandchildren, they are doted upon and spoiled rotten. I even occasionally catch them paying attention to the debates over the influence of 13^th Century monasticism on the development of modern-day politics. They know they are loved and surrounded by the familiar and comforting, and I suppose that is all a child really needs to capture that holiday magic.

The fire starts to die, and the conversation tapers off. The boys watch their great-aunt tuck their dozing mother under a blanket, and they are amused that here, their mother is still a child. Their grandfather magically produces the batteries that weren’t included, while their father mutters over microscopic screws as he assembles the most interesting toy (now that the gouges from the hard plastic packaging have stopped bleeding). Grandmother cackles, malicious glee marking the acquisition of Park Place. Her victim groans, and her rueful laughter becomes part of the tapestry of my children’s memories.

My mother's kingdom.

What we pass on to our children and grandchildren isn’t the tradition. Presents at night or morning, holiday supper or breakfast or tea, midnight mass or sunrise service. None of that matters much. I know that lots of people don’t get those holiday warm fuzzy feelings, and this will sound like sentimental rubbish to them. That’s okay.

I totally respect your opinion.

My point is that, regardless of whether you celebrate Saturnalia, Hanukkah, Christmas, or nothing at all, the rituals that bind a family exist to comfort and reassure.  We are reminded of our connectedness, even as the world changes around us. 

When a new family starts out, new traditions grow out of the disparate backgrounds of both parents. Children grow up and make their own families, with new traditions of their own. What matters most is that we retain that connectedness and honor what has gone before, without allowing it to hold us captive to the past. We let our memories warm and reassure us, taking a deep breath of that fortifying air, and then return to the world for another year.

I don’t know what answer that psychologist was looking for from me. The Christmas of my childhood is long gone, as is that of my husband. I’ve taken the elements from my memories that were the most magical and preserved them for my own children, but by and large, we celebrate in our own way. While I may occasionally feel a sentimental twinge for the way things used to be, I know that we need to embrace the changes in our families to move forward. We can rejoice in some changes, while others break our hearts. At the end of the day, the holidays are for sharing love, memories, solace, and gratitude with each other. That’s the part we need to preserve most of all.

And Perry Como. Gotta preserve the Perry.

The Three Little Pigs of Victorian London

I was talking with my friend tonight about the various writing I've done over the years and how I have genre-jumped a bit. While I was reviewing some old files, I came across this little gem, which was the product of a novel-writing class I took a few years ago. The idea was for the entire class to present their version of the same story (in this case, The Three Little Pigs), but each person would write it in a different genre. I was assigned historical fiction, and this was the result:

“The Three Little Pigs of Victorian London” – a work of Historical Fiction

Oscar Wolf’s eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted into a pained grimace as he walked through London’s blackened, suffocating streets. The horror of the squalor surrounding him tugged at his very core, aggressive in its absolute need to be recognized. It overwhelmed the senses and unrepentantly squelched even the hardiest shred of hope that might attempt to take root in the cracked and filth pavement. Such a landscape cried out against those in power in tones both strident and unrelenting, and Wolf responded by once more pledging himself to his work. Only anarchy could free the downtrodden of England from the oppression and cruelly inequitable treatment they had endured for so long. He had sworn to become an agent of destruction and to demonstrate with ruthless tenacity how ineffectual and powerless government truly was in the face of the deterioration of the currently established social system.

The worn leather of his boots creaked as he continued down the stinking, soot-stained streets until he stood before a ramshackle house that appeared to have been constructed from nothing but straw. This, he knew, was the home of John Pig, an unskilled laborer who worked in a textile mill along with his wife and five children. If Wolf and his associates were to gain a foothold within the ranks of the factory workers, the support of men such as Mr. Pig was essential. With a resolute step, Wolf stepped up to the tightly-woven straw door, but he could not identify a surface sturdy enough upon which to knock. This slight obstacle did not deter him, however, and he called out to announce his presence. 

                “John Pig! I must speak with you!”

                A rustle and a thump preceded Pig’s reply. “Aye? Who be ye?” asked a grating voice.

                “My name is Oscar Wolf,” he responded. “I wish to speak with you concerning the mill.”

                “Oh?” came the voice again, now heavy with suspicion. “And what is the mill to ye, then?”

                “Your employer is notorious for demanding twelve-hour days from his workers, even the children. We wish to push him to increase wages, as well as reduce the hours...”

                “Oh, shove off,” Pig interrupted. “You be nothin’ but trouble. I won’t be caught talkin’ to the likes of you!”

                “Mr. Pig, you must listen!” Wolf pressed on. “The revolution is at hand! Now is the time for the workers to throw off the shackles of middle class oppression and expose the government’s hypocrisy! I must warn you – if you are not with us, you are against us!”

The door swung open abruptly, revealing a large, weather-beaten man, his muscled forearms folded uncompromisingly across his chest. “I told you to shove off! We’ll have none of your huffing and puffing here! You got no right coming here and makin’ trouble for my family. We be decent folk, and not afraid of hard work. Now, off with ya. I’ve been savin’ up to take the little ones to the penny theater, and I ain’t gonna let the likes of you get in the way!” Pig pushed Wolf roughly aside as he shouldered his way to the street, and a pale and painfully thin woman followed behind dragging a string of young children along in her wake.  

Wolf’s face heated and his blood pounded in his ears as he considered Pig’s obstinate refusal to listen.  His next course of action was clear. As in the case of any obstacle that prevented him from achieving his goal, his only recourse was to remove that obstacle outright. He cast an expert eye over his surroundings, needing to ensure adequate time to execute his plan. Once he was satisfied that any interference would not be forthcoming, Wolf moved quickly, his well-trained hands completing their tasks with only the smallest portion of his concentration. 

When the explosion tore through the straw house, sending ash and flaming tendrils of heated malice in all directions, Wolf was already some distance away. He moved through the passages of the city with confidence, easily avoiding detection by the constabulary, should they deign to respond to an incident involving only a working-class hovel. At length, his steps gradually slowed until stopping in front of a house made of sticks. Once he had caught his breath, Wolf realized that he had fortuitously located the home of George T. Hogge, the middle-class owner of the textile mill at which the Pig family labored. 

Wolf was filled with the determination to take Hogge to task for the condition of his factory and the poor wages and long hours to which his workers were subjected. Not surprisingly, his demands to be given admittance were refused. Hogge deigned at last to lean out of one stick-framed window in a final attempt to rid himself of this nuisance. His brow was smooth and untroubled as he explained that he considered himself a proponent of the principles of Utilitarianism, which supported his belief that the benefits to his workers must outweigh the hardships. When Wolf disagreed and made to debate the matter further, Hogge gave a negligent shrug before asserting that if this were not the case, his workers would have already revolted against the conditions at the mill. As they had not done so, Hogge felt justified in his belief that any change would be unnecessary. 

“Take your huffing and puffing elsewhere, Sir,” he said over his shoulder as he withdrew his head from the window and disappeared from view.

Wolf’s further arguments were met with silence until at last the housekeeper advised him as she made her way to the shops that Hogge has left out the back door of the house with Missus and young Master Hogge in order to attend a dinner party. It was the work of a moment to prepare his fiery rebuttal to Mr. Hogge, and Wolf quickly fled the environs as the house of sticks exploded, giving voice to his wrath and ire.

When Wolf stopped in his headlong flight to catch his breath, now satisfied that the authorities had been successfully eluded, he found himself standing before a grand house of bricks belonging to Sir Arthur Pemberton-Piglet, Earl of Bacon and member of the House of Lords. Giving himself over entirely to the increasing frustrations of the day, Wolf began pounding upon the ornate door, coherently if somewhat frantically denouncing the government in general and Pemberton-Piglet in particular for failing to institute even the most basic reforms and for ignoring the plight of the country’s poor. He received no response from Pemberton-Piglet, who was rather preoccupied with preparations for the ball being given that evening to celebrate his daughter Penelope Pemberton-Piglet’s presentation to society. 

While perfectly prepared to grapple with malicious and rough treatment, Wolf’s entire frame trembled and his breath came in shallow, uneven gasps at this blatant disregard. His voice cracked with the fervor of his dedication as he called out a final warning to Pemberton-Piglet. If he continued to ignore Wolf’s call for justice, judgment would be rendered instantly – Wolf would not hesitate to incinerate the house and its inhabitants without a qualm.

From within his mortared walls, Pemberton-Piglet snorted in derision at this hollow threat before summoning the police, who easily apprehended the distracted and increasingly unstable Wolf. Vast quantities of incendiary devices were removed from his person before his writhing body was confined in chains and relocated to the nearest prison, where he was able to indulge in unrelenting self-flagellation and frustrated huffing and puffing to his heart’s content for many years thereafter.  

Penelope Pemberton-Piglet’s ball, on the other hand, was an unqualified success.