The Bering Blog

It Never Rains In Southern California?

Good morning from Orange County! I spent the night at my friend Kristin’s in Placentia. I wondered why you’d name a place after a placenta, but I looked it up and discovered it comes from a word in Latin meaning “a pleasant place to live.” Aw. How cozy is that?

My nephew Ian and me

Kristin, me, and my sister Emily at the Getty Villa

I woke this morning to a rain shower. It’s still cloudy, but the palm trees surrounding Kristin’s apartment still look exotic and warm against the gray backdrop. The OC is worlds away from San Fernando Valley. The people and streets are more spread out, and old women with heavy eye makeup shop at Trader Joe’s in fur coats, even though the temperature is 70 degrees.

Yesterday I saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time. After touring Getty Villa at Pacific Palisades, we went to Topanga Beach where I got my feet wet and checked out the surfers. I picked up an interesting piece of driftwood and a few shells and soft rocks that will go home with me.

Carlene and me checking out the surfer dudes

Lunch was as new and fresh as the beach. We went to a vegan restaurant called Real Food Daily where I tried seitan for the first time. I guarantee it won’t be the last. I bought the Real Food Daily cookbook because I’m determined to make seitan again. Often.

There’s a little religion shop next to the restaurant. I can’t remember the name of it, but it now has a bit of my money. It’s part new age and yoga and part Christian and Hindu and Buddhist. Got some lovely smelling cedar incense and a few hemp shirts.

I’ll mosey back to the valley this afternoon. My nephew Gabriel will be 3 on Monday so his birthday party is today. My cousin Rick will be there. Haven’t seen him in 18 years. A Hershey cake will be there, too. That has me a little worried. I haven’t exercised since Wednesday and I can feel some weight creeping into my gut. I need to detox big time starting Tuesday.

In the meantime, I, like, totally need to chill. Tuesday and Pennsylvania and the cold will come soon enough. I’ve got two more days of palm trees and flowers and ocean and pretty people watching to do.

Good Morning from LA!

I made it here without freaking out on the plane and insisting we turn around. The flight was smooth, and even the six-month old baby in the seat two rows ahead was delightful and only fussed once.

Flying over New Mexico and Arizona, I made a mental note to visit there sometime and see the cavernous terrain up close. Where have these places been all my life?

Southern California is a little like I thought it would be and better. The weather especially is fabulous for winter-weary me. Palm trees, flowers of every color – God, it’s like an explosion of natural energy out here. Everything grows in earnest. That takes a little getting used to after living in nothing but varying shades of gray for the last five months.

The people have been great and so has the traffic. Yes it’s busy, but driving here is less insane than in Memphis or Manhattan.

A little synopsis of yesterday: After we landed, Carlene and I got our luggage and got on the rent-a-car shuttle. It’s only a few miles from LAX to Alamo, but I swear we passed 25 taco joints and a dozen “gentleman’s” clubs.

When I reserved a car online, I chose a compact because it was cheap and I didn’t need a lot of room. I figured I’d get a standard grey Cobalt or Focus, so I was a little more than surprised when waiting for me, freshly washed in the garage, was a metallic blue PT Cruiser! I always thought they were curious looking, like gangsters should ride on the running boards, but they’re actually a lot of fun. It took us a few hours to figure out there was a sunroof, though.

We cranked the stereo (and I kid you not, the Door’s “LA Woman” was playing), hopped on the 405 and drove into the San Fernando Valley. Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’” was playing in my head: “It’s a long day, living in Reseda….All the vampires walkin’ through the Valley, move west down Ventura Boulevard….I wanna glide down over Mulholland…” I always knew those places were real, but I never thought I’d be driving past them or on them or through them, especially in a PT Cruiser at age 44.

I wrote to my sister Emily in 2003 – when I was 300 pounds, a social recluse, and afraid of my own shadow – and told her I didn’t love anyone enough to fly to see them, not even her. I felt so liberated when I pulled up in the driveway and hugged her in the portico of her own house, 2000 miles and five years away from the me who wrote that letter.

My only complaint is the time change. I have three free hours and yet my body won’t use them to sleep. I was up at 5 a.m. local time, which, at 8 a.m. eastern time, is considered “sleeping in” for me. By the time I adjust, it will be time to go home and those three hours will want their time back.

So I’m up, writing. I brewed tea and cleaned seedless red grapes in the bathroom so I wouldn’t wake up my daughter and sister. I checked my hometown paper online and the weather. It’s 35 and cloudy in Clarion. A little snow is in the forecast. I don’t know what the temperature is outside my hotel room, but I’m pretty sure it’s not snowing.

We’re tourists today, going to Hollywood. I’m sure we’ll have a great time, but I already know my favorite part about today: I won’t have to wear socks to keep my feet warm.

More later!

California Dreamin'

I must have looked a fright to the poor gas meter reader this morning. I completely forgot I was in my pajamas when I answered the door. They’re just sweats and a big red flannel shirt and gray slippers, but they really scream “I slept in this outfit” when combined with my uncombed hair and unbrushed teeth.

It was 10:00. You’d think I’d have my shit together by then. But I’m heading to California on Thursday and I’ve got a lot of writing to do before I leave.

I was in the middle of a project when he arrived. I had eaten a bowl of cereal and drank some green tea around 7:30, but other than that I was glued to my computer. I saw the him in his bright yellow jacket walking up the sidewalk and I cursed the fact that I had to get up and let him in because I was in the middle of a thought, but then, hey, he was just doing his job and so I directed him to come in through the back door and I blocked the dogs out of the kitchen so he could get down the stairs to the basement and out again without being accosted by three large curious dogs.

An hour later, my project was done and sent to the appropriate recipient. I had a ton of pent-up energy so I put on some workout clothes and hopped on the Oprah elliptical.

I’ve made it a point to listen to “California Dreamin’” during every workout this past week since a week from tonight I’ll be on a red eye home from LA after spending five glorious days in the sun with my sister, brother-in-law, nephews, cousin, friend Kristin and my favorite stylist in the whole world, Michael.

Carlene and I leave Thursday morning. As most of you know, I’m not a real fan of flying, so I’m loading my iPod with new meditations and Pema Chodron teachings to keep me calm at 30,000 feet. I’ll pair that with crossword puzzles and reading Health, Backyard Living and the opinions page from last Sunday’s Pittsburgh Trib-Review. Distraction is my middle name.

Back to “California Dreamin’” for a second. I didn’t download the Mamas and Papas version. I love the Tommy Shaw and Jack Blades version best. You can see their performance on YouTube here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4zAbPBgt0Uo . It includes a bit of Shaw’s “Crystal Ball,” too. Good stuff.

I’ve never been to California. Seen it plenty of times on television. I love visiting somewhere I’ve only seen in photos or video. It’s like watching a movie based on a favorite book. It might be just as good, worse, or better than expected. Like the first time I was in New York City. Photos and video helped me identify landmarks, but they couldn’t capture the atmosphere, the smell, the background noises, the attitude of the people, and the visual perspective of a 5’5” outsider. California and its hills and sprawl and cars and smog, well, I have an idea of what it feels like, but I can’t wait to see it all up close.

Everyone I know has been to California. How come it’s taken me 44 years to get there? Anyway, just as I do with all my travels, I’ll blog from there and fill you in on my perspective as a 5’5” outsider. I’m hoping to bump into a celebrity or two at Whole Foods. I heard that’s where all the stars grocery shop. Maybe I’ll see Tommy Shaw. God I hope he keeps his long hair. He’s yummy.

I’ve got all my summer clothes out and laundered, I dug out my sandals from the back of the closet, and my camera, iPod, phone and computer batteries are all charged. If I forget something, I’m sure I can find it in California. You can find everything in California, right?

California. I’m going to freaking California! You’d think I was 8 years old.

You Can’t Have Easter Without Good Friday

In 1996, I was deeply hurt by someone I’d loved for many years. His behavior – our behavior – took me to an emotional place I’d never been. In the midst of this dark, septic place, a woman said to me, “You can’t have Easter without Good Friday.”

Growing up Christian, I knew Good Friday was the day Christ was crucified, but I’d not thought about the day as a metaphor for personal pain and suffering. When she shared that with me, I thought, “What good could come of this pain? How can there be an ‘Easter’ in all this incredible sorrow and hurt?”

I was living and feeling despair day after day. How could he do that to me? How could I have been so stupid? How can I trust anyone again? On and on the questions played in my head. However, hearing those words and the gentle way in which she spoke them drove a wedge in my endless regurgitation of anger, and they gave me hope that one day I would be whole again.

I hung on to that hope and, more importantly, began acting on that hope, and eventually Easter arrived. I smiled again, trusted again and was able to forgive and move on. I still remember that painful time with some regret and sadness – Good Friday was not meant to be forgotten – but my Easter, my renewed life, was worth working for.

I was reminded of this woman’s wisdom as I walked around our muddy yard today in search of life. It’s been a long winter – cold and nasty – and the prediction is for 3-5 inches of snow tonight. I’m tired and am almost desperate for better weather. I know there’s nothing I can do to change the weather, but I can change how I respond to it. So I went outside looking for hope. And there it was: daffodil and tulip shoots popping through the nearly disintegrated mulch and chives sprouting in the corner of my garden. Small bright green growths no bigger than a sparrow’s leg, but they restored my peace of mind. Despite any snow we get tonight, they will still be there, waiting and growing.

My wish for all of you this Easter is peace. Even if you’re living in the pain of Good Friday, Easter will come. It always does.

See you again next week.

Always and Never Revisited

Man, was I uninspired the other day. Felt like I couldn’t write my way out of a paper bag. So I got out the “3-Ring Binder ‘O Clips” and started reading old columns.

The one that half-assed inspired me was the one I wrote in January 2006 about the words “always” and “never.” It was the first one I’d written in nearly four years, since I left the newspaper and bought my antique store in 2002.

Reading it again got me thinking about two years ago and how much has changed. I don’t own the store anymore. In fact, the son-of-a-bitch who bought it tore it down. In its place, he erected a metal storage shed. Definitely not a tit for tat swap. There was no “yin” in his “yang,” if you know what I mean. But as I reread that column, I realized that I “never” thought I’d forgive him, but I did. I thought I’d “always” mourn the loss of that beautiful old building, but I don’t anymore. “Always” and “never” are promise words with loopholes.

Below are highlights from the always/never column. Particularly ironic are the parts about the blog and being a democrat. They are a few of those “I take it back” moments. (Just so you know, my voter registration card arrived today with my new affiliation boldly displayed. Gack. I’ll be changing back to Independent as soon as the primary is over, but isn’t it strange that my face broke out the morning after I became a democrat?)

I really mean it when I say that I “always” like to get your thoughts on my blog, and this time, of course, let me/us know your experiences with “always” and “never.”

Actress Gloria Swanson once said: “Never say never, for if you live long enough, chances are you will not be able to abide by its restrictions. Never is a long, undependable time, and life is too full of rich possibilities to have restrictions placed upon it.” I often warn my children of the use of the word never and its fraternal twin “always.” Be careful, I tell them, because rarely are these two words used correctly.

On April 18, 2002, in my last column for The Clarion News, I wrote: “…this time I will not return. Really. I’m sure this time.” While not used specifically, the word “never” was implied. Convinced life was linear, I was never going to write a column again because I’d chosen a new profession, one in which writing for expression was no longer required. Lost in this new work, I was able to quiet that voice, or at least ignore it, because I was busy learning new things and didn’t need to listen to what it had to say.

It didn’t stay quiet for long, and recently it turned up the volume, becoming more obnoxious than before. It’s like music blasting in a teenager’s car with the windows rolled up. All you hear from the outside is the “boom boom boom” of the bass. The song is trapped inside. I’m glad The Clarion News agreed to open the car window so I can let that trapped song out.

I thought about writing a blog, a sort of online diary, but cyberspace can be a black hole and blogs get lost in an endless sea of URLs. I’m old school publishing. Black and white, baby. I like the feel of a newspaper in my hands, black ink rubbed into the grooves of my fingerprints and turning pages as I read, not scrolling through them with a mouse like I was playing Pac Man.

In the 187 weeks since my last column, life has pretty much done what it usually does to all of us – moved along at a pace faster than we might like sometimes, all the while throwing in some interesting scenery.

I’ve changed residences and will again in a few months. Country living is not for the faint of heart. Let’s just say I’m not a fan of septic systems and cisterns, and I prefer the noise and burn ban ordinances of the city.

Daughter No. 1 graduated from college and has settled on a nice boyfriend while Daughter No. 2, not to be outdone by Daughter No. 1, is in nursing school and is getting married this summer. She says it’s about time she gets to do something before her older sister does.

Stepson No. 1 is taller than his father and is counting down the days until he can drive (around 713). Stepson No. 2, a 7-year veteran of the Boy Scouts, learned to shoot a rifle last summer and still refuses to eat anything green. This includes the tiny flecks of basil that stick to a strand of pasta. It takes this child an hour to eat a plate of spaghetti with sauce.

During these 187 weeks, my husband and I took our first vacation in six years. We rented a little cabin in the Adirondacks near Saranac Lake. We faced medical challenges, put our sick dog to sleep, welcomed a new puppy, and grieved the loss of a friend and a family member. I turned 40 and got satellite radio. I’m still not a Republican and doubt I ever will be. But then, I’m not a Democrat either.

For 187 weeks time did what it always does: it kept going. Life is not linear. It’s about intersecting circles. And if I’ve learned nothing else I’ve learned the gravity of the words “always” and “never.” I will always be uncertain of what lies ahead of me and I will never know what works in my life unless I do it. The voice is always there. Understanding it is my never-ending pursuit.

A Happy Bruce Dream

Last month, after I wrote “An Earlier Than Usual Bruce Dream,” I decided I wasn’t going to write about Bruce in March because I feel I said everything I had to say last year. But last night I had another Bruce dream, only I was able to consciously change the usual ending of me not being able to get to him and I thought I’d write about it to see if anyone else has ever consciously changed their dreams while sleeping.

Here’s the scene: I can’t get in touch with Bruce even though I just discovered he was alive. In my dream I knew what was happening and so I forced myself to change the outcome. I knew he was in the kitchen taking something out of the oven. Usually, in previous Bruce dreams, something would hold me back from getting into the place he was, but I consciously told myself to go into the kitchen and I did! I jumped on his back (like I used to when he was alive) and hugged him and kissed him and told him how much I missed him and he laughed and hugged me back. I woke up feeling really good instead of sad and drained.

I changed my dream. How cool is that?

Bruce would have been 49 years old today. Happy birthday, babe.

He’s been gone for 25 years now, but our daughter has been alive for 25 years. Ah, the irony. Here she is with her birthday crepe. I hope her wish comes true.

A Democrat For a Day

It sucks to be a registered independent in Pennsylvania. If you’re not a democrat or a republican, you can’t vote in the state’s primary elections. Ever. Most years I just write a letter to the editor in protest of this ridiculous law, but this year I’m reluctantly bending over and changing 26 years of independence to become a democrat for a day.

On April 22, I want to be a part of the process that selects either Barack Obama or Hillary Clinton as the democratic nominee for president, and to do that, I need to compromise my principles for a little while.

If you live in Pennsylvania and are registered as an independent or a member of a third party, but you want to vote April 22, my friend Tom DiStefano over at the Clarion News wrote a piece called “March 24 is last day to register for ‘spotlight’ primary” that will tell you how to do that. I plan to go over to the courthouse on Monday and swear to God and the county of Clarion that I’m a democrat. I’ll keep my fingers crossed behind my back, though, so it won’t really count.

I have no idea who to vote for. I like them both and distrust them both evenly. Right now my decision will most likely be based on who I think can beat the republicans in the general election. I say “the republicans” because part of me really likes John McCain, but I’m not happy at all with the republican party. Besides, I’m seriously concerned about his age (not to mention his stance on several domestic policies), and who he picks as a running mate would greatly influence how I voted. I doubt he’ll make that choice before the Pennsylvania primary, so I have to go with voting for the democrat I think can beat the republicans in November.

Yadda yadda yadda…I don’t know who I believe that is yet.

I take this decision to change my affiliation very seriously. After all, even registering as a democrat for a few minutes means the party will have my address and phone number and will no doubt harass me mercilessly until November. Thank god for caller ID.

I know my sister will write fervently about why I should vote for Obama, and my daughter Cassie will write just as passionately in support of Clinton. To each of them, and those of you who are equally passionate about your candidates, I promise to do my homework and make the best informed decision I can on April 22.

But as soon as that’s over, I’m heading back to the courthouse, uncrossing my fingers, and becoming independent once again.

Five Hours Later And I STILL Don't Know What To Wear

3:34 a.m. I wake up. Not a “half-asleep, look at the clock and smile because I realize I have three more hours of sleep” wake up, but a full-blown, minds engaged kind of awake. And it’s really engaged. It wants to party, plan, solve every issue in my life right now at this very moment.

I try slow breathing, saying a prayer, thinking happy, quiet thoughts but it gets me nowhere. My mind wants to know how I’ll wear my hair on Wednesday – short or curly, what I’ll wear to my massage therapy and chiropractic appointments – the blue yoga pants or the white ones, what I’ll pack for the overnight to Pittsburgh. What’s the weather going to be like? Will I have time for a full workout or just a quick 30 minutes and some strength training? Will I bring along an apple or just buy one at Giant Eagle Express? Is there gas in the Jeep? What will it be, Lynn? Hunh? Hunh? HUNH?

My mind is a locomotive speeding out of control down a mountain. It’s writing columns, blogs, and every email I need to return. 4:05, I turn on the computer, my eyes adjust to the monitor light, and I write until my mind is empty. I write just snippets of things because my mind hasn’t had a complete thought yet, just lots of ideas. I answer a few emails. My feet are getting cold. They’re either too cold or too hot. They were too hot a half hour ago. 4:45 a.m. I turn off the computer and crawl back into bed.

Thankfully, I feel that pre-sleep drowsy feeling.

“You’re gonna fall asleep, Lynn! I just know it! Isn’t that great!!”

5:20 a.m. The dog gets off the futon and lays beside the stairs, her paws scraping the carpet as she gets comfortable. I concentrate on the sound of the fan. Stay with it, I say. Sleep. If I go to sleep now I still have another two hours before I need to eat something so I can take my meds a half hour before I get on the elliptical for a five-minute warm-up and then lift weights for 30 minutes and work my abs for another 20 and then get back on the elliptical for 30 more minutes and which tennis shoes will I wear, did I leave my iPod in my gym bag, where are my wrist braces, don’t forget to leave a note for the dog sitter, did I ask Carlene if Tim wanted sausage on the pizzas I’m making tomorrow, my feet are still cold, I should get up and get another blanket, I wonder what the temperature it is, will it snow this week, I’m going to California in a few weeks, what should I pack.

6:05 a.m. Larry is awake and the dogs race down the stairs to go out. OK, I say, I can still get an hour of sleep. I’ll push back my workout a half an hour and if I wear my hair curly today I can take a later shower because it doesn’t take as long to do as the straight hair, besides, the massage therapist messes it up anyway and I can hide messy hair better if it’s curly and even though I’d prefer it straight because we’re taking photos tonight because it’s Carlene’s birthday, this day is about her and not me so it shouldn’t matter what my hair looks like especially since I have no idea what I’m going to wear because I don’t know what the temperature will be and I’m not sure I want to wear jeans if I’m still feeling the water weight from yesterday’s Advil which I’m never taking again because it gave me such a bad stomach ache that I couldn’t eat my salad like usual and maybe I need to bring salad stuff with me to Pittsburgh to save me a trip to Giant Eagle Express, but if I go to Giant Eagle I could stop at Old Navy and see if they have any shorts I could buy for my trip to California which reminds me, did I reserve my seat yet…..

8:30 a.m. Good thing I spent the last five hours thinking about what to wear to the chiropractor and how I’ll wear my hair today. Me and my mind are going to hit the elliptical now and maybe we’ll solve other pressing issues while we’re there, that is, if I don’t fall asleep.

The Gleefle That Sneefed – Lynn in First Grade

In my report card dated June 5, 1970, my teacher, Mrs. Marlene Larson, wrote: “Lynn is a good natured and friendly child who is most considerate when associating with her peers…She completes the majority of her assignments with a high degree of accuracy.” It was Mrs. Larson’s nice way of saying, “Lynn is a bit high strung and nervous. She hates conflict, hates to make mistakes, and seems to be growing a large stick out her ass.”

Ah, the good old days.

Academically, first grade was my favorite year ever. That’s when I learned how to write the alphabet, then words, then stories. I apparently was quite good at math, too, but it didn’t take long for my right brain to eat up most of my left brain, and in future years my math skills went in the toilet.

But I could write!

“In our creative writing program,” wrote Mrs. Larson, “Lynn can express her ideas through written communication. Her stories are indicative of advancement in the use of capitalization and punctuation technique.” Not exactly a rave review of the content of my stories, but it’s good to know my love of grammar was apparent from the beginning.

My parents kept a few of my stories, and dad was kind enough to put them in the envelope he gave me years ago that contained my report cards that I found last week. Here’s what I wrote, verbatim, however, in a few instances I put the real word in parenthesis so you don’t struggle trying to figure out what the heck that misspelled word is.

Jan. 28, 1970

My friend

I have a friend who lives in Omaha her name is Teela her est (used) to live here with me I love her very much her love me to

OK, so my grammar sucks in that one, but Teela is still my friend (although she doesn’t live in Omaha anymore), and look at the next one and how much my punctuation improved in just a few weeks.

LynnH

March 6, 1970

If I want to go to the moon I wood see. Captain kangaroo and Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse. And the Man in the moon. That’s how Mane (many). I liked it.

Some girls dreamed of being princesses. I dreamed of seeing Captain Kangaroo on the moon. Inspired, no doubt, by the moon landing seven months prior, I was apparently very excited about the possibility of space travel. I was no Phil Nowlan, but it’s fun for 44-year-old Lynn to see 6-year-old Lynn still had enthusiasm for fantasy.

This next story was no doubt inspired by my love for Dr. Seuss books. I wish I could remember what was going on in my head as I wrote this because it is incomplete. Either I wasn’t given enough time or enough space to explain what “sneefing” is. The Gleefle went to the zoo and I’m sure he meant to “sneef” while at the zoo, but he apparently didn’t get past the pig exhibit.

LynnH May 2, 1970

The Gleefle that Sneefed

Once upon a time there lived a. Gleefle and he was going to the zoo. He saw a big pig his is a big fat one to.

Sneefing could mean so many things. Maybe that’s what my husband was doing in 1970 when he and his friends got stoned at ZZ Top concerts on the beach in Galveston. Perhaps Nixon was sneefing in the White House.

This has potential as a creative writing assignment: finish the Gleefle story and define “sneef.” Care to post your ideas?

I’ve not known a time when I didn’t write. My grades in language and reading were always top notch, and I’ve kept a journal since fifth grade. I once thought about being a veterinarian, a marketing major, and a teacher, but always, always, I went back to writing. Yes, I am still sort of uptight and anxious, and that stick is still there much of the time, but writing has always been a release, a way for me to understand who I am. I appreciate it for the gift it is.

What were you passionate about as a kid? Did you recognize it then and does your career or educational path reflect that passion? As always, post a comment or send me an email. And don’t forget to make your best guess about “sneefing.”

Kindergarten Lynn

When I’m feeling old or sad or particularly vulnerable and need a reminder of my life as a whole and not as a moment of chaos, I rummage through my plastic storage container filled with every ticket stub, birthday card, love letter, newspaper clipping, and prom corsage from the last 40 years. The past isn’t such a bad place to visit when you need a pick-me-up.

Making me smile and feel like I’m on the right track: my kindergarten and first-grade report cards. They were in an envelope my dad gave me a few years ago that I’d casually tossed in the plastic bin thinking one day when I had time I’d look through what was in it.

That time was last Sunday. And given what my teacher, Miss Strom, wrote about me in 1969, it probably is true that everything I know I learned in kindergarten.

“Lynn is a bright girl who asks good questions. She is enthusiastic about learning; has a long attention span; and spends a good deal of time with books. She is a good listener and uses this quality advantageously to add to general knowledge.”

I confess to really enjoying nap time in kindergarten, but obviously I was doing some learning, too. What I remember most about kindergarten was a pudgy boy named Chucky who sported a crew cut and chased me around the alphabet circle when the teacher wasn’t watching. If I’m pretty much the same person I was in kindergarten, chances are so is Chucky. Girls, you know the kind of man I’m talking about.

“Lynn does very acceptable work with art materials.”

I loved glue. I used to rub it on my fingers, let it dry, and then peel it off. I’d also put a dot of Elmer’s on a piece of paper, let it crust over, then pop it like a zit. That was the extent of my artistic creativity, I’m afraid.

“She follows well in a singing group and enjoys music. She catches on quickly to songs, fingerplays and poems.”

After nap time, my teacher would sit in the middle of the alphabet circle with her guitar and sing to us. I particularly liked the “B-I-N-G-O” song about the farmer who had a dog. I displayed my anal tendencies even then, concentrating hard so I would clap at all the appropriate times. “B-I-N-clap-clap…and Bingo was his name-o.”

* Personal message to all kindergarten teachers: musical chairs is the most cruel game you can make an anal retentive kindergartener play. Trust me.

“Lynn displays leadership qualities, respects the rights of others, exhibits courteous behavior, and is accepted by the other children. She has self-confidence in what she is doing and has acceptable emotional control.”

Yeah, that pretty much sums me up at age 44. I don’t get it right all the time, and I certainly have many times of self-doubt, but I had that in kindergarten, too. I faked it well, even then.

I don’t readily remember most things from when I was 5 years old, but the emotionally uncertain stuff seems to be embedded in the brain cells that don’t die. I suspect that’s the part for all of us that sticks the most. I know I played with friends, rode my bike, watched TV, memorized Beatles songs and interacted with my family. I remember bits and pieces of those moments, but it’s the deeply emotional stuff I remember most: how I felt being chased around the alphabet circle (I really hated Chucky) and how I wanted so badly to get the song right so my teacher would think I was good and worthy. I remember the feeling of escaping into books and feeling so smart for having learned a new word or idea.

This report card made me see how I’ve always been about self-control, and that I’ve always desired just a little love and acceptance from the world. Hasn’t always worked out that way. But in our joys and pain, that’s what makes the girl from kindergarten and the grandma I am now BFFs.

Next blog…..my first-grade report card.