An Ode to Academia

I have two, precocious, young nieces,

Who say things that leave me in pieces!

They remind me of early Coca and Burnett,

Causing many a snerk, a guffaw, and yet,

Each can be thoughtful, and full of creativity,

before they’re back to boundless energy.

They love chasing their chickens,

And playing with their dogs and cats,

managing to do it, while wearing minion hats.

They just started school, and sport uniforms,

But it’ll be years before they’re judging dorms.

After all, the youngest is just entering school,

And she’ll have to decide if it’s cool.

While the eldest struts her stuff into her fifth year,

Back-pack on her shoulders with all of her gear.

And, at last, Mom & Dad can breathe a little easier;

summer vacay is over, and the girls go to bed sooner.

Their rooster, Fat Amos, will wake them

each morn before the sun even pops up.

Unless it’s the neighbors first with,
“Shut the fuck up!!”

A Childfree Parent

Metaphorically speaking, I have one kid.

Like any parent, I know where my kid is at ALL times. I make sure she's looked after, treated well, take care of her when she's sick or needs help, clean her when she's dirty, talk to her, put her to bed at night, wake her up in the morning, don't let others use, abuse, or touch her inappropriately, (and if they do I get VERY angry!) dress her in different outfits, leave her 'reminder' Post-Its, work with her on homework, and carry her when we go places. (Though she's a little heavy)

Sometimes I'll take her with me to the library. We draw and paint, we read, watch movies, or listen to music together. We ask questions of each other, and expect answers. Every once in a while she's stubborn, and makes me wait for her to do things I directed her to do. She's too grown up for a baby-sitter, so I just let her hang out peacefully at home when I go out. (And lock the door behind me!) 

She rarely gets into trouble, and, surprisingly, never sasses me. She's great about giving me my mail, and lets me know when I have messages. She tends to correct my spelling, but never judges me. 

When others tell me she's not exactly hip or cool, make fun of her to her face, or snidely comment that she has a weight problem, she never gets sad, because she knows she's exactly what I always wanted; that I'll never give her away, and that she's very important to me.

And one day, when she's far too ill for me to help her, and passes away, I'll donate her organs so that other kids will have a brighter future.

I call her 'Della'.

Jenre Genre

What’s in a name…no, no, no…boring way to start a blog entry. How about, ‘Jennifer’ is a fad name. 

I know, right????

According to Reader’s Digest magazine, (June 2014) and a writer named Tim Urban, ‘Jennifer’ was big during Generation X. In other words, my era. It’s fallen out, and is considered as dated as Cheryl, Shirley, or Linda. 

Exactly! Who names their daughters those, anymore? But really, even if it wasn’t my name, I’d still think it had a young ring to it. 

I’d asked my mom some time ago what I could’ve been named, and she said she toyed with Heather, Holly, and Amber. Hmmm…a flowery plant, a holiday shrub, and a fossil resin that could possibly hold a Jurassic era mosquito.

Say your own name aloud, and ask yourself if it truly sounds démodé. 

In truth, I do tend to shorten my name to others. (“Call me Jenn.”)  But there is the occasional flirty fella that will slur all eight letters on his vodka-soaked tongue, before ruminating about a ‘Jennifer’ he knew back in high school; usually on the pep squad, or the librarian’s nerdy student-assistant.

But, hey, I’m not the only one branded with a fad name. ‘Twihards’ and ‘Tributes’ that had babies in the last six years have spiked the movement for Katnisses, Bellas, Jacobs, Peetas…and maybe even something as Victorian as Edward. (Though I do find that name deliciously regal!)

However, the practice of passing down a family-name, antiquated though it may be, has that wanting of a little history in our future; of not allowing us to forget why a name was so important. I get it. My middle name came from a grandparent. My brothers combined names come from three relatives.  

To judge whether a name is dowdy, archaic, or no longer used is a waste of time; it only serves to fuel a bully’s stockpile of verbal munitions. So, if one introduces themselves to a stranger, she/he should state their name proudly. 

But if that stranger then chooses to snerk over your fad name, you can turn and leave them wondering why you chose not to learn theirs.

What I learned at 46....

Cassatt-in-training

“Awww…are you trying to kill me?!” I asked my mom, after realizing she’d parked the car on the farthest end of an Idaho Rodeway Inn parking lot.

Turns out it was the closest spot, by the time she pulled in the night before, after visiting my brother and sister-in-law. So I had to drag my arthritic self all the way to the other end of the building.

But it wasn’t until I got to the car, aching back and all, that it occurred to me she’d inadvertently given me another writing-prompt.

“Oh yeah!!”

“Yeah! Do it!”

“Awww…c’mon!!”

“I think there must be a big football game going on up there,” she said, glancing up at an open third floor window on the very end. “Doesn’t sound like his team is winning.”

I turned my head a bit to listen as I unlocked the car. It’s not uncommon for people to rent rooms for study-group cram sessions, a quiet place for writers to work, or even to have football parties.

However, my ears picked up on something Mom had missed—the lack of others raising their voices over blown calls, the sound of sports announcers play-by-play…or even the T.V. noise of a football game.

But still, there were shouts.

“Ohhh…yeahhhh!”

I held in my snicker-n-snerking—whatever it’s referred to these days—until we were in the car. 

“It wasn’t a football game,” I responded, as we pulled away from the lot. I started laughing. 

Hoo-boy! What an added memory that is to spending an afternoon with a houseful of extended family, by way of my niece’s 10^th birthday. 

Boisterous relatives, laughter, shy-but-pleased smiles from the birthday-girl over gifts, grilled hot dogs, a trampoline, and six, four-legged animals was reason enough to unload my cellphone’s memory-card the night before of all the pictures I’d already taken. My nieces are a gas to be around, and I wanted proof of it all. 

The youngest is quite the ham. (She’s even made a crack about ham that was so clever, it ended up in one of my manuscripts) 

The eldest, the apple-of-her-artist-father's-eye, seems to morph into a writer whenever Auntie’s in town. No, no…I don’t dare try to steer her away from her interest in drawing. Quite the contrary! I gifted her a sketch pad and color pencils. Also…she’s way better at art than I was at her age.

But I also added a journal of sorts; a composition notebook that’s always found in the school supplies aisle of any store. And I insisted that she only write in it if she wanted to, about any old thing she wanted. 

Still, an auntie can hope. (Especially when she asked me a couple of years ago if she could be a writer, like me. Joy!)


In the meantime, I’ve secured a couple of volunteer positions that will, hopefully, encourage employment at a later time. Recycling is good for the planet. And with the added bonus that I get to work with tools—taking things apart—I get to feel productive once again! (But, ooooh…what I wouldn’t give for one of those positions to involve my love for writing!)

Ah, well, who am I to be choosy? It’s getting this hermit out of the house. And no better time than summer. This season will also be spent resembling Hoke Coburn…without the added utterances of, “Yes’m Miz Daisy.” 

What the cookies am I goin’ on about? Well, I have one relative that’s showing signs of needing companionable-assistance, and, a ‘sweet lil’ ol’ church lady’ that needs my “hep gettin’ ta th’ stow...,” as it were. Of course, as I love to drive, acting as a chauffeur won’t be an issue. 

Anywoo, I’m cautiously-optimistic about the rest of this year. My voc-rehab consultant says I’m taking steps in the right direction. Maybe if I’m really lucky, I’ll get to hear the pitter-patter of little adopted feet this time next year.

I just won’t be “renting a room at the Rodeway anytime soon.”