My ABCs (I learned 'em good.)

Have I mentioned I'm a competitive person?

Or perhaps I didn't have to. Y'all are probably pretty smart and have read between my lines.

I enjoy a good competition in almost any format. My favorite opponents are boys because what is better than beating a boy?

(Ice cream is better. And bluebonnets. But only by a fraction of a percent.)

I think I get this competitive streak from my father. He'll play about any game. Spades, hearts, poker, pinochle, dominoes, baseball, basketball...it doesn't really matter. To him, it's all fun.

And we played with him. He taught us the ABC game, which is something you enjoy on a long car ride that tests your eyesight, reflexes, and alphabet knowledge. We had to find words that began with each letter and whoever got to Z first won.

We usually played while we drove to Grandma and Grandpa's house.

Do you know how many car trips it took for me to beat him? Huh?

Did you guess 50? Maybe 100?

Well, you're not even close. I feel like we played that game one million times before I beat him. We started when I was in the second grade, and I was almost fourteen, fourteen, before I won.

I still remember what my Y and Z word were.

We were passing the George R. Brown Convention Center, and there was this Asian restaurant across from it called "Yit Ingho". I screamed, "Yit!" so fast because I knew, I knew, where a Z was. We'd played so many dadgum times.

Right after I yelled out my Y word, I whipped my gaze to a blue sign on top of a green freeway board. The lovely, glorious, victorious "Zoo" was there waiting for me. It cried, "Here, Kara! Here I am!"

And hallelujah, I shouted that word at the TOP of my lungs.

It was a good day.

Brownies

"Come, Kara," my mother says to me. "You're going to join Brownies."

Huh? Join brownies? What is she talking about? You eat brownies. You don't join them.

As I shake my head at my mother, I stupidly follow her to the car without an ounce of bluster or outrage. However, when I reach our destination, I discover....

It is a meeting. With girls from my class. And some lady is talking to us about how we'll have to complete various tasks in order to stay a part of the group.

I have to do work I don't want to do in order to continue with the group....

This group of girls from my class. This group of girls from my class who don't really care about outside activities. This group of girls from my class who could care less about how to drive a go cart.

I stare open-mouthed at what I'm allowing to happen. I mean, I said nothing on the drive over, and my mother managed to slip Big Idea Number 8 in without a single protest from me. What the heck? Had something taken over my mind? Were my reflexes drying out already? Had I lost my fire?

As I ponder this, the lady in charge keeps talking. And talking. And talking.

And then it is time to leave, and we do some kind of chant before we go, and all the other girls seem to love it. And I'm wondering, where are the aliens that have taken over their bodies? And when would they come for me?

But maybe they already have because I didn't voice my opinion on this Big Idea. Not once. Oh...no.

The second we get in the car, I let Mother know what I think. (Apparently, the aliens hadn't gotten me yet.) To which she replies, "You will enjoy this experience and grow from it."

I groan. I moan. I wail.

But it does nothing. I am a Brownie. Gag.

The only shining spot was one of my friends, Shellie, was there. And I liked her. She understood the beauty of outside. And being silly. Maybe it wouldn't be all bad.

November 17, 1983

A strawberry blonde, cute, smiling, bundle of joy appeared on a mid-November day to Grace and Liam. This would be the last precious little one added to our "family".

And it was a boy. Which, as I told you earlier, was fine with me. Especially since he was adorable. I cuddled him as often as someone would let me, or as often as I sat long enough.

He grew up quietly adventurous, unflinchingly calm, considerate, stubbornly independent, and unassuming. This boy smiled at you while he climbed to death-defying heights. He grinned at you while he hiked over mountains and made stuff out of bark with his bare hands.

He experiences life. Takes risks. Basks in the sun. Revels in the deep sea. The outdoors is his haven.

He is younger than me, and you might wonder how someone in his early thirties could be described as such. He has done more than most people twice his age. If you doubt, let me refer you to the night of the talent show at my high school. The year is 1994. He is 10, almost 11.

The talent show, in which Georgie played and Maria sang, is over. We are sharing conversation in the auditorium with Grace and Liam. I look to my right, and this risk-taking ten-year-old is scaling the wall. And he is already half-way up.

As Grace hurries over to get him down, none of us are surprised. Surprised at how far up he got, yes. Surprised he tried, no.

Therefore, his name shall be Andrew. English for courageous.

One on the Way

There was one good thing about the fall of 1983. Grace was pregnant. And it was almost time for him, or her, to appear.

I'm sure the mothers had a baby shower for this one, but I don't remember it. "Big Ideas" abound with this group, and if there was a chance for a party, well then, you HAD to HAVE the party.

The best part about the wait was, of course, wondering what Grace was gonna have. Boy or girl? Red hair or blonde?

November approached, and I hoped it would be a Thanksgiving baby. Then we could call it "Little Turkey".

(I don't know why I thought that would be a cute idea.)

I didn't really care what it came out to be, boy or girl. Adding girls to the group wasn't important to me. I had my girls. And, I didn't need large numbers of females to do whatever I wanted to do. I just did it.

And so would this little one. She, or he, would just do exactly what she, or he, wanted to do......

Who Is Michael Jackson?

Do you have moments in your life where you wonder if you've stepped into an alternate reality? Or maybe, even though you aren't on the verge of death, you're having an "out of body" experience?

I have had two such moments. The first came in the third grade.

Three of my friends decided they wanted to choreograph moves to a song called "Beat It". (I had never heard it. But I didn't tell them that.)

I was recruited to be a part of this. To this day, I don't remember why I agreed. I don't even remember actually agreeing. I think something must have taken over my mind and body. Maybe aliens.

I guess it doesn't matter how I became a part of this because it happened. I joined them. During recess. During recess we practiced. I practiced. Dance moves. To a song I didn't know sung by a man I'd never heard of.

We did this for a week. And someone got the big idea that we should perform for the class. Even now my gut is twisting and rolling with embarrassment and shock. I don't know what possessed me. And, seriously, I had to be possessed.

The day came. The teachers pushed back the accordion collapsible walls, we wore our dresses and jelly shoes, and performed this collection of gyrations and cartwheels.

Luckily, no one made fun of us. At least, not to our faces.

This memory is one I've tried to block for a long time. Whenever I think of it, I shudder. Still. And I'm forty.

I spent a week of recess, dancing. When it was over, I finally woke up and tried to come to terms with what I'd willingly participated in. I went through the following days as if it had been the most normal thing in the world to dance for the entire third grade. I didn't apologize for it. Or look embarrassed. And I certainly didn't ask the question that had been on my mind since the whole idea formed and became real ---

Just who the heck is Michael Jackson?

The Hits Keep On Coming

Now that school has completely ruined reading, let's continue on to Math, shall we?

Mrs. Marshall was my Math teacher. I think she was somewhere around 60 years old. I felt bad she hadn't been granted that glorious age of "39-And-Holding" as Grandmother had been. However, I think I know why that gift hadn't been bestowed upon Mrs. Marshall. I mean, why lengthen the life of someone who taught Math?

And this was the year of multiplication.

Ah, yes. It was time to memorize numbers. Not the rules for Four Square or Chicken. Isn't that fantabulous?

I didn't understand the concept. How did 7 x 7 equal 49? I had no idea, which only served to prove there was nothing logical about Math. It seemed people just tossed numbers around and thought, "Hmmm.....why don't we make 4 x 8 equal 32?"

It was a nightmare. And I was awake for it. And Mrs. Marshall loved it. And the kids around me understood it. But I didn't.

Once, I actually raised my hand and told Mrs. Marshall I didn't understand. She huffed and puffed at me, but explained. I didn't have the guts to tell her I still didn't get it.

Oh, well. Thankfully, I had a good memory. It took some time, but I memorized my times tables. I filed them away in the part of my brain that is titled, "Just Learn It So I Can Get On With The Good Stuff".

As an adult, I use that section a lot more than I should.

Save The Tamales!

Bill, my brother, was an observant kid. He was quiet and paid strict attention, especially to those things he found most interesting. Like driving.

Remember when cars had bench seats in front? Well, Bill sat up there in between Mom and Dad. The three girls sat in back. (Usually talking and singing and trying to beat Dad at the ABC game.)

Little did we know while we were horsing around, Bill was soaking up all the steps for driving a car. We didn't think he'd been watching. Or could even pick it up. He was two.

So....here we go. Buckle your seat belt.

We would go to the meat market on Saturday morning. Holy heck, I hated the way that place smelled. It did help Maria determine her future job. She wanted to be a butcher. (She likes bacon.)

But, if you stayed outside, in the car, with the windows down, the smell was quite delightful. There was a gentleman, Rudy, who had a tamale cart in front of the meat market. And boy howdy were they good. He was a good cooker. I would lean my head out the window and breathe in the tamales. Mom always bought some from him, and we would go home and have lunch.

One particular Saturday, Mom took pity on our noses and let us stay in the car while she went in to get meat. The three girls sat in the back. Bill sat in front in the middle seat. Mom came out to buy our tamales. And while I'm praying she buys each one he's got, Bill puts the car in drive. Our big, white, 1980s Buick shoots forward over the guard and slams right into Rudy's tamale cart.

My mom and Rudy, of course, are shocked and going crazy over human injury. (There weren't any. Rudy's cart stopped the Buick. And we were quite safe in that boat of a car.)

Meanwhile, I'm devastated. The tamales! Their foiled bodies are everywhere. On the hood. The gritty pavement. The dirty sidewalk. I jump out and start picking them up, but the adults aren't helping and Rudy's cart is crushed and there's no place to put the food, except in the car and that might be stealing. And you know we aren't buying any today because Mom doesn't believe in the 5 Second Rule.

As I mourn the loss of spicy goodness, my brother has become famous. And my Mom has become flustered.

Of course, we paid to fix Rudy's cart, and all was back to normal by the following Saturday.