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.

Cheater?

By now, you should know I love to read. I bet you also understand reading was the second activity I enjoyed after playing outside. One of my favorite places to go was a bookstore that had a hide-away nook for children inside a wooden tree trunk. It was like a fairy land. I adored the area.

And it got me to thinking.....

If I ended up not playing second base for the Astros, opening a bookstore seemed like a perfect alternative. I mean, really, being around books all day? Sublime.

However, leave it to school to completely and totally ruin my love. They took glorious sentences, and beautiful words like "wither" and "harmony" and "sun-catcher" and turned them into multiple choice questions. It was excruciating. Agonizing.

I couldn't just read the text? I had to think about it? I couldn't just bask in the glorious images and feelings the author created?

Huh. Well, I wasn't gonna do it. Nope. Not me.

I pretended to work. I pretended to read the questions and circle my answers. And when I was done, I promptly followed directions and brought my paper to my teacher while she sat at her desk so she could grade it. Right then.

Luckily, as I patiently waited my turn, I discovered where her answer key was. A little slip of paper sat on her desk in front of her with the answers written on it. So I returned to my seat, fixed what was wrong, and took my work back to her. She never guessed I'd figured it out.

Do I feel bad about cheating? Um...yes. But I'm not completely sorry and for this reason:

I found it odd that I had to interpret what I read the same way everyone else did. What good does that do anyone if we're all thinking the same way?

Third Grade -- Let The Mind Numbing Pain Begin

First day of third grade. It's here.

While I have the story of my sister saving me from a nail I never felt enter my foot, I am not in the bragging mood because....

My third grade teacher was also my first grade teacher. The excruciating agony. The torturous memories. I have to go through it all over again.

And, not only that, "the bully" is in my class.

I see him. He sees me.

His eyes narrow.

I narrow mine right back.

This year is gonna be historic.

Red Light, Green Light

A great game. Loved it to the extreme.

And when we played it at dusk, Maria would actually participate as well. And one summer evening I was pretty lucky she decided to grace me with her involvement.

I sprinted whenever "green light" was hollered. While my sights were glued on the prize, my legs churned ninety to nothin'. Halfway there, I tripped. As I landed on my stomach in the grass, I felt like something was attached to me. I looked over my shoulder, and there was a piece of wood stuck to me somehow.

The sight frightened me, and I cried out.

Maria -- the sister who feared crowds, flying balls, and moths -- rushed to my side and pulled the object out of my foot without hesitation.

As I stared at her, amazed at what she had just done, my father scooped me up and carried me into the house.

Blood is dripping from my foot. Mother is running to save her carpet with a mound of paper towels. I am crying, still trying to figure out what happened. My foot is throbbing with pain.

Eventually I learn I stepped on a nail sticking out of a piece of wood in our neighbor's yard.

After this incident, I decide I must be pretty tough. (Before, I was just tough.) I never even felt the nail enter my foot.

However, that's not the reason for the telling of this story.

This is the moment when Maria became my hero. This is the moment when I knew, to the depths of my being, she would always be there. This is the moment when I learned to never believe a person is always as he or she seems. We all have moments of courage and fear, shyness and confidence. We are never as our first, second, or third impressions portray us.

And thank goodness for that. Because third grade loomed. And with it came people who knew me well. Or thought they did.

Big Idea #7

"Dear God, please stop my mother. She is now making me perform in a recital while wearing a dress. A pink dress, Lord. Can you see how devastating this is? I shall surely perish, and it won't even be a romantic or dramatic death. The piano will swallow me, Lord. Right when I'm on stage. So, please, please, please stop my mother."

After this prayer was when I realized that sometimes God answers with the word, "No."

I ended up learning a song. I can't remember what it was called. Who would? It sure wasn't Lookin' For Love or the theme song from The Dukes of Hazzard.

I played well. No problems. And I managed to live through the embarrassment of being a redhead wearing pink. However, this torture was another strike against learning how to play. When would I ever need to know how? Never.

However, little did I know, it was the first time I would ever be on stage with a certain someone. I didn't know we'd been in the same recital until I was a senior in high school and starting to scrapbook. I came across a picture and was astounded when I saw this person standing next to me.

This person was very special to me when I was older. And my mom managed to get me close to him or her. How'd she know?

Of course.....this is Big Idea #7. So....I'm not surprised it would end up being important.

Now, if you can guess who this special person was, comment below, and I'll send you something in the mail. Happy thinking!

Piano Recital

I am still taking piano.

Hopefully, you are surprised. Hopefully, you are wondering why in the world I haven't been able to worm my way out of it. Hopefully, you are NOT assuming that I somehow managed to start liking it.

Well, there are more ways than one to skin that sucker. And, what I figured out was I could fake practicing. Yeah, that's what I did. I could play a bunch of chords, and my mom would come in and tell me how great I was doing.

I had discovered a new talent. And I embraced it like an Aggie embraces the word "Howdy" into their vocabulary.

This lovely solution cut my practice time to 15 minutes! Was I smart or what? YEEHAW!

It was all going so well. Until......

"Kara, we're putting a piano recital together. You're going to play in front of a bunch of people! On stage!"

I look at her excited face and think, "Oh, #@!?"