Leaving My Lights On

Robert Fulghum wrote a book All I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.  Actually, that was not true for me.  

In 1974, when I would have been in kindergarten, Nixon enacted “Drive 55, Stay Alive.”  Around that same time, many of the light switches were covered with stickers that reminded me to turn off the lights when I was no longer in the room to conserve energy.

I have not driven 55 on the interstate by choice most of my life, and in Texas, driving 55 on I-35 would lead to a quick death.  Likewise, in my 40s and 50s, even though I still literally turn off the lights when I am not in a room, I have figuratively decided to break that rule as well.

Halloween night has reminded me of the importance of turning on my lights.  Exterior lights let kids know that you are open to providing treats, that your home is welcome to visitors, that you are welcoming and open to others.  

As a lover of metaphors, tonight is a time to remind me how important it is to leave my lights on all year long.   

Life is scary and dark for all of us, and it is so easy at times to lose the way. When you don’t know what might be in your path, it is hard to keep moving forward.  Hidden obstacles await.  Shuffling slowly forward is the only option when the flashlight batteries have gone out, and when life is confusing.

When my marriage ended in divorce, I knew no one who I could ask for advice, no one who could guide my steps.  Thankfully, my psychologist helped me traverse one of the scariest times of my life.  She predicted what might happen, and she helped me see through the fog of manipulation.  When I tripped and fell over, she was there to help me recover myself and rediscover who I was.  Although at the time I was miserable, I now am thankful that I had that experience because I have been able to be there  for others walking through similar un-anticipated moments.

I like to think that once you become broken, and perhaps re-broken, and re-broken, it allows you to throw away the scales of judgment and instead just lift a lamp.  Perhaps, brokenness keeps the spotlight on the trail rather than on the person’s face, highlighting the challenges ahead rather than the supposed failures of the person.

Perhaps, brokenness flips the exterior lights on, refusing to pick and choose who is worthy of receiving the treats.  Teenagers?  Sure.  Scary costumes?  Yes.  Those who look and act and believe differently than I?  Yes.  

When the light is on at my house, there are no worries about what visitors do with the treats.  I have no signs out like a nearby church that promises “You Belong Here,” but then voted that some belong and perhaps some don’t.  When the light is on at my house, it really means that there are no worries about anyone’s political party, sexuality, gender identity, education, mistakes, or failures, or weaknesses.  

 All I worry about is that you can see the path in front of your feet.   All I worry about is making sure I help you avoid tripping or falling.  I’ll even walk near you with my flashlight so you can see one more step ahead.   Sitting in total darkness is only better when someone is beside you holding your hand.  Perhaps I won’t be able to walk that same path, but I can at least share my flashlight and cheer you on.

So, sorry to my kindergarten self.  I have learned that I don’t have to follow all those rules I learned in 1974.  I can leave the lights on.  I can let others know that my house is open to all.  

Come rest.  I have a soft seat on my porch and a cuddly dog to pet.  

The lights are on.

 

When the Plot Explodes: Nancy and I Take A Ride in the Mystery Machine 2.0

Growing up, Nancy Drew and the gang in the Mystery Machine taught me all I needed to know about plot lines.  Their stories helped me understand the concepts of an exposition, rising action, and climax, and the resolution always brought about a great sense of satisfaction.  After all, the bad guys were always caught, justice was always achieved, and “the meddling kids” were overjoyed at their victory.

Although I was never the type to peek at the last few pages of a book, predictability taught me what to expect, and I felt like Velma when I suspected the outcome.   The plot made sense.  The first half of the story led to the second half in logical sequence, even if the endings sometimes surprised me.  

However, what I was not ready for was real life.  I’m still not.

* * * * * * * *

I am still stumped and frustrated when the storyline of my life does not make sense.   It often feels as if the second half of the book has been torn away—-and another author took over and rewrote the ending that SHOULD have been there.   It seems as if pages that don't belong have been inserted in the wrong place.

Sometimes it also feels as if the book ends abruptly with no denouement, and with no explanation for why or how.   The first half of the book is loosely taped together with the ending of another book, with no explanation of how one led to the other.

Imagine the horror of Nancy not solving the mystery or of the Scooby Doo gang being falsely accused of the crime.   Perhaps even Velma or Daphne are killed by Cyrus Wheedly or Mr. Crink, two of the villains in Scooby Doo.

Yet, life often has this sort of ending.  I was fortunate perhaps to have lived many years before the second half of my book got torn away.  Perhaps the first unexpected narrative shift was in 1993 when my 52-year-old dad died suddenly of a massive heart attack.  All the plot details of his retirement, of time with his grandchildren, of my time becoming an adult and knowing my father as an adult were ripped away and destroyed.  He would never play peek-a-boo with my sons, or cheer at the state tennis tournament, or laugh with me at Chevy Chase’s antics in Christmas Vacation again.  

I was faced with two questions:  “How do you move forward when the narrative of someone so important to me ends without warning, when all his energy and drive ends up in a flatline?   What happens next?"   None of this made sense.

 As an English teacher—or as a human—I had to consider how this might work.  Is this a Part 2?  A different volume?  A rewrite of the original plot line?  A before-and-after plot?  Or was this the actual plot line all along?

It didn’t follow the English teacher plot diagram, so what did this mean for me as an English teacher who regularly teaches Freytag’s plot pyramid?

* * * * * * * * * * *

Obviously, my “happily ever after” ending has been rewritten and rewritten so many times since 1993  that I have no idea what my true ending will be.   At this point, I have gone through two marriages that ended violently and suddenly, with me shocked at the resolution.  My boys have distanced themselves.  My mother died early, without much warning, and my list of supporting characters has emptied again and again.

Real life destroys typical plot narrative.  There are often few smooth transitions.   One event can completely destroy all the characters in the plot, and the protagonist is off on her own to restart a different story.  

The person I imagined myself to be at this stage of life does not at all resemble the one who actually exists.  My life circumstances at age 57 are  also not what I imagined.    There was no possible way to predict this storyline.

* * * * * * * * * * * 

When the plotline suddenly explodes or implodes,  
when everything you knew about life is suddenly proven wrong, 
when reality buckles your legs and forces you to the floor, 
how do you keep on moving forward in the plot?   

When the clues have evaporated, and the supporting cast has disappeared,  and you are there suddenly not recognizing the setting or your motivation for being there, what comes next?

I don’t know.  
I don’t know how you move forward in the plot. 
 I don’t know how you begin Part 2 or the second half.

Many who know my story don’t understand how I kept going.  

Many ask me how I survived. 
I don’t know.

I just know that I kept putting one foot in front of the other. 

One second became two seconds became three.
One task became two tasks.
One decision became two, became three.

It doesn’t seem like strength when there are no other choices.  

It seems like the next step.

The hard part is not breathing the next breath because it will come whether you want it to or not.

The hard part is accepting the second half of the story that has suddenly been thrust upon you.
The hard part is learning to love the new character that was forced into that second half.
The hard part is forgiving the old character who thought you had it figured out and didn’t predict the huge explosion of the narrative.
The hard part is honoring all the parts of you from the first half you loved and then deciding what new parts need to be added.

Then, the next step is to gather the existing characters, whether it is just Bess and Ned, or maybe just Daphne and Scooby, and choose to keep on doing what you know to do next.  It won't be the same without the other characters, but you will keep breathing and moving and living, as much as you might wish otherwise.

The plot line will never look like what Freytag illustrated, or what I see in every Nancy Drew book or Scooby Doo episode.

However, there are still adventures to be had, bad guys to be discovered, and friendships to be made.  I have given up even trying to predict anything about the rest of my plotline.  There are just too many variables.  

* * * * * * * * *

What I have promised myself is to love myself in all the pages of the book, to treasure the moments that sparkle, and to be who I was meant to be all the way along, whether this book from here on out is more of a traditional plot line or resembles 5 parts all glued together.  

For a girl who fell in love with storylines early in life, I am trying to love my current setting and accept the rising action and the falling action as it comes.  Even this newest part of my story can be mine.  

I am climbing in the Mystery Machine 2.0 with anyone who wants to join and see what new mysteries await.  They may not all be fun or joyous, but I am in it until the end.   

I always did enjoy an interesting story.

The Cask of Amontillado Revisited (or The Tale of an Abusive Relationship)

 

His eyes called me to him—

And his smile—

And, of course, his comforting presence and sweet words.

My friend, the one who knows me and wants only the best for me.

My friend offered me the sweetness of life 

if only I would love him and follow him to the secret places of his heart—

Secret places saved only for me.

The Amontillado—a precious, rare treasure saved only for the most special—

The most Fortunate. 

Me.

He told me I was lucky to have him and to share in what he called “My Treasure.”

I left others behind, my friends and family, to join him, to follow him step by step.

That one decision led to many others,

Winding,

Confusing,

Desolate.

I lost my way . . .

My sense of direction gone, the light dim,

All I knew to do was to follow him—

he who was confident, reassuring, and promising.

I followed the light and hope of his words . . . 

Even as a small part of me longed to go back,

To find my own way, to trust my own sense of direction.

His sweet words “love-bombed” me, exploding my fears and worries.

He spoke of his concern for my well-being, my health, my happiness.

Even as I felt something was wrong, 

I not only believed in him, but I believed him.  

His directions of up and down, right and left, right and wrong became mine as well 

as he guided me through the chaotic corridors.

He promised the treasure was just ahead . . . 

And I stepped hopefully, with purpose . . . 

Only to find a dead end.

It was too late.

Chains bound me in a special “cage” created just for me by him,

A Goldilocks-perfect trap created by one who knew me so well,

Who knew now how to weaken me,

To make me beg and plead,

To play with my insecurities,

To force me to cajole, make promises, accept unnecessary blame,

Become someone I barely recognized because I barely recognized him..

My pleas only led to gaslighting, to mimicking, to mocking jeers.

“I will destroy you,” he cackled, as my knees buckled beneath me.

“You changed.”

“You made a fool of me.”

“You made me do this.”

“I wouldn’t have done this if you hadn’t forced me to.”

“Nemo me impune lacessit.”

He played with my hopes,

As he bricked me in,

Block by block,

The outside world slowly dimming,

The refreshing, rejuvenating sustenance thinning,

To be replaced by his toxic cheer and lies.

He sat outside the wall of his making, enjoying my pain,

Content to go about his life, making up stories to others,

Altering reality.

As I struggled against the chains, I asked myself, 

“How could you have been so blind?”

I saw now the true irony.

He had said if I followed him I would find the treasure, and in an odd way, it's true.

Only now did I see, as I sit cramped in this tiny spot,

I did find the only real treasure --- ME.

There was no treasure he could offer me.

Instead, I had been the real treasure the whole time,

Valuable beyond measure,

And now he had ME, trapped for his pleasure.

Dumpster-Diving Granny (and some road pickles)

 

From the windows of my grandfather’s beautifully buffed behemoth of a car, a 1975 Lincoln Continental, my sister and I gradually sank lower and lower in our seats, hoping no one saw us—

Embarrassed,
Horrified,
Exasperated.

Just outside the windows we could see them—Mom, Dad, Grandma, and Grandpa—standing beside a dumpster at the Asheville Farmers’ Market.

We saw my mom helping to lift my 75-year-old grandmother to the upper edge of the dumpster, her butt in the air, hovering over the edge to grab left-behind cantaloupes, all perfectly ripe, the last of a farmer’s load to sell, abandoned at the end of a long selling day.

My grandmother, all 5’ 1” of her, and her daughter, my mother, raised to be just as determined, just as frugal, grabbed one and hoisted it to my grandpa who acted like this was an everyday occurrence.  Grabbing another and waving in the air, Grandma yelled to us and pointed, “Look, girls, they’re perfect.  We’re having cantaloupe tonight!”

Both Kelly and I sighed and knew that anyone driving by who noticed an old lady dumpster diving in her polyester culottes and shirt would find this a curious sight.

* * * * * * * * *  

Years later on Hwy. 37 in the boonies, halfway between Bradenton and Mulberry, Florida, not a car in sight, once again, Kelly and I sank in the back seat, watching Mom and Dad scurry across the two lanes of highway, picking up cucumbers that had fallen from a produce truck, packing them into the trunk of our VW Rabbit.  

“Waste not, want not” rang in our ears.  When Mom exclaimed, "Girls, they are the perfect size!" we instantly knew all evening plans, including the weekly watching of Heehaw and The Lawrence Welk Show,  would be sidetracked to sanitize Mason jars and can some pickles.

Like mother, like daughter.

* * * * * * * * * *

Grandma’s early adult years were spent in the Great Depression, so frugality was treasured, and became a commodity of its own.

50 years later, that commodity led to a dumpster diving granny and road pickles and a cabbage incident.  There I stood in a Florida Publix watching Grandma strip layers of cabbage leaves off the head before weighing it for the price, proclaiming to me as I hid my face behind my collar, “Why should I pay for the cabbage I won’t use?”


* * * * * * * * * * *

Only age provides clarity.  Imagine my wonderment as I now consider these two influential women.

Both were proud money-savers, 
garage sale junkies, 
discount rack-only customers.

Yet despite this frugality,  neither saved, 
scrimped, 
or hoarded their love, 
their time, 
or their praise.

The young, embarrassed sixth grader wouldn’t have recognized this irony,
Wouldn’t have appreciated the generosity,
But I do now.

Perhaps part of being a mom involves—
The pursuit of seeing the traits our kids devalue and toss aside,
The desire to uncover the hidden value,
The willingness to throw dignity aside and dive into the mess,
Come up to the surface,
And hold high,
Pointing and yelling at all who pass by, 
“Hey, look at what I found.”

Who Cares? A Wish for 2026

 

 

 The unbelievable surrounds us . . . . 
The intricate weaving of scraps to make a bird nest,
The maze of tunnels in an ant kingdom,
And the thrumming beat of the hummingbird wings as it drinks from an open flower.

But perhaps the most astounding, the most miraculous, is when a human decides to stop and
Notice the lives of others,
Listen to their stories,
Step into their shoes,
And imagine their hardships.

You know those who do this.  
They are the ones who are often criticized for their bleeding hearts.
The weight they carry for others is heavy.

Horton from Dr. Seuss’ Horton Hears a Who! knows all about this.  As large as this pachyderm is, he hears the tiny sound of a voice on a speck of dust, a voice no one else hears.  Despite the cackles of the sour kangaroo and her babe, and despite the resistance of the Wickersham Brothers and the black-bottomed bird, Vlad Vlad-i-koff, he cares for the speck of dust and the people of Whoville.

In case you didn’t know, Dr. Seuss’ early work contains many racist stereotypes and contributed to American mistrust of Japanese-Americans during World War II.  However, his character Horton reveals that he, too, stopped and listened.  He, too, underwent a change of heart.  He, too, developed a willingness to hear the voices of those in Japan, to deal with the criticism of others, and to care.

It takes integrity to refuse to use our power and position, our large Horton size, to assert our desires—-but instead, use our position to protect those who may not “measure up” in our eyes.  

It takes courage to protect the powerless, the poor, those who are different from us.

It takes grace and mercy to see the humanity of others whose views and lifestyles don’t match ours.

It takes intentionality to look for those others, those citizens of Whoville, who believe their voices don’t matter, and encourage and enable them to speak.

* * * * * * * * * *

In 2026, I am hoping for a miracle—
For supervisors and bosses to listen to employees and care about their experiences,
For those in power to care about those little “specks of dust” and the people who inhabit them,
For us to look for those who need to be seen,
For us to hand a loud megaphone to those who need some help to be heard,
And for the voices of all of us in our own little Whoville to make a loud “YOPP!” 

May we, like Dr. Seuss, the sour kangaroo and babe, and the Wickersham Brothers evolve and look for specks of dust and their inhabitants.   May we listen to their stories and their voices.

May we care for every Who . . . .

Choose Your Own Adventure---Robert Frost Style

 

Choose Your Own Adventure
Robert Frost Style

A different interpretation of "The Road Not Taken" 

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood . . ."

 

Adventure Choice 1:

I took the road more traveled.
While I wasn’t sure this was the right choice, 
the road was well-worn and familiar, 
As it was the path recommended to me by all I knew.

Each fork in the road was clearly marked,
And signs along the way let me know which way to go.
Smooth.
Rest stops and markers warned me how much longer the path would go.
Well paved.
Lights marking the way in the dark.
Companions along the way who appeared to care about my journey.

Yet, each step I took I felt less and less real
But instead, just marching in step with everyone else.
I was taking a path I knew would lead to a future clearly defined,
But I didn’t know if that was a future I wanted, 
But was it too late to turn back now?

Scared to undo all my walking, I regretfully moved forward with the crowd.  


Adventure Choice 2:

I took the road less traveled.
I wasn’t sure if this was the right choice,
And every indication proved I might be right.
Branches occasionally leaned into the walkway,
Forcing me into the loose pebbles along the way.
Potholes and tree roots populated the path.

The path seemed to dead end, and only with careful inspection,
To the right, I saw a small deer track,
Where these creatures had separated the grasses, matting their stalks into the mud.
I crouched and squat-walked under the tree limbs, uncertain the route.
Leaves stuck in my hair, and spider webs brushed my cheeks.

Darkness came, and only the moon highlighted the route, 
My companions the crickets and cicadas, coyote cries, and owl songs.
Alone, I wondered why I had taken this path.
Regret filled my heart.
I twisted my ankle on an unexpected rock.
Looking desperately around for a stick,
I hobbled forward, one painful step at a time.

It was true that on this path I was gloriously free to go my own way, 
that the lack of human companions allowed me to hear the wind dancing in the leaves,
but did I even know where the path was as it often was hidden?
Did I make the right choice?  It could make all the difference.



Adventure Choice 3:

I didn’t know which path to take.  
I sat with such indecision and fear that I would make the wrong choice
That, instead, I went back home and turned on Netflix.

Adventure Choice 4:

I didn’t know which path to take.
I was filled with indecision and fear.
I re-read Frost’s “The Road Not Taken.”  

I read the words in the last stanza:

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

I realized that no matter what road I took,
I might tell this with a sigh, with perhaps wonder about the other road.
Each choice may make all the difference—
Not because one was right and one was wrong, 
But because either path would make a difference in me,
Would alter who I was,
Would change the view of the world I had.

Regardless of the choice, I couldn’t see the future.
I couldn’t predict the difference it would make.
I could only do the best I could in this situation
And being confident in myself and my own ability to learn on any road,
I picked one—without guilt, fear, or concern that I was doing the wrong thing.
No regrets.  No second-guessing.
A decision to enjoy the present.

I skipped down the path, enjoying the yellow wood, 
Winding along,  
Following the moonbeams and stars when my path was unclear.

And that realization has made all the difference.

A Word Eater

Because I was taught to be a sweet little girl,
Obedient and loving, putting others first,
Because I was taught “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all” and the familiar rhyme “sugar and spice and everything nice,”

Because of that, I learned early on to eat my words.

My baby teeth were still in, and I was learning the skill so many little girls are taught—
I learned to eat my words one word at a time. 
Noisily crunching, snapping, and chomping.
I was advised to be polite and “never talk with your mouth full,” but even with my mouth closed, my chewing sounds were so loud others could hear my eating.

Over the years I learned to break the words of pain and disappointment and outrage more slowly,
More carefully, so few noticed.
I deliberately ground those words into tiny pieces easy to swallow and digest,
So slowly and deliberately I felt like I was opening a peppermint wrapper in a quiet church service.

Later, as my molars came in, and as my wisdom teeth started making their way to the surface,
I learned how to eat my words less noticeably, more noiselessly,
Scissoring, grinding, and using my tongue to loosen lost bits of hurt and anger from my molars.
Few knew I was chewing—

I was even capable of smiling while I felt the words present between my cheek and teeth, moved aside for future examination because the words were too much,
Like a too-big acorn pocketed away in a chipmunk’s cheek.

In addition, I learned that the most dangerous words, the most gristly of all, were words of anger.
Sweet girls didn’t voice these weapons.
These words were quickly swallowed,  despite my pediatrician’s advice to chew 30 times to aid in digestion.
These words could not be liquefied, they could not lose their texture and gristle.
These words of anger had to be swallowed whole, and I felt them slowly move down my throat, down my esophagus, and further inside.

No wonder women gain weight in middle age.
Too many words swallowed.
Too many words gnawed on, chewed on, swallowed.
Whole minutes and months and years, perhaps, spent gumming words into a shapeless, tasteless mass,
A smushed denial of existence.
Swallowed and sitting in the stomach, in the blood flowing through our veins, and in our very being.
Filling us up,
Undigested,
Weighing us down,
Gurgling and bubbling from below,
Breaking down and burning, acidic, erosive,
With a great desire to expel them all . . . 

But knowing all too well that no one (including myself) is prepared to see just how many words we have eaten.