Author: Alice

Cowboy Boots

Part II- The Right Boot

SOLSC Day 14

I followed Mom into the dim, musty store. The crammed racks bulged with pioneer costumes, so I thought. Tables full of merchandise didn’t catch my attention. Mom led me to the back of the store—it smelled like Goodwill. “Can I help you?” A woman with twitching cheeks and shaky hands that moved to the beat of her voice approached us.

“We’re looking for boots. Monday is Western Day and she needs a pair of boots,” Mom informed, looking down at me. I hoped not to find anything here, but pretended to study the goods and figure out what Mom was up to.

The lady brought a pair of black stitched boots with pointy tips. “These are boys’ boots, but they might fit. No one will know the difference,” she said holding them up, attempting to display them in such a way to make me forgive her for showing me something so ugly.

“Try them on,” Mom impatiently muttered.

I took off my old sneaker and tried to stuff my thick foot in the boot as I held on to a display table for balance. “They won’t go in.” Both embarrassed and relieved, I shook my foot out. The boots were huge and my feet still didn’t fit in them. Good. I didn’t like them anyway. A few had potential, but they were made for dainty feet, too small for me.

I acted disappointed, knowing we’d soon be at Carmen’s, the paradise of western attire. I visualized my boots: soft and smooth, smelling leathery sweet, no creases until I put them on and walked around in them. They’d illuminate my life until I scuffed them up enough to make them my own, but not so much to wear them out too quickly.

“I think we found some,” Mom interrupted, shaking me back to the darkness of reality. The rickety sales lady, our of breath, approached us. She looked flustered. She climbed a tall, creaky ladder to retrieve a dusty box. What’s inside? Ugly boots or dream boots?

Mom helped me open the box, as if I were a toddler that needed help opening a gift a parent was proud to present. No one tried these on judging from the smooth, unwrinkled tissue protecting the boots. Through the thick layer of tissue, I couldn’t make out the boots. My heart pounded harder as my hopes went up. This was the moment I’d been patient for. Finally, I’d look good on Western Day, not overly costumed like a rodeo clown, but dressed up enough to look western, like the other girls. No sneakers this year. All I wanted were dream boots. I looked up at Mom and smiled. “Open ’em up.”

Holding my breath, I carefully unfolded the tissue. First the top layer, then the next. There they were, all settled in their nest, my eyes probably the only eyes to gaze on them ever since they incubated on the top shelf of the cave-store. I looked at Mom, waiting for her reaction.

“They’re beautiful,” she beamed.

What? Mom must be insane. These are the ugliest things I’ve seen in my entire life, I silently screamed.

“Try them on,” she instructed, sounding less demanding than when she had me try on the boys’ boots. There was no way I was putting these things on. Two-toned beige and brown with frou-frou stitching ruined the boots. The stitching made them look like a quilt for feet. They weren’t smooth. Not leather. Too pointy. The real kicker? They stood on a three inch heel. Not my dream boots. I hated them. I’d be the center of attention, the rodeo clown.

“Try them on,” Mom reminded me.

“Oh, yeah, okay.”

Reluctantly, I eased my right foot into the boot, balancing myself against the table again. My toe touched the bottom of the boot and my foot slowly progressed. Please don’t fit, please don’t fit, please don’t fit. My foot popped right in. Too bad a prince wasn’t looking for his Cinderella. I shifted my weight onto the booted foot. My left foot dangled aimlessly without its partner.

I hope they’re too expensive. My stomach quivered at the thought of wearing these things. These were the kind of boots floozy women wore, the kind who had bleached-blond hair with dark roots, the kind of women who wore frosty blue eye shadow and streaks of fuchsia that blemished their cheeks while they held a cigarette between crookedly lined orangey-red lips. These boots were made for women who wore low-cut, skin tight shirts and designer jeans that might pop if they sat down too fast.

“You like them, right?” I didn’t want to disappoint her. I looked down at my foot again. “The boots, you like them, don’t you?”

Don’t. I don’t like them. I didn’t have the courage to say it out loud.

“They’re the right price and you will wear them if I buy them, right? Right?”

I nodded. “Oh…yeah…right.”

What? I couldn’t believe what came out of my mouth. Silent words of protest tried breaking free. Why did I say that? I lied. Mom, I lied. Can’t you hear me? I hate these boots! They have high heels. It’s like walking on stilts in a circus. I’ll fall flat on my face. People will laugh at me.

“We’ll take them.” Mom smiled at the twitching lady.

“Wonderful!” She took the box, relieved her trip up the ladder wasn’t wasted. While Mom paid, I wondered if she bought the boots because she thought they were beautiful or if she bought them so I’d stop bothering her. On our way out of J.C. Jones, Mom handed me my purchase. I glanced down the sidewalk knowing my dream boots lived at Carmen’s Western Wear but weren’t destined to come home with me.

Mom’s famous question broke the silence. “Are you satisfied?”

“Yes,” I lied.

The budget won—again.

Cowboy Boots

Part I, The Left Boot

SOLSC Day 13

The budget. That infamous budget forced Mom to buy me what I wanted, but didn’t want. If I needed a small bottle of glue for school, she bought the huge bottle to last the rest of the year. When I requested a cigar box to use for my school supplies, she bought a plastic one so it wouldn’t wear out. When I told her I needed a large green eraser, she bought one that was half pink for pencil erasures, and half gray for ink erasures. Who erases ink? I never used that eraser.

Sixth grade me in the pink western shirt with hot pink satin piping.

This time I was determined I wouldn’t let the budget get in my way. Western Day approached at school. It was the biggest day of the year, bigger than Halloween. Everyone participated in Western Day. I hated it because I only had last year’s pink western shirt with hot pink satin piping around the sleeves and collar. Mom had to hack a foot off the bottom of my jeans for them to fit.

I wanted to look like the other girls. Every year they wore their western hats and Wranglers, plaid western shirts pearl-buttoned up to the collar, and leather belts with their names stamped on them, complete with shiny heart shaped buckles that clasped in front. To complete their outfits, they wore boots. They got new boots every year. I had to settle for my sneakers.

I made up my mind. This year would be different. I owned a western shirt and jeans. I learned not ask about a hat. But boots, oh how I wanted a pair of boots. I imagined my boots, nice and smooth, black or brown—a nice neutral color, waiting for me on Western Day morning. I’d own the good kind, leather boots that creased around the widest part of my foot to fit, molding themselves to fit only me. They wouldn’t sound like high heels—those were too clickety—but commanding, a strong thud that let people know when I walked down the hall. Just the right sound, unlike how sneakers sounded when I stomped around in them or how they squeaked when I dragged my feet.

I needed con Mom into buying me these boots. “Just be patient,” she’d say. That meant no; it always meant no.

Determined to get my boots, I approached her cautiously like a cat approached a foreign object. I purred, “Western Day is coming up and I need a pair of boots. I can wear last year’s shirt, I have jeans, I don’t need a belt, but I need boots. Besides, the weather is getting colder and they’ll keep me warm when I walk to school in the mornings.” Whew! I let it out and she didn’t interrupt me. “I’ve been patient,” I added, letting her know I wasn’t taking no for an answer.

“I’ll think about it,” she replied.

It was better than ‘be patient.’ Progress in the making. It wasn’t a yes or a no, but a maybe. Maybes worked out to my advantage. I pestered her about the boots until she gave in. I felt like two-stepping her to the car, but I didn’t want to make my enthusiasm too obvious. She might change her mind.

We drove to Carmen’s Western Wear. We rarely bought anything here; it was too expensive. They had lots of nice things to look at and dream about. Usually full of customers, there were no parking spaces. Mom parked a little way off, in front of old and grungy J.C. Jones, which sat next to the drugstore. I asked if they were even still in business. I jumped out of the car and made my way to Carmen’s. Mom cut me off.

“No, we’re going this way.”

I looked around. What did she mean?

“The drugstore?” I gulped.

“No,” she replied, pushing the door into J.C. Jones, “they have boots here too.”

Well, I thought, maybe we’ll go to Carmen’s after we’re done here.

Writing on the Walls

SOLSC DAY 12

I used to write on walls. The first time I wrote on one was when I was in 3rd grade, or was it 5th? We were supposed to move to Corpus Christi, Tx. Then Uvalde. Then Hereford. There was one time when all things looked favorable and we would move once and for all. At least that’s what I gathered from all the eavesdropping on my parents’ conversations when it seemed I preferred to take an armload of Barbies from one room to another. I was the weird kid who wanted to experience being the new kid at a new school. To leave my mark on our house, I took a ballpoint pen and scrawled The Almaraz Family on the closet wall in my best, largest cursive handwriting. 

That was one of the worst things I did. I was the poster child for an obedient, responsible first-born. In college, I’d wake up in the middle of the night and scrawl snippets of inspiration, lines of poetry wanting to be born, titles for books that have yet to be written, little philosophical tidbits my brain processed from class discussions, quotes from English class readings. I taped sheets of notebook paper along the wall next to my desk so it was ready for me to fill throughout the semester. Writing on dorm walls? Not allowed. A journal and pen lived on the floor next to my bed, but I liked the idea of being a renegade and writing on walls.

When I moved into my own classroom, word walls were one of my favorite features. As I moved from one campus to another, I landed one that allowed painting walls, within reason. I cheered up my classroom and painted a quote here and there. I had plenty of decorative letters that spelled out DREAM, READ, BELIEVE, and READ EVERY DAY. Besides books, this is another way I’ve left my mark and wrapped myself in the comforting arms of words.

Spring Break Doldrums

SOLSC Day 11

Never did I imagine I’d be wary of spring break. I’ve been counting down the days, but it isn’t the same. I’m tired but not in the way I’m normally tired. It’s a stuck sort of tired. Tired of being stuck in the unknown, having to roll with whatever comes our way, like it or not. Weary and wary.

Sure, that’s how life usually happens, but there’s this heavy lull. I look on the bright side, at least I like to believe I try. I’m an apathetic teen who isn’t in the mood to do anything, but wants something to do. I’m looking forward to the break, but I’m not, because breaks have been anything but breaks. I want to go places, but I also want to sleep in.

I only have a week and I don’t know whether or not I want to look forward to it. I’m skeptical and working on optimism. One more day. I can make it one more day. Then I’ll wait to see what happens. Take one day at a time. An hour at a time. Still.

Takeout Mishaps

SOLSC Day 10

I’m nervous. We have one of those busy-ish evenings. Prescription glasses are ready to be picked up before the office closes for the day, but they need to be picked up today for tonight’s orchestra concert. The concert doesn’t begin until 8:00 tonight. Between the glasses, dinner, travel time, getting ready, and arriving on time, it’s takeout night.

Usually it’s a treat. Lately, it’s been a disaster. It happens when I’m hangry. There are days when I skip breakfast, pack a sad little lunch, stay late for a staff meeting, and I’m ravenous when I get home. Takeout sounds like a great idea. I place my order. Everyone else makes their requests and off they go to retrieve the goods. I’m guzzling water to fill me up because if I start snacking to hold me over, I’ll eat too much.

Staying home to get started on household duties that pile up during my day’s absence, my husband volunteers to pick up our order. One night, I order a fancy salad and add a chicken breast for a more filling, yet light dinner. We unpack our food. The chicken is missing. I check the receipt. Sure enough, not ordered. I calm myself down using the strategies we use with kindergartners because I’m about to flat out wail. I find a chunk of chicken in the fridge, add it to my fancy salad, and devour my meal.

On another occasion, I order a burger from one of our favorite burger joint. We have ingredients for burgers, but we have to thaw meat. We’re not feeling the cooking tonight. The restaurant is less than ten minutes from our home. Picky eaters beget odd orders, especially for burgers. I order mine with mustard, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, no onions, add cheese and go ahead and add fries. I’m splurging today. We order with time to get it home in less than half an hour. No need for extra water or snacks.

However, it’s already 6:30. We ordered at 6:00. We should be eating by now. 7:00. Nothing. Hmmm…I message my husband. No response. 7:30. No food, voicemail kicks on. I could’ve already defrosted the meat, made the patties, cooked them, peeled the potatoes and made home-fries. I start snacking, just a little. He’ll be here any minute. 8:00. Another call, still no answer. I’m getting a little worried. 8:20. The delivery arrives, finally. There was a wreck. Okay, I get it, but it was that bad? I didn’t even hear sirens.

We unpack our food. Order number one: burger, plain, with fries. Check. Order number two: chicken sandwich, no pickles, no mayo, fries on the side. Check. Order number three: burger, everything on it, add jalapeños and an order of chilli cheese fries. Check. I’m salivating by now. My stomach rumbles. I can eat through the wrappers. Order number four: burger, dry, lettuce. Fries are missing. That’s it. Forget calming strategies, I implode.

Here I am an adult mom modeling behavior about how to handle not getting her way. “You will go back and get the right order, I’m so tired of this!” I put the brakes on though. Positive energy in (inhale), negative energy out (exhale). Check the receipt. All of the orders were correct. Of course. I went to the fridge, retrieved a block of cheese, found the mustard, and reassembled my burger after I reheating it. My kids share their fries. Two fries from each of them. After I chomped down my dinner, I asked why it took so long.

The burgers were ordered at the location 30 miles away. The wreck was in that direction, nowhere close to where we live. During rush hour.

Let’s order a family pack of tacos and add on the flautas. It’s Chuy’s night this week. Last time we had plenty of food plus extra for decent leftovers. Six taco shells, meat, rice, beans, queso, chips, plenty of jalapeño ranch, salsa, a dozen flautas…I’ll make my own margaritas. This is a great deal and we don’t have to special order anything other than adding the flautas.

Once again, hangry. We order. We unpack our food. Five taco shells instead of six. No flautas. Check the receipt. It’s correct, but we didn’t get our flautas. My husband calls, sorts out the order and goes back for them. I’m on my second margarita. I start with the chips and jalapeño ranch. I stuff myself until the flautas arrive. We serve ourselves cold tacos and warm flautas.

It’s takeout tonight. Again. Check everything before you leave. Unpack all of the food in the car. Check the receipt.

I’m waiting. We had a staff meeting today. Two more hours until the concert starts. I had a sad little lunch. My stomach rumbles.

I’ll get some water.

‘Zineology and Snail Mail

SOLSC Day 9

Years ago I found a book (or maybe the book found me) called Whatcha Mean What’s a ‘Zine? I don’t remember where I found it, but it looked interesting so I bought it. Well, hello, this was the best purchase I had made to inspire kids to write in my classroom. I shared it with my teaching bestie and we came up with a plan. After we both read it and started using them in the classroom, we presented a professional development session for secondary teachers in our district. I was hooked and the kids loved them. This was back in the day when foldables were all the rage.

If you aren’t familiar with ‘zines, they are small, self-published mini-books, or tiny magazines, on any topic. They’ve been compared to flyers or pamphlets that were used way before printing and buying magazines was the norm. Think Ben Franklin’s pamphlets. We liked using these and the students responded well because they’re small and less intimidating than writing on full sized sheets of paper. We had students use them for note-taking, free writing, mini-graphic novels for those who wanted to give it a try, publishing their personal narratives, and even for a variety of responses to reading. In our PD session, our handouts were two separate ‘zines that participants folded with us. They were a hit.

As COVID made its entrance, I became restless. Connecting with my friends on social media was great, but I wanted something different. I wanted connection with snail mail. I posted an invitation for friends to DM their snail mail addresses so I could send them a little something. Unexpected snail mail from a real person is a treat, at least it is for me. Close friends and family whose addresses I already had were default recipients. However, I wanted to reach out to those farther out of my everyday circle: new colleagues, old high school friends, new friends.

I planned to mail a quick note to say hello and sticker bomb the outside of the envelopes because as a true child of the ’80s, I’m a sucker for fun stickers. Then I got an idea. I’d make a ‘zine. I knew everyone was going through tough times adjusting. I’m not a naturally optimistic person, so I decided to make a Little ‘Zine of Happiness and send some happy mail. I created my first (and so far, only) ‘zine that isn’t classroom related.

After I made the original ‘zine, I unfolded it, scanned it, and printed copies. Assembling them was therapeutic. I bought stationery, collected addresses and sent them out. I used all the Christmas stamps I had since I didn’t get around to sending cards, a delayed little gift. I didn’t send them all at once. I’d send out two or three, wait a few days and then send a few more. I made sure to tuck in the little ‘zine.

I received delightful messages from recipients, some of whom snail mailed me back. Many told me it arrived at the perfect time and put smiles on their faces. I left a blank on the cover for personalization. My ‘zinester teacher colleague, now an instructional coach, passed them out to her teachers earlier this year to lift their spirits. That was my intention, to spread joy during a tough time.

More topics roll around in my head for new ‘zines. I even created an Instagram account for people to share there, but it’s quiet right now. I plan to make more, but following through has waned. I’m sure inspiration will visit soon. Feel free to get your copy here and share some happiness.

*This is sometimes referred to as a “smoosh book” or an 8-page book. No fancy tools required. Not even scissors, unless you want a clean line. Video directions for folding are here.

Monday Meh

SOLSC Day 8

Oh, hi Monday. Again. It was the weekend. I should’ve been winding down Saturday evening, but from what? I read and wrote most of the day. I attempted to clean out the closet under the stairs. Emptied it out on this great quest for minimalism, but I’m not feeling the adventure. I want to crawl into my hobbit hole of stuff, keep it, and have second dinner. Or maybe it’s second and third clutter. Of books, notes, real snail mail addressed to me, little bits of golden word nuggets scrawled on bits of paper that don’t quite have a place to fit–yet. They’re looking for the piece that needs them: a story, a song, a bit of advice, a letter, maybe a list. I tossed a few things, but moved everything back in. I’ll save it for later, and wait for a wizard to show up.

Fortune Cookie

I did my best to walk with God.

He told me to just shut up and listen.

I have lots of questions and one of the questions was

“How do I know it’s really you, I mean really you and not my conscience talking?”

He told me to shut up and listen.

I didn’t shut up.

I asked, “It’s true that you’re really everywhere, huh?”

He said, “Yes, it’s true.”

“Even in an ordinary fortune cookie?”

I shut up and walked.

He walked with me.

Then he answered, “Even in an ordinary fortune cookie.”

Are You There Judy? It’s Me, Ally.

SOLSC Day 6

This is the cover of the copy I checked out to read as a sixth grader. The covers have been updated, but this is my favorite.

Are you there Judy? It’s me, Ally. And I read your popular book about the girl who talked to God. It helped me because my mom wasn’t the type who talked about what to expect in my changing body. Nana certainly didn’t help either. I got bad information from friends and embarrassing information from films at school. How I imagined a perfect puberty through your book didn’t quite happen the way you described. Hell, even Meggie from The Thorn Birds (Mom’s favorite mini-series) got advice from Father de Bricassart.

Me? Nothing. No one helped me. I had to figure stuff out on my own and this one, one of the most concrete and visible manifestations of puberty was all mine to figure out. As I muddled my way through, learning the ins and outs, I helped my two younger sisters. They didn’t read your book, but they had me to help as much as an older sister would help.

It hit again, on a much larger scale. This, with the advent of technology where information was at my fingertips, but way before the blogosphere was a thing, I became a mother. Round two, here we go again. There were books I didn’t have time to read, A Baby Story on TLC (or was it Discovery?) was the closest thing I had to pregnancy, childbirth, and the fourth trimester. My lamaze class helped a little, but it was NOTHING like going through it.

No one warned me my pre-pregnancy clothes would. Not. Fit. At. All. No one said I’d rip, or there would be stitches. Or adult diapers. No one mentioned having to take a squirt bottle full of warm water to every bathroom visit only to wish U.S. toilets were equipped with bidets. No one mentioned nursing was a whole new level of hell (shoutout to the mammas that make it work), how my body felt like mush, and how I felt that I floated outside of my body in a zombified daze for three weeks.

There were no mommy IRL Instagram accounts, no FB support groups, and my mom wasn’t up to speed on new child rearing trends like nursing in public, co-sleeping, and putting babies to sleep on their backs only because they can freakin’ die if they sleep on their stomachs. Which is exactly the only way my son would sleep. Period. Because he came out hollering at me and he rarely slept. When he did sleep, I panicked because I thought he was dead. “Sleep when the baby sleeps” was the stupidest first time mom advice I ever received.

After my daughter was born, it was a little easier because I knew what to expect and immediately decided nursing wasn’t a good fit for my personality. Dehydrated DH3 enriched powdered cow’s milk all the way, baby! This kid slept. On her stomach, because to hell with those motherhood trends. Do what works.

We parent our kids the best we can. There are milestones, family trips, and birthdays.

The birthday.

The 40th one.

Hey, Judy, I’m in ‘tweenhood again. How did Margaret handle puberty 2.0, the sequel, the second part? I know about menopause, but there’s this ‘tween stage to prep the body for it and it’s called perimenopause. God forbid women be strong enough to hit it head-on. Weight gain that does. Not. Come. Off. No matter how little you eat or how hard you exercise, it won’t budge. The kids sleep now, too much, but insomnia is the wicked little step-sibling that likes to wail at 3:00 a.m. Smothering it with a pillow doesn’t work. After those films in middle school, the teachers nonchalantly told us we’d outgrow the acne. They lied. Popping a puberty zit isn’t the same as trying to deal with that nasty hormonal stress acne that likes to hang out on my jawline.

Judy, you didn’t warn me about this one. Did Margaret stop talking to God?

Whew!

SOLSC Day 5

Yesterday was hard. Not the writing kind of hard, but the I can’t stop reading all of the good posts sort of hard. The I have to go to bed now because there’s work tomorrow morning sort of hard. People keep saying such inspiring words my brain is about to pop hard. I have to come up for air. So many ideas. So many resources. So many talented and hard working (because it isn’t only talent) writers out there. Whew! I’m up for physical challenges-within reason. I’ve done some. I’ve gone through momming while teaching and managing grad school kind of challenge. But this? What is this? This is challenging too, but I have no words to name it. I’ll just ride the wave. Dang!