Porch Pick Up Freebies

I joined my local Buy Nothing group several years ago. The official group changed some, so now it’s my community gifting group. The idea is the same. When posting a gift, it’s best to explain why you need it or how you plan to use it. People get creative on selecting a recipient. Some people use number generators, name generators, tell a story regarding the item up for grabs and someone in the family chooses, the possibilities are endless.

Over the years, I have received the following:

Press on nails for my teen with a Mary Kay lotion thrown in because the other person never picked it up
A new roll of upholstery fabric, beige with green flowers, for our kitchen chairs
Wandering jew clippings that looked like they wouldn’t make it, but are doing well
An original painting by a non-famous artist that teen daughter snatched from me for her her bedroom but was supposed to go in my craft room
A Frida Kahlo print–the one one with monkeys–for the same craft room because she’s my spirit artist
Eight pound dumbbells because five pounders aren’t heavy enough
Fresh thyme to make thyme-infused simple syrup for my Thanksgiving cocktail
Fredrik Backman’s A Man Called Ove, because this was a rare for me case of having watched both movies before reading the book and that’s one I haven’t read yet
Two new chew toys because the puppy didn’t have any and we just got into town from picking him up
Calligraphy set consisting of a quill with a jar of ink because not only am I a Potter Head, but I’m also a librarian and enjoy writing
A WORKING PORTABLE VINTAGE TYPEWRITER because I’m a writer, learned to type on a typewriter, I need it in my life, and I can also use it to teach lessons at my school library

I like to think my writing skills have helped me receive these items. I have actually used each gift and appreciate them. The book is on my TBR pile, but you know, TBRs are works in progress.

I have also gifted items: a shadow box style end table for a baby’s room, girl’s rain boots with white daisies, Spider-Man sleeping bag, cardboard egg cartons fresh from the recycling bin, a tie-dyed backpack, Easy Bake Oven-only used twice, new black steel-toed work shoes, bag of women’s clothes, bags of kids’ clothes, bedding, fluorescent light bulbs, a sparkly mermaid fish tail blanket, other items I can’t remember.

They say it’s better to give than to receive, but in this case, I think it’s both.

Where I Hid My Writing

There was a hole in the boxspring under my twin-sized mattress.

A king-sized bed sat across from mine, resting against the wall. When will this house be finished so I can have my own room? No privacy whatsoever. My younger sisters shared the larger bed. I was lucky to have my own, the perks of being a first-born.

I picked at the hole a little every night. I don’t know why. If Mom were to see it, I’d probably get in trouble. She wouldn’t know because as long as I kept my bed made, changing my sheets every Saturday morning, she’d never see it. No one but me knew it was there. A little private secret kept to myself.

Eventually, the hole became large enough, but not too large, for me to drop small things into it. But could I take them out? I’d have to place them carefully. Deciding not try my jewelry, I chose something useless. A pencil.

I left a pencil near my bed one night to test out the treasure chest of sorts. This is nothing like the movies. Why can’t I have a normal house with my own room and a loose floorboard where I can hide things? (I watched too many movies, read too many books.). Lights out, I waited until I knew the other two were asleep. They conked out right away. Sleep has always eluded me.

I pat around for the pencil. Finding the hole, I slip it in, holding it between my thumb and forefinger. I tap it up and down. Move it side to side.

Flip.

I lost my grip.

Gasp!

It’s just a pencil. I’m relieved it wasn’t my good pen. How do I take it out though? Feeling for the hole, which was smaller than my hand, I popped in my forefinger. Even though the middle finger is longer, I may be able to grip it somehow. Sure enough, it dropped straight down to the boxspring lining. Dragging it toward the side rail, I carefully pulled it up and my thumb soon entered the rescue mission. Grasping the pencil, I pulled it straight out. A buzz-less game of Operation–I was good at that game.

Success!

I hid a pencil for a few minutes, until I almost panicked about losing it. You don’t even like pencils!

My mind got busy dreaming up what I’d hide there: my favorite Teen Beat posters, so my sisters wouldn’t claim them and put them up on their side of the room. Piles of 80s style folded notes (is there even a name for those? Umm, yeah, folded notes, IYKYK). Neon colored jelly bracelets I hated sharing. The possibilities were endless…

Yeah, until there’s too much in there that you can’t take any of it out. Then the liner starts sagging and tears, dumping everything under the bed. That’s the first place they look for stuff.

Eventually, the hole grew enough form me to slip in various items without much effort.

And then there was my black spiral. It lived under piles of other school spirals and books and gossip-less folded notes, Seventeen and YM magazines, graded papers. I hid it well. That’s where my secrets lived. In that spiral, I wrote thoughts I dared not to share.

I tried those little diaries with locks and tiny keys that always got lost only to find out you can poke anything into the dumb little lock to open it. And there was a teensy amount of space for each day. Even my boring life needed more than five little lines. Those teen crushes were real, more than five lines real.

After some writing, I placed my spiral near the top of my stack. At night, I’d maneuver the relocation. Lights out. Wait. Slumber in the king sized bed. I rolled up my spiral into a tube and slipped it in.

Gasp!

It slipped in, but how do I take it back out? Surely, it’s flattened back out.

It’s okay. I took out the pencil, I can take this out too. In went my hand. Managing to roll it up, I pulled it out.

Success!

I tried it a few more times and left it there. To keep it safe, it wouldn’t have companions. Grinning to myself and knowing my thoughts were safe, I closed my eyes and sleep found me.

Seven Things People Don’t Understand

Inspired by today’s WordPress prompt: What is something people don’t understand?

How to fold a fitted sheet. My mom taught me. Martha Stewart would be proud.

Just because you’re a native Texan doesn’t mean you ride horses or own western boots, and most definitely not both at the same time.

How long it takes to process a library book.

You can judge the quality of a Tex-Mex restaurant by its salsa, rice, or margaritas.

Air pods are the worst type of earbuds because they’re designed to fall out and get lost.

Teaching.

How to properly use signal lights. And stop signs.

Alice and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

I woke up this morning, with a pep in my step. My favorite dress was clean, the one I like to wear with my short brown boots and jean jacket. I added a sparkly strand of beads. I couldn’t tell it was going to be a terrible, no good, very bad day.

It started well. Observation scheduled for noon. Three classes before that, I got to work out the kinks. It went well. Students understood tasks and it was time for lunch. Except it wasn’t.

A student came in, one of my favorites. Lunch had to wait. Can’t leave a student unsupervised. I took a break to check emails and I got a message. Then a phone call. I could tell where it was going from here. It felt like it would become a terrible, no good, very bad day.

A phone call followed. I made arrangements for my last class of the day. Signed out. Drove to the school for an early pick up. Things will get better when we get home. Except they didn’t.

I called to make an appointment. “We take walk-ins, if you leave now we can see you right away.” There’s a plus. We go straight there. Traffic is starting to get heavy, but we’re just ahead of it. Barely.

We arrived and I completed forms. Wait a few minutes until it’s our turn. Get to the room, except something is missing. I call home, there’s something I need. No answer.

Text message.

Call.

Text message.

Call.

“How far do you live from here?”

“About fifteen minutes, but traffic.”

I could tell she’d say no. “Go get it and let them know when you come back, I’ll see you as soon as you return.” It has become a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Back in the car. Traffic is thick. Thirty minutes later, I get what we need and go back to the car. Drive back, trying to stay calm. When will this be over?

We check in again. Call us back. Everything is fine.

Back to the car. Back home. On the way, I get a call, “What do you want for dinner?”

It wasn’t planned to get take-out, but today I’m making an exception. It was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I sure would like a trip to Australia.

Prom Season

Prom season is my favorite. Not my favorite as a high schooler, but it’s my favorite now. When people I know post pictures of their kids in their prom dresses or tuxedos, I imagine I’m a Hollywood entertainment personality commenting (silently) on each outfit.

I even give imaginary awards. Best Overall. Classiest. Best Two-Piece. Best Tux. Most Unique. Favorite Dress/Tux Combo. Best Friend Group. Best Formal/Chuck Taylors combo. Dumb little awards I make up, but have such fun deciding on awards.

My niece, a high school senior, went prom dress shopping. Of her four choices, she chose one of my two favorites. One, a white form fitting, low-backed floor length dress with a sequined overlay was on of the lucky dresses chosen for the occasion. It’s gorgeous on her. The second was a royal blue floor length dress with criss-crossing back straps and glittery overlay. I’m partial to sparkles. Lucky kid, she gets to attend two proms this year. I’m sure she’ll have the time of her life.

I wonder if S. will go to prom? Will she want to attend? Will she go to one of those popular un-proms? What color dress will she choose? Will she go with a friend group or solo? Will she decide to go with her bff from kindergarten, who is like a brother, but better because they aren’t really siblings so it doesn’t count?

It’s coming too soon. A memory from Facebook popped up last week. She must have been in second or third grade, but there she was, pictured next to one of her favorite dresses in a department store. The same one where my niece found her dresses. That’s when she liked all things fluffy, princess-y, and of course, sparkly.

I’ll gladly wait for prom dress shopping day. Unless she dumps me like she did for homecoming dress shopping. I didn’t even get to take her shoe shopping for that either. I’ll lower my expectations and hopefully be pleasantly surprised. It sure would be fun going prom dress shopping again.

Until then, I’ll pour myself a bottle of bubbly rosé, kick back, and re-watch my favorite John Hughes film in honor of prom seasons past and present, Pretty in Pink.

My 4th Unbirthday

I spent a lot of time with my grandparents when I was young. One year, a couple of months after my fourth birthday, they went to a church conference in Kansas. My parents allowed me to tag along. Two of my uncles, the ones who doted on me most, assured my parents I was in good hands.

We arrived and I don’t remember much about events other than attending church services and eating meals with people in attendance.

One day, we stopped at a grocery store to pick up a loaf of bread and cold cuts for sandwiches in the motel room. We passed a bakery case full of birthday cakes. Growing up in a small town, our grocery store didn’t have a bakery. I stopped in front of the case and wistfully looked at birthday cakes displayed for other people’s happiness.

I noticed a chocolate cake. Double layers, decorated with a bear riding a unicycle while juggling red, blue and yellow balls. “Happy Birthday!” declared the talented circus bear. My mind created a birthday party with all my friends singing the birthday song. Candles lit on a cake presented to me, the birthday girl. Gifts wrapped full of surprises surrounding me.

Uncle Oscar stood nearby, and I pulled away from the case, getting ready to leave. He began speaking with the baker. He asked me which one I liked. I wasn’t sure why he asked, but I pointed to the chocolate unicycle riding bear cake.

“It’s her birthday, and that’s the one she wants…”

It’s not my birthday, it already passed… I tried to explain. How could he not remember?

“It’s her birthday,” he insisted, “we’ll take the chocolate cake.”

The baker boxed it up, my uncle paid, and we left the grocery store.

At the motel, after a lunch of sandwiches, Uncle Oscar unboxed the cake. My grandparents, Uncle Oscar and Uncle Danny sang me the birthday song, Nana and Papá belting out “Happy birthday to ju…” I blew out candles and we sliced into the cake.

It was my first bakery cake, chocolatey and delicious. I did have a birthday, but it was in July.

Two Gifts for My Teacher

I can’t remember the occasion. Were we nearing winter break? Or did I merely want to show her my appreciation? This was before teacher appreciation day became the norm, at least at my school. However, I desperately wanted to give Mrs. Nafzger a gift.

Shopping around the house, I found a cheap gold velvet ring box and a hefty service station pen my dad brought home. I loved that pen and it was the fanciest complimentary pen I ever saw. It was burgundy with a gold pocket clip, the brand lettered in calligraphy. It read Alexander with a large square-trimmed letter A at the bottom of the clip. Blue ink. Smooth.

Learning cursive, I practiced at home, feeling special. By the end of the year, we’d all reach a milestone: cursive handwriting, one of my favorite subjects. She had to have this pen. I imagined how she’d use it to write her perfectly looped and connected letters to write Nice Work! atop one of my spelling papers.

I had a pack of orange flavored Hubba-Bubba bubblegum, (when you blew bubbles with that gum, it didn’t stick to your face) and I stuffed two pieces into the box. Not a ring, but presentation is important.

I wrote her a note in my best cursive handwriting. The pen was Scotch-taped to the box. It didn’t stick well to the velvet box. She accepted it with a smile. Later, I felt embarrassed because it was a stupid gift. Who gives someone two pieces of bubble gum and a free pen from a gas station?

The next day, stopped at my desk and placed an envelope in front of me, my name was written in cursive on the front. I flipped it over and carefully tugged it open. On real stationery, I read a heartfelt handwritten note thanking me for the gift, telling me how orange was her favorite flavor and how she enjoyed using the pen. It was the first thank you note I ever received, penned in her own beautiful cursive handwriting. I kept that note and read it often.

Thank you, Mrs. Nafzger!

Glad It’s Over

Sometimes I do things I regret doing while in the moment. When it’s over, I decide it wasn’t so bad after all.

Here are a few:

Potty training-a child or a puppy
Organizing/hosting a large event or party
Cooking or baking
A hard workout
Training for a half marathon
Running a half marathon
Decluttering a closet, garage, anything
Road trips
Riding a roller coaster
Performing in front of an audience
Painting the front door turquoise blue
1,000 piece (or larger) puzzles
Taking the next step
Saying yes (or no)
Letting go

Milk Carton Gardening

Spring brings opportunities for growth and metaphorical lessons blossom this time of the year. As a kid, we drank down milk (chocolate for me) that accompanied our lunches and teachers reminded us to save our empty cartons. We must have forgotten frequently or the teacher stashed away said cartons, but the dreaded day came when it was time for sowing seeds.

I don’t remember much about the lessons, but I remember washing out and drying the cartons, opening the opposite end of the drinking side, and adding soil. Next came the seeds and a sprinkling of water. Lopsided red and white milk cartons lined classroom window sills with the occasional brown and white ones. A few of us didn’t like regular milk.

Sure enough, within days, someone announces the first sprout emerging from the carton-pot. We all gathered around, taking a look at the tiny green specimen boldly pushing its boundaries wondering whose would be next. Sprout they did. First one, and it seemed within minutes, another, another, and another. The race was on with observing leaves and measuring height. The first one to sprout raced to the top, leading the class in all of its spring time glory, a mini-beanstalk, not nearly as big as Jack’s. Would there be a mini-giant running after him?

I read too many books of imaginary little people and giants and magic beans.

Looking in my milk carton, the same soil sat there. Day after day, I willed something to grow. I followed the directions. I added the soil and pushed down the seeds, lightly topping them off with soil. I watered it like we were instructed. I placed it on the window sill with the others. Excited with all of the new shoots, classmates hurriedly crowded around the window sill to see whose plant led the class in height, or number of leaves, or even a second shoot.

Lucky.

There mine sat, a little carton of soil with nothing growing. I don’t remember any teacher giving me advice, allowing me to plant another seed, or encouraging me to pair up with someone else. No lessons on why some seeds germinate and others don’t. I quickly observed my dirt, went back to my seat and drew a little box, covered with brown crayon. My green crayon was much taller, the brown one getting worn down each day. Why couldn’t I use both like everyone else?

The special day arrived when we took them home as gifts. Mother’s Day gifts. This is for my mother? A lopsided repurposed chocolate milk carton full of barren dirt? My mother deserves so much more. Kids proudly walked out of school lugging book bags and lunch boxes, their plants proudly waving goodby to the rest of us as they were escorted home.

We did this for a few years. Each year, whatever I planted either barely sprouted or didn’t bother to grow. Later, I learned to stop at the trash can, making my annual deposit and walking home empty handed while everyone else took plants home. Did they re-pot them when they arrived? How long did they last?

I never knew and I never asked, but I did try my best.

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Teacher me would have started the container gardening lesson with The Empty Pot, by Demi. Of course, I’m older than the book, but no matter. I used it with a class today and reminded everyone that sometimes, not all seeds will sprout. If that’s the case, they can try again. I just want them to do their best.

Thought Bubbles

A few years ago, we watched a video during a staff development meeting. It was about not knowing what people are thinking and making assumptions about why they respond or behave in a certain way. What would pop over people’s heads if we could see their thoughts?

These are some of today’s bubbles hovering over my head.

	vivian chen on The Last First: Flat Spid…
	Amy Crehore on The Last First: Flat Spid…
	Alice Tabor-Nine on The Last First: Flat Spid…
	Alice on The Last First: New York Publi…
	Alice on The Last First: New York Publi…