Search results for: “My Hair Piece”

  • My Hair Piece

    My Hair Piece

    I got this silly idea a few months ago that every girl should grow her hair down to her butt at least once in her lifetime, and since I never had, it became a goal. I’ve tried this several times in past years, never with success. The longest my hair has ever been was during sophomore year at Smith College. I was really cool then. I wore my wavy locks in braids and sashayed around campus with my patchwork skirts and my art portfolio.

    "Senior dinner" at Smith College. French theme. Freshmen had to serve the dinner.
    “Senior dinner” at Smith College. French theme. Freshmen had to serve the dinner.

    I had lusted after Sheila’s hair in high school. A gymnast with thick red hair well past her butt, she represented everything I believed to be sexy. She was even smart and not too stuck up, so I had no reason to hate her. But I knew I’d never get the attention she got wherever she happened to be with her gorgeous locks swaying as she walked, lifting in a breeze, glowing in the sunshine. I also knew I was not built for backflips on a balance beam. For those petty pretty things, I envied her.

    School photos...my hair never got much longer than this.
    School photos…my hair never got much longer than this.

    The “pixie” cut was Mum’s choice for me throughout my childhood years, and although I can’t remember ever complaining about the choice, I also coveted my baby sister’s long, golden strands. For school picture day, the best I could do was try to keep a ribbon-clip in my hair. Girls with long hair could do ever so much more. Even as a youngster I sensed the glamor symbolized by long hair, so after growing my own to shoulder-length in high school, I determined never to cut it again in college.

    And then I joined the Army.

    Cadets at West Point in 1979 had no access to hair stylists or salons, and my first butchering by the high-and-tight-hungry barber in the basement of a cold, stone building left me horrified—and convinced I could do a far better job myself. Fortunately, aside from ensuring my shoes shined like mirrors and my shirts were tucked just right into my starched pants, I had little time to think about my appearance, and the uniform hat hid much of my face beneath it, and my hair.

    Me and my tent roomie Kelly.
    Me and my tent roomie Kelly. No time–at all–to worry about hair.

    I think I could probably take a few trips around the world with the money I’ve saved over the years by cutting and coloring my own hair and cutting my husband’s and sons’ hair. My horror at the cash register each of the few times I treated myself to a professional cut and color rivaled the horror I felt leaving that barber’s chair decades earlier. Two hundred dollars? Are you kidding me? And that’s without a tip? Do you have any idea how many bags of clothes I could fill at Goodwill with two hundred dollars?

    For a few years we lived in a place where $200 was pocket change and hair extensions were as commonplace as Tupperware, so I convinced myself I deserved the occasional splurge. But I always felt guilty after handing over the credit card and hopping into my car, and when I checked myself out in the rear view mirror, I never felt 200+ dollars prettier. For $8.95 and about one hour in the privacy of my bathroom I could emerge with a color and cut that was “me.”

    I laugh at myself now for my most recent attempt at long locks because this attempt marked the fourth time I’ve repeated this sequence:

    1. Decide to push past the awkward not-short-not-long phase.
    2. Camouflage the transition as best as I can.
    3. Start to feel good about my progress as my hair reaches my shoulders.
    4. Chastise myself for compulsive hair twirling.
    5. Enjoy the hair twirling because that means it’s growing longer.
    6. Buy all manner of hair adornments and accessories.
    7. Realize I’m spending lots of time keeping my hair out of my face.
    8. Wake up one morning with a mouthful of hair.
    9. Spit it out, walk to the bathroom, find the scissors, and cut it all off.
    10. Tell myself I’ll never grow my hair again.

    Last week’s hair-in-the-mouth will be my last. The liberation I felt from all things “hair” inspired me to lighten up in other areas, too, and I filled bags with clothes and shoes from my stuffed drawers and closet. How did I get so many pairs of socks?

    Waking with a mouthful of hair = time for a haircut!
    Waking with a mouthful of hair = time for a haircut!

    As I pondered the decision to embrace my inner pixie, the whole idea of hair consumed my thoughts for several days. I asked a long-haired friend why she would never cut her hair and she confessed to having an emotional attachment to it. She plays with it and it is a comfort to her, although she told me she woke up nearly strangled by it one morning. When she returned to her studies, I watched surreptitiously as she absentmindedly twirled and occasionally chewed on the ends of her lovely locks.

    Every time I see someone who’s lost their hair to cancer treatment, the foolishness of my own vanity becomes clearer. It is vanity, after all, and it affects some more than others. Hair is something we adorn, hide behind, deceive others with (“Only her hairdresser knows for sure”), perm, tease, spray, braid, extend (so much deception!), feather, spike, dreadlock (Eek!) . . . the hair care industry will never die.

    But I don’t want to be a slave to my hair anymore. I want to believe I’m at a stage in my life in which I’ll spend far more time on my inner development than my outer appearance. It’s not like I’m mature enough to shave it all off, though, and I’m still going to buy my $8.95 Clairol every six weeks, so I’m not walking away from all expressions of vanity.

    “I like it. It’s cute,” my husband told me when he returned from work.

    I’ll never be a Lady Godiva, and I’m finally okay with that.

    I’ll settle for cute.

    ~~~~~~~~

    A friend recently suggested I read this article about hair. The author’s research extends beyond her personal experience, and she too was a pixie at one point! Siri Hustvedt’s article in New Republic.

  • Alligator Preserves Podcast Episode 2: Hair

    Ever been in a hairy situation?

    In this episode of Alligator Preserves, host and author Laurel McHargue discusses her on-again-off-again love affair with hair and her failure to achieve a childhood goal.

    Alligator Preserves is hosted and produced by Laurel McHargue with technical support provided by her husband, Mike McHargue. Follow her on her website at leadvillelaurel.com where she writes about life, real and imagined, and on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter @LeadvilleLaurel. If you enjoyed this podcast, you might enjoy her books. Find her work on Amazon.

    ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

    Show Notes:

    • Storytelling and blog post entitled “My Hair Piece” with interjected narrative
    • Brainstorming about hair and mundane topics, finding the humor, and learning something about the human condition
    • Memories of hair and listener encouragement to explore their own
    • Writing tips and announcement of next topic: a young man’s eye-opening experience when he joins the Army in 1943

    Links:

    Laurel’s Amazon Author page

    Blog post entitled “My Hair Piece”

    Writing tips

    Laurel’s Facebook page

    Laurel’s Twitter

    Intro/outro voice by Nick McHargue
    Podcast music from Jamendo Royalty Free Music

     

     

  • Q Diaries 12 & 13

    (because March 26th was my man’s birthday)

    Mike’s train creation (pieces cut from wood and painted) and handmade frame
    In which I discuss Mike’s birthday, trespassing, transitions, and Mung Bean Noodles
    Mike’s pen and ink drawing of a village in Alaska (ignore the glare!)

    Show Notes with Links

    • My honey spent his 60th birthday yesterday coordinating COVID-19 efforts, as he’s done since this started. But I made him special meals with a little creativity, and cut his “Fabio” hair
    • I marveled at his artwork from his high school days.
    • Posted my Freida Rothman interview on my SM sites
    • Facetime visit with LV Ditchkus about her latest Sasquatch novel and recorded Chapters 13-14 of Waterwight on YouTube.
    • Slow morning today (March 27). Sent out invitations to my DARK EBB: GRIM TALES live Facebook book launch party on April 1st.
    • Settling into new routine.
    • Morning walk and trespassed to visit some bones.
    • Facetime with California sister.
    Hmmmm….deer, or trespasser?!
    Mike’s pen and ink of Native Americans
    Mike’s pen and ink composite of turn-of-the-century cabin in rural northern California
    NO TOUCHING!

    If you enjoy my podcast episodes, you might enjoy my books!

    If you enjoyed this episode and others, please subscribe to Alligator Preserves on iTunes, Stitcher, or wherever you get your podcasts, and tell your friends about it! I’d love it if you “liked” the episodes you listen to, and I’d love it even more if you’d post a quick comment!

  • Alligator Preserves Episodes

    Alligator Preserves Episodes

    Alligator Preserves features nonfiction storytelling and interviews with wonderfully creative people as well as short fiction featuring grim tales, surreal experiences, and horror (my Dark Ebb episodes)! Below is a sampling of several. Subscribe to Alligator Preserves HERE for all the episodes!

    Episode #Episode/DescriptionDate/Duration
    107Cinco de Mayo and Broken Ankles. I discuss why I’m clearly not yet a pro at walking, although I’ve been practicing this specific ‘sport’ for 60 years! Also, Cinco de Mayo parties and a shout-out to HRRMC Medical Staff!
    Q Diaries 35: Cinco de Mayo and Fractured Ankles
    MAY 2020/16:21
    106My Scary Adventure into COVID-land. Listen to see if I made it through my stressful trip to Safeway!
    Q Diaries 34: My Scary Adventure into COVID-land
    MAY 2020/16:02
    105Dumplings and Ducklings: How COVID-19 is changing my life, my habit and hobbies!
    Q Diaries 33: My New Life
    APR 2020/11:54
    104I share Mental Health Tips during Quarantine and my inspiration for writing the ghost story “Tanked”!
    Q Diaries 32
    APR 2020/14:36
    103Ducks and Pea Soup! I discuss my Khaki Campbell duck research and provide a warning about old pea soup!
    Q Diaries 28-31: Ducks and Pea Soup
    APR 2020/11:33
    102The Friday episode! Mental Health tips and encouragement to UNPLUG!
    Friday Under Quarantine
    APR 2020/8:22
    101COVID-19 Fatigue. I discuss Mental Health Wellness tips, my seedlings, and my new book!
    Q Diaries 26: COVID-19 Fatigue
    APR 2020/12:44
    100My 100th Episode! But where are the trumpets? I find a grave marker, Bernie drops from the race, and more mental health tips for quarantine!
    Q Diaries 25: My 100th Episode!
    APR 2020/11:26
    99My Weekend Edition “Q Tips” and meeting Willie, the Donkey (who visits my garden!)
    Q Diaries 14 and Willy the Donkey
    APR 2020/12:56
    98Puzzles and Seeds! Managing expectations, a 2,000-piece puzzle, and so many seeds!
    Episode 98: Puzzles and Seeds
    APR 2020/8:11
    97A “Fiver”–A recap of the past 5 days under quarantine and my new book “DARK EBB: GRIM TALES”!
    Q Diaries 15-19 and a Q Tip
    APR 2020/12:35
    96An Uber-Short Episode about meeting Willie the Donkey for the first time. No politics!
    Q Diaries 14 and Willy the Donkey
    MAR 2020/5:08
    95In which I discuss Mike’s birthday, trespassing, transitions, and Mung Bean NoodlesMAR 2020/9:48
    94Interview visit with Brooklyn Jewelry Designer Freida Rothman!
    Q Diaries 11: A Visit with Freida Rothman
    MAR 2020/40:54
    93Spiky barbed-wire fences and so many numbers! Quarantine fatigue and sleepless nights.
    Q Diaries 10
    MAR 2020/7:38
    92A Retired Astronaut’s Advice on Isolation and my first “Prepper” Video assessing OvaEasy Whole Egg Crystals!
    Q Diaries 9
    MAR 2020/8:30
    91Get Out of Those Pajamas! New directives for extreme Social Distancing and other quarantine tips!
    Q Diaries 8
    MAR 2020/7:33
    90In which I discuss Morning “Mom Hair” and Losing my Underwear. Have to laugh while COVID-19 rages.
    Q Diaries 7
    MAR 2020/9:07
    89More Laughter, Isolation and Mental Health Challenges during the Coronavirus Pandemic.
    Q Diaries 6
    MAR 2020/10:23
    88The New “Norm” of Life Under the Coronavirus Threat…is exhausting (but my Mum’s painting is exquisite!)
    Q Diaries 5
    MAR 2020/12:28
    87Quarantine musings, advice, and offer for teachers and students!
    Q Diaries 4
    MAR 2020/11:50
    86My St. Patrick’s Day turkey, diet advice, and a challenge for listeners!
    Q Diaries 3
    MAR 2020/15:06
    85Coronavirus Pandemic restrictions and a political statement, which I rarely make!
    Q Diaries 2
    MAR 2020/25:51
    84My first Q Diaries Report, several days into my Self-Quarantine during COVID-19 Pandemic.
    Q Diaries
    MAR 2020/12:18
    83Coronavirus 2020 and the Toilet Paper Pandemic. Culling my Closet and Shriek of the Shield Maiden!
    Corona Virus 2020: Toilet Paper Pandemic
    MAR 2020/16:37
    82Revenge of the Toilet Paper and Why I’m Self-Quarantining (after a trip to California)!
    Corona Virus 2: Revenge of the Toilet Paper
    MAR 2020/13:21
    81Leap Day, The Novel Coronavirus, and my new book “DARK EBB: GRIM TALES”!
    Leap Day, the Corona Virus, and Dark Ebb: Grim Tales
    FEB 2020/6:31
    80In Love with Love: A Happy Valentine Tribute to Falling in Love with my Husband!
    In Love With Love!
    FEB 2020/15:43

    Leave me a comment on tracks you listen to and share ones you like with friends!

    Have a dark short story you’d like me to narrate? Let me know!

    contact me at laurel@strackpress.com

  • Alligator Preserves Episode 39: About That Body

    In this episode, I share some writings in poetry and prose on the topic “The Body” for a special project and discover something about reading instructions!

    Listen Here:

    Mum and me and our saggy cheeks, April 2017

    Show Notes with Links:

    Body Batik

    A body batik, the most stunning creation on earth
    Wrung from a lifetime—begun with a thought and a prayer
    Lined by a hand unseen, wax designs sketched before birth
    Patterns present themselves often before we’re aware

    Skin of an infant, luminous, fragrant and pure
    Hiding within it adventure and challenge and grief
    Never foreseeing the hardships we all must endure
    Born to exposure—a lifetime, though surely too brief

    Teenage perfection with makeup and primping routine
    Taking for granted the glowing of health and fresh youth
    Carefree and negligent, no need to mind the machine
    We were invincible, now we can laugh at the truth

    Growing maturity, comfort and pride in our skin
    “What are your secrets?” they’ll ask, as we gracefully age
    “Having accomplishments, balancing yang with our yin,
    We’re the creators of joy in our lives at each stage!”

    Old age surprises us, creases appear to unfold
    Splotches and patches of skin we expect to stay smooth
    Thinning, translucent and bumpy, a sight to behold
    Pricey medicinals, daily required to soothe

    A body batik, the most challenging canvas from birth
    Etched with experience, pleasure and pain and repair
    Creases and wrinkles embellish us, value their worth
    Live in them lovingly, cherish your internal flair

    Crafted with purpose and care is our body batik
    Each one unveiled as a masterpiece, each one unique

    Enigmachine (a 200-word challenge about “The Body”)

    This faulty machine I inhabit remains an enigma. “We can send a man to the moon,” but this arthritic bump on my finger and, and, and. The ands are too trite to discuss. I wrote a piece about menopause in which I addressed my Mum’s droopy cheeks, among other sagging things, when I became keenly aware of my own floppy parts. Her sister took umbrage. How could I be so disrespectful to my aging mother?

    Mum laughed.

    I watched as she disappeared, her hair and skin thinning, until finally she was gone. A breeze might have carried her away. I held her hand, a near duplicate of my own, and as her engine fluttered to failure, I marveled at the framework that had carried her through 89 years.

    Will my framework carry me as long? Will my frequently fluttering heart match the mileage hers endured? Will I be as prepared as she was to leave the burden of a broken machine behind when new parts are no longer in stock?

    Perhaps. Until then, I’ll (try to) control my displeasure as each new “and . . .” hijacks my machine. Until then, I’ll service and lube as necessary.

    And I’ll smile.

    Me and Mum. We’d laugh about being twins separated by 30 years!

    More Links:

    If you enjoy my podcasts, you might enjoy my books!

    If you enjoyed this episode and others, please subscribe to Alligator Preserves on iTunes, Stitcher, or wherever you get your podcasts, and tell your friends about it! I’d love it if you “liked” the episodes you listen to, and I’d love it even more if you’d post a quick comment!

    Please support Alligator Preserves on Patreon.  You will be rewarded!

  • Alligator Preserves Episode 32: Sitting

    What would you do if the internet and your phone service were down and you had no idea when or if they’d be restored? This happened to me on August 1st. Find out what I did!

    “In my own little corner, in my own little chair, I can be whatever I want to be . . . ” ~ Cinderella

    Show Notes and photos: 

    Sitting. Simply sitting in silence. I can’t remember when I’ve done this lately.

    It’s because the internet is down and we have no service. No phone, no Facebook, nothing but me in this $20 thrift store chair and Ranger plunked down on the floor looking at me with wonder or boredom. I’ll say wonder.

    I found the beautifully upholstered chair amidst a mass of should-have-been-discarded furniture and knew I’d found a treasure. Yellow, blue, green and white, my favorite colors, it sat like a blossom in a desert, complete with arm protectors and matching throw pillows. I looked it over quickly, sat in it, realized it was the kind of chair I’ve been searching for, and ran through the wasteland to the cashier.

    “How much for the yellow chair?”

    “Oh, twenty dollars, I guess.”

    “I’ll take it.”

    My Mum would have liked this chair; it fits a smallish person just right. And she would have liked that I wrote about it while sitting in it, quietly, while the pork in my crockpot falls apart. With no internet, no phone, no heavy machinery outside my window because they’ve finally finished paving the road, I made chicken salad for lunch and got dinner started. I walked with Ranger and watered the plants outside. It’s August first, and my daisy plant has just now decided to open nearly every bud. Life’s tough for a plant in Leadville.

    Mum wasn’t happy with my decision to move to Leadville. “Why would you want to go backwards,” she asked after visiting for the first time. She loved our Colorado Springs McMansion and never did understand why I’d want to live in a house like the one her father lived in, an old Victorian with creaky floors and possibly ghosts.

    I’ve written my most creative pieces atop these creaky floors. Sitting in my $20 chair now, I realize this is the first piece I’ll write in it. I placed it in an empty corner in our dining room figuring I’d eventually move it upstairs, but it wanted to stay there by the morning sun window and next to the sleigh seat table I used to bounce on as a child.

    One of Mum’s earliest painting. More than “good enough.”

    I realize Mum’s spirit is everywhere in this room. Her dining room table—the one on which she made my sisters’ wedding gowns and around which she hosted decades of celebrations—is showing its age, as am I. Her paintings—there’s one in nearly every room—are a constant reminder of her creativity and humility. She painted till the end, but never thought she was “good enough.”

    Before she died, we teased about where her ashes would go. “I’m definitely bringing at least some of you to Leadville,” I told her. “You do that and I’ll haunt you!” she said, and we laughed.

    Funny Mum. Don’t you know you’re all around me every day?

    She frequently reminded me to take care of myself. Take time for myself. Meditate. It was advice she rarely, if ever, followed herself. But this is not a piece about my Mum. This is a piece about sitting in silence.

    I wanted to call my youngest sister, Carol, today to tell her how suddenly sad I felt that our Mum and Dad wouldn’t be there for her youngest son’s upcoming wedding. Carol married one year after I did, but my wedding was the last one our Bupa attended. He was my Mum’s father, and he was several sheets to the wind by the time the garter ceremony began. He wouldn’t let anyone, including my brand new husband, remove the garter from my leg. Nope. He pushed Mike away and did it himself.

    Grandparents add a certain feeling of validation to big events like weddings, or in my comical case, a reminder that age has its privileges. So I’m sad my parents won’t be there for her son’s wedding. And should my sons someday marry, they obviously won’t be at their weddings either. Wow. That just hit me.

    My parents were Nick’s caretakers for the first two months of his life as Mike and I were in grad school when he was born. We’d come home to a clean house, dinner ready, and our baby asleep in my father’s arms. Although I was not working when Jake was born, Mum and Dad were there to provide the same care and love for his first six weeks of life. I never turned down their offers of assistance, and they made sure Nick had as much attention as the noisy little interloper.

    Funny what goes through your mind when you’re surrounded by silence. And I can’t call Carol to tell her how sad I feel because there’s still no service. What if internet and phone lines couldn’t be restored? Now, there’s a funny thought. I’d have to write a letter. I could do that. Sometimes I wish the internet would disappear so we’d all have more silence in our lives.

    Our lives are driven by the calendar and what we have planned for tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. I just flipped my calendar to today, the first day of August, and back-to-school thoughts flood my senses.

    I remember back-to-school butterflies and setting out my first day of school finery, one new dress and new shoes from The Bargain Center, the night before school. I couldn’t wait to walk to Eldridge Elementary School with Carol and my best friend Marilyn, crunching fallen acorns under our heels and sticking flighty little maple seedlings onto our noses along the way. Maybe there’d be new kids to meet. Maybe there’d be a cute boy.

    My favorite of Mum’s paintings in my recording studio. There’s a story behind this painting. WAY more than “good enough.”

    I don’t remember calendars in my early grade school days. I remember recess and lunch tokens and projects I’d research in our Britannica Encyclopedias, our 1960s internet. And I remember cute boys.

    The Darcys moved into our neighborhood when I was in 3rd grade and I was in love with the new boy. Richard was tall, dark, and handsome, and had the most beautiful lips I’d ever seen. How I longed to kiss them. I remember falling into “his” chair—he wasn’t in it—during lunch one day. The 3rd grade classroom was also the lunch room, and in the hubbub of exchanging tokens for S.O.S. and a carton of milk, I’d lost my balance. I felt wonderfully naughty sitting there in his seat, though I’m quite certain no one else suspected my secret thrill. I never did kiss those lips.

    And then there was Rick Tessari, the new boy in 5th grade. He was Johnny-Depp-handsome and had the most beautiful cursive handwriting I’d ever seen. I like to think my taste in men was maturing, though I did kiss his lips after a rousing episode of spin-the-bottle one afternoon. What was a girl to do back then with no internet? There were only so many things one could learn from Britannica.

    Ranger’s nose pokes me from my thoughts. Time for another walk. If the internet’s still out when I return, I’ll resume my reverie.

    We’re back, and it was the perfect walk for a thoughtful day. Ranger wanted to sniff every fifth clump of grass and I let him. His age is starting to show too, and although I could have strolled longer in the cool evening breeze, his sniffer was satisfied and he led me back home to plunk by my $20 chair where I sit, again, in silence.

    Mike returns, the sun sets, and the aroma from my crockpot makes me salivate. I’ll serve the pork over noodles. Mum would approve.

    More Links:

    If you enjoy my podcasts, you might enjoy my books!

    If you enjoyed this episode and others, please subscribe to Alligator Preserves on iTunes, Stitcher, or wherever you get your podcasts, and tell your friends about it! I’d love it if you “liked” the episodes you listen to, and I’d love it even more if you’d post a quick comment!

    Please support Alligator Preserves on Patreon.  You will be rewarded!

     

     

  • Home again, home again…

    Home again, home again…

    Week 2 of our road trip is even better than week 1. Our sleep schedule is increasingly more like Ranger’s and each waking moment is an opportunity to explore extraordinary new scenery. The simplicity of our routine is invigorating. I don’t miss home at all.

    Our only frustrations are with the occasional drivers who slow down when the road is not hairpin straight, or truckies who won’t pull over with a mile of traffic behind them.

    “What are you hauling? A black hole?” Mike asks one driver when we can finally pass safely. The driver doesn’t hear him.

    “Panguitch,” I read on a sign. “I’m hungry. I’d like a peanut butter and jelly panguitch, please.”

    But then we see an even better sign advertising “HO-MADE PIES.” As I’m fairly certain hothey’re not gluten free, we pass on the Ho-made pies. “I once was a tart, but now I make them,” I say, and the pin-up girl on the sign agrees with me.

    Debris, my iPhone, takes us on a circuitous route to one of our destinations, adding close to an extra hour of driving, and at some point I tell her to “stop navigation.” As soon as I finish my command, Mike adds, “and stop being a such a douche.” He’s angry at Debris’ faulty directions.

    My phone responds sweetly with, “Okay, Laurel, here’s what I’ve found for stop navigation and stop being a douche,” and Mike and I burst into laughter. We cannot believe what we’ve just heard. Mike wants me to click on the “How can I stop being a douche” link, but I’d rather look at the scenery.

    “Well,” I say, “we’re seeing lots of things we wouldn’t see if we’d taken the direct way.”

    “Yeah, sheep,” he says. “Lots and lots of sheep.”

    stormy skyFor hours we pass open land for as far as we can see and laugh at people who talk about the threat of overpopulation. The contrast between what we are seeing on our travels and what we know about those who live on top of one another in big cities is nearly irreconcilable in our minds.

    Along a particularly rough stretch of road there’s a sign warning of an upcoming bump and we figure if the bump is worth noting, it must be a doozie. We maneuver it just fine, and then there’s another.

    “I wonder if they’re related,” says Mike.

    “Who?” I ask.

    “The bumps. Because that would make them bumpkins.”

    This is how many of our conversations go.

    We finally make it to our campground near the North Rim of the Grand Canyon and notice our slight stature amongst the other campers, something we observe everywhere we stop. We clearly have the smallest travel trailer in the whole place. We’re surrounded by Death Stars, and Mike—who is not a singer—never fails to hum the Star Wars tune whenever we pass one on the road.

    I count over 45 different names on the various mobile homes, all promising something special. Attitude, Beaver, Freedom, Fury, Hideout, Independence, Jazz, Komfort, Puma Unleashed, Voltage, and Wildwood are some of my favorites.

    “What! No Beaver Unleashed?” Mike asks. Beaver jokes are always funny.

    “I could see trading up in a few years,” he says, checking out our neighbors’ rigs, and although our trailer feels palatial after years of trips in the truck camper, I can see a time when we might need just a little more space. Like when we’re on the road for months, or when we’re taking potential grandsnarfs on adventures.

    Our neighbors at one campground, owners of a Death Star, tell us they call their trips fairy fort“Glamping.” The dad is a Marine, and like Mike, has decided he’s paid his dues roughing it for long enough. Their daughter, a serious 7-year-old, is engrossed in making a fairy fort out of pine needles and cones and sticks and stones. She is methodical in her creation, and I can tell she’s happy I’ve noticed her effort.

    We decide to traverse one of the longer, steeper trails at the canyon and agree to do a timed out and back. I know Mike wants to cover as much ground as he can, and I want to stroll and take photos and chat with people, so we decide we’ll both turn around at the 90 minute mark.

    “Don’t get lost,” I tell Mike, and he knows I’m joking about an experience on our previous hike—a simple half-mile round trip out and back to an overlook—when a group of Harley riders (I’m assuming they were Harley riders as they were all decked out in Harley leathers) asked us the way back to the lodge. We suppressed our urge to ask if they were joking and pointed to the only possible way they could walk.

    So off we go down the steep Kaibab trail, which smells of mule dung punctuated by an occasional blast of fresh pine. But for the noisy swarms of metallic blue-green flies—why are they so beautiful?—on the freshest piles, they’re tolerable.

    After I overcome my concern over several small children approaching an overlook with no fences and a rock slab slide into the void—they’re not my children and their parents seem to be watching them—I continue down the trail to a quiet piece of shade and sit in the cool silence, breathing in the canyon breath. A haiku presents itself:

    Breathing canyon breath
    No responsibilities
    Peaceful cliff birds sing

    During my turnaround hike back up the path a canyon-red butterfly outlined in white dips and turns and climbs over and over, a little dance just for me.

    On our way to our next venue I watch Mike surreptitiously as he drives, this man who has made my life one huge adventure, and know I could travel the world this way with him. I notice for the first time the tin foil hairs interspersed with the brown ones on his forearms sparkling in the sun through the windshield and I think about the hairs on my own arms that now stick straight out as if trying to escape, and my eyebrow hairs that are growing willy-nilly like Einstein’s. I plucked one the other day that must have been an inch long, half brown, half gray, wholly twisted. blue steelI notice the gray stubble on Mike’s chin, something I rarely get to see, and it makes me wish I had my tweezers handy to pluck the persistent stray hairs that grow faster than a startle reflex on my own chin. Mike doesn’t like his facial hair, but he forgot to bring a new blade for his razor. I don’t tell him I’ve got extras. I like to see a little scruffle now and then.

    We listen to a radio DJ who starts an excited expression with, “Holy …! Don’t worry, folks, I’ll never curse on the radio, so if you’re driving home with the kids now, you’ve got nothing to fear. This next song by 311, All Mixed Up, is one of my favorites. I mean, these guys work their asses off,” (emphasis on the asses).

    “Wow,” is all Mike says.

    Ranger profileWe’re a little quieter on our final drive from Mesa Verde to home, our last day of vacation. Sure, we laugh at the “Nothing Satisfies Like BEEF” sign and make the obvious pork references. It’s not like we’re somber or anything. And we’re truly pleased by Ranger’s response to our truck to trailer to truck routine these past two weeks. He’s always ready to jump into or out of whichever door we open, and after only a few minutes of whining in the truck, he settles down and does what he does best: sleeps.

    We know we’ve seen only the tiniest fraction of what our country has to offer, and every place has been our favorite. Driving back into Colorado—after the mandatory donation to the Navajo Nation at 4-Corners where vendors of silver and turquoise surround you, entertained, no doubt, by the antics of tourists splaying themselves across the geographic marker—we are grateful once more to be living in one of the scenically most spectacular states.

    Bouquet upon bouquet of orange, white, yellow and purple brighten the roadways, and over every rise there’s another castle or ship chiseled by an unseen sculptor’s hand from the cliffs of stony red earth. I imagine dinosaurs tromping alongside us and pterosaurs gliding from peak to castle peak. And then, the snow-capped mountains rise from flowered fields, and we are . . .

    Home again, home again, jiggety-jig. almost home

  • Prenatal Diet for the Modern Woman

    Prenatal Diet for the Modern Woman

    Although I am neither a doctor nor do I play one on TV, I was happy nonetheless to set my newly pregnant friend straight the other day when it comes to her prenatal diet.

    “My nurse told me to eat at least two eggs per day to strengthen the amniotic sac,” she told me over a breakfast of two eggs and a pancake.

    “The whole egg, including the shell and membrane, right?” I asked, wanting to ensure she understood her instructions. After all, everyone knows the egg’s membrane is the key ingredient for strengthening the sac, and eating the entirety of two eggs per day will produce an amniotic sac 50% stronger than eating no eggs at all.1 As a bonus, the calcium derived from the shell benefits both the baby and the mother, whose gums will also be toughened by chewing the crunchy white substance.

    “No, just the insides,” she said, and I knew it was time to intervene.

    Although I’m frequently irked by know-it-alls who feel they must one-up any story you might tell—like the 32-year-old male peer who knows exactly what you’re experiencing as you sweat through menopause—I felt it was my obligation to share the diet recommended to me by my own nurses years ago.

    Studies have shown that consuming the following diet will improve your chances of delivering a healthy, full-term baby naturally, one (or more!) capable of breaking through their strong sacs just as they emerge into your world.2 It is my hope that pregnant women everywhere will learn from the advice I now provide freely.

    For Resilient Amniotic Sac and Strong Bones (both yours and baby’s):

    As mentioned above, eat at least two entire eggs daily. By now, the rationale should be clear. The easiest way to accomplish this is to boil the egg (hard or soft, but hard is less messy) and consume out-of-hand. Some suggest using a blender (add butter and water for a creamier consistency), though I have not personally tried that method.

    For Your Baby’s Speed, Agility, and Robust Blood:

    Although this should be obvious to every pregnant woman, I’ll still mention it. Drink one small glass (juice glass) of cheetah blood. This may be added to the egg mixture in the blender should you choose to try that method. The best advice for finding this ingredient—as with all others in this plan—is to acquire the freshest available, and this might mean going directly to the source. By hunting and killing the cheetah yourself, the result for your baby will be a 99% spike in both situational awareness and the instinct for self-preservation when compared with babies whose mothers did not hunt for their prenatal ingredients.3

    For Keen Eyesight:

    Sip the aforementioned mixture (or just the cheetah blood) through an eagle feather quill. You may want to keep several of these on hand as they tend to clog easily, but remember—you’re doing this for your baby.

    For Strong Nails and Hair:

    This will be the easiest advice to follow! Put away your clippers and files and use your teeth for what they were intended: chewing your own nails and the ends of your hair. By reintroducing these substances into your own digestive system (don’t forget to include your toe nails—you may use clippers for those), you will ensure that your baby’s nails and hair will be far stronger than if you fail to incorporate this dietary advice. Don’t be shy about asking family members to donate their clippings as well. The more the better for this ingredient. Do not use nail polish or hair styling products throughout your pregnancy as this new habit may invite unwanted chemicals into your baby’s system.

    For Overall Strength and Healthy Internal Organs:

    Once you’ve drained all the blood from the cheetah (freeze 4-oz portions to last throughout your pregnancy…two full-sized cheetahs are all you’ll need), package the internal organs separately. Although it is preferable to eat these fresh from the kill, we recognize the inconvenience this might create, so after enjoying a warm bite of liver on-site, remember to chop and freeze these ingredients in bite-sized chunks. Consume one every other day throughout your pregnancy, either immediately after thawing (raw is preferable), or lightly sautéed in coconut oil.

    For Smooth Skin and Dexterity in Water Sports:

    Use fish oil, coconut oil, and extra-virgin olive oil liberally! These should be the only oils you ingest throughout your pregnancy. Cook with them, mix them into your morning egg mixture, and bathe with them for the added osmotic effect which benefits your baby immediately.4 Another suggestion is to enjoy one freshly clubbed sandwich of baby seal each month, though I hear the current legal system might thwart your efforts here.

    For Intelligence:

    I include this obvious piece of advice because I would be remiss not to mention it, and every mother-to-be should relish this delicacy at least once during her pregnancy (one is all you need, though you may find you want more). Within the first trimester, consume one owl brain. Although it is preferable to do this while the bird is still alive, any way you can introduce this ingredient into your diet early in your pregnancy will almost always ensure that your child’s intelligence will be above average.

    For Sense of Humor (perhaps the most important attribute you can give your baby):

    The obvious answer here would be incorrect. It has been demonstrated5 that consuming any part of a hyena results in offspring who incline toward passive-aggressive behavior. Instead, just one Aha Ha (of the Australian wasp species) per day is all you’ll need to ensure your baby will be the life of any party, be it democratic, republican, or independent! Purchase these little treasures freeze-dried in bulk, and don’t be surprised if you find yourself chuckling a little more each day as well.

    Although I realize everyone has their own opinions about what constitutes a healthy prenatal diet, I hope those who may try my suggestions will let me know how it works for you and your new babies. Certainly you will want to remember to add sugar and spice and everything nice if you plan to have a girl, and frogs and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails if you’d rather a boy (get to know your local French restaurant for the former and animal shelter for the latter).

    As with all medical advice, talk with your doctor before making any major dietary changes.6

    Congratulations on your new pregnancy, and happy hunting!

    *******

    1 50% stronger amniotic sac based on 100% conjecture.

    2 Studies include my own personal experience. Other than eating a well-balanced diet including all food groups, I followed none of the suggestions in this column and delivered two healthy, full-term babies naturally.

    3 There have been no studies yet to confirm this statistic, but doesn’t it just make sense?

    4 Other than the word “liberally” and the part about osmosis, this might actually be sound advice.

    5 No, it hasn’t.

     6 Every piece of advice in this column should be followed in addition to a well-balanced diet including all food groups, and taken with a grain of salt: preferably, Himalayan pink.

  • Melancholy Mondays: Chapter 1

    For those who do not wish to print out my completed novel, I’ve decided to start uploading my story–bit by bit–as blog posts. My desire is that you will return daily for your next bit and spread the news to your friends and theirs.

    And so it begins:

    MELANCHOLY MONDAYS

    by

    Laurel Bernier McHargue

    Dedication

     To students everywhere struggling to learn,

    and to your teachers who are struggling to help you.

    (the following limerick precedes chapter 1) 

    There once was a teacher named “Miss?”

    When she talked to her students they’d hiss;

    But she would keep on trying,

    And hide all her crying,

    She’d save her kids from the abyss!

    Chapter 1

     Ella McCauley hit the sack knowing that when she woke up in the morning, her new life would be a breeze. Having spent the past two years never knowing if she would see the light of the next day, she knew that her only struggle now would be adjusting to the mundane 8-5 requirements of her new job as a 7th grade English teacher. Well, there was also the requirement to earn a teaching certificate through the alternative licensure program, and that meant taking classes nights and weekends, but those requirements paled in comparison to the ones Ella experienced from her most recent tour of duty in the Middle East as a Signal Officer in the Army. Yup. Civilian life would be a piece of cake.

    “Bones, no!”

    Despite her confidence that she could teach a bunch of 13-year-olds blindfolded with her hands tied behind her back, Ella was restless, and her 60-pound floppy-eared tri-colored rescue mutt translated her uncharacteristic nocturnal fidgeting as an invitation to play. Confused by the unexpected censure, Bones cocked his head slightly, then resumed pouncing on different body parts moving beneath the covers.

    “Oh, all right,” Ella gave in, realizing that since she probably wouldn’t fall asleep for the next hour anyway, she might as well take her frisky pup for an evening stroll. Sliding her feet into the battered running shoes by the door, she didn’t even consider putting on real clothes . . . no one would notice her Wonder Woman p.j.s and over-all disheveled appearance this time of night, and even if they did, she really didn’t care.

    “Bones, come!”

    These distinct commands, which her slobbery side-kick of only two months now had quickly learned, never failed to bring a smile to Ella’s face. She attached the leash to the camouflaged collar and opened the front door of her two-bedroom end-unit apartment. The stifling heat of the Atlanta summer night transported her for a moment to a time when a two-legged side-kick kept her company during evening walks. Sam had been the one to make her laugh when all seemed lost, when she longed to be safely home with indoor utilities and a comfortable bed, when she felt that what she was doing in that godforsaken part of the world was meaningless.

    After spending nearly two years stationed together in a war zone, she and Sam talked about where they would live when they returned to the States, and had already named their future dog. Sam had always wanted to name a dog “Boner,” not only because it was inappropriate—and he was as much a rebel as Ella was—but because they would share endless laughter at any training command that would start with the dog’s name. Sam was funny and smart and strong, and Ella could not imagine her life without him.

    But Sam did not return with her, and would never be there to help train the pup; she would have to endure the horrible reality surrounding his death for the rest of her life. Ella hoped that by going ahead with their plan, she would—in a very small way—keep Sam’s memory alive, and more often than not, the dog was able to make Ella laugh. For the sake of propriety, and because she was alone, she modified her dog’s name, but she always enjoyed the secret joke.

    By the time the two returned from their fast-paced tour of the surrounding homes and apartment complexes—Ella never did anything slowly—Bones was ready to lap up the contents of his water bowl and plop down, gracelessly, at the foot of the bed. Ella, too, felt ready to give in to her fatigue. Fortunately, she had two days to set up her classroom and get to know her new civilian peers before her “troops” would arrive for the first day of school on Wednesday.

    *****

    The 6 a.m. alarm startled her awake, freeing her from a recurrent panic-filled dream. While childhood friends would laugh at their shared, clichéd showing-up-naked dreams, Ella often woke in a cold sweat from smoky visions of chaos and blood. Lots of blood. And screaming. Her military unit was supposed to be in a safe zone, but everyone knew that there were new rules for this war. No one was ever safe.

    Ella walked out to the tiny patch of grass behind her new home sipping her mug of black coffee while Bones completed his business. The morning was muggy and overcast, and although Ella was excited about her plans to make her classroom special, the atmosphere did nothing to break her nightmare mood.

    “Who’s a good boy?!” Ella praised her little buddy, who came wagging back to her ready, once more, to play. She deposited her mug, threw on her shoes, grabbed the leash and took Bones for a fast one mile run before prepping for her first full day in her new work space. The school was a 15 minute drive, and Ella felt fortunate to have found this little treasure of an apartment. She would be able to bop home to let her puppy out at midday, and he had already demonstrated that he could be left alone for several hours without becoming too mischievous.

    At 7 a.m. she was out the door, her conservatively cropped hair looking a bit wild from her towel-dried styling, her equally wild-patterned Capri pants topped with a brightly colored blouse over which she threw an unnecessary—but funky—belt. Years of wearing the same uniform 24/7 had left Ella with a desire to express her inner artist through her outer-wear, and she knew that she could use teaching kids as an excuse to be as flamboyant as she wanted.

    She opened the passenger door to her jeep and tossed in her backpack, then turned back to grab what she had purchased from Target to eliminate the clinical feel of her classroom.

    “Oh! Good morning, Harry! I didn’t think you’d be out so early today!”

    “Well, I couldn’t very well let you start your new assignment without giving you a good luck hug now, could I?”

    Harry Wilson stood just outside his door, holding open the screen and appraising Ella with a smile of approval. An 83-year-old WWII veteran, Harry had taken an immediate liking to his new neighbor and knew that they had at least a few past experiences in common. Harry had lost his wife of 60 years just last Thanksgiving, and now passed his days watching the comings and goings of his neighbors, completing the crossword puzzle in every newspaper, and occasionally waiting until 5 p.m. to savor his first scotch.

    Ella approached her neighbor with arms open, and surprised herself by the little knot that rose in her throat. She missed her parents, who lived up in New England, and suddenly felt the need for a loving support system. Equally surprising was the strength of this old Colonel’s hug.

    “Now go get ‘em, Captain!” Harry emphasized the “Captain” as he held her at arm’s length now, and then chuckled. “You sure do know how to make an entrance, don’t you?”

    “Yeah, well, I figured if I wear some crazy clothes I may be able to keep their attention. I’ve heard that these kids have the attention span of a gnat.” Although students had two more days of vacation, many were showing up to complete registration requirements, and she anticipated that more than a few would make their way to her classroom to check out the new teacher.

    “I’ll be coming home to let Bones out at lunch, but if I don’t see you then, I’ll come by this evening to give you my report.” Ella turned and started down the sidewalk.

    “Well . . . now I don’t want to keep you, but you know I wouldn’t mind letting the little guy out while you’re gone if you can’t make it home. Just thought I’d offer.”

    “Thanks, Harry!” Ella stopped briefly before hopping into the jeep. “Let’s see how he does today and we’ll talk tonight. Thanks for the hug, too,” she called out the open passenger window before driving off.

    *****

  • “Twas the Night Before Christmas . . . “

    “Twas the Night Before Christmas . . . “

    In an effort to “complete” a piece of creative writing before the start of 2012, I tackled the classic Christmas poem and used it as a template for my own family version. It was more difficult than I had anticipated! (hope you enjoy it)

    ‘Twas the night before Christmas at the Lead Ass Inn
    Not a soul had forgotten their faraway kin;
    
    The stockings were hung on the bookshelf this year,
    To help the Red Room appear far less austere;
    
    The children were working on muscles with Dad,
    Vacation from college had made them both glad;
    
    So Mike in the gym, and I in the kitchen,
    Had just figured out how to minimize bitchin’;
    
    When out in the yard there arose such a noise,
    I left my potatoes in fear for my boys.
    
    Away to the entry I ran like a mouse,
    Tore open the first door and tripped over Klaus.
    
    The moon on the icicles hanging above
    Cast a glimmer from heaven which sparkled like love,
    
    When, what to my curious eyes should appear,
    But husband and sons in their gym-sweaty gear,
    
    With a look in their eyes, so hungry and tired,
    I knew that I had what their muscles required.
    
    More rapid than ravenous donkeys they came,
    And I welcomed them home, and called them by name;
    
    “Now, Nicholas! Jacob! Now, Charlie* and Mike!
    Come to the kitchen, I’ve something you’ll like!
    
    To the warmth of the kitchen! To the nicely set table!
    Now come on in! Sit right down! Show me you’re able!”
    
    As laborers that before royalty know,
    When invited to dine with them, and plan to go,
    
    First up to the showers like eagles they flew,
    With towels, deodorant, hair products, too.
    
    And then, with much giggling, I heard from the rooms
    The descent of feet on stairs, sounding like booms.
    
    As I waited for them, and expected them soon,
    To the kitchen they came with a Christmas Day tune.
    
    They were dressed  in Melanzana**, from their heads to their feet,
    And their urgency said it was past time to eat;
    
    Computers and iphones they’re never without,
    And they looked like mad scientists abolishing doubt.
    
    Their eyes—how they twinkled! Their faces how cheerful!
    I knew over dinner we’d all get an earful!
    
    Their brains were both filled with “the latest” they’d learned,
    And with happiness shared all the knowledge they’d earned;
    
    The “interwebs” demonstrate “knowledge is power,”
    And provide a week’s worth of “stuff” in an hour;
    
    The boys shared new songs and cute memes and fun sites,
    We listened and questioned and laughed between bites.
    
    They were happy to share with their parents their world,
    And we laughed as our past became truly unfurled;
    
    A wink in their eyes and a shared chuckle, too,
    Soon let us know that our brains would grow new;
    
    They spoke with gusto, but were quick to explain,
    And never let on that our questions were lame,
    
    And after our dinner when bellies were full,
    And one to the other, to the stairs did they pull;
    
    They sprang to their rooms, after smiles and warm hugs,
    And away they both crept into bed like good thugs.
    
    But we heard them exclaim, ere they fell from our sight,
    “Merry Christmas to all, may your futures be bright.”
    
    *   Our "guest" cat, who spends more time at our home than his own
    **  Leadville's own made-in-store outdoor clothing shop