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I wasn’t able to include every single person I loved or who influenced me growing up in this particular post because it would have made it way too long. Just know that I know who you are, and so do you...
I grew up in a small town. I’m talking no stoplights, no fast food, no need to lock your doors at night small. My parents, younger sister, and I moved to the tiny town just before I started kindergarten. My father was an Indiana State Police trooper. He felt that a very small town would be the perfect place to raise children because it would be safe, quiet, and (I’m certain), it would be easier for him to keep an eye on my sister and me when we became teenagers. He was right. We never got away with anything. And really, we were both too scared to do anything bad, anyway. I’m pretty sure if I had done something bad, my dad wouldn’t have hesitated to throw me in the slammer. I’m not kidding. As a teenager, I complained about how boring the town was and how there was never anything to do, but as I look back on my time growing up there, I realize there was always a lot to do, and there were more people than I ever knew looking out for me. The first memories I have of moving to Kentland, Indiana were of the house my parents bought there. It was a total mess. There were wild raspberry bushes growing in the side and back yards. The grass hadn’t been mowed in, I don’t know, years. The house needed a new paint job both outside and inside. The carpets were filthy, there was animal feces all over the place, the wallpaper was peeling off the walls, and then there was the basement. I was convinced there was a group of large, predatory monsters living down there that would come upstairs in the middle of the night and kill my entire family. I thought my parents had gone crazy. How in the world did they expect me to live in that hovel? We cleaned, we mopped, we tore wallpaper (really, my parents did 99.9 percent of the work), we painted, we cleaned some more, and eventually, the little, ugly, unlivable house became livable. After a few months, it was even pretty. During a day of cleaning, the first of our neighbors came to visit. I was delighted to see a very pretty woman standing on our front porch holding hands with an even more beautiful, dark-haired, brown-eyed little girl. She had long pigtails that were hanging down her front, almost long enough to touch her belly button. I wished I had long hair like hers. The neighbors introduced themselves as Sharon (the mom), and Kim (the daughter). Kim’s dad, Rick, was also an Indiana State Police trooper, and he knew my dad. I was instantly hooked. They invited me to go to the local grocery store with them, and I was more than happy when my mom agreed to let me go. Not only did I want to get to know this Kim with the long, beautiful pigtails, but I wanted out of that dusty, dirty old house. We were lucky to have a grocery store in our little town, called Murphy’s, owned by the Murphy family. Most of the other people living in the towns near ours had to travel to our grocery store in Kentland, or across the Indiana/Illinois border into Watseka (they had a McDonald’s, so the town seemed huge and exciting to me), or go even further to West Lafayette, which was (in my opinion), a booming metropolis where I would eventually attend college, in order to get their groceries. As I entered the store with Sharon and Kim, I noticed that every cashier waved and said “Hello!” Sharon grabbed a grocery cart, and Kim and I jumped inside. It still amazes me to think we were both small enough to fit in one grocery cart together back then. Sharon went straight to the freezer isle, pulled out a box of popsicles, and let Kim and I each pick one. We rode around in the store, licking our frozen treats, as Sharon did her shopping and chatted with each store employee and other customers. I didn’t understand how Sharon could have possibly known everyone in that store, but she did. I didn’t feel strange or bothered. I loved all the people and their happy faces telling Sharon how cute Kim and I were, many of them welcoming me to Kentland. I felt like I was home, sitting right there inside a grocery store at Murphy’s. In a very short time, Kim became Kimmy, and also my very best friend. I had no idea then that we would grow up together, attend both high school and college together, and remain best friends to this day. She’s the Godmother to my oldest son. I am the Godmother to her son. We’ve been in each other’s weddings, attended each other’s family funerals, supported each other’s accomplishments, and helped each other through the worst of times. Her family became my family, and mine hers. What a precious gift this little town of Kentland had given me on that very first day in the grocery store. Little did I know, there were more gifts to come. I loved kindergarten. My teacher was Mrs. Russell, and I thought she was the most beautiful, kind, and smart woman (besides my mother and neighbor, Sharon, of course), in the universe. On my first day of school, I wanted to walk. Back then, we felt safer. Small towns were ideal for letting your child walk to and from school. However, my mother was having none of it, and she told me she wasn’t about to let me walk all the way to school without her. I was angry, so she let me walk a block ahead, while she stayed behind, just walking a bit slower, but still watching me. I looked back hundreds of times to make sure she never got too close, and if she did, she got the “stink eye” from me. After all, I was five years old, starting school, and I was ready to be independent. The large, brick, old elementary school building housed grades K through 6. The classrooms seemed large to me. The hallways smelled of Pine Sol, and the bathrooms were tiny with ugly windows and scary sounding flushes. I avoided going into them as much as I possibly could. But this was a new start for me and a place where I could meet other children. I loved it. Our Principal, Mr. McKnight, was a big guy, always smiling, always kind. I remember feeling very sorry for him when he had to paddle the “bad kids”, because I could see in his eyes that he really didn’t want to do it. I wasn’t sure he was cut out for “principalling”- he was just too nice. I think he hated the paddling more than the kids he had to paddle. Our lunch lady made us homemade lunches. She’d come in before the sun would shine and roll the dough for her chicken and noodles, chopped carrots, and set out trays for all the students lucky enough to enjoy her food. There were no microwaves or food in plastic. It was all made from scratch by that woman and her helpers, and we were lucky to be able to eat it. We had no idea then how lucky we were- too young to appreciate a woman spending hours to make sure her students had a hot, healthy meal every day. My elementary school music teacher, Louis Yuen, was asian. I was thrilled. I’d barely ever seen anyone who looked different than me, so I was fascinated to be around him. He was friendly, talented, and encouraging. He was the first person to tell my parents that I could sing. I loved his class. Every day I looked forward to music and I belted out the songs Mr. Yuen taught us. Eventually, we had a bit of a special relationship. Mr. Yuen and his family lived very close to us, and when I got older, he and his wonderful wife allowed me to babysit for their young boys. Their boys were adorable and sweet. I believe they have both grown into two of the most educated, kindest, intelligent people to ever grow up in Kentland. I’m pretty sure I had nothing to do with that, but it’s nice to remember that I used to babysit for them. We found a church called The Covenant Federated. In our little town, most everyone was either Catholic or Christian/Presbyterian, and I believe there were also a few Baptists. We would get dressed up every Sunday morning and go to church where I met some of the best people I’d ever meet in my life. Reverend Moore was a round-faced, balding, adorable, God-loving, gentle man who, along with his wife, Benna, quickly became friends with my parents. I loved them. Life was always more relaxing and happy when they would come for a visit. Reverend Moore had a contagious smile and the kindest heart of anyone I knew. He would do terrific sermons every Sunday that were full of humor and grace and made it easier for me to understand how to begin my relationship with God. That church filled with those people surrounded me with love and support from the time I was five-years-old until I left for college and moved away. I won’t forget the time I sang a solo one Sunday morning, hit a high note and my voice cracked. I was devastated. Looking back now, it was such a small little mistake, most people probably didn’t even notice, but at the time, I felt awful. I finished my song, went to sit in pew next to my mother, and sobbed. I tried to hold back the tears, but I couldn’t help it. Not even a day or two later, I received cards in the mail from several of the members of our church. These small notes were filled with words like “brave” and “beautiful”, “proud”, and “love”. Mrs. Batton, a sweet, spunky, always well-dressed woman wrote that I had the voice of an angel. Mr. Riegle, a quiet, strong, loving man told me I was brave. I know there were other notes, and I am sorry I can’t remember every person who wrote to me, but those notes made me feel special and loved, and made me realize that making a mistake was okay, and that those people loved me whether I could sing a perfect note or not. Mr. Vincent, one of the kindest men I’d ever know, and our neighbor across the back alley from us, would sit in his backyard in the early evening and listen to me sing. I don’t know why I used to go in my backyard and sing, but I did, and so I suspect, all the neighbors heard me. Some, I’m sure, were not as thrilled about it as Mr. Vincent was. He saw my mom outside gardening one day and told her that maybe she should think about getting me some voice lessons or something. “She’s really pretty good.” Mr. Vincent gave my mom one of his nice smiles, and went back to his house where his wife and three girls were probably waiting on him to start grilling dinner. Luckily for me, we had a woman who was one of the choir directors at our church who also gave voice lessons on the side. She had a strong, perfect voice, and little did we know at the time, had graduated from Juilliard. Who would have thought that in our little town of only about twelve-hundred people, we’d have a practical celebrity living just two streets away from us? She may have been the most talented person living in all of Kentland, but she was so modest, no one would have ever guessed that about her. But I figured it out pretty quickly. My mom called this woman, Doris Williamson, and set up my first voice lesson. She charged us five whole dollars per lesson, and, during that first lesson, I had no idea that I was learning from one of the best singers and teachers I could ever know. After lesson one, I was hooked. And low and behold, Doris (or Mrs. Williamson, as I would call her), lived in a house with her parents (two sweet, older, special, talented people), and her super-talented daughter, Elaine. Elaine was a couple years older than me, and if anyone had the voice of an angel, it was her. We became friends. She was like a big sister to me. She protected me, cared for me, taught me. She covered for me once when I’d overslept on Easter morning at Sunrise Service at church. None of our alarms went off that morning, and my entire family slept through the service. I was supposed to sing a solo that morning, and I was mortified when I finally did wake up that Sunday. I asked my mom if she would please call Mrs. Williamson and tell her what happened, but my mom told me it had been my responsibility to have been there, so I had to call her and apologize. I thought I literally might die of shame. I dialed the phone number for the church and asked for “Doris Williamson, please.” Doris came to the phone, and I started bawling like an idiot. I didn’t even know if she could understand the words I said, but she assured me everything would be fine, these things happen, and not to worry, because Elaine got up and sang for me. Just like a big sister, would, I imagined. Singing opened doors for me in that little town. We had this mysterious, ultra-talented, high energy, high school theatre director, named Mr. Cornell, who put me in several of the plays he directed at the high school. He was tough, but fair. He liked fast music, big voices, and perfection. He made me a better singer, a better actress, and he helped me find the confidence I needed to get through high school. I’d found a place, something I was good at, and it was in a tiny little town, in a little school theatre, in a high school that was smack dab in the middle of a cornfield. That man was an inspiration for me and so many other students who needed a place to fit in. He stayed in contact with me through college and afterwards- just checking up on me every so often. It was always evident that he cared. You just don’t find people like that very often. I had a sophomore English teacher who didn’t listen to some of the other teachers I’d had who told her I wouldn’t be able to handle placement in her “gifted” English class. Back then, no one really understood that I had Attention-Deficit Disorder or Dyscalculia. I think some of the teachers thought I was nice, but maybe not that smart. And honestly, I didn’t think I was very smart, either. But Karen Molter did not agree. She knew I desperately wanted to be in that English class of hers. Each year her “gifted” class worked together to write a book, and I was dying to be able to participate. So, Mrs. Molter figured out a way to get me in there, with a group of some of the most gifted kids in our class, and I helped write that book. In fact, I was an assistant editor of the book, and I was in Heaven. I think Mrs. Molter may have been one of the first people to ever see past my sometimes weird personality, my ADD, my math issues, and believe I could write. What a gift she gave me that year. I loved writing that book. Speaking of learning issues, my heart still goes out to my ninth grade Algebra teacher, Mr. Scott. He was soft spoken and so kind. He would meet me before school started or after school to give me extra help with math. He tried his best to help me, but I was practically a lost cause. No matter how many times I looked at him with my blank stare while he tried to explain one of the problems, he never got upset or angry with me. I’d never met someone so patient. I could only imagine what he must have been thinking, “This girl is the worst math student of all math students in the entire state of Indiana!”, but he never once said a word or made me feel stupid. I am fairly certain that was the year his entire head of hair turned gray and then all fell out. I still think about him and can’t believe how hard he worked trying to teach me and how patient he was. I still hate Algebra, but I don’t blame him. I teamed up with a girlfriend, KC Dennis, in that sophomore English class, and we became the best of friends. She was in every “gifted” class since elementary school, popular, pretty, and sweet. She had a great sense of humor, was a terrific writer, and a great athlete. In fact, if KC wanted to do something, she did it, and she did it well. To this day, I don’t think there is anything KC can’t do. She has always been and still is spectacular. KC’s dad was my dentist. He was a funny, lovable, messy genius type of man who knew I was terrified of any and all dental procedures. He’d always be sure to calm me down at every visit and give me a little extra medicine to numb my mouth. After I graduated from college and I needed a job, Dr. Dennis let me come work for him, even if it did drive him nuts when I would throw away papers he thought he needed. He was a bit of a hoarder, so I was really just trying to help out. I should also mention that not only was Dr. Dennis one of two dentists in our town, he was also the County Coroner. It made for an interesting summer job for me that year. It was gross, but he had some great stories. KC and I joined the high school swim team and were lucky to have an awesome coach who was patient (sometimes), hard-working, smart, and expected the best from his swimmers. He definitely brought out the best in KC and me. We loved our time on the swim team, we weren’t too bad at swimming, and, just like how Mr. Cornell helped bring out my talent for theatre, Mr. Tony Hiatt, our swim coach, brought out the swimmer in me. He pushed me to work hard, and the work paid off. He respected me as a person and didn’t treat me like a kid. He let me babysit for his beautiful, little red-haired girls, Meagan and Jenilie. They were precious girls, even if Jenilie cried the entire time I would watch them. I have always hoped I didn’t do something to scar her for life. She really didn’t like babysitters! Now both Meagan and Jenilie have children of their own. I bet Jenilie’s daughter doesn’t cry as much as her mom did! Each year for my birthday, my parents would take my sister and me to the fanciest and best restaurant in Kentland. We may not have had McDonald’s, but we had The Old Colonial Inn, and that was much better. Owned by a hard-working and dedicated couple, David and Mary Ryan, the Old Colonial Inn was beautiful. It was located on main street, right across from the courthouse, and they served “fancy food”, like shrimp, steak, and french onion soup. I had the happiest of birthdays there, with Dave, Mary, and their staff bringing me cake or ice cream at the end of my meal and wishing me a “Happy birthday”. One summer, Mr. Cornell picked me to join my friend Elaine, and a few other singers to do a small show there. I’m not sure if it’s still hanging there in the back hallway, but there used to be a picture of all of us in that show on display at the Colonial Inn. I loved that place and how warm and friendly everyone was who worked there. David and Mary hired me to babysit for their son, Joe, every once in awhile, who was, hands down, the easiest and most well-behaved child I had ever babysat in my life. I almost felt guilty at the end of the night taking their money for watching their child. I’m not sure what Joe is up to now, but I’ll bet he’s a success. He was one smart kid. My friend, Hallie Knepp, lived right across the street from David and Mary Ryan. Hallie was two years younger than me, but had the street smarts of a thirty-year-old man who lived in Brooklyn, New York. She taught me how to ride a bike. I think she was riding a bike without training wheels by the time she was three-years-old. We’d grab Kimmy and would hang out in her mom’s car, pretending like we knew how to drive, using straws or pencils as “cigarettes”, because, well, we were cool, and eating mustard sandwiches. Her older brother, Daren, and his friend, David Gross, would terrorize us by bringing out knives and not letting us out of the car or locking us up in Hallie’s attic. Good times. Just to be clear, they never stabbed us with the knives, they just pretended they would hurt us. I do think I remember there were some tears, though. Hallie had the most beautiful of baby dolls, that, if I remember correctly, her mom used to order from London. I felt so lucky and fancy when Hallie would let me play with those dolls. They were the most amazing dolls I’d ever seen. I wanted one of them so badly. More than once, I wanted to pretend I’d forgotten I was holding one of the dolls and run home with her tucked under my arm so I could keep her all for myself. I never did it, but I really wanted to. I’m glad I decided against committing theft back then, but, really, those dolls were gorgeous. Hallie’s mom, Pat, was also beautiful and always smelled like perfume. Not heavy awful perfume, but a soft scent that smelled like no one else but Pat Knepp. She was extremely talented. She could decorate a plain, ugly room and have it looking like a ballroom in minutes. The Funk family lived down the street from me- first Don and Nancy Funk with their sons Matt and Dan, and then Dick and Elaina Funk with their boys, Ted, Jason, Ben, and Chad. Their family had a lot of history in Kentland and owned a famous seed corn company that, I believe, is still in existence today. Dan was my friend, and I really liked that guy. He wasn’t afraid to hang out with me, a girl, and he liked a lot of the same things I did. One Halloween, he let me help out with a Funk family haunted house we put together in the Funk’s basement. It was a huge success, and we scared the living daylights out of many of the neighborhood kids that year. Matt Funk was way too handsome for me to talk to, so I did my best to avoid being in his presence any time I was at the Funk house. When Dan and I went to high school, he joined me in Mr. Cornell’s theatre productions, where we played most of our roles opposite each other. We had the best of times acting and singing together and learning as much as we could from Doris Williamson and Mr. Cornell. When Dan’s family moved out of the house down the street, Dan’s uncle, Dick and his family moved in there. Elaina Funk was pretty and sweet, and she would throw fabulous parties. She would let me come down and help her set up and get ready. She even paid me, which was just an extra bonus. She was patient as she showed me how to make different recipes, and she never got angry when I ruined a few salads. With four boys, she had her hands full, but she always kept them all together. They were a fun family, and I can still remember passing by their house and seeing Dick in the yard gardening while wearing khaki pants. He had to have been the town’s best dressed gardner, and his lawn has always been beautiful. There must be something to gardening in khaki pants. During the time I grew up in this little town, there was a family whose members were always there for us, the Steve and Paula Ryan family. Steve was the county prosecutor, and by that time, my dad was a detective at the state police. Dad and Steve always had a lot of stories to tell and criminals to arrest and prosecute, so it was fun hearing their conversations. The Ryans lived way out in the middle of nowhere, cornfields on every side of their property. They had horses and a pool, and they’d invite us over for every fourth of July. Our parents were good friends, and Paula would come to just about every swim meet I had, every choir concert, each school play, and everything else I would ever do, and take pictures. She had a gift for taking lovely photographs, and when I graduated from high school, she presented me with several albums full of pictures of me doing everything I had done all throughout the four years of school. She didn’t miss anything. Thanks to Paula, I have pictures of everything I did back then to show my own kids (and prove to them I really was on the swim team and did perform on stage). What a gift! How lucky I was to have a friend like Paula. It was almost as if she loved me as much as my own mother did. When I was a senior in high school, the day before high school graduation, five of our classmates were in a horrific car accident. Four of them died. That day changed our lives in that small little town. There were only sixty-four students in my graduating class, so the loss of four of our finest and smartest was devastating. We lost that security and feeling of being “safe”. We hadn’t had to face a situation that big and sad in our young lives. The thought of people I saw every day, friends I had cared about who were my own age could be alive one day and gone the next, was too much for my young brain to comprehend. My dad heard the sirens that night and bolted out of the house, after checking to make sure I was asleep and safe in my bed. He arrived at the scene to the most painful and awful experience he’d seen in his entire police career. Maybe he’d seen worse things, but this time he knew the victims, and they were his daughter’s age, so this time, it was not only horribly sad, but personal. My dad did his best at the scene to try save their lives, but they were already gone. All but one. One boy still clung to life, as my dad held a the bag attached to the IV that was in the boy’s arm. He said the boy was singing while he was trapped in the car- staying awake, trying to stay alive. That boy lived. I visited him in the hospital shortly after the accident and then again at his home once he was released. He’s a professor now and a writer, a father and a husband, and the best concert pianist I’ve ever heard play. He’s amazing. Every member of our tiny community was devastated when we lost those kids, but that one boy, the way he held on and was able to survive, gave us all hope. That accident changed everything. My dad had to inform a few of the kids’ parents that their children were gone. After that, my dad was never the same. I think it was just too much to have seen those kids in that car. Our hearts were broken- every single one of us who lived in Kentland, Indiana, was changed. The only good to come out of that terrible tragedy is that, I think, it brought our community together and closer. We took less for granted, and we hugged those we loved just a little bit tighter. I think of those classmates of mine who lost their lives in that car accident, and I have no doubt that, if they would have lived, they all would have done something great with their lives. Heaven is lucky to have them now. Kentland was small. It wasn’t glamorous. There weren’t many “rich” people living there. We only had a movie theater when someone would buy it, fix it up, own it for a little while, then have to let it go because it just didn’t make enough money to keep it open. We didn’t have many famous people from Kentland. But we had places like Don’s Drive In, where you could get a Jumbo Burger and a Boston Shake every summer. We had the Kentland Pool, where I worked in high school as a lifeguard, and watched over nearly every single child living in Kentland in the 1980’s. If I didn’t babysit for the kid, I probably watched him swim in the Kentland Pool or taught him swim lessons, or plucked him out of the deep end of the pool while he was slowly sinking to the bottom. Some of those kids were not the best of swimmers. We had Sharpe’s store, run by Mrs. Sondergrath, where my parents would buy my shoes, and where KC’s Aunt Peg would help you find a bra or pair of underwear when you needed one. We had Harvey’s Dime Store, and a hardware store. We had an optometrist's office where doctors Reed and Curtis would check your eyes and get your glasses if you needed them. And Dr. Reed was just about the friendliest person you could ever meet. He spoke to everyone he would see, and he never stopped smiling. I never saw him in a bad mood, not ever. After seeing him on the street, you’d spend the rest of your day happy. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that I babysat for his kids, too. We had a courthouse and lawyers and judges. Judge Molter hired me to work in his office one summer I was home from college. He was the best, most fun, down-to-earth judge I’d ever seen. I got to work there during a murder trial (we didn’t see many of those), so it was a pretty exciting job for a college student. In his spare time, Judge Molter would ride around on his riding lawnmower and mow lawns. I mean, where else but a small town in Indiana would you see your Circuit Court Judge outside mowing your lawn? And he did. He mowed our lawn. He did a darn good job, too. Once Judge Molter’s son was old enough, he took over the mowing. He was a good kid and worked hard. I wonder what he’s doing now? I’ll bet it’s something great. We had the Nu-Joy restaurant where people would go on Sundays after church and order the hot roast beef or hot turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes and gravy, and finish off with a piece of pie. My dad would meet friends there from time to time and they’d have coffee and tell police stories. I think Dad and Reverend Moore spent some time there together talking about how fast my dad drove his police car and how exciting it was when “The Rev” (that’s what my dad called him), got to go on a call with my dad. The Rev was not only the minister at our church, he was also the Indiana State Police Chaplain, so he and my dad spent a lot of time together. And then, many years later, after I had grown up, moved to Michigan, and got married, we had a funeral for my dad in Kentland, Indiana. Even though none of us but my mom lived there anymore, that was where we spent our childhood, so there was no other place we would have had Dad’s funeral. We called Reverend Moore, who had long since retired from being our church minister, and asked if he would please come back and perform our Dad’s funeral service. He came. He held us and cried with us. He told us the good stories about my dad that we really needed to hear at that sad time. I’ll never forget how he helped us get through those few day following my father’s death. Others came, too. The church was packed the day we had my father’s funeral. Many of the people I’d grown up with in Kentland were there, even if they’d moved away. My heart was broken, but again, those people from Kentland were there with their hugs, their support, and their love. I remember flowers sent by old classmates like Annetta, Ginny and Shelia, with sweet messages letting me know how sorry they were that I had lost my dad. It was truly amazing that people I hadn’t seen for years took the time to come to the funeral, send flowers, or a card. The Miller Family- Larry, Mim, Pam, Sean and Jodi, not only sent flowers and cards immediately after my father’s death, but continued to send them months and months after his death, as well. It’s as if they were letting me know that they hadn’t forgotten about him or me, and they weren’t going to forget. Their support meant the world to me during the worst time of my life. Mim and Larry had hearts of gold and cared about everyone in Kentland, and the surrounding small towns. Several years after my father passed away, Larry and Mim were on their way to church and were hit by another car. They were killed instantly. At that moment, Kentland lost two more of its best and brightest. I’m sure Mim and Larry are up in Heaven now looking down at their children and smiling as they watch their daughters mother their own children, and their son be a father to his daughter. They would have made the best grandparents. But I know they are up there bursting with pride as they watch their kids keep their family together. As a child, and especially as a teenager, you never see the gifts that are sitting there right in front of you. Growing up in a small town in Indiana surrounded by nothing but cornfields, you don’t realize how lucky you are. You wish for more- you think life might be better in a big city, or anywhere else. You crave more opportunity, more friends, more excitement, less isolation. But then you become an adult and you look back on the memories you have growing up in that tiny little town. You realize then that the best gifts you could have ever had were those people right down the street, the girl who made the donuts you picked up on Saturday mornings at the grocery store, the people who gathered at your church every Sunday, the woman who followed you around with a camera just so you’d always have memories of what you did in high school, the teacher who never gave up on you, the classmates who came together when you lost four of your own, and the best friend who made you the Godmother of her son. I know I’ll never live in a town like that again. I am not raising my sons in a small town, either, but I’m happy I have the stories about Kentland, Indiana that I can share with them as they grow. I haven’t been back there in a very long time, but I plan to take my boys there one day and show them the tiny little town in the middle of a bunch of cornfields that raised me and guided me into becoming the person I am today. And that will be the very best gift of all. 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http://herviewfromhome.com/be-who-you-are/ Yep. I get it. I know you’re angry. I know you feel that our country is in turmoil and we need to do something to find some way to get the United States of America back on track. But Donald Trump is not the answer to our problems.
I will give you all my Tory Burch handbags if you agree not to vote for him. I will buy you dinner and drinks, and drive you home afterwards. I will babysit for your kids for three weekends in a row- just please, please, please don’t vote for him. In all seriousness, I’m just going to take a moment here and list some of the things The Donald has said at one time or another, and then we can discuss…
I can’t even. First of all, the way The Donald talks about and refers to women is sexist, wrong, and disgusting. He has no respect for women, and I can only imagine how every single woman who would work in the White House under his Presidency (God forbid), would have to suffer from his humiliation and disrespect on a daily basis. You couldn’t pay me enough to work for someone who thinks so little of my tiny woman brain. Plus, since I’ve put on a few pounds after having two very large children and doing the “aging gracefully” thing, I’m sure The Donald would rate me as a “2”. But, of course, he’s a “10”. (I just puked a little in my mouth). If you have a daughter, how would you feel if he talked about her the way he talks about women he doesn’t like (the majority of our female population)? Would that be okay with you? Would it be perfectly acceptable for him to call your daughter names and accuse her of having “blood coming out of her” just because your daughter gave him a few hard questions to answer during a debate? And please don’t pretend that you buy his after-the-fact lie that the blood coming out of “her wherever” was supposed to be her nose. You aren’t that stupid. I know you’re not. I’m definitely not that stupid. To his credit, he has said his daughter is smart. That’s good. One point for The Donald for that remark, but then he lets all of America know that she’s real hot, and if he weren’t her dad, he’d be “dating” her. Um...no words. And, Dude, seriously- the comments about Mexicans. Come on, now. Is this what people REALLY think and believe? Do normal, everyday, good-hearted people REALLY think that Mexicans coming into our country are rapists? I mean, unfortunately, there are rapists everywhere. And for realz, Donny, not all of the Mexicans coming here from Mexico are rapists. The majority of the Mexicans entering the U.S are not rapists. In fact, I’ll bet you a MILLION dollars (because we know, we know, you are FILTHY rich, and you can afford it- you can stop reminding us), that only a VERY small percentage of Mexicans coming into our country are rapists. In fact, there may very well be no Mexicans coming into our country at this time who are rapists. It’s possible. Think about it. And don’t even get me started on all the grammar errors in that group of ridiculous nonsense he spouted out about Mexicans. My head hurts just reading the quote. I don’t think The Donald should be talking about other people’s marriages, no matter who it is. He’s got no room to talk about marriage train wrecks and cheating spouses. Pretty sure he’s been there, done that. Saying he’s a “traditionalist” (he did, he said it), when asked about gay marriage, is just plain ludicrous. Wouldn’t a “traditionalist” also believe that more than one divorce should be a bit frowned upon? And wasn’t The Donald still married when he started seeing the second (or third, I can’t keep track), wife? Traditional he’s not, and that’s okay. I don’t have a lot of room to judge anyone when it comes to failed marriages, but please don’t pretend that you’re above anyone else when it comes to the union of marriage. You suck at it, just like many of the rest of us little people, Donny. I especially love it when The Donald attacks people if they dare to disagree with him. It’s not just a normal, “Hey- your opinion is wrong and mine is right”, he has to bully the person by calling him/her names, saying that person is stupid, and humiliating the person in every way possible. When watching him do this to others, I think, “Am I back in middle school, because this sounds like the bullies in middle school.” What a terrific role model he is for our young people (that’s me, being sarcastic). Should we start teaching our kids that the way to win an argument isn’t by showing that you are confident, smart, and by knowing the facts, instead, you should call your opposing debater “a fat, ugly, pig”, and then you should say something about how you want to “punch him in the face” or “catch him on fire.” Awesome. And, for the love of God, Donny, don’t ever talk about blood coming out of a woman again unless you are at the scene of a brutal murder and you are reporting the crime to law enforcement. I honestly cannot believe that real, rational, normal Americans think this kind of talk by someone who might potentially be the leader of the free world (puked in my mouth again), is acceptable. It’s not. It’s not okay. It’s not funny. It’s repugnant and it’s dangerous. I also have a real problem with people who refuse to apologize when they do something wrong. I’d have at least a sliver of respect for The Donald if he’d just admit when he does or says something inappropriate and would apologize. You see, that’s another thing I try to teach my boys. If you do something wrong, you take ownership of it and you apologize to whomever it is that you hurt. It’s the definition of a good person and it’s the right thing to do as a human being. This world would be a much better place if people would stop blaming others for their mistakes and instead just suck it up, admit the wrongdoing, and say, “I’m sorry,” The Donald is the King of blaming others and never acknowledging his own mistakes. Again, it reminds me of middle school. However, most of the middle school children I know do a much better job of apologizing than The Donald does. I’ve always taught my children that whomever the President may be, even if you don’t like him or his politics, you must always respect him (or her). Everyone should have respect for the office, and for the leader of our country (no matter what a douchebag he might be). A friend asked me the other day what I would do if The Donald became our President (full fledged vomit now exiting my mouth). I gave her the wrong answer on that day. I told her that he wouldn’t get my respect, but I was wrong. I’d be going against everything I believe and all the things I’ve taught my kids if I talked poorly and disrespected our President. If The Donald becomes President (now I’m having heart palpitations), I will do my very best to give him the respect I believe the President of the United States deserves, even if that President does not respect me (and he won’t). He won’t respect me because he could care less what a middle-aged, slightly overweight, stay-at-home mom, struggling writer thinks about him or any of the decisions he makes on MY behalf. I’m pretty darn sure that The Donald wouldn’t do well working FOR someone. He’s always the boss, and he makes that very clear. What would happen if he became our President (rather have a hot poker in the eye), and he simply could NOT bring himself for work for the American people? That scares me, because our President SHOULD care what I and every other parent, working adult, unemployed adult, child, teacher, mentally ill person, cancer patient, mail carrier, law enforcement officer, soldier, and every other American citizen thinks or feels or needs. But this guy, The Donald, I think he only cares about one thing- The Donald. Please don’t embarrass our country by putting this man in the Oval Office. Please don’t allow him to be the representative of who Americans are and what we believe. I shudder when I hear of my friends living in other countries talk about The Donald and how in the world anyone in the United States of America could or would stand behind such a vulgar, egotistical, women-hating, blow hard. I don’t care what your politics are, whether you’re a Republican or a Democrat. Vote for anyone other than this narcissistic, woman-hating, bully. I would vote for my thirteen-year-old son before I’d vote for The Donald. And, quite honestly, I think at this point, my thirteen-year-old son is more dignified and more qualified. He’s certainly more respectful, kind, and sincere. And, most of the time, my kid says, “I’m sorry”, when he hurts my feelings or does something wrong. Don’t let your anger and discontent with the world today cloud your good judgement. Deep down inside I think you know this man cannot be our President. Do the right thing and vote for anyone else. Do it for our kids, if nothing else, because they need someone to look up to who can admit when he’s wrong, who talks respectfully and kindly about ALL people in the world, and who loves the United States of America more than he loves getting good television ratings, winning, and criticizing anyone and everyone who doesn’t agree with everything he believes. I’ll simply close by saying to you all… Goodluck and God bless the United States of America. It’s December. I want to sit on the couch next to my Christmas tree drinking hot cocoa and think about how much fun we’ll have Christmas morning. I want to look outside at all the lights and decorations and feel the joy of the season. But how do I do it when there’s so much uncertainty and sadness in the world?
I think about sending my boys to college one day and I wonder, “Will they be safe? Will they have to worry that someone will come into one of their classrooms and start shooting?” I just don’t know. It could happen. I don’t want to let my boys go anywhere, but I know I have to let them live, even though there are monsters out there who want to kill them. My boys, who have never hurt another human being in their lives, are hated simply because they are Americans. When I was a young girl, I wasn’t concerned with these things. I worried about tornados or maybe my house catching on fire when we had “Fire Prevention Week” at school, but I never had to worry about a world full of strangers who despised me just because I was born in America. And now my youngest son comes home from school every so often and asks me if ISIS is going to come to Michigan and kill us all. I’ve always been the type of person who tried not to let anyone intimidate me. I went to New York City a month after 9/11. I wasn’t going to let terrorists keep me from living my life. But now I’m a mother, and I’ve become afraid to let my boys go. I took them to see a movie the other night, and I was scanning the theatre the moment we sat down. I was looking for every exit sign and planning our escape, just in case some maniac in full gear, loaded with guns and ammo, came in shooting. A few weeks ago, when my husband took my oldest son to a football game, I worried. I had to talk myself down, saying there would be no way my husband would ever let anything happen to my boy. I told myself I was being ridiculous and that they would both have a great time and be just fine. I’m not totally paralyzed with fear yet. I still send them to school. I still walked into that theatre, bought them popcorn, and watched the movie. But as time goes on, and as we are continually attacked, my fear grows. I want to stand up and tell the world that I’m not afraid, but I can only pretend. Because now that I have two sons whom I’ve sworn to love and protect, I am afraid, and I hate to admit it. I hate that the killers are winning. They are scaring me, and I’m losing the brave, fearless woman I once was. These terrorists and murderers must have been young once. They were babies at one time. They had mothers. I wonder now, if their mothers see them and know what they do, how those mothers must feel. What shame it must be to know that your babies are killing other innocent babies and then celebrating it for all the world to see. Or maybe these savages never had mothers, or at least not the kind of mothers who raised them with love and protection. Something had to have been missing somewhere along the way to have them grow up with no hearts. I don’t have much of a choice. I’m going to let my kids live, let them go to the movies and football games, and to the mall because they need to live their lives. I know it’s better for them to experience all they can while they are still young. Although locking them in our house might keep them safer, that’s no real life for them at all. But as I watch them walk out the door, I will still worry. I will still pray. I will still plan our escape. I will always be watching. And if the time ever comes when we face the most frightening situation, I’m not going down without a fight, no matter how scared I might be. Maybe when the monsters were babies, they didn’t have mothers who fought for them. Maybe they had to survive on their own. I’m going to choose to believe they never had mothers because if they did, and their mothers were like me, that’s just the most scary thing of all. Getting old sucks. It’s not fair that a forty-five year old woman can get pimples, grow hair in places hair shouldn’t be, and has to basically starve herself to lose a pound. I hate it! But I have to admit, there is one thing about growing older I love, and that’s the relationships I’ve built with my girlfriends. It seems those relationships are only getting better with age, which makes getting more gray hair and wrinkles almost bearable. Almost. Lucky for me, I’ve had the same best friend since I was five years old. She lived on the same street in the town we grew up in, just one house away from mine. Her dad was a cop named Rick, my dad was a cop named Rick. She had a younger brother, I had a younger sister. It was perfect, and it still is. We may not talk every day or every week. Even a month might go by and we forget to call or text, but the minute we see each other or talk on the telephone, it’s like no time has ever passed. We pick up right where we left off. She’s the godmother of my eldest son, and I’m the godmother of her son. We chat about our children, our husbands, how much we miss each other, and when we’re going to plan our next girl’s trip to Florida. We’ve never fought, and we’ve supported each other through the best and worst times of our lives. She’s more like a sister to me than a friend, and a cherish each and every moments we’ve shared. I have two wonderful girlfriends who live near me and throughout the days, we text. Sometimes we text hundreds of times per day, and sometimes it’s just a few times per week. But we share almost everything. I’ll tell them what I had for breakfast, why I am frustrated about the stains on my living room couch, or how we are all going to plan one day during the week that we will get together and exercise (although that hasn’t happened yet). If I don’t hear from one of them on a particular day, I always text a few times, just to make sure she’s okay. When I’m feeling down, these ladies lift me up. If I have good news to share, they are two of the first people I tell. The “Texting Ladies”, are part of a rotating group of fun, sweet, and loyal women I’m lucky to call my friends. We meet for tacos and margaritas on some “Taco Tuesdays” at one of our favorite restaurants. We make dates to spend Halloween together and watch our children run around neighborhoods trying to get as many pieces of candy they possibly can. We plan “play dates” (my children tell me that I shouldn’t call them that anymore), for our kids and drink coffee while they play basketball in my driveway. Most importantly, we’ve got each other’s backs. I know that if I ever needed anything, all these women would be there for me. I don’t know that I could say that about friends I had in my twenties. Not that those friends were bad, but back then, weren’t we all a little scattered and self-absorbed? Growing older, we let a lot of our insecurities go, we don’t care as much about material things, we care more about the people in our lives who are important to us. I have a friend who brings me chicken pot pie when I’m sick and who brought candy to my son when he was suffering from severe migraines. I have friends who support my extremely long process of becoming a “real” author, even though I’ve been writing one chapter book for over a year now. I have a friend who motivates me to eat healthy and exercise, but who will occasionally make me a key lime pie because she knows they are my favorite. She even told me it was “okay to eat a slice of that pie for breakfast as long as I add a little protein, too.” Now, THAT’S a friend. I have a friend who loves Halloween just as much as I do, who is terrified of spiders, and who reads everything I write while being completely honest about how good or how bad it is. Most people don’t realize how valuable that can be, but I do. I couldn’t appreciate her more. I have friends who have taught my sons in school and who have taken the time to really get to know them and bring out the very best in them. These amazing teacher friends of mine have gone above and beyond so many times for my kids and me, that I really can never repay them for all they’ve done for us. Some of my loyal friends have joined the PTA because I asked them to, or chaired events because I’ve begged. They’ve worked tirelessly on projects with me, and quietly stood by while I received all the credit for the work because I just happened to be the PTA President at the time. If I walk on the treadmill, my friends applaud me. If I finish a picture book, they read it, and they encourage me to write more. If I have a day that I don’t get out of my pajamas and I watch horror movies all day, my friends don’t judge. When I tell them I need botox and liposuction, they disagree, or they tell me they’ll go with me to see the plastic surgeon. And that’s a plus. All I know is that I can’t live without these women in my life. They make growing older less painful and more fun. There are things we can share that I can’t share with anyone else. They understand my weirdness, and they love me anyway. They know I brag too much about my kids, and they don’t care. They realize I talk way too much, but they just sit back and listen. What I think I’m trying to say here is this; I am the luckiest person in the world. I have the best friends anyone could ever hope for. Growing old still sucks, but if I have to do it, at least I have these ladies doing it alongside me, and that makes it all better. Sometimes, when we think of middle school aged children, we imagine surly moods, acne, hormones, and the occasional breaking of rules. All of this stuff is pretty normal and comes with the territory. What doesn’t come to mind is a middle school kid who spends most of his free time figuring out how he can help others.
This amazing kid goes to school with my son, and they’ve become good friends. HIs name is Caleb, and he is the founder of the Caleb White Project, a Detroit-based non-profit organization dedicated to helping those in need. This past weekend, my family and I headed to Detroit to do some volunteer work for Caleb’s organization. Since I had worked in the nonprofit sector for nearly nine years, I knew what to expect when working at a large event. What I didn’t expect were the friends we all made that day. That morning, my husband and I woke our boys early, put ourselves into the car, and drove downtown with assistance from Mercedes, my beloved navigation system that I cannot live without. Mercedes drove us into a pretty sad looking neighborhood. There were several houses with no windows, graffiti, broken sidewalks, and closed businesses. But in the middle of this suffering neighborhood, there stood a bright light, The Beulah First Missionary Baptist Church. Decorated with balloons and streamers, the church parking lot was filled with volunteers from the church, as well as other people from my neck of the woods. There were many smiling faces racing around trying to get everything set up before our guests were to arrive. One man stood out. He was tall and slender, his face had the biggest smile, and he held a megaphone so he could help instruct the volunteers. Just by looking at his face, I could tell he was happy, excited, and ready to have a great day. He greeted us when we entered the parking lot, welcomed us to the church, and introduced himself as the Pastor. I liked him immediately. We joined Caleb and his mom (who looks like a cross between a model and a twenty-two-year-old college student, and who is a nice as she is beautiful), in preparing for the day. My boys were volunteering in the game tent where there were all sorts of board games, footballs, prizes, and more. My husband and I were in charge of monitoring the bounce house. Caleb had organized this entire event, and the party had everything anyone would ever want. It was a perfect “Back To School” party. There were hot dogs and chips for lunch, snow cones and cotton candy for dessert. There was a spinning apple ride, relay races on bouncey balls, the aforementioned games and bounce house, nice clothing to give away, beauticians on hand to style hair and give haircuts, manicures, and face painting. They even had a nurse there, a prayer table, restrooms, and lots of bottled water. The best part was that for every child who attended the party, he or she would leave with a backpack filled with school supplies, because Caleb has said, “No kid should ever have to start school without school supplies and a backpack.” Caleb is right. The families arrived just a few minutes after 10:00 am. The children were excited and beaming. I noticed that just about every child came dressed in his/her very best shirt, shorts, or dress. All the girls had perfect hairstyles, so many with beautiful braids tied with colorful matching barrettes and hair ties. Boys wore colorful t-shirts and brand new tennis shoes. Some of the dresses worn by the girls were so fancy and beautiful. Everyone looked so nice; you could tell this was a very special day. It was a blast to monitor the bounce house, and also a lot of work. There was a lot of bouncing going on that day! We had two little girls, dressed in matching shorts and t-shirts, hair done in braids with matching hair ties, who jumped so high I thought I’d have to go inside the house and get them off the ceiling at some point. We had Cameron, whose favorite thing was to bounce and kick (karate-style), and chat with my husband about school, how much he wanted to learn karate, his new t-shirt and shoes, and his love of sno-cones. When he found out both my boys did Taekwondo, he asked me if I could go get them so they could show him some moves. I did, and my boys and Cameron jumped and kicked together. My boys said Cameron could kick really high, and would make an excellent Taekwondo student. There was a group of tween girls who taught me how to play “Dead Man” (sounds a lot worse than it is), inside the bounce house, but let me know that it’s more fun to play on a trampoline. There was so much giggling going on in the house when they were playing that game, I couldn’t help but laugh myself. It was obvious that Dead Man was a fun game, despite its scary name. We met Jackson, who was one of our youngest volunteers, and who kept my husband and me laughing all day long while he did tricks for us, told us jokes, and tried to hide from his mom (also a volunteer), when she tried to get him to take a break from all that bouncing. There was Marcus and Miles whose great-grandmother brought them to the party. Their favorite part of the party was the cotton candy, but they liked the hot dogs, too. I got a chance to talk with their great-grandma, who has a few kids of her own, several grandchildren, and even more great-grandchildren. She was actually called, “Nana”, and I found out later that not only was she great-grandmother to Marcus and Miles, but to Cameron, too. I told her what a lucky lady she was to have such nice boys. She agreed. We probably let too many older kids get in that bounce house and jump that day, but I wasn’t going to tell them they couldn’t jump. They were just having way too much fun. One boy could do front and back flips over and over again, and I couldn’t figure out how in the world he wasn’t getting dizzy. He certainly made it look easy! I was amazed at how many of these children, who didn’t know me at all, talked with me with such ease, let me pick them up and help them into the bounce house, and came to me to get a hug when they bumped their elbows on other kids’ heads while bouncing. Every child said “thank you.” Every child said “you’re welcome.” And one of those tween girls told me how much she liked my toenail polish. I felt almost cool for a few seconds. What I felt the most, though, was that I belonged. I felt like we all belonged. We all belonged there together, on the corner of that little street in Detroit, laughing, talking, playing, and eating. It didn’t matter where we lived, the amount of money in our bank accounts, or the color of our skin. We were all meant to be there together that day to have a party and to make new friends. I watched my boys help the really small children play board games, and throw a football with some of the older kids. I watched them teach Cameron a few Taekwondo moves. I watched them sit together with so many of our other volunteer students and guests, eating hot dogs, and telling jokes. I saw so many of Caleb’s classmates and their families there to help out, as well as one of our school’s vice principals who brought along his children to join in the fun. Many of my fellow middle school moms were there, and it was nice to catch up and talk about what we all did over the summer. I expected a day of fun, a little work, and great weather. I expected an event that would help teach my kids how important it is to give back, and to make it a priority to volunteer for projects, events, and organizations that mean something and help people in need. What I didn’t expect were the giant bear hugs I got from children who simply wanted me to know how much they appreciated my help and attention, the enthusiasm of a church pastor whose gleefulness was so contagious, every single person who chatted with him left with a bigger smile than when they arrived, and the modesty and unselfishness of a thirteen-year-old boy who started this whole thing because he “just wanted to help other people”. Caleb preferred not to get much attention, but rather liked to sit back and watch his guests enjoy a perfect day. It was a perfect day. We all came together for a party and everyone had a good time. Hundreds of children had full bellies, overflowing backpacks, and were excited to start a new year of school. And to think it all started because a little boy wanted lots of other little girls and boys to feel special, loved, and happy. What a day, what an event, what an organization, and what a kid. Thanks, Caleb, for teaching us all what it means to make a difference. Since my oldest son is going into the eighth grade, and my youngest into the sixth, I feel that I am now a brilliantly qualified and knowledgeable middle school parent. I thought I’d share all the things I’ve learned having a son in middle school for the past couple of years. I’ve made a list. Pin it to your bulletin board. Hang it on your refrigerator. Keep it in your wallet. Whatever you need to do to keep this list with you, do it. It will save you from anger, frustration and heartache as your child grows, leaves elementary school, and moves on into his or her middle school years. I only have boys, so the list will be written for boys, but I’m pretty sure a lot of these helpful suggestions can work with both sexes. Read carefully and thoroughly, and share with your friends. As middle school parents, we must unite.
9. If you happen to need to enter your child’s middle school at any time during the year, do so quietly and quickly. Watch Animal Planet and observe how the cheetah moves. See how the cheetah moves making no sound, running so fast that you almost cannot see him at all? That’s what you need to be. Be the cheetah. Get in, get your business done, and get out. And by all means, if you see your child, do not speak to him, and certainly do NOT go near him or (God forbid), touch him. 10. If your child wants to invite friends to your house, be sure to have plenty of snacks available, as well as every brand and flavor of soft drink you are able to purchase in the grocery store. While you’re at it, buy a few packs of that flavored water, too. Keep in mind that although you may have all these things available, the children are likely to not eat or drink any of it, but if you do not have it there, the world quite possibly could end. And we don’t want that, do we? So buy all the stuff. Better safe than sorry. 11. If your child does have friends over, do not speak to them. It’s best to nod as they enter the home, hold up a plate of cookies, and gesture to the many varieties of soda you have available for them to drink. Again, smile just a little, not too much. Do not look them in the eye. Busy yourself with laundry or cleaning so they don’t think you are trying to figure out what they are doing in your home. This is all I have for you thus far. I am sure I will have more rules as my children head into their eighth and sixth grade years. It’s an adventure, that’s for sure. I just hope I’m doing it right, and I hope these rules will help you along the way, too. Feel free to add any of your rules in the comments section below. We all need to learn from one another! Good luck! Today we are going to talk about names. Well, we’re going to talk about one name- my name. My parents (and my mother blames my dad each time I bring this up to her), named me Tammi. Let me start by saying I mean no offense to all the other Tammi’s, Tammie’s, Tammy’s and Tami’s out there, but I hate my name.
I remember as far back as first grade (I had some issues in first grade, mainly due to a tyrant of a teacher, the Attention-Deficit Disorder that no one knew I had, and the fact that I could not, no matter how hard I tried, figure out how to do mathematics in any way, shape or form), wanting to change my name to “Lisa”. Lisa was a nice, normal name; the name of girls with dark blonde, wavy hair tied back with ribbons, and girls who wore fancy skirts and patent leather shoes. Lisa’s were always smart, they colored in the lines, they didn’t have trouble holding still, and they were very popular. The Lisa’s of the world had lots and lots of friends, and that’s who I wanted to be. Much to my dismay, anger, and true bewilderment, my family didn’t buy into it, and the horrible teacher I had sent me to the school counselor to discuss my many “problems”. Side note- my mother was very pleased when the counselor informed both her and the teacher from Hell that I was not only a very “normal” child, but in many ways, gifted. You’d have thought this would have done wonders for me; made me live out the rest of my first grade year on a high note, but I think hearing those words from the counselor made my teacher angry and she hated me even more. Let’s get back to the name. Since no one would call me “Lisa” when I was six-years-old, I knew I was stuck. I would always be Tammi. To make matters worse, in my opinion, not only did my parents name me Tammi (with an “i”, mind you), my middle name was Lynn. Tammi Lynn. I love my mom. But here’s the issue I have with her argument about naming me-- She says my dad was so happy that she was pregnant with me, and when they were discussing names, he asked if I could be called “Tammi Lynn” if I was going to be a girl. He said he thought it was a beautiful name. (WTF?) Apparently, there was also a song and a television show or movie or something about a Tammy, as if that makes it all better. At that moment, had my mom been at all on top of it, she would have stopped him right there and reminded him who was going to be carrying around the little bundle of joy for nine months and who was the one who’d have to push the full-grown fetus out of the smallest hole possible when the time came. She should have stuck to her guns and told Dad that there was “NO WAY IN HELL” he was naming their baby. Instead, my mom, being the sweet, caring, loving woman she always is, let the man name me. And so it was done; my fate was sealed. Fast forward several years to the 1980’s. My dad enjoyed watching a television program called “Night Court”. One of the characters on the show, Dan, was a lawyer and a truly awful male chauvinistic pig. I’d sneak into the TV room from time to time while Dad was watching and take a peak. It never failed. Each time that character talked about one of his girlfriends, her name was Tammi, and she always had big boobs, frizzy bleached-blond hair, and I am now quite certain, I didn’t “get” it then, she was always a prostitute. The guy liked hookers, and more often than not, those hookers names were Tammi. Now that I’m an adult, I’ve learned to live with it. I have refused to watch the movie, “Ted”, not just because I think the idea of a stuffed, vulgar, talking teddy bear is completely stupid, but I know too much about the scene where the bear talks about his girlfriend. You know the one, don’t you? My husband was kind enough to forward the scene to me via email one day. It goes something like this… The Mark Wahlberg character and the filthy Ted bear are discussing Ted’s new girlfriend and Mark is trying to guess the girlfriend’s name. Ted tells him that it is a “white trash” name. Mark begins to spout off names that are considered “white trash”. There are many- Brittany, Bambi, Ashley, etc., but he stops at the most white trash name of all (according to Mark and the Teddy)-- Tammi. They don’t stop there. They talk about what makes the name even more “white trash”, and that is the fact that the girl’s middle name is “Lynn”. Tammi Lynn. My name. Mother F**#&%&. How is it possible that there’s a perverted, naughty, little talking teddy bear making millions at the box office discussing how white trash my given name is? It doesn’t get any better than that, folks. Thanks, Dad. I hesitated to write this blog post, because I didn’t want to make any of the other women out there who share my name upset. Maybe they like the name, and that’s OK. But it’s also my name, and I hate it, so I decided I wanted to write about it. Please don’t be offended. I didn’t name you. Blame your parents. I blame mine. I also blame my parents for not getting me an agent to manage what I was certain to be a lucrative acting career, back when I was ten years old, but that’s a story for another time. I think this past year, a movie came out starring Melissa McCarthy called Tammy. Surprise- I haven’t seen it. I like Melissa McCarthy. I think she’s hilarious. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to pay money to see a movie called Tammy. There can be no good to come of that for me, I just know it. Sometimes I will introduce myself to strangers and they will ask me if I’m “from the South”. The South of what, I think? South side of Indianapolis? No. I was born in southern Indiana, and I don’t think that area would really be considered “The South”. Maybe if I lived further south, I’d feel more “normal”, and less like people expect me to wrestle ‘gators in my spare time and wear cut off jean shorts to the barn dance. Not that there’s anything wrong with any of that, mind you. I just don’t do it because 1) I’m terrified of ‘gators (and most other reptilian-type creatures), and 2) I am not thin enough by any means to pull off a good pair of cut-offs. There are other Tammi’s out there whom I am sure look a lot better in those babies than I do. Most of them starred on that “Night Court” show in the ‘80’s, I’ll bet. 3) I am a terrible dancer, therefore I do not go to any dances in a barn or elsewhere. Other times I will get into conversations about middle names, and when I tell people mine, they always do the same thing- they think for a few brief moments, look up toward the sky, then they chuckle. Yep. I know. Tammi Lynn. I get it. Just for kicks, try googling my name- Tammi Lynn. Just check out what comes up on the Internet. I can’t do it; I blush every time. Let’s just say that some of those Tammi Lynn’s are up to no good. But they do look really good in cut-off jean shorts- most of them do, anyway. I do hope that everyone who reads this post understands that I’m not really angry about all this. I do see the humor in it, and that’s why I’m poking fun at my name and myself. I don’t hate my parents. My dad probably thought Tammi Lynn was the most beautiful name he’d ever heard back when he was in his early 20’s, and ready to become an new father. There was no way he could foresee my name being used as a punchline for nearly every white trash joke in the book. My parents simply loved me and gave me a name they thought would stand up over time. My dad probably saw a little girl with blond pigtails, and a beautiful smile when he thought of what his Tammi Lynn would look like one day. When I was probably about four years old, my grandfather bought a fishing boat, and guess what he named that thing? You got it, the Tammi Lynn. How’s that for redemption? I don’t really remember the boat, but I’m told it was a nice one. And there are some very famous women out there who share my name, I’m sure. How about Tammy Wynette? Tammy Blanchard is an actress, and there was Tammy Faye Baker. Let’s move on from that one, shall we? So, for me, and all the Tammi Lynn’s of the world (however you might spell it), it’s time to march forward and be proud of all we have accomplished and everything we will do from here on out. I don’t know about all of you, but I’m ready to tease my blond hair, put on my push-up bra, and get out there and tackle the world. Come join me, won’t you? No names have been changed in this blog post to protect the innocent. Thanks for listening. Love, Tammi Lynn :) |
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