The Embarrassing Truth

I asked my wife this morning on what I should blog about. There must have been something foreign hidden within her morning protein shake, because she responded with this suggestion: Life as a web-footed sea creature.

Hmmm. I think she's onto something, don't you. How would life be as a web-footed sea creature? Mesmerizing.

Unfortunately, I have very little experience as one of these mentioned sea-creatures. That is unless, of course, you count the time when one of my neighborhood friends dared me to lick a leech stuck to the back of a rock. That's as close as it gets. I apologize for this little side anecdote, but it is important to mention that my wife offers the strangest sense of humor I've ever encountered. I sometimes wonder if I'm supposed to laugh, cry, or floss. Interesting segue don't you think? I do.


As I think back throughout my life, and no I'm not writing my memoirs just yet, I can't help but dwell on one particular area in my history. Elementary school. Those two words drum up a plethora of emotions. Fear seems to be the predominant one and that is always coupled with embarrassment.

• Wasn't it in elementary school when we experienced the most embarrassing moments in our life? True, we were young, innocent, and ignorant to what constitutes as something that is embarrassing, but you have to agree with me don't you?

• Wasn't it in elementary school (3rd grade to be precise) when you wet your pants in front of the entire class and then thought it was a good idea to turn in your homework assignment the next day (the one that happened to be under your desk when you decided to relieve yourself for all the world to see?)

• Wasn't it in elementary school when you experienced the dreaded barf beads? You know the ones. Smelled like a generic brand of mouthwash and carried in an unmarked canister on the janitor's cleaning cart. And why did you experience the dreaded barf beads? Oh, because you barfed. Not in a toilet or a sink, but in mid-stride to the front of the class while turning in your homework.

• Wasn't it in elementary school when you launched off the see saws because you challenged a heavier kid to a game of "bump bum" and ended up face first in a pile of leaves and left for dead by your classmates, one of which eventually tried poking you with a stick to see what dead people felt like?

• Wasn't it in elementary school when you were prevented to join your classmates outside at recess because you insisted "used" was spelled with a "Y" and "rough" was spelled with two "F"s?

• Wasn't it in elementary school when you got singled out by the monstrous lunch lady who, by the way, is the model after which Ms. Borfish was patterned, in the middle of lunch because you kept pounding the salt shaker like a gavel whenever she yelled for order in the lunchroom?

• Wasn't it in elementary school when you decided showing off your karate moves for "show and tell" was a good idea? Oh, might I add, you had no karate moves, and the closest thing you could muster was skipping back and forth at the front of the class until you tripped on an eraser and banged your chin against the chalkboard.

• Wasn't it in elementary school when you were forced to dress up like George Washington for the school Christmas play which included wearing tights, black shoes with gigantic buckles, and a white, powdered wig? No one else was dressed as such.

• Wasn't it in elementary school when you first started passing love notes to girls? And wasn't it then when your teacher would snatch up these letters, read them to the class, and reprimand you for your awful handwriting and for spelling "use" with a "Y"?

• Wasn't it in elementary school when the music teacher proclaimed that you had a beautiful voice and insisted you belt out a solo with notes that most of the girls couldn't hit. The result of which landed you the highly-coveted part of George Washington for the school Christmas play.

• Wasn't it in elementary school when you consistently forgot the day of school pictures and were immortalized either wearing a snoopy sweat shirt (in the 6th grade) or accidentally posing cross-eyed with a hair-cut that may or may not have started the Billy Ray Cyrus Mullet revolution?

• Wasn't it in elementary school when you thought if you closed your eyes no one else could see you picking your nose or (in the extreme circumstances) peeing your pants?

• Wasn't it in elementary school when you thought it would be cool to wear pajamas outside, complete with bum flap?

• Wasn't it in elementary school when breaking wind was always uncontrollable and unfortunately ten decibels louder than your teacher's lecture? Of course, had it been the cool kid in the class "stomping the duck", every girl would've giggled and thought it was the most awesomest sound ever to grace their ears, but when you do it, you get yelled at by your teacher, threatened by the class bully, and doused with barf beads by the school janitor.

There are dozens more of these out there and it makes me wonder, how did I ever survive elementary school?

Nostalgic Moment #29

Do you realize it's been almost 2 months since my last Nostalgic Moment? I've severely let you, myself, and Zoe (my pet rat) down. Nostalgic Moments were the reason I started blogging, but with everything going on at Christmas, the New Year, and of course Resoredo Day, I've forgotten one of the most important elements of my life.

The question I'm posed with now is what part of my life's history do I want to dial up and broadcast for the world to see? And when I say world, I mean all 49 of you (give or take a few.)

To preface this memory, I must go on record and make a bold claim. The neighborhood where I'm from, in that far away place called Winchester, Kentucky, was the greatest neighborhood for any kid to grow up in. If I could draw (and I can't), I would fashion you an accurate map of the battleground I and my friends called LaSalle Drive. Instead for this Nostalgic Moment, I will describe to you the land where I come from and, for that matter, the land where Hashbrown's neighborhood was born.

My house sat almost at the top of a slow-rising hill where directly behind our back yard was a field that was off-limits to youngsters. Supposedly, there were criminals hiding out in the dark woods that would shoot you with rock salt if you got too close. And, of course, you might stumble upon The Crypt where the man in black patrolled. We had a secret passageway under our stairwell which was perfect for hide and seek and for discovering early Christmas gifts. We owned a deck that was the source of many of my injuries and a clump of fitzer bushes next to the garage that were perfect for scaring younger trick-or-treaters.

Across the street and a few houses down lived a boy that we'll call Kermit, to protect the innocent. Kermit owned an arsenal of weapons: knives, swords, throwing stars, and the deadliest cross-bow I've ever seen. I once witnessed him shoot one of my friends with that cross-bow, but I'll spare you the details. Kermit was dangerous at six years old, but by the age of eleven, he was downright lethal. Kermit also owned the fort where we all hung out every afternoon after school. It wasn't a tree house, per se, but more of a house raised up on stilts high above the trees. It was from that fort where I had to make an emergency stop at the hospital because I chose to leap from the platform when a simple game of hide and seek turned sour one fateful afternoon. Kermit's family eventually moved away before I hit junior high and the next family had a couple of idiotic boys that picked up right where Kermit left off. I tell you, that house was cursed. The older boy loved throwing clumps of doggie doo at sports cars and the younger boy, once tried to chop down the stilt house with an axe... while we were in it! Yeah, he was 7 and the axe was bigger than him, but still!

One house down from Kermit, lived another family with a boy my age who was almost just as lethal, if not the poster child for hyperactivity. We'll call him Chad. I'm not very good with regular names and for those of you that have read my books will probably agree. Whenever Kermit and Chad patrolled the neighborhood you could almost guarantee that trouble wasn't too far behind. They were both my friends periodically and unfortunately, also my enemies. We fought more than our share of battles (most of the time I had to pick myself off the ground fighting back tears and nursing scraped knees, but on occasion, I was the victor.) I still remember the day when Kermit pushed Chad from the fort and broke his arm while we were all busy hoarding buckeyes and walnuts to pelt at the rival kids from over the creek in Lyndell. Chad had a partial forest behind his house as well, where tall weeds made perfect places to lay low in after a night of toilet papering. His family also owned a barely used wood pile on the edge of the forest where my friends and I carved out another fort to utilize whenever Kermit's stilt house was off limits because he was being grounded for attempted murder. More like a log cabin, the wood pile provided the perfect hideout right after we destroyed one of our neighbor's garden in our vegetable fight with the Lyndell gang. Ah, the memories.

Next to Chad's house, the sidewalk ended and became a pathway of dirt, we kids called "The Ramps". I'm not too proud to say that I ate more than my share of pavement on those Ramps due to dares and bets. Some boys were born to steer the bikes... others, like myself, were born to ride atop the handle bars. Not smart.

My neighborhood also had a healthy amount of wildlife as well. Next door lived Medusa, the satanic cat, and Toto, the three-legged cocker spaniel, that twice took on a UPS truck and lived to tell the tell, if not missing a few limbs. Lucy, was a Boxer, that seemed to one day appear out of a metal trash can. That dumb dog had a death wish and would not back down from attacking no matter how many water balloons you'd chuck at her. Up the hill beside my house lived Doc, part horse/part Rottweiler. It didn't matter if you were riding safely in the family car, you still ducked whenever that massive beast would shake the bay window with it's bloody paws.

Most neighborhoods have a haunted house that steers kids away. Mine had four. There was the house on the same property of The Crypt, where an old lady in white would spend the twilight hours rocking on a porch swing with her eyes rolled in the back of her head. There was the house where "The Stacy" lived. I can't go into too much details about "The Stacy" because the stories of her that my sister would tell me on dark nights are still too troubling for me. Let's just say "The Stacy" held weekly seances and owned an extensive collection of goat skulls. There was the grey house at the end of the neighborhood where the road turned to head toward Old Boonesboro. Everyone knew about the ghosts that haunted that property. Spirits of elderly couples that die on train tracks, don't rest easy, as you all should know. And let's not forget the ghost of the farm worker that was attacked and killed by hundreds of turkeys years before any of the houses were built. Oh, it's true all right. Kermit and Chad swore that it was.

Lastly, if this wasn't enough to convince you of the uniqueness of my neighborhood, let's not forget about the bullies. There was Jon-Jon, who once made me hang out in an igloo for four hours on a Saturday afternoon. There was also Chad's older brother, Mumphry, who knew every swear word in the book and once hit his own dad with the family car... on purpose! There was Stanley, the high school kid that would show up to our routine football games wearing pads and a helmet and would treat us little guys like bowling pins. There was that one adult dude, don't know his name and can't think of a fake one at the moment, that would strut around the neighborhood with his shirt off and loved smacking us whenever we were in reach. I can remember saying a silent prayer one evening when that dude came charging toward "The Ramps" where we were all practicing our BMX tricks. He started shouting at us because he wanted to find the culprit that knocked the bike chain off his daughter's princess bike. We played dumb. Like we'd ever rat out one of our friends to that psycho.

Every house but mine owned a partially-destroyed motorcycle you could find up on blocks in the drive way at any given moment. Every dad but mine wore a moustache that conveniently disguised their expressions. You never knew when they were serious or not and that posed a problem whenever you were on the verge of getting into mischief. The creek had an endless supply of tadpoles, snakes, and tennis shoes. There were always kids, not the cool ones, but the smart ones, toting a red wagon up and down the street filled with bottles to be recycled for money. And most kids, practically all of us, smelled of Bactine and triple anti-biotic ointment. There were ticks, chiggers, mosquitoes, and cicadas. The nights in the summer were lit up by fireflies and illegal fireworks. And if you forgot your special toy at some one's house, or had to make a major pit stop because your bathroom was just too far away, you could simply walk through any one's unlocked door at all hours of the night, unannounced.

Yep, that was my neighborhood. There are hundreds of descriptions I'm leaving out because this post has gone on too long. All of it was true, at least, as my memory serves me. Can yours beat that?

The route I took

"In a way, Wal-mart on a Saturday is kinda like Disneyland minus the rides and the fun. But I'm pretty sure I saw a talking mouse."

How does one become a writer? That's a question I've been asked from time to time and it's not always an easy one to answer. For starters, if you write I suppose that classifies you as a "writer." Maybe the question should be; "What was the route I took to become a writer?"

I think I've blogged about this before, but I remember the first story I wanted to write down and share. It was when I was in fourth or fifth grade and I stayed home sick for the day. For some reason, I couldn't sleep because I kept thinking about this story of the city of Atlantis. There were werewolves in the story too. Yes, even before that hunky kid from the New Moon trailer that causes all the girls to scream out in the theater. Puhlease! If I took off my shirt, you'd scream too! Not for the same reasons, but there'd be screaming and it would more than likely sound the same. From that moment on, I've considered myself a story teller. Some of my stories are stupid, well most of them, like my blog, won't increase your intelligence, but still there's something about getting a positive reaction out of an audience from something I've shared. I can't explain it.

I cannot remember a day in my life that I wasn't thinking in narrative form. There's daydreaming, which every healthy kid should do and then there's taking your imagination to the next level. If I hear a catchy saying, or see a weird shaped tree, or come across some unique landscape, I almost always imagine the story behind it. My grades were so-so in school, because I couldn't focus on what was being taught. There were far too many quirky kids in High School to go unnoticed. I have at least a half dozen stories I started writing from between the ages of 12 and 18. The summer before I got married, I started one about a haunted apartment complex and I still have the hand-written scribbled story I wrote in eighth grade about a serial killer that freaked my older sister out. There was the one about the psychotic boy that talked to his motorcycle. Yeah, I had a weird stint of writing fueled by my obsession with Stephen King novels.

Then after a year and a half of marriage, I was introduced to Harry Potter and like so many authors out there in the world, I realized I wanted to write for kids. Why? Because kids books are stocked full of the most amazing stories in existence. Sure, they're lighter and fun, but that doesn't mean their absent of any complex story lines. J.K. Rowling to me is the most brilliant writer of all time.

Oh, Frank, that's because you've never read anything of great importance.

Posh!

I've read most of the classics and I continue to read the books that matter according to society. I recently finished the Pulitzer Prize winning novel, The Road, by Cormac McCarthy. It was amazing! Well-written, inspiring, thought-provoking, horrifying, all of that. But give me some kid with a wand and throw in some of the most amazing, developed characters I have ever read and I'll show you a masterpiece.

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah. Well, it was because of my discovery of this popular series that lead me to my next direction. I toned down the horror and dove into my first completed novel. At the time it was called The Gothian Box and I still love that story despite it being the worst writing I've ever done. I have stacks upon stacks of rejections. The world rejected me and my story and my family and my moles (I have a few real big moles and some scars where the others were removed. Man, I've got some good tales about moles and not the little vermin that I have actually yet to see in real life...)

Ranting raving lunatic! I hate that voice inside my head. He's so belittling.

Still, I kept to the plan. The Gothian Box was going to be my meal ticket. There would be movies, action figures, maybe even a theme park. Who knew? Meanwhile, in the tiny (and I mean tiny) recesses of my brain, someone was begging to come out. Hashbrown.

Hashbrown was actually a name I made up as a joke while driving around with some friends when Heidi was pregnant with Jackson. We couldn't decide on a name and after some terrible suggestions, I stated that I wanted to name him Hashbrown and we would change his last name to Winters because it was winter and that made sense at the time. We all laughed and a light bulb turned on in my head (30 watter, very dim) What a name! I thought. Where could I go with that? So I started writing Hashbrown for fun, while I pitched the Gothian Box with dreams of wealth and fame. In writing groups and with family I would heavily tout my fantasy novel and everyone would smile and say, "wow, what a great story!" And then, in passing, I would mention Hashbrown's wacky adventures and everyone would lean forward and blow snot with laughter. But that story wasn't finished. Far from it to be honest. And even if I did finish it, it was still so trivial and would hardly be as long as my brainchild. My sister told me, that this Hashbrown story was my ticket to getting published. I got offended that she wasn't talking about The Gothian Box which was 100,000 words set in a far-off world with amazing creatures and so on and so on. But she was right. To be a writer that's committed to the craft, you've got to keep writing and improving. Sometimes it's necessary to say goodbye to characters you love. It's kinda like real life in a weird sense.

After my last rejection of the Gothian Box (a convent of nuns in Burbank that publish stuff for free on rice paper) I decided to take the next step and move on. If anything, I had learned how to finish a story, which any aspiring writer will tell you, is the most difficult step. Stories aren't stories if they don't end unless you've written one like the 1980's movie... Never ending Sto-o-ry, ah-u-ah, ah-u-ah, ah-u-ah! Never ending Sto-o-ry! You know the one with the luck dragon and that cool warrior boy named Atrayu or something that I could've sworn was a girl for most of the movie. Oh and there was that giant turtle in the mountain that couldn't stop sneezing! Wow! Memories. Heck, if you can write something like that I'll buy it in a heartbeat. That's pure poetry.

I dove head first into my next project and I almost treated Hashbrown as a real person. I would refer to him, not as a story, but as an actual kid when in conversation. "Oh that Hashbrown, he's done some pretty crazy stuff!" When Hashbrown finally got accepted, I still remember gabbing on the phone with my brother, so excited that I was shouting and I heard him say, "I always knew Hashbrown was the one! I knew he would make it!"

So there you go. That's the course I took and I'm hoping there's a few more bends in the road to come. And the daydreaming? Yeah, that never stops. Just ask Heidi. She'll tell you about my 2 in the morning launches from the bed toward the laptop so I could crack out a page or two of notes from some story that won't let me sleep. I'll write forever. I just know it. Even if I don't get rich doing it (though, come on, that would rock) I'd venture to say that I'll be making up stories until I die and then I'll probably haunt somebody afterwords, because that would be too fun to pass up.

Movie Trailers

I just had to post this real quick. I actually have some cool news I'll post about later, but I'm pretty excited about these two movie trailers. These are 2 of my top 3 all-time children's books and they're making movies out of them. All they need to do now is make a movie about the Taily Po and we'll be set. (Never heard about that one? I can let you borrow it.)

Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs



Where the Wild Things Are



It's going to be a good year at the movies!

A Creature of Habit

Man, I have a lot of habits. I was just thinking a little while ago that I tend to do some pretty strange things because I've done them nearly my whole life. Habits are hard to break, but some of these need to be broken.

1. I run up stairs. There is some method to this madness. Maybe it's because I want to get in shape (smirk) but really it's because the Boogie Monster's real and if I don't run up the stairs as fast as I can, that dude's gonna grab my ankle. I kid you not. This is a cause for many accidents and injuries. I think I've posted about this previously, but I'm not too agile on my feet.

2. I set my alarm clock to read anywhere from 21 minutes to two whole hours faster than what the real time is. This is because I believe I can fake myself out in the morning. That when I wake up and see that it is time to get up, I'll be relieved to discover that I still have some time to sleep. There was a time when I was nicknamed flash for one reason only. I could be out of bed, switch off the alarm, be back in the bed and sound asleep before anyone noticed that annoying sound.

3. I take in all of the groceries in one trip. The bags are literally dangling from around my neck, but if I have to go back even just one more time to the trunk of the car it puts me in a bad mood.

4. When I check on my sleeping kids, I purposely try to wake them up. Not because I'm a bad father (well maybe I am) but because that's the sure fire way to see if they're still breathing.

5. I have to have the ceiling fan going in my bedroom. It doesn't matter if it's twenty below zero outside and we have to sleep with a heated blanket. I won't sleep right without it going.

6. I call family members on the day before their birthdays and usually I have no idea that their birthday is tomorrow, it just happens that way.

7. I chew everything. Crunch it up. Lollipops, Popsicles, jaw breakers, whatever. I don't savor anything. Because of this, I have permanent scars on the inside of my mouth from where I've nearly severed my cheeks from chomping so much.

8. I smell everything. I can smell garbage, toilets, barf from a mile away. I drive Heidi crazy whenever I walk in to the house. "What's that smell? Do you smell that? What's wrong with your nose?" Heidi wanted me to add a little caveat - Apparently, according to her, I have a smelling fetish. It's a disease.

Granted, some of these are pretty basic and I'm sure there are many people that fall victim to these habits. My wife wanted me to list them as a form of therapy, that maybe I'll stop doing them one day.

Defining Moments

I think I've posted something similar to this in times past, but I'll add a little spin to make it different. Each of us can recall specific instances in our lives that truly define us. Sometimes, the event doesn't even really involve us directly, rather we are only witnesses to some spectacular feat. There are several moments in my life that either solidified who I believe I am and want to be or completely gave me a new perspective.

1. Quitting my JV Basketball team in 10th grade. My involvement on this team had the potential of being one of my greatest stories ever. I was cut from the Freshman team when I thought that I should have made it, came back the next year and after two days of tryouts, the coach called me into his office and told me that I was too short, lacked the fundamentals and would never make the team. He told me to go home and come back next year. Apparently, he told that to quite a few people trying out for the team and all of them went home. I had nothing better to do with my time after school and I loved basketball so instead of quitting, I kept showing up every day for tryouts. I think this annoyed the coach, but for some reason when the final cuts were given I found out that I had made the team. Great story, huh? It gets better. When we had our meetings with the head coach to discuss our roles for the team, every player met with him in his office, received their gear for the season (new shoes, jerseys, warm-up gear, duffel bags, etc) and was given a motivational pep talk. Everyone except me. Coach met me outside of the school and told me that I would never play. I was the only player without a pair of team shoes and I didn't get any of that other cool stuff. There were days when I was told to sit down and watch during practice. Wasn't practice the time to improve? Coach never remembered my name, or at least he acted like he didn't know who I was. I didn't have a locker, had to wear my old beat up high-tops and got made fun of by all the other, better players. Still, even with coach's promise that I would never play, five games into the season I got into a game for a couple of minutes.

Time after time my perseverance paid off, but as the season progressed, things got tougher. Instead of doing warm up drills with the rest of the team, coach made me run stairs. I wasn't told about team meetings and I wasn't even assigned a team number (I got whatever jersey that wasn't in the wash at the time.) For some reason, despite sticking to it through the beginning, I decided to quit, much to the head coach's delight. Now, I look back at that decision and it makes me sick. Why did I give up? Times were hard, sure, but if I had just stuck it out, who knows what could have happened. Because of that decision, I know now that despite getting down on myself when I consistently get rejected for whatever desires I choose for my life, I will not give up and quit.

2. An English assignment during my freshman year of college. I've always fashioned myself as a story-teller, and on occasion growing up, I actually wrote a few stories down. My first year of college at Ricks...er BYU-Idaho, was somewhat of a joke. I hardly ever went to class and ended the year with a pathetic 2.2 GPA. I was too busy having fun, hanging out with friends, basking in the freedom of a new college student to give any thought of the misery I would go through later in life trying to correct the mistakes of that year. There were few highlights as far as grades were concerned, but one of them snapped something in the back of my mind and started the wheels turning in a new direction. We were asked in my English class to write an essay on what gave us "Absolute Joy." It was a cheesy assignment, but worth a hefty sum towards our final grade. Every student in that class wrote something spiritual: Their family, their mission, their church, their wife, their children, their memories of deceased relatives, etc., etc. I opted to go a different route and wrote mine about a Whopper with cheese without onions. I got an A+ on the paper and the praise from my teacher. Suddenly, the emergence of a calling sprouted into my life.

3. A skunk nest under the house. I actually was not present for this event. I believe I was somewhere across the world eating dog innards and so the account of what happened was relayed to me from those that witnessed it. One afternoon, my family discovered an awful smell flowing through the house. It was so powerful it literally saturated the walls with stench. Apparently, a skunk or two had taken up residence beneath the house. An exterminator would be needed, but unfortunately, none were available until the following day. My brother demanded that the family stay at a hotel for the night because he couldn't stand the odor. My mother and father insisted it wasn't that bad and that they would just endure that evening and all would be well the next day. Michael adamantly protested. He knew that all of his clothes were going to smell like skunk-stink and that would be social suicide at his High School. In the end, my parents rejected his request and they went to sleep in the fumigated home. The next morning, my mom went looking for Michael only to discover that he wasn't in his bed. After searching a few moments in the room and in the hallway, she couldn't find him anywhere. Finally, she noticed something under the closet door and opened it to find Michael lying on the floor of the closet with several pairs of jeans rolled up under the door and two grape Jolly Ranchers shoved up his nostrils. When I heard about that, I was literally dumbfounded with laughter. Just the thought process that must have lead my brother to go to such extremes amazed me. From that moment, I realized that I had grown up in a home living with a master of comedy. To him, humor is effortless and in most cases he doesn't even realize why it's funny. That moment as well as thousands of others Michael has created over the years truly helped define my direction for writing.

The Christmas Gifts I Never Got

Now before I write this, I'm going to include a disclaimer, Santa, my parents and my wife have always given me a great Christmas. There were tons of gifts, but a few of the items on my list have slipped through the cracks. Here they are in no particular order:

1. Mickey Mouse phone-thingy - I remember being a young kid and realizing that this was a toy designed for much younger kids, but still oh how I wanted it. The commercials made me imagine that at any time I could call Mickey Mouse, he would answer and the conversation would always be new and unique. Alas, it was never meant to be.

2. Easy Bake Oven - I still want one of these. Who wouldn't want a tiny little oven that makes wonderful hand-sized cakes? I could rest it on the little table by my bed and bake cakes whenever I get the urge.

3. Rambo Knife - I remember when my cousin (I guess he's a cousin) got one in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. It was razor sharp, perfect for any necessary violence that every eight-year-old encounters on a daily basis. It also had a compass on one end and when you unscrewed it, waterproof matches fell out. Did you hear that? Waterproof matches! And a metal string that could be used as a saw! Why Santa chose to ignore this highly-desired request, I'll never know.

4. Glass bowl filled with the little bath oil balls - I used to steal these out of my Mamaw's bathroom and hide them and then pop them. They were glorious! I guess this isn't exactly fair, because I never formally asked for them because they were somewhat girly.

5. A Calculator Watch - I had so many friends that owned this very practical accessory. There were innumerable instances in my life where not only did I need a watch to tell time, but I also needed a device that could solve a difficult mathematical equation. This gift would've saved me time and time again.

6. A Water Weenie - I was your typical dorky boy that would hang out in the cool magic shops in the mall whenever I was able. Sure a water weenie is considered a cheap impulse buy, but boy was I fascinated by how it seemed to move and slip through my fingers as if it had a life of its own.

7. Mortimer Icabod Marker - "Picture pages, picture pages, time to get your picture pages, time to get your crayons and your pencils. Picture pages, picture pages, open up your picture pages, time to watch Bill Cosby do a picture page with you." I actually just got choked up a little. Bill Cosby had an amazing pen that looked like a red bee that made space-aged sounds whenever he dragged it across the page. I actually had the Picture Pages that coincided with the weekly show and would do them religiously, but I never got the Mortimer Icabod Marker.

8. Lava Lamp - I really wanted a lava lamp. That's all I can think to say about that.

9. Nike Pump High Top Shoes - My shoes were just dull. I would actually ask my friends that owned a pair of these cool shoes if I could play with the little orange, basketball bladder that was used to pump air around the laces. I would sit there, leaning down from my desk in school and would inflate and deflate someone else's shoes... Oh boy, (sigh) I was a loser.

10. A lunch pail plucked from off the Lunch Pail Tree in the movie Return to Oz - OK, this never existed, but I really wanted one. There was something about the sound the lunch pail made when Dorothy opened the lid (like the sound a pumpkin makes when you carve out the top,) it was amazing. Oh, and the movie? Yeah, it pretty much gave me nightmares until my junior year of high school. Disturbing.

Whatever happened to...

Travel down memory lane with me for a moment.

Whatever happened to all the craze over hyper color tee-shirts, pump-up basketball shoes and bottles of shampoo plus conditioner?

Whatever happened to those clever little eggs that you cracked open and pantie hose poured out?

Whatever happened to cellular phones the size of a shoebox?

Whatever happened to mix tapes?

Whatever happened to being able to make a decent crank call without the threat of getting called right back?

Whatever happened to shoe stores with giant, frightening, talking trees that called out your name while you were walking out the door? (You're probably wondering when did that ever happen and you've probably never been to Kentucky.)

Whatever happened to overhead projectors?

Whatever happened to underroos?

Whatever happened to the Smurfs, He-man, Gummy Bears and Snorkles?

The world is in a sad state now-a-days. Weren't our shows better? Didn't you feel safe? Heck, the only time I got afraid was whenever I had to close the door when I was going to the bathroom and Mr. Rogers was on. (Not worth explaining...)

The Crypt

Perhaps what really started my need to tell stories was the old Crypt in Calmes Estates.

There were two folks that owned the property, an elderly couple that threatened to shoot you with rock salt if you ever happened to step foot on their land. Of course, we were young, curious and stupid kids so that threat never really mattered much. Their property held a number of interests for young boys: A relatively undeveloped forest with a quiet pond somewhere in the middle, an old cemetary with head stones dating to the late 1800's, and of course, the Crypt.

Our parents tried to explain to us that the Crypt was nothing more than just an old tornado shelter, but we weren't buying that. Seriously, weathered stone walls and a wooden door that opened straight into the ground! That was no tornado shelter.

The buses usually dropped us off at the start of our subdivision giving us full opportunity to walk past the property and stare at the Crypt. Somedays the door was opened while other days it remained closed. It was just too much of a temptation, but despite my ability to talk a mean game about how unscary the Crypt was, I only went fully inside it once before I was a grown-up.
I must have been 8 or 9 years old when it happened. Curtis, the neighborhood nut (the same kid who once shot one of my best friends in the head with a crossbow), told all the kids on the street that he had snuck in to the Crypt one night and saw red eyes staring back at him. Curtis was a compulsive liar, but this little bit of information gave us the fits. We all needed to see for ourselves.

About 3 or 4 of us, myself included, went into the Crypt. Mostly, because we were dared to do it. All I remember is feeling cold and scared. It was too dark to see, so I can't confirm nor deny the presence of red eyes, but when I ran home that day, I was a changed boy.

I went back with my pregnant wife, and my three-year old son just a couple years ago. I wanted to show them the catalyst for all of my stories. Despite the fact that the neighborhood had sprouted up everywhere and the old folks that owned the property had long since died, the crypt was still intact. It plunged into a hill right behind a young subdivision. I was in my late twenties, with my wife at my side and a video camera. It was even during the early afternoon, but I couldn't linger in that cold, damp crypt for very long. There's just something about unwanted nostalgia that leads to cold feet. Hopefully, one day I can pay my respects to the red-eyed specter of the Crypt on Calmes Estates, but there's only one way I'll do that...