I Do Think You're the Nicest Little Friend I've Ever Had!

The last couple of months have been a bit of a challenge for me. Between two perpetually sick preschoolers, helping a few friends with their projects, and keeping our house just barely running, I’ve been a very bad emerging author. I didn’t even emerge to say Happy New Year! Sorry about that kind readers. In honor of Groundhog’s day earlier this week, I am emerging, and damn the shadows, full speed ahead! I’m going to write and post as often as I can. Consider it my Groundhog’s day resolution. Some days it will be quality literary work and some days it will just be stuff on a blog. Let’s see what I have up my sleeve today.

Paul McCartney and John Lennon were right. All we need is love. Some people may argue, but really it’s simple. If someone loves you there will be food to eat; when love comes to town, no one gets left out in the street. With love comes kindness, and suddenly it sprouts a heart, legs and arms and manifests as your family and friends. At the end of It’s a Wonderful Life, Clarence writes to George in the pages of Tom Sawyer, “No man is a failure who has friends!” That little angel finally got it right. If you’ve got a friend, you’ll be okay.

For those of you who feel like that is just a little too cliché, consider this: The dead hooker friend. Someone recently asked me, “Who’s your dead hooker friend?” I was awash in confusion and worry for just long enough to feel like a weirdo, until they added, “You know, the person you’d call if you woke up to find a dead hooker in your house and no idea how it happened. Who’s the friend who would just show up with a shovel, no questions asked, no judgment and just start digging?” Now, of course, most of us would never have this situation arise in our lives, but suddenly, we can all name exactly who it is we would call, and not just because they still have your shovel.

Everyone should have at least one friend of this caliber during their life. Call it what you like: the dead-hooker-friend, or the no-questions-asked-friend, I’ve been lucky enough to have several. In fact, I had lunch with one of them yesterday. Usually having lunch with Joe is not a big deal, but this day he had conspired with my husband and arranged a surprise reunion with a second friend, someone I hadn’t seen for more than 30 years.

She had been my first no-questions-asked-friend, and the minute I saw her blue eyes I knew I could still count on her. She hadn’t changed a bit, and really, I suppose I haven’t either. I was instantly transported through time and space. I was a tough little tomboy perched in the branches of a sycamore tree, her by my side, scanning for the approaching danger of brothers. Her hair is still golden yellow, and her glasses are still stark black squares on her shining peach face. In the instant it took for my brain to process all of this, my throat tightened and squeezed tears from my eyes.  I couldn’t stop myself from laughing as I hugged her.

Decked out in her usual blue with white polka-dots, the first thing she said to me, after all these years was, “I do think you’re the nicest little friend I’ve ever had!”

“Me too,” I cried.

If you're first steadfast friend was an old woman in blue and white dolka dots, you might enjoy this collection of voice-box recordings from the beloved Mrs. Beasley. But, do be careful, dear, you may find yourself whisked away to a tea party in the distant past or up a tree, hiding.
http://ftp.wi.net/~candrews/Voice_Samples/voice_samples.html

Lost At Sea

Nobody influences your life like your family. Being the youngest child and only girl in a house full of stair-step, crazy boys certainly affected me, and gave me plenty of good stories. This post introduces the first in a reoccurring series: Mib Back Then.

In honor of the culmination of the LOST Underground Art project, the folks at LOST, Gallery 1988, my Lost ARGs friends, and my sweet husband, I give you, Lost At Sea!

Whenever I feel like a bad parent, I just think back to childrearing of the sixties and seventies. My parents had five children in the space of six years, and it seems their main concern was keeping us breathing, if we were lucky. Mine were not the only parents who allowed their kids to roll around the boat-sized family car, or left their kids unattended in all kinds of places, or the only parents who spanked their kids with whatever object was handy. Ok, maybe some of these only happened in my family. We were regularly lost in department stores, and someone was always getting hauled to the ER. One of my brothers actually got himself locked in a Sears store after it closed, and camped out in the sporting-goods department. I wanted to be the one who slept in a tent across from the Sears candy counter. Instead, I am the one, who at fifteen months old was lost at sea.

My Navy dad and perfect nineteen-sixties Mom had just relocated their young, rapidly growing family to Oahu from Virginia. After the stress of unpacking, my fair-skinned, redheaded parents needed a break and decided to take the kids to the beach. Damn the broken dishes, and damaged furniture, we all needed some sunshine. So, they slathered their whitey-white children in baby oil to help them work on their tans, and hit the sand!

My mother does not swim a stroke, and hid herself beneath a huge hat and umbrella. She watched her four non-swimming toddlers frolic and play in the surf, pretending to drown each other. My father was anxious to introduce his newest addition of the family to the crystal blue waters of Hawaii.

Now, if you’ve never been to Hawaii, consider this; surfers travel great distances to get to Hawaii for one reason: the waves. I have turned this scenario over and over in my head. I can’t help wonder if my parents had a little ‘talk’ before this outing. Maybe it went like this:

“Well, Margaret,” my father would have said, “I just can’t handle five of them. It’s too much. Let’s give one back, and since she’s the newest, let’s make it that girl. You haven’t gotten attached to her yet, have you?

Maybe my mom argued, but ultimately she must have given in, because my very intelligent father then took me, barely a year old, covered in baby oil into the waves looking for the Big Kahuna!

Maybe he held me high above the wave, and whispered “Kunta Mib-te, meet Mr. Ocean…”

“Well, hello, Mr. Ocean, how are… blurb blurb blurb?” I babbled then fell into the sea. I was immediately swept away by the wave from Hawaii Five O’s opening scene.

My father submerged searching for fat baby toes. He came up for air, dove again into a new wave, and searched again. He came up from the water clutching the arm of an elderly woman who didn’t need rescuing. By now, several minutes had passed, and a crowd had gathered. Newspaper reporters were licking their pencils and scratching out headlines: “Navy Couple Loses Baby in Ocean”, “Baby-Oil and Water Don’t Mix”, “Baby-less Husband Found at Topless Beach”, “Young Boys Cheer Death of Sister” (that’s a reoccurring theme).

After several more minutes, my father emerged victorious with a live, wiggling, seaweed covered baby. As some of us have seen in Russian birthing videos, babies take to water. We are little dolphins! We hold our breath, swim, and blow air out our little blow holes. Babies can survive in the water for several minutes. Now, I don’t advocate throwing your baby in the ocean, but they may be able to swim back home.

Much like my LOST friends, I was Lost, but now I'm found.

To Infinity And Beyond!

Raising children is the ultimate graffiti! Even better, you get to leave your imprint on a person instead of a slab of brick. Not only will your genes be passed on, but your likes, dislikes, hobbies and curiosities will seed their way into that little person and on down the line. Tons of research has been done that points to genetic predisposition of certain skills and abilities. So, Grandma may have been on to something when she told you that you got your beautiful singing voice from Grandpa’s family. Kids really are putty in our hands, and they do soak up everything like little sponges. This is why my husband and I try to give our kids a wide range of experiences and exposure to different people, things and ideas. But try as we might, people inevitably tend to steer their children towards the things they love, in turn passing that love on and on, throughout the generations. Researchers specializing in nature versus nurture and genetics may be unhappy with my little explanation there, but let them get their own blog.

My husband and I tend to steer our kids towards adventures of discovery, experimentation and space every chance we get. Nurture or nature, like so many before them, my kids are fascinated by the moon, the stars and all the things they can and can’t see above them. This is why they happily stood in a long line at the Southern Festival of Books to meet Buzz Aldrin and get him to autograph their copy of Look to the Stars. My four year old daughter was especially excited, because she had a question that only he and eight other people on the planet would be able to answer.

I have to admit, I was more than excited myself. I had visions of getting the kids picture taken with Mr. Aldrin, and a personalized autograph for my husband’s copy of Magnificent Desolation: The Long Journey Home from the Moon.

This once in a lifetime opportunity to deliver on childhood dreams could secure a spot in parenting (and spouse) history for me. My hopes were quickly dashed when I saw the line growing behind us. Mr. Aldrin wouldn’t have time to pose for photos or personalize autographs, not even for cute little Irish-Indian kiddies like mine.  But, I’m adaptable, so I just began to worry if  Mr. Aldrin would be able to understand Bani’s nasal southern accent. If the anxiety of a couple thousand people standing behind you while an American Icon sits in front of you wasn’t bad enough, this was no ordinary signing table, either. Buzz Aldrin had a posse in tow: a festival staffer, a photographer, a festival liaison and ambassador, author Margaret Lazarus Dean, and Ken Abraham, co-author of Magnificent Desolation: The Long Journey Home from the Moon all sat shoulder to shoulder waiting for us.

“Uscuse me, Mr. Oddrin,” Bani sputtered a few times before he found her little face just above the edge of the table.

“Well! Yes?” Buzz Aldrin said in a tone that I hear adults use with children a lot.

It’s the tone that means ‘hello cute little kid who doesn’t really understand much of anything, what do you want?'  Now, I’m not insinuating that it is wrong to use this tone with a child, really. Kids are wonderful, but as a mother of three of them, I know the deal – they can be exasperating and annoying, too. But we are talking about my kid, and she is amazingly intelligent, logical and fiercely determined with a bit of a Bani-ttude (this is one of those genetic traits, see Misery Loves Company for a recent maternal example), and she definitely understands way too much of everything around her.

“Uscuse me, when you were on da moon, did you wawk,” her little brow furrows in accusation, and she adds, “or did you hop?”

No one is paying attention to us as far as I can tell. There are conversations swirling around us. Ken Abraham and a festival volunteer are chatting, excited fans jabber, and the photographer's shutter is clicking non-stop. Only Bani, Buzz Aldrin and I know that my daughter has just asked one of America’s greatest heroes to qualify “walking on the moon”, because as far as she can deduce, he did not walk on the moon.
Buzz Aldrin not only understood Bani’s question, but he understood why she was asking it. He hesitated for just a split second, looked her in the eye, and started to explain.

“Well, how much do you weigh, young lady?”

Bani looked up to me for the answer. I leaned down and whispered ‘thirty-five pounds’ in her ear.

“Turdy-fibe inches,” she told him proudly.

Buzz Aldrin has maneuvered far more dangerous things than a four year old, but it was still impressive to watch. He didn’t bat an eye.

“Ok, thirty-five inches, on the moon you would weigh about five pounds,” big Buzz-the-astronaut-smile, “the difference in your weight is because the gravitational force of the moon is less than Earth’s.”

People have started paying attention, and I’m proud and horrified at the same time. I’m watching her face. Bani’s eyes light up and flash; I can see the cogs turning inside her head as Buzz Aldrin explains how the forces of nature work on the moon. I’ve been engrossed in my daughter’s wonderment and have missed nearly all of Mr. Aldrin’s explanation. I come out of my trance just in time to hear the final answer.

“So, I didn’t really walk on the moon, and I didn’t quite hop, either,” he leaned forward a little closer to Bani, “It was more like I bounced on the moon.”

Bani nodded, put her right hand on her freshly signed book and slid it over the edge of the table into her waiting left hand.

"Tanks, Mr. Oddrin,” she told him and started walking away. What could I do but follow?

We roamed around the festival, and ate lunch before deciding to check back at the signing tables before leaving. Mr. Aldrin was answering questions for a local reporter and packing up to leave.  

Lucky for me Margaret Lazarus Dean, author of  The Time It Takes to Fall: A Novel, was still there helping Mr. Aldrin.  Margaret is not just an author; she’s a parent, too.  She must have noticed the look of eager hope in my eyes.  She arranged for my moon maniacs to pose for a photo with Mr. Aldrin, which we took with her camera, and she later emailed to me.  Whether it was luck, Kharma or just plain old kindness that helped me, I delivered on a childhood dream that day: The Man in The Moon, I’m just not sure whose dream - theirs or mine.

Misery Loves Company

I may well be Rick Bragg’s number one fan! Not in a crazy, Misery’s Kathy Bates way, but I read everything he writes. I love his style, his voice, the spot on descriptions and languid tone of his storytelling. His memoir writing: All over but the Shoutin', Ava's Man, and The Prince of Frogtown have been a huge influence for me in legitimizing my own writing. Armed with a dysfunctional, broken, Southern upbringing steeped in poverty plus a background in journalism, Rick Bragg has given voice to a demographic of people who think they should hide, but are dying to be heard.
Meeting your favorite author and getting that coveted autograph is the Holy Grail for readers. Last year, Rick Bragg appeared at the Southern Festival of Books. We were late (big surprise!), and he had filled the largest auditorium. I felt a bit like a stalker lurking in the back of the room, but it was as good a place as any to soak up his rural North Alabama accent as it dripped and slid through the selection he read from The Prince of Frogtown. Near the lecture’s end, I popped outside to check on the signing line. I was horrified. Hundreds of people were already waiting. My kids wouldn’t last through the wait. I slipped back into the auditorium in time to see Mr. Bragg walking off the stage. What?! I had a question. Why was he already leaving? Hadn’t anyone asked any questions?!?  Oh, hell no! Instinct took control, and my ‘Myrnattude’ shifted into high gear. I was a teenager again, determined and heading for the mosh pit. I gently pushed through the old ladies in polyester and men in Tennessee Titan’s jerseys, and stepped into the exit aisle directly in his path. I extended my arm in introduction. Surprisingly, he took my hand.

“Hi, Mr. Bragg, I’m a big fan of yours, and I had a question. Can I have one second?”

“Walk with me,” he told me. I did, almost bursting.

“I’m a memoir writer; I come from a very dysfunctional, poor Southern family. How is it you deal with dragging up all the worst, most painful parts of your life when you’re writing? I mean, I feel like I need a therapist just to write a paragraph.” I spoke a mile a minute, not wanting to waste any of my time.

“Well, for me, writing is therapy. It’s how I process all of it. Keep writing.” He told me, shook my hand again, and slipped into a chair behind his signing table.  

This year I wasn’t missing that autograph; I skipped the lecture.  My copy of The Prince of Frogtown rested inside my backpack while I played red light, green light on the promenade of the Legislative Plaza with my wild kids. We were third in line. I didn’t care how long the line grew behind me. Eventually, the big double doors opened and Rick Bragg strolled out, several hundred people following behind and falling into the line. No bossy redhead tracking him this year as he took his place behind the table. After a short wait, I was face to face with my favorite writer again. 

"Hello," I took his hand, shaking it, “I’m a big fan of yours.”

He was jovial and appreciative. He gave my hand a lively shake, and thanked me for being there. I told him how I saw him last year, and he charmed me by telling me he remembered me. Then he proved it.

“You’re a writer. I never forget a redhead. I had my heart broken by a redhead once.” His voice glided like a biscuit around the edge of a plate, sopping up the last drops of honey.

I offered him my business card, because what ‘emerging author’ doesn’t want to say their favorite writer has one of her cards? He put it in his pocket with a vague promise to look at my site. Keeping his promise isn’t important; that he was kind enough to say it to someone who aspires to his craft is the important part. We joked another minute about the evils and joys of redheads. I watched him think and then scribble something in my book. We said our goodbyes, and I let him move on to his next “number one fan.”

What a great guy! Everyone ought to get to meet their heroes. If you’re lucky, you’ll both turn out to be fairly nice, normal characters, even if you do share the same screwed up background.
It wasn’t until later that night that I got a second to look at the title page: 
“Dear Myrna, I love Redheads! -Rick Bragg"

I Fell Into a Ring of Father: Southern Festival Of Books, Part I

You don’t have to like country music to live in Nashville, but it 'sho 'nuf don't hurt none. My love of country music is rooted in the good ole days. The days when Loretta Lynn sang with Conway Twitty whose hair was bigger than hers and not oh-so-cool rocker Jack White. When Dolly Parton worked with Porter Wagoner, a man who sparkled more than she, and when Johnny Cash was the only Man in Black and Will Smith was just a snot-nosed kid. Country music was heartbreak, outlaws, poverty, railroads, death, and occasionally redemption. In those days, Nashville liked country music stars flawed and more than slightly dysfunctional, just like us. That’s the country music I love.

There are two things I give my kids every day, without fail: books and songs. So when I read that John Carter Cash would be at the Southern Festival of Books, I knew I'd have to take them to this event that draws hundreds of authors, illustrators and publishers to town every year. It's the perfect opportunity to meet your favorite authors, and maybe even get an autograph. This year the kiddies and I met three unforgettable men, and I've got the pictures to prove it (I will reveal two more encounters in coming posts, so, Ya'll come back now, ya hear?).

My little Indian/Irish children (I like the term 'Indish') have been known to break into classics like “Ring of Fire” or "Jolene" in the grocery store. These kids know country music. When I told them they might meet John Carter Cash they popped like firecrackers all the way to the van. We arrived fashionably late, and missed his reading of Momma Loves Her Little Son, a children’s book based on his mother's favorite declaration. The three of us piled into one chair in the back row and listened as John Carter Cash read from Anchored In Love: An Intimate Portrait of June Carter Cash. It was beautiful to hear him read his own words about his mother as I sat crushed into the chair by my own little anchors of love. His descriptions of family gatherings at the Virginia home, singing together, and wooded walks with June Carter was a sweet moment I was glad to share with my kids. There were some questions and discussion of his upcoming work. There are several interesting projects underway, including a work of fantasy fiction that I'm looking forward to reading.  After the session, John Carter Cash signed books and posed for some photographs.  Being in a rush and wrangling two preschoolers helped me forget my camera, but one is never at a loss if a friend is at hand.  My new friend, Shannon, a school teacher from East Tennessee was kind enough to take a photo and later email it to me (What a woman!). 

John Carter Cash was friendly and talkative while he personalized the books I had for my own Little Son and my husband. I hope he didn't notice when I started to stare.  It dawned on me all at once and was a little startling: John Carter Cash looks like my father, a lot like my father. We could be brother and sister posing for the camera. Could it be that my love of music comes from a branch on the family tree that I hadn't even considered? Maybe John Carter Cash and I will share similar writing success along with our red hair, love of music, and Southern Roots.

Part II: Myrna Is Not a Real Person or A Tail of Two Cities, You Decide

Previously on Lost… um, I mean in my last blog entry, I was exploring coincidence and synchronicity as it has been occurring in my life these days, involving Lost. I know I’ve been a bit slow in getting Part II posted, so if you’d like a quick review, click here for Part I. If you’re ready to continue the tale; open your mind, return your seat backs and tray tables to the upright and locked position, and let’s see where we land:
~~Flashback~~Amritsar, India and Long Island, NY - March 2009
My mother-in-law and father-in-law took a trip to India this past spring. The trip was one of the many preparations for their daughter’s wedding. It was a shopping trip and a visit to the famous Sikh Golden Temple. Before the trip my children were quizzed about what gifts they wanted from India. The only thing my 3 year old son wanted was a toy mouse. My son’s name is Navin (his name is usually pronounced Naveen, like Lost actor Naveen Andrews). Both of my youngest children were named by their grandmother (Dadiji), and she has never seen Lost. Navin’s every wish is her command, so a black mouse with pull-back roller wheels made its way from India to Long Island, New York. Navin claimed his prize in April during a quick visit to New York.  Happiness is watching a little boy send a fuzzy, black mouse zipping across the kitchen tiles. Sadness is when he realizes the mouse is in Long Island and he is in Nashville. Never fear! The Dadaji is here!

~~Flash Forward…a little bit~~Nashville - May 2009

Navin’s grandfather (Dadaji) comes to Nashville, and delivers the mouse in person! After a few days of play, Dadaji returns to New York, but not before Navin pulls the tail off the mouse and slips it into his grandfather’s shirt-pocket. Back in New York, Dadaji has a good laugh and misses Navin even more when he reaches into his pocket and finds the mouse tail.
~~Flash forward some more~~Nashville - September 19, 2009

Between May and September, the family had made another trip to New York to help pull off a huge Indian wedding, where the worldly mouse tail was lost and found and lost again. Back home in Nashville, Navin was happily playing with the tailless mouse when Dadaji called with the news: they found the tail! A package would be on the way filled with goodies; including a black, plastic tail for Navin’s mouse.

Later that evening I worked on my blog. I was dazed to see people online suggesting that ‘Myrna Is Not A Real Person’, again. During my confusion, Dadaji called. He laughed that he had an idea for my blog. I should write the story of the mouse tail, and it should be called, “A Tail Of Two Cities.” My head rattled when these words hit my ear.  I could almost see the little particles of synchronistic dust floating in midair, trying to get into my head. We laughed about how things work out in life, and hung up. I didn’t try to explain to Dadaji how the previous week I included an unpublished list of websites for the Lost Underground Art Series on my blog, and how the fan that had placed the first order for the next print had just, hours ago, received an autographed gift from the producers of Lost. It was a copy of Charles Dickens’s, A Tale of Two Cities.

With my head hurting, my blog project hijacked, and my reality in question, I’m going to try to move beyond all of these wacky coincidences and bizarre synchronicity. So, if you are still wondering if Myrna is a Real Person or if all of this is a giant, surreal mind game, then you’re in good company.

Myrna Is Not a Real Person or A Tail of Two Cities -You Decide, Part I

Something is at work in the universe, pulling little bits of this and pieces of that together. Call it destiny, chance, fate, God or whatever you like. I’m leaning towards synchronicity. Long before Jung began his journey into the concept, people pondered the seemingly unrelated ‘coincidences’ that pop up throughout life. These things happen to me so often that my husband jokes that nothing is real, and the world around us is my own virtual reality game. Every event and person is a twist of my unconscious mind, and I lie comatose, plugged into a Wii-like life support system. I’m not a real person. More and more often these events connect too perfectly to be random, and I’m left with the feeling of being led along by the nose. 

Synchronicity seems to have derailed my recent writing project. I began my blog as a project to illustrate how the human connections we make in our lives, one at a time, change and shape us. I laid a loose plan of the individuals I would start with, but decided to let the project lead the way once I got started. My third post was meant to highlight how my husband and I met while trying to one-up each other with our useless knowledge of pop-culture trivia (see Damon, Carlton & a Polar Bear Meet Sundeep, Myrna & Betty Jean McBricker for the full ‘back story). I closed that post by including my husband’s final one-up of me, some sought after Lost Alternate Reality Game information. Since that post, I’ve spiraled into a Lost universe. Maybe I was supposed to be here all along, maybe I was meant to push that button! The synchronicities of the events that follow were pointed out by Lost fans after visiting my site; none were intentional (or even controllable) on my part. Although, I and other Lost fans may find these ‘coincidences’ more interesting, anyone can enjoy the story.  The initials of my name spell out my life-long nickname, Mib, also the fan-name of a mysterious black clad character on Lost. Apparently, my blog post titles are very similar to Lost episode titles, and I’ll be damned; I do kind of look like an older/younger Emily Locke (another character on Lost). Isn’t this odd? There are some people in that Lost universe who think, ‘Myrna is not a real person.’ Dude, you might want to fasten your seatbelt.

~~Flash Backward: July 1984, Centennial Park ~~

I’m a loud mouth, new-wave punk of a teenage girl sitting at a picnic table with some friends. We sit, shadowed by the Parthenon, the only full scale replica of the original. We aren’t in Athens, Greece.

Our Parthenon is in the heart of uptown Nashville, Tennessee. My friends and I, a community of social outcasts, meet in the park every day. As if taking shifts to protect our turf, some groups hang out here during the day, and others gather in the evening. This is where we do the things teenagers and young adults do when they get together. We use the Parthenon for our giant playhouse! Endless games of hide and seek ensue since we fit into the indentions of the colossal columns. Brown-bagged bottles of cheap wine and broken park curfews highlight our summers. We continue to rotate and stand watch. Some groups never meet other groups, but there is constant talk of what each is up to. It is the forum message board of the ‘80s. One day, waiting for my group to arrive, I borrow a tiny pocket knife from my friend Joe. I scratch on the hard pine of the picnic table: Myrna I Brown. The letters are straight and deep, perfect. Happy with my work, I move on. The next day, sitting at my table, I look down to admire my handiwork. It now reads: Myrna I Brown IS NOT A REAL PERSON. I was angry that my graffiti had been defaced. Apparently, someone from a different group decided the stories circulating at the park about Mib were just too sensational to be true. My anger melted into amusement at the thought of being infamous at sixteen years old.  ~~To be continued~~ Hope you'll come back for Part II, very soon.