Teachers....

This time of year always makes me think of the smell of new shoes, collars that are still a little stiff around the neck, and the excitement of sitting next to my best friend (although, to be honest, that particular joy didn't happen very often).

Yup, it's back to school time.

I got to see all of my babies off to school this morning (I'm writing this on Tuesday evening) with not one tear and much excitement.

But it does get me thinking about the people who most inspired me most in the classroom.  I can honestly tell you to this day that I remember each and every one of these people fondly and my experiences with them made me a better person and a better writer.

I met Mrs. Shellady in fourth grade.  Everyone, and I do mean everyone, wanted Mrs. S as their teacher.  She was one of the 'cool' teachers.  We've all had 'em, right?  She was the one.  I can't tell you the day she started reading 'The Great Gilly Hopkins' by Katherine Patterson but I can remember how I felt when she got done reading it.  The story follows Gilly throughout her stay in a foster home and her misadventures with her step-mother and her fellow foster kid, Earnest Teague (I didn't even have to google that.  That kid's name is burnt into my brain.) along with the search for her real birth mother and her mother's eventual rejection.  I remember thinking that this kid had a similar story to mine - which was odd, let's be honest.  But it must have been cool enough for Mrs. S to think it was okay to read to us and it got the NewBerry award if memory serves.  If I'm wrong....well, it won't be the first time.  But, I'd like to think that those books that she read began me on a path with a love for books that has lasted until today.  She also gave me a nurturing environment.  I never felt anything but love from that lady.  Bless you and thank you, Mrs. S. 

Now, onto sixth grade and Mr. G (aka Mr. Gingerich).  Here begins the story of Heather's writing career.  He held an after school writer's workshop and I remember I still have his remarks on one of my stories about a female great dane somewhere tucked into a blue suitcase that still says 'Heather Ulin' on it in masking tape from a summer at Girl Scout Camp.  Either way, we would wile away an hour or so as he read us Ray Bradbury (the man had an absolute love affair with Bradbury) and we'd sketch pictures to go with our stories and write.  I loved every second of it.  And maybe reading Bradbury began that love with words, too.  I loved how the words sounded when he read them, reading these odd passages of words that didn't always make sense, but I loved how they sounded in my little mind.  At the time...it made me feel special in a way that was good and not the way where every one stared a little bit when I said my grandparents adopted me.  This, for a change, was all about me and not about where I came from.  Thanks for that, Mr. G. 

Fast forwarding to seventh, eighth, and ninth grades we arrive at Mr. Tony Hancock.  He, to this day, was probably the biggest influence writing-wise for me.  He pushed me to make more of my words, to expand, to expound, to figure out what those big words meant, and to make things simpler, too.   He was the first to request to send a piece of my work into a conference wide publication meant for kids of our age.  I got my first publication....and then my second.  Again, those bound pages are stuck somewhere in that suitcase.  But, Mr. H, in addition to pushing me as a writer, also gave me my first taste of success.  I'll remember him forever for that.  And Mr. H, wherever you are, thank you so very much.

Lastly, but by no means, leastly, Mr. Frakes.  Holy cow.  Fast forward to senior year and taking one of his classes was something I'd wanted to do my whole high school career and finally, there I was.  I remember working my ass off in his class, reading things I would never read as they didn't run along the lines of VC Andrews or Sweet Valley High (dude, don't judge - I was a kid) or something equally teenagery.  I remember reading through The Charge of the Light Brigade for that class and it giving me literal goosebumps.  Again, here was a teacher showing me things that I would not have actively sought out if left to my own devices.  Ever.  Thanks for that, Mr. Frakes.  

These people, aside from a few authoric (hush, it's a word) influences later on in my life, have left their indelible and loving mark on my heart.  They gave me an outlet when I had a lot going on in my little life, they helped nurture a gift, and they gave power to someone who felt powerless a lot of the time.  Behind my Bic and my wide-ruled notebook, I could change the world.  So, to you, to you blessed teachers, thank you.  I wouldn't be the same without you. 

Preconceived Notions...

Well I just got my ass handed to me. 

I also just sighed deeply.

I was out on my morning jaunt and I spied a woman - a student, I thought - at a distance and couldn't help but notice her sparkly shirt in the distance.

My first thought was 'Sequins?  This early in the week?  Whatevs.'

And then she got up and bumbled her way down the sidewalk. 

Let me add also that this week is the week students have returned to the University of Iowa and while behavior like this during the weekdays is not that common, it is not unheard of to have some nubile young co-ed bopping her drunk ass down the sidewalk at 9:00 a.m. CST. 

Thankfully, I had my sunglasses on as I rolled my eyes.

Do you guys see where this is going?  I sure didn't.

She said something to me and I popped my ear buds out and said 'Pardon, me?'

Then I got a good look at her:  Hazel eyes, salt & pepper elbow length hair, tanned deeply lined face and the flower patterned sequins shining in the morning light. 

"I don't have any toes," she said. 

"I'm sorry," I said. 

"People don't always believe me.  They've tried calling the cops on me before."

My heart fell.

"I call 'em fisty one and fisty two," she elaborated on her state of toelessness. 

Way to go, Heather, I thought.  Just way to freaking go.

I believe I told her 'bless your heart' and that I hoped she had a good day. 

Normally, folks, I pride myself on being able to look beyond the surface, the superficial, if you will and look into who the person is.  (It's not always the case, though.  Just ask my best friend.  We both thought we hated each other for years before we befriended one another.)  And today, God or someone reminded me to not lose that particular skill.

I'm normally a people-watcher by nature.  And, as a writer, I'm always creating a story in my head.   Working in a hospital/university campus, you do often wonder why that particular person is there.  Are they there to see their niece or nephew?  Are they there to drop off their father-in-law for an appointment in Ophthalmology?  Or is one of their loved ones here receiving treatment for one type of cancer or another?

It's their story.  Every single one of us is living out our story. 

And while it's not always particular heart warming, inspiring, or even dignified at times, it still is, by God, our tale. 

As I was walking back up the steps to  my office my first thought was of that saying about being kind to people because you have no idea the battle they are fighting. 

Today, I was reminded of that. 

And now I'm sharing it with you. 

A Night Less Ordinary....

There are very few things in the world like a community of women.

And I can honestly say that I don't like all women, but the women I do like, and am fortunate enough to have been befriended by, are pretty amazing.  They're your every day, garden variety women who are muddling through life while life tries to make their existence extraordinary...sometimes kicking and screaming the whole way.  

Either way, I found myself with two of my gal pals last night on our back patio (which sounds way fancier than it is) with a small fire, bottles of wine, and itunes. 

 (labeled Bliss on Instagram....Apropos, no?)

It always always amazes me how women are able to flit from conversation to conversation without missing a beat.  We're able to talk about death and our grocery budget in the span of two minutes.  Or how little Georgie is fighting a cold.  Or how Sue is not studying nearly enough while George Strait or Maroon 5 provides the soundtrack. 

And as the night goes on, sunglasses are tucked up as makeshift headbands, and ball caps are tucked low against foreheads, that's when the real talk begins. 

It's very easy to stare into a fire with the cool night air floating around you on the cusp of Autumn.  It's also easy to listen, to hear, maybe what someone is saying but not saying. 

It also always amazes me how there is always tears.  But, there is laughter and hugs in equal measure.

I love how there are emphatic arms waving about while wine slops out the left side but there is no stopping the story nor the leaning forward laughter that follows.  The talking over each other, the stories from yesterday or ten years ago.  Or how there is a group hug at one point.  How there is texting from family members, pictures to be posted on facebook and/or instagram....

And why is that?

Why do we feel the need to acknowledge that we're doing this?

Because it's a celebration of sorts, I think.

(Even the Sun Sets in Paradise...)


We may not have won this week, but we're here at the end of it, talking to each other, sharing each other's joy and misery, and this too shall be marked down.

On instagram, obviously.

We might not get a chance to do this until next Spring or we might be sitting in those same chairs two weeks from now but the spirit that is underneath our little community of women is always there.

We're here to share your load, to laugh at your stories, to hold your hand, to acknowledge your pain, and to remind each other we're not alone.  

And tomorrow is another day....

(The Aftermath...)

That mom....

I've decided I am never going to be 'that' mom.  I just can't.

I'm never going to be that mom that has it totally together.  I don't or can't even appear to have it all together.  I will let your room end up looking like this until I can't stand it anymore.

(aka last Sunday - Jude's room)

And in a fit of pique (or the fact that the County might've put yellow tape across the doorway condemning your room) I will help you clean it up. 

(Jude's room One hour later - aka The After)

I won't be the greatest decorator in the world.  As a matter of fact, I'll probably forget that I was supposed to sew you curtains for six months and then wait until we've bought a new comforter for your bed and then decide to sew them. 

I'll wait till the last minute to buy your school supplies. 

I will also stay up till midnight the day before your birthday baking treats for you to take to school.  Or buy them somewhere the morning of.

I'm never going to be Betty Crocker or Suzy Homemaker.

If you run out of clean underwear, don't blame me.  I showed you how to use the washer and/or the dryer.

I won't watch that stupid youtube video that you wanna show me.  Seriously, after the 87th time, there's only so many times I can watch a cat and/or dog chasing it's tail or watching grown people light their farts.

But, this I promise, I will do:

1.  If someone breaks your heart, I will try very hard not to want to break their knee caps (but when you aren't looking I will send Jude to find them).

2.  I promise to listen to your dreams, hopes, and wishes without bias or laughter. 

3.  I promise to hold your hand during the scary part of the movie and not tell a soul.

4.  I promise to clean up your scrapes, bumps and bruises with as little pain as I can possibly muster while putting on peroxide and neosporin.

5.  I promise that when you're sick, I will buy the more expensive soup with the actual stars in them. 

6.  I promise to be honest with you and let you know when I'm scared, too. 

7.  I promise to always love you (but to keep it real, there's gonna be times when I may not always like you...and I'll be sure to let you know when those moments are). 

8.  I promise to listen to you when you're frustrated with me and to see if we can come to some sort of logical compromise....after I've sent you to your room and calmed down enough to see straight.

9.  I promise to sing and dance with you and be absolutely silly (which, let's be honest, is the permanent state of Chez Fleming.  We are nothing if not ridic most of the time). 

10.  I promise to embarrass you by kissing your dad and saying I love him.  (and one day when you're married and have kids of your own...you'll see why this is cool)

11.  I promise to yell the loudest at your game/meets/recitals/solo competitions/etc. 

Why?  Because I'm that mom.

When I am down and oh, my soul, so weary...

Do you feel that loving hand on your shoulder and knowing that person is no longer taking steps on this Earth?

Have a dream late on a Saturday night/Early Sunday morning and you wake up aching to talk to that person one more time?

I'm surrounded by needs, wants, and gotta have's every single day, but every once in awhile during these days - these dog days of Summer - I feel something bigger than me. 

My grandma has been gone eight years tomorrow.

(I imagine she has a hand in this entry, these words, from where she's sitting with her sisters and brother in Heaven and watching)

I remember those days quite vividly.

She'd had a 'spell' and gone to the ER.  Tara and I were visiting the Big City to go school shopping.  Stopping into the ER, we checked on her, and helped her pick out pictures for her room at the nursing home of Sadie that had been taken recently.

I kissed her three times on the forehead (don't ask me about three's...I have a thing) and told her to be good.

I couldn't sleep that night practically at all.  I woke up around five that morning (it was a Monday) and couldn't go back to sleep.  I was thinking of calling in sick that day for some reason if nothing more than a mental health day.

My grandpa called around seven to say that grandma had passed away at 5:15 that morning.

I don't remember what I thought in that moment other than I was changing Sadie's diaper and that I just said okay, okay, and told him I'd be down in a little bit.

The next few days were an absolute blur.  You all know how that goes, right?  You lose someone you love, someone who has defined your very being, and you crumble or shut down for a bit, right?

I never thought I'd be able to survive losing her.

She drove me crazy on a daily basis.  I loved arguing with her for the sheer enjoyment of revving her engine.  It drove me nuts when she whistled under her breath and didn't know she was doing it.  I loved her homemade noodles.  I loved her writing.  That woman could get to the heart of something faster than anyone I'd ever met and succinctly.

She also told me once that I was one of the strongest people she had ever met.

Coming from her, that meant a lot.

She grew up during the Depression where nothing was to be had ever.  She graduated from high-school.  She married my grandpa and had four children and fought for my Aunt Mary (who was born with PKU and wasn't diagnosed for some time after that) tooth and nail to have a good life.  She loved antiques.

She said 'Toodle' when you were leaving the house.

I don't think I've heard that word in years and I miss it.

I remember sitting there at the funeral with my mom on one side of grandpa and me on the other.  I was doing so well.  I had marched through the whole of the visitation and people's hands and their words about her.  I had done it without falling apart.

Until that song.

I had heard it on Oprah's birthday special or something and of course it made me think of my grandparents.  Of course it did.

The lilting beginning of the violin and then Josh Groban's angelic voice sang.

At that moment, it was almost too much.

I found out later that my Uncle Tom had heard that song on his way up to the hospital.  It made him think of her. 

Kenny, bless his heart, was sitting with the other pall bearers and he said he looked over at me during that moment.  I was sitting with my head facing the ceiling, bottom lip tucked in and chin wobbling.

I can't hardly ever hear that song these days without switching the station, fast-forwarding though, because it's almost too much.

That song brings it all back.

She didn't die too young, I don't think.  But when you lose someone you loved, who you respected and looked up to, it just plain old-fashioned sucks.

And standing by her casket before they closed the lid and wheeled her away from me for the last time was almost more than I could do, too.

I stood there with my mom in front of me and Kenny behind me.  I put a picture of my mom and me - a picture from that July, from my birthday, our first one together again in almost twenty years - in there with her.

I said goodbye.

But when I think of her, when I try to drum up an image of her, this is what I come up with: I see her standing in her garden with a dishtowel on her head in the morning summer sunlight weeding with a hand over her eyes and a hand on her hip.

She loved garnets (her birthstone).

She wrote in her journals almost every day that I knew her.

I could fill a book with what I know about my grandma and my life with her or her life with me.  Either or.

The thing of it is, I miss her strength some days.

I miss that unwavering pillar that she was in my life.  And when I do, I usually pull myself up by those proverbial bootstraps and carry on.  But I miss her voice and her laugh - God, could that woman laugh.  She had a great laugh.

She collected baseball cards that one summer.

She had a shelf dedicated to the poem "When I am an Old Woman, I shall wear purple and red..".

She loved all of us.

And once upon a time, she sat at a kitchen table with her foot propped on a chair reading thumbing through a seed catalog with a cup of coffee at her elbow and a smoke in the ashtray.

And I loved her.

And today, right now today, I miss her.  
 

True North - A Mission Statement, of sorts

Have you ever heard of True North? 

Source

I mean, of course you have.  Everyone has heard the term 'True North'.  But, when I think on it, I think of what guides me.  Like, what is my internal compass pointing towards?  There are things that will always pull at you, and there is always going to be something that touches you at the heart of things and gives a gentle tug, tug their way. 

I was thinking about that a lot this morning.  I mean, what pulls at me at the heart of everything.  In other words, what proverbially melts mah butter. 

I came up with four things. 

If ever I had a mission statement they would include these words from other people that I regard as wholly inspirational in different ways.  They may mean so many different things to different people, but to me, they're what makes me tick. 

"I have spread my dreams under your feet, Tread softly because you tread on my dreams..." ~ WB Yeats

If you've known me longer than ten minutes, you'll know that I love the Irish poet, William Butler Yeats.  He turns a phrase quite like no one I know and I get lost in the rhythm of his words.  They're lovely.  But this particular passage means more to me than anything.  I remember reading it for the first time.  You know when you're watching a moment in your life and you know deep down that this moment is going to matter?  Yeah, that's how I felt the first time I read those words.  Wow, just wow. 

"You may say I'm a dreamer but I'm not the only one..." ~ John Lennon

Should I elaborate or is this one pretty self-explanatory?  We're all dreamers at heart.  We just happen to have different goals, ideals, and sense of purpose.  I'm not the only one, man.

"No more games, I'ma change what you call rage; Tear this motherfucking roof off like two dogs caged; I was playing in the beginning, the mood all changed; I've been chewed up and spit out and booed off stage" ~ Marshall Mathers (aka Eminem)

Anyone here surprised that I, of all people, identify with these lines?

Me, too.

I'm normally not the hugest rap fan at all, but when you break down the lyrics of this song, really listening to the words that Mr. Mathers is serving up so very articulately, it's just a simple song about a man rising above the 'system'.  In fact, he's beating the system.  So many people bare-knuckled that kid to keep him down in his 'place' and he didn't listen. 

That, my friends, is the scrapper mentality.  I wasn't ever really aware I possessed that quality until I desperately needed it.  It's one of the few things that I actually like about myself.

(Side bar conversation:  Have any of you ever seen the movie Murphy's Romance?  Guh.  James Garner.  Love him to pieces.  But I will never forget the scene where he and Sally Field are doing dishes and just talking and she asks him "What's the matter, Murphy?  Don't you like yourself?  To which he replies, "Yes, but I never thought it would be contagious."  Best lines from a stellar gent.)

And lastly, but not the least:

"I'm a mom.  It's who I am." ~ Heather Fleming

Again, this doesn't need an explanation, does it?  Those four people in my life, along with Kenny, have defined who I am more than anything else that this world could dish out, serve up.

In closing, what's your True North?  What guides you?

Monday Musings

Okay, due to lack of interest on my part, I'm putting off Music Monday until next Monday.  Today, I'm hoping you will indulge me slightly.  In a roundabout way, I'm going to tell you a story. 

Late last year I started reading a book called "The Courage to Write."  I wrote a few stories down in my other online journal pertaining to this book.  Ralph Keyes, the author, believed that you had to write about those stories in your life that matter most to you.  Actually, let me rephrase that.  He believed that you had to write about the hard things in your life.  I almost laughed at that.  Seriously?  Hard stories?  Look around, Mr. Keyes, I thought.  While some of my life's troubles were due to my own making, I believed that a lot of my life and how I view things all hinged on a decision I made when I was seven years old. 

But, that is a story for a different day. 

I took Mr. Keyes lesson to heart and dug in and wrote about what I believed to be my defining moment as a person or what had shaped and molded everything in my life up until this day.  He believes/believed that in order to be a good writer, a fundamental success, you had to tell your story first in order to be in touch with any other character. You had to let go of the 'story' you 'knew'.


I wrote everything down about how I felt during that time...or the aftermath anyway. 

And then promptly forgot all about those lessons in lieu of real life, etc. 

So, again, if you will, please indulge me. 

This past weekend, with the help of some really great friends of mine, I realized why I'm feeling the way I've been feeling lately.  Aside from the crazy that is handed down from generation to generation in my family, I've been having feelings of definite sadness and can't pinpoint it for any logical reason.  My life is fine.  My family is healthy.  I've got a good job.  Just got a pretty, pretty car not too long ago.  I got to go flying for the first time ever.  I drove to Tennessee and back. 

So, why am I lying in bed unable to move save for clicking the track pad on my laptop?

Fear.

Yup, plain old-fashioned simple fear. 

A long time ago, I promised myself that when I reached this point in my life, I would write a book.  Here I am, in that 'good' place for the first time in my life and I don't have a clue what to do with myself let alone a blank page that needs to be filled with words that people would want to read and buy and tell all their friends about. 

My life, our life, has not been the best the past few years.  In addition to working temporary jobs where life is always in a constant state of flux, I worked in places that made me feel about an inch tall at all times.  My go-to mantra during those days was that there would be a light at the end of the tunnel and that I would find a place that accepted me for all of my ridiculousness and that it would be better than anything I had ever imagined.

Yeah, I found that place.

Now what the hell am I supposed to do with myself? 

I know how to struggle and survive. I know how to rob Peter to pay Paul.  I'm a champ at packing my kids up and taking them to the beach because it's free or to the library because again?  Free.  I'm a thrift store shopper by choice AND necessity.  I'm so used to living in that state.  Again, we're still figuring out life on a daily basis, budget-wise, but also, again, it's still much better than it was before. 

So why am I subconsciously looking for things to be upset or angry about?

I'll tell you why:  Because I don't think for once in my life that I've learned how to thrive.  I don't know how not to be in the scrapper mode 24/7 and always hoping for the best.  Do not get me wrong, there are things in my life that need to be improved greatly.  It's just that mental checklist I've had running in my head for the past eight or so years is full of check marks in all the appropriate columns except one:  Write a Book. 

So, I manufacture shit to be unhappy about.  I don't do laundry until the absolute last minute because then I'll have something to be pissed about.  I don't make the bed for two weeks because then I can be pissed that it looks like crap.  Or don't do any of the DIY home improvements that I've been longing to do because, again, I still get to be upset. 

What sane person does this?

The one who is scared to death to take that step towards her dream.  I am scared beyond belief about writing something down and having no one read it.  I mean, who in their right mind would want to hear about my life?  Who really gives a crap at how I look at life?

Because when I think about writing about my life, I don't see the difference.  I don't see the attraction.  I don't see the selling point. 

I'm just me.

Just crazy Heather who loves to put words on a blank page and to twist them around to suit my needs and/or moods.  But evidently, I have to sit down and type out, listening to the click clack of my fingers on the keyboard, about what matters to me. 

I have to tell my story first. 

It's not gonna be some tell-all about who has wronged me in my life, I know that.  But, it might include the moments that made me who I am today.  And include those folks who have shaped my world, for better or worse. 

In closing, I'll ask you to bear with me, and maybe be a little kind.  It's my first day on the job of living my dream.