What Do You Suppose This Means?

The bear was standing at the end of the dirt road, pacing back and forth and thoughtfully scratching his beard. He stopped and looked in my direction. “Where are the Skittles?” he called. “Has no one thrown Skittles away this week?” He was clearly perturbed that the dump was not properly stocked.


image courtesy Google image search

He began to pace again. While his back was turned, I rolled a giant mousetrap to the mouth of the dirt road leading into the dump. Quickly, I baited it with cotton candy and Skittles then performed an efficient army roll into the bushes as I saw him whirling back in my direction. From my post behind a tree, I watched the Game Warden round the bend with his dogs and confront the disgruntled pacing bear.



They argued.

From my hiding place I watched them angrily gesture at one another.
The bear broadly swept his arm in the direction of the dump piles, clearly complaining that there were no Skittles to be had.

A magical rainbow of candy coated niblets
image courtesy of Google image search

Then the Game Warden placed handcuffs on the bear and led him to the paddy wagon. As they drove past, I jumped out from behind the tree, pointed and laughed at the bear while screeching, “SKITTLES!”

The bear slumped in his seat and placed his head in his paws as the paddy wagon turned onto the main road and disappeared.



Paddy Wagon source

Turning to the right, I began walking across the paved road and away from the dump. I could see my sister and my friend Jodi, the one from high school, sitting together on a bench and looking at a photograph. As I approached, they held up a Glamour Shot of my junior prom date.

“Guess who I’m dating?” my sister called in a sing-song voice. They giggled.

“You can’t date him, you’re married!” I huffed.

They both gazed at me as if I was a moron and then Jodi piped up. “She can do whatever she wants! Besides…he’s HOT!”

They dissolved into a fresh round of giggles and I noticed that the man version of my junior prom date was wearing makeup in his Glamour Shot.



Not my Junior Prom Date
image courtesy funnyphotos

My cell phone rang.

“Hello, Aunt Kelli? It’s Sam. Can you tell my mom that I’m with the Long Island Serial Killer?” beep…silence.

“Uh, Traci… that was Sam and she’s with the Long Island Serial Killer.”

My sister and Jodi continued gazing at my prom date’s Glamour Shot and ignoring me. Suddenly, I’m enraged that she’s cheating on her husband with my prom date. Worse, she’s completely unfazed that her daughter is in the deadly grasp of a serial killer.

Whatever.

I walked away, leaving them there with the stupid Glamour Shot and made my way into the mall parking lot. I was trying to find a parking space and my damn car was becoming really heavy. Finally, I dropped the car in a spot outside of the mall and made my way across the pavement to the entrance.

It took a really long time because I decided to crawl like a worm.

My ex-love

Finally, I reached the entrance and stood up. I fought my way through a crowd of protesters inside of a store selling dresses from India and located the employee entrance to Neiman Marcus. I entered, pretending that I worked there and walked with purpose straight into the shoe department.

Suddenly, I could hear Neiman Marcus’ massive junkyard-style guard dogs barking, alerting the staff of an intruder. I couldn’t see them, but they were close…so close. I stood frozen with a beautiful shoe in my hand.

My eyes fluttered open to see Stella standing on my pillow, barking at me to wake up.

For some reason, I’m exhausted today.

Not a vicious junkyard-style guard dog.

Self Doubt

Since I began recalling the ability to recall, I recall loving books. More specifically, I recall loving words and the endless possibilities of their combinations. For me, words have always held a certain magic. When put together in carefully crafted combinations, words have the ability to transport you to different times, worlds and into the lives of others.

I also recall being thrilled when, at the age of five, I finally owned the ability to write letters and make my own word combinations and, since that time, I have wanted to be a writer. My entire life has been spent dreaming of penning best-selling novels and becoming a sort of younger, female version of Stephen King. He is one of my idols. King can place you in the darkest and most ghastly of worlds, evoking both fear and disgust, but his descriptiveness lends such an air of realism to the horror. He has kept me eagerly turning the pages of his books for 25 years.



Photo from the collection of the Hoover Library

As a kid, Laura Ingalls Wilder inspired me. When you put aside the whole Little House on the Prairie franchise, stop envisioning Michael Landon as Pa and pick up those books again, you (hopefully) recognize the importance of her writing. She wrote about America and the pioneers of the West. The rich detail of her books is awe inspiring. I can still read them and become swept into the 1870s. Her words have carried me away from the Big Woods in a covered wagon, feeling every jaw-rattling bump as they bid farewell to family they might never see again. She transported me to their dugout at Plum Creek and to their tiny prairie house where I sat by a crackling fire fearing that Pa would freeze to death in the blizzard. On pins and needles, I prayed that Pa would see the lamp that Ma had placed in the window to guide him safely home. I can’t wait for my girls to discover these magical books and hope that they still hold that same magic in a world of DVDs and video games.

Those two authors, worlds apart in their subject matter, planted the seed of a dream. For so many years, I kept my dream to myself. I wrote only for myself and privately and, for a time, I didn’t write at all. It can be hard to hold onto a dream when you are surrounded by negativity and people who are content with being unfulfilled. How is it that some people don’t dream? How is it that some people seem to get some kind of sick enjoyment out of killing the dreams of others? Thankfully, that person is gone from my life now. Oddly enough, the news of his permanent departure from our lives came on the very same day that I received a telephone call from USM/Stonecoast telling me that I have been accepted into the MFA in Creative Writing program. I like when coincidences like that happen. I have a hokey suspicion that ‘coincidence’ was a message from the universe, or God or whatever greater being possibly exists, telling me that my dream is very much alive.

a fair representation of how I view my Dream Killer

As the result of so many years with the aforementioned “Dream Killer,” my self-esteem has taken a few knocks. Despite the fantastic news from Stonecoast, I found myself filled with negative thoughts about the acceptance. I turned to David and said, “An MFA isn’t a real master’s degree.” He got angry. Later I said, “what if no one else is applying because of the economy, so they had to accept me?” He rolled his eyes and got angry.

My dream is becoming reality. Do I think that I’ll write a best-selling novel and become as famous as Stephen King or Laura Ingalls Wilder? No, but I can hope, right? When I was a child, there was a man in our family named John. He lived with my grandmother and he could ‘see’ things. He could also see dead people. So many of his predictions have become truths over the years. One of his predictions came when I was very small. He said that one day; I would be a famous writer. I know…what came first, the chicken or the egg?

This morning, my love woke up early and researched the country’s low residency MFA programs, their rankings and acceptance rates. He desperately wants me to stop doubting myself and my talent. He woke me to tell me that Stonecoast is in the top ten low residency MFA programs in the country and notoriously selective.

I will (try to) stop doubting myself now. Time to follow my dream…

Give my self-esteem a boost with a click to vote :)
Vote for me @ Top Mommy Blogs - Mom Blog Directory