I remember a strange moving day....

I had been living in a bachelor apartment in the West End of Vancouver. It had been a great place to live, with a friend next door and a swimming pool in the basement, but all of a sudden it was costing too much. I had lost my job and had no money. My friend, Jezebel (remember her from this post?) said I could move in with her. Great!! I would save a bunch of money and move in with a white-skinned bat-cave chick, upping my "cool" rating considerably.

I didn't have much stuff. My apartment had been almost empty, with my clothes in little piles along one wall, my stereo in the living room with my records leaning against it, and the couch that I slept on. That was about it, except for the retro dining table and chairs I had bought at a second-hand store. I decided to nab a shopping cart and load all my earthly belongings into it. Everything fit, except the couch, the table, and chairs. I decided to leave them behind--life was transitory, right?

I pushed the shopping cart into the elevator and rode the six floors down to the main floor. I felt kind of guilty about leaving without giving notice, but figured the table and chairs were a good peace offering to the sweet old landlady.

It was a short six or seven blocks to my new apartment. The shopping cart rattled loudly in the evening darkness. I couldn't help but wonder how far removed was I from the bag lady I appeared to be at that moment? No money coming in, all my possessions in one shopping cart...it was a disturbing thought, no matter how far up the "cool" rating I was moving.

I remember learning what shame feels like...

Early in the morning, 5:30 or 6 am, I would rise and go downstairs into the living room before anyone else woke up. This was my favorite part of the day. It was just me and my books. I was 6 years old, and I would sit on the brown couch with a volume of the Childcraft library and read until Mom woke up to get our day rolling. The volume I read the most was called "Look Again", and it was full of works of art, from Jasper Johns to Picasso to daVinci and Rembrandt. I loved it. I'd pour over the pictures again and again.

I discovered that if I held the book just right, the hard part of the spine made me feel...well...very good. I had no idea why it made me feel good, but it did, so I'd sit there with the book between my legs. It was as mindless as wrapping your hair around your finger or sucking your thumb.

One morning my mother came out of her bedroom and discovered me sitting in this way. She erupted in disgust. "Shame on you, you dirty girl! That's disgusting!! I don't ever want to see you doing that again!" The book was ripped out of my hands and I was marched to the bathroom to wash. Reading was wrong? Or was feeling good wrong? I was very confused. I felt a hot burning on my cheeks, and guilt that was unattached to any action, as far as I could tell. This was shame--an embarrassed confusion covered with anger...I had finally discovered an activity that I had to hide from my mother.

Over the next years, I continued to find ways to "feel good", and felt dirtier and dirtier. I was very good at hiding it. It wasn't until I was in Grade 5 and read a book by Judy Blume that I discovered I wasn't the only person in the world who enjoyed the feeling I got from rubbing my genitals. I nearly cried as I read that book. I had thought I was some kind of freak, that I was broken in some way...and here I was normal. It was a shocking thing to realize.

I remember discovering what burning hair smells like...

I'm not sure how old I was in this memory, but I remember it very clearly. I was probably 9 or 10, when we still lived out on the prairie. Our family was invited over to another's family's home for supper, and I was excited because these people actually had kids I liked near my own age. As a pastor's family, we were often invited over to the homes of people with no children at all, and we'd have to be good, and it was SO BORING!!!

But these people had Janelle, and she and I got along great. After supper, she and I were playing in her room...we were playing with Barbies, which usually went against my grain, but I let it slide in order to be friendly. All of a sudden, all the lights went out, pitch darkness--no big deal, just a power outage. If you live on the farm or in the country, the power could go out during any little wind storm, and we were all used to it. Janelle's mom came bustling with a candle for us into the room where we were playing...she set it on the dresser. Then she bustled out to take candles all over the rest of the house.

As soon as she was gone, we realized that the small light of one lone candle didn't reach down to where we were playing. We moved the candle down to the floor beside Barbie's Dream House and continued to play, doing our best to be careful and not knock the candle over. All of a sudden, we both stopped. Eeeew! What was that awful smell? I was turning my head to see what was so stinky all of a sudden, when Janelle noticed that my long hair was decidedly shorter in one area. We took the candle into the bathroom so we could inspect my hair with the help of a mirror...it was all frizzly on the ends. I must have moved my hair through the candle flame when I was reaching for Ken or something!! I could have lit my head on fire!!

For some reason we felt incredibly guilty, and had an overwhelming urge NOT to tell our mothers what had just happened. Surely trying to light your own head on fire was a punishable offence! We used fingernail scissors to trim off the frizzly burnt parts, but how to hide the smell? We scrambled through the bathroom looking for something, anything...hairspray! That stinks pretty good! Janelle and I sprayed first my head, then her entire room with hairspray.

No, we did not set the house on fire. Somehow in our ignorance of the flammability of aerosol propellants, we managed not to spray near one of the open flames. To this day, the smell of burning hair gives me the delicious sneaky feeling of getting away with something. Unless my mom starts reading this blog, which is unlikely, she will never know I burnt my hair that evening! Ha ha ha!!!

I remember hitting a woman in the head with a golf ball...

We lived in the country beside the little church my Dad pastored. One of Abe's most passionate hobbies was golfing, and one spring Dad turned our huge backyard into a pitch and putt golf course. He filled gopher holes along the fairways, dug nine holes and put a tin can in each one to catch the golf balls. He mowed the grass nice and close along the greens, and made a flag we could move from hole to hole so we could see where to aim. It was awesome!! My sister and I each had our own putter and a driver, and we'd golf all afternoon on a Saturday. I even got a hole-in-one on the longest hole one day! This was no easy feat...I'm not talking Miniature Golf here, but a true Par 3 Pitch 'n Putt. Like I said, it was a huge back yard.

One day, I was at the back of the yard, lining up for a good long shot towards the hole nearest the church. I hollered "Fore!!!" and gave the ball a mighty whack...just as a woman walked out of the side door of the church. My ball headed straight for her, hitting her in the temple; she crumpled like a limp towel to the ground. It happened so fast, there was nothing I could have done. I felt so guilty!! Apparently it took her a long time to recover from that injury. My line drive caused her head-aches for years afterwards. Oops.

Now that I think of it, I haven't golfed much since.

2002-08-28 - 7:37 a.m.

I remember: one day at school, the teacher was really getting under my skin. I was 11. By lunch time, I had had it. I took my lunch and quietly walked off the school ground and headed toward the highway. "He thinks he rules me? I'm walking to the city." The city was 70 miles away. I remember I was wearing a blue-and-white checkered dress, sort of a large gingham check, with a big bow in the back. It was made of polyester. I walked for hours on Highway 21, heading to Calgary. I didn't know what a prostitute did, but I did know that if you ran away, that was your way to make money, so I was determined to become one as soon as I got to the city. Thoughts of my family would fleetingly enter my head, but I'd push them aside. I was stubborn enough that I probably would have walked to Calgary, except for a man in a big sedan, driving the other way, heading back to my home. He pulled over and called out to me. "What are you doing by yourself way out here?" I lied to him, quick as thought, "I live near here, and I'm just out for a walk." Thankfully, he didn't believe me, and suggested that maybe I needed a ride back to town. I sighed. I got in his car. When we got back to town, I realized I had just missed the school bus, so I had to call home and lie again. And the next day at school, I had to lie to my stupid teacher as well.