I remember realizing I was claustrophobic...

Another winter day in Alberta, another day my sister and I were kicked outside by Mom to play in the snow. Bundled up in our warmest coats and snow-pants and boots and hats and scarves and mittens, we were exploring the back yard...again. We had explored the yard countless times already, but we had no choice but to explore it again. Mom said.

We noticed that the latest blow of snow had covered over the white picnic table. One of us decided it would be cool to dig a tunnel under the table, and it would be safe because the table couldn't collapse on us like snow could. We began shoveling the snow out by the mitt-full, and soon we had a neat little cave. I began crawling in to explore the space, which would have been fine, but then Pam came in close behind me, wanting to explore, too. As she pushed against me from behind, I realized there was no way out, no quick way out at any rate, and I began to panic. "Get out! Pam, back up, let me out!" She didn't respond, wanting to come in. "Get out NOW!!!" I screamed.

"What is your problem?" she asked as she backed out, injured that I'd yelled at her.

"I didn't like that. I didn't like feeling trapped in there." I answered shortly, embarrassed at my weakness.

Pam spent the rest of the afternoon playing in the cave. I never went in it again. I'm still no good with small, enclosed spaces.

I've been immortalized. Check it out here.

I remember going to see Jason and the Scorchers....

If you know me at all, you know that I have a penchant for roots-type music...rockabilly, old-timey, bluegrass...I love it. Even when I was a dyed-black punk rocker, I loved it. One of the bands that I would play on my show at CiTR was the cowpunk group, Jason and the Scorchers. They could really rip their way through a Hank Williams tune! When I heard that they were coming to town, I was very excited! My friend, Li'l Debbie, and I agreed to go together. We both wore lots of black, lots of leather, fishnet stockings with black boots, red lipstick, thick black eyeliner, sheriff badges...everything cowboy and punk that we could think of! We looked great!

As we walked into 86 Street, excited to see who else was there that we knew, every eye turned to look at us--we were the only freaks there, and we stuck out like leather-clad thumbs. Apparently we were the only cowpunks in Vancouver!! The club was packed, but not with scenesters like us...with people who looked like they actually listened to country music radio, people with feathered hair and flannel plaid shirts and big belt buckles and tight Wranglers...it looked like a cowboy bar in Alberta, for Pete's sake!!! We headed straight for the front of the stage, not really feeling up to mingling.

When the band hit the stage, it was guns a-blazing! The guitar player, Warner E. Hodges, planted himself right in front of us and played the whole show just for us, it seemed. He was probably wondering where all the cowpunks were, too! After the show, it was a matter of mere moments before Li'l Debbie and I were asked by Warner if we wanted to come back-stage. Well, yes! Introductions all 'round, beer from the band's supply...we couldn't have felt more cool.

Warner had us one at each hip for the rest of the evening. He was a gentleman, didn't try anything untoward...I think he was just lonely and bored and wanted somebody to talk to. The band was heading out that night, so we rode back to the hotel where they had been staying to send them off. Warner, with one arm around each of us, declared he wanted to buy us a drink. The three of us walked into the sleepy hotel bar, pretending it was an old-time saloon, and loudly ordered the barkeep to give us three shots of Jack Daniels and "keep 'em comin'!". It was fun, goofing around in the presence of the bored business men, talking with southern drawls about barroom brawls. When Jason stuck his head in the bar and hollered that it was time to leave, Warner gave us each a kiss on the cheek and disappeared into the tour bus.

I've thought about that kiss on the cheek. I've thought about what a gift a little kiss can be, how it communicates so much in such a short time...it says "Thank you" and "You were worth spending time with" and "You are beautiful" and "Good bye forever". Li'l Debbie and I staggered out of that bar feeling like the two most beautiful women in the world. It was a good night.

Thanks to papaherman for sparking this latest memory!

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 dancing with old men....

There was a little bar in downtown Vancouver called the Marine Club. It was the kind of bar with a big jar of pickled eggs on the counter and a ratty old pool table in the back. The old-timers that sat on the stools around the counter were such permanent fixtures that the yellow-gray smoke haze that coloured the wall coloured them as well. It became the place that us undergrounders would go to escape for a cheap, quiet beer.

A few nights a week, a tall old black man named Frank would carry his keyboard up the stairs, set up in the corner and play music. He was incredible!! You could ask for any request, and if he didn't know it that night, he would know it next time he came. He'd turn on the drum track, start noodling away on songs like "Fly Me to the Moon" or "The Girl From Ipanema", and the old men and women would peel themselves off their bar stools and dance. I would call out requests for even older songs, songs my mother used to sing as she swept the floor, songs like "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree", "Night and Day", or "Beat Me Daddy(Eight to the Bar)", and Frank would shake his head and laugh and ask me how a girl so young knew such old songs.

The old drunks would saunter over and ask for a dance. I always said yes. I remember these men as perfect gentlemen, polite, charming, and quite good at dancing, considering the amount of alcohol in their systems. Grey hair combed into place, stubborn grey stubble poking through jowly jaws, faded and stained polyester suits....they smelled of beer and cigarettes and Bryl-creem as I danced with them, and I loved it. I loved every minute of it.

I remember finding Blue on the road...

Blue was our dog, a beautiful little blue merle Shetland sheepdog that looked just like the one in the picture here. We had bought her from a breeder in Calgary. She had such a sad beginning in life. The breeder had sold her to a man, then months later was driving along a busy Calgary street and saw a bedraggled dog at the side of the road. She picked up the starving pup, and after checking tattoos, realized it was Blue! She called the man, and he was unapologetic..."She was a pain, so I let her out of the car to fend for herself." At the tender age of 11, I couldn't imagine a man being so cruel and evil. We bought Blue and brought her home, the fanciest dog we had ever owned, with papers and a pedigree and everything!

She was so smart! My little sister and I would make up tricks, and we'd only have to show her two or three times, and she'd know the trick forever. We'd point our finger at her, say "Bang!", and she'd fall down dead. We'd say "Slip me some skin" just like Huggy Bear from "Starsky and Hutch", and she'd put up her paw to shake. She was one groovy dog, certainly not a pain in any way! I felt proud that we had rescued her.

One hot, dusty summer day I was out in the garden grazing on the raspberries. After I'd had my fill, I began meandering back to the house, when I saw a kind of heap on the gravel road. I walked a bit closer to investigate, and realized it was Blue--not a good place for her to be napping! "Blue, come on! Get off the road!" The heap of blue-grey fur did not move. As the realization of what I was looking at slowly dawned on me, I froze. "Blue?" I could barely do it, but I walked two steps closer. There was no life there, none at all.

I ran to the house, crying. I told Mom what I had found, and she ran out to investigate. She came back to the house. "Oh, honey" she said, and pulled me into her arms. We cried and cried. I cried not just for the pain of losing such a sweet pet, but at the futility of our attempt to rescue her.

I remember being mooned for the first time...

Sheri, my best college friend, and I hopped in her car and headed south of the border to Seattle to go see Steve Taylor in concert. We were very excited to see him, he was so New Wave and crazy! The show was great, even though there was nowhere to dance...what is it with concert halls that don't allow people to actually enjoy the music?

Anyway, after the show, we were full of pent-up energy. There were blocks and blocks to walk in late-night Seattle, but both of us were bouncing along as we headed towards the car. There wasn't much traffic, so we noticed when a car drove slowly by. It took a moment to register what exactly I was looking at. The passenger in the back seat had his pants down and his butt squished against the window, mooning us. I had never even heard of such a thing before! I felt insulted, like somebody had just called me a rude name. Why would he do that to us? What had we ever done to him? Did we look funny or something? I thought it was disgusting, and Sheri and I shook our heads as we finished the walk to the car.

I have discovered in the years since that mooning isn't such a big deal to many people. My husband has, on occasion, mooned his own mother! Bart Simpson has mooned just about everybody! But when I was 18, all I knew was that some hairy teenager with pimples had pulled his pants down and I felt insulted. My upbringing had not prepared me for public displays of butt.

This is my 100th post. 100 memories from my life laid down the best I can, for anyone at all to read if they want to. I was wondering what to remember on this special occasion...something funny? Something sad or depressing? How about a little of both...


I remember practicing the piano....

Mom expected us all to take piano lessons. We weren't asked if we wanted to, we just had to. I hated practicing, especially my scales and triads and arpeggios. I knew they would help me play songs better, but they were so boring.

I can clearly remember one practice session. I was having trouble with my arpeggios, they just weren't coming out right. I was making the same mistake over and over again, and I was beginning to get very frustrated. I tried slowing it down to a crawl, but my fingers were still fumbling over the one area. I tried speeding it up to see if I could fly by the trouble spot...

By the 100th time of playing it wrong, I was in tears. I was angry! I was depressed!! I placed my fingers on the keys, took a deep breath, and tried again. WRONG! I slapped myself on the face, hard. "Stupid!!" I cursed myself. I tried again. WRONG!! I slapped myself again, harder. "Idiot!!" I even banged my head on the keys at one point, like a real-life version of Don Music from Sesame Street.

As you can guess, this attempt at humiliating my fingers into submission got me nowhere.

I remember my Saturday morning job...

Every Saturday morning we would clean the house from top to bottom. Mom, being a pastor's wife, never knew if there would be company the next day so the house had to be spotless. My job was cleaning the bathroom, Pam's job was dusting. We both preferred our jobs and would rather fight than switch. I would use Comet cleanser and a rag and clean the bathtub, the toilet, and the sink to a polished shine. I would put fresh towels and fold them perfectly. I took special care to shine up the metal on the faucet.

I did this every Saturday for years. You think I'd be better at cleaning my own bathroom now, but I'm not. Maybe if my sister still lived with me...

I remember meeting a group of handsome men...

When my shift was done at the souvenir kiosk outside the gates of Expo 86, I would walk downtown and hop on the newly completed Skytrain for my ride home. Tonight was a late one, and as I walked down the stairs to the station beneath Granville Street, a young man kept calling out to me. Easily ignorable, I tuned him out, bought my ticket, and descended even farther beneath the earth to the platform. He rode the escalator behind me, making rude comments, asking me if I wanted a date, a boyfriend...that sort of thing.

Unrelated side note: Anyone else see the irony of going down into the depths of the earth to catch the "Sky"train? LOL!! The train only went underground for two stations...but this always made me laugh. Anyway, back to our story...

I strode with purpose towards the group of people waiting for the train heading East. The young man stood off to one side, continuing with his tirade of what he was prepared to do for me. Everyone on the platform was wondering what I'd do. When the train slid into the station, he followed me into the car and sat down behind me. I'm no dummy. Just before the door slid shut, I jumped up, ran out of the car and scooted into the next one. He tried to follow, but the doors shut and the train accelerated out of the station, leaving him standing alone on the platform. Hah!!

I was feeling very clever! Then I looked around to see who was in the car I had just dashed into. The only empty seat was in the midst of a group of incredibly handsome men, all dressed in expensive clothing that fit them perfectly. They clapped for me and my clever evasion, indicating that I was welcome to sit with them. I took a little bow, and joined their party. As I began a conversation, I quickly realized that these men were Italian and could speak almost no English. The only Italian words I knew were the musical terms I'd learned from 10 years of piano lessons. I spouted off a few to their great merriment. "Allegro! Pianissimo! Dolce!" Much laughter, white teeth. "Expo 86?" I asked, figuring them to be tourists.

"Si! Si!!" They nodded happily. "La Scala!"

"Are you here to see La Scala perform?" I knew the famed opera company was going to be performing for Expo 86, and assumed any Italian worth his salt would be lining up to buy tickets. "You watch La Scala?"

"No!" insisted the gentleman with the perfect white teeth and immaculately groomed graying hair. "No watch. La Scala!!" He reached for his wallet and handed me a business card. I don't read Italian, but I realized that I was sitting with members from the company! They were with La Scala! "You come see?"

I pulled out my pockets, pantomiming my poverty. "I can't afford the opera!"

"No!" Darn that language barrier!!! "You come see! You come! We show!" How did he get his teeth so white? What? Was he inviting me to come as his guest? For free??? We eventually figured it out, after much hand gesturing, that I was invited to the final dress rehearsal, and that one of my new friends would meet me at the door to make sure I got in. We waved good-byes and ciaos as they got off at their stop.

I showed up at the Pacific Coliseum at the proper time on the proper day, August 23, 1986. Nobody was waiting for me at the gate, but I convinced the person at the door that I belonged there by showing him the Italian business card I had been given. I walked in, totally excited. I had never been to the opera before! I wasn't sure where I would be allowed to sit, so I was wandering down the aisles looking for an empty spot when I heard a welcoming cry. "Hallo!!!" It was one of my friends! He rushed up to me, grabbed me around the shoulder and steered me straight toward the backstage. Backstage! He introduced me to someone who could translate for us, and then I was given a whirlwind tour of the whole backstage area. I saw the costume room, the singers putting on their makeup, the props and backdrops...I felt like I was walking in a dream.

I was led to my seat, right near the front, and watched Verdi's "I Lombardi". Is it any wonder that I felt like my life was charmed? Why would something so magical and fantastic happen to me, merely because I was smart enough to dodge a dummy on the Skytrain? I didn't know why, and I didn't care. If heaven wanted to drop gifts in my lap, I certainly wasn't going to refuse!