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Deep Trouble

When we are young, we take the stories our parents, grandparents and other relatives tell us for granted, especially when we are too busy for them. I wonder how many times I said, “Mamie, you’ve told me that story a hundred times!” practically annoyed that she didn’t know she was repeating herself (or she did know and just didn’t care). And now . . . oh boy. What I wouldn’t give for a chance to sit down with her and hear them all again. Well the story I’m about to tell was always one of my favorites growing up, busy or not, and involved Mamie herself as a child. And not a good little child that listens to her parents like she always wanted me and my siblings to be . . . but a stubborn little girl who deliberately disobeyed her father. As I imagine some of my favorite moments, I can hear Mamie reciting this story to me, as she did many times, and so I feel compelled to relay Mamie’s tale from her point of view and voice. I hope you enjoy it as much as me.

Mamie:

When I was about 5 or 6 years old, we had a cow that was going to have a little calf. Since I was so young, this was a new experience for me and I was really excited. I can remember asking my dad every day when the calf would be born and that I wanted to see it RIGHT when it was born. My dad kept telling me the same thing: “Any day now” and “We’ll see.”

I must have been worried he wouldn’t let me know when it was born, because from that point on, I went with him every time he went and checked on our cow. I kept praying I’d walk in with him and be the first to discover the new little calf, but every time I would see just our old pregnant cow. At some point, I went to go with him and he told me to wait inside because it was raining. And even though I wanted to go with him, little kids were supposed to mind their parents . . . and you didn’t dare cross dad. When he came back in I was waiting right by the door and eagerly asked him, “Is it here yet?” and he replied, “No, Mamie. You’ll be the first to know when the calf is born.”

So I waited. And waited. And waited some more. But I did not go with my dad to check on the cow anymore after that because it just rained and rained and rained. I swear it rained for nearly two days straight. I remember thinking “If that little calf ever does get here, we’ll have to row a boat over to the barn just to get to it.”

Finally, after the rain had stopped, my dad had just come inside and called my name. And, just like he promised, I was the first one he told . . . the calf was finally here! I was so excited and was halfway out the door when I realized Dad was still speaking to me. “You can’t go see it yet. You’ll have to wait.” I couldn’t believe my ears. “WAIT?? That’s all I have BEEN doing!” I thought to myself. But I knew we were about to eat lunch, so I just assumed that was why Dad wanted me to wait, so I left it alone for the time being. After lunch, I told dad I was going out to the barn to see the little calf and he said “No, you are not. With all the rain, it is just too muddy for you to go out to the barn today. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

I’m telling you, boy was I mad! I had been waiting days, and now my dad said I had to keep waiting! And all because of a little MUD?? Who cares about mud? I got muddy all the time, and it was never a big deal, so long as I didn’t track it through the house. Why was my dad all of a sudden making such a big t’do about some mud? When I told him I was going to go see it anyway, Dad got mad. He raised his voice and thundered, “Mamie, if so much as go near that barn I’ll tan your backside!” So I listened. I stormed off and pouted for a little while until I thought “I’ll show him! I’m not going to let a little mud stop me. I am GOING to see that calf!”

I waited until I knew Dad was busy with something else and I quietly slipped outside. I remember thinking “If Dad catches me, I’ll probably get a switchin’, but it would be worth it.” As I made my way toward the barn, I began to understand why Dad made such a fuss about the mud. I had never been in this much mud before. It made just walking quite the chore. The mud was so gooey that both my shoes came off about halfway to the barn. I thought about turning back, but when I looked back at the house, I could see my tracks, leading from the house all the way to where I left my shoes. Those tracks combined with how filthy my shoes looked made me realize there was no way I was getting away with this. Either Dad would catch me in the act or he’d see my tracks, or Mom would figure it out when she saw how muddy my shoes were. “I am in trouble whether I turn back or not,” I thought, so I kept going.

I was almost to the barn. A couple times, I thought I heard the baby calf mooing. The mud was getting very deep and making my journey difficult. Each step I took closer to the barn, closer to seeing that little calf, my feet squished deeper and deeper into the mud, until finally . . . I was stuck. I mean, REALLY stuck. I could not move. I tried literally pulling one of my legs out with my hands, but it was no use. As soon as I started to have a little luck with one leg, the other one would just plunge deeper into that mud. As I started to panic and wonder how I would ever get out of that mud, I couldn’t help but think of that funny line you’d sometimes hear at the end of a song, “Shave and a haircut, two bits! . . . Mud in the barnyard, knee-deep!” And as I looked down at my poor little legs, that was just about what I was: knee-deep.” I was in trouble. Deep trouble. KNEE-DEEP trouble.

I couldn’t believe it. I was so excited to meet that calf and had worked so hard to get out to that barn, sure to get into hot water with my dad, and now I wasn’t even going to get to see it. It was all for nothing. I was stuck, tired, mad, and my feet were cold. I imagined going out to the barn tomorrow to see the cow. It would surely be much easier since the mud would have started to dry up . . . only I probably wouldn’t be able to see the baby calf tomorrow because my dad was going to be so mad at me. “Why didn’t he take me out to see it?? Why wasn’t the calf born a few days ago?? Why did it have to rain so much?” Once had managed to avoid blaming every one and every thing but myself for the mess that I was in, I finally asked myself the right question . . . “Why didn’t I listen to my dad??” That’s when I started to cry. And it wasn’t a tender-hearted little whimper either; I bawled. I bawled and I bawled and you would’a thought somebody was beatin’ me to death the way I carried on. And then, without my even realizing, there was my dad, right by my side. He said in a quiet, but serious voice, “Mamie, I told you you were NOT to go out in this mud and try to see that calf.” I just kept bawling.

Dad reached down, grabbed me underneath my arms and pulled me out from my cold muddy trap with a sloshy squelch of a sound. He put me over one shoulder and I thought, “I’m in for it! He’s not even going to wait to get me inside first, he’s just gonna spank me right here and now in all my muddy glory.” I close my eyes and hugged my dad’s neck, part of me bracing for the discipline I was about to get, and the other part just thankful to be free from the mud. But Dad did not spank me. Instead, he started walking. Maybe he was going to get me cleaned up before he punished me; after all, he was covered in mud now too. Or maybe he was going to go and get a good switch. That was probably it. The palm of his hand was too good for me. I completely ignored his warning . . . I deserved worse than a spanking.

When my dad finally stopped walking, I still had my teary eyes shut and didn’t even realize where we were. He said, “Well here you are. Here’s what you’ve been making such a fuss over.” I opened my eyes to find we were standing just inside the barn. And there, only a few feet away, was the baby calf. I couldn’t believe it was not even a day old. It was bigger than I pictured, but I was shocked to find it already able to stand. It takes people almost a year to stand on their own, and yet a cow could do it as a newborn! It was truly the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I gave my dad a hug, and we went back to the house, retrieving my muddy shoes along the way.

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Mamie had a lot of great stories; however she was not always the best storyteller. She told that story so many times, and every time I heard it, I learned a new detail as well as had to remind her of the parts she accidentally left out. But every time she told it, there were always a few lines that stayed constant, my favorite being, “I am GOING to see that calf!” As an adult, I can easily picture a little stubborn, 5-year-old Mamie going out and getting stuck in the mud, crying ’til her dad rescued her; but as a kid, I could only imagine a woman in her 60s, which gave me quite the chuckle. I remember asking her if she ended up getting in trouble later, but she didn’t remember. My wife and I were recently discussing this story, and she said how Mamie’s dad was probably just relieved to find her safe. I on the other hand, knowing how sneaky Mamie could be with me, have always wondered if in fact her dad had watched the entire thing go down, just waiting until she was good and stuck before going to her. I never got to meet Mamie’s dad, but had I ever, I would have LOVED to ask him for his version of the story.

And just to clarify, I always listened when Mamie told me not to do something . . .

“There is nothing to fear but fear itself … and spiders.”

Last night I started reading a new novel: A Head Full of Ghosts, by Paul Tremblay. I have always enjoyed a spooky book or movie, and with the fall temperatures teasing us, it seemed like the perfect time to start a scary read! So far, I’m really enjoying the book and ended up staying up way past my bedtime. I was just tucking myself in (since nobody else will), about to turn the light off, when I saw it: eight hairy legs, eight glaring eyes, and some of the most horrifying fangs, dripping with venom (a slight exaggeration may have been used for added effect). The spider was plastered to my ceiling, ready to pounce at any moment, but more than likely waiting until I turned off the light before springing its attack. I carefully considered all of my options, and proceeded with the one that made the most sense . . . I told the spider goodnight, to watch over me, turned off the light, and went the sleep. I know what many of you are thinking. “Aren’t you afraid it’s going to drop on you while you sleep??” And to be honest . . . a little . . . but so what if it did? However, my laissez-faire attitude towards spiders took a while to master.

The Beginning

I suppose my fear of spiders started like a fear of anything else, which is a lack of understanding; like a fear of the dark, for example. When we are young (or sometimes not so young) we don’t really comprehend that darkness is simply the absence of light. It is the same world as it is in the light, just, darker. However, fear, whether we’re talking about the dark or spiders or whatever, is often influenced from others’ perceptions or fears. We hear different animals outside at night or hear about violent acts happening at nighttime, so naturally we adopt a “things that go bump-in-the-night” assumption anytime the lighting is low. The same is true with spiders and other critters. People are afraid of them, so they write stories and make movies about these bugs murdering innocent town folk and taking over the city (ever see the movie Arachnophobia??). So perhaps it is Hollywood’s fault that I was terrified of spiders, or maybe, just maybe, it was because my dad, the strongest and bravest man I knew, is also scared of spiders.

That’s right. My ol’ man. This guy was (and still is) tough as nails. He was “Mr. Outdoorsman,” spending any leisure time he had hunting, camping, and fishing. I’d seen him slice through the meat of his hand while filleting fish and barely bat an eye, and personally witnessed him obliterating his opponents in armwrestling matches. And let’s not forget the most important little kid flex on the playground: “My dad can beat up your dad.” But, the fact of the matter is, this true grit son-of-a-gun was a big wuss when it came to bugs, especially those arachnids. Any time I saw my dad encounter his eight-legged nemeses, it would always end with the sound of some some blunt object crunching the unlucky soul. I remember one time, Dad was in the bathroom and suddenly started shouting my name, telling me to hurry. When 7-year old me walked in, I found dad sitting in the bathtub, pointing at a spider on the wall. He wanted me to kill it so he could continue bathing in peace. So that pretty much explains it, doesn’t it? The man who more or less taught me how to be a “man,” was terrified of spiders, so how could I NOT be?

The Middle

The dictionary definition of a phobia is “an extreme or irrational fear of or aversion to something,” and that was definitely the case for me with spiders. For the most part, my life wasn’t altered in anyway, I was just scared of them and would either ask Mamie to kill them, or, as I got a little older, muster up the courage to face them myself. Mamie’s house was prone to all types of bugs for several reasons: we lived in the country on a heavily wooded lot, Mamie loved house plants, my siblings and I were constantly leaving the patio door open, and the original patio that Mamie’s husband Lenn turned into a family room/den was not properly sealed. That room was humid in the summer and freezing in the winter and constantly had some creepy crawlers finding their way inside. This room still exists, which my wife unaffectionately refers to as the bug room, and is on the chopping block for when we someday renovate our home. However, in-between it being the “family room” and the Bug Room, it was my bedroom.

One evening (I was probably around 12 years old), I was getting ready for bed, when I saw a spider on the ceiling (much like the beginning of this story). I managed to get it by standing on my bed and reaching up with Mamie’s Swiffer. Satisfied, I crawled into bed, only to find another one resting on my headboard. After dealing with the second one, I became paranoid and determined that if there were two, there must be more. I began my hunt by pulling my bed and all the other furniture away from the wall, opening all drawers, and looking under anything I could pick up. I looked in every nook and cranny of that room, even between the pleats of the curtains. By the time I had finished my hunt, I had found and destroyed nearly a dozen spiders (to those of you who hate spiders, your skin is probably crawling; to those of you who love spiders, you are cursing me out loud)! I finally decided it was safe enough to venture to bed, but I saw spiders in my sleep all night long.

Another memory that has always stayed with me once again involved the infamous Bug Room. As a teen, I had a pretty good part-time job working at the local “Barn” dinner theater, as well as teaching some piano lessons. So needless to say, I had a nice flow of cash coming in. I always had money in the bank and enough to buy whatever I my heart desired. And, one thing my heart desired was a big screen TV (side note, I wish that a few hundred dollars per week was still more than enough to live on). I was all ready to head to the Barn for my bussing shift, but I was looking at my DVDs, coming up with a cinematic plan for when I returned only 4 hours later. That’s when I heard a scratching noise at the door (and, when I say door, I mean a door that led outside to the patio. Remember, my room used to BE a patio, but when it was built, another patio was added. It really was a sweet room for a teen, with access to outside, if you don’t count all the bugs, and the drafts, and the fact that my bedroom door was a sliding glass door).

I ignored the scratch once, but continued to hear it. Figuring it must be the cat wanting in, I intuitively opened the outside door and felt something with a bit of weight hit me in the forehead. I looked down, and on the floor, just inches from my bare feet, was one of the biggest wolf spiders I had ever seen. Having realized that the spider had actually touched my head, I began emitting sounds reminiscent of the Three Stooges having a conniption fit. Mamie yelled “What’s the matter?” from the living room, and all I could get out was, “Spider!!” as I watched the little bastard slip underneath my TV. Because this was the early 2000s, big screens were still heavy and bulky back then, and I knew I wouldn’t have time to move the 225-pound TV away from the wall and search for Mr. Wolf Spider. So I left for work, but not before leaving it a threat that sounded something like this: “I am going to work, spider. I will be back at 8:30 this evening. I will find you, and I will kill you.”

Mamie overheard me and called me a “big fusspot.” And, I suppose I was. But, when I came home that evening, I kept my promise. When I used to tell this story, the actual hunting of the spider was my favorite part to reenact; however, now, not so much. We can just leave it at: I found it, killed it, and left it in a Ziplock on the kitchen counter to prove to Mamie how big it actually was. In fact, that story was always a favorite amongst my fellow arachnophobics. I even remember telling that story to a customer of the coffee shop I worked at through college. She laughed so hard, and even brought me in a shirt one day that displayed a slightly modified version of FDR’s infamous quote, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself . . . and spiders” (now you know where the title of this post came from).

By the way, I never did find out what was scratching at the door . . .

The End (or rather, New Beginning)

So how did I go from despising spiders nearly to the point of the meme below (which has been shared with many times on Facebook because of my well known fear) to allowing them to go unharmed in my home? It all started with my friend Charlotte.

And no, I’m not talking about E.B. White’s children’s book character . . . though I totally ripped off the name, for obvious reasons. One spring, I noticed a beautiful orb weaver spider in an enormous, perfectly spun web. I wouldn’t typically kill a spider if it was outside, but I would still destroy their webs, not wanting them anywhere near my house. It was about 6 feet from our main entrance, so I decided to leave her alone. Later, when I took the dog out, I noticed several mosquitos were trapped in the web. Spring had hardly begun and the mosquitos were worse than ever, ruining any outdoor activities we attempted. It was then I realized the orb and I had something in common: she liked to dine on mosquitos, and I liked for her to dine on mosquitos. So I started calling her Charlotte and continued to let her be, being careful whenever I would do any work in her corner of the property.

Well, she must’ve told her friends, because that spring and summer, my yard was just full of orb weavers. I would relocated them when they built their webs directly in front of the door, but, other than that, they were perfectly welcome. I even had one get cozy outside of my car, on the passenger side mirror. I thought this one must’ve moved out because she was gone the next morning when I left for work. But each night, as the sun was starting to set, there she was, back in the mirror. I let her go all summer long until I desperately needed to wash my car. Worried for her safety, I waited til she came out for the evening, and carefully relocated her to an evergreen bush at the side of the woods.

After the Summer of the Orbs, I started getting comfortable letting various little spiders live indoors as well, especially in the Bug Room. I figured mosquitos and other insects sometimes made it inside too, so it couldn’t hurt to have some reinforcements. Then . . . the ultimate test. It was late at night (of course, right??), and I was in the bathroom when I turned around to see a humongous wolf spider on the wall. His stature made the already cramped half-bath/laundry combo seem even smaller, as he peered back at me from only about two feet away. All of the hair on my arms stood up, my heart started beating harder and I let out a gasp. Orb weavers and basement spiders were one thing, but this sucker was huge! He had to die . . . or did he? And right then and there, something changed in me. I tiptoed past the gigantic wolf spider, went and found a disposable cup and a piece of paper, and returned to the bathroom. Then, I just stood there, staring, trying to build my nerve. I slowly began inching closer and closer, until finally, I slammed the cup overtop of the spider, slid the paper between the wall and the cup and ran like hell! Once outside, I released him into the woods and wished him well. I felt so proud of myself. I did it! I had finally overcome my fear . . . or at least I would no longer let it get the best of me!

Then I left pretty bad when I discovered one of his legs stuck to the wall in the bathroom. Oops. Oh well, if dogs can do okay with three legs, a spider will be alright with seven.

Ever since then, I have not killed a spider. I know some of you reading will praise me, and others will think I’ve gone mad, but I truly love spiders now. I name them. I talk to them. For the first several months after the Night of the Wolf Spider, I followed my self-made rule, “If it is in a web, let it be.” But anymore, I have started giving them free reign. I even have a little friend right now living above the backsplash of my kitchen sink. Pretty much the only time I relocate one now is if it is too big, or if it is in a place where it will freak my wife out. If it’s too cold outside or I’m feeling especially lazy, I just take them to the Bug Room (just don’t tell my wife that). And something I am most proud of is that my son will not harm a spider. We have a designated cup for relocating our eight-legged friends called the “spider cup.” He is much different than me when I was his age. Had I not changed my ways while he was still really young, it may be a different story; although, even my wife has turned over a new leaf when it comes to spiders . . . but she still makes me get them off of her car.

If I’m being honest, I am still not completely over my fear of spiders; as in, I prefer them to NOT be on me (however, I sometimes am able to relocate them by hand if the Spider Cup isn’t readily available). But, the spiders and I, we have an understanding now. Well, I don’t know if they understand anything about me, but it is ME who now understands, and appreciates THEM.

So what happened to my little friend from last night? I have no idea, for he was gone when I woke up. But hey, I’m still here, so he did a good job watching over me!

Just My Neighbor

How many of you have neighbors? (Did you just raise your hand?) Sometimes neighbors can be difficult. They can be noisy, nosey, messy, and just downright rude. On the other hand, there are some you can always count on for a smile and wave as you’re pulling into your drive, or a friendly chat over the backyard fence. And then, once in a while, some really special ones come along. I grew up in a rural area, so I only had a few neighbors as a kid. And to be honest, I was blessed with some really fantastic ones. I had one neighbor who would always let me help him with all of his home-improvement projects. His wife would play H-O-R-S-E with me, and they would let me accompany their family to get pizza or ice cream. I have this other neighbor who mows my lawn, sucks up my leaves, and plows my long drive when it snows just because he likes to stay busy (using present tense since I still have that particular neighbor). I had this other neighbor… she was pretty nice too. I’d have to say I liked her the best out of all of them. She never played basketball with me, or let me help re-shingling the roof. But she did let me live with her. Yep. You read that correctly. She raised me. She was my mom, in every way but blood. Her name was Mamie, and this is our story:

Mamie came from a small town, and a big family. She was the fifth child out of 11. As a little girl, she was a quiet soul who could always be found playing with animals around the farm or hiding somewhere, curled up with a book. She met her husband, Lenn, at a roller-skating rink, literally steps away from where they would someday build a home together. They got married during WWII, while Lenn was a pilot in the United States Air Force, and raised two children. After Lenn retired, they built a home in a wooded area, at the front of a gravel lane. While Lenn pursued his hobbies in electronics, Mamie continued working as a licensed cosmetologist in her home “beauty shop.” Besides the occasional visit from their children, and the coming and going of Mamie’s customers, or “ladies,” as she called them, life was fairly predictable.

One day, Mamie happened to look out the window and saw a little girl in the yard. Little did she know that meeting this girl would change her life forever. After going outside to investigate why the little girl was in her yard, Mamie found out that this little girl was no little girl at all. In fact, this little girl had a little girl. The young mother told Mamie that she and her husband had recently moved into the house down the lane from them, and that she was looking for their lost cat. Mamie got to know the young mother and her 9-month-old daughter and welcomed the friendship. As time passed, the young family continued to grow and Mamie and Lenn loved these children as if they were flesh and blood relatives. They loved having the young family’s three children come to their house on a regular basis, and, needless to say, the neighbor kids especially loved going down the lane to “Mamie’s.”

As Mamie’s bond with the family from down the lane grew, she and Lenn experienced a devastating loss. Their son, their first-born baby, was tragically murdered. It is hard to imagine how someone could just go on after suffering such a terrible loss, but Mamie kept going. She continued to work in her beauty shop, continued her faith, and continued loving her little neighbor kids. And, not too long after she lost a life, she gained another: mine. I was the newest addition to this family from down the lane, and, just as my older siblings, I too enjoyed Mamie’s company. However, when I was still very little, my mother had a lot of health problems, and, despite doing the best she could, wasn’t able to take care of me. But Mamie could . . . and Mamie did.

Perhaps we both had a void in our life that needed filling: she needed a son, and I needed a mother. Mamie raised me as her own. I lived in her house, she got me ready for school, she went to parent-teacher conferences, she paid for and took me to piano and dance lessons, and went to every single concert or recital I ever had from elementary school through college. She made all of my Halloween costumes and birthday cakes. She chased after me with the flyswatter or sat me in a chair when I was being ornery. She advised me, comforted me, and reassured me when I was sad. She cried for me, she defended me, and she prayed for me when she knew the world had hurt her boy. She cooked for me, and cleaned for me, stayed with me when I was sick, stayed up waiting for me when I was out late. She worried about me. She loved me. And I loved her too. When my friends and teachers would ask if Mamie was my grandma or an aunt, I would simply reply, “No. She’s just my neighbor.” What kind of neighbor puts you through college, helps you buy your very first car (and second car, and third car, and…), helps pay for your wedding? My neighbor, Mamie. That’s who.

Mamie always said she wanted to live long enough to see me graduate college and get married, and by-golly, she did. I actually got married first, and then, not even a year after graduating college, Mamie died. At first, all I could think about was how sad I was not to have her, and that my children would never know her. Then, I began to listen to myself and my wife. How we talk. The stories we tell. The corny jokes we make, and the advice we sometimes give each other. I then realized Mamie isn’t gone. She lives on in all the lives she touched. My son knows Mamie. He calls to her picture by name all the time (especially when he’s trying to avoid going to bed), and sometimes her name is the first word out of his mouth when he wakes up (although most of the time that word is “foot”).

Mamie gave me a lot of things, as I’ve already discussed. She gave me tangible things, she gave me love, she gave me a life. But the last thing she gave me was her house. So now, as an adult, I get to raise my own family in the house that I grew up in: the house that belonged to “just my neighbor.” I’ll bet some of you have had some special neighbors in your life, but, call me biased, my neighbor takes the cake.

Why “Beauty Shop?”

Where do you go to hear (or tell) a good story? Perhaps that’s something you need a ticket for, as there are many a good professional storytellers and entertainers. Maybe you tune into your favorite podcast platform while in the car. Or maybe, just maybe, you are like most of us and intercept all kinds of tales from the comfort of your own home. Some of my favorite stories were indeed told in my childhood home, but not around the dinner table or at bedtime like others. In stead, those stories were accompanied by the white noise of a blowdryer, the sounds of water sloshing around a shampoo bowl, and dialogue and sound effects from The Price Is Right. That’s right, I’m talking about a hairdresser, a salon, or, to me, a beauty shop.

Mamie’s Beauty Shop, to be exact. Mamie, the lady who raised me, ran a hair salon out of her home. From the time I was barely able to walk, I was sitting on her customers’ laps, charming and chatting. When imagining a hair salon, most folks think of “hair and gossip.” And there was that. But even more, there were stories, shared recipes, expressed political opinions, movies and music discussion, friendship, and so much more. My interaction with Mamie’s “ladies” definitely put me on the track for loving good conversation.

Well, Mamie is gone now, and her shop is no longer a shop. But the memories and the stories? Those are still here. While removing the 40 year old, hairspray-coated wallpaper, I thought, “If these walls could talk, oh the stories they could tell!” Well friends, that’s why I created this site: I’d like to provide a voice for the walls, and will be sharing anything and everything that came and went . . .

. . . through the Beauty Shop.