Love, Froggie

Sunday

Dear Mom and Dad,

The bus ride to camp was hell. A girl threw up. I think her name is Heather. Then she cried for five hours and I bet she’s still crying now even though it’s almost lights out. She’s not in my bunk. Thank God.

I’m in Bunk 6. My counselor’s name is Cloudy. She has a long braid all the way down her back as far as her you-know-what. She’s really nice. When you write me, be sure to put “Bunk 6” on the envelope. If I want to come home I can, right? Please send candy. 

Write soon. Love, Froggie 

P. S. That’s my new camp name, I gave it to myself, but don’t be confused it’s still the same me.

Monday

Dear Mom and Dad,

My counselor Cloudy is teaching me how to play the guitar. She has a beautiful voice. When she sings Kumbaya the whole bunk cries. She’s going to teach me Deep Blue Sea Willie, Deep Blue Sea. It is so sad because Willie drowns. I can play G. That’s a chord. It’s very hard. Cloudy says you have to push down and the strings have to dig into your fingers. Please send band aids. And candy. And a new flashlight. I lost mine.  

Write soon. Love, Froggie.

P. S. These are the girls in my Bunk: Windy, Smudge, Fizz, KK, Flower, Canoe, Nini, Flash and BoBo. Oh, and there’s me of course. And Cloudy. And a lot of ants. We’re not supposed to talk about them because girls in Bunk 6 do not complain. 

P. P. S. If I want to go home how long would it take for you to get up here? It took us five hours on the bus. Could you get here faster? 

Tuesday

Dear Mom and Dad,

Don’t worry about the flashlight, I found it.  I thought it was broken but I just wasn’t pushing the right button. Nobody in Bunk 6 wants to go home early, not me either. I don’t want to miss out on the cook-out or the sleep-out or the panty raid. KK says every year the boys do a panty raid on the girls and it’s the coolest thing. KK was here last year so she knows. So was Windy. Windy was bit on her eyelid by a mosquito and her eye got swollen shut for a day and she was half blind. But that happened last year. This year she’s fine. Sometimes she can be a little bossy and she doesn’t like to share stuff, but she is still really nice. Send candy PLEASE. 

Write soon. Love, Froggie

Wednesday

Dear Mom and Dad,

I had a bloody nose. Don’t be upset. We were playing Duck Duck Goose and I was It and I hit Smudge on the head so she would be the Goose and then she had to chase me and I tripped and got a bloody nose. It was an accident and I don’t think it was anybody’s fault. It might have been BoBo’s fault, but she didn’t mean it, she just has really long legs and they got in the way. I stuck tissues up my nose and then it stopped bleeding. I don't want to get anyone in trouble and anyway I’m okay now. So whatever you do, don’t be upset.

Uncle Arnie made a new rule. He said that everybody has to write at least one letter home each day, even if it’s only a post card, and they have to give it to their counselor before they go into the dining hall. If you don’t then you can’t have any supper. This is because some kids, mostly boys, haven’t written even one letter home yet and their mothers called Uncle Arnie and wanted to know if their children were dead. Guess what? I’m alive!

They don’t sell PEZ in the canteen, so send as much as you can, especially cherry, or anything else in the red family. 

Write soon. Love, Froggie

Thursday

Dear Mom and Dad,

Tomorrow there’s going to be a celebration for the 4th of July. One of the boy counselors is going to dress up like Uncle Sam. His name is Woody. But don’t call him Woody Woodpecker because he doesn’t like that. BoBo said he’s Cloudy’s boyfriend but Cloudy said no, they are just good friends. What do you think? I’m not sure. 

All the girls in my bunk are going to dress up like flowers for the whole day. This was Flower’s idea. She is very shy so if she says something you have to do it or otherwise she might not talk again for two days. I’m going to dress like a buttercup even though I don’t have anything yellow to wear. Did you know if you hold a real buttercup under your chin it will make your chin turn yellow if you like butter? But if you don’t like butter then it won’t. I held a buttercup under Nini’s chin and it didn’t turn yellow because she HATES butter. 

Write soon. Love, Froggie

P. S. I got the package you sent. I really don’t need any more socks, but thanks anyway. You didn’t send any candy. Why not? 

P. P. S. Thanks for the band aids, I really needed them.

P. P. P. S. Please send batteries. I left my flashlight on all night by mistake and I thought it was broke but Cloudy says it just needs new batteries.

Saturday

Dear Mom and Dad,

I couldn’t write to you yesterday because it was July 4th. Nobody wrote letters but we all got to eat anyway. It was a cook-out. We lit candles down by the lake and they looked so pretty on the water. But then it started to rain and we thought we would drown. It rains all the time but please don’t send me an umbrella, I beg you. DO send me some you-know-what. It’s spelled P-E-Z. 

Write soon. Love, Froggie

P. S. I really need the batteries, quick. I got lost on my way back from the outhouse because it was so dark. And wet. But then I got found. I found myself.

Sunday

Dear Mom and Dad,

Cloudy said our bunk can start a camp newspaper if we want to, and use the mimeograph machine in the main office. I want to be a reporter so I can ask people questions and they’ll have to answer me. 

I can play three chords: G, C and D. I’m getting really good but my fingers still hurt. Thanks again for the band aids.  

Write soon. Love, Froggie

Monday

Dear Mom and Dad,

We played baseball against Bunk 8 and we lost. Windy was so sad because every time she tried to catch the ball she dropped it and the girls in Bunk 8 laughed. They were not good sports. Cloudy said even though we lost, we still showed team spirit, so we can have two helpings of dessert tonight. I hope it’s chocolate cake and not tapioca pudding.

Some girls want to do more Nature and Swimming instead of the newspaper. Only Flower and I want the newspaper 100%. I want to ask all the counselors what is their most embarrassing thing. Flower wants to put in a poem she wrote about her bird who died.

Have you ever heard of a CARE Package? It’s when you put all sorts of candy and stuff in a box and send it to your daughter to show that you care. Is mine on the way? 

Write soon. Love, Froggie

Tuesday
Dear Mom and Dad,

I got my CARE Package this morning! Thanx for the PEZ. Thanx for the batteries. Thanx for the picture of Goldie. I hung it next to my bed so everyone can see I have a pet, too, even though she’s just a fish and not a dog or a cat. Did you see how I wrote Thanx with an X? That’s how Canoe does it. Isn’t that cool?

One of the boys got sent home. He did something very bad but nobody will tell us what. His parents had to come take him home in their car. Nini says he must have been a J.D. Don’t worry, no one in my bunk is a J.D. (Can a girl even be a J.D.?) But anyway, no one is, so don’t worry.

Write soon. Love, Froggie

Wednesday

Dear Mom and Dad,

Did I tell you I‘m learning how to make a lanyard? It’s very hard. You have to tie these knots and it keeps getting longer and longer. I don’t know how it works, it just does. I’m going to make one for Cloudy. I could make one for you but you’d have to share it. 

The whole camp had swimming all afternoon because it wasn’t raining. I am still a tadpole which is sort of funny since my name is Froggie. 

Write soon. Love, you-know-who

Thursday

Dear Mom and Dad,

Today is the worst day of my entire life. We had a vote about the newspaper. Only Flower and I voted YES and everyone else voted NO. They said it didn’t sound like fun, but I think they’re wrong. I’m really sad. I sat on my bed and played Kumbaya all through rest hour. 

There are only a few more days of camp but if you send me another CARE Package I’m sure it will arrive in time. Just send gum and cookies. They don’t have any gum or cookies in the canteen. Maybe you could call up Uncle Arnie and ask him why not.

Write soon. Love, Froggie

Friday

Dear Mom and Dad,

Flash and Windy are being extra nice to me because of the newspaper. Flash lent me her pen that writes in three colors, even though I already have one. But it was the thought that counts, right? Windy helped me get the tangles out of my hair. But I’m still sad.

Last night was the panty raid. It wasn’t scary because boys are big blabber mouths and we heard them outside our bunk. One boy found Canoe’s two-piece bathing suit and he took it. Canoe says her mother will kill her. KK says the raid was better last year.

Uncle Arnie said we can’t have a sleep-out because it's raining too hard. If it was possible to die from disappointment, Bunk 6 would all be dead. Fizz said she might not come back next summer. Everyone else is definitely coming back. Me too. No one likes Fizz but I can’t tell you why, it’s a secret.

Write soon. Love, Froggie

Saturday

Dear Mom and Dad,

Except for one or two things that were really bad, this has been the best two weeks of my entire life. Please call Uncle Arnie right away and sign me up for next year. I’ll be in Bunk 8 and Smudge and I already put in first dibs for beds next to each other.
        Last night all the counselors put on a talent show for the campers. There was a girl counselor and a boy counselor who dressed up like a cow. I can’t describe it but it was really funny. 

Woody was a juggler but he’s not very good at it. He kept dropping things and getting hit on the head. Canoe fell out of her chair, that’s how hard she was laughing, and I got a pain in my head. Did you know if you laugh really hard for a long time the back of your head hurts so bad? Try it sometime, it’s cool.

Tomorrow morning at 9 o’clock we are getting on the busses to come home. I might have to cry then. I know I’ll be home before this letter arrives but I still wanted to write to you, even though I didn’t have to. This is my last  letter from camp. Isn’t that sad?

Don’t write me back, there will be nobody here except the ants and the mice and the mosquitoes. I’m going to miss them all so much.

Love, Froggie

P. S. When I come home please call me Froggie so I’ll still feel like I’m in camp. Okay?

New Century Wholesome Cooking Company

“Here we are,” a man’s voice says, “two old friends sharing a meal.”

I look up from my sandwich, curious to see what my fellow diners are up to, but there are no couples at any of the tables. There is an old man, though, just to my right, hunched over a small white plate, smearing faux-butter onto a hard roll.

He makes eye contact. I look away, concentrating on my BLT. It’s made without bacon. They use some sort of meat-substitute that tastes like rubber. The “B” stands for “better-for-you-this-way.” 

I think about how much I hate the New Century Wholesome Cooking Company, and how I’d never have come here in the first place if they didn’t have such a clean bathroom. I think about the aqua and peach tiles on the bathroom floor and the fascinating little pattern they make, where sometimes the aqua is in the center of the star and sometimes the peach, depending on the way you tilt your head, or blink.

I figure it must be safe by now. I look up again, but I figured wrong. The butter and roll guy is still looking at me.

“Two friends,” he says again, “sharing a sweet repast,” and he lifts the roll in my direction, like he’s making a toast.

I’m tempted to give him the Robert Di Nero line from “Taxi Driver,” only I know he’s talking to me, there is no one else he could be talking to. 

“I don’t think so,” I tell him, and my tone could be a lot nicer. 

“But we could be friends,” he says, and he smiles, not too big, but big enough. He is not in possession of all of his teeth. Not by a long shot. 

I can find no distraction in my no-BLT. If I had chicken salad, it would be okay. What I wouldn’t give for a chicken salad on white bread, lots of mayo, hold the mustard. Plenty of distraction there. 

But the no-BLT, snuggled in its 7-grain wrapper, bean sprouts up the wazoo, fake mayo, anemic tomato, holds absolutely no escape for me.

I shake my head at the old man, but I don’t say anything mean that I’d be ashamed to have my mother overhear — my mother whose lifetime motto has been “make nice.”

“I’m a lot like you,” he tells me, “I don’t always trust people either.”

What is this, analysis hour?

“I’m not a scary person,” he goes on, “and, I don’t like sex.” 

At least that’s what it sounds like. He’s chewing on a piece of roll, it’s hard to be certain. Maybe he doesn’t like the number six; or sets. Sets of what? Why don’t I just leave? 

How could I have gone out for lunch without a book? The New Century Wholesome Cooking Company does not provide People magazine for its customers’ reading pleasure. 

My no-BLT, what’s left of it, is getting cold. It is now more repulsive than ever.

He swallows. I wait.

“The last time I had sex,” he says, “Mickey Mantle was playing in the World Series.”

He’s definitely talking about sex . 

“That was a long time ago,” he adds, “but I don’t miss it. I don’t like what I see these days, people having sex wherever you look —  on bicycles, in trees —  it’s not hygienic.”

Oh boy, sex in trees. What am I doing here?

“But not me,” he says, “I don’t have sex in trees or anyplace else. So we could be friends. We could just talk. I’m a good talker.”

I consider, for one insane moment, telling him my theory about how a person can only have a maximum of eight friends at a time, after that there’s just not enough self to go around. 

I could say “Sorry, I’d like to be your friend — go for walks, eat rolls, stay out of trees — but I’m all booked up. Eight friends: I’ve got them. No room for you.” 

I don’t say this. Of course I don’t say this. It’s a moronic theory. I could have 100 friends. I could have a zillion. Didn’t I vow, just last week, to try to live more like Mr. Rogers lived? Mr. Rogers would never turn his back on a new friend. He’d say “welcome to the neighborhood, neighbor.”

I am not Mr. Rogers. I am not going to take this old geezer home with me and feed him some solid food. He looks like he could use more than a roll and a skinny pat of fake butter. He looks like he could use a nice bowl of something hot and hearty. Soup, maybe. But I don’t cook. I am not the friend he’s looking for.

“My name’s Joe,” he says. He smiles at me again. It’s really not such a bad smile. I’m already getting used to the gaps. “My friends call me Uncle Joe,” he says, “but you don’t have to if you don’t want to, just do it if you feel like it.”

“That’s okay,” I say, and I don’t know what I mean by that. I feel like I’m going to cry. 

I don’t want to cry into my lousy no-BLT. I don’t want to cry in the New Century Wholesome Cooking Company, where my cousin’s ex-lover is the dishwasher, and my best friend’s roommate's aunt is a waitress. Where I should never ever have come, except they really do have the best bathroom in town. 

“Joe,” I tell him, pushing myself away from the little round table, standing up, swinging the strap of my bag over my shoulder, “Joe, I gotta go now.”

He pops another piece of roll into his mouth. “It has been illuminating, my dear,” he says, between bites, “positively illuminating. Most refreshing conversation I’ve had all week.” 

He swallows. He smiles. 

“You’re a good person,” he tells me, “you are pure good. Now go out there and make somebody else happy, just like you did for me.”

I am a Carrot

Here we are, half a dozen satin-clad carrots, huddling in the wings, about to go on stage and wow that audience of parents and  grandparents, aunts, uncles, sisters, brothers, wow them with our superior carrothood.

We will strut our pudgy bodies across the stage, thrust out our little-girl chests, wiggle our soft round tushies, our orange tutus shimmering, the carrot-shaped tassels on our ankles swaying left-right-left-right, our polished black tap shoes clickety clacking in place. 

We will perform perfectly, because Miss Janis has trained us to be perfect. She is our dance teacher, she has real blond hair that hangs down to her waist, and she says we are just adorable, we are her own little angels. 

There she goes, Miss Janis, hurrying past us. Smell her! She is all roses and peppermint. She parts the heavy red curtain and steps out onto the stage.  

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” she says, (that’s what she calls our crybaby sisters and our snotty-nosed brothers), “Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you now, our Beginners Class, in the World Premiere of . . . . The Carrot Dance.”

And just as she says that, and Mr. Malinowski pulls on the rope that makes the curtains yawn open, Angela Sabatini puts her right hand under her left armpit, exactly the way her cousin Petey taught her to, and she makes a giant splat of a noise with her arm that sounds just like a f-a-r-t. 

Pandemonium among the carrots. We are nothing but a bunch of squishy limbs collapsing over one another. “Did you hear what she did?” ”Angela, you bad, bad, carrot” “I’m telling Miss Janis.” “Don’t push me!” “I didn’t push you, Brenda pushed you.” 

Just then the music starts up. Bitsy Landau’s mother puts the needle down on the record, right on the place where she’s supposed to put it, our cue, Miss Janis calls it, our cue to tip-tappy our way, single file, out of the wings and onto the bright glare of the stage, with big, big smiles on our little girl mouths, and our hands up, left swing, right swing, and our legs kicking, higher, higher, 1, 2 , 1, 2, 1, 2, 3.

But . . . .          

we           

don’t            

do it.

We don’t make our carrot entrance. We don’t dance our carrot dance. We stay right where we are, off stage, laughing and hiccupping, and Jacqueline Fein is turning green, and Bitsy Landau says she thinks she's going to pee. The music is still playing, not only our cue but the whole song, the whole carrot song. 

Miss Janis is here, she’s right here in front of us, smelling like roses but also something stinkier than roses. 

She is not smiling. She doesn’t fluff up our orange tutus or tell us how pretty we look or how proud we make her. She talks so fast and so low that little bits of spit fall out of her mouth.

“Get your damn asses out on that stage and dance, you little bitches.”

Bitsy Landau’s mother yanks the needle off the record. We hear the screetchy sound that means she yanked it, not just lifting the arm gently like you’re supposed to. And then she lowers it again, exactly on the right spot, and we hear our cue for the second time. 

And we do it. First Brenda and then Melissa and then Angela and then Bitsy and then Jacqueline and then me. Six little carrots, a bunch of carrots, we are the carrots, we are doing the carrot dance. 

Our mothers are happy. That’s why they’re crying. They’re crying tears of joy because we’re their little carrots and they sewed our little carrot costumes for us, and now they’re crying and laughing and clapping and everybody else is clapping too. 

They love us. We are the very best carrots they have ever seen. There have never been such talented, delicious, chubby carrots going kick, kick, kick, turn. Not ever.

We dance our little carrot hearts out. We do it for Miss Janis. 

Because we love her, and we know she loves us. We’re her precious little carrot angels. 

Not that other word she said.

She was just being silly.

How could we be lady dogs?

We are carrots!

I am a Blank Page. I am an Epic Poem.

The new season of Writing Circles began this week at Emma's Writing Center. I asked everyone to do a ten minute warm-up and create a list of "I" statements. This is a sample of what was written and shared in the different groups. Think of this as a mosaic made out of words, representing the collective consciousness of more than three dozen women.

I am a blank page. I am sitting where I sat before. I am curious about what everyone else is writing. I have wanted to write for a long time. I am eager to see what happens. I am slightly sleepy. I am trying to say yes more often. I feel young, but I look in the mirror and see my grandmother’s wrinkles etched in my face.  I can’t resist picking up interesting rocks and adding them to the giant pile I already don’t know what to do with. I have a collection of rolling pins. I enjoy doing boring, repetitive tasks. I have trouble remembering what is true about my life and what is fiction. I have uprooted myself and I'm putting down new roots. I yearn to live a more well-rounded life. I wonder if life will seem this annoying, and this wonderful, always. I am sometimes anxious about the future. I have more weeds than flowers in my garden. I need a haircut. I can't wait for cool weather so that wool will feel good to wear, to knit. I started feeling younger after my last birthday. I moved several months ago and still have half my stuff packed in boxes and lying around the apartment. I don't always listen to the good advice I give myself. I wish I liked yoga. I hate bullies and snobs. I need to write. I like my mind. I live next to a field from my childhood, with bees, Queen Anne's Lace, fireflies, ragweed and 15 yellow flowers I can't name. I want to write consistently and produce a book. I often need to be invited into a setting or a conversation before I will throw myself in, in a personal way. I want to learn how to refashion thrift shop clothes. I miss my mother. I hate talking about food. I've grown comfortable with change. I have a huge crush on Neil Young. I used to be a barfly. I am in limbo. I want to be more lovable. I recently discovered that, although I tell myself there's nothing about me that I like, I'm really quite fond of my feet and my hair. I am full, yet terribly empty. I have my father's eyes and my mother's telephone voice. I'm an extrovert, except when I'm not. I like dogs, all the time, and knitting, all the time, and sushi most of the time, and olives none of the time. I wish I could go back in time and visit Smedley's Bookshop, just once. I wish adults had bunk beds. I am filled with enthusiasms that I allow to fizzle out. I have good handwriting, which I think should count for something. I miss myself when I get unmoored but I get annoyed when I stay moored for too long. I sometimes go to extremes, but maybe they average out to moderation. I wish I had a goal. I want to be so cool. I think I wasted the summer. I want my front yard to become totally moss-covered. I hate the ants who whisper in the walls. I hate the woodpeckers who eat the house, looking for the ants whispering in the walls. I wonder if I will regret anything from today. I want to paint big pictures. I dream of making shapely pots. I have a very busy brain that thinks much faster than I can write. I dream in color. I am very impatient with technology. I am bull-headed and stubborn, sometimes too much for my own good. I wish everyone owned a pair of red shoes and one day a year was earmarked "Red Shoes Day." I will write a book. I wish I had a fancy, large vocabulary so I could impress people. I dreamed of flooding last night, of things leaking out. I dance with joy, but quietly, inside, without much movement. I am unfinished. I recalibrate by facing the setting sun. I am continually battling with the challenges of being old. I have given up on ever looking stylish. I hate being so preoccupied with myself. I love the Saturday morning farmer's market, succulent peaches, abundant greens, friends gathering together in gratitude for our precious time right here. I have lost people who were important parts of my life and now there are big holes in my heart. I want to eat watermelon and blueberries for my last meal. I can't sing but that doesn't stop me. I want to be a green sea turtle in my next incarnation, assuming they aren't already extinct by then. I long for a less complicated life. I used to be funny. I want to step outside myself. I want to step inside myself. I am being a warrior in the abyss. I need to get away. I need to do nothing. I just learned that I am going to be a grandmother for the first time. I want some new body parts. I want to stop taking Green Vibrance, which I mix with water and it's like drinking a lawn. I want to stop saying I want. I wonder what I'm going to be when I grow up. I was astonished today to learn that I have 10 out of the 12 traits and habits of a happy person. I like to spend a lot of time in my own brain. I love a good, deep silence. I love to awaken to the sound of rain. I respect and admire spiders, and I keep my distance. I take care of my mother. I must remember to take care of me. I try everyday to walk my labyrinth and visit the stone circle. I know that life is change. I want to be obsessed. I push aside my bangs, glowing russet in the morning sun, and stretch my arms overhead. I walk to let my mind wheel through the treetops and perch on a branch like the goldfinch riding the blue sky. I write in phrases that don't always have a common theme. I have re-discovered my quadriceps and whipped them into shape. I am writing a book about my ancestors. I will make sure I have color to look at this winter. I am between dreams. I like living at the top of the world. I am what I am. I am a haiku, a sonnet, an epic poem.

Why Snakes are Long and Skinny

Long, long ago, when the grass was greener and the sky was bluer and the lakes were cleaner than they are today — long, long ago —  snakes were round. 

They were as soft and round as meatballs. They rolled up and down the hills, hither and yither, and when they were tired they gathered in little clumps of snake-balls to gossip and giggle and sing together. 

Sometimes Pooleeporkies would come along, pick up a soft ball of a snake, and play catch with it. 

You know what a Pooleeporkie is, don’t you? One of those enormous purple and green creatures with pink beady eyes and snorting snouts  . . . .

What? You’ve never heard of a Pooleeporkie? 

Too bad.

Anyway, one day, two Pooleeporkies were playing catch with one particularly squishy, mushy snake — let’s call her Lucille — when all of a sudden Lucille started to recite a poem.

Maybe I forgot to tell you that snakes, back in the days when they were soft and smooshy, were wonderful poets. The thing is, until that fateful day they had never let the Pooleeporkies know it. It was all a well-kept secret until Lucille got confused and spilled the beans.

The two Pooleeporkies were mighty impressed by this poetry-spouting snake.  They wanted to take Lucille home with them so they could listen to her poems anytime at all. 

Mishka, the older Pooleeporkie, pulled Lucille toward him. But then Pishka, the younger one, pulled Lucille toward him.  

I think you can guess what happened next. 

There was pulling and tugging and pulling and yanking and pulling and stretching and pulling and pulling and pulling. 

And before you could say onomatopoeia, Lucille lost all her lovely roundness. 

Now she was l-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-n-g and skinny. She didn’t look anything like a meatball anymore. She looked more like a strand of spaghetti.

Poor Lucille. 

Ever since that day, snakes have been long and skinny. 

And also silent.

Whatever poetry they know, they keep it to themselves.