Author Archives: caverns of my mind

Why Buy the Cow if You Can Get the Milk for Free?

Or why buy a book when you can get it for free? Ok, so it isn’t really the same thing, but now that I’ve got your attention I want to share the limited time free promotion for my book.  For a few days only Memoirs of an Ordinary Girl: the Middle-ish Ages will be available through Amazon’s Kindle… for absolutely nothing.

Why am I doing this?  I don’t know.  I guess with the holiday coming up next Thursday, I’m just feeling thankful and like giving.

Of course, you can always wait until the promotion is over and actually buy the book in order to show your thankfulness for my awesome writing talent.  It’s up to you.  Either way, I just want people reading it.

You can check out a few excerpts in some of my previous blog posts.  It’s a quick and humorous read, I promise.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B008TT8Z6K

My Spooktacular Birthday

I’ve spent my life cringing every time someone says, “Your birthday’s on Halloween?  That must be so cool!”  Yeah, it ranks right up under having a Christmas birthday… and anything else that puts your special day as an after-thought.  Who doesn’t love being second place, or sometimes even being forgotten?

Click here to see what I feel like on most my birthdays.

What?  I sound bitter?  You bet I do!  Growing up, I always felt like all the other kids were having more fun than me on that day.  Oftentimes, even my birthday cards must be reminders that my birthday is just part of something obviously seen as much more extraordinary, like ghosts and witches, and sometimes black cats.  Apparently there are enough of us out there that the greeting card industry has designated a special line just for us… Oh, boy!  The solace I find in this  is that I may be able to find a support group.

My Halloween/birthdays were always so… awkward.  My family didn’t celebrate Halloween, and since I grew up where we had many Mormons at school, and they couldn’t say the “Pledge of Allegiance,” have candy from Halloween parties, or play in any reindeer games at Christmas, everyone thought I was Mormon too.  I’m not.  Never have been.  I even celebrated everything else (and proudly said the Pledge), but I had to try explaining that it was an evil holiday and I would happily eat cookies and candy, but I wouldn’t give out any (sure, I see the double standard now that I’m an adult).  Most people never got it, so Mom often decided to let me stay home on my birthday. Kinda cool, but then there was no chance anyone would remember my birthday.  You’ve got to have a presence, you know?

On my birthdays, my dad usually worked, and my mom and two sisters and I would shut the lights out for a few hours and pretend we weren’t home.  That always makes for a fun birthday evening.  You really can’t even light birthday cake candles then.

My best childhood birthday was spent in Hawaii on vacation.  It just happened to be a good time for Dad to take some vacation from work and for us to fly the family out easily on his United Airlines stand-by passes, but I told everyone in my class we were going for my birthday.  I figured they’d leave me alone about it and just be impressed.

I’m the cute little one in the middle. I believe I was 9 here.

Birthday parties were almost impossible (if your birthday is on Halloween, people want a Halloween themed birthday party, but again, I didn’t celebrate it), so I’ve only ever had two in my whole life, which is also the number of times I ever went trick-or-treating, but not in the same years.

Trick-or-treating at 16. We were a West Virginia couple/siblings and I got to be the husband/brother because I had short hair then.

If anyone would like to help me make up for my lost childhood of birthdays, I will gladly accept candy, checks, or cash.  Please do not send tacky party hats or Hallowbirthdayween cards (I’ve already had a lifetime of those).  I would like for my birthday to be all about ME.  Wow, do I feel better!

Oh, the Horror!

The title probably makes this seem scarier than it actually is, but who cares?  Made you look!

Seriously, I’ve never really been big on the whole Halloween thing.  The day holds something much more important to me and I really do not enjoy gross, scary stuff.  However, that didn’t stop me back in the day (sometime in high school or college) from writing a creepy little something, which I will now share with you.

I went for a walk at midnight, a ghastly hour for a walk by oneself, but a quiet time for thinking as well.  As I walked I saw an open gate in the soft moonlight, inviting me in.  I’d never noticed it before, so I wandered closer and peeked inside.  The yard was of reasonable size.  I decided to continue my walking through the yard, but crept along slowly, for I did not want to disturb anyone.

My neighborhood had been in peril for a few weeks now.  Every other day it seemed another person would disappear.  Nobody I was knew well was missing yet, so I felt fairly safe, for now.  My next door neighbor Mrs. Short, however, had gone shopping one day and not returned.

The moonlight was being eaten up by thick clouds above, and visibility was becoming obscured.  In an instant, I tripped over something and fell.  Not able to figure out my surroundings, I felt around for something to help myself up again.  I suddenly wanted nothing more than to get out of that mysterious yard before I was discovered.

Whatever I had tripped over was cold, stiff, and fleshy.  Slowly, the moonlight began to creep again through the yard, and I found myself holding onto a woman’s arm, reaching out from a mound of dirt.  Two feet away was a stone with the words, “Mrs. Short” engraved on it.  Then a door behind me burst open, and as the light flowed out I could see several headstones in a row, the last one bearing my own name!  As I turned to see who or what had opened the door, the moonlight and artificial light from the house mixed together, glinting off a knife coming towards me.  Then I awoke, safe and sound in my bed.

I know!  What a cop-out, right?  Also, why the heck would anyone take a casual stroll at midnight around a neighborhood where people are disappearing, especially into an unknown yard?  Another reason I cannot watch horror movies…stupid people.  You know what I mean, and if you don’t, please refer to the movie Scream where stupid people in horror movies is discussed.

Speaking of Scream, I must confess exactly how much I do not like being scared. I roomed with my oldest sister for a while during college and we rented the movie, watched it with all the lights on, and kept them all on when we went to bed that night… and maybe even the next night.  It’s okay to laugh.  I know most people do not find that movie very frightening, and it’s really almost more of a dark comedy, but it freaked me out anyway.  This is why Halloween is not my favorite holiday.  I’ll stick to celebrating my birthday that day and making the most out of my upcoming Christmas season.

For those of you who do enjoy Halloween, you may want to check out a video made by my friend.  He holds the secret to killing zombies.

 

The Older I Get, the More I Keep Staying the Same Age

I’m about to turn 29 for the 7th time. Can you believe it?

My original birthday: day one

I don’t feel that old, and thankfully, I apparently do not look it either.  Not that I really care about that too much.  After all, we all age, right?  Some people just seem to do it more quickly than others. I’m just fortunate that I’m what I like to call a “slow ager.”   Truthfully, I seldom feel like I’m older than I was when I graduated from high school… well, maybe from college.  I guess I always thought when I got to where I am now I’d feel so mature, but I just don’t.  Maybe it’s partially because I don’t have any kids.  Mothers always seem more mature because they have to be the grown up and raise others to be grown-ups, wipe noses and bottoms, threaten to pull over cars (or the dreaded mini-van-yuck!), kiss and bandage boo-boos…  I opted out of that (which is why I still drive a fun sports car). **side note- adoption is still not completely off the table, so I may get pay back for these comments**

7- but I guess you can see that for yourself

I’d like to think that if it weren’t for my students, I wouldn’t have any grey hairs.  I know that’s not true though, as I found my first grey when I was 23!  The nice lady cutting my hair a year or so ago also pointed out my “antique blonds,” but of course she wanted to appeal to my vanity so I would pay her to cover them over.  I decided to keep them.  They’ll just come back anyway, and with my hair down, they really aren’t too visible, so it’s no big deal…yet.  They just show I’ve lived a little, right?

11, I think. Candle positioning makes it difficult to count them.

I went into a liquor store the other day to buy some pumpkin beer, and a couple of the employees were pouring for a tasting.  When one young man asked to see my ID, I smiled and said, “I don’t get carded too often anymore.”  He replied that they have to card anyone who looks to be under 30, so I continued to smile because that meant he really thought I looked under 30.

13, and I look so thrilled about it

Also, older people tend to point out to me how young I am all the time, as if I really haven’t lived any of my life yet.  Sometimes it feels a bit demeaning because I think I’ve lived plenty, but I guess I’ll take that as a compliment as well.  I feel like I’m at a point in my life where I’m about to begin a new chapter (Ugh. That sounds so cliche), which is both exciting and frightening.  The paradox of the situation is that I feel too old to begin again, but not quite mature enough at the same time.  Sigh!

14

I can’t dwell on age though, because it’s all in one’s perspective.  Other than a few more creeks and pops in my joints from time to time, I still feel like a much younger person.

Thankfully for us all, I really don’t have many birthday photos of myself, or at least not many I would find.  I have one last birthday picture from before I moved away from my parents and became a real adult(ish).

19- I know this was a birthday pic because of the little pumpkins we’re wearing, and I was wearing a skirt (a rare sight). With Dez and Liz (makes me wish I had a Z in my name)

It’s My Book and I’ll Brag if I Want to

Self publishing= self promoting= a difficult equation (I hate equations anyway because I hate math).

My book was finished over two years ago, but as a teacher, I found the only time I really had to put into the process of trying to publish it came in the summer, and so each summer I would research and see that trends were constantly changing.  I know this is usually true of most anything, but technology is changing the publishing world so quickly that I just couldn’t keep up with what I would need to do anymore, so I risked self publishing. I figured it was the only way I’d ever actually have time to publish my masterpiece.

Now I have to self promote, and that seems even harder.  I use Facebook, this blog, and word of mouth, because that’s really all I have.  The thing is, I know my book is awesome.  I’m not usually the type to seriously brag, but why not do it when I’m sure of something?  Yes, I’m biased, but it’s true.  The book is funny, and real (well, it’s fiction, but it’s realistic), and covers a time in life we’ve all had to survive…middle school.  I’ve also been told by some people who know me that reading the book is like listening to me talk, which means I managed to capture my “voice” in the book, something of which I am proud.

Cover art by the talented Sydney Schake

As of now, my book is only available through Amazon’s Kindle Store.  So, of course I get people who say things like, “That’s cool, but wouldn’t you like to actually have it published- you know in a real book?”  (…as if my book is the Pinocchio of the book world). Yep, that hurts.  They might as well be saying, “You know you didn’t really get your book published.  I wasn’t planning to read it anyway, but I just really wanted to pop your bubble in case you were proud of your accomplishment.”  Thanks for the support people!  How’d the book you wrote do?  Oh yeah, that’s right, you didn’t write one!  Stop tinkling in my Lucky Charms!

Yes, I would love to open up a real printed copy of my book, press my nose up to the pages and breathe in that new book aroma, and to fan the pages against my skin like feathers.  I also have this secret dream that maybe someone will just happen to come across my book and I will get an offer for it to be printed.  It could happen, right?  Of course, there’s also the print on demand setup I’m thinking about doing.  It’s still not quite the same, but some people told me they’re holding out because they don’t want an electronic copy.

For now, I really just want to promote my book as much as possible.  Most of the people I know who are actually going to read it already have, so I need help from the outside.  You can help by checking out my book (teaser included on Amazon page) and “like” my Facebook author page. 

“If you don’t expect too much, you won’t be disappointed. This isn’t a ‘self-help’ book to boost your friend and/or money making abilities. In fact, I’ll teach you how to NOT throw the perfect party, how to NOT land the boyfriend of your dreams, and how to NOT be popular.”

Set in the early 1990’s, in this story the author retells the experiences of Drew Hotchner, an “extraordinarily ordinary” girl through Drew’s possibly wiser and honest adult self. Drew struggles not only with the unavoidable awkwardness of being in middle school, but also with having to start over again her entire social world after she experiences the culture shock of moving across the country. Through her humorous adventures in trespassing, accidental theft, and throwing punches at her best friend, the relatable Drew learns who she really is. And if you can admit you are also extraordinarily ordinary, just as Drew claims to be, that we all just want to know who we really are, and that sometimes we surprise ourselves along the way, this might be the book for you.

My Own Pink War

During October, I love seeing all the pink out there in support of fighting breast cancer.  The barrage of stories of survivors and those who support them warms my heart and inspires me.  My neighbor is a breast cancer survivor, and she is an awesome woman and mother.  She’s strong and funny and one of the best neighbors anyone could ask for.

I also remember a story from a few years ago about the cross country team at the school where I teach.  I hope I get this right.  I believe the mother of one of the runners had been battling breast cancer, so the team decided to wear pink socks in her honor when they ran at competitions.  They traveled up to New York for a competition and apparently inspired some of the other teams up there.  I love the cool stories like that.  And now I will also proudly wear pink.

Maybe I should not be as proud of the rest of the outfit (it was homecoming week).

It wasn’t always that way for me though.  Once upon a time, I loathed pink.  I’m not sure I really know why I detested pink so much, but I think it had to do with what I felt it symbolized at the time- froo-froo girliness- yuck!  I wasn’t a tomboy or anything, but I was never really girlie either, and pink seemed to epitomize all things frilly and girlie… and weak.

Somewhere through the course of time I began to accept and even like pink.  As I grew older, pink began to symbolize the strength in femininity: pink tool kits, pink camouflage (though I’m not sure what one can blend into with this), and pink firearms.

Walther P22- I need this!

And now grown, rugged men wear pink to support their moms, their wives, and their sisters.  It seems my pink nightmare is truly over.

Now, go in pink, I mean peace.

“It’s Not a Handout. It’s a Hand Up.”

On Saturday, I got to work with my hands and help build a house for Habitat for Humanity with a crew from my church (epic church). If you have never done a build, I encourage you to give it a try if they are anywhere around your community.  A more fulfilling endeavor will be hard to find, trust me.  I’ve now done three, and I can assure you that taking a look at the progress at the end of the day is an amazing experience.

I’m going to take a paragraph here to dispel the myth that I am an amazingly altruistic, selfless person who always puts others first and spends all of her free time doing for others.  Maybe you didn’t think that anyway.  But if you’ve read my other posts, you may be inclined to believe that all I do is fight human trafficking, go on mission trips, mold young minds, and build homes for people.  I wish that were accurate, but I must be honest in telling you that I really just don’t feel like posting the bad stuff about myself, though I assure you that I am a selfish jerk more often than I’d like to admit.  It’s just that most of the people who read my posts don’t know me, so I thought maybe I could fool you, but it just didn’t feel right.  I am trying, and I want to always be a better person.  Does that count?

Anyway… I was just thinking about how amazing it is to be able to see the progress made in building a house.  When we arrived, only a slab existed on the property.  In a few hours, the frames of the exterior walls were all up and we were nailing on the exterior plywood.  Some worked faster than others, but we all worked hard.  By the end of the day’s work, that slab had complete exterior walls, and I got to help.  Awesome!

In my usual job, I’m constantly building, but I usually cannot see my progress.  Building minds and building houses seem so different.  But maybe they really aren’t.  Sure, I don’t always see the results in teaching (and it would be so much more rewarding if I always could), but I work just as hard at either.  Sweat, labor, and determination go into both, though in teaching the sweat may be more symbolic.  And the pain and exhaustion feel about the same.  My muscles ache; I slam my thumb with a hammer; I get dirty.  You get the point.  One is physical while the other is mental and emotional, but at the end of the day, I’ve been a part of building something that will last.  I can continue this analogy, or I can just make my real point now, which is that sometimes it’s just nice to see a tangible result from hard labor.

I ate all that food for lunch and had three cookies after. Don’t judge. I needed the fuel.

Stop it BEFORE it Happens

This is the time of year I really kick up my running training for a crazy 200 mile relay race called Ragnar, which has me reminiscing on the past few years:

In November of 2010, my team of twelve ran from Tampa to Daytona Beach and we raised, united with another team of twelve, $2040 for Love 146, an amazing organization that fights human trafficking.

Half my team (6 travel together by van)

January of this year, my team of twelve (some repeats and some newbies) ran from Miami to Key West for the same cause and raised $1020.

Team This is STILL My AWESOME Back

No worries.  I’m not fundraising.  My point here is that now I’m in training mode for my third Ragnar (Miami to Key West again), and it’s weird NOT to be fundraising.  We decided that this time we just wanted to run for fun because the fundraising for a cause  can get stressful, and we just wanted to be ridiculous without worrying about who we are representing this time.  After all, this year our team name is Ragnarrhea, and we are each assuming poop related names for the fun of it (I’m Exrecia).  Classy, I know.

Terrinator after the completion of my last run

The point I’m attempting to make, though I have now beaten around the bush so many times all the branches have been demolished, is that though I am not running for the cause this year, I do not want to forget to remind others of the importance of the cause.

I’ve always been one who cares about justice, and I’ve gotten in trouble on a few occasions for speaking up in a moment of passion, but until a few years ago I really didn’t have a particular cause I believed in, but now I do.  I’ve mentioned it here before, so you may have read about this already and are now yawning.  That’s fine, but I may have some newcomers, and I cannot chance missing the opportunity to create awareness whenever possible.  After all, I am “The Terrinator.”

In June, I wrote what turned out to be my most read blog post, “Human Beings are NOT Commodities.”   For further information on human trafficking, please give it a read.  The long story short is that human trafficking is modern day slavery.

I’ve been reading about and watching videos posted  indicating that our government is recognizing the issue and taking steps to combat this horrible act of inhumanity, which makes me happy.  But the true and basic concept of this is that it is already unconstitutional because of Amendment XIII, and it has been unconstitutional since that amendment was ratified on December 6, 1865!  Slavery is not new, it just wears a new face.

Robert and I recently decided that since abolitionism is a huge passion of ours we wanted to give regularly to the cause.  (It’s no great amount, but if many people gave even a small portion, a large impact could be made.)  When I went to Love 146.org to sign up, I was given the choice for which part of the process we wanted to impact.  My heart really lies with the recovery and rehabilitation of these survivors; however, I instead decided to give regularly to the prevention aspect.  I am both logical and optimistic.  If we can reach out and prevent this from happening, there will be no more need for recovery…eventually.  That’s my goal.

You don’t need to share my passion.  But you should find one of your own then.  It is healthy and human to care, and when you can see even a glimpse of your impact, you will feel fulfilled.  Touching lives is why we exist.

Love 146 is only one of many organizations out there set on extirpating human trafficking.  If you are interested in learning about more, you need do little more than just Google (I love that this is a recognized verb now) human trafficking and research the many organizations on your own.

The Book

What  a profound title… or not.  This has always been my favorite of my poems.  Although vague, it has always been very personal to me.  But then again, most poets have those special selections, right?  It just so happens that other people have always liked this poem as well.  I’m not saying this to brag- just making a statement.  Of course, I’ve always felt nobody really got it.  That’s the thing about poetry: no matter how much one analyzes and dissects the poor creature, nobody will ever really know what the poem is unless the reader can go back in time to the moment of the poem’s conception and get inside the head and heart of the artist.  Since, to my knowledge, that remains impossible, our poems remain always a bit of a secret.  I like that.

The Book

Should my heart be an open book,

for everyone to see?

My chapters are long,

and hard to read.

My pages barely touched,

yet yellowed and delicate,

tattered and torn.

If walls could talk,

what would my heart chambers speak?

Read my forgotten book.

These walls and barriers do fall down…

one

by

one.

It is purely a mental game,

in which my feelings play.

The book is open,

but not plain to read.

To see me, one must

read between the lines.

I swear I am there,

deep

down… somewhere.

Read me.  Find me.

Join the story.

Become a part of me.

If you do, it will be seen,

somewhere in this book.

The book…

It is me.

–Terree L. Klaes—

1997

We Need to Talk

Here’s a piece of something.  I don’t know what:

Angie rolled her eyes at her mother, not so much in the directly disrespectful manner of an average fifteen-year-old girl as out of expectation of what was to come.  Another lecture of how life and kids were back when she was Angie’s age.

“But Mom, when you were my age, I bet you were already about 40,” she said, punctuating her sentence with a laugh.

Not that her mother would ever really tell her about her childhood.  Vague lessons in life and generalities about time spent on a farm, in “the city,” and in an RV bumping around the U.S. were all Angie ever heard of.  Somehow her mother always managed to avoid giving specifics by adding more generalities on top of the others, until she had built an entirely empty empire.  When Angie was little she never questioned anything her mother said, but she wasn’t so easily fooled any longer and she wanted real answers before her mother passed away.  After all, once the cancer defeated her mother, Angie didn’t want to be an orphan.  There had to be some family somewhere.  Somebody had to have driven that RV, right?

Her mother took Angie’s hand between her two frail ones and held it to her lips, pressing them gently to the back of Angie’s hand, as soft and yet strong as a hummingbird flutter.  “I know what you’re thinking, Angie, and you’re right.  We need to talk.”