When I’d first started writing this chapter about my Polish grandmother, I was a little disappointed in myself. Sure, I had some fun anecdotes and some surface details, but I was missing so much of her important life history. I knew that her story was important to tell, but how much did I really know her? I wish I’d listened more. I wish I’d asked her more questions about her life. I wish I’d known more about what was swirling around in that brain of hers before it succumbed to dementia. I wanted to do her story justice, but I felt like I was missing too many pieces.

But then, something miraculous happened: I came into possession of her old diaries and writings that I never knew existed. (If there was one thing I inherited from my grandmother, it was the importance of writing.) It turned out that Grandma kept a simple diary for years, mostly to record the day’s activities when she was a young mother of two and then three boys. Many of the entries were only a few sentences, and it wasn’t hard to figure out that Grandma spent A LOT of time doing laundry, cleaning, gardening, baking, and cooking for her family. And, by the way, she did all of that while starting an electrical business with her husband. But aside from that small diary, Grandma actually had taken the time to record the story of her family, starting when her parents came to the United States from Poland. Once she had documented all of those details, she turned the pages into journal entries. From what I could tell, Grandma journaled until she couldn’t anymore.

But before I get into the details of her writings, I want to share what I do know and remember about my grandmother. Alice T. Drees had been known as Alice Sr., since her daughter-in-law was named Alice, as well. When she hadn’t been called Mrs. Drees, or Alice, or Alice Sr., she’d been known as “Mother.” On anyone else it would have sounded old-fashioned and formal, but it had just seemed to fit her. Her three sons and her three daughters-in-law hadn’t ever called her Mom; it always had been Mother.

I’d known Grandma to be a hardworking and shrewd businesswoman; she believed in small-town values and doing business with her neighbors. She and my grandfather had been very generous with local charities, especially the Catholic schools. They’d traveled and entertained a lot. Grandma never had been a very warm or affectionate person, but she had done plenty of subtle things that showed how much she cared about her family. For one thing, I know she’d cherished every holiday and every meal she spent with her family. If someone was missing at Christmas due to distance or illness or death, she noted it. She’d given 500 dollars to every grandchild on their 16th birthday. She’d tried teaching me how to knit. (It never did stick but at least she tried.)

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Me with our Japanese exchange student. Sadly I wish I could cover my face as well.        Freshmen year was rough, my friends.

For as long as I can remember, my dad was a member of the local Rotary Club. Since service is a big part of Rotary Club membership, Dad often “voluntold” me to work the Rotary food booth at a variety of local summer festivals. We also seemed to spend a lot of time with foreign exchange students. Dad was always curious about other cultures, so we would often host a student for a weekend. There was the high school student from Germany who picked out lots of disturbing horror movies like “The Omen.” Then there was the kid from Australia who seemed very polite and mild-mannered until my mom did his laundry and produced a pair of tiny black bikini underwear. (It’s always the quiet ones. Hopefully we don’t get in trouble with Rotary for judging other people’s underwear styles. We couldn’t help ourselves.) And lastly there was the businesswoman from India. She was incredibly smart, and her English was impeccable; she was thrilled when she learned she could watch the movie “Gone with the Wind” at our house on a video disc player. (Yes, those huge discs that were pre-VHS and pre-beta). It turned out that that was her favorite movie, and she was eternally grateful to me as I loaded and unloaded the two discs at the right times. I remember her clutching herself and gasping in sadness when Scarlett’s father kept saying, “I’ll have to talk to Mrs. O’Hara about this,” even though the woman had been long dead.

After those trial runs with various students, my parents decided it was time we hosted a student for an entire semester (the student would be here for a year overall). After all, my brothers were both off to college, so we’d have the room. They must have thought it would be cool and fun for me to have a “sister” as I headed into my freshman year of high school. As luck would have it, my dad’s Rotary Club was sponsoring a 15-year-old girl from Japan, whom we’ll call Himari.

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So far in life I’ve been lucky enough to not have any major ailments or hospitalizations. I do, however, seem to suffer from a bunch of other pesky health conditions that rear their ugly heads from time to time, just to make me appreciate my health even more. We’ve already covered my panic attack/anxiety issues, but at age 30 I also was diagnosed with endometriosis. That took a good nine years to officially get diagnosed (thanks, doctors and nurses who thought the pain was all in my head – I told you something was wrong.) That’s a whole other long and frustrating story. But first, let’s talk about allergies.

Let me start out by saying that I grew up in a family of seasonal allergy sufferers. It was just normal to have several boxes of tissues in every room in the house; we were perpetually blowing our noses. My brothers seemed to have gotten the worst of it. To make matters worse, the practice field for high school football was basically right next to a field of ragweed – as if their practices weren’t grueling enough without all of the itchy eyes, and constant sneezing and wheezing. Up until recently, I hadn’t realized it was rude to blow your nose in some public areas; I’d become so immune to it that it was as if someone was talking. And let’s face it: If my family members had left the room every time they had to blow their nose, we’d never see each other.

For whatever reason, I’d seemed to luck out in the allergy area, until I hit my early 20s. When I was about 22 years old and suffering through my very first “real” job in customer service at a paper plant (I know, a totally sexy job, right?), my allergies suddenly, viciously flared up. Since it wasn’t even ragweed season and I was tired of looking like a drunk, I finally decided to go to an allergist to get tested. The nurse pricked my back with something that felt like a hairbrush, carefully applying all of the different doses of things that could possibly cause a reaction. She left the room then, while I sat and waited for the offenders to kick in. Sure enough, within a minute or so one particular part of my back became unbearably itchy. I also noticed a few other areas that were somewhat itchy, although not as bad as the ultimate mosquito bite covered in poison ivy with a chronic hives chaser that was forming in the middle of my back. It turned out that the main culprit was none other than … dust mites. The other two were ragweed and cat dander, which really came as no surprise. But dust mites? Didn’t dust surround us at all times? How the hell was I supposed to avoid dust? It sounded as horrible as those people who are allergic to the sun.

I was quickly presented with a supersized picture of an actual dust mite, magnetized so that I could see every single nasty, hairy detail of the minuscule bug that was making my life so miserable. All I could think about were those tiny disgusting creatures multiplying all around me. They were in my pillows. In my couch. In my carpeting and rugs. And especially in my mattress. My mission was clear: I needed to eradicate them immediately.

Little did I know that arming oneself with the proper allergen-reducing tools almost required a small personal loan. First I needed to purchase special casings for all of my pillows and mattresses. Next, I needed a special spray to use on my couch and carpeting. Lastly, I needed a prescription for Claritin, like stat. (That was before it was OTC.) Thankfully that all worked like a charm, and I immediately started to feel relief. At least for a little while.

Once my sneezing was under control, I started to get other kinds of allergic reactions – but on my skin. (Seriously, is there a connection between allergies and those people who suffer from anxiety? Why are the nerds always sneezing and itchy?) I got on top of those with the help of special lotions and sprays; eventually it all just mysteriously went away, and I’ve been rash-free ever since.

Which brings me to the one thing I haven’t been able to conquer: Dupuytren’s contracture, which my family just calls Dupuytren’s. (Pronounced doopa-trons. That even sounds Polish, doesn’t it? Well, at least the doopa part does.)

Most people have never heard of the condition, but it’s pretty evident when someone has it. According to the Mayo Clinic’s website, Dupuytren’s is “a hand deformity that usually develops over years. The condition affects a layer of tissue that lies under the skin of your palm. Knots of tissue form under the skin – eventually creating a thick cord that can pull one or more fingers into a bent position.”

For whatever reason Dupuytren’s is common in those of Northern European descent; my Polish grandmother and most of her siblings had it. My dad and his brothers also inherited it, and now my brothers and I wonder if we, too, will have mangled hands. Peter convinced himself that if he kept bending his fingers backward he could somehow ward off the disease. So far all I think he’s accomplished is grossing people out. He self-diagnosed as having “Reverse Dupuytren’s.”

In the past, my dad had a few surgeries to open up his bent fingers, but the effects wore off after awhile. The deformity fought right back and took over his hand again. It’s kind of like if you had braces on your teeth but didn’t wear a retainer afterward; the teeth would shift right back out of place.

Growing up as smart-alecky Polish kids, my brothers and I preferred to make fun of our relatives with the crazy hands (in a strictly endearing sort of way, I assure you). Take my Great-uncle Bernie, for example. When Bernie was elected an alderman in the town of Peshtigo, his picture was in the weekly “Peshtigo Times,” being sworn in: one hand on the Bible, one hand up. Only instead of holding a palm up, Uncle Bernie could only proffer a fist with a single finger; he couldn’t help it, all his other fingers were bent with Dupuytren’s. My brothers and I rolled with laughter.

From there, we developed our popular “sign of peace”/Dupuytren’s-friendly handshake during Catholic mass. (Background for the non-Catholics: At one point during the service, everyone extends a “sign of peace,” aka a handshake, to everyone sitting around them. This happens about three-quarters of the way through mass, and it’s met with varying degrees of enthusiasm. The people who hate it just quickly say “Peace” and shake your hand without eye contact. Others are super cheerful and give you the full “Peace be with you.” My family has come to embrace this part of mass because then we can all pretend we have Dupuytren’s (whether we have it or not). My brothers and I do the “Uncle Bernie” peace handshake, where we crumple our fingers under and point one finger outward. It may sound kind of mean, but it’s really a true sign of affection. If you join our family and get the Bernie shake, you know we like you. If we can’t reach you because you’re on the other end of the church pew, then you get the “Bernie wave.” As for my dad, he doesn’t need to pretend anything; he’s got the full Bernie shake and wave down naturally. At this point, his hands are so bad that it’s difficult for him to pick up a glass.

I figured that once I reached my 40s I was in the clear. No signs of Dupuytren’s had appeared yet.

I was wrong.

Oddly enough, it all started with my feet.

The past few years I’ve noticed a few hard bumps on the bottom of my left foot. I can’t say they’re particularly painful, although sometimes they’re a bit uncomfortable. What I do know is that it feels absolutely incredible whenever someone (i.e., my husband) rubs those bumps on my foot. I’ve even gone so far as to pay for specialized foot treatments, all in hopes that someone will rub my little foot bumps and somehow magically work out all of the connective tissues and make everything normal again. However, something very peculiar happens every time I get those treatments done. It seems that the second the massage therapist feels the bumps, she avoids them like the plague. I even make a point of saying, “Hey I’ve got these bumps on my left foot that are bothering me.” Obviously that’s a strong hint to say, “Rub there, please.” But instead, she’ll find the bumps and say, “Sure enough, you’re right, you have some bumps there.” Then she’ll go on massaging every other stinking part of my foot but the bumps, as if they were some sort of contagious rash. Are these people not understanding me correctly? I want to shout at them, “Rub my bumps! Rub my bumps!” But I think that would probably get me kicked out of the massage room.

I then decided to try reflexology. Those people are supposed to know all sorts of shit about your feet, right? I’ve seen the complicated charts, where a different part of your foot corresponds to a part of your body. When I mentioned it to my mom, she told me a story about how she got her feet done; at one point she felt a strong twinge and asked the reflexologist what part of the body that was.

“The ovaries,” he proclaimed.

At the time my mom was in the middle of a heavy menstrual period.

Who are those people, gypsy fortune-tellers? I didn’t care, I was sold.

Long story short, the reflexology was quite lovely. So lovely that I fell asleep a couple of times and then woke up to about 30 new work emails. But I never felt any strange twinges or other reactions that I needed to tell the reflexologist about. Plus, like the other foot rubbers in my life (except for my husband, God bless him), she avoided the bumps. But when I mentioned them, she said it wouldn’t hurt to just get them checked out.

So, I finally broke down and made an appointment with a podiatrist, which is really just admitting to the world that you’re old. Plus, I was afraid that he was going to tell me I couldn’t ever wear high heels again. Goodbye dream of purchasing my first pair of Louboutins! Maybe I was going to end up like Sarah Jessica Parker, doomed to wearing boring flats the rest of my life after wearing too many fabulous-but-uncomfortable shoes.

Within seconds of feeling my foot, the podiatrist had an answer.

“Yup, we see one or two new cases of this every month,” he said. “You’ve got fibromas. I can feel three of them very clearly. Actually, these are usually related to some sort of hand contracture, most likely hereditary. Anyone in your family have that?”

Shit.

I then proceeded to tell him that most of the Polish side of my family has or had Dupuytren’s.

“Yes, that’s it. They’re directly related. Unless these fibromas are really bothering you or hurting you, there’s really nothing you can do about them. I wouldn’t recommend having surgery; you can really complicate matters.”

At least I had answers, but I left feeling less confident that I was in the clear. After I spread the word on Facebook, I had cousins and second cousins coming out of the woodwork, all telling me about their Dupuytren’s. One of my dad’s cousins told me hers didn’t show up until she was 63. That wasn’t exactly comforting. However, I did hear that there’s new and improved technology to ward it off once it starts. So I’ve got that going for me.

But in the meantime, I can garner more sympathy by telling my husband to “rub my Dupuytren’s.” Okay, so it may not be the actual diagnosis but close enough. Plus, if I’d ask him to “rub my bumps” I’d get an entirely different response.

              My parents and cousin listening to sage advice from a Polish uncle.

What’s a book about a Polish kid without some mention of polka dancing?

Growing up in Northeastern Wisconsin, I’ve done my fair share of polkaing. It started out on Miller Street, of course, where my brothers and I would flip through our four channels on the television and wind up on “The Polka Variety Show” on any given Sunday morning. We loved “The Polka Variety Show” … not because we loved polka so much but because we just loved to make fun of the people on it. If you’re not familiar … well, the concept was really quite simple. Every week the show would broadcast from some church hall or community center, and just show people dancing to polka music. It was kind of like the “American Bandstand” for polka lovers, except that a live band played all of the music, and nobody was rating the songs based on the fact that “it had a good beat, and I could dance to it.” Because let’s face it: Polka music was made for dancing. If polka music doesn’t make you want to jump up and boogie … well, then, you have no soul. My brothers and I always got into the polka spirit; we used the show as an excuse to dance like maniacs in the living room, making up our own ridiculous polkaesque dance moves. That would get us nice and hyper right before we left for church, something my parents had surely appreciated.

Speaking of church … another thing we really liked was the polka mass. Once a year, usually as part of some parish picnic or festival, there would be a polka mass, otherwise known as the most awesome type of mass that ever existed. An actual polka band would set up in church (or under the tents at the festival, usually next to the beer tent). All of our normal church hymns, and sung psalms and responses, were all replaced with polka-style music. As kids we thought it was the funniest thing on the planet. We wished every mass would be a polka mass. As an adult, polka mass is usually followed by several brews and a fish fry in the beer garden, so it’s basically Catholic dream day.

But not all polka stories are happy. I know you must be asking yourself how this is humanly possible, given the pure joy that polka music has on everyone’s heart. But leave it to me to have an embarrassing polka story ….

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                                  My fellow writers and me (far left) at Arts World. 

When I look back on some of my summer vacations, I remember a lot of wasted time. I definitely hadn’t appreciated the luxury of time like I do now; what kid does, really? There’d been too many hours spent sleeping. There was that summer my brother Dan and I had discovered re-runs of “Gidget” and “The Partridge Family” – although they were pretty darn funny, they sure were time suckers. Even though we hadn’t had have cable (and cell phones, the internet, and Netflix were still in “The Jetsons” stages), I’d still managed to find plenty of ways to while away the hours. To my credit, however, I’d taken tennis lessons a couple of days a week. Since we’d lived three miles out in the country I had to ride my bike there. I would play tennis for a couple of hours, and then ride all of the way back home. For a few summers, I would even ride a couple miles further to my summer babysitting gig.

Ah, yes … babysitting. I’d pretty much hated it, but all those Forenza and Outback Red outfits from The Limited weren’t going to buy themselves.

To be fair, I had one pretty sweet gig, and that was for our neighbors down the road. They had two grade-school-aged boys who thought I was pretty cool because I would play kickball with them, and the youngest boy apparently had demanded that only I could be his babysitter. (That’s a pretty high compliment from a 7-year-old who proudly counted his hard-earned scabs like they were medals of honor.) Overall, the boys had been pretty well behaved and quite entertaining, but what really had made the job great was that: 1) Their parents stayed out really late, and 2) They had really good snacks. Once the kids were in bed, I had a good three or more hours of quiet time to watch TV, read, and tackle their fully stacked snack area.

I can’t say that my other babysitting jobs had been quite as dreamy; the kids had been usually brats, and I’d been paid an abysmal $1.25 an hour. The worst gig was when a “friend” of mine had given my name to a couple with two little girls. Their house was in a fairly nice neighborhood, so I’d figured what was the worst that could happen. I knew I was in trouble that first night when one of the girls told me to “stay out of that corner over there because that’s where the cats like to pee.”

I don’t think we really need to revisit my problem with that entire situation.

But besides the whole cat issue, there’d been a bigger problem. I always had been taught that when I babysat part of my duties was to clean up, as well. After all, most of the time I was going to serve the kids dinner, and the polite thing to do would be to actually clean up afterward. I’m not sure exactly when that practice ended, but from what I hear from my friends with young kids, this rarely happens today. More often than not, my friends are coming home to find their kitchens looking like the aftermath from “Top Chef: Twelve Courses Edition.” They basically end up handing over 10 bucks an hour to someone who spent the night texting and ignoring the kids.

Back in the late ’80s it was reasonable to clean up after dinner and to clean up after any messes the kids and I’d made. However, in that case, every time I babysat the kitchen would already be completely full of dirty dishes. We’re talking piles and piles of dishes, as if they’d saved up the entire week until the cheap maid service (me) arrived. I think there was even a dishwasher, but it didn’t matter; the dishes, pots and pans had far exceeded its capacity. There was no lounging at that gig; I’d glance longingly in the direction of the living room (no open concept, folks), where surely I was missing the best “Saturday Night Live” episode of all time. I literally had spent most of the evening washing and cleaning up their kitchen. Eventually I’d felt that they were taking advantage of me, and I conveniently became too busy to babysit for them until they must have gotten the hint.

The summer between my junior and senior years of high school, there hadn’t been as much time for babysitting. Even though I hadn’t really planned it, I’d ended up going to three different week-long camps. They weren’t sports camps (I don’t think that should come as a surprise), but rather the kind of camps where I had to actually apply and interview. Local service organizations and/or non-profits had paid for my expenses.

The first camp hadn’t technically been a camp, but, rather, something called Badger Girls State. It was a government and leadership conference run by the American Legion Auxiliary, and I’d been selected by my school’s faculty to represent my school. To be truthful, I knew very little about Badger Girls week; all I knew was that I’d be learning about how government works.

So in early June 1990 a handful of girls from other area schools and I had piled into a school bus and headed out to the University of Wisconsin-Madison, our state capital. I’d never been there before, and I was excited to see a new city.

On paper, I seemed to be the ideal candidate for the experience. I had straight A’s, I was well behaved, I was respectful, and I wasn’t afraid to talk about politics and government in the classroom. However, within a few hours of arriving I knew that the entire week wasn’t going to be my scene.

Things hadn’t gotten off to a great start when I’d met my roommate. She was a perfectly nice girl but seemed a bit too desperate to fit in with the cool crowd. It was as though the moment she’d discovered I wasn’t one of the popular girls she’d decided she wasn’t going to spend too much effort on me. We were cordial but didn’t really hang out together too much.

Despite the slightly disappointing roommate situation, I’d kept my head up. After all, there were hundreds of other nice girls there to hang with. I’d made my way to our first big floor meeting. Everyone seemed so pretty and articulate and smart, and they’d all seemed to know way more than I did about how the week would work. Some girls had been particularly elegant and dressed up; I’d felt like a schlep in my t-shirt and shorts. Wait – were we supposed to dress up? I was so confused.

My floor represented everyone with last names A through D or something like that. We all had been part of a mock government for the week, so we’d learned about our city, county, and state. We’d also learned that we would be part of the Nationalist Party; in later meetings we would decide what to include in our party’s platform, even though it all turned out to be so vague that it seemed to fit everyone’s beliefs.

An older woman in her late 60s or maybe early 70s had been in charge of our floor. She was a cross between a drill sergeant and Mrs. Garrett from “The Facts of Life.” I’d been slightly scared of her, and I think she knew it. She was one of those people who had the sixth sense to pick out the most timid person in the room. I knew that to be true because when she’d asked us to introduce ourselves and tell everyone what we would hope to learn or achieve during the week, she’d very suddenly turned to me, pointed her finger, and said, “Starting with YOU.”

I’d started to say my name, town, and school, but she swiftly interrupted me.

“Stand UP!” she’d barked, moving her arms in an upward motion.

I’d quietly told everyone in the room about myself, which was already one of my least favorite things to do. I gave the most un-original answer about my goal for the week, mumbling something about learning more about government. It had been an insincere answer; a pat answer I’d write on an application. As other girls had started to get up and speak, they all mentioned how they were looking forward to meeting new friends. Why couldn’t I have just said that?

Right off the bat we’d held our first elections, and for whatever reason I’d decided to run for school board. Again, we each had to stand up and give a little speech about why we were running. I don’t remember what I’d said, but I’m sure I hadn’t come off as charismatic as the other candidates, given my fear of public speaking. When the election results were posted, I’d come in dead last with 16 votes. Ouch.

After that first election, I didn’t run for anything else. For one thing, everyone else seemed to know parliamentary procedure, and I didn’t – although as the week went on I’d definitely gotten the gist of it. The other reason, which should come as no surprise, was that I wasn’t exactly a campaigning sort of gal. I’d watched as others put tons of effort into their campaigns; one girl even had dressed up as a nerd the entire week and made up an entirely new persona. As everyone else ran for office and got elected to their coveted positions, they all got some sort of special sticker to put on their badge. As I walked around campus, I saw only one other person whose badge was blank like mine. Well, no – actually there were two others. My roommate, the desperate one, had been made fire chief. However, that position did not come with any sort of special sticker. Never mind, though … she’d ended up making one herself out of construction paper.

I can’t even …

When the time had come to elect the ultimate top office of governor, the girl who ran my party had ended up winning. She was an outgoing, pretty, and sophisticated Asian girl who everybody worshipped. On the evening of the swearing in, she’d actually worn little white gloves like she was Jackie Kennedy. It was as if she’d orchestrated the entire week perfectly and everything had worked according to her master plan.

As for me, I’d just been happy to have met some new friends, get a little taste of college life, and walk around Madison during our two whole hours of free time. When I’d gotten home the following Saturday I hadn’t had much time to recover; I’d washed my clothes and packed up for the next camp: Arts World.

I’d ended up at Arts World because one day my English teacher had approached me with its pamphlet and told me I’d be a good candidate. I’d never heard of it, but it sounded fun, and I was happy that she believed in me enough to tell me about it. The camp was a week at a college campus where I would study writing; other students would concentrate on music performance, acting, theater set design, or dance. Only 100 students in the entire state would be chosen. I’d submitted the required application and a writing sample, and much to my surprise I’d gotten accepted.

Unlike Badger Girls State, Arts World was held at a very small private college in the middle of Wisconsin farm fields. Things had gotten off to a shaky start when I’d checked in. As luck would have it, I’d picked the exact same time to check in as two “veterans” who had known each other from the summer before. It turned out that Arts World was full of these repeat attendees. I’d stood there awkwardly as the overly dramatic theater girl squealed in delight as she hugged some skinny kid who was there for writing. My roommate was also a writer, but she was far from introverted like me. She bubbled over with excitement and passion about everything. As she would talk, she would cut pictures out of magazines and mesh them together in sort of a kaleidoscope fashion using scissors and a glue stick.

I’d spent the week vacillating between wanting to hug people or slap them. On one hand, many of the kids there were “my people.” They were so easy to talk to and get along with, and we all loved and appreciated art in all of its forms. But then there were those who took their art a bit too seriously for my taste. My mind silently sang a chorus of WTFs as I watched some teachers perform an interpretive dance. The acting people especially bugged me; they all craved attention like a herd of Rachel Berry’s.

We’d had showcase nights where anyone could perform; not surprisingly, I never did. I didn’t see how someone reading a poem could compare with someone who played the piano or did a dramatic reading. I had admired everyone who performed though, even if I thought their poem made no sense or if their performance was overacted.

The one kid with a mullet had ended up liking me. (Weren’t all serious writers supposed to have ponytails or man buns? Wasn’t that in “The Writer’s Handbook”?)

I can’t say that I’d learned a whole lot about writing during that week, but it was very refreshing to be around others who enjoyed writing as much as I did. Most people back at my school whined every time there was a writing assignment, while I relished it. If anything, the week gave me plenty of time to simply practice writing and make time for it.

In the end I couldn’t escape giving some sort of performance. We all had to recite at the “final show” a poem that we’d written. Parents had been invited, as well, but luckily mine couldn’t make it on time; I think I would have died from embarrassment. We all had to form a line on stage, where one by one we would read our poem. I wasn’t exactly a poet, but given our timeframe I couldn’t exactly stand up there and read an entire short story … so there I was, poet for a day. I’d volunteered to go first since I didn’t want to suffer in agony any longer than was necessary. Appropriately enough, my poem was titled “Intimidation.” It basically described my panic attacks and how they would completely engulf my body. I’d selected that poem because it was the most sincere one in the pumpkin patch. I’d managed to choke out the words without sounding too petrified, and then I’d abruptly stopped and passed the microphone to the next person. The audience wasn’t quite sure what to do, so they’d clapped a little awkwardly. I’m sure that was the first time many of them had been to a poetry reading, and they weren’t sure about the protocol. I hadn’t minded; I was proud of my poem, and I could then say that I’d performed an original work of art.

If Badger Girls was too full of high-achievers and Arts World was too full of drama, then Business World was too full of hormones. Even though I’d applied to the camp through the local Chamber of Commerce, it had seemed that the application process was pretty lenient. Most kids had treated it like a brick and mortar sleepaway camp.

As for the “business” part, we’d all gotten divided into teams that would run a business simulation game; I think it was an airline. (Seriously folks? An airline? Everyone knows how often airlines fail to make a profit!) The kids on my team weren’t the brightest, and most of the time I would just sit back and watch the bleach-blonde kid with the puka-shell necklace flirt with the drama-filled girl who gave the Arts World kids a run for their money. Our adult “counselor” had been too hung up on his glory days at the University of Wisconsin to teach us much of anything. Since we were Team P – every team had been assigned a letter – he made sure that our team yelled out “O Sucks! O Sucks” at every assembly. (Apparently back in his day at university football games, stadium Sections O and P would yell at each other. Nowadays, the Wisconsin games have gotten much more R-rated; one section yells “Eat Sh#t!” While the other yells back, “F*ck You!” It makes no sense. Ahhh … tradition.)

In addition to the simulation game, our team had to pick a product that started with “P” and market it. Our team had chosen pickled peppers. I wanted to run from the room in exasperation. (Purses, people! Purses!!)

If the Summer of the Camps had taught me anything, it was that I could hang with a wide variety of people and survive. But if I had to choose one group … it would be my right-brained friends. Sure, they could get a little too artsy-fartsy for my taste, but they would understand me … even if I didn’t have a sticker on my badge.

This picture was taken the summer of “the scooter incident”. Not only did I have aerodynamic hair, but it turned red from all the iron in our water. Plus there is way too much stone washed denim going on here.

If “America’s Funniest Home Videos” (and YouTube) have taught us anything, it’s that Americans find great entertainment value when other people have accidents – as long as nobody is seriously hurt, of course. This story is no exception, with apologies to my long-suffering mother, who has had to endure its countless retellings.

I take you back to the summer my brother Dan had escaped from the slave-like conditions of door-to-door book sales. When we had gotten back home to Marinette, he’d ended up getting a job as a harbormaster at one of the local marinas. Dan knew nothing about life on the water, but he was a quick learner. Soon he was working the radio, filling up boats with gas, and directing all of the marina traffic. He didn’t have a car, so my parents decided to buy a small red scooter (called a “Razz”) to get him to and from work every day. Dan claimed the Razz’s top speed was 30 mph, “downhill, with the wind at your back.” That all worked out nicely until the weekend he had decided to take a trip to Chicago to see some friends.

Mom took one for the team and told Dan he could borrow her car for the trip. She still needed some way to get to work, however, so she decided to learn how to use the Razz. After the 50th time we told this story, Mom needed to remind everyone that we were overlooking her generosity.

“I was kind enough to say you could have the car so you could go to Chicahhhgo. To see all your Chicahhhgo friends.”

She drew out the syllables like she was on an episode of “Bill Swerski’s Super Fans.” (We lived 50 miles from Green Bay, so what’d you expect? Those friends were from enemy territory, and Dan was fraternizing with the enemy … literally. One of his frat buddies was actually a McCaskey. It stung.)

Right before Dan was scheduled to leave on his trip, Mom decided to practice driving the scooter.

“Now to make it accelerate,” Dan explained to her, “you just twist the handlebars like this, nice and easy.”

Mom headed down the hill that was our driveway, except she clearly underestimated the power and acceleration of the Razz. To hear Dan tell it, “She never let up! She went down the driveway at full speed and ended up in the ditch on the other side of the road, after doing a few somersaults.”

And no, she hadn’t been wearing a helmet. (Apparently, safety really hasn’t ever been a thing in my family, with the firm exception of deer hunting. Other than that, we don’t have any dangerous hobbies, unless you count Mom’s reckless picture-hanging tactics; she shuns the use of rulers, levels, and stud-finders, yet it all seems to work out okay.)

Dan ran down the driveway, sure that Mom had suffered at least a broken bone or two.

She looked at Dan oddly.

“What happened?”

“Mom, you had an accident on the scooter and ended up in the ditch. Are you okay? Can you move?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Dan helped her to her feet and slowly walked her up the driveway. She seemed fine – at first.

“Well if you’re really okay, then I’m going to pack up and get going.”

“What do you mean? Where are you going?”

“Uh … Chicago? I’ve had this trip planned for weeks? I’m taking the car?”

“Oh yeah. Okay.”

“Mom, you don’t sound good. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. But just tell me again what happened.”
“Mom, you had an accident on the scooter and hit your head.”

By that time they’d gotten into the house, and Mom had plunked down in the recliner. She had actual grass stains on her face.

“Mom, I’ve got to take you to the hospital.”

That set off Mom, and she suddenly turned from dazed and confused to straight-up angry.

“NO!! I’m perfectly fine! But just tell me ONE. MORE. TIME! What happened?”

Dan somehow had managed to wrestle her into the car and get her to the hospital.

Dan eventually did make it to Chicago, albeit several hours late.

Mom never did get on a scooter again, but we still like to give her Razz-berries about this story.

I don’t really like pets.

Wow, I just became really unpopular with a lot of you, didn’t I? It’s not an easy thing to say; America is so obsessed with pets that it has almost become cult-like. Don’t believe me? Ever listen to people talk about their dogs? Those conversations could go on for hours if people were left to their own devices. I know because I’…

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       (This picture has nothing to do with Donald nor his stocking. But I like it.)

It was Christmastime 1985. My sixth-grade year, which will also go down as the year I had my first “plain-clothes” nun for a teacher. Sister Marion seemed so modern; she came to my school after working in the Chicago projects. She wore polyester pants instead of a habit; her fall and winter polyester was all dark and muted, but in the spring she’d bust out Easter-y bright pinks and greens. Sister Marion had a short Afro that had turned prematurely grey; she picked it out every day after her lunchtime recess walks. She also did something each day she called “taking our temperature.” Every morning we’d go around the room and tell the class how we felt that day. We could say we felt fine or sad or mad or happy. That way Sister would know exactly what our mood was, and if we needed a little extra care and feeding.

That particular Christmas, Sister Marion had all of us construct small red stockings out of construction paper and write our names on them. Everyone’s stocking was then passed around the room. The idea was that everyone would write something nice on everyone else’s stocking, such as “nice” or “funny” or “Best Bobcat Goldthwait impersonator.” (Man, he was funny in those “Police Academy” movies, right?) It was the Christmas season, we were spreading good cheer … what could possibly go wrong?

The stockings went around the room, and we all got our feedback from our classmates. I don’t really remember much about my own stocking because the whole exercise was overshadowed by “The Donald Incident.” Somehow word got back to Sister Marion that Donald’s stocking had a not-so-nice word on it. I don’t think Donald himself really cared because he knew it was a joke, but Sister was not amused. (By the way, the word was dick, which still makes me giggle. Because there was that stocking with all of those kind adjectives written on it, and then right smack in the middle was dick. What can I say? Sixth-graders are quite eloquent.)

The obvious guilty party was Shawn, Donald’s close friend, as well as the only 15-year-old in the sixth grade. It was his writing, it was his brand of humor, and it was just his style to do that. Shawn was the kid who was perpetually stuck in “Observation Row,” another one of Sister Marion’s inventions. Our desks were all situated in an L-shape, except for a separate short row of desks, where Sister Marion also sat with us (when she wasn’t at her real desk). If you missed some assignments or otherwise screwed up, your desk would be moved there so you could “observe” the other well-behaved children – and then hopefully strive to get out of the embarrassing Observation Row. Shawn was out of Observation Row for approximately two days out of the entire school year. And yet still he was allowed to get his temporary drivers license. In sixth grade.

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When I was in third grade, my family took our first major road trip: the epic drive from Marinette, Wisconsin, all the way to Disney World. That was way before the days of 70 mph speed limits, so the trip had taken at least 24 hours. Our family truckster at the time was a large Chrysler New Yorker that was a hand-me-down from Grandma Drees. I was armed only with my personal pillow covered in a Strawberry Shortcake pillowcase. Since I had the shittiest seat in the car (backseat middle), I would have to contend with 24 hours of manspreading and assorted gross older brother shenanigans designed to bother me. In addition, Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again” song was quite popular then, so every time we’d hop back into the car after a potty stop Dad would point out we were “On the road again, kids!”

It had been a long journey.

We’d managed to keep each other busy by playing the classic car games: the license plate game, the alphabet game, the what-I-would-do-if-I-won-the-lottery game. My brothers were particularly fond of the let’s-fart-on-Anne game. I was very thankful when we reached Tennessee, and they could distract themselves with all of the illegal fireworks stands.

Our first overnight stop had been at a bright orange Howard Johnson hotel with an attached restaurant. Dad was in heaven because they were offering all-you-can-eat fish, and let’s just say it got a little out of hand after awhile. Mom was tired of sitting around while Dad kept ordering more fish, so she eventually gave up and went back to the hotel room. Dad kept getting his money’s worth and ordering more coffee until he finally petered out around 9:00 or 10:00 p.m. Not surprisingly the combination of the caffeine and a full stomach didn’t make for a good night’s sleep. By 2:00 a.m. he couldn’t take the tossing and turning anymore; he woke up Mom and convinced her to hit the road again.

“Just don’t tell the kids what time it is … they’ll never know the difference,” he said in hushed tones. “They can sleep in the car, just get them ready. I’ll unplug the alarm clock so they can’t see the time.”

And that’s how we ended up hitting the road at 2:30 a.m.

Dad thought he was clever, but after about 30 minutes we caught him: He had forgotten about the clock in the car. After our initial incredulous whining, we eventually got over it and fell back asleep. We were rested and ready by the time we crossed the Florida border. It was there that we encountered the illustrious Florida Welcome Center where they were giving out free juice. We got into the long line and were greeted by someone whose job was to ask visitors “Orange or grapefruit?” all day long. The rest of the trip my brothers and I kept randomly asking each other, “Orange or grapefruit? Orange or grapefruit?” Until my parents snapped.

When we finally did make it to Disney World we were all in heaven. I especially loved the Magic Kingdom because it contained something called attractions, as opposed to just roller coasters. I’d never been much of a scary ride person, and at that point my only previous experience with amusement parks had been at a small family-friendly place in Green Bay called Bay Beach. Each ride there only cost 10 cents, and the scariest ride was a huge slide you would ride down while inside a burlap sack. In the summer the slide got so incredibly hot that you would get second-degree burns by merely grazing any part of the slide on the way down. Other than that, it seemed that the Scrambler and Tilt-a-Whirl were enough excitement for me.

Back at Magic Kingdom I could handle the “tame” coaster but steered clear of Space Mountain, something my brothers couldn’t get enough of. Fast-forward 30 years to when I was on my own family road trip to Disney World. We got stuck on the It’s a Small World ride for a good half-hour due to a mechanical failure, so we were all given FastPasses for any ride we wanted. (If you’re not familiar: The FastPass lets you skip the long line and go right to the front.) My family, of course, chose the one ride with the longest line: Space Mountain.

In a moment of weakness, I took one for the team and went on Space Mountain. I realize there are much faster and scarier rides out there, but since I’m so wimpy I screamed in horror throughout the entire ride. I felt like I was going to be launched out of that tiny unprotective car at every drop, twist, and turn. Sadly, that wasn’t the last time I would do something horrifying in the name of entertainment for my family. Once at a waterpark they all tricked me into going on a ride I never would have agreed to if I’d known what it entailed. When we got to the front of the line, I learned we all had to step on a giant scale to be weighed. Call me crazy, but any time the laws of physics have to be calculated right before I step inside a gigantic inner tube I get a tad bit nervous. Not to mention the kids kept trying to figure out how much I weighed based on our grand total.

“Now we know that Dad weighs about 210, and I’m 130 … and Karissa is …” Chase began before I swiftly cut him off at the … ahem, chase.

“Don’t even think about it, buddy,” I told him as I climbed into the inner tube of dread.

It turned out that that ride shot us all into a giant funnel, where we shot up the sides, making me feel like I was going to fall face down and plummet to my death. I now feel horrible for that time we made my mom go on the spinning teacups.

The other times that our family had gone back to Disney World we’d flown … but that didn’t mean there weren’t other road trips. Many times those trips had involved visiting my brother Peter who was working on his degree in professional golf management from Ferris State University. His studies had consisted of six months in the classroom, then six months working at a golf course. At first, he was in cooler-weather locations like the Chicago area. I’ll never forget when we dropped him off for that first internship. His “accommodations” during the internship had consisted of a run-down shack on the golf course grounds. He had been given a windowless room with stained carpeting, and he’d shared a bathroom with one of the drunken groundskeepers who liked to shoot off his gun after one too many. Mom was a bit stressed during that time.

Luckily a few years later Pete was able to land a more glamorous gig at a resort in Myrtle Beach. The plan was for my parents and me to road trip there, spend a few days with him, then cross over to Missouri to visit my brother Dan at his summer job, as well as some relatives in the St. Louis area.

That road trip was fantastic; not only did I have the entire back seat to myself, but I could occupy myself for hours with my Christopher Pike books. Plus, it was the first time I would be seeing the ocean, and that inspired me to purchase some ultra-cool Panama Jack tee shirts that would be the envy of all of my friends.

While the Myrtle Beach trip had been a success, and Mom could sleep at night knowing that Peter was safe and sound, she still had to worry about her younger son.

Now I need to back up here and explain how Dan had found himself in Missouri. Apparently around springtime, a company had visited his college campus trying to recruit summer workers. That particular company sold encyclopedias and probably a few other types of books that are now mostly obsolete. Dan fell hard for the presentation; he only saw dollar signs and the opportunity to travel to exotic places (like St. Joseph, Missouri?).

Mom had tried in vain to tell Dan that it was all a bad idea, but it was no use. At one point, he simply sat my mom down, looked her in the eye, and said, “Mom, this is just something I have to do.”

As soon as his freshman year of college was finished he jetted off to Tennessee (you may know it from its extensive roadside fireworks stands, as well as all-you-can-eat fish at Howard Johnson). It was there he was brainwashed trained to be a traveling encyclopedia salesman.

What Dan hadn’t known was that he would be responsible for finding his own accommodations. According to the company, there would be plenty of people willing and able to let a stranger like him live at their house for free during the summer. He’d ended up sleeping in someone’s dungy basement. Back then there were no cell phones, so we only heard from him once a week or so, calling collect from a pay phone; he didn’t give us too many details about his job.

As soon as we’d arrived in St. Joseph and found Dan, he jumped into the car as if it was a life raft. It took him less than 30 seconds to tell us that he was quitting. He had lasted less than a month. As it turned out, (shockingly) walking the streets for 12 hours a day in sweltering heat trying to sell strangers encyclopedias was not the dream job he had envisioned.

In the end it all worked out anyhow. When we got back to Wisconsin, Dan got a summer job as a harbormaster at the local marina. Personally I like to think that he learned a few important life lessons. The first one being that your mom is always right. The second one is that if he hadn’t quit he would have missed out on one of the coolest life experiences ever: making a super-sweet lip-sync video to Madonna’s hit “Into the Groove” with me when we stopped in Wisconsin Dells on the way home.

Come to think of it, all of my family vacations had been fun when my brothers were around; despite their teasing when I was younger, we just genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve also discovered that I enjoy some vacation time alone.

The first time I took a “big” vacation by myself was January 2014. Since my husband was working in education and didn’t have the time off, and none of my friends could make the trip, I decided to just book the trip on my own. It turned out to be incredible timing: While schools were closing in Wisconsin due to cold temperatures, I’d be enjoying 80s and sun in Fort Lauderdale.

When I would tell others about my upcoming plans, the conversation would often go like this:

“I can’t wait to get out of this cold weather; I’m going to Fort Lauderdale for an entire week!”

“Great!” random friend would say. “Whom are you going with?”

“No one,” I would reply. “I’m going by myself.”

Big look of surprise, pity, or confusion.

“Oh … really? Why?”

After explaining myself, I’d get one of three reactions. The first group undoubtedly walked away thinking I was a loser with no friends. The second group thought I was brave and cool, but they would never do such a thing themselves. But then the third group (and those were my favorite people) just got it.

“Yeah …” they would say while nodding. “Yeah … that is GENIUS. Tell me more.”

The truth was that if I absolutely had to take someone with me I’m sure I could have found someone … but after awhile I kind of called off my search on purpose. Because the more I thought about it the more I craved time all to myself.

I completely understand that many people would hate that idea but not me. For as long as I can remember I’ve known this about myself. I could spend hours and hours alone in my bedroom playing with my Barbies or reading books. My kindergarten report card had said “Anne should spend less time playing by herself and more time with other children.”

When I think about that report card today I think So where’s the problem? I hate being introvert shamed.

When I finally did leave on vacation, the interrogation continued, starting with the rental car guy.

“Do you have family here?”

“No.”

“Are you meeting friends here?”

“No.”

“Are you here for work?”

“No.”

He just could not get past the idea that I would be on vacation by myself, and he was really starting to annoy me.

(On a side note, I was this close to scoring $557 worth of travel vouchers from Southwest when they asked for volunteers to take the next flight three hours later. If they only needed one person, I was in! If they needed two, then they would take this other pair who also volunteered. They ended up needing two. The voucher went to a dad and son who separated from the wife and two other kids. Probably because they were all Screamy McFidgety. And I should know. I ended up sitting in front of them on the plane.)

But getting back to my vacation. That was prime time for me to do what I wanted, when I wanted. The solo TV viewing alone was worth it. No rednecks or shows about people trying to rustle up snakes/raccoons/fish/opossums/rare coins. I was, however, very open to publicity-hungry, extremely rich reality stars. For one week it would be strictly E!, Bravo, and my Netflix queue.

And then there was the sleeping. If I wanted to take a nap from 8 p.m. to 10 p.m., get up, eat some chips, rally, then watch a “Rich Kids of Beverly Hills” marathon until 2 a.m., I could do it. (If you haven’t already guessed, that happened. A lot.)

But there’s more! I had the bathroom to myself. I shopped at my own pace and only went into stores that I wanted to visit. I didn’t have to care about what anyone else was hungry for; besides, most of the time I was hungry for Chick-fil-A, and I wasn’t afraid to drive 30 minutes to get it. (And P.S.: Will someone please open a Chick-fil-A near me, already?)

I had no regrets about my solo vacation, and I would do it again a few years later. I’d still get an occasional odd look, and I still felt lonely at times. But then I’d think about Willie Nelson. And all-you-can-eat fish. And the freedom to travel. And then I’m just happy to be on the road again.

I don’t really have an appropriate picture for this chapter. Instead, I will choose to                                                                        showcase Dan’s magnificent perm from 1986.

I don’t care how much you’ve perfected the art of helicopter parenting; there’s no way you’ll be able to shield your kid from mean people. Even in the safest of environments, meanies still thrive – waiting to jump out and surprise kids when they least expect it.

Case in point: When I was in fourth grade Girl Scouts, I had to leave my weekly meeting a little early and wait outside of the school for my mom to pick me up for a dentist appointment. All of a sudden a rundown pickup truck sped by. I looked up and locked eyes with the 20-something-year-old guy in the back of the truck. He pointed his finger at me and yelled, “I want to suck your tits!”

Cute, right? Baby’s first sexual harassment.

I remember just standing there and staring at him as the truck roared away. Did I hear him right? What the hell was wrong with him? For the love of all that was holy, I wasn’t even wearing a bra yet! Let’s just say that was probably the least likely encounter I’d expected when I’d woken up that morning.

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         High school graduation, silently freaking out that I’d have a panic attack.

I’ll never forget the first time I had a panic attack. It was seventh grade, and I’d been asked to do a special reflection reading during our weekly school mass. I remember that I’d felt more nervous than usual, but I hadn’t expected what would happen next. Everyone had …

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The thing about growing up is that once you find yourself at a comfortable age and think you have everything figured out, life comes along and issues a whole new set of changes and rules. One minute you’re riding bikes with your friends and having a good time, and the next those same people are ignoring you because you’re not cool enough for them anymore. Middle school life became way too focused on fitting in and getting boys to like me, which was difficult enough with my good grades, glasses, and braces. Plus, I still had a huge chip on my shoulder since I wasn’t ever any good at the popular team sports. It had never really dawned on me that my concern was largely unwarranted and stupid, but since I’d been getting more and more Type A by the minute it really mattered that I was good at everything … so I had continued to let it bother me.

Once I’d entered high school, all of my athletic shortcomings seemed to be magnified. Apparently, I’d morphed into a female version of Les Moore from the Funky Winkerbean comic strip. (For those of you unfamiliar, Les was a helpless nerd who seemed to be stuck in the worst gym class ever for all of eternity. It was like the Groundhog Day of gym classes; every single class he’d be asked to climb a rope. It made absolutely no sense, but man did I relate to this guy.)

I knew things were off to a terrible start when I showed up for the first day of gym class my freshmen year wearing the wrong clothes. Since I was so concerned with doing the wrong thing, I made sure I was super prepared for my first day of school. That included making sure that I wore the right gym clothes. It turned out that I was the only person who was actually wearing the school’s old gym uniform; nobody told me that everybody had stopped wearing them years ago. I believe that at one point when the class was getting too loud and out of hand the gym teacher actually pointed at me and said, “Hey, if you all don’t shut up I’ll make you wear a uniform like Anne’s.”

If that wasn’t a bad omen, I don’t know what was.

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    Braces would fix my snaggletooth…unfortunately I hadn’t discovered tweezers yet.

Unfortunately for my brothers and me (and my parents’ checkbook) we needed braces. I’m forever grateful that my parents sacrificed so that we could have the beautiful smiles that we have today. But I must also point out that the whole braces “experience” wasn’t exactly a cakewalk – especially compared to the luxurious orthodontic offices of today. Plus, most current orthodontists aren’t sadists like ours was.

But before I explain my horrific visits to that guy, I must first point out that my initial teeth experiences were a little odd. Yes, I’m talking about the Tooth Fairy.

While other kids were getting things from the Tooth Fairy like 50-cent pieces or even dollars under their pillows, I would awaken to find maybe a dime and a nickel, along with several other little surprises. I didn’t get jewelry or candy or anything that a 5-year-old girl wanted. Instead, I got maybe a dime and some tiny spare parts. That’s what happens when your dad the electrician was in charge of Tooth Fairy duty. Instead of sprinkling fairy dust under my pillow, I’d have a trail of wire nuts and Romex® connectors. But I never really questioned it, and I never complained, either. It was all part of the mystery, I guess. Being the stupid little Polish kid that I was, I never did put two and two together that my dad – an electrician – was the Tooth Fairy.

As my adult teeth were coming in, it had become quite apparent that like my brothers before me, I, too, would need braces. Enter my orthodontist, who basically had a monopoly on the entire snaggle-toothed population in the immediate surrounding area. The only other orthodontist who would have been available was some guy who’d been fighting tax evasion charges, so I guess the safer bet was to go with the guy who had a better chance of finishing the job. The last thing I’d wanted was for the IRS to storm in and shut the joint down while I still had wires sticking out of my mouth.

Before I explain the house of horrors (aka the orthodontist’s office), I must take a moment to once again complain about how today’s kids have it so easy. I know this firsthand because several years ago I started taking my stepdaughter to her own orthodontic appointments.

Apparently, orthodontists today are concerned about things like “comfort” and “fun.” I’m not sure exactly when the industry started going soft, but I’m guessing it was around the time kids’ sports teams started handing out ribbons for participation.

I realized that things had really changed when the super-friendly dental assistant cheerfully asked my stepdaughter what flavor she wanted for the mold of her mouth.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said. “You mean to tell me you people have flavors now?

“Oh yes!” she smiled proudly. “We can do mint or strawberry or even bubble gum!”

I sighed and shook my head. Unreal. Back in my day, there was only one flavor for the mouth mold, and that flavor was CEMENT.

The next thing I noticed was the overall ambience. My stepdaughter’s ortho office had cool, retro album covers on the walls, and pictures or puzzles on the ceiling to entertain the patient while they’re reclined and getting their braces tightened. Plus, there was a rock station on the radio. My ortho office featured no cool artwork of any kind, unless you counted all of the threatening pictures of kids’ messed-up, rotten, disease-infested mouths. Those were meant as warnings to us if we didn’t wear our headgear or forgot to floss. It kind of gave a whole new meaning to “Scared Straight.”

And finally, I can’t forget the orthodontist swag. So apparently nowadays if you do what you’re told (avoid taffy, skillfully pick the food out of your braces, wear your headgear, etc.) you get cool prizes like certificates for pizza. The only “prize” I’d ever received was a crummy white tee shirt with an illustrated stick-figure brace-faced girl. It said something like “Brace Yourself!” on it in big letters. That was only something I’d wear with my headgear if my name was Joan Cusack, and I was headed to the dance with Samantha Baker and Long Duck Dong.

Oh, and I almost forgot about the technology. My stepdaughter’s very personable orthodontist took the time to show us this super-high-tech mini-movie about how her teeth would get fixed and put into their proper place. It was freaking amazing; I’m pretty sure it won a tech award at the Oscars. I wanted to crack open a box of popcorn and watch it again it was so good. Needless to say, my orthodontist hadn’t ever showed me anything on the office Apple IIe, except for maybe the outstanding balance on my hefty bill.

But I was tough back in the 80s; I could handle all of those inconveniences, and I never really mentioned them. After all, that’s the way things were; we didn’t know any better. Besides, things always couldn’t be super-comfortable all of the time – how else would I have learned to deal with adversity later in my life, right? However, one thing I probably could have done without was the pain.

It was obvious that my orthodontist subscribed to the crank methodology of orthodontics. (There must be some technical term for it, but when all is said and done, and translated from Latin, I’m pretty sure we’d be left with a loose translation of “crank method.”) He could barely contain his pleasure as he pulled and yanked on my teeth as hard as he possibly could. I never had found out what was behind that one locked door, but my guess is that it was a gym so that Doc could stay in fine shape and beat on all of those young metal mouths.

To add insult to injury, my orthodontist didn’t even fix my teeth right. Sure, I look great compared to those cleft-palate kids in the backs of magazines. But then look a little closer, and you’ll see that my bottom teeth all overlap each other. And it sure as hell wasn’t because I hadn’t worn my retainer afterward – I wore that thing religiously. (Don’t get me started on Retainers Now vs. Retainers Then. As you can tell, technology really pisses me off sometimes, especially when I see how easy it makes life for others while I had to suffer.)

Apparently my overbite hadn’t been fixed properly because when I bite down my front teeth cover my bottom teeth. They’d wound up bumping into each other, and then my lower teeth had gotten all crooked again. All that money and time and pain, and my mouth is still messed up.

But at least … at least … I have this brief shining moment of glory and revenge ….

At one appointment my orthodontist kept asking me to bite down on a piece of plastic he kept shoving into my mouth. That went on for quite awhile. Insert, bite down. Insert, bite down. After some time it had become rather rhythmic, and he didn’t even have to tell me to bite down. I just did. And then, instead of inserting the long orange plastic thing, he inserted his finger. And I bit down. I bit down hard.

While it’s true it was an accident, I have to admit I had felt a bit of retribution. The rest of the patients around me heard the demonic doctor cry out in pain, and they all looked at me in a mixture of awe, gratefulness, and envy. I was like that brave orphan who had stomped on Ms. Hannigan’s foot. If they hadn’t been strapped down, they probably would have started to clap. But then again that would have been pretty risky; come time for their own brace tightening, our sadistic doctor could easily have gone into full-throttle crank mode, much like the life-sucking device used on Westley in “The Princess Bride.”

No, we would have to take that small victory for what it was: a small step for the young, tortured, mangled-mouthed souls, who would soon lead the way toward the more peaceful, kinder orthodontic experience that exists today.

You’re welcome, kids.

                                                    Practicing my sexy 80s poses

I only lived in town until I was 5 years old. My television watching was limited to stations 2, 5, 11, and 38. The only shows I clearly remember watching on a regular basis were mostly on PBS: “Sesame Street,” “The Electric Company,” “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood,” and some campy show called “ZOOM,” which featured super-excited kids in striped rugby shirts dancing around to the show’s theme song. Other than that, I remember lots of “Hee Haw,” “The Brady Bunch,” “The Donny & Marie Show,” and the nightly news. The rest of those formative years were fondly spent doing things like “playing.” If I wasn’t outside playing Kick the Can or Capture the Flag with neighbor kids, I was happily playing with my Barbies. Life was good.

As I headed into my adolescent years, the television selection suddenly changed. Even though we lived in the country and couldn’t even get cable TV yet, it was a treat to have two additional channels: 26 and 32. Channel 32 introduced me to such classic reruns as “Gidget” and “The Partridge Family,” which I happily watched when bored in the summertime. Saturday nights always included “The Love Boat” followed by “Fantasy Island,” usually accompanied by large recyclable glass bottles of Pepsi and a bag of Doritos.

As for the “city kids,” they had cable. That included access to actual music videos all day long on MTV; I had to settle for a show called “Friday Night Videos.” If you were lucky, your family sprung for the ultimate luxury: HBO. HBO was a true learning ground for my friends and me; what I hadn’t learned on the bus, I learned by watching “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” and “Valley Girl.”

When I look back on all of my favorite shows, it’s clear that music played a huge part in everything. Whether it was the opening jazz and dance sequences of “The Cosby Show,” all of Michael’s and Janet Jackson’s videos, or The Brady Bunch performing as “The Silver Platters,” I loved it all. It really was no surprise that I’d ended up loving a new show that seemed to combine everything I adored into one deliciously terrible package: music, performance, dancing, costumes, and regular people like me pursuing a little bit of fame. Yes, I’m talking about none other than “Puttin’ on the Hits.”

They say everything old is new again, and lip-syncing is definitely no exception. While kids today believe that LL Cool J or Jimmy Fallon had invented lip-syncing competitions, nothing could be farther from the truth. “Puttin’ on the Hits” had paved the way for all lip-sync shows after it.

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My Grandpa and Grandma Allard and me, all set for my aunt’s wedding. Grandma                    would later be my school’s hot lunch lady.

Terrible school lunches are pretty much a running joke in this country. I haven’t met many kids who sing praises about their school lunches unless, of course, it’s pizza day. And even then the biggest complaint is that they can’t go up for thirds. But unlike today’s schools, in the 80s we didn’t have things like salad bars or pasta bars or anything else remotely resembling a choice. Therefore, I’m not too sympathetic when kids today complain about their school lunches. Oh, so you don’t care for the hot dogs they’re serving today? You poor thing; you need to go visit that fully stocked salad bar instead? It’s really quite ridiculous.

Despite the lack of choices, my school lunches were quite good. Besides, I’d take an average hot lunch over a cold sandwich and a mini bag of Doritos any day. I, too, looked forward to pizza day and burger day, and even hot turkey and mashed potatoes day. (Given a choice between a piece of chocolate cake and more mashed potatoes, I’d pick the potatoes.) However, there were a few days I would absolutely dread, namely shepherd’s pie day and something called Slow Boat to China. More like speedboat to a sudden death by onions and celery – two of my archenemies. However, nothing really conjured up as much fear and dread as hot tuna casserole day.

The thing is, I could handle having a shitty main course every once in a while; I was young and didn’t require many calories, so subsisting on the side dishes and carton of milk alone wasn’t too horrible. What I couldn’t handle was that up until sixth grade the lunch ladies and teachers would make us take a heaping portion of the main dish no matter how heinous it was or how much we’d told them we only wanted a little bit. Then the main teacher on lunch duty that day would come around and inspect each of our trays, making sure that we’d eaten enough. If it was deemed inadequate, we were forced to sit and eat more until we were properly dismissed and allowed to go outside and play with our friends.

Tuna casserole day was incredibly stressful for me. Even when I’d ask for only a little serving, down came a huge gelatinous scoop onto my plastic compartmentalized plate. I’d skillfully move the food around a bit, desperately trying to simulate a meal that had been at least half eaten. And I wasn’t even going to try the old “hide-the-food-in-the-milk-carton” trick because everyone remembers the day that Mike H. got caught doing that; shit hit the fan with Sister Jerome.

On the worst days, I’d sit in agony, trying to choose the bite with the least possibility of a hidden mushroom or piece of celery (yes, I know that I don’t like many of the vegetables that supposedly give things “flavor.” The only thing they give me is a gag reflex.) As luck would have it, though, one of those monsters was always hidden somewhere, and I’d quickly try to use my remaining milk as a chaser while trying not to hurl tuna casserole across the lunch table. Eventually the teacher would come around again and either take pity on me or simply give up on me, and I was dismissed.

Fortunately, hot lunch rules got better in junior high. Much to my classmates’ and my delight there were no teachers monitoring our eating habits once we hit sixth grade. In fact, if we didn’t want any of the main dish we didn’t even have to take any; we could actually refuse it!

Another thing we really had going for us was the bread. A new head cook for the entire Catholic school system was hired, and her specialty happened to be delicious homemade bread, drenched in butter and wrapped in tinfoil, then revealed to us each day in steaming deliciousness. Some days it would be homemade rolls instead of bread (my favorite). I always had a hard time deciding what to eat first: the doughy, buttery insides, or the baked-to-perfection crusts on the top and bottom. Not an easy choice when I was faced with the world’s most perfect food. It wasn’t unusual to see kids pile five or six pieces of bread or rolls on their plates. This was another reason to love the 80s: nobody had taken all of the fun out of carbs yet. I took great delight in pinching a corner of my bread and watching the buttery goodness ooze out onto my plate.

The other thing I had going for me was that my grandma (my mom’s mother) was a hot lunch lady at my high school. (And, yes, she, too, knew how to bake that fantastic bread!) That was the ideal job for my grandma since it combined two of her favorite things: cooking and gossip.

That’s not to say that my grandma was a mean-spirited gossip; on the contrary. I think she just genuinely enjoyed being around all of the high school students, hearing about their lives, and watching them grow up over the course of four years. She was one of those people who really sincerely wanted to know how you were doing when she asked you that question. She had a smile and a smart-ass comment ready for any student at any time; countless kids loved it when lunch lady Mary teased them and gave them an extra cookie.

Speaking of extra cookies, if you think there are advantages to having your grandma as the hot lunch lady you’re absolutely right. Some days if I was running late and didn’t have time for breakfast I’d sneak into the kitchen and nab some bread, jam, and juice from her. But mostly the advantage came on certain prime dessert days. Grandma knew what I liked the best, so when her boss wasn’t looking she’d quickly grab an extra chocolate chip bar and chuck it onto my tray as covertly as possible. I could tell she loved our little game of Operation Extra Dessert, as evidenced by the twinkle in her eye and the undeniable smirk on her face.

What I wouldn’t give to have another piece of Grandma’s homemade bread or to see the joy on her face as she joked with her favorite students. While she wasn’t a grandma who’d smother us with hugs and kisses and sentimentality, she’d gladly join her grandchildren in a good-natured snowball fight. What she lacked in money she’d made up in time and generosity; she’d spend days baking her delicious bread for school fundraisers. She cheered on students at their sporting events. What many of those students didn’t know was that she also spent a solid two years of her life at my grandfather’s bedside at the nursing home as he died from bone cancer. She never learned to drive (she always told us she was too anxious and fearful), so either my mom or my aunt dropped her off early in the morning and picked her up each evening. I don’t think she ever missed a day.

And God Bless her … she’d never make me eat tuna casserole.

Dad and me in my suspender phase. I was always trying to find ways to make my Catholic school uniform as un-uniformy as possible.

Back at Catholic school, I had progressed to being in the St. Anthony’s building. So long, babies! I was then among the mature fourth- and fifth-graders. While the kindergarten through third-graders had all of those fun songs at weekly mass, St. Anthony’s had the May Crowning. When April rolled around, everyone’s focus was on the May Crowning festivities. We’d spend countless hours practicing all of the traditional May Crowning songs: “On This Day, O Beautiful Mother,” “Hail, Holy Queen Enthroned Above,” “Bring Flowers of the Rarest” (“Oh Mary! We Crown Thee with Blossoms Today”), and the mother(s) of all May Crowning songs “Immaculate Mary” and “Ave Maria.” I knew all of them by heart, and they’re still affectionately etched into my memory; I’m even getting to the point where I start tearing up whenever I sing them.

Even though we’d normally have church practice every week, things were definitely kicked up a few notches. The organist (who also doubled as our lunch lady) would bark down at us from the balcony: “Two verses only! Two verses only!” and we’d obediently start singing:

Hail, holy Queen enthron’d above, oh Maria!
Hail mother of mercy and of love, oh Maria!
Triumph all ye Cherubim, Sing with us ye Seraphim,
Heav’n and earth resound the hymn;
Salve, Salve, Salve Regina!

Fifth grade brought even more excitement to the May Crowning. Each year, one lucky fifth-grade girl was chosen for the big honor of the day: adorning the statue of Mary with a beautiful crown of flowers. Even though no one would admit it, I think all of us girls secretly wanted that privilege. It wasn’t something that the faculty voted on; it was left entirely to the fifth-grade students. Our first exposure to actually voting for someone, it was kind of the gateway to voting for bigger things like Student Council and Homecoming Court.

This is how I remember the voting process: All of the girls in fifth grade had their names written on the blackboard, and then everyone would vote for two people. From there we would keep voting and eliminating names in each round until we got to a winner. I ended up making the first cut, but when we got to the second round my name was missing.

As my eyes scanned the blackboard and fell on a few names I couldn’t help but feel indignant. I could handle not being up there, but if I was going to be voted off of the island then why were those little two-faced …

Truth be told, I knew why my name wasn’t up there. It was because I had become (shiver): the Teacher’s Pet.

If you’re wondering how that happened … well, it wasn’t exactly something I was aiming for in life. For starters, I was a pretty obedient kid, so that naturally lends itself to the role. Secondly, I had straight As the majority of the time. Many people didn’t know that I had to work harder than most others for those grades, but it didn’t matter. It also probably didn’t help that I’d kicked everyone’s sorry ass at that name-the-state-capitals game. (Side note: I was good friends with kids a year older than I; the year before on our daily bus ride I’d been quizzing them on state capitals, and it all just stuck in my brain.)

Outside of the classroom I was even excelling on the playground. Even though I clearly stunk at most sports, I was quite good at kickball, and that was the sport of choice for girls at recess in fourth and fifth grade.

But then the whole Richard Simmons thing happened.

No, Richard Simmons didn’t make a surprise appearance at our school or anything, although that would’ve been epic. Rather, our female gym teacher made us learn actual Richard Simmons aerobics routines to his recordings. Since I liked dancing and any kind of exercise that involved dancing (see: Jazzercise talent show), I fully committed myself to learning all of the moves.

I can still hear Richard’s voice on the record as the music started:

You start losing, weight … you stop losing weight!

You know in your heart … that you can’t stop and start …

Not only did we perform Richard Simmons’ songs, we got to exercise to Michael Jackson’s iconic “Beat It.” When it came time for the teacher to pick two student leaders for all of the routines, I was one of them.

But then, as if my Teacher’s Pet status wasn’t already enough, one last thing clearly sealed the deal: I was named the school’s official phone answerer.

What’s the school phone answerer, you ask? Well, as strange as it may sound, there was only one phone (rotary dial, of course) in all of St. Anthony’s school. The school was small and only held four classrooms: two for fourth grade and two for fifth grade. The second floor featured a small “office” that just housed a bunch of filing cabinets and a small table for the phone. There was no secretary; Sister Jerome was one of the fifth-grade teachers but also doubled as the head teacher/administrator in the building. We didn’t get many phone calls, but Sister Jerome didn’t want to be bothered and interrupted during her lesson every time the phone rang. So every year she’d choose one student in her class to answer the phone, and I was that person. I got to sit in the desk positioned right by the door so that I could hear the phone and jump up at a moment’s notice.

At first glance, one might be confused as to why that position would cause such jealousy. But think about it: At any time the phone could get me out of a really boring class. It was a prime opportunity to leave class with built-in permission! Most of the other kids hated me for that.

I remember one time a parent called school to ask how her son was feeling. I guess Chad hadn’t felt well in the morning and wasn’t sure if he should actually have gone to school, so his mother wanted to check on him. As soon as I had answered the phone she was completely confused.

“Uh … why are you answering the phone? Isn’t there someone else there who normally answers the phone?”

I was flustered. No one had ever questioned my phone duties before.

“Uh … yes. I mean no. I mean I usually answer the phone.”

“Well, is there someone there who could tell me if Chad is feeling okay?”

“Okay … I can check?”

I then walked downstairs, found Chad’s classroom, asked if he was okay, then reported back to his mom. But by the time I had returned she must have given up; nobody was on the line. Phone answerer duty was stressful and thankless.

Back at the May Crowning voting, I knew there wasn’t any way I could have both the phone and the crown. Luckily, my class ended up doing the right thing and voting for the absolute best person to be May Queen – one of my very best friends Tamara. That would be a sharp contrast to our eighth-grade class that decided that “The Future’s So Bright, We’ve Got to Wear Shades” would be our class graduation motto. (That’s what happens when the girls are outnumbered. Stupid boys.)

As for the rest of us, we were assigned other duties for the May Crowning. Everyone was charged with bringing in one single silk flower to be used as an umbrella of flora for the May Queen to walk through. After that, we would each place our flowers at Mary’s feet. We’d rehearsed our little hearts out with much pageantry and pomp, holding our flowers up in a beautiful canopy for the May Queen. To this day, those May Crowning songs hold a special place in my heart; I believe they’re the most beautiful of all of the hymns I’ve ever sung.

The other special Catholic Mass service that I secretly enjoyed was the Stations of the Cross, which we did in middle school. Much like our weekly masses and the May Crowning, our teachers made sure we were active participants. A few strong boys were chosen to carry the wooden cross up the aisle and then around the perimeter of the church, pausing at each station while another student read. Every year I’d wished the same thing – I’d wanted to read the Sixth Station: Veronica Wipes the Face of Jesus. I thought the name Veronica was really cool, and it would have been even cooler to just say it out loud for everyone to hear. (I know, I was a strange kid.) Besides, who was this mysterious Veronica? She just seemed to pop in on the scene that day, am I right?

I never did get assigned the Sixth Station (snubbed again!), but my time of glory would finally come in the sixth grade … at Christmas pageant time. The two sixth-grade teachers had decided that our class would sing along to a Roger Whittaker song called “Momma Mary” while we enacted in the background a little skit of Christ’s birth. I remember Sister Marion going around the room asking everyone what part they’d wanted in the skit and what ideas they’d had for it. There really wouldn’t be any speaking parts; most people would be singing the Roger Whittaker song. The only real acting parts would be Mary, Joseph, the wise men, a shepherd, and maybe an innkeeper. (Side note: I’m not entirely convinced that Jesus was born in a stable. A priest once had told my class that Jesus was most likely born in a cave, which probably makes more sense.)

Anyway, I’d fully planned on just being one of the regular chorus singers, but then the overachiever side of me possessed me to think Oh well, screw that noise … I want to be Mary, y’all! I’m sure my classmates thought it was my big ambition in life to play Mary, but I can assure you that that wasn’t the case. My completely nonoriginal grand “idea” for Mary was to wear a white robe and a light blue head wrap. Real groundbreaking stuff.

When it came time to audition for Mary, I really wasn’t sure what I’d do. It was probably the one and only time in my life when I could say that winging it worked out in my favor. It was between two other girls and me, and we were told to “play Mary” as the kids sang:

Tell me how did you feel when the angel came into the garden?
How did you feel, How did you feel?
When he said “If you’re afraid I beg your pardon,
but you’re the one to bear God’s son.
Tell me how did you feel (how did you feel) ... how did you feel (how did you feel) …
O Momma, Momma Mary, we wish you joy, we wish you joy.
O Momma, Momma Mary, your little boy, your little boy …

Soon to be our saviour.

The first girl who auditioned wasn’t quite sure what to do, and I guess I couldn’t blame her. We weren’t given much guidance, and maybe that was the point: The teachers had wanted to see what we’d come up with. She ended up just holding and rocking the Cabbage Patch doll Jesus in her arms while smiling nervously.

I think I was up next. I ended up choreographing some moves to the song. At some points I’d prayed quietly over the baby Jesus. Other times I’d folded my hands in prayer. Sometimes I’d pick him up and look at him adoringly. And then still other times I’d solemnly look upward at the heavens, hands folded in prayer, focused intently on the Father in Heaven.

I didn’t really know how good it was, but apparently Sister Marion and the other teacher thought it was phenomenal. They’d even gone as far as to think I’d taken acting lessons. (That part makes me laugh.)

The night of the show was a big hit, and the performance went off without a hitch. My second cousins idolized me for weeks, reenacting the famous Mary, and singing the Roger Whittaker song at home. (I have to admit, it was quite an infectious tune.)

Little did I know that that would be one of the very last times I’d enjoy performing on a stage – or drawing any kind of attention to myself, for that matter. True adolescence was about to kick in, and like Mary herself I soon wanted to run from any kind of spotlight.

I don’t know how to throw.

You may be asking yourself, “How did this happen? Didn’t you have gym class? Why didn’t anyone teach you how to throw?”

Well, call it a case of slipping through the cracks. If kids can graduate high school without knowing how to read, then I suppose this gal can be 40-something, all grown up and not know how to throw.

My not-so-illustrious sporting career can be traced back to the summer between kindergarten and first grade, when I participated in something called Pee Wee League baseball. It was coed, with underhand pitching; the pitchers were actually the guys who ran the local recreation leagues. Those guys were totally great with kids, by the way. If a kid was standing too close to the plate or holding the bat wrong, they’d take the time to make the proper suggestions and corrections, but always in a positive way that wasn’t embarrassing. (And I should know, since sometimes I was that kid.)

I could actually hit the ball well enough that I got on base 90 percent of the time. That wasn’t really saying much, though, since kids that age can’t actually field the ball worth shit. But it made me feel good, and most weeks I’d even get my name in the paper under the illustrious rec league updates. That also meant that I’d get to see my name spelled incorrectly. Every. Single. Time. I was always Anne without an “e,” and some weeks they’d even mess up my last name, too. I can’t tell you how many times people had thought my last name was “Dress” instead of “Drees.” To this day, I’m overly thankful to people who actually take the second to ask me how my first name is spelled – with an “e” or without an “e.” (As for my married last name? Forget it. I automatically spell it for them before they even ask.)

My ineptitude landed me in right field (where else?) most of the time, which was pretty much the corner of shame. Every once in a while, I’d go to left field, but no matter what there was no way I was going to end up anywhere near the infield. Sure, I might have been able to catch or scoop up the ball, but what I did with the ball after I got it was the real problem. On the rare occasions that the ball even did come my way, my throw would land maybe 10 yards in front of me, if I was lucky. If I tried to throw it harder, my aim would suffer. I’ll never forget the one time when I needed to throw the ball home. I was between second and third base, probably because I had run up there from left field so I wouldn’t have to throw so far. My throw ended up slamming against the other team’s bullpen fence, where all of the kids cheered even louder as their base runner safely made it home with plenty of time to spare. Whoops. The good news was that I was too young and naive to let any of that cause me any great panic and anxiety. (That would come later in junior high, silly.)

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At the end of kindergarten, my parents announced that we were selling our house on Miller Street and moving to a place called “The Country.” It turned out that even though my dad looked pretty urbanite on the outside, he actually had a deep-rooted need to “live deliberately” in the woods, a la Thoreau. One of his favorite books was called “The Guide to Self-Sufficiency,” and if there weren’t things like a wife and three kids getting in the way I got the feeling that living at his hunting cabin without any running water would have suited him just fine. (Side note: That’s not to say that my dad wanted to be a single man. Nothing could be farther from the truth; if there’s one thing I know for sure it’s that my dad simply cannot live without my mom, and he cherishes all three of his children. So perhaps it would be fairer to say that he wanted us all living together on the hunting land in separate-but-similar hunting shacks, growing our own food, and playing games together and living in harmony. Except that all sounds exactly like a cult. Okay, so maybe all of the above, but absolutely no crazy authoritarian leadership, illegal activity, or brainwashing.)

My mom, on the other hand, was looking at it as a prime opportunity to showcase her decorating skills. Mom had become quite a skilled decorator, and she was completely self-taught. Plus, I want to point out that she always had very good taste. Years before, when my dad was off teaching and coaching, Mom was left at home with two toddlers roughly 15 months apart. (Whatever you do, don’t ask her about the infamous “Winter of Toddler Diarrhea” in Seymour, Wisconsin.) To get through those sometimes very lonely days, she’d spend a lot of time at the local public library, burying herself in home-decorating books. Mom studied everything she could, and to this day everyone asks her for decorating advice, including me. Back in those very early days of the 1980s Mom was poised to splatter country blue and mauve all over the house, along with some of those personalized baked-dough Christmas tree ornaments that everyone was making in 1981.

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              My fifth birthday party. My mom loved to photograph chubby cheeks.

I was lucky enough to live in a safe, kid-friendly neighborhood with lots of adventures, barbecues, and Tupperware® parties. I rode my bike around the block, or even just back and forth around the corner because I thought it was a super awesome time. I played hopscotch on the front sidewalk. I jumped into huge piles of autumn leaves. When my family played hide and seek, Dad hoisted me high inside the closet door in my bedroom where nobody would find me. My dad told us that “Queen Marinette” was buried in our backyard, and we believed him. The Avon lady visited Mom, and I’d get to experiment with teeny-tiny lipstick samples. We set up tin flower-patterned TV trays so we could eat “boil-in bags” meat and gravy poured over toast. When my dad joined us for baseball games in the lot behind the house, he would hit the ball so hard that it flew over the Sacred Heart Church steeple. We would all scream in delight and go chasing after the ball one street over.

We had good babysitters who went to the Catholic high school. They were sisters who wore cool corduroy pants that made a whooshing sound when they walked. I’d wished I had corduroy pants.

My mom was asked to be on the judging committee for cheerleader tryouts at the Catholic high school. I got to tag along. Mom sat down and looked at the paperwork; each girl had a scoring sheet. Before anyone even began auditioning she circled “fives” across the board for each girl in appearance category. Five was the highest score possible. Parents, your actions do get noticed by your kids.

Some teenage girls in the neighborhood put on a little performance of songs from “Grease” in their garage. My mom and I went; I thought it was the coolest thing in the world. I wanted to be those girls. Everybody loved “Grease.” A few years later when the video disc player came out (the predecessor to the VCR), that was the first movie we watched “on demand” in our house. We were so excited that when it was done Dad put the disc back in and declared it was a “double feature”! And then we all cheered and watched the movie again.

My parents often went out to a restaurant called The Flying Dutchman. After what seemed like years of talking about this supper club, one night they decided to take us kids. They had us convinced that an actual little flying man – the flying Dutchman – would soar around the restaurant. As we opened the door to the place, my dad yelled out, “Watch out!” and ducked his head. We all ducked our heads.

My best friend was Danny Miller. He was diabetic and ate Fig Newtons and drank Fresca. When we knew our playtime was up, we’d run away down the block and hide from our moms. They would call our names for about five minutes until we didn’t know what to do anymore; we gave up and reluctantly went back home.

My brothers wore pants from J.C. Penney and Sears, and inevitably they would wear holes in the knees. My mom would iron patches over the holes and draw faces on the patches.

My brothers hung out with their friend Ricky a lot. They all played baseball and got to meet some of the Milwaukee Brewers team from the 1982 World Series. Dan and Ricky would pretend to be announcers on a radio station; they would record themselves onto blank tapes. Ricky would be Howard Cosell, and Dan would be some athlete he was interviewing. Other times they would pretend to be radio deejays, and they would record voiceovers. One time I tried to be a deejay, too, but they laughed at me because I pronounced the band ELO like it rhymed with yellow.

My fifth birthday party was for boys and girls, and everybody dressed up. I had a homemade cake with pink frosting. We played classic games like pin the tail on the donkey and the clothespin drop. Everyone sat and behaved nicely as I opened up my presents, and everyone sat around the kitchen table for cake and ice cream. All birthday parties were like this; they didn’t cost a lot of money, and party favors and treat bags weren’t invented yet, but everyone still had a fantastic time.

We usually made our Halloween costumes. Dan wore a brown sweater, brown corduroys and a wolf mask. He was Chewbacca. Peter wore some sort of white sheet-like outfit and drew on it with black markers. He was a stormtrooper. I wore a blue cape with sparkles on it, a tinfoil halo, and rosy cheeks from my mom’s creamy Avon blusher. I was an angel.

I wouldn’t change anything.

I don’t camp. In the immortal words of Ms. Karen Walker from “Will & Grace,” the only stars I’m sleeping under are five stars. Unless you’ve got an RV as big as a house or some sort of fancy glamping operation, it’s a safe bet I won’t be joining you in the middle of the woods.

My husband, on the other hand, has already hiked the 1,200-mile Ice Age Trail of Wisconsin. It’s a feat that required enormous tenacity and endurance, and I still can’t quite wrap my head around the enormity of his accomplishment. I once hiked 7.5 miles of it with him, and I was completely miserable. Not only were mosquitoes constantly buzzing around my head, I ended up with seven wood ticks on my socks. And I found wood ticks in my car for days afterward. Since I generally like to limit the time that tiny insects suck blood out of me, I’ve decided that hiking in the woods isn’t my gig. My husband, on the other hand, would also like to hike the Appalachian Trail someday. In case you were wondering, that would require about four months straight of sleeping in a tent. When he asked me if I would join him, I could only answer after my five-minute long spasm of crying laughter.

“Yeah … we can’t even flip a mattress together without getting into a fight. I don’t think we want to test the waters with mosquito-infested trails, steep mountains, minimal showers, and actual tent camping. For four months straight.”

Okay, to be fair … yes, I’d visit him along some points of the trail (preferably the flat-terrain parts and the part where we’re really close to New York City). So it got me wondering … where did I get this aversion to camping? It’s not like I’ve even tried it that much. But then it hit me.

Jellystone Campground.

That’s my earliest (and last) camping memory, and from what I can tell it was completely horrifying.

How do I know this? Because I have photographic proof!

Exhibit A: Here I am at Jellystone Campground, merely 1 year old, getting a lift from my daddy (who’s clearly rocking that ’70s mustache).

All seems cool, right?

Exhibit B: Cut to five minutes and a transfer to a backpack, when I encountered a dinosaur-sized menacing bear!

Now to the outside world, Yogi is just a normal-sized bear. (Well, normal-sized bear costume.) But to this day I still remember him as a giant grizzly, ready to come and snatch me away from my dad. And we already know how shoddy the child protection gear was in those days, so I wasn’t trusting that makeshift backpack my dad had me in. Yogi could have easily torn that things to shreds in seconds.

So apparently sometime after that tragic meet-and-greet I decided I wanted to run around a bit and not stay anywhere near my family. Frankly, I think I was suffering from some post-traumatic stress symptoms after encountering the giant bear. Either that or I was in my terrible toddler stage, and just wanted to run away. Constantly. I don’t know, you decide … but anyway, my parents must have gotten a bit tired of chasing me, so they tried this creative solution.

Exhibit C: 1970s Child Restraint

Yep, that’s me in the family car. One end of a rope tied around my waist, the other end tied to the steering wheel. I look pretty happy to be playing inside the car. I must have then started doing something wrong (beeping the horn, perhaps?) because later I was banished to outside of the car, where I could still roam on my leash … at least within a 15-foot radius.

I can only assume that those traumatizing events had a direct effect on my distaste for camping to this day. Oh, and maybe the fact that I like daily showers, a comfortable mattress, and a bug-free room.

After all, I’m no dummy … in fact, I may be smarter than the average bear.