Over the weekend, we drove to Delta to have a Thanksgiving-esque holiday with Mom. Yes, she was in her purple robe. Yes, she was wearing a glimmery pair of earrings. And yes, she wore her Snowman pin. I wore a red-green-and-gold striped Christmas Bow Tie o’ the Day, as well as the infamous lighted Christmas turkey hat I am so fond of wearing during the holiday season.
We never tell Mom we’re coming for a visit. If we called to tell her we were on our way, she would forget we were coming, long before we got there. So our visits are always a surprise to her. She tears right up and tells us we were just what she needed in her day. I have a feeling she does that most of the time with all of her visitors. It is clear she knows exactly who’s with her once we’re there. Skitter snuggles up behind Mom’s back, closes her eyes, and lets Mom pet her. Skitter gets so excited to see Grandma that we can’t tell her where we’re going in the truck until we pass the Delta Airport.
We took Mom a cornucopia of treats for her to snack on until we visit her again. And Suzanne’s bigly treat for Mom was an early X-mas gift of two Queen Bee pillow cases she made Mom. They shout to the world that Mom is the Queen Bee. (As if anyone doubted it.) Mom joyfully posed in her tiara, and gave her version of the Queen’s wave.
For my part, I brought Mom some truly oxymoronic jumbo shrimp, as well as some snootily good cocktail sauce for her to dip them in. Everything in the room stopped while Mom enjoyed her 3 humongous shrimp. She followed that up with some of the Christmas-y spiced gum drops we brought her. At one point, Mom tried to show us her “serious” and “mean” faces. We were laughing so hard at those face poses, we couldn’t lift our phones to take any photos. Trust me—Mom doesn’t wear mean faces.
Bow Tie o’ Thanksgiving Eve is dotted with turkey drumsticks. If you look closely, you can find a total of five turkey legs on the bow tie which have had a bigly bite taken out of ’em.
For a number of years, Mom would cook a separate Thanksgiving/Christmas dinner exclusively for me, Suzanne, Rowan, and my and Suzanne’s pretend hubby, Gary. She planned it for a time during the holiday season when all our schedules allowed us to get together at her home. While gathered at the table for this event one year, I commented to Gary, “Well, it looks like all the black sheep of the family are assembled once again.” Of course, according to Mom, there are no black sheep in our family: she says we all fit in, but in our own singular ways.
Gary always brought the stuffing my Sister Who Wishes To Remain Nameless made for the occasion. He also brought his own hot peppers and Tabasco sauce, because Gary eats hot peppers and hot sauce with every meal. Gary says his hot pepper peculiarity is because he grew up eating authentic Mexican food in Arizona, but I think it’s just because he’s Gary and likes the pepper heat. Oh, and Gary always brought a can of cranberries for us. (For some reason, cranberries were never a key part of the Wright family Thanksgiving feasts of my youth. I find that a little weird.)
For the festive dinner, we sat at Mom’s kitchen table, pestering her to sit down and eat with us—to quit crisscrossing the kitchen to check on food and bring us more and more of it to the table. Usually, by the time we had finally persuaded Mom to leave the cooking alone and sit down at the table to eat with us, our plates were on the verge of being empty—just as she wished them to be, so she could then watch us pile seconds onto our plates. Mom was the star of the show and chattered with us through the entire celebration. She regaled us with her stories and sarcastic irreverence. When we were finished eating, the biggest battle of the afternoon began immediately: trying to wash the dirty dishes for Mom. You see, Mom never had a dishwasher. She never wanted one. And she never wanted anyone else washing HER dishes at HER sink. I don’t know why any of us ever engaged in this part of our private Thanksgiving/Christmas dinner at Mom’s. I guess it became just another ritual in our holiday dinner tradition. Suffice it to say, Mom always won the annual who’s-gonna-wash-the-Thanksgiving/Christmas-dishes argument. We never once got to do Mom’s dishes or help her clean up. In her house, that woman was tough as all get-out if you tried to put yourself between her and her precious sink. (I love Mom so much more than words can express. She is my first earthly blessing, and I am eternally thankful for that.)
Ever since Mom had to quit cooking our private family feast a few years ago, Suzanne and I seem to have fallen into an unofficial tradition of going out to a ritzy restaurant for Thanksgiving dinner—usually at the brilliant BAMBARA, in Salt Lake. We took her parents there for T-giving with us one year. We invited Rowan and Cameryn to go with us for tomorrow’s feast, but they are young and in love, and they have made other plans that I’m sure are more exciting than spending time hanging with us two old broads. 🍽 🍗 🥖 🥗
NOTE: Be sure to steal a moment tomorrow to check-in with us here at TIE O’ THE DAY. I’ll be wearing the infamous felt turkey necktie creation which has quickly become a Thanksgiving tradition. I’d wear the bulbous necktie to dinner at the restaurant tomorrow, but it’s so bulky and sticky-out-y that I’m afraid it food might get spilled food on it, or it might even get in the way of me eating anything at all. And we can’t have any of that on the bigliest feast day o’ the year.
Suzanne came home from work one day recently and I said, “Suzanne! I just got the ugliest golf shirt ever! You’ve got to see it!” When I showed her this Shirt o’ the Day, she was gobsmacked. She was stricken and pale. I could see the nausea take over her face. “Isn’t it cool?” I beamed! I knew the shirt would go with ALL of my golf pants. In the first photo, you will note that I have pulled up my pants to old-man-in-a-hat level, as high as I could pull them up. A while back, I ordered a new Thanksgiving Tie o’ the Day. Unfortunately, the tie material had been cut such that there is not one headed turkey displayed on the front of the tie. On the back of the tie, however, turkey heads abound. Hey, it’s a look. 🦃
I have so much more to say about the banning of books. I could write forever more addressing the topic. However, I think this will be final post about the subject—for the time being, at least. I’m sure you get the gist of how rabidly I’m against banning books. Y’all are probably ready for me to move on to lighter subjects. With that in mind, I’m wearing my rafter o’ turkeys Tie o’ the Day, in honor of Thanksgiving being just two days away.
I am writing this post about my own experience, as just one example. It’s about books and being gay. I have no so-called “gay agenda,” nor have I ever come across one, so I doubt such a thing exists—except in the mouths of pundits on TV. I am merely telling my story to make a point or two, and my story happens to be about books in a school library, and growing up as a gay teenager in a rural Utah high school, during the late 70’s and early 80’s. I’m sorry if my life offends you. I’m not sorry for my life, mind you.
Back in the olden days, when I was young, Delta High School was not just the high school. It was also the junior high. Students moved from 6th grade directly to the high school back then. 7th and 8th graders were not technically high schoolers, but we were in the high school with them. Grades 7-12 used the high school library. There were no computers there at the time. There was no internet. There were wooden card catalogs full of index cards for each book. There were books, and records, and newspapers, and prints of masterpieces of art in the DHS library. I spent my lunch time there almost every day.
Miss Hansen was in charge when I got there in 7th grade. She was an outstanding librarian, therefore, we were blessed to have a fine library—much better than libraries in schools of similar size, i.e., libraries in other small rural high schools in Utah. I know our library was exceptional because when we traveled to the other schools to compete with them in sports, I somehow managed to sneak into the opposing schools’ libraries to see what they had to offer. The DHS library out-classed them all. The DHS library was where, when I was in 7th grade, I found a novel about the post-Civil War era, which name I don’t now recall, and I first learned about Juneteenth, for example. It’s not a new “woke” thing. It’s a celebration that has been in existence since 1866. Because of that library, I have known of it since I was 12. I had no way of knowing back then that, in the 90’s, I would teach in a middle school whose student population was 100% black. I learned about black history and culture from books in the DHS library. Little did I know, those books had prepared me to be a better teacher for my middle school students. Little tidbits of what I learned in the DHS library about a culture so mysterious and far removed from my own rural, white, Mormon culture I grew up in helped me to connect with my students in ways other white teachers in my school could not. In the DHS library, I devoured every library book I had time for—about a multitude of subjects.
But the splendid DHS library lacked a key thing. It did not have any book that connected to me in one key way. I knew I was gay and I was struggling to understand it, but I found no book that reflected what I was going through. Not one. There was no character in a book that I could identify with. According to the books on the shelves, I did not even exist—or maybe I wasn’t supposed to exist. I was a good student. I was a good Mormon. But I did not exist on the shelves of my own school’s library. Nobody talked about being “gay” seriously at that time. I myself tried mightily to ignore that part of me. There were plenty of comments and jokes, though. Some were aimed directly at me. Some were just teenagers cracking gay jokes where I could hear them. Listen, I’m not whining about all of that. It made me tough. It made me savvy. All in all, I had a wonderful childhood in Delta. I was smart enough to understand that people—especially teenagers—have a tendency to either get angry or poke fun at what they don’t understand. Adults should know better, although they often don’t. These people were my friends, and I doubted their goal was to hurt me. But it caused harm to me and other gay students, nonetheless. It wasn’t okay. With every sarcastic comment, every joke, the messages piled up: because I was gay, I was a joke and had no value or morals. I was less than. I had no right to be treated with dignity. And there was no room in the community for me to be me. I never felt friendless—just sad and alien. I knew the jokes came from ignorance, not meanness. Still, they took a toll on me anyway.
I don’t recall a day at DHS when there was not at least one snide comment or joke aimed in my direction, even though I had never publicly told anyone that I was gay. Gradually, I felt smaller and smaller as my years in DHS continued. I was often suicidal. I made a few genuine but halfhearted suicide attempts. I clearly did not want to die, but it began to feel as if my community wanted me to. I felt that I was supposed to rid the community of me. I had a near-constant feeling that eradicating my “evil” self was what almost everyone seemed to want me to do—because their routine anti-gay comments told me I had no right to honorably exist as who I was. I didn’t talk to my parents about being gay when I was at DHS, because I assumed they would have no idea how to help me. And I thought that if they knew the truth about me, they might not love me as ferociously as I knew they did. (Of course, they would have, and always have loved me, but I was a dumb teenager and I wasn’t so sure back then.) I went to an ecclesiastical leader for help to change who I was, and I was surprised to find that it did me much more harm than good. I pretended to be and live as a straight person every day. Obviously, I was not very good at it. I routinely attempted to negate myself. Even as I tried to disappear, I have no doubt I developed my wide sense of humor into a kind of shield to protect the real me, by distracting others—by making them laugh. I did put up a good front.
I was fortunate to have a couple of DHS teachers who could see what was going on with me probably even better than I could. They accepted me just by having conversations with me about books and art and ballet and classical music and politics. We never referenced my sexuality. They gave me slivers of hope that I could be okay just by being me. They valued me. I had a couple of Mutual teachers who did the same. Those four incredible women are still in my prayers of gratitude every day. One day, at the end of a class, I was having a conversation with Nancy Conant (legendary DHS math teacher) about the country’s politics at the time. Without once mentioning my sexuality, she said the following to me as I was leaving her room: “Listen to me. The longer you put off being who you really are, the more people you will hurt when you finally discover you can’t pretend anymore to be someone you’re not.” I sort of understood what she meant at the time. As I found my place in the world, I understood it more deeply with each passing year. My talk with Mrs. Conant happened near the beginning of my Junior year. And that’s when I knew I had to get out of Delta. I couldn’t take not being seen as a valued human being for one more year. I knew I would literally not live through my Senior year. I was getting more serious about wanting to die. I had enough credits to graduate after my Junior year, and so I did. A week after I graduated, I moved to Ogden and started college at Weber State. Immediately, I was treated with dignity by almost everyone I met. Nobody knew me or anything about me. I could breathe as myself. And in Weber State’s Stewart Library, I found books that reflected my experience (I also found Suzanne in the Stewart library a couple of years later). I found stories that were representative of my struggles with my identity, inside bookstores everywhere I went.
I am asking you to imagine how much difference it would have made to me and other gay DHS students (Yes, I was not the only one) if there had been even one book on the DHS library shelves that reflected what we were going through. Just one book that validated our right to exist. One book that said we had value. Just one book that showed us we could have meaningful and successful futures in the larger world. A book that acknowledged we were not jokes, but human beings who could contribute much to our communities. One book that said it was possible for us to love and be loved for a lifetime. Just to stand in front of such a book on a shelf in the DHS library would have said to us and every other DHS student that we gay students were human beings and every bit as important and treasured as every other student. After providing books directly related to enhancing the public education students are offered, the very least a public high school library has a duty to do is to provide books that represent every student’s experience and worth. Not just white kids. Not just Mormon kids. Not just straight kids. Every kid in a school’s student body is owed that respect and acknowledgment by their community.
Statistically, in every culture throughout recorded history, around 1 in 10 persons born is gay. That means approximately 1 in 10 students is gay. I can attest that this statistic was pretty accurate at DHS when I was a student there, and I have no reason to think it’s any different now. A public school has no right to create a library void of books that reflect the experiences of 10% of its student population. Please keep in mind that a public school is a gift, an American right. It is not a church. And no American has the right to try to make it one. 📖 📚 📗📕📘
BTW: A final thought from me, for you to ponder: The most dangerous books are the one’s you don’t read.
I got only half-dressed today, but I think I’m looking fine. You can’t go wrong with Grinch pajama bottoms and what I call my book-writing Tie o’ the Day. I’m wearing my cow Sloggers boots because my feet are cold. Anyhoo…
I’m riled and snarky about this attempt to ban books in Delta. I will be both serious and sarcastic in this post, I’m sure. First, let me be clear about a few things. I do think that some books are not age-appropriate for high schoolers and should not be available in a high school library. In fact, I think there are books which have no place in any library—for example, books whose sole aim is to be pornographic. They certainly do not belong on any school library shelf. Personally, I would prefer those books didn’t exist at all. But I live in the United States of America, where I have the right and responsibility to respect other people’s reading rights—whether or not I agree with their choices in reading material.
With the internet giving us the ability to download books to our phones and computers in less than a second, we have to be honest about how difficult it is to actually ban a book. If you think removing a “bad” book from the library is exiling it to the garbage dump, you are sorely mistaken. I can guarantee you the best way to get a high school student to read a specific book is to ban it from the shelves of the library. I can also guarantee you that the borrowing and online buying of the books mentioned in the The Chronicle article about someone wanting to pull books from the DHS library’s shelves caused many Millard County people of all ages to borrow, download, or order online Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye and Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse 5, just to see what all the hub-bub is about. For that unintended consequence that all you book-banning advocates make happen, I thank you. Over the years, you Book Busybodies have caused millions of people to read incredible and majestic books they never would have thought to read without your efforts to get those books off the shelves of school/public libraries. Like I said, I thank the Book Police for that, but not for their know-it-all, puritanical, busybody attitudes, or their thick inability to recognize literary merit and the reality of the messy stories of all humanity. It lowers a book-banner’s credibility to talk about a single scene or paragraph, because a book is an entirety. You cannot properly judge a book by one paragraph or one scene. Or because it has that one F-word in it. A book is whole, true in its own context—and it must be read and understood as such.
I know these things by knowing human nature; by raising two boys; and by listening to the stories of what thousands of my students told me they had read so far, in their young book-lives. For years, I taught writing at the University of Utah, at Salt Lake Community College, and at a public middle school in Baltimore. On more than one occasion, I had recent high school graduates and returned missionaries come up to me in class holding a “banned” book and asking questions like, “Why did this book get banned? I’ve read it and there were some parts that were a little graphic, but they were important parts of the story.” Yup. Just the other day, I did some research on why some folks once wanted to ban the children’s book, Stuart Little. Yes, the tiny mouse/boy. The reason? Bestiality. Because there’s only one way you can get a mouse/boy. I kid you not. That is ridiculous, and it says more about the abhorrent mind of the reader and the school board which banned it than it says about the book itself. Fortunately, the Stuart Little ban did not last long.
If you desire to pull The Bluest Eye off the DHS shelf, make sure you pull everything Toni Morrison has ever written. Her main characters all experience challenging situations (just as characters in any book do, or else we wouldn’t read them). Morrison won the Nobel Prize for Literature almost 30 years ago. So what would she know about telling a story? To heck with books that are meritorious and true to not-always-white, unfortunate characters. If we read Morrison’s books, we might learn something about art and language and culture and families who endure racism, poverty, and lack of education—people who start life already defeated. We might learn compassion.
In The Bluest Eye, the rape of a child—by the child’s own father—happens in a two-page scene , and it is not easy to get through. The scene always makes me feel repulsed, brokenhearted, and angry. When I read it, I usually have to close the book for a time before I can finish reading the rest of the story. I sometimes choose to skip the scene altogether. See that—I have the agency to choose what I read. The passage is in no way pornographic, and to suggest so is to belittle the child who is raped. The passage is not prurient in any way. It is a devastating scene, deserving of our empathy and regard. There is a lot of feeling to be dealt with, but that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be on a high school library shelf. We all have to wrestle with life’s vicissitudes. We all need to learn something about dealing with tragedy, loss, and complicated love. We shouldn’t be sheltered from reading about it when we are young, so that it smacks us in the face and drops us to our knees when we finally encounter it when we graduate, leave home, and enter the larger world. To keep age-appropriate hard things from kids is to cripple them just when they are seeking to establish their independence. When faced with a situation they’ve been sheltered from, they haven’t been taught the tools they will need to have in order to make good choices about what to do, or they might just run back home where the too-constant shelter has made them narrow and ill-equipped for independence. That’s a decimating kind of defeat for a new adult.
If you want to ban The Bluest Eye from the DHS library, be prepared to get rid of the Bible wherever you find it, because there’s child rape in there, too—as well as incest, domestic abuse, infidelity, drunkenness, and on and on. Also, you better move completely out of Millard County because all of those things happen in your towns. But, of course, they happen in every town, so I guess you might as well stay. You would be surprised to know how much the kids know about the adult hijinks that goes on around them in a small town. I knew about plenty when I was growing up there, and I didn’t hear it from my parents. I usually told them the news, and then we would talk and they would help me understand the repercussions of the hijinks. (I was lucky we could talk like that.) That was before we had the internet or iPhones. The kids find out even more quickly now. Some kids, but probably not most, might tell their parents about what they know and read. If they do talk to you about what goes on or what they read, don’t pontificate. Ask them questions about what they think about things. Tell them humbly what you think about those same things. They are trying to figure out how to handle the knowing.
I find it interesting that what those who would ban The Bluest Eye cite as the reason for it usually this one particular scene. They don’t seem to have any problem with the ingrained racism, the beatings, the destitute poverty, or any of the other trials that are part of the story. None of that offends them. So I guess those things are okay. We can have books that realistically show those things in the library. Hey, I have an idea: let’s rip those few pages of the child-rape scene out and keep the rest of The Bluest Eye on the high school library shelf.
I have never been inside the new DHS library, but I have no doubt I could walk between the shelves and pull out a book at random, and find something in it somebody somewhere would find objectionable. Banning books ends up being arbitrary—someone doesn’t like or understand something they saw in a book, so they want to save all the kids from it—even as you can hear profanity and bullying in the halls between classes. If you want to ban something, do the students a favor and dedicate yourself to banning the bullying at DHS. That is a grave daily danger to students, certainly more harmful to bullied kids than any book. With school districts in Utah worrying about lawsuits and bad press, all it takes is a very-tiny-but-obnoxiously-loud fuss for a school district to crumble to the unreasonable whims of a few fussers. Look, I haven’t lived in Delta for five years now, so I have no idea who the members of the school board even are. I probably even know and like them. I know of the woman spear-heading the ban, but I do not know her personally. I write this post on principle, without regard to the persons involved, when I say I am disappointed that, according The Chronicle, some of the board members showed support for pulling literature off the shelves of a public school. I am disgusted that any school board member would support the narrowing of students’ education. Unfortunately, however, I am not surprised by their support. I love me my Delta and my DHS and my Delta family and friends, but there is far too much giving-in to certain squeaky wheels just to keep any kind of noise down.
As far as what books you read, you can decide for yourself. I can too. The Constitution says so. You can tell your kids what books you will allow them to read, but know that they likely will read exactly whatever they want.: you just won’t know about it. That’s it. Nobody gave a loud person or loud small group the right to decide for everybody else in the community what is available for them to read. So who should decide what goes in a high school library? I see nothing wrong if we leave that to the professionals. It’s the school librarian’s job to ultimately choose and manage books that can educate and speak to the experience of all students, regardless of the librarian’s faith or political party. So you better pick an extraordinary librarian who puts the student population’s wide-ranging educational needs first. If a school district hires a lazy librarian, it’s the kids who will suffer. If librarians are doing their jobs correctly they should be reading book reviews and books, looking at book award winners, and then obtaining library books that represent all of the school’s students, not just the majority. Add to that a balanced community committee of readers who are representative of the entire community, not just the majority. ALL of those asking for a book to be tossed should have to read that book AND participate in an open-forum discussion of said book with people who advocate for keeping the book on the shelf. Never, ever, ever advocate for banning a book you have not read. Don’t let anyone get away with that crapola either. Banning books that are superbly written and make the reader think makes a mockery of the 1st Amendment. You might as well ban that.
FYI I promise, the personal stuff I have to say about this topic will show up tomorrow. I don’t know how juicy it is, but if I wrote a book about it, I don’t think it could show up in the DHS library. It will have that word “gay” in it, and that might make anything I publish unacceptable for teen consumption. I wonder how I handled actually being that word as a teenager at DHS. 🤔
I thought it was appropriate to wear a book-themed Tie o’ the Day—and my book-y Face Mask o’ the Day to add extra emphasis to this post. When I began writing about the banning of books from public and school libraries last evening, I was struck with a case of the opposite of writer’s block: the post I began writing kept getting longer and longer, and it’s still flowing through my pen this afternoon. Rather than offer my thoughts in one bigly post, it’s clear I’m going to have to chop up what I’m writing into a handful of posts, over the next few days starting Monday.
So today I offer you this one small section of my thinking. I have noticed in the recent blathering of a few very small-but-loud groups, books about the LGBTQ experience and books written by LGBTQ authors are a main target for removal from public/school libraries. (On Monday, I’ll explain in a more personal post why that’s a literal death sentence for LGBTQ kids.) But for right now, for those of you who might think books by LGBTQ authors and illustrators are pornographic just because of who wrote them or the subject matter, I am assigning you to purify your home library. If you have children’s books in your home, you definitely want to start in your own back yard—so to speak—to get rid of any children’s book written by the following LGBTQ authors: Margaret Wise Brown (The Runaway Bunny, Goodnight Moon); Ian Falconer (a number of the Eloise books); James Howe (the Bunnicula series); Ann M. Martin (the Babysitters Club books); James Marshall (the George And Martha series, as well as Miss Nelson Is Missing); Arnold Lobel (the Frog and Toad books); Maurice Sendak (Where the Wild Things Are); and Louise Fitzhugh (Harriet the Spy). Hilary Knight illustrated Kay Thompson’s Eloise books, and the Miss Piggle Wiggle series). For an older child, you’ll also need to ban Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women. She was not straight. And trust me—this list of LGBTQ authors of children’s books is just a small selection, off the top of my head.
Of course, I need to be clear. I made that assignment to book banners facetiously. The assignment is ridiculous. These books are staples of children’s early years. They belong wherever children are. But they have also been created by people who book banners think don’t deserve to have their work end up residing in public/school libraries. Those who would ban books would rather pretend LGBTQ people don’t exist, than learn about their stories and the struggles they face. The book banners would rather stay in their fear of what they don’t know than understand their fellow human beings who aren’t cookie cutter versions of themselves.
Today, as a preface to the next few TIE O’ THE DAY posts, I leave you with this CAUTION about reading. Reading books that aren’t about people exactly like you, might lead you to understand that those people are every bit as human and precious as you are. Just like they are precious to God. If you read about others, you might gain a rare thing called empathy. You might learn to let go of your fear— which is where hate comes from. You might enlarge your soul. And, like the Grinch, your heart might grow 3 sizes in one day. 📚
When I was ordering my truck in 2021, Suzanne piped up and said, “We’re ordering the heated seats!” I saw no reason to go the luxury route, but it was a must-have for her. I teased her while we waited, and waited, and waited for the truck to be built that waiting for Ford to get the parts for the heated seats was what was holding up the truck’s production for so long—and I’m still convinced it was. If she hadn’t wanted us to order the luxury package, I have no doubt my truck would have been here a couple of months after I ordered it, instead of the 10 long months it actually took to be built. Suffice it to say, Suzanne’s fave things about Abra are the heated seats and the heated steering wheel. I am learning to appreciate the fancy extra heat. As for me, the first time I drove the truck, I had no idea my seat heat was already turned on. Suddenly my butt was warming up. I felt as if I had accidentally peed my pants. It felt like when you have an MRI and the technician injects that contrast or whatever. They tell you it will make your whole body feel warm and might even make you feel like you’ve peed yourself. Yup, that’s how it felt. Wow! Just WOW!
Oddly, my fave thing about the truck so far is the little dial on the center console that I must turn in order to change gears. It’s just so funky. I also like that every person who has ridden in the back seats has commented on how spacious it feels. It seems I can please my backseat drivers without even trying, so maybe they’ll quit trying to tell me how to drive from back there. I also like that Abra gets nearly 30 miles per gallon, which is why I chose to wear my fuel pumps Tie o’ the Day for this selfie. Also, if I’m listening to music on my phone when I get in the truck, the music immediately and automatically switches over to Abra’s speakers. Yup, regarding my Maverick, I’m a spoiled and happy girl. Abra is a valued member of our family.
When I was driving us home last weekend, Suzanne told me that when no other cars are around, I drive as if I learned to drive out in the desert, with lots of space—which, of course, I did. She said I drive like a farmer. She says I make wide turns and I sort of mosey along, mostly in the right lane. I do not deny any of this. When no other cars are around, I tend to meander. But I do disagree with the farmer comparison. I corrected Suzanne: I drive like a beekeeper. Not that it is really all that different from driving like a farmer. But I am proud of my coverall-wearing, bee veil-hatted, apiarian agriculture way of driving. It is part of who I am. Call me a hick if you feel so inclined. I won’t take that as an insult. 🐝 🚜 ⛽️ 👩🌾
NOTE: Unbeknownst to me, even as I posted about our recently put-together banned books puzzle earlier this week, yesterday I saw an article in this week’s Millard County Chronicle Progress about a Millard School Board meeting where there was talk of banning certain books from the Delta High School library. I was disgusted. My next post will revisit the consequences of book banning. It is, believe it or not, a matter of life and death: kids can literally die when so-called “bad” books are made unavailable to them. And that is not an exaggeration. Stay tuned for a difficult fact or two, as well as some personal anecdotes I never planned to divulge. But it’s time for me to do my tiny part to help defend books.
Although my truck finally got to me during the first week in October, Oakley’s death made it impossible to celebrate its arrival—which I had eagerly awaited since I ordered it in November of 2021. After almost a year of gestation at the Ford plant, the truck I adored from afar just didn’t seem all that important. I knew that deep inside I was happy about it becoming officially mine, but I couldn’t muster up the happiness at the time. Losing Oakley was the only thing on my mind for weeks. I am only now beginning to feel the glee of getting a material thing I have wanted for the last couple of years. I have only two stickers on the truck so far. One is political. One honors Oakley, so her spirit rides with me wherever I drive.
What name did I decide on for the truck? I named her ABRA, as in abracadabra. It took a lot of magic to get her here. Abra is also the name of a minor character in one of my fave novels: John Steinbeck’s East of Eden. The name has stuck with me since I was 11 and I first read the book. I liked the name so much I thought if I ever had a daughter, I would probably name her Abra. The book’s larger theme is about good and evil, and how we always have the agency to choose which way we will live. We are the sum of our choices.
I wanted to order Abra vanity plates that said ABRA, but my experiences with ordering vanity plates in Utah told me there was no way “they” would approve it, because it has the potential to be read as A BRA, and that’s a scissor hop, skip, and a jump away from almost inducing bad thoughts in other driver’s minds. Seriously, to the DMV, ABRA would be considered almost pornographic and, therefore, dirty because naughty-minded people might read something into it. And we can’t have ABRA being mistaken for A BRA by innocent children, you know. So I didn’t even apply for a plate that said ABRA on it: it would have been a waste of time and effort. Instead, I legally transferred my BOWETRY plate from the Vibe we are selling. When I ordered BOWETRY a few years back, I had to explain to the DMV what it meant. I explained that it is a combination of my two obsessions: bow ties and poetry. Those folks at the DMV who are in charge of approving orders for vanity plates had no problems with my BOWETRY after my explanation. Abra seems pleased to be wearing the BOWETRY plate, too.
Without further ado, I introduce to you the gorgeous Blue Beauty of 2022 Mavericks—my Abra. Skitter and I decided our cowboy hats were a must for pix of us in the cow-named Maverick. Skitter is also wearing what she refers to as her official sheriff ‘s badge Tie o’ the Day. She has called it that since our good pal, Herschel Walker, once told Skitter that the stars on her tie looked like the honorary token sheriff’s badge he carries. My cowboy hat has a silver star right smack-dab in the middle of my hatband, so I’m a sheriff too. I chose my bolo-design Tie o’ the Day. Skitter and I are cowgirls in our bones. Or, at least, dang true rednecks. 🤠 🐶 🏇 🚙 🍩
TIE O’ THE DAY’s next post will cover Suzanne’s recent revelation about how I drive. She’s close to accurate, but not quite.
When I was a kid, I used to play board games with some older kids in the neighborhood. As the youngest kid by a few years, I was usually the first one to lose at Monopoly. It was like that for what seemed to me like decades, but it was probably for only one or two summers. For me, the neighborhood board games ended when—for the first time ever—I won at Monopoly. My astonished glee at finally winning the game came to an abrupt end, when a certain little boy who didn’t win started to cry and called me a cheater. Plus, I was a girl cheater, too! And a little girl couldn’t possibly beat all the boys at Monopoly! This new winning stuff was no fun for me at all. I wanted to go back to losing and having an uncontested ball. Heck, I was so young that I didn’t even know how to cheat successfully—especially with a handful of snot-nosed neighbor boys right beside me in the room, playing and watching every move of the game unfold. I think it was my Sister Who Wishes To Remain Nameless who clued me in later that day about the fragile egos of sore losers who think they always deserve to be the winner, especially when you clearly beat them. I remember thinking I better be sure to play and win at board games with whoever I dated when I grew up, so I could make sure I didn’t marry a sore loser. I can testify that what I refer to as The Board-Game-Always-Unmasks-A-Sore-Loser Test really works.
With this childhood anecdote in mind, patriotic Tie o’ the Day and I will make one, two-part prediction before the polls close on this Election Day: A few Republican candidates who lose their races tonight will claim they lost because of voter fraud/stolen election crapola, which will fail to explain how other Republican candidates who did win their races, won fairly. On the other hand, zero Democrats who lose their races will whine about a stolen election. Regarding all candidates and voters in any contested race, I have a thought for us all to gnaw on: If you accept the results of an election only when your chosen “team” wins, you are saying you do not believe in or cherish the democracy our Constitutional Republic makes possible for all of its citizens. Just sayin.’