Stories Archives - Page 2 of 3

Listen To Your Mother: The Power of Shared Stories

When I submitted a short story to Listen To Your Mother, I had no idea what I was getting into. I saw the call for submissions through Arkansas Women Bloggers. One of my goals for 2015 is to push myself to write outside my comfort zone and get more involved with local writers. This seemed like a good opportunity to do both.

I was asked to audition. I knew this might happen. Still. A live audition. I hadn’t done that since…wait…never. Consumed with sports in high school, I didn’t do musicals or plays, even though I suspected they might be fun. Fortunately, I’d had the opportunity to read my work to an audience in grad school, so the thought wasn’t paralyzing.

I asked my husband if a 3 hour drive south for a 5 minute audition was worth it. “It is if it’s important to you,” he answered. I decided I wanted to give this Listen To Your Mother thing a shot. At my audition, I read my story with all the love and enthusiasm I’d felt while writing it.

In March I learned I’d been chosen to be part of the show! I was ecstatic, and admittedly, still clueless about what I was in for.

Our first cast photo! What a great looking bunch of storytellers! Photo: Sarabeth Jones

We met in late April for the first rehearsal, a sit down read-through of everyone’s stories. I was floored as each person shared their story. Some brought the group (and their authors) to tears. Others made us roar with laughter. When we finished, I knew I had chosen, and been chosen, to be part of something special.

Those stories stayed with me all weekend. At the second rehearsal, as I heard the stories again, I reflected on the power of story to draw people together where no connections existed before. I felt connected to the others in the room, people I’d only met once, through their words, the intensity of their stories, the depth of emotion and strength behind each one. I’ve been exploring life through story this year, and here was another example of how important our stories are to us, but how important it is to share them with others.

The day of Listen To Your Mother Little Rock, I woke up excited. I tweeted. I taught. I hardly ate. I dressed up. We drove three hours south. “Are you nervous?” my husband asked. I shook my head. “Not yet.”

The cast met in the theater and the producers arranged us on stage. We took pictures. We got momentarily trapped in an elevator when we got caught up taking cast selfies and forgot to exit on our floor. We ate snacks and tried not to be nervous about sharing deeply emotional stories to the crowd of 250 gathering in the auditorium below. Finally, it was show time!

I’m not sure there’s anything like walking on stage to applause. As each cast member shared their story, I listened, knowing what was to come, and still moved by each story. When it was my turn, I walked confidently to the mic, knowing this story was ready to share. I spoke of my mother’s love for her small town, of the many stories she’d lived, and how that story connected to mine. I walked back to my seat to applause.

My part over, I listened to the rest of the stories with a deep appreciation for what my fellow cast members had written. Even though every story was unique, from grief over the death of loved ones, to depression, to the struggles and triumphs of daily living, every story took its place in the broader story we were telling about motherhood.

I couldn’t help but think, though, that we were contributing to a bigger story: life and the human experience. Through our personal struggles, victories, relationships and fears, our stories brought 13 cast members, 4 directors and producers, and 250 strangers into a shared experience and a new understanding of life.

Life is fleeting.

Life is precious.

Life is a struggle.

Life is laugh out loud funny.

Life is eternal, if not here, then in the way our stories live on through others.

After the show, we had a champagne toast. We mingled with the audience. I felt overwhelmed and grateful for the many compliments I received.

“I loved your story. Thanks for sharing. You got it just right. That’s how that time (the 1950s and 60s) was.”

This is why actors act, I thought. For the way the audience reacts after the show.

After the show, while having drinks at an outside patio around the corner from the theater, someone rapped on the glass window from inside the restaurant. When I looked up, a lady inside held up the Listen To Your Mother program. She pointed to me and gave a thumbs up.

“Your story,” she mouthed through the window. “My favorite.”

I beamed. Stories were still connecting us. I went to bed with a smile on my face. I woke up with a smile the next morning. That was an amazing night, I thought.

But it wasn’t just the night and the performance. It was the coming together, making a cohesive whole out of 13 individuals, and feeling the power behind our words. Even now, those words come back to me.

I want to remember them always, even though I know eventually, they will fade. But the connection made through those words, that of story, will endure.

Listen To Your Mother Little Rock Photo: Bryan Jones

We couldn't have done the show without our amazing sponsors! Photo: Jacob Slaton — We couldn’t have done the show without our amazing sponsors! Thank you especially to Jacob Slaton for his photography and time! Photo: Jacob Slaton

Mother’s Day Special: There Goes Your Boyfriend

Recently I participated in Listen To Your Mother Little Rock, an amazing series of shows performed across the nation to celebrate all aspects of motherhood. It was a great experience and I’ll devote a blog post to it soon. In the meantime, I wanted to post the essay I read for the show in celebration of my mom. Enjoy and Happy Mother’s Day!

There Goes Your Boyfriend

by Kimberly Mitchell

“There goes your boyfriend.”

My mother’s big sister had a way of teasing her when they were girls growing up in Mena.

Mom would survey that tow headed paper boy riding by on his bicycle and giggle.

“I don’t think so.”

My mother, Gayle Lay Mourton, in 1957. — My mother, Gayle Lay, in 1957.

It’s 1957. Cokes are 5 cents a bottle, Elvis is all shook up and let me be your teddy bear while Ricky’s crooning about a teenage romance. Their posters are plastered to the walls of the bedroom my mother shares with her sister. At 10, she’s carrying her black and white saddle shoes and roller skating to Debbie’s house, even though her mother told her not to cross Janssen Avenue. She’s buying penny candy down at Reynold’s Variety. Sometimes that paper boy walks in to hand deliver the Mena Star. Sometimes he says hello.

“There’s your boyfriend.”

“I don’t think so.”

Growing up I knew as much about Mena in the 1960s as I did my own hometown in Oklahoma. School breaks were measured by how much time could be spent down in Arkansas. We’d load up the Dodge Caravan and head four hours south and east down Highway 71. As the road twisted through those old oaks and loblolly pines, breaking into breathtaking views of the Ouachitas, my mother’s eyes began to sparkle.

“Tell us a story about growing up in Mena,” we’d beg, which always made my mother laugh, but she was never short on stories.

“When I was in fifth grade, the girls chased the boys and the next recess, the boys chased the girls. If the boys caught the girls, they got to kiss them. Jane and I could always outrun those boys, but sometimes we decided to slow down and get caught so we could get kissed.”

“Ewww,” my sisters and I groaned. “Tell us another.”

Mena seemed a different place to her. I saw my grandparents’ old white house with the huge mulberry tree out front. My mother saw the tree her cousin and brother drove the go-cart halfway up.

I saw a dusty croquet set. My mother pointed to the red mallet, where Grandpa taped it together after Cousin Sammy split it open on her head during a heated disagreement. If my mother ever offers to play croquet with you, be warned, you’re in for a game.

“There goes your boyfriend.”

“I don’t think so.”

It’s 1961 and my mother’s playing cars down in the dirt with her brother when, thunderstruck, she realizes a boy could walk by. “I’m through,” she tells my uncle. “Okay,” he says, thinking she’s done playing for the day. But my mother’s thirteen now and she’s through playing trucks. She’s walking to the library in her white canvas shoes, meeting Debbie and Jane at Pete’s for malts. Cokes are 10 cents now. Sock hops are in the junior high gym with Chubby Checker and Fats Domino. They’re doing the twist in homemade spaghetti strap sundresses just long enough to keep the principal happy.

I didn’t understand why my mother always had one foot in the past, or why she loved to tell those stories. But life was changing for me. Trips to Mena became more cumbersome. “Can we get back home in time for the game? But there’s a party Saturday. I don’t want to go this time.”

“There goes your boyfriend.”

“I don’t think so.”

It’s 1964. “You better not skip choir tonight,” the pastor warns the youth group. But the Beatles are on Ed Sullivan and nearly everyone skips. As the Beatles sing, girls scream and faint in the audience and my mom watches, rapt, while Grandpa grumbles, “That hair is too long.”

“You better not do that again,” the pastor scolds the choir. But the Beatles are back on Ed Sullivan and the pastor gives up. My mother’s cruising down Mena street, eating ice cream at Dairy Queen, wearing black flats and an updo and dreaming of college.

When I graduated high school, visits to Mena decreased. Life was here and now. My sisters and I went to college. Married. Children were born, and not born. My niece and nephews are growing up in a tumult of noise and laughter and tears.

Slow down, I want to tell them. But they’re not listening.

And now I see it. My mother, raising her own children, living life in those moments, but living them out of her past. And that past, part of mine, too. Blue hydrangeas wrapping around a little white house, summer nights listening to June bugs sing, the glow of Grandpa’s cigarette joining in with the fireflies. A garden full of plump, sun-warmed blackberries that burst in your mouth. Bike rides all over town but don’t you dare cross Janssen Avenue. Those same streets my mother roller-skated. Those same streets my dad biked delivering all those newspapers.

“There goes your boyfriend.”

There goes college. There go four daughters, each with dreams of her own. There go grandchildren who won’t stop growing. There goes fifty years. There….there it goes.

But in my mother’s stories, it’s 1964 again. It’s Ricky and Elvis, nights at the drive-in, sock hops and Monopoly, roller skates and hand sewn skirts, 5 cent Cokes served cold in a bottle, chocolate malts with best friends, and that tow-headed paper boy giving my mother a shy smile.

“There goes your boyfriend,” my aunt says.

And my mother says, “Hmm.”

Mom and me celebrating Halloween and generally having a good time.

Tales of Yemen: The Beginning

The recent news of unrest in Yemen dismays me. I have amazing memories of my time spent in this beautiful, but often maligned, land. As the news continues to darken, I wanted to share some of my favorite stories of a place that forever changed me.

My first day in Yemen, I arrived at the airport in Sanaa exhausted but excited to finally be in the country I’d call home for the next year. (It turned into three. That’s another story.) I was supposed to catch a connecting to flight south to the port city of Aden, where I would teach English, but that flight was canceled. The next flight wouldn’t leave until that evening. I stood in the airport a moment, trying to collect my thoughts, while around me people shouted and spoke Arabic, a language I had yet to learn. Why didn’t I try to learn a few phrases before I left?

A merchant in the spice market in Sanaa.

I found an office and someone who spoke English and managed to call the friend picking me up in Aden. After I explained my flight was delayed, he said he’d call a friend in Sanaa and assured me everything would be find. “This happens all the time,” he added.

I stood outside the airport, fending off local taxi drivers with a shake of my head, until a tall, older man, obviously foreign, walked up and asked if I was Kimberly. Relieved, I nodded and he loaded my two overweight bags into the van and we took off.

While he navigated the streets of Sanaa, I got my first impression of Yemen. Everywhere I looked, people crowded the streets – men in long white thobes and checkered headscarves, women in flowing black abayas, some in colorful headscarves, but many more in full veils. Their eyes peered at me curiously as I peered back at them from the van window.

I traveled extensively before heading to the Middle East, but I’d never seen a place like this before. Tall, bare mountain peaks rose around this cramped city and mud brick streets wound away into dark alleys only wide enough for one person. Part of me wanted to go home. The other part wanted to explore those winding streets.

My host stopped and grabbed lunch for his family before we went back to his apartment. Chicken and rice and a wonderful, oversized flat bread baked on an outdoor oven. I didn’t know it yet, but this was the staple meal in Yemen. Nearly every restaurant sold the same, all of it delicious.

Stained glass qamarias adorn the windows in this Yemeni living room.

My host’s apartment was large and airy, painted white with gorgeous half-moon stained glass windows. The windows, called qamarias, are a form of architecture predating Islam. Sunlight poured through the stained glass and cast rainbows across the white walls and floor. I watched the rainbows dance around the room as the afternoon lengthened into early evening and multiple prayer calls were broadcast through speakers from mosques around the city.

A minaret rises above a mosque in Sanaa. Traditionally an imam stood in the minaret for the call to prayer. Now it is broadcast through speakers mounted inside the tower. — A minaret rises above a mosque in Sanaa.

I stood at the window and listened to rise and fall of the evening prayer call as the imams sang over the city. The prayer call undulated, swelled, then died down and the evening grew quiet. The rainbows shifted across the room and disappeared as a red sun sank behind the mountains. Goose bumps rose on my arms and I took a deep breath and gazed out across a city of flat rooftops to the mountains beyond until my host said it was time to head to the airport.

As I left that room, the light from the qamarias spent, I knew I was in for the greatest adventure of my life in this strange land.

Skiing on Ice

My uncle Billy is the quintessential Boy Scout. He’s adept at many outdoor activities, hiking, camping, sailing and skiing included. Since I didn’t grow up doing these things, his enthusiasm for all things outdoors and fun fueled my own. He was always the ringleader on our outings, more than willing to get involved with our harebrained schemes.

Aunt Glennis and Uncle Billy moved from Jamaica to Wenatchee, Washington when I was thirteen. Uncle B immediately learned to ski and soon asked us to come up and play in the snow with him.

The spring break of my freshman year in college, Lindsay and I flew up to Washington to take him up on that offer. The rest of the family was coming later in the week, but we had a couple of days alone with Uncle B on the slopes.

The first day Billy took us snowshoeing, a new and fascinating endeavor. We left Wenatchee’s relatively dry slopes and drove up Highway 2 towards Blewett Pass and the Okanagon-Wenatchee National forest. For the next few hours we waded and tumbled through deep snow. I eventually got the hang of picking up my feet and swinging them out slightly so the oversized shoes wouldn’t collide and pitch me into the snow. Soon enough, I realized I was dripping sweat.

Uncle B - Lindsay - Kimberly - Skiing on Ice - kimberlymitchell.us — When there’s an ice ax around your neck, you hold very still.

We took frequent breaks to munch on homemade trail mix Aunt G sent with us. Uncle Billy had gotten an ice ax for Christmas and he was constantly on the lookout for a place to test it out. He found a small overhang where he could drive the ax into the wall of ice and hang from it. Lindsay and I laughed at his enthusiasm and the fact that he was dangling only six inches off the ground.

The next few days we spent at Mission Ridge, Wenatchee’s small ski resort. Mission Ridge was the perfect size for us, though. It had enough blues and greens and easy blacks to keep us busy.

The first morning of skiing dawned cold and grey. The snow report showed the slopes as icy, but Uncle B wanted to try it anyway, and since we were limited on days, Lindsay and I quickly agreed. We shivered in our boots as we rode Lift #2 all the way to the top and the Bomber Bowl. It’d been a year since we’d learned to ski on a senior spring break trip to Taos. Lindsay and I discussed how much we actually remembered. “It’s like riding a bicycle,” Uncle B assured us. “It’ll come back to you quickly.”

At the top of Mission Ridge. Icy slopes? No problem. We got this.

I felt nervous as the lift approached the top of the mountain. “Here we go,” I muttered to Lindsay. Our skis hit the frozen ground and we slid forward, immediately tumbling into each other and falling over. We untangled skis and poles and managed to scramble away as Uncle B joined us. He laughed at our exit off the lift, but then examined the snow under our skis. “It’s slick out here,” he observed. “Go slow. We’ll see how this goes.”

We started down a fairly wide blue slope and I focused on shifting into hockey turns, following Uncle B’s lead. Lindsay skied behind me. It felt more like skiing on an angled ice rink than snow skiing and I realized how much concentration and effort it would take to stay up on my skis on the ice. The run took a turn as it wrapped around the mountain. I tried to hug the left side of the run, close to the shoulder, and give the evergreens that dropped off the other side of the run a wide berth. Then I heard a shout behind me.

Look how confident Lindsay is at the top of this black diamond!

I turned in time to see Lindsay slide past on her back. Her feet slipped out from under her on the last turn, but the run was so slick and steep, instead of stopping, she was sliding down the mountain. Behind her ski goggles, I could see the panic on her face. She lost both poles and I slowed and managed to grab them.

Uncle Billy realized what was happening and skied next to Lindsay, encouraging her to dig her skis into the snow. She popped one ski off trying to stop. Billy and I skied behind her as she continued to slide down the mountain, coming close to the edge several times. As the slope began to level out, Lindsay was able to dig in her last ski and stop the slide. She gulped mountain air while we returned lost ski poles.

“That was some yard sale,” Uncle B said, his favorite expression for scattering your gear across the mountain.

Uncle Billy asked if we wanted to call it a day, but after a brief recovery period, Lindsay agreed to stay and we skied that ice the rest of the day. It was spring break, after all, and we had to take advantage of the short time we had on the slopes, and with our uncle. After all, we didn’t want to miss any other adventures.

You never know what can happen when you're in the snow with Uncle B. — You never know what can happen when you’re in the snow with Uncle B.

Project NASA: For the Benefit of All

Have you ever seen 55 5th graders dressed in identical blue rocket sweatshirts at an airport gate? You can imagine the excitement as we gathered at Gate 58 in Tulsa International Airport.

Many of my classmates had never been on a plane before so as we boarded and scrambled for seats, the kids buzzed with enthusiasm. We’d taken a family vacation to Disney World two years earlier, so I felt like somewhat of a pro with all that experience behind me. I settled into my seat and snapped the seat belt together with confidence. As we taxied for takeoff, the buzz increased to a rumble, like a space shuttle readying for liftoff. I looked around at the thrill on my classmates’ faces and smiled. After all our hard work, our 5th grade trip to NASA was about to begin.

After landing in Houston, we went directly to Johnson Space Center. Exploring the museums at NASA was a dream come true. I’d been interested in space flight since the Challenger exploded in 1986. It was the first time I grasped the danger of space travel. I still remember seeing the tears in Mr. Beltzner’s eyes that day. He wouldn’t be my teacher for another three years, but the impact the disaster had on him affected me as well. So touring the museum and NASA’s mission control room was amazing and emotional.

We looked at models of the Lunar Module and I tried to imagine what it was like to land on the moon. We ate space ice cream and wandered around the Rocket Park. The sheer size of the rockets boggled my mind. Did astronauts really strap themselves into tiny cockpits and ride atop these monstrous machines into space? And yes, I did walk away wanting to become an astronaut.

The day wasn’t over once we left NASA. We took the Bolivar Ferry out to Bolivar Point and back again. Then we checked into our hotels and had a small party celebrating our first day in Houston. Lindsay and I roomed with our music teacher, which seemed strange in that weird way all kids feel when they encounter teachers outside the classroom. Our dad watched over three of our most adventurous 5th grade boys. We wondered if he would make it through the night.

He did and the next morning the entire class took a walk on the beach. The seagulls swooped down on us and we shrieked and ran up and down the wet sand on a cold and windy day, happy to be alive and in this special place. Jason asked me to go steady with him on that beach. At eleven, this was, of course, a serious offer. I immediately said yes. We continued to hang out as much as we had before. But it made the weekend feel all the more special.

On Galveston, my dad paid for a trolley ride for all the kids in our designated group. I still remember the slack jawed amazement of the other kids as we shouted at them from the trolley while they stood on the sidewalk of the Strand and watched us cruise by.

A reporter from the Sapulpa Daily Herald traveled with us and recorded the trip in pictures and words. I’m grateful for our teachers’ foresight in this. It chronicled our journey from the beginning, and all of that fundraising, to the magnificent end. The trip was an eye-opening opportunity for 55 fifth graders from a small town, and I’ll never forget the weekend we all spent together.

But I’m even more grateful for the entire process that trip took – from collecting cans, to cow pie poker, to planning and the culmination of all our efforts, the trip itself. It spurred on my interests in space and travel. It taught me you have to work hard to accomplish dreams, and that sometimes those dreams take some luck (thanks Pepsi Co), but that even that luck came through our hard work.

Taking a class of fifth graders to Houston for a weekend must have seemed an impossible feat to our teachers, but we were able to accomplish it together. And finally, that year taught me that when people believe in a vision, they unite behind it with excitement, energy and enthusiasm until it’s accomplished.

NASA’s motto is, “For the benefit of all.” In 1989, 55 5th graders lived out that motto, took flight, and saw an impossible dream come true.

Liberty5thgraders - Project NASA - kimberlymitchell.us — Liberty Elementary’s 5th Grade Class in Houston

Guest Post: AllthewayYA

I am the guest blogger today on a great new blog called All the Way YA. Young adult authors discuss their journeys to publishing and how we can encourage each other through the often difficult process. My blog features the first time I’ve written about rejection as I’ve pursued publishing along with my personal struggle of infertility. Please check it out at All the Way YA.

Project NASA II

If you read Project NASA, you’ll remember my class trip to Houston was in jeopardy. We needed to raise more money and quickly or there would be no trip to NASA, mission control or the beach.

One morning the 5th grade teachers announced we were entering recycling contest sponsored by Pepsi. The class that collected the most cans would win a prize of $5,000. We doubled our efforts, searching on Saturdays after soccer games and Sunday afternoons. My older sister Jennifer took this opportunity to practice her driving skills. Lindsay and I readily volunteered to get out and walk. On Mondays, we hauled bags and cans to Liberty and the teachers, I’m sure, hauled bags and bags to Pepsi Co.

Liberty Elementary's 5th grade teachers, 1988-89. Back Row: Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Beltzner. Front Row: Mrs. Huddleston, Mrs. Rice, Mrs. Block — Liberty Elementary’s 5th grade teachers, 1988-89. Back Row: Mr. Wolfe and Mr. Beltzner. Front Row: Mrs. Huddleston, Mrs. Rice, Mrs. Block

One Friday morning, Dad dropped Lindsay, Natalie and I off outside the gym as usual. We went inside and quickly took our spots in our class’ lines. Each morning Mr. Long made announcements before dismissing each class.

Mr. Long told the school we had a special announcement that morning. Then music started to play and the 5th grade teachers danced out, each holding a poster board sign. When they turned the signs around, we gasped. Each sign held a number. 5-0-0-0. We’d done it! 5th grade had won the Pepsi Co contest and enough money for our trip to Houston!

We jumped up and down and screamed and for once, no teachers shushed us. They were as excited as us. From that moment in November, our efforts shifted from raising money, to planning the actual trip. The energy and excitement we had fueled our classroom lessons as we dove into research about NASA, the space race and Houston. For once, I couldn’t wait to get back to school after Christmas break. The weeks in January and February seemed to drag, even with some snow days mixed in. But finally February 18th arrived and our grand space odyssey began.

Project NASA

February 18, 1989 is a date set firmly in my mind. That was the day my entire 5th grade class boarded Southwest Airlines Flight 405 for Houston on our fifth grade trip to NASA.
At the beginning of that school year, our teachers announced their plans to take the entire class to Houston to tour Johnson Space Center and Mission Control. I sat in my seat, stunned by the news. My passion for space and everything connected to it was just beginning to take off. Would teachers really agree to take 55 fifth graders from Sapulpa to Houston for an entire weekend?

They might have been crazy, but our teachers were serious. The caveat? We had to raise the money for it first. We would do a series of fundraisers throughout the school year to help raise the money, but our focus would be on collecting aluminum cans.
So on many Sunday afternoons in the fall of 1988, Mom and Dad would drive the van Lindsay and I would scour the back roads of Sapulpa, Jenks, Bixby and Tulsa looking for the glint of sunlight on cans that meant a trip to see the rockets and Mission Control in NASA.

In the fall we held a Western night and cow pie bingo raffle to boost our efforts. I’d nev Spaghetti Dinner Sale Liberty 1989 er heard of cow pie bingo, but growing up in Oklahoma, things were done a little differently. First, a field is marked into squares, each square corresponding to a number. Next, a cow is brought in to peruse the field. Then nature takes its course and the square with the most patties in it is declared the winner.

While the cow took his time grazing the field, we ate spaghetti and had a Ma and Pa Kettle contest. I didn’t know who Ma and Pa Kettle were until my parents explained they were famous characters from a series of films made in the 1950s about a couple of country bumpkins and their adventures. I’m not sure which teacher invented this idea, but the parents found it delightful, and we were still young enough not to care about embarrassing photos that might catch up to you years later, or friends that might tease you for weeks on end about your attire.

My friend Jason Mead agreed to be Pa Kettle. Lindsay partnered with another boy, Devin, and two more friends, Cassie and Ryan, decided to enter the contest as well. We all dressed in our best imitations of hillbilly costumes. Jason and I took second and Lindsay and Devon third. Ryan and Cassie won the contest, but when KTUL News Channel 8, who were covering this important school event, asked Mr. Beltzner for a student to interview, he grabbed me and stuck me in front of the camera. So later that night I had the thrill of seeing myself on television, dressed as Ma Kettle, of course. Fortunately that video hasn’t seen the light of day since 1988!

Ma and Pat Kettle Contestants — Ma and Pa Kettle Contestants

After all that excitement, we trooped out to the softball field to see who the cow had chosen to win the raffle, but the cow hadn’t eaten chili that night and, though we carefully examined the entire field, a winning chip could not be found. Cow pie bingo was a bust. So we headed into the gym for a good old fashioned drawing. The winner? My younger sister. Natalie won a small TV and radio that, in 1988, was a pretty good prize. Cow patty bingo had been a success after all.

Our raffle and the cans collected that fall still didn’t raise enough to get us to Houston though. Soon after, we had a lecture from Mr. Beltzner, Mr. Wolfe, Mrs. Huddleston and Mrs. Block. If we wanted to go on the trip, we had to do more, and time was growing short. With the holidays approaching, the trip to Houston hung in jeopardy and my hopes of seeing NASA and Mission Control with it.

Live Long and Prosper: Why We Say Goodbye to Heroes in Story

Today a longtime childhood hero of mine died – Leonard Nimoy, who played Spock on Star Trek for over 40 years.

When I learned of Nimoy’s death, I started thinking about why heroes in stories are so important to us, and why those who play these heroes so deeply impact our lives.

Nimoy tried to distance himself from his role as Spock for awhile, but it didn’t work. His character was so unique and beloved that fans couldn’t see him as anyone other than Mr. Spock, the science officer of the Enterprise, the half-human, half-Vulcan who struggled to understand who he was and became Captain Kirk’s best friend.

His character encompassed so many aspects of the human struggle that I think most fans identified with Spock as much, or maybe even more, than Captain Kirk. Spock was uneasy with his family background. He didn’t know if he was human or Vulcan. He ended up trying to choose one, but Vulcans wouldn’t completely accept him, so he turned back to his human side and joined the Academy, knowing he would be the only half-human, half-Vulcan in Star Fleet, and probably expecting to remain an outsider his entire life.

Then Spock was assigned to the Enterprise and Captain James T. Kirk, a man who couldn’t be more different from Spock. Kirk was volatile, passionate, impetuous – the opposite of cool-headed, logical, stoic Spock. The opportunity for tension was high, but Spock and Kirk developed a deep friendship and the very characteristics which looked likely to provide conflict instead complemented each other. The pair were able to use their different personalities and abilities to extricate the crew of the Enterprise from many sticky situations.

I think we all long for relationships like that: friends that come alongside you and challenge you with their own skill sets and passions, whether it’s logic or exploration, leading a starship or simply helping you understand who you are as part of the human race. Friends that see your flaws and are willing to look past them and help you overcome them, even while you’re in the battle of your lives against Klingons, or cancer, or family turmoil.

Through watching Star Trek and growing to love the heroes, Spock and Captain Kirk and yes, the rest of the crew, too, I learned what it means to push the boundaries of what you believe is possible. I learned that it’s okay to be afraid when faced with unknown danger but that your friends are there to help save you, so you never give up on them. I saw that you could accomplish more by being a team, a crew, than you ever could on your own. And I learned it’s important to laugh some, too.

But isn’t Star Trek just a Hollywood story and not real life? Sure. But the concepts of dealing with the unknown, of acting bravely, of loving those around you and staying loyal to your friends, even at personal cost to yourself, those are challenges we all face. And when we have heroes like Spock and Captain Kirk who have shown us how to face those challenges in story, it makes us believe we can overcome them, too.

Leonard Nimoy’s famous farewell on Star Trek was, “Live Long and Prosper.” On Star Trek, he showed us how to do just that. So today I say goodbye to a hero, thankful that Leonard Nimoy brought such a powerful character to life for so many years.

Star Trek photos in the public domain.

“Leonard Nimoy (5773917995)” by Gage Skidmore from Peoria, AZ, United States of America – Licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons.

A “Ruff” Winter Storm

As we celebrate the first snow day of 2015 (finally!), I remember a winter storm that had a lot more bite to it.

Kimberly Christmas Bows — Yours Truly on Christmas morning 1980 something…

Christmas night, 1987, a freezing rain started hitting our raised deck. Still in the excitement of Christmas, we watched as the ice quickly glazed over the multi-colored Christmas lights on the deck railing until the lights cast a soft rainbow glow across the thickening ice.

After a day of Christmas gifts, holiday food and, miracle of miracles, a white Christmas, I could hardly sleep that night. I awoke to a fairy tale land. This wasn’t snow that crunched merrily underfoot and padded your fall when you slipped. Ice encased the trees, bowing the limbs to the breaking point. It covered the driveways and streets in its deadly glaze.

We tried sledding, but the ice was unpredictable. After a terrifying slide sideways down the hill, my sisters and I gave in and played Monopoly and watched Star Wars from the warmth of the living room. Its many windows gave us a view of the sparkling world outside while we lounged in front of the fire.

That night, Mom let our big dog, Ruffy, off leash as usual. The black Gordon Setter liked to roam the neighborhood for an hour before returning home for the night. At our house, barking dogs were a given. As we watched another movie, though, we realized Ruffy was using his high-pitched Lassie bark to tell us something was wrong in his world.

“Go see where the dog is,” my mother said. I went to the front porch and listened. Ruffy’s bark was coming from “the woods,” the grove of trees covering the front half of our acre lot that dropped steeply into a ravine.

Ruffy’s bark came from the very bottom of that ravine. I carefully tiptoed over the ice to the edge of yard and peered into the darkness. “Ruffy?” I called.

An answering bark came from below. I spotted his black form scrabbling on the hard, frozen ice of the creek at the bottom of the ravine. I went inside and informed the family Ruffy was stuck in the creek bed and couldn’t get back up the steep hillside to the house.

What followed was a dramatic rescue event. We got a rope and tied it to a tree, then threw it down into the darkness. I started to slide down the hill on my bottom and quickly lost control, rough riding it over rocks and tree roots until I hit the bottom right next to the dog. He greeted me enthusiastically, hot dog breath in my face and fluffy tail wagging. I looked back up the hill to where Mom and Dad stood at the precipice, peering down anxiously.

“I’m okay,” I called out and gulped. “We’re going to get you out of here,” I reassured the dog and myself. First I tried pushing, but an eighty pound dog being pushed by an eighty pound kid up a a frozen hillside doesn’t work. After we slid back several times, my parents tried a new tactic.

My twin came sliding down with several towels. We started placing towels in front of the dog. Once Ruffy stepped on it, we could move him forward and place another towel in front of him. It provided just enough traction. Lindsay and I alternated who moved the towel, hauling ourselves up the rope inches at a time. The other stayed behind the dog to help push him to the next towel, then fling it forward for the next step. We inched up that icy hillside, two girls and a dog.

Finally, the ground began to level out. We didn’t have to cling to the rope to keep from sliding back down. Ruffy barked impatiently. When we got close enough, Mom reached down and grabbed his collar, helping him up the last few feet. Lindsay and I sat on the small railroad tie wall that marked the edge of the yard and looked warily down the icy slope while Ruffy barked joyfully and wagged his tail. The world still looked like a winter fairy tale, but I had a new respect for how slick and dangerous that beauty could be.