My Little Jaunt Into Bovine Poetry Past...

Have any of you written poetry? I mean, I wouldn't be surprised if you said yes. After all, it's like a requirement for those between the ages of twelve and eighteen to write poetry. A necessary outlet for all that teenage angst.

So, what did you write about? Love? Your lack of love? Your fruitless search for love? Yeah, that's what most teenagers write about.

Except for me. Oh sure, I wrote poetry. Lots of it, actually. And yeah, there's a few love ones in there, but really, the majority of my poetry inspiration came from...

COWS.

Maybe it's because I was born in Wisconsin? 

Since my little jaunt into bovine poetry past has been so hilarious, naturally I want to share the laugh with you all.

HUMANLY

Summer 1992

I see the human cows

Roaming the human pastures.

I see the human bodies

Lying on the human roads

With the human sky above

And the hot, human sun.

It gives off human rays

That fry the human bodies

On those human roads.

Now all the human bodies are gone

And all that's left

Are the human cows

Roaming the human pastures.

"I UNDERSTAND"

October 20, 1993

A friend of mine once came to me and said,

"I'm frustrated, because my dad doesn't get it."

"I understand," I said.

"I'm annoyed with the blankness of the world."

"I understand," I said.

"I'm confused, because I feel so different."

"I understand," I said.

"I'm sad, because nothing makes any sense."

"I understand," I said.

"But," my friend looked at me, "At the same time I'm happy."

I nodded to my friend and said, "Cow."

POT ES BUENO

Fall 1994

Twisting and turning

Feelings and yearnings.

Life is so insane.

Do I really have a brain?

Call to the cows.

Give them the knowhow.

Teach them of life

And its unsteady strife.

Chicken feathers float

Above the water in a boat.

Can my shoes be new?

Or must I form a crew?

Minnesota is so very cold

So grab a coat with a tight hold.

Use the pen to succeed.

Eat a liver and smoke some weed.

I now say good bye

And wither away to die.

So long to you

My Mr. Moo.

Care for my cows well

And life will be swell.

CRAZY

November 15, 1994

Let me tell you something completely

Crazy.

This world is so very

Hazy.

I see absolutely nothing

Now.

But soon before me will stand a

Cow.

It will tell a secret message,

Why?

'Cause soon I will be taken to

Die.

Now wouldn't you say that's

Crazy?

Or don't you want to think, 'cause you're too

Lazy?

All my friends want me to

Leave.

But the cows say, "Stay, stay...

Please?"

Yes, yes, that is so very

Crazy. 

It's Saturday And This Is What I Have To Say...

Absolutely nothing. I just needed 15 more hits on my page before I hit 1,000. Thanks, guys!

My Photographic Obsession With Tioga...Thank You All For Indulging Me Yet Again.

Okay, folks. I'm a woman of my word. Mostly. So, as promised, here are some photos, old and new, of Tioga.

I stumbled across this photo while pilfering my grandma's stash. Photo stash, that is. The back of the photo simply says " Tioga Depot 1920." Would be interesting to know who these people were. I like their dog. I imagine his name was Frank. Seems like a solid doggy name. He's looking like, "Eh, what you want from me?"

My favorite part of this photograph, though, is the cameraman's shadow...

The date on the next picture says 1966. I suspect this is either when my grandma bought Tioga or shortly thereafter. I could easily call somebody in my family and get an answer within minutes. But I'll be honest. I'm lazy. And I could have cleaned up this photo and made it look untorn and pretty. But again, I'm lazy.

And here is the store, abandoned and unloved. Little did it know the years of activity and memories that waited for it at the hands of its new coffee-addicted chain-smoking mayor.

And here is the old depot. This photo must have been late 70's, if I had to guess by the other photographs I found with it. It's weird to see barren land, ruts in the mud, the photo taken long before my grandma's grassy lawn reached the depot.

This last pic is of the depot, the creepy shed I talked about in my previous blog post, and the little playhouse. And, too small to really see, my grandma and one of the many, many dogs she's had over the years. Actually, they usually belong to the trucker across the road, but any dog that guy owns usually half becomes my grandma's, because she feeds them...a lot.

Speaking of the creepy shed, I'll use that as a segue into my photos from the ghost hunt. Keep in most, most of these are nothing more than my photographic fascination with Tioga.

While searching the depot for something paranormal, I discovered this name painted on the wall. Surprisingly, I don't remember ever seeing this before. Did an internet search (love Google!) and learned that Rae D. Ingham ran Tioga in the early 1920's. He was post master, store owner, and clerk of the depot's ticket counter. A jack of all trades. And his painted signature has lasted almost 100 years. Amazing.

I'd never noticed this before, but beneath the ticket counter are faint pencil marks. I could make out "Fairchild," which is a nearby town. Fairchild was actually where Nathanial Foster, founder of Tioga, made his home and raised his family. I believe he his buried in a Fairchild cemetery, as well.

I'd love to say the orange flare is paranormal, but I'm pretty sure it's just flash flare.

And back to Tioga. Here is the store as it stands today. It's a little old and saggy. But still lovable. 

A picture from the side window of one of the front bedrooms. During the ghost hunt, it was unanimous that everybody felt the most welcome in this bedroom. There's just this warm, homey vibe that beckons to the soul. We mentioned this to my mom who said this room was always my grandma's favorite room in the store. Coincidence?

This is one of the back bedrooms. It's long and narrow and doesn't have the same vibe as the front bedroom in the picture above. But still, like all of Tioga, special in its own way...

I'm not only in love with this building, but the all of the things my grandma has stashed in it. New and old, it doesn't matter. It just adds to the charm of the place, endearing me to it further.

 

 

 This, however, creeps this shit out of me. 

PBR me ASAP. It helps curb the fear of the creepy doll.

Peeling paint from the ceiling of the porch. Just looked cool to me.

Real ghost hunting equipment.

Gah! A ghost! Oh, wait, that's just my mom.

 

And here is one of my favorite pictures. Tioga in twilight. At a glance, the photo looks like a reject, something taken by accident or before the flash could recharge. But no, it was all intentional. This photo embodies everything I love about Tioga. It's darkened core, nothing scary about this darkness. Filled with mystery, intrigue, and a gentle calm.  

Thank you, readers, for indulging my obsession of Tioga. I hope you have enjoyed it. And if not, well, then, eff you.

Friendly reminder, these photos are all property of Brenda Boo. I do not mind my work being shared on the internet, but if you're using them for profit, then you are very undude. Be respectful. Get my permission.

The Tioga Ghost Hunt...And Why I Carry Extra Panties In My Purse.

Finally! I have the time and mental capacity to share with all my lovely readers (yes, all three of you) my first ghost hunting experience. I know it’s been several weeks since I went on the hunt, but time has been short. I’d say I want more hours in a day, but it just means more hours of demands and obligations vying for my time. But if I could get more hours in a day with a guarantee that those extra hours would only be available for reading or blogging, then consider me in.

Kind of off topic, but not really – considering the band name – you all (yes, again, all three of you) should stop and take a listen to a new band my husband discovered. They are called Ghost and I pee a little every time I take a listen to their album, Opus Eponymous. Which is usually more than once a day, so I now carry an extra pair of panties in my purse.

Is that kind hot? Or just incredibly disturbing? I’ll let you be the judge.

Anyway, you can find Ghost on twitter: @thebandGHOST. Check it.

So, we step away from the band Ghost and move into the hunting of ghosts. I had no idea what to expect in this new venture, especially since I have never felt any true ghostly presence at Tioga. Just the usual ambiance that comes with being in a building rich with history. Would I hear voices? See some apparitions? As much as I knew I wanted to hear and see these things, I kept my expectations at a minimum, not wanting to taint the investigation with an overly eager approach.

I’ve spent a lot of time talking about Tioga the ghost-town. For a little background, check out my entry entitled And So I Give You…Tioga. I mainly talk about the old depot and the store, but there is also a storage shed that is on the property. The shed used to sit behind the store, but my grandma had it moved several years ago to sit closer to the old depot.

The majority of the ghost hunting team’s time was spent in the store, but we did spend a little time in the depot. I also brought a few team members back to the old shed. As kids my cousin and I ventured into the shed, but it only had one window and was surrounded by high weeds that were taller than us, which made the shed a very dark place, even in the daytime. Prime territory for spiders and bugs, things of which little Boo is not a fan. The second level, accessible by narrow, wooden steps, is creepier than the first, though I remember it being cleaner than the lower level. My cousin and I spent some time up there once. We mutually agreed to never go back.

During the ghost hunt, we walked into the shed and I told the team members I never played in here. It always gave me a creepy vibe. When a member of the team climbed the narrow stairs to the upper level he said, “I just got the chills.” Said there was a creepy vibe, “a strong feeling of dread.”

When we told my mom about this experience she said, “Oh, that shed is super creepy. I always expect to see some guy hanging from a noose in there.”

Yeah. That would qualify as creepy. But even with its creepy vibe, the shed didn’t give us any tortured moans or unexplained shadows. Is it bad, though, that I kind of wanted to see the ghostly remains of some hanging dead guy? Really, I’m just being honest.

I made a few observations while ghost hunting. Some related to the actual activity of ghost hunting, some not. Firstly, I learned that watching the ghost hunters on television asking potential paranormal entities questions is really cool, but when it’s me doing it, it just feels really stupid. Even so, I ventured to ask the ghosts of Tioga a few questions. Did they remember me playing there as a child? Did they like when I played there? Did they know my name?  How is Elvis and have they seen him lately?

Okay, I didn’t really ask that question.

Alright, I lied. I really did ask that question. Just when nobody was around to hear it. Unfortunately, though, no response.

Secondly, I learned that ghost hunting involves a lot of sitting around and waiting. And waiting. And waiting some more, surrounded by nothing but silence, only to realize that there really is no such thing as silence. If it’s not the unavoidable rustle of clothing or the white noise of insectile buzzing, it’s the sound of your own beating heart. A sound that no matter what you do, will never stop. Always there. And the harder you try to ignore it, the louder it becomes. A persistent drumbeat, the soundtrack of your life on an endless loop, and it’d be annoying if you didn’t need it so badly. After all, you want to avoid becoming one of the things with what you’re trying to initiate contact.

Lastly, I learned that my mom actually has a few pleasant memories from her childhood. Well, if not completely pleasant, at least not completely soured. My mom doesn’t talk about her childhood much. And when she does, any memory or story is bookended with sad reminders that she never really had a childhood. I feel for anybody that doesn’t get a childhood. Even more so when it’s my own mom. But to hear her share the more ordinary memories, memories that could come from anybody’s childhood, puts a warmth in my heart. Memories as mundane as little Mom and her three siblings sitting on the bed eating macaroni and cheese together are enough to put a smile on my face.

At the end of the night, when all the equipment was packed away and I was back in my grandma’s house, crawling into my bed, beneath a comforter that has the sweet, unmistakable smell of Tioga, I realized I may not have heard the ghosts of Tioga whisper my name, or may not have seen its otherworldly residents, or felt the ethereal chill of their presence, but I didn’t leave Tioga empty handed. Clutched in one was the new experience of ghost hunting, to engage in something that most only talk about, but never actually do. Clutched in the other, comforting warmth. A feeling of closeness to my mom and her family. My family. People in this world I love dearly, for better or worse, flaws and all.

Epilogue

This past weekend my mom met with the ghost hunting team to listen to the digital recordings. Apparently there were several! I haven’t heard them for myself yet, so I don’t want to expand on that. But it seems safe to say Tioga has more going on the meets the eye.

There are tentative plans to head back in September for another ghost hunting session. I can’t wait! And I’ll be sure to share that experience with you all (yes, of course all three of you!).

A couple of weeks ago I pilfered my grandma’s photo album collection. They are rich with wonderful photographs of my family and of Tioga. Tioga from back in the 1960’s when it first purchased. I even stumbled across some photo of the depot in 1920, complete with a few passengers on the platform waiting for their train. Be sure to check back in a day or two, because I will be posting a blog entirely devoted to the highlights of this photographic treasure trove.

Wisconsin Rednecks, Vampires With Birthday Cake, And I Hope The Walking Dead Devour Lori Grimes’ Face.

I had some really messed up dreams this weekend. However, I only remember vague bits and pieces. I’m always disappointed when I don’t remember my dreams in full. Such a loss. They give me this legitimate outlet for all of the fantasy roiling in my brain. Little mini-stories that seek attention, wanting nothing more than the chance to have their stories told. And then I go and wake up and forget them all.

I’m a bad creator.

But I am looking for something new to write about. Maybe an idea will be sparked by these little snippets of dreams. I’ll share them, read them, read them again after a day or, and see if there’s that little spark in my mind that says, “Yes, this is a story.”

I make no guarantees that they will be good stories, but they will be stories. You tell me which one seems worthwhile.

I’m living at my Grandma’s, in Tioga, with a dear friend of mine. We’re bored. I ask what she thinks we should do and somehow the prospect of finding some “Wisconsin redneck dick” sounds like a game plan. I wake up confused, horrified, and laughing my ass off.

A vampire bought me a birthday cake. I don’t remember what they looked like, whether they were male or female, only that they were holding a birthday cake with lit candles. Maybe it wasn’t even my birthday. Who knows?

With The Walking Dead fresh in my mind, since we just watched the first season again a week or so ago, Tony finds a loaded crossbow under my bed and accuses me of having an affair with Daryl Dixon, the redneck hunter turned zombie killer. While I don’t remember anything else about that dream, I’m pretty confident the loaded crossbow had nothing to do with Daryl and everything to do with the fact that I want Rick Grimes’ wife, Lori, dead in the worst way. The day a zombie eats her face, I will throw a fucking party. She thinks her husband is dead and she can’t even wait more than a month before jumping into the sack with his best friend. And they're surrounded by zombies! Is this really the time and place to think about your libido? Sickening. So, lady, this crossbow is for you…

But for the entertainment value of the show, I hope a zombie gets to her first.

What? Too much? Well, what do you want from me? It’s Monday morning. Not exactly my finest hour. Ever.

Ever Wonder Where Jason Voorhees Sharpens His Machete? Probably Tioga.

Well folks, tomorrow is the big day. I'm going to be lurking around the grounds of Tioga in hopes of making contact with some otherworldly spirits. Or maybe I'll just get drunk and fall down the stairs. Wait, Mom's going to be there. She wouldn't approve of the drinking. Okay, fine, we'll stick with attempting to make contact with the spirits of Tioga. 

In preparation for my big night, I thought I'd post some of my favorite photo moments from my favorite place on Earth. And so I give you...more Tioga.

Photo by Boo, circa 1997.

 Tioga porch. Window looks into the old general store. 

Photo by Boo, circa 1997.

Tioga staircase. Room beyond is the general store. That window in the background is the same window as in the first photograph.

Photo by Boo, circa 1997.

Top of Tioga's staircase. The window is about six inches off the ground. A tall guy would have to duck while upstairs. I swear people were shorter back in the day.

Photo by Boo, circa 1997.

There's this beautiful wooden hutch that separates the kitchen from the dining room. I believe it's original to the house. I used to dig through its drawers for "treasures." A few fun antiques, but mostly just mouse poop.

Photo by Boo, 2010.

This is where Jason Voorhees would sharpen his machete if he lived in Tioga. Then again, maybe he's unknowingly stopped by...

Photo by Boo, 2010.

This is the original wood burning stove. Not sure if it's still there, maybe hiding under the junk, but there was one of those old school irons sitting on the stove top. The kind you set on the burner to get hot so you could iron your clothes. It's heavy as hell. I know, because I dropped it on my toe once as a kid.

Photo by Boo, 2010.

This is the cool kind of stuff that is all over Tioga. I should get Antiques Roadshow to visit.

Photo by Boo, 2010.

I think I'm going to steal this and put it on my wall. Right next to my framed photograph of the Maytag repair man. Just kidding. I don't have one of those...yet.

And So I Give You...Tioga.

First, I must begin this blog with a very sappy, very loving “Happy Anniversary!” to my husband, Tony. Eight years we’ve been married. Been together for about ten, but have known each other for something like eighteen years.

It’s weird to think I’m old enough to have been married for eight years, let alone known somebody for eighteen. I mean, eighteen years of actual, semi-grown up memories. Like meeting Tony during a listening party over a Metallica vinyl at Jesse’s house (Jesse is now my brother in law, by the way). Or gaffing Tony’s cigarettes when my boyfriend’s stash was cashed, because Tony was too nice to tell me no. Or the Sepultura, Chaos A.D. tape he gave me for my 16th birthday.

Ah, the memories of teenage youth. A place that can be so wonderful and so horrible at the same time. Neither a child nor an adult, trapped in this bizarre ribbon of being where the surrounding world expects everything and nothing from you at the same time. It’s a shit place to be.

So, let’s avoid the conundrum of being a teenager by diving a little deeper into the memory pool.  Travel back in time to mall bangs, snap bracelets, fluorescent clothing, and – gasp! – Zubaz. While the world of modernity zipped along on green-screened computers and actual floppy disks, there was one place that always seemed unaffected by time.

Tioga. 

Tioga General Store, photo by Boo circa 1996

A little ghost town nestled in central Wisconsin, with little known places like Fairchild and Augusta the only points of references I can offer. This little ghost town also happens to be where my grandmother established her presence in Wisconsin after big city living in Detroit and Chicago. And where I was born. Well, not literally. I was born about forty-five minutes away in the St. Joseph hospital in Marshfield. But I lived the first few years of my life at Tioga. And even after my mom married and we moved to Minnesota, we visited Tioga often and spent considerable time there during summers. Some of the best memories of growing up are lazy summers spent with my brother, cousin, and grandma.

Tioga was established when Nathaniel Caldwell Foster, a railroad tycoon from New York, laid tracks through Hendren Township in Clark County the summer of 1900. Construction of the Tioga Depot and Tioga Feed Store, which was also a hotel, post office, and home of the proprietor, started in August of 1900. On September 29th of that year, the local papers proclaimed Tioga open for business. 

Tioga General Store, 1909. Photo property of Clark County, Wisconsin

I’m not sure when Tioga’s depot and store went out of business. By the time I arrived in 1978 the railroad tracks had long since been removed and the buildings abandoned. My grandmother purchased the property in the 1960’s using money she stole from my grandpa. If you couldn’t deduce from that statement, their marriage was not exactly a stable one. It has also been speculated that my grandma was merely stealing money that my grandpa, himself, had stolen from his employer. Another story for another time. 

Tioga Depot, 1909. Photo property of Clark County, Wisconsin

My grandma, described by my cousin as a “chain smoking, coffee addicted woman,” was proclaimed Mayor of Tioga upon its purchase. It wasn’t until 1977, though, that my grandma moved into Tioga permanently, setting up residence in the old store while a new house was being built on the other end of the property.  My grandpa had long since disappeared (he did resurfaced again when I was twelve – yet another story for another time), so it was just my grandma and her four kids. My mom, second oldest, was seventeen. And relocated from Detroit to a dinky of town of maybe a hundred people, she was not happy.

Tioga Depot. Photo by Boo, circa 1996

Oh, and did I mention there’s no bathroom in the store? Just an old, rickety outhouse ravaged by time and assaulted by thousands of other people’s poop. You couldn’t get to it without tromping through waist high weeds and field grass, and, no doubt, acquiring several ticks in the process.  It was no loss when that thing burned down. I think my grandma intentionally burned it down to get rid of it, but I don’t remember. I do remember the scorched patch of field grass where it used to stand, though. 

When I was about six, and my cousin Matt, about four, my grandma built us a little playhouse about twenty feet from the depot. It was a great little playhouse. Well, once the annual wasp nests were dispatched by my dad, it was great. But it had nothing on the depot or the store. They taunted us with promises of mystery and adventure that beckoned to our young, fertile imaginations. 

Little Boo by the playhouse Grandma built, circa 1983

Ever since I can remember, I was enamored with the store. Amidst the rusted nails and jagged edges of unidentified broken things was the original post office window installed in 1900, old and sturdy counters, topped with glass display cases that probably once held a variety of sundries and goods but were now filled with forgotten trinkets, yellowed textbooks, broken 8-tracks, and a thick layer of dust. I enjoyed rifling through the junk my grandma stacked in the store. It provided a narrow window, a tantalizing glimpse, into my mother’s life before me. Seventeen magazines from the 1970’s, photographs of my mom as a little girl, a long braid draped over each shoulder giving her an uncanny resemblance to Melissa Gilbert from Little House on the Prairie. 

And when I wasn’t lost in the history of our family’s memorabilia, I was lost in the less personal, but no less intriguing history of the building itself. As I played house, using the original wood burning stove of the store to transport grass, rocks, and twigs into a magical feast for my cousin and brother, I couldn’t help but wonder about the people that used the stove before me. The ones that actually had to use fire, not the convenient electric stove, to cook meals. Or the kids, like me, that played on the property. Did they play post master behind the post office counter, too? Or maybe they weren’t allowed, because it was being used for real by the grownups.

Original Tioga Post Office. Photo by Boo, 2010

While the store held the majority of my attention, the depot was not forgotten. It had the original ticket counter, so my cousin, brother, and I would play train station. And sometimes, when we were feeling adventurous, we’d follow the ridge of land along the creek that was once lined by Nathaniel Caldwell Foster’s train tracks deep into seventeen acres of nothing but trees and assorted wildlife. We’d talk about the train tracks, the depot, and the store, the hobos the trains would bring. We’d invent stories for the hobos. Why did they leave home? What were they looking for at Tioga? Our creative minds could never get enough. 

Matt, the Last Son of Tioga, with Tioga treasures. Photo by Boo, 2010

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when the buildings on my grandma’s property were shrouded in harsh shadows created by the bright security light in her driveway, we’d hear the distant whistle of a train. I assumed these train whistles were from far away tracks, but was only recently informed there are no train tracks anywhere near the area.

 

For an area so abundant in forgotten history, you’d think I would have experienced more in the way of creepy vibes or ghostly apparitions. Sometimes I’d hear noises in the store or feel the prickle on my back like I was being watched. Even so, I was never afraid or uncomfortable. My mom has always sworn there was something evil lurking in Tioga. In my thirty-two years I can only recall a handful of times that she has stepped inside the store.

Mayor of Tioga...and my little brother, circa  1988

Truth is, though, I felt much more afraid of our family home on Dakota Avenue back in Minnesota than I ever did of Tioga. Whatever was in our Dakota Avenue house found delight in terrorizing an eleven year old girl with ghostly touches on legs in the middle of the night. I used to think I was being taunted by demons. Demons that waited in the shadows, ready to snatch me before Heaven could claim me when I died. But I was raised in a creepy cult, remember? It’s only natural I would assign these things to scary demons. Older and, though arguably, wiser, I am certain those experiences had nothing to do with some imaginary war raging between the forces of Heaven and Hell and everything to do with ghostly energies left behind by former occupants. 

Anyway, whatever was in the Dakota Avenue house wasn’t friendly and it certainly didn’t want me living there. But I never felt that way with Tioga. Tioga always welcomed me with open arms, whether it be through the cicadas buzzing in the tree tops during hot and humid summers, or through the deafening quiet of a cold winter night. I never felt unwanted amongst the ghosts of Tioga. And for that, it will hold a most special place in my heart in this life...and the next, since I've chosen to take on a ghostly form in my afterlife so as to haunt the remains of Tioga for all time. 

And so I give you...Tioga. 

Clark County, Wisconsin photos found at: 

http://wvls.lib.wi.us/ClarkCounty/hendren/businesses/TiogaStore.htm

http://wvls.lib.wi.us/ClarkCounty/hendren/businesses/TiogaDepot.htm

And check out The Last Son of Tioga at:

http://malcantro.newsvine.com/_news/2010/06/22/4545227-last-son-of-tioga-

Memories of Bible Camp And Smoking Things…Also, God Finds Poop Funny.

No dreams to report from this weekend. Shame. I know there were a few good ones. They were there in vivid detail when I woke, but as the sleepy haze cleared, the dream images faded. Happens sometimes.

But, this weekend wasn’t without its noteworthy moments. On Saturday there was a gathering of old family friends. Friends that stuck with us thick and thin, that were there during the best of times and the worst of times in the nightmare that was called the International Church of Christ. ICOC for short. Also known as the cult.  

Anyway, it was a day of reminiscing all the horrible and funny things within that cult experience. It brought me back to being fifteen, when I was fighting my inevitable fate to join the cult through copious amounts of pot and boys. As much as I resented the cult, I knew our fates were as entangled as the hair on my head. A stray one might fly away, but its trail will always lead right back to where it started.

So, fifteen, summer, what better to do than Bible camp? I went because some of my other friends from church were going. Plus, a friend from school was coming with me, so it seemed like it would be a fun time, despite the Jesus stuff.

The night before, a few friends spent the night at my house, so we could all travel together in the morning. That night, we all headed down to the baseball fields – Carlson Field off of Louisiana Avenue in St. Louis Park to be exact – and smoked lots of pot. Out of a pop can, nonetheless.

As we made the fourteen hour drive or whatever to the camp in Michigan, we alternated music between the occupants of the car. The teen leader preferred the likes of Celine Dion, which was so painful. I preferred the likes of Alice in Chains. Dirt just happened to be my favorite album at the time (and still is one of my favs to this day). The teen leader told me years later she was scared of me then. Scary music, scary attitude.

Awesome and proud of that, actually.

When we arrived at camp, all I could think about was how I hadn’t gotten the chance to procure a stash of smokes before leaving.  And I had cashed my pot stash the night before. I immediately decided this was going to be the shittiest four days of my entire life. Even shittier than that time I was grounded for three weeks for shoplifting.

But, in a stroke of luck, I discovered one of the fellow Minneapolis attendees was a smoker. He was slightly younger than me. We’d never really been friends, but we’d been in Sunday school together growing up. So dude and I would sneak off into the woods to share a Marlboro Red. How awesome that he smoked my brand, too?

So, random memories from Bible camp:

• Terrible food.
• Drinking Kool-Aid from metal cups that tasted like copper.
• Somebody’s poop clogging one of the toilets in the girl’s bathroom. Trust me, it was one of the biggest poops I’ve ever seen. Totally worthy of remembrance.
• During one of the group games, some girl took off her sweatshirt without realizing she was taking off ALL shirts with it. The boys had an emergency meeting to ensure they were not thinking naughty thoughts. And that last bit is absolutely true.
• Trying not to giggle during evening prayer when some girl started crying while praying. I know this makes me sound awful, but trust me when I say it was just weird.  
• Girls had to wear t-shirts over their bathing suits during swim time.
• Being pissed off when my group leader would wake me up at 7am to read the Bible with her.
• Refusing to go horseback riding, because I’m afraid of horses.
• A fellow teen in my group with the last name Nagel. “Pronounced like bagel, only with an N,” as he would say.
• A fellow teen named Grant that I wished hadn’t yet taken the vow of chastity. Such a shame.
• My friend’s Rolling Stones t-shirt – she told me she still wears it to this day.
• Sitting on a picnic table at the beach, watching other teens that were crazy for Christ and thinking, “Fuck. This is my destiny, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter if I want it or not, it has to be this way.”

The last two days of Bible camp, I gave in. I let them have me. I was tired of fighting expectation. I was the oldest daughter of a pair of revered ICOC members. They were pillars in the congregation. Everybody and their brother expected me to do this. Was it better to do this now? Get it over with? Sigh. Yes, best to just get it out of the way.  

So, the last couple of days at Bible camp, I stopped meeting dude in the woods for smokes. Even stopped lusting after the luscious Grant. That was harder than not smoking, by the way.  And when we got back from Bible camp, I told my parents that I was ready to take the plunge.

There’s more to the story, but it’s an emotional and exhausting story that isn’t quite ready to be told. But, little tidbit, shortly after this trip my mom was helping me clean my room. She was grabbing all the crap I shoved under my bed. She lifted a partially crushed pop can with crude holes smothered in sooty ash.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Um, nothing,” I quickly said. “You can throw it away.”

To my relief, she did so without looking at the thing any closer.

And for the record, I never stopped finding the massive poop that clogged the girls’ toilet as funny. If there is a God, apparently He finds it funny, too. After all, He created poop. And farts. Let not forget those.

Beth Stern Has To Use The Bathroom...Oh, And I Believe In Werewolves.

Okay, before I roll into last night’s dream, I have a confession to make: I believe in werewolves. At least I did for a few brief moments.

Sunday night I spent the greater portion of my evening reading (big surprise) about werewolves. What exactly was I reading, you ask? Well, I’m glad you ask. It was the second book, Howling Legion, in Marcus Pelegrimas’ Skinner series. If you recall, I recommended the first one in a previous blog.

Excuse me? You haven’t rushed to your local bookstore and bought that one, yet? You are no friend of mine. Stop reading this and leave.

Actually, don’t. If there’s anything I like more than people following my book recommendations it would be people reading my blog. You can stay…for now.

So. Werewolves. I was reading about werewolves. Mean, viscous, and savage werewolves.

At 11:30pm that night, I was roused awake by my husband.

“Hey, there’s some kind of weird animal outside.”

Oh shit! I thought to myself. The werewolves are here!

But then the haze of drug induced sleep (prescription, guys) cleared and I took comfort in remembering there are no such things as werewolves. Which, actually, is kind of a shame. I mean, I don’t want the savage werewolves. But if they could all look like Hugh Jackman or Joe Manganiello, then it really is kind of a shame they don’t exist. Ladies, am I right? Guys, feel free to cast your vote, too. This is 2011, after all. Don’t be shy.

Okay, enough with the wolves.

Last night I dreamed I was back in high school. Horrible, I know. This dream scenario happens entirely too often for me. But, alas, there I was in high school. I was even wearing torn jeans and a flannel. Oh wait, that came back in style, didn’t it?

Goddamn it. Has it been that long? Sigh.

Anyway, I’m sitting outside of my high school at a picnic table. Howard Stern rolls up on a motorcycle with his lovely wife, Beth. She’s wearing pajamas. Silk pants, matching button down shirt. Howard looks disgusted to be there.

“This is no place for you,” he says to Beth. “Let’s go.”

“But I really have to go to the bathroom,” she pleads.

“I can take you,” I offer, a little too eagerly to look cool. “I mean, the bathrooms are just inside. I can show you.”

“It’ll just take a second,” she assures Howard.

So I take Beth by the hand and we push through the glass double doors. As soon as I’m inside the building, I realize I’ve never, ever seen this place before.

“Um,” I hesitate, looking right and then looking left. I decide the left looks as good as any other direction and tug Beth’s hand. “This way.”

We end up in shop class. Beth trips over some scrap wood on the floor. The entire class laughs. Beth cries. I feel like an asshole. And on top of it all, we never find the stupid bathroom. We just walk a big circle and end up back at the picnic table with Howard.

“What is wrong with you?!” he yells at me. “Don’t you know how mean high school kids can be?”

Actually, I do. But I don’t say this. I just slump to my seat, dejected.

“Damn it,” Howard sighs. “Now you’re making me feel bad. If I let you sit in on a show, will that make you feel better?”

“During cupcake Wednesday?” I lift my head and ask hopefully.

“Sure,” he smiles.

“Deal!”

Hey, listen, can we go back to the thought of werewolves looking like Hugh Jackman or Joe Manganiello…?

Movies That Genuinely Scared The Pants Off Of Me

My first memory of movie terror was at the tender age of five or six. “You’ll like it,” my mom assured me with a huge smile. “It’s a scary movie about aliens.”

No, Mom. It was not just a scary movie about aliens. It was the scary movie about aliens. It was ALIEN and it terrified me on so many levels I couldn’t even entertain the idea of watching that movie, or any of its sequels, until my mid twenties. Kane seemed fine, my ass! The second that thing burst from his chest at the dinner table, five year old Boo screamed and ran from the room in tears.

I am glad I manned up and watched the film later in life though. It is a fantastic flick, a true horror/sci-fi classic.

Before I divulge the title of the next movie that genuinely scared the pants off of me, I must tell you all a secret. As a child, I had this very bizarre fear that somebody was always watching me. It was a fear that made me close every curtain in the house as soon as it was too dark to see outside.

When I was six, I was positive things lurked outside my bedroom window. The fluffy clouds and rainbows curtains were only a brittle illusion and failed to distract me from the terrors that lay just beyond. For a long time that imagined terror was in the form of rabid dogs, black hellhounds with frothing mouths and red eyes. As I grew older, rabid dogs became rabid men, bedraggled and sinister with gaunt faces and rotted teeth.

No, I wasn’t abused as a child. If anything, I was abused by my morbid imagination, which has always been too vivid for my own good.

But I digress.

When I was about ten or eleven, my cousin told me to read this book called Watcher in the Woods by Florence Engel Randall. I loved this book. It was a ghost story and that’s totally my thing. And then Disney made the movie. My cousin and I decided to watch it at my grandma’s. In the woods. Where there isn’t another soul for miles. In the dark.

The next day, my cousin and I were traipsing through the seventeen acres of wooded land of my grandma’s property. After a while, we both stopped and faced each other. The only sound, wind rustling the leaves. The occasional creak of a swaying tree limb. He looked as scared as I felt.

“Um, I’m kind of creeped out. Go back to the house?” I asked. My cousin nodded emphatically. So we ran as fast as our little legs would carry us, too terrified to look behind us and see that there was nothing there.

Yes, all from a Disney movie.

When I was about thirteen, I stayed at my cousin’s (the same one as before) for a week that summer. He and my aunt lived in this old, brick Victorian in Marshfield, Wisconsin. And we had recently discovered the house was once a funeral home. Great. It was here my cousin introduced me to a little ol’ film called Evil Dead. My cousin, clearly not the scared little boy he was in the woods years ago, howled with laughter through the entire thing. I just desperately wanted that crazy bitch to stop giggling.

Afterwards, I made my cousin sit outside the bathroom door while I peed. I mean, you know, just in case the former funeral home had some demonic spirits or something. And that night, I slept with my head under the covers despite the summer heat, too afraid I’d see those milky white eyes and deranged smile if I removed them.  

And I’ll admit – to this day, I still can’t watch that movie alone.

The Exorcist. Need I say more?

The first Saw. I haven’t watched any of the others. Nor have I watched the original again. I had to sleep with the closet light on after watching that movie. I don’t like creepy shit in my closet. And I definitely don’t like creepy little hospital orderlies sneaking around in there, either.

The Descent. Theater screams. Dudes in front of me couldn’t stop laughing, because I was screaming every ten seconds.

Paranormal Activity. I slept with the lights on for a few nights in a row after watching this movie. Finally, my husband was like, “Hey, you keep leaving lights on at night. What gives?”

“Don’t judge,” I pleaded. “I got scared, okay?”

Dead Silence is another movie that touches my primal fear. It might be the sickeningly creepy ventriloquist dummy. Or it might just be the terrifying amount of absolute and utter genius contained within that wonderful little gem of a movie. The sheer brilliance, let alone the suspense, makes me shriek when I watch that movie.

James Wan and Leigh Whannell should feel honored. Not only have they genuinely scared the pants off of me with Saw and Dead Silence, they hold the crème de la crème of ghost stories: Insidious. Not only did this movie elicit a series of legendary theater screams, one of which was SO loud I was positive one of the other theatergoers would throw something at me, it made my post-movie bathroom trip a harrowing experience.

I was alone. Washing my hands. One of the stall doors groans as is it swayed shut. I bolted without even bothering to grab a paper towel to dry my hands. As I barrel out of the bathroom, my husband gives me a WTF-are-you-doing kind of look.  “I don’t want to be in there alone!” was all I could say.

Even though I saw that move a week ago, it still gets to me. I woke up at three this morning, thought about that movie, and was too scared to get out of bed to go to the bathroom. Instead, I tossed the blankets over my head, assured myself that my bladder wasn’t going to explode, and tried to think of fluffy clouds and rainbows instead.

Sans the rabid things behind them, of course.