I am continuing the school theme going back even further. I remember less of grade school but the following comes to forefront:
There were two grades per classroom as the class ahead of mine only had about 6 kids. My class had 10 to 14, I think. Grades 1 and 2 were taught by Mrs. Lambert, grades 3 and 4 by Mrs. Holmstrom, and 5 and 6 by Mrs. Prescott. I got my first pair of glasses while in Mrs. Holmstrom’s classes because I couldn’t see the blackboard clearly. Mrs. Prescott gave me my first poor mark to “take me down a peg because I was too much of a smarty pants.” Or so my mom always said. The other kids didn’t like me much because I was smarter than most of them.
I remember hating recess in the winter. We were all made to go outside and back then, girls weren’t allowed to wear slacks. We had to wear dresses and skirts. Kathie and I would huddle in a corner of the building out of the wind. The boys called Kathie, “Dirty A” and I never knew why. They weren’t very nice to either of us.
Warm weather found us jump roping or playing at horses. I loved horses, wanted to be a horse so I could run free.
Marlene was my best friend. I loved Marlene. She was beautiful. There’s no recollection of Donna, her step sister, who was our age but I remember visiting them at home as our parents were friends. By the end of elementary school, though, Marlene wasn’t much of a friend anymore because she began hanging with the girls who all considered me from the wrong end of town.
One time, Cathy Collins came to school with a coloring book based on a Disney movie. I don’t recall the movie but it was about white horses. Cathy let everyone color in her book but me. I didn’t want to color the horses white.
I remember drawing on the blackboard--- anatomy, astronomy, animals, etc. I’d copy pictures from books.
I got accolades for reading “A Tree Grows In Brooklyn” because it was such an adult book for a child.
I remember having a crush on Tom Henry… only recall his presence for about one year. I hit him with a snowball then was embarrassed for laughing over it.
Looking back, I think even then I was different. Guess everyone else knew it before I because I never knew why others didn’t like me. Then again, I didn’t want to be like them. I didn’t want to play the games everyone else played… too childish for me. I didn’t like to gossip. I didn’t play with dolls nor was I interested in girlish pursuits or conversation (if you can call girl talk conversation, ha ha.)
These are the names I remember: Doug Dunn, Kathie Brown, Marlene Cleeve, Debbie Burdick, Cathy Collins, John Tuthill, Charlie Kimball, Diana Swift (her mother later became the Kindergarten teacher of my sons,) and there were the Lufkin twins… Diane, Donna?? I can’t remember her brother’s name.
Oh yeah, there was David Kuegal. We drew names for the class Christmas party and he got mine. He gave me note paper, the kind old ladies used. I cried. All the other kids got cool kid stuff. He snapped, “At least I gave you something nice!” He was hurt by my tears. Now I can see that as a good gift for someone like me but back then I didn’t realize that although I was much older mentally than others my age there was still that part of me that was a child. (David was killed in an auto accident in high school.)
That’s it for my elementary school memories.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
I made contact with an old high school friend through classmates.com. Now lots of emotions are stirring. I believe high school years should be filled with happy memories but I remember little of those times. Those were not happy years for me. I was fearful and not liked much, ridiculed and ignored. I only remember being invited to one party and it was by a girl in the grade behind mine.
After all these years, can I put some semblance and closure on this? Oh, hey, they all talk about putting closure on things, but is it possible? I seldom talk about my high and junior high years. They run together because that is when I went to the Exeter schools from my small town of Kensington. I was never in the top group of classes but in the second… always second… but those two groups were mostly made up of the more popular, higher classed, more intelligent… though popular I was not.
The first year I was bussed to Exeter, the junior and senior high students were in one building. The old, original building was where most of the seventh and eighth graders had their classes while the high school kids were in the newer rooms. The grades were divided into smaller classes. If I remember correctly, I was in 7E with 7F holding the highest level and most popular. I was never popular, not even popular enough for the rest of the 7E kids. Looking back, I now say I was quite intelligent but socially backward.
What do I remember?
The rooms were darker due to the oldness and architecture style. I remember the boy behind me in English class, Bobby Spoerl, constantly kicking the back of my chair to be mean. Miss Karst finally moved me. I would take an F (E or 0 however they were grading at the time) rather than stand up in front of the class and be ridiculed. One time, though, I remember doing the poem “For a Dead Kitten.” Wait a minute, maybe that was art class because I drew a picture.
The math department was in the newer section of the school and the shorter route from the art class was across the courtyard. One day I wore a shirt that buttoned down the back and a couple of buttons came undone. I could hear the kids laughing behind my back all the way to math class. Finally one girl told me what they were all laughing about and she helped me with my shirt.
Beth Michaud and Theresa Connor befriended me early on. I was still wearing knee socks and they taught me about nylons and make up. My parents brought me to stay over at Beth’s in Newfields and we walked to Theresa’s. Theresa’s family owned Connor Bottling Works. I can’t remember when or why the friendships dissolved.
A new girl moved to Kensington. Vicky Iliffe and I became friends and as she took a different bus, would wait for me in the locker room. Oh yeah, the seventh grade locker room was in the basement while the lockers of the upper classes were along the halls. One day, Vicky wasn’t there and I waited until I was almost late for home room. Later I found her with a bunch of other girls. She didn’t want to be my friend any more. What was wrong with me?
In one class, I think it was geography, we were supposed to read newspaper stories and report the next day. My family did not get a newspaper. It was horrifying to stand up in class not knowing the news. I don’t remember what came of that.
In spite of everything, I made the honor roll every term, (good thing they didn’t count socialization.) The only time I missed was in eighth grade when I failed cooking. It wasn’t that I could not cook, it was not knowing the purpose of yeast or the why of this component, etc.
We were at the new Exeter Area Junior High School down the street. Again, I was in the second to the top class. I vaguely remember art class and studying Manet when others were doing Monet. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why I didn’t have many friends. I didn’t want to do what everyone else was doing. I went to a couple of school dances and the only boys who would dance with me were the “bad” boys of the lower classes. A slow dance would be mostly rocking in place with little movement until it felt like my legs were going to cramp up.
Home Ec was a must for girls while boys got shop. Outside of the cooking failure in eighth grade, there was sewing. My mother did not sew and it was a challenge to pick out material and supplies but I was able to make my first dress--- not a raving accomplishment. There was a fashion show afterwards which I hated because it involved being up in front of others and the chance to be laughed at. I tried to knit a hat but that was a total failure. The teacher tried to help me turn it into a pillow. That failed. I demonstrated making a gum wrapper chain which was my best effort of that class. (In thinking back now, I wonder if I had had the friendship of other girls if my trials at girly things would’ve had better results.)
Ninth grade and we were back to the older building with most of these years, what little I remember, all run together. Art class was foremost although I was never as good as some of the others. One time I actually had the nerve to argue with the teacher, Mrs. Sanborn, over a grade. I believed I deserved an A. For once, I really liked what I did.
Sharon Belanger was a good friend and we shared an English class. (I don’t remember her in any of my other classes.) Mrs. Scaletti handed out “Weekly Readers.” Sharon turned around to ask the date and when I replied, I got in trouble and points were taken away from the mid-term. A “Weekly Reader” was our mid-term? Evidently Sharon and I were talking when Mrs. Scaletti informed us of that. Later, Sharon wanted to go apologize to the teacher. I remember standing outside the door and having Mrs. Scaletti come out… is that right? Ah, faulty memory after all these years. That had to be 1968? Maybe.
The following year, we wanted to sign up for woodworking, which only boys took. I chickened out.
I remember history class and David Millette (who in after school years, with his wife, hung out with Bill and I.) I remember the room. Mr. McKinley was the teacher… I think. I’m not sure why this sticks in my mind but I think there were some good times in this class.
I only wrote one term paper in all those years. History, Mr. Willey. I got a D. I was so disappointed because I’d never worked on anything so hard. School work normally came very easy to me. I’d read something and I’d either know it or didn’t. To this day I don’t know why I got a D.
I studied Latin for three years. I did very well because it was not a spoken language. A two year stint with Spanish wasn’t as successful because other classmates practiced with each other and no one would talk to me.
One highlight was that one year there was an experiment to allow students to leave school grounds during study periods. I signed up for geometry then wanted to drop it after two weeks. The teacher wanted the reason as I was getting A’s on all the tests. I didn’t know why I was getting the correct answers plus I wanted a free period which I used to go down the street to work with handicap children.
I also remember playing cards during study hall in the cafeteria, but that was not with anyone in my classes. Guess I got along better with kids in the “lower” classes.
I remember taking extra gym classes with another girl, Donna George. Donna’s father and mine were good friends so I’d known her forever. I remember doing hand springs and back bends. I did not like the balance beam. We were both small. The only sport I tried to do after school was intramural basketball. I got discouraged because other girls reached over my head to grab the ball but when I did it to them, I’d get called for a foul. Sometimes even the teachers sided against me. As it turned out, I could not do after school events anyway as there wasn’t a way to get home unless I walked--- which I did a few times.
Perhaps this all goes with the “What came first, the chicken or the egg” question. Was I so very insecure before high school or did high school make me hate myself? I think high school simply exacerbated the problem and even with guidance counseling, the situation never resolved. I became an adult believing that I didn’t know how to be a friend, that no one would ever like me, and unfortunately I ended up in marriages that supported that belief. My second husband went so far to tell me that no one would ever love me.
It’s sad that I look back and find few happy memories and yet, I don’t think I had a bad childhood. I was different, I guess. I didn’t want to do things that the popular girls participated in and I fully regret the one time, in eighth grade, I joined in and helped torment a girl in the locker room just because everyone else was doing it. Her name was Cheryl and she came from a… well, let’s just say she had less than… and she wasn’t clean and there was an odor, so girls would leave her bars of soap or throw things. I’m sorry and shamed to have been part of that especially after the ridicule I often received. It certainly didn’t make those other girls like me any more than before.
I got pregnant the summer after my junior year and did not go to school that year. My husband quit school the year before and told me he didn’t want a wife smarter than him. (Too late.) Of course if I had known that a number of other girls got pregnant that same summer, I might have gone back. I didn’t graduate with my class but I did go back the following year. Enough credits were accumulated so I was able to end my studies in January and received my diploma in June. I didn’t attend ceremonies. The class of ‘73 was not my class, though I got along better with them than with those of the previous year. Looking back, it’s ironic that the kids most accepting of me were in the class before mine, ’71 and the class after, ’73.
Yes, there is sadness. I wish I could look back on those years with joy and remembrances of happy events. Sometimes I wish I could return to roam the halls once more but I’d be as invisible now as I was then. Both my children graduated from Exeter High. The teacher who gave me that D on my term paper was principal by then.
In the writing of this article, I dared to return. I feel like a ghost, though. If anyone remembers anything of me, I’m sure it’s just a shadow. With the classmates.com site, there were a couple of initial contacts but little results. One woman and I keep in touch but she was from a different class. I am hoping that Sharon and I will be friends again. The last time I saw her was on my 18th birthday. I don’t know what happened… maybe I’ll find out. One thing is sure and that is I am in a better place inside myself now. I see each day as a joy and an adventure.
Perhaps this is the first step in remembering more. Who knows, good might come of this. If anything, it will help me better understand who and what I am. No regrets. Move forward. Do the best you can.
After all these years, can I put some semblance and closure on this? Oh, hey, they all talk about putting closure on things, but is it possible? I seldom talk about my high and junior high years. They run together because that is when I went to the Exeter schools from my small town of Kensington. I was never in the top group of classes but in the second… always second… but those two groups were mostly made up of the more popular, higher classed, more intelligent… though popular I was not.
The first year I was bussed to Exeter, the junior and senior high students were in one building. The old, original building was where most of the seventh and eighth graders had their classes while the high school kids were in the newer rooms. The grades were divided into smaller classes. If I remember correctly, I was in 7E with 7F holding the highest level and most popular. I was never popular, not even popular enough for the rest of the 7E kids. Looking back, I now say I was quite intelligent but socially backward.
What do I remember?
The rooms were darker due to the oldness and architecture style. I remember the boy behind me in English class, Bobby Spoerl, constantly kicking the back of my chair to be mean. Miss Karst finally moved me. I would take an F (E or 0 however they were grading at the time) rather than stand up in front of the class and be ridiculed. One time, though, I remember doing the poem “For a Dead Kitten.” Wait a minute, maybe that was art class because I drew a picture.
The math department was in the newer section of the school and the shorter route from the art class was across the courtyard. One day I wore a shirt that buttoned down the back and a couple of buttons came undone. I could hear the kids laughing behind my back all the way to math class. Finally one girl told me what they were all laughing about and she helped me with my shirt.
Beth Michaud and Theresa Connor befriended me early on. I was still wearing knee socks and they taught me about nylons and make up. My parents brought me to stay over at Beth’s in Newfields and we walked to Theresa’s. Theresa’s family owned Connor Bottling Works. I can’t remember when or why the friendships dissolved.
A new girl moved to Kensington. Vicky Iliffe and I became friends and as she took a different bus, would wait for me in the locker room. Oh yeah, the seventh grade locker room was in the basement while the lockers of the upper classes were along the halls. One day, Vicky wasn’t there and I waited until I was almost late for home room. Later I found her with a bunch of other girls. She didn’t want to be my friend any more. What was wrong with me?
In one class, I think it was geography, we were supposed to read newspaper stories and report the next day. My family did not get a newspaper. It was horrifying to stand up in class not knowing the news. I don’t remember what came of that.
In spite of everything, I made the honor roll every term, (good thing they didn’t count socialization.) The only time I missed was in eighth grade when I failed cooking. It wasn’t that I could not cook, it was not knowing the purpose of yeast or the why of this component, etc.
We were at the new Exeter Area Junior High School down the street. Again, I was in the second to the top class. I vaguely remember art class and studying Manet when others were doing Monet. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why I didn’t have many friends. I didn’t want to do what everyone else was doing. I went to a couple of school dances and the only boys who would dance with me were the “bad” boys of the lower classes. A slow dance would be mostly rocking in place with little movement until it felt like my legs were going to cramp up.
Home Ec was a must for girls while boys got shop. Outside of the cooking failure in eighth grade, there was sewing. My mother did not sew and it was a challenge to pick out material and supplies but I was able to make my first dress--- not a raving accomplishment. There was a fashion show afterwards which I hated because it involved being up in front of others and the chance to be laughed at. I tried to knit a hat but that was a total failure. The teacher tried to help me turn it into a pillow. That failed. I demonstrated making a gum wrapper chain which was my best effort of that class. (In thinking back now, I wonder if I had had the friendship of other girls if my trials at girly things would’ve had better results.)
Ninth grade and we were back to the older building with most of these years, what little I remember, all run together. Art class was foremost although I was never as good as some of the others. One time I actually had the nerve to argue with the teacher, Mrs. Sanborn, over a grade. I believed I deserved an A. For once, I really liked what I did.
Sharon Belanger was a good friend and we shared an English class. (I don’t remember her in any of my other classes.) Mrs. Scaletti handed out “Weekly Readers.” Sharon turned around to ask the date and when I replied, I got in trouble and points were taken away from the mid-term. A “Weekly Reader” was our mid-term? Evidently Sharon and I were talking when Mrs. Scaletti informed us of that. Later, Sharon wanted to go apologize to the teacher. I remember standing outside the door and having Mrs. Scaletti come out… is that right? Ah, faulty memory after all these years. That had to be 1968? Maybe.
The following year, we wanted to sign up for woodworking, which only boys took. I chickened out.
I remember history class and David Millette (who in after school years, with his wife, hung out with Bill and I.) I remember the room. Mr. McKinley was the teacher… I think. I’m not sure why this sticks in my mind but I think there were some good times in this class.
I only wrote one term paper in all those years. History, Mr. Willey. I got a D. I was so disappointed because I’d never worked on anything so hard. School work normally came very easy to me. I’d read something and I’d either know it or didn’t. To this day I don’t know why I got a D.
I studied Latin for three years. I did very well because it was not a spoken language. A two year stint with Spanish wasn’t as successful because other classmates practiced with each other and no one would talk to me.
One highlight was that one year there was an experiment to allow students to leave school grounds during study periods. I signed up for geometry then wanted to drop it after two weeks. The teacher wanted the reason as I was getting A’s on all the tests. I didn’t know why I was getting the correct answers plus I wanted a free period which I used to go down the street to work with handicap children.
I also remember playing cards during study hall in the cafeteria, but that was not with anyone in my classes. Guess I got along better with kids in the “lower” classes.
I remember taking extra gym classes with another girl, Donna George. Donna’s father and mine were good friends so I’d known her forever. I remember doing hand springs and back bends. I did not like the balance beam. We were both small. The only sport I tried to do after school was intramural basketball. I got discouraged because other girls reached over my head to grab the ball but when I did it to them, I’d get called for a foul. Sometimes even the teachers sided against me. As it turned out, I could not do after school events anyway as there wasn’t a way to get home unless I walked--- which I did a few times.
Perhaps this all goes with the “What came first, the chicken or the egg” question. Was I so very insecure before high school or did high school make me hate myself? I think high school simply exacerbated the problem and even with guidance counseling, the situation never resolved. I became an adult believing that I didn’t know how to be a friend, that no one would ever like me, and unfortunately I ended up in marriages that supported that belief. My second husband went so far to tell me that no one would ever love me.
It’s sad that I look back and find few happy memories and yet, I don’t think I had a bad childhood. I was different, I guess. I didn’t want to do things that the popular girls participated in and I fully regret the one time, in eighth grade, I joined in and helped torment a girl in the locker room just because everyone else was doing it. Her name was Cheryl and she came from a… well, let’s just say she had less than… and she wasn’t clean and there was an odor, so girls would leave her bars of soap or throw things. I’m sorry and shamed to have been part of that especially after the ridicule I often received. It certainly didn’t make those other girls like me any more than before.
I got pregnant the summer after my junior year and did not go to school that year. My husband quit school the year before and told me he didn’t want a wife smarter than him. (Too late.) Of course if I had known that a number of other girls got pregnant that same summer, I might have gone back. I didn’t graduate with my class but I did go back the following year. Enough credits were accumulated so I was able to end my studies in January and received my diploma in June. I didn’t attend ceremonies. The class of ‘73 was not my class, though I got along better with them than with those of the previous year. Looking back, it’s ironic that the kids most accepting of me were in the class before mine, ’71 and the class after, ’73.
Yes, there is sadness. I wish I could look back on those years with joy and remembrances of happy events. Sometimes I wish I could return to roam the halls once more but I’d be as invisible now as I was then. Both my children graduated from Exeter High. The teacher who gave me that D on my term paper was principal by then.
In the writing of this article, I dared to return. I feel like a ghost, though. If anyone remembers anything of me, I’m sure it’s just a shadow. With the classmates.com site, there were a couple of initial contacts but little results. One woman and I keep in touch but she was from a different class. I am hoping that Sharon and I will be friends again. The last time I saw her was on my 18th birthday. I don’t know what happened… maybe I’ll find out. One thing is sure and that is I am in a better place inside myself now. I see each day as a joy and an adventure.
Perhaps this is the first step in remembering more. Who knows, good might come of this. If anything, it will help me better understand who and what I am. No regrets. Move forward. Do the best you can.
I made contact with an old high school friend through classmates.com. Now lots of emotions are stirring. I believe high school years should be filled with happy memories but I remember little of those times. Those were not happy years for me. I was fearful and not liked much, ridiculed and ignored. I only remember being invited to one party and it was by a girl in the grade behind mine.
After all these years, can I put some semblance and closure on this? Oh, hey, they all talk about putting closure on things, but is it possible? I seldom talk about my high and junior high years. They run together because that is when I went to the Exeter schools from my small town of Kensington. I was never in the top group of classes but in the second… always second… but those two groups were mostly made up of the more popular, higher classed, more intelligent… though popular I was not.
The first year I was bussed to Exeter, the junior and senior high students were in one building. The old, original building was where most of the seventh and eighth graders had their classes while the high school kids were in the newer rooms. The grades were divided into smaller classes. If I remember correctly, I was in 7E with 7F holding the highest level and most popular. I was never popular, not even popular enough for the rest of the 7E kids. Looking back, I now say I was quite intelligent but socially backward.
What do I remember?
The rooms were darker due to the oldness and architecture style. I remember the boy behind me in English class, Bobby Spoerl, constantly kicking the back of my chair to be mean. Miss Karst finally moved me. I would take an F (E or 0 however they were grading at the time) rather than stand up in front of the class and be ridiculed. One time, though, I remember doing the poem “For a Dead Kitten.” Wait a minute, maybe that was art class because I drew a picture.
The math department was in the newer section of the school and the shorter route from the art class was across the courtyard. One day I wore a shirt that buttoned down the back and a couple of buttons came undone. I could hear the kids laughing behind my back all the way to math class. Finally one girl told me what they were all laughing about and she helped me with my shirt.
Beth Michaud and Theresa Connor befriended me early on. I was still wearing knee socks and they taught me about nylons and make up. My parents brought me to stay over at Beth’s in Newfields and we walked to Theresa’s. Theresa’s family owned Connor Bottling Works. I can’t remember when or why the friendships dissolved.
A new girl moved to Kensington. Vicky Iliffe and I became friends and as she took a different bus, would wait for me in the locker room. Oh yeah, the seventh grade locker room was in the basement while the lockers of the upper classes were along the halls. One day, Vicky wasn’t there and I waited until I was almost late for home room. Later I found her with a bunch of other girls. She didn’t want to be my friend any more. What was wrong with me?
In one class, I think it was geography, we were supposed to read newspaper stories and report the next day. My family did not get a newspaper. It was horrifying to stand up in class not knowing the news. I don’t remember what came of that.
In spite of everything, I made the honor roll every term, (good thing they didn’t count socialization.) The only time I missed was in eighth grade when I failed cooking. It wasn’t that I could not cook, it was not knowing the purpose of yeast or the why of this component, etc.
We were at the new Exeter Area Junior High School down the street. Again, I was in the second to the top class. I vaguely remember art class and studying Manet when others were doing Monet. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why I didn’t have many friends. I didn’t want to do what everyone else was doing. I went to a couple of school dances and the only boys who would dance with me were the “bad” boys of the lower classes. A slow dance would be mostly rocking in place with little movement until it felt like my legs were going to cramp up.
Home Ec was a must for girls while boys got shop. Outside of the cooking failure in eighth grade, there was sewing. My mother did not sew and it was a challenge to pick out material and supplies but I was able to make my first dress--- not a raving accomplishment. There was a fashion show afterwards which I hated because it involved being up in front of others and the chance to be laughed at. I tried to knit a hat but that was a total failure. The teacher tried to help me turn it into a pillow. That failed. I demonstrated making a gum wrapper chain which was my best effort of that class. (In thinking back now, I wonder if I had had the friendship of other girls if my trials at girly things would’ve had better results.)
Ninth grade and we were back to the older building with most of these years, what little I remember, all run together. Art class was foremost although I was never as good as some of the others. One time I actually had the nerve to argue with the teacher, Mrs. Sanborn, over a grade. I believed I deserved an A. For once, I really liked what I did.
Sharon Belanger was a good friend and we shared an English class. (I don’t remember her in any of my other classes.) Mrs. Scaletti handed out “Weekly Readers.” Sharon turned around to ask the date and when I replied, I got in trouble and points were taken away from the mid-term. A “Weekly Reader” was our mid-term? Evidently Sharon and I were talking when Mrs. Scaletti informed us of that. Later, Sharon wanted to go apologize to the teacher. I remember standing outside the door and having Mrs. Scaletti come out… is that right? Ah, faulty memory after all these years. That had to be 1968? Maybe.
The following year, we wanted to sign up for woodworking, which only boys took. I chickened out.
I remember history class and David Millette (who in after school years, with his wife, hung out with Bill and I.) I remember the room. Mr. McKinley was the teacher… I think. I’m not sure why this sticks in my mind but I think there were some good times in this class.
I only wrote one term paper in all those years. History, Mr. Willey. I got a D. I was so disappointed because I’d never worked on anything so hard. School work normally came very easy to me. I’d read something and I’d either know it or didn’t. To this day I don’t know why I got a D.
I studied Latin for three years. I did very well because it was not a spoken language. A two year stint with Spanish wasn’t as successful because other classmates practiced with each other and no one would talk to me.
One highlight was that one year there was an experiment to allow students to leave school grounds during study periods. I signed up for geometry then wanted to drop it after two weeks. The teacher wanted the reason as I was getting A’s on all the tests. I didn’t know why I was getting the correct answers plus I wanted a free period which I used to go down the street to work with handicap children.
I also remember playing cards during study hall in the cafeteria, but that was not with anyone in my classes. Guess I got along better with kids in the “lower” classes.
I remember taking extra gym classes with another girl, Donna George. Donna’s father and mine were good friends so I’d known her forever. I remember doing hand springs and back bends. I did not like the balance beam. We were both small. The only sport I tried to do after school was intramural basketball. I got discouraged because other girls reached over my head to grab the ball but when I did it to them, I’d get called for a foul. Sometimes even the teachers sided against me. As it turned out, I could not do after school events anyway as there wasn’t a way to get home unless I walked--- which I did a few times.
Perhaps this all goes with the “What came first, the chicken or the egg” question. Was I so very insecure before high school or did high school make me hate myself? I think high school simply exacerbated the problem and even with guidance counseling, the situation never resolved. I became an adult believing that I didn’t know how to be a friend, that no one would ever like me, and unfortunately I ended up in marriages that supported that belief. My second husband went so far to tell me that no one would ever love me.
It’s sad that I look back and find few happy memories and yet, I don’t think I had a bad childhood. I was different, I guess. I didn’t want to do things that the popular girls participated in and I fully regret the one time, in eighth grade, I joined in and helped torment a girl in the locker room just because everyone else was doing it. Her name was Cheryl and she came from a… well, let’s just say she had less than… and she wasn’t clean and there was an odor, so girls would leave her bars of soap or throw things. I’m sorry and shamed to have been part of that especially after the ridicule I often received. It certainly didn’t make those other girls like me any more than before.
I got pregnant the summer after my junior year and did not go to school that year. My husband quit school the year before and told me he didn’t want a wife smarter than him. (Too late.) Of course if I had known that a number of other girls got pregnant that same summer, I might have gone back. I didn’t graduate with my class but I did go back the following year. Enough credits were accumulated so I was able to end my studies in January and received my diploma in June. I didn’t attend ceremonies. The class of ‘73 was not my class, though I got along better with them than with those of the previous year. Looking back, it’s ironic that the kids most accepting of me were in the class before mine, ’71 and the class after, ’73.
Yes, there is sadness. I wish I could look back on those years with joy and remembrances of happy events. Sometimes I wish I could return to roam the halls once more but I’d be as invisible now as I was then. Both my children graduated from Exeter High. The teacher who gave me that D on my term paper was principal by then.
In the writing of this article, I dared to return. I feel like a ghost, though. If anyone remembers anything of me, I’m sure it’s just a shadow. With the classmates.com site, there were a couple of initial contacts but little results. One woman and I keep in touch but she was from a different class. I am hoping that Sharon and I will be friends again. The last time I saw her was on my 18th birthday. I don’t know what happened… maybe I’ll find out. One thing is sure and that is I am in a better place inside myself now. I see each day as a joy and an adventure.
Perhaps this is the first step in remembering more. Who knows, good might come of this. If anything, it will help me better understand who and what I am. No regrets. Move forward. Do the best you can.
After all these years, can I put some semblance and closure on this? Oh, hey, they all talk about putting closure on things, but is it possible? I seldom talk about my high and junior high years. They run together because that is when I went to the Exeter schools from my small town of Kensington. I was never in the top group of classes but in the second… always second… but those two groups were mostly made up of the more popular, higher classed, more intelligent… though popular I was not.
The first year I was bussed to Exeter, the junior and senior high students were in one building. The old, original building was where most of the seventh and eighth graders had their classes while the high school kids were in the newer rooms. The grades were divided into smaller classes. If I remember correctly, I was in 7E with 7F holding the highest level and most popular. I was never popular, not even popular enough for the rest of the 7E kids. Looking back, I now say I was quite intelligent but socially backward.
What do I remember?
The rooms were darker due to the oldness and architecture style. I remember the boy behind me in English class, Bobby Spoerl, constantly kicking the back of my chair to be mean. Miss Karst finally moved me. I would take an F (E or 0 however they were grading at the time) rather than stand up in front of the class and be ridiculed. One time, though, I remember doing the poem “For a Dead Kitten.” Wait a minute, maybe that was art class because I drew a picture.
The math department was in the newer section of the school and the shorter route from the art class was across the courtyard. One day I wore a shirt that buttoned down the back and a couple of buttons came undone. I could hear the kids laughing behind my back all the way to math class. Finally one girl told me what they were all laughing about and she helped me with my shirt.
Beth Michaud and Theresa Connor befriended me early on. I was still wearing knee socks and they taught me about nylons and make up. My parents brought me to stay over at Beth’s in Newfields and we walked to Theresa’s. Theresa’s family owned Connor Bottling Works. I can’t remember when or why the friendships dissolved.
A new girl moved to Kensington. Vicky Iliffe and I became friends and as she took a different bus, would wait for me in the locker room. Oh yeah, the seventh grade locker room was in the basement while the lockers of the upper classes were along the halls. One day, Vicky wasn’t there and I waited until I was almost late for home room. Later I found her with a bunch of other girls. She didn’t want to be my friend any more. What was wrong with me?
In one class, I think it was geography, we were supposed to read newspaper stories and report the next day. My family did not get a newspaper. It was horrifying to stand up in class not knowing the news. I don’t remember what came of that.
In spite of everything, I made the honor roll every term, (good thing they didn’t count socialization.) The only time I missed was in eighth grade when I failed cooking. It wasn’t that I could not cook, it was not knowing the purpose of yeast or the why of this component, etc.
We were at the new Exeter Area Junior High School down the street. Again, I was in the second to the top class. I vaguely remember art class and studying Manet when others were doing Monet. I suppose that’s one of the reasons why I didn’t have many friends. I didn’t want to do what everyone else was doing. I went to a couple of school dances and the only boys who would dance with me were the “bad” boys of the lower classes. A slow dance would be mostly rocking in place with little movement until it felt like my legs were going to cramp up.
Home Ec was a must for girls while boys got shop. Outside of the cooking failure in eighth grade, there was sewing. My mother did not sew and it was a challenge to pick out material and supplies but I was able to make my first dress--- not a raving accomplishment. There was a fashion show afterwards which I hated because it involved being up in front of others and the chance to be laughed at. I tried to knit a hat but that was a total failure. The teacher tried to help me turn it into a pillow. That failed. I demonstrated making a gum wrapper chain which was my best effort of that class. (In thinking back now, I wonder if I had had the friendship of other girls if my trials at girly things would’ve had better results.)
Ninth grade and we were back to the older building with most of these years, what little I remember, all run together. Art class was foremost although I was never as good as some of the others. One time I actually had the nerve to argue with the teacher, Mrs. Sanborn, over a grade. I believed I deserved an A. For once, I really liked what I did.
Sharon Belanger was a good friend and we shared an English class. (I don’t remember her in any of my other classes.) Mrs. Scaletti handed out “Weekly Readers.” Sharon turned around to ask the date and when I replied, I got in trouble and points were taken away from the mid-term. A “Weekly Reader” was our mid-term? Evidently Sharon and I were talking when Mrs. Scaletti informed us of that. Later, Sharon wanted to go apologize to the teacher. I remember standing outside the door and having Mrs. Scaletti come out… is that right? Ah, faulty memory after all these years. That had to be 1968? Maybe.
The following year, we wanted to sign up for woodworking, which only boys took. I chickened out.
I remember history class and David Millette (who in after school years, with his wife, hung out with Bill and I.) I remember the room. Mr. McKinley was the teacher… I think. I’m not sure why this sticks in my mind but I think there were some good times in this class.
I only wrote one term paper in all those years. History, Mr. Willey. I got a D. I was so disappointed because I’d never worked on anything so hard. School work normally came very easy to me. I’d read something and I’d either know it or didn’t. To this day I don’t know why I got a D.
I studied Latin for three years. I did very well because it was not a spoken language. A two year stint with Spanish wasn’t as successful because other classmates practiced with each other and no one would talk to me.
One highlight was that one year there was an experiment to allow students to leave school grounds during study periods. I signed up for geometry then wanted to drop it after two weeks. The teacher wanted the reason as I was getting A’s on all the tests. I didn’t know why I was getting the correct answers plus I wanted a free period which I used to go down the street to work with handicap children.
I also remember playing cards during study hall in the cafeteria, but that was not with anyone in my classes. Guess I got along better with kids in the “lower” classes.
I remember taking extra gym classes with another girl, Donna George. Donna’s father and mine were good friends so I’d known her forever. I remember doing hand springs and back bends. I did not like the balance beam. We were both small. The only sport I tried to do after school was intramural basketball. I got discouraged because other girls reached over my head to grab the ball but when I did it to them, I’d get called for a foul. Sometimes even the teachers sided against me. As it turned out, I could not do after school events anyway as there wasn’t a way to get home unless I walked--- which I did a few times.
Perhaps this all goes with the “What came first, the chicken or the egg” question. Was I so very insecure before high school or did high school make me hate myself? I think high school simply exacerbated the problem and even with guidance counseling, the situation never resolved. I became an adult believing that I didn’t know how to be a friend, that no one would ever like me, and unfortunately I ended up in marriages that supported that belief. My second husband went so far to tell me that no one would ever love me.
It’s sad that I look back and find few happy memories and yet, I don’t think I had a bad childhood. I was different, I guess. I didn’t want to do things that the popular girls participated in and I fully regret the one time, in eighth grade, I joined in and helped torment a girl in the locker room just because everyone else was doing it. Her name was Cheryl and she came from a… well, let’s just say she had less than… and she wasn’t clean and there was an odor, so girls would leave her bars of soap or throw things. I’m sorry and shamed to have been part of that especially after the ridicule I often received. It certainly didn’t make those other girls like me any more than before.
I got pregnant the summer after my junior year and did not go to school that year. My husband quit school the year before and told me he didn’t want a wife smarter than him. (Too late.) Of course if I had known that a number of other girls got pregnant that same summer, I might have gone back. I didn’t graduate with my class but I did go back the following year. Enough credits were accumulated so I was able to end my studies in January and received my diploma in June. I didn’t attend ceremonies. The class of ‘73 was not my class, though I got along better with them than with those of the previous year. Looking back, it’s ironic that the kids most accepting of me were in the class before mine, ’71 and the class after, ’73.
Yes, there is sadness. I wish I could look back on those years with joy and remembrances of happy events. Sometimes I wish I could return to roam the halls once more but I’d be as invisible now as I was then. Both my children graduated from Exeter High. The teacher who gave me that D on my term paper was principal by then.
In the writing of this article, I dared to return. I feel like a ghost, though. If anyone remembers anything of me, I’m sure it’s just a shadow. With the classmates.com site, there were a couple of initial contacts but little results. One woman and I keep in touch but she was from a different class. I am hoping that Sharon and I will be friends again. The last time I saw her was on my 18th birthday. I don’t know what happened… maybe I’ll find out. One thing is sure and that is I am in a better place inside myself now. I see each day as a joy and an adventure.
Perhaps this is the first step in remembering more. Who knows, good might come of this. If anything, it will help me better understand who and what I am. No regrets. Move forward. Do the best you can.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
One thing about having so many “hobbies” is that it is hard to choose which to work on, and when I bounce from one project to another, some things get left by the wayside or undone. I operate on feeling, what I feel like doing and today I may do charcoal drawing but tomorrow the feelings may lead me to work on photos. I have many unfinished projects.
I don’t want to give anything up, though. I enjoy different mediums. For me, it’s an adventure. I never know where it’s going to lead me. Be it writing a poem or drawing, the end result is always a surprise. I find this fascinating. What leads me? Because, surely, the moment I stop trying for a specific effect something else moves. The poem will take a twist or the drawing will take on a life of its own.
It’s not exactly the same for each project. Poems are usually quick and my writing style is one of letting myself go to the words. Once I start a line or two, the poem will write itself. I’m along for the ride. The last lines sometimes make me giddy with its revelation. I had no idea it would go there.
Charcoal landscape drawing is more time consuming. I lay the foundation in about an hour to an hour and a half. I put in detail. Some is okay, some is not. I go through a period where I don’t like it much at all. I get frustrated and walk away. Days or weeks will go by before I am called back. There are times when I will take a drawing off the easel and tape it to the wall so I can work on another. Eventually, I go back and when I surrender myself to the drawing, the picture comes alive. It will still resemble the photograph from which I am working, but the picture itself decides the finish.
A similarity between poetry and drawing is that I get a distinct message when done. I hear a commanding, “Done,” in my head. “Done,” and writing anything more lessens the poem or adding to the picture doesn’t work. When I am finished, I am finished. No ifs, ands, or buts.
Time of day and place also play a part in my artistic endeavors. Poetry is written anywhere, often when I am not at home. I always carry notebook and pens. I never leave home without camera, either. I want to be prepared for whatever will catch my eye when I am out in the world. Other writing, editing photos and printing note cards are done in the mornings. I like to get up around 4 a.m. to be at my desk by 5. Journaling will come first before turning on the computer.
Drawing is done in the afternoons when the light is better in the studio. Plus it is here where I’ll mat photographs and do framing. The studio is also the place where I work on multi-media combo pieces and jewelry making, although I haven’t done either of those in awhile. The sewing machine is downstairs, too. There are plans running amok in my head.
The most important aspect of my art is to surrender to the moment when I can, when I remember to let go. Sometimes I try to fight it to remain in control or do what I think needs to be done. However I end up in frustration. It’s only when I give myself over to the moment of creation that the magic happens and I am pleased with the outcome.
When the muse comes, you have to listen.
I don’t want to give anything up, though. I enjoy different mediums. For me, it’s an adventure. I never know where it’s going to lead me. Be it writing a poem or drawing, the end result is always a surprise. I find this fascinating. What leads me? Because, surely, the moment I stop trying for a specific effect something else moves. The poem will take a twist or the drawing will take on a life of its own.
It’s not exactly the same for each project. Poems are usually quick and my writing style is one of letting myself go to the words. Once I start a line or two, the poem will write itself. I’m along for the ride. The last lines sometimes make me giddy with its revelation. I had no idea it would go there.
Charcoal landscape drawing is more time consuming. I lay the foundation in about an hour to an hour and a half. I put in detail. Some is okay, some is not. I go through a period where I don’t like it much at all. I get frustrated and walk away. Days or weeks will go by before I am called back. There are times when I will take a drawing off the easel and tape it to the wall so I can work on another. Eventually, I go back and when I surrender myself to the drawing, the picture comes alive. It will still resemble the photograph from which I am working, but the picture itself decides the finish.
A similarity between poetry and drawing is that I get a distinct message when done. I hear a commanding, “Done,” in my head. “Done,” and writing anything more lessens the poem or adding to the picture doesn’t work. When I am finished, I am finished. No ifs, ands, or buts.
Time of day and place also play a part in my artistic endeavors. Poetry is written anywhere, often when I am not at home. I always carry notebook and pens. I never leave home without camera, either. I want to be prepared for whatever will catch my eye when I am out in the world. Other writing, editing photos and printing note cards are done in the mornings. I like to get up around 4 a.m. to be at my desk by 5. Journaling will come first before turning on the computer.
Drawing is done in the afternoons when the light is better in the studio. Plus it is here where I’ll mat photographs and do framing. The studio is also the place where I work on multi-media combo pieces and jewelry making, although I haven’t done either of those in awhile. The sewing machine is downstairs, too. There are plans running amok in my head.
The most important aspect of my art is to surrender to the moment when I can, when I remember to let go. Sometimes I try to fight it to remain in control or do what I think needs to be done. However I end up in frustration. It’s only when I give myself over to the moment of creation that the magic happens and I am pleased with the outcome.
When the muse comes, you have to listen.
Saturday, January 09, 2010
Sometimes I wonder if it is possible to be a writer and an artist. For awhile my writing was on hold outside of an occasional article and daily journaling. I needed to concentrate on the art work and build an inventory. The summer months turned to fall and now it is winter and it’s a struggle to find my writing feet. The spark isn’t here.
I never thought I’d stop writing and I won’t. I’m simply enjoying a bit of writer’s block. I don’t intend to choose between writing and other art mediums. I don’t intend to stick to one art form. I cannot limit myself when there are so many avenues to explore… and in the exploring, the writing about my findings. See, it’ll tie in.
Perhaps I should let out my secret… I’m not doing much art these days either. A wrench was thrown in the works when in the beginning of December; I not only came down sick, but injured my back at the same time. My back is fine now and I am feeling much better however, I make all these plans in my head in the morning but not much is accomplished by end of day.
Too easily I get discouraged. A wrong word will send me in a tailspin. A question will topple my coping abilities. I collapse in front of computer or tv or take naps to numb the mind but this is not the road to make 2010 more of a success than 2009.
I am the one that holds the key to that success. I am the one to “make it happen.” I cannot be successful participating in mind numbing activities. Great advice is given and I want to act on that good counsel. I do realize that the psyche can be affected during the cold, dark months and it is up to me to push beyond. Yes, it is work. It’s much easier to give in and take naps.
Maybe I am discouraged in the work that I have done lately. Oh, I am pleased with the articles I have written for the newsletters but I admit that it’s not exactly my style of writing. I am an emotional being and my joy in writing usually comes from feelings and what I discover about myself regarding a subject. Newsletter writing is not about the writer but the subjects and even if I am passionate about the topic, I hold myself apart in the story-telling.
I am thankful for these opportunities to write outside myself and the experience is beneficial in honing writing skills. However, I am making the decision to bring personal-ness back into my articles. I want to talk in the “I” position and let readers know how I feel about the subject. I believe that makes a connectedness. Even if someone doesn’t agree with me, the story will elicit a response. When I block of my feelings, I become hard inside.
This is the crux of the matter, for sure. All artistic endeavors come through emotions. When I look at a scene or a picture, it is the feeling I get that catapults me into creativity. If there is not feeling, there is no life. Mind and heart must remain open to possibility and any put down, criticism (real or imagined,) doubt or problems with equipment can close the door. It is my choice to keep the door open and persevere. I can choose joy over depression. I can even use frustration and anger to inspire an interesting bit of writing.
The pot cannot sit and stagnate. It needs to be stirred. It’s time to blow on the ashes and ignite the flames.
I never thought I’d stop writing and I won’t. I’m simply enjoying a bit of writer’s block. I don’t intend to choose between writing and other art mediums. I don’t intend to stick to one art form. I cannot limit myself when there are so many avenues to explore… and in the exploring, the writing about my findings. See, it’ll tie in.
Perhaps I should let out my secret… I’m not doing much art these days either. A wrench was thrown in the works when in the beginning of December; I not only came down sick, but injured my back at the same time. My back is fine now and I am feeling much better however, I make all these plans in my head in the morning but not much is accomplished by end of day.
Too easily I get discouraged. A wrong word will send me in a tailspin. A question will topple my coping abilities. I collapse in front of computer or tv or take naps to numb the mind but this is not the road to make 2010 more of a success than 2009.
I am the one that holds the key to that success. I am the one to “make it happen.” I cannot be successful participating in mind numbing activities. Great advice is given and I want to act on that good counsel. I do realize that the psyche can be affected during the cold, dark months and it is up to me to push beyond. Yes, it is work. It’s much easier to give in and take naps.
Maybe I am discouraged in the work that I have done lately. Oh, I am pleased with the articles I have written for the newsletters but I admit that it’s not exactly my style of writing. I am an emotional being and my joy in writing usually comes from feelings and what I discover about myself regarding a subject. Newsletter writing is not about the writer but the subjects and even if I am passionate about the topic, I hold myself apart in the story-telling.
I am thankful for these opportunities to write outside myself and the experience is beneficial in honing writing skills. However, I am making the decision to bring personal-ness back into my articles. I want to talk in the “I” position and let readers know how I feel about the subject. I believe that makes a connectedness. Even if someone doesn’t agree with me, the story will elicit a response. When I block of my feelings, I become hard inside.
This is the crux of the matter, for sure. All artistic endeavors come through emotions. When I look at a scene or a picture, it is the feeling I get that catapults me into creativity. If there is not feeling, there is no life. Mind and heart must remain open to possibility and any put down, criticism (real or imagined,) doubt or problems with equipment can close the door. It is my choice to keep the door open and persevere. I can choose joy over depression. I can even use frustration and anger to inspire an interesting bit of writing.
The pot cannot sit and stagnate. It needs to be stirred. It’s time to blow on the ashes and ignite the flames.
Friday, January 08, 2010
I accomplished a few things yesterday. I ordered a supply of bags from clearbags.com. I use them to protect note cards, photo greeting cards, and poetry cards. The site also offers a 50 piece pack of 5x7 matte photo paper for $3 which I thought was a very good deal. I also ordered yarn. The last time I checked Michaels and Wal-Mart, they were limited in their colors and there’s a particular brand of yarn I like to use for the scarves I knit. I checked the website and found 60 colors.
This is a start in getting back to doing art. I knit off and on while watching tv in the evenings. Takes me a couple weeks to do one scarf but I love the material and colors. I even talked Ma into trying it again so she doesn’t sit there doing nothing all day. She knits in the afternoon. I start the first couple rows for her and do the finish when she’s done. She likes shorter scarves and I like to be able to wrap them a couple times.
Betty told me Christmas week that I have a following at Wild Women Studio in Laconia, that people are buying my books and reading the poems. That’s inspiring to hear. I need to make up some new inventory to bring over to keep things fresh. I always say that it’s important to hear feedback. I don’t hear anything from the store in Laconia, nor from the new one in Sunapee.
Another recent accomplishment is with getting a new computer. The photo programs I worked with do not work with Windows 7. After spending a few days searching a lot of different options and going through trial periods, I was able to find a free download that pleases me and enables me more photo editing.
I’ve also gone through another round of issues with printers. This summer I had problems with HP and horizontal lines. I finally bought a Canon which didn’t have lines, but the vibrancy of color is not present without adding saturation. When I purchased the new computer, an HP, I got a great deal on a printer and I figured an HP printer will work better with an HP computer. All was well when I print on glossy paper but when I tried to print on matte paper, I got horizontal lines. Oh no, not again!
I re-hooked up the Canon printer to now have 2 printers. The HP works great with glossy pictures and everything on matte is done on the Canon (which is mostly note cards and albums pages.) The guy who installed my computer had told me that HP works better with HP papers and I tend to use Staples brand. I’ll re-think my strategies when I make my next paper purchases but for now, the two printers will do. One good thing about it is that I don’t need to keep changing paper.
This last week I worked on photos for collages. I was given a few collage frames and wanted to see how they would work with pictures other than family photos. One was done a year ago with sunflowers which I really like and I am wondering if something like that is saleable. I’ve done two. One was a white frame in which I used cherry blossom pictures and the black frame is done with farm machinery photos. I always prefer black.
I am slowly getting back on the horse. December was a long dry month art wise. I couldn’t get out of my own way. This is a new year and I am going to make it a better. I will concentrate on keeping up with the paperwork part of the business, too.
Joining NH Made was a boon and receiving e-mails makes me realize that as I am now selling my work, I have to think of myself as a business. Feels funny. The words in my head always said that I am not a good business woman. Time to change that. Last year was a tip of the iceberg and this coming year, I am going to be better prepared.
In closing, I would like to say thanks for this last year. It was a jumping off point. I published a book. I was invited to show my charcoal landscape drawings and photography at the library. I became a juried member of the Hillsborough Area Artisans in two mediums. I participated in the Open Studio Tour and NH Open Doors. My work is currently in three shops. After all these years of playing artist and writer, I can now finally say that I AM an accomplished writer and artist.
This is a start in getting back to doing art. I knit off and on while watching tv in the evenings. Takes me a couple weeks to do one scarf but I love the material and colors. I even talked Ma into trying it again so she doesn’t sit there doing nothing all day. She knits in the afternoon. I start the first couple rows for her and do the finish when she’s done. She likes shorter scarves and I like to be able to wrap them a couple times.
Betty told me Christmas week that I have a following at Wild Women Studio in Laconia, that people are buying my books and reading the poems. That’s inspiring to hear. I need to make up some new inventory to bring over to keep things fresh. I always say that it’s important to hear feedback. I don’t hear anything from the store in Laconia, nor from the new one in Sunapee.
Another recent accomplishment is with getting a new computer. The photo programs I worked with do not work with Windows 7. After spending a few days searching a lot of different options and going through trial periods, I was able to find a free download that pleases me and enables me more photo editing.
I’ve also gone through another round of issues with printers. This summer I had problems with HP and horizontal lines. I finally bought a Canon which didn’t have lines, but the vibrancy of color is not present without adding saturation. When I purchased the new computer, an HP, I got a great deal on a printer and I figured an HP printer will work better with an HP computer. All was well when I print on glossy paper but when I tried to print on matte paper, I got horizontal lines. Oh no, not again!
I re-hooked up the Canon printer to now have 2 printers. The HP works great with glossy pictures and everything on matte is done on the Canon (which is mostly note cards and albums pages.) The guy who installed my computer had told me that HP works better with HP papers and I tend to use Staples brand. I’ll re-think my strategies when I make my next paper purchases but for now, the two printers will do. One good thing about it is that I don’t need to keep changing paper.
This last week I worked on photos for collages. I was given a few collage frames and wanted to see how they would work with pictures other than family photos. One was done a year ago with sunflowers which I really like and I am wondering if something like that is saleable. I’ve done two. One was a white frame in which I used cherry blossom pictures and the black frame is done with farm machinery photos. I always prefer black.
I am slowly getting back on the horse. December was a long dry month art wise. I couldn’t get out of my own way. This is a new year and I am going to make it a better. I will concentrate on keeping up with the paperwork part of the business, too.
Joining NH Made was a boon and receiving e-mails makes me realize that as I am now selling my work, I have to think of myself as a business. Feels funny. The words in my head always said that I am not a good business woman. Time to change that. Last year was a tip of the iceberg and this coming year, I am going to be better prepared.
In closing, I would like to say thanks for this last year. It was a jumping off point. I published a book. I was invited to show my charcoal landscape drawings and photography at the library. I became a juried member of the Hillsborough Area Artisans in two mediums. I participated in the Open Studio Tour and NH Open Doors. My work is currently in three shops. After all these years of playing artist and writer, I can now finally say that I AM an accomplished writer and artist.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Somehow I have lost a connection within myself. For a person who had to write in order to feel alive, I am dry as of late. I still journal every day but that is only two pages these past few weeks. Oh, I still do some articles as I write for the snowmobile club and submit an article or two to sunacom.com e-newsletter, but the more creative writing style of mine fell asleep.
I promised my writing group that I’d be back on board after the summer and fall of doing a few art shows but I’ve not come up with anything and now another week is over and group meets on Saturday and there’s not even an inkling of stirring in my writer’s soul.
Talked to a friend yesterday who said she checked my blog and was surprised to find no recent writings, which makes me wonder about what’s going on within me. If I let myself think and sink down into my feelings, I realize I put up barriers to block feeling. With all the drama around my mother’s failing health, I am trying very hard to keep myself in check. My emotions run rampant in worry, despair, anger, and depression. The only way to keep any semblance of sanity and not lose myself in negativity is to block feeling… and I can’t write if I don’t feel.
That doesn’t mean I’m successful at this ploy. I’m not writing nor am I doing other artwork besides a few photographs. My belief system holds that to be alive, you must be creative and I’ve shut the creative side down. Creativity comes from feelings and if I am blocking feelings, I am unable to ignite the spark and right now I don’t know if I am willing to blow on the ashes.
If I fan the flames and the creative fires roar within, then I’ll be susceptible to the pain. It’s an immense struggle to maintain calm and I often do not do very well. I give in to the anger when it roars and then I despair fearing I will never find compassion for my mother. That’s not fair to her, nor is it fair to me.
I shut down. The entire month of December, I gave in to the depression. That’s why I got sick. It was a wake-up call and even in this moment, I am not sure what I’m going to do about it. I’ve always felt I had to block myself off from my mother and I realize that the years of living together went well while my aunt was present to run interference. I remember my mother trying to run my aunt’s life and I was glad I could get away. With my aunt in a home, I am the one being run and I fight it tooth and nail even though I give in more often than not.
I need to fight the despair. Ma’s personal issues don’t have to drag me down. She chose the isolation and although I value privacy and solitude, I also recognize the importance of going out in the world. It’s easy to stay home if I don’t have to go anywhere but it’s necessary to push myself to go out. A lot of inspiration comes from being off on an adventure… even if it’s just going to get groceries.
Yes, I know I can blame my mother for a lot of things, but the reality is that I am also the one who chooses. I chose to be here with her in her decline. I decide to stay home or go out. I am the one who makes my decisions and it is time to become more active in my personal and art life.
Let the New Year begin!
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