This Joy’s Life

If Jenn hadn’t called to cancel on our girls night plans (her dad had just been released from the hospital, thank goodness, and she wanted to spend some time with him), I would have headed straight to her house around 4:45pm and not decided to head home and shower before meeting the girls in Tacoma for a fun night on the town. As it was, I was hot and sticky from the beautiful Seattle day and figured since it was just me trying to to meet up with the girls by 6pm, I’d give myself the extra time to get freshened up.

Clara was just waking from her nap at ten after five, when I got home – a full hour later than she should have been. I told Chad she would be up ’til 10 o’clock having slept that late! It was such a great day, I knew she could happily entertain herself if we set out the galvanized tub with an inch or two of water for her to play in. Getting her ready in her swim diaper and bathing “soup”, while Chad filled the tub on the deck, was cutting into my getting ready time. Once we got her out there, I had Chad take over so I could jump in the shower.

Afterwards, as I was putting on the finishing touches of makeup and jewelry, Clara came looking for me and that slowed down my progress significantly. If she hadn’t come into the bathroom wanting to play in mommy’s makeup, I probably would have been ready to head out the door by 5:45 or so. But it became quickly obvious that I was going to need a little more time. Then my cell phone rang, and it was Maria who was supposed to already be in Tacoma having dinner with her boyfriend, but he was running late and told her just to go ahead and meet up with the girls for our dinner. She was calling on the off chance that I hadn’t left the house yet (everyone knows I’m ALWAYS running late). Lucky for her (“we’ll see” said the Zen master) and me, I was still getting ready, so now we could carpool and save gas going the 30 miles south it would take to get us to dinner.

She arrived just before 6:30, we are both famished at this point, so we got on the road. I needed to get on I-5 South and as I was passing the on ramp to 509 South, which would have had us at least going in a southerly direction, Maria questioned if it wasn’t faster to go that way than the 509N to 518 to I-5 South I was planning to take. “Oh, yeah, if I’d thought it through, I probably would have gone that way. But it’s not too much out of the way to do the latter, which is now our only option. Whoops!”

Heading down I-5 South at a quarter to 7 on a Saturday night meant traffic wasn’t too tight and with us in the HOV lane, we had some room to maneuver. But, I wasn’t really in the mindset that I was going to need to as Maria and I discussed the painting she and Mike have been doing at their new house, her nervousness at chopping all her hair off into a great bob earlier that afternoon and the like. Perhaps if we hadn’t been talking, I would have noticed the black Lexus zooming up on us a second or two sooner than I did. As it was, I saw them at the last second. According to Maria I let out, “Is this a joke?” as the car that should have hit us at that moment seemed to back off. But, immediately it was speeding at us again and at the last second, as I was trying to move right into the fast lane, it was trying to swerve into the left shoulder. He didn’t quite make it and his front right hit our back left, putting us both into a tailspin, the moments of which will stay with me for the rest of my life.

It was so fast and yet playing in slow motion, the way were were being tousled back and forth, like one of those motion machine theaters you have to be a certain height for and to which “NO PREGNANT WOMEN [are] ALLOWED.” I had this feeling that pain was immanent while I waited for a car or pole to slam into us. I desperately tried to pump the brakes – was I pumping the brakes or the gas? I don’t know! – and kept my hands on the steering wheel. I could hear Maria screaming and felt as long as she was doing that, at least she was okay. Then we both thought the car was about to flip, but it didn’t and we stopped moving. You couldn’t see out the windows; dust was flying. I yelled at Maria, “Where are we? Maria, where are we?!” I was terrified that we had fully crossed the median and were now facing on-coming traffic on the other side of I-5.

Maria said she thought we were fine and in the median. I think we just sat there in shock and then I heard tires spinning out. If I hadn’t heard that, I would have missed the fact that the driver that hit us was attempting and did flee the scene! “Oh no he isn’t” was my thought and I yelled at Maria to “remember this number!” and rattled off the driver’s license plate over and over again. As I was trying to decide what to do next, I noticed a burning smell, similar to when the airbags go off after an accident.

That’s when I realized that the airbags hadn’t deployed and I was telling Maria, “We’ve got to get out! I think the car is on fire!” At that same moment I heard people yelling at us to “get of the car, it’s on fire!” The next thing I know, I’m standing outside the car, holding my little coach wallet in my hand and looking back to make sure Maria was right behind me. She wasn’t. She was still sitting the car. My next thought was what in the world am I going to cut her seat belt off with?? But, she was already out of her seat belt, she just couldn’t get her passenger side door open. I ran back to try to help her and had we both not been scared to death the car was going to blow any second, I’m sure we would have laughed even then at how ridiculous we must have looked with our hair “did”, in our going out clothes and heels, me trying to both run and drag her along the ground and she desperately trying salvage her purse, change her mind, climb over the parking brake, get around the steering wheel and get her footing on the hill!

After that, we were running down the shoulder. Maria kicked off her heels and I, at some point, dropped my purse. We were safe and the car was burning sky high within a minute or so. I don’t really know how long any of this took. There were so many people who stopped, offered us their cell phones, wanting to make sure we were alright and no one else was in the car. It was an amazing show of good samaritin-ness. I even remember that as I was trying to see the hit-and-run driver’s plates, a woman sped after him. I wan’t sure at the time she was following them for that reason, but it turns out that she was. And, thanks to her diligence, the police had caught the driver before the fire was even put out on our car. If she hadn’t followed him, he may still have been caught later, but he may not have, so I really appreciate the fact that she took the time to do that and, potentially, put herself in harms way for us.

That Maria and I were able to start half-joking about the fact that we literally walked away without any serious injuries as we were still watching the “flames, on the side of my face, breathing, breathless, heaving breaths” plume into the sky, is [circle the best answer: lucky, amazing, surreal, ludacris]. What if we hadn’t just walked away? What if we had spun into traffic? Had left a few minutes later or earlier? What if I’d taken the other route to I-5? If we’d been in Maria’s Civic instead of the Chad’s Maxima, if my daughter had been in the back seat, if either or both of us had been put into a coma or died? What if it happens again and the next time I’m not so lucky?

There are a thousands “what if’s” and I think I’ve played them all through my head since we sat down on the side of the road last night. I hope writing this all out will help me let it go. There is no use going down the what if path, except, I suppose, to help me find flaws and potential regrets in the way I have been and am living my life. I see that I need to get my will in order RIGHT NOW, that life is pretty simple in a lot of respects, and I need to continue the process I’ve already started to simplify mine so that I’m left with only time to play with my kid, enjoy my time with friends and family, and otherwise appreciate the things that matter in life.

I also see that I should be very thankful to play the “what if” game and not “if only.” If only Clara hadn’t been in the car. If only Maria was okay. If only the car hadn’t exploded. If only no one had died. If only it wasn’t my fault. That’s a game I never want to be forced to play.

So, a few years ago, I was seriously considering going back to school for a counseling degree with the goal of becoming a middle or high school counselor. I went through the application process for a couple of schools in the Seattle-area, but ultimately decided to turn down the acceptance offers for a number of reasons.

As part of the application process, I was required to write a personal statement discussing why I wanted to become a school counselor. Since this is my writing blog and I share some insight into my past life in that paper, I thought I’d post a few excerpts from it here for your reading pleasure(?):

With respect to grades, I was a very good student in school, but it was not until my senior year of high school that I finally began to understand what education was all about. Like most children, I was much more interested in the social scene than I was in studying for a pop quiz on the Vietnam War. In fact, if you were to ask me to tell you the one thing that stands out in my head about middle school, it wouldn’t be a good grade I made on some test, it would be the day my so-called friend, Johdi*, said to me, “So, where’d you get THAT dress?” rolling her eyes. I had gone shopping with my mom the day before and she let me pick out a few things for the new school year that I liked. For once, we both agreed that the dress in question – a fitted whitewashed jean number – looked great on me. But after Johdi’s suggestion that it might not actually be as “cool” as I thought, the dress didn’t see the outside of my closet until years later when it hit the bottom of the Goodwill bag.

In my professional life as a consultant, I have enjoyed being a teacher to my clients. However, in the five years I have sustained this role, I have not received that same personal satisfaction that I receive in just one session with Maria. I now seek to find a rewarding teacher-student type relationship beyond the conference room walls.

. . .

There you have it folks. That’s my personal statement that states things – personally.

*Name changed in case these friends should show up on Facebook and decide not to confirm my friend request after reading about themselves in these illuminating little antidotes. Friends, of any nature, are all that matter on Facebook y’all!

There are those of you who do not beleive that Joy is a soccer player – Brett and Suzanne especially. After almost nine years of playing, I finally have the pictures to prove it.

This is my foot on the ball. Seriously, it is MY foot:

Still don’t beleive me, eh? Okay. Here I am out on the feild in the middle of a game. I’m the one on the other side of the field, furthest from the camera:

What, still can’t find me? Fine. Here is our first ever team picture. Seeee. There I am in the middle row, far left. This was taken yesterday after we won the season’s Championship Game. Go team!

(left to right) Back row: Maria, Chad, Carrie, Suzy. Middle row: ME!, Brian, Nelly. Front row: Annie, Rob, Dave, Jeff, Kelly.

Last night, Gwen, Jenn and myself got out of the house for a mini-girls night. We kept it simple, going to the Wallingford neighborhood for pizza at Tuttu Bella’s and ice cream at Molly Moon’s where EVERYTHING is compostable so Gwen didn’t have to feel bad about the 1,000 spoons she used to sample every flavor they had:

We think the Salted Caramel and Scout Mint scoops we finally decided on were laced with something because we were feeling very silly. Maybe it was just the fact that we had all been trapped in the house with children two and under ALL WEEK LONG while it rained and rained and rained, as though even God himself was saddened that summer has not yet arrived in Seattle.

Following ice cream, we attempted to Forget Sarah Marshall at a discount, but alas, AMC does not accept competitor coupons. So we sucked it up and paid full price, but enjoyed the movie nonetheless. It fit right in with the mood of the night. I think I can speak for all of us in saying it was just what we needed and we still managed to stay within a $40 per person budget for the entire evening!

There’s something you don’t see every day.

Below is a picture of me using the treadmill for exercise. Not conventional, perhaps, but to each her own, right?

I moved it a block down the street to Gwen’s garage (our new gym) while Chad memorexed the moment and pulled Clara along in the wagon.

What?

For some reason today, it struck me as interesting to think about the associations one has with the people in their lives and how perfectly random they are; These associations make up the primary key for each person in the database of your mind. How cool is that?

Like, I will forever and always IMMEDIATELY think of my father whenever Don McLean’s American Pie comes on. I’ve known from the age of 5 that it is his favorite song and can distinctly remember the worn 8-track in our green Dodge Dart.

I have a similar IMMEDIATE reaction whenever I see the symbol for infinity. We used to argue, when I was about 7 or 8, about the mobius strip, making them out of construction paper and watching it “suddenly” change from having two sides to just one. I never bought it, even though once created my pen could draw a line on both sides without ever having to be lifted. The true test of a one sided object, apparently.

Offer me a Kudos bar and I will right away think of my mother and tell you that if you asked her what it was she would pronounce it “Ka-dews.” Without fail. Every time. No matter how many times you tell her it is pronounced “Kew-does” like when you are giving someone props.

***
Associations of my father: American Pie – Mobius Strip – Ground Hogs (a.k.a Round Frogs) – DOS prompts – National Geographic Magazines.

Associations of my mother: Kudos Bars – Bedspreads – Plastic Grocery Bags – The act of wiping the table after dinner.

Associations of my grandmothers: (maternal) Banana Pudding – Crickets – Yellow Softballs – Feeding Horses – Gas Heaters; (paternal) Trains at Night – Big Wheels – Dumplings – Sand.

RANDOM!

The talk of associations and the fact that my previous blog post involved a lyrical analysis, is a good lead in to this video from YouTube that visually shows the “real meaning of American Pie” – Enjoy:

Well, at least I didn’t say, “Surprise me!” this time when I sat down with the hairdresser.

It’s a borderline bob that I’m calling “The Skunk”, but not because it’s stinky. Even if it was, I’d love my stinky, stinky smell!

I guess it’s about time I learned this lesson. It took a random viewing of MyPictures for me to catch it, but it finally hit me over the head. If you were to look at my life in terms of my hairdos, you could draw the following conclusions:

1. Commit BBB to memory. Recognizing the general pattern of Bowl-Bob-Bangs/Bowl-Bob-Bangs is the first step to breaking my cycle of bad haircuts.
2. Right now, I am (yet again) in my “Bang” period.
3. I really need to find a hairdresser who doesn’t like the idea of me sitting down and saying “Surprise me!”
4. I really, REALLY need to be shot dead if I EVER say “Surprise me!” to someone coming at my head with scissors again.

I always go back to the same do. After any “new style” I try, I freak out and go right back to it: Long, ideally straightened, often air dried wavy, no bangs, forehead for days. Wore it this way for years growing up. It was a must for any honorable dancer, but oh, so plain Jane. Now I like to think of it as “Classic”. The Classic Joy, I call it.

For some reason, though, I can never leave well enough alone. Let’s take a look at the evidence.

My Life In Haircuts:

1979 – The Bowl

I can’t confirm it but I believe the bowl my mother used to create this do was of the classic Texasware variety. She was without a doubt inspired by Dorothy Hamill to create it on my innocent head.

Dorothy Hamill was known to me first and foremost for her famous haircut. That little gold medal thingy she won in the ’76 Olympics was not brought to my attention until much later. Didn’t change the fact that I hated her for years.

1981 – The Bob

“It will grow.” It’s what people with bad haircuts and their friends say as encouragement when you are a victim. That’s if you’re lucky and they don’t say, “I’ve seen better.” (Chad) when you make the mistake of asking, “What do you think of my haircut?” though you already know the answer.

But, sure enough, it does and it did. This bob doesn’t look too bad, really, even though my hair is so thick as to span the width of my shoulders. “Helmet head” was uttered once or twice during this period, but sticks and stones, dude. “It’ll grow, stupid!”

1984 – The Bangs

Yeah, ok, so it will only grow if you DON’T CUT IT, MOM! She just couldn’t let the Dorothy Hamill idea go. Couldn’t leave well enough alone.

I kissed my first boy (Todd) in Kindergarten. I had a boyfriend (Tom) in first grade. He gave me a Garfield pin that I still have to this day. When I showed up for the first day of 2nd grade with this loverly new mullet, Tom pretended that the summer had given him FULL AMNESIA and never spoke to me again. Needless to say this haircut lead to a dry spell on the boy front that you wouldn’t believe and I’m too embarrassed to talk about further. I HATE YOU DOROTHY HAMILL! And your stupid haircut too!!!!

1985 – The Bowl

Since I couldn’t come to terms with my new found masculinity, I overcompensated by trying too hard to assert my femininity.

1989 – The Big Bang a.k.a. The Poodle

This was completely and utterly my fault. I can’t explain it.

Ok, that’s a lie. I explained it in detail here.

1993 – The Classic Joy

This is about the time I start thinking: Blah, my hair is so boring. I’ve SOOOO do this before.

LEAVE WELL ENOUGH ALONE!

1994 – Back To The Bob

See. Everything turned out just fine.

But, it’s still kind of “been there, done that.”

PLEASE. LEAVE. WELL. ENOUGH. ALONE.

1995 – Revisiting The Bowl

Why? Why, oh why, did I do this to myself all over again?!?!

I’m blaming it on my mom AND Dorothy Hamill even though neither of them were at the hairdresser’s (and therefore can not prove that I said, “Surprise me!”)

At this point, I take it you get the jist. Here’s a snapshot (literally) of haircuts bringing us up to the present. Very little variation on the theme:

2002 – Blond Bob

2003 – Bowl Mullet

2004 – Bob (With A Twist)

2005 – Classic Joy

2008 – The Year Of The Bang

Has this analysis taught us (me) anything?

Lesson learned, Joy?

That remains to be seen.

Your absence has gone through me like thread through a needle;
Everything I do is stiched with its color. – Edna St. Vincent Millay

***

What makes a house a home? When there is nothing about it, in it, around it that doesn’t generate some kind of memory for you. When it is the backdrop to so many experiences, good and bad, with both friends and family, how can it not be defined as a home “where the heart is”?

In the “olden days” they used to refer to them as “the homeplace” where children were born and raised in only a few rooms. But that didn’t make it small, no sir. If anything, it was that much more full. The homeplaces of my grandmothers and the ones they created with their husbands to raise their children still exist, and now have taken on a magical, mystical dimension for me. I guess I’m an old soul to be so enamoured with those small, simple little wooden houses. Not much to look at by most people’s standards.

Only recently, now that Clara has come along, have I started thinking more about the “homeplace” concept and what makes a house a home. The house I grew up in – 124 Ridgeway Road – in Marietta, Georgia was most definitely a home, not just a house, but at the time I lived there it never occurred to me that it was MY homeplace. I always thought that the memories I had would travel with me where I went and the backdrop, the house, was not really so important. It was just a 70′s brick ranch, after all, in the middle of 7.5 acres on a hill with a super long curvy driveway that my brother and I MASTERED on bikes, skateboards, go-carts and the like. The house couldn’t be seen from the road, so, to others, I’m sure it was a bit intriguing to look up and wonder about it from down there. I never felt it lived to up to it’s intrigue, but that’s probably because it was ours and we knew it and the grounds inside and out, so where’s the mystery?

My mother, I seem to remember, made it clear that the purchase of the house was a decision my father had made, an “investment” for the future (and how). But, it was not the house my mother would have chosen had she had her druthers. The backdoor through the kitchen was the un-official entryway because the actual front door had no pathway of any kind leading up to it. It meant my mother always had to keep the kitchen tidy because, as is tradition in the South, you never know when someone might show up on your doorstep. There was no laundry room, just a washer and dryer in a traditional basement filled to the brim with, to the naked eye, junk (a glorious place to explore as a child). She hated the lack of a laundry room and the many stairs between the laundry hampers and the washing machine. This, I feel, influenced the way I thought of the house. Also, as I got older, I got interested in decorating and magazines like Country Living. Our house was nothing like those houses and, in my mind, had none of the architectural charm that even the small cottage-like homeplaces of my grandmothers had. So, I always assumed that my connection with 124 Ridgeway Road was only as a backdrop to the life that I was living and not much more.

After my brother and I were “grown” and long since gone from the house, my parents put it on the market, ready to cash in on the investment they had made. It was on the market for at least seven years (give or take). I think because it was up for so long, I never really believed it was “for sale”. I remember that when I would come home to visit from Seattle, as soon as we started up that long, curvy driveway (which somehow seemed to get shorter as I got older), I could begin to smell my home. Standing in the driveway, pulling out my luggage, I would take a few deep breaths and suck in the smell in the air, unique to my home. It’s the best way I can describe it. It was as though the air around the house had its own distinct flavor. Were that I could have bottled it! It would sell faster than Kramer’s “Ocean” is my sincere belief.

I’m realizing lately that I have many other memories of the house and grounds in which they play a starring roll, not just the set the scene. One of my favorite games as a child was to go out into the woods (the entirety of the 7.5 acres) and play “Timber” with my brother and friends. We would find the vine-y limbs of trees that had broken off but not made it out of the tangle of branches and pull and pull until they would fall on top of us. We would yell “Timber” and I usually would pretend that they had hurt me and fall to the ground. Brett or whoever would then have to come and “rescue” me! Then there were the races my brother and I had from the very top of the driveway to the bottom. It took us YEARS to build up the courage to do the whole thing WITH RECKLESS ABANDON – no brakes allowed! My grandmother tells a story of the time we were both very little on our big wheels or tricycles, just going down a portion of the driveway. We kept promising her, “One more time, Granny, one more time.” At the exact same time, we both took nose dives. So, there is my poor grandmother with two screaming toddlers and “lots” of blood trying to figure out if and how badly we were really hurt. She loves to tell that story and laugh at us for not listening to her and stopping before we bit it.

Two cats, Mister and Missy, and a dog, Heidi, are buried there. My brother and I had a shared ghostly experience there. (We were sitting in the den very early one Saturday morning before my parents were awake. We heard heavy footsteps on the roof and then a man fall off screaming “ahhhhhh” as he fell. We looked at each other scared to death, then found the nerve to run outside to see. No one was there! Mom and dad didn’t believe us, of course, but we never could explain how we both heard it if it didn’t happen. Da da dom!)

Even my “porn” name is based off that home. You know, the grade school game where you take as your first name the of your first pet – Heidi – and the last name of the road you live on – Ridgeway. Heidi Ridgeway. That’s a pretty good porn star name if I do say so myself. (Don’t worry, I’ve given up my “porn star” ways. Now my name – Joy Fisher – sounds like a movie star, or so says one of the Custom Fence Company vendors that I speak with every month. She tells me that every time I call in. I can’t complain. Now, if we can just work on the movie star lifestyle . . .)

The house at 124 Ridgeway Road did finally sell to a developer who planned to put up 47 town homes on it and my parents moved a couple hours further south to Fortson, Georgia. That’s been about, wow, two years ago already, I guess. Although the last few times I’ve been home to see family I’ve been at their new home in Fortson, I never really acknowledged the fact that my homeplace was gone. The developer still hadn’t begun building so the house was just standing there, still full of a number of things my parents left behind after years of accumulating stuff. I knew the house was going to be destroyed, ripped down when the bulldozers came in and I kind of liked the idea that no other family would live there and start building up a relationship with “my homeplace” and “my woods”. But when I heard a couple months ago that the house burned to the ground, I was suddenly very sad about it. We have no information on what happened there exactly and why it burned, but it felt like a tragic death in the family and somehow very unjust. That just wasn’t how my home was supposed to go. It wasn’t supposed to end like that.

This post is dedicated to my homeplace, the house where I grew up that became a true home and the most beautiful backdrop to the story of so much of my life.

****

Update: I’ve been to see the house since it burnt down and have pictures in this blog post here.

I’m still going through those old journals and marking memories I think I could do a much better job of writing about now. About the same age as the last post in this event:

August 13, 1988
Today me and Jessica played (mostly talked) together. She showed me her room and clothes and I showed her mine.

Not much there, per say, but Jessica turned out to be the next major frienemy after Emily (mentioned in an earlier post) I ever had. She was definitely influential in making me realize what was “cool” and the importance of the “in crowd”. Hanging out with her made me feel like there was a chance that I could be cool. I mean, there is no way SHE would hang out with ME if it was going to ruin her rep, right?

Anyway, I won’t get into all that teenage silliness, but what I really remember about that specific day was Jessica’s hair. We were over at her house talking and looking at clothes, sort of a first time experience for me. My BFF Susan and I never really spent time looking at each other’s clothes. I mean, we were doing stuff, who cares about what clothes we were wearing?! (The end of innocence.)

Back to Jessica’s hair. She had a new perm (this was the late 80′s, after all – the time of perms and big bangs) and the whole time I was over she was spraying water on it out of a spray bottle and scrunching it up with her hands. I was completely intrigued by this process and it was the spark that eventually lead to my decision to get my own naturally thick, thick, I’ll say it again, thick hair cut, permed and fully “banged” up.

It was that event, quickly skimmed over in my journal, as well as a particular day at school, while in homeroom, when I looked around and realized I was the ONLY girl that did not have either bangs OR a perm. No wonder I wasn’t in the “in” crowd. I didn’t look anything like them! It was the first time that I recognized that the things making me different were keeping me out of the group I wanted to be in (or so I thought). So, off to the beauty parlor I went that weekend to get my hair did. And, boy, did I:

See, I think it is good to look back, cringe, and realize that now that Clara is here, it won’t be that long before some of these memories might help me understand her world a little better. Before she’s screaming at me as she slams the door to her room, “Don’t you remember what it was like to be a TEENAGER!!!”

***

P.S. Don’t you love the fact that I left the rubber bands on my braces in for this picture? I do. I really do. I wasn’t intending to smile that big. What 8th grader looks that ridiculously happy to be an 8th grader? It was the photographer. He suggested with a big, stupid grin of his own that I say “Men”. Don’t ever, as an adult man, tell an 8th grade girl to talk about MEN of all things! I was so embarrassed all I could do was laugh out loud and he takes the picture. Great. Just great. I’m sure someone must have uttered “nice bands” as the flash went off.