Judith Pettersen

Passion. Faith. Greed. Love. I sit in the Channing auditorium with my alto sisters, mentally echoing Jean Val Jean’s shout out to the universe. Who Am I? And why is my memory so dismal? I ignore the larger questions, of course. The ones the characters ponder during this three hour musical extravaganza.

Though, like them, I wonder where it all went wrong. Not with the musical, or our amazing cast who has the choir weeping every night. (At the end of the day, we are out of Kleenex and unable to breath from our noses.) No, the question for me is, why can’t I remember words better?

For example, instead of ‘chaperone,’ I’ve been singing ‘Chapter One.’ My alto sister to my right finally convinced me of the truth, but it is hard to change mid stream. Not for our cast members, of course, who remember all their words plus an incredible number of notes about their acting, (turn your head to the right, not the left, and drop your chin as you exit the stage.) Seriously, they should all receive a Tony and an honorary membership in Mensa.

It eats me up, the contrast between our on stage cast and myself. At one point, (Crystal will fire me for sure) I shouted out, “Send the slut away!” instead of ‘Sack the girl today!” Fortunately, it was during the dress rehearsal. The choir has received notes on diction, and I must shoulder a lot of the blame.

That’s the lovely thing about three performances. There are more chances to get things right. While Javert or Cosette stress about whether they’ve raised their hands at the right time, I’m praying I don’t sing out at the wrong moment. Which happens in choir. We call it ‘pulling a Timmy.’

Now that I’ve thrown another choir member under the bus, I feel a lot better.  I’ll prepare for tonight’s show with a lighter heart. Don my peasant garb, fill my water bottle and hold on to that last tiny cheat sheet. After all, I’m still in the dark about certain things. The answers to life’s big questions. The right words to this musical. I need all the help I can get.

When I was a kid, I thought about candy every day. If I found a dime in the street or collected a few empty pop bottles, I’d head to Johnny’s and peruse the merchandise. I knew what I liked. A crispy crunch bar. A small paper bag of mixed up penny candy. An orange crush soda, or a bag of chips. When you’re a kid, candy is your soul mate. Which is why I’m puzzled by some of those childhood choices.

Like, wax lips.  Made from actual wax with some kind of gross liquid inside. Probably the kind of dye that steals your fertility or gives you cancer. But anyway. Once you’d punctured the lips and drank the miniscule amount of mystery juice, all that was left was to chew the lips. Or put them on top of your own. Which I always did. And then chewed the wax and spit it out, because you couldn’t actually eat it.

Lickimade. I’m not sure if this is the right spelling, but it was basically kool aid in a small envelope that you slit open and ate. Dry powder with fake flavor and sugar. I hope it was cheap, and only cost a penny. I hate to think I spent a dime on it.

Macintosh Toffee, uncut, in the box. I’m fairly sure it was meant for baking, but every now and then I’d buy some. With the first bite, my jaw would lock and it would take me about four hours to finish.

Pink elephant popcorn. Not the real name, but I remember a white box with pink popcorn that tasted a thousand years old. It belonged in an Egyptian tomb, scattered around the remains of a pharaoh.

Candy necklaces. Small, hard rings of candy, fake tasting and strung together on a piece of elastic. You could wear it, or you could eat it. But you couldn’t do both. Because it got sticky and then it felt terrible on your neck.

Why the bad candy choices? I don’t know. I like to think that somebody else bought them and I just partook. There’s more strange candy on the list…things I’ve forgotten about. So please. Add your own. Take a walk down candy lane and ask yourself the following question. “What the hell was I thinking?”

This is not an homage to the movie, which I refer to as the poor man’s Breaking Bad. I know about the great reviews and still don’t care. Since I’ve grown up, it just makes me recoil. I’m not sure if its the misogyny or the bad acting. But the soundtrack? One of the best ever made.

There is a time and a place for everything. The time for the song, Born to be Wild, is during a car dance. What is that, you might be wondering. Please, let me tell you. When you live in the far north, as I do, road trips take forever. Hours of long, barren highway leave one with nothing to do but listen and dream. So. Select the music of your choice, and begin moving the muscles in your bum as well as your actual shoulders. Its a matter of multi tasking, really. You still have two hands on the wheel and a foot ready for the brake, but everything else is keeping time with the beat.

Do this alone. For some reason, its off putting to passengers. Ever since I dropped a pistachio while driving, I have to sit like the sphinx when I’m with Clarence and behind the wheel. Also, its just too embarrassing. Because what’s the point if you don’t get into it? Singing along is optional, but after a few minutes of movement, you won’t be able to resist.

Besides helping pass the time and avoiding numb bum, something really wonderful happens during a good car dance. All the forces of the universe come together and make me feel as if I’ve just:
a: won the lottery
b: found a cure for cancer
c. am discovered by Simon Cowell, who can’t stop raving about my wonderful voice.

It can be anything really. And the benefits are many. A good car dance has the same effect on me as meditation, yoga, or running. (Not that I over indulge in any of those.) I get a mind/body high that tells me anything is possible. There is one perfect, synchronized moment when I am born to be wild. I am free. I’m an easy rider. I can do anything I set my mind to. Anything! Which is a wonderful way to feel on an eight hour road trip.

To recap, here are the other benefits.

1. Pass the time. (it flies by!)
2. Save your butt (avoid sciatic nerve damage!)
3. Rev your creative engine. (write that novel! compose that song! knit! (but not in the car))
4. Find happiness. (yes, its this easy.)

Please enjoy your next long distance car ride by employing my suggested technique. And you’re very welcome.

Life can be a little crazy. Sometimes a person needs to let off a little steam. Since drinking hurts my pancreas and chocolate keeps me up all night, I need to find other solutions. Like laughing. Being overcome with hysterical giggles makes me feel like a little kid. Maybe its the way it takes over my breathing. Laughter takes firm charge, lightening my load and leaving some perspective in its wake.

Crying works, too. There are times when all I want to do is cry. Like the other night. I’d gone to the car to look for my purse and, Oh! Northern lights of ethereal greens and pinks danced across the sky, jumping up and down like they’d just heard the best news ever. I didn’t lose it right away. I was too busy watching. But it was so damn beautiful.

It was an otherworldly sight, a glimpse of heaven through a window in the universe.  I wept like I always do when confronted with that kind of beauty.  I tend to apologize when I cry around other people. So that night was lovely, standing alone under the star studded sky and sobbing as the lights swept over them like so much fairy dust. 

Tears are big multi-taskers. They allow us to vent so we don’t blow ourselves up. Because life, in all its splendor and misery, can chip away at us. It leaves us wondering where the best version of us went. Self pity sidles in, wringing its hands. But we wait, and wisdom edges it right out the door. Especially if we put our inner critic away. Then, we have room to breath. To be kinder to others and ourselves. There you are! we say, and welcome our real selves home.

There is a time for everything. A time to buck up, and a time to break down. To acknowledge that you’re having a hard time. Don’t try to shop your feelings away, or drown them with behavior that leaves you feeling worse. Acknowledge your sadness and bewilderment over life’s crazy moments. Because sometimes you have to break before you feel better. As Leonard Cohen sings, “There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”

 I’ve learned a lot since I started this blog, some of it related to writing. This entry is dedicated to my work station. For the last two years, I’ve been walking on a treadmill while performing a multitude of writing related tasks. Using a table leaf that rests on the handles, I set the track speed for two miles per hour. This allows me to work two keyboards and drink a cup of tea while listening to the radio. The latter is only utilized when I’m not engaged in creative writing. Like now. This is a mere recounting of the facts.

I bought a treadmill for one simple, unfitness related reason. I can’t sit still. It’s  physically uncomfortable and kind of boring. The A.D.D. part of my brain adores my new routine. All that leaping onto and off the moving treadmill throughout the day. It’s beeping callback when I take a bathroom break or prepare to leave the house. It’s a stern task master, my treadmill.  It’s constantly teaching me things. Like today.

Today, I took multitasking to a whole new level. I was writing to literary agents, my laptop front and center on the table board, a guidebook to the right, cup of tea to the left. I was also practicing my part for our choir’s musical, ‘Les Miserables.’ I say ‘my part,’ grandly, though for me it means dressing in peasant garb, sitting offside, and trying not get so caught up in the action that I forget to sing. It’s harder than you think. My jaw slackens and the tears fall every time Johnny Bettger sings Jean Val Jean’s lines.

Anyway, adding one more piece to the mix, I rested my choir book on the window ledge to my immediate right. It worked fine until the  moment I closed my eyes, clasped my hands to my chest and started singing Johnny’s part. I was, in fact, praying for someone in my family, and setting my plea to music, just like Jean val Jean. Alas. Praying in that manner does not work on a treadmill. Maybe if I hadn’t closed my eyes. Or was able to hold on to the handles.

In a half second, the track threw me backward and held me fast against the wall. I didn’t have enough room to completely fall off, so my feet continued skidding against the tread while my whole body vibrated in protest. I stopped singing immediately, my ‘God on High’ song ending in a screech. Somehow I managed to climb off, still uttering the words, ‘Dear Jesus,’ but in a more emphatic, self serving way. The good news is, I raised my heart rate, which is always a bonus.

I will continue writing on my treadmill. I will still sing, or listen to the radio. I will pray, from time to time. But I will not do all three simultaneously. And I will never close my eyes again while walking. See? A life lesson safely tucked under the belt, and me still on top, going strong.

Writing another blog entry about the TV show is the psychological equivalent to holding hands with other viewers. It’s the connection I need to sustain me when the cast is struggling to survive. Which is always. Also, I get to list things that annoy me about other viewers while staying well out of reach.

Sensible watchers live in the hope that all will be well with Rick and the Gang. Maybe someone will figure out a cure. Or find a safe place for them to live. From week to week, we hold our collective breath and pray no one else we love dies. Because it happens a lot.

The Talking Dead invites famous fans to discuss the night’s episode. I enjoy that. But some guests are complete idiots. Fans like Sarah Silverman, who live for more blood and gore. “More zombies!” they cry shrilly. “Kill more people! Keep it going!” Well, we all want to keep it going, but not like that!

These gore loving, negative Nellies speak for a minority of the Walking Dead family. I can’t help wondering, how were they raised? Do they consider Cormac McCarthy’s novel, ‘The Road,’ a light situational comedy? I feel no connection with these fans whatsoever. But there are many like me out there. I just know it. So in the interest of my own mental health, I am emailing the show’s producers with the following suggestion.

Make Walking Dead buttons for fans to wear that stipulate preference. There would be the “No More Deaths of Main Characters!” buttons. The rest would read, “More zombies! Who cares about Darryl!” Only two teams. From this moment, you must decide who you are in the world. Do you want mayhem for your own cruel enjoyment? Or survival and character development? Please choose wisely. If you pick the second, you are dead to me.  Pardon the pun.

Wearing buttons makes a lot of sense because then we know who to approach on the street. We could hold spontaneous fan meetings all around the world. If I was in Tokyo, I would find my people. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but we would make misty eyed contact, perhaps hug before saying goodbye. It would be enough.

Feel free to accost me on the streets of Flin Flon. But only if you’re on the right team. So choose wisely. If you pick the wrong button and the world turns dark, we’ll know who the bad guys are. The potential, ‘Team Cannibal.’ People who were probably happy when certain characters (I won’t spoil it!) died.

 Ahhhh. Now that I’ve shared, I feel so much better. I’ll see you at the Orange Toad for our first ‘Darryl lives forever!’ group meeting. If you disagree with my point of view, then I’ll meet you at dawn on number ten highway. Michonne will be there with her katana. (Of course she’s on my side! Duh!)

When I was a child, neighborhoods in Flin Flon commanded great loyalty from their smaller citizens. I grew up in East Birchview, and happily defended its honour against the slights of older, more established areas, like Willowvale. There was something almost gang-like in our devotion. Not like the Los Angeles Crips and Bloods, or the Jets and Sharks from West Side Story. We were more like the ‘na na boo boo’ gang.

We didn’t glide elegantly down the back alley of Norma Avenue, snapping our fingers and throwing down badass lyrics. The Hanson sisters would have liked that, but brother Bill and the Bryson boys, not so much. Belting out a few lyrics would have been awesome, too. Again, no support.  I guess it only works in a musical.

In the absence of singing and dancing, the neighborhood kids on my street formed a tight if sometimes uneasy alliance. This was especially true in summer when children were allowed to run free. On a typical day, most would duck out after breakfast, taking nothing more than a white bread sandwich, a jar of freshie, and a head full of crazy ideas. Generally we were expected to return for supper, bring our shoes home, and try not to kill ourselves.

The best thing about East Birchview was our proximity to the bush. Every day of the summer we roamed its paths, making wildly improbable plans while chasing down the two horses and one cow that were often seen ambling through the trees. I think they belonged to Mr. Stevens, though why he had them, I’m not sure. Still, it was kind of heartstopping to see a horse pounding along the path behind you. We’d give chase, picturing ourselves riding bareback through town, like Tonto. We never caught them, but it was thrilling, nonetheless.

The sand pit was also a great place to hang out. The whole neighborhood would show up for a game of steal the flag or king of the mountain. The sun would beat down, bleaching our hair and burning our skin. We’d return home covered in sand fly bites. There was no sun screen in those days, and we never seemed to bother wearing hats or applying bugspray.

One memorable summer, our next door neighbors, the Edwards, kept chickens in their back yard. Whenever we climbed the fence and called out to them, the hens would come running. We’d get scolded, but it didn’t stop us for long. Having a close encounter with chickens was crazy fun, and slightly scary for town kids. Eventually Mr. Edwards got rid of them, but it was thrilling while it lasted.

 I don’t remember much fighting, but there was a lot of name calling and general put downs. For some reason, it didn’t feel like bullying, though you had to know your place in the hierarchy. I sucked at marbles, wasn’t great at cricket either. But I had a good imagination. I was the one who came up with the idea for a circus in our back yard. It was more of a fair, really, with crazy rides made out of boards, barrels and rope. We placed the planks over the barrels so a child could stand, one at each end, surfing and teeter tottering their way across the yard. I don’t know that anything was ever that much fun again.

We went blueberry picking and played hide and seek. Crossed small lakes on make shift rafts and hauled our comics from house to house, peddling our wares with loud and voracious enthusiasm. An endless number of children’s voices would echo throughout the neighborhood, carried aloft on the hot summer air. At the end of the day, we’d answer our mothers call, trudging home with sunburnt faces and dirty feet. Tired soldiers at the end of a long campaign, we could hardly wait for the next day to begin so we could do it all over again. 

Children who are not athletic usually take a while to discover that truth. Because when you’re young, anything seems possible. Flying is not out of the question. So why should playing ‘Steal the Flag,’ ‘Kick the Can,’ or baseball be so hard? For some of us, it really is.

I’m genuinely clumsy. Ten years of ballet hasn’t helped much, either. When our community choir had dance tryouts a few years back, I was out in the first round. I didn’t mind that much because I really don’t like being on stage. I was just secretly hoping that things had changed. That the act of aging would have endowed me with better coordination. It feels a little ironic, this continuation of my disability.

 I’m not competitive, either. As a kid, my sister Susan was always challenging me to races. Who could run the fastest, climb the highest, swim the farthest? Not me. And I didn’t care.  I just never understood the point of it. I still don’t like to compete. I don’t buy lottery tickets, enter my name in contests, or take on fitness challenges. Even yoga feels too difficult. Like I’m making fun of myself, trying to twist like a pretzel when just walking down the street with shopping bags is challenging enough. Zumba is an exception, because you can break out in your own moves if the dance is too hard. People might laugh, but they’re usually courteous enough to look the other way while doing it.

Sometimes I think I have a neurological condition, like a mild form of MS, or Parkinson’s. Something that would account for all the dropped balls and missteps. The difficulty in dribbling a basketball or playing tennis. I can’t even folk dance, and we took it every year in gym class.

I get lost easily, too, which may be part of the same problem. To find the right spot in a city or a basketball game feels like a quest. A Lord of the Rings sized quest. That many do it so easily seems almost magical to me.  People who are naturally athletic or have a good sense of direction must find my problem puzzling. I feel the same way about people who can’t spell.

In spite of all my klutziness, I always have fun playing. So what if I’m bad at winning games? I’m good at making friends. All you have to do for that is show up, cheer for your team and don’t be a downer. Encourage the people who like to run at the front of the pack. I may be lagging behind but I’m chock full of admiration and ready to cheer all of you in the running. Just remember that, once its over, I’ll need someone to come and give me a ride home. I’ll try not to get the blood from my skinned knees all over the seats. At least, I’ll give it my physically mediocre best.

‘Stop all the clocks,’ says WH Auden in his poem, ‘Funeral Blues.’  ‘Cut off the telephone. Stop the dog from barking with a juicy bone. Silence the pianos and with muffled drum, bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.’

 The first time I heard this verse, I hadn’t lost anyone, really. A few neighbors had passed away. A cousin died. We all felt sad in the way children do when they see adults cry. But it was never personal. Since then I’ve lost my in-laws, both parents, and many friends.

Before mama died last week, my siblings and I had surrounded her with songs, prayer, assurances of our love, promises of good behavior. Mostly we sounded like a bunch of six year olds trying to make a very good impression on someone who already knew us all too well. With her passing, Auden’s poem returned to me, especially the first line. Because when someone so important to us dies, the clocks should stop. A silence ought to fall so everyone on earth can drop what they’re doing and ask, ‘What’s going on? What happened?”

 Grief is the unwanted journey. The boxer who waits inside a dark ring. Please, you think. Just give me a minute. Give me a moment. Please stop the clock. But grief has no mercy. It jabs and jabs and knocks you down until after a while its not even worth fighting.

 Auden’s last verse says:

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

You live there. Down at the bottom where the darkness of your grief rips a hole in your chest, confirming what you already knew.  You won’t ever rise again. But strangely, and in opposition to how most things work, that admission of defeat brings peace. The hurt begins to ease. You are able to acknowledge that death is part of life. That it’s coming for all of us, even if, as I believe, we’re simply moving on to another place.

The clocks can’t stop because they would never be able to start again. What feels so singular, so personal, so tightly packed on the inside, is universal. We all grieve. We all become orphans and widow-ers. The ones left behind. Most of us are lucky enough to realize what we’ve had within our small communities of friends and family. In lonely times we draw our memories around us; an embrace from everyone we’ve ever loved and lost. Then we take a deep breath. Feel lighter. Discover that we don’t hurt as much as before. The boxer puts down his gloves and the ring fades. Life goes on.

For someone who considers herself a writer, I have a hard time explaining things. One night at Zumba during a particularly tiring routine, I gasped the words, “I feel like I’m in a concentration camp hauling rocks, with no dinner in sight.” Since we were dancing to the theme song from, “Love, Actually,” I was asked to lighten up. But I wasn’t whining. I was pretending. I just forgot myself and did it out loud.

Weird scenarios jump into my mind all the time. Like last summer, when I saw a small crack in the cement outside my house with a tiny bit of moss sticking out and a strange bug on top of it. My first thought was, “So this is how the alien invasion begins.” It made perfect sense to me. I also enjoyed the imaginary dystopian world that followed where I became a freedom fighter with my own plane.

My regular life is rich and satisfying. The one inside my head is darker. Strange music drifts through the background, the melody dependent on the scenario. Say I meet a neighbor downtown. They might nod and keep walking. If I’m spending time in my alternate universe, I may hear the words, “Meet me at midnight. We’re starting the revolution.”  (Cue heavy African drum music)This is why I often have a vacant look on my face. Because I’m someplace else.

My childhood report cards read, “If Judy spent less time daydreaming, she would accomplish more in class.” Maybe. But I don’t think I could have handled the boredom. The truth of my adolescence is that half the time I was checked out. No wonder I could never figure out the coolness factor. One time at a friend’s birthday party, a girl from my grade six class caught me singing out of a window. I was pretending to be Doris Day sending forth a wistful love song. The girl looked at me like I was deranged. I knew then that we could never be close, because she just didn’t get it.

I’m at the age now where I make no apologies for being exactly who I am. It’s such a relief. I love reading books because they put me in the company of other dreamers. But writing is my way of getting all that crazy stuff out of my head so I can remember to buy eggs at the store. Not every day dreamer is a writer. They may have something else going on. Those who write, paint, sculpt, sew or sing feel a lot less stress. If you don’t let off steam from all those zany ideas, your head might explode.

We all feel that desperate yearning, that frantic call from our secret ourselves, asking to be released into the world. Find your outlets, my friends. Don’t be afraid to expose the real you to the world, unless it involves pulling down your pants in front of strangers. Then, never mind. Otherwise, get to it. Over and out.

(I just received a secret call from the white weasel who lives under our garden shed. The mice are planning a take over…