Free Book Today

My literary debut, Jumping in Mud Puddles  is free for download today, Thursday, July 12, through Amazon. If you don’t have a Kindle, don’t worry. It can be downloaded to your iPad, iPhone or even your computer. There is a quick and painless download from Amazon. I bought a Kindle last week before I knew you could even do this.

Jumping in Mud Puddles is a book of stories that I have taken from my blog of the same name. I have added and tweaked my posts into 44 chapters.

Here is the book description:

“Raise your hand if you-

1) Have ever been chased by a nun.

 2) Have been stung by a bee because it was injured and you tried to hug it and then you went into anaphylactic shock because the damn thing stung you on the cheek and you had to be rushed to the hospital (The bee didn’t make it).

3) Have ever made a tent caterpillar/dandelion meal in your cabin in the woods and have fed it to unsuspecting neighbor children.

 4) Were slipped a mild tranquilizer and was told it was a car sick pill……for years.

 5) Have killed the Boogeyman after lying in wait for it/him under your bed.

 6) Have peed your pants from laughing because a monkey has stepped onto your best friend’s head and the best friend doesn’t know what is on her head.

 7) Have puked on the school bus and all the kids had to raise their feet while the bus was going up hills.

If you have not been able to raise your hand for any of these normal every day experiences, you are invited to join Vickie as she revisits her childhood during the fifties, sixties, and early seventies. Visit the private Catholic school where she was sent because she flunked an early entrance exam. Sister Potato Head is waiting to stick you into the low reading group, “The Slow Sloths.” Follow Vickie as she takes you for a walk around the best neighborhood in Weirton, West Virginia. Don’t eat anything she tries to feed you in her cabin in the woods, however, especially if she is giggling as she hands it to you, but yet promises it doesn’t contain “real” things.

Jumping in Mud Puddles is a witty self-deprecating memoir with stories that will either make you smile because it reminds you of your own childhood or it will make you laugh because you are glad you weren’t a picky, hyper, big fat liar like Vickie.
And for the record, the cursing throughout the book is a really bad habit that grown-up Vickie acquired while teaching fourth grade. I mean, she doesn’t curse in front of the class…..yet. She apologizes for her potty mouth and hopes that you will see that she is just a grown up version of that skinny child of the sixties. Well, you can leave out the skinny part.”

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Thanks! If you feel so inclined to give me a review after you finished reading my little book that would be great, or tag and like me. If not, again, the download is free just today.

Enjoy!

The Traffic Jam and Salem Cigarettes

Image via Wikipedia

The year was 1965. It was late fall, in the sleepy mill town of Weirton, West Virginia. Sitting in traffic with her three children, Georgiana Mendenhall was becoming agitated. This was a daily occurence on Cove Road, and Mrs. Mendenhall was in a hurry.

“This is ridiculous. I bet there is an old hoot up front, driving like a snail……I bet when we get where we can pass, there will be an old geezer up there. I betcha.”

Her daughter, Vickie, aged nine, took note of her mother’s words. This wasn’t the first time her mother had exhibited road rage. Vickie was sitting in the front seat, unprotected, and unaware that if her mother wrecked, Vickie would most likely go crashing through the windshield. Most likely.

Traffic was creeping. Vickie wished that she was in the backseat with her brother and sister. They were fighting, as usual, but yet it was always fun trying to avoid the sweeping slap that came from her mother, trying to swat at them to quit fighting while she was driving. Alone and seatbeltless in the front seat, made Vickie very aware of her situation as her mother’s road rage increased.

“Damnit the hell any way. Why are we moving so slowly. I NEED to get home.”

Georgiana Mendenhall did not NEED to get home. The woman was out of cigarettes and was slowly edging toward her next smoke. She was closer to her home than to a cigarette store. Of course, there was no such thing as a cigarette store in Weirton, West Virginia. Had there been, Mrs. Mendenhall would have worked there. She needed her Salem cigarettes, those cancer sticks in a green and white package.

Mrs. Mendenhall had no idea that she had left her pack of Salem cigarettes on the coffee table in front of the couch where she sat, inhaling the magic into her lungs. She smoked from the time she woke up until the time she went to bed. She smoked while cooking. She smoked while ironing. She smoked while smoking. She was indeed, addicted. The traffic was creeping, just as the hairs were creeping up on the back of Georgiana Mendenhall’s neck. She was ready to hit the car in front of her.

“Dear God, what is going on up there? If there is an old geezer causing this, I am going to ram him.”

Georgiana’s daughter was frightened for her life. For. her. life. She spoke not a word, however, because it would not make the situation any better. She just smiled to let her know that it was going to be ok.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Vickie?” Mrs. Mendenhall decided to take her edginess and point it right at her oldest child. “Do you think this is funny? I need to get home to fix dinner.” Vickie noted that her mother took grip of the steering wheel as if she were the Boston Strangler. The need for a smoke was becoming intense. Vickie later described the emotional turmoil in the automobile.

“Mom was falling apart. The Traffic jam was too much for her. I tried to joke with her, asking why it is called a traffic “jam” since you should be able to get through jelly. I thought it was funny, but she was having no part of it. She was ready to convulse.”

The children sitting in the back were blind to their mother’s growing need for a cigarette. They made matters worse by yelling at each other. Cheryl claimed that David was looking at her. David stated that he was not. Cheryl claimed that he was looking at her again. David stated that he was not.

And that’s when Georgiana Mendenhall lost her mind.

She began honking her horn. It wasn’t just a “beep beep” as in the Road Runner cartoons that her children loved so. It was a blare. Future writer Vickie noted the sound in a menagerie of synonyms she learned in fourth grade:

“It was a constant barrage, a cannonade,  a unrelenting reverberation, vociferation, cacophonous,and dissonant.”

This did not make the traffic jam disband or hasten its agenda. Traffic was as slow as molasses on a summer day in the desert.

Vickie looked over at her mother. Georgiana Mendenhall looked like she was holding a pretend cigarette in her right hand. Beads of perspiration were falling from her brow. The horn blowing continued. The person in the car in front of Mrs. Mendenhall threw up his hands in exasperation. It was not his fault. It was probably an accident that was making the traffic move at a snail’s pace. They were in traffic for a long, long time, perhaps ten minutes. Too long for a short fused, cigarette craving murderous mom.

The traffic seemed to increase in velocity when the road turned from two to four lane. Mrs. Georgiana Mendenhall put her foot on the pedal and accelerated. She moved over into the passing lane and approached the traffic jam culprit, lingering in the right lane.

“You son of a bitch!” growled Vickie’s mother. She put her hand on the horn and the sound blared as they passed the accused. Vickie looked over at the driver. He was an old man. He was driving a purple Cadillac. A very large and long purple Cadillac. She knew the car well. She rolled her window down and waved at the driver as they came beside him.

“Hi Grandpa!’ Vickie mouthed over to the old man. He didn’t take his eyes off of the road. His hands were stationed at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, an intense look on his face. Afterall, a crazed road ragian was trying to run him off of the road.

“Mom, it’s Grandpa you called an old geezer.” Vickie laughed.

Georgiana Mendenhall did not say a word. She was not fond of her father-in-law, and he was not fond of her. He was a big name in this sleepy steel mill town, and he could make her disappear if he wanted to. He was the same man who put his crazy wife in a “rest” home every time he took a cruise or flight to Florida. He could make life miserable for his daughter-in-law. He may drive slow, but his actions in his business dealings were swift. But, he sure loved his grandaughter, Vickie.

“I’m going to tell Grandpa that you said he was a geezer,” Vickie glanced at her mother.  Her mother looked ashen. Perhaps it was the want of a Salem cigarette physically making her sick. Or perhaps it was her daughter’s nonchalant way of bribing her mother.

Georgiana Mendenhall arrived at home and reached for her beloved Salem cigarettes. Ahhhh…….. Vickie, of course, had no idea at this age what an orgasm was, but noted that her mother lit a cigarette after she smoked that cigarette.

And three hours later, Vickie and her siblings were summoned to the kitchen, where they found newly baked whoopie pies, sitting in a pile on the kitchen table. “I thought I would make your favorite, Vickie.”

Vickie knew that her silence could be bought. Whoopie pies were an impressive purchase. She also learned that traffic jams are not necessarily a bad thing.

 And she learned at the tender age of nine that life is nothing more than one big bargaining chip.

Me and Grandpa

Vickie with an E

I had a huge argument years ago with a girl over our first names. It was while I was attending college, circa 1976.  We were in a bar, so you know how drunken conversations can take an ugly turn. Especially when there is name calling.

I was standing in a crowded pub, creatively called, The Pub, minding my own business, when I heard someone yell, “Vickie!!” Well, since that is my name, I obviously looked to see who was calling for me. I had no idea who the person was, but I was on my second beer, so maybe it was my best friend. You first need to understand that I was what they call a “cheap date.” I would start giggling after only 1/2 of a beer, so it didn’t take much for me to become the self-proclaimed life of the party.  If I had more than three beers, and a microphone was nearby, I would become a comedian. I hang my head in embarrassment now. But, on that night, I became a drunken trial attorney. I am sure that is the best kind of trial lawyer. I argued my drunken case to the point where I was ready to take the LSAT the very next day.

Well, another “Vickie” went over and hugged the person who was yelling my name.  How cool! Another person with my name. I wonder if we are related. Ok, now you should understand by that comment that I may have had more than 1/2 beer. I guess the next day it would have made more sense if our LAST names were the same, duh. But, when she walked by me, I decided to say something.

“I heard him yell for you. My name is Vickie, too.”

Well, hell, I never personally knew anyone with my first name. I went to a high school with over 2,000 students, and not one of them was named Vickie. Oh wait. That’s a lie.  I can now think of two right off the top of my head. Well, that night, I thought I was the only one in the universe who had that first name. I was so excited.  She seemed excited, too. She answered me with a sweet smile.

“Cool. How do you spell your name?  I spell mine V-I-C-K-I.”

“I spell mine V-I-C-K-I-E.”

“Why? That sounds stupid.”  Obviously, she had more than 1/2 beer also. I was shocked that she could say that with a smile. And, also, how can the same name “sound” stupid? What an idiot. And to think she called me “stupid.” Well, she was stupider.

I had some hard ass sorority sisters nearby. I wasn’t afraid of  this stranger who shared my name. I’d have backup. Let the name calling begin, Vicki bitch.

“Stupid? Your name looks like you forgot how to spell the rest of it, because you have no brain, and you just quit writing it. V-I-C-K-I is incomplete.”

“Vicki Lawrence spells it with just an “i”.  Is that the best you got? It was my turn.

“Well, then, she is stupid. She is just a sidekick to Carol Burnett. She only got the job because she looked a little like Carol Burnett. If she spelled her name with an “e”, she would have her own show.”  I thought that was a brilliant retort.

Well, once drunks get in a confrontation, it’s hard to tell where the conversation ends up. We bantered back and forth for a short while, but realized that there really isn’t too much of an argument, unless you get off topic. I could have easily commented on her poor choice of earth shoes and painter pants. She could have commented on how beautiful I was. Or something like that. But, luckily, we ran out of steam and started making fun of how the “other” Vickie’s/Vicki’s would spell their name.  I started.

I asked her if she was ever called, “Picky Vicky.”  I hated that name, mainly because, well, I was picky. It would make sense in an argument that since “picky” is spelled with a “y”, then the name should end that way. We both thought that was an ugly adaptation of our name.

Then there was M-I-C-K-E-Y, as in the mouse. Why wasn’t our name spelled like that? V-I-C-K-e-Y. Later on, my husband used to call me “Vickey Rooney,” after the actor, Mickey Rooney. We both thought that was wrong also.

After we hugged and laughed off our three minute round, she went off to dance on the table and I went home to pass out  study, I woke up remembering why I hate for people to write anything but, V-I-C-K-I-E.  The stupid nuns at the Sacred Heart of Mary Mary Quite Contrary Academy were to blame. As I mentioned in several previous posts, I attended that private school for the first three grades, and hated every minute of it.

First of all, the crazy head nun, Sister Maria, insisted on calling me Victoria, despite my objections. I got in trouble for trying to correct her.

“Little girl, your correct name is Victoria. “Vickie”  is a nickname……….I don’t care what your mom says. “Vickie” is short for Victoria.”

Well, ok, then, witch.  I hated Sister Maria and I knew it is wrong to wish bad things on her, but I hoped bad things would happen to her. Not death, mind you. I was only in third grade. I was thinking more like her walking and simply falling down. Yep. I wanted to see the nun fall down.  Besides being a teacher, Sister Maria also drove the van/bus to pick up some of the students in the morning.  One morning, a driver hit the side of our van. It’s weird, but I looked to see if Sister Maria was hurt before I noticed I had a big gash through my leotards. Dammit, she was ok. The police came and they asked for all of the names of the passengers in the van. The next morning, there was a write-up in the newspaper. My name was listed as one of the injured.

“…….and Victoria  Mendenhall, 9,  of Weirton……”

Whaaat? It honestly pissed me off. My name was in the newspaper, and it wasn’t really my name. Sister Maria told them my name was Victoria. I never hated her more than when I read my misprint in the newspaper. She was never going to call me anything but Victoria. So, I decided to be a smart ass from then on. I started the very next day when I got on the bus.”

“Good morning, Victoria.” she said when I got on the stupid bus/van.

“Good morning, Sister Mary.”  She didn’t say anything, but gave me a very dirty look. I was dead.

I called her Sister Mary for a few weeks, when suddenly, out of the blue, a miracle occurred. A miracle, I tell ya.

“Vickie, did you have a nice weekend?”  I just nodded and went on my way. Wow. I did it! I got her to start calling me Vickie instead of Victoria. I felt so powerful.

It wasn’t until a year later, far far away from the Sacred Heart of Mary Juana Academy, safely enrolled in public school, that I heard my mom talking to a neighbor lady during their daily coffee/cigarette marathon. I had settled in my eavesdropping hiding place, ready to listen to some mom gossip.

“No, don’t send him there. My kids went there for a few years until last year. I had enough of the head nun, Sister Maria. Vickie was coming home in tears almost daily because Sister Maria kept calling her Victoria. I finally called the school and told her that I should know what I named my daughter, and if Vickie comes home one more time and tells me you have called her Victoria, I will pull my children from your school and I will make some phone calls about how you have treated my daughter. Do I make myself clear?”

Wow. My mom went on blabbing, but I had heard enough. I could feel the air leaking out of my balloon swelled head as I walked into my room.

Years later,  before my freshman year in high school, my mom, brother, sister, bff Ramaine and I were in a terrible car accident. I had hit my head on the back seat after a Mack truck hit us from behind and we flew head-on into a car coming in the opposite direction. I had blood flowing from my head and from my ankle, but still managed to talk to the ambulance driver person. I’m sure it was the concussion talking.

“My name is Vickie. It is spelled V-I-C-K-I-E…… Do you think my name will be in the newspaper?”

glass Vickie balls

Fast forward many years. I have divorced and have just purchased a new townhome. I am feeling liberated. I took back my maiden name and the sound of it makes me feel independent and free. I am happy. But, as I look around at new purchases, I had to smile. I must like my name.

55 years old and I'm collecting blocks...um, ok.

In the end, one needs to feel comfortable in their own skin. They need to be proud of who they are and defend their name.

Literally.

Set your drink on these lovely monogrammed coasters

Grandpa’s Funeral and Maybe Mine

When my dad was born, my grandparents named him Elwood. Poor kid.  Elwood Arthur. Well, grandma’s name was Orpha and they already named my aunt, Wilma, so it made sense to stick with stupid names. What is worse, is that dad had a first cousin that was born a week after he was, and so what did they name that sweet, tiny, baby? You got it, Elwood.  Yeah, two Elwoods in the family.

My grandfather was a strip miner and land developer. He named a lot of street names in Weirton, West Virginia. Even named one after grandma…sigh….Orpha Avenue.  I forgot to mention that Orpha’s best friend’s name was Zella.  I can’t make this stuff up. He  once converted an old mansion into apartments and named them the Vickie Lynn Apartments after me. How about that?

I just loved my grandpa. He spoiled me rotten. I wanted a fur coat, so one day he bought me one with a fur collar. Did I mention I was only four years old?  I hung out with him all of the time. In the summer, I would stay overnight with them and we would watch Bonanza and the Ed Sullivan Show. We would sit on the carpet and play marbles. I became pretty good with my shooting. My grandma would run bath water for me in like 1/2 inch water.  I guess she thought I would drown or something.

But, I had fun with my grandpa. But he used to lie to me all the time. He always wanted company when he would have to drive over to Zanesville, Ohio, to look at one of his strip mines. He told me one time to come with him, because he was going to stop at a relative’s home over there, and they had a baby elephant. Are you kidding me? A baby elephant? Yes, of course I will go with you!!  When we got there, there was a terrier on a long leash that was attached to a clothesline, running back and forth. “Grandpa, where’s the baby elephant?”  “Well, they must have sold it.”

When I would stay overnight and eat with them, he would tell me to hurry and look out the window, and then he would steal something off of my plate. He would smile, but would never give it back to me. He always ate grapefruit. Every morning there was a half of a grapefruit sitting on a plate. I hated grapefruit, so I got those white powdered donuts. I am sure she cooked something for me, but I remember gourging myself with those dry donuts. I had fun at their house. They had a cat  named Tommy, that was tied up in the kitchen and was rarely allowed anywhere in the house.

I always knew there was something not right about my grandma, but I really didn’t see it. I found out later that she once took a train by herself to Philadelphia to see a specialist because she thought she had wires coming down in her mouth. Ok…..I also found out that when Grandpa wanted to take a cruise or fly to Florida, he would put Grandma in a “rest home” while he was gone.  He was wild. He had several palimino horses that he would dress up and ride in the parades in town. He even owned a farm where the horses stayed. We would take sleigh rides on the Cherry Farm. Life was grand.

Well, then he got hurt. Seems that crazy Grandma was chasing him through the house with a butcher knife and he fell and broke his hip. After that, he just seemed old and frail and before long he was always in the hospital. Then he had to live in a nursing home. One night my dad got a call from the nursing home and my dad took off quickly. I thought maybe Grandpa had died and I cried all night.When my dad got home later, I sneaked and listened to my dad tell my mom, (after he got a beer and sat down) that,  chuckle, chuckle, chuckle, that Grandpa had taken off all his clothes and they found him in bed with some old lady who was a very prominent citizen in town. Luckily, she didn’t know her own name, so I guess she didn’t mind. That’s one thing when you have Alzheimers. You make new friends every day. (Sorry)

I was 15 when my grandpa died. I believe he was 85. I don’t know why I felt like I wasn’t supposed to cry. They held a viewing for 2 days and I couldn’t get over how many people came to pay their last respects.  I was so sad. Until some stupid woman with a black shiny pocketbook came over to my mom. I remember I could see myself in the reflection of that damn purse. I was wondering if she buffed it to be so shiny. I bet she only had a hankerchief and a lipstick in it. She spoke to my mom and offered her condolances. “Oh, my, Georgiana. Is this your adopted daughter, Vickie?”

Ok, I was 15 years old. I was adopted when I was a few days old and was carried to a street corner in Wheeling where  my mom and dad were waiting. I know that sounds a bit fishy, but it was supposed to be a private adoption.  How more private can you be than by hanging out on a street corner, waiting to pass off a baby?  Anyways, this lady looked at me, excited to meet Georgiana’s adopted daughter. Ok, it was SHOWTIME!

“I’m ADOPTED??????” I looked at the lady and then looked at my mom..and then looked at the lady and then looked at my mom..And then I burst out crying, put my hand over my mouth and ran out of the room. When I got around the corner, I slowed down, smiled, I thought to myself, “That’ll teach her.”

In the end, I got to cry over my grandpa’s death. Indirectly, of course.  I peeked around the corner and I could see the lady begging my mom for forgiveness. It looked like my mom didn’t tell the lady that I have always known I was adopted. Hmmm, interesting. I think that meant that I was going to have to get a whipping  when I got home. Do the little “Spank your Ass” dance around in a circle. I didn’t care. Pocketbook lady deserved it. But, I wasn’t done. I looked over at David, who was standing by my dad, looking like he was ready to cry himself. I then sort of ran over to my mom, made myself cry again right before I got to her and the lady and I said, “David wants to know if he is adopted too? ”  I pointed in David’s direction. Mom and Pocketbook lady looked over at poor David.

Like it was on cue, David looked like he was ready to cry.This can’t get any better. The lady looked like she wanted to hang herself with the strap on her shiny black pocketbook. I asked, “Mom, is David adopted too? We aren’t real..pause… pause….crying….lights down low…..”brother and sisterrrrr?” I burst into tears again, walked over to David, and hugged him. I think he was a little shocked that I just came over and hugged him. We weren’t huggers. But, it was part of the acting.   Such great acting. David had no clue what I had done.

But, my mom knew EXACTLY what I was doing.  I was 15. I hadn’t been whipped in a very long time. I was sent to my room a lot. But that was a long time ago also.  I had a feeling I was going to be sent away to a boarding school. That is the kind of  look she gave me. Her neck and ears seemed a bit more red than usual. Yeah, this was going to be bad.

My mom didn’t say a word on the way home. She didn’t say a word to me when we got home. It was late, so we got ready for bed. I laid in bed and she didn’t come in to tell me my flight was booked for boarding school. Nothing. So, I put the TV show, Mission Impossible theme music in my head  and creeped to the family room to hear my fate.

They were both smoking  and the TV was on in the background. They seemed to be talking about the funeral home and just the day in general.  Then I heard her mention my name. Something something..Vickie.  Damnit, speak louder, Mom. All I could hear was little snippets. “I was so proud of her.”…..”How dare she mention the word adopted.”…..”I’ve never liked that woman.” …”She deserved it.”…..”She is so very sneaky.”  Ok, who was sneaky?  I’m thinking it was time for me to get back to bed, or they were going to find out how sneaky I truly was. I turned around to rush back under my covers, when I tripped on the damn dog, who had plopped down beside me, and I flew into something that made a noise.  Just great.

My mom saw me and just looked down at me. “You have had a long day, Bette Davis. Time to go to bed, don’t you think?”

She smiled at me and walked into the kitchen.  Wow. Finally, one of my lies paid off.

And I got to cry over Grandpa.