CHAPTER 6-PERFECTION

I've been doing it ever since I can remember. I count things. I count everything. I find patterns. I add. I subtract. I multiply. I cross-multiply. I find fractions. I FOIL. I make sense of randomness.

You see 12:34 on the clock? I think, "What number is next? What numbers are next? It could be 56, it could be the difference between 34 and 12. It could be absolutely anything If *I* could make it make sense.

That's where the philosophy all began. If I can make it fit into my own well defined realm of perfection, then it *must* be perfect, right?

I count petals, I count leaves, I look at clocks. I make number out of anything. I use the alphabet with numbers correlating to the correct letter. I even play tricks on myself and slide each letter two spaces. To trick myself, of course!

So my search for perfection game has evolved. So much so that I am actually making challenges for myself that have the most incredible odds of happening. What are the chances of you seeing 123456 on your odometer? Well, that depends. How often do you actually look at the odometer? How often would it come up if you had a 1 before the first one?

(See, I do have problems, right?)

And here I sit tonight. Perfection found. In a bag of M&Ms. I've been playing since I was little. I would pour four candies out. The first had to be red. The second, orange. Third, yellow and last, green. It was such a simple game. But it never happened, not one single perfect pour. Ever. I tried with 5, I tried with 6, both before and after light brown turned to blue.

And still here I sit. Perfection found. In a bag of M&Ms. I poured a red, followed by orange. Then yellow and green, blue and lastly, brown. I did it. I found perfection. It's been a very long time since I even created the challenge. And I am here, satisfied that I, indeed, did it. After thousands of tries and thousands of calories, I did it. P-E-R-F-E-C-T.

I doubt it will ever happen again.

CHAPTER 5 - SPINNING

I really loved Camp. I believe the Camp tradition started the year I was born, 1972. Every summer someone was there from our extended family. We weren't there every year, but as often as my parents could plan a trip, we would go.

From the time I woke up in the morning until into the evening, I was in the water. I didn't care who with or what for, I was there.

In my younger years, I would put on my one piece bathing suit and set out for the cove. My grandfather always had huge inner tubes for us to play on in the water. It was the absolute best entertainment ever. My sister and I would each get on the inner tube, face each other and rock back and forth. First to fall off lost. Then we'd climb back up and do it all over. Sometimes there were other kids there and they'd get on too. We had a ball. It was the greatest game ever.

It was the greatest game ever until we discovered the oars to the boat. Then we would get onto the innertube like we were riding a horse. One leg on the inside, on leg on the outside, straddling. We would take the oar to the boat and paddle. And spin. The faster we would paddle, the faster we would spin. Our ride always ended because of the dizziness and a fit of giggles. Laughing ourselves so hard that our sides hurt. Then we would switch back to the rocking game until that got old, and we'd spin again.

CHAPTER 4 - THE YELLOW THING, THE PRICE IS RIGHT AND ORANGE POPSICLES

It's so funny to think back to what my earliest childhood memories are. Sometimes I swear I can remember the crib/bunkbed that my Dad built when we lived in the trailer. The walls were paneling that were painted this muted avacado green with white striping. I swear I remember my mom painting in between the panels with q-tips. Such strange things.

I also remember either dreaming or actually jumping off the end of the bunk bed. The end with the ladder. I would do a full 360 twirl off the end, gently gliding down from the top. Of course it's possible that it's real, but more than likely, just a dream. I think that there was probably a dresser at the end of the bed also. At times I think it was parallel with the bed at the end, at others it's perpendicular. Either way, it doesn't matter.

I loved that bed. I really do remember that. I would wake up as my dad would leave for work. I would be all cuddly in the yellow and white zig-zag patterened afaghan. My toes shoved in the holes, stretched as much as possible to cover my head. Now I know that the blanket probably covered me, but I know that, as a child, I stretched it to cover me up and hide. I didn't need to hide, but it was fun for Dad to come in and peek under and check on me.

One of my fondest memories was about that bed, the blanket and a Dixie cup of KoolAid. I don't know how often it happened, but I imagine it happened often enought to be emblazoned on my brain. Waking early in the morning and asking for a drink. Dad would bring a Dixie cup of KoolAid. I still think it's the greatest thing ever. (As a parent, I only bring my girls water!) Red KoolAid. It was cool and sweet and tasted so wonderful. I wouldn't just gulp it down, I'd slowly sip at it. I still remember, even thirty-some years later how great that KoolAid tasted in the dark room.

I had a fondness for the artifically sweet, bright things that were given to me as a child. I especially loved orange popsicles. I remember eating them on Rock Street on the porch. I remember eating them at Camp. And I remember eating them with her.

She had this yellow thing. It wasn't quite an ottoman, more like a foot stool without feet. It looked a tad bit like a layercake with a folded gold pleather cover. I would take it on it's side and flop my body onto it. Being only 4, I was small enough to roll on it. Much like a printroller, I would roll myself over the top, back and forth and back and fort. The yellow thing is stuck in my head.

The yellow thing is where I always sat. She sat in her chair, watching game shows. I always loved to watch them with her. "Family Feud" and "The Price is Right." The combination of her, and me sitting on the yellow thing, watching a game show and eating an orange popsicle was pure bliss. Ending up with sticky fingers and being washed by her. Climbing into her lap and being smothered with kisses and tight hugs for "her Brown Eyed Love Bug."

I've only had one other orange popsicle in my life since she's been gone. I just can't bring myself to eat another. I tried, once. I couldn't finish it. I tried because I shared my story with my husband. He got me to try. And I couldn't do it. I doubt I will ever have another.

CHAPTER 3-THE PICTURE


It's a picture of her. In Hawaii. With him.

Standing there.

She's happy. He's happy.

She has that purse. The pony colored one. The one with the funny money tucked inside.

The picture makes me smile every time I see it.

CHAPTER 2 - COOL WATER

The coolness. That's what I remember. Never too hot, never too cold.

And spinning.

We would spend summers at the cottage. An old tool shed that my grandfather brought to the island. Converted to two bedrooms and a kitchen/dining area/living room, it was my 500 square feet of Summer bliss.

I remember her frying fish. I remember her sitting at the old table in front of where the double screen door was. I remember her fishing. I remember her everywhere. I remember her sick. I remember her well. But I don't ever remember her sick on the island.

We called it "Camp." It was wonderful. The car ride there was something else though. My father drove a Caprice Classic. It was silver, but looking back, I think it was more described as "shiny primer gray." The interior was velvet, or as close to velvet as it gets. Dad cut down a piece of plywood to cover the back seat. He put a cooler on the hump. You know, the one between the floorboards in the back. He placed the plywood on top of the seat and cooler. Tah-dah, instant bed for the kids. It was great!

Looking back now, maybe it wasn't the safest thing in the world. But it made the long ride more tolerable. We would stretch out, heads at opposite ends and read. And read. And read.

I remember singing to the radio at times. I was painfully shy when it came to singing. Dad would say, "What is that noise? Buckwheat, is that you?" I never admitted to it, though I know my parents knew it was me. I wish now that I had the courage to sing out loud and strong as a child, but I hated my voice and knew that I could never sing "on key" like everyone else in the car.

Setting out from Arkansas to Canada was a trek. But once we got to the ferry, all the hotness of the car, the pent up frustrations of being in the car for so long, and any exhaustion we felt was washed away by the smell of diesel coming from the ferry's smokestack. We would board the ferry and wait. And every single time the captain blew the horn, it scared me.

I loved being on top of the ferry. There was always wind. There was a smell to the air, so familiar every time. It's the smell of the fresh water and wind. The smell of "Camp." There's no words to do it justice. And in all honesty, it's "my" smell....something I've only shared with my family. There's plenty to go around, but if I talk to my family, only they know what I am speaking of.

The water there is cool. So cool. On the ferry you can feel the spray in your face. Getting off the ferry leaves you with that cool feeling, damp but not really. Your hair feels like it's been blown for hours, but your cheeks don't feel windburned. You just feel good. Really, really good.

The drive to the cabin can only be described as winding. Straight, right, straight, left, straight, right, straight, left. And on and on for about 20 minutes until you reach 16 Line and hang a left. Down the dirt road a ways to the cow gate. There are no cows now, but when I was younger, there were tons. So many you had to be careful to avoid the cow poop when opening the gate. And once you drove through the gate, make sure you close the gate. Still now, even though there are no cows, you still have to close the gate.

The weeds and brambles don't reveal the treasure that lies within a walk from the water's edge. Driving down the gravel road yields unexpected potholes and limbs that bang on the car antennae. The hairpin curve to the left going downhill and then past Ice Cream Rock. You can see the clearing, the telephone pole, and then, "Camp."

CHAPTER 1- I SAW HER AGAIN

I saw her.

Again.

She was standing there in the field of sunflowers. Why sunflowers? I don't know. She wore a slight smile, just for me. Only me. She looked different and I noticed. Still wearing the purple polyester pants. The brushstoked top in hues of teal and lavendar.

Her abdomen was no longer distended and she didn't look "old." She still carried the large purse, the pony colored one. The one so large, with so many pockets, you didn't know where to begin to look for anything. Ask her and she could produce said object within two seconds. I knew her funny money was tucked away somewhere inside, a souvenir of Canada to be spent another year. There were papers pouring out of the pockets, but they were still in order.

She dug in her purse, slow to produce the white tissue. It was fresh and unwrinkled. She raised it like a flag of surrender. Waving it, making it dance like the sunflowers she stood behind.

I couldn't move. I didn't want to move.

I glanced to the sky."Please, God. Just one more minute."

I noticed the tears. The were now rolling down my face. Had I been crying this whole time?

I extended my hand and reached for the tissue. Her hand came to mine.