Tag Archives: Kelly Bixby

Let Me EntertainYou

My husband asked what I was writing about this month. After I answered him, I could tell that he wasn’t impressed—probably not even slightly interested—with my subject. “Finding iPhones,” I said. He smirked, and I knew he was thinking: boring. So, I gently reminded him that “I’m a writer. If I do my job well, then the story won’t be boring.”

But after finishing the piece, I worried that Greg was right. Doubt had crept into my writing process like it does just about every month. I lose the ability to discern whether my personal essays and memoirs will spur smiles, indifference, or yawns.

I’m a practical person. I know that none of my writing will ever be perfect, that’s just not possible. So at the very least, I aim to entertain. Then I revise as much as possible before having to part with my little darlings—my painstakingly crafted articles. Pushing deadlines and my editor’s patience, I eventually let go and watch my little ones fly. This month, after three long days of trying to improve my article and after going off on tangents into unrelated topics, I realized that even I was disinterested with what I had written.

Friend and fellow Deadwood Writer, Diana Hirsch, says “blogging is supposed to be fun.” The first time she said it to me was when I was struggling to transform my jumbled thoughts into a structured idea that wouldn’t put readers to sleep. She may have presumed I wasn’t enjoying the creative process, but that wasn’t the case. I can . . . and do . . . sit for hours writing, because I like most everything about it.

Introspectively, I analyze relationships and reflect on life. I savor the peace and quiet of researching and indulge in sipping coffee throughout the day. I thrive on the challenge of organizing my material into something clever and orderly; of shaping stories, revising them over and over. And—just like I adore holding a book and flipping pages—I love printing my finished articles so I can pass them between my fingers too. I lay the pages out, scan them for errors, and dot them with red ink where needed. I’m sorry for the trees I murder. But there is something wonderful about the feel of crisp paper with knife-like edges; the sight of black ink being constrained by white, one-inch margins; and the sound of pages clicking in place as I line them perfectly on top of one another and then bring them together with a swift tap or two against the surface of my desk—prepping them for stapling in their upper-left corners.

My little darlings are unlike other writers’ self-indulgent brats—superfluous material, screaming to be cut out from the current body of work and saved for a more befitting purpose. My babies comprise the entire article in its imperfect yet finished form. They are born from each letter and every punctuation mark I type and handcraft with love for you.

Dear readers, you are the driving force behind my efforts to raise good children. I want you to find something encouraging or useful in what I write. If I can entertain you or make you smile at some point, I’m ecstatic, but I’m about as far from Gypsy Rose Lee as one can be. I’m not a natural showgirl or a well-known author. I’m a writer battling against mediocrity in my blogs.

Palumbo, Fred, photographer. [Gypsy Rose Lee, full-length portrait, seated at a typewriter, facing slightly right/ World Telegram & Sun photo by Fred Palumbo]. 1956. Image. Retrieved from the Library of Congress, https://www.loc.gov/item/94511004/. (Accessed January 06, 2017.)

Many of Hollywood’s leading ladies have stepped onstage to sing the lyrics to the iconic “Let Me Entertain You.” The song was inspired by Gypsy Rose Lee’s popularity as a burlesque dancer. This is how I like to remember her: as an author.

Because you’re important to me, I’m not going to succumb to the pressure of a due date, the one thing about writing I don’t like. Deadlines stress college students, journalists, businessmen and writers of all kinds—in this case, me—who could use just a little more time to finish respective projects. Merriam-Webster hints at the origin of “deadline” with this dreadful definition: “a line drawn within or around a prison that a prisoner passes at the risk of being shot.”

Imagine: A prisoner, whose only chance for escape involves crossing a line that’s being guarded by expert shooters. He knows that crossing that line will most likely result in his death. He frets. He schemes. He hopes. He commits, knowing there is no turning back. No return; no surrender. There is no undoing what he’s about to do. At best, he’ll succeed and live a long life on the run. But doubt creeps in as he faces the fact that his attempt at freedom—at crossing the deadline—will probably result in death.

This month, I hope you’re relieved to find out that you don’t get to read a boring account of the iPhone I stumbled upon while Christmas shopping . . . just because I have a deadline. I’m preserving any good impression you may have of me by killing my darlings.

Photo credit: Palumbo, Fred, photographer. [Gypsy Rose Lee, full-length portrait, seated at a typewriter, facing slightly right/ World Telegram & Sun photo by Fred Palumbo]. 1956. Image. Retrieved from the Library of Congress, https://www.loc.gov/item/94511004/. (Accessed January 06, 2017.)

Writer in Residence

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I’m planted in a comfy chair. Sitting at my writer’s desk, I try not to slouch as I strategically reconstruct the finest details of Janet’s life. I attack her biography as if I had won a coveted position as a writer in residence, focused only on finishing her story.

Sunshine comes streaming in through the window and coaxes me to look away from my work. I gaze outside to admire the winter scenery: blue skies muted by white clouds; pine trees lined upon rolling foothills; grass, dried and yellowed, but interesting none the less. There’s snow at higher elevations, and just a short twenty-five feet from my vantage point, I spot several mule deer as they tiptoe their way to the stream. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of watching them.

A new housing development shares space with these mule deer. Black bear and mountain lions are at home in Colorado’s foothills too.

Despite all this natural beauty, the setting before me doesn’t quite represent the perfect place to write that I had once romanticized. The window glass doesn’t muffle sounds of waves as they crash upon the shore. In fact, there are no waves; there is no sandy beach. My longed-for sanctuary by the sea has been exchanged for this home, a mile-high fortress in the mountains. With land spreading out so far and wide, I conclude that Colorado may afford the perfect compromise between metropolis and wilderness. Even Green Acres’ Lisa Douglas could be happy here.

But this Rocky Mountain imagery is also just another daydream. I haven’t yet moved from my home state of Michigan. That very real adventure will be underway, however, by the time you read this.

Throughout twenty-eight years of marriage, I’ve promised my husband that I would go wherever he needed to go. “We’re a team. Together, we’ll do whatever we have to do.” Now, for the first time, Greg’s accepted a job that requires us to leave family and friends, our church, and well-established routines. He and I are relocating to the Wall Street of the Rockies. We need to find a place to live; discover new, favorite restaurants; make friends; try to fit into a different cultural environment; and learn the traffic patterns that allow for shortcuts in and out of an unfamiliar city.

Do you know what people say when I tell them that we’re moving to Denver?

“Oh! It’s so beautiful.”

Colorado’s official slogan is “It’s our nature.” I can’t wait to see the state show off its colors in the springtime.

Even people who have never been there promote that claim as if they have first-hand knowledge of the truth.

“Have you ever been there?” I’ve started asking.

“Well, no. But that’s what I’ve heard . . .”

Ah huh. Blue skies and sunshine, over three-hundred days a year. That’s what I’ve heard. For a born and bred Michigander who thinks “g-r-a-y” spells a nasty four-letter word, I immediately feel energized by Colorado’s reputation. The problem is that the statistic I’ve come to love and embrace isn’t true!

When I was in college, a journalism professor ingrained in me the need to cross-check facts. The rule of thumb was that if I could find the same information in three or more reputable places, I didn’t necessarily have to cite the source. For example, I could state that cigarette smoking leads to lung cancer without the need to reference a specific finding of the American Cancer Society. Many independent and credible reports support that statement, now considered common knowledge.

So, when this writer from the lower peninsula of Michigan is being displaced to one epically gorgeous and Colorful Colorado, she wants facts, not fancy, to guide her expectations.

Enter Colorado State Climatologist, Nolan Doesken—also known as Senior Research Associate; Director of Fort Collins Weather Station; and past American Association of State Climatologists President. He has the credentials this girl is relying upon. Doesken explains that Denver’s 300 days of sunshine are a bit overstated. “Only about 115 days per year fit the classic definition of ‘clear,’”[1] he says.

That’s better than the 75 days the greater-Detroit area squeaks out. One point for Denver. And yes, I’m keeping score. You can’t expect me to leave the only home I’ve ever known and not compare it to what will be my new one. Michigan may be gray from time to time, but it’s breathtakingly beautiful too.

You know, we Michiganders are surrounded by the Great Lakes. They’re as vast as Coloradans’ mountains are high. When I long to kayak Lake Superior’s Pictured Rocks, I’ll try to conquer Mount Evans instead. When Sleeping Bear Dunes is calling, I’ll make a point to visit Colorado’s Great Sand Dunes and try not to favor the National Lakeshore over the National Park. And when family and friends cross two time zones to visit me, I’ll prepare for their overnight stay by gently placing a Sanders chocolate on each of their pillows . . . alongside a little bit of legalized Kandy Kush.

Before you judge me, dear readers, let me say that of course, I’m only joking. I wouldn’t be so cruel as to leave pot on your pillow and not include an entire box of chocolates also.

Heaven help me! I’m moving to Denver.

[1] http://climate.colostate.edu/questions.php, accessed Dec. 1, 2016.

The Best Seat in the House

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“This is my command: Love each other.” ~ Jesus

(John 15:17, NIV)

For over 125 years, Mt. Hope has been inviting visitors to become part of its church family.

Oliver sits directly in front of me. The five-year-old was a student in my vacation Bible school class. He snuggles up to his mom. With a broad smile and a gleam in his eye, he leans in to kiss her cheek. She puts her arm around him and hugs him close. Oliver’s dad sits on the other side of the young boy. The two of them have the same color of hair, brown, and similar haircuts. The dad stretches his arm all the way out—behind and past his son—and caresses his wife’s shoulder. The way he stares and smiles at his wife in that moment tells me he adores her. She’s looking down at something in her lap and misses that glance of affection. All the while, Oliver is delightfully sandwiched between his parents. All three are visitors to church on this particular Sunday, but I’m sure they’ve been here in the past. Probably on a day that they came to hear Grandma Mary Ellen sing in the choir.

The trio fit right in with the rest of us regular worshipers. Love is abundant at Mt. Hope. Ours is a small church, but we’re big on family.

Across the aisle, in the front row, Kelsey sits where her mom used to. Everyone who knew Jan was saddened by her untimely death, due to a medical mistake. We miss her, but her husband Bud is the most distraught. We hug him when we can and cry with him when we do.

Nearby, Toddler Theo is full of youthful energy. He can’t be contained. His Nana carries the squirming child out of the sanctuary and to the nursery. I know she will stay there to play with him and keep him content, unless his Buppa happens to be volunteering in the back room to watch the young children during this morning’s service.

Farther back in another pew sits Sami. She rests her head upon her dad’s shoulder. Her neck is tilted—practically at a forty-five-degree angle—to her body. How could that position be the least bit comfortable, I wonder? I watch as her father protectively wraps his arm about her. Familiar tattoos peek out from beneath his short-sleeved shirt. His little girl is now a young lady. All grown up at eighteen and going to college in the fall. She will miss her daddy and mommy, though. Anyone can see that. Despite open seating to the right, Sami’s mom is pressed tightly up against Sami, an aspiring pharmacist. Beauty and brains, the perfect combination.

Signs of affection are common during church service.

A baby cries, and I don’t have to turn to see that it is Abela’s little sister. When just a few months old, the baby was baptized here. Pastor Steve poured holy water over the baby’s tiny forehead, and then our church family welcomed her by singing, “Jesus Loves Me,” like we do for all the babies. This precious little one didn’t even cry. She just cooed and smiled as she was carried up and down the main aisle so we could meet, eye-to-eye, the little person to whom we were promising to teach and guide and raise as one of our own. I hoped she would one day know how significant her baptism was. Even the water used to bless her was special. It came directly from Pastor Steve’s last trip to Israel. He had collected it himself from the Jordan River, where Christ had been baptized two thousand years earlier by John.

Today, the spot next to Al is vacant. His wife, Doris, is in the hospital recuperating from surgery, so their son Clark fills the void. Several pews forward from them, Mitchell is missing. He must be performing in a weekend matinee. What else can an actor be expected to do? Even on Sundays, the show must go on. On the rare occasion that Margaret isn’t in her usual spot, I immediately expect to find her at the piano, which she sometimes plays when our church accompanist, Sharon, cannot.

From my seat towards the back of church, I see all this and more. Dawn and Bill’s twin sons are training at West Point, so I know that the parents regularly sit beside lifelong friends and gab while they wait for service to begin. I notice when Grandpa John comes in to claim his place alongside his two grandkids. I hear when Lynn laughs and when Karen and Susie sing.

This morning, I can tell that we have visitors. Clumped together at the front, they must be with Bertha. She’s way out of place up there. Normally, she’s even farther back than me. But when I see her look closely at her great-granddaughter, clothed in a white gown and bonnet, I understand. There will be another baptism.

My mind races. Is the family bothered by the vacation Bible school decorations that will show up in the background of the baptism photos? Surely they didn’t expect a cave, complete with stalagmites and stalactites. I get up and quickly approach Pastor Steve who is seconds away from starting service.

“Should I move anything out of the way? Is it too late?” I whisper in his ear.

He smiles, shakes his head, and assures me. “We’re fine, Kelly. We don’t need to change a thing.”

This baby has a beautiful start in her journey to Jesus.

I return to my vantage point near the back of the sanctuary. Pastor Steve’s words float around in my mind and I think about this loving family that I’m a part of. Steve’s right, I know. We may try to capture life’s biggest moments from the perfect angle of a camera lens, but by focusing too intently, we might miss the delightful things that happen in the background.

Driving Detroit with Dad

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“Dad would like you to drive the van,” my mom says to me. “It’s easier for him to get in and out of it.”

Despite my dad’s notoriously poor behavior as a passenger, I immediately respond, “Sure, I’ll drive.” Then I conjure an image of how the rest of my family will react when they find out that I’ve pulled the short straw. Relieved, they will celebrate by high-fiving one another and cheering, “Woo-hoo! Kelly has to drive!”

Soon thereafter, on a sunny and warm spring morning, I arrive as promised at my parents’ house, where Mom and Dad have been waiting with my sister and brothers. Waiting is the most popular item on the day’s agenda. It starts with the family waiting for me. It is to continue downtown at Henry Ford Hospital where we will stew for eight hours and hope that dad gets to come home with us after his surgery.

Dad sits up front beside me. Everyone else piles into the seats behind us, and we begin our trek to the hospital.

“Your dad likes to be early.” Mom doesn’t have to remind us of that. We know it. Dad is a morning person, and he’s never late.

When my siblings and I were children and living at home, we had Saturday mornings to look forward to Dad waking us up. He would step into our rooms while we slept and begin a loud phonetic rendition of the bugle call, “Reveille.” Then he’d sing these words in the same cadence:

It’s time to get up!

It’s time to get up in the morning!

It’s time to get up!

It’s time to get up in the day!

Dear Ol’ Dad had borrowed that morning routine from his camping days with the Air National Guard from 1954-1962. Other young men were being called up by the United States Army to serve in far-away places. Dad thought that by enrolling in the Guard, he had a better chance of staying close to home and finishing his six-year-long apprenticeship to become a printer. All worked out even better than he had planned. About half-way through his eight years of service, he met my mom, who had come to vacation in Michigan.

Dad enjoyed getting up at the crack of dawn and I think he wanted his family to like—or at least embrace—mornings too. Whenever we took a road trip, we’d rise before daybreak. The sky was dark; the air was crisp and chilly. There was no time to waste. Other people weren’t around to tie up the freeways. We had at least three hours to get ahead of everyone else.

On the morning drive to the hospital, I am reminded of how hard it must be for Dad to have to relinquish control of the steering wheel. He’s used to being the one behind the wheel. He drives everywhere he and Mom go, and sometimes he even drives me where I need to go.

Practically every year, Dad takes me to the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice where I complete my annual stint of jury duty. He spoils me. I don’t have to go into downtown Detroit alone, find a parking space, and walk by myself to the courthouse.

“I’ll drive you,” he insists.

Mom comes along and the two wait for me to get a break or to be excused for the day. They wile away their time at Greek Town Casino and then the three of us get lunch. Our little arrangement is something pleasant that I think we all look forward to.

Today, however, I experience familiar and familial pressure as I drive downtown. I go an acceptable five miles over the speed limit. Dad gruffly says, “Slow down!” Moments later, when I drive at the posted speed limit, Dad suggests that I could “go a little faster.” All the time, he foresees potential problems with traffic and warns, “Watch out!” “Take it easy!” “Give ‘em a little more room.”

I force myself to relax, despite the tension everyone in the van is feeling. There’s a hush that comes over us. No one wants to distract me from focusing on Dad’s instructions.

“The road coming up has a big pothole. It’s just past the light. See it?”

When I was sixteen, I had my first car accident—which wasn’t my fault. My dad didn’t seem mad at all. During college, when I had a second car accident which was my fault, he again showed only concern for whether or not I was alright.

I’m sure he’s not remembering these things that happened decades ago. He treats my brothers and sister the same when they drive. He just likes to be the one in charge and taking care of everyone else.

Having worked as a printer for The Detroit Free Press for over forty years, Dad knows the city’s history, the parks, the office buildings, the old stadiums, the bars and hang-outs, and most importantly, the back ways into town. He skillfully directs me down streets and through neighborhoods that I wouldn’t be comfortable in if I were by myself.

Dad explains that the humming bridge over the Rouge River needs to have water poured onto it to cool it down when it gets hot. He says that when he was a little boy, the Army responded to race riots by camping out in Clarke Parke. Later, more race wars took place in the 1960s, and the National Guard came to keep order but they didn’t have ammunition in their guns. Army paratroopers came in next and shot a bunch of people.

We drive east on Fort Street from downriver and pass by desolate Woodmere Cemetery, where several generations of my ancestors are buried. It has been over twenty years since we visited. Back then, a recorded voice was blasted over a loud speaker to tell women not to stop at the gravesites alone. Today, I wish I could forego this drive to the hospital and take a detour inside the wrought iron, gated yard in order to kneel beside my grandparents’ graves and reminisce.

I would rather not have to face the fact that my dad has bladder cancer. I don’t want him to have to undergo surgery, to be poked and prodded, to be in pain and discomfort.

Dad seems to calm the more he talks about places that he’s passed thousands of times. We see the old, abandoned Greyhound Bus station and turn at the corner of 14^th Street. A block down at West Lafayette is Green Dot Stables. Dad tells us, like he had many times before, that the guy who opened it used to be a harness racing jockey. Dad doesn’t seem to notice the graffiti and burned-out buildings along our route. Unlike him, my brothers and sister are squirming in their seats because they would have rather taken the freeway. Doesn’t Dad realize that I-75 would be faster?

I’m not nervous about driving through poor parts of town with my family, mostly because my dad is sitting right beside me. Despite the fact that he’s turning eighty this year, I still believe he’ll keep us safe, no matter what.

It occurs to me that my father is behaving like an imperfect tour guide. I consider his insider’s knowledge of Detroit, his familiarity with the roads, and his ability to tell great stories. I set aside the fact that Dad has little to no patience when behind the wheel of a car, and I get a crazy idea. I blurt out, “You should be an Uber driver!”

Laughter erupts in the van. I sneak a peek at my dad and can tell that, for a brief moment, he isn’t thinking about cancer, pain, and surgical complications. He’s not worried or stressed. He’s simply smiling in response to my ludicrous suggestion.

That moment was worth waiting for.

I Love You, More Than Words Can Express

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What are you willing to do to show your love?

“Gestures, in love, are incomparably more attractive, effective and valuable than words.” ~Francois Rabelais

“I love you.” Those words carry great significance. We hear them and feel a number of different emotions. How we react depends on who is speaking to us. Similarly, by saying the words aloud to someone else, we hope to impact their feelings. It seems like this simple, short expression should do nothing else but make moments in life more enjoyable.

As parents, we effortlessly cuddle our infant children and whisper that we love them. We read books like Guess How Much I Love You to them and rock them to sleep with the words from Love You Forever. Some of us—older parents—now have adult children. We remember doing silly things, like singing along with . . . maybe even dancing to . . . Barney the Dinosaur as he nasally projected the lyrics to his “I Love You” song.

Mature moms and dads, we look back at tender moments such as these and wonder how time passed by so quickly and stole our babies from us. We realize that saying “I love you” was easy when showering affection upon our little ones. But wasn’t it hard to get those words out for the first time when dating our would-be spouses?

Hopefully, by the time we know we’re in love, the other person feels the same about us. But there’s anxiety in that moment in which we’re wondering whether or not our words of endearment will be returned. If they aren’t, we feel squashed and rejected once we’ve uttered, “I love you.” Old scars and deep wounds from past relationships oftentimes affect our new ones.

For example, a divorced man, whom I’m going to refer to as The Captain, struggled with telling his second wife how deeply he felt about her. Throughout their marriage, he instead made sure that he showed love to her. Tennille, also an alias, understood the personal reasons that prevented The Captain from saying those three little significant words. That didn’t stop her, however, from wanting to hear, “I love you,” from her spouse. The couple found inspiration to their problem in the movie, Ghost.

In that movie—arguably one of the most romantic films ever, fictional characters, Sam and Molly, are portrayed by actors Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore. Like The Captain, Sam consistently withholds from saying “I love you” to Molly. Whenever she says the phrase to him, he responds with a simple, “Ditto.” Toward the end, Sam has one last opportunity to speak to Molly before he ascends to heaven. He locks his gaze upon her, stares into her eyes, ignores the supernatural things happening around him, and speaks the words she has longed to hear: “I love you, Molly. I’ve always loved you.” Molly, is so enamored by Sam’s declaration that she stops breathing for an instant, then exhales in one soft gust, smiles, and responds with Sam’s customary line, “Ditto.”

After watching the movie, The Captain and Tennille adopted similar dialogue for many years. Gradually, they replaced ditto with their own more personal, private, mushy word: smooches. This one word became synonymous with love because the couple reserved their flirty exchange only for each other. I first learned of it when The Captain spoke about it during his and Tennille’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary party.

As I celebrated with the couple that night, I agreed with The Captain’s point of view that showing love through our behavior and in our conversations is the best way to convey our love for someone else. On the other hand, I believe that husbands and wives should also be comfortable saying “I love you” to one another. As long as it doesn’t become a rote response, it’s a strong reminder of the bond between them.

I have proof that there’s power in the words.

Years ago, I was a less experienced driver than I am now. I turned my car, evidently too quickly, into an intersection with oncoming traffic. The oncoming car, which I had accidentally cut off, was full of people—rude people—who weren’t happy with me. They showed me just how they felt through both their crude actions—flipping me the bird—and through their words, which I’m glad I couldn’t quite make out. My anxiety level climbed sky high. Of course I knew I had made a mistake. At first, I was embarrassed, but then I was defiant. My actions had been accidental. These people were plain nasty. My blood began to boil and then for some strange reason I couldn’t bring myself to flip them off in return. Instead, I looked at the driver and mouthed, “I love you . . . I LOVE YOU!” Amazingly, my gesture diffused the situation. The other driver and her passengers responded with “I love you too.” We all ended up smiling at one another after that and I can tell you that I felt instantly relieved. Those words were and are powerful.

Now, lest you think that The Captain and Tennille have anything less than a blissful marriage, let me finish telling their story.

The Captain and Tennille had never had a song. You know what I mean: a special song that a couple claims as theirs. A song captured during a meaningful moment; secured safely in the hearts of two lovebirds; and often selected as the first song a bride and groom dance to as husband and wife during their wedding reception.

The Captain and Tennille had never selected such a song for themselves. So, twenty-five years after their wedding, The Captain chose one and presented it to Tennille at the anniversary party. This charming guy claimed that he didn’t have a romantic bone in his body, yet he made his bride weep with joy when he shared “More Than Words.”

In turn, Tennille surprised everyone, including The Captain, by reading the words of a different song, “Through the Years,” which reminded her of her relationship with The Captain.

If you take a moment to listen to those songs, you’ll know that saying “I love you” isn’t essential for a good relationship. For me, that doesn’t mean I’ll stop telling my husband that I love him. The exchange is comfortable and meaningful to us. But we also recognize our love for one another in our own unique ways. Whether we exchange short texts or lengthier love notes, whether we go out for a date or stay home, whether I do something nice for him or he does something nice for me, the way we approach our daily activities reflects our love for and commitment to one another. We’ve learned that what’s most important in a healthy, vibrant marriage is to always love and respect one another, and, through the years, to show it with more than words.

Deadwood Writers Voices

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