A Series of Scars: Incident #3

Alright kids. Pay attention. This one is for you:

I was sitting in my bedroom one afternoon playing with matches (right away you know this isn't going to end well).  I honestly have no idea how old I was, though definitely old enough to know better. I sat there next to my bed holding the box of matches, looking around the room for something I could set on fire. Something that wouldn't go all crazy on me or explode and that wasn't attached to the main frame of the house. But I came up with nothing. Until I looked down at my rose colored carpet. BINGO.

I immediately got out a pair of scissors and snipped off a fiber from my carpet. It couldn't have been more than a 1/2" long or so, but I held it between my fingers and struck the match. As soon as I lit the piece of carpet fiber, it started to melt. I looked frantically around for something to catch the drip of polyester that would fall at any moment. But I was too slow. Before I knew it, the liquid carpet dripped down onto my leg and bored a hole about 10 feet deep into my skin.

The deep, circular burn mark was just above my right knee and hurt so bad I could have screamed. But I didn't scream. I didn't make a peep. I immediately acknowledged the idiocy of my actions and swore to myself that I would not say a word to anyone. That's the worst part about doing stupid stuff as a kid. If you end up hurting yourself, who are you going to go cry to? Your parents?! 

So there you go. Kids, if you do not learn from my idiocy here, I cannot be responsible for the failure that your life will become. When the grown-ups tell you not to play with matches, THERE'S A REASON. And the reason is: You're a dumb kid who's going to burn the house down. I know. I have the scar to prove it.

A Series of Scars: Incident #2

I'm not really sure how old I was when I got this next scar, probably 10 or so. It was a Friday night and my parents had dropped me off at my friend Tiffany's house for a sleepover. Tiffany's dad was playing in some basketball game over at one of the high schools so we went to watch.

Being young girls, we had a short attention span when it came to watching basketball games, so we found other things to entertain ourselves. The bleachers we were sitting on were open underneath, so Tiffany and I went down there to mess around for a while. Of course there were other kids down there too... BOYS. So I thought it'd be fun to play "keep-away", as in, run away from the boys. So the boys were at one end of the bleachers and Tiffany and I started running away from them towards the other end. I was ahead of Tiffany and just as we slowed down, almost to the other side, I bumped my head on a corner of the bleachers.

As I was standing there rubbing the sore spot on my head I noticed it felt warm. I walked out into the light and held my hand out. To my horror my hand was covered in blood.

"Tiffany! My head is bleeding!"

"Oh crap! Let's go tell my mom!"

Luckily her mom is sitting towards the end of the bleachers talking with another lady.

"Mom..."

"Just a second..." she says a few moments before turning around to see why we're pestering her.

As she turns around and looks at my blood covered head, her eyes get big. She jumps up, grabs my hand and we race across the sidelines of the basketball court towards the bathroom, blood dripping on the floor in our wake.

For the next half hour or so I sat on the white tile of the bathroom floor while several women mopped up my head and found towels to stop the bleeding. It was sort of a trippy experience and all sort of a blur. I was very calm the entire time and didn't cry or freak out or anything. Eventually my mom showed up and we drove to the emergency room to get some stitches.

It must have been a slow night at the emergency room because I don't think we really had to wait. We went in and I sat on a bed surrounded by open curtains while the nurse gave me a numbing shot on the top of the head. I remember the shot stung a little as the liquid was injected. A few minutes later the doctor came in, threw in a couple stitches and sent us on our way.

Understandably I didn't sleep over at Tiffany's house that night. In fact, I don't know that I ever slept over at her house again. Of course what parent in their right mind would let an accident-prone kid like me stay over after a fiasco like that? Not Tiffany's parents, that's for sure.

A Series of Scars: Incident #1

I've always been somewhat of an anti-thrill seeker. I don't like jumping off of high stuff or doing flips or crazy stunts. Which means that any scars I've accumulated over the years haven't come from doing really amazing things. Most of them have come from being clumsy or stupid which means there are stories involved with each and every one of them. As some of these stories are quite lengthy in their explanation, I've decided to do a series of posts about how I got each of these scars. Here is the first:

Scar #1:

When I was about 8 years old, my family took a short overnight camping trip to a lake up along Skyline Drive. This is an epic trip in Holley family history. Probably the most memorable for us all. We were the only ones at the small emerald colored lake that day and spent our time making rafts out of logs and twine we found strewn around the shore.

After a day full of building & testing our rafts, the time came to head into the camper as it was starting to rain. My dad took us girls outside to do our last bathroom run of the evening and apparently it was during this time he noticed I had a small bulge on the right side of my lower abdomen/groin.

Following the camping trip my mom took me to a doctor who had me turn and cough in order to confirm their suspicions. Sure enough I had a hernia. I knew what a hernia was because my dad had explained it to me before the doctor visit. However, somewhere along the line I misinterpreted the conversation because I thought I'd gotten a hernia from pushing too hard while doing my business that night in the rain on the camping trip. I was so embarrassed. Luckily when the doctor asked how I'd gotten the hernia, my mom piped up during my stutterfest and said they didn't know how I'd done it. I just thought she was covering for me. Turns out they really didn't know how I'd done it, they'd just noticed it while I was doing my business.

The surgery was scheduled for a couple weeks out, during which time I would periodically push on my squishy lump of guts to smooth it back into place. I don't remember much about surgery day even though it was the first I ever had. I do remember being sore for the next few days and not being able to walk very well.

For years I thought I'd gotten my hernia by pushing too hard while pooping. Which made it a topic I didn't ever bring up. When people would talk about their scars, I wouldn't mention mine because I didn't want to say where it was or how I'd gotten it. These days that 3" purple scar has faded to white and is barely visible. In fact I always forget I have it. But, it was my first real scar and it always makes me laugh whenever I see it.

Ballet with Mom

When I was a kid, probably about 12 or so, my mom decided to get season tickets to the ballet. I'm sure she thought with three girls on her hands, she'd have no problem getting one to go with her every couple months.

Well, when the first show came around, there wasn't as much interest as she thought there'd be. "Who wants to go to the ballet with me this Saturday?" Mom asked. After a few moments filled only with crickets, I decided, what the heck? "I'll go!"

Late Saturday morning Mom and I got dressed up in our nice clothes and headed up to downtown Salt Lake to see our first ballet at the Capitol Theatre. You can't go see a show on an empty stomach so we decided to hit up a little deli tucked away in the alley next to the theatre. Sitting at a tall round table on a black and white checkered floor, Mom and I ate our cream soup and sandwiches and talked about the upcoming show. I felt so important and grown up. Just me and Mom out on the town.

Once inside the theatre we found our seats. I remember sitting there listening to the orchestra warm up while looking at all the little old ladies with their grey hair perfectly curled and hair sprayed  into q-tip-like poofs. I flipped through the program reading the story line and all the names of the dancers and producers. Then the lights went down and the curtains opened.

For an hour or two Mom and I sat and watched while the dancers twirled and leaped on the stage. I admired their costumes-- their flexibility, grace, and strength. My sisters had no idea what they were missing out on.

Lucky for me my sisters never showed an interest in going to the ballet. Of course I never told them how fun it really was. The ballet turned out to be a thing just my mom and I did together. Every couple months we'd head back to that same tucked away deli with the black and white checked floor to eat lunch before the show. The shows ranged from humorous to sad to just plain awe inspiring and I loved each one of them. And who could forget all the little old ladies with their q-tip hair?

I haven't been back to see a ballet since I was a kid. And the little deli is no longer there. But I still remember those great times with just Mom and me. She always made me feel special and I remember that the most.

I'll Do What I Want!

There are so many non-fun things that come with adulthood: jobs, bills, responsibilities. But lately I've been enjoying some of the little things that I love about it. When you're a kid it seems like there are so many rules to follow. Don't do this. Don't do that. Why? BECAUSE I SAID SO.

As an adult (at least outside working hours) there are no, "Do it because I said-so's." Pretty much your life is a blank sheet of paper and you can fill it with whatever you like. When I was a kid we had a lot of rules about this and that. No eating after 4:00pm or you'll ruin your dinner. You can't buy Lucky Charms or Cap'n Crunch and only 2 boxes of cereal open at once. Don't walk around outside in your socks. Turn all the lights off when you leave a room. Up by 8:00am on the weekends. Most of those rules were pretty reasonable. But these days I'm throwing caution to the wind. And it's awesome.

Cookies for breakfast? Don't mind if I do! Don't want to put my shoes on to check the mail? Fine! Leave all the lights on in the house? Why not?! Buy 15 different kinds of sugary cereal and open them all at once? Just watch me! Sleep for 12 hours straight? Hells yes! I'm living on the edge over here and loving every minute of it.

You got any rules you like to break?

Please Bless the Refreshments

It's no secret that I grew up in a Mormon family. We went to church every week, read our scriptures, and had Family Home Evening. We didn't shop on Sundays, we paid our tithing and we supported our church leaders. We were the epitome of what a Mormon family should be.

One Monday night when I was about 10, my dad said he had something special for the "treat" part of Family Home Evening. We excitedly made our way through the typical program: Opening Song, Prayer, Testimony, Lesson. Then Dad disappeared into the kitchen.

A few minutes later Dad yelled from the kitchen. "Close your eyes, you birds, and don't open them until I say so!" I sat there on the couch with my eyes closed as Dad came in and handed me a cool glass of liquid. "Don't open your eyes yet, just drink it," he said.  As I lifted the glass to my lips I immediately smelled something unpleasant. I wasn't about to drink some stinky mystery drink, especially one my prankster dad just gave me, so I opened my eyes.

There in my hand was an ice-cold glass of beer. "Take a drink!" my dad said. "No! It smells gross and it's beer!" "It's just O'Douls, there's no alcohol in it, just drink it!" So I tentatively took a sip. A strong bitter yeasty flavor rolled over my tongue and I thought I was going to barf. "Ew! This is gross!" "Come on! Take a few swallows!" "I can't! It's going to make me throw up!" This went on for several more minutes until Dad finally gave up. We'd tasted beer and hated it. Just as he'd planned.

The remaining bottles of beer sat out in the garage for months before they were finally thrown away. It would be years before I'd have the nerve to try beer again. Dad's plan worked, as unconventional and crazy as it sounds. Although, this story doesn't even compare to the time he gave us hash brownies.

Ok not really. But he probably wanted to.

Who Wants a Madball?!

When I was a kid, we always had one Saturday of Christmas shopping during the holiday season during which we would go to the mall and get presents for each of our family members. My dad would give us $5 to spend on each family member and then we'd split up, half of us going with Mom and half going with Dad.

This shopping excursion usually lasted a couple of hours. The first half was spent trying to find presents for the other group of family members all whilst sneaking around the mall, trying not to let them see what stores we were going into. After the first hour was over, we'd meet up again and switch around the groups in order to get everyone covered. Everybody was always very secretive and tried their best to hide the contents of their shopping bags while handing them to Dad to make a trip to the car to stash them.

Now $5 was worth a little more back then, but not much, so we had to be pretty choosy about what we spent the money on. I'm sure there were a few choice gifts given through the years. Who can forget the "Madball" Annie gave my dad. I'm sure he loved that one. Or the Miss Piggy stickers Corinne gave me one year. And I can't remember who was the giver and who was the receiver, but at one point someone was given underwear. Yippee!

The ever popular 'Madballs'

The hardest part of buying Christmas presents for your siblings is actually keeping them a secret. I think there was once or twice that we divulged to each other what it was we had purchased. It always spoiled the fun on Christmas morning though, so we eventually learned that it was better to keep our mouths shut.

I know the money spent on those gifts probably would have gone to better use in my parents' hands, but I admire them for letting us in on the giving aspect of Christmas and letting us make our own choices. It produced such good memories and I appreciate the time and effort they put into making it a special time for us.

A Bunch of Frozen Turkeys

Many years ago when I was oh, twelve or so, Dad thought it would be a fabulous idea to go camping on Thanksgiving. It sounded like a great plan actually. We'd grab the tents, head out to Kodachrome Basin with his extended family and have a Thanksgiving adventure in the outdoors. Complete with dutch oven Thanksgiving dinner, of course.

Truth be told I don't remember a whole lot about the trip. Except for the fact that we all almost died from exposure. Ok, maybe it wasn't that bad, but it was close.

You see, in November it is not uncommon to see snow. And sometimes it's also windy. On our camping trip we had both of those things. The day we got there we set up our tents and tried to explore the surrounding area. This is a little difficult to do when the only place to hike is up the side of a steep mountain on a trail the size of a walnut which is also soaked with snow and muddy and slippery. So instead we spent the evening melting our socks on the campfire, trying to keep the frostbite away.

That night was the worst night of my life. Mom and Dad were snuggled in their tent and my sisters and I were in another tent. We each had our own separate mummy bag in which it was simultaneously impossible to move and to keep warm. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if the zipper on our tent wasn't broken. It only zipped half-way down which meant that the snow was blown into our tent by the hurricane-like wind. I spent the night swapping between a suffocating airtight cocoon with my sleeping bag pulled over my head, and leaving the top of the bag open to breathe while my hair froze to my scalp.

The next day was Thanksgiving. Praise the Lord, at least we'll get some food. Somehow cooking a turkey and Thanksgiving meal in dutch ovens actually worked. I had to put my gloves on in between bites to keep my fingers from freezing off, but that was by far the most delicious Thanksgiving meal of my life.

As soon as we'd eaten everybody decided they'd had enough of cold weather camping and went home. I'm pretty sure the trip was cut short by at least a couple of days. While this was probably the worst Thanksgiving ever, it was also the most fun and memorable. Breaking tradition doesn't always work, but it sure makes things more interesting.

What's That on Your Head?

For those of you who may be unaware... I'm a girl. I have been since I can remember... and probably way before that. The facts being as they are, you would think I'd be able to do girl things. Things that seem to be so much more instinctual and natural for most other girls out there. Most of you are probably thinking, "She's definitely got a particular girl skill on her mind... just spit it out already!" Well ok then. I will.

Ever since I was a kid I've had the hardest time doing my hair. And I don't mean I have a lack of motivation (most of the time). I like my hair to look nice. I try to do my hair. But I swear I lack the most basic of skills to do so. I remember trying to do the '80s bangs in elementary school. I'd curl my bangs, brush them up into the famous '80s pouf and hit it with a bunch of hairspray. Five minutes later I had a flat row of bangs that looked like a matted half-pipe. All my little friends had bangs that looked perfectly puffy all day long.

Then I got a perm. I was unaware of the need for things like hair gel, or any sort of styling product for that matter. My hair would look great when I first got back from the stylist, but forever after that it'd be a head full of fuzz. How was I supposed to know that I couldn't brush my hair out during the day?

In high school I finally grew out the perm and the bangs (you don't even want to know what that transition period looked like). I would try to make my hair smooth and turned under like the other girls but to no avail. No sooner would I finish curling it under then it would flip into random directions looking like I'd purposely made one giant strand of hair boing out the back of my head. Not cute.

My hair has improved a little with time (and the discovery of the straightening iron) and the concerted effort I make to watch the professionals at work. Even this has proved harder than I thought it would be. I've learned how to use a round brush to blow-dry my hair without getting it stuck... even the back. Though, it still never looks as good as when it's professionally done. And, well this is a bit embarrassing to admit, but I don't know how to "tease" my hair to get it to look voluminous. I had to ask my current stylist, Tawnya, how to do it. She was very patient and showed me how to do it correctly. When she was finished, it looked great. When I tried it the next day, my head looked like a box. I've tried to practice since then, but have finally come to the conclusion that I will never have hair teasing as one of my great talents, unless you count "Hey Hair... why the long face?" HA!

I recently had my hair chopped pretty short... well short for me. When I first got it cut, Tawnya used the straightening iron to put cute little curls in the bottom. She showed me how to do it and made it look so easy. So, of course I tried to do the same thing the next day. It didn't work. Not even close. So now I have to straighten my hair otherwise it looks like a rat's nest, though the straight look isn't much better as it's just a short skip away from a bad mullet. I've been watching YouTube videos today of girls demonstrating how to curl hair with a straightening iron. It looks easy. I'm hopeful. Although that's what I thought when Tawnya showed me how so I'm a little apprehensive about trying it again. If this doesn't work I'm going to have to keep my hair in a ponytail until it grows out a little more and I can go back to using my tried-and-true velcro rollers (yes I tried those with this new 'do... somehow they're not working!). So keep your fingers crossed, this may get ugly.

These Chompers Don't Take Care of Themselves

I know this is going to sound really weird, but I love my dentist! I'm sure most of you out there know how hard it is to find a good dentist... especially one that isn't crazy. I've had my fair share of weirdo/crappy dentists so it was a relief to finally find one that does good work and is normal.

My first dentist was my most memorable. He looked like Gene Wilder (you know, completely insane). He was really creepy and none of us liked him much (my mom was so-so but somehow felt obligated to keep going to him). He had a mural on the wall... you know those naturey wallpaper murals? It was a scene with a marsh and ducks or something and a bunch of his patients had signed it with messages like, "You're the best dentist ever!" and "We love you Dr. X!" My sisters and I always wondered who these people were. My guess was the dentist wrote them all himself. We were all happy when he took a trip to practice dentistry in Africa for several months. We convinced Mom to find someone new. Sweet.

So the new dentist wasn't much better. I don't remember much of what he looked like except for the fact that he looked way less crazy than Dr. Gene Wilder. We thought this dentist would be way better because he had TVs installed above the chairs. Let me tell you the TVs weren't worth it. His work wasn't all that good and once he called me (or was it Annie?) a "cute little booger." Ew. Anybody who refers to me as a 'booger' is not my friend. I only ended up visiting this dentist a couple times because by that time in my life I was close to being old enough to have my own insurance and make my own appointments.

After crazy Dr. Boogerman I didn't go to the dentist for a few years. Call it laziness, call it stinginess, call it what you will. I was mainly pretty sure I'd have cavities and I was too poor to pay for them, so I just avoided the whole situation. Plus by this point I hated dentists. My teeth usually hurt more after I got them fixed so I figured I'd just wait until one started hurting before I went in because it would end up feeling the same anyway.

Once I moved out and got my own apartment I finally went back to the dentist. This time I had a referral for a dentist whose office was more of a "dental spa." Being a chick, I thought "cool! I love spas!" So I went. I liked him alright... not crazy or anything and the paraffin wax hand treatments and face massages were nice (except when they massaged my earlobes because it reminded me of that 'Friends' episode where Chandler's boss doesn't wash his hands when he goes to the bathroom and rubs Chandler's earlobe and thinking about it made me want to start laughing so I had to concentrate really hard on keeping a straight face). But ultimately this guy sucked. He filled a couple cavities for me and as I mentioned before, they ended up hurting me and giving me problems after I had them fixed. And I seriously had to come back to the office at least 3 times whenever he had to fix something. What a pain.

So I went searching for another dentist. Again. I asked this lady Linda that I worked with if she liked her dentist. She raved about him and gave me his info. I was a little skeptical but figured I'd give him a shot.

Dr. Brent Baker, that's his name. His office could use a bit of an update, but I can completely ignore that because he rocks. What happens if he finds something wrong with my teeth? BAM! I'm all numbed up and gassed and fixed in under an hour. And my teeth don't hurt after he fixes them. And he explains everything to me so I know what's going on. He also usually does a lot of the cleaning and such himself instead of having the hygienist do it. Also, he has the nicest receptionist in the world. Her name is Kim and she is the friendliest woman on the planet. It's like talking to my grandma. She always looks so happy to see me and always says goodbye when I leave... I almost expect her to run around the counter and give me a hug or something. She's done this every time I've gone in, even the very first visit.

So if you're in the market for a good dentist, look no further. Dr. Brent Baker is your man. Tell him I sent you and give Kim a hug for me.

Hidden Talents

When I was a kid I had a hidden talent. This talent didn't come in handy very often and wasn't necessarily particularly useful, but it was a talent nonetheless.

I had the natural ability to spot a 7-eleven. Anywhere. Sure came in handy when I needed a Slurpee.

Don't hide your talents under a bushel. Let them shine.

Something Missing

I was driving home from work the other day, flipping through the radio stations, when I heard a familiar song. I instantly stopped scanning the channels and started singing along. It was a song that's been very special to me for a long time, one of my favorites. Not long after I started singing I started to get choked up. For many years this song made me happy. And it still does, although it's a little bitter sweet now. It makes me miss my grandpa.

At his tallest my Grandpa Holley was only about 5'4", and after old age set in, he went down to about 5'2". The grandkids were always excited when they got taller than Grandpa. Except Annie, she only got tall enough to see eye to eye. For as long as I can remember Grandpa had a full head of fine white hair nicely combed to the side. I don't think he bought any new clothes during the last 30 years of his life which usually put him in slacks held up by suspenders, a dated button down shirt with a mother-of-pearl bolo tie, and if we were lucky enough to catch him on a Sunday, a grey fedora hat with a small red feather stuck in the band.

For years when we were kids we would visit my grandparents in their little house up on Cahoon Street in Ogden. All the cousins would gather in the backyard and play tag. We'd run around the perfectly pruned fruit trees and large oval shaped flower bed created and tended by my grandpa. Sometimes he would join us. He would've been in his mid 80s at the time.

When we got tired of running around we'd come inside and lay out on the living room floor with a deck of cards. My grandparents' carpet was perfect for making card houses. After our card houses were built we'd climb up on the couch and admire my grandma's lamp. It was a giant lamp with a bulbous smokey clear glass base. My favorite part of the lamp was its dangling teardrop jewels. I'd take off a couple and pretend to hang them from my ears as earrings. They would've been the most gaudy over the top earrings in the world, but I loved them.

Whenever we went to my grandparents' house we'd sit around and talk. Rather, my grandpa would tell us stories. With a can of Mountain Dew in his hand, he'd tell us about all the trips he and my grandma went on. My grandma would occasionally interrupt and tell us what really happened. He'd tell about his adventures during his youth... about how he was the Utah Kid. He'd tell us about how he met my grandma and how he came to marry her. We'd sit around in their 85 degree house and just listen. At the end of every visit Grandpa would give us each a hug and tell us how proud he was of us. And we knew he really meant it.

My grandma died several years before my grandpa did. He moved around to different retirement homes and we'd go visit him every so often. His adventures continued, but now they consisted of riding his motorized scooter around town and going for drives up the canyons with family members. We sporadically wrote letters back and forth telling each other about what we'd been up to. Occasionally I'd ask for his advice. He'd finish each letter by drawing a stick figure picture of himself with a cane and tell me I was his favorite. He told all of us we were his favorite, but I didn't care. I knew he meant it. I loved getting those letters.

As the song in the car ended and tears trickled down my face, I couldn't help but feel a little hole in my heart. My grandpa died just before Christmas in 2005. I kept his bolo tie. I really miss him a lot.

The Helper

When I was a kid, spanking wasn't the taboo it is today. It was common practice. Every family had their favorite spanking tool. There's Dad's leather belt, a 'switch' off the old willow tree out back, Mom's wooden spoon or my family's choice... The Helper.

The Helper usually came out when it was time to clean up the pig sties we called bedrooms. When we actually got around to cleaning our rooms, we'd already been told a hundred times to do it and had literally been chased up there to get it done. I don't remember complaining much but my little sister Annie could never do the job without throwing a fit. She'd stomp around and cry about how much she hated it while slowly shuffling things around.

After listening to the commotion for a minute or two, my dad would come up the stairs and say, "Do you want The Helper to help you? I think you need The Helper." Then he'd walk over to the closet and pull out a wire hanger. This immediately prompted Annie to yell "I'm cleaning! I'm cleaning!" and hustle around trying to find a spot for a dirty sock held in one hand while covering her butt with the other. This wouldn't have affected me at all except for the fact that my room was right next to hers. Which meant that The Helper always had to stop and pay a visit to me too. How thoughtful!

The Helper was more of a scare tactic really. It never left bruises or even hurt much, it was just something to get our attention. A quick little tap on the butt and we were working double time.

Now that I think about it, I don't have any wire hangers around here. Maybe I should take those clothes to the dry cleaners so I can get a few. You never know when The Helper will come in handy. Hey! Who was supposed to clean up this mess?! {sound of a whip cracking}

Nicknames

I was almost shocked at myself the other day when I realized I'd never done a post about nicknames. More specifically the nicknames my sisters and I had as kids. Which isn't to say that those nicknames aren't in use today, because they are.

Dad was the nickname giver in our house. I think that's the case in a lot of families. Maybe it's because the moms are the ones that usually pick out the real names, so the dads feel like they need to put in their two cents. In any case, it seems ironic that a child is rarely called by his real name... the one that was agonized over and had great thought put into it... he's usually called some silly endearing name that gets picked up on a whim or circumstance. Unless he's in big trouble.

We all had nicknames growing up, but for some reason, Corinne's nickname didn't stick as well. Her name was 'Oobie-Doo' (pronounced like Scoobie Doo). Don't ask where any of these names came from. I'm not sure anyone really knows other than they jumped out of the mind of my dad somehow. I think Corinne stopped being called Oobie-Doo early on, maybe around the time she was 8 years old.

Annie and I are still called by our nicknames to this day, at least by my dad. And he's pretty much the only one who can get away with it. It's just creepy and/or weird if anyone else does it. Our nicknames have progressed a little through the years as is often the case. Annie started out as 'Budsly'. You may notice she uses this as her blogger moniker and as part of her email address. She was most often called 'Buds' for short. I've heard my dad call her Budsly P. Muldoonskie. It's the long version of her name. But that's nothing compared to my name...

Mrs. B.T. Boofus McDoodle III. That's it. That's my full nickname. I went by Boofus for a little while. My dad tells a story of a time he was in the grocery store with me and said "Hey Boofus, get over here!" and some lady looked at him with a horrified expression on her face. It could be worse. Look at all those celebrities and the dumb names they give their kids. At least Boofus is relatively easy to spell.

After Boofus, I was usually called 'Boof' or 'Boofy'. Today I mainly get Boof. 'Boofy' is a little too childish. Don't you think? 'Boof' is definitely more sophisticated and practically screams 'success' and 'power.' But only when my dad says it. So don't get any ideas.

Muscle Motion

For a brief time when I was a kid, we did morning workouts as a family. Of course we complained and dragged our feet getting out of bed to do it, but I think we all secretly liked it. There may be a good reason why.

I didn't realize at the time that the workout video we used was not your average run-of-the-mill workout. It was a somewhat funny video, but it was actually pretty hard to do. My dad would usually turn the volume down low because there was a woman's voice that would say really cheesy stuff. The video had only men working out. Men that were usually in some sort of costume, you know, like a doctor or a construction worker or an acrobat. This was normal, right? Didn't you have loads of workout videos like this?

I remember going to my great grandma's funeral during this family fitness period. One of my aunts found out we were working out so of course we had to show off our muscles. All us girls tightened our stomachs so she could feel our rock hard abs. It was great.

I've started and stopped many exercise regimens over the years, usually incorporating some kind of fitness video into my routine. However, I could never get that one workout video out of my mind. It was such a great workout and entertaining to boot. That's not very common.

Once during a family gathering my sisters and I asked my dad about that workout video. He claimed to no longer own it, but said that it was a Chippendale's workout video. WHA?! We all thought it was the most hilarious thing ever. It hadn't shown any naked men or been unsuitable for children so don't be too alarmed. Maybe it was for men who wanted to look like Chippendale's dancers? I don't know.

So here's the funny part. I want to get back in shape again and I really wanted that video. I'd made a couple half-hearted attempts at finding it online, but without a name to go on and not knowing any details, I kept hitting a dead-end. Then the other night, I somehow hit the jackpot. I finally found out the name of the video! It was called Muscle Motion and was made in 1983. Then I found it on Amazon! I am not kidding you, a new copy of the video was $50! What?! Who knew this video was a collectible? Don't worry, I didn't buy a $50 Chippendales workout video. I bought a used one for $9! Hee hee hee! I can't wait till it gets here. Yeah, you can feel my abs, just give me a month to work on them with my new Chippendales buddies.

See, doesn't it look fun?!

Danger is My Middle Name

When I was about ten years old, we went on a family vacation to Capitol Reef National Park. I don’t really remember anything about the trip except for one night spent at our campground.

My family didn’t typically stay in public campgrounds. We were the ‘pick a spot out in the boonies and squat behind a bush if you have to do your business’ kind of family. But this particular trip we stayed at a campground, probably because it was a busy time of year.

As I recall, it was around Easter, or at least in the spring. Our campground was right next to a large apricot orchard and the blossoms were in full bloom. Millions and millions of tiny pink and white blossoms dotted the trees until it looked like a grove of puffy clouds. These clouds of blossoms were contrasted by surrounding rust red cliffs and bright green grass. The smell was intoxicatingly delicious and sweet. A small river bordered by thick willows ran along a walking path on one side of the orchard. During the day while walking along the path, wildlife such as deer, squirrels, chipmunks and birds could be seen in great supply. As far as campgrounds go, this place was Valhalla.

When all us kids were younger, we had a camper. It was a bit crowded with five people, but it provided a convenient place to keep all our supplies and there were enough beds for everyone to sleep in. It was common practice on camping trips to play card games at the small dining table in the camper in the evenings when it got dark. One night after playing several games of Indian Poker, Rummy and Hearts, Dad asked us how brave we were.

Now, when Dad asks you if you’re brave, you know there’s a dare coming. Dad would tell ghost stories one night and dare you to walk away from the campfire and touch a rock 25 yards away on the next night. True priming.

On this particular night we didn't just have to walk 25 yards in the dark. We had to walk through the streetlamp lit campground, down the path and out to the orchard. To prove that we had gone all the way to the orchard, we were to bring back an apricot blossom. For some reason (probably middle-child syndrome) I always wanted to look like the coolest, bravest child, so I volunteered to go first. I put my purple jacket on and hopped down from the camper. I turned back and looked at the well-lit camper and my family members looking down at me, then confidently began to march across the pavement to the pathway.

The trail was only about 25 yards away from the camper and I stopped at the entrance to gaze at the eerie dark path. I paused for just a moment to consider turning back, but quickly decided against it as I'd surely be dubbed a 'wuss.' At that I broke into a full-out run. The thick willows that beautifully lined the river in the daytime were now terrifying. The rushing water from the river and rustling of the willows sounded like surging footfalls through the branches and twigs. Anything could be hiding in them, waiting to pounce and eat me alive. The trees in the orchard seemed miles away as my feet slapped the pavement in a steady, panicked rhythm. I ran at least 100 yards before I finally got to the first trees on the edge of the orchard. To my horror, the blossoms were higher up than I thought they'd be. With pure adrenaline rushing through my veins, I jumped as high as I could, reaching my arm high above my head, straining to grab anything I could get my hands on. To my surprise I tore off a handful of blossoms just before my feet landed hard on the damp grass. Without hesitation, I scrambled back to the pathway and sprinted back to the camper. I had made it, and I was alive.

The look of pride on my dad's face was priceless. I was the bravest kid in the world. Now, wanting some of my dad's praise for herself, Corinne volunteered to go next.

We all sat in the camper and waited and waited for Corinne to come back. Five minutes. Ten minutes. My dad eventually decided he'd better go out and check on her. We waited for another fifteen to twenty minutes before Dad and Corinne finally came back.

Dad said he'd started to walk down the path looking for Corinne and came upon a skunk. He had to wait there for several minutes for it to go away before he could move. Had I gone out there ten minutes later than I did, I surely would have startled this putrid creature in my frenzied race and come back with more than just a handful of apricot blossoms.

Dad eventually found Corinne on the other end of the campground. Apparently she'd found a way to get to the orchard by walking straight through the low-lit rows of campers in the campground. She successfully completed the task, but only by essentially cheating. Annie was too young to go out on her own and so by technical knock-out, I won. I was the pluckiest kid by far and no one was ever able to surpass the high bar I set that night for sheer bravery.

The Need

I miss the emotions I felt as a kid. I watch old home videos of Christmas mornings when I was growing up and almost feel sad for the loss of the ability to exude pure thrill. I can't figure out why I have such a hard time showing people my genuine appreciation for things that they do... showing and telling them how much I love and adore them. There never seems to be words to say how you feel and really get across that deep emotion. Maybe we are so afraid of looking foolish or being rejected that we hold back. We hold back our thoughts, feelings and inner reactions to events in our lives because we are afraid of how other people will see us. Children don't have those fears; they let the world see everything.

Recently I found a path back to those childhood emotions that eluded me. The genuine show of feeling that you need to express or you will explode. Something so intense that there is no time for your brain to stop and ask for approval of the display that is to come.

It's amazing.... Amazing how much a fish can change your emotions. The frustration, anger, pain, madness, embarrassment, rage, joy, elation, happiness, hope, excitement, camaraderie, euphoria, satisfaction and pride that you feel, all because of one little fish.

If you fish, I mean REALLY fish, you know what I mean. How you can be out in the fresh cool water of a river on a chilly fall day and just look in awe at your surroundings. How your heart jumps when you see the first fish of the day dart from under your feet to the dark eaves at the edge of the water. The indescribable joy and excitement that comes from landing that trout you've been after all day. The anger and frustration you feel when everybody seems to be catching those once-in-a-lifetime fish but you. How you can be ready to break your rod in half and go home when a tiny six inch Brown jumps on your fly and teases you into staying six more hours.

That rush of childhood emotion... that's what it is. It's what keeps us all coming back for more. It's our drug, our addiction. We need it.

Oh Great, We're Gonna Die

There was nothing that caused my sisters and I more grief when we were kids than the spare house key. We were some of those poor "latch-key" kids you always hear about, so we had to use a spare key to get into the house after school. For some reason we had a hard time remembering to put it back in its hiding place after unlocking the doors so we got locked out of the house on several occasions.

The first time we were locked out of the house, we freaked out. We got home from school one day and though the back door to the garage was unlocked, the door to the house was not. We went around to the sliding glass door in the backyard and looked in the window to see the spare key sitting on the kitchen table. That's when we realized that we were going to be locked outside for at least three whole hours. At that thought, we gave up on life and plopped down on the lawn in despair. What were we going to do? This was clearly the most awful thing we could imagine.

Other kids would have just gone next door to their friends' houses to play until their parents got home. Not us. We stayed there and contemplated our imminent destruction. Anytime we'd hear the phone ring inside the house we'd burst out in tears, sure it was our parents calling. They were calling to save us but we were unable to answer. So close yet so far away. Our parents were sure to come home to the dead shriveled bodies of their precious children pressed up against the window, just inches away from the phone that could have saved their lives.

This was such a traumatizing event in fact, that while we were waiting for our demise, we made sure to leave a note for future generations to read so that they'd know what had happened to the Holley sisters. In the drywall putty on the garage wall we carved the following message with the pointed end of a rusted file...

"April XX, 1988 Corinne, Karen and Annie were locked out of the house for three hours without food or water."

Imagine our shock when Dad finally came home and instead of sympathy we were met with a tone of "so what." Here we thought we'd had this tragic experience, sitting on the lawn just waiting for him to get home for three hours and he was stunned at our stupidity. Why hadn't we just went out and played like usual? It was a nice Spring day for crying out loud.

Realizing how dumb we had been was even worse than not getting the monument built in our honor that we'd hoped for. From that day on, getting locked out of the house wasn't such a big deal. We became like three little MacGyvers when it came to finding a way in. Give us a trash can, a bucket and a piece of string and we were inside in 10 seconds flat.

Saved

I've had a couple brushes with death in my lifetime, but none so close as the one in the winter of 1983. I was only three years old at the time, but I still think about it every now and then.

My dad decided to take Corinne and I out sledding one day in our suburban neighborhood in Taylorsville. He didn't use a regular sled... he tied a queen size air mattress to the back of his truck and Corinne and I took turns riding around on it.

During my turn, my dad drove up a street that came to a dead end and started to turn the truck around. While we were sitting there, a truck began to back out of a driveway, right in front of where I was laying on the mattress. My dad frantically honked his horn, trying to get the driver to stop, but he just kept coming. The truck backed right over top of me.

My mom had stayed at home and says she remembered hearing the ambulance drive by the house, making her heart suddenly jump with fear that maybe something had happened to us. The only thing I can remember about the whole incident was laying on my stomach on the air mattress, sticking my head out between the two wheels underneath the truck. I don't think I was old enough to even realize something bad had happened. I was taken in an ambulance still wearing my coat that had tire tracks across the back.

I'm sure everyone was expecting me to have some severe injuries... a broken back and who knows what else. But after they checked me out, they didn't find anything. Not a scratch. My parents took me home, but still sure something must be wrong, they took me back to get checked again. Nothing. We still have a picture of me sitting in a chair in that hospital, holding a latex glove blown up like a balloon, and looking very tired.

I don't know why I was spared from harm that day. In my mind I believe the Lord saved me. Why me? I don't know. There have been times in my life when I've felt really dark and alone and I think of that incident and it brings me hope. I like to think that God has something special in store for me, something he wants me to do. He needs me around for something, so I guess I'll stick around and see what he's got up his sleeve.

Memories...

1. As a comment on my blog, leave one memory that you and I had together, or one of the first memories you have of me. It doesn't matter if you knew me a little or a lot, anything you remember!

2. Next, re-post these instructions on your blog and see how many people leave a memory about you. If you leave a memory about me, I'll assume you're playing the game and I'll come to your blog and leave one about you.

Happy Memories!