My Name's "Whoa, Damnit!"

As I can recall only one thing sets 6th grade apart from the others in middle school.

Tommy.Jack.Savage.

Now, you may think to yourself, "Who in the world is Tommy Jack Savage?" You may recall, from my previous Piggy Tales posts, an old gray mare by the name of Frosty. Well, as I grew, so did my search for adventure. Frosty was NOT a challenge. I needed EXCITEMENT. I needed something FIESTY. I needed something DANGEROUS.

Enter Tommy Jack Savage into my life.



He was a three year old green gelding with TONS of spunk. I spent more time on MY backside than on his. Every chance he got, he bucked. He ran away with me. He was ill-tempered, ill-mannered, and spirited. We got along FAMOUSLY. I loved that big old leggy baby. He was MINE. ALL MINE.

I took him to the 4-H fair that year. In amongst all of the professionally trained horses, we stuck out like a sore hoof. Instead of calmly, smoothly loping around the arena, we RACED. We galloped wherever TJ damn well pleased around the perimeter of the ring, nearly causing the demise of one judge who looked like he was having ZERO fun. We may not have placed that year, but we were made for each other. I was never one of those kids whose parents did the work for them. For one thing, my parents wouldn't be caught DEAD on that big galoot. We did the work ourselves and we grew together.

**Nota Bene: TJ is still alive and well. He is now 18 and LOVES my girls. Check out this post for pictures of the infamous big guy himself.

On Becoming a Woman

Fifth grade. On the verge of being a teenager. No longer a child, in my mind. I know that it was a rough time for my parents. For me too, for that matter. I have always been a bit...outspoken. Never the type to bite my tongue. That caused a rift between my mom and I, which I regret to this day. Dad used to say that it was because we were so much alike. I look back and agree entirely. There were good times though too.

I started playing sports in fifth grade. Volleyball in the fall, basketball in the winter, then softball in the spring. I liked sports. Heck, I STILL like sports. I prefer to play a sport over a cardio workout any day.

I wasn't too great at any of them, but I LOVED softball. In volleyball and basketball, I always ran around crazy, never quite understanding completely. On the diamond though, that was a COMPLETELY different story. My place was behind the plate. There, I knew what EVERYONE was doing. For some unexplainable reason, I adored having a softball hurled at me and having a sweaty old man breathing down my backside. "STRRRIIIIIIKE!" was my favorite word. My mom played softball too, when she was younger. She was always the bad ass behind the plate too. :o) I was always proud that we shared that ONE thing.

I should probably add that my dad coached me. It was a bit of a love/hate thing. I loved that my dad was involved in my activities, but MAN! It was ROUGH!! Just sayin'. He coached me on our school basketball team. I was TERRIBLE, so it was okay that he made me ride the pine a lot. It was always said that I spent more time on the floor than on my feet. I guess that my nickname (Hubs calls me Gracie basically to mock my complete lack of finesse.) was in the cards even way back then.

All of this culminated to the 5th grade end of the softball season party. My mom and dad offered to host a swim party at our house. Keep in mind, our house was pretty much a kid's dream, complete with go-kart, horse, riding trails, swimming pool, and pond. It was going to be a great time. Lo and behold, the day of the party came and so did a visitor (the FIRST time this particular visitor graced me with her presence). Any woman reading this can pretty much guess which visitor I am referring to. Any eleven year old girl with a swim party's worst nightmare. So while my guests were due to arrive in a few hours, I was learning the ins and outs of womanhood. To this day, I VIVIDLY recall my dramatic younger self crying to my mother, "I don't WANT to be a girl! I want to be a boy!" As if my theatrics were going to make EVERYTHING go away instantly... Needless to say, the party guests arrived and I had ALMOST as much fun as if everything were "normal". Thank goodness all of the guests were girls as well.

So the end of the school year ended, and I was officially on the brink of womanhood.

The Object of my Affection (Piggy Tales Thursday)

Fourth grade rolled around, and with it, the magic number TEN! I remember for my tenth birthday, my uncle gave me a little fake fish in an aquarium. With it, he told me that I now had reached "double digits"! Double digits didn't mean anything to me. Just another day for the kids to tease me. In fourth grade, I had my first unofficial boyfriend. We would sit in the back of the school bus with our fingers laced tightly together. We were two of a kind, both sort of the kids in the outer circle. It was a perfectly innocent love. But soon, as all puppy love does, it dimmed and was replaced by another love. This time, the object of my affection had four legs instead of two. I fell head over heels with a horse. Not any horse in particular, just A HORSE. Any horse would do. Before I could have one of my own, my parents enrolled me in riding lessons. This was to assure that it wasn't one of my hobbies that lasted just 30 seconds a short while. After all, I was just a kid who had no idea what they wanted to do in life! Then again, maybe things haven't changed that much after all... Nevertheless, I began riding lessons with a former teacher who went simply by Alice. She was tough, but a GREAT teacher. She put me astride a giant mare (or maybe she just seemed that way) who was just as wonderful of a teacher as Alice. Together, they taught me the ins and outs of horsemanship. Soon enough, I bought a horse of my own. The prettiest old Appaloosa I could ever have imagined. Her blanket of spots served as my head's pillow many times, and her dirty mane dried my tears more times than I can count. Benjamin Disraeli once said, "A canter is a cure for every evil." How right he is. To this day, a good canter will erase any of my troubles. Now, they are few and far between, but back then without Frosty and her rocking horse canter, those young transition years from child to preteen would've been agony. Oh sure, I fell off. I had more tumbles and spills, bumps and bruises than I can even remember. But like Alice always said, "You aren't a rider until you've fallen off." As is in life, you haven't lived until you've fallen. I stumbled through fourth grade, but every time I heard the shrill whinny of that little gray mare (who to everyone else, wasn't anything special) she picked me back up and gave me the strength to trudge on through life.

The Trials of 3rd Grade (Piggy Tales Thursday)

Let's face it. When I was a kid, I was a little bit introverted nerdy. I enjoyed my books and tended to lose myself in those worlds rather than making friends in my own. Don't get me wrong, I had my best friend Ashley, but I was never one of the "in crowd" So, by third grade people started having little crushes, and I was not unlike the other girls in that sense. Mine was a cute little guy with red hair and freckles. But I was just the little girl with big blue eyeglasses and a crooked smile. Anyway, one day, I got a sweet little card with rainbows on it from that redhead that asked me to be his girlfriend (or something along those lines). Now, I should have been skeptical when I saw that rainbow. But I was blind to the obvious. And of course, I was SO excited! But before long, the obvious was brought to my attention by another one of the girls in my class. The card was a fake, written by another little girl.

Regardless of my dorky exterior, I was never the type to be pushed around, even if it wasn't a shove in the literal sense of the word. So, I shoved back. I shoved that fake card author. Hard. Into a desk. She shoved me. A teacher approached and broke in. We were both ushered out into the hall to work it out amongst ourselves.

Now, I don't remember the details of how it came to be, but somehow, that was the beginning of a new friendship. It's funny how things work out. Paige was one of my best friends for the next five years. Of course, in high school, we drifted apart as we did our best to explore the new halls with new friends. Just recently, I reconnected with her on Facebook (Ah, the wonders of the web.) and can't wait to get together in the real world again.

Third grade was a time when you began to realize that people could be mean. That not everyone was a friend. But sometimes, something that seems like the worst thing in your life really wasn't so bad. No, the boy didn't like me. Really, he probably never even noticed me. Maybe, he knew about the note. Maybe he didn't. But that nasty note turned into one of the best things in grade school. I look back on it and realize two things. First, kids are resilient. They bounce back from things that adults wouldn't. Don't think for one second that I wasn't back to whispering about boys the next day. I just had a new friend to whisper to. Which brings me to number two. Kids forgive.

Just recently, I had a falling out with a close friend due to an inadvertent slip of the tongue. I have apolgized, but this was almost six months ago and I fear that I have lost this friend. Kids don't hold a grudge. They fight. They make up. Life goes on.

We all could take some lessons from our younger selves.

Pick Nicks and Country Miles

By second grade, I was a big sister to Nicholas Wayne. He would have been five or so, by that time. He was also born in my parent's heart, and a gift from another mother. He was my best friend growing up, even though you wouldn't have known it to hear us bickering.

When I was six, everything we did was outdoors. Bicycle riding. Hiking down by the creek. Picnics in the woods. Walking on the trails my dad had meandering throughout our property. We grew up in a little house in the woods in a world where mosquitoes and deer ticks were the only predators my parents had to worry about.
We had picnics by the creek where it seemed as if time stood still, and the world was ours for the taking. That small woods allowed our imaginations to soar. I used to always think to myself, "Picnic. Pick Nick. My parents PICKED NICK." It was one of my favorite words for just that reason.

I remember my little brother telling me one day when I was in a particularly bad mood, "Sissy, don't be such a Johnny Appleseed." What he meant by that was don't be a crabby appleton, but through and through, that was Nick. Always happy. Always wanting others to be happy. To this day, he only wants to please others. I remember whenever I got spanked (with that dreaded flyswatter), my little brother would cry louder than I myself would. He has always had a heart of gold.

As I spoke of earlier, bike rides were a part of our every day routine, it seemed. Our route on our bicycles was a jaunt around the block. A four mile country block, mind you. Those bike rides will always be forever ingrained in my mind because it is the first conscious memory that I have in which I was told about my being adopted. So as you see, I have always known the truth, which is something for which I am so grateful to my parents.

Needless to say, by second grade, everyone knew that I was adopted. It was no secret, but kids had a lot of questions. Of course, I obliged them and explained that I was not "born under my mother's heart, but in it." And I was fortunate that none of my classmates ridiculed the fact that I was adopted. I think they thought that since I acted as though it were special, it made THEM realize that too. And I have those "pick nicks" by the creek and the long, lazy bicycle rides to thank for knowing that fact. The fact that my brother and I were picked. We were chosen.

Piggy Tales Thursday...on Friday

I know, I know! I'm late! And I apologize, but I took the girls swimming yesterday
(I'm going to use this post for double duty so I will put them...
here.








and the day just got away from me! Regardless, here I am for Piggy Tales Thursday...1st grade edition.

First grade came and I was all set for my first day of school. Bag: check. Lunch: Check. Mom...no check??? I had gone to kindergarten, but this??? This was a whole 'nother dinosaur!! But Mrs. Bixler made it okay. She ushered me in and nurtured my love of reading. She was, and still remains, one of my favorite teachers! I remember my mom used to come in and help some days, and those were always my favorite days!

I remember my first sleepover party was for my 6th birthday. My best friends, Allison, Ashley, and Sara were invited. My mom and dad thought that homemade pizza would be a great treat. I remember making it ourselves. Then...for dessert...ICE CREAM! We were allowed to fix it up any way we wanted.

I also remember the time that my mom dressed up like an elf for my class. I don't remember much of this, just the green elf shoes with bells at the tip of her curled toes! Christmas time was always fun. I recall a Christmas bazaar with all kinds of crafts and good food. Even then, I was into crafty things!

Speaking of crafty things, I used to spend a good bit of my childhood coloring. I was always sort of a loner (until probably...middle school???), and coloring was one of my favorite hobbies. I also loved to read. Dr. Suess was, of course, loved by the entire household. My favorite books of his were In A People House and Put Me in the Zoo. My mom says that, to this day, she still remembers the antics of Hooper Humperdink, Marvin K. Mooney, and Young Yolanda Yorgensen. These days, I have nearly every one of Dr. Suess' books, and my girls love them just as much as I do. I mean, did. ;o) Well, I suppose that is all that I can recall specifically about first grade.

Tune in next Thursday for 2nd grade. Hopefully, I can make it on time then! I also hope to add some pictures to these posts, so you may want to stop back to check and see them.

Glimpses of the Past (Piggy Tales part deux)

I have few and far memories from my preschool years, but I do have recollections of pudding painting, naptime, and show and tell. My preschool teacher's name was Mrs. August, who's daughter I remain friends with still today. She was a sweetheart, and I DO remember loving morning preschool at St. Mark's preschool.

Fast forward two years to kindergarten. One of my fondest memories of kindergarten occurred one day when we were late for school. I don't remember it happening OFTEN, but as a mother myself, I understand how we may have been running a bit tardy here and there. Well, on this particular morning my kindergarten teacher Sister Rose apparently decided that I had been late a couple of times too many because she REALLY laid into me. I remember crying. Little did this nun know, but my mom was right behind me. And you all know Mama Bears when their cubs are wrongfully being attacked, right? Mama Bear was NOT having it. My mom let that silly old nun in a habit know that the blame was to be placed not on me, but her.

Now, Sister Rose has passed on, but I can still feel the protectiveness that I felt that day. So while that memory is not a happy one, the memory still holds a special place in my heart.

Yet another memory comes to mind of kindergarten. This one, from the Christmas pageant, in which the kindergartners played the angels in the nativity. I remember getting all dressed up in white, and then Mom adding that silver, glittering, ironic halo. Just another mere glimpse of times long ago.

The things that come to me from my past just come in glimpses. But it is funny to think back on them, because they seem to be from a completely different lifetime. I feel as though reincarnated (if I believed in that sort of thing). My first life: my preschool years consist of memories of my grandmother rocking me in the wooden rocker that PROBABLY still sits in the same spot in her bedroom. Glimpse...Plucking locust shells from the tree in my grandmother's yard. Flash...the sounds of the bug zapper that seemed to hang in the thick Indiana humidity...flash to picnics at the creek with Mom and little brother...flash...looking at Grandma's collection of wheat pennies...Marshmallow circus peanuts from Aunt Ev (my Evelyn's namesake) ...Glimpse...Peanut butter toast with Grandpa with me in one of his old, white V-neck tees. Flash...Grandma and I watching Plinko on The Price is Right.

It's like listening to a radio station that is coming in and out of range.....CSSHHHH...memory....CSHHHH...another random piece of long ago remembered. Then, my second life occurred in middle school. Memories of my first "monthly visit" (came at my end of the softball season SWIM PARTY. I was dramatic and told my mother, "I WISH I WERE A BOY!"), first kiss (chaste and a little slobbery), and the death of my grandpa (I hit a home run for him while hospice prepared him for his death. He loved coming to my games.) Third life: high school. Ugh. More on THAT later. College was my fourth life. That was a reckless, carefree (or careLESS, rather) life. Fifth life was when we were just a family of three. That life ended one year ago when I entered into this life I am in now. Sixth life, blissfully married wife of five years, mother of two astoundingly amazing girls.

My mother readied me for this life (and all the others too) in that dark kindergarten hall some twenty years prior to when I would have to put those skills to use.

The one thing that I recall and that ISN'T just a mere glimpse is this: No one messes with Mama.

Not even a nun.

A Record of My Youth

Over at Mommy's Piggy Tales, I am linking up to record WHAT I CAN REMEMBER (I just played Brain Age on DS for the first time and my brain age was EIGHTY. WHAT?!?!?) of my youth. So I will be linking up on Thursdays to revel in my youth. Today's topic: My birth. Well, what can I remember of my birth? Not a lot, that's what. Oh, sure. I know the basics. Born on September 6, 1982 (I share my birthday with my father-in-law, BTW. Only person I have ever met with the same birthday as I. Weird, right?) at 6:07 in the morning. Bright and stinkin' early. I don't know WHAT I was thinking making an early morning appearance. I am NOT a morning person. Anyway...I weighed 7 pounds and 7 ounces and was 19 and a half inches long. Was the labor long? Don't know. Epidural? Probably not. Not back then. But I don't know. I never will. You see, I was given up for adoption. And I hope that that didn't sound hateful because I'm the exact opposite. Until a couple of months later, I was placed in temporary foster care and was referred to as "Molly". It's a good thing that wasn't my permanent name because I REALLY don't look like a Molly. Mom and Dad agreed. So I became Andrea. AZKZ for short. AZ for REALLY short. And sometimes Skeez Louise. But usually AZ (pronounced like the plural of A. Like two As would be...AZ Got it? Got it. Good.) So anyway, this post is dedicated to my Mom and Dad who blessed me with an AMAZING life growing up. But also to that one young girl out there who WAS there on September 6th, 1982 in a small town in rural Indiana. The girl who knew that the best gift she could give me was to just let me go.


aka AZ