Lately I've been writing some of my best stuff in the comments on other blogs. So I'm recycling this one from a comment I left on Janie Junebug's blog, in response to her question, "What is the worst illness you ever suffered?" (Or words to that effect).
Since Janie's blog is invitation only (due to some privacy violations and other stalker-ish issues she was having with some commenters), you can't all go there to answer her question (well, some of you can, if you've joined her blog). But you can answer her question here, if you like. Feel free to share your worst illness ever in the comments section below. Note to the squeamish: You might want to avoid reading the comments for today.
Here is my story:
When I was a kid, maybe 8 years old, living in Florida, I caught pneumonia during the Christmas break. I think it was after Christmas, though. My parents later told me I almost died from it.
It came on very suddenly. I was feeling absolutely fine, and I went to a sleepover at a friend's house, woke up in the middle of the night feeling awful, and my Dad had to come pick me up at something like 2:00 a.m. I think he was angry about it until he saw how awful I looked and felt. I actually watched his expression go from frustration to "holy crap I've never seen her look so bad," and then he carried me gently to the car.
I was sick for weeks and weeks and had to take penicillin. The doctor had prescribed these horse pills but I hadn't learned to swallow pills yet and sure wasn't going to learn on those giant things, so my mom had to crush them up and mix them in with a dixie cup full of soda, usually Pepsi but sometimes Sprite, and it was soooo bitter and awful tasting but I had to drink all of it, every time. She'd even pour more soda in the little dixie cup and swish it around so we wouldn't miss any. Ugh. I still don't like soda all that much.
And at least twice a day, every day, my dad had to come in and hold me over his lap with my head hanging down over the trash can by the bed and hit me on the back between the shoulder blades at just the right angle (as demonstrated by the doctor) until I coughed up a bunch of the goo that was in my lungs. He later told me it was all he could do not to puke every time... poor guy...
I was in a fog for ... ? days? weeks? ... I don't know.
I only know that finally, after missing whatever was left of Christmas vacation plus a bit of school, I started to come out of the fog and then I was lucid for longer and longer times each day and then one day I felt well enough to sit up and it was a beautiful bright sunny Florida winter day, and I begged my mom to let me go outside. I wanted to run in the sunshine. My legs were weak, though, so I settled for sitting on the edge of the driveway in a spot of warm sunshine and enjoying the cool air and gentle breeze.
It was the most beautiful day God ever made. I felt alive again.
Showing posts with label Florida. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Florida. Show all posts
Friday, February 10, 2012
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The Ice Cream Man
Fancy Schmancy's post yesterday reminded me of one of the true joys of my Florida childhood -- the Ice Cream Man.
At least once a week, on those sticky hot Florida summer days, he'd slowly cruise through our little neighborhood, jolly music playing loudly. Every kid on the block would run inside and beg mom and dad for money, or raid his or her piggy bank, or check under the couch cushions, and then chase frantically down the street to catch the truck. The driver was invariably friendly and would stop when he saw the kids running behind him. We never missed the ice cream truck. (Well, maybe once that I can remember, when I had a sprained ankle and couldn't run.)
We'd run up to the truck and stare with wide-eyed awe at the pictures of all the yummy treats plastered all over the side of the truck. Then we'd debate the merits of the bomb pop versus the fudgsicle or the orange cream or the sno cone.... We'd dither and hem and haw and finally make a selection, then turn over our fistful of loose change and wait to hear the magic verdict on whether the money was the right amount -- "Great! Here's your popsicle!" or "One bomb pop, coming up!"
The thing is, we always caught him, and it was always enough money, and the juicy or creamy or icy treat was always awesome. I don't remember ever being disappointed by the ice cream man.
When I first moved to my Arizona neighborhood, I discovered that the ice cream man was a little.... different. First of all, he cruised through the neighborhood at approximately 35 miles per hour.
Keep in mind, the speed limit is 25.
Before we had kids, my husband and I heard him coming and tried, a couple of times, to run inside and get money and catch him, but he was long gone before we got inside -- forget finding money and coming back outside to catch him. Heck, he barely slowed down for stop signs; I don't know why I thought he'd stop if he saw some grown-up chasing after him. For over eight years, I never saw him stopped with kids around the truck selling ice cream. We became convinced it was a front for a bunch of drug dealers, or (less paranoid interpretation), that he was merely driving through our neighborhood on the way home and wasn't actually interested in selling ice cream here.
So when our daughter was a toddler and saw and heard the truck, we told her it was the "music truck," and that he just drove around the neighborhood playing music for everyone. Being a toddler and trusting her parents as the authority on everything from the Easter Bunny to Santa Claus, she bought that story hook, line, and sinker.
For a couple of years, whenever she heard the ice cream truck, she'd say, "Mommy, listen! It's the music truck!" And I'd say, "Ooh, yes! Isn't that nice?" and smile, and we'd both go on about our business.
And then for a couple of years, he didn't even come through the neighborhood. I had forgotten about the ice cream / music truck.
Then one day when our son was about 3 and our daughter about 8, we were standing outside with the kids, talking to some neighbors, having just returned from the store. I had my bag; my husband had his wallet. We both had cash on us. Our daughter said, "Mommy, listen! It's the music truck!" Our neighbors looked quizzically at each other and, apparently deciding we were the worst parents on earth and that our kids needed to learn the real truth, said, "What?!? Oh, you mean the Ice Cream Man! Ooh, let's stop him and get some ice cream!"
And our deception was revealed. Our daughter was clearly annoyed with us for deceiving her. She looked at me like I had just told her there was no Santa Claus. (Perhaps that was the moment she figured that out?).
And then the truck stopped. The kids saw all the ice cream illustrations on the side of the truck and began squirming with excitement. They hemmed and hawed and then made their decisions: A bomb pop for the little guy; chocolate dipped vanilla ice cream bar for his big sister. (The neighbors, those sneaks, didn't even buy anything at all!)
I have to admit, it was a sweet moment, and brought back good memories of my own childhood and the joys of the ice cream man. (And the man actually sold us some ice cream! Amazing! It's not a front for drug dealers! The truck has real ice cream!! This is good to know!)
...But now every time the kids hear the music, they beg for money.
** sigh **
.
At least once a week, on those sticky hot Florida summer days, he'd slowly cruise through our little neighborhood, jolly music playing loudly. Every kid on the block would run inside and beg mom and dad for money, or raid his or her piggy bank, or check under the couch cushions, and then chase frantically down the street to catch the truck. The driver was invariably friendly and would stop when he saw the kids running behind him. We never missed the ice cream truck. (Well, maybe once that I can remember, when I had a sprained ankle and couldn't run.)
We'd run up to the truck and stare with wide-eyed awe at the pictures of all the yummy treats plastered all over the side of the truck. Then we'd debate the merits of the bomb pop versus the fudgsicle or the orange cream or the sno cone.... We'd dither and hem and haw and finally make a selection, then turn over our fistful of loose change and wait to hear the magic verdict on whether the money was the right amount -- "Great! Here's your popsicle!" or "One bomb pop, coming up!"
The thing is, we always caught him, and it was always enough money, and the juicy or creamy or icy treat was always awesome. I don't remember ever being disappointed by the ice cream man.
When I first moved to my Arizona neighborhood, I discovered that the ice cream man was a little.... different. First of all, he cruised through the neighborhood at approximately 35 miles per hour.
Keep in mind, the speed limit is 25.
Before we had kids, my husband and I heard him coming and tried, a couple of times, to run inside and get money and catch him, but he was long gone before we got inside -- forget finding money and coming back outside to catch him. Heck, he barely slowed down for stop signs; I don't know why I thought he'd stop if he saw some grown-up chasing after him. For over eight years, I never saw him stopped with kids around the truck selling ice cream. We became convinced it was a front for a bunch of drug dealers, or (less paranoid interpretation), that he was merely driving through our neighborhood on the way home and wasn't actually interested in selling ice cream here.
So when our daughter was a toddler and saw and heard the truck, we told her it was the "music truck," and that he just drove around the neighborhood playing music for everyone. Being a toddler and trusting her parents as the authority on everything from the Easter Bunny to Santa Claus, she bought that story hook, line, and sinker.
For a couple of years, whenever she heard the ice cream truck, she'd say, "Mommy, listen! It's the music truck!" And I'd say, "Ooh, yes! Isn't that nice?" and smile, and we'd both go on about our business.
And then for a couple of years, he didn't even come through the neighborhood. I had forgotten about the ice cream / music truck.
Then one day when our son was about 3 and our daughter about 8, we were standing outside with the kids, talking to some neighbors, having just returned from the store. I had my bag; my husband had his wallet. We both had cash on us. Our daughter said, "Mommy, listen! It's the music truck!" Our neighbors looked quizzically at each other and, apparently deciding we were the worst parents on earth and that our kids needed to learn the real truth, said, "What?!? Oh, you mean the Ice Cream Man! Ooh, let's stop him and get some ice cream!"
And our deception was revealed. Our daughter was clearly annoyed with us for deceiving her. She looked at me like I had just told her there was no Santa Claus. (Perhaps that was the moment she figured that out?).
And then the truck stopped. The kids saw all the ice cream illustrations on the side of the truck and began squirming with excitement. They hemmed and hawed and then made their decisions: A bomb pop for the little guy; chocolate dipped vanilla ice cream bar for his big sister. (The neighbors, those sneaks, didn't even buy anything at all!)
I have to admit, it was a sweet moment, and brought back good memories of my own childhood and the joys of the ice cream man. (And the man actually sold us some ice cream! Amazing! It's not a front for drug dealers! The truck has real ice cream!! This is good to know!)
...But now every time the kids hear the music, they beg for money.
** sigh **
.
Monday, November 10, 2008
The Spelling Bee - Part II
(Click here for Part I of this fascinating drama).
So there I was at the regional spelling bee. It was held in a local high school's auditorium. The thirty or so participants were up on the wooden stage, seated in a semi-circle facing the audience, the moderator was seated on a podium at stage left, and the hard wooden chairs in the gallery were nearly half-filled with the proud parents, bored and restless siblings, and busily annoyed teachers of all the contestants. Plus my friends' mom and my friend.
The earlier disgusting roach incident aside (and I confess to nervously scanning the area around me to make sure there weren’t any of the despicable beasts in the area), this day was the highlight of my year so far! I was mildly embarrassed by my swollen and ugly eye, but it didn’t hurt any more, and I was certain I was going to win. I was just sure of it. After all, I had never encountered a word I couldn’t spell, including the popular "show-off" spelling words of the era, "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious" and "antidisestablishmentarianism."
The bee began. When it was your turn, you got up and walked to the microphone at the center of the stage, waited for your word to be pronounced by the moderator, then stated the word, spelled the word, stated the word again, and waited for the judges' verdict: "That is correct" or "That is INcorrect."
If correct, you sat down again in your seat on the stage. If incorrect, you took the equivalent of the "Fear Factor Walk of Shame" -- exiting stage right with all eyes upon you, trying not to trip down the stairs that you couldn't see because you were crying, and sitting (sad and humiliated) in the audience with your disappointed teachers and parents and bored siblings. Of course, they didn't call it the Walk of Shame since Fear Factor hadn't been invented yet, but that's what it was like.
I thought they must be starting with the easy words and then working their way up to the hard words, because all the words seemed easy to me. But in an amazing display of ineptitude, several kids were eliminated in the first round -- and on easy-peasy words like "often," "callow," and "arrogant." I'm not proud of this, but I have to admit that I smiled inwardly each time someone else took the "Walk of Shame" -- one less person coming between me and that trophy!
After several rounds, the number of contestants was dwindling. I was one of about 6 kids left on the stage. I had not yet heard a word that I didn’t know how to spell. I was absolutely certain I was going to win! It was all so very exciting!!
And then ... the moderator asked me to spell ... what? ... Oh no! Confounded by that Southern accent! Was she asking me to spell the word "train"? ... or did she say "terrain"? It was hard to tell. I stood for a moment, looking (and feeling) confused.
I asked her to repeat the word. She did, slowly and carefully: "tuh-rain." That slow pronunciation didn't really help. It just solidified my confusion. Was she pronouncing the "t" so clearly because she thought I didn't know whether to spell "train" or "rain," or did she really mean "terrain"?
So, I asked for a definition of the word. Not that I needed a definition of either word, I just couldn't tell whether I was supposed to spell a word that meant "locomotive" or one that meant "land."
Of course, asking to repeat and to define words is a time-honored spelling-bee method of stalling for time when you aren't sure how to spell the word, and I'm sure that's what the judges thought I was doing when I asked for a repeat and then a definition.
The moderator defined the word: "a tract of land, especially as considered with reference to its natural features, military advantages, and so forth."**
I breathed a sigh of relief. Now I knew what to spell!
But I soon discovered that the moderator's Southern accent was not my only problem. You see, I had a Southern accent, too. And if you are using a proper Southern accent, vowels are dipthongs and most every syllable is pronounced as two syllables. So, for example, a long "a" has two syllables (and is pronounced first with the long a sound then the long e sound following it, and all sort of elided together, something like this: aay-yee). Also, the letter "I" is pronounced softly, almost like "ah" or "uh," but with two syllables to it and just the barest hint of an "i" sound.
So I proudly stated and then spelled the word, in my best southern accent:
"Tuh-ray-eene. Te-eee ... ee-eee ... ah-ur ... ah-ur ... aay-yee ...
aaa-aa(i) ... ee-yen. Tuh-ray-eene."
Near as I can figure, the judges thought I said "aaah," or "aa-uh" (a verbal filler used to stall for time) rather than "aaa-aa(i)" (the correct southern pronunciation of the vowel "i") when I stated that second-to-last letter. That is the only reason I can think of that they would have ruled that I spelled the word wrong. Which they did, immediately. Without even discussing it among themselves:
"INcorrect," came the verdict.
I was stunned. Flabbergasted. "Well then, how *is* the word spelled?!?" I asked. No answer, just an instruction to please sit down with the audience. This was not a Florida-Florida State football game. There was no video or tape recording, no "instant replay" or other challenge to the judges’ decision allowed or considered. I was out, a loser, a Walk-of-Shamer, and that was that. But I was certain I had spelled the word correctly! How could this beeeeee?!?
"How DO you spell tuh-ray-ene?" I asked my friend's mom, after I sat down and choked back my sobs enough to whisper the question.
Well, it’s spelled "T-E-R-R-A-I-N," said my friend's mom.
"But that’s what I said!" said I.
"No, you said 'T-E-R-R-A-N,'" said she.
"Noooooooo... I didn't...."
It was all too much to bear. Twice in one morning, my friend's mom was telling me I was wrong, when I was clearly right, and I had lost the spelling bee besides. I dissolved into a puddle of tears, complete with sniffles and sobs and my friend's mom whispering loudly at me to "stop that, you're being disruptive....." As you can see by the fact that I still recall this event vividly over 30 years later, it scarred me for life.
----
** The definition here is a paraphrase of what she said. This particular definition is courtesy of dictionary.com which of course didn't exist in the mid-'70s because Al Gore hadn't invented the internet yet.
.
So there I was at the regional spelling bee. It was held in a local high school's auditorium. The thirty or so participants were up on the wooden stage, seated in a semi-circle facing the audience, the moderator was seated on a podium at stage left, and the hard wooden chairs in the gallery were nearly half-filled with the proud parents, bored and restless siblings, and busily annoyed teachers of all the contestants. Plus my friends' mom and my friend.
The earlier disgusting roach incident aside (and I confess to nervously scanning the area around me to make sure there weren’t any of the despicable beasts in the area), this day was the highlight of my year so far! I was mildly embarrassed by my swollen and ugly eye, but it didn’t hurt any more, and I was certain I was going to win. I was just sure of it. After all, I had never encountered a word I couldn’t spell, including the popular "show-off" spelling words of the era, "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious" and "antidisestablishmentarianism."
The bee began. When it was your turn, you got up and walked to the microphone at the center of the stage, waited for your word to be pronounced by the moderator, then stated the word, spelled the word, stated the word again, and waited for the judges' verdict: "That is correct" or "That is INcorrect."
If correct, you sat down again in your seat on the stage. If incorrect, you took the equivalent of the "Fear Factor Walk of Shame" -- exiting stage right with all eyes upon you, trying not to trip down the stairs that you couldn't see because you were crying, and sitting (sad and humiliated) in the audience with your disappointed teachers and parents and bored siblings. Of course, they didn't call it the Walk of Shame since Fear Factor hadn't been invented yet, but that's what it was like.
I thought they must be starting with the easy words and then working their way up to the hard words, because all the words seemed easy to me. But in an amazing display of ineptitude, several kids were eliminated in the first round -- and on easy-peasy words like "often," "callow," and "arrogant." I'm not proud of this, but I have to admit that I smiled inwardly each time someone else took the "Walk of Shame" -- one less person coming between me and that trophy!
After several rounds, the number of contestants was dwindling. I was one of about 6 kids left on the stage. I had not yet heard a word that I didn’t know how to spell. I was absolutely certain I was going to win! It was all so very exciting!!
And then ... the moderator asked me to spell ... what? ... Oh no! Confounded by that Southern accent! Was she asking me to spell the word "train"? ... or did she say "terrain"? It was hard to tell. I stood for a moment, looking (and feeling) confused.
I asked her to repeat the word. She did, slowly and carefully: "tuh-rain." That slow pronunciation didn't really help. It just solidified my confusion. Was she pronouncing the "t" so clearly because she thought I didn't know whether to spell "train" or "rain," or did she really mean "terrain"?
So, I asked for a definition of the word. Not that I needed a definition of either word, I just couldn't tell whether I was supposed to spell a word that meant "locomotive" or one that meant "land."
Of course, asking to repeat and to define words is a time-honored spelling-bee method of stalling for time when you aren't sure how to spell the word, and I'm sure that's what the judges thought I was doing when I asked for a repeat and then a definition.
The moderator defined the word: "a tract of land, especially as considered with reference to its natural features, military advantages, and so forth."**
I breathed a sigh of relief. Now I knew what to spell!
But I soon discovered that the moderator's Southern accent was not my only problem. You see, I had a Southern accent, too. And if you are using a proper Southern accent, vowels are dipthongs and most every syllable is pronounced as two syllables. So, for example, a long "a" has two syllables (and is pronounced first with the long a sound then the long e sound following it, and all sort of elided together, something like this: aay-yee). Also, the letter "I" is pronounced softly, almost like "ah" or "uh," but with two syllables to it and just the barest hint of an "i" sound.
So I proudly stated and then spelled the word, in my best southern accent:
"Tuh-ray-eene. Te-eee ... ee-eee ... ah-ur ... ah-ur ... aay-yee ...
aaa-aa(i) ... ee-yen. Tuh-ray-eene."
Near as I can figure, the judges thought I said "aaah," or "aa-uh" (a verbal filler used to stall for time) rather than "aaa-aa(i)" (the correct southern pronunciation of the vowel "i") when I stated that second-to-last letter. That is the only reason I can think of that they would have ruled that I spelled the word wrong. Which they did, immediately. Without even discussing it among themselves:
"INcorrect," came the verdict.
I was stunned. Flabbergasted. "Well then, how *is* the word spelled?!?" I asked. No answer, just an instruction to please sit down with the audience. This was not a Florida-Florida State football game. There was no video or tape recording, no "instant replay" or other challenge to the judges’ decision allowed or considered. I was out, a loser, a Walk-of-Shamer, and that was that. But I was certain I had spelled the word correctly! How could this beeeeee?!?
"How DO you spell tuh-ray-ene?" I asked my friend's mom, after I sat down and choked back my sobs enough to whisper the question.
Well, it’s spelled "T-E-R-R-A-I-N," said my friend's mom.
"But that’s what I said!" said I.
"No, you said 'T-E-R-R-A-N,'" said she.
"Noooooooo... I didn't...."
It was all too much to bear. Twice in one morning, my friend's mom was telling me I was wrong, when I was clearly right, and I had lost the spelling bee besides. I dissolved into a puddle of tears, complete with sniffles and sobs and my friend's mom whispering loudly at me to "stop that, you're being disruptive....." As you can see by the fact that I still recall this event vividly over 30 years later, it scarred me for life.
----
** The definition here is a paraphrase of what she said. This particular definition is courtesy of dictionary.com which of course didn't exist in the mid-'70s because Al Gore hadn't invented the internet yet.
.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
The Spelling Bee - Part I
As promised in a prior post, here is the story of how I almost won the regional spelling bee. It is, I promise, a story filled with not only glory and honor, but also shock and horror. Read on for thrills aplenty!
When I was in 5th grade in 1970-something in Florida, I was an awesome speller. I was so good that my small private school decided to have a spelling bee for the first time ever, and to enter the regional spelling bee. As predicted, I won the school spelling bee and represented my school in the regional spelling bee. What an honor! What a thrill!
For some reason, however, my Mom and Dad were unavailable to take me to the spelling bee, so my Mom arranged for me to spend the night at a friend’s house, and her mom would take me to the spelling bee in the morning. That's when the trouble began.
First, you must know that Florida is literally crawling with giant cockroaches, which the natives euphemistically call "Palmetto Bugs," as if that nice-sounding name makes these monstrously awful insects any less disgusting. And they are truly awful. They are two inches long, they run fast (often toward you), they can crawl on any surface including ceilings and glass, and they are even capable of flying -- usually straight toward your head. They are also not like most species of roaches: they do not "scatter" when you turn on the light. They just sit there, staring at you. If you step on them, it makes a "crunch" sound. And if you don’t mush them enough, they will still crawl away afterwards. For years after we moved from Florida, I had a horrible phobia of roaches and would literally get chills and goosebumps just seeing one.
My friend's house, like most others, was known to have a few of these horrible critters from time to time. But, oh, what happened that day....
I awoke in the morning and opened my eyes to see a giant brownish black bug -- it looked to me like one of those awful "Palmetto Bugs" -- on the bed next to me. "Eeeeewww!" I screamed, then "Aaaaaagh!" as I felt something hit my eye and a terrible burning sensation began. Then the crying and uncontrollable sobbing started. My friend’s mom came running, but the horrible bug was long gone by the time she got there. My eye was swelling up, and was quite red. I couldn’t see very well. She asked what happened, and after about ten minutes I calmed down enough to talk and told her a giant roach had sprayed something in my eye and it hurt and burned.
But my friend’s mom said it was impossible for a Palmetto Bug to spray anything into a person’s eye. And she refused to believe that one of those awful bugs had been on the bed, or even in her house, since they had just had the place sprayed last week. She thought I had merely scratched my eye with my own fingernail while sleeping, despite the fact that my eye swelled up and was bright red, which I don’t think has ever happened in the history of the world from a mere fingernail scratch while sleeping. Regardless, nothing could convince her that I was right.
Later – much later, after the internet was invented (but not by Al Gore) – I looked it up on the internet. It turns out there is a species of roach in Florida called a "skunk roach" which does indeed spray a foul smelling substance out of its butt when it feels threatened. That must have been what got me. They look remarkably similar to a Palmetto Bug, probably especially to a 10 year old who has just been awakened by said bug spraying gunk into her eye and who, for that reason, cannot see particularly well.
It would not be the first time that day that I was told I was wrong, when in fact I was right.
In any event, I rinsed my eye, got dressed, and went to the spelling bee. My eye hurt a lot and remained swollen most of the day. But that didn’t stop me from being an awesome speller. In fact, I correctly spelled every word I was given that day.
And still, nearly inexplicably, I lost the match.
My friend's mom thought I lost because I was still upset by my "nightmare" about the roach and didn't concentrate properly. But I didn’t lose the spelling bee because of the despicable bug; I lost because I lived in Florida at the time, where most everyone has a southern accent. It is the only reason I can think of. I’ll explain next time, in Part II. Right now I have to take my kids to art class.
When I was in 5th grade in 1970-something in Florida, I was an awesome speller. I was so good that my small private school decided to have a spelling bee for the first time ever, and to enter the regional spelling bee. As predicted, I won the school spelling bee and represented my school in the regional spelling bee. What an honor! What a thrill!
For some reason, however, my Mom and Dad were unavailable to take me to the spelling bee, so my Mom arranged for me to spend the night at a friend’s house, and her mom would take me to the spelling bee in the morning. That's when the trouble began.
First, you must know that Florida is literally crawling with giant cockroaches, which the natives euphemistically call "Palmetto Bugs," as if that nice-sounding name makes these monstrously awful insects any less disgusting. And they are truly awful. They are two inches long, they run fast (often toward you), they can crawl on any surface including ceilings and glass, and they are even capable of flying -- usually straight toward your head. They are also not like most species of roaches: they do not "scatter" when you turn on the light. They just sit there, staring at you. If you step on them, it makes a "crunch" sound. And if you don’t mush them enough, they will still crawl away afterwards. For years after we moved from Florida, I had a horrible phobia of roaches and would literally get chills and goosebumps just seeing one.
My friend's house, like most others, was known to have a few of these horrible critters from time to time. But, oh, what happened that day....
I awoke in the morning and opened my eyes to see a giant brownish black bug -- it looked to me like one of those awful "Palmetto Bugs" -- on the bed next to me. "Eeeeewww!" I screamed, then "Aaaaaagh!" as I felt something hit my eye and a terrible burning sensation began. Then the crying and uncontrollable sobbing started. My friend’s mom came running, but the horrible bug was long gone by the time she got there. My eye was swelling up, and was quite red. I couldn’t see very well. She asked what happened, and after about ten minutes I calmed down enough to talk and told her a giant roach had sprayed something in my eye and it hurt and burned.
But my friend’s mom said it was impossible for a Palmetto Bug to spray anything into a person’s eye. And she refused to believe that one of those awful bugs had been on the bed, or even in her house, since they had just had the place sprayed last week. She thought I had merely scratched my eye with my own fingernail while sleeping, despite the fact that my eye swelled up and was bright red, which I don’t think has ever happened in the history of the world from a mere fingernail scratch while sleeping. Regardless, nothing could convince her that I was right.
Later – much later, after the internet was invented (but not by Al Gore) – I looked it up on the internet. It turns out there is a species of roach in Florida called a "skunk roach" which does indeed spray a foul smelling substance out of its butt when it feels threatened. That must have been what got me. They look remarkably similar to a Palmetto Bug, probably especially to a 10 year old who has just been awakened by said bug spraying gunk into her eye and who, for that reason, cannot see particularly well.
It would not be the first time that day that I was told I was wrong, when in fact I was right.
In any event, I rinsed my eye, got dressed, and went to the spelling bee. My eye hurt a lot and remained swollen most of the day. But that didn’t stop me from being an awesome speller. In fact, I correctly spelled every word I was given that day.
And still, nearly inexplicably, I lost the match.
My friend's mom thought I lost because I was still upset by my "nightmare" about the roach and didn't concentrate properly. But I didn’t lose the spelling bee because of the despicable bug; I lost because I lived in Florida at the time, where most everyone has a southern accent. It is the only reason I can think of. I’ll explain next time, in Part II. Right now I have to take my kids to art class.
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