Three Minutes on Vacation

Normanday #65: Are we almost there?

 

Write for three minutes about…

 

…a family vacation.

 

Email what you wrote to woof at bright dot net by the end of the day March 3 (put “Norman Should Be on Mount Rushmore” in the subject line). I’ll post as many of my favorite entries as I want next Monday. Include your first name (or, even better, use a pen name) and age (unless you’re tortoise-old). If you’re a published children’s or young adult writer, include a biography to be posted with your entry.

 

Here are the entries from last week when I asked you to write for three minutes about…

 

…something you miss.

 

 

Sweettooth Miracle

My favorite candy bar of all time was the Marathon bar. It was around in the United States from 1973 to 1981. At the time, I would save up the quarter from my allowance to get one. The Marathon Bar was a foot long of braided caramel covered in chocolate. It was chewy and light. I do believe, if measured, it probably would have fallen short of 12 inches, though. But they had a measuring tape on the back of the package to make you think you were getting a foot of candy. The chocolate coating was probably a little darker than milk to offset the sweet caramel, which pulled into strings when you bit into it. Today, England makes a similar bar called the Curly Wurly bar. And it’s good. It’s not a foot, mind you, but closer to six inches. They are hard to find too. But they aren’t nearly as good as the Marathon Bar. You can’t even find one today. No one makes them. I know. I did a lot of research. If I were a rich person, I would put them back in production. I miss them to this very day.

 

MGray

I don’t remember the year. I think I was around seven years old. I had a Stretch Armstrong doll that I loved. My brother got one first. He is four years older than me and the Stretch Armstrong toy was geared towards boys, not girls. So my parents didn’t think to get me one. My brother liked it too, but preferred to experiment with it as he was getting a little old to just play with things at that age. He loved slowly destroying his toys. Stretch Armstrong was a “muscle man” doll with a hard plastic head and stretchy arms and legs. Do you know what Silly Putty is? Think of a doll filled with Silly Putty. His arms, chest, and legs were made of rubber and filled with some sort of gel substance that I am sure is not BPA free and probably quite hazardous to your health. But it was the late 70s and early 80s, so no one thought about that. I know he was filled with a green substance because my brother cut his open. I was so obsessed with his toy that my mom got me one of my own. And when that one died from being stretched out too often and getting left in the sun a few times, she got me another one. I loved the texture and weight of this doll. If I look around, I may be able to find a picture of me on Christmas Day with Stretch in my arms. I recall there being one. Unfortunately, Stretch Armstrong did not hold up well to the elements. I would often put him in the bath with me. And I would take him outside to play. He got dirty pretty quickly and we had to clean him off often. Plus the sun made his rubber skin crack. Eventually, he would develop a tear. I would put a Band-aid on him to keep the green ooze inside, but it didn’t really stick so well. At some point, I would cover his cuts with electrical tape. Eventually, he would stiffen up to the point where he couldn’t stretch anymore. I think after the second was thrown out, my parents decided not to get us anymore Stretch dolls. By this point, they had others. They had a Stretch Octopus and some Stretch bad guy. But my favorite was the blond hair muscle man.

To this day, I miss Stretch Armstrong. I miss the weight and texture. I am sure he is all sorts of bad for you, but I did love that doll for a couple of years and kind of wish he was around today.

 

 

Cranberly

My sister is eight years older than me. She started dating at a young age—I think she was 12 or 13. But she seemed so much older to me. And I suppose to everyone else. Everyone always said she very mature for her age. She was perfectly curvy. She had the same measurements as the girl mentioned in that song “Brick House” (36-24-36). Evidently that was the ideal curviness for a lady. I have never had those same numbers, although I did strive to get them all through college. Anyway, I remember she had been dating this guy for a few years. We all just assumed they would get married. She must have been 16 and I was eight. My memory is hazy on how or when they met. I imagine they had been seeing each other for a year. I was a small child. I have always been short or little for my age. But I remember when her boyfriend used to come over and pick me up and swing me around. I loved the feeling of the spinning around, arms out, wind blowing through my long, sandy blond hair. One day, he came over and tried to pick me up but couldn’t. He said I was too big to be picked up anymore. I remember being so sad. He was just one of many who started telling me I was too big to be picked up. I had a number of uncles who had already told me that, but I figured it was just because they were old. But here was this young guy—fit and strong, a couple years older than my sister. And I was sad. I don’t remember if I cried by myself in my bedroom, but I imagine I looked pretty sad even as he told me, because he apologized pretty profusely. I think my sister must have kicked me out of the living room then, so she and her boyfriend could be alone.

So I missed being picked up and swung around. Funny thing is, years later, when I was 14, a guy a couple years older than me picked me up and I hated it. He didn’t swing me around. I didn’t like the lack of control I had on the situation. Also, he did do it to annoy me and to stop me from doing something he didn’t like. I was wearing roller skates at the time and threatened to kick him if he didn’t put me down. He didn’t put me down. I kicked him, not hard, but since I had roller skates on, it didn’t have to be hard. So, I suppose I miss being so little and innocent and enjoying having someone else spin you around. It seemed like time stopped when that happened. And when they told me I was too big, I knew I was getting older and I missed the innocence of my youth.

By the way, if you kick a boy while wearing roller skates when you are in junior high or high school, you become known as the girl with roller skates who kicked a boy. As I always tell people, you can’t threaten something and then not go through with it. It did garner me a bit of protection as a small girl in a big high school. Everyone knew I was someone who would follow through on my promises.

ReRunday: Two Book Reviews by Penny

Originally posted on September 2, 2010.

~

Let me pose this question to you: Is everything that happens predetermined? Like, from the day I was born, was it inevitable that at this exact moment in my life I would be here asking you if everything that happens is predetermined? Or could I have chosen to ask you instead what your favorite flavor of ice cream is? Or maybe I could have seen you from a distance and quickly turned around and gone the other way so I wouldn’t have to talk to you at all. (This is just hypothetical. I wouldn’t actually do that. I like you.)

Both the books I’m about to recommend to you share that question in common. Is the future written in stone? Or is it written in butter? You know, so it can be changed. In a melty way. Or spread. Maybe I should have said sand. Or wet cement. I totally should have said wet cement! Let’s pretend I did. Is the future written in stone or wet cement? But wait. Wet cement eventually dries and becomes like stone. Oh, brother. In the words of my friend Beverly, let’s just get on with it already!

Beverly and Bigfoot get annoyed with me when I tell them about books I like. They say I give too much away. So, I’m going to try to tell you how good these two YA novels are without ruining the endings for you. Or the middles. Or any of the parts, really. No promises or anything, but know that if I tell you too much, it will be on accident, not because I’m trying to be a jerk. I hope you’ll forgive me. Bigfoot and Beverly always do. So far.

In THE MARK by Jen Nadol (Bloomsbury, 2010), Cassandra Renfield sometimes sees a certain glow around a person. At first she doesn’t know what it is, but eventually she figures out that the person she sees surrounded by the glow will soon die. How cool is that? I mean for a story. It would be horrible in real life. But it’s a freaky premise for a book, and that’s why I wanted to read it. I love supernatural stuff.

I would have liked THE MARK if it was just about Cassandra’s different experiences in foreseeing people’s deaths. But I loved it because it was much more than that. Cassandra’s struggle to understand her ability opens up a lot of questions. Like, she wonders if, when she sees the glow, she should warn the glowing person so that they can try to avoid dying. But then she wonders if it’s really her place to intervene. Maybe everybody’s time to die is written in stone (insert tombstone pun here), and it’s not for her to try to change what is meant to happen. And then she wonders, if that’s true, why does she have this creepy ability in the first place? I won’t tell you more than that, but I will say that there is going to be a sequel out next year that I’ll definitely want to read.

On a side note, I wonder: Was it predetermined that Jen Nadol write this book, or could she have decided to pursue a career in synchronized swimming instead? For the record, I’m glad she’s a writer. (I’ve never met her, though. Maybe she does both.)

The other book I want to recommend is THE RETURNERS by Gemma Malley (Bloomsbury, 2010). I’ll have to be extra careful when telling you about this book because one of the things I liked most about it was being almost as in the dark as the narrator.

Will Hodges, the narrator, has been having nightmares about terrible atrocities. If that’s not bad enough, a bunch of stalkers approach him to tell him that he is a “Returner.” I don’t think I’m giving too much away by telling you what that means, do you? I don’t want to make you mad. I’m going to chance it. It means he’s lived previous lives. The people who have been stalking him are also Returners. They knew him in those previous lives. There. I hope that wasn’t giving away too much. I think you had probably already figured that out.

The other Returners tell Will that the future is predetermined and that Will has a role to play in making that future happen. Will is not happy with his part, or the future as the Returners see it. Just like Cassandra in THE MARK, Will wonders if he has the power to stop certain events from taking place.

Will’s world is a lot like ours. Fear and hate make people do horrible things to each other, and the strong stomp all over the weak. A lot of times we think of atrocities as events we read about in history books. But THE RETURNERS is a reminder that those types of things go on in the present, too. THE RETURNERS is also a kick in the pants that we each need to do our part to keep injustices from happening again and again and again. You’ll have to read the book yourself to see what Will does. Or doesn’t do. (Did I leave that open enough?)

There are a lot of books that explore whether we have a set-in-stone destiny or buttery free will. It’s probably because most of us can’t help but wonder what’s going to happen tomorrow. It can be kind of scary not knowing. It can be extra scary thinking that something we do (or don’t do) today might mean something terrible will happen tomorrow. Like, say I eat an English muffin today and get food poisoning. The next day I still feel sick, so I stay home. I was supposed to go fishing with Bigfoot, but now he decides to take a hike. Campers catch Bigfoot on video and that night the video is posted on YouTube. Within the hour it has had half a million views, and within two hours the Paparazzi are ruining Bigfoot’s vacation.

But say I eat an apple instead. A piece of it gets stuck in my throat. It’s okay, though, because Beverly is swimming nearby and she performs the Heimlich maneuver. The next day my throat is sore, so I go to the drug store for some lozenges. When I go to pay, I drop all my change on the floor and knock over a candy rack. I'm so embarrassed that I run out of the store and into the street. Wouldn't you know it? I get hit by a bus.

Just think about it. If everything is predetermined, it wouldn’t matter whether or not I eat an English muffin or an apple. That’s kind of comforting, isn’t it? I mean, if everything is set in stone, we don’t have to worry that our actions will cause any bad stuff to happen. But then, I suppose that also means that if there’s bad stuff in the future, there’s nothing we can do to avoid it. That’s kind of depressing, isn’t it?

You know what? I’m going to go find another good book to read to take my mind off all this. And I’m kind of hungry. An apple would hit the spot. Or better yet, an English muffin. With butter.

Three Minutes Pining for the Past

Normanday #64: If I had a time machine, I’d go back and stop myself from getting rid of my stuffed animals. 

Write for three minutes about…

…something you miss.

Email what you wrote to woof at bright dot net by the end of the day February 24 (put “Norman is in a Bowling League” in the subject line). I’ll post as many of my favorite entries as I want next Monday. Include your first name (or, even better, use a pen name) and age (unless you’re tortoise-old). If you’re a published children’s or young adult writer, include a biography to be posted with your entry.

Here is the single entry from last week when I asked you to write for three minutes about…

…the ventriloquist you met while standing in line at the movie theater.

 
Bigfoot

There was a long line to see Red Venom Sundae. It was opening night. My friend had the flu, so I was alone. There was an argument going on behind me. I tried to ignore it. I didn’t want to eavesdrop. But it was impossible since the two voices kept getting louder and louder, until finally they were yelling.

“I paid last time!”

“With what? You never have any money.”

“And why is that? I’ll tell you why. They pay you and you never give me my share.”

“Your share. That’s a laugh. Why should you get paid anything. I’m the one who does all the work. You’re just a dummy.”

I didn’t like somebody being called a dummy, so I turned around to give the bully a piece of my mind.

Wouldn’t you know it? The guy really was a dummy.

I bought my ticket and went into the theater, hoping the ventriloquist and his dummy wouldn’t talk during the movie.

Three Minutes Talking to a Ventriloquist

Normanday #63: I couldn’t get a word in.

 

Write for three minutes about…

 

…the ventriloquist you met while standing in line at the movie theater.

 

Email what you wrote to woof at bright dot net by the end of the day February 17 (put “Norman Flosses After Every Meal” in the subject line). I’ll post as many of my favorite entries as I want next Monday. Include your first name (or, even better, use a pen name) and age (unless you’re tortoise-old). If you’re a published children’s or young adult writer, include a biography to be posted with your entry.

 

Here is the single entry from last week when I asked you to write for three minutes about…

 

…a memory of something that happened in the kitchen.

 

 

Tren Rewy Steb

Mom on one side, I on the other, the electric griddle between us on the counter. I stood on a chair to watch as she poured the batter into circles on the silver surface and to wait for the first signs of bubbles. First one, moving up from the bottom, rising to the top to pop. Then another and another, until a whole outbreak of bubbles exploded. Helpful pancake sidekick, I pointed out when the bubbles ran out of room. Time to flip. Pancakes are still my favorite food.

Three Minutes in the Kitchen

Normanday #62: I distinctly remember the scrambled eggs stuck to the plate.

 

Write for three minutes about…

 

…a memory of something that happened in the kitchen.

 

Email what you wrote to woof at bright dot net by the end of the day February 10 (put “Norman Beat the Hare in a Sack Race” in the subject line). I’ll post as many of my favorite entries as I want next Monday. Include your first name (or, even better, use a pen name) and age (unless you’re tortoise-old). If you’re a published children’s or young adult writer, include a biography to be posted with your entry.

 

Here is the single entry from last week when I asked you to write for three minutes…

 

…a birthday party.

 

 

Ralph

Balloons. Red, yellow, and orange. Full almost to popping and hanging by white ribbons from the backs of folding chairs. Every kid in the neighbor was at my birthday party, even the ones I didn’t like. We played games. There was a relay race where we had to run to a chair at the end of the driveway, grab a balloon, and sit on it until it popped. I couldn’t make mine pop. It just made that terrible rubbery screech sound that balloons make. There was a piñata hanging from the tree in the back yard—a donkey with twine strung around its neck. It was covered in green tissue paper. We swung at it with a yard stick, but it didn’t crack open until my brother got it down and whacked it with a hammer. Then came the vanilla sheet cake. Cakes should be round. And chocolate. Instead of one candle for each year, there was a single candle in the shape of the number seven. I doubted a wish made on it would even count. I burned with shame when my grandpa said there were too many presents, even though it hadn’t been my idea to invite so many kids. I sat alone in the yard as they all rode away together on bikes and strolled away in groups, laughing.