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I used to weight one hundred and eighteen pounds “soaking wet” as they say. My curly, unmanaged, chestnut brown hair fell full to my hips. I often dressed in black; trench coats, leather, zipper boots with three-inch heels. Good quality, sturdy jeans, the kind you need for riding. My baby was a Harley Davidson; a Silver and blue Dyna Wide Glide, 1400 cc with the longest frame Harley made. It’s laid-back chopper profile, let me sit low, and my five-foot-tall frame could toe touched the pavement.
I rode without a helmet, releasing my hair to trail behind, like the silhouette on a mud flap of an 18-wheeler. I dyed my hair interesting colors, a mingling of wines, warm browns, and plums. Sometimes streaked with black, not unduly loud, subtle to play in the sunshine. My make-up was the same, not plastered on with a trowel, but as distinctive and chic as I liked to think my life was.
When I wasn’t riding, I was teaching the most disturbed of the high school-aged kids my district could find for me. Somehow, we connected. I understood that they were usually angry, desperate, and felt like school was a waste of life. They didn’t realize that School would determine the rest of their life. I tried to tell them, they determined their own fates. Most were successful and survived, I could only hope I helped.
As a child, I was the youngest of five in a lower to middle-class family. Because I had two older brothers, and two older sisters, I always sort of felt like an only child. The two boys would be off doing whatever boys did, and the two sisters were constantly trying to scratch each other’s eyes out! I wanted no part of it, so I developed a passion for reading in grade school that matured into the desire to write by middle school.
I distinctly recall the first time I picked up a pen to create words of my own. I was in seventh grade in the school cafeteria at “study hall”. Of course, no one studied at all, they visited with friends, made paper footballs, and caught flies on hair lassoes. Always the loner, I doodled on a scrap of notebook paper. This day I was in a dark mood; my five-month-old niece had just died of suffocation in her crib. I found myself jotting little notes on the paper.
TaDa! An author was born. Surprisingly my friends encouraged me, and I felt good about it. I began writing dark birthday cards for my classmates, usually low quality, but it stirred something that kept rising and never surrendered.
While in college, there was a particular professor who took an interest in my writing. He complimented me on my writing style, and said, “Your essay made me cry”. I apologized of course, and he said, “No, no, the first hint of a talented writer is, can you MAKE–THEM-FEEL-SOMETHING?” Then he asked if I was published, I answered “no” with a snicker, and he said, “you should be.”
Twenty-four years later, after riding motorcycles and teaching, near ready to retire, about a year ago, I found a floppy disk. It had five episodes of a long ago written novel on it. I studied at what I had written, and honestly was astonished, not too bad really. It was the age of Facebook, I needed a second opinion, so I shared a little with a friend, just a little. Then I sat back and held my breath…. She loved it! She said she couldn’t wait for me to write more! Another said the same, and another.
So here I am, a semi-retired, chunky, aged woman. Facing life alone, sustained by God, a talented Doctor and staff, my family and friends, and a fresh career, author.
Here you are, reading my somewhat sloppy Biography. I write about my life, embellished. My work is a mix of fact and fiction, factual dramas. I hope that you are getting ready to appreciate a part of one of my novels, short stories, or flash fictions
You’ll find my life has been rather mundane, but my mind has visited places only my readers can genuinely appreciate.