Author: Debi

Random Bits: Scribbles from My Notebook

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(inspired by seeing Anne Lamott)

by Debi

Truth, sorrow, and grief have gone missing in popular culture.  We are lost.  Grief (and anger) are the way home.  Anger.  Fury.  Sadness.  Pain.  Death.  This is the poetics of self-stuff.  Tears water our lives – like bathing, baptizing.

We’re told to pick something specific from the menu of life, and not to live in paradox.  We are shamed into becoming actors of perfect lives. The newly sober, however, are allowed their real feelings.

There is no freedom without discipline.  Habit, not inspiration, is the parent of creativity.

The fourth great prayer after Help, Thanks, and Wow is Whatever.

Know that you are safe.  You are preapproved.  You are welcomed.

The opposite of faith is certainty.

Love and serve everyone.

Short Story: Sales Girl

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[Note: This story is still a work-in-progress]

by Debi

It’s funny how everyone starts out working at Barrington’s by saying, “I’m not preppy and I’m never going to wear a polo.”  But then that first shipment arrives, they discover the joys of sorting through the new stock, and voila, another Barrington’s prepster is born. My own personal fashion decisions have become incredibly limited after three years’ of Barrington’s employee discounts. I can buy brand new clothing for less than I’d pay at thrift stores, so I stock up. But now every morning it’s the same thing—do I wear the blue polo or the red? Continue reading →

Character Sketch: A Man of Parts

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by Debi

Observing Dissociative Identity Disorder from the outside is a lesson in contradictions.  One day mousy, the next moment roaring, like a beast.

It’s unknown—even to the man—when the Beast became the protector of the Mouse.  Some people would call the mouse part of the man a Child alter.  Or a Little.  But there’s something truly mouse-like about this alter’s presentation. A mouse nervously sniffs the air, prepared to run at any moment, just as this Mousy Little is fearful, always on alert, ever ready to dive beneath the protective covering of the Beast at the first sign of danger. Continue reading →

The Kandy Kottage: A Fairy Tale of Sorts

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10703743_10203888508827182_4531992321075447311_nThis story is true. Well, until it isn’t, that is. It’s a real event from my childhood, but the ending is what my childhood imagination had pictured could have happened. Sometimes real life is more pleasant than the world of fairy tales and fantasy.  The photo is the real Kandy Kottage from the good old Retro days of Bellevue, Washington where I grew up and read far too many scary stories.

by Debi

In the back of the family station wagon, a little girl played with her teddy bear. This was long before the days of mandatory seatbelts, child car seats, or even auto safety glass. Continue reading →

Character Sketch: Killing Spree

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EventPhotoFull_2740571-vintage-on-the-air-microphone-in-sepiaby Debi

Killing Spree.  That was his name.  I remember thinking, “Who gives themselves the name Killing Spree?” He looked creepy enough.  Dark, frightening images snaked around his heavily tattooed arms.  His uniform of choice was always a T-shirt with images of Satan or bloodied gore.

Killing Spree.  Hm.  Killing what, exactly? Continue reading →

Short Story: “A Cookie for Sarah”

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a cookie for sarahby Debi

“Mama!  I see Grammy!”

Sarah waved to her grandmother as they pulled up the gravel driveway to the old Victorian house on the hill overlooking the busy waterfront across the street.

As soon as the van stopped, Sarah was out the door in a flash, not even needing her mother to unbuckle the car seat.  There was no such thing as Sarah-proofing anything. Grammy bent down and gave Sarah’s blonde head a quick kiss, and then hugged her until she got tired of the bear hug and wriggled free. Continue reading →

There are Places I Remember

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51rkz0q2f7lby Debi

My parents didn’t move far from Yarrow Point where Dad grew up. They bought a cozy little house on Clyde Hill and settled in to raise their little family. So I came of age in what I call Retro Bellevue—now home to upscale shopping malls, expensive condos, conference centers, and towering buildings.

Back in my day, however, I referred to Bellevue as the City of Short Buildings. Even calling Bellevue a city seemed a stretch back then. The town felt more like Mayberry. Us kids wandered the streets, walked to corner stores, rode the ferris wheel at Kiddyland, and drank root beer floats with our moms at Newberry’s lunch counter. There were monkeys in the window of Nordstrom Shoes, a raccoon cage in the middle of the roller coaster, and a drinking bar for watering all the free-roaming dogs outside Frederick & Nelson’s north entrance at The Square. Continue reading →

“You Knew What You Were Getting Into”

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by Debi

My dad’s family were hunters. My mom was repulsed by the bloody impulse that overtook her new family each autumn. Any time Mom expressed her feelings, my grandmother would say, “You knew what you were getting into when you married into this family.” So my mother usually kept quiet, shuddering on the inside while her in-laws hung that season’s kill to bleed in the barn.

I grew up in that environment. Going to my family’s property in North Central Washington was a beautiful trip I looked forward to, but the gore and bloodshed during Hunting Season was more than I could handle. A sensitive child, it upset me to look into the dead eyes of such magnificent creatures.

When feeling particularly frustrated with my latest crying jag, Grandma would sometimes confuse me with my mother, and she’d tell me it was my fault for choosing to be part of this family. Really, Grandma? I don’t remember choosing which womb to bring me forth.

Eventually my dad and grandparents stopped taking me with them to the family’s cabin during Hunting Season. A child wailing loudly over the death of Bambi’s mother or father evidently wasn’t conducive to enjoying the family’s favorite blood sport.

You knew
what you were getting into
when you chose
to be part of this family.

How My Folks Met

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front yard

My grandparents front yard on Yarrow Point looking across Yarrow Bay to the Lake Washington Shipyards. The Kalakala ferry was being worked on at the time of this photo.

by Debi

My parents married in September (I think), but the anniversary they celebrated was the day they met. Opening Day of boating season. I always thought that was romantic and sweet, which is a bit ironic because “romantic” and “sweet” aren’t words I’d ever use to describe my parents. Or their relationship. I knew them when they were older and settled, however, and no longer the romantics they evidently were in their youth. Continue reading →