Color was new to most TV shows in the early 70’s, but we were living in color. Full Woods’ family color. Not on display for everyone, but in full regalia for those close enough to be witnesses.

The programs were bathed in deep and dazzling colors that came to life on the small screen of our black television with chrome wheels and dials.

PBS taught me how the matrons of the elephant herds nurtured their young, how the lioness's use of feminism broke through when protecting hers from the violent and voracious appetites of their fathers. The mothers that protected their calves and kittens were the moms that made me smile to myself and understand the warmth of connection. The hilarity came with how the flamboyant pink flamingos could line dance, snap their black beaks from side to side and kick up their knees as if choreographed by some wildlife genius. These kooky birds left us writhing on the floor, our bellies aching with laughter.

On Sunday nights as in most homes in our neighborhood of Oakbrook in Clear Lake City, the TVs were tuned to the crown jewel when we watched “Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color.” The Disney Corporation doled out specials once a year. One such favorite (though I’m not sure Disney owned it.) was Rogers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella starring Leslie Ann Warren.

In my pre-teen dramatic way, I identified with Cinderella. Credit where credit is due, I was enlisted at a young age to co-parent with my parents. I was in a thruple of sorts with them as the third parent in the three-ring circus. Help with the other 4. Wake Dad as he slept off another happy hour in his car in the garage. Rally the troops to set the table and clear it and get the dishes done. Do it with a smile. Do it with a “yes.” Don’t disagree. Don’t expect anything in return. “Yes,” “Yes.” “Yes.”

I wanted someone to recognize my Cinderella connection. Someone to thank me or even take pity on me so I could be a child for a minute. My grandmother was my “Bibbity-Bobbity-Boo.” She was always kind to me and let me have sleepovers with her and my grandfather. She got it. She knew how to make me feel special and love me without expecting me to perform tasks.

I was good. I was supportive. I was helpful. Don’t disappoint. Don’t be a child. Don’t dare make a misstep. That could result in a shocking punishment. An abandonment.

My favorite night of the year was the Sunday when The Wizard of Oz was broadcast across the U.S. I don’t believe it was a Disney property, but I loved it so. It was magical and transported me to places I couldn’t imagine on my own.

We prepared for this with great fanfare. One could probably smell the popcorn and butter for blocks. My mother had to make copious amounts for the brood. We grabbed blankets and pillows from our beds and claimed our spots on the furniture or floor.

Being the oldest, I was dependably dependable and avoided misbehavior. I was by title the “example” for all the others.

One such Sunday, I was met with the ultimate punishment. I was banned from watching the movie that I would have to wait another year to see. I felt like Margot in “All Summer in a Day.” My own sun was just about to come out, too. I was going to see the effervescent pink bubble with Glinda in it as she came to quell the fears of the Munchkins and Dorothy. Instead, like Margot, I was locked away in a closet, but sympolically. I wasn’t allowed to see the other side of the rainbow, that was the place I longed to find the warmth and kindness of those that loved me. Those characters who would lead me home to the place where I belonged.

My mother couldn’t recall what I did but agreed that the punishment surely didn’t fit the crime. I wasn’t that kid. I was maybe 11. I was never mouthy. I was obedient. There was no grace given.

We had a two-story house. Though I wasn’t aware she knew I was listening from the stairs, she told me she could see my toes on the carpet. I wanted to be close enough to hear the movie. This woman knew I was obeying the sequester but didn’t have the heart to let me come down and join the family.

My memorization of the movie allowed me to relive the tornado scene, see the colors pouring onto the screen as Dorothy slowly opened the door of her tiny house that had landed on the Wicked Witch of the East.

I wished my mother could have apologized to me acknowledging that she’d been that witch that one night when I was the only one of the seven left out. Forced out. Made different. Made an example of.

Did my parents opt to parade their bravado by using their secondhand parent as a specimen that under observation could be demeaned and reduced to exclusion from the clan like the chimps whose minor misgivings during a grooming session sent them to the forest alone to contemplate their difference? PBS taught me the ways of animals. My clan’s lack of compassion and empathy was unmatched on “Wild Kingdom.” I loved how the female elephants manifested care and concern, guided behavior with a firm conviction. I believed they wouldn’t turn their backs on me or make an example of me.

I laid back on the carpet of the stairs feeling every ridge of the steps as they forced small curves in my back. The music of each scene evoked different colors and textures. I could feel the stiff ruffles of the starched blue gingham dress and blue socks. The ruby slippers glimmered and flickered. After being refreshed Dororthy’s pretty blue ribbons hung just so. Restuffed, the Scarecrow jumped to the floor with his wobbly ankles. The Tin Man was buffed and handsome and flirtatious as ever batting his eyes. Lion was tickled as he was combed and primped but remained bashful with a red ribbon in his mane. I could feel the scratch of the Scarecrow’s hand in mine as we descended the steps to the long hall that led the way to the wizard. I knew he would get a diploma to prove his brilliance; Tin Man would receive a token heart and Lion would embrace his courage. My lonely, blind version of this beloved movie would end the same as if I’d seen it.  Sadly, I disagreed wholeheartedly that there was no place like home. I didn’t click my heels. Instead, I slowly slunk upstairs to my room desperate to give the Tin Man my bruised heart because I believed a used one was better than a token or none at all.

There was something intensely private about the way she chose her passion for the day. Passion needn’t be a specific activity but something that lit her up for the moment.

As usual she laid her day out in columns. They were not colonial but Grecian. More classic than predictable.

She often tired of the mundane so her daily passion was tossed to the winds, caught by a butterfly net then drawn from the various options as if from the hat for a charades game. Indecision is addictive but conquered with choice.

Butterflies can’t fly in the rain so the net was best suited to her daily sorting of ideas she spilled into it. What riveted her was what made her wiggle with excitement and curiosity. The joy of discovering how to foist her passion upon others was her sustenance.

Springing into life with today’s passion under her arm she headed out to paint someone with her determination to share the tiny car she’d covered with macaroni.

As Mom turned the corner slowly in the car line and moved the gear shift to park she heard the locks click open so she could bail from the purring white Volvo. She held tight to her prized passion for the day.

Running into school she saw her nemesis Sheila bouncing down the hall in full clogging regalia. She felt saddened. Her mind ran to the butterfly net. Had she picked carefully enough? Could her macaroni car hold a candle to petticoats?

She decided to sprint to the classroom so she could beat the clogging princess. Her greed caused her to trip and crash to the floor breaking her prized possession into a million tiny pieces of pasta. Dry. No cheese. No sauce.

Sheila, while slowly sauntering by, kicked a dislodged shard. Watching it skitter across the grey tiled floor from her vantage point on her belly, she knew she‘d missed her window. Their teacher greeted her rival at the door with a smile. Shelia replied with a curtsy holding her ruffled layers just so.

Eyes downcast, she had to accept the fact that she wasn’t going to be introducing her passion for today’s Show-n-Tell activity. It was shattered all over the hallway, but the car remained intact. Maybe the story of how the car became naked was the better story today. Sheila could clog, but she couldn’t tell a story.

We moved again when I was nine. I was excited by the “adventure,” but – not surprisingly - I wasn’t prepared for the “adventure.”

The movers in the yellow truck, with a giant green boat on the side, arrived, and I imagined we were sailing away on the Mayflower to our new country. To be fair, the side of the truck said Mayflower Moving, but I was alight with the thought of a grand journey. The Mayflower connection created crazy ideas that rolled around my unfinished brain like the waves I imagined in the expansive sea that stretched to the foreign land of West Virginia.

Would I wear a long dress with some kind of man boots?

Would I wear the hat with the buckle, or the “Handmaid’s Tale” styled white bonnet?

None of them were attractive options, but as a stalwart new citizen, I would do as they did on the Mayflower or the shores where we would land.

Who knew, but I wondered these things. These silly little nine-year-old things.

Our journey to “Wild Wonderful West Virginia” sounded promising because it was, after all, wild and wonderful. Would we be in the wild, wild west? Would we ride horses? I was leaving Texas, and we never had a single Laura Ingles Wilder moment. All we had to ride was our cute, tiny, red VW Beetle.

I cannot fathom now why my family of seven had a beetle. That little lady made the distinctive beetle bug sound which was akin to a herd of guinea pigs.

Welcome to the amusement park ride – no seatbelts required. This was 1969.

Waiting in the street in front of our castle, the jovial movers tolerated us kids. This “ship” or truck thing was the most enormous contraption I’d ever seen. We were encouraged by the highway pirates to creep up the metal ramp and board the ship to explore the cavernous, dark, and musty tank.

That trailer felt big enough to move the treasures of kings and queens.

Could a kingdom be relocated?

Could our small, white brick, mid-century, four bedrooms, two-bath home in Clear Lake City, Texas possibly need these excessive accommodations?

My brow was tight with concern about how our little red bug would make the trip. I wanted the sailors of that clipper to keep her safe. Then they did something brave and shocking. They drove our beetle up the ramp into the cavern. Their next move was otherworldly to me. Those four mates reached down with the ease of giants, picked up the car, and turned it sideways. Now, all the belongings from the small white brick castle had a sentinel. My brow relaxed because all was well.

The house we moved to was a monstrous castle on a hill. It was three stories including the basement with 4+ bedrooms. Mine was large and glamorous. I envisioned multiple seating areas. (Yes, at 9.). Immediately though, my parents swiped the corner under the eave for my sister’s crib.

This move blindsided me because my parents (Kathy and Ron) had a suite of rooms downstairs with one perfect for a nursery. I stood in stunned, silent defiance without recourse. Maybe it’d be fun to play mom…maybe not.

There were immediate lessons. Even though I was the oldest of five and had been forced into active service as a pseudo-parent, I couldn’t fathom the ensuing responsibilities.

Things that weren’t fun:

Putting a baby to bed and waking up with her when she cries.

Access to my room after 8 pm, only if I was silent.

I was more than a big sister.

How did I get rooked into being the pseudo co-captain of that ship? I wanted the king and queen of the red brick castle to do their damn jobs. I wanted to be relegated to princess again, not a lady in waiting, nor nurse, teacher, enforcer, or disciplinarian. The new role was rapidly swelling and getting out of hand.

Suddenly, Kathy decided it was an excellent idea for her and Ron to join the local theater group. Guess who was running things during rehearsals, performances, and cast parties?

Yes, yours truly.

On one such occasion, we were home alone during a violent thunderstorm.

-Baby, asleep – check.

-Others with me downstairs now because they were scared – check.

-No one missing – check. Two were crying, and one was clinging to me.

Then the best of all scenarios – the power went out. Unprepared, I had a lightbulb moment (no pun intended) - I lit the gas stove top. Well, that only helped if we were standing 6” from the flame. Pointless.

In the flashes of light, Karen (younger by 18 months) and I took slow steps to our parents’ room. Haltingly we advanced in the flashes of lightning. In the brightness of each flash, we rummaged through the top drawer of Ron’s dresser. Isn’t the dresser where one keeps a flashlight? Nope.

The two middle ones sat on the stairs with blankets over their heads, like a scene from The Sixth Sense.

Finally, I abandoned all attempts to fix that shit myself. Karen and I ran to the neighbor next door. I had the good sense of putting raincoats on both of us. We climbed the 17,000 steps to their house. That poor couple stared at us as if we were the lost children of Appalachia. Aghast, we were left “home alone” with a 10-year-old in charge; the husband came over to the house with a flashlight and an extra one. He was kind and patient. Just after we got there, the lights came back on. He ensured we were ok and left with an eye roll toward my parents.

My parents played in a little theater, and I parented the hoard.

On one of those weekend afternoons they were out play acting, I, agreed to letting the kids make a pie. I thought it was cute, and they were excited to surprise Kathy and Ron with this feat. However, making a pie was a bad idea. As it turns out, pouring all ingredients for the crust and filling in the same bowl doesn’t, in fact, work. They don’t separate to create the elements of a pie miraculously—and this enraged Kathy.

Her seething spit at me, “You should’ve known better. This is a mess.”

There was no mess. I had cleared away all the remnants of the science experiment. In retrospect, I know what the mess was, and it wasn’t a childhood attempt at pie making. It was their attempt at parenting and blaming.

For the long-suffering princess, the lessons learned were many.

They are these:

I loved snow.

I loved the forest and the creeks I explored (always with a sibling). I loved the freedom of those hours lost and then found again.

I loved plucking and tasting honeysuckle on the twisting and climbing trail, making our way to swim practice.

Squinting my eyes didn’t improve my vision; contacts did.

Heating Campbell’s consommé when Kathy and Ron weren’t home, and the kids were hungry was a mistake. How was I to know that word was French for broth?

I didn’t want to be a pre-adolescent parent.

I didn’t know how to make and keep everyone happy.

I didn’t know my dad was an alcoholic.

I didn’t know what the DTs were, but they convinced my dad there was a band in his hospital room.

I didn’t like Mom taking me to pick Dad up from the hospital. She shit-talked him all the way there. Experiencing him vomiting out the window left me horrified.

My grandparents were home with the other kids, and that was where I wanted to be. They let me be a child.

I stopped being a child in that castle.

No matter how hard I tried, it wasn’t good enough. A belief that still haunts me.

I wanted the highway pirates to come and take us back to the little white castle with the pool, the golf course, and the pond behind it.

There is only the living, and it must be done.

Words fall off unless we lick them,

stick them to the recipient

the intrepid receiver of our slivers

of meaning built by our slivers of shivers.

When the letters line up

shine up

show up to show us up

just when we thought we glowed up.

Now to find out we went hard to stick those syllables

and lick those syllables

so they stay together to make a

merry weather day filled with words I hope stick and stay.

I hope they stay on my sticky note.

The one I licked for good luck before

I stuck it to your soul.

Words fall off unless we lick them,

stick them to the recipient

the intrepid receiver of our slivers

of meaning built by our slivers of shivers.

When the letters line up

shine up

show up to show us up

just when we thought we glowed up.

Now to find out we went hard to stick those syllables

and lick those syllables

so they stay together to make a

merry weather day filled with words I hope stick and stay.

I hope they stay on my sticky note.

The one I licked for good luck before

I stuck it to your soul.

Words...those sparks that speak for us.

Syllables formed from thoughts.

Sometimes they articulate perfectly the intended message.

Sometimes they tell our stories.

We send them out to lovers, and friends and foes alike. They're perfect parcels...meant for someone else to form meaning.

Occasionally they are left outside in the rain.

Unreceived

Ignored

Misunderstood

It's as if they are speechless.

With the fresh reality, everyone shows up

"Let us help."

"What can we do?"

They don't know what to do.

I don't know what they can do.

Physically close is uncomfortable

because a hug may feel right

but could be rebuffed

where does that leave them?

It leaves them with arms empty

while I live days and nights

with every part of everything empty.

Talking is easy when I fill the air.

In the throes of disaster

I had a focus

there was illness or getting well

or planning for death...

all those provided a solution

The aftermath leaves nothing but

ends to tie up and items to sort.

and the things that show up that

I must decipher

Thoughts to clear away

pieces of white paper and colored

what to keep and whatever mattered

A life reduced to rubble

and piles of useless clutter.

There’s nothing like the eyes of a lover.

They search so deeply.

Seeing all the way through

Deep into their lover’s soul pool

Clear, warm and salty

It holds the years of tears shed

While looking for them...waiting for them.

It is their place on which

To float endlessly.

In that safe dwelling within their lovers soul...made just for them.

Last night I noticed light glinting off the silver of the car. Looking straight up overhead I saw her...Our moon. I smiled at her...she smiled back...I told her silently...thank you sister...I love you and how your luminescence lights my way. Tonight’s dark sky is brightened once again by the never ending beauty of Our Moon...with or without you...I know we will always bask in her light at the same time...we might even have a private glance upward...remembering her as Ours and our time with her.