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Communities
FIRST Wild Card: When Did My Life Become Game of Twister? by Mary Pierce
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It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book’s FIRST chapter!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
and her book:
When Did My Life Become a Game of Twister
Zondervan (November 1, 2007)
INSPIRATIONAL HUMOR
Looking for fun and inspiration? Mary Pierce tickles the funny bone as she touches hearts, offering wit and wisdom to corporate and community audiences at women’s health and wellness events, caregiver and senior gatherings, and church retreats since 1996.
She offers an entertaining and positive motivational message, inviting audiences to laugh along and learn with multi-media presentations filled with comic relief, practical teaching, and a powerful message of hope and encouragement.
Mary Pierce is the author of three books of inspirational humor for women, published by Zondervan/HarperCollins:
When Did I Stop Being Barbie and Become Mrs. Potato Head? (2003)
Confessions of a Prayer Wimp (2005)
When Did My Life Become a Game of Twister (2007)
With degrees in education and business (University of Minnesota and University of Redlands), she’s worked as a stockbroker, teacher and corporate trainer, and has co-hosted a radio interview program. She’s met life’s changes and challenges with unfailing optimism, deep faith, and a lively sense of humor. She and her husband Terry share six children and seven grandchildren, and a fox terrorist named Izzy, and they are full-time caregivers for Mary’s 94-year-old mother.
They live in Wisconsin where Mary dreams of getting her act together…someday.
CONTACT MARY to find out how she can help make your upcoming event MOTIVATING, ENCOURAGING AND FUN for all who attend!
Visit her at her website.
Product Details:
List Price: $12.99
Paperback: 240 pages
Publisher: Zondervan (November 1, 2007)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0310272378
ISBN-13: 978-0310272373
AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Chapter One
THE GAME BEGINS
“Right Foot Red!” Bossy calls.
We laugh and step onto a red circle.
“This is nothing,” we say, “Bring it on!”
Chapter One
Twisted Sister
Whoever said, “Don’t sweat the small stuff, and it’s all small stuff,” never got a good look at my thighs.
I did the other day. It was not a pretty sight. I was in the sporting goods store at the mall. I didn’t intend to go in there, but I forgot where I parked my car. (I hate when that happens. It happens a lot. Especially lately.)
There I was, wandering through the sporting goods store, trying to get to an exit. That’s not easy. Have you noticed how stores are laid out these days? I’ve been shopping long enough to remember when you could make a beeline from the front door to the department you wanted and back out again. Now walking through a store is like navigating an obstacle course and requires a degree of agility I don’t possess.
Straight aisles are a thing of the past. The art of merchandising is a diabolical plot to trap consumers in the store, expose them to as many displays of goods as possible, and get them so confused and frustrated that they will hand over their wallets gladly, just to be able to escape.
So, trapped as I was, I had little choice but to wander through the displays of camping, skiing, boating, snowshoeing, hiking, biking, treading, kayaking, swimming, lifting, running, scuba diving, fishing, tennis, baseball, racquetball, basketball, football, soccer, lumberjacking, and whaling equipment. Somewhere between the fishing tackle section and the football tackle department, I found myself trapped behind a rack of tiny—TINY—swimsuits. There wasn’t enough fabric there to cover my left elbow, much less the dimpled tundra of my backside.
Even worse, I was sandwiched between the rack of tiny suits and a huge mirror. These stores have mirrors everywhere. I guess the jock-types who hang out at sporting goods stores don’t mind looking at themselves. I try to avoid my reflection but, like those people who slow way down to gawk at a freeway accident, I can’t resist sneaking a peak anytime I pass a shiny surface. (Oh admit it! You do it too.)
This wasn’t just one full-length mirror, but a three-sider. I gaped. I stared. I gawked. The shorts I’d tossed on for this “quick” run to the mall were rumpled and riding up embarrassingly. And there, hanging out like two giant stuffed sausages, were my thighs, glowing under the fluorescents like two gargantuan, pasty-white slugs under a black light. It was obvious why I no longer buy corduroy pants (Aye, there’s the rub!) or anything made of Spandex.
The tiny swimsuits mocked me from behind while the triple mirror tripled my lumps. Tripled my lard. Tripled my dimples. Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.
Triple mirrors do nothing for a sister’s self esteem.
“Who ARE you?” I whined at the three women in the mirrors. “How did this HAPPEN? You used to be in great shape. You were fit and flexible, tight and toned in high school!”
We used to DANCE in high school, they reminded me.
GLORY DAYS
Standing there before the jiggling blobs of my current reality, I drifted back to those glory days of youth, when the lower half of my body actually had muscle.
It was true. I used to dance. Modern dance was one of the physical education electives in our high school. I elected it. We modern dancers worshipped at the bare feet of our teacher, Miss Jeanne, who had worshipped and studied at the bare feet of modern dance maven Miss Martha Graham, HERSELF! Under Miss Jeanne’s skilled tutelage we learned how to dance like the wind, soar like the eagle, wave like a field of wheat, and rise like the sun. All within the confines of the gym at North High.
Modern dancers, Miss Jeanne showed us, could isolate their rib cages from the rest of their torso, elevate any given body part, and stretch in ways that seemed humanly impossible (to say nothing of painful). Modern dancers had steely thighs and elastic hamstrings that allowed them to float across the floor with power and grace.
And six of the modern dancers in our class were chosen to be the horses in the merry-go-round when the senior class put on a production of the musical, Carousel. Each of us was assigned a position and a color. I was the pink pony.
Upright in pastel leotards and matching tights, we six pranced proudly, each holding in her pony forefeet a length of wide pastel ribbon. The opposite ends of the ribbons were attached to a tall center pole.
The tall pole was a girl named Jane. The least graceful horse in the class, Jane held the ends of the ribbons high as we swifter ponies trotted around her. She raised and lowered the ribbons as we raised and lowered our steely thighs in a graceful canter, moving around and around with us, faster and slower, higher and lower. At times we even reversed direction, in a dazzling feat of merry-go-round marvel.
Opening night came. Around and around we pranced. No one noticed that Jane, who’d performed her part flawlessly during rehearsals, had decided not to wear her glasses in front of the live audience. (Vanity of vanities!)
Jane, blinded and dizzier by the minute, evidently lost track of whether the pastel blur surrounding her was moving clockwise or counter-clockwise. Unable to judge the speed or direction of the herd, Jane did the only thing a pole could do. She stood still.
We ponies cantered on, not noticing until it was too late that the pole was frozen. Soon poor Jane was mummified in pastel ribbons and we horses were falling over each other as we wound ourselves closer and closer to the center. The carousel ground to a halt. So did the play. So did my dancing career.
REALITY
Snapping back to the reality of the sports store’s three-way mirror, I shuddered to realize how far my body had deteriorated—from the glorious days of fresh, lean youthfulness to the flabby nag, sagging like a feed sack of cellulite, staring back at me. The old gray mare just wasn’t what she used to be; she looked ready to be put out to pasture. Neigh.
I slunk away from the mirror, hoping no other shoppers had seen me there, in triplicate. One of me was bad enough.
Depressed, I wove my way through the rest of the store, avoiding the mirrors and focusing on the merchandise instead. I wondered why they call the stuff “sporting goods.” Most of it seemed neither “sporting” nor “good.”
Think about it. Who in her right mind binds her stiff-booted feet onto flat fiberglass slats and hurls herself down a frozen mountain, protected only by her fluffy pink jacket and matching fluffy pink headband? Wouldn’t a fluffy pink crash helmet be a good idea?
Who in her right mind wedges her oversized bottom into an undersized kayak and paddles alone out into the middle of a lake? Doesn’t she know that when the thing capsizes—and it will. It will!—her smaller top half will never be able to counterbalance the centrifugal force created by the larger ballast of her bottom in motion? She’ll be trapped there under the water, waiting to drown. Upside down!
Sporting? Good? I think not.
“What’s a girl to do?” I asked the handsome mannequin modeling the latest in Spandex exercise wear. He had no answer. He may have been a dummy, but he looked good. Everyone, it seemed, was in better shape, thinner, more fit, doing more, going faster, and running farther than I was. I wanted to scream, “Where is the stuff for girls like me?” Girls who are a little long in the tooth. A little short of breath. A little wide in the angle. A little narrow in motivation.
Just then, as if to answer my question, a peppy girl in a store uniform, bounced up to me. She was young enough to make me wonder if the child labor laws were still in effect.
“Can I, like, help you?” I could tell from her tone she thought I was beyond help. I wanted to ask her to escort me to the nearest exit and maybe help me find my car, but I suddenly felt the need to make her think I had something on the ball.
“I need to start working out. What do you suggest?” She gave me an appraising once-over and led me down a nearby aisle. She plucked a book called Walk Yourself Fit from a rack and handed it to me.
How had she guessed walking was my sport? I had decades—over 20,000 days so far—of walking practice. I was good at walking. A quick glance at the book’s back cover assured me that I could quite literally walk my way to fitness and good health. I didn’t need to do anything but walk. No need to change my diet. Walking would automatically, over the course of time, cause my thighs, indeed all of me, to shrink miraculously and painlessly.
Walking I could handle. The price of the book—$9.95—I could also handle. I was ready to head to the huge sign that said CASHIER—they make sure you can find those—when the nice young lady said, “You’ll need some walking shoes. They’re right over here…”
A hundred-and-eighty-seven dollars later, I left the store with the book and its accompanying CD of walking music. I had new shoes—a dynamically-engineered, air-cushioned, shock-absorbing pair that specialized in walking. (Did they even need me?) I had air-cushioned socks that were guaranteed to absorb the shocks the shoes missed, even if I had trouble absorbing the shock of forking over twelve bucks for a pair of socks.
I had new shorts and a matching shirt that were guaranteed never to shrink, fade or wrinkle, no matter how much abuse I subjected them to. (Oh, for a body with that kind of guarantee!) And the shorts were friendly; they promised not to pinch me, squish me, or ride up and wedge themselves into uncomfortable places. My new sports bra was positively aerodynamic and designed to hold me firmly with no sagging for five years or fifty thousand miles of bounce, whichever came first.
And with it all, le pièce de résistance: new undies that breathed. How could I resist? They BREATHED, for goodness sake! (How had I made it all these years wearing suffocating undies?)
I was set. The cashier pointed me to the exit, I eventually found my car and drove home with the sort of radiance that only a good day’s shopping can bring. I glowed all night. I was still glowing the next morning, when, headphones pumping CD motivation into my brain and clad in my new shorts, shirt, bra, shoes, and socks, and with my undies breathing the fresh morning air, I set out to walk myself fit.
Five minutes out, halfway up the first hill, my formerly-elastic hamstring twisted itself into a knot the size of my fist. I hobbled back down the hill before the first song ended on the CD, limped into the kitchen, where I sat and sipped a double café mocha with extra whipped cream for consolation.
Life is full of twists, isn’t it? It’s hard sometimes to navigate from one spot to another without getting trapped or hurt or lost. Life doesn’t seem to have clear wide aisles that allow us to flow easily from one place to the next. Lots of the things that happen to us are not what we’d call “good” or “sporting.”
And sometimes we just plain forget where we left the car, or our minds, or our hearts.
We can get ourselves all twisted up trying to keep it all together physically, mentally, emotionally, or spiritually. Sometimes we’re like the merry-go-round horses; around and around we go, faster and faster, high-stepping and showing off for all we’re worth. Sometimes we don’t notice what’s happening until we’re all twisted up in the ribbons of living and come to a crashing halt. Sometimes we don’t notice the pole standing there nearby, paralyzed and blinded by the chaos we’ve created with all our whirling around.
When we compare our lives and ourselves to what we see around us—and we so often do that—we end up feeling we’re not good enough, fit enough, young enough, smart enough, old enough, thin enough, pretty enough, spiritual enough—whatever enough—to be worth loving. Worth anything.
I’ve struggled with my physical image much of my life. I’ve often felt awkward, clumsy, or just plain ugly. Sitting there in my kitchen I could hear, in my mind, all the names I’d called myself, and all the names I’d imagined or heard others calling me, over the years.
Thunder Thighs. Whale Woman. Blubber Butt. Flat Chested. Slope Shouldered. Squinty Eyed. Flat Nosed.
What have you heard? How have you felt?
God has another perspective.
As I sat there, with my leg propped on the chair next to me to stretch my twisted muscle, I remembered something from the Bible about me being “fearfully and wonderfully made.”
Are you serious, Lord? I asked, gazing down at my cheesy thighs. This is fearfully and wonderfully made? This body?
Yes, I heard him whisper to my heart. This.
Is it possible? Can it be? “I created your inmost being…I knit you together in your mother’s womb…You are fearfully and wonderfully made…” he says. Can it be true?
Can God really mean that about me? About you?
Yes. This timeless truth is the beginning of our healing, our deliverance from the worry and doubt that plagues us. This is the beginning of new life, of a powerful sense of self—realizing that it is God—Almighty Creator of the Universe God—who created us—you and me—and God who loves us. That this physical body, whatever its size or shape, whatever “flaws” we think we have, is a work of genius.
If God thinks you’re a work of art, who are you to argue?
Fearfully and wonderfully made, dimply thighs and all—I am a masterpiece of his design, beautiful in the eyes of my Creator. He’s called me by new names. To him, I am Beloved. To him, I am Delightful. To him, I am Wonderful.
And so, dear reader, are you.
For everything God created is good…
1 Timothy 4:4
POINTS TO PONDER
Powerhouse or Powder Puff? Describe your experience as a “student athlete.” What do you remember about gym or physical education classes?
Have you ever been called a name? What did the experience teach you? Have you forgiven the name caller? If not, when will you let it go?
God loves you and he delights in you, according to Zephaniah 3:17: “The Lord your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing.” Which truth from this verse is most meaningful to you today?
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Melody Carlson Giveaway!
But before I get to today’s giveaway, I need to announce the winner of last week’s four book giveaway. The random number generator picked commenter number 15, which is Ann B.! (She was number 15 after taking out the comment by Kevin, who is hosting the giveaway.) I will be contacting Ann by email shortly.
On to today’s giveaway. No, I’m not giving away Melody Carlson, though it would be fun to have an endless stream of Melody Carlson’s books whenever I wanted to read them.
This giveaway is for two of Melody Carlson’s books: I Heart Bloomberg and A Mile In My Flip-Flops. I loved both of these books, and I have declared Melody Carlson my new favorite author! (Read my reviews here and here).
To enter the giveaway, just leave a comment on this post. The giveaway is open to residents of the United States only, as shipping costs are getting expensive. Please only leave one comment. Duplicate comments will be deleted.
I will draw a winner next Friday, using a random number generator. The winner will be contacted by email (so use a valid email address in the comment form), and will need to respond to my email within one week, or I will draw a new winner.
I think that covers it! I really love these books, and I know that whoever wins them will love them too! Perfect reading for the summer!
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Review: A Mile in My Flip-Flops by Melody Carlson
I think I’ve found a new favorite author! Seriously. After reading I Heart Bloomberg recently, I wondered if Melody Carlson would be able to wow me with another book. I was not disappointed.
The Plot: Gretchen Hanover is recovering after being dumped by her fiance. It’s not easy watching her friends get married, while she’s stuck in a tiny apartment with her loyal dog as company.
While watching HGTV one night, she’s suddenly inspired. Gretchen decides to buy a fixer-upper home, fix it up and flip it! It looks so easy on TV. Surely she could do it!
What follows is a mixture of tragedy, comedy, and a whole lot more.
My Take: A Mile in My Flip-Flops is the best book I’ve read in a long time. And that’s saying a lot, because I’ve read a lot of good books in the last year. My husband shot me more than one questioning look as I was laughing aloud while reading this book.
Melody Carlson has a gift for writing for women. A Mile In my Flip Flops was amusing, entertaining, and intriguing at the same time. You will fall in love with Gretchen and the other characters in the book! Be sure to set aside some time for reading, because once you pick this book up, you won’t want to put it down!
A Mile In My Flip-Flops gets 6 out of 5 stars! A must read for the summer! And if this review doesn’t convince you, be sure to check back Tuesday. A Mile In My Flip-Flops is on tour with the FIRST Blog Alliance, and you’ll be able to sneak a peek at the first chapter!
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Review: I Heart Bloomberg by Melody Carlson
“Three female housemates wanted to share luxurious four-bedroom residence in upscale urban neighborhood. Classic historical house within walking distance of downtown, campus, and shopping. No smokers, no drugs, no pets. $550 a month includes all utilities. One-year lease, no exceptions. First and last, plus cleaning deposit required. Send resume to Ms. Weis, PO Box 4721, Herrington Heights.”
To Megan Abernathy, the ad sounds too good to be true. She’s been thinking about moving for a while. Her current roommate has taken a turn to the wild side, and lately the area near campus doesn’t seem safe. This might be the perfect opportunity to get away from her roommate.
Lelani Porter is tired of living in her aunt’s tiny house. It’s not that she doesn’t like her aunt and her cousins, but sleeping on the couch has grown old. When she sees an ad for a luxurious historical house, she decides to send in her resume. With any luck this will be her ticket out of her aunt’s house.
Anna Mendez is desperate to be out on her own. The problem is that her mom is just as desperate to keep Anna at home. When Anna sees the ad for the luxurious house, she figures her mom might agree to Anna living with roommates. She applies, and hopes for the best.
If you’ve ever lived with roommates, you will appreciate this story. Four women, four personalities, four different ideas of how things should be done. One house. Join Megan, Lelani, Anna, and homeowner Kendall as the young women learn to live with each other, work out their differences, and learn to love each other.
I loved everything about this book. It reminded me of my college days in the student apartments. Each of the women in the story had distinct strengths and weaknesses. As the story developed, the women learned how to use their strengths, and how to deal with the weaknesses of the others.
I Heart Bloomberg is a great introductory book to the 86 Bloomberg Place series. I cannot wait to see what Melody Carlson has in store for us next!
I give I Heart Bloomberg 5 out of 5 stars! I will definitely be reading the sequel!
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Wild Card: Sydney Clair’s Season of Change by Pam Davis
It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book’s FIRST chapter!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today’s Wild Card author is:
and her book:
Sydney Clair’s Season of Change
Authentic (March 1, 2008)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Pam Davis is an author and motivational speaker who views her charge as bringing the timeworn truths of Scripture to life. Pams candid teaching style not only enlightens but also entertains, leaving her audiences with a refreshed desire for the living Word of God. She lives with her husband, Steven, and three children in Fort Worth, Texas.
Visit her at her website
Product Details:
Reading level: Ages 4-8
List Price: $7.99
Paperback: 80 pages
Publisher: Authentic (March 1, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1934068500
ISBN-13: 978-1934068502
AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Chapter One 
It’s going to be a bad day, Sydney Clair thought to herself. She snuggled deeper under the covers. Maybe if she stayed in bed all day, nothing would change. Her sister wouldn’t leave. She’d stay right here with the rest of the family, the way things had always been.
But she could already hear Penny moving about the room they shared, packing last-minute items and singing to herself. Sydney Clair pulled the pillow over her head.
It sounded like she was taking everything.
“Not the dancing clowns!” Sydney Clair removed the pillow when she heard the music box.
Penny smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m not taking the dancing clowns.”
Sydney Clair thought her sister was the prettiest girl ever. She blinked back tears, but Penny still saw them.
“I’m only a twenty-minute bus ride away, Clair-Bear. You can come visit anytime.”
Clair-Bear. It was a nickname her sister had given her when she was just a baby. She’d loved it when she was little.
Sydney wasn’t a very common name amongst her friends’ Susies, Vickys, and Lucys. Mother had named her Sydney in honor of her grandfather who passed away shortly before Sydney Clair was born. Now Sydney Clair appreciated the name more—and liked the uniqueness of it—but “Clair-Bear” still had a special place in her heart. Though, with Penny leaving, who would call her that now? And who would braid her hair for school? Who could she talk to about what was happening in her favorite book series? Who would walk down to the Dairy Queen with her for Dilly Bars?
Who would be her sister?
The family’s Plymouth station wagon meandered its way onto the University of Texas campus. Sydney Clair could tell Penny was practically bursting with excitement. She stared out the window, pointing to every statue and building on campus. “That’s Hogg Memorial Auditorium. That’s Austin Tower. You can see the whole campus from the top of it.”
Sydney Clair didn’t even pretend to be interested. But her dad slowed down the car and stretched to see the Tower. “Can you read the inscription?” he asked.
“And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free,” quoted Penny. “Isn’t that a Bible verse?”
Mother nodded. “John 8:32, I believe.”
“Ding, ding, ding,” Mr. Wilcox chimed. “Your mother wins the prize.”
“And what might that prize be?” Mother asked teasingly.
“Uh . . . I’ll make dinner tonight,” Mr. Wilcox said.
“That means we’re having peanut butter and jelly,” Sydney Clair interjected from the back seat.
“Or corn chips and soda pop,” said her mother, laughing.
Mr. Wilcox pretended to pout. “You have no confidence at all in my cooking abilities.”
“I’m just remembering when you made me that birthday cake while we were dating.”
“Uh, oh. Don’t bring that up . . . ” Mr. Wilcox said.
“What was wrong with it, Mother?” Penny asked.
Mother turned her head to look at the girls. “He decided to frost it before he put it in the oven.” She began to laugh. “When he took it out, the whole top was charred black.”
“I didn’t know you were supposed to bake the cake first and then decorate it,” Dad said with a grin on his face. “And, bless her heart, your mother ate it anyway.”
“What you lacked in culinary skills, you more than made up for in charm,” Mother told him.
“I’m voting that Mother keeps her job of doing the cooking,” said Sydney Clair.
Sydney Clair tried to imagine her mother and dad before they were married. She knew they must have laughed a lot—because even now they were always joking about something.
Her dad pulled into a parking spot and shut off the engine in front of Penny’s dormitory.
“Here we are,” said Mr. Wilcox. “Bradshaw Hall.”
“Isn’t it beautiful?” said Penny.
“It’s very stately,” Mrs. Wilcox agreed, opening her car door.
All Sydney Clair saw was a boring brick building. She stepped out into the hot, dusty Austin summer, already feeling the start of sweat on her temples. Not only was her sister abandoning her to go to college, but she’d have to spend the next few hours carrying boxes up and down stairs.
“What’s going on over there?” Mrs. Wilcox asked. Sydney Clair looked in the direction she was pointing toward and saw a swarm of college students marching around in a circle waving signs. Some seemed to have relinquished themselves to the heat and sat lounging in small circles on the grass.
“They’re protesting bleached toilet paper,” said Penny. “Leah told me all about it. Companies whiten toilet paper with chemicals that can ruin our environment. It needs to be stopped.”
Leah was Penny’s best friend and an expert in everything.
“We should get started,” Mr. Wilcox said. He lifted a large box out of the back of the station wagon.
Sydney Clair kept watching the protesters. A young man, whose hair hung down to his waist and wore a colorful headband, seemed to be in charge. He shouted from the steps of a building, waving his sign high in the air. Like the others, he wore frayed blue jeans, and his feet were bare. “The land has taken good care of us—we need to take good care of it!”
The other protesters shouted back in agreement. “Right on, man!” “That’s right!” “Protect our planet!”
Sydney Clair’s dad broke into her thoughts. “If I’d have worn my hair like that, your grandmother would’ve never let me out of the house.”
Sydney Clair lost count of the number of times she climbed the three flights of stairs to Penny’s new room.
She still didn’t understand why Penny was so excited about college. The room they shared at home was twice the size of this one. She felt her eyes moisten thinking about sleeping in the room all by herself.
As Sydney Clair reached the third floor for the umpteenth time, Penny’s squealing voice caught her attention. “It’s so great to finally meet you!”
Sydney Clair turned into Penny’s dorm room and plopped down the avocado green beanbag she’d been carrying.
A red-haired girl. who wore a peasant blouse and a denim skirt, sat cross-legged on the bed next to her sister.
“Sydney Clair, this is Moonbeam,” Penny said. “My roommate.”
Sydney Clair quickly shoved aside the thought that she used to be Penny’s roommate. “Hi,” she mustered. She wondered what Moonbeam’s parents had named her brothers and sisters. Star? Planet? Galaxy? Were they astronomers?
“Peace,” Moonbeam said, holding up two fingers in a V-shape.
“What are your sisters and brothers named?” asked Sydney Clair.
“What kind of question is that?” Penny said.
“It’s cool,” said Moonbeam. “I have two brothers, named Jack and Harry.”
“Those names are pretty normal,” said Sydney Clair. “Why isn’t yours?”
Penny glared at her. “Sydney Clair!” she scolded.
“No sweat. Little Daisy here is curious,” said Moonbeam. “My parents named me Shirley. But I chose Moonbeam. It seemed to fit my personality better—y’know, who I really am. I shine in the midst of dark ideas.”
Penny nodded in agreement, but Sydney Clair thought it was just plain weird. Why was Moonbeam calling her Daisy? She liked the names Shirley and Sydney Clair better but thought it best not to say.
“You have to listen to this record,” Moonbeam was saying. “Have you heard of Jefferson Airplane?”
“No, but I really like the Beatles. And Peter, Paul, and Mary,” Penny said. Moonbeam nodded approvingly. “Their song ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’ is far-out.”
Sydney Clair noticed a guitar case in the corner. “Do you play the guitar?”
“I’m learning,” said Moonbeam. “Maybe someday it’ll be the group Peter, Paul, and Moonbeam.”
Sydney Clair didn’t think so, but she kept her mouth shut.
Another girl burst into the room. “Guess what, Moonbeam! We have a colored girl on the floor.”
Moonbeam quickly introduced Sydney Clair and Penny to Beth. “What room is she in?”
“Two doors down.”
“Didn’t the University of Texas open up to colored students several years ago?” asked Penny.
“Sure,” said Beth. “But this is my third year here, and I’ve never lived on the same floor as one before.”
Sydney Clair wondered what was taking her parents so long. She didn’t really like college life. But she knew she felt bad for the colored girl living two doors down. She hadn’t been exposed to a lot of colored people in her life. There weren’t any Negro families in her neighborhood. Only a handful of colored kids went to her school and they pretty much stuck to themselves.
“Well, I don’t have a problem with it,” stated Moonbeam.
“I do. And my mother certainly will when she finds out. She’s from Alabama, and things are different there,” said Beth. She started talking about some town named Birmingham and how the town residents set buses on fire that Freedom Riders were riding.
Sydney Clair wondered who Freedom Riders were. The whole thing sounded scary.
A knocking sound came from the hallway.
“Come in,” called Moonbeam.
A petite colored girl swung open the door. She wore a white blouse and plaid skirt. “Sorry to bother you. Can you tell me how to get to the library?”
Moonbeam started giving directions, but Sydney Clair noticed that Beth turned away and stared out the window.
Outside her car window, Sydney Clair watched the pink sunset fade into the Texas plain. It had been a long day, and she was tired.
“I hear some larger companies are coming into town. There will be some good-paying jobs opening up,” Mother was telling Dad.
Mother often talked about “larger corporations” these days, but Dad never seemed as interested. “And all those good-paying jobs will require a suit and tie,” he said.
“I think you’d look very handsome in a tie,” Mrs. Wilcox said.
Sydney Clair was still thinking about the university they’d
just left. The whole place seemed crazy and loud and chaotic.
Even as they’d pulled out of the parking lot, girls wearing flower wreaths in their hair waved signs saying, “Bring our GIs home!” She remembered the young man with the long hair. Yep . . . college was a far cry from the white picket fences of their quiet neighborhood, where walking to the Piggly Wiggly for candy was enough for excitement.
“Don’t you like the name Shirley better than Moonbeam?” she asked her parents.
Mr. Wilcox chuckled as he drove. “College students have their own way of doing things.”
“Especially in this day and age,” said Mrs. Wilcox. “I hope Penny does okay there.”
“She’ll be fine.” Mr. Wilcox patted his wife’s hand. “We’ve raised her well.”
“Do you think she’ll change?” Sydney Clair wondered aloud.
“In some ways,” her dad said. “She’s growing up. She’ll be learning new things, meeting new people.”
“I mean really change. Will she still be our Penny?”
“She’ll always be our Penny,” her mother said.
Sydney Clair was still missing her sister as she and her mother washed the dishes that evening. The sounds of The Dick Van Dyke Show wafted in from the next room where her dad sat in his easy chair with the newspaper. Her mother had made Sydney Clair’s favorite dinner—roast beef with mashed potatoes—but it hadn’t cheered her up much. She kept thinking of Penny at college.
“There’s only three of everything,” she said. “Three plates, three forks.” She handed her mother a sudsy glass to rinse. “Three glasses.”
“I guess things change,” Mrs. Wilcox said. “They’ll always change. Someday you’ll go off to college and move away from home.”
“Maybe I’ll just move into the playhouse,” said Sydney Clair. Her dad had built her a new playhouse over the summer. It was better than any playhouse she’d ever seen, and her friends Vicky and Ann had agreed. It had shutters that opened and closed, a little kitchen with a sink that held water, and even electricity for the light that hung over the table. Mrs. Wilcox often brought cookies or snacks to Sydney Clair and her friends, who regularly hosted tea parties from the playhouse. Inside the playhouse or out on the lawn in front—it didn’t matter. Mrs. Wilcox would often say, “You need to eat more than just tea and crumpets,” which were usually Kool-Aid and corn chips. But with Sydney Clair’s imagination, they were never just tea and crumpets. They were exotic concoctions from far off lands. Sydney Clair cherished her playhouse. Because it never changed, she thought.
Her mother chuckled. “Someday you’ll even outgrow the playhouse.”
Sydney Clair couldn’t imagine that.
Mr. Wilcox walked into the kitchen, carrying the newspaper. “Did you see this article, dear?” He handed Mrs. Wilcox the newspaper, and they started talking about some race riots that had taken place in California.
“Do you know there’s a colored girl that lives on Penny’s floor?” Sydney Clair said.
Mrs. Wilcox nodded. “Yes, and I hope your sister will make sure she feels welcome.”
“Knowing Penny, she’ll do just that,” said Mr. Wilcox. “Can I help you finish the dishes?”
“As always, your timing is perfect,” said Mother. “We just finished.”
“And I missed it,” Mr. Wilcox feigned disappointment.
“Someday we’ll have to get one of those new automatic dishwashers they have out now. We’d be done doing dishes in no time,” said Sydney Clair.
“I thought you were my automatic dishwasher, Sydney Clair.” Her mother smiled.
“I think she might need a tune-up,” Dad said. “She’s slowing down a little.”
“Maybe she needs some chocolate cake to get her going again,” Mother suggested.
Sydney Clair’s spirits lifted a bit. “We have chocolate cake for dessert?”
“We do,” Mrs. Wilcox said, her eyes twinkling. “And because I love you so much, I baked the cake before I frosted it.”
“Wow, what an interesting idea,” said Sydney Clair.
“I can tell when I’m being made fun of,” Mr. Wilcox said. “But I’m still sticking around for chocolate cake.”
Sydney Clair chewed on the end of her pencil while she stared at her calendar. Bo, the family’s golden retriever, brushed past Sydney Clair’s bare legs and curled up on a rug in the middle of the floor. Every day, Sydney Clair would write either “good day” or “bad day” to describe how the day had gone. All day, she’d planned that this would be a “bad day.” She mindlessly scratched behind Bo’s ears.
Boy, I’m really going to miss Penny,” she said. Penny’s bare bed, now stripped of its pink sheets, made the room look so empty.
Bo looked up at her with big brown eyes, as if he understood Sydney Clair’s sadness.
“At least I still have you to keep me company,” Sydney Clair told him.
Bo answered by putting his head on his paws.
Sydney Clair penciled “bad day” on the calendar. But then she thought about joking around with her parents, having chocolate cake, and talking to her mom about going shopping for school. I guess it wasn’t all bad, she thought. Sydney Clair jotted “mostly” in front of “bad day.”
“What do you think, Bo?” she asked.
The dog perked up and seemed to smile back in agreement.
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