Month: March 2025

Dear Pen Pal.

/ fightmasterwrites / 1 Comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!

Last night I started out to write a post about my freshman year at Georgetown College.  

Perhaps this will be that post.  

In late summer of 1983, I attended a freshman orientation.  I remember two things about it.  

The first person who saw me on campus that day, walked up and said, and I quote, “Hi, my name is Karen. Are you saved?”

I should have immediately taken a gap year, transferred to EKU, and attended the state of Kentucky’s party school.  

I did not do that.  

I do not remember my response, but I do remember to this day, thinking what an odd way of making friends.  

At some point during the day, I met a guy named Gary.  Without looking through a yearbook, I have no idea what his last name is.  

We instantly hit it off and by the end of the day, had agreed to be roommates.  

Fun fact:  I was told when filling out paperwork to live on campus, that if you said you had asthma you would not be put in the freshman dorm and instead would be in the new dorms on the other side of campus.  Dorms that had air conditioning.  Turns out this was absolutely true.  

In mid-August, I put all of my worldly belongings into my 1971 Ford Galaxy and drove it to campus.  This consisted of clothes.  A few books.  And not much else.  

However, we were determined to have a cool room, so by the end of August we’d bought a cool couch and a recliner at the local thrift store.  The recliner was bright green and the vinyl covering had seen far better days.  Somewhere I have photos of all of this. 

Gary was from St. Louis, was in the ROTC and LOVED Christian rock music.  Petra was his favorite band, and by the end of the first semester, it was a favorite of mine as well.  

Funny, how you get caught up in what everyone else is doing.  The only reason I attended church as long as I did, was because I loved the music.  In fact, long after I stopped believeing I’d attend church, just to sing the hymns I grew up with.  By the end of my first year at Georgetown, I had bought albums by Sandy Patty and Amy Grant and of course Petra.  El Shaddai.

About halfway thru the fall semester, Gary was talking with a friend of his on the phone.  Attached to the wall.  With a cord.  (Remind me to tell you about having an answering machine).  He was talking to his friend Valerie who he went to high school with.  She wanted to know if he wanted cookies or brownies in a care package.  He asked me my preference, and I said brownies, and a few days later a package arrived with brownies.  

We were excited to get them because getting packages at college was fun.  This went on for a few more weeks and eventually, I sent Valerie a thank you letter.  She wrote me back.  I wrote her back.  And thus began the back and forth of letters between Valerie and Jeff.   

The letters were silly.  Lists of questions we had for the other person.  Thoughts about school.  Thoughts about the world.  At the time her favorite perfume was Lauren, by Ralph Lauren, and she’d spritz the letters. She’d send boxes.  I’d send boxes.  

This continued into the spring semester.  With both of us sending three, four, five letters a week.  Multiple letters at a time.  Numbered of course.  

Sometime in mid-February, and I don’t know how it came up, it was suggested that I go visit her over spring break.  And I did.  My Aunt, and her boyfriend at the time, drove me to St. Louis.  With her kids.  We went up in the St. Louis Arch.  We toured the church beneath it.  And on a Sunday afternoon, Val and her parents picked me up and took me to their home. 

It was a perfectly lovely week.  We laughed.  We had fun.  And the ONLY thing I remember about the whole week is that we saw Footloose at the movie theater, with her friends.  It was on Friday night, the last night I’d be there.  Footloose will always be the movie of my freshman year of college.  Let’s hear it for the boys.  

On Saturday, my aunt came back to pick me up.  

On Monday, school started again.  

And I think I got one or two more letters after I visited.  

She stopped writing.  I stopped writing.  

And that was the end of that.  Never to be heard from again.

But. 

Here’s the fun part.  

Every letter that I ever, ever, ever received from the time I was eight or nine until well into my late 20’s, is in a box in my office.  Including every letter I ever received from Val.  

Part of me thinks I should toss them.  

Part of me thinks I should look her up and see what happened to her.

Part of me thinks I should open up ALL the letters and reminiscence.  

Part of me says, wait till I’m dead and let Adam deal with them.  

Gary, didn’t return for our sophomore year.  And I never heard from him again either.  

Fun story about Gary.  One day his alarm went off, he got up, showered, dressed and left for ROTC stuff, only to find out someone (NOT ME) had fucked with his alarm and set it two hours early.  He arrived at 4:00 a.m. instead of 6:00.  We had a good laugh about that.  

In the meantime, I haven’t written a letter in 20 years.  But if in fact, you were one of the people I corresponded with in my 20’s, Jayne Sadlon, and Julia Roberts then I still have those letters. 

Rocky Horror Picture Show

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Picture this. Sicily 1902.

Actually, the date is summer, 1983. I have just graduated from high school. I’m working at Wendy’s and mowing a friend’s lawn to make money.

The weekends are spend going to Rocky Horror in Lexington, to a dollar cinema in Chevy Chase that ceased to exist around a million years ago.

A typical Saturday night involved, picking up my friends. Stephanie. Scott. Kendra. The list goes on. I would drive until I wrecked my car. Actually, Stephanie wrecked my car, as I was teaching her to drive.

We’d drive to Lexington, and then stop at the drive thru liquor store on the way into Lexington. We’d ask for a bottle of cheap vodka and was never, ever carded. The glory of drive through liquor stores and friends who looked over 21. Actually, I don’t think they cared.

The truth was, the county I grew up in was dry. No liquor sales. Not ever. Period.

In college we’d talk about going West which was the name of the liquor store just over the county line, West Liquors. It also had a drive thru.

We’d drive thru the liquor store, and then stop for orange juice at a convenience store.

We’d find parking near the theater, and then pour the vodka into the orange juice. We’d pass it around and it only took a sip or two for most of us to swear we were tipsy.

Finally, at 11:50 we get out of my 1971 Ford Galaxy and walk toward the Chevy Chase Cinema.

The movie is The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I saw that move 50+ times ove the course of the last year. I know all of the lines. I know all of the actors.

We take a seat and then at exactly 12:01, the movie starts.

Michael Rennie was ill
The Day the Earth Stood Still
But he told us where we stand
And Flash Gordon was there
In silver underwear
Claude Rains was The Invisible Man
Then something went wrong
For Fay Wray and King Kong
They got caught in a celluloid jam
Then at a deadly pace
It Came From Outer Space
And this is how the message ran

We brought all the props. We screamed out all of the added dialogue.

We were far from virgins. By the end of summer, I’d seen the movie more than 50 times.

Sometime in the middle of the summer, on a rainy night, my friend Stephanie was driving. She pulled onto the street, skidded and ended up hitting a truck.

It’s when I learned that auto insurance goes with the car, not the driver, her father could pay for the damage, and it was the end of a car that I would give a million bucks to still be driving today.

A 1971 Ford Galaxy, with red leather interior and a creamy off-white exterior. 15,000 miles, only driven by my mom’s bosses, wife.

At the end of the movie, we’d stand and celebrate the success that was our attendance at the movie.

Then we’d find my. The small bottle of vodka, properly disposed of in the trash barrel on the street. Any hope of tipsiness long gone.
We’d laugh about how awesome we were to know all the feedback.
And I’d drive us home.

In Georgetown, I’d drop everyone off at their cars, or their homes.

Then I’d drive Stephanie and me, to Sadieville.

The ritual, repeated itself until we all left to go our separate ways at the end of the summer.

In August, I’d start Georgetown College. Baptist College. No drinking. No girls in your dorm room. Only having had dancing for the past 4 years.

Fun fact. This was a post about my Freshman year at Georgetown, and ended up being about the summer after my senior year of high school.

More to come later.

Go Apes!!!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

A friend of mine, who I’ve known since elementary school, just celebrated her 60th birthday.  This means that I’ve known her for 4,786 years.  

We met in elementary school at Great Crossing Elementary.  GO APES!!!

The school is so old, that they’ve closed it, turned it into an office building and built a great big new high school with the name Great Crossing High School.  PS.  I’m about 99% sure that my elementary school was a first through twelfth grade school when it was built in 1583.  

It was called Great Crossing, because our indigenous friends, we stole the land from, called it that, because buffalo, before we killed them all, used to cross the creek near the location of our school.  

I digress.  

My friend turned 60.  

Which reminded me that I’m about to turn 60.  (Shop early.  Shop often!)

How the fuck am I about to turn 60?

The point is, that for her birthday, and because the world is a great big dumpster fire at the moment, she decided to do 30 days of questions about books, authors, reading habits etc.  

What is your favorite non-fiction book?

Who is your favorite author?

What is the first book you read as a child?

What’s your favorite book series?  

It’s been fun.  It’s been distracting.  

Today’s question and I quote:  Your preferred way to read, with percentages.

Meaning do you read an actual book?  Do you read a digital copy?  Audio books?  Books on tape?  Etc.  

I answered:

Books.  Actual real live books.  Always. 

Except:

In my life I have listened to one audio book.  Actually 2.  I listened to a murder mystery in the 90’s on my cassette player, and I hated it.  And.  I listed to an Audible recording of a book in 2014.  The Talented Mister Ripley.  Didn’t like that either.  

Then.  

In the summer of 2003, my friend Michelle read East of Eden by John Steinbeck, aloud to me, as we drove cross country from NYC to San Diego.  

The back story.  

I was accepted into grad school in the spring of 2003.  And being me, that was full of drama that I should share here, because to my knowledge most everyone who knows me would have had no idea.  And all of you would love to hear the story.  

I was going to attend the University of California, in San Diego, to FINALLY get my MFA in lighting.  I say FINALLY, because I’d attempted this two other times before I got to San Diego and finished it.  

In July of 2003, I flew to San Diego and found an apartment.  Fun fact.  Do NOT go to San Diego during Comic Con and hope to find a hotel under a million dollars, that is clean, safe, and livable. The hotel I stayed in was questionable at best. 

By the end of the weekend, I’d seen a production of Falsettos at Diversionary Theater, and signed a lease on an apartment.  And somehow lost a friend, and I still have no idea why.  

A month later, I put my shit in a 24’ U-Haul and started the trek cross country.  I was driving and my friend Michelle was riding shotgun navigating.   

The first day, we got to Kentucky.  Lexington.  Michelle was there to see her mom.  I was there to see my mom.  A 10 hour stop to hug some necks and say hello.  I also picked up two pieces of antique furniture for my friend Jay from high school and college, who lived in L.A. and I was cheaper than a shipping company. 

Day 2.  We get in the truck and continue our drive west.  

Fun fact.  

As you drive west in a U-Haul truck, there aren’t a lot of music choices.  You are constantly hitting the search button on the radio or you have static.  There was no Sirius.  There was no attaching the phone to the truck.  It was FM all the way baby.  

Fun fact:  As you drive toward the middle of the country, sliding into the south, there are two types of stations available.  Country.  Jesus.  Nothing else.  You might find Billy Joel on a station long enough to hear half of Uptown Girl, before the static kicked in, or it was replaced by country or Jesus.  

By the end of the first third of the second day, we were tired, hungry, and annoyed with the radio.  

I don’t know how it came to happen, but somehow, Michelle ended up opening the copy of East of Eden I’d bought before the trip because it was Oprah’s book of the month.  

She turned to page one, and opened it and read: 


THE SALINAS VALLEY is in Northern California. It is a long narrow swale between two ranges of mountains, and the Salinas River winds and twists up the center until it falls at last into Monterey Bay.

I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer—and what trees and seasons smelled like—how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.

For three and a half days she read aloud to me, as I drove across the American dessert.  I couldn’t take a turn as I get violently car sick when I read in a car.  And she didn’t mind that I was driving the big truck.  

She read.  I drove. 

We only took breaks when we were in a city that I had to navigate.  

There were times when we’d pull into a gas station and she’d continue to read to the end of the chapter.  We’d stop for food once, and she’d read another 15 minutes, becaue we were engrossed in the book.  

She got us to the end of Part 3 about 90 minutes before we got to San Diego. 

I have to say it is the best way to enjoy a book ever.  We were able to talk about it while we were stopped for food.  We got excited for cliff hangers when we stopped for gas.  And we were disappointed we wouldn’t finish the book together.

I still hate that I had to read part 4 on my own like a regular person, when she flew off to Michigan after our trip cross country. (Ask me about that story). 

So.  

I highly recommend the book.  It’s awesome.  

I highly recommend letting your best friend read it to you.  

And I highly recommend having your best friend read it to you as you drive across the American Southwest avoiding Jesus.  

New Kid In Town

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I haven’t written publicly in a while.  

Privately I’m 30,000 words into a novel about…well something.  

However, I do miss writing for an audience.  Actually, I miss it a lot.  

I have a million ideas.  Seriously.  If I was more motivated.  More driven.  More focused.  I’d have probably already signed a trillion-dollar book deal.  Or at least have published a pamphlet I leave on people’s cars.  I enjoy it a lot.  

So to back up, on Sunday, I worked a very long shift.  And I mean very long.  It was very busy.  It was crazy. We are at the end of restaurant week and to be honest, it’s been a great help to an otherwise boring spring.  

When I came upstairs from the office at 4:00 to check in on the staff, make sure the doors were open and inspect the dining room Cher was playing on the speakers.  I smiled to myself.  Who doesn’t love Cher.  Although, it did make me remember that my 23 year old host from Norway has no idea who Cher is but that’s another story.  

As the night started at 4:00, the music continued.  I learned that the station was a Cher station on Pandora.  The music continued and as it did, the songs I knew continued.  One right after another.  And every song that played had a story.  Dolly, Journey, Billy, The Bee Gee’s, even Elvis.  

My young host and servers were all hanging out waiting for the night to begin and as the songs played I kept them entertained with a story about each one.  And is always the case, I thought to myself, this would be a great writing exercise.  Sharing music stories with all of you.  

This is the first.  It might be my last and only one.  But it IS my first. 

New Kid in Town:  Eagles.  1976/1977. 

For me it’s January 1977. 

It’s snowing.  It’s been snowing for 12 months.  

We missed the last day of school before Christmas break, which was supposed to be the day of our Christmas party.  It’s now the middle of January.  It’s still snowing.  It’s been almost a month, and we have still not been back to school.  For almost 8 days we didn’t leave our house.  Our road, Carrick Road, has not been plowed in a week.  Our yard, stretches out for a 100-yards, even though, 50 feet from our house, it’s supposed to drop 5 feet to the road.  It is snowy.  

When the plows finally clear a one lane path, my parents need to go back to work.  I’m in 6th grade and my mom the worrier won’t let my brother and I stay home by ourselves.  

On the first day of clear roads, we get up at 6:30, get dressed and by 7:00 are on our way to Lexington with our parents.  We’ll stay at my mom’s office with her, while my dad goes to his job.  

It is snowing.  Hard.  The snow in the headlights looks like a scene from some space movie.  There is snow on both sides of the road.  My father has both hands tight on the steering wheel.  He is hunched over, paying attention.  You can tell he knows it’s his job to drive, to get us to our destination in one piece.    

A song plays on the radio station WLAP, 630 am.  New Kid In Town by the Eagles.   The song wraps up and a DJ tells us about the weather.  The news.  They continue to talk as my dad slowly maneuvers the slippery roads in his pick up truck

There is no talking. 

We drive.    

My mother lights another cigarette, she hates traveling in the snow.  She will smoke non-stop until we arrive at her office. 

After what seems like 6 hours we finally arrive in Lexington on Newtown Pike.  The roads clear.  There is a collective sigh of relief as the worst of our trip is behind us.  Finally, we arrive at 200 Cox Street.  A tile and carpet subcontracting building.  

We have made it alive.  My mother is happy.  

We get out of the truck, and climb the icy concrete steps to the cold aluminum sided building she works in. She unlocks the door.  We are the only ones there.  She flips on the over head fluorescent lights and turns on the heat.  There is no plumbing in her office so they keep the heat off when no one is there.  It’s about 4* and won’t be warm till around the time we eat lunch. 

She is a bookkeeper.  She has been a bookkeeper for years.  She started this job, working for my uncle three years ago.  Her office is wood paneled, covered in maps.  There are sample books of carpet and tile everywhere.  The walls, the “art”, the maps on the all are all yellowed from years of smoking in the office.  The office smells of damp cold air and cigarette smoke.  

My brother and I will spend the day here.  I’m 11 but my mother doesn’t trust my brother and I to spend the day alone at home.  We will go to her office every day.  We sit on the floor if anyone else is there, as she only has one chair and it’s hers.  There are two offices behind hers is occupied by the man who runs the business.  The back office, the owner of the company, I haven’t seen in weeks.  We get settled and we countdown the 8 hours wait until we can go home again.  This pattern repeats itself, every day till the second week of February.

I wander around the office.  Looking at calendars.  A map of Lexington.  The blueprints of a school they have been hired to carpet and tile.  I go through drawers.  I open boxes.  It’s 8:45 and I’m bored out of my mind.    My one consolation is that I can read.  Once I figure out where to plant myself, I’ll pull out a book and get settled.  

Today I am reading a book called Today I Am a Ham.  I love reading.  It’s saved me from my life more times than I can count.  

My mom turns on her radio, pours a cup of coffee, lights a cigarette and starts to work.  I can hear the sound of the adding machine and typewriter.  The phone rings, Good Morning, L. Standafer Company.  My mother has a phone voice.  She is a different person when she answers the phone.  Calm.  Kind.  Relaxed.   Not at all how she talks to us.   

She answers the questions.  Takes notes.  Say’s goodbye and hangs up.  She goes back to work.  

I wander around the building.  Into the warehouse, which is not heated.  I can see my breath as I walk around looking at rolls of carpet and boxes of tiles.  I eventually find myself in her boss’s office.  It is filled with blueprints.  Even to this day, I’ve been fascinated by floor plans.  I look through them, thinking one day I might like to be an architect. 

I seat myself in her boss’s empty chair. I pretend to be the boss, picking up the phone.  Opening and shutting drawers.  Finally, I pull out my book to read.  The time goes by faster when I am reading.  I open the book to the first page.   I’m a little old for it, but I had it at home and it’s been a favorite for years.  I read, and read, and read, and read, and read.  I start to get drowsy. I close my eyes for a second, and I’m asleep.  

When I open my eyes, it’s time for lunch.  We eat boloney sandwiches, with potato chips and dessert is a Little Debbie oatmeal pie.  After lunch the day repeats itself, with my mom answering the phone, me reading and my brother doing who knows what. 

At 4:30 my father arrives, to start the drive back home.  It’s as treacherous as the morning drive.  

Everyday for 6 weeks I hear the song New Kid In Town.  And to this day, when it plays, I can see myself squeezed in to the middle of the pick up truck, listening to the lyrics, followed by the news on WLAP.  

I have a love hate relationship with this song.  It’s a lovely song, but the music, the lyrics, take me back to the winter of 1977 and my long trek to the 200 Cox Street.