Tanja Buzzi Moriarty

Author: Tanja Buzzi Moriarty

  • A Man’s Craving for a Beer Saved My Husband’s Life

    Editor’s Note: We were blessed to have survived this accident that occurred on June 10, 2012.

    Sean has been cleared of all restrictions on his shoulder and is doing well with his neck, after the four breaks to his C-1 and a fracture to his C-2. He has some stiffness and aches and can’t turn his head all the way to the left, yet, but he is otherwise a miracle man! My knee is still a little tender and I can’t kneel on it. The doctor says that is it is good as it is going to get, but I am not complaining because I know it could have been so much worse.

    I wanted to share with you that after all this time, we are still receiving confirmation of God’s mercy and love for us at the time of that horrific accident.

    Last week, Sean met up with the man Patrick who “happened” to be just two cars behind us. It was almost as if he materialized on the scene back on June 10. As you might recall (or read), after we crashed, Sean jumped up, TOOK OFF HIS HELMET, and was heading over to the motorcycle to try to pick it up! Patrick, who saw the whole thing, came over to Sean and identified himself as former EMT, and basically ordered Sean to lay down so he could hold Sean’s head in a straight line. “I will move any way you need to move,” he said. By then the searing pain was ripping through Sean’s body. He was writhing and screaming. Patrick knelt with Sean’s head cradled in his hands, and kept Sean’s neck and back straight.

    Patrick works in the security department at Middlesex Hospital. Sean, as a police captain, serves at a liaison between the hospital and the PD, and spoke with Patrick before their meeting. Sean thanked Patrick again, crediting him again, for saving his life.

    Patrick explained the ‘odd circumstance’ that lead him to the accident scene. Patrick was just finishing mowing his lawn, when suddenly he had a craving to go to the local bar to get a beer. He said he never gets a craving to go to local bar. Further, his car keys were outside on the front step—and he said he ALWAYS hangs his keys on a hook inside his house. He snapped up his keys, got in his car and headed to the local watering hole…until he came upon our accident!

    Have you ever had a strong impulse do something out of the ordinary to find you were being used for another purpose?

  • I’ll Be Dipped In Chocolate: Thinking About My All-Time Favorite Job

    I’ll Be Dipped In Chocolate: Thinking About My All-Time Favorite Job

    I am grateful for my flexible and part time job as a grant writer at St. Vincent De Paul Middletown, but if were to take an honest assessment of my work resume, I couldn’t say it’s been my favorite job. Whether I am just being nostalgic or the place I am about to mention truly was the best place to pull a paycheck, I would have to put a gold star next to my run as a Dairy Queen counter girl, 1981 to 1983.
    Of course, I was sixteen years old when I started, and back then I only needed money for my car insurance (and repairs), gas under a buck a gallon, concert tickets, and white Nike leathers with the black swoosh. I had scoped out working at the DQ even before I got my license on April 4th 1981.

    Before the plastic was even dry, I raced over to the Middletown DQ and applied. Sure, I’d had other jobs babysitting since I was a kid, and I was employed to do office work at age 15 through a program called C.E.T.A. (Comprehensive Employment and Training Act that provided jobs to kids in low income families), but this was my first “real” and exciting job that I could drive to myself! No more begging rides to the excruciatingly boring UConn Extension Center (C.E.T.A. job) where I filed papers or recorded data from various state surveys! No more dollar-per-hour babysitting stints! I’d be making three and change at the DQ! The big time, baby!

    I reported to work wearing chocolate fudge brown chinos and the red, white and yellow waffle-plaid DQ blouse with the hallowed DQ patch over my heart. I was a nervous and conscientious worker and asked tons of questions so I would do things right. I kept in constant motion filling lids and cup dispensers, swiping down the counters and topping off the sundae topping wells.

    This impressed my bosses—all four of them. Ralphie and Madge* were the owners and had to be in their fifties. They may have been older, but who can tell when you are sixteen? They were old and to be feared. Their son Ralphie Jr. and his wife Sharon were also my bosses. Sharon was serious and hard-working, but friendly. She said I reminded her of how she started, when she married into the family. Ralphie Jr., was more of a laid back, being a son of a DQ dynasty. He seemed to operate at a slower speed as he flipped burgers at the brazier. Because we were closer in age, we talked about the Moody Blues and Led Zeppelin, groups not quite qualified as vintage rock, just yet.
    I drew my first tube of DQ soft serve into a waiting, wafer cone, carefully turning it to create the iconic, signature curl. I did a fairly good job with a lot of praise from Sharon. Whew! There was a scale on the counter for newbies. Our first cones were subject to a weigh in. A small cone was supposed to be no more than three ounces, a medium five ounces, and a large seven. If a cone was grossly overweight, the bosses (except for Ralphie, Jr.) had us scrape the top half of the cone into a large cup and bring the base back to the machine to try for a more slender, business-savy size. The aborted top half of a cone would never be wasted, but made into a salable product for the next shake-ordering customer.

    I learned fairly quickly how to make model cones. I prided myself on the DQ curl and would silently affirm myself with praise! Yes! Imagine my sheer elation when I could dip the entire enterprise upside down in the dip well! I developed expert timing and a deft flick of my wrist, and mystifying myself and customers, was able to right the Holy Grail of all DQ treats into its standing and upright position. I confess, there were times even in my later days of my DQ career when approaching the dip well with a virginal cone to coat that some freak fault of physics (a drop in the dew point or extra gravitational pull) caused the cold content to slide out with a perverse plop into the dip well!
    Shoot! Before it all melted into a contaminated swirl, I’d use the stir paddle on the dip cover to quickly ladle the mess into a future shake cup. Often, especially when the bosses were out, we’d happily eat our mistakes. Thank God I had a sixteen year old metabolism or I’d have blown out the seams of my DQ pants and pop buttons off my blouse from the thousands of calories I ingest each shift.

    I enjoyed working with kids my own age and encouraged my close high school friends to apply. They were coming in the nights I was working, anyway. We tended to do that as teenagers—flock to the places where friends worked on our days off, as we aimlessly drove around. Soon there was a small entourage of my Haddam-Killingworth high school friends working alongside Middletown co-workers-turned-friends. We had a blast especially on shifts when the bosses didn’t come in. We’d invent new sundaes to eat in the back and flirt with each other in-between rushes of customers.

    At night we’d follow a militant-style list of breaking down the machines and cleaning every crevice of the joint. Madge and Ralphie, Sr. would inspect each morning and if the crew the night before didn’t do a dilly of job, there’d be hell to pay. A critical note, a DQ scarlet letter as it were, would be tacked next to the work schedule for all to see. My pals and I were seldom scolded because we feared the shame of our employers and really were hard workers. Those who didn’t care as much usually quit after a short stint.

    The fact that we ate a lot of our “mistakes” and were otherwise unskilled laborers probably contributed to the fact that in the two and a half years I worked there, I think I got one three cent raise. The fall after I graduated and began attending college, I quit DQ because I lived on Southern Connecticut State U’s campus and worked in Hamden and New Haven in Fotomat booths. During summers at home, I didn’t go back to DQ. Our old crew had dispersed and I picked up a more lucrative job driving bundles of newspapers around in my little red Ford Fiesta. I had mornings off having to report to the newspaper dock at 2:30 p.m. and get my deliveries done in less than three hours. I made over $200 bucks a week and had Sundays off.

    I’ve never found another job as fun and exciting as working at Dairy Queen though. Before the DQ was knocked down on Main Street extension, and a damned CVS was put in its place, I had the opportunity in the mid-nineties to go in behind the counter and make myself a cone…for old time’s sake. It was just like riding a bike, I tell ya! I could still form a perfect DQ curl!

    Sometimes after a long day of searching for grants for the soup kitchen and food pantry I fantasize what it would be like to go back now and work at a DQ, in my mid-forties. I certainly wouldn’t have a fast metabolism on my side, but I bet I would still find it thrilling. I’d cheerfully take orders, make fabulous cones and sundaes, run a register, make change, clean the topping wells, take apart the soft-serve machine and clean and lube its oh-rings, sweep and wash the floors—all at minimum wage— for what, maybe a week?

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  • Do You Have A Recipe That Has Made Someone Immortal? Doughnuts: Beryl Lougee

    Do You Have A Recipe That Has Made Someone Immortal? Doughnuts: Beryl Lougee

    I have a handful of recipes that remind me of special people, as I am sure most of us do. The one I am thinking of on this snowy winter day, is the recipe simply called “Doughnuts.” It’s in a well-worn and stained, hand-typed, plastic-ringed recipe booklet that was put together by a few Methodist churches in the mid 1970s. “Doughnuts” was submitted by a church friend of my mother’s, Beryl Lougee. I remember Mrs. Lougee as a smiling, mild-mannered woman who on occasion invited my mom and my sister and I over to her house for visits. She’d serve my sister and I these wonderful homemade doughnuts on saucers, swimming in real maple syrup! I can still see them and taste them!

    She was an active member at the Higganum United Methodist Church, but back then as a kid, I focussed on the fact that she organized the Easter candy sales at our church: chocolate crosses along with the chocolate bunnies.

    Growing up, I remember my mom was forever trying new recipes. She adopted Beryl Lougee’s doughnut recipe. At least once a snow day off from school, my mom would whip up a batch of these wonderful wheels while my sister and I played in snow that seemed armpit deep. We’d come in, shuck our snow pants, kick off our plastic bag-lined boots, then saddle up to the table and dunk ’em one after another in our hot chocolate.

    I carried on the tradition of making Beryl Lougee’s doughnuts when Erin and Chris had snow days! I swear I’d be as excited as they were went I’d hear school was cancelled due to snow!

    Now my kiddos are in college; one in Boston, the other Vermont. It was a little bittersweet making the doughnuts today without them, but Sean and I kept a stiff upper lip as we carried out the sacramental rite. We took turns shaking the royal rings in paper bags of confectioner’s sugar and cinnamon sugar. Ceremoniously we sipped coffee and hot chocolate as we sampled a two, or maybe three.

    There is something “magical” as my daughter said about making doughnuts on a snowy day, or any favorite, traditional recipe on a special occasion. Recipes evoke pleasant thoughts/memories of the person or people who shared them with us. What special recipe evokes happy memories of someone past or present in your life or of some special event?

  • Where do you think we go when we die?

    I’ve always been fascinated by people’s near-death and “death” experiences. Raised in the Christian faith, I hope there is a God in Heaven and that I will see my loved ones beyond this earthly plane. People who have clinically “died” have given us some glimpses of good and sometimes terrifying scenes of what could be ahead for us. What do you think happens when our physical bodies die? Have you read any good books on the subject?

    I have recently read To Heaven and Back: A Doctor’s Extraordinary Account of Her Death, Heaven, Angels, and Life Again By: Mary C. Neal. http://www.christianbook.com/to-heaven-back/mary-neal/9780307731715/pd/731715?kw=to+heaven+and+back+mary+neal&event=PPCSRC&p=1018818&gclid=CJHp0Kvg6rQCFcef4AodFksAeg I highly recommend this book.

  • What is the best thing you did for yourself in 2012?

    After years of dealing with frustrating, unmanageable monthly  “visits,” (I will refrain from gory details)—and after extensive research— I opted to have a hysterectomy in January 2012.  Besides saving my body from a host of strains (a 22 day cycle, strain on my heart, anemia, etc.), I have been completely relieved of the anxiety of wardrobe disasters, feeling drained, and having to spend literally hundreds of dollars on fem prods. I AM FREE!   Any woman struggling with what do facing this situation, please talk to me!  My only regret is that I didn’t do this years ago!

    What was the best thing you did for yourself in 2012?

  • All for a Toothbrush

    I remember one of my earliest Christmas seasons at my place of work where I am  the grant writer for a soup kitchen, food pantry, assisted living, and community outreach programs.  My cubical office which faces the Main Street is situated in such a way that I can hear people talking outside at the call-box at the front of the building.  With my office door open, I can also hear my co-workers talking to the people at the call box from their offices.

    I was supposed to be concentrating on my work, but my thoughts kept drifting to what seemed to be an insurmountable list of things I needed to buy and do before Christmas.  I had to find the right gifts for people, had to plan a big meal with fussy eaters, and deal with idiot relatives who mouth off when they drank too much.

    “Yes?” the squawky voice of my co-worker, a Sister startled me from my dysfunctional daydream.  She was two doors down the hall talking to a man who had just rung at the box outside.

    “Ma’am, I was just released from prison and I need a toothbrush,” the burly voice beseeched. That should be no big deal, I thought. We just received literally hundreds of them during our recent toiletry drive, we could spare one. To my shock, the nun said, “I am sorry sir; I only give out toiletry bags on Tuesdays.”

    What?! It was Thursday, but this didn’t make sense to me. I didn’t want to go against my co-worker, but I just could not see not making an exception for this man. I jumped out of my seat and ran down the stairs.  I pulled opened the door to the large dark man slightly hunched from the cold.  He was wearing a coat but was blowing into his bare hands to keep them warm.

    “Sir, why don’t you wait in the dining room and I’ll get you a toothbrush.”

    “Thank you, Ma’am,” he said. I ran back up the stairs slipping past the sister’s door and up to the third floor where we kept the toiletries.  I stood before huge grey bins and plucked a boxed toothbrush. This man has nothing, I thought as I stuffed the toothbrush a nearby Ziploc baggie.  I added tube of toothpaste, deodorant, and shampoo. Our mission is to help those in need, I thought,  justifying the stuffed bag. Remembering his cold hands, I picked up a pair of large gloves from the shelf of recent donations.  I didn’t want to get caught with this contraband so I stuffed the loot in the large pockets of my sweater.

    I met the man in the empty soup kitchen dining room; it was cleared out after lunch hour.  “Here you are, Merry Christmas,” I said, taking a step towards him looking into his dark brown eyes.  His cold hand brushed mine as I handed him the packet. “Oh, the gloves, too,” I said, pulling them out from my sweater pocket.

    All of a sudden this man began showering me with a profound and holy gift. “God bless you, ma’am.  God bless you and your family,” he bowed towards me. “God, Bless You.” My being tingled in his warm glow and my heart beat wildly, flooding me with spirit.  Here I thought I was to giving him, this needy man, just out of jail, a simple toothbrush kit and a pair of gloves, but he gave me something greater.

    Teary-eyed, I floated up the stairs and back into my office.  While I was away from my desk, my boss had laid a white envelope across my keyboard. I opened my Christmas card and two sizable green bills spilled out. I burst into tears.

  • Shepherdess

    “There, there little one,” Marianne skidded her strong, calloused hand down the back of the bristly kid at her feet. “It’ll be OK.”

    It was Marianne who was fretting and needed the soothing, not the goat nor the rest of her herd as she kept watch on the hillside that night.  She imagined her poor husband David back at their tent in the village trying to stifle that incessant cough of his that could keep the whole tribe awake.  She hoped the poultice of medicinal herbs she had fixed for him would lessen his symptoms and allow him and the rest of the community some much needed rest.  Rather than have David run himself even more ragged in the cold night air, Mary Ann volunteered to fulfill his duty of watching the village’s flock until he was well.

    The night was still and cold.  Marianne drew her tan wool shawl around her shoulders and gazed at her fellow herdsmen.  Malcom was stretched out on top of a rock.  What a slacker, Marianne thought.  It was no secret that Malcom had fallen asleep on his watch on many occasions. Those who pulled the night shift with him often grumbled amongst themselves.  No one pressed the issue though, because Malcom had political connections with the census takers.  Somehow Malcom managed to keep half of the community’s head count off the tax rolls.  Nico, son of the village elder who lead them in prayers, was kicking at a decaying log.  A young and restless one.  His betrothed had been sent over to Nazareth to help care for her ailing aunt and poor Nico didn’t’ know what to do with himself.  His father thought that having Nico guard the sheep and goats would help to pass the lonely, nocturnal hours.

    Marianne really didn’t mind taking David’s shifts.  It gave her time to think.  She wondered about the meaning of her life as she sat feeling very small under the night sky.  What is it all about? All of her life she had listened to the prophets in the market square.  A Savior was coming, they’d say with such conviction.  Sometimes she was inspired and shared in their excitement.  Other times she felt flat.

    Marianne yawned and stretched.  I must stay awake, she shook herself.  She was responsible for the village’s dozen goats that needed their heather and sweet clover on this particular hill.  It would make the richest, creamiest milk for Marianne’s communal task of making her wonderful cheese. She proudly used her grandmother’s methods and spices.  The cheese was a coveted commodity at the market in Damascus.

    All at once, a blast of light flooded the hillside as if it were day!  Marianne gasped and rose to her feet.  What in the name of Heaven?! She scanned quickly to her left and to her right.  Both Malcom and Nico stood facing the beam, shading their eyes.  They followed the star moving steadily over the hill towards nearby Bethlehem.

    “What was that?” Nico blurted as they converged at the foot of the hill. Malcom shrugged. Marianne was the one who suggested they follow it. “It looks brightest just over there,” she pointed to the glow beyond the hill.

    “Let’s go,” Nico agreed.  Malcom opted to stay behind.  “Let me know what you find, I’ll, I’ll stay with the herd.”

    Marianne and Nico began running up the path. They breathed hard as they climbed to the summit.  At the crest, they looked down directly to where it shone.  A humble stable was illuminated beneath as though it were on fire.  “Oh!” Marianne gasped and reached for Nico’s tunic.  She felt him shaking, or was it she who was shaking? In her peripheral, Marianne noticed several other shepherds were gathered around them now.  They stood in awe as a halo of shimmering colors pulsated around the structure.

    Marianne, Nico and the others were frozen in their tracks as an angel in white and golden robes appeared before them floating in midair.  Marianne clutched her chest and felt her heart beating wildly. Is this the end? She looked quickly to Nico whose eyes were bulging, his mouth agape.  Am I to die here with my neighbor?

    It was as though the angel read her thoughts. “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people.  For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.”

    Marianne was greatly assured by the angel’s proclamation but was startled anew as a multitude of the heavenly host burst forth praising God saying,“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased!”

    When the angels went away from them into heaven, the Marianne said to Nico, “Let us go see this!.”

    They quickly descended the rocky path and sprinted across the field toward the radiant stable.  Quietly they stood shoulder to shoulder in the shadows as not to disturb a very young, beatific mother and the tear-stained, but sturdy father, who knelt in the hay beside the new born Child.  A warm, golden glow emanated from His small, cloth-wrapped body.

    The mother invited them to draw near. Marianne and her companions, overwhelmed in Presence of absolute love, fell to their knees.  A holiness she had never known suddenly filled her with great peace.  So profound and so powerful, Marianne stayed in that Place for the rest of the night.

    It was nearly daybreak when Marianne rushed into her tent.  “David! Oh, David! Wake up! Wake up!”  She knelt at his pallet and shook him.  Her mere touch infused him with such vigor that he sprang from his pallet.  “I feel great!” he laughed.

    “Oh, David! We must hurry and bring some goat’s milk and some of our best cheeses to them!” Marianne scurried with the earthen bowls.

    “Bring cheeses to whom?” David asked, fastening his sandals.

    Marianne stopped for a second and looked directly into her husband’s eyes. “The One!” her whole being seemed to smile.  “He is here!”

  • Moriartys in an Irish Bar Fight!

    Our second night in Dublin, the last leg of our eight day country-wide tour, Sean, Erin, Chris and I ventured into Temple Bar.  This hotspot section of the city is known for its ancient pubs, eclectic street performers and odd shops.  After dark and too much drink, it can get little wild if not a little dangerous.  It isn’t uncommon to have extra Garda (Irish police) patrolling on the weekends.  On this particular Friday night, pubs were over-flowing with Irish and German soccer fans either celebrating or drowning their sorrows.  Germany had annihilated Ireland, 6 to 1 at the World Cup Qualifier Match that day in the city.

    After dinner we ventured to the very popular The Temple Bar Pub http://www.thetemplebarpub.com/  in hopes to hear some real Irish music.  We stood shoulder to shoulder as a trio, who although Irish, were doing a few too many American covers.

    Sean, blessed with the gift of gab (even before kissing the Blarney stone), struck up a conversation with an interesting 20s-something man sitting on a stool nearby. He wore faded jeans, a pin-striped button down dress shirt and wire-framed eye glasses. A pony-tail of thin, brown dreadlocks hung half way down his back.  I remember Erin and Chris commenting that he could be some kind of hybrid Rastafarian information technologist.

    He asked Sean if he could please keep an eye on his woolen sweater as he went to the bar or toilet.  I urged Sean to take the seat and situated myself between his legs as we hoped to finally hear some rockin’ Irish.  When the band started playing Sweet Caroline by New York’s own Neil Diamond, I decided to wade through the crowd to find the ladies’ room.  Bumping and mushing into perfect strangers as I tried to find the loo just wasn’t as exhilarating as it was in my early twenties.

    In the meantime, the guy, Louie, came back invited us to come to a nearby smaller pub where his band The Blaggards http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bWCLe0NcRM  would be playing traditional Irish music.

    A little later, we found our way to The Stag’s Tail, a cellar-pub in the The Stag’s Head, http://www.louisfitzgerald.com/stagshead.  The Stag’s Tail has a rather non-descript entrance in a darkened alley.  Feeling adventurous, we headed down the stairway to a dimly lit room about the size of a city bus. The Blaggards were just setting up when Louie noticed us and greeted us warmly. We sat at a corner at a table on the perimeter of the room, against a wall.

    As the traditional music played—old tunes, pipes, bodhran, and strings—we enjoyed the authentic music and special treatment.  Louie shouted out to us over his mic, dedicating tunes to “The Connecticut People.”  During one song, he pulled Erin out on the “dance floor”— a tiny space in front of the musicians– and swung her around.  Erin rose to the occasion and not only kept up with him, but she reached into her hair and pulled out her own two-year-old dreadlock she kept tucked into her curls as if to show Louie that she, too, was a kindred spirit!

    As the night wore on, the little pub protruded with revelers.  A group of tanked-up German guys gathered in the middle of what had been the “dance floor.”  The air was hot and thick.  One of the musicians made a comment of how the Irish soccer team was beaten by the Germans but the ones to be angry at were, as is custom, the English.

    Suddenly, two young men with their arms locked around each other’s necks came rushing right at Sean.  Our table tipped and and in a flash Sean—neck brace, mending shoulder and all— was up on his feet!  Like Popeye, he shoved those two idiots right in their chests and they sailed across the room into the browling gaggle.

    “What the F…!” he shouted.

    My lioness came out and I jumped up on the bench and threw my arm in front of Sean as though I could really hold him back if he was going to get into the fray.  “Hey! Cut the shit!” I screamed at the rolling mass.   Fortunately, sensible Irish and German boys quickly pulled the few guilty hot heads out of the way and defused the fight.

    There was a mass exodus to the stairs.  Like a mother hen, I rounded my brood  and said, “Let’s get out of here!”

    Outside, members of the band stood round us and apologized.  They were truly stunned.  We reasoned it was because of the soccer match and that it obviously wasn’t their fault.

    The four of us walked down the street to collect ourselves. We stopped at a place that sold slices of pizza of all things, and had a slice as we relived the event.  “Dad can still kick ass!” Chris exclaimed.

    Erin had wanted to go back and give Louie her email address (an equivalent of a phone number).  I sighed at first, but we were full of of bravado, pizza, and a bit of Guinness.  We marched back to The Stag’s Tail.  The band was milling around outside and the drummer (bodhran player) came right up to Sean and clapped him on the shoulder (luckily it was his good one!).  He was sitting closest to us in the pub and was especially impressed how Sean had tossed the drunken lads across the room.  Louie said we were legends!

    To show we were good sports, and because much of the soccer madness had subsided, we did go back to The Stag’s Tail the next evening and enjoyed an uninterrupted night of traditional Irish songs and a bit of conversation with our Blaggard buds.  By the way, this group may be playing in an Irish pub in NYC this St. Patrick’s Day.  Want to go as part of their fan club?

  • Did I just say that?! Blooper alert!

    Yesterday after a long day at work, I went to the veterinarian’s to pick up flea medicine for my dog and cat. I really misfired with my vocab! At the counter I  said, “I realized that both my cat and dog were out of flea medicine and wanted to pick up the aphrodisiacs before my house got infested.”  Aphrodisiacs?  I meant to say Prophylactics! The six foot four very manly vet was standing right there listening and grinning.  The  assistant behind the counter was doubled over.  “What’s on your mind?” the Vet said. I blushed, and laughed. “I am really scattered!  Wrong vocab word!”

    I laughed out loud as I drove home.  I should have just said, “Gimme flea juice for my doggie and kitty so my house don’t get buggy.”

    What was your latest or greatest blooper?  Oh, please share.

  • The Great Flying Swings by Tanja Buzzi,1975

    Tanja at ten. My fifth grade teacher, Lance Hall encouraged our class to write stories. He would then read them to the class. Though my home life was very stressful at this time, school was a haven to me. Before puberty and peer pressure set in, I was creative and comfortable with myself—and recognized as a writer!

    One fine Saturday, I went down to the carnival.  I bought two rolls of tickets.  First I decided to go on the Ferris Wheel. It was high up, but I didn’t care.  I saw the whole carnival.  Then I went over the concession stand to get some cotton candy and a soda.  After that I went on the Round Up but that was pretty short.  Then I went on the Moon walk and stayed on two tickets long.  Then I was tired.

    So I hopped on the Scrambler.  Then I noticed the Flying Swings.  I got off and went on one of the outside swings.  The motor started and I was going around and around.  For some reason, I felt the bottom of the swing, something that felt like a knob.  I pushed it. All of a sudden the chain unhooked and I started to go up, just as if I was a balloon and someone let go of my string.  Well any way, I went up about 10 feet.  Everyone stared at me even the guys that ran the rides were looking up at me. I went up a little higher so I was even with the Ferris Wheel.  I said, “Stop!” and the swing stopped.

    I heard a fat lady say, “What shall we do, should we call the telephone company?” That really helps matters, doesn’t it?  Everyone was worried all except me.  I was having a ball!  I could see almost all of Higganum! The people of the Middletown Press and the Hartford Courant came to take pictures and to write articles on me.

    The Eye Witness news team came down and did a report on me.  Then a special telegram went to the President of the United States.  Mr. Ford came by helicopter.  He landed on the Higganum Green.  Then he saw me and said to me, “How on earth did you get up there?”  I started to explain but everybody started shaking hands and asking him for autographs.

    So I pushed the bottom and said, “Take me back home.”  So I went back home.  “Don’t believe me then.”  That’s what I said when I told my family.  Then my sister said, “What do you have to prove it?”  Then I went to my room and got the swing then told it to glide down the stairs and go straight to the family room.  It did.  My family was astonished.  “It was all run by a machine, see the knob and wires?” I said.  I looked around at the swing’s bottom seat.  On it was a mark that said, “Hollywood California, filming.”  It must have been in a place where they had made movies. I wrote to The Middletown Press and to the Courant to get things cleared up.    The end.

    Do you remember when you were ten? What were you like? What did you do for fun?  Write yourself a letter from your ten year old self to your present day self.  What would he or she say to you? Advise you to do?