The Many Loves of Lyttie Poe, Episode Two

I was raised atheist; in fact we were fundamentalist atheists. (Our bumper sticker would have read: “There Is No God, Only Ignorant, Superstitious People Believe In Him, And That Settles It.”)

If I had any notion of a Higher Power, it was picked up from neighborhood kids who were always saying, “God’ll get you for that.”

I pictured God, if he existed, as a mean old man up in the sky watching me all the time with a very angry expression on his face: “Hmmm she lied to her mother.” “Hmm she didn’t brush her teeth.” If knew when I committed enough “sins”--Pow! Right straight to hell. Scared me to death. Who’d want to believe in something like that?

Years later when I got into Al-Anon, I could see that the people who were making positive changes believed in some kind of god, even if it was only the power of the group.

They said I could come up with any higher power I liked. So I started experimenting. The problem was I really had no concept beyond that SOB in the sky. Who was my higher power anyway?

Then I read about a lady whose higher power, a kindly old grandmother, came to her in a dream. I started telling myself, “Tonight I dream about my H.P.” over and over just before falling asleep. After three days, I was rewarded:

I dreamed I was walking through a vacant house. Suddenly I knew that my Higher Power was about to pass outside the window. Oh boy! I ran to look and who should pass by but….

Popeye the Sailor?!

Oh for heaven sakes! What kind of higher power is that?

But some days later I realized, Wait a minute. What does Popeye say?

“I yam what I yam.”

The more I considered it, the more I realized the profundity of it all.

At age five, I was in love with Popeye and wanted to marry him. Although terrible jealous of Olive Oyl, I was a lot like her--gawky and skinny and kinda dumb, always getting in some kind of trouble. I’d love to have been able to yell, “Help, Popeye, heeelp!” and have him eat his spinach, his muscles get huge like pyramids, and then POW! he socks the bad guy all around the earth and into a pig pen. I throw my arms around My Hero as he sings and goes poop poop on his pipe.

Now I won’t tell you I belong to some kind of Popeye-worshipping cult (though I do love spinach). That dream helped me develop a Higher Power who is, like Popeye, strong to the finich, ready to come to my rescue, and, if he is watching me, it’s only because he thinks gawky, stupid me is the most beautiful thing in the world.

From "The Many Loves of Lyttle Poe"

The story you are about to read is guaranteed 100% true. Only the names have been changed...

I thought turning sixteen meant I’d be like the teens on TV: happy, popular, riding around in cars with boys, having the time of my life. Instead, sixteen wasn’t much different from fifteen, or twelve for that matter. I desperately wanted a boyfriend, but nobody was remotely interested in me. The reason seemed clear: popular girls had straight hair, tiny noses, and soft southern drawls. I, on the other hand, was stuck with curly hair, a fat nose, and an obnoxious Yankee accent

I would gladly have dated any boy in town, but I especially dreamed about a boy named Malcolm. All us hippie wannabees loved him. His main qualifications were that he had long hair and had once been hospitalized for an overdose. I thought if I impressed him with my cleverness and wit, he’d ask me out. But like everyone else, he studiously avoided me.

Finally I decided to find my own boyfriend--someone so desperate he’d never reject me. I noticed one boy who always hung out on the school steps with about three other guys, hands in pockets. A quick check of the yearbook told me his name: Chris Rigsby.

Here were his excellent qualifications:
1) I never saw him with a girl, so that meant he didn’t already have a girlfriend. 2) He was a sophomore, a year younger than me, which gave me some power over him.
3) He was homely, with a huge overbite, so he probably wouldn’t be too choosey.
4) He had long hair. (After all, I did have some principles!)

Thus I set out on a campaign to win him.

The problem was, how did you become girlfriends with someone? I had no opportunities to talk to him, and what would I say anyway? Newsweek magazine was reporting on something called Women’s Liberation, but every teen magazine warned over and over about the dangers of girls “chasing” boys. You were supposed to wait for him to notice you.

So my campaign consisted of me watching his every move. Conveniently my best friend set her sights on Chris’s best friend. She and I spent every available moment sighing over our “loves,” or sitting in her bedroom, singing songs like ”I’ll Get You in the End” and willing it with all our hearts.

Every day I wrote entries in my diary like:
“Saw my sweetie CR coming out of the auditorium. He had on bellbottoms. He is adorable!”
or
“Today I passed CR in the hall and broke into a grin which I couldn’t stop. I have a feeling he saw me.”

But I still hadn’t actually met him. I thought I had it made when a friend told me she was acquainted with Chris. (She incidentally had also slept with Malcolm, an act she described as “awful.”) I was awed by her sophistication and I begged her to introduce Chris and me.

So the next morning, she and I wandered over to his crowd on the school steps. But here’s all she said to him: “Oh Chris, was that your sports car I saw you getting out of? No? Well, I guess it must be your mother’s then.” I was furious with her when the bell rang and we had to go to class. “Well then, let’s go back this afternoon,” she said. But I told her no, it’d be too embarrassing.

Anyway it didn’t matter. By this time, my infatuation had grown to such astronomical proportions, I’d felt like I was standing next to one of the Beatles. My heart had pounded. I thought I’d faint. What if I made a fool of myself? Under the circumstances my only sensible option was to go back watching him from afar.

A few weeks later, one of the most popular boys in school overheard me telling jokes in the hall and laughed so hard he fell on the floor. Later he kissed my hand (twice!) and told me I looked like Barbra Streisand. After that I lost all interest in Chris--or Malcolm.

...And Starring Poe as "Herself"

My friend Susan W. and I call each other “Identical Cousins” after the long-ago Patty Duke Show. Even though Susan and I are no relation, we truly do “look alike, walk alike and even talk alike.”

We are also great philosophers. You’ve heard “If a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it, does it make a sound?” Susan and I came up with a much better question, listed here in two parts:

1)What if your life is actually a situation comedy and an audience you can’t see or hear is laughing at all the things you take so seriously?

Consider: Perhaps your audience is talking right now—“Did you see the (Your Name) Show this week? Wasn’t that hilarious when the car wouldn’t start?” “And what about that big fight with the next-door neighbor? ha ha ha!”

I’m serious. I really think that happens. Or if not, it should.

A typical episode for me (from 1997):

I was on jury duty and the day’s proceedings had run late. By the time they dismissed us, the courthouse was closing up. I decided to stop off first and use the jury room bathroom. I heard someone walking around outside, but I didn’t pay much attention. A few minutes later, when I tried to leave the bathroom, the door wouldn't open.

“Oh no!” I thought, “The janitor locked me in. I’ll be trapped all night!” I started screaming, “Help!” pounding on the door, shaking the knob and… the door opened on its own. I’d been pushing it the wrong way.

As I walked out, cops and bailiffs came running, guns drawn, down the hall towards the jury room. I had to tell them, “Heh heh. Thought I was locked in the bathroom. Never mind.”

Talk about humiliating. All night I berated myself. How could I have been so stupid?

But next morning I thought, “Who am I reminding myself of?” The answer--my Aunt Thelma. Stuff like my jury room incident is always happening to her. The problem is, my mother has never liked Aunt Thelma, and always holds Thelma up as the queen of losers.

Now I realized, “Wait a minute—I love Thelma. I don’t care if she’s goofy.” That’s when I vowed to be as loving and kind to myself as I am with my aunt. Life-changing experience. Closing Credits.


The second half of our philosphical question offers the only downside:
2) What happens to you when your show is cancelled?

I say keep your ratings up--have lots of awful, embarrassing moments.

Erasmo, Part 3

I’ve written before about Erasmo, the kid I tutor who hates reading, and who takes half an hour to sit down and focus on his work.

I prayed and prayed for a way to reach him. Now I’m happy to report tremendous success.

How did this happen?

I noticed from Day One (when he told me he had a pet dinosaur) that we’ve got a very creative kid here. So about six weeks ago I started bringing something for him to play with after he reads for thirty minutes.

One week I brought colored tissue paper and white glue, and we made collages. He loved it. When our time was up, I let him pick a dozen sheets of tissue paper to take home. You’d have thought I’d given him the keys to a Mercedes: “Really? Really? This is really mine to keep?”

Once I brought some of my daughter’s Legos, a toy he’d never played with. He went ape over them and begged me to let him take some home, which I couldn’t do since they were Laura’s. But I promised to bring them back another time and I did.

Since I instituted this new system, I’ve had absolutely no trouble; he comes in, grabs a book and goes right to work.

He only goofed off once. By the time he’d put in half an hour, I said I had to go home. (Actually I could have stayed overtime, but I spotted the teachable moment.) Since then, when he gets distracted, I’ll remind him he’s cutting into “play time,” and instantly he’s right on track.

That’s why it was such a joy recently when this boy who couldn't read, read three Easy Readers in half an hour. Every time he finished a page, he made the clenched-fist victory sign and shouted “Yes!”

In June the school hosts a party for us tutors, and we bring presents for our kids. This year I’ll give Erasmo three Easy Readers (He loves Clifford books) and…guess what I found on Ebay for $30…a box of 500 Legos!

Run for the Roses

The Kentucky Derby—is there any way to convey the excitement, the thrill it held over us kids? It was the town's obsession for a whole week, a long time when you’re eight or nine.

One highlight was the steamboat race between The Belle of Louisville and Indiana’s Delta Queen. Every year I hoped Louisville would win.

Every year the Delta Queen creamed us.

A Memory:

In 1962 my brother and I went to Camp Tall Trees. That year the camp acquired a new horse, and the head counselor announced a contest. We campers would submit names and the staff would pick the best one for the horse’s name. The prize: a candy bar.

For me, it was about much more than a candy bar. If I won, that horse would be mine , or at least always bear the name I chose. I submitted the most beautiful one I could think of: Brown Beauty.

Now I was a little disappointed, but mostly pleased, when my brother won. His entry—“Horace the Horse.”

Steve later told me that as soon as he’d thought of the name he knew he’d win. As for me, that was when I realized I was hopelessly out of his league. How could my “Brown Beauty” mind ever compete with his “Horace the Horse brilliance?”

So What’s My Point?

I loved this year’s Derby, when a puny fifty-to-one nobody (with a toothless rider!) came from last place to win by eight lengths.

I also loved it when fat, dumpy Susan Boyle mowed down the cool crowd on American Idol.

My hope--maybe this bad economy has produced some kind of universal psychic energy change.

Maybe this is our year, when we losers come into our own.

Let's hear it for Brown Beauty!