Pat Conroy, Writing and Family

Last night, my mother graciously invited me to go with her to hear Cassandra King, Rick Bragg and Pat Conroy speak. (I also saw Brett Butler of Grace Under Fire fame in the stairwell. I'd try to stretch that story into another "celebrity" encounter, but I've pretty much covered all the details already -- Brett Butler, stairwell, and I'm out. Sigh.)

I enjoyed all three speakers immensely. All were quite funny, and I loved being able to hear their thoughts on writing and the South.

Pat Conroy, in particular, spoke about how his mother raised him with a love of literature and how she really raised him to be a Southern writer. In his words, she taught him "to never be ashamed of where he came from -- except on his father's side."

That anecdote reminded me of a conversation I had with my grandmother (my mother's mother) when I first decided I wanted to give this writing thing a try.

"You have so much material," she said. "You really ought to write about your family."

"I don't think Mama would like that very much," I said. (For years, my mother's greatest fear was that I would write a book. Hopefully, some of that anxiety has abated in recent years.)

"Oh no, Dear," she said. "I was talking about your father's side. That's where all the good stories are."

Jazz Hands

It seems I'm just going to keep adding to the list of photos that prove I was a child of the '80s and early '90s. (The tell-tale signs in this particular pic? Perm, neon, sequins, sequined choker, jaunty hat.)

This is the photo from what would have been my third grade jazz recital. (Do people even still take jazz class? I remember thinking it was very "modern" of me. I only ever mastered step-ball-change, despite weeks of training. And I can't remember if I knew "jazz hands" before the life-changing event that was Bring it On.)

I also can't remember whether or not I liked this outfit or not. I think I dug the one-shoulder look, but I also remember being very jealous that my middle sister got to wear a big pink tutu that reminded me of Glinda the Good Witch for her part of the same recital.

Wearing this outfit was the first time someone ever whistled at me -- a sweet older man who worked at the Western Supermarket -- and I glowed because of it.

Sadly, though, I never got to perform in this amazing ensemble.

About two weeks before the recital, I broke both of my arms.

Yes, both of them. There was a tree house involved, and let's just say that the natural instinct to defend yourself from the ground in a fall is not a good one. I lay on the ground thinking that I had hurt my chest because that's where I could feel the pain. But, when I stood up, it looked like my hands were on top of my arms. (That's a compound fracture for you.) I then ran like the wind (a true rarity) to get my friend's mom's attention so I could go somewhere with doctors ASAP.

Many hours later, I had casts on both arms and was an extremely unhappy child. (A nurse tried to help me with slings, and I ended up looking like I was in a straight jacket. It was awkward.) And I hadn't just broken both my arms. I'd broken both my arms three days before school ended for the summer. No class trip, no pool parties and no jazz recital.

In fairness to the ladies of my dance school, when my mom and I went to pick up my sister from her dance class a day or two before the recital, the receptionist thought I could still perform. "If we cut off the one arm, I'm sure we could get the costume on her," she said. "Then she'd at least be able to dance."

My mother, who is usually full of tact and grace, stared at that women in a way I've rarely seen her look at anyone. "I don't think so."

Who would think that putting a nine-year-old with two broken arms on stage in ballet shoes to dance is a good idea, I don't know. (Other than the naive receptionist, of course.) But my mother was having none of it, and I'm grateful for that nearly every day.

This photo is bad enough. Can you even imagine what it would look like with white plaster invovled, too?