Jessica Ferguson

Author, Writing Coach, Speaker

J is for James

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I feel very behind in my A to Z postings. I know I’m not, and that the feeling comes because I’m writing my posts the morning of instead of the night before. Pressure! Early on, I wrote each one the evening before but I’m reaching a point where I have to think, think, think. And then I sprint forward with great energy. That’s how I do a lot of things. That’s why I’m not a very fast fiction writer—I have to think too much and too long.

The letter J could be for any number of my family members: my grandfather John Henry, my dad Jesse, my mom Jerry, me or my cousin Jerry Lynn, or my uncle—James.

I’ve chosen James, my dad’s brother and Jerry Lynn’s dad. James was the youngest of my grandparent’s thirteen kids. You know what that means. Spare the rod, spoil the child?

James was married to my mother’s sister, Charlene. That means Jerry Lynn and his younger brother Neil were my double-first cousins. Jerry Lynn was named after my mom. Eventually, James and my Aunt Charlene divorced. I can remember going to their little house to play (just up the road from ours) and my aunt would be in bed. Dishes were piled in the sink and on the kitchen table. I was always fascinated by the sight of it because our house was spotless. My mom—even though she worked nights and slept days—was meticulous in every way. Remember—the perfectionist. Later on, after James and Charlene divorced, I realized she’d been depressed because she really came ‘alive’ once he was out of her life.

James was a huge part of my life.(See the pic at right.) He was probably the son that looked most like my grandfather—tall and lanky. He drank goat’s milk. Odd that I should remember that. And he was a smooth talker too. That’s what I remember most.

I’ve always enjoyed collecting things—anything paper. Post cards, letters, articles from the newspaper. You name it. I’m borderline hoarder.

Even as a kid, I cut out models from catalogs and used them as paper dolls. And I loved movie stars—especially Marilyn Monroe. I thought MM was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. So when I saw a post card of her on the beach in a two piece swimsuit, I had to have it. I think I’ve mentioned before that I used to write movie stars and ask for their pictures. I had a pretty good collection of them. While this post card wasn’t autographed, it made a nice addition to my movie star stash.

I showed it to my Uncle James. I vaguely remember having a “don’t want to” feeling down inside when James talked me into giving him the post card. I can’t remember what he said, how he talked me into turning it over to him. Told you he was a smooth talker. Imagine my surprise when, a few weeks later, I found my post card torn to pieces beneath a tree near my grandmother’s house. Can you imagine how I felt? Why did he do it? Since this happened before his divorce, I’ve wondered if my Aunt Charlene shredded Marilyn in a fit of anger or jealousy. One of the mysteries of my early teen years. And it seems cruel that when I think of my Uncle James, this is what I remember.

My uncle had a drinking problem and checked himself into Rusk State Hospital to avoid going to jail for a DWI. I was in my 20s then. I remember my parents asking if I’d take him a carton of cigarettes. Many years later, he died in a fire at age 56. He’d been drinking and fell asleep while smoking.

I’m sure we all have memories of this sort. We look back and see how loved ones wasted their lives and talents. Stories like this make us sad, but they can make us stronger. We just need to figure out how. Sadly, this entire family is gone: James, Charlene, Jerry Lynn and Neil. My two cousins left children behind who face their own demons and challenges.
But then, don’t we all?

Do you have any memories that fill you with sorrow? How do they make you stronger? Want to share?

G is for Goofy

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Do you ever feel goofy?

After church on Sunday, we went with friends to Johnny Carinos. I’m not a big fan of Italian food, but I do love their raspberry tea and bread. The bread comes in long paper bags. After we ate—there were 8 of us—I saw an empty bread bag on the table and I had the strongest urge to blow into it and pop it! I didn’t, of course, but I really had to restrain myself.

I loved popping bags when I was a kid, scaring my mother and anyone else who was in the house. There’s something about making that loud pop that’s … fun!  Would you think I’m nuts if I told you I pop bags sometimes—when I’m lucky enough to come home from a store with one? Can you imagine an overweight, sixty-four year old white-haired woman blowing up a paper bag and popping it? Well, when I put it that way, I can’t either!

The instructions are right here if you want to give it a try.    

I’ve done a lot of goofy things in my life. Some good, some bad, some not so safe. I think I’ve told you before I’d chip off a little piece of the cow’s salt block and … yeah, you guessed it. Turns my stomach to think of it now.  

Pickle juice? Once my grandmother (paternal) caught me running back and forth to her fridge way too often, to sip her pickle juice.

Funny how that one out-of-the-blue urge to pop a little paper bag brought forth so many memories.

My grandmother (maternal) had a real goofy side to her. There were ten kids in my mother’s family. Eight girls and two boys. My two uncles were a year younger and a year older than me, and a favorite aunt was four years older. My mother was the oldest girl and always said her father would send her and her sisters out to the cotton field then he’d jump in bed with Grandma. From the number of kids they had in the old days, seems like all men did that. To the left, you see my grandparents and my young uncle, David.

I loved going to Arkansas to spend time with my mother’s family. Once, when I was there, my aunt and I slept so late that my grandma grabbed the water hose, stuck it through the bedroom window and sprayed us. She saturated the bedding and water was all over the floor. I’d never seen anything so outlandish in all my life! My mother was a by-the-book kind of person. No way would she have flooded a bedroom to get two kids out of bed. She’d have grabbed a belt or switch … or maybe the broom.

To the left is a pic of Uncle David and me. Of course, I never called him Uncle. He was more like a little brother. To the right, you see how my grandmother aged. Prettier with the white hair, I think.

Special memories are so valuable. My grandparents are gone now, and so is David, but I cherish the times I spent with them, the goofy memories I have.

Do you have a memory that makes you smile? One you cherish? Share it with us.

B is for Brother

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I have one sibling. A brother seven years younger.  Ironically, his name starts with a B. I can’t remember when he was little. For that matter, I can’t really remember when I was little. How much are we supposed to remember about our childhood? I don’t know. I wonder if there’s something unhealthy about not remembering.

 
Seven years is a lot. Sometimes I don’t think brother and I have much in common, then at other times, I realize we do. Often, I don’t feel we really know each other. That makes sense. He lives in one state and I live in another. He never left our hometown except when he went to college; but then again, he’s a world traveler.  

During our adult years, we’ve only spent time together during holidays. I’ve gone to his kids’ graduations and weddings. He came to my daughter’s graduation in Louisiana. And once he stayed up all night playing Nintendo with my stepson. All night. Mario Brothers didn’t have a chance!Brother even called the help hotline when they ran into a problem. He has always been … focussed.

Since the ordeal with our mom, we’re getting to know each other. It’s a little weird. I look at him and I see a grown man. It’s not like he hasn’t been grown for years—he’s in his 50s. I realize I’ve never thought of him that way. When I think of my brother, I remember the kid that constantly tried to make me throw up. I have a very weak stomach and he enjoyed grossing me out. I remember how he always wanted to touch my neck—knowing full well I hated for anyone to do that; still do. I have a lot of quirky hang-ups. I wonder if he remembers them.

A few weeks ago, I sat across the kitchen table watching my brother eat little cuties, those small clemetines that are a variety of mandarin orange, and I noticed how large his hands are, how thick his fingers. I realized he’s got our grandfather’s hands. For some reason, that brought a lump to my throat.
Here’s a picture of my brother’s hand holding my mother’s.

Have you  ever looked at your brother or sister, or mom or dad, and noticed something you’d never noticed before? How did it affect you?

CIRCUS OF HORRORS

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Do you remember the song, Look For A Star? The first stanza is below:

When life doesn’t seem worth the living
And you don’t really care who you are
When you feel there is no one beside you
Look for a star

If you can’t remember how it sounds, here’s the video:

I can’t think of this song without remembering an old movie I saw back in the 60s at the Arlyne Theater in my home town of Longview, Texas. I loved going to movies when I was a kid; today I don’t go much–I rent from Redbox and watch in the privacy of my own home so I can hide my eyes if I need to or mute if someone is throwing up, or just turn it off and quit watching. Back in the old days, I didn’t have those problems. I didn’t have to worry about four-letter words, graphic violence or barf.


But why in the world I went to see a British horror film called Circus of Horrors, I’ll never know. Circus of Horrors has haunted my memory. No exaggeration there.

In 1947 England, a plastic surgeon must beat a hasty retreat to France when one of his patients has ghastly problems with her surgery. Once there, he operates on a circus owner’s daughter, deformed by bombs from the war. Later he becomes the owner of the circus, and …

I’ve thought of it often and wondered if it was really as intriguing as I remember. So many times, my memory seems like nothing more than jumbled fiction in my head.  

About a year ago, I ordered the DVD. I was determined to find out the truth and perhaps perform a little exorcism of the Circus.  Joined by hubby and daughter, we watched. I don’t think they enjoyed it as much as I did. I was surprised at how much I remembered, and of course the song … that beautiful song seemed creepy, sinister.

I’m glad Circus of Horrors was just as fascinating in 2011 as it was in the 60s.  Several Amazon reviewers (about my age, I guess) remarked how the story has haunted them all these years. The suspense is great, there isn’t any graphic violence as compared to today’s thrillers even though, I admit, it’s still a bit gruesome. I think what really bothered me was the lack of transition from scene to scene. You can’t blink or you’ll find yourself in another country and wonder how you got there.

I won’t be forgetting this story any time soon. It just won’t let go of me. The concept is too interesting and if you really, really think about it, it’s not too far-fetched from things going on in the cosmetic surgery world today. (We can always tell when a star’s doc made a boo-boo, can’t we?)

One reviewer stated the movie is without a doubt one of the finest British horror films ever made, and while I’m not a real horror buff and can’t agree with any certainty, I can say if you enjoy horror at all, you’ll like Circus of Horrors.