No Puppets

Somehow, I thought there would be puppets.  She had gestured and motioned as if the crowd would be transformed.  We would be joined by the unexpected, by the fabulous, popping up from the ordinary. Our joy would be great.  They had to be puppets, I imagined.  I saw colorful faces of fabric, lewd, grotesque, and joyous expressions.  Larger than this life but hidden among us, popping out from the ordinary/  Puppets like fools, to speak truth and amuse.  Perhaps I would see the mind of a puppeteer, under a colorful hand.

But there were no puppets.  It was a band and a songstress, working too hard on an anthem. The sun was very bright and it was loud.  We waited too long there, with a vain hope for puppets.

Beverly, described

This is how Beverly described herself back in the aughts.

Call me Beverly Van Beaver Dam. I'm the daughter of Vernon and Geneva (nee Potawatomistra, now deceased) Van Beaver Dam. I am a corn-fed midwesterner, way overeducated, born in Holland, Michigan and now living in the "Big Little" in the northeast US. I have a husband, a job as a professor, two kids, some friends, and lots to do. My husband is Owen, the working class English utopian. My boy is Sloopy, who we just want to hang on. My girl is Daisy. She pirouettes at Aikido class. MY BLOGGING ETHIC: Apparently, it's good form to state one's blogging ethic explicitly. Here's mine: To speak truth to power while being nice.

Stories of My Significance

Put it in your search engine. Nothing comes up.  You can google it.  I'm here to inscribe the phrase. Wait no more to tell and hear them!

Not incapable of lying. . .

only incapable of lying well.

Charade Hell

I was once required, in a game of charades to act out "When the Red, Red Robin Came Bob-, Bob-Bobbin' Along."  At that moment, I decided I hated charades and didn't think much of games in general.  The feeling that I would rather be scrubbing a dirty kitchen floor was visceral.