Sharla Dawn Gorder

And I Turned Out Alright…

Sharla Dawn

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February 22, 2017

This story did not make the final cut for my book, though I think that it is Ted’s favorite. He is really impressed by the way I “argue my case” with such conviction and humor. I convinced him some 23 years ago, maybe I can convince others today.

The story didn’t make the cut because my editor, who is not a Southerner, believed that it was “not so relevant” in this enlightened age. “Isn’t it illegal to spank your child?”

Well, clearly, she hasn’t been to a Walmart south of the Mason Dixon Line lately. But, alas, I have, and if I could have made a citizen’s arrest there in the parking lot, as a daddy raged on his tantrumming toddler, I would have. But he saw me coming, and eased up on the kid, as he wrestled him into his car seat. I worried all day about that little boy. I prayed that the car ride would calm Dad down, and that the “spanking” wouldn’t resume when they got home.

And no, it’s not illegal to spank your kid at home here in the Sunshine State. But I so fervently believe it is utterly ill-advised.

And I Turned Out Alright

I had thought that this story would not make the cut, that it could be edited out of the book as passé, no longer relevant in this enlightened age, a soapbox I could retire. I wanted to believe that—after all these years, and all that research, and my very own real life case studies—there would be little need for me to tell you about “that daddy hitting that baby.”

But I was wrong. A brief news report on the radio a few months ago, smacked me in the face (or on the buttocks, maybe?) with the issue again, and it stung. Really? Are we still so hot-headed, so lazy, so crude?

This story is out of Florida. Aren’t they all? I am a loyal Floridian, and even I am amazed by all the asinine press we generate. Huffington post has a whole section, Weird Florida, devoted to the wacko’s that make the news here in the Sunshine State: Man Found Naked in Hog Barn Tells Police, ‘I Just Like Pigs.’ Woman Assaults Grandma for Not Accepting Facebook Friend Request. Man Wearing ‘Seriously, I Have Drugs’ Shirt Charged With Predictable Crime. Man Tried to Sell Duct-Taped Iguanas Dangling from Bike.

And Dad Calls Cops to Watch Him Spank 12-Year Old Daughter. And the story brought back memories. Continue Reading

Angst

Sharla Dawn

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February 15, 2017

Sometimes it just comes out of the blue…or more accurately, out of the black night. And I’m awake, and anxiety floods my blood with adrenaline, and I’m exhausted before I’m fully conscious. It doesn’t happen very often anymore. The lifestyle changes I’ve made over the last few years truly do help keep the more sinister demons at bay, but, alas, my brain chemistry has been handed down and down and down—a long line of worriers came before me—and sometimes I am ambushed by overwhelming fretfulness, and it literally takes my breath away, like a thief in the interminable night.

But it always gives it back. I catch my wayward breath. The distress always passes, sometimes quickly, like an afternoon thunderstorm, other times, slowly, like a low pressure system that stalls. For years and years, I didn’t know that I had some control over my emotional weather patterns. I was terrified that I would get stuck—like my mom did—in the exhaustion of pathological anxiety, or the bleakness of malignant depression, and I’d never find my way out again. Continue Reading

Burlap and Brocade

Sharla Dawn

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February 8, 2017

I ran across this old quilt last weekend while cleaning out the garage, and I thought, kind of nostalgically—“This is my life—This old thing is a mess, but it is oddly beautiful.” Ha! that’s just the way I’ve been feeling so much of the time lately—messy but, by the grace of God, still “oddly beautiful.”

The patchwork quilt metaphor for life, is by no means an original one. The analogy has occurred to me many times, especially as I wrote my book. But it wasn’t until I pulled this tattered thing from a dusty crate Saturday, that I realized how appropriate the metaphor is—to me specifically. I am not a quilter, but I have always, ever since childhood, been fascinated by the way fragments of things come together to create art. Continue Reading

Making the Upgrade

Sharla Dawn

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February 1, 2017

This little story has absolutely no socially redeeming value. Unlike last week’s post, it will not make you cry (except maybe tears of hilarity), it has no tacit moral lesson, and there is no call to action. It’s just a funny story.

It didn’t make the cut for my book due to redundancy. Who would believe that such “Horriblariousness” would strike twice? You’d think one utterly humiliating wardrobe malfunction per lifetime would be sufficient, and I’d learn to dress—or redress—myself more carefully. But, alas, no.

I was reminded of this little story last week when a young lady I have yet to meet—Isabella, 10—decided to dress as ME for the “go-to-school-as-your-favorite-book-character” parade at her elementary school. She actually read my book cover to cover, and her favorite story seems to be the one where I inadvertently wear my britches inside-out all day, “Horriblariousness.” Isabella’s “costume” involved lots of broken seashells, a drawing of me and Shuba on her shirt, and—you guessed it—her pants worn inside out. Ha! Love this girl!

Well, if she liked that story, she’s gonna LOVE this one. I wrote it many, many years ago. And I suspect that the “sour chardonnay” I so recklessly imbibed back then may have contributed to my carelessness and ultimate demise aboard flight 267 from Boston to Atlanta. Ha! Maybe there is a lesson here—Don’t drink and dress.

Anyway, this one’s for you, Isabella.

Making the Upgrade

Pretentiousness is funny. It can infect and disable you at any time, and you didn’t even know you were sick. In fact, perhaps you even believed you were immune to that particular character flaw. After all, you don’t act all haughty and high and mighty. You are the furthest thing from snooty, snobby, or as we said in middle school, stuck-up.

I’m proud to tell you that I am especially humble. (Ha!) But I haven’t always been so Gandhi-ish. In my twenties, as a Pam Am flight attendant, I loved pointing out “pretentious” people on the airplane. (The word, pretentious, itself, is somehow pretentious.) I could be pretty vocal about my derision for those holier-than-thous who occasionally messed things up: Can you believe the guy in 3C who just ordered a Grand Mariner? Does he want Captain Ahab, a Seattle shortstop, or a cocktail? And the guy who ordered Betadine and brandy? Even as extensive as Pan Am’s bar was in the 70’s, we didn’t stock feminine hygiene products. But we did have Benedictine and Brandy. And even knowing the difference and being proud of it—Who orders B & B anymore?—is pretentious.

I’ve always traveled a lot—as a flight attendant for Pan Am and United for 17 years, and more recently, as a site coordinator for a company that organized medical conferences. My, oh my, how things have changed at 35,000 feet. Pan Am, US Flag carrier extraordinaire, simply couldn’t compete—with our Benedictine, Gran Marnier, and Dom Perignon—in a deregulated market. We served Beluga caviar, carved prime rib from a cart and served a complete six-course meal on every international flight. My first uniform issue with Pan Am included that cute Jackie-O-style pillbox hat. The white gloves were optional, but we still had the trendy little ascot thingy. Continue Reading

Jo Mama

Sharla Dawn

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January 25, 2017

I didn’t know it at the time, for my friend wasn’t one to advertise such things, but the doctors told her that two years would be pushing it. Her lungs were shutting down—that’s why she was having such a hard time catching her breath, why that nagging cough wouldn’t go away, why she was so exhausted.

They called it pulmonary fibrosis—the idiopathic variety, meaning they couldn’t even point to a cause. It wouldn’t matter anyway. No lifestyle change would make this terrible diagnosis go away. There is no cure. The end game is always the same. The tissue deep in her lungs would become thicker and thicker, forming scar tissue (fibroids) that would eventually prevent her lungs from moving oxygen into her bloodstream. Her lungs would fail. She would likely suffocate.

I didn’t know all of this at the time, for Jo wasn’t one to advertise such things.

Just a few days ago, her sister, Pat, told me this story: At the dreaded two-year point after Jo’s diagnosis, Pat went to stay with her to help care for her during the final stage of this awful disease. By this time, Jo was attached 24/7 to an oxygen tank, and unable to leave the house. She was grateful that she had seen so much of the world—she and her airline pilot husband, Dick, had traveled the globe—for now her world was reduced to the four walls and patio of her home in a pretty little suburb of Mobile. She didn’t complain. It was a good home. And if all she could do was wait, well, her sister would wait with her. Continue Reading

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And I Turned Out Alright…

And I Turned Out Alright

Angst

Burlap and Brocade

Making the Upgrade

Making the Upgrade

Jo Mama