Growing up Bates: There Willl Be Blood

It was a cold and rainy night. She was running for her life from the predators who were chasing her. As she ran, constantly looking over her shoulder to see how close those who wanted to harm her were, she felt herself stumble forward only to be caught by the cold, hard steel of....

.... the Oldsmobile 88.

Alright, so it wasn't quite that gloomy or scary - had you going though, didn't I?

It was actually a rather comfortable and pleasant night. I was at church, First Baptist, for Wednesday night service - Acteens! I can't remember if it was before church or if it was during a break time, but I do remember being outside on the sidewalk goofing off with three guys [who shall remain nameless so that they are not hunted down and thrown into jail]. We were Junior High students, so we were, of course, just plain dumb. We were running up and down the sidewalk, and one of the gents decided to he would like to start throwing stuff at me. As I was dodging the incredibly dangerous objects [I think it was leaves....], I tripped. Big surprise, since everyone knows how incredibly graceful that I am, right?

It wouldn't have been so bad if there wasn't a big ole Oldsmobile 88 parked right in the space where my face was currenlty being hurled.

As I sat on the sidewalk, laughing about the latest proof of my cluminess, the pastor's wife walked outside. She looked at me and her face turned ghost-white. Apparently, I had busted my head wide open and blood was running down my face. I had no idea.

And then she called my mom.

To make a long story short - it was my first experience with getting stiches. When the male nurse asked me what had happened to me and I told him, he responded with, "Never tell that story to anyone else ever again."

I've always been a rebel.

Growing Up Bates: Redneck Easter Egg

My dad has a great sense of humor. Every now and then he has a brilliant moment of hilarity - if that is even a word. Being a bit of a humor freak myself, he did not often catch me off guard....

....until one Easter morning.

My mom was really big into making Easter baskets for us, even when we were older, she would make these cool Easter baskets with all sorts of goodies in them. We just began to take for granted that when we got up on Easter morning there would be candy to be eaten and eggs to colored.

On this Easter morning, mom set dad loose to make my Easter basket. It consisted of one item:

A giant watermelon...

...Painted white with Indoor Latex Paint...

...With the words "Hoppy Easter" scrawled across it....

I have never laughed so hard before or since. It was truely a moment of genius.

Growing Up Bates: Multiple Personality Disorder - Christmas Play Style

I admit it; it was fun to grow up in a small town. You get to do things that kids who grow up in big cities do not get to do like go Cow Tipping [ahem, not that I ever did that....] or play mail box baseball [which is SURELY never did....right....].

The thing about small towns in the South is that they are full of small churches. Our church was no exception. We had a membership of 32 people, and at one point I WAS the youth group. I was the only one. But at the same time there was a slew of kids under the age of tweleve there.

Every church must put on a Christmas program. I believe it is in the Constitution as a mandate, but I could be wrong. Our church was no exception to this rule. The year when I WAS the youth group, the Christmas programs that was picked were always waaaaayyyy too ambitious for our little group of kids to complete. There were big words in the dialoug, musical numbers, huge props, and actual direction that had to be followed to deliever the lines correctly.

Can you guess what happened next? As we were going through assigning parts my name kept getting written down next to several characters and all musical numbers. It basically became a one person play, simply because I was the only one who could read the big words at that time. Even when the song was supposed to be sung by another character, it was me singing off stage while the other character was on stage. I was talking to myself as different characters, getting outfits mixed up and straight up Milli Vanilli'ing my way through the play. It was lots of fun.

All experiences teach you life skills. What did I learn from the Christmas Play experience? I gained the ability to multi-task, and I learned that it is really alright to talk to yourself. Sometimes, it's even expected.

Growing up Bates: Spook Lane

Our church was....let's just say 'different.' I grew up going to Martinville Baptist Church. A building about 20 yards from my bedroom window. It was a family church, and seeing as two-thirds of the community was family (named "Martin" by the way), our family WAS the church.

Now-a-days churches give the kids an alternative to Halloween. Usually this includes something called a "Hallelujah" festival, carnival games, hot dog roast and a hay ride. But, when I was a kid, our church pretty much embraced the 'other' meaning of Halloween (in a fun way...not so much in an evil way). The adults and older teens would turn our entire church building into a Haunted House. My Sunday School teacher, Aunt Lexie, who was usually the sweetest lady ever, suddenly turned into a wicked witch who feed us 'brains and eyeballs' (spaghetti and peeled grapes). The pastor, who usually guided us in the ways of Lord, suddenly was a zombie walking around trying to eat our brains. As if the haunted house/church wasn't bad enough, the older teens created something so foul, so outrageous, that I only experienced it once, but after that I was never the same.

It was called Spook Lane.

Spook Lane resided in the creepy woods right behind the small country church. It was pitch black, lit only by creepy red lights and the occasional flashlight. The lane of evil, as I've come to call it, consisted of many of the normal elements that you would see in any modern day Halloween show - chainsaw wielding maniacs, zombies, the weird guy who stalks you because you wouldn't go to prom with him. But the most evil aspect of Spook Lane was Hell's Pit. It was a pit that was at least 20 feet deep (of course, I was like 7 years old, so it could have been 3 feet deep and felt like 20 feet deep). If you got caught anywhere on the lane by a teen, you got thrown into Hell's pit where the older, meaner kids would torture you for hours before letting you out. Not even your momma could save you. Perhaps this is why we all turned to Jesus.

Perhaps this is the reason that I have such a warped sense of humor now. I guess it will all come out in therapy.

Now when I see kids at church on Halloween night playing their safe little carnival games and dressed like a nun, or Jesus, or even Spiderman I smirk and think of our pastor, the Zombie.

Growing up Bates: The Redneck Slip and Slide

I guess I was around 7 or 8 years old when the Slip and Slide was ultra popular (yes, I am JUST that old). Anyway - I begged my parents for years it seemed (I'm sure it was only like 4 days) to buy us a slip and slide. I wanted the bright-yellow-banana-looking-plastic slip and slide! After hours of begging, pleading, and making a list of all of the "Pros" of the slip and slide (nevermind all of the "cons"), my dad finally gave in. But, of course, we couldn't afford to spend money on a REAL slip and slide,so dad decided to make his own out of a giant sheet of plastic. It was no ordinary sheet of plastic, it was a giant sheet of visquen (I have no idea how to spell it) that was covered in dirt! So, we tried it out...we took the water hose and wetted down the plastic and tried to slide. I was first. I ran from about 20 yards back and dove head first onto the make-shift, redneck slip and slide, and I slid about 2 1/2 inches before getting plastic burn! Not a good idea. 
   So, dad decides that he knows how to make it better. He gets out the Joy dishwashing liquid and pours the entire bottle on the plastic, then wets it down again with the water hose. I, being the brave (and stupid) kid that I was ran that 20 yards again (I don't know why I thought we had to be so stinking far back!), and hit the slip and slide head first again. This time I went whizzing down the plastic at the speed of light! It was so slippery that I didn't stop until I was about 10 feet PAST the plastic! So I was 10 feet away from the plastic covered in a dirt/soap misture, and I had soap in every orifice of my body. It was not pretty. Needless to say, that was the last slip and slide adventure at my house...but now, the sprinkler, that was a different story.

Growing up Bates: The Fall Heard Round the World

My answer to the classic ice-breaker question, "What's your most embarrassing moment?" varies from time to time. You see, there are just so many to chose from. But this one is at least top ten.

The year was....well, let's just call it 8th grade. I was a cheerleader. (I'll pause while you silently judge me). OK, stop judging me.

It was rodeo weekend and, as tradition in Hamburg, there was the celebratory parade. Parades in a town of barely over 3,000 people are interesting - "floats" often are built out of horse trailers and are pulled by tractors, and cheerleaders ride in the back of trucks and yell about how great their team is, while tossing candy to little kids. So, the Jr. High cheerleaders were riding in the back of our sponsor's truck and her daughter (think 5 year old) was riding in the back with us. She just happened to be RIGHT BEHIND ME when the truck driver gassed it!  I, being the non-graceful person that I am, lost my balance and tripped backwards over the little girl who was behind. I did a back flip out of the truck and landed on my rear end on the pavement. Oh yeah - on main street in front of the entire town!

It gets worse...

The horses were right behind us. I sat there stunned for about a millisecond before realizing that I was about to be trampled to death by a Garth Brooks album cover. So I channeled Wonder Woman, leaped up from my throne of shame, sprinted to the truck and cleared the tailgate jumping back into the truck! I spent the rest of the parade hiding under the toolbox of the truck.

Growing up Bates: The Infamous Fist Fight

The year was 1989.  I was in 6th grade, 12 years old, and sitting in Science class. The teacher had left the room and asked us to silently read our assignment while she was out. 

Wait...let's rewind a few months. . .

At the beginning of sixth grade, I had this box that all 6th grade girls had in 1989:  the Caboodle. There is no way to explain the Caboodle - you just have to watch Napoleon Dynamite - it's the box that Deb keeps her friendship bracelets in. I kept all of my school supplies in my Caboodle, and I also had pictures of my family taped inside of it. This kid in my class. No, not a kid. This man in my class - he was like 17 years old and still in the sixth grade - made fun of my family, especially my cousin John. He called him "Big Bird." About half way through the year, I had enough.

Back to science class. The teacher left and had us read our assignment while she was out. Michael, the man-boy bully, went up to the board and drew the "Air Jordan" symbol. He turned to the class and announced, "No body better erase that or I'll kick your butt."  Everyone trembled in fear. He towered over all of us. He actually had biceps and a mustache. We pretty much feared him as much as we feared falling to our death from the eagle's nest on the playground.

I don't know what compelled me. Maybe I was just tired of being picked on (I was 4'7" by the way; tomboy to the core). Maybe I thought my life was complete and it was OK to die now. Maybe I just didn't think. I walked to the board, so confident. I picked up the eraser (you could feel the tension in the room. . . all of the oxygen left the room as the class took a collective gasp), and I erased his drawing. I turned and slowly walked back to my desk - glaring at the bully who was surely about to kill me.

As I sat back at my desk, Michael walked over to me. He pulled his arm back and made a fist. He hit me so hard. It was really the first time I'd be punched by someone so big.  I didn't falter. I didn't whimper, though in my head I was screaming in pain.  Instead, I got up from my desk, stood on top of my desk and punched him right square in the nose.

It was then that Mrs. Timmons walked back into the room.  I received 9 "D-Halls" because of the punch. It was the best detention I ever served. The bad part was that Mrs. Timmons called my dad. I was more scared to go home and face my dad than I was facing the bully. I would have rather been beaten to a pulp by a dozen bullies than face my dad after he got that phone call.  When I got home, I bravely went to face the music.  My dad had only two questions, and only one response. Here's how that conversation went:

Dad:  Did you start the fight?

Me:  No sir.

Dad:  Did you end the fight?

Me:  Yes sir.

Dad:  That's my girl!