My sex education was kinesthetic. A kind of on-the-job training where no one really knows what is going on but all parties are still interested in learning about the trade. My southern Baptist mother (God rest her soul) avoided sexual conversation. She once told her 5 year-old inquisitor (me,) that she didn’t know what the word pregnant meant. It seemed to me that when Bob and Lisa said the word on “As the World Turns” that the meaning registered in her vocabulary. But she held her “I don’t know” ground. I was the youngest of five, so when my friend Donna revealed the definition to me, I smelled that there must be something juicy going on if my mother was going to such great lengths to keep me in the dark. Obviously, she had been pregnant five times, so what was up with the secrecy? Nothing says, “PLEASE COME IN” like a “DO NOT ENTER” sign.

Based on what I have gleaned from friends and kids, people handle "the talk" differently. There is the family that used a chalk board co-hosted by both parents. Yikes! And, there is the family that threw a book at the children with the instructions to read it and come back to them with any questions. My children swear there is a sex-ed "pop-up" book, but I have not actually seen any hard evidence.  

Perhaps my own childhood mystery and cluelessness turned me into the militant-hyper-communicating-information-sharing-talk-it-through-mom that I am today. If my daughters ask … I answer.  Sometimes I answer on the spot and sometimes I designate a time and place such as with our tradition of the 5^th grade sex talk.

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My daughters went to camp up near Asheville the last week of July. It is a week they look forward to every year. Equipped with sleeping bags, bug spray, sunscreen, and clothes that never find their way back into their duffle bags or our house, we made the three hour ride to Camp Grier on a Sunday, belting out camp songs and excitedly talking about the rope bridge, rock slide, and outdoor overnights.

Near the end of camp week, on a Thursday night around 9:30, I got a call from Camp Grier. It was the nurse. She began by saying, “Emily, this is Jeannie from Camp Grier, your daughters are okay, I just wanted to let you know…” Then she paused. It is during those seconds of quiet that my mind spun like a hamster wheel. Just wanted to let me know that a meteor carrying aliens had landed? Let me know that Riley or Ryann or Riley and Ryann were involved in a girls gone wild camp video? Let me know that there had been a bear attack? Let me know that snakes had arrived in herds and were blocking the entrance to the dining hall? Let me know … WHAT Jeannie? Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

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Riley’s friend Avalon debuted at Tate Street Coffee House last week. She played a guitar she hand-painted, strumming and singing songs self-taught. Avalon was a little nervous. Her pure, sweet voice shook slightly and there were times you couldn’t quite hear the lyrics. Perhaps her microphone could have been closer, and maybe she has some distance to travel before she is top-notch by professional performance standards, but who really cares about what Avalon has yet to do? With the courageous first step and an enthusiastic crowd of supporters she took on a Sunday night at the coffee house, the rest will follow. I felt so proud for her because here is the kicker … Avalon was up there on that stage playing her guitar. She put a verb to her dream.

Tate Street Coffee House is situated beside the campus of UNC-Greensboro. To the walls are nailed: heart pouring poetry, abstract paintings full of depth and angst, and undecipherable metal art. The atmosphere drips of the young pheromones of collegiate revolution, that musky scent of teen rage and readiness pushing at the exit door of confinement, hungry to storm the world.

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An email exchange turned violent word slinging with a family member recently resulted in me seeking the advice of my attorney. I printed off all the documents from my sent and inbox, retrieved historical data to support my case, and sat patiently primed as my attorney reviewed my evidence. As I waited for him to read, I became an Emily version of  Erin Brockovich. Dressed in the attire of Wonder Woman, I was poised to uncover hidden truths and right all of mankind against evil doers. Several sleepless nights and lots of hurtful words had caused my hallucinogenic state where I fantasized yelling things such as, “You can’t handle the truth,” just like Jack Nicholson, in “A Few Good Men.”

My wise, country attorney, a man who grows bonsai and rages against technology, pushed back from his table after reading my papers and asked in his slow, southern drawl, “So, why are you at an attorney’s office?”

I was rattled and stumped by his question. He was supposed to be making copious notes and calling in witnesses. Why was he challenging my intentions? Instead, he gently deflated my vision and lowered my ErinBrockovichWonderWomanJackNicholson self back into reality. I answered honestly, with a little shake in my voice, “I want to make her be quiet.”

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Thanks to everyone who came out to hear me read last night. What a great group of beautiful and fun women. This blog is dedicated to my cousins, Ellen Dunlap Linton and Iris Dunlap Davis.

Dear Mom,

On Saturday, I stood among your flowers. The azaleas have peaked and fallen but the Irises are blooming strong. When you were alive, I never noticed your bend towards purple, but I see it now and it is my favorite too. The things you planted in your yard and family live on without you. Well, except for your rose bushes, only the durable climbers have survived my brown thumb. 

We are remodeling the house at your farm. Most of what we are using is rescued or recycled. Having lived through the Depression, I see you rolling your eyes at my infatuation with old barn doors and wash boards which don’t carry the same appeal when you used them by necessity rather than displaying them for fun and nostalgia.

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