NEVER BROACHED AGAIN I was 19 years old, and I was going to write my life story. I dragged the electric typewriter out of the hallway closet and set it on the formal dining room table. I tore open the package of 8x11-inch typing paper, that I had bought with part of my weekly earnings, as a cashier at Sears. That solid stack of virgin paper was a pile of gold to me, waiting to be turned into jewelry. I placed the Webster dictionary to the left of the typewriter, and on top of that was a well-thumbed thesaurus. I was salivating. I lived at home with my parets while I attended the university full-time and worked part-time. The seventh of eight children, I was the last one to leave the roost, since the Texas Rehabilitation Commission required that I be a dependent, to qualify for a program in which it would pay for my tuition. As a hearing-impaired freshman, I decided to sample the fields of deaf education, speech pathology, and audiology. Here I was, on the verge of new territory, this whole college experience, and I had yet to document anything of the old stomping grounds I called childhood. The world needed to hear about it! I rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter and snapped the silver bar against it. I pecked out the heading, pressed enter, then centered my name underneath the heading. I leaned back and let out a long, satisfying exhale. I didn't realize I had been holding my breath. That day I was able to crank out the first chapter. I went to bed that night feeling victorious. One Saturday morning, I was especially ripe with anticipation. My parents were golfing, and I had the whole house to myself. One idea after another was engulfing me, and I couldn't wait to get pounding on those keys. I was still in my nightshirt and couldn't bear the thought of breakfast until my ideas were struck against paper. I stopped dead in my tracks. A note was propped up between two rows of keys. I stooped over to read my mother's handwriting. It said simply: "Accentuate the positive. Eliminate the negative. Love, Mom." I think my heart stopped beating. My mouth went slack. I felt a slow burn crawl up my neck to my face. My scalp tingled. I didn't know whether to be embarrassed or angry. I guess I was both. I sat there a good long while. Then I picked up a neat pile of papers, three chapters worth of my life in black and white, and began reading the words through my mother's eyes. What I found horrified me. It was nothing but a whiny diatribe against my mother. "She wouldn't let me wear makeup..." "What was wrong with wearing jeans?" "...hated my boyfriend..." I did what had to be done. I cleared the table of the dictionary, thesaurus, the leftover virgin paper. I tore my whining up into little pieces and threw it in the garbage. I parked the typewriter back in the hallway closet. Noticing the cleared table later on, Mom asked what had happened to my "project." I shrugged my shoulders and mumbled something about homework taking up all my spare time. The subject was never broached again. That day, I buried my whining and carved Mom's advice into my heart. When the time is right, I will write my life story. And when I do, you will wish you had had a mother like mine. -- Jennifer Oliver »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«