A Sentry on the Shifting Sands

MFT here.

My little Dolly is doing the impossible—working almost full-time while also taking a full load of classes. This was not expected. But because she has only three classes left until graduation, to keep her financial aid, she needs to take two of those classes at a time. And they’re not just regular classes, they’re the chunky ones (both 400-level, she says). Not only that, she can’t help working at a level that guarantees her excellent grades. How I always admire her for that mindset and dedication.

Knowing Dolly’s limited time these next three months, I am stepping up with a heroic gesture to take the helm of Misfit-Toy.com for the next 7 posts. I’ll be carrying the weight for most of our Substack content as well. She will still be posting the chapters of her memoir in our attic during this full time of hers. And I am sure she won’t be able to help sharing her thoughts here and there. (Nor graciously thanking me at our next family visit. *wink wink, nudge nudge*)

So that you have something to look forward to, Dolly’s marching orders for my upcoming posts are to treat you to a series of Slices of Life Behind Bars as I see it. For example, the tales of ramenhood, grosser than gross in prison, and things not mentioned in the glossy brochures when I joined this gated community. Things you’ll only hear from someone who has lived it, in my case—25 years and still going.

Charting New Waters: The View from the Attic

Here’s a peek at the ins and outs of what’s been happening in our second home on Substack. Things are going swimmingly well. The current is not as fast as we were hoping, but thankfully we’re not stagnant either. For the most part, we’re posting something every day—sometimes meaty posts but mostly little notes. There’s an actual, real-live photo of us together if you’ve been dying to know what we look like without the yarn and the spring.

I’ve even posted my first poem, because prison apparently inspires culinary revolt. You can read my Brave Ham rebellion down below.

There will be more to come once I feel confident and have the time to do final read-overs before making them public.

We already have 19 followers, and 4 of them have stepped up and bought their e-tickets to show financial support of our writing and of Dolly’s quest for a psychiatric service dog.

If you wander up to our attic, you’ll find things we don’t share anywhere else:

• Dolly’s original printed copy of my pen pal ad (with photos!) which is how she found me. So come on over and feast on me through Dolly’s once Amish-like eyes.

• See for yourself the first 30-second video Dolly sent me that in reality took her 30 minutes to make.

• As I mentioned above, Dolly has bravely taken on the challenge to write about her mental health journey. Here’s a peek at some of her chapters.

CH. 1  My 9½ pound son was born so fast yesterday, and I had been up and walking until I wanted to push. He was born underwater in the big horse trough (a.k.a. birth tub) set up in our dining room. The only people present besides me and my husband were my midwife, her assistant, and our two-year-old son who watched his brother being born. I’m thrilled with my second home birth. So why am I so sad? . . .

CH. 2  My baby is crying. My two-year old is crying. I’m crying too. There’s also a big lunch mess under the table. Three things I need to fix. Right now. But I can’t. I can’t tolerate messes, especially food messes (something I now know is part of my autism). The rhythm of my baby’s crying is hammering failure-failure-failure into my brain. I’m standing off to the side, unable to make a decision. I remember another time I stood off to the side wanting to cry . . .

CH. 3  My new baby is blue. Blood trickles from his mouth. I freeze like in nightmares. Get off him! I grab my baby and run to the dining room. The phone is busy! I had been on the internet when I heard the strangled noise, so the modem is still connected. I run outside, leaving my two-year-old on the bed . . .

• Throughout the chapters will be other bonus glimpses, such as photos and handwritten journal pages.

• Oh yes. And Dolly wants me to mention the photo of her 19-year-old hunky hubby with some serious hair. (It was 1989. What can I say?)

There’s all that in our attic, and brace yourself—this is just the warm-up!

How I Love a BLT

On a drizzly night, my wife and I find a cozy nook,

Craving sizzling, salty delights from the chef’s cookbook.

As we settle in, the waitress approaches with a smile so bright,

Ready to take our order—in a dress way too tight.

“We’ll have two BLTs, but one my own special way,”

I say, “Hold the lettuce, tomato, and no mayo today.”

The waitress blinks. My wife snorts through her nose.

Her laughter rings through the air. This is how it goes:

Imagining my BLT, Sally calls it ludicrous, quite rare.

In the kitchen, the cook grumbles my delicacy to prepare.

And with a chuckle, our waitress serves my homely dish,

My heart fills with delight at my lonely B. I got my wish.

Bacon cooked just right with crispy crunch and chewy bite,

No lettuce in the way, nor slimy tomato with which to fight.

No mayo, no condiments all smeared,

A dry delight is what I hold dear.

On toasted sourdough it rests,

A simple pleasure, I must confess.

“If this tickles you,” I say, beginning on my snack,

“Just wait til you hear how I like my Big Mac.”

By Sean Thurman, Sr. (a.k.a. The Misfit Toy)