GROWTH SPURTS 

        Around the age of twelve, I started experiencing an ache in my collarbones, as if my bones🦴 were badly bruised. When I told my mother, she said, "Oh, that's just growing pains. It happens during a big growth spurt."
        That growth spurt turned into a process, a metamorphosis of some sort, as one day I was a medium sized kid, the next day I was stretched out like a pulled piece of taffy. 🍬 So tall and skinny, people started calling me Olive Oyle, the cartoon character with long ropey arms and skinny Kermit The Frog 🐸 legs.
        Years later, I read a study about growth plates in young children and teens that determines the length and shape of the mature bones, and that the plates close and stop growing around the age of 14-15. And that females achieve 80% of their clavicle length by the age of nine. Boys by the age of twelve.
        Apparently, my body was never privy to that study, since I was the only one who continued to grow all the way into my senior year. As for all the other kids at my school, they took their cotton-picking time to grow into their bodies, as I went on to be the tallest person I knew. And by golly, I didn't like it. Not one single bit.
        When I graduated from high school,🏫 I was 5'8 1/2" tall, which for girls back then, that was really tall, as most of my friends were 5' 2" or shorter. If growth plates were measured like dinner wear, then everyone I knew had the salad plate size, whereas I had the full dinner-size shape in bone growth. 🍽
        During my teen years, I was busting out of my frame, the way the Incredible Hulk burst out of his body. The way he tore through his clothes, his shoes, his entire body, Hoo-Wee I could only imagine the pain in his collar bones.
        Being the tallest in my class made me feel like a misfit. Like Cousin Marilyn in the Munster's, the only character who felt like an outcast among all her ghoulish relatives. Even though Marilyn appeared normal, being different from her family made her feel like an outcast. It's not always about how you look, but more about how you fit in. Especially in high school!!!

        Me, the long skinny Olive Oyle on the right,
sitting next to a high school friend. 

                                

            In the book, Mercy Me, young Mercy
Walker goes through her own growth spurt. At a young age, she feels the way Marilyn Munster did, convinced nothing about her matches the people around her. But the summer of '63 she discovers she's not a lone misfit.
        After being sent to live with her three elderly aunts, Mercy discovers a world of oddball characters. It's there she experiences a significant growth spurt, the way her shoes no longer fit her feet, and her thoughts no longer fit her young mind.
         By the end of the summer, she's changed so much, she longs to unzip her body and climb out and exhale a new breath. And in her own way, she does just that. The anatomy of her soul opens up, allowing her spirit to burst free as it dares to take its first steps.

                Mercy Me at a Memphis bookstore
                          NOVEL MEMPHIS
                            

                 

           

   Mercy Me
By: Anna J. Wise

                            

                                  A HALTED HEART

My New York cousin made her one and only visit to Memphis the summer of 1980. Anytime folks would visit Elvis' hometown, they would request to go see Graceland,🏡 Beale Street, and The Peabody hotel.🏨 But not my cousin. By gosh, she drove all the way down from Staten Island, New York to see one thing only--the Mighty Mississippi.🌊 Her goal was to watch it flow, and hear it roar. 

Standing at the river's edge, my cousin stood awestruck, like an astronaut standing on the moon. That's when she took out a small Mason jar, and dog-gone-it if she didn't scoop up a glass full of the murky, brown water to take home as a souvenir. Muddy river water collected in a jar--that was a real head scratcher for me. 

As for me, I was just as awestruck that my New York cousin cared enough to drive alll the way from New York down to Memphis, Tennessee for a visit. I didn't care if she came only to see the Mississippi, I was just glad she was there. 

Maybe growing up around the river, it loses its novelty. But like all native Memphians, I knew to respect that river and what it could do. The Mississippi is alive with strong currents and rough waters, and at times, it's angry😠 with the world with its "don't-mess-with-me" kind of mood. For sure, it's not a safe place to take a swim.🏊

In 1812, the river got hit by a strong earthquake, and lo and behold if that river didn't switch direction and flow in the opposite direction. It was as if God, the maestro of the universe, waved his hand and commanded the river to perform the unexpected.

When I read author, Genevra Bonati, A Halted Heart, I thought about the river and how emotions sometimes flow through us like the Mississippi. At times, they're unruly and angry like with, Caitlynn Grant, the protagonist in the story. In college, Caitlynn had planned out her entire future, the way she had planned out her classes. Everything orderly and in place. But then. . .the unexpected happens, and her life takes a hit. An earthquake to the heart, leaving Caitlynn wounded and hurt. Gradually, she becomes as empty as a dead tree𐂷 in winter. With feelings that flow toward one direction only. Revenge.

Years later, the unexpected shakes up her world. And when the maestro gets involved, get ready, as life switches in a different direction, and new emotions begin to flow. 

                                            A Halted Heart

                                           By: Genevra Bonati

Author: Anna J. Wise

Mercy Me 📚

 

                                

                        THE BIG LEMON COOKIE

I read it's quite common for people👥 to be superstitious. And that some even practice routines and habits, believing those rituals will help regulate their daily luck.

I don’t believe in any of those hocus-pocus ideas. After all, I've been creating my own bad luck my entire life. Not once have I needed assistance from a black cat,🐈 a broken mirror, or any tall ladders. 

Practicing routines and habits to influence my luck-of-the-day is, in my mind, a bunch of silly hooey. Except. . . this one little, crazy belief. A misperception from my past. One that just might be considered a. . . superstition. 

 

It was June 1964, back when every June Cleaver in town signed up their kids for Vacation Bible School. VBS was the best gig in town. It was a break for the moms, and a fun getaway for the kids. At VBS, they always served up those big 🍋  lemon cookies, along with a Dixie Cup full of orange Kool-Aide. In those days, getting a cookie treat, every day, for an entire week—now that was a big deal!

During snack break one day, a volunteer teacher explained something, she believed to be, as a very reverent Bible 📖 rule. A rule that my inexperience mind🧒 took on as a crazy superstition: “The Bible is the Holy Word of God," the teacher said, “Never put anything on top of it—it’s very disrespectful to God!” 

 

Hearing that, I about spit out my orange 🟠 Kool-aide, considering I had just set my lemon cookie on top of my Bible. 🤯

 

I quickly jerked it up, and even though I felt spooked, I ate that entire cookie. How soon will the lighting strike? But have no fear, I lived to tell the story. However, after that day, I struggled to put anything on top of my Bible. Not an ink🖋 pen, a cell 📱phone, or even a used tissue. And most definitely not a lemon cookie!! 

 

Perhaps the VBS worker miss-spoke that day, or maybe it was my young nine-year-old brain 🧠, who misperceived the entire message. Either way, placing an object on a Bible became a fearful superstition. 

Eventually I renovated my mind, like renovating a room. Sometimes you just have to update your thoughts. God alone is what I worship, revere, and hold dear to my soul. Not some silly superstition. 

That rule about placing anything on a Bible, was terribly wrong. Holiness is Christ Himself.☦ Not a book with words written on the pages. 

It's okay to set things on top of my Bible. Well. . .maybe not a lemon cookie. Not because it’s wrong, but because I'd much rather eat the cookie, drink my Kool-Aide, and enjoy the moment.💗😀 

Anna J. Wise

Mercy Me

      

 

 

 

                                BEST SEAT IN THE HOUSE

My favorite show growing up in the sixties…well…it’s not that easy.  First of all, I was born in the year 1960, so my memories of television shows were based around 1966 and beyond. Honestly, there are way too many to name. To be fair, I have to list categories. Cartoons, Sitcoms, Dramas, Movies. It’s not a short list! ✍

 

Cartoons. Bugs Bunny,🐰 with his buds, Daffy Duck, Porky 

Pig,🐷 Taz. Sylvester the cat😸 and Tweety Bird, Felix the Cat, Road Runner and Wiley E Coyote. Tom and Jerry,🐭 Chip and Dale, Rocky and Bullwinkle. Have no fear! Underdog is here!  Also, Pepe Le Pew,🦨 Atom Ant, Gigantor, Hercules. 

My sister and I would sing,🎵♪💏 duh nuh, nuh, nuh, nuh, nuh, nuh, nuh, Batman! Batman! Batman! As the caped  crusader with his trusty side kick Robin, protected Gotham City from the evil villains.  Of course, The Flintstones! Yabba, Dabba, Do! and The Jetsons🚀—just to name a few. I don’t think there was a child alive that didn’t have Saturday morning cartoons from the second they woke up, and the minute you threw open the front door after school.🏫

 

Sitcoms. I don’t believe that was a word back then?These weekly shows were based on comedies and dramas, etc. I can’t decide what I enjoyed watching more: The Courtship of Eddie’s Father, or Family Affair? Then there was The Ghost👻 and Mrs. Muir, The Flying Nun, Gidget, Lassie, Hogan’s Heroes and Mc Hales Navy, The Monkees, That Girl, I Dream of Jeannie,🍾 Bewitched. I Love Lucy, 💕 The Jackie Gleason Show. And we can’t forget, Gilligan’s Island, or The Beverly Hillbillies. Come ride the little train that is rolling down the tracks to the junction…Petticoat Junction! Green Acres!🟩 Starring Zza Zza Gabor, dressed in her stunning evening gowns… on her farm. Mr. Ed the talking horse 🐴 shot in black and white.

 

The 60’s were the time of the space wars 😧💥  between the United States and mostly Russia. Naturally, every child watched,👀 Lost in Space, My Favorite Martian,👽The Outer Limits, Space Odyssey, and hid multiple times under a pillow, terrified, viewing,🙈 The Twilight Zone! Back then, it felt like we spent more time dreaming about space than we did about Earth.🌎 I could be a total “Space Cadet,” even, “Spaced out!” Hard to say…

 

Dramas. Bonanza, The Virginian, Gunsmoke, The Rifleman, The Wonderful World of Disney👸where every Sunday featured an entertaining movie🎥 the entire family would sit and watch. Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom documentary of animals🦁 in nature. Least we neglect the sports fans out there; let’s not forget ABC’s Wide World of Sports🏅 where every Saturday we watched the ski jumper⛷ crash in the Sports intro, when Jim McKay proclaimed; the “thrill of victory or the agony of defeat!”

 Movies.  A very tough category. My parents would drop us off for a double feature and most of the time we watched Disney shows while we ate chocolate Flicks, and popcorn.🍿 I remember watching The Love Bug with my cousins. Musicals,🎻 both animated Disney and Cinema productions, were quite popular at the box office. 🎟 My mom bought me the record of Chitty, Chitty, Bang, Bang. I loved the Jungle Book and The Sound of Music. 🎶 Both of those are classics; even now in 2021! Batman, the Movie, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Planet of The Apes,🙉 Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kids, Born Free…as free as the grass grows, as free as the wind blows…🌬

Too many, really, to name! 

 

The evening dramas were often times viewed with kids and parents eating their TV dinners. My favorite? Salisbury Steak?

 Our television 📺 in the 60’s was about the size of a microwave oven, with “bunny ears” for the antennae 📡 and foil wrapped on the top for “better reception.” The “remote channel changer”📲 was usually the youngest kid…because they had no choice!  And all the episodes were on three networks, ABC, CBS, and NBC! 

 

Like a kaleidoscope 💠 of psychedelic colors, interchanging and mixing together, to form a beautiful pattern of shape and sizes, so too, is exactly why, I canNOT choose 💁 a favorite! Too many to choose from, and I’m sure I’ve missed a top pick or two! 

 

Ahh, those were the days my friend…so tell me…what’s your 

favorite? 

Genevra Bonati

Author: A Halted Heart

 

                      A DANCE TO REMEMBER 

It was Christmas Eve 1962, 🎄 the year my baby brother threw a Christmas package across the room like a frisbee. Wrapped in festive Santa paper, the squared-shaped gift was a dead giveaway---it was a vinyl record. As soon as it hit the ground, the package made an odd clanking sound. My mother  cried out, "Oooh, no!" 😮 She ran over and picked it up. Inside, the broken pieces jingled like loose change. 

 After she carefully removed the wrapping paper, the   cover photo appeared. A new release by Nat King Cole, one of my mother's favorite singers. She never referred to him as Nat or Mr. Cole, it was always his full name: Nat King Cole. 

 My mother brushed her hand over his photo, sighing out, "He has the best bedroom voice of any singer." 💖 That had me baffled. The only voice I'd ever heard in my mother's bedroom was my dad's. 

 

When she slide the record out, it looked like a sandwich, a big bite taken out of one side. Determined to hear the music, my mother placed the damaged record on the turntable and then carefully positioned the needle. That's when I got to hear Mr. Cole sing. 

Don't know how Nat King Cole sounded in the bedroom, but in the living room that night, he was a hit. The music 🎶 made my parents stand up, and after embracing each other, they began to slow dance. When the singer's voice crooned from the speakers---oh my gosh---how it made me smile.

My mother passed away in 2011. Eight years later, my dad joined her. I now see them, as the young couple they were in that living room, dancing in heaven with Nat King Cole, singing to them in person. 💃🕺

 

Anna J. Wise

Author: Mercy Me

 

 

 

                   THE CROWN JEWELS

Imagine being stranded on a deserted island without any internet. 🏝 No texting. No Instagram. No social media at all. Hoo-Boy, talk about going bonkers! I mean let's face it, these days cell phones📱are like a supplemental oxygen; we can't breathe without our phones. 

As for me, I'd be okay if I could have one particular thing with me on that island. A good friend. Preferably a friend who's known me for years. One who knows all my quirky hang-ups, and peculiar ways. A friend who can talk the same crazy-girl language like my one friend, Judy, the red  head 🦰 who moved in across the street from me at the age of ten.

Growing up, Judy had to go solo at a school dominated by classmates with all the basic hair colors: light brown, medium brown, dark brown, and yellow blonde. Hair colors we all thought everyone should have. Except red. Once Judy tried misting her hair with a bottle of Sun-In. A spray-on that promised to turn your hair blonde after sitting outside in the hot sun.🌞 For hours!! Except for Judy, the product never worked. Instead, she remained a fun-loving Lucy Ricardo red head. Not exactly a preferred look at the time. That is. . .until we went to England in 1994.

As soon as we landed, those British took to Judy as if she were Buckingham Palace royalty, the way they went completely "gaga" over, what they referred to as, "Sarah Ferguson red curls." Those Brits were completely smitten with red hair. I mean, who knew? 

One day we walked past a fire station, 🚒 as a group of fireman were loitering around outside. One look at Judy, and they hurried over as if her flaming red coif was on fire. 🔥 They were royally polite as well as completely smitten by an American woman and her gorgeous red locks, 

        My royal friend, Judy, the beautiful red head.

After that we ventured over to view the famous Crown Jewels. One hundred and forty-two objects used in royal ceremonies since 1661. Every item there was designed with 23,578 gemstones total. Geez, talk abou fancy-schmancy. 😲 There were seven sovereign crowns, six consort crowns, along with six swords, and six golden scepters. I wondered what those golden scepters were used for? Perhaps they waved it around while talking, or thumped you on the head if you disrespected the queen. 👑

All those royal doodads have an estimated worth of 4 billion dollars. FOUR billion!!! 🙀

I remember the way Judy and I stood in awe, suddenly feeling like poorly dressed peasants in front of all that wealth. Even with Judy's amazing red hair, we felt lacking in royal worth.

Judy and I have been around a long time, although not as long as long those ceremonial jewels, but during our lives, we've learned one great truth. God has sure blessed this world with some amazing jewels. But not the ones they keep locked up in the Tower of London. Rather it's the priceless jewels he created called friends. The amazing people in our lives, the oxygen for our souls, which is how we survive our earthly visit.

                   Photos of my crown jewels:

                    My 6th grade friend, Debra

                   My oxygen therapist, Vicky

                   

              My two amazing writing partners: 

             Genevra Bonati & Sondra Umberger

                                Me & Judy

                          

Anna J. Wise

Mercy Me

                         Twiggy and Go-Go Boots 

The summer of 1967, fresh from the shores of London, where let’s face it, everything that was cool originated, Twiggy hit the scene in a big way. To me, she looked like a fawn.🦌 Her long legs adorned with posh, brilliant yellow go-go boots, 👢 a shockingly short mini dress and big blue eyes with long lashes (courtesy of three layers of false lashes) and model thin. I adored her. I wanted to be her. 

My younger sister Dana and I begged and begged my mom for a Twiggy Barbie. My mom cut our hair short so we could “look just like” Twiggy. My cousin Terrie, who lived on the next street over, took one look at us, and cut her hair too. 

If we could’ve worn go-go boots and mini-dresses we would’ve felt so groovy while we all danced to Nancy Sinatra singing, 🎶"These Boots Are Made for Walkin’"🎶 on Dick Clark’s American Bandstand. A blast-from-the-past never goes out of style. YouTube has a video featuring this song on American Bandstand, you may want to watch,📺 that is sure to take you back to a time in your life where the music, go-go boots, and Twiggy haircuts, are forever young and hip! 

 

Genevra Bonati

A Halted Heart

                      DUSTY MEMORIES

There are times when I feel like the character Pig-Pen, the way past memories follow me around like a cloud of dust.

Pig-Pen once proclaimed: ‘You know what I am? I’m a dust magnet!’ That describes me--a magnet for memories that collect inside my head, like dust on a coffee table. 

 

Ping-Pen once referred to his messy life as ‘the dust of countless ages.’  The dust he picked up as he walked, lived, and experienced this world. It's the same with memory dust. The past we collect on the way to living our lives. If a person could scoop up all their memories and spread them out on a table—oh my goodness—the story it would tell.

 

The book, Mercy Me, is that story. An account of my dusty memories. Some of it truths, some of it embellished. But a lot of it is the back story that describes who I am. Quirky, crazy, funny, and sometimes sad. 

May there always be a little bit of Mercy in all of us.💖

                                  

 Anna J. Wise

www.anna-wise.com

 There are millions of starving kids in China who would love those peas! 

Growing up in the 60’s, you couldn’t put one over on your mama, no matter how hard you tried. First of all, they had eyes in the back of their head, the side of their head, maybe even their elbows, cause somehow they saw everything you did. Take peas for instance. Trying to discreetly hide your peas in a napkin, while your mom headed to the kitchen for more gravy, as us kids would hurry to try and give our peas to the dog…impossible!  

Speaking of eyes. There wasn’t a child alive who didn’t know what the “evil eye or (stink eye 👀)” was all about. You couldn’t tell a lie to finagle yourself out of trouble. All my mom had to do was narrow her eyes into slits… cock her head to the side… like a cat licking its lips and locking in its prey. Then she'd pounce… and the unfortunate truth would pour out of us kids the way the batch of Orange Tang I made, without permission, spilled all over the kitchen counter. What a total mess that made. Then came the old fashion "spanking." Or even worse, “Wait until your father comes home.” Of course, every kid knew what that meant--another spanking. Maybe even the belt. Yikes! 

Forced to wait in your room for dad to come home was pure torture. Just the thought of it---a belt slap across your legs or butt---was punishment enough. It was enough to make a child STOP! And THINK! 

For me, I had double the trouble because my mom was an identical twin. That meant two moms! Two sets of evil eyes! Two sets of trouble! Yep! My cousins and I would team up and try and try to fool our mothers but we were up against a magical force called motherhood. And it didn’t help that our moms could complete one another’s sentences; sometimes even saying the exact same thing –simultaneously! To top it all off they could read each other’s minds (with some kind of twin telepathic super power). They’d take one look in unison, two sets of scary eyes, locked in on us. . .then we’d know… Trouble!😮

Back then we didn’t have security cameras, instead we had our mothers, their eyes recording every move we made. Their goal—to keep us healthy and safe. A big thanks to God for these two beautiful women. 💕

Genevra Bonita

A Halted Heart

                       CURBSIDE CHATS

The other day, I told someone my age. In the middle of the conversation, it hit me. Holy cat fur, I told the wrong age!😱 My real age…well, let’s just say birthdays are escaping me faster than money in my wallet. It seems only yesterday I was sitting curbside in my hometown, Memphis, Tennessee, with teenager girlfriends, gabbing about the only subject consuming our brains—boys!  

 Before internet, texting and chat rooms, the curb on Kenosha Street was the place for social networking with my close friends. I remember one get-together when we spotted a creepy, brown spider, 🕷 its back, hairy like sprouts on a Chia Pet. One of my friends got the bright idea to bump the creature with her shoe. A gazillion babies spiders scrambled off the momma's back and scattered away in a naked frenzy. 

 

Maybe that’s what happened to all my birthdays. 🎂Life bumped into me, and like those baby spiders, the years took off. Gone. Skedaddled. 

Many times I have gone back to the old neighborhood and met with my longtime friends. But due to a few minor issues—creaks in our knees, stiffness in our backs—we sometimes avoid the curb and meet in coffee shops,☕ restaurants, or someone’s cozy kitchen. But no matter where we unite, we talk like chatty teenagers, our souls jelling together like jam in a jelly jar. 

The only difference between forty years ago and now---the topic that consumes our mind. Boy talk…um…not so much. Instead, we discuss creaky knees, stiff backs and who has the most grey. 😏 But more important, we talk about the blessings God gave us in good friendships and the style of social networking from the old days of curbside chats.

Anna J. Wise

Mercy Me 

One of the houses where we'd meet.

 

 

Ann J. Wise

Mercy Me

                   A HARD DAY'S NIGHT

I was nine years old when A Hard Day’s Night hit the movie theaters in August 1964. I’m not sure, but I don't think I knew who the Beatles were. Maybe I’d heard “Yeah, Yeah, Yeah,” on the radio, 📻 but that was about it. All I remember is it was a Saturday afternoon, matinee time set aside for us kids to go to movie. Even though the cost was barely a dollar, 💸coming up with the money was sometimes a challenge. But by-golly-gosh my parents needed some alone time, so somehow they scraped up enough loose change and off we’d go to the movie. 

The theater was packed, every seat filled. As soon as the film started, the Beatles appeared on the big screen running up the street as if they were on fire. Then lo and behold if that movie theater didn’t erupt like Mount St. Helens. Right then those teenage screamers jumped out of their seats, as popcorn 🍿 flew around like confetti. 

I could have gathered up all that popcorn and eaten it while watching the movie. But that’s just it—I couldn’t really see it. And I never did hear it. The entire movie I kept thinking—Why would all those girls spend a whole dollar on a movie and then refuse to shut up long enough to listen?  

 

Okay, so maybe I was too young to attend a Beatles movie. Not because of the movie itself, but more about the chaos of that day. Oh my gosh, all the screaming, crying, and fainting those teens did, all of them caught up in Beatlemania, something my hormones had yet to understand. As for me, I just thought we were there to watch a movie.  

 

Years later A Hard Days Night aired on TV, and the nine year old in me sat on the sofa, a bowl of popcorn in hand, as I watched it in silence. Turns out it was a fun movie. But if not for all those young teenagers going bonkers back in 1964, I would never ever have remembered I was at the theater that day. Or that I went with my best friend Jean Marie. So a big shout out to all those screamers—thanks for giving me this fun memory.  

 

 Anna J. Wise

 Mercy Me