Return of the Quote Wall!

Things that I didn't post on the last wall of insanity.

I haven't posted in ages ('_') My apologies if anyone was looking for posts from me...I literally forgot I had a blog over Christmas break.

As with before, there may or may not be a context to go with the quotes, and I am not responsible for any madness that results.

1. "Considering last night's adventures, I find that to be in very poor taste!"

All I'm going to say about that one is that in the previous night, someone had been ill and that same someone found a humorous picture of a reindeer being ill the next day. Did I mention it was the morning following Christmas last year?

2. "Ben had the brilliant idea of having Moe's cater our wedding." "Oh God bless 'im!!"

My sister and my mom discussing weddings. My family likes Moe's. A lot.

3. "Aw, it's not that bad. Cadavers smell worse!"

I have a friend who works in forensics. All I'm going to say about that one.

4. Babysitting a one year old girl, I suddenly sneezed. She was so proud of herself for knowing what to say when people sneezed, she threw her hands in the air and shouted, "AMEN!"

5. "Now I have to go write an essay...in blood...probably my own, preferably someone else's..."   "I'd help you, but all my ideas involve non-justifiable homicide."

Finals week: when all us crazy people can no longer masquerade as sane students. Of course, it was also 9:00 pm and we'd both had coffee.

6. "And you...I don't know your name, but I'm just gonna call you Dresden from now on."

See post: "The Nickname" for explanation

7. "We are haphazardly on the side of good."

Mad Libs are great fun, especially on road trips.

8. "We could do something else, like pour out rage and malice upon the Heartless."

My youngest sister calmly suggesting afternoon activities.

9. "I am a corrupt chicken!"

Okay, so there's this board game called "Chicken Caesar". We discovered it in Firefly Games (which, as a girl, walking in there is fairly amusing because I'm staring at all the Yu-gi-oh cards and sometimes the people playing games start staring at me like, "There's...a female in here. I don't know what to do with this...). Anyway, we were playing the game and one of my sisters had another player's chicken senator assassinated and then she ended up as Caesar. That was her reaction.

10. "Ahh, marshmallow heaven!"  "...as opposed to, say, marshmallow vodka. Which is what happens to marshmallows that are bad."

I had just found the softest, fluffiest couch in the world in a store. Oddly, it was right next to the wines section of the store, and we noticed something called marshmallow vodka. Frankly, I think that sounds disgusting, just saying.

11. "After 10:00, there is no grammar."

'nuff said.

12. "Where did Erin gone?"  "....gone?"   "It's after 10:00 somewhere."

see above

13. "Hey, are you in the Progress of Redemption class?"  
"Yeah."

"Oh, okay, who teaches?"

"I sit next to you!!!"

(me and another student, who forgot that she sat next to me in class.)

14. "For a second, it looked like you didn't have any feet."   "Yeah...I probably don't."

I'm just going to let you all guess on this one. ;)

15. "Skunks are like the unicorns of the jungle!"

I'm actually not sure what the context of this was, so I'm in the dark too.

16. "I love hearing the rain tapping on my window!"

"That's not the only thing tapping on your window!"

My sister and her roommates over at the house, cooking, and trying to out-creep each other. It was awesome.

17. "Are you aware that you have a belt tucked into your back pocket?"  "Yeah, Hannah put it there."   "Oh goo- wait. And the circle gets weirder." 

More things that I've heard on my hall before 8:30 in the morning. Pre-coffee, humans are hilarious creatures.

18. "I want to be hugged....by a sandwich!"

19. "Do we really need two? I mean, come on! The building's not even in flames!"

Girls' side of campus had the most. sensitive. fire alarms. ever. I think its probably fixed by now, but I'll bet the firemen got sooooo tired of having to come out to the school just to find out that it was another false alarm. The residents got pretty tired of it two, hence the next quote.

20. "Firedrills: a study in senior year apathy."

21. "I don't like traditional monkeys."

Actually, that isn't what he said, but that's what I heard and I was very confused.

22. "Gentlemen! I have a proposition!" says my brother as he walks into the house. I don't know why, but my immediate response was: "We kill the Batman?"

23. "What a weird word: ultrasound!"  "Yeah, that's something we men don't really know about."  "Sounds like a Transformer! Ultra Sound!"

That was two male students and a teacher in my TEFL class. They're kinda awesome that way.

And last but not least, from the same Christmas party the previous quote came from,

24. "How do some people not have birthdays?!"  "Because Charlie was left here by a spaceship."

It's probably funnier if I don't explain.

On writing stories

You know, I've always liked making up stories.

Ever since I was very young, I've loved stories. If I wasn't acting them out with my dolls, I was imagining them in my head. When I was old enough to read and write, sometimes I would staple pieces of printer paper together and my sister and I would scribble down tales of adventure in colored pencil.

When I got older, my favorite school assignments were journal topics, in which I was meant to write a story or poem based on whatever science, vocabulary, or history unit we were studying. I filled several composition books with strange and often very random short stories. Looking back, most of my work from seventh grade to about eleventh grade was decidedly very silly. Actually, a great many of the journal prompts were meant to be humorous, but when I say silly, I mean that what I wrote rested on the border of ridiculous and possibly insane.

At some point, I took one of my old composition notebooks and scribbled down a huge list of prompts to guide a bunch of vignettes that ranged anywhere from, "What if you were caught between two warring alien species" (by the way, I came up with that before I watched Transformers. Then I watched the movies and thought, "Oh rats. There went my journal prompt.") to "What if you stood at the edge of a cliff and someone said "jump", would you?" to "Hey, what if your feet attacked you?". I think my favorite prompt (or at least the one that provoked the most laughter from my sisters and I) was "Imagine a "Justice League" type group made up of the worst superpowers imaginable." 

Now, when my sisters and I made up stories like that, what it basically looked like was sitting in a circle and spouting dialogue into the air. We ended up with "The Incredible Hamster Man", who runs on a giant wheel to keep the electricity going in the secret hideout, and "Sweatshirt Boy", who can fire yarn from his hands into sweaters to keep everyone warm. One of us may or may not have been sick and on cold medicine for the invention of that particular character.

Four years ago, I began an adventure story featuring a fantasy world that my twin and I made between the pair of us years ago. We'd made maps, drawn up continents, written out species and their particular cultures, we even had a cold war between two of the countries and a somewhat complex political arrangement between the pair of them! My story serves as sort of a prequel to a series of tales Mer has been making up for a long time, which span from nearly the beginning of that world to nearly its end. 

.....I really need to finish writing that story. It's quite near the end, but I keep forgetting that it exists...

In more recent years, I have read a lot of books written in the 1800s, and book by book, chapter by chapter, I have been formulating three or four specific characters that I would like to write real books about one day. Perhaps I'll even send one to a publisher! The first is an adventure-genre character named Dresden Spoche. She serves in a function similar to the old "Tintin" comics by Georges Hergé Remi . I had a series of fun titles that probably won't ever be written, but they're interesting to think up plots for. 

Dresden Spoche and the Clockwork Diamond

Dresden Spoche at the Utmost Inconvenience

Dresden Spoche and the Erstwhile Ermine

And it would all be puzzles and secrets and riddles and fun sorts of things that younger readers could enjoy.

The second character I came up with was a jovial young Englishman from the 1860s by the name of Charles. Or, if you asked him, he'd tell you his name was Charles Friedrich Lloyd, and then he'd ask you not to tell his father or the family butler that he was out trespassing again. To my mind, Charles is an eccentric, but lovable, young man from a wealthy family who enjoys inventing odd little gadgets that only rarely prove to be useful. Generally, he only uses them to impress his fiance, Miss Iris Walters. The best words to describe Charles are "bumbling" and "swashbuckler". An uncommon mix of adjectives, I grant you, but that's Charles in a nutshell. I had more titles in mind for him, and even little bits of story to go along with.

Charles Lloyd and the Reticent Baronet

"Oh! Er...those are some really first-rate recreations of Caravaggio you've got there!" Charles stuttered, backing away from the angry-looking forgers. He ran a hand through his floppy hair and grinned nervously. "I say, gentlemen, do you paint by request? Because there's this wonderful little piece I'd simply love a copy of!" The smugglers looked wary and slightly confused. "What is it?" one asked. Charles swallowed hard. "It's called: Please don't kill me!" he squeaked, and darted away.

Charles Lloyd: 4:40 to Secrecy

"I should like it noted," shouted the scrawny inventor over the din, "That I had no part in this madness! Well, except perhaps the whole smuggling-a-wanted-man-out-of-Soho affair. But he had a knife to my throat! I'm not culpable for that, am I?" He paused and squinted at the impassive policemen's faces. "Annnd you're not saying anything. Oh dear, oh-oh-oh dear. I am culpable for this, aren't I?" Long fingers fiddled nervously with brass buttons on the front of his vest. "Oh spots and bother! Erm...I'm sorry fellows, I've just remembered this terribly important matter I was supposed to....There's this event I was meant to...erm...So long!" And with that, he sprinted away, flailing his arms like a madman.

He was even supposed to cameo in a few Dresden Spoche stories, such as "The Erstwhile Ermine".

"Strange company you keep, miss!" observed the Detective Inspector Wesely. Scratching his nose, he leaned forward. "One Dresden Spoche: journalist, accounted for!" He checked something off in his notepad. "Two Southampton constables, disoriented but accounted for! A rather mangy looking parrot? Unaccounted for, but I don't think anyone actually misses the flea-bitten nuisance." He moved on to a rather miserable Charles. "Well well," he chuckled, "If it ain't Sir Edwin's boy. In trouble again, I presume?" The accused coughed politely. "Weeeelllll, yes. Actually, yes. Please and oh please don't tell my father about this! For once in my life, it wasn't my fault!"

Charles Lloyd and the Authors' Strike (featuring his sweetheart, Iris, and his nemesis, Baronet Mayhew Maconaghy)

Iris hurried back and forth, checking gauges. "If we stay on this course at this altitude, we should make New York by tomorrow, and hopefully before the Baronet gets there. What do you think, Charles?" The inventor watched Iris with his chin in his hands and answered, "I think, Miss Walters, that life would be considerably less difficult if you were to marry me. Just think of all the paperwork we'd avoid! And whenever I get arrested, you can come in to fetch me. Hullo, Mrs. Lloyd they'll say. Good day, officers, I hope Charles wasn't too much trouble, you'll say, and they'll answer that I was very very troublesome indeed."

Charles is bad at proposing. Sometimes social graces elude him.

At one point, I thought it would be amusing to throw him into the future and have him be utterly bewildered by the modern world, surviving with the help of a descendant of his. That would take up two stories:

Charles Lloyd and the Wheel of Fate

and

Charles Lloyd and the Inconceivable End

(if I were to write the paragraphs that went along with those, we'd be here all day.)

One of these days, I'm actually going to write down all the Charles Lloyd stories.

The third character I had was a young lady named Noira Blanche. She would go on adventures while traveling across Europe to work as a governess for her cousin. I meant for Noira to have to deal with various folk-tale monsters in whatever part of the world she stopped in, but the bulk of her tales were meant to come when she was an old woman. As for a title for the "series", I simply wrote down,

The Perilous Life of Noira Blanche

and underneath I wrote the following.

The first time I ever heard of Noira Blanche, I had stumbled into her tomb during a storm in the Carpathian mountains. Over the grave itself stood a statue of an angel with crystal tears forever frozen on her face as she held a banner over the bier, wherein was inlaid the inscription: "Noira Lynn Blanche, 1875-1974. She loved the unlovable."

And the stories were to begin with her last days and move backwards. I've not actually written much of anything for her, but I like to toss around ideas in my mind.

The fourth, and quite possibly the favorite, of these characters is Viktor Creed. The way he began is really rather ridiculous. I had been watching a show in which a character had been found dead and the others were discussing who could have done it before they called the police. For absolutely no good reason, I began supplying non-existent lines of dialogue in a Brooklyn accent, running commentary on the crime such as, "Well sure, you can rule it suicide. I mean, all ya gotta account for is that after killing herself, the deceased dragged herself over here to the middle of the floor. Which is weird, because why would she change her mind about where she wanted to die? What's wrong with the first spot? These are perfectly good curtains!" 

The monologue got more and more ridiculous, and eventually I named the voice "Creed". He's a detective during the 1920s, and no matter how serious the case, his enthusiasm and eccentricity make him a little hard to take seriously. Sometimes he has a secretary named Sierra, and sometimes he's wandering the town alone, getting into scrapes. I actually have one complete story that he belongs to, the first chapter of which can be found here: http://ravensandteapots.blogspot.com/2013/12/i-like-to-play-around-with-making-up.html. The title of that particular story is "Carnadine House" or, alternatively, "Horror at Carnadine House". 

Maybe someday I'll actually be brave enough to type them all out and send them to publishers, but at present these are all scattered across journals, computers, flashdrives and iPods.

I like to play around with making up stories sometimes. This is an experiment in writing.

Carnadine House

Chapter 1

"Well has it arrived, or hasn't it?"

Th speaker was a thin woman with a look of permanent boredom etched on her tanned features. She toyed with a string of cheap pearls around her neck with one hand. The tour leader cleared his throat awkwardly, making it difficult to hear him in the quiet but crowded room. Ridgely's Tours of Antiquated Homes was not off to a good start. Mr. Ridgely mopped his shining brow with a sadly wrinkled handkerchief as he tried to assure his customers that the bus would arrive at any moment now, if only they could be patient a few minutes more. The eight people in the front hallway of the inn glanced out at the darkening morning skies and made a point of neither looking at nor speaking to their neighbors. "Jack, dear, I do believe it is going to rain!" a well-dressed older woman whispered to the man at her elbow. He harrumphed and adjusted his bowler hat. "Nonsense! The forecast called for fine weather today!" Mrs. Alsburg patted his arm and smiled wanly. "Find weather, perhaps, if one were a water fowl."

Mr. Ridgely sighed in audible relief when a creaking, groaning, hulk of a bus slowly rolled to a stop on the worn cobblestones in front of the inn. The bored woman from before lost some of her look of ennui and stared at the vehicle, obviously incredulous. "Don't tell me that's the bus!" she cried, dismayed. "Why, we'd be better off walking!" The other members of the tour murmured uncomfortably. "Oh, there's nothing to fear, Miss Dent," the guide said hastily, "It's met all the safety requirements." Reluctantly, they boarded the sad blue coach and settled themselves gingerly on the cracked seats. With a dramatic wheeze, it lurched forward and puffed out of the village. Out came the limp handkerchief once more as Mr. Ridgely dabbed at his rubicund face. "Now then, my fine ladies and gentlemen: shall we begin? If you don't mind, I'd like to make sure everyone is here." From his vest pocket, he withdrew a folded piece of paper and held it out in front of him. "Do we have a Mr. Algernon Evans among us?" 

Right near the front of the bus, a small man with rather large ears timidly raised one hairy hand. "If it's all the same to you, Mr. Ridgely, I prefer to go by Algie," he said shyly. "Of course, of course," the guide bobbed his head placatingly and read out the next set of names. "Dr. and Mrs. Jack Alsburg, are you present?" The elderly couple who had been discussing the weather nodded primly, never saying a word. Mrs. Alsburg held a small sachet of perfume beneath her nose, looking rather ill. "Ah! There you are!" Mr. Ridgely remarked cheerfully, "Now if we could just find Mr. Windstrum?" He looked about until a young man in rich clothes made a surly half-gesture from the seat beside Mr. Evans. "Oh do get on with it!" he growled, turning to the man beside him. "We're not in school, you know. Why should we call roll?" Very quietly, Evans tapped his neighbor's shoulder. "Harry," he said gently, "I suppose it would be a shame if the tour were to leave without someone who paid good money to attend." "I suppose you're right, Algie," Windstrum muttered, looking out the window. Several seats behind them, a voice called, "Well I think it's a shame that anyone paid money for this tour at all!" It was the woman from before in the cheap pearls and bright green hat. The tour guide was not amused. "Ms. Dent," he sighed, "You are a journalist, are you not? Consider this the beginning of a story you may write and kindly refrain from disparaging my business, if you don't mind."

Three passengers remained. One was a round, cheerful woman with a feathery mass of yellow curls rapidly fading to grey. Marta Heathering nodded sagely, clutching her handbag to her chest. "You really oughtn't speak ill of the tour at the beginning of the journey, my dear," she advised Miss Dent, "The vehicle might suffer!" Beside Mrs. Heathering, her daughter made an unhappy sound and shifted closer to the window. "It won't, Mother. Don't be morbid!" The girl's haggard face puckered into a delicate frown as her mother shook her head decisively. "The road is already going to be dangerous enough. I saw a girl with red hair this morning, Evelyn. You know that's bad luck for a journey!" The other passengers mercifully pretended not to hear the noisy declarations, sparing the Heatherings some embarrassment. Mr. Ridgely cleared his throat and read off the last name on the ledger. "Mr. Creed?"  "Oh! That's me, sir!" a loud voice called from the very back of the coach. A young man waved with a pleasant smile, adjusting his rumpled brown coat surreptitiously. He didn't seem as though he could have paid the rather exorbitant fee involved in taking the tour, and Mr. Ridgely surmised that some rich relative must have paid his way. "Yes, well, that's everyone then." He brusquely shoved the slip of paper back into his striped vest and turned to the driver. "A little more speed, if you don't mind, Carlisle. We've got to be at our first destination within the next three hours!"

He ignored the horrified looks some of the passengers shot each other. They would be trapped in the rusty vehicle for three hours?! Ridgely glanced furtively out the window at the gathering clouds. He dearly hoped that no rain would come: he had spared every expense on the bus, and feared that the roof would leak. And wouldn't Ms. Dent have a field day with that! "Ladies and Gentlemen," he announced, hiding his nerves with a boisterous tone, "Our first stop on the tour is the lovely Carnadine House in the mountains! It is abandoned, but the grounds are really quite spectacular!" Near the back, Evelyn smothered an exhausted yawn and beamed. "Well, if it's abandoned, perhaps we'll be allowed to explore a little?" She jolted with a startled little squeak as Mr. Creed abruptly leaned over the back of the seat. "That's what I'm counting on, in any case." Noting her distress, the man smiled sheepishly at mother and daughter. "Oh, please excuse me." He stepped out into the aisle and held out a hand. "Viktor Creed," he said. Marta returned his smile and shook the proffered hand. "Mrs. Heathering," she replied, "And this is my daughter. Say hello, Evie dear." The tension broken somewhat, the other guests began to turn in their seats and converse with each other. In the front, Mr. Ridgely relaxed. They'd had a rough start, he couldn't help but admit. Still, he had a nice route planned and he was sure the customers would be impressed. This tour might be just what he needed to keep the bank off his back!

The bus wheezed and groaned up the twisting road, carrying ten strangers to their first stop of the gloomy day: Carnadine House.

This actually happened.

A year or two ago, before my brothers graduated, my sisters and I went to go hang out with them in their dorm room.

We're standing there in the hallway on a weekend late afternoon (open dorm times) and the door is closed. We knock, and I hear one of my brothers call, "Just a minute!" There followed a clash and a clatter, then someone yelled, "I'm living in my own filth!!!" (It wasn't that bad. There was just a little bit of clutter, that's all.) 

Well the door opened eventually and we all crashed on the little bean bag chairs. One brother chatted with us about various things while the other was bent over the room's minifridge. Abruptly, he pulled a huge chunk of ice out of it and dropped it in the sink with a sigh. Then, very calmly, he said:

"Oh, we should not have done that thing that we did."

Is that ominous to anyone else, or just me?

Curious, we asked the guys what is was that they'd done, and got quite the answer. As it happened, some poor soul on their hall was now the proud owner of some frozen articles of clothing as payback for a rather unfortunate prank he'd had the temerity to pull. I don't remember if he was reacting to a prank my brothers had pulled, but his was a doozy. 

Anyway, my sisters and I sat there in silence for a moment, trying to process what had happened. My thoughts ran along the lines of, "They froze someone's clothes? That actually happens in real life?" (This was just before I realized that I basically live in a sitcom.) Out loud, the first thing I managed to say was, "You froze his underwear?! What are ya, high schoolers?" (I might've been channeling Hermione...)

Mer's response, on the other hand, was to leap from her seat and shout, "I'm so proud of you!"

Yep. My siblings.

And now I'm just as bad.

(Or maybe I always was...)

Radio Shows and Expressive Arts

Radio Shows: A lost art. 

There's something I like about radio shows: there are no visuals, no video. Just sound and imagination. It's something I think this generation has lost somewhat....except for the parts where it hasn't. Go figure, but I've found people on YouTube who get together and make radio shows based on tv shows they watch...and they're actually good! Some folks made their own Doctor Who radio show "video" once, and it sounded just like one of Big Finish Production's pieces. Isn't it funny what a bunch of random people on a video-sharing website can do?

Then there's the people who are actually making real radio shows. I've just discovered a series made to sound like a noir detective show, complete with saxophone and old-fashioned lingo. The thing about radio shows is that -if done right-  it sucks you in and you don't need pictures or video. Your imagination does all the work itself!

When I was ten or eleven years old, my Expressive Arts class did a unit on radio shows. We had all week to work in two teams on two different shows, then at the end of the week, we broadcast the productions live to the entire grade. (I don't know how we managed this from a crummy old portable, but let's just say magic and leave it there.)

I was put in a group doing a Buck Rogers-style sci-fi adventure. Teamwork!

And by "teamwork", I mean: the popular kids take the lead roles and the unpopular kids get whatever is left over.

I got sound effects.

That wasn't so bad, actually. I found some very interesting noises that could be made with a toy echo-phone, a bowl of cornflakes, a pair of sneakers, and various other objects lying around in the prop department. I don't remember what most of it got used for, but I do recall that the cornflakes were used to make the sounds of feet on gravel, and if you hit the echo-phone against the table a couple times, it made cool blaster noises.

One of my team-mates ended up doing the Darth-Vader-Breathing-Noise into the echo-phone while sticking her head in an open filing cabinet to make the sound of an alien. It was one of the weirdest things I've ever heard. (and given that I was in a room full of middle schoolers, that's saying something.)

My sister was put in a group doing a short horror piece called "Night on Bear Mountain".

Or as I like to call it, "Zombie Stuffed Animals ate the Babysitter".

Here's the premise: 

1950s America. A teenaged babysitter comes to the house to watch Ira, a troubled boy who is very attached to his beloved teddy bear. "Do you want to play flashlight tag?" he asks. The babysitter doesn't want to do much besides use the house phone. (Ah, the days before smart phones. Scratch that, the days before mobile phones. This is probably rotary dial, folks.) "Run along and play," she says, and flops into a cozy armchair. The cushions squeak as she reaches for the old phone. In the living room, Ira carries a flashlight with him the whole time, very concerned about the Bogeys (or some name like that. I can't remember.)

For a while, Ira plays a game where he runs around with the flashlight avoiding Bogeys. You hear small feet darting back and forth as he mutters about the Bogeys. The babysitter chatters away on the phone to one of her friends, occasionally stopping to call out, "Ira, I'm on the phone!" and "Will you settle down?!" Suddenly Ira cries out in panic: Teddy has gotten caught on something and there is now a rip in his arm. Sorrowfully, the unnerving child hands the bear to the babysitter and declares that he's not safe anymore because the Bogeys got him. "Well, we'll fix him," says the girl, hoping to avoid tears. "No!" says her young charge, "We can't! Teddy is a Bogey now!" The babysitter responds with a snort of derision and puts the bear up on the shelf. Ira panics, saying it isn't safe and it's too late to fix him. The babysitter loses her temper with Ira and sends him to bed. We hear a door slam.

Some time later, she's still talking on the phone when she hears a thump. "Hang on a second," she tells her friend, "The kid is trying to get his stupid bear down." She sets the phone down, stands up, and peers into the kitchen. "Ira?" she calls, "Is that you?" She monologues about how it couldn't possibly be Ira, because Ira is far to short to reach the top of the shelf where she put Teddy.  Curious, the babysitter walks into the kitchen, where a huge, dark shape is lurking. You hear a growl, and a scream, and then silence.

The phone rings.

There is the patter of little feet, and then Ira answers the phone. "Hello? Hi Mom. No, everything's fine. Well, Teddy made a mess in the kitchen. Yeah, again."
The End.

Among the various props used for sound effects, I seem to recall a pool noodle. I don't know what in the flying blue coffee beans it was used for, but there was a pool noodle in there. Meredith played the kid in the radio show, making him this disturbing Twilight Zone-ish child. It was awesome. Why can't people still do this sort of thing? Maybe instead of a play, CIU might try an old-fashioned radio show. Some old detective story, or a classic novel, perhaps. Or maybe just some good old-fashioned Twilight Zone-y stuff. 

No video. No visuals. Just a door.
"You unlock this door with the key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension - a dimension of sound, a dimension of sight, a dimension of mind. You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You've just crossed over into the Twilight Zone."

 

A Geeky Nostalgia Tour

Who owned the truck first is unknown. I only know that it was in Nana and Papa's basement.

When I was a kid, Nana and Papa's basement was just about the coolest place in the world. There were huge bins full of toys, dress-up clothes, and dolls down there, just waiting to be discovered. Who could pass up the sheer awesomeness that was The Drum Kit? (Okay, it wasn't a real drum kit. It was three plastic drums with matching drumsticks that we used to make a terrific racket with while marching in circles. It was kind of the favorite toy of the basement.) 

Then there was the Doll House. It was this beautiful little wooden thing with shutters and windows that opened and closed. The furniture had come from a bunch of different places, so it was as eclectic as a real house. The dolls that went with the house were these adorable little fuzzy bunnies and bears with little clothes. I later learned that they were Vintage Sylvanian Families. Nowadays, they're sold in toy stores under the name "Calico Critters". 

Aside from the musical toys, dress-ups, and animals, then there were the dolls...mostly.

See, Nana and Papa used to have a little dog named Shadow. Shadow didn't like the Barbie dolls as much as we did. As a matter of fact, three out of five of them had teeth marks all up and down their arms and legs. One of them was even missing a foot! (For that reason, we tended to bring our own dolls to their house.) 

Then there was a hapless G.I. Joe who tended to get roped into the Barbie games. Usually, he had to drive the pink jeep because we decided that Barbies with foot problems had no business driving. The general thing to do, of course, when one has a jeep full of Barbies with a G. I. Joe, is to send it careening helplessly down the stairs at a breakneck pace. What, don't all little girls do that with their dolls? 

In the mix was a random Power Rangers doll. Now, Meredith and I didn't have cable, and even if we did I'm not sure we would have been allowed to watch Power Rangers as kids. (See, we were the type to imitate what we saw, so there could have been some martial-arts-related injuries...) I'm not sure which version of the show it was from, only that it was the Black Ranger and he had a picture of a mammoth on his uniform. And Meredith loved that action figure. If I wanted to play Barbie dolls, you could bet that the Black Ranger was going to be there, saving the day or going to a costume party-it didn't matter.

Then one day Dad showed us where the HotWheels track that had been his as a kid was.

Meredith and Kayla and I would set the track up at the top of the stairs and send cars flying into the wall with many a cackle of glee. We would trundle up and down the basement, looking for cars to join our flung festoon. 

That's when we found it.

Kayla was upstairs napping, and Mer and I were playing quietly, hunting for cars. Suddenly Meredith squeaked, "This car has a face!" And so it did. A little metal semi truck at first glance, but she turned it over and there was a strange head underneath. Well that couldn't be right! Cars were cars and action figures were action figures. How could it be both? At first, I thought it looked a little scary. Then one of us (I think it was Meredith) discovered that some of the parts moved and that it was supposed to change forms. Slightly concerned, we took the odd gadget upstairs to the kitchen, where our mother was talking to Nana. We held up the truck/not-truck to her and she laughed. "More than Meets the Eye!" she chanted. We were completely confused. 

She explained to us that it was meant to turn into a robot, and that it was something called a Transformer. We shrugged and took it out to the living room. Kayla had woken up and we decided to watch The Little Mermaid. I held on to the Transformer truck, and Meredith and I attempted to force it into robot mode. For a pair of six-or-seven year old girls who had no experience with such matters, I'd like to think we did fairly well. That being said, it should be noted that we never finished transforming him. He ended up some sort of freakish truck-centaur thing, which I left in a basket. I never saw it again, and soon forgot about it.

Then I moved to South Carolina.

We discovered that in the afternoons, cartoons came on, which delighted us. One day, I wandered into Meredith's room and she said, "Hey, check this out! It's called Transformers: Cybertron." I shrugged and sat down next to her as she animatedly explained the story so far and her very favorite character, Hot Shot. (I think he's still her favorite character.) I watched, interested, and found myself remembering the truck from Nana and Papa's basement. Then a firetruck drove onto the scene. The vehicle mode was different, but as soon as it switched to robot mode, I started. "Oh!" I thought, "I know you!" It was the same robot that I'd left in centaur-mode years ago.

It was Optimus Prime.

I settled in to enjoy the show, thinking, "Well, if you're here, this can't be all bad." I'm not sure why, since no one had explained the series to us before, but somehow we already knew who the good guys were and who the bad guys were. Somehow we even knew which one was Megatron!

I remember asking, "Which one is that?"

And Meredith said, "That's Starscream."

"What's with him? Is he on the Autobot side or the Decepticon side?!"

"....It's really hard to tell sometimes."

Yeah....ten or so years later and it's still hard to tell sometimes which side Starscream is on. 

I think Starscream is on Starscream's side, and no others.