SUZANNE RUDD HAMILTON

New Book Release: Diary of a 6th Grade “C” Cup: Growing Up Girls Series

Ebook available until Jan 31st free on Kindle Unlimited. Available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle.

Growing up is Hard. School is Tough. Girls can be mean and boys can be dumb. This first in a new book series for girls aged 8-14 explores the perils and pluses of being every day unique. Everyone has something about them that makes them different. But often, those differences are treated with ridicule and bullying.

The first book in the Growing Up Girls series, Diary of a 6th Grade “C” Cup follows Katie and her diary from 4th to 6th grade through a difficult period when puberty makes her the first in her class to get a bra. Her development causes ridicule, strife, teasing, bullying and some self-realization about being yourself and growing up.

This series, written for girls 8-14, celebrates differences and shows how just a little joking or teasing has much more impact that first would appear. These books shine a light on the need for people to accept others and for young girls to accept and celebrate themselves from an early age.

Written by Suzanne Rudd, this book is partially autobiographical based on the author’s experience. “Decades ago when I was growing up, bullying feel into three categories. Either you were the perpetrator, the victim or one of the lucky ones who fell between the cracks. In those days, no one talked about it, got punished for it and teachers, principals and parents often shrugged it off as just a part of growing up. How many adults relish their preteen and teen years and how many would rather forget it ever happened?”

“Now, luckily more attention is paid to diversity and less tolerance of bullying is allowed. Bullying messes with the delicate balance of self-esteem which can serve children throughout life. And it should not be tolerated. But kids learn from parents and there is still bullying out there regardless of the strides in the positive direction.”

For those parenting girls in this age and for those girls growing up this book can be a must-read snapshot into the pitfalls and promise of growing up at this age.

“Judy Blume was my bible when I was growing up. I always wanted to write something for girls in other unique situations to pay it forward and show them, it’s good to be different.”

Chatty, but not Cathy

Everyone is unique. It’s the engine which makes us go through the world. Some people ridicule differences and many people dwell on what they consider to be bad personality or character traits. I believe self-clarity and acceptance is the path to serenity. Here is my response to a writing prompt from my group which asks about character or personal traits you may or may not want to change. And don’t be surprised if this goes into my Growing up Girls book series. The first in the series “Diary of a 6th Grade “C” Cup” was just released on Amazon.

“Suzanne is a good student and contributes to class, but she does have a tendency to chat too much.”

That comment on a Kindergarten report card was the start and not the last such comment of my school career. Did I chat too much? Yes. Should I have? No, I’m sure it disturbed class. In grade school, a few friends and I even learned to sign a bit to chat silently during class.

Yes, I’ve talked to everyone who would listen, since I could speak. And maybe some that wouldn’t listen. This is perhaps one of the reasons my husband now has deaf ears from tuning out my voice. Sometimes I worry and guard about this with new friends. But I argue that being a “Chatty Cathy” is a benefit in many situations.

When you’re new in school, in class, or in a neighborhood, who makes friends first? The person who chats people up and gets to know them.

If a job interviewer has a choice between someone who sat silently during the interview or someone who was able to articulate why they should be hired, who would get the job?

At a wedding, party or any other event, who has a better time? The one who initiates conversation with everyone at the table.

Answering questions and giving speeches or oral tests in school never causes queasiness for a Chatty Cathy or an action which required janitorial clean up. Instead, that talent earns high marks in school and makes speech and debate classes a breeze.

In the job market, being chatty is particularly useful when in sales. Talking to a customer as a friend and giving them a lot of information gives a quick sense of trust and familiarity, which is useful when convincing them to buy large ticket items like a home or a car.

And while not a requirement, being chatty gives you self-confidence that can be used to act or sing in front of others. This self-confidence is also helpful in creating early self-esteem in young people. Something experts have lauded for helping youths resist peer pressure and temptations.

Yes, the chatty technique must be honed, as you must also learn to listen. And will it get you in trouble? Yes, more than once.

And don’t get me wrong, I’m not admonishing the strong silent types. I believe you must be true to yourself. But I cheer in admiration instead of correct or scorn those who are labeled chatty. It serves you well.

Sound Not Silent

That sound. First faint, a distant murmur of a hum. Then the crescendo as it comes closer.
A taunting echoing cackle of sporadic random cadence at a fortissimo of booming sound. Your heart beats faster and your steps quicken as you note the gathering one, then three, then six, then more.

As you walk, their eyes follow your every step with one collective slow panned movement. Your breath gasps in silent bundles of air, escaping in momentary release.

Their eyes are locked on your path peering a hole in the back of your head as your pace increases. Your head rapidly pivots back and forth desperately looking for retreat, shelter or an avenue of reprieve. Yet that sound keeps bounding, grating on your exposed nerves and picking unrelenting even though slightly fading to distance. Like a programmed ambush, another gathering moves in synchronous stopping your forward motion and redirecting your path. That sound again plucks at your brain with increasing intensity leaving you feeling trapped. Why were they following me? What did they want? Panic took over as i succumbed to fear and darted into the nearest bar in surrender, defeated by their numbers.

After one hurried and two relentingly slow imbibements numbing the binding fear, I cautiously ventured out into the streets. I paused and listened carefully. I heard only the welcome chaos of street noise. No hum. No cackle. I cautiously looked back and the forth down the busy street and released a large sigh of heavy air. Thankfully they were gone and I could continue on my journey unfettered and unafraid. That is absolutely the last time I watch the Hitchcock movie the birds. Never again.

Soda Poppers

BEEP BEEP! “If we don’t get out of this traffic, I’ll miss my stories!”

Pam was distressed. Her little VW bug was stuck in traffic with grocery bags, two babies in car seats, one niece, and a big dog in tow. She was going to miss her daily serenity appointment, a one-hour escape into a different world, while her kids were napping .

Luke loves Laura, but Laura is married to Scottie. Noah loves Bobbie and a few others. And no one loves the Quartermaines, who only love money. For one hour each day, Pam was entranced by the trials and tribulations of the residents of Port Charles and specifically the friends and family of their hospital staff.

Every day offered something new. Romance, kidnapping, love-triangles, deadly diseases, hostage crisis, mistaken identity, evil twins, life-threatening accidents, corporate takeovers, teen pregnancy, adultery, and some simpler day-to-day domestic problems, all happened in this little town.

I watched in amazement as my normally calm and easy-going aunt unloaded the kids, the groceries, the dog, got the kids to sleep, dog fed and perishable groceries sorted with lighting speed just in time for the opening hospital shot. Whew.

I sat with her and curiously watched above my book perplexed as she simultaneously folded a huge pile of diapers and other laundry with eyes glued to the television, hanging on every word of the characters and talking to them as if they were in the room, even advising their actions.

After it was over, I asked her what program it was. She said it was a soap opera and regaled me in detail of the past and present lives and current events of each and every one of the residents of Port Charles. She made it sound so interesting and exciting how each and every person’s lives intertwined and tangled in each other’s existence.

The next day, I decided to put down my book and watch with her. It was engulfing. It had all the drama and peril of a Shakespearean play with the romance of a Harlequin novel. As we watched, she pointed out each character and their relationship to the others. I thought I needed a notebook and a family tree chart to keep up. But after a week, I was hooked. It was exciting, tender, and completely compelling.

For the rest of the summer, each day she and I spent one hour together absorbed in the stories. We even discussed them and debated possible resolutions while performing other daily duties.

One day my uncle came home from work early, looking for some papers he left. My aunt and I were so engrossed, we didn’t even hear him or the little boy who awoke early from his nap and was quietly playing in another room.

“What are you doing awake, little guy?”

“Shh,” he said with his tiny finger covering his mouth. “Mommy and Suzie are watching soda poppers.”

I choose

On primary election day many years ago, my husband and I went to our polling location together. He was ahead of me in line and asked for a particular party ballot, as was required of our state in a primary election. When it was my turn, I asked for my party ballot, which happened to be a different ballot than my husband took.

An older lady election judge looked at me curiously with confusion, “You mean you want this party ballot.”

“No, I want that party ballot,” I explained and smiled.

She looked at me again with the curiosity of a museum oddity, “But your husband took that party ballot.”

What I really wanted to say was welcome to the 1990’s lady, the dark ages left you behind. I couldn’t believe that 75 years after women were finally granted the right to vote, this woman would insist that I, a well-educated and well-informed voter, could not choose my own party and candidates, simply because I was a woman or a even married woman. But I restrained myself and just smiled.

“I’ll take that party ballot, thank you. I make my own choices.”

I took the ballot, leaving her strangely befuddled and annoyed and went into my voting booth.

Later, when we were in the car, my husband told me the woman called him aside when he left the voting booth and whispered to him incensed, “Do you know your wife took that party ballot?” She whispered it like I had committed a crime that could not be spoken aloud.

My husband knew very well the way I voted, but as a joker with a weird sense of humor, he decided to play along and pretended to be enraged. “She did what?”

When he told me this later, I couldn’t believe it. Not only did she not think a woman could make her own electoral choices, she felt it was her civic duty to inform on her? This woman didn’t know the kind of relationship we had. She could have carelessly and without forethought created a dangerous and complicated situation for me, simply to soothe her self-righteous indignation, while betraying her own gender.

A few days later, my husband told my mother-in-law the election judge story. His mother spent decades as an election judge. I always joked that her first election was George Washington for president. Having an infinite penchant for rules, she went on and on about how I should report that lady and how that conduct was expressly against the rules.

I was somewhat perplexed by her fervent objections. For years, she and I continually battled wills regarding her ideas that men don’t do any kind of housework, wash dishes, or take care of children and women with children should stay home and not work. My views and my husband’s actions to the contrary were a source of constant irritation to her, which she voiced at every opportunity. She even introduced me to people as her daughter-in-law who works, as if that was my title.

Curiously, I couldn’t understand why this is where she drew the line. But I wondered if it was the subjection of woman and their choices or the mere obstruction of rules she protested. I guess I would never know.

The next election, I made sure to be ahead of my husband in line to exercise my right to vote. Just in case that lady was there, I wanted her and others like her to hear me clearly declare my choice in front of my husband and create no doubt in their minds that I choose.

Author’s Note: I did not say the specific party in this story as I believe voting rights are private.

Awaiting Approval

First thing in the morning, I turned on my computer with baited anticipation. Yesterday, I interviewed with my company’s HR department for a promotion I really want. I think I have a good chance.

I been at the company for fifteen years and my bosses and subordinates both like me, I think. My company unusually requires annual performance evaluations for all employees by all team members. It’s a bit daunting to be judged from all angles every year, but I guess it can be productive. My evaluations have always been outstanding, but I still had to go through five interviews with the heads of various departments and HR I have never seen. It was like an interrogation. They asked me the strangest questions, like to describe my workday and a couple what if work scenarios. Then they asked the typical interview question…where I saw myself in five years. It struck me as funny. If I get the job, that’s where I see myself, so I should be asking them where they see me, since they make that decision? All notifications are online, so I logged into the site, held my breath and looked at the job posting results. The computer said my application was under review. I’ll look later. I still think I have a chance.

A few hours later, I received an email from my mortgage company regarding my home refinance. My loan company said their easy refi program offered to save me money with lower rates and a no-hassle book refi with no costs. It sounded like a no brainer, but it was surprisingly NOT easy. I provided tax returns for the last three years, bank statements for the last six months, and 401k retirement asset statements. And in the four week processing time, I’ve received umpteen emails asking for this document or that clarification. Today’s email was a status update. The file was in review. I emailed the processor and asked what was still being reviewed. I don’t understand, I paid the mortgage on time for ten years, without a late payment. The processor responded it was standard that underwriters review all files for ability to repay the loan. It seems really unnecessary just to give me the same loan I already have, but since it was routine, I just let it go.

Finally my day on pins and needles is over. I’m going out with my friend Emily for a much-needed night out. Emily texted me and said she read the reviews for a restaurant and it didn’t look promising. In the first few weeks, they received one hundred fifty reviews and only a 3.7 star rating. She suggested instead we go see a movie. She said the movie had a rotten tomatoes score of 89. That sounded good, so I replied that I would meet her there at 8.

But first, I have an appointment at the bridal store for a final dress fitting. I hate these things, but my sister’s getting married, so I have to do it. Here I am lumped in with all her prissy sorority friends from college who definitely like the way they look in the mirror way too much, as they spread out all over the store finding individual mirrors they could occupy. I don’t care. The dress is a weird flesh tone with a lot of glitter. It’s horrible and looks like lingerie, so I need to just try to get through it. I stand on the platform, while my sister’s group reviews each and every bridesmaid like it’s the Westminster dog show. It was so intrusive, being prodded and poked with judging eyes. I wonder when I’ll be asked to roll over. I just wanted to play dead.

Luckily, I was released for good behavior and now I need to rush to meet Emily. I really hope this movie is good. It should be, after all, it got good reviews.

Following Detours

Life was pretty normal, structured. I like predictable, no surprises. As an accountant for 30 years, I guess it’s an occupational hazard. I think that’s why I like numbers – you can count on them. They’re ever steady, reliable. I live my life by the numbers, so to speak, every day running like a Swiss clock.

However, this daily routine started with an immediate slow down. My expensive cappuccino machine died, so I need to take a detour and get my morning coffee. Coffee is my big vice. I love everything about it. The aroma fills the air with the rich abundant smell. I always wondered what it would be like to lay in a field of coffee beans. And the flavor bathes your tongue in a warm blanket of smooth creamy milk mixed
with a little sweetness and savory espresso shot to welcome your tastebuds. I guess I’m having a relationship with coffee and I am very particular. I drink the same blend, always.

The coffee shop near my office made a decent cappuccino, but on my way there, I was stopped by a picket line on strike for better working conditions. There were signs everywhere about unfair wages, cheap management, and lousy health care. Anytime I saw these types of protests, I was just glad to work at a stable company that offered excellent benefits. But the large gathering blocked the street and the coffee shop, so I detoured a few blocks down the road. Siri said there was a coffee shop
there who boasted the perfect cappuccino. I’ll be the judge of that.

I found The Coffee Bean a few minutes later and unbelievably lucked into a parking spot right in the front. The sign said it was free parking at this time and day. That never happens. I went into the small shop. It was quaint and offered several different cappuccino blends.

““You don’t have just a straight cappuccino?”I ask the barista across the counter.
“That’s no fun,” she laughed. “It takes a true vision to take something great and make it unique”
“I guess, what’s your most popular blend,” I grunted a little. I just wanted a regular normal cappuccino.
“It’s a matter of taste,” she explained. “Sweet and salty has a shot of salty caramel. Dicey Spicy adds nutmeg and cinnamon and Nutty about Numbers includes three nut flavors in the mix. But my favorite is my personal Fruitti Tutti blend with a hint of orange and cranberry juices, instead of sugar.

“I don’t like too much sugar or spice. I’ll take the nutty one… to go,” I decided.
I sat at the counter looking around the room. People from table to table were talking to each other, laughing. The different scents whiffed through the air, permeating every square inch in the place. It felt warm and inviting.

I grabbed the to-go cup and looked at my watch. I was going to be late anyway, as I had to traverse the obstacles on my way back to the office. So I threw caution to the wind and stayed. Cappuccino is always best hot and fresh.

I took a sip. It was wonderful. The textured layers of the additional nut blend gave way to the subtlety of the creamy, sweet taste. This coffee was good. In fact, it was the best I ever tasted. I stopped and sipped some more and looked around again. I listened to a few conversations. They weren’t talking about much. The weather, gardening, kids; no one was shattering the earth. Some were funny and some were serious, but it wasn’t about what they were saying, it was them. They were enjoying each other’s
company. Slowing down and taking the time to hear each other’s stories. It was chaotic and pleasant at the same time.

“They can be a little raucous at times, but it’s a community,” the barista smiled. “I’m going to miss it.”

She pointed to the “For Sale” sign in the window. It was like a beacon, a spotlight to another world. She explained that she had to care for her sick mother in another part of the country.

I couldn’t believe my own thoughts. I couldn’t. Yes I could. No I couldn’t. But I could. I wrestled with my own mind. Before I knew what happened, I blurted out – “I’ll take it!”

“Another coffee?” the barista asked.
“No,” I said confidently. “I’ll buy the shop. Yes, I want to buy this coffee shop! And oh I’ll take another coffee too. Give me that spicy one this time.”

That was a year ago. I quit my job and used my savings to buy the shop. And I haven’t regretted one minute. I’m even experimenting with some new blends. Who knew, life happens when you follow detours.

The Main Connection

My husband and I bought the Main Plantation outside Charleston on a lark. We retired five years ago
and after thousands of games of golf and a closet full of paint by numbers canvasses, we needed a
second career. So the Main B and B began. The name shows it’s a bed and breakfast and also names us as its proprietors, Bill and Barb.

The Main plantation is a beautiful antebellum gem, with all the quaint markers of the day. Big white
columns greet guests after the long magnolia tree drive usher them in like a red carpet. Inside the home is frozen in time back to the days when cotillions and big hoop dresses were the order of the day. I loved this house the moment I walked in. And the two-tiered porch in the rear sealed the deal. It’s lined with Adirondack chairs. Bill and I sit out there and bid farewell to the sun’s reflection in the river every night.

The home was completely preserved as it was originally adorned in the mid 1800’s by a long line of the Main family, right up to the last Main, who died a year ago. From the trim, wallpaper and marble
fireplaces down to the brass candlesticks and the huge gold-framed mirrors in every room, it was all
there, just as it was.

When we first moved in, we started to rearrange the furniture and knick knacks a bit to accommodate
the B and B idea. But I would move something and the next day, it was back in its original place. This
went on for two weeks. First I thought I was having senior moments and just forgot to move things
around. Then, I was beginning to think I’d lost my mind.

So, I decided to do some research about the house, and what I found was the family’s matriarch
Margaret Main. Mrs. Main moved to the brand new mansion as a bride in 1838. She spent her life toiling over every detail maintaining the mansion for the grand events she held there. Even during the war, the party never ended, as Margaret regularly entertained confederate generals and presidents, to ensure her home’s safety from the war’s ruinous path of destruction. The house was her life. When Margaret Main died her will demanded the house continue with the family line and that all the finishes, fixtures, and especially all the mirrors in the mansion remain in place. Mrs. Main believed mirrors are a window to the past, present and future.

Then it clicked. When I altered something, anything, there would be a strange chilling breeze in the
room. But when I left everything in place, I felt a warmth, even a glow about the room. It was Mrs.
Main.

Bill thought I was losing it, but I decided to sit down in front of Mrs. Main’s painting and have a heart to heart. I told her how much I loved the house and promised to cherish it. And I explained what we were doing with the house and asked permission to move some furniture around. I think it worked, because we made some minor accommodations without issue.
Ever since then I talk to Mrs. Main all the time about the house. After learning about her, I feel
connected to her and to her home. I understand her wish to keep her legacy alive. Bill doesn’t get it,
but I feel her presence in the house. It may sound silly, but I really don’t ever think her spirit left.

“Good morning Mrs. Main, I think polishing the candlesticks are on our list today,” I said to Mrs. Main’s
painting. “Oh and I won’t forget the mirrors. I need to get into those intricate guilded frames. I know
they’re important to you.”

“You act as though you’re her maid,” Bill laughed, accompanied by Sala, their golden Labrador.
“I know,” I laughed. “But somehow I feel it’s still her house and it’s my job to be its caretaker.”

“Careful, you need to do a good job for Mrs. Main,” he chided.

“Oh just go walk the grounds and take Sala with you,” I laughed and rushed him out the door. “He just doesn’t understand us, Mrs. Main? He’ll never experience the connection you and I have to this house. I love it too.”

“I know you do, Barb, but you missed a spot. I will always be here to guide you,” Mrs. Main said in the distance.

Ups and Downs

“That’s it, Mr. and Mrs. Brakes, you are free to go now,” the lawyer said.

“That’s it?” Karen said.

“Yep, that’s it,” Mark said.

Karen slowly grabbed her purse and walked to the door in a trance. After twenty years together, her marriage was over with just a few swipes of a pen.

Once in the elevator, she clumsily reached into her open purse for her phone and everything fell out onto the floor. Frustrated, she reached crouched down to put everything back and fell down.

“It’ll be all right,” Mark said softly and reached to help her put the things back. “It’s for the best.”

“I guess. It just seems so final. That’s all folks,” she mimed raising her hands.

They silently picked up her things and put them back in her purse.

“I see some things haven’t changed. You still try to fit ten pounds of stuff in this five pound purse,” Mark said and they both laughed and sighed at the same time.

Just then there was a squeaking sound and the lights blinked on and off. They both looked at each other puzzled. The elevator started to go up again, then down and then abuptly stopped with a thud.

“I don’t like this,” Karen cautioned.

“We’ll just call for help. No problem,” Mark calmly picked up the emergency phone and reported the problem.

For ten minutes, it was silent. Neither knew what to say. After six years dating, ten years of marriage, and four years of fighting, everything had been said.

“This reminds me of that time we got snowed in at my family’s cabin in Minnesota for three days,” Karen smiled.

“Right, we had to burn everything but the floorboards to keep warm,” Mark laughed. “Good thing the wine held out.”

“Oh yeah. We were lucky my parents had a wine cellar and even luckier you and your munchies habit kept us in Fritos, Cheetos, and Oreos the whole time,” Karen laughed.

“I told you it wasn’t a bad thing to a junk food junkie. You can never have enough,” Mark chided.

“I think we played about ten thousand hands of cards without a winner,” Karen chuckled.

“Nope, no winners here,” Mark said wryly and sat on the floor opposite her.

Ten more minutes went by without a sound. Each would look at the floor and then look up in synchronicity and start to speak, and then look down again.

“I don’t think this will turn out as well as that did,” Mark broke the silence.

“Did it?,” Karen scolded slightly and then sighed. “It’s ironic, that seemed to be the beginning of the end.”

“Regrets?” Mark asked.

“I don’t know. Who doesn’t? I guess it just wasn’t meant to be,” Karen said somberly.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he sighed deeply.

After ten more minutes, Karen looked up and smiled. “Hey, you got any on you now?”

“Munchies? Are you kidding? I am always packing,” Mark laughed and dumped out his messenger bag of bags of chips, cookies, and candy bars on the floor.

They both laughed.

“Well, we don’t have any wine, but this should hold us for a couple days,” Karen smiled.

“That wouldn’t be so bad,” Mark smiled. “I’ll even let you have the Oreos this time.”

Karen smiled and grabbed the package of Oreos just as the elevator lights came on and it began to decend.

“Keep them,” Mark said putting the other food back in his bag.

They both stood up and silently stared up at the floors counting down. As the elevator doors to open, they looked at each other and stepped into the busy lobby.

“Bye,” they both said, laughed and each walked in the opposite direction.

Distance

If I keep my distance, don’t take offense;

For social distancing is our best defense

If I don’t socialize, please don’t feel disrespected;

For sacrifices are necessary to keep us all protected

If I wear a mask, don’t belittle my caution;

For if everyone did, we could slow or stop the infection

And If I am scared, don’t treat my feelings as less;

For we all should be extra cautious to survive the virus