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I think I can’t. I think I can’t.

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You know those people who believe they can do anything?  Well, I am not (surely, to no one’s surprise) one of those people.

My husband, on the other hand, never met an obstacle he didn’t try to tackle.

Once, at a skating rink, he saw someone perform a half-axel, jump and turn.

He said, “I’ll bet I could do that.”  Away he went.  He raced forward, spread his arms wide, lifted off and twisted.

The thundering boom of his crash-landing shook the rink.   I slipped and tripped my way over to his limp body spread-eagled on the ice.  He opened his eyes, blinked a couple of times and said,  “I think I can do it if I build up more speed.”

I’ve spent years researching ways to become a self-assured “I Think I Can” kind of person.  My bookshelves bend with a library-worthy collection of self-help tomes :  Daily Meditations of the Tao…Become a Better You….The Power of Now…The Secret.  There’s even a section on parapsychology and the study of dreams.  But my Little Engine That Could, chugged along repeating, “I think I can’t.  I think I can’t.”

I recently completed my first novel and had the opportunity to submit it to an agent.  I spent weeks dragging my feet, pulling my hair, shouting, “I can’t!”

But, with the help and support of my writing critique group (who cleverly named themselves WTF Critique Group when they learned “I can’t” curse) I did it, I submitted the first three chapters of my book to the agent.

I’ve been flying high ever since.  Sure, there was a blip on my radar when I got her rejection letter, but this time I shouted, “I reject your rejection!”

My Little Engine That Could has a new phrase now.  “I think I might be able to…maybe?  I think I might be able to…maybe?”

See the Amazing Dancing Chicken!

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It is hot and humid here today, which always reminds me of my childhood trips to the Lake of the Ozarks.  Every year my Aunt Kathleen, Aunt Betty Lou and Uncle Harold took all of us kids for a week to the lake.  None of these relatives had children of their own and God only knows what possessed them to take a bunch of wild ragamuffins with them on their only vacation of the year.  I always suspected it was to save us from certain death.  As the heat and humidity rose – so did my mother’s level of crankiness.

We stayed at an ancient resort filled with other childless couples.  At least I don’t remember any other kids being there, but we tended to scare most people away, so I could be wrong about this. Our only assignment each day was to leave the cabin after breakfast and not return until we were called.

On the last day of the trip Uncle Harold gave us $1 apiece and dropped us off in the old tourist part of town called Dogpatch.  I loved it.   The shelves of the little store were filled with shiny containers of old-fashioned candy.   Row upon row of salt and pepper shakers shaped like outhouses tempted me but were out of my price range.

In front of the store was a huge statue of Lil’ Abner.   He stood near a pool of water that was refilled by a giant water faucet floating in mid air.  Behind the store was a graveyard called Boot Hill.  An old cowboy boot stuck out of one of the graves.  As I hurried by, the boot moved back and forth.  But where I spent my time and money was on – – The Amazing Dancing Chicken!  I shoved nickel after nickel into the slot to watch the happy little chicken do her dance.  Oh yes, it was a magical place.

One year, as I stood next to the miraculous faucet pouring water from thin air, I was able to see the clear tube that held it aloft.  When I walked by the scary graveyard I noticed a rip in the boot, which exposed the mechanics making it move.  I was crushed…until I saw the sign “See the Dancing Chicken!”

I ran over to her box and slid my nickel in.  It dropped out to the change slot where a sign read .25 cents.  I begged a quarter from my older brother and pushed it through the slit.  My chicken started her dance about the same time that I noticed a hole in the bottom of her cage.  To my horror, I discovered that what made my happy little chicken dance was the fact that the floor heated up and she was jumping around trying not to burn her feet.

“Oh, no!” you say.  “How horrible!”

You’re right, it was.  So why am I sharing this story?  Because it’s hot and humid today and I’m cranky.