TIARA WEARING, BOOK CLUB SHARING, GUIDE TO LIFE

Enjoy an excerpt from THE Pulpwood Queen Kathy L. Murphy’s book - it’s recommended reading for everyone who is interested in knowing what it means to be a Pulpwood Queen.

“Kathy L. Murphy is the real thing, and she will get America reading if she has to go door-to-door to do it. After you read this, you’ll want to be a Pulpwood Queen too!” Iris Rainer Dart, author of Beaches and Some Kind of Miracle

Just like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, I longed for someplace to escape to. “Somewhere over the rainbow” for me was more than likely just outside. I loved to escape to our tree house, where at least I was way up high. I’ve seen The Wizard of Oz as many times as years I am old (at least fifty times) and have read all the books. I never miss an opportunity to see a production of The Wizard of Oz. That book and the film mean as much to me about home as home itself. When I think of Oz, I see the yellow brick road leading to the fantastical Emerald City. We may not have had the Scarecrow, the Lion, or the Tin Man, but we did have our own Toto, our little Jack Russell-looking mutts, first Pepper then Snicklefritz. We spent hours pretending to be caught up in a tornado. The wind always blows in Kansas, and with just a little imagination my sisters, our friends, and I were on our way to Oz! Some of my fondest memories are of building our tree house, flying kites and making mud pies, playing kick-the can or hide-and-seek until it was pitch-black outside, then catching fireflies in Mason jars. We created our own worlds with our imaginations. I believe that our imaginations and our dreams are as important as our basic needs: food, water, and shelter. Many times those dreams were all that sustained us during life’s trials and tribulations. To keep ourselves in candy money, we might set up a neighborhood lemonade stand, raiding the kitchen cabinets for empty grape jelly jars featuring pictures of the Flintstones or Yogi Bear, the kind that had a second life as drinking glasses after the jelly was gone. Another favorite activity was “creeking.” There wasn’t much to it. We’d walk through the big pasture behind the nursing home across the street from our house until we got to the treelined creek. In our imaginations we were pioneers crossing the great Midwestern plains in a wagon train, stopping to wash up in the first fresh water we’d seen for weeks. Or we were outlaws trying to outrun the sheriff and his posse by throwing them off our scent in the rushing river currents—which were more like a trickle, but I had a big imagination in those days. We would go as far as we wanted, not stopping until the sun began to sink on the horizon. Only then would we hightail it back home, muddy and dripping wet.

As long as we were home before dark, our mothers didn’t mind. (Auntie Em never worried about Dorothy on the farm. Well, not until the tornado came blowing in.) Shoot, nobody’s mother gave us a never mind. Just as long as we were out of the house, the mothers in our neighborhood were happy. To tell the truth, while our dads were at work—ours were gone sometimes for weeks working on the drilling rigs—our mothers were too busy with housework to want us underfoot anyway. Besides, half of them had grown up doing these same things themselves. They knew the mischief we might get into and they knew its limits. Today the world is a more complicated place. I can’t imagine giving my girls that much freedom. There are too many wicked witches and flying monkeys out there in our world. In fact, just thinking about my girls doing half the stuff we did as kids scares me to death. I am more like the overly protective farm hands who fussed over Dorothy when she awoke from the bump on the head. I realize that some might find me sentimental as I recall these simple pleasures. I don’t deny it. Like most childhoods, mine contains happy memories as well as some that aren’t so happy. When I look back, I remember the happy times first.