Let's lighten things up a little here...
and at this point I think I will move my therapy-through-poetry to a slightly more private place. Please visit if you want to continue wallowing in grief with me.
Spelling Bee, 1975
My worst year ever, holed up in the central library hoping for a safe place in the new "open school."
The one thing I knew would go well was the spelling bee, held in one of the "classrooms" of
"Delta House." (Of course all my friends from 5th grade were in Alpha House.)
I easily won the school competition, nonstop reader with a photographic
memory for orthography, and moved on to the city level contest.
So excited: my forte, my moment, my time to shine past
buck teeth & lank hair. The word was POTABLE, and
even if I had asked for the meaning I would have
spelled it PODIBLE, because what kind of a
word is POTABLE? and clearly the
announcer had pronounced
it with the laziness of yer
was the word
was the heat
draft HM 12.17
Yep, that really lightened things up.