Wind Me Up 2010

Wind Me Up
Written September 2004
Adapted November 2010

“And all’s I left was a sleepyhead,
One-light town by the bay
I stuck out my thumb when I was done
Listening to what that town had to say
Gossip, nothin’ but gossip

Wind, wind, wind me up
Watch, watch, watch me go
Wind, wind, wind me up
Watch, watch, watch me go
Wind me up and watch me go
Baby, I’m gone.”
— “Wind Me Up” (Terri Hendrix and Al Barlow) from Wilory Farm

With the turn of the leaves and the toll of the school bell, fall has arrived. Hearing the yellow bus squeal to a stop in my neighborhood, I’m reminded of my own days as a passenger to and from school. And the thing I remember most, was that I just ... wanted ... to ... fit ... in. As a grown woman, I’ve discovered that standing apart from the crowd and doing your own thing can often be very rewarding — or at the very least, satisfying. But the little-school-girl-me wanted no part of that. I ached for acceptance. And I firmly believed I knew exactly what it was that separated me from that “in crowd” I so wanted to belong to: my mother. It was all my mother’s fault, if for no other reason than that she insisted on picking out our clothes for school. Needless to say, this pummeled my independent heart. (Yes, the same independent heart that wanted so badly to wear “normal” clothes just like all the cool kids so I could fit in and not stand out.) But none of that mattered, because my mother dressed us, and that was it!



Every morning, we’d stand as rigid as the ironing board we used to starch our pants, and my mom would meet us at the front door at 0600 hours (military time). Only upon passing her inspection were we permitted to go out into the chilly dark to wait for the school bus.

One afternoon, during math, I grew increasingly frustrated as I struggled with the restricting collar of my shirt. I called it my “itchy doily” shirt because it resembled a napkin, curled up like a cone, and it irritated the bottom of my neck. For the mathematically challenged, sitting through addition (FOM) was hard enough. As I scratched my neck raw, an idea bloomed. I came to the realization that I couldn’t wear what wasn’t there. I was 
gonna have to take action!

So ... one evening after supper, I took out the trash. And with it, a paper sack filled with undesirable items from my closet. In the shadow of the trees, I jumped the fence into the ally that ran parallel to our backyard. With my heart pounding in my throat, I raced to the spot I’d picked out the day prior. Being scared of the dark, I hastily tossed the neon green “high waters,” every item I owned that was polyester, and of course the “itchy doily” into the hole I’d dug. Lastly, I ripped up and buried my sister’s bright blue, polka-dotted dress. I didn’t do this for her. I did it because that bright blue dress with polka dots the size of fifty-cent pieces was soon to be my hand-me-down. I shuddered in glee as I covered it up with dirt. Completing my task, I sprinted back home, cleared the fence, and whistled my way back into the house. Slinking into the room I shared with my sister, I curled up on my pillows and slyly looked at her as she arched her eyebrows in one of her “oh, you’re going be in so much trouble” looks.

Sure enough, accusations flew the next morning when my mom discovered most of my wardrobe missing. She threw her hands in the air in disgust and put me on instant dress restriction. That was a fate worse than death! With head down, I boarded the bus that day in what I called my “Buttercrust Dress,” due to the fact that it was red-checkered and looked like a tablecloth. It had been spared burial because I’d forgotten to sort through my laundry basket. Walking down the aisle, I forced a smile through my braces. I quickly took my seat, and squashed my lunch bag with my egg-salad sandwich in it to my lap, because I thought it reeked like farts. I then dutifully saluted my mother through the bus window. And on I ventured down the road to yet another day of sixth grade.

If I cared what people thought of me now as much as I cared in the sixth grade, I’d be unemployable. For sure, I would have never stepped foot onstage. As a performer, it’s my job to do my best to please those that come to see me play, but I just can’t worry about what their impression is of me when they leave — because it’s not my business. Sometimes I fall on my face, and I look like a fool. But at least I try — regardless of the outcome. It took me eons to be able to muster up the gumption to “just do it.” Yes, eons — and I still wrestle with second-guessing myself and occasional stage fright.

Recently, I performed at a fundraiser for children with specials needs at Floore’s Country Store in Helotes, Texas. As children ran about with ice cream drizzling from their chins, folks participated in the silent auction and mingled at picnic tables while fanning themselves. In the blistering sun, the audience hung with us, and heat aside, many handi-capable kids even joined us onstage to sing along to “Wind Me Up.” Choreographed on the fly, little hands and big hands twirled in the air together, making a winding motion to the lyrics.

I have a quote on my wall that reads, “Happiness is when you get really good at being yourself.” And those kids that day were happy. Physical limitations were cast aside. Special needs were buried. Wheelchairs became invisible. These kids were blissfully unaware of any need for acceptance. They simply didn’t care. Completely comfortable in their own skin, they laughed, sang and danced, all for the sake of the song — and for the fun of it.

In memory of Eric Stuart Obermann, September 20, 1981 – August 10, 2010

“Despite his deteriorating physical condition, Eric became an active advocate for ALS patients, helping to raise awareness and funding to help pay for services for patients and research for a cure. He participated in over 10 “Walk to Defeat ALS” events across Alabama, and journeyed to Washington, D.C., every May to meet with his Congressmen and provide ALS awareness at ALS Advocacy Day. In 2005, he testified before a U.S. Senate subcommittee hearing on ALS. His work with ALS inspired hundreds of ALS patients, caregivers and supporters across the United States. He received a commendation from the Governor of Alabama for his efforts in raising awareness of ALS, and also received honors from the ALS Association for his advocacy work in Montgomery and Washington, D.C.

Donations to the ALS Association of Alabama or the Eric S. Obermann Foundation, a charitable fund that provides college scholarships, may be sent to PO Box 2888, Huntsville, AL 35804.”
— Obituary (All Saints Church, Alabama)


Terri Hendrix
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(C)(P) THM Music 2010