She is an adventurer who has become known for sprinkling humor through her life that continues to astound her many thousands of fans. Whether she is giving advice to the (then) new mayor of Denver, swimming with stingrays at the Cayman Islands, or dealing with the side effects of her epilepsy medication, you will find her positive take on the world the perfect addition to any part of your week.

Holly has has no visual memory. She can't remember what her mother looks like, her car or her man. Over the years she has learned many compensation skills to help her cope in a world where nothing looks familiar. And. Yes. She has come to full acceptance that not having a visual memory makes her exactly who she is. Her lack of visual memory isn't a scab that needs to be picked away, rather it is a part of her that is nurtured, loved, and accepted.

There are advantages to forgetting what the world around her looks like: since she can't hold an image of herself, she can't hold an image of herself aging, she can't remember her friends' bad hair days, her neighborhood looks new each time she sees it, and simple sights like a child sitting on a swing can bring her to tears of joy. In fact, since she is busy memorizing things around her so she can bring up the list later, there are many things Holly notices in the world that others miss.

Oh, sure.... there are days where her disability gets in the way. Days where she chases a woman who looks like a friend down the street only to find it isn't her friend. Days where she thinks a man at a party is her man, and it isn't. Days where she sits in a room with the lights off so her brain stops trying to memorize her surroundings.

But, then, we all have days.

About Holly

Holly is from Woodstock, New York. She has let her laundry basket rest in New Paltz, New York, Dothan, Alabama, Show Low, Arizona, London, England, Amsterdam, Holland, New York City, New York, and Denver, Colorado.

She is a master of extracting stories from thin air, which you will find by reading her columns. Travel is her main addiction, and she spends as much time as possible getting her fix. Her friends compliment her life without the complexities of a corkscrew, and are quick to baffle, confuse, and interrogate her every chance they get.***

Holly has had many different careers. She has been a teacher, a writer, an Assistant manager of a bookstore, a Sales clerk in a crafts shop, a Naturalist at an environmental education center, a Music teacher for troubled youth, a factory worker (for one day, and they never paid.....), a Teacher in an art museum, and a flight attendant for jetBlue Airways. She is always ready to add another hat to her many career choices. Any ideas?

Here are some tidbits from some various chapters of her life. Click on the heading to be pulled into the story of your choice, or start reading. You'll get there soon enough.

***(Lisa wrote this sentence.)

Holly answers all e-mails. E-mail her
type this address and e-mail :
holly@livingthelifeofholly.com

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Second Grade Teacher | Reservation Teaching | High School | Middle School | Flight Attendant | Epilepsy

SECOND GRADE TEACHER:

One of my seven-year-old students had a concern about a second-grade book he was reading.

“Ms. Winter. Look at this mistake!”

I had long ago accepted that this brilliant student could run intellectual circles around me, but he hadn't figured it out yet. How long till he saw I was a mere mortal in his Einstein mind? I studied the book, silently, searching for a typo.

“There's something wrong with the planets.” He offered, waiting for the mistake to jump out and bite me, too.

I looked at the illustration and counted. “Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars… D. Is something missing?” I asked, counting again.

He tired of waiting for me to see it and gave me a hint. A big hint. “Well. If the planets were in alignment at that time of year, this planet would appear to be bigger than this planet.” He looked up to me for the same pat on the head I'd given him a few months earlier when he'd memorized all the presidents, in order. (I'd agreed with his presidental order without checking since his little seven-year-old voice softly called out Washington first, Jefferson shortly after and Carter near the end, and he didn't falter once, so I'd dubbed him correct without pulling out an enclyclopedia of presidents to check.)

I had never, ever thought about how the planets might appear to be bigger or smaller when viewing them from earth, depending on when or where they were in their orbits. "How do you know that?” I asked. I mean. It sounded good.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I think you told me.”

Yeah. No.

So. He wrote a letter to the publisher. The publisher consulted NASA. And. He was right? Really. No kidding. According to NASA, this seven-year-old child was right, and he claimed I told him. So. NASA did what they thought best: they sent me a check to be used in the classroom as a thank you for instituting science education in young minds.

Um. Yeah. Right.

Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars…..

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APACHE INDIAN RESERVATION: TEACHING KINDERGARTEN

I figured the best way for me to screen my new kindergarteners on the Apache Indian Reservation, where I'd just come to teach, was to give each student a piece of paper and one red crayon to see what he or she could do. Many of these students had not been outside the home up to now. What could he or she do on a piece of paper? Would he draw a circle? A star? A name? Some numbers? Long scribbles?

My full time Apache aide was upset. “They don’t know about crayons.” She said, arms folded across her chest.

“They’ll learn right now.” I answered, naively.

I gathered the students on the magic carpet, and demonstrated a red crayon lesson: I wrote my name, drew a circle, a star, and a red rainbow. I released my little cherubs and watched as they moved quickly to their appointed seats. Oh. Good. They were able to follow directions without any reminders.

They sat down and picked up their crayons.

I couldn't have been more pleased. I smiled at my aide, who pointed her chin at a round table of children sitting to my right. I smiled towards the sweet five-year-olds who were so eager to use red crayons. These children would be easy to teach, wouldn't they?

I wasn't prepared for what I saw. Every child at that table, and in fact all the children around the room were holding their crayons in their hands. But rather than drawing, as I had expected, they were chewing away on their writing implements, fully expecting total enjoyment from the delicious red color they were holding.

The room was filled with loud chomping noises as each child tried to find the sweetness in the promised treat.

“It’s not good.” One boy glared at me, as he spit wax onto the floor.

I stood in shock. Eating crayons? I looked to my aide. She shrugged in what would become the first of constant "told-you-so" gestures. How would I explain? Must make them stop. Stop. Stop. How?

"Good job." I called out, quickly. "Now. Crayons down. On the carpet by the time I count to three. Fast. Fast Fast. One....Two....".

So. My first lesson would be about crayons.....I was so unprepared for starting from 'This is a crayon...' But. I would learn. Actually, my students would teach me. Every time I started too high, they would bring me down, patiently, by spitting wax on the floor, or by asking during the third week of class, if my mother loved me.

“Why do you ask me that?” I asked, slowly.

“Because, you’re ugly.” Boy said, without any hint of malice.

My aide shouted at him in Apache. I put my hand up to her. It was ok. I wanted to know.

“How am I ugly?”

“You have some red in your face.” Girl said, screwing up her face.

“Yes.” I smiled. “I do have red in my face.”

“And on your hands.” another added.

“And in the corner of your eyes.”

It was as if they had been having secret kindergarten meetings about this behind my back, and were now bringing it to my attention. They weren't afraid of the truth. Clearly this was something they felt needed to be discussed.

I took a slow breath, knowing I was the first white person most of them had ever talked to. “Most white people have some red in their skin.” I announced, noting the irony: We whites slang the Native Americans with the term, “Red,” yet we’re the ones with red in our skin.

“It’s ugly.” Boy said.

“Well.” I shrugged. “My mommy doesn’t think I’m ugly, because she has red in her skin just like I do.”

“Ewwwww.” Came up a big groan from the class.

I smiled. “My whole family looks like I do. In fact most white people have some red in their skin.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you WANT to change?”

I laughed. “But. We all have two hands, right? And we all have to legs…..” And so went the lesson that should have been taught on the first day, helping my students find the similarities between their white teacher and themselves.

We all had a lot of learning to do.

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TEACHING HIGH SCHOOL

“Ms. Winter. Do we have to WORK today? We need a BREAK from all this writing and reading. Your English class is too hard.”

I wasn’t surprised. They started every class this way. But. Today. Today… “Hey. How'd you know?" I said. "I thought we WOULD take a break today!”

“Really? We don’t have to work?” My learning disabled students, whom teachers complain never pay attention to what is going on around them, let out a cheer that might have been heard across town. “Are we going to see a movie? Please. Other teachers show movies every now and then.”

My. But. There was a bit of happiness in the room, wasn’t there? “Nope. No movies. But. No reading and writing either! We’re going to get mops and sponges and brooms and clean for the whole hour. It’s the annual Clean Our Class day!”

“WHAT?”

“Yeah. I thought you deserved a break. You have been working so hard, poor dears. So. Who wants to find the janitor?”

“Ms. Winter. You’re joking. You don’t mean it.”

“Hey. Class. Put away your journals. We aren’t working today. Really. We're cleaning. Come on. Don’t you need a learning break?”

They quickly opened books, found pencils and got to work.

“Ms. Winter?”

“Yes?” I asked, pretending disappointment.

“You are the most annoying teacher in this whole high school.”

“Thank you.” I smiled. “You know how much that means to me.”

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TEACHING MIDDLE SCHOOL

One day in my Home Economics class, a group of four students asked if they could try something different.

“We’ll follow you’re recipe for chocolate cake," boy suggested, "but we want to try something, like they do on cooking shows."

I smiled, liking their quest for innovation.

“We don’t want to grease the pan.” girl added.

Were they striving for creativity? “Why not?”

“Come on.” Boy whined. “It’s messy, and a big waste of time. Can we just TRY to make the cake without greasing the pan?”

I hid my smile. Not innovation. Laziness. “Ok.”

“You won’t fail us?” Girl asked.

I hid my smile. Voice even. The whole class was watching. “I won’t fail you.”

“Promise?” Girl 2 asked. “I can’t get a low grade.”

I put it in writing.

Yeah. The edges of the cake seared to the pan. Luckily they were able to eat the center before they started their hours of soaking and scrubbing that took up their lunch periods and study halls for the rest of the day. I'd never written so many passes in my time at any school.

“Can’t we just buy another cake pan?” Boy whined. “This is ruined. Can’t I just make a POSTER for the value of greasing pans?”

“Nope. Sorry. You have to clean that one. I’m kind of attached to it.”

Their scrubbing reached more then the corners of that pan, which was always remembered as 'the pan' from then on, as it was filled with tiny scratches from kids who found the only way to remove the burned edges was to scrape away some metal. Think of the thousand kids in the school who heard of the poster-group’s elbow grease via osmosis and vowed to always grease pans for the rest of their lives.

I’d say that group’s lesson may have been my most effective teaching moment, ever. Not bad when I wasn’t the one doing the scrubbing, eh?

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FLIGHT ATTENDANT

It was during a quiet red-eye flight that a man sitting in twelve-B flagged me down as I was handing two elderly ladies blankets.

“Could I get a coffee?” He pressed his round glasses closer to his forehead.

“Sure. How’d you like that?”

“Black.”

I returned moments later with black coffee for the passenger, only to find I’d gotten it all wrong.

“I wanted DECAF.” He seethed.

“Really?” I turned to passengers around him. “Coffee for sale. Black coffee. Piping hot. Free. Anyone? Anyone?”

A woman laughingly accepted the offer.

I turned back to the man. “Will that be black decaf then?”

He pointed his voice towards me. “If it isn’t too much trouble. It is your job, isn’t it?”

Passengers turned towards his rudeness. I smiled at it.

“No trouble at all.” I lied. “I love getting coffee.”

I made my way back to the front of the plane where I whispered with the number two attendant who was fixing tea. “Trouble in River City.”

“What’s he up to?”

“Oh. Think he’s looking for a fee flight.”

She rolled her eyes. “Let me guess. Turbulence?”

“No. I can’t make good coffee.”

We laughed as I poured a decaf and headed back to the middle of the plane, answering questions along the way.

“We’ll be there in just five more hours.”

“We’ll land at six o’clock A.M.”

“Thanks. I have plans.”

I got to Mr. Smiley’s seat and waited for him to look up from his work. He didn’t.

“Sir.” I said, gently. “I have your coffee.”

“It better be right this time.” He barked.

“Decaf. Black.”

He slammed his laptop closed. “I SAID I DON’T DRINK DECAF.”

“Really?” I turned to passengers around him “Coffee for sale. Black coffee. Decaf. Piping hot. Free. Poured it myself. Anyone. Anyone?”

There was no laughter this time, but the large man sitting next to him reached out his hand and accepted it.

“Sir.” I started. “You don’t have to…..”

He cut me off “It’s great.”

I turned back to Mr. Smiley, thinking my years dealing with emotionally disturbed students were paying off. “Sir, are you still in a coffee mood?”

“Damn airline. All I want is a damn coffee, and…”

Actually. This was kind of fun. I didn’t care whether or not he was happy, but he had my curiosity up. How many times could he change his mind? Could my charm outlast his greed? I cut him off. “Give me one more chance. Please. Let me make your coffee.”

The passengers around him were ready to mutiny. If it hadn’t been for 9/11, I’m certain they would have landed the plane at the nearest airport and thrown the man off. As it were, the elderly ladies I’d given the blankets to were debating which lavatory he should be locked in. He had put the ‘red’ in red-eye alright.

I scurried back to the galley and poured a regular coffee. On a whim I added milk and sugar.

Back at Mr. Smiley, I said in my quietest, meekest voice, “Sir. I have your black coffee.”

“BLACK? DO I LOOK LIKE THE KIND OF MAN WHO DRINKS COFFEE BLACK? WHY CAN’T I GET A LITTLE MILK AND SUGAR?”

“Really?” My eyes sparkled as I gave myself and my whims a silent high-five. “You wanted milk and sugar?”

“I’M WRITING A LETTER OF COMPLAINT.”

“Yes.” I sighed. “I think you should. My name is Holly. H. O. L. L. Y.”

He scribbled my name on a pad he pulled from his shirt pocket.

“And here.” I handed him his coffee. “Why don’t you drink this coffee with milk and sugar while you write the letter?”

I pretended not to hear the large man threaten him with bodily harm if he refused the coffee, which made Smiley accept the cup, then take out his pad and start writing seat numbers on it.

Other passengers around him laughed and clapped as he gave in. I gave a small bow to the audience, then suggested they go to sleep, story time was over, which released the tension and got everyone breathing again.

As passengers unloaded their bags at the end of the flight, I actually felt sorry for Smiley. He got hit in the head with more overhead bags than you’d have thought possible. And the two elderly ladies were following him down the isle, yammering to him about the best way to make coffee. One turned and winked to me before they exited the plane and handed me a piece of paper.

After they left I opened it. It was the piece of paper he’d written my information on. Those women had lifted that single sheet of paper out of his pocket. Who on earth were they?

Honestly. I totally understood that man trying for a free flight. Heck. Why’d you think I became a flight attendant in the first place? To make coffee for strangers? Um. No.

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EPILEPSY: NOT IMAGINED

“ Are you sure you aren’t psychic, or something like that?” She asked.

“I’m sure.”

“Maybe you are just tired.” My mother tried to reassure me.

“Sorry mom. I’m having seizures. Tons of them.”

“Don’t tell anyone. Maybe they’ll go away.”

“Mom. It’s ok. Epilepsy isn’t something to be ashamed of. I had a car accident. Part of my brain died when I banged my head. I only have visual hallucinations. It could be much, much worse. Sure… my body still does the shut down, but at least I don’t lose consciousness. Maybe there is a gift in here somewhere.”

“How do they know this is a kind of epilepsy, and not something else?” She handed me my cup of tea.

“I’ve been hooked up to machines while I was having seizures. My seizures happen in the part of my brain half way between where my brain registers vision, and where my short term memory happens. Likely this is why I don’t have a visual memory…..”

Mom sipped her tea. “Do you think the Topamax will work?”

“Yup. It worked before. It’ll work again. I’ll be tired. But. I can do this. Epilepsy doesn’t slow me down: medication slows me down. But. I’m not worried about it….. I can do this….." We sipped our tea. "And mom.... I figure that as an Epileptic, I'm better equipped to seize the day… (you know…with seizures) than the average woman might be.

So. I warn you…Watch out. I am NOT taking the world sitting down…."

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Wanna E-mail Holly?

Holly answers all e-mails. E-mail her:
Type her address into your e-mail:
holly@livingthelifeofholly.com