MissUnderstood Me

  • MissUnderstood Me

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    MissUnderstood Me

    By Julie Sherman

    Not all dragons are fire-breathing, terrifying, scaley, menacing creatures. Folklore and fairytales have given us a bad name and have ruined our reputations.  

    Some of us are quite nice. Some are even meek. Some are mothers who just want to care for their young draglings in the dark, clammy caves of our homes.  Others are literally party animals and want to romp and roll in the mountains, scratching our backs on the rough terrain.  And most of us are kind. 

    Many of us go around helping other dragons fend off bully dragons who flap their immense, scabrous wings close to other dragons’ faces and blow smoke through their enormous nostrils and balls of fire through their mammoth mouths.  We are descendants of pterodactyl and t-rex, so we get our wide mouths from the latter and our flying chops from the former. But we are not all nasty, dangerous monsters.

    One day I was minding my own business, clomping around the bluffs by the white-capped seas, taking down a few trees along the way, and I saw two humans on a large red cloth mat lying in the sun. They had a small dog with them and it started barking wildly staring in my direction. I did not eat the dog. And even though I don’t like dog, I did not breath fire on it.

    The two humans shielded their eyes from the glaring sun and looked up. There they saw my curious face tilting this way and that as I stared at them. They shrieked and screamed and made such a fuss.  I was just looking.  I guess my smile appeared to convey that I was ready to breathe fire because they scrambled to their feet and began running away, leaving everything behind them, including the dog and red plaid mat. I didn’t do anything but watch them. One of them tripped, but the other just kept going.  I would never have done that. We are actually very much like elephants in that we help our kin get out of mud pits and sinking sand when our wings are exhausted from the struggle.  

    We suffer too.  We sigh. We exhale flameless. We have our soft side, yet even after millions of years, we are so tragically misunderstood.

    Julie Sherman is a long-time Petaluma resident who enjoys writing, reading, music, travel, and attending live theater. She is the mother of opera singer Camille Sherman and music producer Emily Sherman, and has been married for 35 years to bassist Jeff Sherman.

    Marlene C

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  • Changing Seasons

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Changing Seasons

    By Julie Sherman

    My garden is feeing anxious. The hydrangeas are protesting with powdery mildew on her large leaves. The yellow stargazers are shrinking back into themselves refusing to open. The last of the white roses are reluctantly peeling back one petal at a time, objecting to the assault of cold temperatures after having owned a sunny resort for the past 4 months. The plumbago has given up altogether, and the sweet peas are trying their best to climb the trellis. The last few pink ballerinas are hanging precariously to their brittle fuchsia branches before folding in their tutus, turning brown, and falling to the ground. Only the chrysanthemums are welcoming the morning chill and pale gray skies.

    The veteran plants know what’s coming and are bracing themselves, feeling tough enough to survive. They look to me for protection and comfort, knowing I will gently shroud them in netted mesh when it dips below 40.

    Some of my beauties will not last. The nasturtium and alyssum will die, but their seeds will stubbornly stay hidden below the rocks and dirt until spring, then surprise me by showing up in different corners around my house. I never know where those flowery renegades will appear, but they always do.

    The hummers, so brazen and audacious, are beginning to retreat. The six feeders filled every Sunday due to the hummers’ gluttony have been full for the last 10 days, only an occasional daring flutterer visiting while the others huddle together for warmth in the tree across the street.

    Fall. My favorite time, my garden’s fearful time. We shift the balance and she tries to hang on another day, waiting for warmth and light to come, only to concede and brace for months of brisk, biting temperatures and darkness to come three full hours sooner than just a month ago.

    I move my sleeveless cotton tops to the back of the closet pulling forward my sweatshirts, long-sleeved tops and jeans. Like my garden, I pull in, nestle, protect, and try to keep my tutu from falling to the ground.

    Julie Sherman is a native San Franciscan and long-time resident of Petaluma, California.  Raised in a family of readers, writers, performers, musicians and political activists, Julie followed her dream of singing professionally.

    While working on “The Love Boat” for Princess Cruises, she met her husband, bassist Jeff Sherman. After a 20-year career as a professional singer, Julie worked in education and technology.

    Now retired, Julie enjoys writing, baking, gardening and worldwide travel, most recently having visited Viet Nam, Ireland, and Thailand. She is the mother of twin girls, opera singer Camille Sherman and music producer Emily Sherman. Julie resides in a little house with her husband, a dog and two cats while enjoying reading, writing, eating well, and tending to her garden.

    Marlene C

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