Hope you all got a chance to be part of the land of the free and the home of the brave yesterday!
I'm in class during the day, studying four hours at night and still trying to keep up with November as Novel Writing Month (an Internet encouragement to write 50,000 words in a month which they guarantee us will be crap but it will be completed crap) and I'm going to try and blog.
But not here.
The course I'm taking is called a CELTA course and if I pass I will be certified in teaching English to non-English speakers. If you want to more check out www.celtastuff.blogspot.com. That's the blog I'm doing this month. I'll link you later but if I don't stop now, I'll be late for class!
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Friday, November 02, 2007
YeeHa!
Did my first rodeo speeches this week. Seeing Houston elementary schools is an eye opener and I think I may get more out of these gigs than the kids. I was very impressed with the one I attended today because despite the community (lower income, several strikes against it with parental support of the children at a minimum) this school was bright, cheerful and clean. I remarked to my assistant for the day that i imagined that some of the children might find the school to be somewhat of a sanctuary.
"We have a hard time getting some of them to leave," she said, shaking her head sadly.
Though they may come from some tough situations (one or more parent in jail, etc.) the teachers are not giving them any slack on the discipline front. They used the "zero" to call the kids to quiet and some of those men and women could have given drill sargeants a run for their tough guy status!
Lots of the kids wanted to linger if you gave them just a smile. Kinda broke my heart a time or two.
But so far, as I've shared with the kids the vast knowledge (ahem!) I've gained on all things chuckwagon so I could mesmerize them for 20 minute stints and encourage them to "do good in school, don't do drugs and maybe you can get a scholarship from the rodeo" (and yes, I really said that because they combined the no drugs day with rodeo day and asked us to!), I've had a few chuckles I've had to squash as well as a tear or two to hold back. Here are a few highlights:
One girl asked me if I was a real cowgirl. One boy wanted to know if I had a horse.
One 5th grader was rather enthusiastic in her query as to whether I was a close friend of Hannah Montana.
On the day after Halloween a girl with what I thought was residual makeup on her face asked, "What do you do about the girl with marks on her face?" I asked her to repeat her question and she did. I said, "Marks?" She said, "I was attacked by a pit bull." I said, "I'm sorry you were hurt. I have marks on my face too!" She said, "Yep and they're called freckles." Then she smiled and walked away.
Several third and fourth graders said their favorite food was sushi. I had no clue what sushi was in the fourth grade.
I think I'm going to like this gig but as my buddy Roger says, "No good deed goes unpunished." When I drove away from the school parking lot I noticed not a chip but a gash in my windshield. Seems a baseball must have found a way to have intimate contact with the passenger side of the front window.
Oh well . . . the adventure continues. Can I get big yee ha?
"We have a hard time getting some of them to leave," she said, shaking her head sadly.
Though they may come from some tough situations (one or more parent in jail, etc.) the teachers are not giving them any slack on the discipline front. They used the "zero" to call the kids to quiet and some of those men and women could have given drill sargeants a run for their tough guy status!
Lots of the kids wanted to linger if you gave them just a smile. Kinda broke my heart a time or two.
But so far, as I've shared with the kids the vast knowledge (ahem!) I've gained on all things chuckwagon so I could mesmerize them for 20 minute stints and encourage them to "do good in school, don't do drugs and maybe you can get a scholarship from the rodeo" (and yes, I really said that because they combined the no drugs day with rodeo day and asked us to!), I've had a few chuckles I've had to squash as well as a tear or two to hold back. Here are a few highlights:
One girl asked me if I was a real cowgirl. One boy wanted to know if I had a horse.
One 5th grader was rather enthusiastic in her query as to whether I was a close friend of Hannah Montana.
On the day after Halloween a girl with what I thought was residual makeup on her face asked, "What do you do about the girl with marks on her face?" I asked her to repeat her question and she did. I said, "Marks?" She said, "I was attacked by a pit bull." I said, "I'm sorry you were hurt. I have marks on my face too!" She said, "Yep and they're called freckles." Then she smiled and walked away.
Several third and fourth graders said their favorite food was sushi. I had no clue what sushi was in the fourth grade.
I think I'm going to like this gig but as my buddy Roger says, "No good deed goes unpunished." When I drove away from the school parking lot I noticed not a chip but a gash in my windshield. Seems a baseball must have found a way to have intimate contact with the passenger side of the front window.
Oh well . . . the adventure continues. Can I get big yee ha?
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Questions, Questions and More Questions
Tonight we saw the new flick "Gone Baby Gone" and if you deal with ethics in any way you need to take an afternoon and check this one out. The question is vividly played out: Is it better to do the right thing or the "white" as in black and white thing?
When faced with a dilemma, is there a right answer that doesn't fall into black and white thinking?
If you'd seen the movie, email me. We MUST talk!
When faced with a dilemma, is there a right answer that doesn't fall into black and white thinking?
If you'd seen the movie, email me. We MUST talk!
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Goza Makes Me Laugh
My friend, "Chaplain Cindy Goza" as she sometimes introduces herself with mock importance, told me of a conversation she overheard recently at the hospital. (As far as I know, no HIPAA rules were broken in the telling of this story.)
Man by the elevator: "Yeah, you know she's got that post partum depression . . . that thing you get in Iraq."
Cindy tried not to guffaw as she silently considered, "Is he talking about a soldier who got pregnant? Is Iraq really a cover up for unwed mothers?"
Man by the elevator: "Yeah, you know she's got that post partum depression . . . that thing you get in Iraq."
Cindy tried not to guffaw as she silently considered, "Is he talking about a soldier who got pregnant? Is Iraq really a cover up for unwed mothers?"
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
California Road Trip -- Final Highlights
Bryn (left) takes care of Richard. Richard takes care of all of Robin's friends who crash in their uber cool basement. Life in San Francisco with the Paolis is a good thing. Much thanks must be offered for nosh foods every night before the dinner meal, great wine pairings, vegan-sensitive menus planned by a man who is definitely carnivorous but also a true host, coffee and scones for breakfast, much needed conversations about writing and possibly the best tour guide I've ever encountered. Other highlights include:
-Having the gumption to return a pair of shoes just to use the 20% off coupon I had forgotten to offer at check out . . . something I have never done before!
-Giving lots of massages but especially having Judah's help when I gave one to her mom (Judah also requested her own version of a massage and with her mother watching I followed that child's orders!)
-Watching Robin and Larry take on the cold waters of the Pacific while playing with Judah in the sand
-A trip to the wine country in the VW, wrapped in a blanket in the back seat with Larry
-Sipping whites with Robert at each winery where we stopped
-Teaching both Quiddler and Farkle to friends
-The view from above the Golden Gate bridge that Robert got on our day back from the country
-Taking the southern route through California (and yes, we missed the fires by one day) and then opting for the backroads through Arizona so that we wound our way through the mountains
-In and Out burgers while sharing the fries and a shake . . . ok that's a girlie thing to say but he's cute and at this point I'm at the stage where I'm sappy
-Sedona, AZ at sunset
-Finding a hotel with a hot tub and not being able to stay as long in the sauna as one aforementioned cute guy
-Mountain vistas, desert vistas, mountain and desert vistas . . . lots and lots of vistas
-My cute, little, red VW packed to the max
-Goza welcoming me to New Mexico
and the adventure continues . . .
Monday, October 22, 2007
The Girls Will Understand This One
Remember those girls back in high school (and I'm sure NONE of you were guilty of this) who -- once they got interested in and the attention of someone -- totally ignored you for days on end as she relished being with her new interest and just assumed you'd understand and think it was perfectly acceptable?
Well . . . high school isn't all that long ago it seems and I'm guilty!
Well . . . high school isn't all that long ago it seems and I'm guilty!
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
See Larry Run a Half Marathon?
See Larry waiting for race (and the porta-potty).
See Larry getting set with other fast runners.
See Larry stretch after race.
See Larry show off his medal from race.
See Larry enjoying sweet victory!
Note what you don't see: Larry actually running the race! Why you might ask? Well . . .
I got up at 5:15 a.m. to support Larry. Rode in the dark and fog and then walked sluggishly to the race area. Finally found coffee and an English muffin and was revived enough to give the man a pep talk and assure him he could beat his personal best time of 1:50 and make his goal of a half marathon in 1:45. I even walked alongside the runners for two miles and then turned around to get back to the finish line in time to see my friend cross it.
That's when I noticed they were picking up any signs that there'd been a race. All indicators of "turn here" or "here" were gone. And I was in San Jose, CA with not a clue of how I got to the little side street with the colorful houses. In a true Southern "bless your heart" moment (or what folks in San Francisco would say was just a stupid move on my part), I wandered and finally one hour and 50 minutes after starting my trek I made it back to the race area in time to see the pace flag for 1:45 a half block away and headed for the finish. At first I thought I could catch up. Then it hit me they were running and I was walking with a back pack and far less training in speed!
By the time I met Larry at the location we'd agreed on, he was stretching.
However ....
HE EXCEEDED HIS GOAL TIME!
And even if I wasn't there to capture it, a chip on his shoe and the smile on his face was proof enough.
See Larry. See Larry run.
See Larry getting set with other fast runners.
See Larry stretch after race.
See Larry show off his medal from race.
See Larry enjoying sweet victory!
Note what you don't see: Larry actually running the race! Why you might ask? Well . . .
I got up at 5:15 a.m. to support Larry. Rode in the dark and fog and then walked sluggishly to the race area. Finally found coffee and an English muffin and was revived enough to give the man a pep talk and assure him he could beat his personal best time of 1:50 and make his goal of a half marathon in 1:45. I even walked alongside the runners for two miles and then turned around to get back to the finish line in time to see my friend cross it.
That's when I noticed they were picking up any signs that there'd been a race. All indicators of "turn here" or "here" were gone. And I was in San Jose, CA with not a clue of how I got to the little side street with the colorful houses. In a true Southern "bless your heart" moment (or what folks in San Francisco would say was just a stupid move on my part), I wandered and finally one hour and 50 minutes after starting my trek I made it back to the race area in time to see the pace flag for 1:45 a half block away and headed for the finish. At first I thought I could catch up. Then it hit me they were running and I was walking with a back pack and far less training in speed!
By the time I met Larry at the location we'd agreed on, he was stretching.
However ....
HE EXCEEDED HIS GOAL TIME!
And even if I wasn't there to capture it, a chip on his shoe and the smile on his face was proof enough.
See Larry. See Larry run.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Questions Held at Bay
“They asked themselves questions they’d long held at bay.” -- seen in Hope’s Edge by Frances Moore Lappe and Anna Lappe
A sequel to the 30-year-old bestseller Diet for a Small Planet, this book takes the reader on a journey to five continents to examine the global food and hunger challenge.
I’m not going to write about that. They did for more than 400 pages and don’t need my input.
But that sentence – read before I even got out of the Opening Note – made me pause.
What questions have I “long held at bay”?
Hmmmmm . . .
Now that I’ve spent some time around some bays, I can see a whole new aspect to the question. While to hold something at bay is to keep it away, the whole “out of sight/out of mind” kind of thing, I can also tell you that bays tend to hold their fog fairly well.
That’s more along the lines of what I’ve been doing with some of my big questions – keeping them in the bay, in the fog, with some parameters but plenty of room to disappear into the great sea of nothingness.
The whole idea of this year-of-not-a-vacation-and-not-9-to-5 is to give some time for the fog to move on and really examine the questions that maybe haunt me more than I know.
One is definitely about the whole God thing. What do I believe, hold dear, claim above all else?
Another question that slithers in on occasion is what am I to do about the plight of human kind? And which exact plight concerns me most – or at least enough to do something about?
Here are a few more … though I don’t know if they are phrased exactly right – keep in mind the fog still lingers:
Do I think love – as in what one person has for another that keeps them together for a lifetime – exists? Is being “in love” simply a Hallmark/Hollywood invention?
What wouldn’t I do for a friend?
When something exists because of “the system” (and here I mean political, familial, social, etc.) what makes me give up before trying to address it?
Last night I had dinner with a man who had come back from Iraq after three years of service there (and 20 years with the Marines before that) and the first thing he did when he landed in the Chicago airport was to get a beer. He hadn’t one in three years. His refreshment was tarnished however when a suited young man spoke loudly to the two women he was with about his views on the war, the military and specifically how Marines were nothing but “killing machines.”
Still attired in his military garb, this man knew the comments were for his benefit and – in his interpretation of the event – walked to the young man and politely asked him to refrain from including him in his earshot since he had seen good men die as the result of this conflict that he didn’t agree with either but was willing to do what he could for the country that had asked him. The young man then told him what exactly he could do to himself. At which point, my new friend suggested that if he didn’t refrain he would tear his head from his shoulders and . . . well, you get the picture.
Our government and in some ways our society is a system practicing the attributes of insanity. We keep doing what we’ve been doing expecting different results. If we didn’t learn from Vietnam that we can’t blame the soldier for the “solutions” prescribed in faraway strategy rooms, then will we ever learn?
And if I care enough, what does one person do to say “enough.” I told my friend that I often felt like a drop of water in a big sea that has little to no affect.
He said, “Take it from someone who knows. When you’re in the desert and you lift your canteen and all that falls is one drop, you’re pretty damn grateful for that drop.”
Here’s a toast to my first efforts at drops to lift the fog . . .
A sequel to the 30-year-old bestseller Diet for a Small Planet, this book takes the reader on a journey to five continents to examine the global food and hunger challenge.
I’m not going to write about that. They did for more than 400 pages and don’t need my input.
But that sentence – read before I even got out of the Opening Note – made me pause.
What questions have I “long held at bay”?
Hmmmmm . . .
Now that I’ve spent some time around some bays, I can see a whole new aspect to the question. While to hold something at bay is to keep it away, the whole “out of sight/out of mind” kind of thing, I can also tell you that bays tend to hold their fog fairly well.
That’s more along the lines of what I’ve been doing with some of my big questions – keeping them in the bay, in the fog, with some parameters but plenty of room to disappear into the great sea of nothingness.
The whole idea of this year-of-not-a-vacation-and-not-9-to-5 is to give some time for the fog to move on and really examine the questions that maybe haunt me more than I know.
One is definitely about the whole God thing. What do I believe, hold dear, claim above all else?
Another question that slithers in on occasion is what am I to do about the plight of human kind? And which exact plight concerns me most – or at least enough to do something about?
Here are a few more … though I don’t know if they are phrased exactly right – keep in mind the fog still lingers:
Do I think love – as in what one person has for another that keeps them together for a lifetime – exists? Is being “in love” simply a Hallmark/Hollywood invention?
What wouldn’t I do for a friend?
When something exists because of “the system” (and here I mean political, familial, social, etc.) what makes me give up before trying to address it?
Last night I had dinner with a man who had come back from Iraq after three years of service there (and 20 years with the Marines before that) and the first thing he did when he landed in the Chicago airport was to get a beer. He hadn’t one in three years. His refreshment was tarnished however when a suited young man spoke loudly to the two women he was with about his views on the war, the military and specifically how Marines were nothing but “killing machines.”
Still attired in his military garb, this man knew the comments were for his benefit and – in his interpretation of the event – walked to the young man and politely asked him to refrain from including him in his earshot since he had seen good men die as the result of this conflict that he didn’t agree with either but was willing to do what he could for the country that had asked him. The young man then told him what exactly he could do to himself. At which point, my new friend suggested that if he didn’t refrain he would tear his head from his shoulders and . . . well, you get the picture.
Our government and in some ways our society is a system practicing the attributes of insanity. We keep doing what we’ve been doing expecting different results. If we didn’t learn from Vietnam that we can’t blame the soldier for the “solutions” prescribed in faraway strategy rooms, then will we ever learn?
And if I care enough, what does one person do to say “enough.” I told my friend that I often felt like a drop of water in a big sea that has little to no affect.
He said, “Take it from someone who knows. When you’re in the desert and you lift your canteen and all that falls is one drop, you’re pretty damn grateful for that drop.”
Here’s a toast to my first efforts at drops to lift the fog . . .
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Life is like a portabello sandwich . . .
Larry and I have had several discussions about his veganism. I applaud his commitment to living his convictions. He understands that I don't have that same level of conviction. And we both allow ourselves the space to just be. Makes for a peaceful co-existence.
But the conversations have been lively and fun. For instance, he might mention that some vegans choose their lifestyle out of respect for creation. They don't want to kill anything -- even mosquitoes. I counter with the surprise fact that I've practiced "capture and release" form of pest control in my abodes for years. If I spot a cockroach for example and it's possible to shoo its crunchy exterior out my front door, I will. However, if a blood sucker comes my way, I'm all over survival-of-the-fittest and given that I'm a little higher on the food chain the circle of life is going to start back at ground zero as far as that critter is concerned.
Hasta la vista, baby!
(calming from my mounting aggression . . . breathing) So, yeah, I get the respect for that which has been created. But I also think in systems. And a system of predator and prey seems to have been established for balance. While hiking part of the Tahoe Rim I learned from one of the guides with me that in order to protect the lake from the possibility of being destroyed by fire, they have to thin out the trees. Now some folks don't want the thinning. And some folks don't want the potential for devastation. Leaves me wondering what the system can hold or if we don't sometimes come to a point where new systems must be established.
Pretty deep question that pretty much originates at the mosquito question. At this point, I'm still under the influence that the "way of the world" demands that things get squashed, trees get thinned, and folks with no power must rely on advocates to advance.
If someone's come up with a way that works that allows power brokers to discuss it over a steak lunch, we may have a new answer. Until then I continue to view myself as what I long ago surmised was a "pragmatic optimist". I want to believe there's a better way but until we find it, I'll do what I can to build up my muscles for the wrestling match around the corner.
By the way, Larry has chosen his lifestyle because of the corporate powers that control so much of the world's resources that their waste could feed third world countries. He's a good man with a big heart and an evolving definition of what can go on his plate.
One of my favorite choices is portabello . . . juicy, meaty tasting, and no guilt . . . the kind of food that makes you feel exotic even if all you do is put a slice of cheese on it and call it a burger. Not unlike this new life I've chosen, heh?
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Waiting for the Shower in Lake Tahoe
While I wait for the shower (five of us in a condo with only one makes for some wait time), I thought I'd share some recent sights:
-1600 year old tree
-band billed as Celtic Rock was actually a Southern Rock band with a barefoot girl lead taking on "Born on the Bayou" and I don't think she was
-older couple dancing together to above music with grace and poise and I wanted to be her
-me dancing to above music and glad I was me
-Donner Summit
-Gold Rush town with exhibit of REAL gold
-Lake Tahoe at sunrise (yep, I said "rise")
-snow on the mountains
-more ways to eat without meat than I thought and some of them are quite tasty
-1600 year old tree
-band billed as Celtic Rock was actually a Southern Rock band with a barefoot girl lead taking on "Born on the Bayou" and I don't think she was
-older couple dancing together to above music with grace and poise and I wanted to be her
-me dancing to above music and glad I was me
-Donner Summit
-Gold Rush town with exhibit of REAL gold
-Lake Tahoe at sunrise (yep, I said "rise")
-snow on the mountains
-more ways to eat without meat than I thought and some of them are quite tasty
Friday, October 05, 2007
3 Rs . . . Ok, 3 1/2
Larry and I were chatting as we made our way along the seaside of Santa Cruz.
(For all you Texans and landlocked friends reading this we will now observe a moment of silence for the appropriate degree of envy to set in.)
I was telling him of how I had begun to view the experience of packing up my belongings, setting forth on this journey, and trying to settle into the processing and preparation I wanted to achieve in order to begin to map out the next phase of my days.
Together we came up with a series of words that seems like a worthwhile reflection tool set.
Romance -- Initially I was caught up in the romantic idea of writing, traveling, and volunteering. You know what I mean . . . the tendency to focus on the sights I would see and the people I would meet rather than the fact that I had to have a new tire for the car and 12 hour days of driving meant you just want a hot bath and a bed, not fodder for a inspirational post on a blog! (You are somewhat inspired, right?)
Reality -- You may love your lover for all he/she is worth but, fact is, he/she snores, smells like a bad pair of wet sneakers after exertion of any kind or any number of fill-in-the-blank reality checks. I have posted previously about the tension I feel with living the dream and facing the reality that other folks who I love dearly are realizing their own dreams without my being in the near vacinity. For someone as connected to family and friends as I am, that's not the easiest of ideas to digest. I'm enjoying my cake and eating it with delight, but I can't help but wonder what the cookie I can't quite get to tastes like either. Don't hear this as a complaint . . . it's simply reality.
Reliving/Reinterpreting -- I've often said, "It's all about the story." Larry takes it one step further and acknowledges that for him the biggest pleasure is the retelling and reinterpreting his life by the experience. He's not as moment-focused as I am. He relishes what he's going to get out of whatever is happening now so he can be an even better in the later.
As we played with the ideas, he offered up one more for all you philosophical types to enjoy. He spoke of consolation and desolation. As he experiences life, he feels consoled by his Creator in various moments where he's absolutely sure of the conneciton. But there are times, empty spaces he calls them, where God appears to be absent. In those times of desolation, Larry is convinced that God exists as well and he's trying to lean into those times and discover new truths about himself.
Hearing him, I crossed my fingers that my friend wasn't into the whole suffering movement that many spiritual pilgrims embrace. He assured me that he enjoyed pleasure too much to take up pain as a pasttime. But what he has found in a rather catholic train of thought, he said, is that he indeed is in a place to learn more about himself when he's almost convinced he's without comfort. A runner, he compared it to having to lean into the wind and take on the resistance in order to gain strength and excel.
Just thought I'd share . . . don't know what I'm going to do with this tidbit of conversation but definitely wanted to share.
(For all you Texans and landlocked friends reading this we will now observe a moment of silence for the appropriate degree of envy to set in.)
I was telling him of how I had begun to view the experience of packing up my belongings, setting forth on this journey, and trying to settle into the processing and preparation I wanted to achieve in order to begin to map out the next phase of my days.
Together we came up with a series of words that seems like a worthwhile reflection tool set.
Romance -- Initially I was caught up in the romantic idea of writing, traveling, and volunteering. You know what I mean . . . the tendency to focus on the sights I would see and the people I would meet rather than the fact that I had to have a new tire for the car and 12 hour days of driving meant you just want a hot bath and a bed, not fodder for a inspirational post on a blog! (You are somewhat inspired, right?)
Reality -- You may love your lover for all he/she is worth but, fact is, he/she snores, smells like a bad pair of wet sneakers after exertion of any kind or any number of fill-in-the-blank reality checks. I have posted previously about the tension I feel with living the dream and facing the reality that other folks who I love dearly are realizing their own dreams without my being in the near vacinity. For someone as connected to family and friends as I am, that's not the easiest of ideas to digest. I'm enjoying my cake and eating it with delight, but I can't help but wonder what the cookie I can't quite get to tastes like either. Don't hear this as a complaint . . . it's simply reality.
Reliving/Reinterpreting -- I've often said, "It's all about the story." Larry takes it one step further and acknowledges that for him the biggest pleasure is the retelling and reinterpreting his life by the experience. He's not as moment-focused as I am. He relishes what he's going to get out of whatever is happening now so he can be an even better in the later.
As we played with the ideas, he offered up one more for all you philosophical types to enjoy. He spoke of consolation and desolation. As he experiences life, he feels consoled by his Creator in various moments where he's absolutely sure of the conneciton. But there are times, empty spaces he calls them, where God appears to be absent. In those times of desolation, Larry is convinced that God exists as well and he's trying to lean into those times and discover new truths about himself.
Hearing him, I crossed my fingers that my friend wasn't into the whole suffering movement that many spiritual pilgrims embrace. He assured me that he enjoyed pleasure too much to take up pain as a pasttime. But what he has found in a rather catholic train of thought, he said, is that he indeed is in a place to learn more about himself when he's almost convinced he's without comfort. A runner, he compared it to having to lean into the wind and take on the resistance in order to gain strength and excel.
Just thought I'd share . . . don't know what I'm going to do with this tidbit of conversation but definitely wanted to share.
I'm NOT on Vacation But . . .
Several folks I've chatted with of late have referenced my new "normal" as a vacation.
No. Nada. Nunca. X-na on the acation-va.
I'm in a new place in my life and a new kind of life. Every day is a celebration of what might be. Every day holds opportunities for relaxation, pleasure, learning, and making the space I take up more worthwhile because I've done something good with the time I've been given.
But I can't view it as a vacation because that particular word denotes that I'm taking time away from something to which I will return.
That's not going to happen.
So, yes, I'm on a break from the 9 to 5 world. But I may never return to it. I'd love to find a way to write, be creative, train and do all the things I enjoy doing while simultaneously fulfilling other folks' expectations enough to actually get paid for it. You've now heard my current dream. If I don't pull that off, then current plan #2 is to find something that will pay the bills and also allow me to pursue passions like writing and volunteering. We shall see.
I mention the v-word because while I am not on one, Stan, my traveling companion was. He left on Wednesday night and we spent Tuesday and the time until we left him to his own devices to get on the peanut-laden Southwest flight home traversing the city with the help of two most excellent tour guides.
World, meet Richard and Larry! Richard and Robin will host me the last week I'm in California. Larry has made provisions for me to stay among the Redwoods in a very comfortable room on the campgrounds where he works. Robin wasn't in town but Richard, with his vast knowledge of San Francisco architecture, real estate, history, food, wine and well . . . just about everything . . . served our cause of getting Stan a good sense that he'd "seen" the city. Of course, with the top down on the Beetle you can see plenty!
Richard was gracious beyond belief in that we stuffed his probably close to 6 ft frame in and out of that car with little room to spare and not once did he complain. Instead, he just added another story of travels on the road and challenges as well as delights he'd experienced there.
Larry sent us on our way the first day in because he had to work but told us how to get to the DeYoung museum and oh, oh, aren't we glad!?! Loved the view from the tower that is just another way San Francisco can "na na na boo boo" the rest of the country with its grandeur. Also loved that a towering docent (truly tall beefy guy) felt the need to offer us his own account of one particular fashion exhibit. When he left us, i asked Stan, "Now why do you suppose we, of all the people in this room, merited that little extra?" Stan offered, "Well he glanced at me and studied you, so I'm thinking he's leaning your way."
I do so love men talk with the men!!! I thought my breasts were being appreciated but Stan confirmed it. Ahhhh . . . not everyone here is saluting the Castro flag, now are they?
We did a lot of twisting and turning and topping of hills. We also took in some great art including murals painted on the walls of the Mission District, particularly along Balmy Alley. Stan thrilled me when he proclaimed the last several days to be the most fun he'd had in years.
Yes! Yes! Yes! I wanted to reward him wih a great time. He rewarded me with his delight. We all come out winners.
Unfortunately, he missed the biggie as far as I was concerned. When we dropped him off we came back by the AIDS memorial and then made one more stop at the remembrance of the Holocaust. As I approached the cut out on the hillside that allowed for the statues the first thing I noted was a white "wire" fence (think plaster when I say white) and a man's back. The statue was to appear to be facing out, perhaps even looking at the incredible view from his vantage point. As I came closer, the intake of breath happened almost before I truly comprehended what I was seeing. Behind the man lay numerous bodies on the concrete floor. All plaster white -- big, small, men, women, clothed and not. Stark. Just close enough to real to serve as the harsh reminder of man's inhumanity to man I'm sure it was created to be.
God, help us. Hate doesn't go away just because we create memorials.
So . . . no, I'm not on vacation. I want to see and write and wonder and maybe, just maybe, figure out my role in working away at that hate . . . one thought at a time.
God, help us indeed.
No. Nada. Nunca. X-na on the acation-va.
I'm in a new place in my life and a new kind of life. Every day is a celebration of what might be. Every day holds opportunities for relaxation, pleasure, learning, and making the space I take up more worthwhile because I've done something good with the time I've been given.
But I can't view it as a vacation because that particular word denotes that I'm taking time away from something to which I will return.
That's not going to happen.
So, yes, I'm on a break from the 9 to 5 world. But I may never return to it. I'd love to find a way to write, be creative, train and do all the things I enjoy doing while simultaneously fulfilling other folks' expectations enough to actually get paid for it. You've now heard my current dream. If I don't pull that off, then current plan #2 is to find something that will pay the bills and also allow me to pursue passions like writing and volunteering. We shall see.
I mention the v-word because while I am not on one, Stan, my traveling companion was. He left on Wednesday night and we spent Tuesday and the time until we left him to his own devices to get on the peanut-laden Southwest flight home traversing the city with the help of two most excellent tour guides.
World, meet Richard and Larry! Richard and Robin will host me the last week I'm in California. Larry has made provisions for me to stay among the Redwoods in a very comfortable room on the campgrounds where he works. Robin wasn't in town but Richard, with his vast knowledge of San Francisco architecture, real estate, history, food, wine and well . . . just about everything . . . served our cause of getting Stan a good sense that he'd "seen" the city. Of course, with the top down on the Beetle you can see plenty!
Richard was gracious beyond belief in that we stuffed his probably close to 6 ft frame in and out of that car with little room to spare and not once did he complain. Instead, he just added another story of travels on the road and challenges as well as delights he'd experienced there.
Larry sent us on our way the first day in because he had to work but told us how to get to the DeYoung museum and oh, oh, aren't we glad!?! Loved the view from the tower that is just another way San Francisco can "na na na boo boo" the rest of the country with its grandeur. Also loved that a towering docent (truly tall beefy guy) felt the need to offer us his own account of one particular fashion exhibit. When he left us, i asked Stan, "Now why do you suppose we, of all the people in this room, merited that little extra?" Stan offered, "Well he glanced at me and studied you, so I'm thinking he's leaning your way."
I do so love men talk with the men!!! I thought my breasts were being appreciated but Stan confirmed it. Ahhhh . . . not everyone here is saluting the Castro flag, now are they?
We did a lot of twisting and turning and topping of hills. We also took in some great art including murals painted on the walls of the Mission District, particularly along Balmy Alley. Stan thrilled me when he proclaimed the last several days to be the most fun he'd had in years.
Yes! Yes! Yes! I wanted to reward him wih a great time. He rewarded me with his delight. We all come out winners.
Unfortunately, he missed the biggie as far as I was concerned. When we dropped him off we came back by the AIDS memorial and then made one more stop at the remembrance of the Holocaust. As I approached the cut out on the hillside that allowed for the statues the first thing I noted was a white "wire" fence (think plaster when I say white) and a man's back. The statue was to appear to be facing out, perhaps even looking at the incredible view from his vantage point. As I came closer, the intake of breath happened almost before I truly comprehended what I was seeing. Behind the man lay numerous bodies on the concrete floor. All plaster white -- big, small, men, women, clothed and not. Stark. Just close enough to real to serve as the harsh reminder of man's inhumanity to man I'm sure it was created to be.
God, help us. Hate doesn't go away just because we create memorials.
So . . . no, I'm not on vacation. I want to see and write and wonder and maybe, just maybe, figure out my role in working away at that hate . . . one thought at a time.
God, help us indeed.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
2,377 Miles Later, We're HERE!!!
Got in at midnight. Just before we arrived at camp in the dark of night along some of the curviest roads you can imagine, I had commented on the fact that while I was more comfortable driving at night than Stan, I still was having difficulty with the halo affect my contacts created with the reflectors. Then we had to go through a plethora of the darn things because of a construction project (underway at 11 p.m.!). After that a fog set in. Then two deer decided it was playtime in the middle of the path to the camp. I'm describing the last 30 MINUTES of a four-day trip!
You can call my life any number of things but you can't call it boring!
You can call my life any number of things but you can't call it boring!
California Road Trip – Day 4, Less Sightings and More Musings
This post will be less about what I’m seeing and more about what I’m feeling. Two reasons for this turn of the blog . . . today we’re driving through the desert and after a while there’s not much more you can say except, “Yep, that’s a desert.” And, I’ve finally begun to slow down enough in the trip mode to get beyond finding radio stations to listen to, learning new things about Stan, and grasping that Dorothy and Toto aren’t in Kansas anymore to actually embrace the silence and think.
Plus I’m an extrovert who doesn’t really believe a thing has happened until I’ve had a chance to debrief with someone else. Tag, dear readers, you’re It in my “someone else” department these days. Feel free to comment or, for you shy introverted types, email me directly!
Here’s the compilation of hmmm’s I’ve come up with to date. Feel free to chime in on any point. And, just so you who don’t know me can get to know me better, this invitation is not an open door to “fixin’ me.” I just delight in perspectives!
• Being a free spirit isn’t free. The act comes with a cost ... including being intentional about connecting with old friends who were always there when I needed them but not an everyday phone call, newer friends who I was just developing patterns with, and brand new friends who don’t know me well enough to know I have patterns, rituals, and the like that keep me going. I find that I’m struggling with being present in the moment and wanting to share the significant moments in the lives of those for whom I care deeply.
• Hello, my name is Karen and I’m a news junky. (I’ll pause here and wait for your “Hello Karen” support group reply.) . . . Three days without an update on what’s happening in the world and I need a fix. Of course when I asked someone to feed my habit yesterday by reading me the headlines, the best he came up with was that the Houston Chronicle was marking the 50th year since Sputnik. Seems I was jonesing on a slow news day.
• Kinda related to my first one . . . I’m experiencing the tension of wanting to live in the moment and delighting when that moment includes planning for future moments. Here and now versus then and there is taking up some of my conversational time these days. Good news is that I’m not forfeiting much of the now in these future-based planning sessions given that “now” includes a lot of travel time and down time in just off the highway hotels. But I can’t help thinking about what’s next with so many areas of my life. I want desperately to maintain a healthy balance of enjoying what is while anticipating what will be.
• Cheesey Alert: Since we were heading to (and now in) California, Stan and I launched our journey with a bit of the Beach Boys. (Told you it was cheesey. Now comes the serious part.) He told me that he had read that Brian Wilson never completely enjoyed his success with the band because every time the Beach Boys would have a number one hit in a few weeks the Beatles would top them. As we now know, Brian suffered from several sad plights and one of them was depression. We got to talking about the fact that no matter how good a communicator someone is a “glass-is-half-full person” cannot describe the glass well enough or in enough detail to ever help the “glass is half empty person” see it. In other words, no one can make anyone BE happy. Here’s a case when knowing I’m helpless actually helps me be of more help. I spend less time these days trying to change someone’s mind and more time accepting them as they are.
• Someone who has only recently gotten to know me is embracing the fact that I’m not all that judgmental. When he commented on it, he celebrated me so I further added that I didn’t think it was my job to judge. He asked, “So if it’s not yours, whose is it?” I kinda liked my reply, “Whoever you give that power to. Could be yourself, your mother, your lover, your spouse, your friend, or whoever you deem your Creator to be. But the one thing I know is that it’s not me.”
Well, that’s about all for today. Can’t wait to see if any of you have further thoughts on these or other subjects you’re willing to share!
Sunday, September 30, 2007
California Road Trip -- Day 3
“Here’s nothing. Not make something of it.”
That’s the dialogue that plays out in my mind whenever I encounter an ingenious act, production, or someone’s rags to riches story. That’s what I heard today standing on the corner in Winslow, Arizona.
If that last line sounds familiar it’s because you’ve heard the Eagles sing it as “such a fine sight to see: it’s a girl, my Lord, in a flatbed Ford slowing down to take a look at me.” The good people of Winslow – or in the scenario of my conjecture, one irritatingly persistent musician turned businessman who saw the potential tourist attraction no one else could see and convinced enough towns folks to approve it – turned a random corner of the city into the main reason people stop and on a sleepy Sunday morning line up to take photos with a statue of a man and his guitar positioned in front of a brick wall with a mural of the aforementioned girl painted as to appear to be a reflection in the window.
An eagle is even perched on the make believe windowsill to offer credit where credit is due. The band’s songs blare out of a nearby store where mostly motorcycle mamas and t-shirt clad families familiar with the Bedazzler can stock up on magnets, more t-shirts, shot glasses and caps.
We asked and the town boasts a population of around 5,000. I think the source was being generous. But what they lack in volume they make up for in ingenuity. The Penney’s building on which the mural was painted actually burned a few years ago but the wall was saved and a park is soon to grace the backside of the now singular wall that attracts visitors every day.
The whole experience made me smile. Of course, I was in a better postion to do so after having FINALLY found a restroom. I mentioned Winslow is sleepy and on Sunday morning everyone and every business (save those two tourist joints) were on an extended siesta. I was contemplating spots on the side of the road when we were vainly searching for some relief when I spotted a hotel. La Posada claimed to be open though we saw signs of either destruction or con when we drove up. I didn’t care. I raced inside.
As focused as I was on that particular destination I couldn’t help but take in a deep breath when I realized this was no rundown, run of the mill, sleeping establishment thankful for the occasional RV driver who is longing for a hot shower and a bed with box springs.
The high ceilings, heavy wooden beams, New Mexican color scheme and artwork practically shouted at me to slow down. I glimpsed indications that I couldn’t make this a slam bam thank you mam kind of visit as I desperately sought out the relief facilities. When I had concluded my business, I gave them some with the purchase of a small basket I thought the folks back at my former business could use as a thank you for my going away. Then I went in search of Stan.
He, of course, had found the other gay man on the premises who happened to be the hotel clerk or manager. Engaged in conversation when I approached, Stan paused to update me on what he’d discovered thus far. The hotel was popular in the 30s, abandoned in the 50s and had been empty until it was restored in 1997. Our new friend and self-appointed tour guide seemed inspired by our obvious pleasure in the place or Stan’s cute legs and offered to show us some of the rooms, each decorated differently. They were named for famous celebrities and politicians that had once stayed in the resort stop for trains back in the day. His favorite was the Harry Truman room with its king size bed and Jacuzzi as well as a sitting area that overlooked the garden. I preferred the double jaccuzzi next door as I had just finished one of my sensual stories I’m working on apart from this blog and it seemed like it would make an excellent setting.
Betty Grable had a room. Jimmy Stewart. Howard Hughes actually stayed in the room that they had graced with his name. I asked if the hotel was doing well given that the evidence to date was that it wasn’t exactly a thriving metropolis and he assured me that they were constantly busy, booked up to a year in advance and currently working on opening up 10 additional suites.
Our guide’s story was an easy one to retrieve. I just asked and discovered he had five kids (we saw pictures of when they were small) had been born in the area but left until the kids (note that it wasn’t the wife) asked him to return and he’s worked there for a year to date.
After a bit more small talk, he left us to explore and I returned to a room of paintings that I’d seen from the corner of my eye when in search of the ladies room. The mural at the top of those steps was at least 30 feet wide and still allowed for another of the same size on its right should they ever need to display another. The name was as intriguing as the artwork which at first seemed to be a party scene but upon close inspection appeared to be table after table of corpses, each painted carefully to resemble folks you thought you might know. Sure enough, when we read about it we learned it was A New Years Eve Party in Purgatory with Liberace Dropping in from Heaven Just for the Hell of It. The notes helped us out by identifying some of the guests – Marilyn Monroe, Sid Vicious, Jimmi Hendrix, and a couple of artists Mark Rothko and one local one who took his life upon learning that he would soon be blind. The artist is Tina Minon and after reading about another large painting she’d worked on just before the Berlin Wall fell in which she juxtaposed nuns with Babushkas, we discovered that she had married the man who had first established some international peace walks she’d been part of and that the two of them were the owners and chief renovators of the hotel!
Ingenious and serendipitous are our words of the day, kiddies!!! A bathroom break prompted the setting for what will have to be a focal point in an upcoming story, an introduction to some local lore, and a touch of cuteness for Stan to enjoy. One woman’s investment in her own sense of justice netted her a new life in Arizona. And one small town is now more than just a spot in the road.
Sometimes takin’ it easy is the only way to go!
That’s the dialogue that plays out in my mind whenever I encounter an ingenious act, production, or someone’s rags to riches story. That’s what I heard today standing on the corner in Winslow, Arizona.
If that last line sounds familiar it’s because you’ve heard the Eagles sing it as “such a fine sight to see: it’s a girl, my Lord, in a flatbed Ford slowing down to take a look at me.” The good people of Winslow – or in the scenario of my conjecture, one irritatingly persistent musician turned businessman who saw the potential tourist attraction no one else could see and convinced enough towns folks to approve it – turned a random corner of the city into the main reason people stop and on a sleepy Sunday morning line up to take photos with a statue of a man and his guitar positioned in front of a brick wall with a mural of the aforementioned girl painted as to appear to be a reflection in the window.
An eagle is even perched on the make believe windowsill to offer credit where credit is due. The band’s songs blare out of a nearby store where mostly motorcycle mamas and t-shirt clad families familiar with the Bedazzler can stock up on magnets, more t-shirts, shot glasses and caps.
We asked and the town boasts a population of around 5,000. I think the source was being generous. But what they lack in volume they make up for in ingenuity. The Penney’s building on which the mural was painted actually burned a few years ago but the wall was saved and a park is soon to grace the backside of the now singular wall that attracts visitors every day.
The whole experience made me smile. Of course, I was in a better postion to do so after having FINALLY found a restroom. I mentioned Winslow is sleepy and on Sunday morning everyone and every business (save those two tourist joints) were on an extended siesta. I was contemplating spots on the side of the road when we were vainly searching for some relief when I spotted a hotel. La Posada claimed to be open though we saw signs of either destruction or con when we drove up. I didn’t care. I raced inside.
As focused as I was on that particular destination I couldn’t help but take in a deep breath when I realized this was no rundown, run of the mill, sleeping establishment thankful for the occasional RV driver who is longing for a hot shower and a bed with box springs.
The high ceilings, heavy wooden beams, New Mexican color scheme and artwork practically shouted at me to slow down. I glimpsed indications that I couldn’t make this a slam bam thank you mam kind of visit as I desperately sought out the relief facilities. When I had concluded my business, I gave them some with the purchase of a small basket I thought the folks back at my former business could use as a thank you for my going away. Then I went in search of Stan.
He, of course, had found the other gay man on the premises who happened to be the hotel clerk or manager. Engaged in conversation when I approached, Stan paused to update me on what he’d discovered thus far. The hotel was popular in the 30s, abandoned in the 50s and had been empty until it was restored in 1997. Our new friend and self-appointed tour guide seemed inspired by our obvious pleasure in the place or Stan’s cute legs and offered to show us some of the rooms, each decorated differently. They were named for famous celebrities and politicians that had once stayed in the resort stop for trains back in the day. His favorite was the Harry Truman room with its king size bed and Jacuzzi as well as a sitting area that overlooked the garden. I preferred the double jaccuzzi next door as I had just finished one of my sensual stories I’m working on apart from this blog and it seemed like it would make an excellent setting.
Betty Grable had a room. Jimmy Stewart. Howard Hughes actually stayed in the room that they had graced with his name. I asked if the hotel was doing well given that the evidence to date was that it wasn’t exactly a thriving metropolis and he assured me that they were constantly busy, booked up to a year in advance and currently working on opening up 10 additional suites.
Our guide’s story was an easy one to retrieve. I just asked and discovered he had five kids (we saw pictures of when they were small) had been born in the area but left until the kids (note that it wasn’t the wife) asked him to return and he’s worked there for a year to date.
After a bit more small talk, he left us to explore and I returned to a room of paintings that I’d seen from the corner of my eye when in search of the ladies room. The mural at the top of those steps was at least 30 feet wide and still allowed for another of the same size on its right should they ever need to display another. The name was as intriguing as the artwork which at first seemed to be a party scene but upon close inspection appeared to be table after table of corpses, each painted carefully to resemble folks you thought you might know. Sure enough, when we read about it we learned it was A New Years Eve Party in Purgatory with Liberace Dropping in from Heaven Just for the Hell of It. The notes helped us out by identifying some of the guests – Marilyn Monroe, Sid Vicious, Jimmi Hendrix, and a couple of artists Mark Rothko and one local one who took his life upon learning that he would soon be blind. The artist is Tina Minon and after reading about another large painting she’d worked on just before the Berlin Wall fell in which she juxtaposed nuns with Babushkas, we discovered that she had married the man who had first established some international peace walks she’d been part of and that the two of them were the owners and chief renovators of the hotel!
Ingenious and serendipitous are our words of the day, kiddies!!! A bathroom break prompted the setting for what will have to be a focal point in an upcoming story, an introduction to some local lore, and a touch of cuteness for Stan to enjoy. One woman’s investment in her own sense of justice netted her a new life in Arizona. And one small town is now more than just a spot in the road.
Sometimes takin’ it easy is the only way to go!
Saturday, September 29, 2007
California Road Trip -- Day 2
Nothing like starting the day with a windblown walk to see 10 Cadillacs buried nose down in the earth.
God, you gotta love Texas!
The Cadillac Ranch was exactly as I'd imagined and not. I had seen the cars before in photos. I had never seen the surrounding area for what it is -- vast, empty plain! Wow! The wind can treated my little VW like it was not much more than an empty Coke can. Walking to the exhibit meant taking on about a 100 yards feeling like you were in a wind tunnel at NASA!
The cars get painted white regularly but it doesn't take long for the graffiti folks to add color. I was surprised at the lack of profanity as well as the lack of protest -- no anti-war messages, no hate messages, no nothing . . . except a lot of who loves who outside Amarillo, Texas.
The midpoint of Route 66 is in Adrian, Texas. We found some wonderfully tacky souvenirs and had a scrumptious cinnamon roll (whoever came up with the combination of butter and sugar was a sheer genius . . . and the spawn of the devil if I consider the impact on my hips!).
We moved between I40 and old Route 66 (which, when it became a dirt road, was not on my "must do" list) and after a few hours of scenic mesas and valleys and canyons and blue skies with puffy white clouds which we viewed easily because the top was down I was soon "freckle-licious".
Santa Fe was as I remembered it from my visits years ago as a good Baptist making the journey to do training in the conference center at Glorieta, just a few miles away. I smiled that both Stan and I have come a long philosophical, theological, emotional way since then.
Traveling to Gallup for the night, we pulled off for a moment to take the top down again and take in the stars. Stars dancing indeed!!!!
Tomorrow . . . Winslow, AZ where we hope to see a girl in a flatbed Ford and then on to Las Vegas.
God, you gotta love Texas!
The Cadillac Ranch was exactly as I'd imagined and not. I had seen the cars before in photos. I had never seen the surrounding area for what it is -- vast, empty plain! Wow! The wind can treated my little VW like it was not much more than an empty Coke can. Walking to the exhibit meant taking on about a 100 yards feeling like you were in a wind tunnel at NASA!
The cars get painted white regularly but it doesn't take long for the graffiti folks to add color. I was surprised at the lack of profanity as well as the lack of protest -- no anti-war messages, no hate messages, no nothing . . . except a lot of who loves who outside Amarillo, Texas.
The midpoint of Route 66 is in Adrian, Texas. We found some wonderfully tacky souvenirs and had a scrumptious cinnamon roll (whoever came up with the combination of butter and sugar was a sheer genius . . . and the spawn of the devil if I consider the impact on my hips!).
We moved between I40 and old Route 66 (which, when it became a dirt road, was not on my "must do" list) and after a few hours of scenic mesas and valleys and canyons and blue skies with puffy white clouds which we viewed easily because the top was down I was soon "freckle-licious".
Santa Fe was as I remembered it from my visits years ago as a good Baptist making the journey to do training in the conference center at Glorieta, just a few miles away. I smiled that both Stan and I have come a long philosophical, theological, emotional way since then.
Traveling to Gallup for the night, we pulled off for a moment to take the top down again and take in the stars. Stars dancing indeed!!!!
Tomorrow . . . Winslow, AZ where we hope to see a girl in a flatbed Ford and then on to Las Vegas.
Road Kill Ruminations
“May the road rise up to meet you” isn’t such a great thought when road kill is involved.
And dead varmints seemed to be in surplus this past weekend. In Louisiana, our host told of hitting such desecration as to need an emergency run to the car wash to prevent the scent from his truck from prompting passers-by to wonder if they needed to call in CSI.
Driving home from my sister’s (the arduous journey of 13 whole minutes from her college town to my hometown that my mother often felt was too much to ask me to cover in an afternoon of errand-running) I encountered what I think might have once roamed the world as an opossum and reduced its hindquarters to mush.
And while powerwalking Hwy. 45 for my daily constitutional I noted what I thought and hoped was a mound of paper blocking my way on the sidewalk ahead. I was wrong. I’m not sure what the swollen, rain-soaked mass once was exactly because I chose to risk the oncoming traffic rather than get too close to the odiferous mess.
The last encounter got me to thinking about how rural areas tend to deal with death. They (or should I say “we” given that my roots are rather deep in unconsolidated soil) are rather practical about it. Pretty much, if there’s a dead skunk in the middle of the road you either move it or leave it up to the elements. Once when I took out a deer with my 1972 Malibu the most asked question was not how the five teenaged girls in the vehicle were holding up but rather who got the deer for processing. (And if you’re one of those people, I’ll go ahead and tell you that it was the county jail.)
This practicality may be the reason I never found it odd that my high school job at the Dairy Queen often required me to get the details on who was also at the funeral home next door. The owner of the DQ was also the town mortician. “Has Jimmy got a body?” was the first question of the shift. That fun fact never fails to amuse my non-small town friends.
My mother is on the benevolence committee at her church. When the pastor reported on Wednesday night regarding the status of “Miss” Patty, a fellow church member slightly younger than my mother, Mom remarked to me later that she’d need to make a run to Sam’s to pick up the needed paper products to feed the family after she passed away. She'd picked up her cue from the pastor's public proclamation that after his hospital visit that day, he could report that "Miss" Patty wasn't doing well; she wasn't doing well at all."
Don’t get the idea that we’re vultures, awaiting the inevitable. But death happens. And life goes on. And sometimes the best thing to do is recognize that cleaning up is inevitable so just get to it. You need to know the language to really catch what's going on because practicality doesn't usually equal transparency. "We'll work 'til Jesus comes" as the song says but we'll whisper while we do it.
I prefer the practicality to the occasional but lame attempts at philosophizing. When my brother died at 38 from a totally unanticipated heart attack, my mother was “comforted” by any number of folks assuring her that “God must have wanted another bass in the choir” or “Bart was just too good for this world.” Months later mother asked me about the comments.
I responded with a question of my own. “Do any of those words provide you with comfort?”
“They make me mad as a hornet!” she exclaimed.
“Good!” I offered. “’Cause I think their stupid statements made by people without a clue.”
“So what should I do?” she asked, ever wanting the next practical action to take to “fix” the situation, to step in and at least do something.
“Grieve. Be angry. Do whatever works for you, Mom. And don’t listen to them. If you want, tell them to shut up. If you don’t want to, get away as soon as possible. But this is yours, Mom, and you don’t have to live up to anyone’s standards.”
“You think?” she asked, her voice filled with the hope of one who longed for comfort.
“I don’t know much, Mom, but I know this. Your grief is your own.”
She sighed.
Psychology isn’t a hallmark of small town living. We whisper when asked about the idiosyncracies of our own, offering euphemisms such as she’s a bit “touched in the head” (unless of course you’re my sister who just notes that they’re “bat shit crazy”). And therapy is limited to the lame of foot, not of soul. If you’re suffering inside, another trip down the church aisle to confess your sins should do the trick. Otherwise, troubles are best kept behind closed doors and alluded to in public with only knowing glances and nods.
I once rebelled against the system that hid rather than identified and examined the issues. Now I accept its inevitability as what works for them. My science teacher balloons and loses weight to skeletal proportions every three years or so. A high school girlfriend kicks her husband out of the house on a regular basis for imagined shortcomings and while the church folks question the wisdom of her being allowed to take on a leadership role in her unstable state, she’s in charge of one of the more popular Sunday School classes. Another fellow alumni and now teacher once told me that she was having to have massive amounts of dental work as the result of all the vomiting she’d done in her bulimic days. I nodded and wondered quietly if those days were as much a thing of the past as she was trying to indicate.
Road kill and secrets are inevitable in small towns. (And now I must revert to) They may not have the best or healthiest system for cleaning up the destruction but they take care of their messes.
Perhaps that’s the biggest reason why I visit rather than live there anymore. I can only hold my breath and whisper for so long.
And dead varmints seemed to be in surplus this past weekend. In Louisiana, our host told of hitting such desecration as to need an emergency run to the car wash to prevent the scent from his truck from prompting passers-by to wonder if they needed to call in CSI.
Driving home from my sister’s (the arduous journey of 13 whole minutes from her college town to my hometown that my mother often felt was too much to ask me to cover in an afternoon of errand-running) I encountered what I think might have once roamed the world as an opossum and reduced its hindquarters to mush.
And while powerwalking Hwy. 45 for my daily constitutional I noted what I thought and hoped was a mound of paper blocking my way on the sidewalk ahead. I was wrong. I’m not sure what the swollen, rain-soaked mass once was exactly because I chose to risk the oncoming traffic rather than get too close to the odiferous mess.
The last encounter got me to thinking about how rural areas tend to deal with death. They (or should I say “we” given that my roots are rather deep in unconsolidated soil) are rather practical about it. Pretty much, if there’s a dead skunk in the middle of the road you either move it or leave it up to the elements. Once when I took out a deer with my 1972 Malibu the most asked question was not how the five teenaged girls in the vehicle were holding up but rather who got the deer for processing. (And if you’re one of those people, I’ll go ahead and tell you that it was the county jail.)
This practicality may be the reason I never found it odd that my high school job at the Dairy Queen often required me to get the details on who was also at the funeral home next door. The owner of the DQ was also the town mortician. “Has Jimmy got a body?” was the first question of the shift. That fun fact never fails to amuse my non-small town friends.
My mother is on the benevolence committee at her church. When the pastor reported on Wednesday night regarding the status of “Miss” Patty, a fellow church member slightly younger than my mother, Mom remarked to me later that she’d need to make a run to Sam’s to pick up the needed paper products to feed the family after she passed away. She'd picked up her cue from the pastor's public proclamation that after his hospital visit that day, he could report that "Miss" Patty wasn't doing well; she wasn't doing well at all."
Don’t get the idea that we’re vultures, awaiting the inevitable. But death happens. And life goes on. And sometimes the best thing to do is recognize that cleaning up is inevitable so just get to it. You need to know the language to really catch what's going on because practicality doesn't usually equal transparency. "We'll work 'til Jesus comes" as the song says but we'll whisper while we do it.
I prefer the practicality to the occasional but lame attempts at philosophizing. When my brother died at 38 from a totally unanticipated heart attack, my mother was “comforted” by any number of folks assuring her that “God must have wanted another bass in the choir” or “Bart was just too good for this world.” Months later mother asked me about the comments.
I responded with a question of my own. “Do any of those words provide you with comfort?”
“They make me mad as a hornet!” she exclaimed.
“Good!” I offered. “’Cause I think their stupid statements made by people without a clue.”
“So what should I do?” she asked, ever wanting the next practical action to take to “fix” the situation, to step in and at least do something.
“Grieve. Be angry. Do whatever works for you, Mom. And don’t listen to them. If you want, tell them to shut up. If you don’t want to, get away as soon as possible. But this is yours, Mom, and you don’t have to live up to anyone’s standards.”
“You think?” she asked, her voice filled with the hope of one who longed for comfort.
“I don’t know much, Mom, but I know this. Your grief is your own.”
She sighed.
Psychology isn’t a hallmark of small town living. We whisper when asked about the idiosyncracies of our own, offering euphemisms such as she’s a bit “touched in the head” (unless of course you’re my sister who just notes that they’re “bat shit crazy”). And therapy is limited to the lame of foot, not of soul. If you’re suffering inside, another trip down the church aisle to confess your sins should do the trick. Otherwise, troubles are best kept behind closed doors and alluded to in public with only knowing glances and nods.
I once rebelled against the system that hid rather than identified and examined the issues. Now I accept its inevitability as what works for them. My science teacher balloons and loses weight to skeletal proportions every three years or so. A high school girlfriend kicks her husband out of the house on a regular basis for imagined shortcomings and while the church folks question the wisdom of her being allowed to take on a leadership role in her unstable state, she’s in charge of one of the more popular Sunday School classes. Another fellow alumni and now teacher once told me that she was having to have massive amounts of dental work as the result of all the vomiting she’d done in her bulimic days. I nodded and wondered quietly if those days were as much a thing of the past as she was trying to indicate.
Road kill and secrets are inevitable in small towns. (And now I must revert to) They may not have the best or healthiest system for cleaning up the destruction but they take care of their messes.
Perhaps that’s the biggest reason why I visit rather than live there anymore. I can only hold my breath and whisper for so long.
California Road Trip -- Day 1
For those who love a good dose of juxtaposition . . .
1. Welfare and Comfort are west Texas neighbors.
2. We’re riding in a VW Beetle convertible. I’ve plugged an inverter into the cigarette lighter so that my Mac can power up. We’re listening (via the amazing VW speakers) to the Ipod I just charged. And we’ve just left Comfort, Texas where I paid $7.50 for a BLT and salad and we tried to decide if the Double D Restaurant, Bakery and Biergarten was painting their brown walls white or their white walls brown as we seemed to have caught them in mid-paint. That or they liked the cattle hide motif the walls suggested in their current spotted form.
3. Stan asked what one might call a resident of Comfort.
I offered up, “Comforter?”
“But definitely not a Duvet,” he concluded.
Yes, we’re having a good time.
4. Fact: Red VW Beetles do not fly under the radar in west Texas! they do however get off with a warning from cute State Troopers clocking them at 77 mph in a 70 mile zone. Stanio Andretti (as Brit referred to him) that was driving at the time in case you're curious. And, no, we're not sure which one of us batting our eyes at him made the difference.
5. Stan saw the terrain shift from city streets, to hill country, to flat plains and noted spottings of sheep, goats, cows and horses. I spent much of my non-driving hours writing (which is what I do now in this non-vacation existence that some folks are having a hard time grasping as my new 'normal' and how I hope to make a living) and listening for his alerts to views worthy of notice. The sunset, as always, took up the entire sky on the left and was suggestive a spilled can of red paint. The moon, humungous on the right, comforted me and rivaled the glow of the Mac.
6. We didn't stop in Happy but we did note our passage through.
1. Welfare and Comfort are west Texas neighbors.
2. We’re riding in a VW Beetle convertible. I’ve plugged an inverter into the cigarette lighter so that my Mac can power up. We’re listening (via the amazing VW speakers) to the Ipod I just charged. And we’ve just left Comfort, Texas where I paid $7.50 for a BLT and salad and we tried to decide if the Double D Restaurant, Bakery and Biergarten was painting their brown walls white or their white walls brown as we seemed to have caught them in mid-paint. That or they liked the cattle hide motif the walls suggested in their current spotted form.
3. Stan asked what one might call a resident of Comfort.
I offered up, “Comforter?”
“But definitely not a Duvet,” he concluded.
Yes, we’re having a good time.
4. Fact: Red VW Beetles do not fly under the radar in west Texas! they do however get off with a warning from cute State Troopers clocking them at 77 mph in a 70 mile zone. Stanio Andretti (as Brit referred to him) that was driving at the time in case you're curious. And, no, we're not sure which one of us batting our eyes at him made the difference.
5. Stan saw the terrain shift from city streets, to hill country, to flat plains and noted spottings of sheep, goats, cows and horses. I spent much of my non-driving hours writing (which is what I do now in this non-vacation existence that some folks are having a hard time grasping as my new 'normal' and how I hope to make a living) and listening for his alerts to views worthy of notice. The sunset, as always, took up the entire sky on the left and was suggestive a spilled can of red paint. The moon, humungous on the right, comforted me and rivaled the glow of the Mac.
6. We didn't stop in Happy but we did note our passage through.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Tragedy, Loss and Other Happy Thoughts
Mark mumbles.
Mark also wears a day glo orange baseball cap on his closely cropped hair, suspenders that keep his pants below his protruding belly but at least up, and a sweat stained t-shirt. He drags his right leg slightly as he walks his "route" around my hometown.
When I was in my 30s, I heard that teenaged Mark had been in an accident. The town rallied with prayers and family support as he came out of a coma. They prayed harder when the recovery started. Then, they still held out hope for the Mark they'd known to return.
He didn't. Now almost two decades later, the town that rallied often runs when they see him heading in their direction. As we say in these parts, "Mark just ain't right."
The town does support him. Odd jobs keep him busy. Everyone does chat with him or at least attempt to because, really, all you can understand are one or two words in the stream of sounds coming from him.
My stepfather is one of his benefactors. He keeps him sweating with outdoor jobs that no one else in town would want to do and especially with the demanding tone that Doc often uses when he's focused on a task. Mark does them with a mumble or he simply leaves and comes back the next day. Their relationship works in some Odd Couple kind of way. Doc can't hear. Mark can't speak. And together they survive each other's personalities.
Mark's recently gotten into some trouble with some of the other townspeople. He's said some inappropriate things, popped up at a door at the wrong time, etc. Still, the town keeps supporting. They just do it with eyes open and no longer the innocence of thinking their good deeds are going to be rewarded by Mark suddenly becoming something he's not. Mark is and will always be a grown man, emotionally and physically stunted by a tragedy.
Mark's plight made me think of Dolph. He was only a few years younger than me when I got word that he'd had an accident on the football field. A bad tackle and this outstanding quarterback, blonde teenaged hottie, and all-around great guy was paralyzed. Thirty years later he's still in a wheelchair. He's about the size he was back then. But he's also degreed and working in a management position in the rehabiliation center where he recovered what he could of his body.
What exactly makes the difference? One tragedy puts a man on the streets. Another is equally as tragic but has something of a better ending. Both have families. Mark isn't homeless. But Dolph maintained the essence of who he was. Mark left more than his physical ability at that roadside wreck.
In a workshop, I once used a Winnie the Pooh video about Tigger losing his stripes. After his friends tried to help him answer the question of who he might be if he were not a Tigger (the popular thought being that without his identifying stripes, he must no longer be a Tigger), he became frustrated with the failed attempts to make him a Rabbit, Piglet, Pooh and even a Christmas tree. Frustrated until Eeyore saw him on a dark road, "Evening Tigger" he moaned.
"That's the second time today you've called me that," the Tigger-who-thought-he-wasn't exclaimed.
"That's your name isn't it?" Eeyore offered.
"But Tigger's have stripes and I don't have my stripes!"
"Just because you don't look like a Tigger on the outside, doesn't mean you're not still Tigger on the inside. It's all in the stuffin!" and with that, Eeyore went his not-so-merry way and Tigger bounced, reclaiming his signature stripes.
After showing the video, my friend Pat made her way to the front of the room. Pat had had a stroke a few years before. She'd been in management then. At this point, she had a job at the building where we both worked but she no longer had a career. She, too, dragged her left side. As she made her way to me, the familiar rise of guilt started. The guilt came as I and other friends had been there in the beginning of her crisis with good intentions, prayers and a flurry of activity but eventually we had each fell away as we realized that our image of Pat was a memory and would never again be reality.
She spoke first and when I saw the tear forming in the corner of her eye, my tears started organizing as well.
"You know that's true, don't you?"
"Yes, I do."
"Just because I don't look like Pat on the outside, doesn't mean I'm not still Pat on the inside," and now her tears were flowing.
In that moment, I agreed. I agreed with the IDEA that she remained the same. I agreed because I wanted to support her at least one more time. But in truth, I didn't believe it. She wasn't Pat, not the one I'd known, not the wise-cracking, irreverent creative but practical manager of time, people and projects. She was a new translation, not any less than but never to be the same. And I had little in common with this Pat, the one prone to depression, anger, and quick to point out her limitations.
Eventually, she married someone from rehab, someone who knew her as she was post-stroke and would never compare her to the Pat before. We celebrated with her and sent her own her way. I've seen her once in the two decades since.
Wouldn't it be a testament to the goodness of humanity if the initial efforts around a tragedy were sustainable? Wouldn't it be worthy of note and possibly celebration if we could adjust from what was to what is now without hesitation, frustration, or failure? But we can't, can we?
Pat has the husband she'd often longed for but still limps. Dolph has a career but needs care and maneuvers with a wheelchair. Mark stays busy but still mumbles.
And me? I watch and still feel the guilt.
Mark also wears a day glo orange baseball cap on his closely cropped hair, suspenders that keep his pants below his protruding belly but at least up, and a sweat stained t-shirt. He drags his right leg slightly as he walks his "route" around my hometown.
When I was in my 30s, I heard that teenaged Mark had been in an accident. The town rallied with prayers and family support as he came out of a coma. They prayed harder when the recovery started. Then, they still held out hope for the Mark they'd known to return.
He didn't. Now almost two decades later, the town that rallied often runs when they see him heading in their direction. As we say in these parts, "Mark just ain't right."
The town does support him. Odd jobs keep him busy. Everyone does chat with him or at least attempt to because, really, all you can understand are one or two words in the stream of sounds coming from him.
My stepfather is one of his benefactors. He keeps him sweating with outdoor jobs that no one else in town would want to do and especially with the demanding tone that Doc often uses when he's focused on a task. Mark does them with a mumble or he simply leaves and comes back the next day. Their relationship works in some Odd Couple kind of way. Doc can't hear. Mark can't speak. And together they survive each other's personalities.
Mark's recently gotten into some trouble with some of the other townspeople. He's said some inappropriate things, popped up at a door at the wrong time, etc. Still, the town keeps supporting. They just do it with eyes open and no longer the innocence of thinking their good deeds are going to be rewarded by Mark suddenly becoming something he's not. Mark is and will always be a grown man, emotionally and physically stunted by a tragedy.
Mark's plight made me think of Dolph. He was only a few years younger than me when I got word that he'd had an accident on the football field. A bad tackle and this outstanding quarterback, blonde teenaged hottie, and all-around great guy was paralyzed. Thirty years later he's still in a wheelchair. He's about the size he was back then. But he's also degreed and working in a management position in the rehabiliation center where he recovered what he could of his body.
What exactly makes the difference? One tragedy puts a man on the streets. Another is equally as tragic but has something of a better ending. Both have families. Mark isn't homeless. But Dolph maintained the essence of who he was. Mark left more than his physical ability at that roadside wreck.
In a workshop, I once used a Winnie the Pooh video about Tigger losing his stripes. After his friends tried to help him answer the question of who he might be if he were not a Tigger (the popular thought being that without his identifying stripes, he must no longer be a Tigger), he became frustrated with the failed attempts to make him a Rabbit, Piglet, Pooh and even a Christmas tree. Frustrated until Eeyore saw him on a dark road, "Evening Tigger" he moaned.
"That's the second time today you've called me that," the Tigger-who-thought-he-wasn't exclaimed.
"That's your name isn't it?" Eeyore offered.
"But Tigger's have stripes and I don't have my stripes!"
"Just because you don't look like a Tigger on the outside, doesn't mean you're not still Tigger on the inside. It's all in the stuffin!" and with that, Eeyore went his not-so-merry way and Tigger bounced, reclaiming his signature stripes.
After showing the video, my friend Pat made her way to the front of the room. Pat had had a stroke a few years before. She'd been in management then. At this point, she had a job at the building where we both worked but she no longer had a career. She, too, dragged her left side. As she made her way to me, the familiar rise of guilt started. The guilt came as I and other friends had been there in the beginning of her crisis with good intentions, prayers and a flurry of activity but eventually we had each fell away as we realized that our image of Pat was a memory and would never again be reality.
She spoke first and when I saw the tear forming in the corner of her eye, my tears started organizing as well.
"You know that's true, don't you?"
"Yes, I do."
"Just because I don't look like Pat on the outside, doesn't mean I'm not still Pat on the inside," and now her tears were flowing.
In that moment, I agreed. I agreed with the IDEA that she remained the same. I agreed because I wanted to support her at least one more time. But in truth, I didn't believe it. She wasn't Pat, not the one I'd known, not the wise-cracking, irreverent creative but practical manager of time, people and projects. She was a new translation, not any less than but never to be the same. And I had little in common with this Pat, the one prone to depression, anger, and quick to point out her limitations.
Eventually, she married someone from rehab, someone who knew her as she was post-stroke and would never compare her to the Pat before. We celebrated with her and sent her own her way. I've seen her once in the two decades since.
Wouldn't it be a testament to the goodness of humanity if the initial efforts around a tragedy were sustainable? Wouldn't it be worthy of note and possibly celebration if we could adjust from what was to what is now without hesitation, frustration, or failure? But we can't, can we?
Pat has the husband she'd often longed for but still limps. Dolph has a career but needs care and maneuvers with a wheelchair. Mark stays busy but still mumbles.
And me? I watch and still feel the guilt.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Accent-uating the Positive
(on phone)
Him: How long have you been in Tennessee now?
Me: Four hours or so, why?
Him: Sounds like it's been longer.
Him: How long have you been in Tennessee now?
Me: Four hours or so, why?
Him: Sounds like it's been longer.
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