Only Floss The Ones You Wanna Keep

Flossing my teeth this morning (“Only floss the ones you wanna keep,” Ricky Gervais advises in Ghost Town), I was reminded of my trip to Cary, North Carolina, last fall. 

I was stopped at a red light on my way to an appointment when I found something amiss in a back tooth. So, I innocently pulled out my floss contraption and proceeded to do what flossers do. Since I can do more than one thing at a time sometimes, I noticed the car behind me pull up on my right side – probably to not be behind me when the light turned green. I was in a rental car with out of state plates and if you’ve ever been behind a rental car with out-of-state plates, you have probably wanted to get away from them, too. No problems. I understand. Come on around.

But, then I felt eyes on me. I looked to my right and she was staring at me. Disapprovingly, too. I’m still not sure I was doing anything wrong, but being in her territory, I figured her attitude trumped mine. So, I was caught doing something bad. 

In case you don’t know anything about Cary, it has the densest population of PhDs in the country. This means money, money, money, academia, academia, academia, high-falutin’, high-falutin’, high-faultin. And there I was flossin’ in public. Not only that, but I was on the road that passes in front of the upscale mall in town in a rented red Chevy Cobalt (bottom of the rental scale) with plates from Tippecanoe, Indiana (wherever this is, they must use canoes a lot to name the town after tipping over in one) .

So, since my hands were practically in my mouth anyway, I quickly covered it in shame and conjured up my “I’m so sorry, please don’t think bad of me” look. But, when she didn’t turn away and didn’t change expressions, I realized that there was nothing I could do to make her think good thoughts about me. So, I shrugged my shoulders and made my when-all-else-fails move: I started to laugh. 

And do you know what she did? She laughed, too. And not in a bad, laughing at me way, but in a permissive, carry on, let’s be friends kind of way. The light turned green, and we waved goodbye. 

Just goes to show you: yes, we can. 

¡Ay, caramba!

I failed. And now I have to pay - with movement.

Back in November, I made a writing deal with a friend. She would be the coach, and I would be the player. I needed someone tough, someone I respect too much to let down. Yes, the obvious question is why can’t I just push myself. Well, my friend, if I had that key, I’d be places right now. Anyway, I failed to complete a task the first week of January, so the punishment we had agreed on…well…

“Will you do this for me?”

“Yes! But, let’s think. We need to figure out what motivates you. Name something that you just hate to do. Quick.”

"Exercise.”

“Perfect. Every time you don’t turn in an assignment, we’ll exercise.”

I’m not sure that was an agreement, but I mentioned respect. So, I must exercise. The last time I exercised in public was at the YMCA, late at night after they turned out most of the lights because nobody was there, in the corner, walking quietly on a treadmill.

Tonight is something called Zumba. From what I’ve seen on YouTube, it involves dancing and rhythm and groups and boys. Oh, my. Another hive. (The last time I danced in public, it was sometime in the 1980s and involved more than just a few cocktails.)

I’ve emailed four excuses already, and she’s not buying a one of ‘em. I haven’t missed an assignment this week, though, and I may never again. That’s coaching!! And just what I need.

Apparently, Anyone Can Run a Writing Workshop

I have said it a hundred times: I will never, ever, ever go to another writer’s group in this city. Why, oh why, oh lord why don’t I listen to myself? I’m pretty smart; I don’t know why I’m so dumb. 

“For our first exercise, we’re going to pretend we’re kitchen implements. Pick an implement to be, and then write for ten minutes about being that implement. Then we’ll share.”

“Here’s an idea, you freak. You be a fuh-arking kitchen implement.”  (She must have read my mind. And she couldn’t wait to share her work with us (if you’ve ever been to a writer’s group, these are ALWAYS the writers to avoid). She was a tea bag and went on for at least a page about feeling like an unproductive ginger chai coconut blend until she was dipped in hot water.)

Anyway, this is as far as I got: “I’m an itchy ice pick.” 

I didn’t share.

I grabbed my coat and purse and left at the most polite moment I could find - when she got up to play a CD. Apparently, the next exercise after the kitchen stories was going to involve closing our eyes and listening to Indian music until something popped in our heads that we wanted to write about. 

I’m now a disappointed ice pick. But I’m one that writes, and I deserve better than listening to a ginger chai coconut tea bag. 

3.53%

After two weeks with “the experiment”, I’m a mere 96.47% shell of my former self. I know, right? I’m a little worried about premature invisibility at this breakneck pace. So to slow things down a bit, I’m excusing myself for scallops and soup and the best company EVER at PF Changs. What could be better? Nothing, that’s what.

My bouncing baby boy signed a lease on a house this week. I was asked to review the paperwork, but still. Life as we knew it. Still ppffffftt.

Why are there no pictures of the 1960s candy counter and front walkway in Memphis’ Poplar Ave Sears on the Interwebs? The Interwebs don’t care about my happiest of memories, obviously.

Despite all the messy weather this week, there was a bright spot in the car scraping madness. Yesterday, after work, I warmed up my car and was just beginning to scrape the back window when a man in a company truck pulled up and said, “Young lady..” (I’ve come to find out that this is the step after ma’am – men think it’s cute and a nice thing to say, but it’s really sort of maddening if you think about it for too long, ‘cause we all know they’re not addressing the real young ladies this way.) Anyway, “young lady, you’re too fast. Let me do this for you.” Maybe it’s his job to make sure driver are safely sent off in clear cars, but I’m pretending it was just for me until I hear otherwise. 96.47%, after all. Oh, and the new bifocals. H-O-T. January's Indiana hot. Which is not, just in case you’re thinking the missing 3.53% has gone to my head. 

Favorite House

I have a new favorite house picture. The only thing I can find wrong is the house next to it. Well, that and I can’t make out the garage situation. And all those rock beds look like work. But really, the house next to it is the big fat no-no. People might live there. Ick. 

My house will have a little yard but be surrounded by trees and woods for acres. And I’m gonna let the fallen leaves just rest on the ground each year until my yard man comes to cut ‘em all up in the spring. And nothing will ever go wrong in this house. Nothing ever breaks. Nothing ever gets old or needs painting. No maintenance. No costs. No jumping taxes. Yup. That’s how it’s going to be. Soon. Someday soon. 

Socks and Sounds

Stand in line in the cool air
Only perfect people get in the way
Trees and flowers grow thick
On an empty patio lit by park lamps.

Fingers wrap around a bottle of beer
Talk is stunted but want to do better
Shadows on late evening skin, pen held awkwardly by a left hand
Wonder what it feels like, what it takes.

Thumb through the shelves, anything else to do
Don't drink coffee and just as expected, it’s too late anyway
A passenger with the best view
Music is soft enough to talk a little more.

The end is quick and in black and white
Ancient and unwelcomed memories and a tear or two
A clean face, warm socks, and familiar sounds
Should’ve been more like her or anyone else.

Writer's Success Group

In September, I joined a Writer’s Success Group. It runs all year, four months at a time, and consists of monthly group phone calls and weekly check-ins about the participants’ writing projects. It’s purposefully small – typically four or five writers - and led by Cynthia Morris of Original Impulse and Journey Juju fame.

It ended a few Fridays ago. And I opted out of the next four-month run, thinking I’d just work consistently during January, February, March and April, then re-join in May for support during the editing process. At the time, I thought it was beneficial, but a little too frou-frou. I’m not one to delve easily into emotions or struggles with people I know, much less new folks. 

But now, I realize the invaluable benefit I got from the group: I wrote. I didn’t at first – I outlined and organized and thought things through – but once I started (about mid-point), I began to feel like a writer and it fueled me to write more and more. Another participant said she noticed a big change in me shifting from fear to confidence. What this group gave me was the confidence, despite the obvious vulnerability, to reach out to a dear friend who is now helping me with accountability and consistency.

My process now consists of saying a Writer’s Prayer a few times, procrastinating a little, saying it a few more times, procrastinating a little more….you get the picture. But it ends with the writing. I’ve even had a few breakthroughs and now understand what other writers are talking about. I’m still taking a break from the group, because I know what I have to/want to do until May. And only I can get it done (with aforementioned friend’s nudges).

I don’t know who I think I am, but if I were asked to recommend anything, it would be a group like this, asking a kind friend for what you need, and these two books: 

Stephen King’s On Writing. It is so matter-of-fact and unemotional about his writing process. He maintains a healthy distance from his writing now and I love that. I also loved hearing that, by the time he sends a manuscript off to the publisher, he’s so sick of that book he never wants to think about it again. He talks of the overuse of vocabulary and passive voice a lot, for which, as a reader, I can’t thank him enough. 

And SARK’s Juicy Pens, Thirsty Paper. If you’re a person who doesn’t get a lot of encouragement and support and love about your project like I am, it is priceless. The front cover says it all: “Gifting the world with your words and stories”. It’s just cuteness and light and love and happy all over.

Week One

I’m not calling them resolutions, but I have decided that there will be some changes in 2009. My theme is “do more”. This means do more stuff in general, do more out there, do more to enjoy life again, do more for myself, do more good things, and do more with and to glorify God.

I think I’ll do a week-in-review to keep me in check and just see if I actually do “do more” each week. So far, this first week of 2009 has only consisted of three days, but I’ve:

• Been successful with (and prayed about) my 25% “experiment” (we’re not referring to it any other way for now)
• Bought new eyeglasses (even though they were freekin’ bifocals – a first for me)
• Smiled at strangers
• Initiated conversation with a stranger
• Held a door for someone carrying a bunch of books at the library
• Found a better conditioner
• Made my V2.0 vision board (I don't care what you think, so there)
• Ordered a new Tom Jones CD (read directly above)
• Blogged on my own sites
• Journaled
• Commented on another’s site
• Walked the dog
• Parked far away and backtracked three times in the store – planning my trips between dairy and produce
• Looked into a class
• Reached out
• Laughed
• Paid my dog doctor Visa bill off
• Apologized
• Researched two possible trips – one in February and one in April
• Watched Casablanca for the first time
• Tried to watch The Tudors (but they try too hard)
• Learned something that just has to be new (James’s??? I was not taught this. Is this like the new math?)
  
  Forming possessives of nouns:
  • Add ’s to the singular form of the word (even if it ends in -s):
    The owner’s car; James’s hat
  • Add ’s to the plural forms that do not end in -s:
    The children’s game; the geese’s honking
  • Add ’ to the end of plural nouns that end in -s:
    Houses’ roofs; friends’ letters
  • Add ’s to the end of compound words:
    My brother-in-law’s money
  • Add ’s to the last noun to show joint possession of an object:
    Todd and Anne’s apartment

Annual Gratitude Exercise 2008

So another year come and gone and, at the risk of sounding even older than last year, I don’t think it could have happened any faster.

Things are pretty different now, but I got such a nice, gentle transition into it, I’m okay. There was an initial soggy separation period, but then and luckily I got busy enough to occupy my time and my mind. That helped me pass through the emotional stage pretty quickly, and now I think I'm actually okay with happy about being alone in the house.

Well, there is the dog. So, I’m not actually alone. I still have familial responsibility. And she’ll probably outlive me.

I am currently reaping the joy of what can happen when you open up to and ask for help from a supportive and most kind friend. I am learning that this is acceptable and, in fact, what life is all about. I am un-learning a lifetime of bulldog-ed-ness about forcing my independence on myself.

I’ve been in Indianapolis six years now. And since May of this year, I’ve worked in Plainfield, a few miles west of Indianapolis. If someone had told me this ten years ago, I wouldn’t have believed it. I’m grateful, mind you, but I’m expecting greater things.

I feel like 2007 and 2008 have been years of analysis and preparation and that 2009 will be more of an active year. I hope so, anyway.

And here’s my annual tribute to my tiny corner of the Universe in 2008:

• Work
• Not being an employee, not having performance reviews and not spending every day of my life talking about the time I have until retirement from the one job I’ve had my entire life
• Dave Ramsey, the financial father I never had
• No more conversations with ex-husband EVER EVER EVER about ANY ANY ANY thing
• Sticking to my principles
• People who give so freely and unconditionally to others
• Amy Jointer, Amy Jointer, Amy Jointer
• Writer’s Success Group, Cynthia Morris, and the armchair view to her journey
• More faithfulness and peace
• Road trips and rental cars
• I-40 between Knoxville and Asheville
• The nice men at Carney Sandoe and Cary Academy
• Email, Netflix, Libraries
• Five fantastic years of Boston Legal
• Eye contact
• High school graduation and the trip to college
• Being thought of, a surprise card and email
• A Texas lawyer and parents who do the right thing
• The characters of my son and his friends
• Friends, teachers, writers, mentors, coaches
• Hearing "It's all bullshit" and knowing it was time to just do it
• Good books
• Politics, democracy, this country and learning from different points of view
• Freedom, a great house-sitter and a worn out welcome
• Perspicacity
• And of course, health, safety, comfort, hope, faith, and love

 I am looking forward to 2009. I have it on good authority that good things are coming.

That's Entertainment?

My neighbors are nap nazis. A memo is sent to them if I head anywhere near my bedroom at any time of the day, and they prepare for annihilation. We live in ranch-style houses. Fine and all, but somebody’s (their) driveway ends up right next to someone else’s (my) bedroom. And the Nazis have added width to their driveway to include an extra-close parking lot for the nazi boat, the nazi RV, the nazi truck, the nazi van, and the nazi car. So, while normal distance between houses is probably 50 feet, I get about 10 or 15. But, it never fails. I lie down, and they muster up a trip (each trip requires loud conversation and at least ten door slams). They’re retired, so they piddle. A LOT. And they go to and fro. A LOT. It’s like they leave for grocery items one. at. a. time. Freekin nazis.

I was perusing Tom Jones CDs on Amazon. I like to do a Sample All sometimes. I stumbled on this review for his Greatest Love Songs compilation, and it cracked me up. She’s got the poor man on a schedule. I would never do that.

“Tom Jones is the man, he was back in the old days and he still is today. He has a beautiful voice and I like to listen to him at least 3 times a week.”

Sabrina the dog insists on making a fool of me. I’ve taken her to a vet for emergencies twice in her life. She’s twelve. The first time was due to a nasty case of the inside-outs after a week-long stay at doggie day care. The other dogs proved to be too much for her. But, no sooner had we left the vet’s office, Miss Thang was back to her old perky self. No runs, no problems. Last week, I took her for an eye issue, and they investigated her spine when I told them she was having recent issues about jumping on things and playing froggie (I thought she may have hurt herself falling off a couch pillow). It’s her back, they said. Pain pills. X-rays. Blood tests. Meds. Diet food (apparently, a dog can't be too thin either). $303. We got home and you can guess what happened. Running. Jumping. Playing. Like a stinkin’ puppy. I let her have a few pain pills anyway. Always the cool mom.

Austin's going to a concert tomorrow night in Athens, Georgia. Come to find out it's at the 40 Watt Club. I used to go to the 40 Watt in the early eighties during my stint at UGA. Wacky world. (Although, I think the location has changed since my day.)

ANT. Does anyone know who that is? He’s a comedian who won Last Comic Standing, I think. He’s pretty funny, but that’s not why I mention him. He has a blog that I ran across after hearing that his partner died. (At this point, you may want to feel sorry for me – as though I have nothing better to do and such – but it really was by accident that I headed down this path. So don’t judge me. Walk a mile. Etc.) Anyhoo, like I said, he has a blog. His New Year’s v-log-thing-y is called You V2.0 Reinvention Tour. I like that. A lot. 

So, I got my board, my glue stick, and my magazines, and I’m ready to do it for 2009's release of Karen V2.0. Version 1.0’s a little too fussy. And takes forever to boot. 

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa clause

A new ordinance for Christmas! Peace on earth, good will toward men and all that is good and holy.

http://www.clickondetroit.com/news/18318880/detail.html

I am not a nice person

I wanted a particular photograph to hang in my office. It reminds me of a pivotal point in my life. The photo is online, and I could have just lifted it off the site and printed it up at Walgreens for about $2. But, noooooooooooo.

I sent out three emails to track down the photographer in Columbus, Mississippi. I like to support the creative folks in this world, so I wanted to pay him for this wonderful picture. Nice, right? I know. It’s how I roll.

I copied the picture into an email asking if I could order it from him. Sure!! Just send $30, here’s the address, here’s my address, the usual stuff. We even had a phone conversation about the best size to order (he’s the professional, after all).

This was in October.

Every week since, I’ve emailed. Cashed check, no photo. Email. My helper didn’t send. Email. My shipping tubes just arrived. Email. It’s coming. Email. I forgot your address. Email. I lost your address. Email. Should be on its way. Email. Can you give me your address again? Email. I'll print it Monday. Email.

Anyway, last week, FINALLY a tube in the mailbox. YAY!!!

But it wasn’t anything close to what I ordered. Wrong photo, wrong orientation, wrong size, wrong blown-up-ed-ness/zoom percentage (whatever the term is for this).

A tad tired of emailing with him, I called to try to straighten things out, thinking that with any luck, I may never ever ever have to talk to him again.

He asked, “Can you email me the photo you want?”

“But you're the photographer? Why do I need to send you an attachment of YOUR photo? And, anyway, it’s in our emails. It was pasted into the first email I sent you. Wouldn’t you have it?”

“I can tell you’re upset. The first thing you need to do is to calm down.”

“What I need to do is to get this straightened out. It’s been six weeks and I’m tired of talking to you about a photo that I couldn’t have been clearer in ordering.”

“You need to relax. I can’t see the photo you put in the email.”

“How did you know what photo I was ordering?”

“I saw it once, but I can’t see it now.”

Chirp. “I will send as an attachment. Just please resend.”

“I need your address again.”

“Of course you do. You really should think of all this as lessons learned so you don't lose your shirt on your store.” (He mentioned that he was in the process of creating an e-bay store.)

"Those people will be ordering from file numbers, so none of this will happen."

Chirp. 

I waited another week (now seven weeks and ten times as many emails). Nothing. So, I email yet again. (I always put on my patience hat when working with "creatives" - they don't think the same way we do - but this was wayyyyyyyyyy beyond non-linear thinking.)

Ol’ lightning rod returns my email (from his work email address) almost immediately. “Been out all week with a sick kid. I’ll just send your money back to you.”

“That’s probably for the best. Somewhere this got too complicated for you.”

“Not complicated. Just circumstances out of my control.”

“The last seven weeks have not been beyond our control. This was a transaction a child could have handled. And on top of that, after last week's fiasco, you make up a story about a sick kid, because you obviously completely forgot.”

“My kid IS sick. He’s right here on the couch with me with ulcers and a fever. Thanks for your compassion. I’ll send you the photo AND your money back because I am a nice person. Merry Christmas.”

How the hell did I end up the bitch in this transaction??? I tell ya, it’s exhausting sometimes, trying to do the right thing with the wrong people.

A Two-Hour Flurry of Excitement

I was contacted Wednesday about a contract at a university in New York City and I admit, I got excited. I can’t tell you the last time I got this excited. I didn’t have the job or anything, but just the thought of six months within walking or underground riding distance of Manhattan. I’ve been working uneventfully in Plainfield, Indiana, since May, so you can imagine my thirst for ANYTHING, SOMETHING, exciting to happen.

Besides, this is what I've been waiting for. Work opportunities in other towns to expand my horizons and hone up my travelin’ gal skilz, to see how well I do venturing out into mobility. Then, if all goes well, (which I think it will, I’m a pretty strong kid) I can venture a little more, then a little more and a little more after that, until I feel in-the-know enough to spend some time abroad. Like in Canada, maybe.

And then it all hit me. The dog. My current contract. My current clients here in town. The hourly rate plus expenses hovering right around my bottom line. Six hours a week about an airplane or an airport. A whole lot of people. A whole lot of the time. 

So, I passed on pursuing it any further. It was the right decision for right now. Had it been for only three months and next fall, I think I would have tried harder to go (had I been selected, of course). I like to think so, anyway.

My numeroscope predicted two things this week: (1) a financial windfall and (2) a new opportunity and direction from unexpected, more creative, sources. 

I am ready to receive, Universe. I am ready and willing and able to receive. (And, while I’m being bold, about #1, maybe You could you make it tax-free, and about #2, maybe You could make it the second most expensive city in the country next time? *Hopefully, sarcasm won't affect my reception?)

I'm forever grateful. And did I say ready to receive? 

WTF?

They have decorated the tampon machine. Hung some garland around it and put a little table under it with a little nativity scene on top. 

How the hell did this come up in the decoration committee meeting (no doubt filled with middle-aged women with little girl names)?

“You know what we could do? Add a little festivity to the tampon-gettin’ area! Sure would put the gals in the holiday spirit. Every time they pee or poop. And they could say a little prayer to the plastic baby Jesus in his plastic baby crib when they need a tampon.”

Bah humbug, I scream. On the inside.

Speaking of bah humbug, Indianapolis has officially become the city to fight all happiness. In addition to creating the hell that is Washington Street on the West side, they have now prohibited all smiles in BMV pictures.

I couldn't be happier. 

The Big Impact

In a writing class last year, we were asked to write about the moment that had the biggest impact on our lives. This is what I wrote:

“Don’t you want to hold him?”

If he asked me that one more time, I swore I was going to kick him. Even with the compromising and restrained position, I was pretty sure I could have mustered up enough strength to kick him in the head.

The nurse had offered him to his father pretty quickly when she saw my reaction to her heading in my direction. And the man was holding him like he would a tray of food, sort of in half-outstretched arms. Not close to him at all, but away from his chest, as if to make sure he wasn’t fully committing to the responsibility. Sign of things to come.

He was obviously uncomfortable, though. He had never held a baby at all. He had cousins and a sister with kids, but he had never actually picked any of them up. So, he didn’t want to hold him either, really. I was the mother after all. I should want him. Of course, I would want him. But I didn’t.

I didn’t want to see him, much less touch him or hold him. I just forced a slow “nooooo”, and shot him a warning glare. He didn’t move. Frozen in fear, I guess, from me and from the baby.

I was given the aftermath treatment while the nurse put a little baby blue knit hat on him and wrapped him in fresh blankets. She set him down beside me next to my hip. He sat there, like a tiny doll of a person. Eyes closed, two slits between red, flaky, wrinkled fleshy cheeks, making not one move except for his nose flaring with each breath. It seemed barely alive.

This was it? All that pain, all those months, for this? For a little lump of blanket and hat to just sit there? I felt nothing.

We were wheeled back to our room and forced into a whir of activity, with nurses from every direction bringing me baby this after baby that, each with instructions.

“Okay, here we go!! His first bottle. You ready?”

Raised eyebrows and wide-open eyes to question her sanity, but I didn’t reply. I swore she snickered. Then, she forced us together anyway and left. “Awwww, you’ll be fine. Have fun!!”

And we were alone. His father had gone to make phone calls or something, I think. Who knows. We were alone. Sign of the life to come. And still nothing. He drank the whole bottle, never moving or opening his eyes.

A few minutes or hours (I’m convinced) passed, and they came to get him to officially register him with the human race. He’s leaving!! I could breathe. Normalcy. My life was back. I wanted to go home. Alone.

But not long enough after I got comfortable with myself, they wheeled him back in his little acrylic cart still wrapped like a big sausage.

“Back so soon?”

The nurse ignored me, but he tilted his head toward me, opened his eyes, smiled, and then laughed. Probably a gas thing, but I swore he got the sarcasm. And that he understood.

He let me know that he wasn’t having any more fun than I was. He was just as uncomfortable and just as scared of me. He wasn’t thrilled about being with me either. Probably thinking, her again? Is she it? She’s what I get? Forget it. Put me back now.

And in that tiny moment of apparent connection, he became mine -all mine and just mine. He became the love of my life. And I became his mom.

Nothing, really

Sabrina doesn’t know it yet, but she’s going to be really excited Tuesday to see her “daddy”. Austin comes home Tuesday afternoon and she’ll get to go back to bed with him after breakfast. I’ll have to lift her up on his bed, though. She can’t jump on beds anymore, which I’m not complaining about. I don’t wake up to floating dog hair anymore.

People are traveling in pairs and packs again. It happens every year for the holiday season. They’re hard to maneuver sometimes, but it’s nice to see people smiling and talking to each other, while doing their daily chores.

I’m in the thick of Perspicacity now, thanks to an angel of a friend. It makes me have crazy dreams that carry me back to 1970, 1980, and all the years between and since. Some is fact, some is fiction, but all familiar. It’s been in my head and in bits of files for years.

2008 was an “8” year of preparation. I like the thought of that, because it implies something’s coming. I feel it. I don’t know what it is and I like that feeling, too. I’m working around people who have worked at the same place doing the same thing for 15, 20, 25, 30 years. I can’t imagine that. I know it’s probably an easier life, but it’s just not for me. They all talk in increments of time left until retirement. It’s strange to listen to.

I’m worried about the economy. I’m worried for friends’ jobs. I’m glad Austin’s major is Biology. I think that’s a good choice for the future. I’m worried about my car. I want it to last forever. I love no car bills, cheap insurance, and not worrying about a stone or a loose shopping cart hitting it.

Today has been a little nostalgic and lonely. These days happen. Not very often, for which I’m grateful. I used to enjoy fall until I lived in this neighborhood full of Jewish retirees. They spend hours, days even, doing yard work that they could pay someone to get done in an hour. The man who lives behind me waits until dark, and then mows his backyard for hours and hours until the fallen leaves are pulverized into what has to be leaf smoothies. It’s something to watch.

On my trip, I stopped in a town named Chillicothe, Ohio for gas and watched a woman in a t-shirt and shorts (it was 40 degrees) and a pink feather-boa-type scarf around her neck get gas and go to the restroom and shop in the tiny convenience store. i couldn't take my eyes off of her. She couldn’t have cared less what anyone thought of her. She was proud of herself. I immediately liked her and wanted to know everything about her.

Earlier that same day, I stopped at a McDonald’s near Bluefield, Virginia for an Egg McMuffin, and the man behind the counter apologized for having to give me a huge bag. “I'm so sorry. We’re all out of the normal sized bags.” I didn’t know what to say, but I wanted to hug him. It was so nice after being in the Research Triangle, full of PhDs driving 90mph and cutting each other off, I suppose in their efforts to cure cancer.

I think I could drive back and forth between Knoxville, TN and Asheville, NC for the rest of my life. I wonder if I'd ever tire of it.

Auntnie and Uncle Frank's House

Every time I take a road trip, the memory of a family excursion to see my grandmother’s sister and brother-in-law comes to mind. (I say excursion, because all of our family trips were just that. Huge undertakings. My mother was a perfectionist and vacations just magnified the difficulties she had dealing with a group of imperfect people.) When I look at houses along the road in what most would call the middle of nowhere and start to wonder about the lives inside, I am always taken back almost forty years to Auntnie and Uncle Frank’s house.

This is not their house, but it looks just like it does in my head. 

Uncle Frank had retired years before from wherever he worked in Dyer, Tennessee. The Pattersons, my grandmother’s family, all lived in Dyer. But when Frank inherited some land outside of Jackson, Mississippi, he convinced his wife to make the move. Escape the big city life. Land spreadin’ out so far and wide. Fa-a-rm livin’ and FRESH AIR! They would visit the city and her family often. I don’t know if they did and didn’t really care. I was five or six or seven. 

But what did interest me was their life. It was so different. Open windows and a constant fan noise. Well water. Chickens. A couple of stray yard dogs that had no names and no food bowls. Vegetables growing in their very own garden. Wood screen door in the back with no lock. Front porch with pastel metal chairs that glided back and forth. A hanging porch swing. A tire hanging from rope around a tree branch. An outside cellar door I was forbidden to get near. (I wish they were alive so I could ask why it was off-limits.)

The television they couldn’t remember buying was a piece of furniture. It sat on the floor and there were frosted knick-knacks on top. The radio in the kitchen played preachin’ all day. Not the good kind, but the kind where the man’s voice was yelling at you for stuff you hadn’t even done yet. Auntnie called it “gettin’ church without leavin’ the house”. We had to hurry through Saturday night dinner to watch Hee-Haw through the static waves. My grandmother suggested they watch Lawrence Welk some time, but Frank was quick to say that he just didn’t have a taste for that kind of music. 

I slept in a feather bed upstairs in a tiny bedroom. I think it was the equivalent of a loft. I remember jumping into it and being able to sink into the feathers. It was fun for jumping but not great for sleeping. I complained to my mother, but she just shushed me, because manners were still important in the middle of nowhere. 

No matter where you went on their land, you could see the big road, Hwy 55, which streamed like a silver ribbon between two bright green blankets of cotton fields. The sun would sink right into that highway at night until it was pitch black except for one huge light on the barn and the thousands of lightning bugs that I’d try to catch in a mason jar Auntnie let me “borry”.

To this day, the details of them and their house – my most country childhood memory - are what come to mind when I see houses dotting fields along the highway. It feels like sinking into a really old-fashioned feather bed on a hot summer Mississippi night. Sort of sticky and strange at first, but a comfort once you get used to it. 

The Pep Rally

I have been off-track the last couple of months in a lot of ways - socially, personally, professionally, politically, and spiritually. I grapple with self-doubt and discipline anyway, but I’m having the most trouble lately remembering that I am loved by the Divine who only wants the best for me. And without this, my struggles forget to form single lines and erupt in loud playground chaos in my head. 

But I’m rallying. 

The life I have wanted and planned for years has felt exhausting, just entirely out of reach and too much trouble anyway. For over a decade, I have had a clear vision of how I want things to be: my perfect work day, my writing, my home, the perfect month sprinkled with the right amount of friends, love, and trips here, there and everywhere. Until recently when it has felt like it was dreamt by someone else.

But I’m rallying. 

I don’t know why I’m having such troubles now of all times, unless it’s related to my fairly solitary life. I know that solitude allows for more time with the divine, but sometimes a gal just needs to hear a voice. A little godly encouragement expressed by a human can go a long, long way. I have been exposed to new people lately - people I’m not accustomed to and who make me, through no fault of their own, feel more inadequate than ever. Positive, filled-with-love, traveling and doing, marching to their own drummers, creative, talented, expressive, open, fearless and happy people. I asked the Universe for this, and I am enjoying these people in my life, but the examples are unnerving and contributing to my paralysis. Exercises in maturity and growth and preparation are always so hard. Hmmph, deep breath, and sigh of exhaustion.

I get that I have choices and that my attitude and life are up to me. I do. I even understand that the time alone and times with new shining examples of how I want to be are good for me and divine intervention. So, I've decided to borrow the “Yes, we can” mantra and remember that “we” are my God and me. 

And we’re rallying. I guess now we'll have to head to the game.

Not So Wily Wiley

Barbara has been married to Wiley for forty-four years. They live on their own road, in a modest house situated on about 20 acres in a part of Mississippi that still doesn’t get cable. She started working for the company the same year she graduated high school and married Wiley. She is now only four years from retirement. Wiley, who is seven years older than she, has been retired and collecting Social Security, his only retirement income, for a few years now. He doesn’t have a lot to do anymore, and Barbara is his whole life. Everyone in the office knows this, because she tells us every day. And because Wiley calls her almost every hour just to chat. He must be her light too, because he always makes her giggle incessantly. She hangs up after each conversation with a girlish, sheepish grin on her face. 

Wiley still pines for a big fancy tractor he saw at the John Deere store a few months back. He has wanted it something awful and has found a way to sneak it into every conversation with Barbara since he first laid eyes on it. She is firmly opposed to the idea because “the stupid thing” costs $75,000 and they don’t need it and they have agreed to save her salary for the next few years so she could retire on time. They have $100,000 in their retirement savings accounts and really need to save more. (Barbara could never be confused for a very private person.) 

One morning, Barbara sits down at her desk with her usual coffee but just doesn't seem like her usual self. We coax her into telling us what's wrong, and she gives in pretty quickly. The night before, she had been looking for her wheelbarrow to haul some fertilizer to her new flower bed when she caught a glimpse of something reflecting an odd light from behind the barn. She investigated and found it. “The thing” was just sitting there “damn near up against the barn, so it’d be good and hidden”. When she confronted Wiley, he said he had bought it and had it delivered a couple of weeks before and was waiting on a good time to tell her. 

“We’ve never fought, and I sure don’t want to start now. I guess I’ll just need to request some overtime.” When the phone rings, there's no question who is on the other end. By the time they hang up, she is giggling. 

It’s been six years, but I’m still confounded. I would’ve used “the thing” to bury ol’ Wiley on the back nine.