A Post-Single Mom Trifecta

If you know me at all, you know I have organized a little community around Post-Single Motherhood. I defined it in 2009 and had some wonderful support creating and publishing it. Both watching it grow and connecting with women going through the same struggles and triumphs have been invaluable for my (any day now) recovery. The website is here. The Facebook page is here. The local chapter is here. I blog on that site as well, but this week's post is a crossover into the heartstrings of my personal life, so I'm posting it here as well. Ridin' redundant this month.

I've always said that PSMing is a grieving process, and while I absolutely do not mean to minimize the actual unbearable loss of a child, I stand by my belief that being a post-single mom can, at times, be a distant second.

I had picked a really good theme for January: intuition. We'll get to it, because it is so important. We single moms transition from factual, methodical, list-making machines to thinking of ourselves as unproductive and useless. We slowly begin to think from our hearts, not from our heads, and learn how to listen to this new place, this intuition. Ah, change. Is there no end? But, I need to put that aside for a minute because I've been blindsided with a PSM trifecta and feel the need to expose myself a little related to the depths of pain we PSMers can experience. This has been one helluva quarter.

In November, a friendship of 11 years ended with a long series of nasty, name-calling, and, I need to say because I never responded in kind, incoming texts. So, my ruminating began (and has yet to end). Is the quality of my friendships so low that they can end so quickly and with such meanness and no second thought? Am I that unworthy? Am I that bad at being and recognizing a true friend? I admit I didn't have a lot of experience at any kind of adult relationship while raising my son. I was so driven, so financially focused. And, after all, and I know other single moms and post-single moms understand this: I had a best friend. My Spawn. (Poor kid.)

In December, I lost a dear friend and fellow PSMer to alcoholism. 2012 was her 5th year of recovery from Stage 3 breast cancer. She had a 17-year-old daughter who was just looking into colleges and a 20-year-old son who had recently transferred to a school 90 minutes away. She was alone over the Christmas holidays, as was I, but we didn't check in with each other in time. We were supposed to go to the movies the Thursday night before Christmas, but she couldn't go because she said the kids were coming over. Patricia was the coolest gal pal I ever had. Just cool. And inspiring and positive and supportive and so fun and funny. We clicked. I knew she was fighting a battle but really thought it was something we could overcome once she got through that initial blast of aloneness. I was wrong. I value the fact that we met through the local PSM group here in Indianapolis and that I think we were a huge help to each other her last two years here. We got tattoos together in October and had such a fun time that day. She taught me so much about empathy and patience and kindness and openness and peace and acceptance. I loved her and told her so and for that I am truly grateful. And so sad.

This brings us to January. In less than two weeks, Spawn, recently college graduated (a year early if you're thinking you lost time somewhere), is road tripping to Nevada for a year-long job as a botanist for the Bureau of Land Management in Lake Tahoe. Yes, I know, the lucky bastard. LOL. I'm ecstatic for him. And proud. Yes. Yes, I am. Yes. Definitely. But it's damn near the west coast. I'm in the midwest. I'm from the south. This is no place I've ever been before, so I feel even more distant not knowing anything about what he's going to experience. What if he gets lost? What if a cowboy wants to fight him? (He's not a fast draw.) What if he runs out of Burger King coupons? What if he gets nibbled on by a bear? For the first time, I can't get to him in a day. Of course, I can by plane. Of course. But it still feels a world away.  Mostly, though, he's just gone....again. When does all this leaving stop?

I usually like to pinpoint a Stage so I can identify it, get to know it, and work through it, but I can't even pick one. Though, I know I'm not irritated or anxious, because I haven't resorted to watching Brady Bunch episodes yet. Jane Austen movies, yes, but not the Brady Bunch. I suppose that's healing and hopeful. Rehab. And talking to you has helped. :)

Ma'am, I am Tonight.

Memphis makes me cry. I try my damndest not to let it, but it always gets me. Grabs me by the nostalgic heartstrings and doesn't let go until I cave. I always drive the same route - I start at the river and work my way east. The river reminds me of its endless history and struggle. The rest reminds me of my childhood before it all went so horribly wrong.

See, my mother was happy until 1968. I mean, how could you not be happy? Get a load of those curtains! But 1968 was the year our little family moved to Atlanta for my father's new job.

It wasn't that she didn't like Atlanta, she just didn’t want to. No city could compare to her Memphis, where she had spent her entire and fairly charmed life, and to which she would always feel an unwavering loyalty. (Apparently, that whole racial upheaval going on in the 1960s didn't affect her outlook. But it must have my father's, because he thought it was time to go. And she would never quite forgive him for it.)

She was homecoming queen of her high school and a sorority queen in college. She was president of this club and that and knew just everybody there was to be known. She was, more often than not, the belle of the ball. In Atlanta, there would be no ball. Just us kids growing older. But before I turned five years old in 1968, I was the happiest daughter in the history of daughters, because I had the happiest mother in the history of the whole Universe.

Sterling Drive - Our First House

The summer before we moved, I was four and my brother was eight. He was out of school, and every day was like a birthday party. My mother and I would wet sponge-stick S&H green stamps into these books that plumped and ruffled as they dried, and we’d shop in the catalogs for all the things we would buy. Sometimes, we would sit on the porch and paint our toenails and brush and fix each other's hair with a million different multi-colored thick yarn bows and shiny ribbons and plastic ball ponytail holders, while my brother played with his friends in the yard. On particularly good days, we would dress up and pretend to be in beauty pageants. As I grew up, I came to hate all these things (which put another crack in her already broken heart), but back then, all I knew was that my mother was smiling.

Feel the love...

Every so often, we would go places. We would have lunch with people, we would take her mother, who didn't drive, to appointments, or, on really special days, we would go shopping at Sears. The Sears on Poplar Avenue was something to behold (the picture doesn't do it justice). It was gigantic (I swear!) and white and all brick and had a huge, long walkway leading up to it like it was a castle. The walkway was covered to protect shoppers coming and going from the parking lot. It was lined with little Bradford Pear trees and ran the whole length of the parking lot, which, back then, felt like miles.

On our way in to the store and before getting in our car to go home, my mother would sit on a bench and watch us run up and down that walkway over and over and over and over. She'd apologize to the poor passersby trying to use the path for its intended purpose. But she would smile and smile. And laugh. When my mother laughed, everything else in the world disappeared. She was always ashamed and would cover her mouth, but she was never more beautiful than when she laughed.

As if the walkway weren’t enough, right inside the store’s front door was a candy counter. Someone would inevitably open the door for my mother, and we'd follow her inside hoping for the best. The smells of nuts and candies and chocolates and gums were so strong that you could taste the air. The whole area was decorated in red and white checks and there were a million glass displays of all kinds of goodies. My mother would always pretend that we were in a hurry and didn’t have time to stop. And we’d beg and plead and pull on her arms and her purse and her dress and anything we could grab a hold of until she let us pick out one thing each. She loved watching us try to choose. We'd press our noses to the display cases and run our dirty little kid hands up and down each and every one. We'd pick one thing and change our minds and start all over again. And she'd laugh some more. Then, the man with the paper triangle candy-man hat would scoop and weigh and pour our gold into little paper bags and hand them to us to take home. Outside, we’d thank her profusely, and she would hold our little bags while we took one last spin around the walkway.

Central and Greer

But 1968 clipped her wings and she was never the same. I grew older and she grew more lost and lonely every year. She tried so hard in the next twelve years before her death, but she was never happy like that again. And neither was I. 

Holmes Circle - My Grandmother's House

I took pictures this time, but I'm not sure I should have. My memories are better, bigger, newer, and sunnier. Although, this house on the corner of Central and Greer has always been my favorite. And it's where I turn to go to my grandmother's house (which was red brick when they lived there), where we spent every summer until I was twelve and she came to live with us in Atlanta (her husband died in 1970, just two years after our fatal move). I didn't understand their overwhelming sadness about that day at the time, but now I think I do. Neither of them had a home anymore. I'm not familiar with this sense of belonging, but apparently, it's something I long for and that I feel nowhere else.  So, Memphis, I'll see you in a couple of years, and I'll take my little drive, have my little cry, and think about the time I felt part of something really good.

Not Quite a Homicide, Yet

A week after I returned from my summer vacation in July, my dog's breath, already at a tangible 15-year-old level, suddenly got worse. Every six weeks, she gets bathed, combed, clipped, and has as many teeth brushed as she'll allow. Two years ago, the Vet and I discussed knocking her out for a deluxe cleaning, but we opted not to, because of her age. No problem. We’ll work it out.

So, as I was saying, you could smell her breath when you opened the door. It permeated the entire house (all 900 square feet of it), like death. I imagine. So, I grabbed my little plastic finger and the breath spray she likes and attempted to get near her to rub her teeth and gums a bit. She hates it, but likes it, but hates it, but likes it, so I can usually get a few swipes in there before we both get cranky. But not this time. There was a big pink blob of something jutting out from the front of her mouth. I knew I had to investigate, even though I was foaming at the mouth from the stench. She wouldn’t let me near her mouth long enough to know exactly what was going on in there, but from the outside, it looked like the beginnings of one of those tumors on the TLC people who have to be cut out of their homes. We hightailed it to the vet where they ordered emergency-ish (this was Friday and surgery could wait until blood work and Monday rolled around) dental surgery to remove it and do a professional cleaning.

She did fine. She lost 16 teeth in the process (I know, I know, this is where you have my permission to beat me up for being a bad dog owner, but I refer you to the above mention of a prior discussion about surgery in which I was told not to do it) and now gums canned food, but all is ($900 worth of) well.

Well, until last week. (This post is not really about her teeth – it’s all just PETA court evidence that I do at least try to take care of the dog on most days.) It’s no secret that Sabrina and I have issues. Think two old ladies sharing a semi-private room at the home. When things get ugly, they really get ugly. And the middle of the night is when we tussle the most. Sunday night, she started this fake throwing up business. (You know the kind where they swallow incessantly and do a little dry heaving.) This dog is not out chasing vermin or digging up worms anymore. She’s on a 30-foot tie out that gives her access to the same little patch of condo land that she’s on every.other.freeking.day.of.her.life. In other words, what she could get into was beyond me and frankly just ticking me off.

She went under the bed to do her swallowing/gagging routine, and I couldn’t take it. I decided toot sweet to put her in the bathroom for the night. I sat down on the floor beside the bed and went for her collar and, as usual, she tried to bite me. So, I grabbed my slipper, conveniently sitting on the floor next to me. In theory, I would hurl it at her ass like a simultaneous spank and shove towards me so I could grab her. In actuality, the old gal turned her head to bite it and she got hit in the left eyeball. Yes, the edge of the rubber sole smack in the eyeball. She yelped once, but that was it. She did move toward me, so I grabbed her collar and put her in the bathroom to dry heave all she wanted. And I went to sleep.

The next morning, she looked like death warmed over. I don't think she slept all night. And her eye? It was either going to sink into her head and come out the other end the next day or shrivel up and pop out and land on the floor for me to slip on later. It looked horrible. Thing is, though, that she wasn't rubbing it or shaking her head or crying or anything. And she was eating fine (that runs in the family). My son, who was there that afternoon, said that he'd give it another day. By that night, though, it was red and hazy and altogether not right, and I swore she had internal injuries. As one who goes to the dark side, I started googling doggie head trauma.

At bedtime, I held her and petted her and cried like a baby and prayed to The Baby Jesus. For me, really, more than for the poor dog. "Dear Baby Jesus. Please don't let me have killed this dog with a slipper. How can I possibly explain that? I'm a good person. Please don't let her die from my killing her. And, really? I just spent $900 at the vet. Oh, and that stupid $50 memory foam bed for her hip. Oh, and the new little treats that she can gum. I spent like $10 on those. Seriously. Please, please, please don't let her die."

Sabrina looked up at me all pitifully, yet somehow smugly like she was enjoying the show, and kissed my hand. Then, we went to sleep and the next morning, I was prepared to take her to the doctor first thing. But, she was a whole new dog, none the worse for wear and wanting to play. So, thank goodness and The Baby Jesus, now I can tell the slipper story from the comfort of home and as a near-death close call instead of from an undisclosed location and as a homicide. I’m not cut out to be on the lam, really.

Now that she’s back in the atmosphere with drops of shit-upon in her hair

(Ignore the title if you don't recognize - it's a Train thang.)

Waaa. They say that all good things must end. They must be from Indiana. And they probably said this upon return from a glorious road trip to a better and more civilized world.

I want to tell you all about my trip. It was heaven. But last things first, I'm thinking you might need a good laugh in this heat, and I have the antitode: the story of my first two days back.

Pull up a chair for some background...

I have more than a few neighbors at the condo. They are nutty. Entertainingly so. (Really would be a good HBO pilot. I need to get on that.) Except for Nightmare Neighbor Charlotte. She's just nutty without the entertainment. Plus, we hate each other. She asks me every chance she gets when my lease is up. And I always tell her that I'm thinking of never leaving. You may or may not know about the banging of pots and pans, the slamming of anything slammable, and the dragging of dead bodies that goes on in her condo next door. You also may or may not know about her four (no more, no less, come rain, come shine) daily strolls around the parking lot which put her outside wandering in circles a lot of the day. I'm grateful for the walks, though. Less dead body movement. You may or may not know that she is the "condo street representative" and kills even more time typing up notes for people about things she doesn't care for. She passes these notes out on her strolls, putting them in our tubes (little mailbox cylinders under our business-that-matters mailboxes). Some of us have had full tubes about things she doesn't like. Keep in mind for later that ivy is near, if not at, the top of her list. Charlotte and slips of paper. All day, every day. Well, when she's not banging and dragging things.

Two or three months ago, she started entering my gate (I do leave it open, my bad, but funny, most people do the same, including ol' Char and who cares) and walking in my patio and looking at my foliage. Just staring. Perusing. Like one would do at a botanical garden, maybe. Admiring the flowers. Er, weeds. (I'm a renter, not a planter.) Right before I left for my trip, my godsend of a dogsitter was in my living room, and we were exchanging instructions and niceties. Char came up to the screen door like she wanted to join the conversation. "Someone's at your door." "Oh, Lord. That's my neighbor." I asked Char what she was doing, and she skeedaddled. Well, skeedaddled is the wrong word. She's 4 feet tall, 80 pounds, older than dirt, and sports Mr. Magoo eyeglasses, a cane, some kick-ass special shoes, and a hunchback (childhood polio). After she had finally gone, "Do you have issues with her?" "Oh, honey. I can't tell you about it all, because I have to leave in 4 days."

So, a day or two after cleaning Charlotte's nose print off my screen door, I was putting my trash out and she popped out from around the gate.

Char: I need you to keep your gate closed. Your weeds are embarrassing for my visitors.

Me: What visitors? You don't have any visitors.

Char: Well, that's your reality.

Me: I'm not closing my gate, because I let my dog out on the tie-out and need it open. For God's sake, FIND SOMETHING TO DO!!!!

Char: I have plenty to do, but there is thistle in your ivy!

There's what in my say what? I blew up. Blew the fuck up. I had had all I could stand. Let it all go. Stopped short of calling her a cripple. 'Cause I'm claiming Christian like that.

After it was over, I was clear that there were three things she needed: 1) a closed gate, 2) thistle out of the ivy, and 3) me not to let my screen door slam because she could hear it when she was in the kitchen or outside (which is 23 out of 24 hours a day, remember). There was just one thing that I needed: 1) For Char to DIE.

So, I happily prepared to leave for my trip that June 19th Sunday morning and guess what? Char's car was missing. For the first time in over a year. Did I mention that she never goes anywhere? Come to find out, the bitch had the audacity to go out of town the same day!!! Can you believe that? What a Universe. I could have enjoyed the break. (However, my dogsitter informed me that there were workers - and odd, questionable looking ones at that, one with a missing eye, or maybe it was a lazy eye, I can't remember now - at her house replacing her kitchen counters. That wouldn't have gone well for me either.) I told my Spawn about this and he said, "Oh, didn't you hear? Rumor has it that she's going to Boulder for some creativity event thing." Seriously, nobody loves me.

Oh, right, the reentry. The minute I crossed the Missouri River, the humidity was paralyzing. Windows up and AC on. The east. When I reached the Indiana border, I turned on the radio. Will never do that again. Menards commercials. Meijer sales. Broad Ripple. Ugh. Who cares. Picture sinking shoulders.

Then, at the complex, I wheeled my suitcase to my condo corner and saw it. My gate was closed. When I pushed it open, I saw that my ivy had been killed, pulled up, trimmed, you name it. Just a flurry of ivy activity. Some thistle was brown and dead and some was missing. And I was saving it!!! A piece of my little table right next to the perpetrated ivy area had been broken off and placed in a matching chair. The piece was mysteriously in the shape of a hand. A small, old, bitch of a hand. Then, I opened my screen door and noticed something shiny and new. A new spring-y thing. Installed and everything. And adjusted so the door can't close completely. She had work done!!!

But do I say anything? Nope. I let it go. For almost a whole day.

The next morning, workers had returned to her condo. I didn't expect less. I mean, you hire a man with one good eye to do some counter work, there are bound to be mishaps. So I headed to the store. Screaming kids, big huge fat Indiana families shopping in herds and huvarounds. Then. I made the mistake of a lifetime. I hope you're still reading, because this is the memory that I'll have on my deathbed and I'll need someone to pat my hand, virtually if necessary. I went to Qdoba for a chicken taco salad. I love Qdoba's chicken taco salad. I thought it might relax me. Make me feel better about apparently being roommates with the Indiana world again.

I pulled up into my parking space at the strip mall. Had my right hand still on my keys pulling them out of the ignition and had just started to open my door with my left hand. Two men, probably my age so knowing better, pulled up pretty quickly into the spot to the left of me. Pretty close, too. But before the driver came to a good stop, the passenger opened his door to get out. He turned his head in shock to see me (like what? there are other freeking people in the world?) and my door that he had just hit. I took the keys in my right hand, threw them up in the air a bit (as one does when they're at their limit), closed my door, and tested the Heavens (in the privacy of my own front seat) about what the hell else I could see today. The passenger man got out, stood at my closed window, and yelled, "You know, Midol might really help your attitude." To which I replied, "GO. Just GO. Please, just GO." But he wouldn't move. "I would've apologized to you. There's no damage. But seriously, Midol." Again, "GO. JUST GO."

Then, came his partner. Passenger man was a joy compared to this guy. Driver man came around the car, headed straight towards me holding his key like one would a pen they were getting ready to write with and said, "You are a fucking C*NT. How would you like it if I took this key and just ran it all up and down your face right now?" (There really is no answer to that question.)

The passenger man had moved to the right front side of my car near the strip mall sidewalk to go to Qdoba. I looked at him and said, "Nice choice in this one." And I said, to the c*nt man, "It must be hell to be you." (I know, genius, right?)

So, he said it all again. C*nt. Key. "Upside" my face. Then, he told his partner to get my tag number (what exactly did I do again?). I called him a moron - okay for the blog court records, a fucking moron - and that was the first time I thought he might really key "upside" my face. I looked for my phone to call 911, in case. His friend finally got him to leave. And as I drove away, I noticed a slew of people on Qdoba's patio. Families. Women. And several children. I'm sure the parents will never forget their kids asking them what a c*nt is.

That experience made me decide that I really needed to just start giving back to the world. And not in a good way. So, I wrote a scathing email (as a good passive-agressive does) to the homeowner from whom I rent and copied ol' Char. I told her that this was the final straw and that if the old bat didn't leave me alone and leave my stuff alone, I would call 911. The homeowner was livid, I was glad to know, because after all, I've been money in the bank. She called Char who denied all of it and said that she would be taking this issue to the condo Board to discuss. (I'd like to attend that meeting. "I've been staring at my neighbor and trespassing and messing with and breaking her stuff and she complained to her landlord. We need a letter....I'll put it in her tube.")

Then, I went to the Dollar Store (more punishment from the Indiana public, but it had to be done) and purchased the ugliest patio decorations I could find. God bless America patriotic stuff. And a lovely arrangement of fake red carnations in a plastic cemetery marker cup. Put it all around the gate. This now serves two purposes: 1) it keeps her grubby hands off my gate, and 2) it strokes her out that only she (and her imaginary visitors) can see it and that she can't NOT see it.

I think it's clear who won this battle. Right? I mean, if you ignore the fact that I've thought of little else since I've been back and spent a few countless hours recapping it here and to anyone who will listen to me, it's so clear that I won.

The third day, I spent rental house hunting online. I visited a top contender the next night and, after seeing the hot tub on the neighbor's deck about 20 feet away and hearing the thump-thump bass of a house two doors down, the conversation ended like this: "Will you clean and patch holes and make it rent-ready when you move?" "Uh, yea, I guess, if you want."

And that, my friends, is a reentry. Some might say this is karma biting me in the ass. Perhaps I deserve it for making fun of poor Charlotte. But, trust me, she is the devil, and I've been told she's been given to me as a gift of material. That's how I've chosen to look at her for my own sanity. And sometimes, people think I just make stuff up. Seriously? Nobody is that creative. I'll get a picture of her soon as Exhibit A for the blog court. 

The next post will be a happier one about the exodus and the stay on the moon. And it could be even longer!! :)

Don't Say Ruminate to an Overthinker

ru·mi·nate

Pronunciation: /'r{uuml}-m?-?nat/ 

-nat·ed ; , -nat·ing ; 1:  to chew again what has been chewed slightly and swallowed :  chew the cud2:  to engage in contemplation

I'm about to leave for a three-week trip to Boulder, Colorado!! Ask me when my last three-week trip was. Go ahead. Ask. The answer is NEVER. One week at a time, maybe, what with work and the single mom bank account. The trip originally started as just a weekend to attend the eagerly anticipated Original Impulses: Creative Boulder, but then an extended house sitting opportunity generously presented itself. It's been a bit of a struggle getting to the point of acceptance that I can indeed do this, but I'm here now and actually excited.

In recent weeks, I've turned it over and over in my head how I shouldn't, I appreciate it but I couldn't possibly, go. I've hesitantly brought it up in friendly conversations only to be told how wonderful and divinely timed the whole thing is since my last project, thankfully, ended June 3rd. No contract would dig anyone being gone that long anyway. Friends say spend time writing, spend time on your projects, spend time on YOU. Say whaaaa?? Mostly, people act like it's no big deal. It's an extended vacation. So what? People do it all the time. Get over yourself. Just do it. (Freekin' Nike.)

I have been referred to as an "overthinker" a time or two. I think it's the single mom in me. Or it could be that I was raised by two overthinkers. As someone who plans and worries and then plans and worries some more, I want to make sure I consider all the consequences of every little action. But it's been paralyzing, too. Recently, a friend emailed and said, "Stop ruminating!! Everything's fine." Fine?? Well, if I knew what ruminating meant, maybe. So, on top of all my other worries, I had to find ruminate in the dictionary. Then, I had to think about the origins of the word and how it's used in a sentence. Thanks, friend. At least that took my mind off vacation for a few minutes.

Vacation. I have it all mapped out. Well, sort of. I'm driving and will stop in Hannibal, MO, to visit Mark Twain's boyhood home and museum first. Then, I'm going to Red Cloud, NE, to visit Willa Cather's hometown. Then, Boulder. Colorado. Forests. Mountains. Creeks. Wildlife. Walks. Outdoorsy people. Creative types. Hippies?!?! I bet they don't ruminate much there. Well, not in a worrisome way, anyway, and not without pot. Wonder how much a nickel bag goes for nowadays. And if drug dealers take Discover. See? If it's not one rumination, it's another.

Post-Trip Note and Pictures: I had the best time (and even added Taos to the list) and can't even put it into words. But here are some pics. Because, no words.

Left Indianapolis Sunday, June 19th, 2011. Took Hwy 36 to Hannibal, Missouri, for the first stop at the Mark Twain Museums.

Outside of Hannibal near the Fiddlesticks Restaurant. A Fiddlestick is an Italian-style breadstick wrapped around a hunk of fried cheese. Served with a salad.

June 20th, on to Hastings, Nebraska, to spend the night.

Highway 136. I think. Who remembers.

Nebraska hoodlums.

Red Cloud Nebraska. Opera House. Willa Cather Foundation.

Colorado. First views of the Flatirons of Boulder.

Home away from home.

Asha and Sebastian. Trouble.

Cape Cod in the Hood

Love.

The perfect porch.

View at the end of the street.

South Meadows Park in the Hood.

Jay Road at the end of the subdivision.

Friday, June 24th. Curious Boulder kicks off.

500 block of Pearl Street

Pearl Street

Two Hands Paperie.

Boulder Dushanbe Teahouse

The Solstice Center at 302 Pearl Street.

Monday, June 27th by the Boulder Creek Path

The Med and Boulder Falls (by scenic route on top of Sugarloaf Mountain) with Misty.

Smart toes. Dumb walking shoes.

Chautauqua Park and Trail.

Niwot.

The drive between Niwot and Paint Brush Trail.

Japango and Pearl Street with Carl!

"I dunno. Are they related?"  "As if the kid in the crib isn't scary enough."

Tea with Jana at 29th Street Mall Panera Bread. View from the parking lot.

Estes Park on the way to Rocky Mountain National Park.

The Park. Trail Ridge Tour.

Tundra Walk. Actually walked on tundra and got in trouble with Miss Justine.

Drive south (hwy 6 and 93) to Idaho Springs/Breckenridge.

Sometimes a girl needs wide open spaces.....

...And sometimes a girl needs a canyon.

Walden Ponds Wildlife Habitat at 75th and Jay, near house.

Mabel Dodge Luhan House in Taos, New Mexico.

View from the room.

New Mexico driving.

south_colorado.jpg

Taos.

Rio Grande Gorge Bridge.

Rancho de Taos

San Francisco de Asis Church

Southeast Colorado. So beige. Except for the rednecks. They're colorful.

Hays, Kansas.

New Things, God Help Me

Recently, I asked the Universe for a few things. I read somewhere that it's a good practice to list five things you want from the world and look at the list for a full minute each day. Visualization. I believe in it, and as a result, May has been a case of be careful what you ask for. Two things, in particular.....

One of the things on my list involved socialization. Of me. Being a contract and freelance writer (and mostly technical) can be a lonely life, and I've been jonezin' for more local interaction in my daily routine. So, I landed a new project that I thought might be the answer to this wish list item. The gals I met with to discuss the job were lovely and friendly and funny and nice. At first. It's been a week and now, they're all up in my business. And frankly, I just don't trust them. There's entirely too much conversation and way too many personal questions. And then there are low cubicles - the lowest I've ever seen (from afar, becuase I have never had to sit in a low cubicle before). Picture the bobbing heads and conversations ALL DAY LONG. People popping up and down constantly to stretch, to run to and fro. Every time involves a conversation and, if you're lucky, an impromptu meeting. I've never been more exposed. (Speaking of exposed, the big corporate office-y talk is around watching and waiting for other people to leave their desks with their computer screens open. See, you MUST hit Windows-L or suffer some consequences. Those being this: if someone sees your empty cubicle and open screen (which dear god, they do, because this is what people do there - mind everyone's business), they, and I am not exaggerating, jump up and down and point and giggle at you, and you must then immediately send out an email to the department telling everyone that you will bring donuts the next day. If this happens a certain number of times - I'm not sure how many - you have to bring pizza. Oh, can it get any more fun!??! I think not. They just laugh and laugh and laugh and have more and more discussions about how fun this is for the rest of the day.)

Did I say I've never been more exposed? Well, I take that back, because secondly, this weekend one of my new sweet friends, Lisa Zawodny, has a photography business and offered me a photo shoot. I am trying to get through this life with as little evidence of my face as possible. BUT, the issue was forced, and everyone knows me to be a caver. You might notice some new photos here on the About page, if you peruse. But just don't. Really.

I will share this particular picture here. It's obviously my WTF expression. Remember that part about the folks jumping up and down at the exposed computer screens? This is how I look while that's going on. In fact, I'm pretty sure I walk around most of each day with this look. Unfortunately, it's probably the best look in my repetoire. I know it's my most comfortable. But this is really a statement about Lisa's talent. How she captured this at the exact moment I was mouthing, "You want me to do what?" is beyond me. If you're local to Indianapolis, check out her work here at MLZ Photography and here at Pawsitive Pets Portraits. Fantabulous!!

Here are a couple more that I'm not comfortable with either. So there. I might as well be naked. I'm still waiting on the answers to the other four things on the list. God help me (and thus, you!) in June!!

Snow Stinkin' White

The condo I rent is in the woods. It’s still in the city, just in the woods. I have a very picturesque view of a small and lively forest through my back windows. If that’s all you know about the place, it's lovely. But there's more. Built in 1974, the only thing that has been updated is the kitchen, which was rehabbed in 2009 to reflect the style of a blind family in the early 1990s. The people who live in the complex defy rational explanation and are perfect for an HBO dark comedy. As just one quick example, Next Door Nightmare Charlotte is about 4 feet tall and 90 pounds, I’m guessing around 300 years old, and wanders the parking lots through rain, snow, sleet, hail, famine, and locusts with her walking cane, special shoes, and mysterious pieces of paper. She’s always carrying one piece of paper. Always. But most of her time is spent wandering around inside and banging on things - cabinets, pots, pans, god knows what. While her not being able to sit is but one of this condo life’s little mysteries, what has occupied more of my time lately has been the onslaught of critters.

First, there was the raccoon. Or squirrel. Or groundhog. Or gopher. Or, and this one makes me squirm the most, big honkin’ army boot wearin' rat. I’ve no idea what it is, really. All I know is that it was loud and fast and mad and scared and couldn’t get out of the crawl space no matter how many things it crawled over, clawed through, or scratched on until the wee hours of one Saturday night. He's returned twice just to torment me.

Then, there was the cat. Also in the crawl space. I’m not a cat person. Translation: I hate freeking cats. I equate having one in the house to being in an abusive relationship. I didn’t feel bad not one bit about it howling. (Besides, I wasn’t totally convinced it was a cat. I really thought it was a Sasquatch type creature that wanted to eat me alive.) I did, however, worry about the smell, if it died. But, my friend, Pamela, damn near started crying when I told her about it on the phone one afternoon, so I walked AALLLLLL the way around the buildings and pried open the door to the crawl space to let it out. I stood there for 30 full minutes. I swear. Once, I even called him, “Come on you stupid freeking idiot cat!!” Nothing. I closed the door (the memory of the ratsquirrelcoon was still fresh) and went back inside. As soon as I put a movie in the machine to watch, the damn thing started howling again. So, I, a 47-year-old civilized woman, leaned out the back window, popped out the screen and worked on the door with a broom until it finally opened and idiot cat came moseyin' out. I guess because then it felt like it. It stopped for a minute to look up and give me the evil cat stink eye like he would get me back for what I had done to him. I saw said cat on top of a fence outside just the other day, and he stared me down as if to warn me to watch my back. I reminded it that I had saved its ugly stupid life. But it just kept staring.

Now there's a bird. It keeps hurling itself into my office window. Every day from sun-up to sundown. I read online that it could be seeing a reflection of the trees and such and thinking it’s going to hurl into some cool new vegetation, so I taped plastic garbage bags to the panes but it's obviously insane and doesn't understand. If only I could train it to hurl itself at Nightmare Neighbor Charlotte, I could enjoy some peace again.

The only positive is that I did get a moment's kick out of a mental picture of me as Snow Stinkin' White. I have a few years on her, of course, but the sentiment in the picture is the same. The dwarfs aren’t pictured, but that’s because they’re actually all rolled up into the one Dopey, Noisy, Gimpy, Loony, Wacko Next Door Nightmare Charlotte who I'm pretty sure can't be captured on film. (Just so's you know, I’m a pretty nice person. People even talk about it, they do. But this woman is the devil. So, if you don’t hear from me anymore, Charlotte turned out not to be the dwarfs but the wicked queen.)

Update: Mr. 5am Hooty Owl is back again this year and perched in his favorite tree. Guess where? Oh, and the woodpecker is drilling on the chimney box as I post this. Pamela tells me that's a symbol for opportunity, but she can't be trusted. Cat lover and all.

Rainy Days and Saturdays

Wrong day, I know. (I saw the Carpenters with my mother and grandmother in 1975. It was my first concert. I wore a green maxi dress, which have come back into style just this year, with an orange sash that I can see vividly in my head as I type this.) And wrong lyrics, really, because I’m not frowning or sad or letting the rain or the day particularly get me down. But I am particularly procrastinating.

Are there any songs about procrastination? Seems like it’d be something a songwriter would put off doing, preventing the song from ever actually being written. Songwriter. That would be a fun job. Sort of like being a comedy writer. Sitting around a table throwing out lines and seeing what lands. And lots of procrastinating. Maybe I’ll google about that. I could use a career change. Career. That’s a funny word. Wonder what the origin....

As you can probably already tell, it’s book proposal weekend, and I’m apparently doing all I can to avoid the final work on it. I’m 95% done. I know, right? You can be impressed for about another…okay, time’s up. I haven’t worked on that last 5% since March. And 95% doesn’t really mean much in the scheme of being done.

There is no justification for this, because it’s not particularly difficult or involved. And I actually want to do it!! In fact, I love it. I love the work, the organization, the puzzle, and especially the accomplishment of it.

So, why? Why have I cleaned the house? Changed the sheets? Done my laundry? Cleaned the dog bowls? Been to the trainer? Made turkey chili? Watched a Netflix flick? Played squeaky ball with the dog? Twice? Talked on the phone? Googled way over my quota for the day? And why am I writing here letting my little Interwebs corner of the world know I’ve failed instead of doing what I want to do and should be doing?

Maybe because if I send it out, it’s sure to be a big hit with every publisher (ha!), and then I’d have nothing to complain about. There’s no comfort in that. But 2011 is the year of my doing things out of my comfort zone and to get this book out there in the Universe. So, I think I need to ask for help. Maybe a volunteer to come over and give me the evil stink eye until it’s done. Or to lock me in an unwired room with my laptop and no Diet Coke until it’s done. Or to come up with exactly the right thing to say and put it on a constant loop in my head until it’s done.

I’ll wait to hear back from you. No hurry, though. I’ve a whole list of stuff I can do to burn daylight avoiding this thing.

Kicking off My 20-Day Countdown to Nashville Tom Jones

I always kick off the celebrations with a reposting of "It's Not Unusual" because riding in the car with pre-Tom is one of the best parts of these sacred....well, sacred isn't really the right word....events. As he puts it, he’s just “200 pounds of heavenly joy.” Then. And now. And now again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I do love a road trip. Tom flies in from Vegas, sometimes another place depending on his schedule but usually Vegas, and we get to spend a few uninterrupted hours together. After saying our hellos and flipping through inserts together, I slide his shiny, still too cool for school self into the little slot in the dashboard and off we go.

He sings and I listen. I sing and he just keeps singing. I talk and he professes his love in so many different ways – each about three minutes long and separated by tiny moments of silence for reflection. I like to reflect on his hairy chest and unbuttoned white satin shirt with the ruffles, and he likes to reflect on my crackerjack driving skills and uncanny knack for navigation.

We laugh (oh, how we laugh when we pass the sign for Stinking Creek Road somewhere in Tennessee) and we reminisce about our other road trips together.

Most of our time is spent talking and singing about life and love. I say I’ll never let him go (meaning, I won’t leave him when I return the car to Hertz), and he says that he’ll turn the tide for me with his hands (tide, maybe, but apparently ol’ Thunderball can’t do anything about the yay-hoos going 55mph in the left lane).

At this, we laugh some more. He takes a sip of scotch (I’m driving) and starts singing “She’s A Lady”. I am reminded of how much he really does mean to me, so I pat his little jewel case, take back the unladylike namecalling and graciously accept the turning of the tide. 

Stay until tomorrow? No, I know. We say our goodbyes and he heads back to work. I take one last look as I put him back on the top shelf and can't help but smile. Till next time, young man, till next time. 

I Made It There, So Now I Assume I Can Make It Anywhere

This is a repost from 2009, the last Spring break Spawn and I spent together. This month is his last "real" semester in college (he has two classes to take this summer to finish), and next week is his last Spring break. It all made me think of this trip. I never had more fun with him.

Flight landed twenty minutes early. EARLY. That’s never happened to me. The new Indianapolis airport is empty (feels a little like it's throwing a party and nobody's arrived). And clean and nice. Shelves in the bathroom stalls for your stuff. At LaGuardia, the ground transportation counter woman called my shuttle reservation number three times while I wasn’t paying attention. She finally came up to me and asked, “1017?” loudly in my face to get my attention. Thanks to her, we got right on the shuttle to the hotel. I can’t say enough positive things about the Westin Times Square. We were upgraded. Had a southern view above 42nd Street so I could watch all the people going to work and home again at the 42nd Street Port Authority Bus Terminal. It was perfect. Quiet. Completely non-smoking and renovated. Big rooms for the city. Ideal location for us. Nice, helpful people. Fast and yummy room service. Super lathery soap (very important).

Day One: Walked up 8th Avenue a hair and stopped for a Nathan's hot dog, kept walking to Columbus Circle to the Barnes and Noble on Broadway. Walked through Central Park (stopping to rest at the skating rink and listen to a sax player under a bridge) to Park Avenue and over to Lexington for the heck of it. Walked back to 5th Avenue to the Plaza Hotel (shame on you Plaza Hotel owners for the horribly stained carpet at the 5th Avenue entrance) and sat in the lobby for a minute or two. Walked down 5th Avenue to see the stores. Sat in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, awestruck by the ceilings and the windows and the altars. Lit a candle and said a little prayer. Austin dipped his fingers in the holy water and gestured the sign of the cross. (I laughed at him, of course, because he makes fun of me for any sign of faithfulness. He minimized it all by saying, “It’s magic. I’m not going to turn down magic.”) Walked to Rockefeller Center where I could’ve stayed all afternoon. Found the Magnolia Bakery by accident (the whole trip was full of “where is X, we need to look for X” only to turn around or walk a few steps and find it) and stopped for chocolate butter-cream cupcakes. Walked back to 42nd Street and the hotel for a “barking dogs break”. Had a nice dinner at Shula’s in the hotel, and then walked around Times Square a bit to see the lights at night.

Day Two: Caught a cab to the Flatiron Building, then NYU and Washington Square Park. Walked through Greenwich Village and SoHo (where I swear I could live even though Austin thinks not). Caught a cab to the WTC site. Walked to Wall Street (Austin’s favorite part). Caught a cab to Katz’s Deli in NoHo for lunch. Saved room for a walk to Chinatown and a dumpling sample. Or two. Walked along Canal Street and bought a tote bag, some tourist crap and a fake Dolce and Gabbana purse for Katie, my lovely dog/house-sitter and really good friend of Austin’s. Caught a cab back to Times Square where we got Junior’s Cheesecake supplies and went to the hotel for a late room-service dinner.

Day Three: Snow?! Luckily, it stopped by 10am. Walked to Grand Central Station (now we know what’s at the beginning of Damages each week) and the Chrysler building. Caught a cab to Pier 78 for the NY Waterways Harbor Tour (Brooklyn Bridge, Manhattan Bridge, Statue of Liberty (and up-close, too!), Governors Island, Ellis Island, etc.). Walked back (wanted to take a cab, but the Empire State Building looks close until you start walking towards it when it gets farther away each block – glad we did, though, because we saw a lot on the way) to the Garment District, Penn Square/Station, Madison Square Garden, Macy’s, the New Yorker Hotel and finally the Empire State Building Observatory. Caught a cab to the United Nations Building, then another to the hotel for another “barking dogs break”. Got dressed up for a dinner at Keen’s Steakhouse for the best Porterhouse steak and creamed spinach and crab cakes I’ve ever had, even though it was unnerving being the only woman among twenty men my age in the Teddy Roosevelt Bull Moose Room. Caught a cab to the hotel and one last Times Square at night experience.

Memory One: I remember waking up in the middle of the night between Day Two and Day Three and remembering where I was and thinking “Oh god, I have to do NYC again tomorrow”. My back hurt on Day Two but was fine by Day Three, and I didn’t want to leave by Day Four. But leave we did.

The shuttle to LaGuardia drove by the Ed Sullivan Theater where Late Night with David Letterman is taped and took a back route through Queens, so we got to see some of that area complete with a just-opening flower and fruit market. Perfect flight back to the still empty Indianapolis airport.

Memory Two: Austin seeing Times Square for the first time and saying, “This reminds me of Tokyo.” The bastard. :)

Memory Three: Waiting on the shuttle back to LaGuardia in the first floor bell captain area, I learned that there can be as much happening on the 5am side of darkness as there is on the 9pm side. Four scary-looking men – two had huge hoods on hiding their faces – walked up to the glass at the hotel window right by us. One hit the glass as hard as he could. Then, they headed for the revolving door to enter. One of the security guys immediately picked up his walkie-talkie-thingie and said something like “21 to dispatch. Backup. Standby.” One of the bellmen, in his full-length black overcoat, sped over to them all Breakfast Club Judd Nelson / Matrix like and stuck to them like glue until they acted right and left. Then, the Matrix bellman came over to apologize to me and asked if I was alright. Big brown eyes, dark hair and complexion, full-length black coat and a New York accent asking if I was okay. I damn near fell out of the chair and faked a dizzy spell. When the shuttle came 16 minutes late, said bellmen took our bags before I was thinking straight and told the driver, “You’re 16 minutes late. You told her 5:30. You shouldn’t make the lady wait.” I had to hold onto the door for support. This was a New York highlight for me. I loved every minute of the whole trip, but this was an unexpected mama bonus and all it took was a few hoodlums and a 5am wakeup call.

• Best pre-trip purchase: Cross-body tiny purse
• Personal space violations: One in the cupcake line by a man who should’ve been in the cookie line and one on the NY Waterways boat trip by a middle-aged father who was narrating over the tour guide to his family
• Mother vs. son street fights: Six, but fairly clean and inconspicuous (usually caused by Austin saying “Mom!”, me saying “What?”, him turning away from me to point to and explain something, then me saying, “I can’t hear you when you talk in the other direction”, then him saying, “Then you need to listen”, then me trying to explain why I can’t hear him and him getting mad that I might be anywhere near pointing out an error).
• Lessons learned: Study your East River and Hudson River locations before getting mad at any cab driver. Austin and I can still crack each other up. And keep moving in Times Square.
• Next time: Ellis Island, the MoMA and the burroughs
• Final tally: Three pounds lighter (despite eating my way through town) replaced with an increased level of wanderlust that might be harder to work off.

All in all: Happy dog. Happy spring-breaker. Happy mama.

Clay and Sean's Message of Courage and Inspiration from Another Country

This month marks the sixth anniversary of the deaths of Clay McKemie and Sean Wilkinson from Rome, Georgia. Clay and Sean were my son's age at the time, and I connected with their smiling, school-picture faces on CNN. There were so many things that went wrong that day, all results of poor preparation and judgment of one man, the school's trip leader, Steve Hall. The final blow was dealt when Hall, due to bad weather, changed the trip's course to include the use of canoes and kayaks in the choppy ~50-degree ocean waters. Hall's only means of communication on this trip was his personal cellphone, and in this part of the ocean, there was no service. Clay and Sean were doomed when they got separated from the group. Yet, Hall supposedly had 20+ years of "expert" experience. (Though he was solely responsible for their deaths, not only did Hall not have his license revoked, but he has gone on to work for Wasatch Academy, a private boarding school in Mt. Pleasant, Utah, in an official capacity as Outdoor Recreation Coordinator.)

We, as parents, often let and encourage our children to take part in school and extracurricular activities that are character building. Sometimes, we even sign disclaimers acknowledging our acceptance of certain risks. And, we're rarely experts. The parents of the children on this trip didn't even get the opportunity to approve of Mr. Hall's egomaniacal plan. I also think that, because this was a private school situation, certain assumptions were made about the caliber of equipment and employee in charge, and rightfully so. But what if a parent at Hall's current school wanted to find out about his experience and past? Don't they have a right to know about Clay and Sean?

Every year around this time, I am convinced that the boys reach out to me. Over the weekend, Nick Crowhurst, who was camped about 30 miles from Suwanee when the tragedy occurred, posted here. He and his wife have written a guide book to sea-kayaking on the part of the ocean where Clay and Sean were killed called "Florida's Hidden Coast". It can be found here: http://www.hiddencoast.blogspot.com/. I want to repost here, with his permission, some of what Mr. Crowhurst wrote (his original comment is here). He has given me courage to keep the information here about Hall and new inspiration to learn what can be done in this country to provide resources for parents so we don't have to put so much trust into school leaders about whom there is no formal place for public information. Thank you, Mr. Crowhurst. And thank you, Clay and Sean. 

"I have been haunted by this dreadful incident throughout the period since it occurred. To explain why I am posting this, and my qualifications for so doing, I need to explain some of my history....have spent the last thirteen winters exploring this region by sea kayak, and the past fifty years paddling, offshore sailing, rock climbing and mountaineering whenever work permitted. Our book details 16 sea-kayak day paddles, one of which details the trip the boys were attempting to make, from Suwannee to Coon Island. I have British Canoe Union qualifications in sea kayaks (4*) and canoes (2*). I retired after a career in the British Police Service, latterly as a Chief Superintendent.

Risk cannot be eliminated from our lives, but it can be managed. We accept the risk of allowing our children to travel in motor vehicles, even though this is a major cause of child deaths. Children need to learn to deal with risk, and to balance these risks with the rewards gained. Some risk-taking is thus beneficial, within limits. My son, when a young teenager, followed me on many multi-pitch high grade rock climbs in circumstances which would horrify most parents who lacked specialist knowledge. I will happily take a granddaughter through the early stages of kayak training, and then introduce her to waves and rocks on the sea, when, of course, she is wearing a wetsuit, a crash helmet, a PFD and a sprayskirt, and has a ratio of two supervisors to the one child. Incidents of danger still occur. I give these details to indicate that I seek the adrenaline of risk, but only when the "dumb risks" have been eliminated. These can be eliminated by gradual training, good and appropriate equipment, increasing experience, and, above all, humility in the face of the immense power of nature.

Parents of children offered the chance to partake in such "adventure activities" are in a very difficult position, as they will probably lack the specialist knowledge required to assess the risk of the activity. I, for instance, could not assess the risk involved in a school trip involving horse-riding. In the case of a suggested trip from Suwannee to Coon Island for my young son, I do have the necessary knowledge, so I would seek answers to these questions:

1. What are the qualifications and experience of the trip leaders? (I would require advanced and appropriate qualifications from the ACA (American Canoe Association) or BCU and for first aid from a minimum of two supervisors for this trip)

2. How many support craft will there be, and, if powered, do they have auxiliary means of propulsion in case of breakdown, as well as anchors, flares,smoke signals,lights, strobes, compasses, GPS? (Two support craft would be a minimum in this case)

3. Are there several fall-back plans to deal with bad weather, illness, exhaustion or lack of emotional control? In strong offshore winds, which appear safe but are a greater danger than onshore winds, alternative campsites could be pre-arranged at Suwannee, Munden Camp or Cat Island, very close to the mouth of the Suwannee.

3. Are the boats supplied fit for purpose? Canoes are out of the question on this coast. They are too much affected by wind, and would be uncontrollable by young inexperienced children. Are the kayaks fitted with watertight buoyancy, reflective tape, sprayskirt, towing facility, deck-lines, and are they of suitable design and condition?

4. Have the children received prior training to fit them for the purpose? ACA and BCU approved training will provide whatever levels of skill are required. At a minimum, capsize and escape and rescue procedures, and basic stroke-making need to be trained.

5. Will the children be properly clothed and equipped for the worst case scenario of immersion in the anticipated water temperature after capsize? Wetsuits would be a minimum, with wind-proof outer garments, skull-caps and gloves and well-designed specialist PFDs. Each child should wear a strobe, and carry a waterproof torch, and have proven ability to swim 50 yards in the clothing. Spare dry clothing in drybags and emergency food and water should be carried.

6. What are the communication arrangements, either routinely or in emergency? Each supervisor should have a waterproof hand-held VHF set with an agreed boat to boat working channel on dual watch with channel 16. A spare VHF set and batteries should be carried within the leaders.Cellphones should be carried, in waterproof containers, but cellphone coverage in this area is the exception, rather than the rule.VHF communication, which is line-of-sight, with a range of perhaps 4 miles from a small boat, is problematic in this remote area. In case of emergency, an EPIRB or PLB is vital in each support craft. My current PLB cost about $250. At the touch of a button, the international marine rescue organisation is alerted by satellite of my identity, my accurate GPS position, and that I am in distress. It also sends out a VHF signal for homing-in on my position. This is an incredible facility, particularly at the price.It is the ultimate "get out of jail" card.

7. Who is the shore contact in possession of the float plan and details of the party, to act as an information point for parents or the Coastguard, and how is that person contactable?

I could go on with a list of further questions, but I think I've made my point. The non-specialist parent cannot hope to know all this detail. So, what's to be done? A very similar tragedy occurred in England in 1993, near where we live. It is known as the Lyme Bay Canoe Tragedy, and Googling will find many references. One excellent one is here: http://www.aals.org.uk/lymebay01.html This describes the prosecution of the adults involved, and the eventual setting up of a national statutory body to regulate such activities, and help prevent such disasters. This may give food for thought to those considering these issues in the USA.

In the absence of such controls, I would advocate that parents should obtain as much information as possible about a possible trip, and submit these details to an independent qualified source for comment. For example, a well-qualified ACA or BCU instructor would look to be satisfied that all the above questions, and more, were satisfactorily covered. As to the future, extra political control and public expense via legislation is not likely to be popular, I guess. A website could contain recommendations for each sport for parents making such decisions. Each entry would need to be created by someone with particular experience in each activity, of course. I am deeply grateful for your original posts. I could not believe I was alone in my incredulity at this incident, nor could I understand the lack of judicial inquiry."

My Birthday New Yorkers

A really nice friend and I recently had a lunch conversation that included a mention of my love for The New Yorker. She divulged that she had an attic slap full of the things dated back to the 30s. Even though I was serious, she laughed when I asked about moving into her attic for the better part of 2011.

In an email the next week to check in as usual, she asked me when my birthday is. I told her and didn't think anything about it because it's in July and this is January. I told her that I knew hers was in September, because we had lunch last year to celebrate a particular milestone around her age. 

When we met again for lunch a couple of weeks later, she brought me two New Yorkers - one from the Friday before my Wednesday date of birth and one from the Friday after: July 13th and July 20th, 1963.

They were 25 cents each. There were ads for American Airlines' Astrojet, a Kodak camera with a new fangled auto-rewind feature, Marlboro cigarettes, Holiday pipe tobacco, Ferrara candy, all-polyester weatherproof Alligator coats, tequila, scotch, creme de menthe and more than a few brands of gin. Full-page ads for Haig and Haig Pinch, my father's Scotch of choice. Cordoroy was in. And so was Hawaii. Lots of ads for Hawaii. Ford and Sunbeam had new models with roll-up windows and lockable doors. Ventura had new lightweight luggage with keyless combination locks. You could go on an 8-day cruise from NYC to the Bahamas for $195 or take an "Around the World in 80 Days" cruise which stopped in 22 of the world's most romantic cities for $2,700.

The cartoons were timeless, albeit a bit sexist, of course. But what fascinated me the most were two articles of a three-part series written by Calvin Trillin, whom I've only known and loved as a poet, entitled "A Reporter At Large, An Education in Georgia", about two Negro (a word used often enough to make me uncomfortable) college students' experiences at the University of Georgia, which was apparently known for not being altogether welcoming to this sort of change in its population. I grew up in Georgia and attended UGA from 1982 to 1984. Trillin wrote about Atlanta and Athens and their newspapers and colleges and neighborhoods. He even mentioned Marist, my high school in Atlanta, which at the time was a pretty well-known all-boys Catholic military school. I was admitted to Marist's first class that allowed girls in 1977. Up to then, I had had some fairly decent character-building life experiences at home, but this was an initiation into the public kind and the Catholic guilt (and I'm not Catholic) that both continue to this day.

There was a heartbreaking story entitled "A Leave-Taking" written by Shirley Hazzard that made me google her. She is an Australian author of fiction and nonfiction, and her 1970 novel The Bay of Noon was shortlisted for the Lost Man Booker Prize in 2010, according to the Wiki. So, what's a girl to do but see about finding this book at the library? My to-do list never ends, I tell you.

I'm sad that I have to return these treasures at lunch tomorrow. But I'm just so fortunate to have a friend who gave me this New Yorker glance into that week around my birth! I just found out that anyone can see the NYer covers online here, and subscribers can also flip through the magazines online after providing their account information. I prefer touching and holding and smelling books and magazines as I read them, but I understand you "e" types. Either way, it was a lot of fun and I highly recommend it!

I Know. Yet Another Post About the New Year. But This One's Brought to You by the Car Talk Boys!

If you know me at all, it could come as a surprise that I'm a huge fan of Tom and Ray, the NPR Car Talk boys. (If you ever want to know how to do a Website bio right, read theirs here.) I don't do electronics. Is a car an electronic? I've no idea. Anyway, while we respect and appreciate each other, technical things and I avoid any deeper relationship. I don't want to know how they tick any more than they want to know about me.

But Tom and Ray (or Click and Clack, as they call themselves) are adorable and funny and charming and very Massachusetts-y. So, when folks call in with car troubles, I sift through the gear and shaft and oil and cylinder talk for the good stuff and the reason people REALLY listen: they're just so darn fun.

Naturally, I cut out their interview in November's Yankee Magazine and pinned it up on my desk. My favorite part went like this:

"...He told us this whole story about how he drove his old Chevrolet from Minnesota to Alaska. The car had 350,000 miles on it, and he'd made a major repair using a barbeque grill. He wanted to know if he should drive the car home. We told him, "Go for it."

Some of our best calls are from people who are trying to go on some kind of adventure and need encouragement. A lot of people lead predictable lives and don't take any risks. But if you don't, then you won't have any stories to tell your kids. You don't want to do something that's going to end your life, but it's good to do stuff where things can go wrong.

If something happens, and it creates an adventure, you'll remember it forever. I remember one guy who was going to take a trip with his father and brother. They were going to drive some old Dodge Dart or some other old clunker. Doug [Berman, the producer] was in our headphones suggesting that we tell these guys to rent a newer car. I said no. The best thing that can happen is you break down every hundred miles and you get into arguments and everything goes wrong. It'll be the greatest trip you ever took."

**The whole interview is here: http://www.yankeemagazine.com/issues/2010-11/features/the-big-question/1

Gretchen Rubin of the Happiness Project likes to have a one-word theme for each year. How simple and to the point. I like that pretty fine, so about a week ago, I came up with mine for 2011: ME. Yup, Me. I do know that this sounds horribly selfish, but we'll just have to live with that for a year. After that, it will be YOU. Seriously and I mean it. YOU. And maybe, if there's time left, a good cause or two.

This past week, I organized ME into specific categories and goals as suggested by Chris Guillebeau of the Art of Nonconformity and I developed a workable timeline which I divided into quarters. Then today, I spotted Ray and Tom's interview on my desk. They're so right about what makes for the best times in life and the best memories when we have to look back upon it. And adventure does fit right into my ME theme (into the theme, but not quite yet into the non-willy-nilly gal that is me).

So, how to have both? A year's worth of specifics while having a year's worth of adventures? I've really no idea, but I think I'm going to have a plan and a non-plan. To kick that off, for example, I've looked up the definitions of fun and spontaneity, and I've just scheduled a trip without a play-by-play itinerary. (Dear God, typing that sentence just gave me a hive.) If all this means I get lost or stuck on a road in the middle of nowhere, then so be it and lucky ME!! Right? Yea. Must remember to breathe. And tape iPhone charger to body. ME is clearly a work in progress.

Cheers to YOUR 2011!!! That's it, though. Must get back to ME now. ;)

Christmas 1970. Again.

It's a nostalgic time of year, so here's another holiday-themed repost from 2004. It's probably my most favorite memory of my father.  

=================

I was seven years old and at the age when, way back then in simpler and slower times, most children just begin to seriously contemplate the logistics of Santa Claus’ annual visit. I had asked a million questions that Christmas season, but no explanation made sense.

I announced at the dinner table that Christmas Eve that I would be staying awake all night. I intended to prove once and for all that there was no Santa. After all, I was too grown up for this nonsense. With whom did they think they were dealing - a 5-year-old?

My parents agreed to the plan, but insisted that I still go to bed on time, explaining, for yet another year, that Santa only visited sleeping children and thinking, of course, that I wouldn’t last too long anyway once my head hit the pillow.

I reluctantly participated in their charade but I was confident that I would prove how silly this whole concept was. I knew there would be no signs of Santa that night.

I lay in my bed with the drapes open, staring out my window. I watched. I listened. And I waited. And waited. I refused to give in. I would not fall asleep! I was sure hours had gone by.

All of a sudden, I saw a tiny red light moving slowly across the sky. I jumped out of the bed and ran to the window for a closer look. Then I heard the bells. I saw the red light travel to the top of our neighbor’s roof and stop. The jingling stopped too. It was dark and I couldn’t see much, but there was no mistaking that light.

After a bit, the light took off again for the sky and the sound of jingling bells got louder. I couldn’t tell where Rudolph was going next, but I was positive that he was headed for my roof. I ran back under the covers and pretended to be fast asleep. I sure did hope that Santa didn’t see me watching him from my window!

Needless to say, I was a firm believer in Santa Claus for two more years.

_______

My father told me when I was a teenager that he and his best friend who lived next door had done all this from his friend’s deck. We were positioned on a corner lot and the back of our house faced the side of theirs. I had a perfect view of their roof and deck from my room. They had actually lain down on the deck so I couldn’t see them and shone a flashlight with red bulbs across the sky and onto the roof. My mother always insisted on a ridiculous amount of Christmas decorations, so they had no problem finding loud bells to jingle.

Today, I am the same age that my father was in 1970. As a parent, I can appreciate the desire to preserve our children’s innocence. And, as a middle-aged adult, I understand the power of Crown Royal on a winter night and the intense need for something fun, silly, and different to do.

Used Books

Today's Black Friday trip to the used book store reminded me of this post past (2006). It still makes me smile, so I'm playing it again. I'm redundant when I wanna be.

=============

They were at least in their seventies. The wife was looking at paperback novels, when her husband spotted a chair near the window.

“I think I’m going to go sit down. I can hold the books you’ve picked out while you keep looking if you’d like.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he assured, and took a seat in the chair opening his arms so she could fill them with the dozen or so Agatha Christie books she had selected to take home.

She laughed. “You know, I really have enough here. I don’t need any more.”

He looked at her and smiled. “You go ahead and get as many as you want.”

She accepted that with a nod and a smile and went back to the shelves, but just for a second.

She came back to him and started to thumb through the book spines, giggling. “I can’t remember what I already got.” He smiled and repositioned the stack so she could see more easily.

She returned to her search and, in just a few minutes, came back to him and said, “I think I’m through looking. I really do have all I need.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

She smiled at him and said she was. They went to the cashier, walking side by side, him carrying her books for her.

The Thanksgiving Gift That Keeps on Giving

This time of year takes me back to the trip north to Indiana. I'm pretty sure it always will.

On Thursday, October 17th, 2002, I received a telephone call about a job in Indianapolis, Indiana, working as a contractor for Eli Lilly. Eleven days later, I moved and started my new job. I left my son with his nonworking father, who had ever so graciously agreed to temporarily move into my house and “baby-sit” his son so he could finish the Fall semester at school. I felt better leaving him there until I had organized our new life into some semblance of a routine. It took almost two months to just recompose myself, so this turned out to be a smart plan.

Nothing seemed the same to me: the streets, the stores, the businesses, the weather (I needed a coat AND GLOVES in October!), the nicely kempt midwestern people with absolutely no accent (how do they do that?). I participate in this craziness now, but when people in these parts give directions, they actually use east and west and north and south, rather than right and left, as in “Go south on Meridian, then west on Fall Creek”. Imagine! It really requires a lot of unnecessary thought as far as this Southerner is concerned.

But it turned out that driving confusion would be the least of my worries. The movers arrived in Indiana at 1:30AM. Yes, A.M.  Then, I ended up moving twice because my first apartment was a nightmare. Sign-on monies and paychecks wouldn't come until the end of December. When you're from out of town, new bank accounts require a 10-day deposit hold, and little things like rent checks require in-state checking accounts. Indiana has something called "hard water", and it's just nastiness. Did I mention cold? The 2002-2003 Winter season resulted in the highest snowfall record for the city this century. I could go on and on.

I was sleeping almost an hour each night and, by that weekend, I had developed a newfound attachment to crying. I’m typically not one to express too much emotion or admit defeat, but I told a bestest friend, Sheila, who was back in Memphis about my problem. I told her that I had no idea if it was due to the haze of overwhelming change, the feeling of loss from my son not being with me, or just plain worry about me, about him, about whether or not this decision would go down in the books as right or wrong for us.

She asked me what we were doing for Thanksgiving. There really was no logical way to spend the holiday with my son. Driving to Mississippi and back twice to bring my son to Indianapolis was too much for the four-day break. I couldn’t stay with my ex-husband in my house, and he certainly had no plans of meeting me halfway. She asked about flying my son from Memphis to Indy. She even offered to take him and pick him up at the airport. He had flown before, so his “unaccompanied minor” status wasn’t an unfamiliar concern. I was touched by her generosity, but I couldn’t do it. I was so close to broke by this time and still had to pay for my second move.

The next day, I received an e-mail from American Airlines notifying me that I had been given a gift certificate from Sheila and three other friends she had recruited to donate to my cause. My son and I spent Thanksgiving together, and he was actually excited about the new digs. By spending those four days together, it eased his mind and mine, and helped us both begin to think of this change as a fun adventure. And I finally stopped crying.

What's funny is that I recently had to refresh Sheila's memory about this kindness, while I think about it often and with gratitude just as intense today as it was then. For me, she was God showing up when I least expected Him and so much prettier, too!!

The Morning After Drunk-Dialing The One at the Library

Being a fan of Susan Kennedy, aka SARK, and her Juicy Pens, Thirsty Paper book full of crazy fun writing and creativity exercises, I, of course, subscribe to her newsletter. Her loving mantra is that we are wondrous gifts to the Universe and that we would be selfish not to share ourselves with others. Her newsletters often include information about folks who complement her message and might be of interest to her readers. A recent one had an invitation to a free tele-class offered by Calling in The One duo, Claire Zammit and Katherine Thomas. I'm going to explain what this is in serious terms first. Or try, anyway.

Claire and Katherine have come up with a program that teaches women how to release all sorts of blocks and defeatist attitudes that prevent them from finding their ONE true love in this great big universe. The program options include a book, a tele-class, online courses, and what they call "transformational coaching".

Now, a little about me. I'm a strong proponent of and believer in the possibilities of romance and attraction and liking someone and even loving someone and, dare I say it, committing in some form to a boy in a neighboring town, perhaps, maybe, well, then again...no, maybe, it would be nice, yes, maybe. But this idea that I have this ONE magical Soulmate whom I need to "call in" like I would call in a dog from the yard or a kid for dinner? And that I'm missing out on this ONE special someone who just happens to be at the grocery store eyeing the same pickled okra, because I'm blocked or wounded? (Show me an adult who's not wounded, and I'll let you pet my unicorn.) What about tired? What about really just wanting to go home, not shaving my legs, and watching Jersey Shore (yes, I said it, I have no pride anymore) with a Dove bar (the chocolate kind, not the soap kind)?

This is when Claire and Katherine would squeak out (yes, they do squeak) a few of their 1,000 examples of success stories and how a simple attitude adjustment could free me from what they just know is my avoidance and manless misery. After all, according to the website, Sasha attracted her Soulmate in 6 weeks by making her "I'm not Safe" belief conscious or some such thing. Laura attracted her Soulmate in just 2 weeks by unblocking her inner source of something. It's like Name that Soulmate Tune.

All this fodder was just too good to pass up for a Post-Single Motherhood meetup topic. There just had to be an appletini-drinking or cheesecake-eating game around this.

Is this going on and on? Too long? And I haven't even gotten to the funny part. Am I protesting too much? Do I sound bitter? I'm really not. Did I mention that I absolutely do believe in The Law ofAttraction and that I really do like boys and do believe in nice romantical things? I do, really I do. Okay, I feel better.

Back to the story. I needed to research a little more if I was going to incorporate this in an upcoming meeting, so I reserved their book at my neighborhood library. When it arrived, I hunted for it in my usual spot on the shelf. But no book. My call in to The One was disconnected by not being able to even call in the Calling in The One book. I really am blocked.

At this point, I should've just gone home. But I had seen a sample online and the first chapter was about being vulnerable to a man if he offers assistance, say in the airport as you're accidentally *wink* *wink* dropping something near his carry-on, and this was information I could use. When would we drink or cheesecake-eat? Maybe every time they use the words "be open" or "heal" or "heart" or "block"? I needed these details!

So, I handed my card to the library lady and asked, "Hi. I reserved a book that's not on the hold shelf. I looked everywhere near my normal spot. Would you mind checking on it?"

"Oh, I'm sorry about that. Maybe it's on our cart. What's the name of the book?"

Oh jeez. If only I'd thought this through. Can't we just not speak while you take a minute to look it up on the computer? She stared at me for an answer. I leaned in to whisper in my most private and appropriate library voice, "Calling in The One".

No sooner were the words out of my mouth than it popped up on her screen. "Oh, yes, I see it here on your account. Calling in The One: 7 Weeks to Attract the Love of Your Life." And she was not whispering. And she glared at me, I swear she did, which sent me into my let-me-explain-before-you-start-forming-opinions-about-me tizzy.

Trying my best to laugh, "Yes. Funny, right? It's research for a group I belong to. We're going to use it to make up games and funny, sort of like opposite stories. Because it just seems so ridiculous, this book..."

"Uh huh."

Of course, the book was not on the cart.

"JOANNE? Have you seen...um...what was the name again, honey? 7 Weeks to Finding the Love of Your Life? JOANNE???"

"WHAT?" Oh, Joanne, no.

"A BOOK. Calling in The One. SEVEN WEEKS TO FINDING THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE."

"Listen. It's no big deal. Can we just cancel the hold?"

"Oh nooo. It's here somewhere. We'll find it. Just hang on." She was so obviously thinking I was in desperate need. She couldn't send me home alone. It was just too sad. Any minute, she was going to talk to me about rescuing a puppy for the company, I could feel it. 

A line was forming behind me. Two more library ladies appeared from the back to offer assistance, if needed.

"This lady reserved a book that's not on the hold shelf and not on the cart. Have any of you seen it?" She reads the computer again. "It's called "Calling in The One: 7 Weeks to Finding the Love of Your Life"."

"Oh, I could use that book, too!!! Let me write that name down real quick." 

"Me, too! What's the name again?" I want you to know that not a damn one of 'em was using her library voice.

"Ladies, please. While I appreciate the effort very much, this was NOT that big of a deal. I'm not really signing up for the plan. It's fine. In fact, it was going to be used in an opposite sort of irreverant way for a local group. Really. Not a big deal at all. Let's just forget about it, okay? Please, God? I beg you."

There was no calling off these women. The book's name was shouted out a few more times and one other library lady showed up to participate in the hunt. Yes, that made five. And no, the book was never found.

I left a humiliated and misunderstood, yet wiser woman. I learned that the vulnerable, admitting you need help thing still doesn't work that well for me. I learned that I shouldn't be so sarcastic and judgmental about a couple of squeaky ladies trying to help women call in Their Ones.

Most importantly, I learned where the second most convenient library is and moved all my pending book requests to that location. I can't go back. They all think of me now as the woman who won't ever have The One because she doesn't have the book. And I know I was dinner conversation that night. I just know it. I mean, what else do library ladies talk about at dinner other than odd books and obviously pitiful customers?

I did leave with my new Dennis Lehane and Lewis Black books, though. And Jersey Shore Season 1, Disc 1 came in the mail a couple of days later. Wonder what THAT all means. As if I don't know. Maybe someday soon I'll heal from this newest of wounds and go okra shopping. With a smile and an open mind and heart. And my unicorn.

It Really is a Small and Sometimes Unprofessional World

I've been a contractor and freelancer for eight years now. This means that I have done more than my share of interviews and conference calls. So much so, that I've kept a running tab and have just done my 57th since 2002. I'm fairly good at them now. In fact, I could pretty much interview myself while they just take notes. The plus here is that the interviewer has a lot less work to do and they can be appreciative. The minus is that I can be too comfortable, which brings me to Wednesday.

Five people from all over the country. 50 minutes into the hour-long call, we finish up and say our goodbyes and thank yous and we'll-be-in-touches.

Hiring Manager(HM) in Charleston, SC: Soooo, you don't sound like you're from Indiana.**

**It feels a little like this was obvious on my resume, but people don't often go back that far.

Me: No, I was born in Memphis and spent most of my life in Atlanta.

HM: Atlanta? Really? What part?

Me: In a suburb called Dunwoody.

HM: Really? I grew up in Dunwoody!

Me: SHUT UP!!**

**This is where the too comfortable part begins - this shouting SHUT UP to the guy in charge. 

HM: Yep, I lived across from Dunwoody High School.

Me: SHUT UP!!!!!!!! I lived across from Vanderly Elementary right next door to the high school, in Meadowlake subdivision.

HM: No way. I TOO lived in Meadowlake subdivision.

Me: SHUT UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Did you go to Dunwoody High?

HM: No, I went to Pius.

Me: SHUT UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  YOU DID NOT!!!!!!!!!!!!**

**There's no turning back now anyway.

HM: Why? Did you go to Pius? Please don't tell me you went to Marist!!**

**Pius and Marist were THE rival Catholic high schools in Atlanta at the time, which was convenient since we were also the only Catholic high schools at the time.

Me: Yep, Marist. 1981.

HM: Pius. 1980.

Me: Well, this is just nuts! But, it's a really good sign. I mean, you have to hire me now, right?

HM: Well, I don't know. I remember Marist kicking our ass on the football field every weekend and the pain is still pretty fresh.

Me: Well, that's not how I remember it at all. I remember us as best friends.

I haven't thought much about high school since leaving it, and it has never even remotely come up in a conversation, much less an interview in Indiana. After a little more laughter, we talked for a minute about football games, college, Atlanta, how true it is that you can't go home again, and what a small world it is at times. Even though I'm pretty sure I won't land this project, all is not lost. I do have a new and very valuable Note to Self: No matter how much they shock ya, don't tell "The Decider" to shut up.

Update: Score! Did get it. Currently working out details.

A Fond Look Back at the Welty Symposium

As I write this, the Mississippi University for Women's annual Eudora Welty Writers' Symposium is in full swing. The event honors one of the MUW's most famous alumnae by offering a slew of Southern writers to read from their works and tell a little about themselves. I've attended twice - in 2001 and again in 2007, but my experience in 2001 was one that I can still feel today.

In 2001, I was an Application Developer for MCI Worldcom, which was a good job that supported me and my son. I was also attending school to finish a Bachelor's degree (my first attempt in the 1980s was interrupted by a boy - well, me and a boy). To put it lightly, I was a horrible Developer and an even worse CS student. I am still friends with folks who will attest to this fact. And I was miserable.

My first loves have always been writing and reading and studying and researching. These are the things that jazz me. So, when I stumbled across an event that combined all that with a college steeped in Southern history and writers who write about all things Southern in a place that I could get to without too much maneuvering around babysitters, I signed up.

It was held in Poindexter Hall. To get to Poindexter, I had to walk and walk through the campus.  October. Fall. 120-year-old campus. I could barely breathe. Inside, I found a seat I liked, away from the collections of college kids who were sitting together like fish in a school (ha) probably mandated to attend for class credit, and readied myself for the program to begin.

Poindexter is over 100 years old and three stories tall and round inside, with huge floor to ceiling windows and a beautiful stage and wonderful acoustics. It is the musical heart of the school - and the town of Columbus, for that matter. The building has been maintained meticulously and perfectly. Looking around, I thought of the years and years of performances and audiences and...and then?

Of course, I spontaneously burst into tears. A writer hadn't even spoken yet. But it happened and would happen again during the program, despite all the logic I threw at myself. (Kleenex has unprotected sex in my purse and I was almost alone on my row, so I was able to be fairly quiet and inconspicuous.)

The writers read from their books and told stories about their paths to their writing lives. Each one better than the next. Then? She spoke. Elizabeth Strout (who is in no way Southern, but could be). At the time, her first novel, Amy and Isabelle (one of my absolute favorite books - I still miss the characters), had just been published. She read a few excerpts and then talked about her windy path of a writing life. She was unassuming, shy, self-deprecating, and funny when she recounted her disastrous 6-month law career. She said that even though she had loved writing since high school, she went to law school to avoid failing as a writer only to end up failing as a lawyer. (She went on to win the Pulitzer in 2009 for Olive Kitteridge. That says so many wonderful things about me, doesn't it?)

To this day, I swear she was reading my mind and talking just to me. The theme of the conference was “A Kindred Soul to Laugh With”, and I could not have felt more connected to her. I wanted to tell her about me, about my life, about how bad I was at my job and my schoolwork, about how much I wanted to sit at her kitchen table and listen to her stories about her life and her characters. But rather than stalk the poor woman, I came home and wrote her a fan letter. I had never done that and haven't felt the need since. She's the one for me. Well, there's Tom Jones, but that's a different kind of connection entirely.

In formulating what I wanted to say to her, I came to the conclusion that this day at the Symposium was divinely orchestrated to show me how far I had veered from my meaning of life - that interdependence of authenticity, spirituality, and nurturing of one's soul. I realized that I was ignoring it and dishonoring God at the same time and had for most of my life. I still had a pretty expensive child to raise, but I knew what I must do. I had this picture framed to remind me. I take a small version of it to every cubicle gig I've had since. And will until. And I look at it and look at it, and I write in the meantime.

I will always regret missing the 2002 Symposium. That year, Jeanne Braselton, Rome, Georgia, author of A False Sense of Well Being, read and spoke about her life. She killed herself the following Spring after losing her husband the previous year. Life and logistics kept me away until 2007. By then, they had moved the event to Cochran Hall, which is no Poindexter (it's new and attached to a dormitory), believe me. But Nan Graham spoke and told the most hilarious story of her trip to the Symposium, and Ellen Douglas read and said, "Thank ya'll for being so proud of me," and I felt like a member of this special little MUW club again.

I hope Dr. Dunkelberg knows what a gift he's given us and that he is able to keep this Symposium going for years to come. I swear I'm going next year. I'm long overdue for a slow, warm, enveloping, Southern hug.

My October Mother of a Ghost

October 17th will be the 30th anniversary of my mother's death*. It took me many of those years to figure out that she was not only not the bad guy in our doomed little family, but, in fact, she was the only person to devotedly mend that thread by which it always hung. In my own defense, I was 17 when it happened and in my most rebellious, I-hate-you years. When a parent dies when you're a teen, you can often experience arrested development. I am fully aware that in a lot of ways, I'm forever mentally 17, and I don't need anyone to point this out to me (leave me alone, you're not the boss o' me, Foghat rules). I like to believe that my mom somehow knows this and waited patiently all those years from her vantage point in the Beyond for me to come around to see her side of things.

About five years ago, I started reflecting on some of my biggest life moments. You know how you do, after the thrill of turning 40 is gone and you're just left with time marching on. And, you may not believe this but stay with me anyway, I stumbled upon a definite and undeniable pattern to things. When moments of sometimes gentle and sometimes traumatic nudging towards life-altering change have happened in my life, they’ve consistently fallen on or right before or after October 17th, the first of these being the day I learned I was pregnant with my only son, Spawn, and last year's being the manifestation of my Post-Single Motherhood Website, a pretty big article being published in a trade magazine, and the Fall realization that I was living on the street of my dreams (not actually IN Ogunquit, but looking eerily similar to it). Call me crazy, but I think maybe my mother had been harboring hope for her sometimes emotionally lost and struggling daughter all this time.

I don't know what she has in store for me this year, but I'm busy readying for her visit. I'm thinking about her and talking to her, about our first five years together before everything started to go wrong, and I'm remembering and appreciating how hard she tried for every one of our 17 years together. Sometimes, that's the best part of a parent - knowing that he or she cared enough to try. For her unwavering, seemingly annual, help in my finally recognizing that, I will always be grateful. Sorry that it took me so long to see, but most grateful. October is my favorite month what with the cooler weather and the changing leaves and football and sweaters, but she's made it even more special for me. I don't mean because she died, but because she lives again, in me.  Thanks, Mom.

*The Death: She and my father were at a week-long business convention in Chicago. That night, at a big dinner, she started feeling ill. She and her best friend, Rita Rogers, whose husband worked for my father, went to the restroom together and when my mother got worse, Rita called 911. She died not long after at Northwestern University Hospital. Massive heart attack. Her last words to my father were, "I'm too young to die". She had just turned 50 the month before, but at her funeral, my father made sure that she was referred to as 49. They were both some kind of fucked up about things like age and appearances and the proverbial Joneses, but even I can't deny the love in that. I made a lot of the funeral arrangements and all of the phone calls to family and friends and took care of my screaming grandmother who had just lost her only child after losing her husband less than 5 years before, but I have never cried. I should have, but at the time, I didn't think she'd cry for me, so there (see arrested development/forever 17 above). I saw my father cry once, then get drunk a lot, and then never mention her or my brother's death (or his life, now that I think about it) 13 years later. For him, we all never existed that day. He moved on in every way. Ah, the Irish. No wonder I like to write stuff down.