Author: gr4c5

I write. I read. I cook. I run. That's me, in a nutshell.

It Could Have

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I don’t know whether it was my overly active imagination or the man apparently following me, but I was so scared. It happened yesterday at a rest area. When I pulled in to the parking lot I wasn’t thinking about anything but walking, changing my clothes, peeing, and fueling up before the rest of my journey home. I wasn’t thinking period. It was a beautiful day so I parked as far away from the rest area center as possible. I was nearly in the trucker lot. I wanted to stretch my legs as much as possible while crossing the parking lot. Stretch and enjoy the sun. There wasn’t another parked car within 10 spots on any side of me – I was that far away from the hubbub of the center. I cannot stress that enough. To my surprise someone pulled up right next to me. Startled someone would park just as far away from the center, yet so close to me I stared at the driver…only to find him staring back at me. I took note of his features (Middle Eastern, well groomed, glasses), his dress (peach shirt, no tie), his car (silver honda accord). Of all the open spots around me he had to pull up right beside me. Instantly nervous I busied myself with pulling clothes together, counting change, anything to not get out of the car quite yet. It seemed like eternity but finally the man drove away. I made note of his VT license plate. Not trusting him to be really gone I stayed in my car a minute more before getting out and walking across the parking lot. As I approached the center I spotted Mr. Peach Shirt’s car. Imagine my surprise when he got out just as I was walking by. I was convinced I had waited long enough but there he was, following me into the center. He even used the same door so I was forced to hold it open for him. I noticed his black dress pants and dress shoes. Respectable looking yet giving me the creeps all the same. Once inside he went his way and I made a beeline for the bathrooms where I changed my clothes, put my hair up, rehydrated my contacts…in other words, spent a long time refreshing myself for the journey home. Still nervous about Mr. Peach Shirt I wondered if I would see him again. Scaring myself, I was betting I would. Even though I predicted it I was still shocked to see him standing outside the restrooms, drinking a coffee, looking my way. Trying not to appear rattled I squared my shoulders and walked by with as much resolve as I could muster. He followed me out. Thinking I had to be imagining my paranoia I stopped to pretend to look for something in my purse. Peach Shirt kept walking. As the distance between us widened I took the opportunity to stroll to the dog park, stop to admire the lilacs in full bloom, pretend to be interested in a man’s dog, anything to delay going back to my car. By the time I did go back I thought surely Peach would be gone and if he wasn’t, I had a problem. Wanting to avoid that problem I took a long time driving away from my spot. Slowly, slowly I made my way towards the gas pumps, cursing myself for having to fill up. All I wanted to do was get on the highway and burn rubber home. Just at the edge of the rest area center’s parking lot I had to stop for pedestrians. I welcomed the chance to give Peach more time to be really gone. I didn’t see him anywhere. But. As I waited who pulled up beside me but Mr. Peach! Shock elevated to alarm. I couldn’t believe I was seeing him for a fourth, disturbing time. I drove off shaking like a leaf and amazingly he followed. At the gas station I stared in disbelief as he pulled up the the pumps right behind me. Nearly frantic I looked to the attendant for help. She looked all of 18-19 years old and I knew she wouldn’t make a difference. Instead I pulled out my cell phone and pretended to make a call (yes, the battery was dead), looked in my rearview and pretended to relay license plate info to an imaginary cop. I was as obvious as I possibly could be and finally Mr. Peach drove away. I never saw him again.

Here’s what really bothers me about this experience. I could predict when I would see that peach shirt. It was like he was always around no matter how long I lingered somewhere. There was something about him that made me nervous from the moment I first laid eyes on him. Did that make me hypersensitive to his movements? If I were to pick out someone else, say an overweight woman in oversized sunglasses, sun visor, Miami tourist tee shirt, clam diggers and flipflops, would I run into her just as often as Mr. Peach? Would I notice her just as often? Would I care? Probably not. No, Mr. Peach Shirt started the drama by pulling into a parking spot right next to me. He didn’t observe movie theater rules. You don’t sit right next to a stranger in a movie theater. You always leave an empty seat between you. Just like you don’t park right next to another car when there are at least 40 empty spots all around. And I was so far away! Can’t stress that enough!

It could have been my imagination. It could have been worse. It could have.

Posted in Bad

TongueTied & Tired

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I have this friend who thinks before he speaks and takes a long time to reply. It used to annoy me. I wasn’t patient enough to understand his careful approach to words. I was too busy being offended, too busy thinking I was being ignored.
I understand my friend’s silence today more than ever. I have been away for nearly a week and while I have many, many things I could write about, some of those experiences are too profound to put into words quite yet. I need time to savor and digest. Being home was way too short. I didn’t have time to hurt when I left and that’s never a good thing. Being with mom was too short. I heard stories about her life that stun me, humble me, make me proud to be her daughter. I went to my first Memorial Day parade and cried tears of shame. Someone at my side, a Vietnam vet in a wheelchair muttered, “we are not a nation unless we are a nation at war” when a man shook his hand and welcomed him home.
I have so much to ponder, so much to be silent about. I think it’s enough just to say I am here. Welcome home.

About a Boy

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About a boyHornby, Nick. About a Boy.New York: Riverhead Books, 1998.

I have heard so much about this book. Maybe it’s because I’ve liked other Hornby books that have been made into movies~ Fever Pitch & High Fidelity. Will is a pretty interesting character. He’s a single guy, bound and determined to never work a day in his life. He spends his time watching movies, listening to music and trolling for women. His newest tactic is to join SPAT (Single Parents Alone – Together). Needless to say, he’s not a single parent. In reality he hates kids. He’s callous and shallow but you can’t help but like him, especially when he gets involved with Fiona and her 12 year old son Marcus.

“There were about seventy-nine squillion people in the world, and if you were very lucky, you would end up being loved by 15-20 of them” (p147).

One of the things that struck me about this story is the philosophical ending. Marcus is a boy who acts too old for his age, too serious for his youth while Will acts too young for his years, too immature for the adulthood he is in. In the end they learn to swap maturities – growing down and up. Now I want to see the movie.

BookLust Twist: From both Book Lust and More Book Lust. In More Book Lust About a Boy is in the Chapter, “Dick Lit” (p.79). If you are scratching your head, think chick lit. Get it?

Dear you

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I know the run today was hard. Only 4 miles and it hurt like hell. Hang in there. Seriously, there are a hundred hooks to hang your blame on – it was too hot, allergies were kicking your butt, too many cars backing out of driveways without looking, too many busy intersections to cross, you never got your breathing settled, and all you could really think about was the humility of going up an underwear size…I know, I know. Let it pass. The important thing is you got out there. You gave it your best and your best is all you’ve ever got, right? Am I right?

Think of it this way. You inhaled lilacs on the bridge; you saw angels in the yard; Christmas is everlasting at house #57; you avoided the dog crap at the maples; that guy finally had his Lab on a leash; instinct told you to stay away from the man with the motorcycle on the bike path; you didn’t smile at unknown kayakers and, and, and you ran 4 miles.
Enough said.

Above Suspicion

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Above SuspicionMacInnes, Helen. Above Suspicion. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovitch, Inc., 1969.

This book smells of stale cigarette smoke when it got to me, like it had been hanging out in a 1980’s bar until closing time. The library issued plastic cover is falling off, the tape is yellowing, too. This is not a book that feels good to hold and that really matters to me. I don’t know how many other readers feel this way, but a book has to look a certain way, feel a certain way… in addition to read a certain way.
Nevertheless, the story was intriguing. It’s the story of a young couple recruited to check out a chain of spies (suspected nazi sympathizers) during World War II. The plan is elaborate and dashing. As the story picked up pace I could barely turn the pages fast enough to keep up with my growing interest. Here are some of my favorite quotes (as usual):

“The party in Frame’s rooms had just reached the right temperature when Frances and Richard Myles arrived” (p 17).

“It was strange how her mind, as well as her stomach, rebelled when the choice was sausage or sausage or sausage” (p. 86).

“At first, Richard would only take her on a short ten-mile walk” (p.111). Yikes! I’m lucky if I get in five miles a day!

One of the things I loved about this novel was the interaction between Frances and Richard as man and wife (only married four years). They took cues from each other, nonverbal signs, and acted accordingly. Their intimate knowledge of one another bordered on parapsychology.

BookLust Twist: Nancy Pearl has some great things to say about Above Suspicion in her second Book Lust book, More Book Lust. She calls it “pure fun” something she “rereads regularly” (p 162). For a person who reads a lot that’s a pretty big compliment.

Almost Over

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I love this time of year. Winter’s chill is nearly off the bone and spring’s sweet breath lies in the fragrance of flowers. It’s warm enough to walk at dusk. I wonder at the wisteria hanging gracefully from neighbor’s vines, but it’s really the lilacs I am after. I stalk their scent like an addicted lover. I’m not brave enough to steal, though. May is almost over and so are the lilacs. Like melting ice cream they cannot stay forever. As May winds down so do their blooms. Melting, melting like ice cream.

I’ve decided I can and will make it to Monhegan this weekend. Mother says the lilacs on the island are behind, barely buds. Like a migratory bird I need to fly home. Maybe the lilacs will welcome me. Maybe I’ll welcome myself. I’ll pack books, knitting, running shoes and a journal. Early in the morning I’ll read a chapter or two or three. Maybe I’ll go to the Cove and read by drying tidepools and squawking gulls, smell the salty air, pause for seashells and glass. Early in the afternoon I’ll run over rocks, roots and ruts. Maybe I’l’l head to Cathedral and say a little prayer for strong legs, a good heart and clear mind. The quiet of woods will be wonderful. At sunset I’ll write in my journal (thank you sweet P for my kitty journal!) – away from emails, blogs and spaces. Maybe I’ll write for real and send a postcard or two. By candlelight I’ll knit a few rows, purl a few more. Maybe I’ll finish the wrap for my mother. Maybe I’ll start another book. Maybe I’ll coax lilacs to bloom. Maybe I’ll watch sunsets in silence. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Here’s what I know. Lilacs don’t last forever. Neither does life. I have to enjoy it before it melts away.

Hang My Heart

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Spent some time in West Cornwall, CT this weekend. If you are keeping track, yes, I’m quite the jet setter – it was Becket on Friday. Call me crazy!
It’s amazing how the heart works. I’m talking about the spiritually one that can be broken and mended, cut up and cured. When I first got to West [not England] Cornwall I was new girl at new school nervous. More than once I questioned me, myself and I… ‘what am I doing here?’ I stuck out even though I was not wearing a dress this time. I should have been carrying a paddle…or something. I felt quite homeless and pictured holding a picture asking, “have you seen this man?” It was this man who had me tied tongue and silent. I didn’t ask. Didn’t know what to expect. It’s one thing to say you care, it’s one thing to have the label “friend”, but it’s quite another to have to prove it. I placed my bets on #34 and turned away, horribly right and missing out. I missed the water but got the prize.
When I finally found him talk was like frozen water. Time was the sunshine I needed. Seven hours and seven conversations later words were like rapids. I drove away with an ache. I missed my friend; the 21-years-later-and-I-can-still-find-a-laugh friend.

I feel like the button that has fallen off and found again. Resewn on, but not quite fitting the way it or I used to. True, talk came easier and easier until I felt almost well-worn and close to comfortable. Then time ran out. I wish you were closer. I wish words were cheap(er). I honestly believe tongue biting is for the boring. Say what you want, whenever you want. Tell me more. In this life we are always talking someone down from the ledge or off the bridge. It’s better than not talking at all.

Angus, Thongs and Full Frontal Snogging

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AngusRennison, Louise. Angus, Thongs and Full Frontal Snogging: Confessions of Georgia Nicolson. New York: HarperTempest, 1999.

This is the kind of book I would read in the bathroom if my family came to visit. Nancy Pearl calls this one of the best books for teens. Last time I checked I was this side of middle aged. Certainly decades beyond teenager. Nevertheless, it was on the list so I read…in two days. Here are my favorite lines:

“My dad has the mentality of a Teletubby only not so developed” (p.13).

“I wonder how old he is? I must become more mature quickly. I’ll start tomorrow” (p. 50)

“His Mick Jagger impersonation didn’t stop at the lips” (p. 123).

Then there’s the commentary on yoga, being Buddhist and the (gross) idea of coming back as a bug. Despite being tagged as something “teenager” I found it humorous. After all, I was once a teen myself…I think.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter “Best for Teens” (p.25).

Dream Sean Away Rowe Lodge

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Every once in a while it’s great to break of out the crate and do something a little different. Kisa, Aimless and I wandered off to Becket last night. Not Ball player Beckett or the Waiting for Godot kind… but the place that hides the Dream Away Lodge.
I could spend a whole blog on where we went, but I’d rather talk about why we went – Sean Rowe. I do have to say a few words about DAL, though. From the very beginning it was a kind of kismet experience. Aimless was talking about going somewhere because her friend worked with someone who happened to be the girlfriend of someone performing. Kisa and I were going to that same place simply because of that someone performing. Unplanned plans. We decided to carpool. We both forgot the directions. DAL is advertised as the place impossible to forget, impossible to find. That’s nearly accurate because the place is out there – in the middle of nowhere out there. Once you’re there, you’re there and you know it. It’s a farmhouse, a restaurant, a bar, a hippie hangout, a family experience, a speakeasy and maybe once a brothel. From every corner of the room, covering every wall, art and artifacts stare back at you (I swear I saw Gehring). Dogs roam freely among diners, cats wait for behind the ear scratches. Fresh flowers on every table, mismatched plates at your elbows. Wander from room to room with your coffee, maybe kick off your shoes in front of the fire. Listen to the music as long as you respect the tip jar.

Like I said, we were there for Sean and *that* voice. I was too shy to reintroduce myself from the night with Soul Session so I lurked on the fringe of requests and compliments and just smiled. “Remember me?” just seemed too lame an utterance, especially when the answer would have been “no.”
‘Alone’ is one of my favorite songs. I could have asked him to sing that one three or four times…in a row. Might have annoyed some members of the audience, but I wouldn’t have minded! I’m always amazed that one guy with one guitar comes out with so much sound. I love the illusion of hearing trains and drums and heatbeats, all phantoms to reality. Sean has a new song…I don’t know the name of it – but it’s about crashing a car. It’s intense, mesmerizing and dangerous. I could have stayed all night. Surrounded by homemade pillows and a crackling fireplace, I let the music invade my ears, tangle with my brain and thrill my heart only to escape in the cool night air, uncaptured and unconfined for another time.

I want to go back to DAL – eat dinner with the dogs at my knee, sit by the fire with a glass of Merlot and feel at home, lost in Becket.

Two Sides of Guilty as Hell

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I told my husband I would blog about this. There is no way that I can’t. The irony struck me in the face last night and I’m still reeling from the assault. I should start from the beginning only I can’t. I won’t. Out of loyalty, out of respect I won’t fuel the fire more than it already has been. BUT just so that I’m not another babbling idiot I will say this – my husband is dealing with more crap than he deserves. Someone in his circle of life has been accused of a crime (well, a few) and there is no way this person is innocent. Not 100%. No way in Hell. Anyway you look at the situation this guy is at fault in some way. Whether it’s 5% guilty or 100% it still spells Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. All the way in trouble and it troubles me. It’s a classic case of he said, she said, she said he did. No way to really sort it out. No way to walk away. Can’t deny, can’t ignore. Especially for kisa. He didn’t ask for this, but there it is.

So that’s one side of guilty – here’s the other. My husband received a letter from the DMV – no wait, RMV…No, I think I had it right the first time – DMV. Anyway, the Registry, Division, Department, the something of Motor Vehicles. I immediately assumed it was a registration renewal or something mundane, something ho hum. Disinterested, I turned back to shaking worcestershire sauce and montreal seasoning on the burgers…until I heard him swearing and muttering “‘not again.” Turns out the state of California thinks my husband travels across the country to treat their roadways as his own private German autobahn…and then drives home again…to New England. The RMV/DMV is revoking his license at the end of the month because someone with his same name and birthday drives like an idiot somewhere on the west coast. There are three driving offenses listed in the letter and kisa was obviously at work for every single one. There is no way he is guilty of anything mentioned in the letter. Nevertheless, here’s the kicker – he has to take time away from his already fukced up life to take care of the situation…again. Yes, this has happened before – before I met him. Kisa’s betting it’s the same wackjob who doesn’t know how to operate a moving vehicle. What are the chances?

So. Last night as I was brushing my teeth I was thinking about guilt – the obvious kind and the obviously not. Kisa operates on the fine line of There Is No Way This Is Happening To Me. Yet it is. Two sides of guilty. Drive carefully.

The Paperboy (with Spoiler)

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PaperboyDexter, Pete. The Paperboy. New York: Random House, 1995.

For the longest time I have been concentrating on books that begin with the letter ‘A’ such as About Time, Animal Dreams, and Awakening. As if getting through the A titles would be the most reasonable thing to do first. When The Paperboy by Pete Dexter showed up at my library I felt it was a sign to read it. Especially since it’s on The List and academics don’t keep books like The Paperboy around. I listen to signs.

The Paperboy is an intriguing first-person tale about two brothers working to prove the innocence of a man convicted of murdering Moat County Sheriff Thurmond Call. As Hillary Van Wetter sits on death row, looking as guilty as a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar, Jack James and his journalist brother Ward investigate the events leading up to the murder. They get help along the way from Van Wetter’s girlfriend – an apparent death row groupie – as well as other interesting characters.
All the evidence leads towards Van Wetter’s innocence until one day it doesn’t. Instead of all hell breaking loose purgatory unfolds, unwinds for the brothers, slow and sinister like a boa constrictor unfurling itself from a tree limb. Things go from bad to worse until dark becomes death. I couldn’t put it down for three days straight. Even though I saw Ward’s suicide coming the instant he wanted to know more about swimming it still took me by surprise when it finally happened. 

BookLust Twists: From Nancy Pearl’s Book Lust and More Book Lust. In Book Lust in the chapter “First Lines to Remember” Pearl draws attention to Dexter’s first line, “My brother Ward was once a famous man”‘ (p.86) and in More Book Lust in the chapter called “O Brother!” (p180).

Animal Dreams

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Animal DreamsKingsolver, Barbara. Animal Dreams. New York: HarperPerennial, 1990.

I wish I could remember the first time I read a Kingsolver novel. I know I was hooked on Atwood before Kingsolver, so there must have been something about Animal Dreams that made me think it was reminiscent of Handmaid’s Tale. I’m guessing there was something about a strong female voice, for starters, since that’s what drew me to Handmaid in the first place. It was more than that, really. If you read Handmaid outloud Offred comes alive; she’s in the room with you. Same with Codi from Animal Dreams.
Animal Dreams is, by far, my favorite Kingsolver book. I have read it countless times, passed it on to others just as many times, marked up every copy I own with bold underlining and exclamation points. It’s the book I pick up just to relive a chapter or a sentence. It’s the book I call Essential and would rush into a burning building to save.

To start from the beginning,  Animal Dreams is about a woman (around my age) who comes home to take care of her aging father. She also becomes the biology teacher at the local high school. She’s been away awhile so she’s awkward in her re-entry to hometown life. Memories stagger and stumble back into her heart and mind from time to time. She has a cool name (Cosima but goes by Codi) and a cool way of looking at the world. She adores her sister, Halimeda, and barely remembers life when her mom was alive. Her dad is crusty and unforgiving, loving and fumbling. As a result Codi is tough and sensitive. She views coming home like I do, “hoping for forgiveness for something I can’t quite apologize for.” (p12) While home she faces the complication of an old love and the tragedy of a town endangered by a poisoned water supply.

BookTwist: From Nancy Pearl’s Book Lust in the chapter “Ecofiction” (p 78). Although Pearl inaccurately calls Codi “Cosi”, I’m glad she included my favorite Kingsolver novel. 

13 Days to Glory

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13 daysTinkle, Lon. 13 Days to Glory: The Siege of the Alamo. New York: Macgraw-Hill, 1958

“Remember the Alamo!” is all that I remember from my Texas history lessons. No matter. Reading 13 Days to Glory has brought me up to speed. Tinkle wrote 13 Days based on letters and newspaper reports and gives a day by day and even hour by hour account of the siege. I now can tell you where the phrase “Remember the Alamo” originated from, the time of year (February), the weather (cold), and characters (Jim Bowie, Davey Crockett, William Travis & Santa Ana to name a few), too.

Set up as a historical novel with character thoughts and feelings, 13 days also includes photography of portraits and of course, the Alamo then and now. The picture of the Alamo church next to the San Antonio medical arts center is impressive.
The siege was incredibly brutal. Santa Ana wanted every Texan dead – no surrenders, no escapes and he got what he wanted. Every Alamo defender was killed and unceremoniously burned. But, in defense of the Mexican General, Tinkle doesn’t spend much time telling his side of the story. It’s all about about keeping the legends of the Alamo alive. It makes me want to travel to Texas just to stand beside the legendary structure and lay a hand on its stone walls.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust and the chapter called “Texas: A Lone Star State of Mind” (p233).

Where I Started

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I am sick, sick, sick of the mother question. I’m beginning to hate Mother’s Day just because it somehow gives people license to ask me that mother of all questions, “when are you having a baby?” What’s with the when and why are you asking me? Why on Mother’s Day? If it’s not in the form of a question it’s a statement, “well, when you have kids…” Like it’s a given that experience is definitely going to happen. To Me. I think the parenting question should be right up there with sex, politics and religion. Personally, if I don’t offer the information that should mean I don’t want to talk about it. In simpler terms it’s none of your business.
When faced with the When question I think of all the responses I could give. To say we’re not ready implies something shameful. Like we haven’t grown up enough to hurl ourselves into the act raising a child. Like we haven’t prepared enough and will fail the big parenting exam. We’ve been goofing off in the back row of life.
To say we can’t afford children indicates a poverty level beyond the bank account. We’re bankrupt in love for children and can only think (selfishly) of ourselves. We’re not willing to give up, to sacrifice, the luxuries of travel and concerts and good food for the sake of having a junior to call our own. At least that’s the perception if we say kids are expensive.
To say I’m afraid of the pain only results in smirks and looks of IfIDidItWhyCan’tYou? Can’t even go there with mothers who endured labor for endless hours without meds. It’s not enough to shrug and say, “I’m not you.” Shame on me.
To say we’re afraid of being bad parents implies we didn’t like our own upbringing; that somehow we’re afraid we’ll turn out just like “them” or worse yet, we’ve insulted our elders. The question that inevitably follows is, “what’s wrong with the way you were raised?” Don’t get me started.
There’s only one Shut-Them-Up answer out there. We can’t have kids. Period. I mean, how does one respond to a woman who point blank says “I’m infertile. Thanks for asking…”? The consequence of such a statement is the danger of coming across as damaged goods, a female with faulty wiring. A royal fukc up in another life. “Do not confront me with my failures…I have not forgotten them” ~ Jackson Brown.

Better not mention adoption unless you want your head bitten off.

Mark Your Calendars

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CloserI think I’ve said it before. I don’t set my vcr, time my Tivo, or race home to watch many shows as they air. In the past it was Northern Exposure and Home Front. I can still watch old episodes of NE. Quirky and classic, I loved every one. Home Front…well, it won a People’s Choice award but promptly went off the air. That should tell you something.

With the advent of only watching Tivo’ed programing I have to admit sports, news and weather are the only things I want to watch live-as-it-happens. As for all the rest, why sit through commercials when you can fast forward through most of them? I say most because I still love the car commercial about the tiny legs and big head and the sleep-aid commercial with the meth-making astronaut. We are becoming a segmented society – downloading one or two songs instead of buying the whole album, reading an article instead of subscribing to the whole journal, weeding out what’s on television by DVR…

Having said all that, TNT’s The Closer is the only drama…(read: the only program period) worth watching “live”…when it actually airs. Tivo is strictly for watching it again. And again. Late night with friends. So, mark your calendars. Season III starts June 18th. And for cleaning out Season II from your Tivo directory…the DVD goes on sale May 29th.