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.

The Great Training Lie

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I used to tell people I trained all by myself for the LLS half marathon. All alone. While it was true that I never made it to a training session (45 minutes away), I never met my coach, and I never ran with a group of like-minded individuals to say that I trained alone is a huge lie. It’s my all-time greatest training lie. So, here for the first time I would like to publicly thank the people who pulled me through 13.1 miles exactly one year ago today.

  • My mother. Her story of losing her mom to cancer (at MY age) broke my heart and built resolve in its place. I would not have even considered the venture if it hadn’t been for her. One of my favorite “mom” stories is not only did my mother research hotels with gyms so that I could train on the road, but she diligently tried out every exercise machine in said gym to keep me company while I ran for 90 minutes. One of my favorite mother-daughter conversations came out of that training session.
  • My sister. Race day she brought her whole family to NH stand in the pouring rain while I tackled the thirteen. She has friends who run more important, full marathons yet she made me feel like my run was a big deal to her. Running was that much easier knowing she was waiting at the finish line.
  • My husband. He got donations from coworkers to help with my fund raising efforts. He stuck to my diet better than I did. He stuck to my training schedule better than I did. He became my Miyagi after I got hurt, taping my knee before every run, coming with me to PT appointments, riding along side me when I ran, all the while asking, “how does the knee feel? Talk to me.”
  • Dr. John. Even though my knee was blown, he kept saying “We’ll get you through this.” My weekly sometimes twice weekly visits with him made me feel better about how I was taking care of the patella “issue” (because as John says life is one big issue).
  • Sarah. Her endless enthusiasm for my endeavor was infectious. She remained supportive even after I showed signs of giving up. Her attitude kept me positive every literal step of the way.
  • Gregory. I asked a bunch of people for music advice. I needed driving beats that would carry me through the harder miles (okay, the hills). Greg was the only one to come through. It the end, it was his drumming I heard the loudest and loved the best.
  • Bessie & my dad. Their ghosts were the angels that sat on my shoulder, whispered to me in lucid dreams and fueled my waking imagination.
  • Ruth. Her pragmatic approach to my bellyaching was to say simply, “you can do this.” Nothing more, nothing less. Sometimes, that’s all I needed.
  • Honorable mentions: Nick, Rebecca, Carolyn, George & Joanie. All of them picked up running because of me in some weird way. Rebecca and Carolyn went on to run in some pretty important races and Nick (the guy who hated running) could probably kick my butt in a distance race these days. I am proud those still running. You guys rock! My knee has crippled my ability but not my spirit and I run through your endeavors.

So, while I SAY I trained alone, really I didn’t. I had an army of support. I am proud of what I accomplished one year ago today and I have every person mentioned here to thank. Couldn’t have done it without you.

Hike For Discovery

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Grand CanyonI swear the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society comes up with a different program every six months. This time it’s “Hike for Discovery.” They call it their “new fundraising adventure program.” It’s brilliant, really. Think about it. LLS is known for training people to run marathons, bike hundreds of miles, swim across tons of water. If all that feels a little intimidating here’s something for you – hiking! Sounds simple enough, right? Walking – putting one foot in front of the other. Here’s the event they are recruiting for and you tell me: The Grand Canyon. Yes, the G R A N D C A N Y O N! October 4-8. They cleverly don’t tell you how many miles you hike per day but let this be a potential lesson: you train beforehand. That should tell you something right there. You learn hiking techniques (besides putting one foot in front of the other), you receive a year membership in the American Hiking Society. There are clinics on first aid, hydration, and trail safety. They say nothing about snake bites specifically but that’s the first thing I thought of when I saw the words “Grand Canyon”…but, forget all that – I would have failed with the hydration part alone!

I would love to do this. It sounds hard. It sounds fun. Here’s what’s holding me back – the fund raising. I don’t think I could ask my friends and family for another two grand, despite the fact someone I love dearly is battling a blood related cancer right now. I’m too chick-chick-chicken to go through that again! So, if someone else signs up for this, let me know! I’ll donate something.

Missing You

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I can feel it. It’s starting again, that dull ache called homesick. Is there no cure? This isn’t my computer, but I know the feeling. I want to be there, too. Now. Memorial Day weekend is about remembering and usually I head home for a week to forget. Forget how to drive a car. Forget how to send an email. Send how to crunch reference statistics. Forget how to be corporate. Forget how to answer the phone. Forget petty squabbles and horn-honkers. It’s when I relearn how to run over roots and rocks. Retrain my eye to soak up sunsets and search for seaglass. Remember how to breathe in salt ladden air and sweet pine. Concentrate on cracking the lobster claw, clinking the wine glass.
Not this time. Not this trip. I am missing you just a little longer this year. Homesick for another month.

When You Win

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I spent three hours sitting in a round table discussion today only we were in a giant rectangle. I was the only academic in a sea of publics and yes, it felt weird. Three hours of WhatAmIDoingHere? and IsThisAWasteOfTime? I couldn’t decide. It was like sleeping with the enemy, or more politely, seeing how the other half lives. But, all the while I felt unproductive as excuse my language.

Maybe it was the three hours wasted. Maybe it was the extra 25 minute drive to work. Maybe sunlight just reached a darkened part of my brain. I don’t know. Whatever the reason, the light came on when I got to work and I came up with a solution to a dilemma from a few weeks ago. I don’t know made me think collaboration but suddenly, there it was in front of my face – the answer to the delivery problem. I had felt like a loser all day until suddenly I won.

NARAL

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NARAL Pro-Choice America came to me in a huge envelope with “priority documents” written all over it. Looking as official as can be they spelled my name wrong. Upon opening the oversized documents the first thing I read was, “No need for women to worry about making personal, private decisions about their bodies. Do YOU want men like these deciding for all women?” and below was a picture of George W. Bush and his cronies. Supposedly, he is caught in the act of signing into the law the first-ever Federal Abortion Ban. He has a smirk on his face.
On the back of the envelope is a fake handwritten note asking me to please help protect reproductive freedom by signing the enclosed petition. I hate that fake, crayon-scrawled, made-to-look-like-my-friend, personal propaganda. They further irritated me by circling my donation bracket, as if I couldn’t decide the dollar amount for myself and could possibly make the wrong choice. Any money I chose to donate should be good enough, but no – they have to tell me what they want me to give. That set the tone for me to ignore the three pre-written petitions to Kennedy, Kerry & Neal on behalf on NARAL. I couldn’t even bear to read the four page “letter” from Nancy Keenan on the matter. NARAL tried to appeal to my sense of womanhood yet they failed to appeal to my sense of intellect. I couldn’t even figure out from the literature I received what NARAL stands for. Going to the website wasn’t that much clearer.

For more information visit NARAL here.