Sunday, May 27, 2007
Exit Laughing
We didn't lay him to rest. We tossed him.
--------
I napped for about an hour before loading up the car and driving to the airport in the early AM. Normally the drive takes only about twenty minutes, but that morning I clipped the first wave of rush hour which slowed me to concern and constant glances at the clock. I'd back-timed my drive to get me to the airport an hour before wheels up, the slowed traffic threatened to cut it to a dangerous half-hour.
Fortunately, once past the clog, I was able to resume my normal ten miles-per-hour over speed limit and got to the airport on schedule. Unfortunately, the parking garage was full which meant I was going to have to hunt for an open spot in the uncovered airport lot and shuttle in. While I circled the nearly full lot, I wondered what karmic retribution was in play here. Could it have been payback for feeling relieved my sister wasn't making the trip? Possibly.
I found a spot in row S, backed in - right in to a little tree. I trimmed a few branches upon opening the trunk to get my suitcase. I started walking towards the terminal, eventually coming upon an attendant who asked me if I wanted a shuttle, I said "Whatever." He radioed while I kept walking then informed me I wouldn't be allowed to walk to the terminal due to construction. "Then why ask if I wanted a shuttle, dip-shit?" I wanted to say, but didn't.
At the terminal, I tipped the driver hoping to regain some good karma. I wasn't happy and wasn't able or willing to put on a smile for anyone as I made my way through security and on to the gate. I kept my shades on and wasted no time getting the iPod plugged in once in the air. My seat mate was on chat mode and I was not in the mood to hear all about the book she was reading and its christian messages. Bob Dylan and his Visions of Johanna put up a solid barrier of sound and I was left alone for the remainder of the trip.
After arrival in Portland, a shuttle to the rental car and another karmic tip, I was rewarded with a loaded Impala replete with sun roof, electric black leather seats, varnished wood accent, OnStar and - most importantly - mp3 aux plug-in, XM satellite radio and Bose speakers. Score.
----------------------------
"Bracken rest-home and mortuary. How can we help you in your time of sorrow?"
"Dad, that's not funny," I heard my niece say in the background with a trickle of laughter.
My brother gave me directions to the mortuary where we were to meet and complete the paperwork needed for my Dad's cremation. When I arrived, I couldn't find the front door and so went in a side door. A man came bounding down the stairs and disappeared, oblivious to my presence. I explored a couple of empty rooms, then startled the man who was on his way back up the stairs. I wondered if he was scared of ghosts.
He took me to the office then disappeared again. I was restless and didn't want to sit. I wandered into the reception area where sappy, serene mortuary music was being piped in. I unlatched a door to peak in to the sanctuary, but then couldn't get it latched again. Extricating myself from that Seinfeld moment, I escaped back to the office where I discovered the closet was being used for the file cabinets and toilet paper storage.
I thumbed through a few pamphlets which cautioned me to plan ahead and save my relatives the burden of my funeral arrangements. I wondered which funeral package included one of the phone book covers which were fanned out on a counter.
My brother arrived and the funeral director gave me the paper-work to co-sign. We were informed, in appropriately hushed funeral director tones, that my father's ashes would be ready for pick-up on Saturday. We said thank-you in not so appropriate, chipper tones as we departed.
I followed my brother over to my Dad's apartment at the nursing home, where we continued sorting and tossing. Being the sentimental pack-rat I am, my pile was much too large, but I wasn't able to thin it out. We reached a stopping point and I took a load out to the trash bins. When I returned, my brother had mixed two gins and gatorade - it was the only mix available.
I phoned my sister in Hawaii and after she mixed a Bombay and tonic with a twist of lemon, we toasted our Dad.
----------------------------
"He didn't get a can? At least Mom got a can." I stared at the box on the counter which loudly proclaimed in large, bold print it was a TEMPORARY CONTAINER.
"She didn't get a can, we bought the can," my niece replied.
We were all unsuccessfully stifling fits of laughter. Our family has long had a warped sense of humor. An outsider might think we were an insensitive, heartless brood but we understand our laughter is what gets us through the hard times. We also understood no-one would have enjoyed our misplaced mirth more then my Dad.
My grand-nephew bounded down the stairs and came face to face with the box. "What's in it? A birthday present for me?"
"Nope. That's Grandpa Kenny." My grand-nephew immediately made a sad face as he peered at the box. "I wish I had a picture of that," I said. Without missing a beat, holding the look on his face, my grand-nephew said "Get the camera." Which I did and snapped the photo between belly laughs.
My brother opened the box and lifted out the heavy plastic sack.
"Looks like Quik-Set" commented my nephew. I glanced at him. "We could put him in a driveway..."
I was handed a scoop retrieved from a kitchen drawer and charged with the task of divvying up some of the ashes which were going to Hawaii, Oklahoma and to southern Oregon. Secured in baggies we then entered into an intense discussion of how we were going to disburse the remaining ashes.
When he was able, my Dad would drive to the post-office then visit "the office" to read the mail and start his day. "The office" was a parking spot at the cove in Seaside. He'd read the mail and watch the die-hard surfers who'd come out in droves to brave the rocks and the frigid water to get their fix on their boards. That's where we wanted to "dispurse" him.
"Do we just want to toss the ashes in?" I offered. "No, probably not," replied my niece. "We won't know which way the wind is blowing."
"Oh, yeah. One toss and we'd have a Lewbowski moment..."
"I'm going to open the top of the bag and then throw it in," commanded my brother. Alrighty, then.
-----------------------
The rest of the morning was filled with preparations for my nephew's eleventh birthday party. A cake was decorated, a pinata was debated. I couldn't think of anything more appropriate then a celebration of a young life - a fitting transition.
My grand-niece came bounding in the door just as my brother, niece, nephew and his wife, and I were leaving to drive to the cove for the final farewell.
"Where are you going?" she asked. Her Mom replied "We're taking Grandpa Kenny's ashes to the cove."
"What??"
"Oh. Um. I forgot to tell you, Grandpa Kenny died..."
With a thirteen-year-old's typical flair, my grand-niece replied, "Whatever..."
It was raining, but nearly all the parking spaces were filled at the cove. With a storm coming in, the surf was prime and the surfers were taking full advantage.
"This is going to be hard to do without being seen," I said. We headed down the slick slope of rocks towards the water.
"We're going to have to be quick. I'm not going to jail," my brother replied.
"Yeah, you're supposed to get a permit." My nephew's reprimand exacted only a terse reply from his Dad. "I'm not paying a couple of hundred bucks for a permit..." He was cut off by a misplaced step which nearly caused a premature launch of the bag in his hand.
"Why not find a hole in the rocks with a pool and pour it in," I shouted as I nearly fell face forward on a slick boulder.
"Let me take it." The bag was handed off and my nephew picked his way across the boulders. The rest of us were scattered up the slope, unable to go any farther.
I raised the camera just in time to capture the moment. The bag was hoisted and flew into the waters of the Pacific. We all said our silent goodbyes.
--------------
Later, amidst the frenetic energy of a house full of ten and eleven year old boys, the adults gathered in the kitchen. I looked at the faces around me and felt as though I was wrapped in a warm blanket of family - lots of laughter, lots of love. We all weathered this transition in our own, unique manner. We didn't require ceremony, all that was needed was coming together, being in each other's company, sharing memories...
My share of my Dad's ashes currently reside in another temporary container on top of my refrigerator. It sits next to the container of a share of my Mother's ashes and the little stuffed reindeer that plays "Grandma got run over by a reindeer."
Another story, for another time. Makes me smile just thinking about it.
---------------
To all of you who took the time to comment, e-mail, IM, and call, your words of comfort and condolence are greatly appreciated and they have gone a long way to help me through this rough patch. I can never thank you enough. Truly.
--------
I napped for about an hour before loading up the car and driving to the airport in the early AM. Normally the drive takes only about twenty minutes, but that morning I clipped the first wave of rush hour which slowed me to concern and constant glances at the clock. I'd back-timed my drive to get me to the airport an hour before wheels up, the slowed traffic threatened to cut it to a dangerous half-hour.
Fortunately, once past the clog, I was able to resume my normal ten miles-per-hour over speed limit and got to the airport on schedule. Unfortunately, the parking garage was full which meant I was going to have to hunt for an open spot in the uncovered airport lot and shuttle in. While I circled the nearly full lot, I wondered what karmic retribution was in play here. Could it have been payback for feeling relieved my sister wasn't making the trip? Possibly.
I found a spot in row S, backed in - right in to a little tree. I trimmed a few branches upon opening the trunk to get my suitcase. I started walking towards the terminal, eventually coming upon an attendant who asked me if I wanted a shuttle, I said "Whatever." He radioed while I kept walking then informed me I wouldn't be allowed to walk to the terminal due to construction. "Then why ask if I wanted a shuttle, dip-shit?" I wanted to say, but didn't.
At the terminal, I tipped the driver hoping to regain some good karma. I wasn't happy and wasn't able or willing to put on a smile for anyone as I made my way through security and on to the gate. I kept my shades on and wasted no time getting the iPod plugged in once in the air. My seat mate was on chat mode and I was not in the mood to hear all about the book she was reading and its christian messages. Bob Dylan and his Visions of Johanna put up a solid barrier of sound and I was left alone for the remainder of the trip.
After arrival in Portland, a shuttle to the rental car and another karmic tip, I was rewarded with a loaded Impala replete with sun roof, electric black leather seats, varnished wood accent, OnStar and - most importantly - mp3 aux plug-in, XM satellite radio and Bose speakers. Score.
----------------------------
"Bracken rest-home and mortuary. How can we help you in your time of sorrow?"
"Dad, that's not funny," I heard my niece say in the background with a trickle of laughter.
My brother gave me directions to the mortuary where we were to meet and complete the paperwork needed for my Dad's cremation. When I arrived, I couldn't find the front door and so went in a side door. A man came bounding down the stairs and disappeared, oblivious to my presence. I explored a couple of empty rooms, then startled the man who was on his way back up the stairs. I wondered if he was scared of ghosts.
He took me to the office then disappeared again. I was restless and didn't want to sit. I wandered into the reception area where sappy, serene mortuary music was being piped in. I unlatched a door to peak in to the sanctuary, but then couldn't get it latched again. Extricating myself from that Seinfeld moment, I escaped back to the office where I discovered the closet was being used for the file cabinets and toilet paper storage.
I thumbed through a few pamphlets which cautioned me to plan ahead and save my relatives the burden of my funeral arrangements. I wondered which funeral package included one of the phone book covers which were fanned out on a counter.
My brother arrived and the funeral director gave me the paper-work to co-sign. We were informed, in appropriately hushed funeral director tones, that my father's ashes would be ready for pick-up on Saturday. We said thank-you in not so appropriate, chipper tones as we departed.
I followed my brother over to my Dad's apartment at the nursing home, where we continued sorting and tossing. Being the sentimental pack-rat I am, my pile was much too large, but I wasn't able to thin it out. We reached a stopping point and I took a load out to the trash bins. When I returned, my brother had mixed two gins and gatorade - it was the only mix available.
I phoned my sister in Hawaii and after she mixed a Bombay and tonic with a twist of lemon, we toasted our Dad.
----------------------------
"He didn't get a can? At least Mom got a can." I stared at the box on the counter which loudly proclaimed in large, bold print it was a TEMPORARY CONTAINER."She didn't get a can, we bought the can," my niece replied.
We were all unsuccessfully stifling fits of laughter. Our family has long had a warped sense of humor. An outsider might think we were an insensitive, heartless brood but we understand our laughter is what gets us through the hard times. We also understood no-one would have enjoyed our misplaced mirth more then my Dad.
My grand-nephew bounded down the stairs and came face to face with the box. "What's in it? A birthday present for me?"
"Nope. That's Grandpa Kenny." My grand-nephew immediately made a sad face as he peered at the box. "I wish I had a picture of that," I said. Without missing a beat, holding the look on his face, my grand-nephew said "Get the camera." Which I did and snapped the photo between belly laughs.
My brother opened the box and lifted out the heavy plastic sack.
"Looks like Quik-Set" commented my nephew. I glanced at him. "We could put him in a driveway..."
I was handed a scoop retrieved from a kitchen drawer and charged with the task of divvying up some of the ashes which were going to Hawaii, Oklahoma and to southern Oregon. Secured in baggies we then entered into an intense discussion of how we were going to disburse the remaining ashes.
When he was able, my Dad would drive to the post-office then visit "the office" to read the mail and start his day. "The office" was a parking spot at the cove in Seaside. He'd read the mail and watch the die-hard surfers who'd come out in droves to brave the rocks and the frigid water to get their fix on their boards. That's where we wanted to "dispurse" him.
"Do we just want to toss the ashes in?" I offered. "No, probably not," replied my niece. "We won't know which way the wind is blowing."
"Oh, yeah. One toss and we'd have a Lewbowski moment..."
"I'm going to open the top of the bag and then throw it in," commanded my brother. Alrighty, then.
-----------------------
The rest of the morning was filled with preparations for my nephew's eleventh birthday party. A cake was decorated, a pinata was debated. I couldn't think of anything more appropriate then a celebration of a young life - a fitting transition.
My grand-niece came bounding in the door just as my brother, niece, nephew and his wife, and I were leaving to drive to the cove for the final farewell.
"Where are you going?" she asked. Her Mom replied "We're taking Grandpa Kenny's ashes to the cove."
"What??"
"Oh. Um. I forgot to tell you, Grandpa Kenny died..."
With a thirteen-year-old's typical flair, my grand-niece replied, "Whatever..."
It was raining, but nearly all the parking spaces were filled at the cove. With a storm coming in, the surf was prime and the surfers were taking full advantage.
"This is going to be hard to do without being seen," I said. We headed down the slick slope of rocks towards the water.
"We're going to have to be quick. I'm not going to jail," my brother replied.
"Yeah, you're supposed to get a permit." My nephew's reprimand exacted only a terse reply from his Dad. "I'm not paying a couple of hundred bucks for a permit..." He was cut off by a misplaced step which nearly caused a premature launch of the bag in his hand.
"Why not find a hole in the rocks with a pool and pour it in," I shouted as I nearly fell face forward on a slick boulder.
"Let me take it." The bag was handed off and my nephew picked his way across the boulders. The rest of us were scattered up the slope, unable to go any farther.
I raised the camera just in time to capture the moment. The bag was hoisted and flew into the waters of the Pacific. We all said our silent goodbyes.
--------------
Later, amidst the frenetic energy of a house full of ten and eleven year old boys, the adults gathered in the kitchen. I looked at the faces around me and felt as though I was wrapped in a warm blanket of family - lots of laughter, lots of love. We all weathered this transition in our own, unique manner. We didn't require ceremony, all that was needed was coming together, being in each other's company, sharing memories...
My share of my Dad's ashes currently reside in another temporary container on top of my refrigerator. It sits next to the container of a share of my Mother's ashes and the little stuffed reindeer that plays "Grandma got run over by a reindeer."
Another story, for another time. Makes me smile just thinking about it.
---------------
To all of you who took the time to comment, e-mail, IM, and call, your words of comfort and condolence are greatly appreciated and they have gone a long way to help me through this rough patch. I can never thank you enough. Truly.
Labels: family
Posted at 11:15 PM | |
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Pacis pro meus abbas
The young sailor stared at the picture on the mantle. "That's the girl I'm going to marry," he said. "Who is she?"He was eventually introduced to her. Her name was Hazel Simpson, but everyone called her Suzy and she was no ordinary woman. She learned to fly at age seventeen and had rubbed elbows with the likes of Wiley Post and Will Rogers.
Defying the wishes of a strict father, she'd left home at a young age, co-piloting an aircraft cross-country to California. She was from a family of wealth, he of more humble beginnings. A small town lad, the sailor realized he had his work cut out for him if he was going to win the heart of Miss Simpson.
The young couple soon fell into a rhythm of earnest courtship, hitting up the the Trocadero in West Hollywood, or the Troc as it was more familiarly known. They didn't often make it inside, finding themselves embroiled in conversation that would last for hours in the front seat of the sailor's car.
The sailor's ebullient charm and determination eventually won the heart and hand of Miss Simpson. She said yes to his proposal right before he shipped out to Honolulu and his post at Pearl Harbor.The next time they would see each other, instead of the affable sailor she'd bid farewell to nearly two years pevious, she would greet the sober man who'd survived the horrors of the morning of December 7th, 1941.
She had concerns about this changed man to whom she was about to make a life time commitment, but she set those concerns aside, and in the Little Brown Church, as they called it, they were wed in the company of a few friends. A month later, he reported for duty on the newly commissioned escort carrier Liscome Bay.
Barely three months after that, in the wee hours of a south pacific morning, the sailor was struggling for his life as he shinnied up a searing steam-pipe moments after the carrier had been struck by torpedo.
He didn't know how he made it off the ship. Less than half of the crew survived, he was one among them who'd been fished out of the pacific waters, severely burned and clinging to life by a thread.
On the mainland, the sailor's young bride had been back on the job, working at Lockheed Vega designing the aircraft that would help to advance the country's war efforts, when she got word her husband's ship had gone down. There was no news, however, as to whether he survived.
After an agonizing wait, she finally got the news that he was in a hospital in Hawaii. Some time later, he was shipped home to recuperate.
He kept his commission, working a desk job after his recuperation, until shortly after the war ended.
-----------------------------------------
It was those experiences, the coming of age during a time of war, facing its horrors, surviving what so many others didn't - it was those experiences that served to define the character of the man who was my father.
Although those experiences irrevocably changed him, he never lost his optimism, never lost the spirit which made my mother fall in love with him. He was always reluctant to talk about those times, however it was always there, the backdrop to a life of devotion, unwavering duty and integrity.
Of course he wasn't perfect, but even the finest gems are not unflawed. He kept his feelings tightly boxed, but he always had a story to tell and had a sense of humor as large as all outdoors.
It was that sense of humor that became our family's hallmark and provided the bridge that carried us over, around and through our various dysfunctions. Laughter is the glue that bonds us.
Fiercely loyal and unforgiving of betrayal, he kept his vow to his war bride, weathering the storms of marriage and all of its twists and turns until he said farewell to his Suzy fifty-eight years later.
It's now time to say farewell to him. His ninety years on this earth have left their mark. No-one who has ever met him will soon forget him. I am glad I got to be his daughter, glad for what he taught me and proud of the man he was.
Bye, daddy. I love you. You did your job well. Be at peace.
Posted at 8:12 PM | |
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Validation
There's not much I can say publicly about the work I do without violating my profession's code of ethics. I can say I work with at risk youth, helping them to develop a career choice and providing services designed to help them reach that career goal.
It can be a struggle. Many of my kids are faced with some daunting barriers that no child should have to endure, but occur all too often and are all too common for the culture of wealth we enjoy in this country.
This is the time of year I like best, by the way - graduation time. There's no greater satisfaction than seeing a kid achieve something that once looked impossible. I've said it before elsewhere - if you want to get a shot of inspiration, go to a high school graduation. Want even more inspiration? Go to a GED graduation.
Anyway, once a youth has completed program services with us, it's rare that I hear from them again or that we even get a thank you. That's perfectly ok, it's not something I expect. If the kid had even a modicum of success while with our program, that's thanks enough.
Occasionally, I get a phone call or a visit from someone who participated in our program which is always a treat. Today I got such a visit from a young woman who came through our program about five years ago. At that time she was at a crossroads - she'd dropped out of high school and was trying to get off of drugs. While with us, she got her GED and then decided to enter the military.
She has just returned from a twenty-seven month tour of duty in Iraq. In that twenty-seven months, she did a lot of growing up. In front of me sat a vibrant young woman who now had focus and a purpose. While we were talking, she thanked me for the influence I had on her five years ago. She said I helped her find a direction and without that, she didn't know what would have happened.
I was floored. I do what I do, try to do my best, collect a paycheck and go home. As I stated above, I've never expected a thank you from any of the kids I've worked with over the years - after all, they are the ones doing the hard work. They are the ones that have to walk the path. All I've done is maybe given them an inkling of what direction to go. The rest is up to them.
So when this young lady said that to me, I was humbled. She made all the crappy bureaucratic bullshit I've had to put up with for seven years completely worth it. That one statement reminded me why I do what I do, to hell with the rest.
I gave her a big hug and then we compared tattoos. She had a brand new beautiful tat on her back - a floral design, full of color - subtle reds & blues. She wanted something that hinted of patriotism for this was her "army" tat. She is a vet and a patriot - but she is against the war.
She told me she wrote a lot of poetry during her tour and that several of her poems have been published on Poets Against War. After she left, I spent some time and read all of her poetry. The poems are a little rough around the edges, but woven with raw, sad and painful imagery of war and a soldier's dilemma.
I found the following line from one of the poem's especially poignant. The poem's title is Mistaken: a Soldier's Horror:
It can be a struggle. Many of my kids are faced with some daunting barriers that no child should have to endure, but occur all too often and are all too common for the culture of wealth we enjoy in this country.
This is the time of year I like best, by the way - graduation time. There's no greater satisfaction than seeing a kid achieve something that once looked impossible. I've said it before elsewhere - if you want to get a shot of inspiration, go to a high school graduation. Want even more inspiration? Go to a GED graduation.
Anyway, once a youth has completed program services with us, it's rare that I hear from them again or that we even get a thank you. That's perfectly ok, it's not something I expect. If the kid had even a modicum of success while with our program, that's thanks enough.
Occasionally, I get a phone call or a visit from someone who participated in our program which is always a treat. Today I got such a visit from a young woman who came through our program about five years ago. At that time she was at a crossroads - she'd dropped out of high school and was trying to get off of drugs. While with us, she got her GED and then decided to enter the military.
She has just returned from a twenty-seven month tour of duty in Iraq. In that twenty-seven months, she did a lot of growing up. In front of me sat a vibrant young woman who now had focus and a purpose. While we were talking, she thanked me for the influence I had on her five years ago. She said I helped her find a direction and without that, she didn't know what would have happened.
I was floored. I do what I do, try to do my best, collect a paycheck and go home. As I stated above, I've never expected a thank you from any of the kids I've worked with over the years - after all, they are the ones doing the hard work. They are the ones that have to walk the path. All I've done is maybe given them an inkling of what direction to go. The rest is up to them.
So when this young lady said that to me, I was humbled. She made all the crappy bureaucratic bullshit I've had to put up with for seven years completely worth it. That one statement reminded me why I do what I do, to hell with the rest.
I gave her a big hug and then we compared tattoos. She had a brand new beautiful tat on her back - a floral design, full of color - subtle reds & blues. She wanted something that hinted of patriotism for this was her "army" tat. She is a vet and a patriot - but she is against the war.
She told me she wrote a lot of poetry during her tour and that several of her poems have been published on Poets Against War. After she left, I spent some time and read all of her poetry. The poems are a little rough around the edges, but woven with raw, sad and painful imagery of war and a soldier's dilemma.
I found the following line from one of the poem's especially poignant. The poem's title is Mistaken: a Soldier's Horror:
With shaking hands through the rubble I siftI am very proud her and I am very thankful she walked into my office today. She gave me a bit of validation I was sorely in need of, more-so than I care to admit.
They tell me weapons of mass destruction are here
But so far it’s only ribbons with singed hair that I lift
Labels: Iraq, poetry, poets agains the war, validation, work, youth
Posted at 4:29 PM | |
I'm it!
I've been tagged in two places from my favorite South Carolina bald man and my favorite South Carolina mom of a toddler! One of the marginal advantages of being an internet schizophrenic, I suppose. I was tagged here and at the other blog which is about the unnamed hobby.
I once considered doing a 100 Things list about myself, but I abandoned the idea because I didn't think I could come up with 100 things that would be remotely interesting. Seven is more reasonable, but, that said, it's taken me most of the morning to come up with even that paltry amount. Why is it easier just to write and narrate than it is to generate a list, I wonder?
Any-who - here's my offering to the meme machine:
I once considered doing a 100 Things list about myself, but I abandoned the idea because I didn't think I could come up with 100 things that would be remotely interesting. Seven is more reasonable, but, that said, it's taken me most of the morning to come up with even that paltry amount. Why is it easier just to write and narrate than it is to generate a list, I wonder?
Any-who - here's my offering to the meme machine:
- I am a burger-holic. If I didn't have a drop of discipline, I would eat hamburgers everyday. In fact, I almost do. I know where the best burgers can be had in town and can be found there frequently, indulging in a burger with mustard, pickles and ketchup only, please. Lettuce and onion are optional and NEVER put a nasty tomato on it. My favorite burger joints are the drive-ins - one in particular that's been in existence in my town since before I moved here 33 years ago. They still wrap the burgers and fries in paper and put 'em in a brown paper bag.
- I am slightly dyslexic. I didn't find this out until I was in my thirties and it went a long way toward explaining a lot of my difficulty with school. Especially math and reading comprehension. My form of dyslexia is called Scotopic Sensitivity Syndrome. Fortunately, I was raised in a family of avid readers and love to read - but I'm very slow and have a hard time retaining what I've read for very long. Math - well, it's ironic that my current hobby I'm so passionate about depends on math to a large part for success. But, I do love a good challenge!
- I once was an avid fan of baseball. So much so that I learned to score the games and followed the season religiously. The box scores were my morning read. My favorite player was Carlton Fisk, hence I was a White Sox fan. I lost interest after a) Pudge was retired before the end of the '93 season and b) the '94 strike. The Sox were on a roll and headed for the series that year, if memory serves. The strike nixed that dream and soured me on the game. Haven't been able to rekindle the interest ever since.
- I ran away from pre-school. I decided one day I'd had enough and so hid behind a chalk-board in the hallway when the class went on a water-fountain break. I remember that part, but what I did after that is a blank but has been retold as part of family legend for years. As the story goes I, at the tender age of 4, walked the two miles to an empty home and was found in tears in the middle of the kitchen floor with an empty cookie jar in front of me. That served to stem the tide of my adventurous spirit until well into adulthood.
- Which brings me to the next three items, the first of which is - I have climbed a mountain. This one as a matter of fact. Maccu Piccu is perhaps the most awesome place on earth. Mere words and pictures cannot describe the experience that it is. The day we climbed the mountain we weren't intending to and I almost didn't. Fortunately, I mustered my courage and made the trek. Two hours up and three hours down - chewing coca leaves to abate altitude sickness. One day I will post about my Peru trip.
- The next adventurous endeavor was a 26 mile bike trip on trail through the Iowa corn fields. I was told that day we were going for a bike ride. I wasn't told how long it was going to be. It was during the visit I wrote about here. Many of the old rail-lines in Iowa have been converted to bike trails. Fortunately, there were no hills. I was amazed at myself for doing it. I rode at home, but not seriously - maybe a mile a week. I also found out a little known fact about biking and the male libido which would maybe make me think twice about getting involved with another biker.
- And finally, since Dec. of 2004, I've taken 8 plane trips and 4 road trips which have taken me to seven states. The remarkable thing about this fact is that it's all due to the internet and friends I have made by way of blogging. I ventured out of my comfort zone and have not looked back!
- Gracie
- Fred
- Matty
- Jason
- Dave - aka F-Train
- Jeremiah - he of the oversized head
- Lady Luck - we all want to get to know this special lady!
Labels: little know facts, memes, tagging
Posted at 11:28 AM | |
Monday, May 7, 2007
Suburban Swing
Nine years ago if you'd told me that in a year's time, I'd be living in suburbia, let alone building a house to live in suburbia, I would've asked you what kind of drugs you were on. No way, no how could I picture myself in 'burbs. My vision was a vintage bungalow in the city core, with a front porch and full of character.
I was then living in a tiny house by the rail-road tracks, a rental barely 900 square feet - if. My landlord had offered to sell me the property which got me thinking about buying. I passed on that property, but took the plunge with the help of a realtor friend and bid on a sweet little 1920s home a couple of blocks away.
I didn't get that home and was devasted. I cried for three days. I toured a few more homes in the next few weeks while researching online. I discovered in my research that I could probably build a home for about the same cost as buying a "used" one. I began to explore the possibility when I got a few offers I couldn't refuse - everything fell into place.
First, my parents said they would finance it with a very low mortgage rate, then an acquaintance who's husband is a developer told me about a lot in one of his developments they'd had difficulty selling and offered it to me at a steal, then another acquaintance who is an architect offered to design it for a reduced design fee and I found a builder through a third acquaintance who was just striking out on his own as a builder and came in right on budget with his bid.
Suddenly, I was on my way to movin' on up to the eastside and to the 'burbs. Who knew that right about this time eight years ago, or more precisely, on May 4th, 1999, the day after the infamous F5 tornado tore through not 10 miles from here, I'd have to leave the ruins of a friend's house to come consult with the cabinet installers as to hardware and stain for the house in the suburbs that I was, indeed, building.
Bizarre with a capital B.
I knew several people who lived in this development or who knew people who lived here. I began to get the scoop on neighbors. My north neighbor was very diligent in informing me how negligent the construction crew was with my house. My south neighbors have a pet iguana. They neighbor on the corner is the mother of the neighbor across the street. People were very friendly before I moved in. After - not so much. I never got a welcoming committee at my door with an apple pie and welcome basket.
But I had learned some good gossip about my south neighbors. It was rumored they were swingers. My imagination was spurred with the idea of that - I began to wonder about the neighborhood on the whole. What really was going on behind closed doors?
All this is the long way to telling you about a discovery I came upon after returning from three days in Tulsa last week. I don't have to wonder about this neighborhood any longer.
You've heard about speed dating, no doubt. Well, allow me to present the newest trend in suburban kink:
I was then living in a tiny house by the rail-road tracks, a rental barely 900 square feet - if. My landlord had offered to sell me the property which got me thinking about buying. I passed on that property, but took the plunge with the help of a realtor friend and bid on a sweet little 1920s home a couple of blocks away.
I didn't get that home and was devasted. I cried for three days. I toured a few more homes in the next few weeks while researching online. I discovered in my research that I could probably build a home for about the same cost as buying a "used" one. I began to explore the possibility when I got a few offers I couldn't refuse - everything fell into place.
First, my parents said they would finance it with a very low mortgage rate, then an acquaintance who's husband is a developer told me about a lot in one of his developments they'd had difficulty selling and offered it to me at a steal, then another acquaintance who is an architect offered to design it for a reduced design fee and I found a builder through a third acquaintance who was just striking out on his own as a builder and came in right on budget with his bid.
Suddenly, I was on my way to movin' on up to the eastside and to the 'burbs. Who knew that right about this time eight years ago, or more precisely, on May 4th, 1999, the day after the infamous F5 tornado tore through not 10 miles from here, I'd have to leave the ruins of a friend's house to come consult with the cabinet installers as to hardware and stain for the house in the suburbs that I was, indeed, building.
Bizarre with a capital B.
I knew several people who lived in this development or who knew people who lived here. I began to get the scoop on neighbors. My north neighbor was very diligent in informing me how negligent the construction crew was with my house. My south neighbors have a pet iguana. They neighbor on the corner is the mother of the neighbor across the street. People were very friendly before I moved in. After - not so much. I never got a welcoming committee at my door with an apple pie and welcome basket.
But I had learned some good gossip about my south neighbors. It was rumored they were swingers. My imagination was spurred with the idea of that - I began to wonder about the neighborhood on the whole. What really was going on behind closed doors?
All this is the long way to telling you about a discovery I came upon after returning from three days in Tulsa last week. I don't have to wonder about this neighborhood any longer.
You've heard about speed dating, no doubt. Well, allow me to present the newest trend in suburban kink:
Need I say another word more?
Labels: home building, kinky neighbors, suburbia, swinging
Posted at 5:51 PM | |
Sunday, May 6, 2007
*blush* humbled *blush*
Imagine my surprise when I tuned in to one of my favorite bloggers to find this little blog listed as one of these:
I rarely think that what I have to say is of interest to anyone else but me - it's always a pleasant surprise when someone leaves a comment or I see someone's added the blog to their feed list. So, for someone to actually point to this thing and say "It's worth reading" is huge.
My bloglines feeds recently underwent major reduction surgery. Most of the blogs were centered on the hobby which will remain unmentioned here. That's not to say they were unworthy - I was once at the stage many of those bloggers are in relation to that hobby and so I understand what it is they are experiencing and the need to write about it.
They were excised mainly because I was over-saturated with that content. It'd even reached a level that was also making it difficult for me to write on that topic for a site which pays me to do so. I needed to take a break - even from my own hobby-centered blog - and just concentrate on producing content for the paid gig.
My attention turned to this blog because I wanted to expand my horizon, so to speak, break away from a topic centered blog and write about, well, me, me, me, my thoughts, experiences, et al. A pure narcissistic adventure - that's what blogs are, no?
I also turned my attention to reading blogs that were not topic-centric to the hobby that will not be mentioned here. After my subscriptions were reduced I went in search of blogs which give me pause and make me think. Who knew someone was out there doing the same and who created that little award for it!
My collection is rather sparse at the moment, but I will share with you five of the ones which warrant an immediate click in my feed list and for which I eagerly await new posts. These are not in any particular order - they bear equal weight of importance in my blogoshpere. A couple will be familiar if you've come here from there.
Rapid Eye Reality has been a long time favorite. I'd been reading Otis over at the hobby-centric blog he writes with two other stellar writers, when I discovered RER through a link there. I felt like I'd discovered my own secret pot of gold. Otis is nakedly honest - giving the reader the full monty, so to speak, in regards to his life, loves, frustrations, self-doubt, triumphs, defeats - the whole fruit bowl. And we get a bonus with illustrations crafted from the view through his camera lens. He's not only an immensely talented and gifted writer, but a gifted photographer as well. He says he doesn't easily make new friends, but what I've learned from reading him, if he opens the door to friendship and invites you in, you'll no doubt have a friend for life who'd walk barefoot over broken glass for you at the drop of a hat.
And is it any wonder that the next blog I'm going to tell you about is written by his wife? It's not because she pointed the way here, either. OK - here it is. I'm in love with those two. There. I said it, it's out in the open... ha! Because I'm a dunce, I only recently discovered In Search of Walden. I read the entire archives in one sitting. We come from different backgrounds, are twenty-plus years apart in age, she's married with child, I'm single with cats, and yet there is an odd kinship there. Student of Life, as she has dubbed herself, also writes honestly and without self censorship, giving us an account of her daily trials and joys with raising a child, coping with separation from her husband when he's away on assignment, reflecting on past pain from an absent parent, pondering her raison d'etre, well, just everything.
Both of them have inspired and challenged me to put forth my most honest and best effort with this blog - so if I succeed, they are to blame!
The third blog I will mention is Waiter Rant. It's become hugely popular - I believe the author is writing a book based on the blog and is due to be published soon. His essays are seeded by his work as a waiter in New York City upscale bistros and blossom with insight and understanding everyone can identify with. He pulls back the curtain of the restaurant world, letting us in on the politics and culture as well as holding up the mirror to us as customers. You'll never look at that person who's serving you quite the same after reading him and I bet you'll be more appreciative. At the very least, he'll give you a tasty morsel or two to chew on.
The next blog makes me think by reminding me to stop from time to time and take in my surroundings. Chiaroscuro is a photo blog created by a very talented photographer who doesn't post very often, but when she does, it's awesome. One of my secret ambitions is/was to be a photographer. She reminds me to hang on to that dream.
For the fifth choice, I give you Random Thoughts and Thoroughbred Selections. Written by Boy Genius, this blog spans a broken marriage, politics, epicurean delights, horse-racing, sports, dating, and much more - all at a level of intelligence and erudition that is often scary but always delectable.
I'm proud to say I've met the first two writers and the last one in person. The first two invited me to their home for a raucous and wonderful birthday celebration nearly two years ago, I've also sat across from Otis a time or two while indulging in the hobby that will not be named here, and I've gotten to know Boy Genius over a few gatherings in at least three different states.
So - those are my Thinking Blogger awards. If any of the authors find their way to this post, then here's what you may do if you wish to pass on the meme:
The participation rules are simple:
I rarely think that what I have to say is of interest to anyone else but me - it's always a pleasant surprise when someone leaves a comment or I see someone's added the blog to their feed list. So, for someone to actually point to this thing and say "It's worth reading" is huge.My bloglines feeds recently underwent major reduction surgery. Most of the blogs were centered on the hobby which will remain unmentioned here. That's not to say they were unworthy - I was once at the stage many of those bloggers are in relation to that hobby and so I understand what it is they are experiencing and the need to write about it.
They were excised mainly because I was over-saturated with that content. It'd even reached a level that was also making it difficult for me to write on that topic for a site which pays me to do so. I needed to take a break - even from my own hobby-centered blog - and just concentrate on producing content for the paid gig.
My attention turned to this blog because I wanted to expand my horizon, so to speak, break away from a topic centered blog and write about, well, me, me, me, my thoughts, experiences, et al. A pure narcissistic adventure - that's what blogs are, no?
I also turned my attention to reading blogs that were not topic-centric to the hobby that will not be mentioned here. After my subscriptions were reduced I went in search of blogs which give me pause and make me think. Who knew someone was out there doing the same and who created that little award for it!
My collection is rather sparse at the moment, but I will share with you five of the ones which warrant an immediate click in my feed list and for which I eagerly await new posts. These are not in any particular order - they bear equal weight of importance in my blogoshpere. A couple will be familiar if you've come here from there.
Rapid Eye Reality has been a long time favorite. I'd been reading Otis over at the hobby-centric blog he writes with two other stellar writers, when I discovered RER through a link there. I felt like I'd discovered my own secret pot of gold. Otis is nakedly honest - giving the reader the full monty, so to speak, in regards to his life, loves, frustrations, self-doubt, triumphs, defeats - the whole fruit bowl. And we get a bonus with illustrations crafted from the view through his camera lens. He's not only an immensely talented and gifted writer, but a gifted photographer as well. He says he doesn't easily make new friends, but what I've learned from reading him, if he opens the door to friendship and invites you in, you'll no doubt have a friend for life who'd walk barefoot over broken glass for you at the drop of a hat.
And is it any wonder that the next blog I'm going to tell you about is written by his wife? It's not because she pointed the way here, either. OK - here it is. I'm in love with those two. There. I said it, it's out in the open... ha! Because I'm a dunce, I only recently discovered In Search of Walden. I read the entire archives in one sitting. We come from different backgrounds, are twenty-plus years apart in age, she's married with child, I'm single with cats, and yet there is an odd kinship there. Student of Life, as she has dubbed herself, also writes honestly and without self censorship, giving us an account of her daily trials and joys with raising a child, coping with separation from her husband when he's away on assignment, reflecting on past pain from an absent parent, pondering her raison d'etre, well, just everything.
Both of them have inspired and challenged me to put forth my most honest and best effort with this blog - so if I succeed, they are to blame!
The third blog I will mention is Waiter Rant. It's become hugely popular - I believe the author is writing a book based on the blog and is due to be published soon. His essays are seeded by his work as a waiter in New York City upscale bistros and blossom with insight and understanding everyone can identify with. He pulls back the curtain of the restaurant world, letting us in on the politics and culture as well as holding up the mirror to us as customers. You'll never look at that person who's serving you quite the same after reading him and I bet you'll be more appreciative. At the very least, he'll give you a tasty morsel or two to chew on.
The next blog makes me think by reminding me to stop from time to time and take in my surroundings. Chiaroscuro is a photo blog created by a very talented photographer who doesn't post very often, but when she does, it's awesome. One of my secret ambitions is/was to be a photographer. She reminds me to hang on to that dream.
For the fifth choice, I give you Random Thoughts and Thoroughbred Selections. Written by Boy Genius, this blog spans a broken marriage, politics, epicurean delights, horse-racing, sports, dating, and much more - all at a level of intelligence and erudition that is often scary but always delectable.
I'm proud to say I've met the first two writers and the last one in person. The first two invited me to their home for a raucous and wonderful birthday celebration nearly two years ago, I've also sat across from Otis a time or two while indulging in the hobby that will not be named here, and I've gotten to know Boy Genius over a few gatherings in at least three different states.
So - those are my Thinking Blogger awards. If any of the authors find their way to this post, then here's what you may do if you wish to pass on the meme:
The participation rules are simple:
- If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think,
- Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme,
- Optional: Proudly display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' with a link to the post that you wrote (here is an alternative silver version if gold doesn't fit your blog).
Labels: blogs, thinking blogs, writing
Posted at 8:45 PM | |
