My visit to the Petrified Forest National Park was certainly the highlight of my road trip, but not the only high point. After Puerco Pueblo, I continued through the park, winding through the strange and foreign landscape. Much as when I visited Yellowstone Park, I was struck by how many unusual geological anomalies could occur in such a small area. Coming down in altitude from the Painted Desert Canyon, the road winds under I-40, past the old Route 66, marked by a car from years gone by and telephone poles with wires leading to nowhere. Despite the age of those items, they are modern compared to the history they sit among. The Pueblo is modern in comparison to the other places I saw that day. I passed by fields of blackened ash, rock formations known as the TeePees - conical shaped rocks formed in layers of sediment, from when the desert was once a flood basin. Those conical formations were striped in blues, greys, reds and whites. Rounding a corner, I came to the Crystal Forest, an area rich in colorful petrified logs. The logs lay haphazardly around the hillside, undisturbed by time, and now undisturbed by humanity, as enforced by vehicle searches at each exit. The petrified logs lie about where the ancient flood waters left them lying, back in the Triassic.
Hiking a mile at 7400 feet is more than my lungs are used to these days. I had to sit down and rest. Apparently the park rangers don't mind if you rest on the petrified trees, as long as you don't try to take one. Considering they weigh somewhere around 200 pounds per cubic foot, I don't think there was any danger. Sitting there, it was a little like seeing what that area of the country would have been like a few million years ago. Everything looked strange and foreign to me. I was waiting for a dinosaur to come around one of the hills.
Leaving the park, I felt lighter and better than I had in a while, finally feeling the vacation kicking in. I had driven 1200 miles all by myself, visited places I'd wanted to see for ages, and in the Arizona desert, my allergies were a thing of memory. I sat in my car contemplating at the turn off for Interstate 40 - only 170 more miles to the Grand Canyon. I decided to save that trip for another day, and instead take my time heading back to Texas, thinking I might wind my way down the Turquoise Trail and into Las Cruces for the night. Well...best laid plans and all of that. At Gallup, I headed south on a small local highway, seeing by the map that there was a short cut that would take me through some great trading post areas. It was the Fourth of July, but I figured not everything would be closed. Hmmm....never assume.
I wandered through the hills of New Mexico, along this small highway, enjoying the scenery, but becoming increasingly concerned due to lack of traffic, lack of habitation, and lack of gas stations. My gas tank was down to nearly a quarter of a tank, and no civilization in sight. I had driven onto the Zuni Reservation and was mentally calculating gas mileage and whether or not I could make it back to Gallup. I found a small business looming in the distance, which turned out to be a convenience store/restaurant/bar/hang out because it's a rainy fourth of July place. I walked in to find all of four people leaning on the counter. A very nice young man put down his beer and picked up a napkin to draw a map for me when I owned up to being lost. The lady stocking shelves offered me a bottle of water. And a somewhat elderly gentleman with long white hair and the fanciest cowboy boots I've ever seen asked me to dance. Well, I could barely hear the music on the radio, but when an elderly gentleman anywhere asks you politely to dance, you dance with him. It's just the right thing to do.
So, if I felt like I was on another planet and that things were a little surreal while I was in the Crystal Forest, dancing in that convenience store/restaurant/bar/place to hang out on a rainy Fourth of July, well, that was in another universe. The song ended, the gentleman said thank you with quite a good laugh, and I collected my map. I offered to pay for my bottle of water, but was waved off, so I left some money in the tip jar on the counter instead. Indeed, I had been wandering parallel to a much better populated highway, and their directions led me directly to a Phillips 66 station. So, I didn't run out of gas on the reservation, just before a thunderstorm, and I managed to find my way back go Grants, New Mexico. I would say I had wasted a good part of my afternoon in the process, but I don't think that anything was wasted. Life is certainly more interesting off the highway.
It turns out that life is also safer off the highway. I had already lost a fender on I-40, so it wasn't my favorite road. That afternoon, just outside Moriarity, the thunderstorm that had been chasing me caught up, and I found out what happens when winds sheer in off the mountains. I also found out that the fender on a car does serve some aerodynamic function of sorts - my car shuddered with every gust of wind. The rain came slamming in while I was on a mountain, with large trucks to the left, fore, and rear of me. I rediscovered the fact that you are never too scared to pray. I drove on for several miles while gripping the steering wheel as tightly as possible, because, of course, my brain thought THAT would keep my car on the road. Must have worked, as I drove out of the rain and sailed on through Tucumcari again, getting off the interstate long enough to enjoy that stretch of Route 66 one more time. I had hoped the neon signs would be on, as the sky was so dark, but alas, they must have been set to a timer.
I spent the night near the New Mexico/Texas border and woke up ready to ride. Knowing I was nearly home, I popped in some good CD's, and sang off-key all the way back to Houston. It was a long drive, but I knew that home, a shower, and my kitty were waiting for me. With apologies to those who live in and love Fort Worth, who the hell designed those freeways? Traffic jam at 3:00 in the afternoon, had to quickly cross three lanes of traffic to get to my very steep, very curved overpass, only to find that at the top the road split in three directions. Really? Felt no small sense of accomplishment at making it through Fort Worth and gliding into Corsicana, to turn south. I-45 might as well be home, I've driven it so many times. I cranked up the Madonna I was rocking at the time and the time flew by.
2400 miles, several wrong turns, walked in on a drug sale, spray painted a Cadillac, ate breakfast with some German bikers, danced with a very nice gentleman in a very strange store/bar/restaurant, hiked through the painted desert, sat on a petrified tree that saw the birth of baby dinosaurs, followed the Mother Road through parts of American history, and safely back home. So much of that trip was dependent on leaving the interstate. The interstates of America are safe. They are well constructed, so you hardly feel a bump or know that you're traveling through mountains or canyons, in deserts or swamps. Every interstate feels very much the same to me. But without leaving them, you never get any variety, you never get a feel for what our country feels like. If I had stayed on the interstate, I would have saved a lot of time. I certainly could have flown straight on down to the Grand Canyon and back, but I would have missed all the milestones along the way. It would have felt like just a trip and not a journey, and certainly not a vacation. Vacations are meant to be times to leave our daily lives behind. That's what I did when I left the interstate, and instead decided to explore without agenda, without preconceptions, and often without a map. To find yourself, you have to embrace the journey as well.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Leaving a Mark
When we leave home for a trip of any kind, we find often that it is more that the trip takes us, and changes who we are. I left home a week ago, hoping to find some peace and quiet. With both children away for the week, I knew that staying home would mean reverting to my habits of work, sleep and work some more. It was time to break the cycle. Who would have thought that I'd find the trip would bring answers in a place so lonely as a cow pasture, or in a form so simple as graffiti? And who would imagine that I'd be less lonely on my own than I am in daily busy life?
With no particular plan in mind, I packed a duffle bag and headed north up interstate 45, my main goal being to cross Route 66, and to get out of this Southern Texas heat and humidity for a couple of days. Hopping on State Hwy. 287 at Ennis, Texas, I followed the highway through small towns in the Panhandle, spotting old time drive-ins, Texas vineyards, and lots and lots of cows. Oh, lots of cows. I found Route 66 late that afternoon, with a little thrill of excitement. I've heard my whole life about this infamous road across America - the Mother Road. I felt the ghost of Steinbeck sitting to my right, nodding his head in approval. Get off the highway and find the real America, he seemed to be saying. Getting on and off the interstate to follow this winding, often badly kept stretch of road got tedious at times. I loved the forgotten towns that survive only on the memory of a time when 66 ran through their midst, bringing travelers. Many of those towns are all but ghost towns now, with a few key tourist spots to bring in revenue and keep the town alive for the farmers and ranchers living in the vicinity. Perhaps that IS the real America, the spirit to survive and adapt in the face of change.
Route 66 and Interstate 40 both cross through the heart of Amarillo, which is where I found myself stopping for the first night. Being nothing if not adventurous, I stayed in a well-advertised, inexpensive motel. I found my mistake the first time when I went back to my car to get a forgotten book. There was a drug deal going down in the parking lot. Returned to my room without the book, and locked my flimsy door. I didn't sleep very well that night, what with the party in the room next door and the funky smell coming from across the hall. On the plus side, lesson learned, and I know what crack smells like when it's being burned now. Adventure aside, I was glad to see the dawn and pack my car back up. It was early that morning when I gassed up and trekked the seven or eight miles to the Cadillac Ranch, just on the west side of Amarillo.
The Cadillac Ranch is an interactive art installation - in a cow pasture. Driving East on Route 66, after leaving Amarillo, you'll find ten Cadillacs, from various model years, planted in a row, in a cow pasture. Parking on the side of the road, I entered through an old gate, to the smell of cow patties in the early morning air. The wind was blowing wildly off the flatlands, and I could hear the sounds of the nearby interstate in the background. Humans are odd, that's all I can say. Spray cans littered the field, discarded from their gleeful artistic debauchery. Here and there, people were spraying "I heart so and so" or "Bob was here" on the sides, undercarriages, and wheels of these upright cars. I was walking around for the third time when someone handed me a can of spray paint they didn't need anymore. I hadn't planned on adding to the insanity, but when a moment presents itself, you take it. I started with just a few test sprays, and then found myself wondering what I should paint, how I would leave my mark. From what I had observed, anything written would be covered over in a matter of hours. So I found myself spraying something I wouldn't say out loud. Everyone has something they carry around, something that is a secret, or embarrassing, or whiney, or just plain silly. I spray painted mine on the side of a Cadillac, in a cow pasture outside of Amarillo. No one who knows me will ever see that confession, and no one who sees it will know me or care. It was freeing. I was pretty gleeful in decorating my words with outlines and curlicues. A group of bikers had approached the installation at that point and one of them laughed watching me, said "looks like you're having fun" in a German accent. I realized I was, having fun. I said I was enjoying the beautiful morning and one of them asked if I'd like a short ride. Well, tempting as that was, I didn't know the guy and wasn't dressed for a motorcycle ride, even on a vintage Harley like this one. I declined, but it was nice to be asked.
Driving westward again on Route 66, I passed through Adrian, Texas, the last town in Texas on the old road. It was an impulsive move that had me stopping at the Mid-Point Diner for a late breakfast. The Midpoint is an historic spot, built originally in the 1940's, rebuilt twenty years later, and added onto over the years. The furniture is mismatched, the building old, and the waitress and cook were cheerful and colorful. I was the only person there the first few minutes, then some area regulars dropped in. They didn't even have to order - just said, "breakfast as usual." A few minutes later, the group of German bikers came in and pretty much took over the diner. There were enough of them that they were at every table, taking up space in every booth. A couple sat across from me. The lady in my booth said that they were all visiting with her brother who lives outside of Abilene, and taking a tour across the country on their bikes. Turns out her brother was the one who had offered to give me a ride on his bike - and watching them all together, I could see that they were just enjoying life and a beautiful summer morning together. It was evident as they bought silly items from the Route 66 gift shop, ordered their meals and shared menu items with one another with laughter. I was rather glad to be included in their midst of joyful conversation. Ana's English was good, but her accent made it different to understand. I never did catch her brother's name, as the accent could have made it Ari, Ottie or several other variations. Didn't matter - their company was pleasant just the same.
I left after enjoying an omlette full of vegetables and probably dripping in butter. So good. Such a good start to the day. I was still full of that same gleeful spirit about thirty minutes later when I crossed into New Mexico on old Route 66. Land of Enchantment, as their signs all say. New Mexico was a mixed wonder to me, the whole time I was there. Mountains and desert, small towns and larger cities. I drove through Tucumcari on the old Mother Road, and found it to be the best preserved of all the towns along the route. I wish I'd been able to go through there at night time, as all the neon signs from the past are still maintained in that town, and I bet it's a sight worth seeing. Passed the TeePee Trading post, a historic shop. Also the Blue Swallow Motel, another fun place I've seen in pictures over the years. Just outside Tucumcari (and I'll say that a lot, because it's fun to say...just like the old song says, "Tucumcari Tonite"), I was forced back on Interstate 40 for a bit. It was at this point that my trip turned a little bit sour, as I lost a piece of my car. Two days before leaving town, I had hit a pole, and thinking the only real damage was to my bumper, figured I'd fix it later. Ummm...well...apparently my fender was not so firmly fixed in place, and it flew off going down he interstate. I looked in the rearview mirror just in time to see a semi run it over. To say I was miffed might be an understatement. I was pissed. All the way to Albuquerque. By then, I was running out of steam, and the city of Albuquerque is too beautiful to stay mad for long. Whoever planned that city even had the thought to make the freeways symmetrical and attractive. Overpasses are colored Terra Cotta and accented with turquoise, reminding all those who pass that they are in the Southwest.
The turnoff to Chaco Canyon was badly marked, and I spent a lot of time wandering in the ancient hills, looking for the park. Rain drove me back down to the freeway again, and on toward Gallup. Gallup is another Route 66 town not much marked by time. I spent my night at the El Rancho Hotel. I love their sign, "Charm of Yesterday; Convenience of Tomorrow." Of course, the hotel reached it's heyday in the late 40's and early 50's, so that convenience of tomorrow is about fifty years behind. But that's OK, the charm was all there. The El Rancho was the place where the movie stars of the 40's and 50's stayed while filming westerns. I walked up the curving staircase, knowing I was treading in the path of Katherine Hepburn, John Wayne, and Ronald Reagan. It was a 1950's vision of what the wild west should be, with curving stairs leading to a second floor gallery, a player piano in the lobby, and lots of wagon wheels and bull horns. My headboard was a wagon wheel, located nicely in the Errol Flynn room. Now, I had a very small single room, so I highly doubt Flynn ever graced it with his presence. Still, best sleep I had on the whole trip. I dined that night in the hotel's restaurant, with its kitschy decor and dubiously "authentic" Mexican menu. I settled on a grilled cheese and salad, as being from Houston makes me skeptical of Mexican food in other states.
I drove into Arizona the next day, singing along to Fleetwood Mac and enjoying the irony that the desert weather was cooler and more pleasant than that at home. I pulled into the Petrified Forest national park around 7:30 a.m., and was one of the first in the park. I can't begin to describe how incredible the Painted Desert canyon is. None of the pictures I took could do justice to the colors and variety of rock formations. I stopped to tour the Painted Desert Inn, perched above the canyon. It's no longer open for overnight stays, but I can only imagine that those who honeymooned there had a very hard time living up to the start to that marriage - how could anything else compare with that kind of setting?
I stopped at the Puerco Pueblo, a 900 year old shared living space, on a high mesa, within the park. I was the only one on that particular trail that early in the morning, and I might have been a little bit of a rule breaker, as I wandered off the path to stand inside the kiva that morning. Those who know me well know that I am a huge history geek, and there is nothing more thrilling to me than standing where others have stood and lived, and imagining their lives. I am always fascinated by how they are different from those I know in my time, and how we are all the same as human beings. Looking over the cliff, there was a rock sectioned off, and on it, there were petroglyphs. Ancient graffiti. I was looking at those etched images of dancers, lizards, people, and I was struck by the similarity between those marks and the spray painted artwork on the Cadillacs the day before. 900 years before, someone made those marks on the rocks. They had the same dreams of raising their children and living good lives with someone they love as the people at the Cadillac Ranch, and they had the same goal. To make a mark. To say "I was here." To say they loved someone. It's what we all do, every single day. We try to leave an impression of our brief and tiny lives on this planet. To leave our mark on the world, and on those we love. I'm not sure how long I stood there, impressed with these ancient artists, but I felt how real they were, and how they certainly had left a mark that stood through time. I thought about those whose marks were washed away by time and rain, and animals. But their spirits remained in the desert as well, telling a story if we care to listen, to how their lives weren't so different from ours. In this time, we overcomplicate our lives, load up with too much we don't need. Worry too much about things that don't matter, and forget about those that do. But at the heart of it all, we hope to leave something that commemorates our time on Earth. My spray painted words at the Cadillac Ranch have long since been covered up, so I'll have to leave my mark in other ways. On my friends, my family, my work and those things I love.
To be continued....(because it's just getting too darn long).
With no particular plan in mind, I packed a duffle bag and headed north up interstate 45, my main goal being to cross Route 66, and to get out of this Southern Texas heat and humidity for a couple of days. Hopping on State Hwy. 287 at Ennis, Texas, I followed the highway through small towns in the Panhandle, spotting old time drive-ins, Texas vineyards, and lots and lots of cows. Oh, lots of cows. I found Route 66 late that afternoon, with a little thrill of excitement. I've heard my whole life about this infamous road across America - the Mother Road. I felt the ghost of Steinbeck sitting to my right, nodding his head in approval. Get off the highway and find the real America, he seemed to be saying. Getting on and off the interstate to follow this winding, often badly kept stretch of road got tedious at times. I loved the forgotten towns that survive only on the memory of a time when 66 ran through their midst, bringing travelers. Many of those towns are all but ghost towns now, with a few key tourist spots to bring in revenue and keep the town alive for the farmers and ranchers living in the vicinity. Perhaps that IS the real America, the spirit to survive and adapt in the face of change.
Route 66 and Interstate 40 both cross through the heart of Amarillo, which is where I found myself stopping for the first night. Being nothing if not adventurous, I stayed in a well-advertised, inexpensive motel. I found my mistake the first time when I went back to my car to get a forgotten book. There was a drug deal going down in the parking lot. Returned to my room without the book, and locked my flimsy door. I didn't sleep very well that night, what with the party in the room next door and the funky smell coming from across the hall. On the plus side, lesson learned, and I know what crack smells like when it's being burned now. Adventure aside, I was glad to see the dawn and pack my car back up. It was early that morning when I gassed up and trekked the seven or eight miles to the Cadillac Ranch, just on the west side of Amarillo.
The Cadillac Ranch is an interactive art installation - in a cow pasture. Driving East on Route 66, after leaving Amarillo, you'll find ten Cadillacs, from various model years, planted in a row, in a cow pasture. Parking on the side of the road, I entered through an old gate, to the smell of cow patties in the early morning air. The wind was blowing wildly off the flatlands, and I could hear the sounds of the nearby interstate in the background. Humans are odd, that's all I can say. Spray cans littered the field, discarded from their gleeful artistic debauchery. Here and there, people were spraying "I heart so and so" or "Bob was here" on the sides, undercarriages, and wheels of these upright cars. I was walking around for the third time when someone handed me a can of spray paint they didn't need anymore. I hadn't planned on adding to the insanity, but when a moment presents itself, you take it. I started with just a few test sprays, and then found myself wondering what I should paint, how I would leave my mark. From what I had observed, anything written would be covered over in a matter of hours. So I found myself spraying something I wouldn't say out loud. Everyone has something they carry around, something that is a secret, or embarrassing, or whiney, or just plain silly. I spray painted mine on the side of a Cadillac, in a cow pasture outside of Amarillo. No one who knows me will ever see that confession, and no one who sees it will know me or care. It was freeing. I was pretty gleeful in decorating my words with outlines and curlicues. A group of bikers had approached the installation at that point and one of them laughed watching me, said "looks like you're having fun" in a German accent. I realized I was, having fun. I said I was enjoying the beautiful morning and one of them asked if I'd like a short ride. Well, tempting as that was, I didn't know the guy and wasn't dressed for a motorcycle ride, even on a vintage Harley like this one. I declined, but it was nice to be asked.
Driving westward again on Route 66, I passed through Adrian, Texas, the last town in Texas on the old road. It was an impulsive move that had me stopping at the Mid-Point Diner for a late breakfast. The Midpoint is an historic spot, built originally in the 1940's, rebuilt twenty years later, and added onto over the years. The furniture is mismatched, the building old, and the waitress and cook were cheerful and colorful. I was the only person there the first few minutes, then some area regulars dropped in. They didn't even have to order - just said, "breakfast as usual." A few minutes later, the group of German bikers came in and pretty much took over the diner. There were enough of them that they were at every table, taking up space in every booth. A couple sat across from me. The lady in my booth said that they were all visiting with her brother who lives outside of Abilene, and taking a tour across the country on their bikes. Turns out her brother was the one who had offered to give me a ride on his bike - and watching them all together, I could see that they were just enjoying life and a beautiful summer morning together. It was evident as they bought silly items from the Route 66 gift shop, ordered their meals and shared menu items with one another with laughter. I was rather glad to be included in their midst of joyful conversation. Ana's English was good, but her accent made it different to understand. I never did catch her brother's name, as the accent could have made it Ari, Ottie or several other variations. Didn't matter - their company was pleasant just the same.
I left after enjoying an omlette full of vegetables and probably dripping in butter. So good. Such a good start to the day. I was still full of that same gleeful spirit about thirty minutes later when I crossed into New Mexico on old Route 66. Land of Enchantment, as their signs all say. New Mexico was a mixed wonder to me, the whole time I was there. Mountains and desert, small towns and larger cities. I drove through Tucumcari on the old Mother Road, and found it to be the best preserved of all the towns along the route. I wish I'd been able to go through there at night time, as all the neon signs from the past are still maintained in that town, and I bet it's a sight worth seeing. Passed the TeePee Trading post, a historic shop. Also the Blue Swallow Motel, another fun place I've seen in pictures over the years. Just outside Tucumcari (and I'll say that a lot, because it's fun to say...just like the old song says, "Tucumcari Tonite"), I was forced back on Interstate 40 for a bit. It was at this point that my trip turned a little bit sour, as I lost a piece of my car. Two days before leaving town, I had hit a pole, and thinking the only real damage was to my bumper, figured I'd fix it later. Ummm...well...apparently my fender was not so firmly fixed in place, and it flew off going down he interstate. I looked in the rearview mirror just in time to see a semi run it over. To say I was miffed might be an understatement. I was pissed. All the way to Albuquerque. By then, I was running out of steam, and the city of Albuquerque is too beautiful to stay mad for long. Whoever planned that city even had the thought to make the freeways symmetrical and attractive. Overpasses are colored Terra Cotta and accented with turquoise, reminding all those who pass that they are in the Southwest.
The turnoff to Chaco Canyon was badly marked, and I spent a lot of time wandering in the ancient hills, looking for the park. Rain drove me back down to the freeway again, and on toward Gallup. Gallup is another Route 66 town not much marked by time. I spent my night at the El Rancho Hotel. I love their sign, "Charm of Yesterday; Convenience of Tomorrow." Of course, the hotel reached it's heyday in the late 40's and early 50's, so that convenience of tomorrow is about fifty years behind. But that's OK, the charm was all there. The El Rancho was the place where the movie stars of the 40's and 50's stayed while filming westerns. I walked up the curving staircase, knowing I was treading in the path of Katherine Hepburn, John Wayne, and Ronald Reagan. It was a 1950's vision of what the wild west should be, with curving stairs leading to a second floor gallery, a player piano in the lobby, and lots of wagon wheels and bull horns. My headboard was a wagon wheel, located nicely in the Errol Flynn room. Now, I had a very small single room, so I highly doubt Flynn ever graced it with his presence. Still, best sleep I had on the whole trip. I dined that night in the hotel's restaurant, with its kitschy decor and dubiously "authentic" Mexican menu. I settled on a grilled cheese and salad, as being from Houston makes me skeptical of Mexican food in other states.
I drove into Arizona the next day, singing along to Fleetwood Mac and enjoying the irony that the desert weather was cooler and more pleasant than that at home. I pulled into the Petrified Forest national park around 7:30 a.m., and was one of the first in the park. I can't begin to describe how incredible the Painted Desert canyon is. None of the pictures I took could do justice to the colors and variety of rock formations. I stopped to tour the Painted Desert Inn, perched above the canyon. It's no longer open for overnight stays, but I can only imagine that those who honeymooned there had a very hard time living up to the start to that marriage - how could anything else compare with that kind of setting?
I stopped at the Puerco Pueblo, a 900 year old shared living space, on a high mesa, within the park. I was the only one on that particular trail that early in the morning, and I might have been a little bit of a rule breaker, as I wandered off the path to stand inside the kiva that morning. Those who know me well know that I am a huge history geek, and there is nothing more thrilling to me than standing where others have stood and lived, and imagining their lives. I am always fascinated by how they are different from those I know in my time, and how we are all the same as human beings. Looking over the cliff, there was a rock sectioned off, and on it, there were petroglyphs. Ancient graffiti. I was looking at those etched images of dancers, lizards, people, and I was struck by the similarity between those marks and the spray painted artwork on the Cadillacs the day before. 900 years before, someone made those marks on the rocks. They had the same dreams of raising their children and living good lives with someone they love as the people at the Cadillac Ranch, and they had the same goal. To make a mark. To say "I was here." To say they loved someone. It's what we all do, every single day. We try to leave an impression of our brief and tiny lives on this planet. To leave our mark on the world, and on those we love. I'm not sure how long I stood there, impressed with these ancient artists, but I felt how real they were, and how they certainly had left a mark that stood through time. I thought about those whose marks were washed away by time and rain, and animals. But their spirits remained in the desert as well, telling a story if we care to listen, to how their lives weren't so different from ours. In this time, we overcomplicate our lives, load up with too much we don't need. Worry too much about things that don't matter, and forget about those that do. But at the heart of it all, we hope to leave something that commemorates our time on Earth. My spray painted words at the Cadillac Ranch have long since been covered up, so I'll have to leave my mark in other ways. On my friends, my family, my work and those things I love.To be continued....(because it's just getting too darn long).
Monday, June 11, 2012
Fifty Shades of Something
I am always on the look-out for a good read. When a good friend - a librarian no less - recommended a quick summer read, I jumped at the chance. I'd never heard of the book, because apparently I live in a bubble. Yeah, a work-kids-home-work again kind of bubble. So imagine my surprise when I mentioned it to a coworker and he said, "oh, you're reading that book." Wow...what literary hornet's nest have I uncovered this time?
The book, Fifty Shades of Gray, was one I had never heard of a week ago. As of today, I have heard countless others discuss it, and am baffled by the sheer excitement and whispers of guilty pleasure resounding around campus. Another co-worker practically beat me down to get the book when I was done.
To back up for a moment, I should preface this with the disclaimer from my librarian friend, who says she started skipping the sex scenes after a while. Since reading this book, I think she must have read a total of three pages, as the rest were all sex related. That's OK, I'm not opposed to a well-written sex scene if it furthers the plot. I suppose in this case, it could be said to be furthering the plot, but well written it was not. The entire book was a teenager's pulse racing inner dialogue, coupled with a consenting adult's best kept desires. Did I finish the book? Yes. Despite being put off by the writing style. Despite wondering where the author came up with the idea that a man at ANY age would be capable of those acrobatics. I finished the book . As stereotypical and badly painted as her characters were at times, there was a very real relationship between two people at the heart of the book. The interactions between two or more human beings are the very reasons any of us read any piece of fiction. Their e-mails, within the story, were the most compelling parts of the book. Because they were real, self-doubting, sometimes sexy and sometimes angry. Fifty shades of gray. Are any of us any less?
When I was younger, I used to wonder who I was. Am I the scholar or the clown? Am I adventurous or studious? Which path am I following in life? I spent a lot of time trying to figure that out, and I've spent some time lately reviewing those answers. In short, I am all of those things. I am more than just fifty shades of gray. I am all of those things, and none of those things. The sum of the parts is less than the whole. I've spent a lifetime wondering who I am, and am just now accepting that who I am in the moment is not necessarily who I was yesterday or who I will be tomorrow. I can be serious mom. Or silly best friend. Or efficient employee. Or moody person who just wants to be alone. All still me. More than fifty shades of me.
So, fifty shades of complicated in each of my friends. Our friendships are different from day to day - depending on who each of us is on that particular day and in that particular place. My relationships are mercurial and endlessly changing.
Fifty shades of curious where my path will take me tomorrow, and who I will be in that moment. Fifty shades of irritated that I am spending this long thinking about it.
I suppose I can say that Fifty Shades of Gray wasn't such a bad book, as it made me think. That's what a good novel does. I'll give it points for that.
Now, fifty shades of tired. I'm going to bed.
The book, Fifty Shades of Gray, was one I had never heard of a week ago. As of today, I have heard countless others discuss it, and am baffled by the sheer excitement and whispers of guilty pleasure resounding around campus. Another co-worker practically beat me down to get the book when I was done.
To back up for a moment, I should preface this with the disclaimer from my librarian friend, who says she started skipping the sex scenes after a while. Since reading this book, I think she must have read a total of three pages, as the rest were all sex related. That's OK, I'm not opposed to a well-written sex scene if it furthers the plot. I suppose in this case, it could be said to be furthering the plot, but well written it was not. The entire book was a teenager's pulse racing inner dialogue, coupled with a consenting adult's best kept desires. Did I finish the book? Yes. Despite being put off by the writing style. Despite wondering where the author came up with the idea that a man at ANY age would be capable of those acrobatics. I finished the book . As stereotypical and badly painted as her characters were at times, there was a very real relationship between two people at the heart of the book. The interactions between two or more human beings are the very reasons any of us read any piece of fiction. Their e-mails, within the story, were the most compelling parts of the book. Because they were real, self-doubting, sometimes sexy and sometimes angry. Fifty shades of gray. Are any of us any less?
When I was younger, I used to wonder who I was. Am I the scholar or the clown? Am I adventurous or studious? Which path am I following in life? I spent a lot of time trying to figure that out, and I've spent some time lately reviewing those answers. In short, I am all of those things. I am more than just fifty shades of gray. I am all of those things, and none of those things. The sum of the parts is less than the whole. I've spent a lifetime wondering who I am, and am just now accepting that who I am in the moment is not necessarily who I was yesterday or who I will be tomorrow. I can be serious mom. Or silly best friend. Or efficient employee. Or moody person who just wants to be alone. All still me. More than fifty shades of me.
So, fifty shades of complicated in each of my friends. Our friendships are different from day to day - depending on who each of us is on that particular day and in that particular place. My relationships are mercurial and endlessly changing.
Fifty shades of curious where my path will take me tomorrow, and who I will be in that moment. Fifty shades of irritated that I am spending this long thinking about it.
I suppose I can say that Fifty Shades of Gray wasn't such a bad book, as it made me think. That's what a good novel does. I'll give it points for that.
Now, fifty shades of tired. I'm going to bed.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Spring Cleaning
So, if nothing hammered home to me how different my life is as I've gotten older, it would be that the meaning of Spring Break has changed. Spring Break, once upon a time, meant I could stay up as late as I wanted and have a few drinks without the worry of getting up early for school or for work. Spring Break was about some adventure and some fun.
I'm in a different place in my life. Not that adventure and fun are behind me, it's just that I let them come more naturally these days. I figure enough opportunities come my way, and I won't turn those away when they knock. However, in the mean time, a break should be a break and I can use the time in myriad different ways. Today I am fluctuating between reading a book and cleaning my house.
It's Spring - and that always means a little bit of Spring cleaning. Time to sweep out the accumulation of winter's debris and make way for new life and new plans. I'm literally cleaning my house, getting rid of things that I don't need, donating items I can't use, and sweeping out the cobwebs and cat hair. At the same time, I'm spring cleaning other parts of my life.
It's been a hard winter for me. In short, I am coming up on the middle of my life, and I have finally accepted that I am not superhuman and cannot solve everyone's problems, be everything to everyone in my life, and say yes to every request. I will, ultimately, fail. I've been failing quietly the last several months - mostly failing myself, but occasionally my children and my work. By taking on too much, and by refusing to accept that there are human limitations, I have become exhausted, irritable, cranky, forgetful and slow. I've allowed relationships to lie half-dead and done nothing to either revive them nor put them out of their misery. And I have forgotten how much joy there can be in some of the smallest parts of the human experience.
Spring cleaning. I've cleaned out my kitchen. The refrigerator is sparkling, the pantry is organized, and the counters are decluttered. Gone are any products full of things not found in nature. My kitchen is a living place now, with food that is still at least partially alive. More than just no dead animals. No more products supporting the death of animals. And I will not apologize for feeling that way, or for feeding my family this way. Anyone who wants to live with me will have to accept that, just as I will accept if they choose to make a different decision when it's not my kitchen doing the cooking. We all have our own conscience...just not in my kitchen.
I will scrub my floors and begin sorting items for a garage sale. We're moving in the next month, and I want to start fresh with less clutter and less baggage. Growing up, we moved a lot. I never got to get comfortable in any one place, which was bad. But I had a lot of fresh starts and I dumped my baggage quite frequently. That was pretty good. I haven't had a chance in a while to reinvent myself or my life. It takes momentum to make change, and staying in the same place, surrounded by my own clutter and that of those who live with me, it's hard to find that momentum. Even the thought of moving makes me groan - it's hard to get out of a groove you've worn in over twelve years. I hate to think I'm stuck in a rut, but I am.
Once, many years ago, I babysat for a little girl. We were watching her dog in the back yard. Every day, he flipped his water dish three or four times, and every day I'd have to slog back out in the wet grass and refill it three or four times. I told him he was stuck in a rut and find something new to do for entertainment. So, when we were getting ready for her nap time and she chose her book, the little girl picked a new book. I was surprised, as she always wanted the same book before nap. She told me she didn't want to "suck a rat anymore." After I figured out that she was breaking out of her own rut, I laughed for a bit and complimented her on her decision to stop sucking that rat.
I need to stop sucking the rats.
So, it's time for some serious spring cleaning. Time to reinvent myself a little bit. Not change, just spiff up a little bit. It's the season of new life, after all.
I'm in a different place in my life. Not that adventure and fun are behind me, it's just that I let them come more naturally these days. I figure enough opportunities come my way, and I won't turn those away when they knock. However, in the mean time, a break should be a break and I can use the time in myriad different ways. Today I am fluctuating between reading a book and cleaning my house.
It's Spring - and that always means a little bit of Spring cleaning. Time to sweep out the accumulation of winter's debris and make way for new life and new plans. I'm literally cleaning my house, getting rid of things that I don't need, donating items I can't use, and sweeping out the cobwebs and cat hair. At the same time, I'm spring cleaning other parts of my life.
It's been a hard winter for me. In short, I am coming up on the middle of my life, and I have finally accepted that I am not superhuman and cannot solve everyone's problems, be everything to everyone in my life, and say yes to every request. I will, ultimately, fail. I've been failing quietly the last several months - mostly failing myself, but occasionally my children and my work. By taking on too much, and by refusing to accept that there are human limitations, I have become exhausted, irritable, cranky, forgetful and slow. I've allowed relationships to lie half-dead and done nothing to either revive them nor put them out of their misery. And I have forgotten how much joy there can be in some of the smallest parts of the human experience.
Spring cleaning. I've cleaned out my kitchen. The refrigerator is sparkling, the pantry is organized, and the counters are decluttered. Gone are any products full of things not found in nature. My kitchen is a living place now, with food that is still at least partially alive. More than just no dead animals. No more products supporting the death of animals. And I will not apologize for feeling that way, or for feeding my family this way. Anyone who wants to live with me will have to accept that, just as I will accept if they choose to make a different decision when it's not my kitchen doing the cooking. We all have our own conscience...just not in my kitchen.
I will scrub my floors and begin sorting items for a garage sale. We're moving in the next month, and I want to start fresh with less clutter and less baggage. Growing up, we moved a lot. I never got to get comfortable in any one place, which was bad. But I had a lot of fresh starts and I dumped my baggage quite frequently. That was pretty good. I haven't had a chance in a while to reinvent myself or my life. It takes momentum to make change, and staying in the same place, surrounded by my own clutter and that of those who live with me, it's hard to find that momentum. Even the thought of moving makes me groan - it's hard to get out of a groove you've worn in over twelve years. I hate to think I'm stuck in a rut, but I am.
Once, many years ago, I babysat for a little girl. We were watching her dog in the back yard. Every day, he flipped his water dish three or four times, and every day I'd have to slog back out in the wet grass and refill it three or four times. I told him he was stuck in a rut and find something new to do for entertainment. So, when we were getting ready for her nap time and she chose her book, the little girl picked a new book. I was surprised, as she always wanted the same book before nap. She told me she didn't want to "suck a rat anymore." After I figured out that she was breaking out of her own rut, I laughed for a bit and complimented her on her decision to stop sucking that rat.
I need to stop sucking the rats.
So, it's time for some serious spring cleaning. Time to reinvent myself a little bit. Not change, just spiff up a little bit. It's the season of new life, after all.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
January: BookFest 2012
It's been a rough start to a new year. All the signs might have been there, if I'd looked a little closer. Plague. Pestilence. I can't understand a single lyric from a Top 40 song. If that's not a signs of Armageddon, it should be. I've been plagued by birds, crazy people, hit by a car, and can't find my bank card. All of that could lead me to have a major hissy fit. Instead, I have chosen to wallow in fiction (and a little bit of non-fiction) instead. And this year, just for fun, I'm tracking what I read. Some are re-reads, some are guilty pleasures, and some will actually challenge me to think. When I'm not too tired for brain function, that is.
So, with January at a close, here were my reads for the first month of 2012, or at least some of them, since I didn't start keeping track until around the 20th of the month....
The Fault in Our Stars by John Green - recommended by a co-worker, and much enjoyed. Katie is reading this one now. I do love a good young adult book. I read most of this one in one evening, realized it was 1:30 a.m., put it down, turned off the light, and couldn't sleep. 2:00 a.m., I had to finish the book, because it was haunting me. It haunted me after I was through as well. I'll reread this one.
Looking for Alaska also by John Green - recommended by me, because I loved the first one I read of his so much. It was well written, and I liked the characters. Not as much as the first, but still a good read.
Paper Towns - yeah, also by John Green. Sue me - my kids were sick, and I was on a roll. I liked this one almost as much as Fault in Our Stars. The characters were quirky, and I love a good road trip story.
This Beautiful Life by Helen Schulman. This one was based on a true story. Not terribly great writing, but a compelling story. Not so much about the well-known case that was in the papers, but about what happened to a family as a result of one bad decision. I have kids - it scared me a little to see how quickly a life could be ruined. Or a whole family and all of their lives. One bad decision. Ouch.
Punished by Vanessa Steel. Disappointing. It was a rushed telling of a story of abuse. Nothing more to say.
Always to Remember by Lorraine Heath. Nome de Plume of a friend of mine; we used to be in the same writer's group many, many years ago. I read this when she first published it in the early 90's, and recently noticed that it was available for Kindle. So, I indulged myself. While basically a romance, it was so much more than that. I love the idea that courage isn't necessarily about a big, loud show of action. Sometimes true courage walks in silence. In the faces of women sending their men to war. In the actions of a man doing what he believes is right, even in the face of violence. Good re-read.
Speaking of good re-reads. I picked up Good Omens by Neil Gaimon and re-read it one day last weekend. Fabulous. Simply a fun, good read. Who would have thought the end of the world could be so entertaining. The Antichrist and his buddies off to saves the world, and they didn't even know it. From chattering nuns to hell hounds named Dog. Awesome clever.
Collapse by Jared Diamond. How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed is the subtitle. Like with his previous book, Guns, Germs and Steel, Diamond gets to the heart of the matter - human nature doesn't change. We can change locations, times, weather..all manner of details. Essentially, people are still people. None of his ideas were startling or new, but it was well-told, with several well-made points about civilization now and in the past. Took me a while to get through this one.
On Chesil Beach by Ian Mcewan. Like always, his attention to character development and motivation was incredibly detailed. But there was something about this tale that irritated me. I know, the very point of "if only" was integral to the plot. But I wanted to shake both of them. If only they had been born a few years later. If only they had felt free to say what each was thinking. If only he'd followed her sooner. If only. They were immature, and their story ultimately ends in unhappiness, because they couldn't communicate with one another. I did enjoy the attention to the time period's details though. This was the era in which my parents married. Gave me some insights there.
A Midsummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare. I don't really need to explain this one, right? Katie's reading it for a class assignment. Her comments made me want to re-read a favorite.
Songs for the Missing by Stewart O'Nan. This was also recommended by a co-worker. (Note to self: congratulate self on acquiring a co-worker with good literary taste.) This story was well-told, though perhaps not what I expected when I first began reading. Despite a missing girl and a possibility of foul play, the real story centers on her family. As in This Beautiful Life, the theme is really about how lives affect one another and what happens to those connected to tragedy. The human triumph is in our ability to keep going and keep living. I saw a dance performance this month also based around this theme - the human endurance and capacity for love after loss. Amazing. O'Nan's deceptively simple writing was amazing as well.
Weetzy Bat by Francesca Lia Block. This one looked so promising and the reviews were so nice. It seemed like a quirky coming of age story. I like those. This was quirky. And weird. And poorly written. And full of strange sequences of events, and names that don't make sense. When I was done reading it, I had the realization that reading this book must be a written rendition of what it is like to trip on acid. Now I am even less inclined to drop acid. I wasn't inclined before, but I'm less inclined now.
Jerusalem Maiden by Talia Carner. Recommended by a parent at school. I enjoyed this story thoroughly. I like putting myself outside of my own cultural constructs. It's hard enough for any child to break free of parent expectations and culturally accepted ideas. For the protagonist in this story, living in early 20th century Jerusalem, the idea of choosing a life as a single artist is unheard of. It was a well-told tale of someone living the life they choose, no matter what, and the difficult choices along the way. Good read.
And that brings me to the books queued in my Kindle. The Cobra Event by Richard Preston. The Coming Plague by Laurie Garrett. I figured with the world ending this year and all, I ought to get a leg up on what could happen. Figured I'd start with the plague. I'll look for some good books on earthquakes next.
So, with January at a close, here were my reads for the first month of 2012, or at least some of them, since I didn't start keeping track until around the 20th of the month....
The Fault in Our Stars by John Green - recommended by a co-worker, and much enjoyed. Katie is reading this one now. I do love a good young adult book. I read most of this one in one evening, realized it was 1:30 a.m., put it down, turned off the light, and couldn't sleep. 2:00 a.m., I had to finish the book, because it was haunting me. It haunted me after I was through as well. I'll reread this one.
Looking for Alaska also by John Green - recommended by me, because I loved the first one I read of his so much. It was well written, and I liked the characters. Not as much as the first, but still a good read.
Paper Towns - yeah, also by John Green. Sue me - my kids were sick, and I was on a roll. I liked this one almost as much as Fault in Our Stars. The characters were quirky, and I love a good road trip story.
This Beautiful Life by Helen Schulman. This one was based on a true story. Not terribly great writing, but a compelling story. Not so much about the well-known case that was in the papers, but about what happened to a family as a result of one bad decision. I have kids - it scared me a little to see how quickly a life could be ruined. Or a whole family and all of their lives. One bad decision. Ouch.
Punished by Vanessa Steel. Disappointing. It was a rushed telling of a story of abuse. Nothing more to say.
Always to Remember by Lorraine Heath. Nome de Plume of a friend of mine; we used to be in the same writer's group many, many years ago. I read this when she first published it in the early 90's, and recently noticed that it was available for Kindle. So, I indulged myself. While basically a romance, it was so much more than that. I love the idea that courage isn't necessarily about a big, loud show of action. Sometimes true courage walks in silence. In the faces of women sending their men to war. In the actions of a man doing what he believes is right, even in the face of violence. Good re-read.
Speaking of good re-reads. I picked up Good Omens by Neil Gaimon and re-read it one day last weekend. Fabulous. Simply a fun, good read. Who would have thought the end of the world could be so entertaining. The Antichrist and his buddies off to saves the world, and they didn't even know it. From chattering nuns to hell hounds named Dog. Awesome clever.
Collapse by Jared Diamond. How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed is the subtitle. Like with his previous book, Guns, Germs and Steel, Diamond gets to the heart of the matter - human nature doesn't change. We can change locations, times, weather..all manner of details. Essentially, people are still people. None of his ideas were startling or new, but it was well-told, with several well-made points about civilization now and in the past. Took me a while to get through this one.
On Chesil Beach by Ian Mcewan. Like always, his attention to character development and motivation was incredibly detailed. But there was something about this tale that irritated me. I know, the very point of "if only" was integral to the plot. But I wanted to shake both of them. If only they had been born a few years later. If only they had felt free to say what each was thinking. If only he'd followed her sooner. If only. They were immature, and their story ultimately ends in unhappiness, because they couldn't communicate with one another. I did enjoy the attention to the time period's details though. This was the era in which my parents married. Gave me some insights there.
A Midsummer Night's Dream by William Shakespeare. I don't really need to explain this one, right? Katie's reading it for a class assignment. Her comments made me want to re-read a favorite.
Songs for the Missing by Stewart O'Nan. This was also recommended by a co-worker. (Note to self: congratulate self on acquiring a co-worker with good literary taste.) This story was well-told, though perhaps not what I expected when I first began reading. Despite a missing girl and a possibility of foul play, the real story centers on her family. As in This Beautiful Life, the theme is really about how lives affect one another and what happens to those connected to tragedy. The human triumph is in our ability to keep going and keep living. I saw a dance performance this month also based around this theme - the human endurance and capacity for love after loss. Amazing. O'Nan's deceptively simple writing was amazing as well.
Weetzy Bat by Francesca Lia Block. This one looked so promising and the reviews were so nice. It seemed like a quirky coming of age story. I like those. This was quirky. And weird. And poorly written. And full of strange sequences of events, and names that don't make sense. When I was done reading it, I had the realization that reading this book must be a written rendition of what it is like to trip on acid. Now I am even less inclined to drop acid. I wasn't inclined before, but I'm less inclined now.
Jerusalem Maiden by Talia Carner. Recommended by a parent at school. I enjoyed this story thoroughly. I like putting myself outside of my own cultural constructs. It's hard enough for any child to break free of parent expectations and culturally accepted ideas. For the protagonist in this story, living in early 20th century Jerusalem, the idea of choosing a life as a single artist is unheard of. It was a well-told tale of someone living the life they choose, no matter what, and the difficult choices along the way. Good read.
And that brings me to the books queued in my Kindle. The Cobra Event by Richard Preston. The Coming Plague by Laurie Garrett. I figured with the world ending this year and all, I ought to get a leg up on what could happen. Figured I'd start with the plague. I'll look for some good books on earthquakes next.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
It's Not the Years, It's the Miles
I was standing in line with my daughter, checking out today. I had given in, possibly foolishly, and bought her a new book. I say foolishly for two reasons, a) I have this book on my kindle, but am disinclined to hand over my ipad after seeing how she treats her own electronics and b) she has a lot of studying to do and I know that book will sing its siren call to her. But, whether it is foolish or not, I bought her the book. She told afterward that a good friend had read the same book recently and an adult was shocked that someone their age would want to read said book, because they couldn't possibly understand it at their age. Katie asked me, knowing I had already read this book, whether or not this was true. I answered as truthfully as I could:
Read this book now, and you'll enjoy it, and you'll get a lot out of it. Read it again in ten years, and you'll get a lot more out of it.
I find this to be true over and over in my own life. Rereading the books of my childhood is a great pleasure, because it's getting to know an old friend all over again, and finding out new and fascinating things they had never revealed to you before. Reading books means bringing in your own life experiences, and the older I get, the more experiences I can bring to the table.
My brother is fond of saying that I was born an old lady, and have learned to embrace childhood as an adult. He's probably right. I was too busy learning Algebra at six to have much time left for making childhood memories. My parents did what they thought was right for me, and they embraced the old lady they'd been given, never realizing the value in the rites of childhood and all the life experiences they bring to the party going on in the brain. But the memories I do have of doing foolish children's activities are some of my best memories ever. Books were my window to the wider world, and inspired some of my best adventures.
After reading Huckleberry Finn, a friend and I once built a raft and floated it down part of the Cahaba River. Wish I'd remembered I couldn't swim before we pushed off from shore. But I lived through it. I started my own Pickwick Portfolio after reading Jo's adventures in Little Women. Encyclopedia Brown taught me that there wasn't a mystery that I couldn't solve with a little ingenuity and some dusting powder. Too bad the powder from my mom's make-up drawer wasn't such a good substitute. I ran away from home once with clothes tied to a stick. Yeah, that was pretty stupid. It might have been related to the dusting powder incident, come to think of it.
Yet, all of those misadventures contributed to the person I am today. So did the less planned adventures: friends who died, my first drinking binge, my first disastrous relationship, moving thirteen times in sixteen years, parties on the lake and smoking in a friend's basement, getting married, falling in love and falling out of love, having children, manning up and fixing my own problems, and a whole lot of sobbing in between.
So, I revisit a favorite childhood book, and all of the baggage, all that messy crap, it comes with me and crawls back into the pages of the story with me. I see more of the characters, and I understand them a little better. Sometimes I think now, "god you're such an idiot, don't be nice, just chop his freaking head off!" Altruistic acts often seem a lot less romantic to me these days, because they seem to come back to bite more than just storybook characters in the butt.
I can't say it's because I'm crawling through the fourth decade of my life that I have these experiences - I learned some pretty difficult lessons pretty early on. And I don't think much of chronological age these days - I can have a great conversation with my teenage daughter, or my septuagenarian friend. Sometimes what we have in common is an experience, and sometimes that's what we admire about one another.
I encourage my kids to read what they can, whenever they can (well, as long as they keep up their school work). Get what they can from the books now, plan to visit again later. But keep their eyes open for the real experiences happening outside the pages of a book as well. It's the miles we put on that really make the stories worthwhile.
Read this book now, and you'll enjoy it, and you'll get a lot out of it. Read it again in ten years, and you'll get a lot more out of it.
I find this to be true over and over in my own life. Rereading the books of my childhood is a great pleasure, because it's getting to know an old friend all over again, and finding out new and fascinating things they had never revealed to you before. Reading books means bringing in your own life experiences, and the older I get, the more experiences I can bring to the table.
My brother is fond of saying that I was born an old lady, and have learned to embrace childhood as an adult. He's probably right. I was too busy learning Algebra at six to have much time left for making childhood memories. My parents did what they thought was right for me, and they embraced the old lady they'd been given, never realizing the value in the rites of childhood and all the life experiences they bring to the party going on in the brain. But the memories I do have of doing foolish children's activities are some of my best memories ever. Books were my window to the wider world, and inspired some of my best adventures.
After reading Huckleberry Finn, a friend and I once built a raft and floated it down part of the Cahaba River. Wish I'd remembered I couldn't swim before we pushed off from shore. But I lived through it. I started my own Pickwick Portfolio after reading Jo's adventures in Little Women. Encyclopedia Brown taught me that there wasn't a mystery that I couldn't solve with a little ingenuity and some dusting powder. Too bad the powder from my mom's make-up drawer wasn't such a good substitute. I ran away from home once with clothes tied to a stick. Yeah, that was pretty stupid. It might have been related to the dusting powder incident, come to think of it.
Yet, all of those misadventures contributed to the person I am today. So did the less planned adventures: friends who died, my first drinking binge, my first disastrous relationship, moving thirteen times in sixteen years, parties on the lake and smoking in a friend's basement, getting married, falling in love and falling out of love, having children, manning up and fixing my own problems, and a whole lot of sobbing in between.
So, I revisit a favorite childhood book, and all of the baggage, all that messy crap, it comes with me and crawls back into the pages of the story with me. I see more of the characters, and I understand them a little better. Sometimes I think now, "god you're such an idiot, don't be nice, just chop his freaking head off!" Altruistic acts often seem a lot less romantic to me these days, because they seem to come back to bite more than just storybook characters in the butt.
I can't say it's because I'm crawling through the fourth decade of my life that I have these experiences - I learned some pretty difficult lessons pretty early on. And I don't think much of chronological age these days - I can have a great conversation with my teenage daughter, or my septuagenarian friend. Sometimes what we have in common is an experience, and sometimes that's what we admire about one another.
I encourage my kids to read what they can, whenever they can (well, as long as they keep up their school work). Get what they can from the books now, plan to visit again later. But keep their eyes open for the real experiences happening outside the pages of a book as well. It's the miles we put on that really make the stories worthwhile.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
2012: Not as Ominous as it Sounds
So, it's a brand-new year. 2012. Foretold by some as the year the world will end. Not going to worry about that, as the world will end when it ends, and nothing I do will change that in one way or another. Yes, I'm all about saving our planet, but I meant by recycling. Giant catastrophe? All I've got to offer is prayer. So, moving on to celebrate a new year, and not to worry about what might or might not happen. Disaster can strike ANY year. And no one can predict what will happen with any degree of certainty. 2011 was full of enough tragedy, thank you very much, all around the world. It was full of moments of loss, and full of moments of joy. Just the way that life is meant to be. Without the one, we can't appreciate the true beauty of the other.
2011, when I lost old friends and said goodbye to some people I loved. The year I reminded myself that sometimes doing the right thing means hurting someone you care about, and then forced myself to do it anyway. The year I started to realize how painful the letting go part of parenting can be - and how badly I suck at that part. The year I reminded myself that I'm not as smart as I think I am, about 99.9% of the time.
It was also the year I realized how right my grandmother was - the older you get, the faster time flies by. When I was younger, I wished time to fly. I wished away hours, days and months. Now I just wish for them to stretch out a little longer, to enjoy just a few more hours every day of having children at home, a job that I generally enjoy, a memory that hasn't failed completely yet, nor eyesight that plays tricks on me.
Time. As the New Year begins, I know some of what lies ahead. Katie will leave St. Francis, where she has spent her entire life, and move on to high school. No longer riding in with me every day, but more independent and growing up, just as is intended. Elizabeth will move into Middle School life - sports, dances, parties and social heartbreak. My work has changed, and I stand on the precipice of creating something new - it's exciting and scary all at the same time. I've spent three years laying the groundwork, and I'm about to watch it all start to unfold. Success or failure - it will all fall on me. Scares the crap out of me sometimes. Time will fly by faster and faster.
I'll watch another 8th grade class graduate, and this year when I cry, it will be all the more for my own child and for the first class I taught full-time. Sixteen of those 84 kids started in my preschool classroom. Sometimes I want to smack some of them, because I've known them their entire lives and they're acting like idiots. Most of the time, I'm so incredibly proud of the people they have become.
As one group exits, I'll watch another group start school for the first time. New faces to learn, new smiles to know and same old problems every year, that all kids have in common. I will apply bandaids, break up fights, chase down crying girls in bathrooms, and at some point will threaten to glue at least one little boy to a chair if he doesn't sit down and leave his neighbor alone. The familiar comfort of knowing that children are the same no matter what else happens and changes in this fast-paced world.
It will be conflicting as I watch my children grow older and wiser, and my parents grow another year older and well...just older and smaller.
What does a year hold? Oh, about 220 days of work. About 330 dinners cooked. 50 dance classes. 100 runs to gymnastics class. Soccer games, volleyball matches, dance recitals, plays, choir performances, parties, sleepovers, and last minute study sessions. Weekly bouts of tears, from both the kids and from me.
I will hire new part-time employees, and watch others move on to better options. It'll irritate me for a moment, because I'm left in the lurch, and then I'm satisfied knowing I helped a young teacher find a promising position or a new graduate find their place in a bigger world. I don't just nurture the students, but also my part-time instructors. It's nice to know I've helped some of them find the right path. I've probably helped a few of them onto the wrong path as well, but they're nice enough not to come back and point that out.
I will clean my house too many times to count, but it'll never be often (or thorough) enough. C'est la vie. I will put 10,000 miles on my car. I will drink over 10,000 ounces of diet coke, and I will say that I should break this addiction, but probably won't. And I'm not too worried about it. I will see at least 20 movies, and will have at least 30 more I never made the time to see. I will TeeVo hours of television I never make time to watch.
I don't make resolutions - the above are just observations based on past history. What I will promise to myself is that I will try harder, laugh more, and really, really, really try to hold my criticism when talking to my irrational adolescent children. I will love with complete abandon, because those I love can be gone from my life for myriad reasons, with no warning. 2011 showed me that. I will try to praise those around me more - the hardest thing of all. I don't like being praised, so it's hard for me to remember that other people DO like it. And I will learn at least three new things this year. They don't have to be big things, just three new things. Because the day I stop learning, is the day I stop living.
Time will continue to march on - what I make of it is my responsibility. Joy or disaster, it's up to me to make the most of what I get.
Happy New Year.
2011, when I lost old friends and said goodbye to some people I loved. The year I reminded myself that sometimes doing the right thing means hurting someone you care about, and then forced myself to do it anyway. The year I started to realize how painful the letting go part of parenting can be - and how badly I suck at that part. The year I reminded myself that I'm not as smart as I think I am, about 99.9% of the time.
It was also the year I realized how right my grandmother was - the older you get, the faster time flies by. When I was younger, I wished time to fly. I wished away hours, days and months. Now I just wish for them to stretch out a little longer, to enjoy just a few more hours every day of having children at home, a job that I generally enjoy, a memory that hasn't failed completely yet, nor eyesight that plays tricks on me.
Time. As the New Year begins, I know some of what lies ahead. Katie will leave St. Francis, where she has spent her entire life, and move on to high school. No longer riding in with me every day, but more independent and growing up, just as is intended. Elizabeth will move into Middle School life - sports, dances, parties and social heartbreak. My work has changed, and I stand on the precipice of creating something new - it's exciting and scary all at the same time. I've spent three years laying the groundwork, and I'm about to watch it all start to unfold. Success or failure - it will all fall on me. Scares the crap out of me sometimes. Time will fly by faster and faster.
I'll watch another 8th grade class graduate, and this year when I cry, it will be all the more for my own child and for the first class I taught full-time. Sixteen of those 84 kids started in my preschool classroom. Sometimes I want to smack some of them, because I've known them their entire lives and they're acting like idiots. Most of the time, I'm so incredibly proud of the people they have become.
As one group exits, I'll watch another group start school for the first time. New faces to learn, new smiles to know and same old problems every year, that all kids have in common. I will apply bandaids, break up fights, chase down crying girls in bathrooms, and at some point will threaten to glue at least one little boy to a chair if he doesn't sit down and leave his neighbor alone. The familiar comfort of knowing that children are the same no matter what else happens and changes in this fast-paced world.
It will be conflicting as I watch my children grow older and wiser, and my parents grow another year older and well...just older and smaller.
What does a year hold? Oh, about 220 days of work. About 330 dinners cooked. 50 dance classes. 100 runs to gymnastics class. Soccer games, volleyball matches, dance recitals, plays, choir performances, parties, sleepovers, and last minute study sessions. Weekly bouts of tears, from both the kids and from me.
I will hire new part-time employees, and watch others move on to better options. It'll irritate me for a moment, because I'm left in the lurch, and then I'm satisfied knowing I helped a young teacher find a promising position or a new graduate find their place in a bigger world. I don't just nurture the students, but also my part-time instructors. It's nice to know I've helped some of them find the right path. I've probably helped a few of them onto the wrong path as well, but they're nice enough not to come back and point that out.
I will clean my house too many times to count, but it'll never be often (or thorough) enough. C'est la vie. I will put 10,000 miles on my car. I will drink over 10,000 ounces of diet coke, and I will say that I should break this addiction, but probably won't. And I'm not too worried about it. I will see at least 20 movies, and will have at least 30 more I never made the time to see. I will TeeVo hours of television I never make time to watch.
I don't make resolutions - the above are just observations based on past history. What I will promise to myself is that I will try harder, laugh more, and really, really, really try to hold my criticism when talking to my irrational adolescent children. I will love with complete abandon, because those I love can be gone from my life for myriad reasons, with no warning. 2011 showed me that. I will try to praise those around me more - the hardest thing of all. I don't like being praised, so it's hard for me to remember that other people DO like it. And I will learn at least three new things this year. They don't have to be big things, just three new things. Because the day I stop learning, is the day I stop living.
Time will continue to march on - what I make of it is my responsibility. Joy or disaster, it's up to me to make the most of what I get.
Happy New Year.
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