Sibling left behind

I just finished watching The Kids Are All Right. As movies go, it's okay. Not worth the Oscar nomination, but it was ... alright.

The final scene throttled me. It had nothing to do with the relationship between the mothers - which had been damaged - nor between the mothers and their daughter. It was between the younger brother and the sister going off to college. "It's going to be weird not having you around," he said. It was not entirely a throw-away line, but not a line of great heft in the grand scheme of the movie.

A pit formed in my gut and I almost started crying. Suddenly, for the first time ever, I had immense sorrow for my little brother and what he must have felt when I left for college. He was left alone with Mom and Dad for the first time in his life. When he had a shitty day and couldn't share the details with our parents, the only family member who he could turn to in the moment was no longer there. His most important peer relative wasn't there for him anymore. He must have felt lonely at the beginning. Especially since my leaving for college coincided with my family moving to another city altogether where he had to build a base of friends from scratch. Ugh. Poor kid.

I'd never really thought of how it must have felt for him because I'd never confronted it. I feel pretty strongly that people should take time in their lives to leave the confines of their family unit and develop their own interests; that it's important to one's own identity. I always looked at my personal growth experiences from, well, my point of view. It never really occurred to me how they made people other than my parents feel. Not that I necessarily would have altered direction had I sensed the loneliness that my brother probably felt - heck, he, almost more than anyone, has always been very encouraging of me pursuing my own "thing"! - but I just wish I would've had the maturity and empathy to see from his point of view, when I was 18 and leaving home. I wish I would've had them to see from his point of view as an adult.

Part of the reason I was blind to his feelings - assuming they were what I think they were - was because I have no notion of what it's like to have an older sibling. I'm the oldest. I turned to my little brother for love and support when we were growing up, but I didn't look to him for guidance, per se. That's still the case, today, for the most part. I think he probably sought that from me, because I was older. I was the buffer between him and my parents: the one that would spout "wisdom," but without the threat of punishment and with softer, or no, judgment than what my parents would've doled out. I got none of that. If I needed family guidance, I got it from Mom and Dad and if I was judged, I was judged. Because I never had that buffer, it never occurred to me that other people have it and that they might miss it. You don't know to miss what you never had.

This realization takes on more resonance for me right now, because I've had a very emotionally rocky year with my brother. There has been an (avoidable) occurrence that has put more strain on our relationship than anything ever before. We're handling it like grown-ups (I think), but it's been tremendously painful for me, and I'm pretty sure, for him, too. I don't know that the turbulence is over. In fact, in some ways, recent circumstances have made things more emotionally complicated (on my end, at least). I'm carrying a ton of unresolved pain and I worry that if I tell him exactly how agonized I am, then it'll just push him away; and then I worry that if I don't tell him how crushed I am, then he'll just drift farther away. Either scenario seems horrible to me and I effectively lose my brother, one of my top 5 favorite people on the planet.

For now, I'm keeping my mouth shut and hoping we can just work through this and all the hurt will eventually scab over and we can start anew, as it were. Imagining his grief at my leaving the house is good for me. Not out of schadenfreude or anything, but because it helps me think of ways I can relate to him, better. And hopefully heal.

photo courtesy ToobyDoo, Flickr Creative Commons

In Vinto Veritas: Homesick

It's one of those nights again: I've had a little too much wine.

And it's that time of year again: when I truly pine for Texas. It's Springtime. That means South by Southwest in Austin in March and Fiesta San Antonio in April. Neither of which I've been to, but each of which I'd love to. SXSW is more on my bucket list than Fiesta, but I've been curious about Fiesta and all the ensuing pageantry since I was a little girl.

I've also been curious to see Las Posadas in San Antonio since I was a little girl, too. It's the Christmas story told on the Riverwalk. From what I understand, Joseph and Mary float down the Riverwalk seeking shelter from those along the river. I'm not sure where it ends. But who cares? It's a Mexican tradition. And a Texas tradition.

So many Texas traditions I've not yet been a part of: Fiesta San Antonio, SXSW, Las Posadas, Tyler Rose Festival, Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo, Fort Worth Stockyards Parade ... and I'm sure there are more. I just can't think of them all in my state: slightly inebriated and estranged from Texas for a decade.

Nonetheless, Spring is when the stirrings of homesickness begin. Probably with SXSW; just because I've been wanting to go since I was a young teen and first learned of it. Long before there was the film festival; long before the digital/interactive aspect. Back when it was just music. Indie music, at that. Not because I've ever been a great connoisseur of music trends, but because when you're 15 and live in the geographical middle of nowhere - where the local station (the only one for 100 miles, no kidding) plays only big band and bad country - you cling to every shred of anything that is unconventional. I have friends in Austin, which means I see the daily SXSW update on their Facebook feeds; I have friends who frequent SXSW, which means the same. And each time I read them, the 15-year-old still inside me who felt ike such a mis-fit - the rectangular peg in the oval hole of her small town (yes, I meant that) - tingles with a dash of envy and excitement.

There's also the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo. A few years ago, my brother, on a whim, asked if I wanted to come down for a Robert Earl Keen concert at the Livestock Show. ... in case you haven't guessed: it's not a one-day event. It's several. It's huge. It's typically in February, which technically isn't Spring, but in Houston - yeah it is. I couldn't go. But I would've LOVED to. I love REK. And I luuuurrve my brother. Robert Earl Keen performing and me and my brother downing Shiner Bocks and whooping along would've been a fuckin' awesome night!

City festivals aside, there is also the blooming of Texas' flowers in Spring that lures my fancy. Whether the Honeysuckle that grew on our fence in the Panhandle - a scent which can still bring me great comfort, to this day - or the bluebonnets that start to sprout in the desert and central part of the state, or the tall yucca, or the little yellow dollops of sunshine along the roadsides in West Texas that a friend of ours used to call "Bouncing Betties," the local flora blooming brought me joy. As a teenager, I used to pluck the wild bluebonnets that grew in our yard and wear them in my hair.

And then there's the torrential weather. Great beauty cannot come without great torment. I am terrified of tornadoes. I won't lie. Less so than say, tsunamis or earthquakes, but probably because I grew up with a killer threat from the sky. But you know it's Spring in Texas when you've got torrential downpours and micro bursts and tornado warnings one day and then the most glorious God-kissed skies you could ever imagine for the next three days. We had a tornado warning here the other day, but I didn't bat an eye, because I know the tornadoes on the East Coast don't take you to Oz. They don't even take you to the neighborhood bar. The torrential weather in Texas doesn't take you to Oz. It's crazy enough that it brings Oz to you. I don't miss the storms. But I do miss the gorgeousness otherwise.

I miss the Spring in Texas: when things are just waking up and laughing. When the end of school is just weeks away. When Spring Break - typically the first or second week of March - is warm enough that you can stay put and it'll still feel like Spring: sunny and warmth a-breakin'. Except for in the Panhandle, where it's kind of hit or miss. Spring, when UIL One-Act plays around the state are being competed, as are other UIL academic competitions: it's like March Madness for nerds!

I don't know if I would still be homesick if friends didn't Tweet and Facebook from SXSW. Or if they didn't email me pictures of them in endless fields of bluebonnets when the trees are still barren here. Or if I didn't know that that by this Easter, the schoolkids of Texas would be counting down only 4 or 5 weeks to their summer escape, when the kids here still had 8 - 10 weeks to go. (I'm seriously in touch with my inner 4th-grader!) But I know these things; I receive these things. And so, I get a touch of homesickness.

March 2nd was Texas Independence Day. It's a day I don't recall commemorating much in Texas (at least not beyond the sesqui-centennial in 1986), but one that has carried more importance to me since I've lived on the East Coast. I ended up taking my daughter to a Texas-themed restaurant for lunch to celebrate. It's a poor facsimile, but we made do. And it was a warm blanket around my shoulders on that chilly day. It was my pretend Spring Break in my pretend Home. And I genuinely liked it for the little time I got to have.

Reluctant Thanks ... and all the guilt.

This is what happens when I can't sleep ...

Twenty-five years ago, yesterday, the father of one of my favorite childhood friends was murdered. He was a cop, just off duty, on his way home. He spotted an accident, moments after it occurred, and he pulled over to help. The driver and passenger were out of the car, and as he approached them, asking if they were okay, one of them shot him in the chest. What he didn't know was that they were fleeing a robbery. They'd just knocked over a convenience store, if I remember correctly. They panicked when they saw a police officer approaching. The perpetrators were caught within a few hours. They were convicted and a few years later, one of them was executed. (The trigger-man, I always presumed, though I don't recall.) This memory is a big, multi-faceted one for me. One of the facets of that memory for me was that he died on Veterans' Day and he was a VietNam vet.

Yesterday, when many people had the day off, and everyone was thanking vets on Facebook and Twitter and in memorial services for their service, my thoughts turned to my friend's dad. He died serving his fellow man. Not as a soldier, not even as a cop (since he was off-duty), but as a concerned citizen. We thank his military service with Veterans' Day, but how do we thank his civil service or his citizen service?

Veterans' Day is frequently a hard one for me to wrap around. Probably largely because I carry a lot of ambivalence about the role of our military in our country. It's also probably hard for me to process Veterans' Day during wartime. And, I guess, I'm a little annoyed that we don't really publicly recognize the service of others in our society with even half as much appreciation. When is Teachers' Day, Clergy Day, EMT Day, Coal-miners' Day, Water Sanitation Provider Day? These people rarely die in the execution of their jobs, but they educate you, comfort you, keep your heart pumping, keep your house fueled and keep you from getting cholera on a daily basis. And each comes with its unique set of skills and training. Where are their honors in rhetoric and mall sales?

When I consider the training that goes into being a military service member and the discipline that it instills, I'm nothing less than impressed. When I consider the time away from family that we demand of our service members in the service of military goals, I am sympathetic. When I consider the physical conditions our service members endure during war time and other times of conflict - and I suspect my imagination is a paltry shadow of what they actually endure - I am, indeed, grateful that they are trained and willing to go through that on my behalf. (Seriously. Thank you!) And when a military service member dies in battle, or while serving, I am humbled and thankful for their sacrifice. Because of all this, my gratefulness to our veterans is genuine. Heck, even as I write it, I become more acutely aware of how grateful I am for those who served and have served in the military. Wow. Thank you, Vets!

I suppose my ambivalence, then, is about how and when to say thank you, and why. A few years ago, I was on a bus when a man in Army fatigues stepped on. A mother, with a toddler, instructed her child to say "Thank You" to him for his service. He accepted the thanks. But I couldn't help wonder: she doesn't know what this guy's career has looked like; she doesn't know if this guy has seen frontline, or even backline combat; even if he has, she doesn't know exactly how he comported himself there. While I am grateful to our military service members as a collective, I don't know how each of them behaves as an individual representing me. Though, I think it's fair to say that the vaaaaassst majority of military service members behave honorably, and within codes of conduct, how do I know a random stranger in uniform is the paragon of integrity?

My favorite childhood friend's father was a policeman who died helping people. And I trust that the vast majority of police officers in this country honor their badges and their communities. However, a dear, dear friend of mine was also raped by a cop. He did time and lost his badge, thankfully. But I'm sure there are other crooked cops out there who get away with this crap, frequently. I am terribly thankful to our police force for keeping us safe. Seriously, as much as I hate getting tickets, I am so grateful that there are people who enforce the rule of law. But do we teach our children to say thank you to police officers for their service when we just see them randomly on the street? Maybe some do, but I don't know that it's as broadly accepted a convention as thanking random military service members. And if we do, then when we thank the random cop, are we thanking one like my friend's dad, or are we thanking one like my friend's rapist? We never know a stranger's back story or past deeds. Thanking a stranger, based on his or her profession seems kind of hollow to me. (And again, my annoyance: no stranger has ever thanked my mom for being a teacher, nor my dad for being clergy, and I wouldn't be surprised if no stranger has ever randomly thanked my mother in law for being a nurse.)

I consider myself a patriot: I dutifully pay my taxes, without whining (I'm actually okay with paying for services my government provides - like roads, libraries and the military!) I vote in most elections, I even contact my representatives when an issue moves me enough. But I don't thank random strangers for their military service, just because I see evidence of their service. I feel guilty about lacking that impulse. Like I'm an ungrateful, bad citizen.

Honey served in the military for several years, and occasionally, when someone learns of this, they might thank him. The last time I remember someone thanking him was at a wedding last year. It was a table-mate; someone we didn't know and were just chit-chatting with. I later asked Honey what he thinks when strangers thank him for his service. He always graciously accepts the thanks, but he's ambivalent, too. He told me he's known plenty of people in the service who are assholes, who do the bare minimum, who you wouldn't necessarily be proud to have defending you, if you really knew them, so he kind of sees the random thanks as less meaningful. Along the same lines, a friend of mine who spent the 80s and 90s in the Air Force addressed the thanks he got on Facebook with self-deprecating humor: All I really did was drink a lot and learn to swear in foreign languages. I'm sure he did more than that, but the point I take from that is that not everyone in uniform saw combat and defended in the sense that we like to imagine. More significant to me was the rest of his response: But thanks. It means a lot. I haven't asked him, so I don't know, but I took this to mean that the thanks is meaningful because it comes from a friend. This isn't an apples to apples comparison, but random people on the street have congratulated me on having a new baby. I accept it, but their congratulations means far less to me than that of friends and family.

I should divorce my dislike of thanking random vets for their service from my desire to thank the collective. It's not fair to my friends and family who have served honorably in whatever capacity. I am a "partly cloudy patriot." I'll admit it. (Incidentally, if anyone wants to get me that book - or that other newer one Sarah Vowell wrote - you'd definitely get a huge thanks from me!) Maybe it's my tendency to be contrary, but almost any time the masses wave flags, wax sentimental and hum America the Beautiful, I kind of crinkle up my nose and think, "really?" Unless it's the Fourth of July, because, then, dammit: citizen, soldier, immigrant or fan, America is the best damn country on the planet! But I digress. Though few read this blog (largely because they don't know about it), I'll use this space to thank my friends and family who have served, using initials and pseudonyms, because you know how I am about my anonymity.

Thank you: Honey, Grandfather SM (WWII, Pacific), Honey's grandfather LM (WWII, Europe, Africa), Honey's other grandfather RF (WWII, Europe), Cousin PH, Cousin MG (OEF), Uncle TM, Uncle RAM, Uncle CR, Uncle BP, SB, SW, JM** (VietNam), AB (Afghanistan), PB, JP, RGR ... and probably lots of other friends I'm having difficulty recalling in the twilight of dawn after a mostly sleepless nights. You're all awesome and I'm relieved to have had you, specifically, guarding us.

** and thanks for coaching my tee-ball team when I was five and fathering my friends. They miss you.

Glædelig Jul!

After a much needed 8.5 hours of sleep on Christmas Eve, I sat in my hospital bed enjoying the darkened silence of the room. I considered sleeping past 6:30, since this will be last opportunity to do so for many Christmases to come. At least another 10 or 15 years, by my conservative estimate. But I wasn’t sure I want to take advantage of that. Besides, stuck in a hospital room for weeks, I needed to have something to look forward to. Something to make me giddy. The last few weeks have been so weird - not living with my husband or dog, or even my cat!; taking everything one day at a time, grateful for each day that I'm still pregnant, particularly since I've had a few close calls, including one that canceled my baby shower (my last remaining hope for some activity or item resembling a "normal pregnancy”) and another last week that got me the closest to delivery I've been, yet. Nope. I chose to be giddy and rise early to celebrate. Even if it was just me in my bed for a few hours, before Honey came.

I listened to Christmas music on my laptop and thought of Christmases past. Until I was about 12, we'd spend Christmas Eve at my grandparents' house. All, or most, of my moms' siblings would come, so the house was throbbing with cousins. My family would go to our church's candlelight service, usually over by 6 or 6:30 and then join the festivities in progress at Grandma's. It was loud, fun and largely unstructured. We'd eat tamales, rice and beans and chow on deserts. The kitchen was a traffic circle. Around 8:30 or 9, we'd open gifts and things would wind down around 10:30 or 11, when the cousins would start to head to bed and we'd head back home. Sometimes, this ritual would be in Dallas, at one of my uncles' houses, but it was pretty much the same deal. Christmas morning was just for our immediate family, opening our own gifts and Mom would make quiche. Her annual Christmas quiche brunch. We were never a "Christmas dinner" kind of family. We were a Christmas brunch family.

I’m wondering what future Christmases will be like with the new little one. This time next year, our kid will be just shy of a year old, so we might be chasing his/her little waddling bottom out of the kitchen, while Honey bakes up dozens and dozens of delicious cookies and he and I make chocolate truffles together.

My sister-in-law lives nearby and we more often than not spend Christmas and/or Thanksgiving with her and her family.

Her kids are way older than ours: high school and entering junior high soon, so I’m not sure what kind of relationship this kid will have with them. We’ve never spent Christmas or Thanksgiving with Honey’s father, since we’ve been together, to my knowledge. We’ve done a few with his mom and a couple with my family. But nothing that really establishes tradition. I suppose we still have a few years to figure that out. I’d just really like our kid(s) to have fond memories of playing with cousins and singing carols and eating traditional foods that they have memories of watching us prepare and grow up to want to learn to make. You know: like I had! (Side note: I tasked my mother with getting my grandmother’s tamale recipe, so I can learn to make them for Christmases future. Honey has perfected her pico de gallo, so if I can just make a passable version of her tamales, maybe we can at least keep the Mexican Christmas dinner tradition going.)

This barely felt like a regular Christmas this year. Even though we got a foot of snow. (Almost none of which I could see from my hospital window, as it looks into a courtyard!) This Christmas, my every thought has been on the safety of the little creature growing inside me. This Christmas, my focus has been on staying pregnant for one more hour, one more day; knowing that each day, each week means a healthier baby. I have no emotional or mental room for anything else, frankly. Just keeping this kid safe and incubating. I have my own drama to worry about.

Normally, we’ve got the house decorated by early December, holiday music wafts throughout the house, the kitchen smells of sugar and butter as Honey is constantly baking. I’m writing our Christmas cards and mailing them out to loved ones. And we’re scrambling to get gifts for family (my least favorite part of Christmas – consumer “obligation”). This year, my hospital room has received most of the decorations (for which I am grateful), and the house, none, as Honey has taken to preparing the house for the arrival of our little winter babe. Even though I have a chunk of Christmas music on my laptop, I’ve not listened to it enough. Mostly because it’s awkward to fetch my laptop when lying from a 33 degree angle. We’d not been able to go any Christmas parties, holiday shows or movies of the season. We celebrated in our own way, though. And all things considered, this was one of the best Christmases I’ve had in a long time. Just because Honey is so fantastic and it reminds me what my priorities are. And the visits from friends I got on Christmas day just added a luster to the day that I won’t soon forget.

One thing we know for sure: next Christmas will be far different from this Christmas. We’ll be out in public again. The house will be decorated. The music will be playing and David Sedaris stories playing and the kitchen will smell of Honey’s magic. Christmas cards will go out (yes, probably with baby pictures in them). But there will be an extra energy in the house. An extra layer of happiness. And I have a feeling that once that happiness fills the house, we’ll struggle to remember what it was like without it. Kind of like how empty and slightly sad the house feels when our dog is not there. When Babydog is out for the night, I’m always sad a little, and struggle to remember what it was like without her joy filling the house. All I know is that our house wasn’t complete until she came along, even though we didn’t know it (okay I kind of knew it would be, having had dogs before). I suspect it’ll be the same with the kid. And we’re very much looking forward to discovering that unknown joy and rediscovering the joys of a celebrate season with this kid!

I hope Christmas, or your respective holidays found you happy and well this year. Have a fantastic 2010!

… and I apologize for not reading your blogs in a LOOONNG time. In addition to my general tendency to procrastinate, I’ve been limiting my laptop time in the hospital, so I’ve fallen waayy behind. I can’t promise I’ll catch up real soon, but I’ll try my darnedest!

Souvenirs from an Era

A few weeks ago I woke 15 minutes ahead of the alarm, and when I tried to go back to sleep, I couldn't. Cheap Trick's "The Flame" was suddenly, inexplicably and without warning in my brain. Well, actually it was Maroon Five's "She Will Be Loved" - which is even more inexplicable, as they just plain turn me off - which then morphed into "The Flame." Sitting upright in bed, in the dark, I had three thoughts in rapid succession:

1) Damn, NPR for running that story about the Deering Mansion in Miami being haunted. I can't shake it. As either Huey, Dewey or Louie used to say: "I don't believe in ghosts, but I sure am scared of them!" The story made my restless nights even more restless.

2) Wow. Those two songs are structurally very similar. Someone should mash them up if they haven't already. Wow! I noticed an opportunity for a mashup! Look at me! Club DJ stardom is just minutes away!

3) Aww. "The Flame!" It's one of those songs from the soundtrack of my life. A song I may have enjoyed, but because it emerged on my radar at a certain critical moment in my development, I cherish it as a landmark of sorts.

Playing the song in my head, in bed in our dark room, I recalled how I'd relish listening to it at night, coming from my clock radio in my dimmed bedroom. I had a dimmer switch in the room I had from birth to 12 which I rarely turned all the way off. I remember how comforting that song was to me, in junior high, lying in bed, my room in artificial amber gloam, the rest of the house asleep. There are a handful of songs, images and other artifacts that whenever I encounter them, inspire a certain nostalgia that would not have seemed likely when I originally encountered them. Certain pop songs from 1988 - 1989 forever haunt me in ways that other don't. And I think it has everything to do with two things: the fact that that's when my family made our first big move; and that I was at the peak of puberty. (By the way: never move your family when one - the eldest, at least - is in the throes of puberty. It's more traumatic than a move at 10 or 15. I've asked around.)

If I really thought about it, I could find those musical or cultural artifacts that were in the background when I lived in these places that later proved to be memory markers.

• "Stand" by REM will forever be the song that introduced me to REM and the song that I identify most with arrival in my small town. I'd heard of REM, but never anything from them. I was 12 and whenever the video would come on MTV, Dad would get up and get my brother and me to do the Stand dance, encouraging me to accept our new, small town. I resented the new town so much, but couldn't resist Dad's enthusiasm. It's only years later that I appreciate what Dad was trying to get us to do: embrace place and bloom where planted.
• "Mary Moon" by Deadeye Dick is always the song that brings me back to 18, in a small west Texas university starting school completely - and I mean completely - clueless, but feeling utterly liberated and probably the most confident I've ever been in my life. I think I liked it because I had a "Mary Moon" reputation at my high school, but it was mocked, not celebrated. Here was a song that not only celebrated that archetype, but made her (sexually) desirable. Same me, new leaf.
• Fresh Air with Terry Gross on NPR became my best friend when I had to drop out of college after my first semester due to lack of funds. I still listen to the show as often as possible, but I remember discovering her in Houston, when I was in depression, knew no one and the future looked uncertain. When I think back on those days, those afternoons in my bedroom, I am so grateful to her and to the local NPR station for fostering and sating curiosity.
• The Indigo Girls were always playing from my stereo or from those of my best friends during my college years.
• Margaret Atwood and Kurt Vonnegut were my book buddies the year after college, when I joined Honey at his first station, in the city to which I would never return to live in a million years, but for which I have a soft spot in my heart.

I don't know what the cultural artifacts are that I associate with my current place. I'll probably find them in retrospect. Plus, we've been here long enough - almost 10 years - that I probably have cultural artifacts associated with certain periods in my life, as opposed to places. For instance, I associate Sigur Ros, Rilo Kiley and Ben Gibbard with the period I spent completing my thesis. A friend turned me onto Sigur Ros when he heard the topic of my thesis dealt with constructed languages and gibberish. They sing mostly in Icelandic, but occasionally in a fabricated language. They're so mellow and soulful that I was able to mope and comfort myself in their music as I plowed through. A coworker turned me onto Rilo Kiley and Ben Gibbard, breaking me of my prejudice against Death Cab for Cutie, much to the relief of my husband, who likes Death Cab. I can't place my finger on what it was about those two artists that spoke to me in that manic period, but I latched onto the music he shared, and that we already had in our collection, but I was too blindly stubborn to listen to.

I'm really curious what music or cultural events or artifacts will turn out to the be the familiar landmarks in my memory for this period of my life. It seems like this year and the coming year will likely be so momentous for us that there will be something that I always associate with this period. I'm just eager and curious to find out what it is. It'll probably be evident 5 or 6 years from now. And it'll probably surprise me. I never would've guessed something like "The Flame" would've been among my take-aways from 1988!

Sense memory flashbacks

Honey called this morning to say he forgot his wallet and ask if I could please bring it into work with me this morning. He doesn't work too far from my office, so he'll swing by and get it.

When I opened the drawer that held his wallet, I was struck by a sudden comfortable rush of nostalgia and timelessness. There was nothing exciting about his wallet. It's just a black leather bi-fold that's been worn a little thin around the edges. But that's exactly what gave me such comfort. It's like most other wallets he's ever owned - at least since we've been together - and almost exactly like each wallet my dad has ever owned. Non-descript, black, bi- or tri-fold and worn at the edges from the time it has spent in back, or front, pockets. A wallet like that, in my mind, belongs to a man who cherishes time spent with his family and friends and who is much beloved by those same folks.

I love the sudden rush of comfort that the familiar can bring.

My grandmother's kitchen always smelled of gas. I was probably in my 20s before I consciously considered what that odor was. I was never fond of it per se, but it pervaded the kitchen, and since the house was small, to a lesser extent, the entire house. But now, whenever I catch a whiff, I'm enveloped in contentment. And it has to be old gas with a used kitcheny smell to it. Gas in a furnace room? Nope. Gas in a new house kitchen? Pff. As if. Gas in the kitchen of the homeless shelter Honey and I used to volunteer in? Yup. The same goes for the vague scent of pine in a pre- or post-rainy sky. It's very rare, here in this part of the East Coast. But maybe once a year, right after a rain, the conditions are just right and I can smell a vague trace of pine on the air. It reminds me so much of northern New Mexico, and even of the desert southwest Texas and southeast New Mexico. The air has to be dry enough to carry it. It's so gentle, so delicate and fresh. It smells like life and renewal. (Honeysuckle has that same quality, for me.) The few times I catch that scent here, I'm at home and at peace, if even only for a few minutes.

The other day, I was eating a peach over the sink. It was particularly juicy and a droplet started making its way down my chin. I was instantly a gradschooler eating one of our backyard peaches in the sun. Back then, whole streams of peach juice would weep down my chin. I can't recall how sticky I'd get. Probably not too. I'd make short order of the peaches anyway, and as I was accustomed to drinking out of the back hose when I played outside, I'd likely wash off my chin. But it felt so good and right, even though I was a grown up, not in play clothes, in an air conditioned house, standing over a sink like some civilized stiff.

My mother in law was in town the last few days. Which meant my sister-in-law and nephews came over a few times. I have sense memories of my grandparents that I cherish: the rouge gel that Grandma colored her cheeks with, the smell of whatever cologne and hair product concotion Grandpa is part of his daily routine. I wonder what sense memories my nephews will take away from their visits with their grandparents. I wonder what sense memories I'm building now, in my adult life, that will comfort me decades from now.

Thirty-three is the new twenty-t ... aw, who am I kidding?

In the last few days, I've been scanning photos from my senior year of high school onto our family server. I've been knee-deep in nostalgia.

My early teen years were defined by my general social ostracization. As an opinionated, then self-assured, new kid in a small town, the swift, round rejection by my peers was complete by the beginning of 8th grade. But sometime after my junior year, I began to slowly pull myself out of the rubble of my crushed spirit and explore and relish, my own identity. If ever there was a time in my life when I was at the pinnacle of my confidence and receptiveness to new experiences, it was my senior year. Specifically, from November 1993 through September 1994. They were bookends: 1. my first big solo trip that crystallized my sense of self-sufficiency (it was to DC, my then-favorite and highly-romanticized city), and 2. the first stirrings that we may not be able to afford a complete year of college, which began to chip away at that same sense. (In the end, I had to drop out at the semester due to lack of funds.)

That year seems like yesterday. Okay: mostly yesterday. Last week, we'll say. When I was 18, though, my 30s seemed so ridiculously far away. So far away, in fact, that I actually doubted I'd reach them. My inability to imagine myself over 30, and my own ego, led me to believe that like James Dean I'd rock the world with my talent and then meet an untimely death, immortalized forever by a brilliant performance and a fuckin' awesome portrait of some sort, preferably captured by Annie Lebowitz. I would be young forever.

Well, I'm not old. I still feel young. So, I must be young, right?

Not necessarily!

Friday, Honey delivered some news to me that put me back in my chronological place. "I had to visit one of my guys in the hospital, today," he told me as I prepped the salmon for dinner.

"Oh my god! What happened?"

"Heart attack."

"Is he doing okay? One of your older guys?" As if that question had to be asked. Who has a heart attack under the age of 50, anymore?

"He's doing fine. No. He's 36."

36. Let me write that again:

THIRTY-SIX.

I'll be 33, soon. Just five years younger than my father was at his first heart attack. My cholesterol always hovers around - often above - the danger zone. Not good. NOT GOOD! But I'm in decent shape, right? Not the slimmest I've ever been, but still a healthy weight for my height.

"Was he morbidly obese or something?" I implored. (Gotta find something to cling to.)

"No."

I winced. I could feel the grim reaper rest his bony fingers on my shoulder.

"But he's a smoker. And our job is really stressful. And he had a family history ... basically, of all the big indicators, his weight was the only thing that wasn't a factor."

It has been almost six months since I scaled back my work hours to part time. I did it to re-evaluate interests, focus on my chronic health concern and reduce my stress. I put "reduce my stress" at the bottom of list because, while a concern for me, it wasn't the biggest reason I wanted to scale back to part time. However, knowing what I know of my family heart health history, and hearing the story of my husband's young employee, I'm now thinking low-stress should be a key aspect to every job I seek hereafter. Maybe the reduced stress has already been stealthily saving my life.

I'm old enough now to know that my 50s aren't forever away, nor are my 60s or even 70s. My imagination does allow me to see myself older, and my adolescent ego has mellowed. I want to offer my talents and gifts to the world, but I'm happy to let them slowly trickle out. No need for a single, glorious, creative eruption. This means, of course, that I would like to live to a ripe old age and learn and give for years to come. And that means that I need to stop assuming my body will self-repair the way it did when I was 18 ... which was not, despite my grand delusions, last week.

(photo courtesy of flickr.com creative commons. asirap photostream.)

What's Molly Dreaming Now? Aloha!

It's been weeks. I know. Not only me transmitting, but me receiving. Sorry y'all. That's the bad news. The good news? We're leaving on vacation this morning for two weeks. So guess what I'll be doing? Catching up on reading your blogs! And hopefully, blogging as well.

We're off to Hawaii! Woohoo!

Here's what I'm so far most excited about. I slept last night! Typically, the night before a travelling, long-ish vacation, I sleep very little. But last night, I fell right asleep and got some good REM sleep, at that.

What did I dream? That I was back in desert West Texas town of my youth. But this time, I was a grown up, with my parents and brother. We were back at the house we lived in there. It was late Easter Sunday or maybe the day after. My childhood dog was there, as were some miniature dachsunds we apparently had inherited from friends. What was different was that this time in this dream, I was with my family and I wasn't just gasping for breath with joy for being there. I was at peace, and happy, but almost indifferent. I say almost, because I was still very happy. I just didn't feel compelled to stay for better or for worse - which, in my dreams, I normally do.

Ponder my brain. I've got a plane to catch and some islands to visit. I'll catch up with y'all in the coming days!

The Edge of Raging Heavens

(timelapse by photographer Rafael Bellus)

I have had so many thoughts in my head to blog about lately, but have not allowed myself the time to write them. In the meantime, please enjoy the above timelapse. It was captured outside Midland, Texas - in between the two places I grew up. The camera seems to be in the perfect place to capture the churning engine action of a storm - the edge. These are the furious skies of my youth: the agitators of my panic, the sculptors of my humility and the capricious angels that demand my awe.

Maybe I was wrong

After I hit "publish" on my last post, I approached Honey and asked him if there was any book or work of art that changed his life. Without hesitation, he answered that a symphonic poem (whose title I can't recall) changed his life, and also gave me the title of a book that did, as well. The music wasn't earth-shaking, for him, but did measurably shape the way he thought about music. The novel was eye-opening for him and, according to him, changed his perception of life. Though, he admitted that I'd caught him at a moment of clarity and had I asked him the same thing after a long day of work, he'd've probably grunted and responded in non-sensical monosyllabic neologisms. When I told him I couldn't think of any work of art or book that changed my life, or measurably changed my thinking, he called me out.

"Annie changed your thinking," he responded, half in disbelief.

Because I'm a reflexive contrarian, I immediately dismissed his assertion, but he pushed it. "Before you saw Annie, you probably thought orphans were scary, or being an orphan was scary. But when you saw how all the orphans got to sing and do flips and have adventures, you got to thinking, 'maybe not having any parents isn't so bad.'" I don't think about it as having a profound influence on my thinking, he argued, because I was exposed to it at such a young age.

Score a point for Honey. Though, I contend that Annie's influence on my perception of life had less to do with her family situation and more to do with her will and resilience. And even Annie had her moments of self-doubt, which is kind of reassuring. Remember when she was hanging from the drawbridge by her fingernails and Punjab is attempting a helicopter rescue? In addition to Annie's optimism, I think that movie taught me that virtually every moment in life deserves a musical number. (Stop cringing Darla!) I'm not sure I would've deduced this with just any musical. Possibly, but damn Annie has spunk. I still wanna be her when I grow up. (Just look at my profile pic!)

So, I've been thinking this week about other works of art and books that changed my life. It's still hard for me to say any of these have been explosive revelations - most are small - but here goes nothin':

A Human Being Died That Night: A South African Story of Forgiveness - Pumla Gobodo Madikizela. I read this en route to, and during a vacation in, South Africa, 5 years ago. (One of the most inspiring travels of my life. How I long to return.) It's a moving memoir of torture and the post-Apartheid Truth and Reconciliation Commissions. Forgiveness was a huge theme in the commissions, and also in the book (hence the subtitle). However, this book was the first time I'd encountered the idea that forgiveness may not always be spiritually appropriate. Not forgiving is the opposite of what I was raised to believe. However, after I read this book, I sympathized with the notion more and no longer believe it is something every wronged person should necessarily do. Nor do I believe that it is always necessary to healing a wound.

Gandhi (directed by Richard Attenborough). Also released in the summer of 1982, this movie was probably almost as influential to my childhood as Annie. Dad took me to see it, I'm sure, because he wanted me to see a dramatization of the moral ideals he aimed to instill in us. What he didn't expect was that his 6-year-old daughter would not only sit through a 3-hour movie, but that she would fall in love with it and ask to see it again and again. (Thrice that summer, that I can recall.) Like Annie, this was so long ago, I can't recall the immediate impact. But I'm positive my aversion to institutionalized violence was influenced greatly by this movie. Additionally, because I enjoyed the story of Gandhi so much, and Dad revered him as an agent of goodness, it probably nudged me toward disallowing religious dogma to be the sole definer of my perception of, and relationship with, God. If God could use a Hindu like Gandhi to do Christlike work, then I couldn't believe he'd be punished in Hell just because he wasn't a Christian.

The Theater and Its Double - Antonin Artaud. Artaud wrote that theater's mission should be to evoke public catharsis. I agreed whole-heartedly when I read it as a 19-year-old theater student, and thought that ethic should also underscore religious worship. Might we be a kinder society if we had public spaces where we could meet and lather ourselves into a sob? It's hard to hate people when you see them a their most vulnerable and pitiful. It's also hard to dominate someone when you allow yourself to be seen vulnerable and pitiful. I still agree that catharsis, or at least perception-challenging, should be the main mission of theater. I'm more interested in storytelling these days - which originally lured me to the stage - but the higher notion of catharsis still informs my experience in a theater.

Sunday in the Park with George - Stephen Sondheim. This is one of those subtler life-changers; it's like a lover whom I discovered I loved only after years of platonic friendship. Joss Whedon, on Fresh Air yesterday, captured it best when he said that the first act of Sunday in the Park is about the burden of being a genius and the second act is about the burden of not being a genius. The first act of this musical deals with the drive of George Seurat as he works on his most famous painting, "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte." The second act focuses on his possible (and fictional) direct descendant, George, a modern/performance artist, about a century later. I suspect most artists, when we're (dare I include myself?) in "the groove" of our endeavor, can identify with the first act George. But it's the second act that speaks to me more. Specifically, the duet "Move On." There's an exchange of lines between the descendant George and Dot that always rips at my heart -

George: I've nothing to say ...
Dot: You have many things ...
George: Well, nothing that's not been said
Dot: Said by you, though, George.

I suspect every artist feels this at some time or another. How can one person have anything insightful to add to the many comments on life that have already been produced? Is it even worth opening our mouths if we're anything short of blinding geniuses? But Dot encourages him. It's worth saying something because we're saying it. Later she sings, "Stop worrying if your vision is new/ Let others make that decision, they usually do!" How many times have I gotten the note from a director that I'm too much in my head, editing myself as I perform? I need to listen to Dot! It has changed my life, subtly, in that I've stopped thinking that just because I'm a middle-class white girl from a stable, loving family in a rich, democratic country, I have nothing of insight to add. I certainly need to produce more than I currently am, but we all have stories to tell and perspectives to share. Mine isn't any less important just because it's closer to "norm."

So there you have it: a few works that have changed my perception of life. I was wrong. Thanks for calling me out, Honey.

I'm closing with video from a performance from the 1984 run of Sunday in the Park with George. It's Bernadette Peters - of whom I was afraid until I was a teenager, because of her role in Annie - and Mandy Patinkin singing "Move On." I prefer the performance we saw several years ago with Raul Esparza and Melissa Errico; her voice was warmer and he didn't seem as broad. But I can't find video of that. The song ends around minute marker number 5. Enjoy!

Inauguration and Expectation

I was there. ...though I didn't get a t-shirt touting the fact.

There are moments in history we collectively witness and a few people witness those moments up front. Many - if not most - of these moments are largely unanticipated, or their broader cultural effect are unanticipated: the eruption of Mount Saint Helens, JFK's assassination or Woodstock, for instance. We like to say where we were "when we heard," because it's a shared experience, but when we come across someone who was on the ground when it happened, we listen more intently. "You were at Dealey Plaza? You were at Pearl Harbor? You were at Watergate that night? What did you see? How did you react?" As a first-person witness to the most rattling tragic event in recent national history, I have discovered what a bizarre, morbid privilege it is to have "been there." Witnesses shape memory.

Because there are so few moments when we'll get to be a witness to historical moments that are planned and anticipated, it seems a crying shame not to witness them up-close, if we have the resources to. Life is too short to pass up moments of greatness (and happiness) if it's within driving distance. With that in mind, Honey and I woke at 0-dark-hundred and made our way to DC to see the swearing in of our 44th President. (Hopefully, you've figured that out by the photos above.)

It was freezing. Very freezing. At one point, I began to worry that I may actually develop frostbite. We bought little heating packs to place in our gloves - a purchase I was concerned would be a rip-off from the vendor, but ended up being the best $5 I spent that day. We made it to the Mall a little before 8AM and people slowly filtered in for the next several hours. After hearing some reports - particularly of the Purple Tunnel of Doom, crowd-averse, clausterphobic Molly's nightmare scenario - I consider us lucky. People, though, were in amazingly good spirits; laughing, singing and dancing along with Sunday's concert that was being re-played on the jumbotrons.

When Barack Obama completed his oath, the cheer that went up was extraordinary. It was official: he is our president, now. The shackles had fallen, the windows had been thrown open, the baby had been born, the muzzled voice liberated, the well had been tapped, the geode had been shattered open. The cry was a delirious, elated catharsis after both surviving the last eight years of miserable, selfish leadership and after generations of warring the behemoth of institutionalized and tacit racial injustice. It felt like people cheered for a solid 60 seconds. I cried. I cried several times that day. I'm tearing up, now. People around us danced. I couldn't help but laugh, as well. Honey whooped and hollered when I really only expected him to cheer. That was really fun! It was a fantastic moment that I fervently hope time will never take from me.

Our nephew, Dave, came with us. He's almost 16. He likes Obama, but I think it's more because he's a popular icon and because Dave lives in a mostly-liberal area. He's at an age where he's very concerned about being caught up in the latest fad and maintaining popularity. I don't know that he understands the influence of ideology and politics. I don't think he quite understands the weight of our nation having elected our first black president, either. How much of that is generational, I don't know. And maybe, that Dave is unimpressed by the fact that our country elected a black man is more a testament to how far we've come since my parents were 16, and even I was 16, than it is that we've elected him.

But I'm still shocked and awed. I did presume I would live to see the day. I'm just surprised it would come this early in my life. And I presumed he'd be a Republican. Or, as Honey presumed, that we'd see a black vice president before we saw a black president. I also presumed we'd see a woman first. I'm still waiting for that one; confident that I will see that in my lifetime, now. (I couldn't get behind Hillary. I felt it was too soon; I'm not a fan of dynasty's in a land of democracy and didn't want a Bush/Clinton/Bush/Clinton sandwich. Also, watching her for several years, I wanted a little more daylight between her and W. Particularly on the war, from the beginning.)

Obama's popularity is currently really, really high. Hopes for him are stratospheric. The marketing and media frenzy that's surrounded Obama can really only hurt people's expectations, though. There's only so much even the most effective president can do. He's governing 300 million people, a little less than half of whom elected him and probably a quarter of whom boldly despise him and he'll need the support, or at least patience, from each of them to begin to make a dent in the flaming pile of shit that W left him. I do not envy any president the office, but I really don't envy the administration that has to tackle the uglies we face now. I will be pleased with good enough. All I really want for our incoming president is to restore our reputation around the world and make every effort to help "the least of these" in our county. Economy, Iraq, Healthcare - those are my biggies. If he can break a few of those juggernauts' legs, I'll be happy.

Christmas Past, Christmas Present, Christmas Future?

Two years ago, Honey gave me my first digital camera for Christmas, a Cannon SD800 Elph, and I've run with it. I was never much of a photographer, but thanks to the miracle of digital photography, it's rapidly becoming a hobby of mine. I'm teaching myself how to compose shots. I have a photographer friend with whom, some afternoon I'm going to go on a photo safari, and at some point, I'd like to get a consumer copy of Photoshop so I can edit my work. Thanks to my new hobby, I've begun looking at the mundane with fresher, more curious eyes. It feels good.

One of the gifts I got for Christmas this year was an all-in-one printer/scanner/photo printer. I've taken all these wonderful photos, but they still live on my laptop, or in some cases, cyberspace. It would be fantastic to finally start framing some of them and dressing the very naked walls of our house. Yesterday, I spent about an hour and a half scanning old photos from my childhood. There are hundreds more to go, but I knocked out quite a few. Including some from Christmases past. The image on the right is one such photo. It's from 1988. (I'm the amber-mopped tomboy in the orange tie-dye shirt, near the center.) Our family flew down to Mexico City to spend the holiday with our many cousins there. It was the first time I'd been on a plane since I was pre-literate, and I remember being afriad to fly. Then the downing of PanAm 103 a day or two before our departure convinced me that our deaths were imminent.

It's inevitable this time of year that my thoughts turn to past Christmases and reviewing old pictures certainly aid the nostalgia. Christmas isn't as fantastical for me as it once was, and I'm trying to figure out why. It's not the Santa thing. I never believed in Santa. If not yet the why, I can at least pin down when Christmas started losing some of its pixie dust. Junior high.

1988 was probably the last truly exciting Christmas for me. I was 12. Before we flew to Mexico City, we stopped in Dallas to spend Christmas Eve with my mom's side of the family, like we did virtually every Christmas Eve. I played with my cousins, we ate the tamale dinner Grandma fixed us, watched whatever Christmas special was on TV, played board games, unwrapped presents ... Christmassy stuff. When we got to Mexico, the party really began. At my cousin Carlos' church, we played with no-bullshit pinatas; no papier mache Sesame Street characters. These pinatas were star-shaped, with shells made of terra-cotta and filled with sugar cane and peanuts. And they were massive. And there were many. When a piece of pinata pottery fell on my brother's head, he sought my mom's arms for comfort until he realized that every other kid was getting beaned by breaking pinatas, and went back in. Pinatas are not for the permission-slip happy American weak in Mexico. For days we were surrounded by family. We ate good meals every night. There was laughter everywhere. The gifts we got were either homemade - like the crocheted clown doll my aunt made me - or typically Mexican-craft like the leather purse I got. I was introduced to new traditions like Dia de los Tres Reyes and la rosca. The former is also known as Epiphany or Three Kings Day, the traditional 12th day of Christmas when the wisemen's visit is celebrated. La Rosca is the bundt-like cake served on January 6, though we did ours early, on the first (we ate several, come to think of it); a baby charm is placed in the cake and whoever gets it has good luck. In Mexico City, I was tickled to discover that for every kiosk set up on the city square with Santa offering to listen to Christmas wishes, there were two or three kiosks of the magi offering to do the same. Christmas is when you get your little gifts, there; Epiphany is when you get your "real" gifts. It's something we kind of adopted when my family went broke. Our gifts were never huge to begin with - a cassette from a band I liked was usually the extent of it - but extending the gift-giving until Epiphany bought my family a little time time to buy on sale. 1988 was a Christmas brimming with non-stop celebration. It was the last one I can remember like that.

Within a month, we'd moved across the state; Dad had entered the ministry full-time (an overall great move for him, but a damper on Christmas from then out) and there was no doubt about it: puberty had completed its angsty takeover of my body. From a celestial high to a rocky low. There are many things I like about Dad being a minister: he's a good preacher; he's a great listener and a wonderfully sympathetic man; it's his passion; he's knowledgable about context (and thus not literalist). However, the one thing I really don't like about him being a minister is that he's tied to whatever church he's serving for Christmas Eve.

When I was 13, I was devastated to learn that we would not get to drive up to the panhandle or to Dallas to spend the evening with mom's entire family as I had every Christmas Eve of my life until that point. We had to stay put for our church's candlelight service. I love Chistmas Eve candlelight services. After all the happy songs, the readings and prayers, when the lights go down and the sanctuary is filled with scores of tiny flickering flames and we're all singing "Silent Night" and then the accompanist stops so that we're all just singing a capella ... damn, there are few things finer. But to be compelled to stay? Couldn't this church just wing it without a minister for Christmas? Come ON! Christmas EVE! WTF?

From then on, Christmas became less magical. The songs in school, the games and the family hoopla began disappearing. We had to stay put, so Dad could preside over Christmas Eve services and we lived in such a remote part of the state that no one ever came to visit us for the holiday. (Which made me mad, as we often piled into the car on Christmas morning to drive 10 hours across the state to Dallas. Only to miss half the cousins, as they'd all returned home; and to miss the tamales, as they'd all been eaten. Why couldn't they reciprocate?) Christmas 1993 was a lovely anomaly, however, because 8 or 9 of our Mexican cousins came up and partied with us in our burg. They visited for a week. We spoke so much Spanish in the house that I actually dreamt in Spanish. (Era fantastico!)

These days, we have no set family gatherings with our extended families. His sister lives nearby, so we often visit her family. But I often feel something just one-off is missing. Our nephews have no cousins with which to play, so they either disappear to play on the computer or whine for attention. We adults don't play board games; we just talk about work and life and it's just ... a visit. My family lives in Texas, and with Dad unable to travel due to ecclesiastical duties, it's incumbent upon us to visit if we're to celebrate Christmas together - which we've only done once in the 10 years Honey and I've been Christmassing together. But even there, my brother just watches football and we just ... visit. No music and merriment. Honey's parents live on the West Coast. Sometimes they come out for Christmas or we go there, but it's just ... a visit. Once we played poker with his dad and nephews, and frankly that afternoon saved Christmas for me. It was so good to play something. My brother is marrying a girl from Wisconsin. He's up there now. She wants to never spend Christmas away from her family, so I have no idea if we'll ever get to see him for the holiday again. Which sucks. The older I get, the more disconnected I feel from family fun. Even when we see family, it seems so chaotic and not as cheerful as it used to be. I really, really miss playing boardgames with aunts and uncles. I miss the tamale buffet. I miss the cheesy holiday TV shows playing in the room where the kids are (ahem, please not around the adults). I miss poorly banging out "Joy to the World" on whosever piano is available. I think it's time to start some new more mobile Christmas traditions that bind us together. But I don't quite know which or how.

Honey and I have an accidental tradition of listening to David Sedaris read his "Santaland Diaries," either as we trim the tree or on Christmas Eve. Maybe I'll learn to make tamales like Grandma and insist on that wherever we go. Or maybe insist on more boardgames or puzzles. I love boardgames at Christmas. Christmas, for me, is about three big things: glittery cultural accoutrement, the breathless anticipation leading up to Christmas morning, and cozying up to family and enjoying eachother. Each feels like they're falling shorter as I grow older. I want to learn how to get the magic back.

3BT: avocation, aspiration, admiration

It was cold and alternately weeping rain today and into tonight. So, it feels like a good time to sit back and reflect a la Clare, on three beautiful things that popped out at me, today.

1. After an aggravating morning, I decided to call one of my best girlfriends, who lives a good 4 or 5 hours away, on my ride into work. She'd just loaded her kids in the car and was driving the 4 year old to preschool. I vented and ranted and she chimed in and offered her ear. We had a good visit, and we said our goodbyes as I pulled into my office driveway. Moments later she called me back. Her daughter had apparently asked who she was on the phone with, "Aunt Molly," she'd replied. "I want to go to Aunt Molly's house after school!" That turned my morning around

2.
I came across this today. A cousin of mine died almost 13 years ago from MD. This young man (who's already survived my cousin by 4 years) looks physically very similar to my cousin, though he has more use of his upper body, and more muscle mass, than my cousin did. Though I don't know if my cousin ever felt suicidal, there's no doubt in my mind that the mental anguish he carried must've been intense. However, like this young man, my cousin pursued all that his financial and physical resources allowed during his short time here. Seeing this interview reminded me of S and that being blessed is really a state of mind.

3. At a party tonight, a colleague told me that she loved some sweeping dance move that I and another performer improvised in a show a few weeks ago. Apparently, she's a ballet nerd and thought that we looked graceful and that I looked like I knew what I was doing and it just took her breath away. We didn't, of course. But I love that for once gravity was not my nemesis and I was evidently, if even accidentally, swanlike!

A trunk full of Shiner Bock and Lone Star

I had the pleasure this week of finally seeing a musician I really, really love and have been meaning to see live, play live. That would be the ever-lovin' Robert Earl Keen.

Having grown up in Texas, I was somewhat familiar with him - more his name than his music. Just a few songs here and there. I knew he was on Austin City Limits a lot, but as I hadn't really watched that show since the mid-80s, he didn't really resonate with me. It wasn't until the summer before my senior year in college that I picked him up. I was apartment-sitting for some friends who were doing summer stock shows around the country. One of my friends had REK's Picnic in his CD collection. As I love raiding other people's music, I made my way through his CaseLogic binder and got hooked. This really surprised me for two reasons: 1) my friend didn't seem the country music type; his collection was typified by Elliot Smith, Dave Matthews and Jamiroquai and 2) I, as a rule, don't really like country music, but Picnic was just that - a fun, tasty, "comfort-food" feast. I burned myself a copy (Shh! This was 1998, so it was okay.) and went on my merry way.

But it wasn't really until we moved to the East Coast that we slowly started collecting his albums. This is when I really started to appreciate him. Keen's voice is gravelly, nasal, a little higher register than you'd expect from a country singer and painted thick with a drawl more reminiscent of West Texas than his native Houston. More importantly, he captures the Texas experience - at least the middle, and I presume, lower class Texas experience - so bloody well. He sings the low-brow Texas fantasies (as in his signature The Road Goes on Forever, which I want played at my wake, btw), redneck realities like those in Merry Christmas from the Family (every Texan has at least one relative like those), sweet, simple pleasures as in Gringo Honeymoon and just general appreciations for the land that bore him (and me), all its people (Mariano) and all its beauty and flaws (Levelland). He's a troubadour that sings about Texas sometimes adoringly, sometimes sharply tongue in cheek, and when he's great, he accomplishes both, simultaneously. He doesn't sing only about Texas, but life in Texas inspires about 90% of his music.

Honey isn't much for him, so I talked a college girlfriend of mine, with whom I'm reconnecting, into joining me. She's a trooper. I wouldn't've been cajoled into spending $45 on a ticket to an unknown commodity the way she was by me. I'm far too cheap! But she did it and she had a blast, so I was happy, and I owe her. (As I do virtually everyone I know.)

When I saw him, he performed against black duvatene curtains. No flashy backdrop, not even a banner with his name on it, like his opener had. Just the man, his band and the music. Even the lighting was simple. It had motion, but the lighting was made up entirely of simple gelled lamps. Something I'd expect for a brand new musician playing his first "for real" gig, not for a man who has a following. And he rocked the joint! I really, really wish there had been space to dance, because there were moments when I just really wanted to two-step. My girlfriend two-stepped in place with me for a bit, but complained that I moved too much from my hips. If I don't use my hips, I betray the only Latina-seeming part of me. Plus, it's the only part of me that has any grace; I'm fairly uncoordinated and my legs often move like those of a foal when I dance. The crowd was among the whitest I'd seen in this area in quite a while, but I suppose that's to be expected. It wasn't Texas, but it was a close enough facsimile, that I felt really at ease. My girlfriend said she felt like we were back in college in Texas, what with the frat boys and country music.

Aside from dancing like a fiend in a crowd with a red solo cup full of beer and discovering I'm really, really shitty at remembering lyrics of even some of my most favorite songs, I think the most amusing part of the evening was the "cowboys." My brother sees Robert Earl Keen live every year or so. He plays Texas a LOT. He's huge; a legend, approaching the status of Stevie Ray Vaughn, there. Bro said the crowd he usually draws is a mixture of cowboys and hippies, which in some parts of Texas (Travis Co., I'm looking at you) are not mutually exclusive categories. Our East Coast crowd was mostly transplanted Texas and southern professionals, and New Englanders who let their hair down. But we did have some cowboy-hatted guys show up. They offered my friend and me Rebel Yell. (Uh, no thanks.) They were at the foot of the stage and occasionally waved their hats around. Had I actually been in Texas, there wouldn't've been a group of 5 or 6 hatted guys in the front; there'd've been a sea of hats, and boots. All fine. What bugged me was that their hats were funny looking. By no means do I claim to be an expert on western wear, but the material looked a little cheaper and the hats overall more colonial-flavored. Like someone took the material for a tri-corn hat, began making a bowler and then decided to give it a cowboy brim. They loved the show, but I think they loved the opportunity to wear their hats in public, just as much. It reminded me of a second-hand anecdote my dad told us in the late 80s. A friend of his was visiting her daughter in New York City. They decided to go to a country western bar in Manhattan to see how the locals did it. Apparently, all the guys in Manhattan were happy to two step with the ladies and did alright, but they tucked their jeans into their boots! (This is apalling, if you missed the subtlety of the italics and exclamation mark. You don't tuck into boots unless you're a dancing extra from the cast of Oklahoma!) But really, even if people don't pull off the dress with authenticity, I suppose the attempt is evidence of the appreciation. Imitation is the highest form of flattery, even if the imitation is off. Heavens knows if I tried to emulate the fashion of subcultures I admire, I'd fall way short. I can barely keep up with the subculture I'm a part of! (Bad yuppie!)

My only complaint about the show was that he was not as talkative as I'd hoped he'd be. I like singer/songwriters who spin short yarns and give us background. I was told by a friend of a friend that REK was, indeed, chatty. However, he didn't really engage until almost the end of the concert, which was too bad. My only other complaint is that we didn't stick around for him to sign merch. I got a shot glass, 'cause I'm classy like that, but I was thinking about getting a signed t-shirt for my brother. He'd love that. But alas, I am no longer a lass, nor is my friend, and we were tired, and had work the next morning. So we ducked out during the second encore song. Next time, I'm staying for the whole megillah. And I want some talk, Robert!

Fare thee well, flightless friend

Last Sunday morning, after a night of heavy drinking and little sleep - so worthless there was no veritas which I could type in vino-ed - I was hanging out with a friend of mine when my foggy brain realized that, in his aviator sunglasses, he looked like Steve ... Austin. No. Steve Tyler. Not it either. Steve ... city in Texas; he's a Bloom County character ... Steve Dallas! Compare, here. As he likes the work of Berkeley Breathed, I believe he took the comparison as a compliment. I meant it as a complimentary observation, at least. Then I remembered, "Holy shit. We only have one week until Opus leaves the pages of the comic section, forever." I need to take the little bird out. I need to show him some love. I need to get caught up!

That week has passed, and Opus departed today.



When Breathed announced he'd return to comics, he struck a deal that Opus would be a half-page, front page, one-week only strip. Honey and I were thrilled. Who else but Breathed deserved such an honor? Like Postsecret, it became a Sunday ritual for me. What did Opus have to offer this Sunday morning? This week, I read the preceding four strips only, but I don't feel caught up at all. I had fallen behind in the last year or so. During that time, our paper moved it from the front page of the funnies to the second, then later the third page. Bastards. Also somewhere during that time, my thesis and performing and my job became all-consuming and taking an hour on Sunday to read through the paper became a luxury I didn't afford myself as often as I should have. I needed sleep. Or a drink. Or a Tylenol PM with a benadryl chaser and post-it note reminder to spend 5 minutes with my dear, suffering husband and dog.

Bloom County is the first comic I remember following. (Not that I'm a big comic follower.) It was such a fun world for me. The first time I remember noticing it was when my dad received a copy of Loose Tails for his 40th birthday, from a friend. A wheelchair-bound man bedecked with nerdy kids and wierdo animals? Something about the wheelchair attracted me. Was this about a guy in a wheelchair? What a wonderful country we live in, where one who can't walk can be the hero! And all the little critters and kids riding on him: it's like when my brother and cousins and I used to take turns riding on the back of my cousin S's chair! Awesome!

As I dug into it, it seemed to be less about Cutter John alone, as it was all the awkward misfits who inhabited Bloom County. It was smart and dorky. Kinda like I was when I was 10. Some days I was Milo, principled and precocious, others I was Binkley, clueless and a vegetable resemblant. Incidentally, when I learned that New Orleans' newspaper was called the Times-Picayune, I had a hard time believing that they didn't swipe the name from Bloom County's rag. As a teenager, I decided I should grow up to be Lola Granola; I'm wearing overalls as I type this, ready to garden a bit this afternoon, so maybe that's the connection anymore. I learned what a vegan was from Bloom County. After the aliens swapped Steve Dallas' brain, he ditched Republicanism, got a perm, gave up smoking and eschewed ingesting any animal products. And yes, even though I've been a Democrat since I was a kiddo, I loved Steve, as well. How can you not love a character so sexistly clueless - or cluelessly sexist? He was kind of the antithesis of Cutter John: strapping and healthy, selfish and a defendant of the status quo.

I loved how Bloom County celebrated our hopes and fears, our flaws and fantasies, our accomplishments and mistakes. It's the fault of cockroaches that Bush the elder chose Dan Quayle - I laminated that one, as it was from the last strip received at the doorstep of my native home before our big move downstate; a souvenir. Don't we all need a field of dandelions to escape to to ponder the meaning of life? And of course, there was Opus to love the most. I think I like him - and identify with him - because he's always a little out of place, but wide-eyed, receptive and hopeful. He, like me, suffers from foot-in-mouth disease ("Hare Krishnas = Hairy Fishnuts"). He's both a progressive and a traditionalist. He's a romantic at heart, but also a thinker - for real, he is. And he's got a penchant for silly hats. I don't have that penchant, but I have a deep admiration for it. In recent years, I've assumed that if I ever got a tattoo, it would probably be of Opus; maybe of him looking chastened. Of course, I'm not so sure that pudgy, perplexed penguin anywhere on my body would entice my husband's amourous fingertips to continue their tradition of tracing my curves. (That's for you, VirginiaGal ... you can open your eyes, now, or clean up the puke on your chin, depending on your reaction.)

Now he's gone to live in his fantasy. Even with being so far behind in reading the latest strip as to feel estranged, I can't help but feel loss. My pudgy penguin friend won't be there anymore to greet me on Sundays. My Steve-Dallas-doppelganger pal doesn't think this is the last from Breathed. He's sure he'll pull a Michael Jordan in a couple of years and resurrect something from Bloom County to run for a few years again. I'm not as convinced. Though, I'd be thrilled if he did. Certainly, I'll have the books to keep me company (note to self: ask for entire collection for Christmas?), he'll no longer be part of my Sunday. Who'll fill that gap? Boondocks? Our paper hasn't run that strip in about 2 years. Bastards. Doonesbury? Too overtly political - excellent, but I prefer foibled accessibility. Foxtrot? Puh-leeze. Maybe Pearls Before Swine or Non Sequitir. Apparently, Berkeley Breathed is going to focus on writing childrens' books. I guess if/when Honey and I have kids, I can use those as a starter drug to lure the bairn into the church of Bloom County. Our favorite Homer Simpson quote is, "Raising kids is easy. You teach them to hate the things you hate, and what with the internet and all, they practically raise themselves." I don't hate much, but I do hope I can inculcate them to appreciate the pen of Berke Breathed.

Like a Child

Dad had his second open-heart surgery yesterday. For those keeping track at home, his first was in the mid-80s.

We went to church Sunday morning and as the senior minister was out on vacation, Dad was scheduled to preach. It wasn't one of his better or more memorable sermons - it was new, anyway - but I really enjoyed hearing him preach. I always enjoy it, but since I don't live nearby and since he's no longer the senior minister, hearing him preach is always a treat. It was good to see some folks there that I hadn't seen for a few years. People offered their prayers; one of Dad's parishoners stopped by their house yesterday afternoon specifically to pray with us. As I don't know her, I didn't know what to think of it. Her prayer though was really sweet and comforting. She referred to Dad, in her prayer, as a man with a heart as big as all outdoors; and he is one of the very few people I've ever met for whom I think that description is perfect. She also brought my mom a little scarecrow rag doll she picked up at a crafts store. Ultimately, I really appreciated her visit.

Mom had been tearing and crying a little here and there all Sunday. I had been playing the supportive daughter, there to cheer on Dad and comfort Mom. I was definitely worried, but I wasn't letting myself show it. I had actually convinced myself that I was okay, that I had my worries in check. I suppressed my own emotions so much I almost snowed myself over. Almost. Before I went to sleep Sunday night, it all came out. I cried and cried and let myself be scared and just let it out to God telling him how scared I was and how worried I was. All my doubts and fears. I'm not sure I'd talked that candidly to God in a long, long time. Years maybe. In crying and reaching out, I discovered I suppress a lot of my negative emotions. Or I have been in recent years. It felt genuinely good to weep and genuinely good to just get candid with God.

This was different from his first triple by-pass. I didn't go with him to the hospital on the day of the surgery the first time. I was eight. My brother and I stayed the night with my mom's baby brother and his wife. They were so cool when we were kids, simply because they were young. I remember my uncle gave me an Apple computer t-shirt with the colored apple logo on it. It was sized for an adult male, so it swallowed me up, but I wore as a night shirt. We didn't get to see Dad for a day or two after the surgery. When we finally went to the hospital, my mom warned us to be gentle and not too loud because he was trying to recover. I remember walking into his room and him standing up from the edge of his bed, wearing a green bathrobe, and seeing the stitches on his left shin. That's where the doctor had removed his leg veins, which were transplanted to his heart to replace (or by-pass?) the old clogged arteries. But to my eight-year-old eyes, the stitching was sinister. Had the surgeon made a Frankenstein monster out of my dad? It sure looked like it! He opened his arms wide to receive hugs from us, and I delivered, cautiously, in case he was a Frankenstein monster and tried to kill us suddenly. During the nights he was in the hospital, my brother and I slept with mom in their bed. It felt good to all sleep together when we all felt so sad and scared.


Sunday night, as I hunched on my parents' guest bed, crying and clutching a teddy bear mom had bought as a stage prop for a one-act she directed when she taught high school in West Texas, I realized I felt just as scared and vulnerable as I did when I was eight. Not only that, I wish I had the protections provided me when I was eight. When I was eight, I didn't have to wake at some ungodly hour to go with Dad to the hospital for check in and surgery prep. When I was eight, I didn't have to watch as they wheeled Dad away into surgery. When I was eight, I didn't have to wait for hours in a waiting room, anticipating each visit from the nurse. When I was eight, though I've always feared losing my parents, I think I was maybe less afraid of losing my dad than I am now. ... no, I've always been exactly as afraid of losing him as I am now.

We were very fortunate to be surrounded by friends and family yesterday. Dad's boss, the senior minister at his church, arrived at the hospital around 5:50, when we were arriving and stayed throughout the whole procedure until we got the all-clear, around 1:30 yesterday afternoon. I didn't know him well, but got to know him better; he's a nice guy and I can see why my family likes him. My uncle who lives in the Dallas area was down for a 6-month check up from his oncologist at a nearby hospital. (He's been cancer-free for years now, but still has to get the official thumbs up every 6 months.) He stopped in for a while, between appointments, to sit with us. We made waiting-room friends with a Muslim family who were awaiting news about their brother. One of his sisters - the one who wore a scarf and traditional clothes - had a chain of prayer beads that reminded me of a rosary. Though I cherish the iconoclasm of the strain of protestantism in which I was raised, sometimes I wish we had retained traditions like that from our Catholic forebears. We're 3-D beings, having something tactile to cling to doesn't have to be idolatry. But I digress. Other friends from my parents' church stopped by to check in. A little after 2, about 45 minutes to an hour after surgery, Mom and I were allowed to visit him in the ICU recovery room. Poor guy was so far whacked on anesthesia, he barely opened one eye. Mom held his hand and talked to him for a few minutes and then we both said goodbye.

Mom had to return home around 4 to meet with a repairman about some light fixes to the house. There's still a lot of Ike debris around the city: tarps on roofs, tons of tree branches gathered here and there; signs knocked off. My brother arrived in time for the 5PM visitor period. Before we went in, I warned him that a few hours earlier, Dad looked like a coma patient and he had tubes coming out of him and he was pasty white and cold. He nodded. We're grown ups. We can handle seeing our dad look like that right? HA! Immediately, we both started tearing up. By this time, Dad was more responsive. He couldn't speak with the tube in his mouth, but at least his eyes were open and he could communicate non-verbally. "Blink if you know we're here, Dad," my brother said. He blinked. "Blink twice if you're still going to vote for Obama," I requested. He blinked twice of course. My brother and I did what we always do when we're scared or sad, we cracked wise. I think Dad appreciated it because we could see him sort of turn up the corners of his mouth in an attempted grin. I figured out that he had an itch on his right arm, so my brother scratched it. "There are so many tubes coming out of you, you look like a cow being milked!" my brother told him. Immediately, I SO wanted to say, "Dad! Be careful! Soylent Green! It's made of PEOPLE!" But everyone else in the recovery room was so quiet. We were the only ones really talking aloud. Other family members just hovered over their loved ones. Thankfully, Dad wasn't the worst looking. I actually feel sorry for Dad in that hall. Not just because he's uncomfortable, but because he's having to share space with people who really do look a lot worse off than him, right now.

After our visit yesterday afternoon, my brother broke down in the hall outside ICU recovery. I held him and let him cry on my shoulder and let myself cry on his. Seeing Dad as vulnerable as that exposed all our vulnerabilities. Again, I was grateful that when I was a child, I was protected from that.

Mom visited him this morning. He's still in ICU recovery, but he's sitting up, the tube is out of his mouth, and he's talking. It takes forever for anesthesia to fully wear off, so he'd forgotten that we visited yesterday, but that's fine. The fact that he went from droopy-tongue coma to Diving Bell and the Butterfly messaging within a couple of hours yesterday to sitting up and talking this morning is really, really encouraging to me. Bro will be coming by in about 15 minutes to pick me up to hang out before we visit him at 5. Dad will probably be moved out of recovery and into a room tomorrow. That will be a good thing, as the poor man needs a window, and we won't have as restrictive visiting times. I leave tomorrow morning, so I'll probably say goodbye to him tonight as the 8 o'clock visitation ends. Which sucks. I'd much rather get to say goodbye to him in his own room, or at home, but I'll take what I can get.

I waffled a bit on whether or not to come down for this. They don't "need" me. Technically, there's nothing I can do to help the situation. And, selfishly, I'm scared. But in retrospect, I'm terribly glad I did. A triple by-pass surgery is nothing to be trifled with and a second one, even less so. I think it was heartening for him to see me in his time of need. Maybe I also needed to come down, to expose myself to my own fears and become a little girl again. That wouldn't've happened had I stayed home.