Derailed

I was going to write about the amazing experience of meeting Christine Lavin and being wholly entertained by her concert. But, recent headlines have put a pall over other, more joyful, events and my heart is heavy with news of teen suicides. Suicides that have run coast to coast, including in the heartland of Indiana, my home state. These particular cases are heightened because the kids in question were, or presumed to be by someone, gay.

Now, for those who are ready to get in an uproar about focusing too much on this aspect, of course I know that harassment, invasion of privacy, and violence can be directed toward anyone considered different or weak. Sometimes it’s about sexual orientation. Sometimes about race. Or intellect. Or income. Or any other spot someone thinks they need to poke. Cruelty is cruelty no matter who the victim. But, I think it’s naïve to think that sexual orientation, or perceived orientation, doesn’t play a part in a lot of this disregard for the right to live in peace. Do your own research to learn the number of people in America who have died because they were gay. Riots, murder, suicide when a person simply cannot bear a life of non-acceptance. Just because the idea persists that somehow, being attracted to someone of the same sex is terrible. In a nutshell, is it my business to know what you do, so long as you’re dealing with consenting peers of the same species? Not really. If you’re an adult, leave non-adults alone. Never do anything to anyone they do not welcome. These are simple guidelines, really. And, I can’t accept the “it’s not natural” argument. Wanna worry about something not natural? Worry about plastics in landfills.

In the meantime, think about the fact that we’re an amazing country that fights for justice the world over, yet we have these barriers in our own. We actually pass laws to separate fellow citizens…our American brothers and sisters. It’s shameful and it’s sad to me. I could never look a couple in the eye and tell them their twenty-year relationship is less valid because they’re a the same sex. I could never look a teenager in the eye and tell him that being attracted to other boys is wrong. Being a teenager and figuring out sex is hard enough. Again, stick to your age, stick to your species, and don't perpetrate any violence on anyone. I’ve listened with sincerely open ears to the anti-gay arguments, and I still don’t get it. I just don’t. But, I do still believe in a day when kids won't feel like they have to jump off bridges or hang themselves. I keep my eye on that day when tolerance will reign and we’ll spend more time going after those nasty plastics.

Let's Just Get This Out of the Way

Really, I should have known. It’s honestly a little embarrassing it hadn’t occurred to me before. Surely everyone else knew this: The entire French Quarter in New Orleans smells like barf.

Yep, it’s true. If you’ve been there, you know. You just never mentioned it to me. If you haven’t been there, now you know, too, because I do feel the need to mention it. Why? Mostly because it’s amazing to me that any outdoor area, save perhaps the flowerbed at a frat house, can smell like vomit ALL THE TIME. This is impressive to me. I’ve seen the street cleaners of New Orleans at work. They work. And, by the additional scents present, they use chemicals. But, the incredible power of hurl is still winning the olfactory battle. Especially on that most celebrated of streets in Vieux Carre, Bourbon Street. Frankly, I think the street would smell less like barf if they served more bourbon. Straight up. No twist. No mixer. Good, solid, honest bourbon. It’s a fast track to intoxication and without all the sugary goop added (no offense, Hurricane drinkers), people might have a better chance of holding their liquor. This, of course, doesn’t apply to anyone under 25 or anyone whose emotional intelligence is trapped at 17. They’re going to puke in your bushes no matter what, so you’ve just got to count them in a control group all their own.

When I was there, I peered into the street grates, seeing only a bit of dirt and a few leaves on an otherwise relatively clean drain. I wondered about the concrete and bricks that make up the streets. Porous enough to actually absorb generations of alcohol-propelled stomach contents? A thought I felt the urge to…quickly dismiss. Mostly because I think there’s some truth there. As we wandered around and neared our hotel, Scott reminded me to “turn left at the smell of barf.” I told him if we did that, we’d be walking in circles all day. It was just that strange, acidic, faint odor. Never so over-powering that you can’t have a fine time anyway. The other thing to note is, I never actually saw anyone upchuck. Nor did I see evidence of anyone having done so recently. That also impressed me. I figure if your concrete smells like puke, but there’s no visible puke, someone is doing a decent job cleaning up. That, or these drunks manage a great aim in secluded spots. I’m a bit cynical about that theory, based simply on the above-mentioned frat house. Some folks just don’t run fast enough to get to a proper vomit environment.

And that’s the beauty of the party that is sometimes the French Quarter. It accepts you. It lets you dress up in glitter make-up and corsets, regardless of gender or size. It lets you feel the rhythm of the door hustlers, opening their arms like circus barkers to draw you under the Big Top of the day. It lets you drop your guard, but hone your senses. And in its salty movement, it makes you feel right at home. It’s filled with smiling people hoisting Hurricanes and Hand Grenades, music blowing out nearly every window and street performers filling in the gaps. There’s dancing in the streets and whatever celebration people need to create can find its props behind those shuttered doors.

Of course, this is only one slice of the story…

Lightning Strikes

Could lightning really strike the same person twice? She looked at me with tears standing in her eyes and asked. Though she could easily have been speaking rhetorically, I searched for an answer. I felt like she deserved one. But, it wasn’t there. Only it was there, in the facts that lay before her. I just shook my head. I don’t know. How could lightning strike twice?

I was in the mix the first time that bolt struck. We shared a common loss, though hers was one I wouldn’t fully grasp until I had more years on the day, that day she first got blood in her eyes. She was 14 and a cousin robbed her of her uncle and a dear friend. Blood in the halls and blood in the eyes of a teenage girl. But, she didn’t have the luxury of attempting invisibility. She mowed the dead man’s lawn with a sister’s spirit smiling on her. She went to the only public school in town. She wrangled with wishing her own cousin dead. Mostly, she tried to figure out how these things happen. As if adolescence isn’t difficult enough.

Years later, a similar case. Different cousin. A grandmother taken from her this time. More blood in her eyes. Lightning came straight through the phone line and zapped her, just like that. And, that’s how they go... “Just like that.”

We sat together and I marveled that she was even still sane. I question my own sanity on occasion and I have only one day to wrangle with. She now has two. Two days that mark murder in her life. You want someone you love to have none. Ever. You don’t want them to know the range of emotions. You don’t want them to know forensic terms or legal talk. But, sometimes, the ones you love do know these things. And, if they have an ounce of feeling, they’re never the same. Headlines read differently. The sense of order you once had no longer makes sense. The same nightmares that keep you up at night keep you on edge in the day. If you’re from a small Midwestern town, it makes even less sense to you. If it’s family, it pretty much shatters the framework you grew up in. I’ve never really found a fully satisfying answer to why lightning strikes once. Now, I felt her pain at having to revisit that in the wake of the second jolt. Even scars that appear to heal nicely can pop open at any second. How to bandage this wound?

We can’t help but play “What if…?” sometimes, she and I. What if Happily Ever After had happened? But, since we’re both realistic enough, we don’t spend much time there. Mostly, we remember with love, look for wisdom, and agree that we’d likely have gotten along famously, just as we do now. But, I’d be lying if I skimmed over one of the strongest bonds we have. The shared blood. The missing and loving of the same person. The bond of knowing how the other feels when words truly do fail us. The loss of innocence that comes with innocent victims. People living their lives as best they can, opening their hearts to help someone, only to have their families face the headlines of their demise. These are the people we mourn together. And, not just our people, but every one. Every sister. Every uncle. Every grandmother. Every brother. Every aunt. Every child. Every father. Every mother. Every friend who posed no threat, other than the one imagined in the mind of a broken person.

When it comes to storms and lightning, we sit together and gently shake our heads.

The Things We Really Need

More and more, I realize that when it all shakes down, the only thing most people want when life is said and done is more time.

Found in an Old Journal of Mine

Things are rarely what we think they will be. They are always what we need them to be.

Mother's Day, Every Day

I came home with the Jostens’ brochure in my hand; hopes high, expectations managed. In my mind, I was already designing the ring…torn between the journalism icon, music notes, and comedy/tragedy masks. Why couldn’t there be room for all three of my extra-curricular loves?

The class ring was a rite of passage in my mind, something to symbolize that I actually enjoyed high school, that these really were great days in my life, despite all the growing pains. I realized years later, that it also meant I was more than the fallen ceiling panels in our living room, more than that street kid from South Bend, that we had gone past those things, that we could at least afford this.

She recognized that brochure right away. I’m sure she did some calculating in her head, her mind running numbers while her eyes never betrayed the math. My mom was really good that way. She could size up a situation, figure out a couple of plans of action, and have a solution on the table before most people realized what was going on. So, I imagine that when she saw me come through the door that afternoon, contemplating birthstones and ring styles, she was already trying to find a way make it work. We sat at the kitchen table and I spread our options out in front of us in full glossy color. She listened while I told her how much I didn’t like the birthstone they used for my birthday month, June. That clear pink stone just didn’t appeal to me. Didn’t they know there were two birthstones for June? We looked over designs and contemplated what might be most popular at my school…I’d likely order the style that wasn’t. Then, we talked price. We looked at the price list and just sort of sat there. Honestly, today I can’t tell you if those class rings were fifty bucks or five hundred bucks. Because at that moment, they might as well as have been priced at a million. She didn’t say it, but I knew it. I also knew that if I really wanted that ring, she would do her damnedest to find a way to get it for me. I had my own savings, but not enough to cover the cost.

So, we sat there and drank our Pepsi for a little while and talked about what having that ring meant to me, how we might afford it, who I thought I might be when I got older (as in, would I ever wear this thing past graduation?) After some conversation, she went into her bedroom and came out carrying a small jewelry box. She handed it to me and when I opened it, there was a gold ring with a garnet stone bearing a stately M: her high school class ring. Monticello High School 1951. I remembered seeing it when I was little, but never on her hand. It was always tucked away in her jewelry chest and I was the one who couldn’t control her curiosity and always played in her mom’s stuff. (Dress-up was a big pastime in my house) And then, Mom offered me a deal. She suggested I wear her ring, as a retro kind of thing. She would then buy me a “grown woman’s” ring when I graduated. We could go to the local, family-owned jewelry store downtown and look at things…maybe pearls. A pearl? A real pearl? That was the June birthstone I always thought was beautiful…if for no other reason than the amazing way they come about. “If you can wait, I’ll buy you something you can wear your whole life, that will never seem dated,” she said. It was a compelling idea. I tried her Monticello High ’51 ring on and it was a perfect fit. We smiled at each other. She took my hand. I knew she wanted to give me everything. I looked at my hand adorned with her ring and loved the idea of wearing this old school high school class ring. “Let’s do it!” I said.

A few days later, we went downtown to the little jewelry shop. I was dazzled and took in the beauty of the gemstones…the sparkling diamonds, deep greens of emeralds, the powerful hues of the rubies, and the warmth of the sapphires. Then, I headed for the showcase featuring the pearl earrings, rings, and necklaces. While I browsed, my mom talked with the jeweler. He was nodding and smiling, occasionally looking over her shoulder to smile at me. After their chat, she came over and looked at rings with me. “Don’t forget, we’re not buying today, so look for styles that you like, something to give us an idea of what to get later.” I contemplated black pearls…thinking I might be classically edgy. But, ultimately, I found a ring that I adored: a single pearl set with a triangular cluster of tiny diamonds on either side. It was beautiful, just enough sparkle but not too pronounced. “Mom…I think I’d really like something like this. Is this okay?” She smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.” The jeweler smiled and said he’d see me at graduation.

The class rings came in. Many of my pals were flashing theirs and I was actually happy for them. Not really feeling left out at all, because I enjoyed wearing a ring from 1951 and I knew Mom would keep her promise and my class ring would come later. It would be a ring I would look at long into my life and remember those days of high school in that small town, remember what those days meant. Of course, 1986 eventually came and my high school years had been filled with people and experiences that still remain precious to me. The ceiling never really got fixed and there was a lot of creative financing in those days. Graduation week rolled around.

Mom told me it was time to go back to the jeweler. I found myself hoping there was a ring there similar to the one I fell for a few years before. We walked in and I went to the case with the pearls. I looked for a couple of minutes, and then joined my mom at the counter. The jeweler remembered me, the beauty of a small town at that time. He had a box in his hands and set it on the counter. Mom opened her purse, pulled out four rolls of dimes and set them on the counter. Suddenly, I realized what had happened. The jeweler opened the ring box and there it was: the beautiful solitary pearl with clusters of tiny diamonds on either side. The ring. My ring. The ring, I realized at that moment, that was put aside three years earlier by an understanding businessman and paid for by a determined mother a dime at a time. I learned later that they had cut the deal that first day we went in. He would hold the ring I chose, she would pay it off by my graduation. So, she started saving dimes and she went in every week and gave him something, sometimes as little as five dollars. Often paid in dimes carefully counted and rolled. She kept that promise to me. I kept my promise to her. Together we saw it through those pivotal years in my life. Sometimes a dime at a time.

I still wear my mother’s high school class ring. And, I treasure each morning when I put on that pearl ring, the lessons she gave me in love, perseverance, and integrity. To this day, open my coin purse and you’ll find, if nothing else…a dime.

Browsing Print Ads

Here's an invitation I've always loved in an ad:
"TASTE THE FUN!"
Hmmm... not so certain I'm ready to go for that. What does your fun taste like? Am I really going to like it? Definitions of fun are very subjective, so I'm not ready to rush in and open my mouth. You know?
"TASTE THE FUN"?
Ew.

License by Cracker Jack

Dear Person Driving the Car That Just Darted in Front of Me at 80mph,

Hi! I’m in the car behind you…the one whose emblem was almost imprinted in your right rear quarter panel. Hope you’re having a great day, or at least that things will calm down for you soon. I mean, you seem a little tense, speeding up and jumping lanes and stuff like that. Kind of like you’re in a hurry, only forgetting that you’re ON A FREEWAY WITH OTHER VEHICLES CARRYING HUMANS. Sorry to raise my voice, I just wanted to make sure you’re paying attention, which seems to be a novel concept for you when you’re in the car. The reason for my note is to introduce you to this amazing feature that most foreign and domestic cars (and trucks!) offer. If you’ll look on the steering column, there’s this little rod that sticks out. Usually, you can find it on the left hand side. I suggest you look for this when you’re parked, not when you’re careening from lane 1 to lane 4 at excessive speed. Check that little stick out! It moves up. It moves down. And, if you’ll look closely, you’ll see it makes lights go on! That’s right, it’s connected to the turn signals on your car. Say it with me, “tuuuuurn signals.” Those are the lights that let other people, people like me, know if you plan to…oh, say, TURN or, in your particular case, move into the adjacent lane, whether someone is already in that lane or not. The turn signal is amazing. You can use it anytime you deviate from a straight path when you’re driving. And, really, to be honest, I have no desire to try to guess what you intend to do with 3000 pounds of steel and glass and flammable liquids on wheels moving upwards of 75mph. Yep, that one little rod does a mighty good job. Might I suggest you use it? I can only control this finger so much.

Love,
The Lady Who Kindly Didn’t Slam Into Your Stupid Ass

Oh, Ronald, where art thou?

The other day, I grabbed a quick and cheap lunch at McDonald’s. 

Let me pause so you can sigh and wonder about my poor food choices. 

It’s just down the street from the station and the giant 79-cent diet coke sucks me in.  Add extra ice and that baby gets me through the Jazz Ride Home and then some.  My first moment of delight was when I realized someone within the local McD’s organization figured out how to use prepositions!  You see, for quite some time, when ordering via faceless speaker, customers where subjected a pre-recorded voice not belonging to the actual person working the window, who offered the following script. (Be sure to pause haltingly at each period)

Hi. Welcome to. McDonald’s. Wouldyouliketotry. Our new ice caramel latte. On your meal today?

Each time I heard it I wondered if the people who answered “yes” wound up with a soggy bag of coffee flavored fries and McNuggets nestled in caramel-drizzled whipped cream.  Drove me batty.  Even if I did like coffee, which I don’t, I couldn’t bear to order that.  I felt my mother, all my high school English teachers, and a couple of teachers from middle school wincing.  Well, on this day, that delightful little frothy coffee was actually offered to go WITH one’s meal, rather than ON one’s meal, which seems much more appetizing to me.

Anyway, I’m attempting a mission to wean myself from the devil’s lunch window, so I thought I’d pass on the burger and opt for chicken instead. I know, parts is parts, but I try to fool myself into thinking McNuggets are a somehow healthier option. As I waited in the drive thru line, the fry jones kicked in.  Before I knew it, my mouth was ordering the MIGHTY KIDS MEAL.  This was so I could get six of those tasty pressed chicken blobs, the crack-sprinkled Mickey D’s fries, and whatever toy was offered that week.  If you have ever been in my station office, you understand.  Random toys are always available to help ease stress and the fast food kids’ meal has been vital to procuring these plastic diversions.  That day’s score, by the way, was a pair of brightly colored Barbie seahorse barrettes, one in shimmering pink and the other in sparkling purple, designed with a four to six year old in mind. My friend Erica now occasionally sports the purple one in her blonde locks.  As I uncrumpled the bag, inhaling the sweet, glorious smell that is only a literally heart-stopping deep fryer moment, I first thought, “There must be a training session where they teach you how to put the fries in the bag up-side down every single time. There’s just amazing consistency throughout the industry.”

Then, I pulled out the McNuggets box.  There it was, emblazoned on the top of the package, pretty as you please…McNuggets Share-Me-Nots.  Share-Me-Nots?  Share-Me-Nots?!  Are you kidding me?  McDonald’s is now marketing selfishness to my kid?  Okay, I don’t actually have a kid, but I was one and I’ve known a lot of them. I even know a few now.  And, as a parent, what’s one of the first things you try to teach your kid?  That’s right: Share.  Share your toys, Share your space with your sister. Share this and share that.  It’s kind of a social skill, don’t you think?  So, I’m not really sure I want McDonald’s, even in jest, to encourage kids to be selfish and to be piggy.  I mean, even I offer a nugget or two to a pal and always pony up fries when the office ladies are lured in by the scent.  But, that aside, I really do wonder about this.  I’m sure there are much bigger issues to worry about as a parent, like maybe why the hell we feed our kids fast food anyway? But, I miss the days when a trip to Ronald’s place meant a freaky-looking clown splashed on everything, instead of sarcasm and a corporate logo.  Probably a good thing I don’t have a kid, at least not until I kick this French fry habit. And, definitely not until McDonald’s makes their food out of, well, food.

Anything as Nothing and Nothing as Anything

After a completely unscientific poll, solely among people who know me, the subject of this blog has been determined:  It will be about anything.  Not quite the Blog About Nothing, but close.  I think it’s because, like its source, this thing just won’t be able to focus on only one thing.  There’s too much happening in the world, in town, in the lives of family & friends, and in my brain.  Music, movies, laws, protests, poetry, memories, lessons, strong people, weak people, social mores, candy…you name it and it’s likely to have flashed past my mind’s eyes at some point.  And if not, well, you just introduced it.  See how these things work?  

I will suggest that if you’re a parent, you pay attention to what your kids read.  Both my parents were in the Navy and I have four older brothers, so salty language is not foreign to me and I often enjoy employing it in the presence of adults.  Maybe I should offer the same disclaimer to the faint of heart or easily offended.   Consider it offered. (It IS in the settings, after all.)

It’s going to be fun to see what entries wind up longer, which ones will be compact, or what I dig up in my closets and boxes that will get my brain clicking. And, maybe it's because I work in public radio, but I feel like thanking you for seeking this out and spending time here.  Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to send me money.  Any topic you want me to tackle, just let me know.

Peace.