A Sigh of Relief

This is to be short and sweet - and more to come later. But I didn't want to let the moment past without some sort of commentary. First, let me say that I have turned my children into nerdy people. I printed out election maps and as the results were called out, we colored in the different states according to had one each. I found myself somewhat offended that Kentucky was called so early for McCain - it seemed so close and so few of the votes had been received, how could it be called with only 10% of the results in. It hardly seemed fair. First to really have a vote that would be pounded into the ground by the red, then to have it discounted so quickly in the race. And after Pennsylvania went for Obama, and they brought out their magic map and showed how it was virtually impossible for McCain to win, well, I let the sleep over take me. And when I awoke, it was to the happy information that indeed Obama had one, and not barely, but resoundingly -- even if I still lived in a god-forsaken red state -- sigh. I'll have to move to Louisville, that county at least when democratic. But, better to be living in a red state with a democratic president than living in a red state with a republican president -- or more to the point with Sarah Palin as Vice President.

So, I missed the speech. I missed the Daily Show coverage. I missed most of it. But took note and marked the ocassion as historic. Elijah was able to fill in my ballot for me. And he was right there panicking when so many states were turning red. And made a point to ask this morning about the electric college. And Isaiah awoke this morning and asked where Obama was going. And that he didn't want to go to school, he wanted to go with Obama. He was actually uttering that through tears as I had to lead him to preschool this morning (apparently 5 days off in a row is too many for the preschooler).

And now, my mom has called and said she'd like to go to the innagurational parade and would we go to. And, I will happily take days off from school to do just that. Jose won't - he doesn't care about the historical impact about the awe of seeing something so big happen and marking it - memorizing it - immortalizing it. But I do, and given the opportunity will happily do that for my children. Who I told this morning they too could be President. To which Elijah said, how? and I responded, well... you got do good in school. "And don't do drugs." he added. And then Elijah decided that it was probably too much work and he didn't really want to go there - until he considered ordering the Senate to do all his work for him. But there is something immensely pleasing about having a child, even for a brief moment, consider the option of being president - and believing that he could do it if he wanted to. What power in that dream - what power in this moment that has made that dream seem more real than ever before.

Bored on an Election Morning

Take a Free IQ Test.

Thank God for SNL

My Worst Nightmare

Hearing George Bush thank me, even virtually, really made me cringe.

The unwanted friend

I don't really understand what my hang up is with having friends - I guess it's just one of those things that I need to accept rather than change. And why, yet again, am I back to this age old, get over yourself already - topic? My address book in my phone. It's handy to have a portably phone book, it really is. But on the flip side, when I want to find a number quickly, I don't want to be scrolling through every single number in creation (those of you who know me, know I get obsessive about adding things, making to do lists - and then promptly lay them down and forget about them) But my cell phone well it doesn't delete the item just because I dont use it - though come to think of it - i wouldn't mind having a phone that said - by the way you haven't called this person and they haven't called you in - oh 2 years, do you still think you need their number. I think that perhaps it should add a short text message - seriously, what event would have to occur that they would call you or that would take your call. I have a couple of numbers like that - idealistic - wish I was who they thought I was or they were who I thought they were kind of numbers -- they are really more a symbol of hope than reality. I imagine they are the equivalent of a guy getting phone numbers from a girl in a bar - and calling the number to discover that it is the number of a fast food place or a fax machine. But still, he clings to that scrap of paper and every so often will dial the numbers just to make sure that he dialed them the right way the first time. And now, you've found the connection - I'm the loser guy with the scrap of paper. That's not to say that I'm starting big. The first number I deleted was Jim Jim Wallace's. I only had that number by accident - he gave it to me at the reunion - why I don't know. Reunions - like prom - are moments moved from realistic time - things seem shinier, better, closer to perfect somehow. And though I hadn't used the number and knew that he would never call me, I felt somehow like I was giving up on something to delete his number. Steven Sanders will be my next number to erase - and that number will make me a bit sadder I think. Mostly because for a brief moment some 20 years ago - Steven thought that I was smart or had something worthwhile to say - and that someone thought that and cared enough to tell me matters. That doesn't not however mean that he necessarily wants to be an active member of my daily existance (and to give him credit, he did indeed say that he would not be the type of person who would keep in touch at all - setting those expectations almost as low as the republicans with Sarah Palin's debate skills). And there was a time when I had hoped that maybe we would be friends -- but you can't be friends with a fictional character. Or rather, you can, but it's not really considered good mental health, though it may result in a nice vacation if you don't care padding and buckles. And deleting him from my phone doesn't mean losing his email - it just means putting things on more realistic footing - accepting what is without expectations. And it is exactly this reason why I'm not putting John Bruce's phone number in my phone -- but rather on an email / christmas card list. It's a fair acknowledgement to say that seeing him again affected me and I want to thank him and let him know that it did. That doesn't not mean that he wants me all up in his business. Nor does it mean that he wouldn't like to know how everyone is from time to time. I'm going to operate under the same assumption for many of the other people that I know. And who knows - maybe someone will suprise me - but I doubt it.

Who Says You Can't Go Home . . . They're mostly right

I returned to my childhood home today, two of them actually, after 30 years. The first was in Greenfield, Missouri. This home was the one I most remember – where most of my childhood memories were formed. It was these there that Jodi and I saved Nothing’s kittens. There that I first understood what it meant to “rain in sheets.” At the farm, we were chased by goats, terrorized by roosters and geese, and struggled with the concept that just because you can see by my outfit that I am a cowboy, didn’t necessarily make it so. I have written before of the farm, and I knew that going back would be a risk. And true to form, I was prepared to accept the worse but so hoping for the best. And the best isn’t really what I got. The road itself was overgrown, the weeds reaching greedy hands toward each other across the skinny black pavement. And when we turned the last corner, and were perched on top of the hill looking down at what used to be our house, it was one of those climactic moments – whatever outcome would result would be revealed soon. And it was not the hopeful, general preservation of a historical landmark that I was hoping for. My house hadn’t been preserved for posterity – the two huge trees in the front yard were gone, replaced by a vinyl fence that was hidden behind about 3 feet of overgrown brush. The small green house had been upgraded – siding replaced the green wood. The outbuildings / sheds and barn had long since been torn down. The only common factor was that the yard was mowed and there were big dogs in the house. The lot had housed the barn was simply part of the yard and the lower lot with the pond was now a wooded area, the bond nothing more than an indentation in the ground at the bottom that you had to strain to see. It would appear that the magic that had hovered around the farm when we were little – fled when we left. The park where we had my 8th birthday party was much the same. The bathroom that I remember being overrun with crickets was still there – and it was too late in the season for a huge amount of bugs – but I could see why they’d like to hang out in the spot. And I’m pretty sure that the tornado slide was EXACTLY the same as it was when I was little. I’m pretty sure they don’t make layered metal slides like that anymore. While we were there we stopped by the elementary school. I didn’t remember that it was white, but I’m pretty sure that it is because I’m combining it with small school clipart. I think they’ve added to the back. What used to be the baseball field was gone. But what was there – and I had forgotten – was the kindergarten building which was across the street. I remembered that tiny sidewalk up to the door, the playground in the back and the thorn bush that grew near the fence. I remember Mrs. Reeves – who in 1974 was probably one of the few black teachers in white schools anywhere in the south. If the visit taught me nothing else, it taught me that metal playground equipment can and most likely will last forever. The square was familiar, I remembered skating around the square for the Buffalo Days parade, and hurling buffalo chips down the hill. I remembered the house with the mimosa tree on the corner – that bloomed brilliant pink sweetness in the summer. But the town looked old and unkempt. The fields were grown over, the town itself was old. It looked forgotten, like a run down senior citizen community with no money and no prospects. It is however, probably one of the only towns with a city park that posts a notice that says no horses allowed. We also traveled to Marshfield, MO. This is where we lived when my brother Jason was born. This house in my head was always very much like a Brady bunch house. And it looked much the same when we stopped by to visit. I didn’t realize that it mattered that it looked the same until I saw it. The yard that in my childhood stretched for so many miles that I was sure Jodi would never be able to reach the, was just a nice sized yard. But the house was a page from a faded memory book. T he trees where we tied Sawdust was there. The sidewalk where Jason found the pee in a bottle (mountain dew I’m sure) was still there. And John Bruce still lived right down the road, though not quite the mile that I remembered. And when I saw him, I just wanted to burst into tears. His hear was white and fading from the top, but he still had his mountain man beard and ponytail. He was still in his overalls. And his eyes were exactly the same. And I lost it. And even when I wrote this, I am overcome again with weepy, nose running tears. So I gave him a huge hug with tears streaming down and he said, Welcome home. And finally there was that one part that was true and was w hat I remembered and was still perfect. And then it was there – the disappointment and loss from Greenfield that I didn’t think bothered me. No one valued that magic place of my childhood. There would be no pictures to frame prettily – it was gone. But John Bruce, he still had the magic of my childhood. He still has the magic twinkle that Santa has, with this calmness of spirit that is reverberating all around him. And when he said welcome home, my journey back to childhood was complete and culminated not in a place as I had anticipated, but in a hug. And it made all the abject horror if Greenfield apparent, and it scoured away the grown up acceptance of the fact that everything was so different – and laid bare and raw the sadness that a place that was so important to me had fallen to ruin. My own Terabithia destroyed. I was again a little girl lost in the mall trying to find a place to belong. So amid the relief that there were parts of my childhood that lived still unchanged there was, and is, just his overwhelming sadness that the rest is gone – neglected, abandoned and discarded – and in the acknowledgement my hope to let it go. But it is one of those moments when you struggle with regret – and it constantly brings to mind – or rather is the same kind of loss – as when my granddaddy walker didn’t know who I was the first time or the last time that I saw him in the nursing home and he didn’t look like granddaddy at all. I have been spoiled it seems in the relative unchanging nature of several constants in my life – and saying that – I must correct myself – there are aspects of my life that are the same only because I’ve seen them evolve and change – there is contentment and security in that. And the lesson learned from it all? This one is hard – it has taken me so long to figure out why seeing John Bruce made me want to cry – so I’m not sure that I’m ready to create the end of blog summative statement. But I suppose if I must say something, it would be that if you value it – hold on to it somehow – not so tightly that you prevent change – but close enough that you are a part of its evolution. Because there is no going home – only going forward.

Election 2008

O.K. for like the gazillionith time in my adult life, I am again surrounded by republicans. I can’t say that I really understand why anyone would be a republican – but for some ungodly reason, there are people out there who feel that the government shouldn’t really interfere in what they want to do (though it sure better be there to protect their rights). And in the midst of living in Kentucky – which has turned from a forever democratic state into an eternally republican one – so much so that no one even bothers to come here to campaign – I am in the closet – the democratic closet. Not because I’m ashamed of my beliefs – but I sure don’t want to hear anyone tell me that they don’t agree with me. Though I’ve discovered, that in my experience, republicans don’t say, I disagree. They say, you are wrong and stupid for believing what you are doing. Unless they are far to the right – at which point you are wrong, stupid and most likely going to hell for your heathen beliefs.

And this year, more than most election years, I can’t really figure out why someone wouldn’t like Barack Obama. I don’t see why people say they are scared of him more than anything else in the world (especially after seeing Sarah Palin stumbling pathetically through her interviews with Charles Gibson and Katie Couric – which should make them more afraid of John McCain’s death than anything else). Someone on CNN today said that Obama was TOO articulate. How can you be too articulate? Have Americans become so complacent listening to George Bush slaughter the English language these last 8 years that someone who actually speaks intelligently, doesn’t make up vocabulary and uses 3 and 4 syllable words correctly seems foreign and elitist? How does that happen? How can someone be scared of a man who seems to realize that the energy crises isn’t going to be solved by drilling for more oil – ANYWHERE. Last I checked, oil, like coal, is a fossil fuel. Fossil as in, really old, antique. You can’t make any more of it when it’s gone. Who cares if you drill every single damn crevice in the entire globe – it will run out and then what are we going to do? If someone can stick a giant pinwheel on my car and I can drive without using gasoline – then suit me up. And if they can find a giant pinwheel to heat my house, then give it to me. You all know I’m cheap. If solar panels didn’t cost more than my house, I’d already have some just to save some money.

It’s all too bizarre to me in general. This hatred of Barack. And it goes deep. Poor Elijah, my childhood champion, is suffering my pain at a 2nd grade level. I am generally impressed that kids are at all discussing anything political, but it happens. And Elijah is in the minority. A minority of one, if I’m not missing my guess. He comes home from school and says – everyone says that Barack isn’t Christian. That’s what their mom’s and dad’s say. And so we discuss that fact that he is indeed a Baptist. Or it’s “mom, no one in my class wants Barack Obama to win, do I have to want him to win.” And because I’m truly a good democrat, I must answer, “Elijah you can be whatever you want, believe what you want.” And the liberal in me must follow it with “but you know republicans don’t want to give people money to go to college. The government gave me money to go to college so that I could be a teacher and we could be in the same school. I feel that I owe it to those programs to vote for a democrat. I want to help people who can’t help themselves. That’s what I want my tax dollars to go to, helping people have a better life, like someone helped me.” And then he’s back chanting OBAMA OBAMA OBAMA. He even wore my Barack Obama button to school. It makes me proud.

And with just a few more weeks until the election, and a sure to be deliciously lopsided debate coming up on Thursday between Palin (the female, Alaskan equivalent of George W) and Joe Biden (please God don’t talk yourself into a hole) – which I am fervently hoping Palin fails miserably at and if she could do irreparable damage to McCain’s campaign at the same time I would be gleeful. I am waiting with baited breath. And I am hopeful that we will all be moving a step in the right direction. And if McCain wins – I pray that he doesn’t die, because I don’t want to move to El Salavador, and that he reverts to the man he was before he was pandering to get those “loyal conservatives” to vote for him.

A moment in time

I don't know about the rest of you, but there are moments in time where I stop and think "remember this moment. remember it. remember it." And I know that it will be gone and fleeting before too long. I think that that is why I take so many pictures and make movies - because there are so many times that I am looking out and I see a smile, a glimpse, something and it strikes me that time is so fleeting - it will pass us by and before I know it - Elijah will be lumbering out the door to college. Isaiah will finally be taller than I am. And they will be running away - to a new life - not just to chase after some bug, to reach some toy. They will be running forward and not looking back. Perhaps those aquarian aspects of my zodiac are coming to the forefront - that standing back and seeing the big picture. No longer do I operate under the firmly held belief that my life is life eternal - but there is indeed a wall at the end, a final act. And in your twenties it is easy to say, I would be content to die tomorrow. I have lived a life that I am proud of, I have no regrets. Having children adds an urgency to your life - or at least to mine. I know that I am mortal and I there are things I want to see before I go. I want to see my children graduate from college (i would settle for other forms of training -- but I'd really like to see them as college graduates and preferably at the top of their class, thank you very much). I would like to see them if not married, then in the company of someone they love deeply and are content with (if it falls apart after my death, then that's fine with me). I would like to see them as fathers - good fathers - and trying to create life experiences for their children as I have tried to do for them. A few weeks ago we found a creek. Well, we didn't find it really - there are a multitude of people who know that it was there, but I didn't. And it's a lovely creek. It has all the great creek features (small fish, a few deep spots, cold water, a tarzan swing) without all the weeds and general snake feel that most creeks have. So, we took the boys (and Riley, Elijah's friend) and went to hang out a bit. And as I sat in my soccer chair, with my feet dangling in the water, I had moment after moment of "remember this" -- and because I'm not really like anyone in my family and actually had a camera with video -- I took pictures and video and can remember it -- and for that I am grateful - for the moment, and for the ability to freeze it, revisit it and remember it - forever.

The Successful Marriage?

A friend of mine at work told me that she and her husband have separated. It was one of those weird moments when you stand back and sort of want to place the blame on someone but aren’t sure who it should be. The girl in me immediately thinks – what has he done, that rat bastard! And then the adult in me knows that he’s always seemed to be a really nice guy, as I had known him professionally. How do I reconcile that person with the rat bastard that he must be! Girls always blame the boy for the break-up, unless they themselves want the boy and then the girl is undoubtedly a slut. It’s always been true, and it will most likely always be true.

My own parents are divorced – more than once (though only my father legally). So divorce is no stranger to me. It’s not like I don’t think it can happen. But, none of my friends have been divorced or separated. Oh, I know what you’re thinking, what friends do you have in the first place. And that’s true enough, my best friends in the world aren’t married. But the other friends that I have, who are my age, that are married, are still married (although one girl is probably still taking drugs to stay with her husband). It’s weird. In my mind, as I sit here writing this, divorce is little more to me than breaking up with your boyfriend in high school or college. Give him back his class ring, divide your stuff and go on. Having never had a boyfriend or intimate relationship with anyone before my husband, I have no experience with the emotional trauma of breaking up with someone. It is true that I was a glorious fag hag for some 10 years and that relationship really faded into nothingness after a traumatic 6 month period. But, in all fairness, I can’t really count that as a break up – because I knew from the beginning that it was really a doomed relationship. So, it was more an issue of me coming to terms with my own idiocy than it was a break up. And a fag hag who doesn’t kiss ass and is ½ in love with her fag is really no good as a fag hag, so I had to find a new gig.

I have had some friends who have had marital problems. And it’s a really difficult conversation to have. It’s not difficult to say, “Oh my God! He’s an ass! You deserve better.” But in high school or college, such comments can easily be followed by “you should dump him, there are better men out there.” You can’t say that when you are talking to a mother of two who has been married for 15 years. It’s not so easy to cut those ties. So, now, I really try to avoid those types of conversations in total. I got nothing to say and no experience, so no one needs to hear what I have to say.

But back to the point, hearing that a marriage may end, really makes you step back and examine your own. How do you know that your own marriage won’t crumble away into nothingness. Do you wake up one morning and go, “O.k., I’m done. I want something else, but not with you.” Is it gradual, is it quick, is sad, devastating. Do I really want to know?

You Get What You Ask For

In the past several years, I have often been told that I’m bossy. And I am often taken aback by such a statement. I don’t consider myself bossy. And even as I write that, I am positive that there are at least some of you who are snorting and thinking “:whatever.” So, allow me to clarify.

To me, bossy is someone who is forever telling another person what to do – ordering another to complete a task. And I suppose that is the fundamental difference for me. I don’t order. I ask. I also realize that sometimes when I ask, some people feel put upon or compelled to comply with my request. And I say to them, that is your burden, not mine. Every single request that I have made, I have fully expected to receive a negative response. If I ask someone if they can do something, then I accept that they will say no, they can’t. And that’s fine with me. That they don’t say no, they can’t or no they won’t isn’t my problem. It sounds callous doesn’t it. But in all honestly, learning to say no was one of the hardest things that I have ever had to do – and with the learning of it, no longer fear it from others. It probably all goes back to selling books door to door for Southwest book company when I was in college. One of those life lessons that you know you’d never repeat, but what an adventure it was at the time. Call me a sucker for the promise of big money. Because of them, I don’t play the odds on anything. And that in itself is a life lesson. Anyway, when you’re selling books door to door, one thing you learn, and quickly, is to take rejection—and to realize that a no isn’t a personal condemnation – it’s just a no. And because of my horrific experience during that summer, I would speak to every telemarketer, every door to door salesman. I didn’t want to hit them with the same rejection as a salesman that I had suffered through. And then, finally, a young man from southwest book company came to my door. And I seized the opportunity. I bought books from him; the same set of books that I had tried to sell some 13 years before. And I told him as he walked out of the door that finally, I was free. I was never going to have to buy anything from anyone ever again. My debt was paid. And I haven’t bought anything that I didn’t want from anyone since that moment. I don’t feel compelled to donate money to the office envelope, if I don’t want to. I don’t feel guilty if I hang up on (after saying that I’m not interested, thank you for the chance. So, I’m going to hang up and good luck to you.) the random telemarkter (why waste his time with me when I know I’m not buying anything). And all I can say is that it is a freeing experience.

The other side of that coin is the not being afraid to ask. Knowing that there is no malice behind my no, I assume that there is no malice behind yours either. So, why not just check and see. The worse thing that could happen is that you say no. And what’s so bad about that. You might say yes, and that’s even better. That doesn’t mean that I ask for everything. Pride is still an issue there. It’s as if there is a line in the sand and some things – those things that aren’t so personally important – are safe to ask for; while others are forbidden. I don’t ask for money. I have in the past, and I am hopeful that I will never have to do so again. Asking for money is tantamount to admitting to failure and it is a wounding blow. Asking for help is also difficult, but less so as I get older. When I was younger, I felt that asking for help was admitting that I was too stupid or incompetent to complete a task on my own. As I’ve gotten older, I realize that sometimes, I am too stupid or incompetent to complete a task; but the task is important enough that I’d rather have help to get it done right, than not at all. Yes, I have realized that I don’t have to know everything and have begun to identify whole realms of material that I don’t even want to know. And that’s o.k. Perhaps it’s nothing more than the result of growing older and drawing my world in smaller to those things that I can control and those things I can’t. Work on the first, and enjoy the second for what it is – the adventure of living. And as I meander through all of those things over which I have no control, then by all means, let me ask for company, or for help, or for someone to lighten the load – I might get just what I asked for.

Family of Strangers

Isn't it funny how with your family you operate constantly under the misconceptions that you created throughout your childhood. Your sister is the same as she was at 8 or 13 or whatever age you remember her the most in your head. Sort of the same concept as the age you think you are. You know, when someone asks how old are you, your gut answer is 28, and then you remember . . . no, I'm 39. Oh my god I'm 39, when did that happen. How can I be 39 with a 3 year old, am I crazy?

It's no different when you describe your brothers, sisters, mom, dad, grandparents. They are forever frozen in time somewhere in your head. Well, not always, I suppose it depends on your family dynamic. If you're one of those families who see each other or talk to each every single day, you have that running change going on. But if you don't see each other every day, or talk all that often, your family sort of becomes like your friends from high school that you are seeing again for the first time at a 5 year reunion. They are who they were then. And because you expect it, you get it.

That aside, it's all well and good to be operating under false impressions when you are the one operating. It's really much easier and less involved than having to actually work to build and grow a relationship. But, when you are on the receiving end, you often sit around thinking "why in the world would they think that." In fact, a sure sign that you or your family is suffering fromt his dilemma is the wierd birthday / christmas gift. "why thank you for the leapord print / gold lame shoes and matching handbag. I love them!" oooh oh oh -- or "Wow! a Clinique make-up kit with complete brush set, and hair rollers. I needed these!" And you sit back and mentally ask yourself what about you made someone think that those were gifts that you'd like. And true to form, they are stuck in that creating the you now from the you in the past. After my last post about anonymous responses, I went back and read a couple of my other responses. And my sister had written a couple that had a comment about -- huh, who would have thought we were alike -- or -- see you judge just like you say I do. Now, I must say that I don't really remember having said to Jodi that she was a judgemental person -- maybe when I was 19 -- but I can't be sure - it sounds like something I would have said when I was 19. But I worry that there are people that I care about who have a misconception about what I think about them - that I don't really like them, that they've done something for which I still hold a grudge (Terri - I do not hold a grudge, I swear, I swear, I swear - I remember but not with anger - it's just a good story).

And then it takes me to a place where I feel that perhaps such misconceptions are more a reflection on myself than I'd like to really admit. What sort of unforgiving vibe to I put out there -- I can't be intimidating because too many people give me a hard time. And I'm the first to admit that I'm aloof - really. I compartmentalize people - relatives, step-relatives, work friends, out of work friends. And seldom to people cross over -- and I don't like to mix my groups - makes me anxious. And I suppose, that ultimately, since I'm not really forthcoming with my thoughts and feelings (I see no reason to tell anyone when or how Jose and I had sex, when I last had my period, or what my last bowel movement felt like) nor do I want to hear that information from anyone else - that I may be a bit hard to take / understand / like.

It's a quandry and requires more thought -- ties into that reoccurring theme about never having had "best friends" like the Sex and the City girls -- but as I'm getting older I can honestly say that I really don't think I want that kind of relationship with anyone - I mean seriously, who has time or energy or interest in getting all caught up in someone else's life and problems. Sort of answers that why you dont' have those kinds of friendship questions on it's own doesn't it. Oh well, it could be worse. I could smell.

The Unknown Reader

Alright, it's true. I am obviously vain enough to have my own blog - hiding behind my aspirations to be discovered and have someone come to me willy nilly and say - wow I love what you write, please, please let us publish your work - oh and here's an advance for $250,000. Sigh, I get happy just thinking about it really.

The reality is that I create some random posting - hurl it into cyberspace - and then hope that someone will read it. And occassionally, I will get a response - and I feel validated somehow. Now, not all entries are really response worthy - I am aware of that - because this blog does double duty - it is my correspondence with friends and family as well as a sounding board. And I also realize that it can be a pain to respond - with the request to sign up and become a member of the google-cult. So many people choose to respond anonymously (sp).

And now we enter into the perverse aspect of my nature. The "oh my god, is nothing good enough for you" part of me -- which I shall whole heartedly blame on Jose as he is often stuck in the look only at the negative aspect of reality. My joy at receiving a response to a post is always - but always overshadowed by the intense mystery of the anonymous poster. What do you mean what's "what comes from the heart, touches the heart. " -- from a post that I think I wrote like 4 months ago -- how totally random is that? Is it someone that I know? Is it someone who stumbled across the blog on a random search - how does that happen - almost all of my random searches end up with foreign blogs (though I've gotten a reponse from a foreigner as well - which was kind of cool). But because it is against my nature to let a sleeping dog lie - I kind of view someone's response as an invitation to conversation. And just flinging a little comment out there isn't enough -- I want to know who you are - what you mean, what do you do for a living, where do you live (have I mentioned before that I tend to get obsessive).

It's not much different than when I was in school and I'd miss 3 points on a 50 point essay and the professor would write good job. Well if it was a good job whey did I lose 3 points - what was wrong with it, how can I fix it.

The other part is a bit of the Mike Rowe, Dirty Job request. In that a good comment could foster another inspiration. (this blog being case in point)

So anyway - let me beg, plead with those random few people in the world who accidentally read this thing - as well as my family (who will all now want to respond anonymously just for spite) and my friends (who will want to do the same - except for Jenny who will just laugh and sign her name anyway) -- please tell me who you are when you respond - even if I don't know who you are. It will make me feel better at least.

Vacation Travel

By and large the worse part of any vacation is travelling. The drive down there isn't too bad, it just takes for ever. You are anxious to be there, to see the ocean, or the museum, or the park, or the whatever it is you are going to see. And travelling with parents and children, well it means that you are going to stretch your 9 hour trip into 13 hours. There is logistically no way for everyone to synchronize their poop chute - that's all there is to it. Stop for gasoline, everyone goes potty, except maybe two people. In 20 minutes, one of them will have to stop. Everyone goes again. except one person. And another 30 minutes that last person will have to stop. So in one hours time, you've traveled 30 miles and stopped 4 times. If you're lucky, you might get another 2 to 3 hours in before the process begins again, but usually not. Usually about one hour after the last stop, someone will need to stop again.

It's really no different on the way home, but in the long run the effect is much more devestating. Travelling down to florida, there's always the hope and anticipation of what is to come. Coming you, you know what's there, you just want to get into your comfortable clothes, and into bed and sleep for a while -- but you know you can't do that, because you're going to have to unpack (thank god the condo had a washing machine and all your clothes are already clean). But by the time you get home, the drive has washed away all of the joy of the vacation. You arrive back in town and it seems as if you've never been gone. There was no vacation, there was no laughter and sun and sand and surf. There was only this long drawn out time spent in the car, scouring away the vacation entirely. That's why you need to take pictures while you're there, because by the time you return, you will have forgotten everything.

Of course, I'm doing it all again in October. This time I'm going to Branson with Grandma Walker, my dad, and Elijah and Isaiah. I'm thinking Benadryl all around!

Summer Vacation

Most of my life summer vacation has been about going somewhere, staying only a few days, because that's all we could afford, and then cramming as much as possible into those few days. It wasn't really vacation, it was work. This year, bold and daring person that I am, I invited my mom, my dad and stepmother to go with Jose, Franklin, Elijah, Isaiah and I on vacation. I really want my kids to have some memories of doing stuff with their grandparents, like I did. But unlike my grandparents, my parents worked, or are now in poor-health, and not really the cookie making, bread baking kind of people. And that's o.k., because there are very few people out there who could match Grandma Walker anyway, what a high standard to have lay down for all to follow.

I'm pretty sure that every adult member of the party was approaching the vacation with trepidation. My parents because they were dreading having to spend a lot of time, 24 / 7 with small children who were bound to be cranky, and myself, for having to be caught in the middle between cranky old people and cranky young people and knowing that there would be no escape, unless I could trap Franklin into babysitting, cause God knows Jose wouldn't (he'd be too busy napping on the couch).

Suprisingly, the entire event went off very well. The place that we rented was large enough that everyone had a place to be quiet by themselves. And there was a pool just by the front door, so the kids were able to spend the afternoon in the water, thus giving the adults a quiet place to find. There were snakes, lizards, frogs, bugs of all sorts, and a turtle. Really, the boys paradise. And though we werne't on the beach, we were close enough to get the ocean breezes - yet far enough that I didn't have to go traipsing down with the kids at 2:00 in the afternoon to swim again - which would have been a nightmare. Port St. Joe, barefoot cottages, is the place - very rasonable in case you want to go yourself.

Fort Knox

Elijah has really been into World War 2. This is a direct result of Jason being stationed as a combat medic in Kirkuk, Iraq. And since there's really nothing to glorify about this particular military engagement, we're going backwards to a time when playing army wasn't really considered politically incorrect (you know when it was o.k. with kids to play with guns, and walmart actually still carried some).

And because Elijah is my child, when he becomes interested in something, he gets a bit obsessive. Or maybe I get obsessive for him and expressing interest usually leads to toys, books, games, movies and trips so he goes along. It's really too blurry a line.

Anyway, since Franklin had to go to Danville for soccer camp (armed with the knowledge that though he might visit said university there was no way, short of us winning a lottery or robbing a bank that he could ever actually attend) we stopped by Fort Knox. Now, in case you have a wild hair and decide to go for yourself, you need to know that the Patton museum is not on base. And if you drive up to base looking for the museum the guards at the gate will look at you like your an idiot and tell you that you aren't going on base to get there, thank you very much, just turn your little terroristic vehicle in disguise (minivan) around with your al-qida (sp) troops (children) and head on your merry way, Allah bless you. So we did.

And, in case you didn't know, Patton is largely responsible for creating and developing the armored tank division of the United States Armed forces. So visiting his musuem is code for looking at a lot of tanks, lots and lots of tanks. And if you're me, going to the Fort Knox museum is about like going to the National Corvette museum, after the first one, I'm good and ready go get back on the road. However, if you're a small boy, or even an old one, it is a magical place. Elijah would look at each tank and then tell me what that tank would do (from his Medal of Honor games, or Axis and Allies computer game). The only thing that could have made the entire day even more perfect for him was being able to get inside a tank, which wasn't an option.

Isaiah's favorite part was when they had mock battles created from toy tanks and toy soldiers behind plexiglass cases. He would sit and star and move around to see every angle. It was most likely one of the few times that he could play the giant to any scene. Franklin and I sort of drifted in and out, giving a little "hmm" every so often. And Jose was entranced with the mobile living quarters that Patton had - actually a converted amubulance unit. He'd have given a couple of quarters to be able to go up in there. As for me, the most interesting thing that I learned was that Patton died in 1945 in a car accident that broke his neck (though he didn't die for a month after the accident). I didn't know that . . . and it seems such a random act -- one of those survive the war to die from a staph infection received when you stubbed your toe kind of things.

So, Fort Knox has become a been there and done that sort of thing. And know we'll have to put the Fort Campbell equivalent on tap for this fall (after another trip to Dinsoaur World no doubt).

Fourth of July

This year, we decided that instead of hanging out in the Hardees parking lot and looking for fireworks across the trees from the National Corvette Museum, we'd actually go to an event like real people. So we attended WKU's celebration. Mostly because they have an band (couldn't get orchestra to look right today) and it was free (Mama LOVES free). It was really a nice time, even though it was raining, but that was kind of fun too. People don't do enough stuff in the rain, really. And, thank you Jason, I only got teary eyed once or twice and not at all when the fireworks were going off.

We also splurged with left over vacation money and bought some fireworks from one of those walmart tent places. Isaiah wasn't a big fan of the loud popping at first, but since most of what we got were fountains, he soon settled into the home made ooh and aah and joy of setting things on fire! We are all really little pyromaniacs at heart.

Hey, It's Franklin!

Franklin, my full grown, didn't have to change his diapers son is beginning to approach typical teenagerdom. He's shown some flashes of it in the past, but not really anything spectacular. He often hovers somewhere between 13 and 17. And he would be the first to say that he acts 13, by teasing and antagonizing his little brothers, because he doesn't have any teenager friends. He doesn't get to go the mall, or hang out with his friends, go to parties... what are we doing to him. Destroying any chance he might have a long term happiness that's what! Now, before you all sit back and shake your head at me, shouting out Heil Amy! Please know that he's not forbidden from said activities, but before I let him get into a car with another teenager (and they can be nasty, untruthful, deceitful, things teenagers) I want to at least have had the chance to meet the kid who's holding the life of this child in his hands. I owe it to his mother, at the very least. And Franklin, well, harboring a deep sense of teenager shame, doesn't want to invite any of his friends over. Not that I blame him, most of his friends come from the in ground pool set in the ritzy zip codes -- you don't get that kind of glamor with cheapzilla (me) and survivor of the the third world.

But it is his senior year. And as he's not allowed to get his driver's license until he can pay for his car insurance, I have finally gotten him to contemplate, though not too seriously the thought of maybe, possibly, looking for a job, kind of, after soccer season is over. I think the threat of going with him to prom with Elijah as my date was really the motivating factor - though not too motivating until he understood going with him didn't mean that I was going to sit in the car and wait for him, but sit right next to him and tell all sorts of stories about wierd habits he has at home (of which I'm actually unaware, he must complete strange rituals in his bedroom).

And finally, after almost 2 years, I know that Franklin has finally reached a true level of comfort here because last night, as we were looking at a way to find a class ring that didn't cost an arm and a leg, he passed gas. Yes, you all know about the fart level of comfort. It was a special moment for us all. And being me, I let everyone in the house know, and now I'm telling the 3 people who read this as well.

Ohe What a Difference a Year Makes

Isaiah is learning to swim this summer - at the tender age of 3. Of course, this isn't life saving swimming potential as he can only swim underwater. But he does seem to enjoy the water as much as Elijah and I do. And though Beech Bend still thinks Isaiah is 2, which means he gets in for free, he has come quite a distance this last year.

Last year, Isaiah wasn't speaking - not really. He didn't say Mama until Thanksgiving weekend last year. He said a lot of other things, just not mama. It's really amazing how quickly you can get tired of hearing Mama - even if you'd been desperately waiting almost 3 years to get it. I think that most likely he was trying to pay me back for refusing to give him his pacifer unless he verbally asked for it (he refused to even make the effort, and that's how he broke from the boppy). I'm thinking that this child may hold a grudge.

And now, my little package of boyness -- well he shouts "fire in the hole" before he gets out of the car. And when you push him high on the swing he looks at you and says "that's what I'm talking about" And because of his big brother, when he gets out his hotwheels to play, he says "Mama are you Japan or Germany or Russia" World War 2 reigns supreme at the Serrano household currently (a whole new blog). And making the English teacher in my happy, he hands me papers and asks "what's that say?" And likes to pretend to read books. Something neither of his older brothers or his father would bother doing -- books - who needs books! What vast growth we will see by next summer I wonder?

Faces of Love

The boys are really becoming hams for the camera.

Soldier Boy

Since Jason has been Iraq, Elijah's fascination with dinosaurs and Star Wars has transformed itself into major battles of the world. So, we've been watching World War I, World War II, Civil War, ancient battles, you name it. And at home, he and Isaiah play the combat medic.

You Spin Me

The boys were playing on the swing after running through the sprinklers -- Well, mostly Isaiah. And the camera was handy, so another video we made.

Bye Bye Bitterness

You know, I’ve written several times about how spring and fall make me want to get in contact with people that I knew from the past. And this spring was no different. When I was 19, I met a boy named Craig. Craig was / is gay – and I was, well, for lack of a better word, stupid. But this is not about rehashing all that old crap – suffice it say that many people get married and then get divorced and then get married again. I was a fag hag, lost the fag, and then got married. Really, it all equals the same.

I don’t know about other people, normal people. But for me, there was really always this part of me that felt dissatisfied or unresolved. Sure there was anger and bitterness to get through (some at him, some at me). But when that had been waded through, and faded, there was still a part of me that missed that time in my life. Does that make sense. Not so much that I missed him, but that I missed things that I used to do. And when you are codependent and obsessive with one person for 10 years, well that’s a big chunk of time.

For example, we used to play Nintendo, board games, read the same books and watch the same shows on television. There as a connection of similar interests there. Those are things that I really enjoy, and I have been patiently waiting for my children to grow (slyly buying board games and the like) so that when they were older, we could play together. But, it’s a long time to wait. And really, heigh-ho cherry-o isn’t what I had in mind when I was thinking of playing board games (or chutes and ladders, and definitely not candyland). And I suppose, if I were a normal person like everyone else, I’d probably have other friends who did those things and then that void would have been adequately filled. But I’ve not ever been much on having lots of friends or doing things with people on my free time. That’s not to say that I feel that Craig is the only person with whom to do those things – but he’s the person I associate with those activities.

And, if I’m to be perfectly honest, and uncensored, there’s a part of me that feels like making contact with Craig is this whole dirty little secret sort of thing. It would be like Jodi coming up and saying that she and Lance had started to correspond and be friends. And I’d look at her as if she had lost her fricking mind – what is she nuts? But then again, Mom and Dad are now friends – driving to the doctor together, sharing stroke stories, comparing frailties and ailments and abilities. And that only took them some 10 years or so to make the first steps (I’m comfortable in your presence) and the next 20, I can spend time with you on the holidays, to the present, really, a FFO – fine, but I’m taking my own car or I shall most likely kill someone before we reach our destination. So, there it is. I think that Craig and I will be friends again – maybe – at the very least he’ll be on my email list to forward silly things to – and on the other hand, we might hang out (which still feels a little weird in my head when I say it).

I can definitively say this – it does feel nice to not have the bitterness or anger. And it feels weird to give myself permission to be o.k. with that – You know what I mean, when you break up with someone and 3 weeks later, even though you don’t want to get back together, you still want to call – but you know if you do it could all go horribly wrong and that everyone will think that you are some weak willed ninny whose life if falling miserably apart – what a LOSER. I don’t want people to think that I’m that girl or that person. And piss on it if they do, I guess. It is what it is. And for those of you who are concerned about this new step --- rest assured that I still whole heartedly dislike Mrs. Lawler from 11th Street and hope that she, in all her incompetent glory, falls flat on her face – or should KARMA have a greater demise in store for her, then I would gladly watch that one as well. Of course that bitterness has only been resting for a year – and it’s most closely related to someone taking away a favorite toy – I loved my job and that hateful woman ruined it for me. But perhaps, I shall be inspired and become a nationally recognized teacher (ha ha – as if, I’m way to lazy to do all the work entailed – those teachers come into the building on weekends and stay late every day, and make an effort to talk to parents – I’m not there yet—and by the time that the boys are grown and gone, I will be too tired to go there – so mother of the year will have to do).

And now, I’m done with the rant rave and tentative exposure. We’ll just have to see what happens.

Spring

There are seasons in the year that make me yearn for yesterday. Usually, it’s spring or fall. I don’t know what it is about the first warm days of spring, with the faint breezes and the green leaves bursting forth that takes me back to my childhood, but it does. There is this bird that begins to sing in the spring. I don’t know what kind of bird it is, but to me it always sounds like the old hinges on the swings at school – that odd sort of creaking that isn’t unpleasant, but simply a playground sound. And after going to the bird song web site (http://www.learnbirdsongs.com/) I can’t find the one song - because each one that I click on sounds like the playground to me – so maybe it’s just the spring sounds, and being back outside. (although, it may be a robin or cardinal – but I don’t hear it in the winter even though I see those birds)

It’s during the spring and fall that I will invariably try to get in touch with people from my past. It is during that time that I wonder what happened to people I used to know. And sometimes I find them, and sometimes, I don’t. And sometimes it’s awkward, and sometimes it’s not.

As a mother, spring is a time to create new memories for my children. To find a way to awaken them to the simple pleasures of life – which gets harder with each passing year and the conveniences of the modern world. When I was little, I thought nothing of swimming in the pond. It was water when it was hot and it was close. But you couldn’t pay me to get inside a pond and swim now. I used to like to walk up creeks, look at crayfish or try to catch them – or perhaps more often than not put my hand down to catch one then jump out of the way when it looked like I just might do it. The first one is always, but always the hardest. The first one is the one you have to talk yourself into. After that, it’s really not so hard. And by far, crayfish are no where as creepy as crabs (giant hard shelled spiders is what those things are). And now, sometimes I think how much the boys would enjoy something like that – and my mommy brain conjures up having to rush from said creek to the emergency room because Isaiah’s left arm has been nearly amputated by a snake. That and not really knowing any places that have said little creeks that aren’t guarded by crazy, toothless people with guns. Who knew that being a mommy would give you a whole new set of fears to overcome – or make the old ones that you thought you had overcome hit you all over again. And when it comes to that, what is about being a human that makes us want to recreate memories for our children. I’d like to take my kids to Current River in Missouri, or to Ava. Those were places that I thought were magic when I was little. And I want my sons to have a wow place like that. On the other hand, I don’t really want to go back and ruin the memory for myself – what if it turns out to be nothing more but a whole in the wall, some skanky place that my older, snobbier self wouldn’t want to touch? How badly would that suck?

So, as I work my way through this mire of wants and cans, I do my best. And, to my credit, I do take lots of pictures and then set them to music – which makes even the crappiest event look special – seriously!

brothers

Yesterday, Elijah and Isaiah were playing army men in the living room. Army men has been a frequent game lately with Jason in Iraq. They had pieced together juice box boxes and 12pk sodas and strung them across the kitchen and living room with chairs and what not and had created a bridge. Elijah got tired of the game and moved on to bigger and better things, but Isaiah wasn't quite ready. So, Isaiah came back to the room and told on Elijah because Elijah wouldn't play bridge with him. And when I said that it was o.k., Elijah didn't have to play every game that he played, Isaiah responded with, "but, he's my best friend."

Now, there are a couple of little miracles here. One is that my child who was mostly unintelligble some 7 months ago is now talking so well, and coming up with new and wonderful phrases that I know that I didn't teach him (unless he's already able to read and has logged on to my blog and read all my best friend blog issues - at which point, I've created a genius). The other little miracle is that at the tender ages of 7 and 3, Elijah and Isaiah's relationship is already beginning to move beyond siblings to friends, and there's something precious there. Now, at first, I thought I'd just enjoy the moment and I'd remember it. But I know that I would forget - mom's always forget. So, of course I got the camera out and had him repeat it. And while I was there, thought about my brother and had them record a message for him - but of course, though they might work together - they conspire against me - and it was more of a silly time than anything real. That doesn't mean that I didn't put it in a video... cuz I did. It does mean that when I did add a few pictures of my brother at the end as tribute.

Brother's do hold a special sort of place in the world. I look at my dad and Uncle Darrell who stayed in the same town and live next door to each other, and visit with each other almost every day. And I envy that. And I think that those types of relationships are easier for boys growing up than they are for girls. Not that I can say for sure - but it seems to me that girls bond more as adolescents when they go through growing up trauma - and my sister and I didn't have the same interests during that time . . . so some of that was missed - we had to wait until we were both parents - and even then she was 12 years into it when I first started, and a grandmother not long after I had my last. But Jason, well, I suppose it's best summed up with this quote that I found:

There is a little boy inside the man who is my brother. Oh, how I hated that little boy. And how I love him too.-- Anna Quindlan

I think that hate is too strong a word - but oh man that annoying little fart who used to stick his finger right up to my face on car rides - he's still in there. And when he comes to pick on my kids and they look at me in desperation, (and when he did it to Lanny), Jodi and I sit back and watch with a bit of a rite of passage mentality --- It is Jason, and this must be survived -- but know that he does it with love.

Family Vacations

What I remember about family vacations is sitting in the backseat of a car, usually with vinyl seats, and not being able to see out the window. I remember fussing with Jason and playing the no touch game - and invariably losing. I remember looking at letters from road signs and trying to spell my name. It was better when we were a little older and we had the black van - it had a full size bed in the back, and a sliding side window. There was a bit more mobility and freedom there - in part because seat belt laws were merely a figment of some tortured mother's imagination. I also remember stopping at neat little spots and getting out to roam and play. We stopped in Colorado once, all of us dressed in shorts, tee shirts and flip flops, and playing in the snow and thinking that was soooo coool. My mom, to compensate for back seat bickering, usually had us all in the car at 3:00 a.m. so that we would sleep most of the journey - and awaken some 6 hours later at our destination (or at least our first stop). She was also a big fan of leaving at 8 p.m. and driving all night to accomplish the same thing.

So imagine my mother's suprise - nay consternation - when we departed for Gatlinburg with 3 children in tow at the ungodly hour of 8:00 a.m. Since it took us some 45 minutes to get from Cadiz to Clarksville (we stopped for gasoline, had a bit of tire trauma), she huddled in her front seat snorteling like some evil gnome - waiting for the first "How much further!" Remembering all the headaches that my siblings and I had caused for her, she was ready to get payback, as was her due. But I had a secret weapon .... technology. No more staring blindly out the window as cars streamed past. No more making up back seat games to alleviate boredom. In the 21st century, the backseat is the entertainment capital of the car. Everyone had access to a mini dvd player and videos. Don't like what is on the radio, well here you go, have your very own .mp3 player with songs taylored for just your tastes. And for long stretches of time, there is peace in the car.

There are some of you who would claim that such a means of travel diminishes the family time together. And to you, I say poo poo. By what definition does family travel time have to be bickering in the back seat about who's hand crossed some stitched seam. Why does family travel have to be a frustrated parent slamming on the breaks, glaring in the rear view mirror and threatening to turn this car around if you don't behave. Oh sure, those of us who have survived such events laugh about them. But we laugh about them the same way people who have survived a massive car accident laugh about it. It sucked then, but it's funny now. And when that family arrives at the hotel, bitterness and tiredness rolling of them like smoke off of dry ice -- it takes hours to find the joy of vacation again. My family, they laugh and talked about a movie that we'd saved just for the trip. Headphones were removed as someone pointed out something to see on one side of the road or the other. And Elijah still managed to wonder aloud more than 10 times, how much futher it was until we got to Gatlinburg and what would we do when we got there. But when we finally arrived, stretched our legs, unloaded the car. We still liked each other enough to want to spend a few more hours in each other's company in the car - go see the top of the mountain. No breaks were slammed, no body cried, and no one got their hair pulled. Doesn't sound like a vacation does it? (click title to view movie)

Baby You Can Drive My Car

There are many things that you aren’t told about getting older:

1. how you will become afraid to sneeze or cough because you will most likely pee on yourself
2. how your ears begin to get a bit crusty (I don’t know else to describe that)
3. how every part of you expands, except your bladder, forcing you to wake up every night to pee at 2:30 a.m.

There are many, many more – really but what I wanted to talk about was the fact that no one tells you about how odd it feels when life starts to come full circle. When you have small children, you revel and bask in their new discoveries. It’s exciting to see and be a part of those times. Mostly that’s because you can’t remember those times first hand. I have several video camera memories. I’ve watched the video or seen a picture and those images are part of my memories, but not the moment itself. But when your children get older, they begin to experience life moments that you actually remember.

Franklin has just gotten his permit. And we have begun our endeavor of learning to drive. This weekend, I took the first step in creating a new family tradition and took Franklin to Land Between the Lakes to learn to drive. It’s really an ideal place because there’s nothing there. The roads are curvy and empty and there’s no better place to get used to driving a car. Sitting in the front seat slowly talking him through the process just made me think about learning to drive myself; though, surprisingly, the details seem somewhat dim. I don’t remember much about it. I remember driving Glenda’s giant car that took up most of the road and felt as if it were powered by a rocket. I remember driving across the Lake Barkley Bridge and gripping the wheel so tightly that I felt as if I might bend the steering wheel.

I don’t think that Franklin has ever seemed more like Jose to me than during this time. He has this stoic-ness to him that amazes me. I have never really been one to hide my emotions – any emotion – from anyone. And Franklin, like Jose, keeps himself close to himself. His excitement manifests itself in raised eyebrows – no hopping up and down, or vocalizations for Franklin. And though he will admit to being nervous after the fact, he doesn’t allow himself to appear nervous during it. After he had finished driving, and we were on our way back to Bowling Green, he told me how nervous he was when he was driving over the bridge – especially when the moving van was coming at us from the other way and there’s really no where to scoot over on the bridge. And he stuck his hands in front of him and was pretending to steer and told me that he was thinking, Papita, you are talking but I am not listening to you right now, I will talk to you again when we are off the bridge. Which was so much like what I felt the first time I drove across the bridge, except I’m sure that I maintained a running commentary of everything that was happening the entire time it was happening as I was driving.

And when Franklin would make me a little nervous because I felt he was too close to my side (the passenger side) of the road and I would reach my hand out to grab the door, Franklin would say “it’s o.k. Franklin can do it.” And when he took a turn too wide and a tad too fast, or today when he the light turned yellow before he quite got under it, he would make a short, low “oooooooh” almost like he was about to say “ooh, you’re getting in trouble.”

I am glad that he is nervous and that driving isn’t something that comes easy for him – because I am hoping that will make him cautious and careful. I’m pretty sure that since he’s been practicing with the boys in the backseat and my dad in the front seat, he is really developing his skills to ignore in car distractions. He hasn’t even asked to turn the radio on – which seems so not a teenager to me.

It will be interesting to see, in some 30 years or so, when Franklin has a teenager of his own how he will feel about teaching him/ her to drive. I hope he takes his children to LBL to practice too.
(click on title to view accompanying video)

The FFO

When I was very little, my mother took us to Hematite Lake. It’s really more of a giant pond and is located at Land Between the Lakes. There is a nature trail around the lake, and some places to have a picnic lunch next to a stream. There is also a little waterfall area and some cement stepping stones that allow you to walk across the waterfall. When I was very little, I remember standing on those blocks and being terrified that I wasn’t going to make it to the next block. They were very, very far apart. And the water was dark and murky and bound to be over my head. I don’t remember receiving words of encouragement or words that would soothe my fears. But I’m sure that I got them. Though with my family, that’s not always the case. I could have just as easily been told that I’d better do my best to make it across because there was a sea monster that lived in the water and would come to eat my legs if I fell in. It’s really a crap shoot in the Walker house when it comes to negating childish fears. I do remember stretching my leg out as far as it could go and not making it. My leg plunging into the water and then scrambling onto the next block in abject terror. The rest of the walk is a blur, I’m sure blocked from memory because the degree of terror.

When we moved back to Cadiz when I was in the 4th grade, my mom took us back to Hematite again. And my first comment was, when did they add more blocks to the walk way. My mother looked at me, puzzled, and replied that there were no more blocks than there’d ever been. And I experienced my first moment of shifted perceptions. As a child, I knew those blocks were at least 3 feet across. I had to really jump to get across. Yet as a 10 year old, the blocks appeared to only be 6 inches apart. 6 inches – no way!

This weekend, as we were touring Land Between the Lakes to offer Franklin the opportunity to drive with his shiny new permit. And we returned to Hematite Lake. It was the first time that my children had gone to the lake as well. Elijah was immediately enamored of the stepping stones. Really, anyone with just the tiniest bit of a child still in them enjoys walking across. And because they are somewhat oddly space, no matter how long you’ve been walking, you have to pause in the middle to sort of regain your balance / equilibrium / gate. I’ve never crossed that I didn’t think that it was possible for me to lose my balance and fall in the water – which is still as murky as ever. And I took Isaiah, how must now be about the same size that I was the first time that I went to the lake and tried to cross the stones. Isaiah, who even at the age of 3 is very practical, looked at the stepping stones and though he wanted to cross, merely shook his head at me when I asked if he wanted to go, and then raised his hands for a lift. And I, afraid that I would fall in myself and a grand recreator of my past for my children, refused to give it. Instead, together, we baby stepped across. He’d stick his leg up and out as far as he could, and then sort of lean into it and tip himself over onto the next stone. All the while he maintained a death grip on my fingers.

There is a quiet, subtle joy in moments like that. Getting to see first hand what you yourself must have experienced, but can’t really truly recall. It gives you a feeling of being god like – seeing life through time and in the instant all at once. And you can’t help but smile and try to remember what it was like this time – so that you will remember it always. A moment like that makes me grateful for cameras (still and video). And a moment like that makes me wish we had neither – because I want to keep it precious on my own – but who are we kidding. Those memories get lost and fall to the wayside. And in 20 years, I will look back in confusion as the boys recount some memory they have in common that somehow shaped their young lives – but to me was just another day. And that saddens me – but seems to be rite of passage in itself – because I’ve done it often enough to my own mother. And sat back in dazed wonder as my brother and sister told a story from their point of view and wondered where they were because that’s not how I remember it at all. But it’s o.k. and it’s how it should be.

And as we made our way off of the stones, I told my dad that I couldn’t bring him back for about 8 more years so that he, too, would ask when they had added the extra stones. (click title for link to video)

Pipe Dreams and Gonna Do’s

My mom once described my dad as a gonna do. And to be fair, Wayne Walker is forevermore planning one thing or the other in his head. There is probably not a conversation that goes by that dad won’t say something like “you know what you oughta do…” And I have found that I have a bit of that in my own personality. I like to call it being the “idea man.” It is one of my trials in teaching. I love to come up with ideas, but I don’t much care about seeing if they work, or analyzing data, or the rest of the ick stuff that mucks up the joy of coming up with the idea. But I’m working on that.

I think an aspect of that is the glass ½ full, and more’s on the way, mentality. That pipe dream that something wonderful is just around the corner. For some people, not getting that pipe dream is a foundation for depression or despondency. But that’s only if you quit believing that something good is just around the corner . . . AND if you aren’t content or happy with what you have right now. My mind flashes to the beginning of Pretty Woman when the homeless guy is walking down the street saying “What’s your dream? Everybody got a dream?” And I think that as we get older, we forget what that dream is. When I was in high school, my dream was to get out of high school, to get a real life (maybe a husband, good job, be financially secure (able to buy what I wanted – that’s a pipe dream for sure), maybe a couple of kids). When I first started teaching, my dream was to be Disney’s Teacher of the Year. There is actually a lot of work that is entailed in being Disney’s Teacher of the Year – and I’m not sure how much editing goes into those vignettes, but I’m pretty sure that I’m not that enthusiastic about teaching (it’s still my job – not my life). And another bit of pipe dream comes from thinking, wouldn’t it be nice to be an author. I say that with about the same sort of self belief that I say, wouldn’t it be nice to be size 10. Do they make a magic pill for either? This whole blog thing is sort of my passive aggressive step in that direction. I’ll write, and then put it on the web and see if some exec. From Random house happens upon my writing and says oh my god, it’s brilliant, come write for me! I had thought of sending letters of interests to local newspaper and start a column – Erma Bombeck as inspiration. But you know, that’s also a lot more time and effort for something that I’m not sure that I actually want to pursue. Though don’t get me wrong, if someone came and said – we’ll pay you 60k a year to write for our paper. I’m pretty sure I could pop out some nonsense or the other once a week without any true difficulty. But that’s just a thought. And as Delores Claiborn says – wish in one hand, spit in the other and see which gets filled up first.

So anyway, I did a web search and found a small publish company and have submitted a few blogs for perusal / evaluation. I’ve a sneaking suspicion that it’s going to turn out to be a vanity press. At which point, I’m not so vain and too poor for that. But it’s better than the passive aggressive waiting that has been occurring. And who knows, perhaps someday I’ll be a published author and if you go into a ½ price book store, you’ll see my blogs, nicely arranged and on sale for 50 cents – of which I’ll make a whopping 2 cents. Ahhh, the sweet smell of success.

On LOST

O.K. I have been one of the last Americans to jump on the Lost bandwagon. Usually, if something comes on regular television – I don’t watch it – for a couple of reasons. We don’t really get local chanels with any clarity and regularity. I don’t want to start watching something and then not be able to see it the next week. And secondly, with 3 televisions in the house and 5 people, I don’t usually get to watch what I want. Franklin or Elijah are on one playing xbox. Isaiah doesn’t really understand the concept of taking turns with television, and after having to have several discussions regarding profanity and sex with Elijah who would watch what I wanted to watch – I thought I’d extend his innocence just a bit. And then there’s papa. Who only wants to watch Spanish television – so if he’s watching television, and it’s not soccer, then he’s alone with that t.v. As an aside, his current favorite show is called the 12 hearts. It’s a game show where 7 girls and 5 boys do what appears to be really stupid stuff and then pick who they want to be with. Sort of like a hoochie mama dating game. And at the end, the strangers are sucking face so hard that I’m pretty sure the man from the dyson commercials is going to come and offer them a job.

Anyway, about 2 weeks ago, Jason emailed and said that he had been watching Lost – and that he wouldn’t mind seeing additional episodes. So I went to abc.com and found out that they were all online. I had seen the season 4 past, present and future premier and thought the show looked pretty interesting. So I decided to just watch the first episode and see how / why the plane crashed. And there it was… my first taste… I was a LOST whore. It’s not high brow entertainment. I’m sure my friend Steven, from high school, could find the hidden symbolism and discuss the metaphysical meaning behind each turn of grass. But me, well I sit and stare, open mouthed. And every so often, I jump in startlement. Sometimes, I blurt out – “he’s crazy” or “I don’t like him.” And most episodes, I’ll say “what IS that thing in the forest?” But every single episode, I say… what’s gonna happen next… and that’s the draw. I want to know what is going to happen. And they leave you hanging. It’s worse even than when I was watching Days of Our Lives in the dorm. And they’d get you to that point where something good was really going to happen, and then they would simply slap a commercial in your face.

And so my obsession has grown. I am almost ½ way finished with season 3. I no longer dread getting up an hour early, because now, I can watch an entire episode before I have to wake up the boys. And I have been watching about 2 episodes a night. So, I’m about to reach the edge.. when I’ll have to wait for an entire week for the next episode… and I’m not too happy about it. But I’ll survive.

And before I leave – here are some Lost commentaries – since I’ve no one to talk to about it. Everyone else has been watching it all along and are not quite so excited as I am.

Jack: you know, he’s a bit whiney. I keep seeing Party of Five and it seems that he’s kept within the same character frame: grumpy, whiny guy who doesn’t get his way and isn’t too happy about it. I like him fine. He seems smart and relatively rational.

Locke: he’s got a pedofile feel to me. I don’t know why. Sometimes, I think – he’s o.k. and other times – I think he’s off his rocker and a danger to the world in general.

Ann Lucia – I am sort of glad she had the drinking and driving thing and had to be killed off. She was just to ghetto for me. I didn’t really believe that she was a good cop.

Ecko – His death made me think that the writers decided that the tail-survivor thing was not such a good idea – really. Except maybe for Rose’s husband.

Charlie – O.K. I know he dies and how – I saw that part. And once you get over the “he’s a hobbit” thing – he’s not bad. Though to be honest, once he kicked his heroin habit, I didn’t really care that much about him.

BEN – he’s really creepy – I don’t like him. Though he does look like he should be a techie on CSI somewhere. I think they should let Sayid torture him forever.

Sayid – He’s got the basset hound eyes that sort of get on my nerves. I mean, I want him to have mean, grumpy, hard eyes because he tortures people. And sometimes I think – he’s hot – and sometimes I think – uh, maybe not so hot. I felt really bad when Shannon died, but figure his Arabian girlfriend will probably show up on the island sometime from some weird water skiing incident.

Hurley – LOVE HIM!!! He’s got a way with the word Dude that I find appealing. I spend a lot of time judging the frizziness of his hair and thinking how much I’d hate having that long frizzy hair on the island and wouldn’t this be a good time to cut it. Apparently they have utensils for everything, but no scissors. And I felt really bad for him when Libby died. And also am glad that he didn’t take a gun, because I don’t want Hurley to kill anyone.

Kate – I don’t trust her, so I can’t really like her.

Sawyer – I trust him more than Kate. He seems to be a good guy who’s tried a long time to be bad – where as she’s just bad. I don’t like that line he has between his eyes that really folds when he does that I’m pissed glare.

Michael - I'm hoping that he gets killed. Don't care how it messes Walt up. He needs a better role model anyway. If I hear, "he's my boy. where's my boy" one more time, I might hurl.

Walt - you know he killed that bird when his awful, selfish mother wasn't listening to him.

THINGS THAT BOTHER ME IN GENERAL:
what airplane has that many blankets and plastic tarps. And why, if you were stranded on a desert island, would you continue to bury people in your blankets and plastic tarps, when you may need them eventually?
No matter how long I spend in the ocean or in a mountain stream, I never, but never, look that clean and freshly washed.
Has anyone seen any toothpaste or toothbrushes. Except for Sun showing Walt how to brush teeth with some bush in the beginning, I haven’t seen anyone brush their teeth – that bothers me.
The girls seem to still have perfectly manicured eyebrows – really that’s what they are going to do with their time?
and no girls seem to be growing armpit hair – but the men can’t get a close shave on their faces. How does that happen.
What loser was part of the beginning group that they brought such hideous music.
Where does the electrical power come from?
When the guy was using the toilet in one of the stations – where was that plumbing going to? A septic tank?

Alright. I feel better. Most of it’s out. And it’s almost my computer / tv watching time.

On Creative Punishments

Today, Franklin and I had a really good talk - a visit really. And it all came about because of a creative punishment. You see, Franklin was supposed to ride the bus to my school so that we could go, as a family, to buy Jose's birthday present. A mini version of the FFO if you will. And Franklin, in the wisdom of all of his 17 years, decided that he really didn't want to do that. Rather than calling to say that he didn't want to do that, or calling to make up some excuse, Franklin merely boarded the bus home. When I called him at 3:30 to inquire as to the reason for his absence, Franklin said that he didn't feel good. Now, I admit that in the major scheme of things, this is a small thing. But there is a larger underlying principle involved - and an act of open defiance (which although common in teens, is not necessarily something that I wanted to encourage). A precendent had been set, and had to be met with some consequence.

Now, because I do possess a modicum (minute though they may be) of skills dealing with teenagers -- I did not storm into his room in anger. I merely popped my head in his door and said, "you couldn't call?" And when that received no response, I used a little paraphrasing and turned it into "Why didn't you call." And I received THE (capital letters, the one and only, every parent will hear this answer at least once if not a thousand times beginning at age 2) ANSWER.... "i don't know." And my parenting moment comes from acknowledging that those 3 words are perhaps the most annoying in the entire English language. When I taught high school students and recieved this answer, I would always say that I don't know is a lazy answer that means you don't want to think. The parental version of this statement elicited the response, "I didn't think you'd let me come home." Which, in all honesty, was a pretty fair respone. As it turns out, today, I would have let him come home because Elijah had, unbeknownst to me, invited and arranged (including note from the other parent) for his friend Riley to come over and play after school - so the family shopping event had to be post poned anyway.

Anyway, being a fair minded individual, I asked Franklin what he thought would be a fair punishment. Acknowleding that it wasn't a big deal - but did have some serious implications - and there needed to be a fair consequence. Again, "I don't know." So I offered some encouragement, with the parental come back - either you offer a suggestion, or I'll have to come up with something that really sucks. I was thinking of taking the phone and the zune. Franklin's response was . . . the fatal "that's o.k." Instantly, being the guru of discipline that I am, I was more than aware that the loss of those items was not and adequate punishment. He didn't care!!! And then, inspiration struck. His bedroom door. Franklin is a strict guardian of privacy and his space. He doesn't want the dogs in his room, or toys, or too many people. He keeps his door shut all the time. And so, his punishment is that his door must remain open for 3 days. And instantly, Franklin was agitated -- and I had succeeded. It's no different than when you're child is being so very annoying and is about to get in trouble - but you don't want him to be in trouble MAD - you want him in trouble CRYING! why? so that we feel better. Ha! Ha! I made you as grumpy as you made me! And with Franklin's door - well, there was something that made him as annoyed as I had been for a few brief moments that afternoon. It was something that mattered. Sounds mean and petty I know - but well - some parent moments are both - and they aren't all bad parent moments either.

And then, when it was all said and done, we sat and chatted - just about stuff: about how parents don't want their children to make the same mistakes they made - but how kids need to make mistakes so that they can learn to be adults -- a little bit about girls (and how they are essentially evil especially with other girls) - And tonight, as I was putting the dogs out - and picking up a few things - if only to keep Jose from being so terribly grumpy in the morning - I went to check on Franklin's door - and there it was open (even though he said it would make him feel like he was sleeping outside - and that he didn't think he could sleep with it open) - and I didn't have to remind him, or ask him, it just was. And so, being my mother's child - I turned on the light and told him that he was not a bad kid at all -- even though he was sleeping and won't remember. And as I finish this entry - I am fighting the tempation to put food in his room so the dogs will hang out there for the entire 3 days. (I have decided that some part of parenting is also tied very closely to sibling relationships - or maybe that's just for me -- and definitely for another entry.)

Oh Jason

THE SMIRK ON MY FACE WA ONE OF " I KNOW THIS IS HURTING HIS HAND,BECAUSE IM SQUEEZING THE SHIT OUT OF IT" AN OL' GRANDADDY WALKER TRICK HE DIDN'T EVEN SEE IT COMMING. I THINK WE WHERE TALKING ABOUT HAVING TO PACK A CYST IN SOMEONES ASS CRACK AS A MATTER OF FACT,OR SOMETHING TO THAT AFFECT.

The man in the picture on the left, that's my brother. His name is Jason. Growing up, he was one of like 7 Jason's in his class. And to my recollection, every single one of them was more hellion than angel. My brother was by no means the exception to the rule. In fact, in many ways, I consider him the leader of the pack. Jason is 2 years younger than I am. And as we were growing up, I figure we had a pretty good relationship. We weren't an AT&T commercial by any means, but we had fun together. He was a master at the no touch game - not only in skill but in actual duration of the game. He usually played about 20 minutes longer than I wanted to. And he was able to put his finger in a spot just on the very edge of peripheral vision so that you'd turn your head to see what was there and JAB!!! you'd run right into his finger. He'd laugh and then punch the hell out of your arm. And me, feeling like an utter fool for getting suckered in, would hide my embarrassment by telling on him for hitting. It's what girls do really - not fair, but true.

On those days when we were too young to go outside and play in the neighborhood when mom was gone, but we were too bored to watch tv (it was before cable / satellite and way before video games) we played the no trip game. In this game, one of us would like on the floor on a mattress or blanket. The other would walk around the perimeter of the mattress. The objective was to trip the person walking. At my advanced age, the details are a bit vague, but I do remember the game. We'd also play living room baseball. The bases were the couch, the corner of the tv, and the woodstove (not in that order). The person who was at bat had to "run" the bases in an upright position on his/her knees. The person who was in the field, could crawl on all fours to get the ball. This was only fair as the batter would always aim the ball down the hallway. We would often have a ghost on every single base. I don't remember getting carpet burns at all.

When he was in high school, Jason was beginning to develop his adventurous spirit. He jumped off the Lake Barkley Bridge. The first time he said he was sure his balls were shoved up his body to his throat. But he held onto them better the second time. THE SECOND TIME!!! I can not begin to fathom it, jumping twice. Later in his life, he packed up everything he owned and decided to move to Colorado. Just to leave and go. Of course the end of that trip resulted in his car being repossessed and having to file for bankruptcy - but financial consequences aside, there is a freedom and free-spiritedness to be admired in such an action. It is nothing that I think that I would ever want to do, but I admire and respect that trait in others. It's sort of the same admiration that I feel for people at a pentacostal church who are so moved by the spirit that they begin to dance, wave their arms and dance about. Though I don't feel the spirit in that way, I do admire the depth and breadth of their belief -- even if I don't covet it.

Jason has had his share of demons as well. And has battled them -- not always as successfully as I'd like; not always in the manner in which I'd prefer, but in his own way. It speaks greatly to the stubborness of his nature. Everyone in my family look to me and say - you always want to be right - it must be your way or no way. Me, I think that Jason's will to have his way and do his thing far out reaches my own. Mostly, I think that I'm quick to make a decision and put it out there for those who are humming and hawing about and asking "what do you want to do?" But I'm not inflexible -- not really -- not too bad? I don't know - it's not a very clear mirror for me there. But I don't believe that I've ever convinced Jason to think a different way, to change his course, or do something different. He will unfailingly give another person credit for their feelings, acknowledge their frustration or fear, and then continue on his merry way because that's what he wants to do. And the most amazing part is, that despite wanting to pinch his head, punch him, smack him, make him angry . . . he can do all of that and still we all just shake our head and go -- "well that's jason, what are we gonna do. We can't help but love him." He is the baby of the family - and has had more second chances, more special treats, more - more - more. And I'm not jealous of that, I dont' begrudge him. I guess I know he somehow needed more - just like I believe that he could be and would be MORE.

And this is the man, who when given the opportunity to meet and greet a three or four star general squeezed his hand as hard as he could while talking about some inane topic - just because he could and he thought it would be funny. And when I first saw the picture and was so proud, and sentimental, and so glad to see him looking so good - it just never even occurred to me that he would be doing anything like that -- and upon reading his comment -- I just shake my head, smile through my tears and think "Oh Jason."

I love him - and he is one of my heroes.