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.