I did not forget about my blog, honestly I didn't. I thought about coming here to relieve some of the unbidden stress, and I thought about it often. Sometimes we get going with things and we let other thing move to the back burner...and eventually they fall behind the stove. I didn't forget this was back here, but it would have taken work to move the "stove" and get the "pan" out again. What a mess.
So what has me back here, almost a year after my last post?
Thanks to my beautiful cousin, Kaitlin, I am part of a writing workshop--we should really think of a better name, like Tolkien and Lewis's Inklings. In this writing workshop there are three members: myself, Kaitlin, and Rachel.
This workshop has been just what I needed. Over the last year I've felt the itch to write, to create--the itch never goes away. And over the last year, I'm ignored the tugging, distracting myself with other things that also needed attention. I've been working on Morning Star, and Rachel and Kaitlin have been giving me awesome feedback...and I get to hear their voices as well! The stories they are weaving are important, and I hope they recognize how much I appreciate their honesty in all things.
Kaitlin is also getting married (yay!) and she asked me to be her Maid of Honor. This came as a surprise to me, I was going to be happy if she asked me to be a Bridesmaid. I am so honored and happy to work with her throughout her engagement. (There is a point to this bridal tangent, promise.) I don't think she realizes how blessed I am to take on this responsibility as it distracts from my own loneliness (I'll write more on this at a later date).
My mom and Aunt Deanna wanted to host a Bridal Shower for Kaitlin, which I was very happy to help host. (This gave me an opportunity to create decorations from papercrafting, which I loved.)
So last night we hosted this lovely party that beautiful Rachel and her mother were invited to. After several guests had cleared out, after having a lot of fun, it was mentioned that Rachel has a blog. (Which I was very pleased to receive an invite to read.) She sheepishly smiled and admitted to this blogs existence, so I told her that I also had a blog, but it had fallen into disuse.
When I got home from the party and was able to take a moment for myself, I perused her blog...and then I came back here, to this space. And I thought to myself, You silly girl, move that stupid stove and start writing again. You know you'll feel better when you do.
So here I am, I'm back, and I sincerely hope I am more faithful to this space. I will do my best.
"How fickle my heart, and how woozy my eyes. I struggle to find any truth in your lies. And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know. My weakness I feel I must finally show." [Mumford and Sons]
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mom. Show all posts
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
What can men do against such reckless hate?
This may be a little late in coming, nearly a week after the fact. Forgive me for the delay, but I've been mulling over the shooting that took place in Aurora, Colorado. Mulling and chewing and praying and...and wishing for peace.
Events like this always seems so far away from my home, the heartland of this nation.
When 9/11 happened I was safely tucked away in my fifth grade class at a rural school--it wasn't until later that I found out President Bush had taken refuge in Omaha.
The Von Maur shooting was closer to home, my cousin worked in that Omaha mall, and I believe she was working when it happened. Even that wasn't home though, and my head keeps saying that this kind of tragedy would never happen in my center of the heartland.
Aurora though... that should feel far away, but it doesn't. My brother is moving down there in less than a month now to go to school. There were kids from the school he will be attending in the Theater that night. A friend from college calls Aurora home and she knew one of the victims well. One of my dad's cousin's sons was in the theater that night. I know people who were there. People who know people who died.
And all I can think is, "How could this happen?" I have a hard time understanding how a man can come to the conclusion that the only way to fix whatever pain he is experiencing is to shoot down people--to fire over 70 rounds into an unsuspecting crowd of late-night movie-goers. How am I supposed to react to such "reckless hate?" I find myself wondering what I would have done had I been there...how would I have reacted? Would I have tried to save those around me with my body as a shield like so many mothers, brothers, and friends?
It's funny, I had almost let it go--the worry and self-questioning. I was on the phone last night with my German-praying friend when he asked, "How is the Colorado situation? Are you still thinking about going out there? I just didn't know how your parents would feel about everything with your brother moving out." I had long made my decision to not to move to Aurora with Josef, and I knew that Mom and Dad were worried. But we can't let things like this keep us from moving forward. (Now I don't know if this friend was concerned beyond the general niceties, but it was sweet of him to ask how my parents were feeling about everything.)
So, I guess to answer the question of "What can men do against such reckless hate?" we just keep moving forward. We can't let the hate keep us from doing what we know is right and true and just. We push forward.
"By all you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand!" [Aragorn, Return of the King (movie adaptation)]
Events like this always seems so far away from my home, the heartland of this nation.
When 9/11 happened I was safely tucked away in my fifth grade class at a rural school--it wasn't until later that I found out President Bush had taken refuge in Omaha.
The Von Maur shooting was closer to home, my cousin worked in that Omaha mall, and I believe she was working when it happened. Even that wasn't home though, and my head keeps saying that this kind of tragedy would never happen in my center of the heartland.
Aurora though... that should feel far away, but it doesn't. My brother is moving down there in less than a month now to go to school. There were kids from the school he will be attending in the Theater that night. A friend from college calls Aurora home and she knew one of the victims well. One of my dad's cousin's sons was in the theater that night. I know people who were there. People who know people who died.
And all I can think is, "How could this happen?" I have a hard time understanding how a man can come to the conclusion that the only way to fix whatever pain he is experiencing is to shoot down people--to fire over 70 rounds into an unsuspecting crowd of late-night movie-goers. How am I supposed to react to such "reckless hate?" I find myself wondering what I would have done had I been there...how would I have reacted? Would I have tried to save those around me with my body as a shield like so many mothers, brothers, and friends?
It's funny, I had almost let it go--the worry and self-questioning. I was on the phone last night with my German-praying friend when he asked, "How is the Colorado situation? Are you still thinking about going out there? I just didn't know how your parents would feel about everything with your brother moving out." I had long made my decision to not to move to Aurora with Josef, and I knew that Mom and Dad were worried. But we can't let things like this keep us from moving forward. (Now I don't know if this friend was concerned beyond the general niceties, but it was sweet of him to ask how my parents were feeling about everything.)
So, I guess to answer the question of "What can men do against such reckless hate?" we just keep moving forward. We can't let the hate keep us from doing what we know is right and true and just. We push forward.
"By all you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand!" [Aragorn, Return of the King (movie adaptation)]
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Komm, Herr Jesu, sei Du unser Gast
I remember the day Daddy came into the kitchen when I was maybe five years old. There is fuzz around the edges of the memory, but it's there--standing out proudly as one of landmarks in my childhood, a moment that would change the way I prayed every day. It was lunch time and Mommy had set the table when Daddy came to take his seat. He folded his hands and said, "We're going to learn a new prayer today." Gently, patiently, he taught his small children how to say The Common Table Prayer in German. A tradition that would shape every meal to come.
The only time I didn't utter the words vocally in the following years was when we would eat at other people's homes and school cafeterias. But always with my family it was those words that had become an integral part of home. If home is where the heart is, then my home is laced with German prayers.
College was a place where you prayed silently before each meal--words internalized, but no less real. One of the things I would miss most from Pfeifenhof (the name of our home, meaning whistle home) was the fellowship in praying simultaneously in German with three other people. Each time summer would roll around I would become eager to sit around the table and offer up blessings.
I did not expect to feel Home during Dead Week and Finals Weeks my last semester of school. There it was though, amongst everything I had never dreamed of.
We sat, two nervous individuals, at a public restaurant with steaming food before us. I hadn't thought of the prayer in my preparations for the meal, but there it was when he asked,
"Do you pray before you eat?"
Yes.
"Is the Common Table Prayer okay? That's what we normally do."
Yes, you go ahead and pray, we normally say it in German, so I'll just listen. I don't know what made me say that, normally I just go with the flow.
"Oh, you mean, Komm, Herr Jesu, sei Du..."
...Yes. Yes, that is exactly what I mean. And I can hardly find the words.
"Well, we can pray in German. You had better lead though, because I don't know if I remember the last part."
And I can't believe that we're praying together over our food in German, and part of my heart is singing at how homey it all feels. It's a good thing the German comes as second nature because I don't know if English would have come so easily in that moment.
Less than a week later we're sitting at a different table, with different food, but a look passes between us and he bows his head and starts saying the words. My Daddy's words, and the words of past years long gone. He's leading this time, confidant and sure. And as we pray for Christ's blessings on our food I'm praying a silent prayer that His blessings be on this, whatever this is.
And that second prayer continues to grow.
"Komm, Herr Jesu, sei Du unser Gast, und segna, was Du uns bescheret hast. Amen."
The only time I didn't utter the words vocally in the following years was when we would eat at other people's homes and school cafeterias. But always with my family it was those words that had become an integral part of home. If home is where the heart is, then my home is laced with German prayers.
College was a place where you prayed silently before each meal--words internalized, but no less real. One of the things I would miss most from Pfeifenhof (the name of our home, meaning whistle home) was the fellowship in praying simultaneously in German with three other people. Each time summer would roll around I would become eager to sit around the table and offer up blessings.
I did not expect to feel Home during Dead Week and Finals Weeks my last semester of school. There it was though, amongst everything I had never dreamed of.
We sat, two nervous individuals, at a public restaurant with steaming food before us. I hadn't thought of the prayer in my preparations for the meal, but there it was when he asked,
"Do you pray before you eat?"
Yes.
"Is the Common Table Prayer okay? That's what we normally do."
Yes, you go ahead and pray, we normally say it in German, so I'll just listen. I don't know what made me say that, normally I just go with the flow.
"Oh, you mean, Komm, Herr Jesu, sei Du..."
...Yes. Yes, that is exactly what I mean. And I can hardly find the words.
"Well, we can pray in German. You had better lead though, because I don't know if I remember the last part."
And I can't believe that we're praying together over our food in German, and part of my heart is singing at how homey it all feels. It's a good thing the German comes as second nature because I don't know if English would have come so easily in that moment.
Less than a week later we're sitting at a different table, with different food, but a look passes between us and he bows his head and starts saying the words. My Daddy's words, and the words of past years long gone. He's leading this time, confidant and sure. And as we pray for Christ's blessings on our food I'm praying a silent prayer that His blessings be on this, whatever this is.
And that second prayer continues to grow.
"Komm, Herr Jesu, sei Du unser Gast, und segna, was Du uns bescheret hast. Amen."
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Says She's Got Hope...
The month of February was a rough one. I wish I could say it was just me, but it isn't. If I were the only one struggling it would have been more bearable, but nearly everyone I interact with was having some kind of problem too.
Really, it all started to unravel the week of Valentine's Day. Please don't take this as a single hating on the holiday devoted to couples--it's not. I really have no problem with Valentine's Day, except that it means there is way too much chocolate just floating around. In fact, I was even determined to have a good February 14th because, honestly, the week before had been awful for some people and I didn't want the trend to continue.
I went to bed that Monday praying I would get a letter from a graduate program. In my dreams I would be accepted into the Literature program at my top choice of school. It would be a day to write home about.
Well. I did call home, several times that day, but it had nothing to do with grad school letters. I was having some chest pain that was worrisome. I spent Valentine's Day morning in and out of various medical locations. Alone. (And I wasn't pining for a special someone, I just wanted my momma.)
A couple days later (Thursday) I had mail. An envelope from my preferred school. It was small, average letter size. Why do we put so much of our fate into the seals of envelopes? Inside was a perfectly creased rejection letter. My heart sank, and all through my British Literature class I was distracted. At one point, my professor called on me, and I scrambled to find the answer to a question I hardly heard. When I apologized after class for being distracted I cried. In front of a professor, whom I love but have no emotional connection with, I cried.
Since that day I've been riddled with thoughts of rejection, and in the back of my mind I can hear Professor Reek chanting, "They don't know what they're missing!" But as the days go on, his voice fades away and I'm left alone with the self doubt. What if I didn't get into the literature program because I'm not ready? I'm not passionate enough? I don't have what it takes?
This last week I found out I didn't get into one of the Creative Writing programs I applied to...and the questions started up again. (It was even the program that I was least interested in, and I still got upset about it.) Maybe this is all God's way of telling me that I picked the wrong career path.
That's just my stuff. And my stuff this month seems pretty lame compared to every thing else that my friends are going through.
I've started drinking tea again--like, every night and day. I also turned on some Anberlin. I don't know why I forget that they are one of the few bands that lets me wallow for a little while before convincing me it's time to get back up again. I need to put that in a hubby letter, something like this: "When I'm upset or depressed, put on some Anberlin and it will probably be okay in a few hours." (This rut is taking longer than a few hours to work myself out of.)
This will be a better month. March means spring is coming, and spring means there is hope.
"You're so brilliant. Don't soon forget. You're so brilliant. Grace marks your heart." [Anberlin, The Unwinding Cable Car]
Really, it all started to unravel the week of Valentine's Day. Please don't take this as a single hating on the holiday devoted to couples--it's not. I really have no problem with Valentine's Day, except that it means there is way too much chocolate just floating around. In fact, I was even determined to have a good February 14th because, honestly, the week before had been awful for some people and I didn't want the trend to continue.
I went to bed that Monday praying I would get a letter from a graduate program. In my dreams I would be accepted into the Literature program at my top choice of school. It would be a day to write home about.
Well. I did call home, several times that day, but it had nothing to do with grad school letters. I was having some chest pain that was worrisome. I spent Valentine's Day morning in and out of various medical locations. Alone. (And I wasn't pining for a special someone, I just wanted my momma.)
A couple days later (Thursday) I had mail. An envelope from my preferred school. It was small, average letter size. Why do we put so much of our fate into the seals of envelopes? Inside was a perfectly creased rejection letter. My heart sank, and all through my British Literature class I was distracted. At one point, my professor called on me, and I scrambled to find the answer to a question I hardly heard. When I apologized after class for being distracted I cried. In front of a professor, whom I love but have no emotional connection with, I cried.
Since that day I've been riddled with thoughts of rejection, and in the back of my mind I can hear Professor Reek chanting, "They don't know what they're missing!" But as the days go on, his voice fades away and I'm left alone with the self doubt. What if I didn't get into the literature program because I'm not ready? I'm not passionate enough? I don't have what it takes?
This last week I found out I didn't get into one of the Creative Writing programs I applied to...and the questions started up again. (It was even the program that I was least interested in, and I still got upset about it.) Maybe this is all God's way of telling me that I picked the wrong career path.
That's just my stuff. And my stuff this month seems pretty lame compared to every thing else that my friends are going through.
I've started drinking tea again--like, every night and day. I also turned on some Anberlin. I don't know why I forget that they are one of the few bands that lets me wallow for a little while before convincing me it's time to get back up again. I need to put that in a hubby letter, something like this: "When I'm upset or depressed, put on some Anberlin and it will probably be okay in a few hours." (This rut is taking longer than a few hours to work myself out of.)
This will be a better month. March means spring is coming, and spring means there is hope.
"You're so brilliant. Don't soon forget. You're so brilliant. Grace marks your heart." [Anberlin, The Unwinding Cable Car]
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Heartache to heartache, we stand...
Writing. Again. Yeah, I know, it's the tune of my summer. But my summer is almost over, and I feel like I need a post of cap it all off--not that the process ever ends.
Mostly, I want to talk about the phone calls, skype dates, and house visits with Lisa (and Heidi).
I've written a fair amount about the way a writer speaks to another writer. There's more though. So much more.
As I've worked throughout the summer on this huge project, I've realized that up until this point I've just kind of been wingin' it and hoping it would come out alright. Yes, I had some people read parts of it, but none of them really helped me develop ideas, nor did they give me much feedback. This was fine at the time, because I wasn't ready to hear much about improvement. (If you have read any of "Morning Star" you should feel privileged because I have hold this story near and dear for a long time.)
When I was on the phone with Lisa earlier this week she started out by telling me how she cried while she read a certain scene--and it wasn't the death scene, like I expected, it was the proposal scene I mentioned in an earlier post. Something that had been thrown in kind of last minute before emailing it to her. Good tears. Tears because it moved her--the giving up of part of ones identity that goes along with giving one's life to another. In everything, there is a give and take--I pray there is more giving than taking.
Then, as we worked through the other parts of the chapters I sent her, we came to the conclusion that "There are a lot of characters in this story." It's true, there are. They're not all crucial--though some are becoming more important than I originally thought they would be. Sometimes a book with a lot of characters can be daunting--and at times it is--but there are many characters in my personal story, and in yours. So why should it be that my main character only has one friend? She has many friends, and they have families, and that is okay. I just need to work on giving them faces, so to speak.
I am looking through a kaleidoscope, and through it I view this mythology as it comes to life. As I turn and twist it I see new colors, learn new names, discover new hurts.
My mother is painting out front door red today. There is significance here that is going unnoticed--it is a significance in my own heart. She is painting over something that has been in want of paint for eight years now. I have been finessing a story that has been in want of completion for nearly eight years now. She paints with red, I paint with words. But the end result is the same--notice me. Know that I am what I am. "I am a door." and "I am a book." "I am a way into a home." and "I am a way into a story."
I told Mom I would paint the door green. And if I thought I could get away with it, it would be round. Because my journey as a writer began with a green door and a brass nob right in the middle. All I need is a wizard to knock on our red door, and I'll be set. But maybe I am the wizard of this story? Maybe I am knocking on the heart of the reader and I am saying, "Follow me, I have a story to tell you."
"It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yell brass knob in the exact middle." [The Hobbit]
Mostly, I want to talk about the phone calls, skype dates, and house visits with Lisa (and Heidi).
I've written a fair amount about the way a writer speaks to another writer. There's more though. So much more.
As I've worked throughout the summer on this huge project, I've realized that up until this point I've just kind of been wingin' it and hoping it would come out alright. Yes, I had some people read parts of it, but none of them really helped me develop ideas, nor did they give me much feedback. This was fine at the time, because I wasn't ready to hear much about improvement. (If you have read any of "Morning Star" you should feel privileged because I have hold this story near and dear for a long time.)
When I was on the phone with Lisa earlier this week she started out by telling me how she cried while she read a certain scene--and it wasn't the death scene, like I expected, it was the proposal scene I mentioned in an earlier post. Something that had been thrown in kind of last minute before emailing it to her. Good tears. Tears because it moved her--the giving up of part of ones identity that goes along with giving one's life to another. In everything, there is a give and take--I pray there is more giving than taking.
Then, as we worked through the other parts of the chapters I sent her, we came to the conclusion that "There are a lot of characters in this story." It's true, there are. They're not all crucial--though some are becoming more important than I originally thought they would be. Sometimes a book with a lot of characters can be daunting--and at times it is--but there are many characters in my personal story, and in yours. So why should it be that my main character only has one friend? She has many friends, and they have families, and that is okay. I just need to work on giving them faces, so to speak.
I am looking through a kaleidoscope, and through it I view this mythology as it comes to life. As I turn and twist it I see new colors, learn new names, discover new hurts.
My mother is painting out front door red today. There is significance here that is going unnoticed--it is a significance in my own heart. She is painting over something that has been in want of paint for eight years now. I have been finessing a story that has been in want of completion for nearly eight years now. She paints with red, I paint with words. But the end result is the same--notice me. Know that I am what I am. "I am a door." and "I am a book." "I am a way into a home." and "I am a way into a story."
I told Mom I would paint the door green. And if I thought I could get away with it, it would be round. Because my journey as a writer began with a green door and a brass nob right in the middle. All I need is a wizard to knock on our red door, and I'll be set. But maybe I am the wizard of this story? Maybe I am knocking on the heart of the reader and I am saying, "Follow me, I have a story to tell you."
"It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yell brass knob in the exact middle." [The Hobbit]
Monday, August 8, 2011
I don't want your sympathy or pity...
It's time to talk about this thing that I've been carrying around for a while. A thing that I have not addressed because it hurt. And no matter how many times I sang, Blessed be Your name when I'm found in the desert place... I still felt the sting.
A day I will never forget. I even wrote a letter for the box I will one day give to my husband explaining what had happened. And I try not to litter that space with nonsensical things. (Though it's hard not to some days.)
November 1, 2010. I have mentioned this briefly before. It was a Monday night and I had only been on campus for about 24 hours after getting back from a weekend at home. I was working on Greek when I got the phone call from what my caller id said was Mom. Not knowing what she could have wanted after only spending an entire weekend with me, I answered a little annoyed at the disturbance. But it wasn't Mom, it was Josef. And I never heard his voice sound so soft on the phone before.
"Anna boo?"
"Yeah, what's up? Why are you on Mom's phone?"
"Mine's dead." Pause. "Mr. Cushing passed away today."
Pause. He has to be kidding. There's no way. "What?"
"Mom wants to talk to you."
I don't remember what she said. I don't remember much of anything as far as words go.
I remember disregarding my Greek flash cards. I remember laying on the floor; broken. I remember being thankful my roommate was at class. I remember finally crawling into bed and crying more.
When LeAnn returned I had to explain what was wrong. My words did not convey why I was so upset. I didn't know then why I was so upset. I'm still not entirely sure.
The emails I sent to my professors and boss were short. I wouldn't be in class on Tuesday due to the loss of a mentor.
A mentor.
He was a mentor, a man I respected as a teacher, as a scientist. I wrote him a letter explaining how thankful I was to have him as my middle school science teacher. How I couldn't think of anyone that could have made the seventh grade sex-talk less awkward. How his genuine concern that his students were actually learning deeply impacted my view on educators. How much I appreciated him using acid to unstick my glued fingertips. How he would have made an excellent school administrator. How I remember that he shared not only my dad's first name but also his middle name.
It's strange, the memories we hang on to.
I went home on Tuesday to vote, and also to be alone. The hour drive was rough. Voting was harder--it was at a school and one of the administrators was talking about, "the death of that teacher at that rural school." His name was Mr. David Lee Cushing, and he was one of the best teachers I ever had.
Really, I wanted to talk to people that knew who he was. (As much as I love and appreciate my roommate, she didn't know who I was talking about. And she doesn't know what to do with crying, she told me so. I love you, LeAnn.) But we didn't talk about it. Not really. Mom said she thought it was a heart attack and Dad couldn't remember "what's-his-face's" name. So I went back to school after dinner not feeling any better.
I went back to classes on Wednesday. I think Blanco would have given me another day if I had asked. He made sure I was okay after class, offered some good words of encouragement and extra Greek help. Thursday was when all of my profs asked how I was doing. Numb.
When Friday rolled around I got dressed up after class and went back to Grand Island. It was the day of the visitation. I went into the church hoping, praying, for some closure once I saw the body. But there was no body. It was an unexpected death (and I think that's why I was shocked to tears) and an early burial. He was only 40.
While I was standing there alone, trying not to cry, I heard his dad speaking. They sound the same, and when I turned to see who it was I knew immediately it was his father. He was talking to someone about the cause of death--I had heard it was a heart attack (he was overweight). It turns out that he had some kind of disease that causes liquid to fill the lungs, I can't recall what it's called now. They thought he was having a hard time breathing, and so laid down on the floor to try to clear his airway. It was too late when he realized that his lungs were filling with fluid. He couldn't get up. He essentially drowned.
I almost lost it. He drowned. What a painful way to die. I had to leave. I went out to my car and tried to call Claire. I tried to call LeAnn. I knew they were all busy. Finally, I called Cole. He was playing a game with his family, but he took the time to listen to me cry for a good five minutes.
I called Dad, told him I was done at the visitation. I drove an hour just to stand in a room for ten minutes and not even see the body. We went out to eat together. We didn't talk about it over dinner. It wasn't until we were out on the sidewalk and I was getting ready to go back to Seward that we finally talked about it.
He put his arm around me and asked me how it went. I told him the whole story. Sometimes what a girl needs is to just cry into her daddy's shoulder when the world doesn't make sense. When I finally got myself under control (it took a visit to the art gallery where Mom shows her work) I was able to drive back to Seward.
Why is this coming up now? A friend's dad died this last month (July). And she seemed to be handling the death of her father much better than I handled the death of my teacher. The difference is that she had weeks of preparing for that loss and I was blindsided.
Life is a funny thing.
A day I will never forget. I even wrote a letter for the box I will one day give to my husband explaining what had happened. And I try not to litter that space with nonsensical things. (Though it's hard not to some days.)
November 1, 2010. I have mentioned this briefly before. It was a Monday night and I had only been on campus for about 24 hours after getting back from a weekend at home. I was working on Greek when I got the phone call from what my caller id said was Mom. Not knowing what she could have wanted after only spending an entire weekend with me, I answered a little annoyed at the disturbance. But it wasn't Mom, it was Josef. And I never heard his voice sound so soft on the phone before.
"Anna boo?"
"Yeah, what's up? Why are you on Mom's phone?"
"Mine's dead." Pause. "Mr. Cushing passed away today."
Pause. He has to be kidding. There's no way. "What?"
"Mom wants to talk to you."
I don't remember what she said. I don't remember much of anything as far as words go.
I remember disregarding my Greek flash cards. I remember laying on the floor; broken. I remember being thankful my roommate was at class. I remember finally crawling into bed and crying more.
When LeAnn returned I had to explain what was wrong. My words did not convey why I was so upset. I didn't know then why I was so upset. I'm still not entirely sure.
The emails I sent to my professors and boss were short. I wouldn't be in class on Tuesday due to the loss of a mentor.
A mentor.
He was a mentor, a man I respected as a teacher, as a scientist. I wrote him a letter explaining how thankful I was to have him as my middle school science teacher. How I couldn't think of anyone that could have made the seventh grade sex-talk less awkward. How his genuine concern that his students were actually learning deeply impacted my view on educators. How much I appreciated him using acid to unstick my glued fingertips. How he would have made an excellent school administrator. How I remember that he shared not only my dad's first name but also his middle name.
It's strange, the memories we hang on to.
I went home on Tuesday to vote, and also to be alone. The hour drive was rough. Voting was harder--it was at a school and one of the administrators was talking about, "the death of that teacher at that rural school." His name was Mr. David Lee Cushing, and he was one of the best teachers I ever had.
Really, I wanted to talk to people that knew who he was. (As much as I love and appreciate my roommate, she didn't know who I was talking about. And she doesn't know what to do with crying, she told me so. I love you, LeAnn.) But we didn't talk about it. Not really. Mom said she thought it was a heart attack and Dad couldn't remember "what's-his-face's" name. So I went back to school after dinner not feeling any better.
I went back to classes on Wednesday. I think Blanco would have given me another day if I had asked. He made sure I was okay after class, offered some good words of encouragement and extra Greek help. Thursday was when all of my profs asked how I was doing. Numb.
When Friday rolled around I got dressed up after class and went back to Grand Island. It was the day of the visitation. I went into the church hoping, praying, for some closure once I saw the body. But there was no body. It was an unexpected death (and I think that's why I was shocked to tears) and an early burial. He was only 40.
While I was standing there alone, trying not to cry, I heard his dad speaking. They sound the same, and when I turned to see who it was I knew immediately it was his father. He was talking to someone about the cause of death--I had heard it was a heart attack (he was overweight). It turns out that he had some kind of disease that causes liquid to fill the lungs, I can't recall what it's called now. They thought he was having a hard time breathing, and so laid down on the floor to try to clear his airway. It was too late when he realized that his lungs were filling with fluid. He couldn't get up. He essentially drowned.
I almost lost it. He drowned. What a painful way to die. I had to leave. I went out to my car and tried to call Claire. I tried to call LeAnn. I knew they were all busy. Finally, I called Cole. He was playing a game with his family, but he took the time to listen to me cry for a good five minutes.
I called Dad, told him I was done at the visitation. I drove an hour just to stand in a room for ten minutes and not even see the body. We went out to eat together. We didn't talk about it over dinner. It wasn't until we were out on the sidewalk and I was getting ready to go back to Seward that we finally talked about it.
He put his arm around me and asked me how it went. I told him the whole story. Sometimes what a girl needs is to just cry into her daddy's shoulder when the world doesn't make sense. When I finally got myself under control (it took a visit to the art gallery where Mom shows her work) I was able to drive back to Seward.
Why is this coming up now? A friend's dad died this last month (July). And she seemed to be handling the death of her father much better than I handled the death of my teacher. The difference is that she had weeks of preparing for that loss and I was blindsided.
Life is a funny thing.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
If a double decker bus crashes into us...
Yesterday was a day of firsts. And it is here that I want to immortalize them.
1. The Wedding
No, no, I didn't get married. My brother was hired to do the videography of a wedding at our church. He needed an assistant, and I was happy to oblige. I love weddings! Drinks all around! (And by "drinks" I mean punch of the nonalcoholic variety.) It was a good experience, if not a little strange. (We didn't know the bride, and only recognized the groom as someone I thought was already married.) The bride asked me, "So, are you teaching him?" HA! No...I'm the assistant. I'm just doing what he tells me to do. Although, I have been to a lot more weddings than he has, so it was good that I was there and knew what to expect for certain things.
2. Buying an R-rated Movie
That's right, I bought my first R-rated movie. But it wasn't for me, it was for my dad. It was a western that we had watched in a hotel room while we were on vacation a few years ago: "Open Range." It was good, and we couldn't believe that it was rated R. Walmart had it for a good deal. So, it was my first time getting carded for something other than glue at a craft store. The cashier lady wasn't going to check my ID, and then she looked at me and said, "Yeah, you look young. I'll need to see your ID. ... How old are you anyway?" 20 "Oh, sorry."
3. The Car Accident
After we went to Walmart, Josef and I went to our cousin's house to celebrate her parents' 30th wedding anniversary. It was great to sit and visit with family. We didn't leave until around 10 pm. It's a strange thing, really.
Driving along, going the speed limit (I was actively fighting my lead-foot condition), leaving the radio off to sing a cappella with my little brother, and then seeing a turn signal from my right on a one-way street. My spot in the left lane was suddenly threatened. I think I said aloud, "What are they doing? Oh, crap!" And my feet were doing their own thing, and my hands yanked the wheel left, into the parking spaces. Still, there was the impact, did I blink?
I stopped the car, turned the blinkers on--why did I think of that and not the horn when it could have really mattered? I've never been closer to swearing in my entire life, and I admit that I said the Lord's name in vain, "Oh my God, what just happened?" I could say it was a prayer, but that would be a lie.
I knew Dad was behind me in the truck, did he see what happened? Would he stop? When I opened my car door, and Josef got out of his side--the side of impact--my only thought was of my dad. I didn't walk around the car to assess the damage, maybe I didn't want to see. I didn't ask Josef if he was okay, the only think I told him was to stay by the car. (He was obviously okay; walking and talking, just as shaken as me.)
Then I was walking down the middle of the road, yelling for my dad, "Daddy! He just freakin' hit me!" Really, I was screaming, unbelieving of what just happened, needing to know it was okay. Thank God I was still wearing heals, they slowed me down, and before I could continue yelling I realized what I was doing and shut my mouth, letting the screams die in my throat and prevent further damage.
I'm not sure how, but it didn't take me long to catch up to him, and I was holding his hand, walking towards the other car; the car that I thought was going to drive away. (No fear, their bumper and license plate was in the middle of the intersection.) But they didn't. I saw the woman get out of the car, and Mom was on 911. The passenger of the other vehicle started running after we all confirmed we were unhurt. Mom told the dispatcher, they were ready to chase him down, but he was just going to get her boyfriend, whom she was going to see.
All the while, I wanted to yell at her and ask her what she was thinking; turning left from the right lane on a one way. But I didn't. I was shaking--a result of one of the biggest adrenaline rushes I have ever had. Mom asked me if I was okay once she was done on the phone. I wasn't as upset as much as I was angry. And I wanted to cry, felt like I should cry, but I didn't. She was the one to go back and confirm that Josef was okay. I was the last person to look at the damage. I saw the bumper in the road of the other vehicle, and I didn't want to face what I was sure to be a disaster.
Thankfully: Nobody was hurt except her car and Jimmy (our car). The lady was insured. She confirmed what Josef told the cop. The cop called the towing company. God gave me enough grace to shut my mouth and just be quiet after that initial outburst. Mom and Dad were driving behind us. My Daddy has strong hands, able to hold his little girl's while I faced one of the worst "firsts" of the year.
It was almost midnight by the time we got home. But sleep wouldn't find me for several hours.
"To die by your side, what a heavenly way to die." [Cover by Anberlin]
1. The Wedding
No, no, I didn't get married. My brother was hired to do the videography of a wedding at our church. He needed an assistant, and I was happy to oblige. I love weddings! Drinks all around! (And by "drinks" I mean punch of the nonalcoholic variety.) It was a good experience, if not a little strange. (We didn't know the bride, and only recognized the groom as someone I thought was already married.) The bride asked me, "So, are you teaching him?" HA! No...I'm the assistant. I'm just doing what he tells me to do. Although, I have been to a lot more weddings than he has, so it was good that I was there and knew what to expect for certain things.
2. Buying an R-rated Movie
That's right, I bought my first R-rated movie. But it wasn't for me, it was for my dad. It was a western that we had watched in a hotel room while we were on vacation a few years ago: "Open Range." It was good, and we couldn't believe that it was rated R. Walmart had it for a good deal. So, it was my first time getting carded for something other than glue at a craft store. The cashier lady wasn't going to check my ID, and then she looked at me and said, "Yeah, you look young. I'll need to see your ID. ... How old are you anyway?" 20 "Oh, sorry."
3. The Car Accident
After we went to Walmart, Josef and I went to our cousin's house to celebrate her parents' 30th wedding anniversary. It was great to sit and visit with family. We didn't leave until around 10 pm. It's a strange thing, really.
Driving along, going the speed limit (I was actively fighting my lead-foot condition), leaving the radio off to sing a cappella with my little brother, and then seeing a turn signal from my right on a one-way street. My spot in the left lane was suddenly threatened. I think I said aloud, "What are they doing? Oh, crap!" And my feet were doing their own thing, and my hands yanked the wheel left, into the parking spaces. Still, there was the impact, did I blink?
I stopped the car, turned the blinkers on--why did I think of that and not the horn when it could have really mattered? I've never been closer to swearing in my entire life, and I admit that I said the Lord's name in vain, "Oh my God, what just happened?" I could say it was a prayer, but that would be a lie.
I knew Dad was behind me in the truck, did he see what happened? Would he stop? When I opened my car door, and Josef got out of his side--the side of impact--my only thought was of my dad. I didn't walk around the car to assess the damage, maybe I didn't want to see. I didn't ask Josef if he was okay, the only think I told him was to stay by the car. (He was obviously okay; walking and talking, just as shaken as me.)
Then I was walking down the middle of the road, yelling for my dad, "Daddy! He just freakin' hit me!" Really, I was screaming, unbelieving of what just happened, needing to know it was okay. Thank God I was still wearing heals, they slowed me down, and before I could continue yelling I realized what I was doing and shut my mouth, letting the screams die in my throat and prevent further damage.
I'm not sure how, but it didn't take me long to catch up to him, and I was holding his hand, walking towards the other car; the car that I thought was going to drive away. (No fear, their bumper and license plate was in the middle of the intersection.) But they didn't. I saw the woman get out of the car, and Mom was on 911. The passenger of the other vehicle started running after we all confirmed we were unhurt. Mom told the dispatcher, they were ready to chase him down, but he was just going to get her boyfriend, whom she was going to see.
All the while, I wanted to yell at her and ask her what she was thinking; turning left from the right lane on a one way. But I didn't. I was shaking--a result of one of the biggest adrenaline rushes I have ever had. Mom asked me if I was okay once she was done on the phone. I wasn't as upset as much as I was angry. And I wanted to cry, felt like I should cry, but I didn't. She was the one to go back and confirm that Josef was okay. I was the last person to look at the damage. I saw the bumper in the road of the other vehicle, and I didn't want to face what I was sure to be a disaster.
Thankfully: Nobody was hurt except her car and Jimmy (our car). The lady was insured. She confirmed what Josef told the cop. The cop called the towing company. God gave me enough grace to shut my mouth and just be quiet after that initial outburst. Mom and Dad were driving behind us. My Daddy has strong hands, able to hold his little girl's while I faced one of the worst "firsts" of the year.
It was almost midnight by the time we got home. But sleep wouldn't find me for several hours.
"To die by your side, what a heavenly way to die." [Cover by Anberlin]
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Hey you, I love your soul...
Yes, two posts in a 48 hour period, crazy right?
Today is Mother's Day. I realize that I spend a lot of space on here talking about my Dad, and how well we get along. There have been a few times where I have made a point of saying that my Mom and I just don't communicate well. Well, both of those statements are true. However, I wouldn't trade my Mom for anything in the world.
The facts of the matter are:
I do get really cross sometimes. LeAnn may be the only person at Concordia that has witnessed this (sorry about that, LeAnn). My Mom definitely carries the brunt of those "attacks." And she still loves me. My Dad once told me, "Anna, you and I are a lot alike. And we're both very lucky that your Mom loves us both a lot. She has more love for you than you even know." That struck me. It came during the crazy graduation season my senior year after she had asked for the third time before 1pm if I had heard about who was going to my graduation party. I was annoyed. Extremely annoyed. Mom and I were crying and yelling in the truck cab while Dad and Josef just sat there, silent. The fight ended with Mom saying she wasn't going to talk to me--now that was a blow to the face. Dad pulled me aside and I thought for sure he was going to chew me out too, but he didn't he told me that. (see up a few lines) That was probably the nicest way he could have told me, "I see why you're annoyed, but you were being a total jerk to your mom." We still fight. We probably always will a little bit. But I know that she will never stop loving me, and I love her for that.
If I'm super excited about something, chances are that Mom is the one that will really get it and be happy with me. This applies from the girliest thing to the most academic achievement. She's the best cheerleader around--really.
It doesn't take much to make her cry in way of sappy movies. There are certain points during a variety of chick flicks that I know if I look at her I will see puffy red eyes and a wadded up tissue. I always give her a hard time, but only when I'm not crying... ha. The funny thing is, I've always felt like I needed to be the strong one. I make a point of not letting my Mom see me cry. I'm not entirely sure when that started, but probably around the time I got my brace and I needed her to know that I was going to be okay, that I didn't need pity. But when I do start to cry during those movies, I know (without looking) that Mom is crying too.
We share a birthday, and the day I can't celebrate with her on the day will be a sad one. (Look for that blog post in the future, folks. It's sure to get one.) I've always loved being able to tell her Happy Birthday when she tells me Happy Birthday. It's a great way to wake up in the morning.
She's a pretty great lady, and she cares about people more than anything.
I love you, Momma.
"Oh for a heart that does not ache. And for a backbone that won't break. For some steady feet or sturdy ground, a road that isn't going to let me turn around and run. For a thousand times to sing. To wear wisdom like Soloman's robe. For the patience and perspective of a man like Job. Just to soar on wings like eagles for no other reason than the bird's eye view for a flight or two. ... Who I wish I was. ... I never could be good enough to measure up, but You want to take me as I come. You're the only one that cares to take me as I am." [Nichole Nordeman]
Today is Mother's Day. I realize that I spend a lot of space on here talking about my Dad, and how well we get along. There have been a few times where I have made a point of saying that my Mom and I just don't communicate well. Well, both of those statements are true. However, I wouldn't trade my Mom for anything in the world.
The facts of the matter are:
I do get really cross sometimes. LeAnn may be the only person at Concordia that has witnessed this (sorry about that, LeAnn). My Mom definitely carries the brunt of those "attacks." And she still loves me. My Dad once told me, "Anna, you and I are a lot alike. And we're both very lucky that your Mom loves us both a lot. She has more love for you than you even know." That struck me. It came during the crazy graduation season my senior year after she had asked for the third time before 1pm if I had heard about who was going to my graduation party. I was annoyed. Extremely annoyed. Mom and I were crying and yelling in the truck cab while Dad and Josef just sat there, silent. The fight ended with Mom saying she wasn't going to talk to me--now that was a blow to the face. Dad pulled me aside and I thought for sure he was going to chew me out too, but he didn't he told me that. (see up a few lines) That was probably the nicest way he could have told me, "I see why you're annoyed, but you were being a total jerk to your mom." We still fight. We probably always will a little bit. But I know that she will never stop loving me, and I love her for that.
If I'm super excited about something, chances are that Mom is the one that will really get it and be happy with me. This applies from the girliest thing to the most academic achievement. She's the best cheerleader around--really.
It doesn't take much to make her cry in way of sappy movies. There are certain points during a variety of chick flicks that I know if I look at her I will see puffy red eyes and a wadded up tissue. I always give her a hard time, but only when I'm not crying... ha. The funny thing is, I've always felt like I needed to be the strong one. I make a point of not letting my Mom see me cry. I'm not entirely sure when that started, but probably around the time I got my brace and I needed her to know that I was going to be okay, that I didn't need pity. But when I do start to cry during those movies, I know (without looking) that Mom is crying too.
We share a birthday, and the day I can't celebrate with her on the day will be a sad one. (Look for that blog post in the future, folks. It's sure to get one.) I've always loved being able to tell her Happy Birthday when she tells me Happy Birthday. It's a great way to wake up in the morning.
She's a pretty great lady, and she cares about people more than anything.
I love you, Momma.
"Oh for a heart that does not ache. And for a backbone that won't break. For some steady feet or sturdy ground, a road that isn't going to let me turn around and run. For a thousand times to sing. To wear wisdom like Soloman's robe. For the patience and perspective of a man like Job. Just to soar on wings like eagles for no other reason than the bird's eye view for a flight or two. ... Who I wish I was. ... I never could be good enough to measure up, but You want to take me as I come. You're the only one that cares to take me as I am." [Nichole Nordeman]
Monday, April 18, 2011
If my heart says I'm sorry, can we leave it at that?
So... I called to talk to my mom today. It wasn't anything big. I just wanted to run some plans by her for next Monday.
The next thing I know, she's defensive and crying. Now, I can be snarky sometimes when talking to my mom, but I wasn't this time. I was very calm and explained it all to the best of my ability. I was completely reasonable.
I finally told her, "Mom, you have to tell me what you're thinking. I don't understand why you're upset. Or why you're angry."
"I'm not angry."
"You sound angry."
Then there was more blubbering. Something about a bad day and not understanding why I would want to carry through on these plans....
"Mom, can I please talk to Dad?"
Now, Dads are generally more reasonable than Moms, at least in my experience. He asked me to explain what was going on, so I did, this time I was on the brink of tears because I didn't understand what the big deal was. I don't think Dad did either. He talked me through it and then explained what was going on with Mom.
She did have a bad day. Her medical mystery is still a mystery, she had physical therapy this morning, and her first day back to work in a month was today. Yes. She had a bad day.
And I'm sorry that I made her cry, even if I don't understand. I'm sorry that our communication is so strained sometimes. I pray we "grow" out of this phase sooner than later.
I was able to have a good conversation with my Dad about the theology conference. I love talking to my daddy about God and where I'm at with my literary analysis of "The Lord of the Rings." He is the one person that I know will understand what I'm trying to say and will push me to develop it further. Now, professors do that too, of course, and so do my friends, but there's something about Dad...it's a part of home. He calls them my "Anna rants" and whenever I'm home he asks me what's new, and I know that he's looking for a "rant." Normally, I can lay one out pretty good. I think he just likes to know how I'm growing. I always know what Dad wants to hear about.
I don't know what Mom wants to know about. She's not on the same page as me as far as world view. She's far more... feminine than I am, in a sense. She's more apt to cry than I am. I always feel like she's one step behind me, like she's settled. And there is nothing wrong with that. I'm just learning that Dad is willing to grow with me.
I think my experience on campus as one of the few that aren't Lutheran has been a cause for him to grow as much as it has been for me. I used to call home all the time and say things like: Daddy, they think I'm less Christian...we need to make sure we don't do this to them, it hurts. Daddy, why can't we all just say that Jesus is all that matters and forget about our denominations? Daddy, why does the body fight so violently against itself? Daddy...why, Daddy?
"Mommy paints the sky." [Danny Oertli]
The next thing I know, she's defensive and crying. Now, I can be snarky sometimes when talking to my mom, but I wasn't this time. I was very calm and explained it all to the best of my ability. I was completely reasonable.
I finally told her, "Mom, you have to tell me what you're thinking. I don't understand why you're upset. Or why you're angry."
"I'm not angry."
"You sound angry."
Then there was more blubbering. Something about a bad day and not understanding why I would want to carry through on these plans....
"Mom, can I please talk to Dad?"
Now, Dads are generally more reasonable than Moms, at least in my experience. He asked me to explain what was going on, so I did, this time I was on the brink of tears because I didn't understand what the big deal was. I don't think Dad did either. He talked me through it and then explained what was going on with Mom.
She did have a bad day. Her medical mystery is still a mystery, she had physical therapy this morning, and her first day back to work in a month was today. Yes. She had a bad day.
And I'm sorry that I made her cry, even if I don't understand. I'm sorry that our communication is so strained sometimes. I pray we "grow" out of this phase sooner than later.
I was able to have a good conversation with my Dad about the theology conference. I love talking to my daddy about God and where I'm at with my literary analysis of "The Lord of the Rings." He is the one person that I know will understand what I'm trying to say and will push me to develop it further. Now, professors do that too, of course, and so do my friends, but there's something about Dad...it's a part of home. He calls them my "Anna rants" and whenever I'm home he asks me what's new, and I know that he's looking for a "rant." Normally, I can lay one out pretty good. I think he just likes to know how I'm growing. I always know what Dad wants to hear about.
I don't know what Mom wants to know about. She's not on the same page as me as far as world view. She's far more... feminine than I am, in a sense. She's more apt to cry than I am. I always feel like she's one step behind me, like she's settled. And there is nothing wrong with that. I'm just learning that Dad is willing to grow with me.
I think my experience on campus as one of the few that aren't Lutheran has been a cause for him to grow as much as it has been for me. I used to call home all the time and say things like: Daddy, they think I'm less Christian...we need to make sure we don't do this to them, it hurts. Daddy, why can't we all just say that Jesus is all that matters and forget about our denominations? Daddy, why does the body fight so violently against itself? Daddy...why, Daddy?
"Mommy paints the sky." [Danny Oertli]
Thursday, April 7, 2011
This is not my home...
Now, judging by the title of this post, I bet you're thinking, "Oh, she's going to talk about heaven." Wrong. I'm not. And besides, that would be way to literal. Haven't you noticed that most of my blog titles are a bit of a stretch? They make sense to me, but I understand that they won't make sense to everyone. ... and that's okay. Anyway... so, if I'm not talking about heaven then what am I talking about?
My family came to see me yesterday on their way home from a college visit with my brother. We went out to eat and I once again took notice of how my brother is growing, but he still maintains the old habits; such as, eating his food in compartments. He ate all of his coleslaw. Then he ate all of his fries. And then he ate his burger. There is to be no mixing of the food before it enters the stomach. No mixing. That rule never gets broken. I told him that he was a compartmentalist.
It doesn't take much to get my mom going on a rant about habits. Let's just say that my family is full of habits...and when they're disrupted...well...it's bad. She said that at this college visit, whenever they would meet back in the big conference room, my dad and brother would pick the exact same seats. We used to sit in the same seats every Sunday; and if we could still swing it, I'm sure we would now too.
It always makes me laugh when I notice these habitual things in my family.
Today in Language and Linguistics we moved to a different classroom. (I just realized it was for the VCR.) And that was strange for me. I had to sit in a completely different room...and it definitely through of my groove. (Weird, I know.)
Then, I went to Poetry Writing and someone was sitting in my chair! Now, I don't actually care, it wasn't a big deal, but it was still a displacement.
And then it hit me.
I am so my daddy's girl.
I like my routine, and I get flustered when it's disrupted.
At least I don't compartmentalize my food. That would be silly.
"Now's the time for letting go. I surrender all. Can You hear my call, when I'm at the end of myself? Is this where You begin, when I'm caving in." [Remedy Drive]
My family came to see me yesterday on their way home from a college visit with my brother. We went out to eat and I once again took notice of how my brother is growing, but he still maintains the old habits; such as, eating his food in compartments. He ate all of his coleslaw. Then he ate all of his fries. And then he ate his burger. There is to be no mixing of the food before it enters the stomach. No mixing. That rule never gets broken. I told him that he was a compartmentalist.
It doesn't take much to get my mom going on a rant about habits. Let's just say that my family is full of habits...and when they're disrupted...well...it's bad. She said that at this college visit, whenever they would meet back in the big conference room, my dad and brother would pick the exact same seats. We used to sit in the same seats every Sunday; and if we could still swing it, I'm sure we would now too.
It always makes me laugh when I notice these habitual things in my family.
Today in Language and Linguistics we moved to a different classroom. (I just realized it was for the VCR.) And that was strange for me. I had to sit in a completely different room...and it definitely through of my groove. (Weird, I know.)
Then, I went to Poetry Writing and someone was sitting in my chair! Now, I don't actually care, it wasn't a big deal, but it was still a displacement.
And then it hit me.
I am so my daddy's girl.
I like my routine, and I get flustered when it's disrupted.
At least I don't compartmentalize my food. That would be silly.
"Now's the time for letting go. I surrender all. Can You hear my call, when I'm at the end of myself? Is this where You begin, when I'm caving in." [Remedy Drive]
Sunday, April 3, 2011
If my eyes, wide open, fail to see...
April 3rd. Well, today marks the beginning of the next decade of my life. It feels like the last one took forever. Being a teen is hard work, you know?
It's funny, we all have our birthdays in a months time. Josef is first. Then Dad, who is now 51, and apparently feeling quite old. And Mom and I today... Mom's only a year from 50. And I'm 20.
Before my parents went to be tonight, Dad came out to where I was working on some homework. He wanted to know if I would turn off the lights when I went to bed. He was massaging my shoulders and then told me that I had already received a lot of birthday wishes on Facebook. I looked up at him and said, "I'm not a teenager anymore, Daddy."
"I know, you're getting old!"
Can we be old together? I have all the creaky joints, and I'm reading a book about grammar, for goodness sake. I get grumpy when I see girls in my brother's class wearing short skirts on stage. (Really? Didn't anyone teach you about costuming? And if you're whiter than I am...well...keep your legs covered, girl.) I hate people who text during theatre performances.....yeah.
It hit me today, that I have already known my daddy longer than he knew his dad. And that is a disturbing thought for me. I was sitting at a music rally...and I almost started to cry. And then my mom called. Twice. I thought for sure Dad had had a heart attack and she needed help. How horrible is it that my first thought after getting two calls was that my dad was in serious danger? Turns out she just wanted to know if I wanted to go get food with them.
It's funny, growing up you feel like your parents are invincible. Nothing could ever tear them down, they are the rocks on which you build your life until you're sturdy enough to stand on your own and be someone else's rock. This year has shattered that illusion for me. My mom is having some of the worst medical issues she has ever had to face...and Dad is just tired. More tired than I ever remember seeing him. I don't remember him being this tired when he would only sleep a couple hours a night because he would stay up making whistles.
When Mom told me good night, I told her, "Now you can be old, too!" And I meant that I was old...but she definitely thought I meant that she and Dad were old.
And they are, I guess. But I'm getting "old" too. A fifth of a century... just four more to go.
So, here's to more creaky joints. (Seriously, you should hear me climb stairs if you haven't already.)
"And your thoughts all break my heart, because there's a chapter left to write. ... Won't you run, fly, open up your lungs tonight. Breathe freedom for the first time in your life. ... He's not through with you yet." [Building 429]
It's funny, we all have our birthdays in a months time. Josef is first. Then Dad, who is now 51, and apparently feeling quite old. And Mom and I today... Mom's only a year from 50. And I'm 20.
Before my parents went to be tonight, Dad came out to where I was working on some homework. He wanted to know if I would turn off the lights when I went to bed. He was massaging my shoulders and then told me that I had already received a lot of birthday wishes on Facebook. I looked up at him and said, "I'm not a teenager anymore, Daddy."
"I know, you're getting old!"
Can we be old together? I have all the creaky joints, and I'm reading a book about grammar, for goodness sake. I get grumpy when I see girls in my brother's class wearing short skirts on stage. (Really? Didn't anyone teach you about costuming? And if you're whiter than I am...well...keep your legs covered, girl.) I hate people who text during theatre performances.....yeah.
It hit me today, that I have already known my daddy longer than he knew his dad. And that is a disturbing thought for me. I was sitting at a music rally...and I almost started to cry. And then my mom called. Twice. I thought for sure Dad had had a heart attack and she needed help. How horrible is it that my first thought after getting two calls was that my dad was in serious danger? Turns out she just wanted to know if I wanted to go get food with them.
It's funny, growing up you feel like your parents are invincible. Nothing could ever tear them down, they are the rocks on which you build your life until you're sturdy enough to stand on your own and be someone else's rock. This year has shattered that illusion for me. My mom is having some of the worst medical issues she has ever had to face...and Dad is just tired. More tired than I ever remember seeing him. I don't remember him being this tired when he would only sleep a couple hours a night because he would stay up making whistles.
When Mom told me good night, I told her, "Now you can be old, too!" And I meant that I was old...but she definitely thought I meant that she and Dad were old.
And they are, I guess. But I'm getting "old" too. A fifth of a century... just four more to go.
So, here's to more creaky joints. (Seriously, you should hear me climb stairs if you haven't already.)
"And your thoughts all break my heart, because there's a chapter left to write. ... Won't you run, fly, open up your lungs tonight. Breathe freedom for the first time in your life. ... He's not through with you yet." [Building 429]
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Not the beard!
So, I'm home for Spring Break this week. And for the first half of it my daddy has to go on a business trip. Bummer deal, right? Yeah, I thought so too.
Well, about twenty minutes ago, he comes out to the kitchen with the clippers (the box set). Mom normally cuts his hair, but with her arm problem she is in no condition to do it right now. She was going to suffer through it though. Until I caught on to the silly business!
We had talked about me doing it last time I was home. Granted, last time I wasn't sick.
Dad hasn't been getting near me, for fear of "contamination." But, after some convincing (which involved me tying a tea towel around my face so I couldn't breathe on him and thickly applied Germ-X) he let me do the job.
It turned out pretty well. I also helped get rid of some of the peach fuzz on the back of his neck. I was feeling to make sure I got it all and decided that: "this is in beard jurisdiction." That got a laugh. He told me anything around his jawline he could get himself.
As a kid, you never think you'll cut your parent's hair. It was kind of a weird feeling. It made me think of the time Mom was gone and Dad had to put my hair in a pony tail for me. I could tell he felt like a fish out of water. He started out using my comb (which I never use) and then decided that his own soft wire brush would do better. It turned out to be a low pony tail. I will never forget that day, sitting on a chair in the middle of the kitchen, Daddy running his fingers through my little girl hair. And today, Daddy sitting in the middle of the kitchen on a chair while I ran my fingers through his feathery "old man" hair.
"Catching butterfly kisses at night."
Well, about twenty minutes ago, he comes out to the kitchen with the clippers (the box set). Mom normally cuts his hair, but with her arm problem she is in no condition to do it right now. She was going to suffer through it though. Until I caught on to the silly business!
We had talked about me doing it last time I was home. Granted, last time I wasn't sick.
Dad hasn't been getting near me, for fear of "contamination." But, after some convincing (which involved me tying a tea towel around my face so I couldn't breathe on him and thickly applied Germ-X) he let me do the job.
It turned out pretty well. I also helped get rid of some of the peach fuzz on the back of his neck. I was feeling to make sure I got it all and decided that: "this is in beard jurisdiction." That got a laugh. He told me anything around his jawline he could get himself.
As a kid, you never think you'll cut your parent's hair. It was kind of a weird feeling. It made me think of the time Mom was gone and Dad had to put my hair in a pony tail for me. I could tell he felt like a fish out of water. He started out using my comb (which I never use) and then decided that his own soft wire brush would do better. It turned out to be a low pony tail. I will never forget that day, sitting on a chair in the middle of the kitchen, Daddy running his fingers through my little girl hair. And today, Daddy sitting in the middle of the kitchen on a chair while I ran my fingers through his feathery "old man" hair.
"Catching butterfly kisses at night."
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Lest I forget...
I went home this last weekend, and I just want to share a few things so I don't forget them. This runs the potential for being a very strange post, but I pray you stick with me. Perhaps something will resonate with you, or you'll catch a glimpse of your own home. Here are a few pieces of my life:
When Josef got home from school (he's a junior) I found out two things:
Earlier in the week he had been knocked down by some dork that was running to get away from some other kid. He fell in the snow, ripped a hole in his jeans and has a gash in his knee. My first question was, "Did you yell at him?" I could feel the protective older sister in me boiling. Nobody messes with my little brother. He said the kid was already far away by the time he got up. I said that I still would have yelled. "Well, that's you Anna, not me." How very true. We aren't the same person, as similar as we are. It was agreed that if it would have happened to me, my arm would have been out to catch the twerp and he would have been down in the snow with me. I wouldn't have hurt him... but I would have put the fear of God in him. Or so I would like to think.... sometimes injury done to me doesn't light nearly as big a fire in me as injury to Josef.
Also, I would like to thank whoever broke into Josef's car. I appreciate that you didn't take anything. Oh, and thanks for the sunglasses you left behind.
A dog got into our yard and dug through the snow into Dad's new grass and landscaping...he was not too happy. "If they come around here tomorrow they'll get lead poisoning." Saturday, our little dog started going crazy, and the next thing I know is Dad is outside with the shotgun. I paced around the inside of the house while I waited for the pop that was sure to come. I watched him as he aimed, which I thought was suspiciously high, and I watched him shoot while I couldn't see the target. I went to the East side of the house and watched two dogs run down the road. He came inside and said one had a collar for sure and he didn't want to shoot anyone's pet.
We went on a Daddy/Daughter date. I talked about my Language and Linguistic class a lot. He said, "I don't really like monarchs..." when I started asking questions about the Kings and Queens of England. They fascinate me. A difference.
Dad taught me how to make spaghetti. When it started splattering Mom said she would find me an apron. "It's okay, it's just my STD shirt."
"Oh, but that shirt is so cool!"
"Tammy, STD, not Sigma Tau Delta."
"Oh.... how did that happen?"
(I have two shirts for the English honors program I'm in, Sigma Tau Delta, it's really kind of unfortunate. The company that made our shirts made a mistake the first time around and put the letters in English, not Greek.)
When picking a movie to watch, "How's about The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex?"
"Well... I've been in that kind of mood, why not?"
"I didn't think you would actually say yes."
"We could watch Captain Blood instead."
This was after we watched Footsteps in the Dark. If you're an old movie buff you'll understand, or know, that these are all Errol Flynn movies. My dad loves Errol Flynn, he's one of his favorite actors, and probably one of mine as well. The only movie I didn't care for was Elizabeth and Essex. I don't know what it is... possibly the lady that plays Queen Elizabeth... I don't really know. It could be the ending but I won't give that away for you.
And now I have this insatiable desire to watch The Seahawk.
"When will you be home next, Anna boo?"
"Probably four weeks."
I know, Bud Nub, it's a long time....
"It is entirely innocent I am!"
"You must use the right words."
"Oh, words is it? Not guilty."
[Errol Flynn, Captain Blood]
When Josef got home from school (he's a junior) I found out two things:
Earlier in the week he had been knocked down by some dork that was running to get away from some other kid. He fell in the snow, ripped a hole in his jeans and has a gash in his knee. My first question was, "Did you yell at him?" I could feel the protective older sister in me boiling. Nobody messes with my little brother. He said the kid was already far away by the time he got up. I said that I still would have yelled. "Well, that's you Anna, not me." How very true. We aren't the same person, as similar as we are. It was agreed that if it would have happened to me, my arm would have been out to catch the twerp and he would have been down in the snow with me. I wouldn't have hurt him... but I would have put the fear of God in him. Or so I would like to think.... sometimes injury done to me doesn't light nearly as big a fire in me as injury to Josef.
Also, I would like to thank whoever broke into Josef's car. I appreciate that you didn't take anything. Oh, and thanks for the sunglasses you left behind.
A dog got into our yard and dug through the snow into Dad's new grass and landscaping...he was not too happy. "If they come around here tomorrow they'll get lead poisoning." Saturday, our little dog started going crazy, and the next thing I know is Dad is outside with the shotgun. I paced around the inside of the house while I waited for the pop that was sure to come. I watched him as he aimed, which I thought was suspiciously high, and I watched him shoot while I couldn't see the target. I went to the East side of the house and watched two dogs run down the road. He came inside and said one had a collar for sure and he didn't want to shoot anyone's pet.
We went on a Daddy/Daughter date. I talked about my Language and Linguistic class a lot. He said, "I don't really like monarchs..." when I started asking questions about the Kings and Queens of England. They fascinate me. A difference.
Dad taught me how to make spaghetti. When it started splattering Mom said she would find me an apron. "It's okay, it's just my STD shirt."
"Oh, but that shirt is so cool!"
"Tammy, STD, not Sigma Tau Delta."
"Oh.... how did that happen?"
(I have two shirts for the English honors program I'm in, Sigma Tau Delta, it's really kind of unfortunate. The company that made our shirts made a mistake the first time around and put the letters in English, not Greek.)
When picking a movie to watch, "How's about The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex?"
"Well... I've been in that kind of mood, why not?"
"I didn't think you would actually say yes."
"We could watch Captain Blood instead."
This was after we watched Footsteps in the Dark. If you're an old movie buff you'll understand, or know, that these are all Errol Flynn movies. My dad loves Errol Flynn, he's one of his favorite actors, and probably one of mine as well. The only movie I didn't care for was Elizabeth and Essex. I don't know what it is... possibly the lady that plays Queen Elizabeth... I don't really know. It could be the ending but I won't give that away for you.
And now I have this insatiable desire to watch The Seahawk.
"When will you be home next, Anna boo?"
"Probably four weeks."
I know, Bud Nub, it's a long time....
"It is entirely innocent I am!"
"You must use the right words."
"Oh, words is it? Not guilty."
[Errol Flynn, Captain Blood]
Saturday, January 8, 2011
...They have passed, like rain on the mountain.
Sometimes I hold on to strange things. But the reasons are not so strange. There's usually a memory or a thought attached to the things I collect.
I was moving somethings around in my room today (instead of packing) when I looked at something that I hadn't looked at in a long time. It's proudly displayed, I didn't have to dig to find it. I just had to look. Granted, there is a lot of clutter on my desk right now, and there normally is, but it was right there.
There is a clear vase. I've had it in my room for years, at least 7. Sometimes I wonder if Mom ever misses it.
There is blue and silver ribbon, once glittery and now dusty, but if blown on you can see the sparkles again.
There is a bouquet of dried white flowers, now an antiqued tan color.
I wonder if my cousin knows that I still have the bouquet I carried in her wedding.
It's still beautiful, even when dead.
I remember tying it to one of the posts of my bed with yarn and hanging it upside down, Laura-Ingalls-Wilder-style. I waited until I thought it had sufficiently dried. Then I stole one of Mom's vases, and put it on my dresser. Now it's on my desk, but I can still look at it and remember my cousin's wedding.
I wonder if she has her bouquet? Maybe I should ask her sometime.
When I was moving things I noticed that somewhere along these flowers' journey the middle flower had been decapitated. It's head was resting precariously on the pillow ribbon. I wondered if it was even worth it, but I picked up the flower and gently placed it back on its pillow of babies breath. For a moment I contemplated just throwing it away.
I stood there and stared at it for a minute, trying to decide.
In the end, I turned the vase a little, so that the ribbon was more proudly displayed and I let it "live" another day. Maybe I'll throw it away someday.
I doubt I will.
"What to make of a diminished thing?" [Robert Frost, The Oven Bird]
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