Some places in this world will grab you and take your breath away. Some places exist and, upon first glance, you are home. They take your life and your mind and most importantly your heart, and turn you around and strip you down until you recognize who you really are. Some places recognize you; they've been waiting for you. God is there, and you are there. You're part of the roots, part of the flower. Part of the breeze, and the brick. Some places were home before you even stepped on the soil there - one glimpse and you know. I knew then, the first time. I knew every time I returned. I knew when I lived there. And I knew when I left. It would never stop calling my name, calling back to me.
I'm returning to to the place that has never let go of me. I'm returning tonight.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
A face and a name
I couldn't keep my eyes off her Sunday evening; I watched her path with obsession and fear. On Monday, she brushed my life when the stranger asked where he could find a cup of coffee and a meal. He'd just hit Houston after a 14-hour drive from New Orleans. He was just around the corner from his basic request, obviously relieved at the news.
By mid-Monday, my obsession grew. The notices of our office closings in New Orleans, Baton Rouge and Mobile were expected. I must have checked CNN every 15 minutes throughout the day.
I went through Alicia in 1983. No one was around to help my father move his boat to and then up the Colorado River. I was picked for the task. It was terrifying when the rains first came, sharp and needling my skin. Hanging onto the rails on the side of the boat while it moved along choppy waters too choppy for my liking, and I inched closer to the Outriggers so that I could lift them and then turn them aftward, my father's voice from the flying bridge above me guiding me, calming me. Still, I was naive enough to have no doubt of survival. It was more of an adventure at the time.
I remember how massive Gilbert was 1988; how it dumped rains all over Texas and Oklahoma for days. Without ever hitting here.
And of course I remember Tropical Storm Allison. I remember how she left, made a slow return and then sat on us. Friends called the morning after, their house was under water. We spent that day cleaning their house and another friend's restaurant. I gained roommates of the two and four-legged kind after that one. The night she decided to stay put over the city, I was with those friends in that restaurant, commenting on the rain. Little did we know.
Today, I look at images of New Orleans, of Biloxi and Gulfport and I just stare, slack-jawed and sick to my stomach. Nature did this? This drunken rampage, this hostile beating, this is natural. It's humbling. These cyclones of such force that we name them, give them a recognition, a reference and a memory. And they show their personality and behavior -- unforgiving, insistent, brutal, ugly, slamming, pounding, drenching, whipping, deadly.
And we stand there when all is done and it's quiet again. The ugliness of the day before betraying the beauty of the day after. We stand among felled trees and debris, among rooftops and chimneys in the street. We look out at cars filled with river mud and saltwater. And always there's a doll or a rollerskate. We gaze outward at views that were not there before, and we struggle to navigate home without our landmarks. And everywhere you look, in every eye you see, you recognize the sameness between you. No matter who you are.
I remember that after Alicia. I remember Alicia ceased to be an adventure when I realized what we had avoided. I have no other point of reference for Kristina.
Only our employees in Baton Rouge are fully accounted for. My unaccounted for colleagues, and all others along Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama - all others- are in my thoughts and prayers.
By mid-Monday, my obsession grew. The notices of our office closings in New Orleans, Baton Rouge and Mobile were expected. I must have checked CNN every 15 minutes throughout the day.
I went through Alicia in 1983. No one was around to help my father move his boat to and then up the Colorado River. I was picked for the task. It was terrifying when the rains first came, sharp and needling my skin. Hanging onto the rails on the side of the boat while it moved along choppy waters too choppy for my liking, and I inched closer to the Outriggers so that I could lift them and then turn them aftward, my father's voice from the flying bridge above me guiding me, calming me. Still, I was naive enough to have no doubt of survival. It was more of an adventure at the time.
I remember how massive Gilbert was 1988; how it dumped rains all over Texas and Oklahoma for days. Without ever hitting here.
And of course I remember Tropical Storm Allison. I remember how she left, made a slow return and then sat on us. Friends called the morning after, their house was under water. We spent that day cleaning their house and another friend's restaurant. I gained roommates of the two and four-legged kind after that one. The night she decided to stay put over the city, I was with those friends in that restaurant, commenting on the rain. Little did we know.
Today, I look at images of New Orleans, of Biloxi and Gulfport and I just stare, slack-jawed and sick to my stomach. Nature did this? This drunken rampage, this hostile beating, this is natural. It's humbling. These cyclones of such force that we name them, give them a recognition, a reference and a memory. And they show their personality and behavior -- unforgiving, insistent, brutal, ugly, slamming, pounding, drenching, whipping, deadly.
And we stand there when all is done and it's quiet again. The ugliness of the day before betraying the beauty of the day after. We stand among felled trees and debris, among rooftops and chimneys in the street. We look out at cars filled with river mud and saltwater. And always there's a doll or a rollerskate. We gaze outward at views that were not there before, and we struggle to navigate home without our landmarks. And everywhere you look, in every eye you see, you recognize the sameness between you. No matter who you are.
I remember that after Alicia. I remember Alicia ceased to be an adventure when I realized what we had avoided. I have no other point of reference for Kristina.
Only our employees in Baton Rouge are fully accounted for. My unaccounted for colleagues, and all others along Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama - all others- are in my thoughts and prayers.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Weekend highlights
Friday afternoon: Left work a bit early so that I could pick up Mom and drive out to Conroe in a reasonable amount of time, say two hours at 4:00 rather than three hours at 5:00. Why Conroe? To see my nephew, of course! It's our monthly visit. He's calmer, smarter, more articulate, more focused, and more at ease during this visit. He's working hard. He proudly tells me he made an 89 on his essay on the Illiad. You know, Homer, he tells me. Yes I know. I am proud of him, proud of his learning.
Friday night: Mom and I shared a room at a Best Western that the owners must have gotten quite a deal on interior fabrics because the bedspreads were a horrid color combination of bright pink and green palm trees, which conflicted to a nauseating degree with the dark green and red carpet. When I opened the door for us, mom said, Oh my. That cracked me up.
Saturday: The school had gifted him with a Red Maple tree in honor of my father. We plant it in the afternoon. I watch him slice the shovel into the dirt, opening the ground to receive the tree. He's strong and involved. My brother shows how to build the donut around the tree with dirt and then mulch. We water the tree and take pictures. It feels good to be there, good to plant another tree for my father.
Saturday night: Before meeting friends at La Griglia for a birthday celebration that was to start there and then go from there in a long black limousine to wherever we pleased but dancing had to be involved, I stopped at the McClain Gallery for the George Rodrigue exhibit. Mr. Rodrigue was a friend of my Uncle's and a guest on my father's boat, The Simplicity, on several fishing trips in Cozumel and Cabo San Lucas. I had made a photo album for him of pictures from those trips and hoped to leave the album there for him. I got much more than that once his wife saw me and questioned the album in my hand. At best, I had hoped the he would look through the album with me and share a story or two. I got that. He was both delighted and delightful and I left him with the album and a hug, taking with me his voice and the look in his eyes as he wistfully said in that thick Cajun accent, Oh the times I had on that boat with your father and your Uncle.
The rest of Saturday night involved a surprise guest, numerous bottles of Veuve Cliquot, the Black Swan and, lastly, Absinthe. It also involved a lot laughter and dancing and silliness. And late hours.
Sunday: Necessarily quiet. Some Advil. Lots of sleep. Pizza.
Friday night: Mom and I shared a room at a Best Western that the owners must have gotten quite a deal on interior fabrics because the bedspreads were a horrid color combination of bright pink and green palm trees, which conflicted to a nauseating degree with the dark green and red carpet. When I opened the door for us, mom said, Oh my. That cracked me up.
Saturday: The school had gifted him with a Red Maple tree in honor of my father. We plant it in the afternoon. I watch him slice the shovel into the dirt, opening the ground to receive the tree. He's strong and involved. My brother shows how to build the donut around the tree with dirt and then mulch. We water the tree and take pictures. It feels good to be there, good to plant another tree for my father.
Saturday night: Before meeting friends at La Griglia for a birthday celebration that was to start there and then go from there in a long black limousine to wherever we pleased but dancing had to be involved, I stopped at the McClain Gallery for the George Rodrigue exhibit. Mr. Rodrigue was a friend of my Uncle's and a guest on my father's boat, The Simplicity, on several fishing trips in Cozumel and Cabo San Lucas. I had made a photo album for him of pictures from those trips and hoped to leave the album there for him. I got much more than that once his wife saw me and questioned the album in my hand. At best, I had hoped the he would look through the album with me and share a story or two. I got that. He was both delighted and delightful and I left him with the album and a hug, taking with me his voice and the look in his eyes as he wistfully said in that thick Cajun accent, Oh the times I had on that boat with your father and your Uncle.
The rest of Saturday night involved a surprise guest, numerous bottles of Veuve Cliquot, the Black Swan and, lastly, Absinthe. It also involved a lot laughter and dancing and silliness. And late hours.
Sunday: Necessarily quiet. Some Advil. Lots of sleep. Pizza.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
I dined with my future, and she recognized my way there
She's little, and frail. She's so frail I wonder how her body holds the strength that's there inside. She is grace. I sat in her glow at dinner tonight. She lost her husband fifteen years ago. Fifteen years. She keeps him with her, talks of him as though he'll be there when she gets home. She knows he won't but she can't help herself. She knows he's gone, that she's bringing him forward through her memory, consciously. Still, it's slippery. She knows it's her trick.
She asks me, How are you?
I put on my clown suit, smile at her, squirm and glance up at the ceiling and across the crown molding, and say, I'm fine. Really, I'm doing okay, I'm fine.
She has years on me, she knows better. She waits for my darting eyes to return to hers, says It takes a long time. She stretches out the very short word, long. In five words she tells me the truth.
Oh, no, I understand that, it does. You're right, it does take a long time.
She puts her worn and delicate hand on mine. It feels like lace.
Alison. She stops there, waits for the air to swirl around my recognition of my name in her voice, says it again. Alison, it takes a long time. Slowly she says it, firm and positive. It stays in the air between us. I hear her now. There is no response. There's not meant to be.
On the drive home I think about her touch, her words. I feel young. Foolish and young. I do not know. I think I do but I've only the slightest idea, a tiny seed of it. This path I'm on, it's only just begun. She knows.
She asks me, How are you?
I put on my clown suit, smile at her, squirm and glance up at the ceiling and across the crown molding, and say, I'm fine. Really, I'm doing okay, I'm fine.
She has years on me, she knows better. She waits for my darting eyes to return to hers, says It takes a long time. She stretches out the very short word, long. In five words she tells me the truth.
Oh, no, I understand that, it does. You're right, it does take a long time.
She puts her worn and delicate hand on mine. It feels like lace.
Alison. She stops there, waits for the air to swirl around my recognition of my name in her voice, says it again. Alison, it takes a long time. Slowly she says it, firm and positive. It stays in the air between us. I hear her now. There is no response. There's not meant to be.
On the drive home I think about her touch, her words. I feel young. Foolish and young. I do not know. I think I do but I've only the slightest idea, a tiny seed of it. This path I'm on, it's only just begun. She knows.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
What do I know?
Time moves on and I turn back to see the day I lost him, disappearing like the tail of a kite. He's been gone for over half a year now. I never thought myself capable of going this far without him. It's not something that gives me relief or pride. What I am is stunned by the ultimate strength it requires, and that I could come up with it, that I can come up with it. It was days, weeks, then months, and now I've put year into the sentence. Still, take it all apart and every day takes work.
There are doors I hide behind, blankets I stay beneath. I can't bring myself to remove "Dad" from the saved numbers in my cell phone. Though it shocks me to see it, sometimes I look at it and I desire to dial it. Just to see.
I've taken bits of him and made them my life. His memberships in particular. His Coastal Conservation Association membership, his United States Equestrian Team, Arbor Day Foundation and Ducks Unlimited memberships. These are in my life now. My money follows his for causes he taught me to believe in and support. My memberships, previously giften upon me by him, are now turned around and continued in his name. Still, envelopes arrive in the mail and I recognize the logos but I search out his name.
I take him to work with me, take his hand on my back to meetings I'd rather not be in because I have to take the lead and I'm not sure I can. But I do, because I've taken his hand with me.
I take him on walks with me. I take him down the street and around the corner. I pick up the bits of paper and discarded beer cans in the park. He leads me to it; he asks me to make things clean again. It's what he taught me: clean up the messes you find.
I kiss his picture on my dresser each night before going to bed. I say goodnight to him out loud after I pray. I need to talk to him still, to hear "Dad" from my voice, to him, not about him. So I talk to him.
I'm as handicapped at saying goodbye as she is. If you walked into my parent's house, you'd not know he was gone, save for the urn on the bar. She can't remove him. I understand her. His sunglasses are on the hall table. His reading glasses are on his bedside table. His shampoo is in the shower and, yes, his toothbrush is in the holder beside his sink. I don't know how she does this, but I know exactly why. His camel hair coat hangs in the hall closet. His shirts and jackets hang in his closet. His closet. His saved quarters, dimes and nickels in coffee cans on his shelf. His business cards on his dresser as he had placed them, his bulletin board with drawings from the kids. His hats and his shoeshine kit. His luggage and his shaving kit. All there and waiting for him to make them useful again.
The photos, the kisses, the memberships, the clothes. Is this how it is? I do not know. Do we hang on to things that were his in some mad method to keeping him here? Is that really him standing in my dream? I do not know. Is that really him nudging me forward? I do not know.
There are doors I hide behind, blankets I stay beneath. I can't bring myself to remove "Dad" from the saved numbers in my cell phone. Though it shocks me to see it, sometimes I look at it and I desire to dial it. Just to see.
I've taken bits of him and made them my life. His memberships in particular. His Coastal Conservation Association membership, his United States Equestrian Team, Arbor Day Foundation and Ducks Unlimited memberships. These are in my life now. My money follows his for causes he taught me to believe in and support. My memberships, previously giften upon me by him, are now turned around and continued in his name. Still, envelopes arrive in the mail and I recognize the logos but I search out his name.
I take him to work with me, take his hand on my back to meetings I'd rather not be in because I have to take the lead and I'm not sure I can. But I do, because I've taken his hand with me.
I take him on walks with me. I take him down the street and around the corner. I pick up the bits of paper and discarded beer cans in the park. He leads me to it; he asks me to make things clean again. It's what he taught me: clean up the messes you find.
I kiss his picture on my dresser each night before going to bed. I say goodnight to him out loud after I pray. I need to talk to him still, to hear "Dad" from my voice, to him, not about him. So I talk to him.
I'm as handicapped at saying goodbye as she is. If you walked into my parent's house, you'd not know he was gone, save for the urn on the bar. She can't remove him. I understand her. His sunglasses are on the hall table. His reading glasses are on his bedside table. His shampoo is in the shower and, yes, his toothbrush is in the holder beside his sink. I don't know how she does this, but I know exactly why. His camel hair coat hangs in the hall closet. His shirts and jackets hang in his closet. His closet. His saved quarters, dimes and nickels in coffee cans on his shelf. His business cards on his dresser as he had placed them, his bulletin board with drawings from the kids. His hats and his shoeshine kit. His luggage and his shaving kit. All there and waiting for him to make them useful again.
The photos, the kisses, the memberships, the clothes. Is this how it is? I do not know. Do we hang on to things that were his in some mad method to keeping him here? Is that really him standing in my dream? I do not know. Is that really him nudging me forward? I do not know.
An early gift
There are many mornings when everything in the world shines. I usually do not find that in August. August is slow and lazy and full of a thick heat in the air that is stifling. August has a pulse that slows my own. But this morning was different. This morning, the air was a bit cooler than normal, giving the slightest hint to fall. I was out before the sun rose, so of course that's the night air, but it was enough to inspire me and put a lift in my step. Currents in the air stirred a fragrant scent around me. Seeing the dawning and growing light in the sky stirred my imagination and stretched my awareness of the very simple beauty around me. It was a joy, both a quiet moment and a high point, an amazing way to start this August day.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
True Confessions
- In today's crossword puzzle, backtalk = guff. If I hadn't gotten all the ones across, I wouldn’t have guessed that to save my life. But what really got me was that Rough up = Maul. Oh really? Isn't that throwing cold water on Maul? Maul is the emergency room; rough up is a bandaid.
- In my head I have a list of songs that I like but I’m kind of embarrassed about. Perfect example is Elton John’s Nikita. I’m not proud of it, but I do like that song. So when it came on the radio this morning, I turned it up and started singing. And I realized that I was driving down the road singing out loud to Nikita and I honestly rolled my eyes at my own self.
- The commercial for back to school supplies that uses the Spinners’ song, Rubberband Man? I love it. I love that they have introduced a "Rubberband Man" character, and that he is so funky and has that huge afro and pushes that cart or drives that scooter all around giving unsuspecting children everywhere their school supplies. It makes me miss the days when late August meant new pens, pencils and notebooks. And a new wardrobe that someone else was paying for.
- Also musically related, I just today realized that Kawlija was a wooden Indian standing in the door. I’ve liked Charlie Pride for years, and I’ve always liked this song but apparently not enough to pay any attention whatsoever the lyrics.
- I’ve recently discovered a whole new meaning to the hook ‘em horns sign. But I can’t talk about it here because a certain someone would read it and drop what they were doing to come over here and kick my ass. And by that, I do mean maul.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
The w is for work, not wait
All things come to those who wait. That’s not a new sentence, certainly not a new thought. Or teaching. Or sermon. Though it is something I think only true to a degree. I understand the patience aspect but I don’t understand the sit back and do nothing picture that somehow “wait” paints. As if we have no say in the matter.
I don’t understand this because I recognize it. And I recognize it in myself. And I don't particularly like it. There are certain pieces of my life that I’ve not pulled into the present, and certainly not lived forward. I’ve held onto the past so much so that at times I’ve pitched my tent and stayed a while. Stayed too long.
It makes much more sense that things come to those who prepare for them and work toward having them. It’s like waiting for happiness to run you down and force itself upon you. Doesn’t happen. I think you have to push up happiness through all those day-to-day things in your life that would otherwise be content to keep it down, keep it from flowing. I think that even happiness has to have a little nudge now and then. And even an invitation.
I woke up this morning from what seemed like an entire night of dreams that I could remember. Dreams that were comforting and all over the place. My first thought while Cheyenne was dancing around the bed with excitement and face licking was how happy I was. And how good that felt. Before getting out of bed, I decided to encourage it and keep company with it. I’m taking my own happiness by the hand and I’m walking with it. I’m learning about it and blessing it. Because I’ve found that I have waited long enough.
I don’t understand this because I recognize it. And I recognize it in myself. And I don't particularly like it. There are certain pieces of my life that I’ve not pulled into the present, and certainly not lived forward. I’ve held onto the past so much so that at times I’ve pitched my tent and stayed a while. Stayed too long.
It makes much more sense that things come to those who prepare for them and work toward having them. It’s like waiting for happiness to run you down and force itself upon you. Doesn’t happen. I think you have to push up happiness through all those day-to-day things in your life that would otherwise be content to keep it down, keep it from flowing. I think that even happiness has to have a little nudge now and then. And even an invitation.
I woke up this morning from what seemed like an entire night of dreams that I could remember. Dreams that were comforting and all over the place. My first thought while Cheyenne was dancing around the bed with excitement and face licking was how happy I was. And how good that felt. Before getting out of bed, I decided to encourage it and keep company with it. I’m taking my own happiness by the hand and I’m walking with it. I’m learning about it and blessing it. Because I’ve found that I have waited long enough.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
The farmer and his tart
Friday, August 19, 2005
Hollaback
While my Alka-Seltzer fizzes like madness in the glass, I've got a minute to write.
Met two friends for dinner last night. Two friends I have not seen in quite a while. We tend to make it for birthdays though, and this occasion was for mine.
We also tend to stay out too late when we're together and I could see it coming when after dinner, one of the friends said, Let's go somewhere and have a drink. She always does this; I had forgotten.
We ventured down the road a bit to a little bar that looked absolutely packed from the outside so I was cringing with my anti-crowd attitude as we walked through the parking lot, but when I opened the door there was only a handful of people there. I did cartwheels of joy across all that space in the room.
Suddenly I was hit with the desire to hear Hollaback Girl which is weird because I've never been struck with that before, but believe it or not there was a dj set up at a table (seriously, a table) so I walked on over there to ask about it. Well, faster than you can say, Are those real because they are unbelievably perky?, I found myself hanging out at the dj table talking up all the Drag Queens who were apparently there for Ladies Night but this was not a gay bar so I never quite understood that but, what the heck, they were good fun.
Was it time to leave? Of course it was. It's always a good sign that you should leave if you find that your new best friend is a man named Robert who is wearing knee socks and a private school uniform of plaid skirt and white top, has better breasts than you do, and goes by the name of Suzy. Absolutely.
Did we leave? No, no we didn't. Not for a while.
My Alka-Seltzer is now ready, so I'll leave it at that.
Met two friends for dinner last night. Two friends I have not seen in quite a while. We tend to make it for birthdays though, and this occasion was for mine.
We also tend to stay out too late when we're together and I could see it coming when after dinner, one of the friends said, Let's go somewhere and have a drink. She always does this; I had forgotten.
We ventured down the road a bit to a little bar that looked absolutely packed from the outside so I was cringing with my anti-crowd attitude as we walked through the parking lot, but when I opened the door there was only a handful of people there. I did cartwheels of joy across all that space in the room.
Suddenly I was hit with the desire to hear Hollaback Girl which is weird because I've never been struck with that before, but believe it or not there was a dj set up at a table (seriously, a table) so I walked on over there to ask about it. Well, faster than you can say, Are those real because they are unbelievably perky?, I found myself hanging out at the dj table talking up all the Drag Queens who were apparently there for Ladies Night but this was not a gay bar so I never quite understood that but, what the heck, they were good fun.
Was it time to leave? Of course it was. It's always a good sign that you should leave if you find that your new best friend is a man named Robert who is wearing knee socks and a private school uniform of plaid skirt and white top, has better breasts than you do, and goes by the name of Suzy. Absolutely.
Did we leave? No, no we didn't. Not for a while.
My Alka-Seltzer is now ready, so I'll leave it at that.
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