I had given her ample warning. Her arrogance had worn thin. I whipped the Pontiac three lanes over to the curb.
"Get out. Get..the.. fuck....out..of..my....car, right NOW." She had stirred up so much trouble at the nursing home, I couldn't take one more second of it.
She stared back at me, eyes wide, face flushed. "What?!" she sputtered.
"You heard me. Get out." (Ironic, how solemnity is scarier than a tirade.)
I felt scary,
out of control. I had desperately clutched the hand of love, only to watch it flit
away from my fingers forever. I was in no mood for her whining and
narcissistic dramatics.
"But..but..you can't! You can't just leave me here in the middle of town!"
"I
can, and I AM. Get out or I will drag you out." I turned and looked
her dead-on, allowing my eyes to communicate the steel in my heart. "Now."
With
a huff and sputter she opened the door, cursing me out as she slammed
it shut. She never liked me, I was a bitch, it served me right, I was
...<BLAH, BLah, Blah, blah....b..l..a..h>. I let the words wash
over me and fade under the squealing of tires. I'd been listening to this blather for all of her twenty-eight years.
As I
drove through town, I second guessed myself momentarily. It was three
in the morning, and the city was a ghost town, and she was my
sister, right? I looked around as I drove. Our altercation had
reverberated through the alleys and buildings, mirroring the empty
ricochet in
my heart and head. I powered down the windows and allowed the crisp February air to caress my forehead. She hadn't been a sister in a very long time.
The cold blast helped
to clear my head and solidified my resolve. She'd be fine, I reasoned. A
nice cold walk might give her a chance to think about the pain she had
just inflicted. Oh
holy hell - who was I kidding? She never thought about anyone else -
she was not about to suddenly achieve clarity through sorrow, anger and
cold. But what if she was attacked? I laughed out loud. God help the poor SOB. She had dated most of them
anyway, and she'd never had a problem standing up for herself. Not ever.
As
I drove toward the outskirts of town, I tried to make sense of my volatility. I was grieving for my
grandfather,
yes...but it was completely out of character for me to be
that....heartless and calculated. Pop would not be happy with that
performance, but in an odd way, I was.
Memories flooded the front seat as I drove on. More recent ones of being the first to arrive at the nursing
home after the call from the nurse. Climbing onto the rugged bed, wrapping my arms
around the near stillness of him, whispering how much I loved him. Holding my grandfather's worn face and
whispering, "It's okay...I know you are tired....it's ok. We'll be
okay, I promise..." Physical pain trying to choke the words out, but
knowing at some level he was waiting to hear them. Watching his chest
rise, and then fall with the
final exhalation that was more like an exasperating and weary sigh.
A
wave of nausea came over me recalling my sister's tirade in the halls
of the mostly asleep nursing home, demanding that my father leave
immediately, that he had no right to be there. Why are you already here? The sweet, sickly smell of alcohol on her breath as she made demands,
hands on her hips, eyes dilated. Rapidly inventorying my mental file
cabinets trying to recall any info on dealing with coked up alcoholics.
She was escalating, shit... please don't call the cops..please don't
call the cops.... You must think you are some kind of special?!
What did he say to you? It's not right that you were here and nobody else. You people are hypocrites and none of you should be here! Nothing like sitting around watching him die, yeah, that's a fun night, right? My attempts to quiet her, to reason with her,
all the while knowing it wouldn't work. My low, furious whisper in her
ear, "Go to my car now, before I drop you to the ground and drag you out by your bleached roots," took her (and me) by surprise. Truth be
told, I was bluffing. I never expected her to actually do it.
The awkward apologies to the nursing
staff, and sheepish thanks. The piteous looks in response.
The long walk down the hall and out the door. Alone.
Distant
voices roared in my head and I winced. Far flung memories of angry
parents, alcohol, fighting, violence, broken windows and
walls....corked vials of hateful words and actions, desperation and
loneliness. Understanding where it came from didn't make it any easier to stomach. Not now. Not tonight.
On
the car ride to deliver her to her apartment, listening to her vomit up
years of imagined slights, self-righteous indignation and deflection.
Try to be patient, I thought,she's grieving too. Sort of. You can't
talk to her right now, wait until she's sober. Feeling the rage stewing
below the surface, swallowing hard to keep it there. A comment about my
son. In a split second, I went from simmer to a full rolling boil in a
flash. I couldn't look at her round, pasty, mouth-breathing face hurling
vile comments and demands at me and the world for one more moment.
And now.....blessed silence.
I was disappointed. It was my responsibility to be better. I could be better. I was better.
It
struck me with blinding simplicity - she would never change. She would
always be this junked-up, self-indulgent twelve year old for the rest
of her life. She liked her life and didn't see any issues with it. Isn't that what they had told us in Psychology class? I briefly smirked at the irony.
The epiphany provoked the missing tears. Gushing droplets of sorrow, loss and anger, shame and frustration. I couldn't fix her because she didn't want
to be fixed. I had failed somewhere along the line as the
quintessential Big Sister. I had tried as best I could, but it wasn't
enough, was it?
I
drove forward, welcoming the blackness waiting beyond the city limits.
Friday, September 27, 2013
Sunday, September 15, 2013
A Childhood Memoir - Revision 2
I was nine, and true freedom was a wristwatch and a two-wheeled bicycle. I
would ride for miles; each day growing braver and more fearless. My bike represented hope and confidence to me; things I lacked. It was boldness and spirit, wrapped up in a shiny, midnight blue package.
My grandfather was a jaunty, streetwise Irish detective, and here visiting his granddaughters for two weeks. I had been showing off on my new bike, riding up and down the hill in the street beyond our driveway. I would pedal up, then turn and pedal as fast as I could launching myself over the top of the hill. My stomach wavered and my head felt fluttery and light. I imagined this was what it felt like to fly! Over and over and over again....up the hill, down the hill, up the hill, down the hill. It made me a bit nauseous, but I couldn't stop.
On my sixth run, I was feeling pretty confident. I was giddy from soaring and swooping at near-light speed. I was invincible! When I crested the hill, I caught off to my right. In a terrifying flash, I saw a gauntlet of pavement and rocks lying in the middle of the street. No way to stop, too fast, too fast! I'm not sure if I my scream was in my head or out loud.
My blue three-speed hit a large, savage block and halted dead in it's tracks. Propulsion rocketed my body upward and over the handlebars, soaring through the air. It was an eery juxtaposition - watching it all happening, with a heightened awareness of time and space, but no ability to effect a change. This wasn't going to be good.
I hit the pavement face first, and instantly felt a searing, ripping pain like I had never before felt in my life. Skidding and bouncing up the road, I rolled four times and landed in a gravel ditch. My bike had ricocheted down the center line and jangled to a stop about twenty feet away. I tried to move; every part of me hurt. I had to get my bike before a car came! Crap! OW!
I put my hands to my face and head, trying to assess the damage. My palms were covered in blood and gravel and shredded skin. Blood! Panic! Ohmygodithurts! I began to cry, slowly at first and quickly launched into gasping huge dollops of air. Sobbing and hysterical, I heaved giant breaths of fear, pain, relief and pure adrenalin.
My sister had been silently observing my antics. She ran to the house, fully intending to tattle that I had wrecked my new bike. Pop must've been taken aback to see me standing in the middle of the busy road, looking like an extra in a B horror movie. He was an intimidating man by anyone's standard, but on this day he ran faster and with more grace and agility than even Carl Lewis dared dream. Through salty tears and grime, I watched him zooming closer, in a dead-on sprint down the long driveway. For a brief moment, I feared he wouldn't be able to stop either and I'd be in another accident.
Thankfully, he had far better control than I did. In one motion, he scooped me up in his arms and held me close, saying "I've got you honey...I got you. It's gonna be okay..." I rested my head on his chest, still bawling my heart out. He used a foot to snag my mangled bike and heave it to the side of the road. The smell of Old Spice and sweat were oddly comforting. I worried that I was getting blood and snot on his nice shirt.
He carried me right to the tiny upstairs bath. Mother brushed by him, loudly exclaiming, "Oh Sweet Jesus, NOW what have you done?!" I couldn't stop crying and couldn't catch my breath long enough to explain. She managed to clean me up in spite of my flailing against the course washcloth and brusque demeanor. I glanced in the mirror and whimpered when I saw my broken reflection. My prize for racing (and crashing) was not simply an ugly road rash from head to toe, I'd also managed to shatter my two front teeth. It hurt so badly; the nerves were exposed and raw, and it felt like my face was on fire. I was pretty sure that I was going to be toothless and ugly forever.
The dentist agreed to see me immediately, and we set out on the hour-long journey to his office.
Pop sat with me in the back seat of the Chevy wagon, and he held me close for the long ride. I wondered, years later, what passers-by must have thought glancing in our window. When we finally arrived, the dentist looked from me to my mother and shook his head. I followed him to the chair, silently cursing my mother for bringing me to have shots on top of my already catastrophic day. Right off the bat he gave me five shots of novocaine, mumbling under his breath. I never understood the meaning of a paradox until that very moment. What sweet relief!
An hour later, my teeth were repaired and my face numb and drooly. I rested my forehead on the cool window in the backseat, watching the edge of the road hurtle by mile after mile. My head was muddled and awkward, and I was exhausted. I wondered why flying and freedom had to be so painful. It seemed a steep price. I looked up at Pop, and he winked at me.
Somehow, I felt more grown up.
My grandfather was a jaunty, streetwise Irish detective, and here visiting his granddaughters for two weeks. I had been showing off on my new bike, riding up and down the hill in the street beyond our driveway. I would pedal up, then turn and pedal as fast as I could launching myself over the top of the hill. My stomach wavered and my head felt fluttery and light. I imagined this was what it felt like to fly! Over and over and over again....up the hill, down the hill, up the hill, down the hill. It made me a bit nauseous, but I couldn't stop.
On my sixth run, I was feeling pretty confident. I was giddy from soaring and swooping at near-light speed. I was invincible! When I crested the hill, I caught off to my right. In a terrifying flash, I saw a gauntlet of pavement and rocks lying in the middle of the street. No way to stop, too fast, too fast! I'm not sure if I my scream was in my head or out loud.
My blue three-speed hit a large, savage block and halted dead in it's tracks. Propulsion rocketed my body upward and over the handlebars, soaring through the air. It was an eery juxtaposition - watching it all happening, with a heightened awareness of time and space, but no ability to effect a change. This wasn't going to be good.
I hit the pavement face first, and instantly felt a searing, ripping pain like I had never before felt in my life. Skidding and bouncing up the road, I rolled four times and landed in a gravel ditch. My bike had ricocheted down the center line and jangled to a stop about twenty feet away. I tried to move; every part of me hurt. I had to get my bike before a car came! Crap! OW!
I put my hands to my face and head, trying to assess the damage. My palms were covered in blood and gravel and shredded skin. Blood! Panic! Ohmygodithurts! I began to cry, slowly at first and quickly launched into gasping huge dollops of air. Sobbing and hysterical, I heaved giant breaths of fear, pain, relief and pure adrenalin.
My sister had been silently observing my antics. She ran to the house, fully intending to tattle that I had wrecked my new bike. Pop must've been taken aback to see me standing in the middle of the busy road, looking like an extra in a B horror movie. He was an intimidating man by anyone's standard, but on this day he ran faster and with more grace and agility than even Carl Lewis dared dream. Through salty tears and grime, I watched him zooming closer, in a dead-on sprint down the long driveway. For a brief moment, I feared he wouldn't be able to stop either and I'd be in another accident.
Thankfully, he had far better control than I did. In one motion, he scooped me up in his arms and held me close, saying "I've got you honey...I got you. It's gonna be okay..." I rested my head on his chest, still bawling my heart out. He used a foot to snag my mangled bike and heave it to the side of the road. The smell of Old Spice and sweat were oddly comforting. I worried that I was getting blood and snot on his nice shirt.
He carried me right to the tiny upstairs bath. Mother brushed by him, loudly exclaiming, "Oh Sweet Jesus, NOW what have you done?!" I couldn't stop crying and couldn't catch my breath long enough to explain. She managed to clean me up in spite of my flailing against the course washcloth and brusque demeanor. I glanced in the mirror and whimpered when I saw my broken reflection. My prize for racing (and crashing) was not simply an ugly road rash from head to toe, I'd also managed to shatter my two front teeth. It hurt so badly; the nerves were exposed and raw, and it felt like my face was on fire. I was pretty sure that I was going to be toothless and ugly forever.
The dentist agreed to see me immediately, and we set out on the hour-long journey to his office.
Pop sat with me in the back seat of the Chevy wagon, and he held me close for the long ride. I wondered, years later, what passers-by must have thought glancing in our window. When we finally arrived, the dentist looked from me to my mother and shook his head. I followed him to the chair, silently cursing my mother for bringing me to have shots on top of my already catastrophic day. Right off the bat he gave me five shots of novocaine, mumbling under his breath. I never understood the meaning of a paradox until that very moment. What sweet relief!
An hour later, my teeth were repaired and my face numb and drooly. I rested my forehead on the cool window in the backseat, watching the edge of the road hurtle by mile after mile. My head was muddled and awkward, and I was exhausted. I wondered why flying and freedom had to be so painful. It seemed a steep price. I looked up at Pop, and he winked at me.
Somehow, I felt more grown up.
Monday, September 9, 2013
Revision: Travel Essay
It was gray everywhere. Overcast in both weather and demeanor, and not looking good for tomorrow either. I disliked it here; even the air tasted of grit and sadness and fear. It wasn't always like this.
The windows of the lime green cab were clean, as was the inside. A small but pleasant surprise. I gazed out the window as we passed over the parkway. Tall buildings, earmarked with occasional muted lights pocking their face. Abandoned mills and boarded up houses everywhere you looked. This was the first ever planned industrial city in the United States. Hamilton had a core belief that, even then, the United States needed to reduce it's dependence on imports and develop it's own industries and capabilities. I wonder what he would think of his life's work now, I mused. This now moth-addled Silk City.
The saving grace of Paterson, of Passaic County, is the Great Falls. At 77 feet high, it was one of the tallest and most beautiful waterfalls in the country, which of course meant it had to be harnessed by man. These falls literally powered the Industrial Revolution. Ironic, I thought, that most people, even it's own residents, weren't aware they existed.
I had wondered if I would feel a connection to this city, this city I was born in, the place I grew up. So far I felt no attachment to the sights and sounds, only a wistful ache for the rapidly vanishing clan that are my blood. The same ache that is my reason for being here - another funeral. Traveling on the MLK, we pass the old Colt factory. Paradoxes everywhere. I wonder if Samuel Colt would feel guilt about this city's violent disposition.
Long before I was born, this city had been vibrant and alive; during the Gilded Age upper- and middle-class families had flourished. The wave of immigrants had been tremendous; in fact, my ancestors were some of them. My great, great grandparents bounded a steamship, five young children in tow, and headed for the promise of a new (and ostensibly better) life. Galway was bleak and desperate, and to them, the American Dream was alive and fat with promise, and accessible to anyone who worked hard enough.
I glanced out the other window of the cab, across the Passaic River. Even at this early hour, it looks dark, dirty and uninviting. Maybe it's just me, I thought. Maybe I'm projecting. I think of the days events ahead. Check in at the hotel, find my bearings, locate some decent coffee, then call Maureen. Maybe meet for some lunch. Wake tonight, followed by the obligatory drinking and eating, and more drinking that are part of the Irish tradition of delivering a loved one to the afterlife. I'd best make sure to have ibuprofen and bottled water handy.
The hotel is a chain place, and the rubber-stamped entry and furniture are alight and tired. The weary desk auditor seems curious and dispassionate that I have traveled from Maine to this war-torn city. There's only one reason I would return here, and this would be my last visit.
I loved my Grandfather's family, as cracked and sometimes scary as they were. They were incredibly interesting and unique - from hardworking and miserable Great Great Grandparents, who apparently couldn't stop breeding, to their daughter who was a burlesque dancer and a son who was a well-known boxer to the members of the local Irish and Italian mafias.
But there weren't many of them left. In fact, this funeral marked the end of not only an era, but closed a door on New Jersey for me. I had already lost my Grandparents, Godparents, various Aunts & Uncles....my Great Aunt was the last of the clan that I had been remotely connected to.
Now in my room, I walked to the sliding glass doors overlooking the city. Everything I can see is brown and gray and black, dirty...the colors of fear, discouragement and irrevocable helplessness. I'm not looking forward to these two days. Wakes and funerals are not pleasant on their own; feeling like an interloper at them is worse. Everyone will be drunk and loving tonight, tomorrow's headaches will bring a harsher, more frigid reality.
Daring to walk the Fourth Ward on Martin Luther King Boulevard, I'm struck by the quantity of eerily battened windows of the long-closed establishments, now powdered and rouged with the autographs and warnings of malcontents. Overgrown trash-strewn lots and foreclosed and forlorn homes abound, interspersed with alarmingly busy alleyways. I keep my eyes ahead, briefly noticing movement in my periphery. Gone are the days of children walking to school and leisurely afternoon strolls to the market. Here, public family life is a veiled enigma, quietly situated behind deadbolts, iron bars and bulletproof glass.
I'm happy to see the coffee shop. The nature of these businesses means they are bustling at this hour, and the smells and sounds are a welcome respite. I wait in line behind harried business people checking their watches and cell phones, and order my coffee and a scrumptious looking croissant with pecans. I look around for a spot, and take up residence in the corner away from the windows, with my back facing the wall.
Taking a long sip of the molten coffee, I steel myself and dial Maureen.
The windows of the lime green cab were clean, as was the inside. A small but pleasant surprise. I gazed out the window as we passed over the parkway. Tall buildings, earmarked with occasional muted lights pocking their face. Abandoned mills and boarded up houses everywhere you looked. This was the first ever planned industrial city in the United States. Hamilton had a core belief that, even then, the United States needed to reduce it's dependence on imports and develop it's own industries and capabilities. I wonder what he would think of his life's work now, I mused. This now moth-addled Silk City.
The saving grace of Paterson, of Passaic County, is the Great Falls. At 77 feet high, it was one of the tallest and most beautiful waterfalls in the country, which of course meant it had to be harnessed by man. These falls literally powered the Industrial Revolution. Ironic, I thought, that most people, even it's own residents, weren't aware they existed.
I had wondered if I would feel a connection to this city, this city I was born in, the place I grew up. So far I felt no attachment to the sights and sounds, only a wistful ache for the rapidly vanishing clan that are my blood. The same ache that is my reason for being here - another funeral. Traveling on the MLK, we pass the old Colt factory. Paradoxes everywhere. I wonder if Samuel Colt would feel guilt about this city's violent disposition.
Long before I was born, this city had been vibrant and alive; during the Gilded Age upper- and middle-class families had flourished. The wave of immigrants had been tremendous; in fact, my ancestors were some of them. My great, great grandparents bounded a steamship, five young children in tow, and headed for the promise of a new (and ostensibly better) life. Galway was bleak and desperate, and to them, the American Dream was alive and fat with promise, and accessible to anyone who worked hard enough.
I glanced out the other window of the cab, across the Passaic River. Even at this early hour, it looks dark, dirty and uninviting. Maybe it's just me, I thought. Maybe I'm projecting. I think of the days events ahead. Check in at the hotel, find my bearings, locate some decent coffee, then call Maureen. Maybe meet for some lunch. Wake tonight, followed by the obligatory drinking and eating, and more drinking that are part of the Irish tradition of delivering a loved one to the afterlife. I'd best make sure to have ibuprofen and bottled water handy.
The hotel is a chain place, and the rubber-stamped entry and furniture are alight and tired. The weary desk auditor seems curious and dispassionate that I have traveled from Maine to this war-torn city. There's only one reason I would return here, and this would be my last visit.
I loved my Grandfather's family, as cracked and sometimes scary as they were. They were incredibly interesting and unique - from hardworking and miserable Great Great Grandparents, who apparently couldn't stop breeding, to their daughter who was a burlesque dancer and a son who was a well-known boxer to the members of the local Irish and Italian mafias.
But there weren't many of them left. In fact, this funeral marked the end of not only an era, but closed a door on New Jersey for me. I had already lost my Grandparents, Godparents, various Aunts & Uncles....my Great Aunt was the last of the clan that I had been remotely connected to.
Now in my room, I walked to the sliding glass doors overlooking the city. Everything I can see is brown and gray and black, dirty...the colors of fear, discouragement and irrevocable helplessness. I'm not looking forward to these two days. Wakes and funerals are not pleasant on their own; feeling like an interloper at them is worse. Everyone will be drunk and loving tonight, tomorrow's headaches will bring a harsher, more frigid reality.
Daring to walk the Fourth Ward on Martin Luther King Boulevard, I'm struck by the quantity of eerily battened windows of the long-closed establishments, now powdered and rouged with the autographs and warnings of malcontents. Overgrown trash-strewn lots and foreclosed and forlorn homes abound, interspersed with alarmingly busy alleyways. I keep my eyes ahead, briefly noticing movement in my periphery. Gone are the days of children walking to school and leisurely afternoon strolls to the market. Here, public family life is a veiled enigma, quietly situated behind deadbolts, iron bars and bulletproof glass.
I'm happy to see the coffee shop. The nature of these businesses means they are bustling at this hour, and the smells and sounds are a welcome respite. I wait in line behind harried business people checking their watches and cell phones, and order my coffee and a scrumptious looking croissant with pecans. I look around for a spot, and take up residence in the corner away from the windows, with my back facing the wall.
Taking a long sip of the molten coffee, I steel myself and dial Maureen.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Week 2: Coherence; Action/Observation Descriptive Essay
Facebook is a voyeur's wet dream. All these uncurtained, giant bay windows bearing witness to the common people's daily lives. Free access to their most intimate moments and relationships. It is a compilation of the lion's share of mundane and prosaic drivel muddled with a gross quantity of infuriating blather (political, racist and sexist) designed to incense and aggravate even the most pronounced Buddhist.
And yet - as a self-professed and admitted people watcher - it's the digital, modern-day version of rubbernecking. I should preface this by saying, I have a large number of people, from all over the world, on my Facebook account that I don't know personally. Occasionally, for entertainment, I just read through my feed of status updates.
Iris has announced publicly this morning, "Im so DONE with my friggin family! U people need to mind your own damn busines!!!!!! Im a grown woman and I can do what i want and i dont need your permission. Why dont you just <expletive>!"
Okay, admittedly, she lost me at the first word. I had to re-read it four time to grasp the content. I understand venting as much as the next person, but I don't understand poor grammar and punctuation - that's simply unacceptable chaos. (Admittedly, I am a Language Arts snob.) Her profile picture was taken in her bathroom mirror - a young woman in a cropped, see-through neon yellow top, black push-up bra and imitation Catholic school wannabe miniskirt, a faux pout that would make a cichlid envious and flashing scary 'gang signs' from some arbitrary (and no doubt, deadly) gang in the bowels of Northeastern Minnesota. I'm hopeful she still has time to learn next year as Sophomore.
Moving on, Jennifer is selling her ex-boyfriends Mossberg ATR 30-06, Bolt Action, Synthetic stock with Nikon 3x9 Power scope. It's only been fired 10-15 times. It has a camo strap, and she is asking $300 - cash only please.
I'm left wondering what happened to Jennifer's ex, and why it took 10-15 rounds.
Mike has posted, "I anyone has my daughter on FB, i sure would like to talk to her to please let her know i love and miss her."
Oy. Please Mike - go speak to your daughter in person. I'm never sure if the people who post these intentionally ambiguous comments are exhibiting symptoms of Munchausen Syndrome By Proxy or is merely desperate.
Two posts from the AmberAlert Facebook group about a sixteen year old and another fourteen year old missing.
These break my heart. Best use of FB to date. My heart is always hopeful for a happy-ending, but my head knows that statistically that is unlikely.
A post from a former culinary school student whining about how 'difficult' an instructor is for expecting them to make 12 different types of pastry - in only FOUR HOURS! Oh, the humanity!
A hilarious thought from one of those unknown people I added to my account: "Your body is a temple, not a drive-through!"
I may need to write that down for Health class for my daughter.
Jet-setting from my office, I occasionally learn something of a different culture. Mateja (from Slovenia) writes, "If you can't handel it, I will. If i won't, then at least I did my best." I can forgive the grammar and spelling issues, since English does not appear to be her first language. Apparently, though, dramatics are universal.
More often than not, I learn that people, worldwide, suffer from the same fears and frustrations, wants, needs and hopes - and Facebook allows us to connect with each other conspire, commiserate and verbally upchuck on our own terms, and for far less than the cost of therapy.
And yet - as a self-professed and admitted people watcher - it's the digital, modern-day version of rubbernecking. I should preface this by saying, I have a large number of people, from all over the world, on my Facebook account that I don't know personally. Occasionally, for entertainment, I just read through my feed of status updates.
Iris has announced publicly this morning, "Im so DONE with my friggin family! U people need to mind your own damn busines!!!!!! Im a grown woman and I can do what i want and i dont need your permission. Why dont you just <expletive>!"
Okay, admittedly, she lost me at the first word. I had to re-read it four time to grasp the content. I understand venting as much as the next person, but I don't understand poor grammar and punctuation - that's simply unacceptable chaos. (Admittedly, I am a Language Arts snob.) Her profile picture was taken in her bathroom mirror - a young woman in a cropped, see-through neon yellow top, black push-up bra and imitation Catholic school wannabe miniskirt, a faux pout that would make a cichlid envious and flashing scary 'gang signs' from some arbitrary (and no doubt, deadly) gang in the bowels of Northeastern Minnesota. I'm hopeful she still has time to learn next year as Sophomore.
Moving on, Jennifer is selling her ex-boyfriends Mossberg ATR 30-06, Bolt Action, Synthetic stock with Nikon 3x9 Power scope. It's only been fired 10-15 times. It has a camo strap, and she is asking $300 - cash only please.
I'm left wondering what happened to Jennifer's ex, and why it took 10-15 rounds.
Mike has posted, "I anyone has my daughter on FB, i sure would like to talk to her to please let her know i love and miss her."
Oy. Please Mike - go speak to your daughter in person. I'm never sure if the people who post these intentionally ambiguous comments are exhibiting symptoms of Munchausen Syndrome By Proxy or is merely desperate.
Two posts from the AmberAlert Facebook group about a sixteen year old and another fourteen year old missing.
These break my heart. Best use of FB to date. My heart is always hopeful for a happy-ending, but my head knows that statistically that is unlikely.
A post from a former culinary school student whining about how 'difficult' an instructor is for expecting them to make 12 different types of pastry - in only FOUR HOURS! Oh, the humanity!
A hilarious thought from one of those unknown people I added to my account: "Your body is a temple, not a drive-through!"
I may need to write that down for Health class for my daughter.
Jet-setting from my office, I occasionally learn something of a different culture. Mateja (from Slovenia) writes, "If you can't handel it, I will. If i won't, then at least I did my best." I can forgive the grammar and spelling issues, since English does not appear to be her first language. Apparently, though, dramatics are universal.
More often than not, I learn that people, worldwide, suffer from the same fears and frustrations, wants, needs and hopes - and Facebook allows us to connect with each other conspire, commiserate and verbally upchuck on our own terms, and for far less than the cost of therapy.
Nature Descriptive Essay (1)
I am a child of the Earth. I am most connected in the natural, non-human world. It's more than a preference or simple misanthrope; although those are both true of my personality to a degree. At my core - at a genetic level - I belong to the natural world.
When I am walking through the crisp woods toward the East end of my mother-in-law's fifty acres, the smells pitch and earth soften my temperament. The crunching of leaves from scurried movements and resonant bullfrog ballads don't unnerve me; on the contrary, they unwind muscles knotted from weeks and months 'away'. Even my breath slows-...in...and...out..., methodically, in unison with the wind and trees.
I have learned to find my nature wherever I am.
At present, I am cocooned on my front porch, listening to the understated roar of pouring rain. Sirens wail in the far distance, the sparrow's descant of the modern day. Truck tires cling to the wet roads, the rolling and ripping leaf crunching that is the sounds of movement in the brick and mortar world.
Author Hugo Hamilton once said, "Maybe your country is only a place you make up in your own mind.
Something you dream about and sing about. Maybe it's not a place on the
map at all, but just a story full of people you meet and places you
visit, full of books and films you've been to. " I think 'country' equates to home. Home is not where you were born, your country of origin, or even where your parents are - it is where you long to be. It is where you feel complete, a sense of being whole, part of something greater and yet simpler.
Nature is my home.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Introduction (ENG262)
Who am I?
It seems like such a simple question; and yet - not simple at all. Who am I? The long and complicated answer: that depends. The short (and accurate) answer: I am me.
I am many things to many people, including myself. On any given day I am styled as Mother, Wife, Sister, Grandmother, a Friend. I am also given the epithet (at less glorious times) of employee, neighbor, homeschooler, shopper, driver, gardener, crafter, chef, cleaning woman, writer, handywoman, nursemaid, and on rare occasion - grumpy bitch.
I am many things. Who I am? I am a compilation of years of self-learning, of streetwise ingenuity, of abuse at the hands of others and of self. I am many, many years of education, in a variety of settings, from a variety of instructors. I am a consortium of ancestral histories, selectively handed down and reiterated. I am experienced, mature (yikes!) and foolish more often than I care to admit.
But in the end, I am everything to a couple, and something to more than a few - and that is exactly who I want to be.
It seems like such a simple question; and yet - not simple at all. Who am I? The long and complicated answer: that depends. The short (and accurate) answer: I am me.
I am many things to many people, including myself. On any given day I am styled as Mother, Wife, Sister, Grandmother, a Friend. I am also given the epithet (at less glorious times) of employee, neighbor, homeschooler, shopper, driver, gardener, crafter, chef, cleaning woman, writer, handywoman, nursemaid, and on rare occasion - grumpy bitch.
I am many things. Who I am? I am a compilation of years of self-learning, of streetwise ingenuity, of abuse at the hands of others and of self. I am many, many years of education, in a variety of settings, from a variety of instructors. I am a consortium of ancestral histories, selectively handed down and reiterated. I am experienced, mature (yikes!) and foolish more often than I care to admit.
But in the end, I am everything to a couple, and something to more than a few - and that is exactly who I want to be.
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