My dad used to tell me that I was born under a lucky star. Perhaps this is a self-fulfilling prophecy, but I've always felt like a remarkably lucky person. And no, I don't mean "I feel so blessed to live the life I live" and blah blah blah. I don't mean anything deep or meaningful. I mean that small, insignificant, and stupidly lucky things tend to happen. For instance, I tend to drive up to a destination just as the person parked out front is leaving. I win raffles, which I enter on a whim and completely forget about. I've never broken a bone, despite inherent clumsiness and an inability to stand upright for an entire day.
Once, when I was a kid, we were at an amusement park. I think I was maybe five or six years old. I was an awkward kid, chubby, with bad hair and worse clothes. I was thoroughly uncoordinated, and I cringe when I think of myself walking, running, or (sweet lord!) throwing things. Despite this, I entered one of those impossible carnival games. You know, the one with the zillions of glass coke bottles, and you throw a ring from far-ish away and try to get it over one of the bottles? Well, on the first try, I got the ring over the bottle. And, given my choice of prize, I selected a GIGANTIC, white stuffed buffalo. And by "gigantic," I mean six feet long, four feet tall, three feet wide. I should mention that it was the beginning of our long day at the park, meaning that my mother had to carry this thing around on her back for another eight hours.
Apparently, my mother is not an inherently lucky person. But god, is she incredibly patient!
What made me remember all of this, however, was that yesterday someone mentioned a cakewalk. I don't remember who, and my apologies for not linking to you. At any rate, I had this really funny, vague memory of my first-ever cakewalk, when I was really young.
I remember the music, I remember that I was wearing a yellow dress. I remember that my mom made Sis and I stick together, and I kept trying to separate from her and get my own spot (yeah... sorry about that...) and she started crying. Finally, the cakewalk lady just told my mom to let us each have a spot. I remember each kid got a cupcake when they were out. And I remember, vividly, the disappointment of discovering that I was the last one left, and the realization that they were out of cupcakes. And the utter delight of discovering that, instead, I alone was to receive a full-sized chocolate cake.
I never said I was a particularly bright child. Just lucky.
Showing posts with label Family Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family Stories. Show all posts
Friday, April 06, 2007
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Denial is a river in... England
In less than 24 hours, I will be living alone. Sis is leaving for Portsmouth at 4:45 pm today. I am trying desperately not to think about it, choosing instead to worry incessantly about things that don't matter. We've lived together for nearly a year, and I rely upon her presence at the beginnings and endings of my days. I love sitting together over our morning coffee, which we learned to fix together. I love watching the cats try to decide between her rice milk and my genuine dairy in the bottoms of our cereal bowls. I love being guaranteed that someone will get all of my jokes, and laugh at everything stupid I do, without judgement.
Realistically, I know that this is good for both of us. We tend to feed off of one another, comfortable in the relative isolation of our tiny apartment. An apartment which, in a few short hours, will feel cavernous. I am proud of her for taking such a brave step, moving to another country. I am inspired by this bold move, this leap of faith that she is choosing to make. I am just terrified of the void she will leave in my life.
I foresee many large phonebills in my future. I predict that I will be crying in my bathtub tomorrow at this time. The silence of my apartment will be deafening for a few weeks. And then life will simply adjust to feeling normal again, and we will learn to adapt.
To my best friend, safe travels. You are who I want to be when I grow up. I am so proud of you, and I will miss you with every bone in my body. And you better freaking come back and visit me!
Realistically, I know that this is good for both of us. We tend to feed off of one another, comfortable in the relative isolation of our tiny apartment. An apartment which, in a few short hours, will feel cavernous. I am proud of her for taking such a brave step, moving to another country. I am inspired by this bold move, this leap of faith that she is choosing to make. I am just terrified of the void she will leave in my life.
I foresee many large phonebills in my future. I predict that I will be crying in my bathtub tomorrow at this time. The silence of my apartment will be deafening for a few weeks. And then life will simply adjust to feeling normal again, and we will learn to adapt.
To my best friend, safe travels. You are who I want to be when I grow up. I am so proud of you, and I will miss you with every bone in my body. And you better freaking come back and visit me!
Monday, December 18, 2006
The History of Us
I come from a family mired in tradition. We've discussed this before, so this should not come as any kind of shock. Maybe I'm weird, but I've never really thought of this as a bad thing, even as a teenager. Okay, so Fruitcake Day is my personal hell, I'll cop to that. But, in general, I love family traditions. I love making biscuits from my great-grandmother's recipe. I love hanging the Christmas tree ornaments that I made with Memo when I was two years old. I love the tortoise shell comb that I keep in my cedar chest. I love that I have a cedar chest.
Living in the South, tradition was a part of every day. People there do things a certain way simply because that's how they've always been done. In the mountains, traditions seem slightly more malleable, like the creation of Bluegrass based on the influences of a few hundred years of folk music. In San Francisco, I feel like tradition is a bit like water: continuously swirling around my ankles, slipping through my fingers, inconstant and reliably undependable. Living here makes me feel somehow more "old school" than I've ever felt before.
Case in point: every year my family makes jam. We've done this for four generations, in lieu of giftcards or whatnot for teachers, friends, and colleagues. The recipe, while really simple, is a mass of edits, proportion changes, and scribbles. This year, I made my own jam for the first time. I felt an enormous sense of pride staring at the plastic cups lined up on my kitchen table, capped in wax and covered with saran wrap and green ribbon. And then, handing it out to my coworkers, I felt the strangest mixture of embarrassment and shyness. It was the kind of feeling I used to get in elementary school, whenever I had something to say and wanted to raise my hand. How odd is that?
I suppose that there is a part of me that still feels slightly out-of-place in this uber-trendy city. I feel somehow as though, by upholding traditions, I am betraying the forward-thinking person I present myself to be. Intellectually, I know that's ridiculous. And, regardless of the small insecurity I feel, I know that I will not change into someone who throws my history to the wind. It was just a surprise to meet this piece of myself that I thought I'd outgrown.
This is so stream-of-consciousness, and I have no idea what I wanted to say. (Way to go with the planning of this one, right?) So yeah. I guess that's all for now. Will you send me your traditions?
Living in the South, tradition was a part of every day. People there do things a certain way simply because that's how they've always been done. In the mountains, traditions seem slightly more malleable, like the creation of Bluegrass based on the influences of a few hundred years of folk music. In San Francisco, I feel like tradition is a bit like water: continuously swirling around my ankles, slipping through my fingers, inconstant and reliably undependable. Living here makes me feel somehow more "old school" than I've ever felt before.
Case in point: every year my family makes jam. We've done this for four generations, in lieu of giftcards or whatnot for teachers, friends, and colleagues. The recipe, while really simple, is a mass of edits, proportion changes, and scribbles. This year, I made my own jam for the first time. I felt an enormous sense of pride staring at the plastic cups lined up on my kitchen table, capped in wax and covered with saran wrap and green ribbon. And then, handing it out to my coworkers, I felt the strangest mixture of embarrassment and shyness. It was the kind of feeling I used to get in elementary school, whenever I had something to say and wanted to raise my hand. How odd is that?
I suppose that there is a part of me that still feels slightly out-of-place in this uber-trendy city. I feel somehow as though, by upholding traditions, I am betraying the forward-thinking person I present myself to be. Intellectually, I know that's ridiculous. And, regardless of the small insecurity I feel, I know that I will not change into someone who throws my history to the wind. It was just a surprise to meet this piece of myself that I thought I'd outgrown.
This is so stream-of-consciousness, and I have no idea what I wanted to say. (Way to go with the planning of this one, right?) So yeah. I guess that's all for now. Will you send me your traditions?
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Counting the ways
I've had my grandparents on the brain for the past few weeks. The only bad thing about living in San Francisco is that I'm several thousand miles away from them. I'm truly blessed, in that all four of my grandparents are still alive and living independently. Naturally, there have been countless health scares, and each takes a battalion of pills each day, but I still feel pretty fortunate. I am the oldest grandchild on both sides of my family, meaning that I naturally receive an untold number of requests that I "settle down and start a family" (Hello, and welcome to 1948!), but as irritating as that may be, I know it simply means that they care. And, to be perfectly honest, I would love to have all four of them at my wedding, as unlikely as that may be (particularly as I am not even dating anyone seriously at the moment). The wonderful thing about the grandparent/grandchild relationship, I think, is that we can get away with saying things to one another that no one else in the world can say. For example, if anyone else in the world kept badgering me about a husband and babies, I'd probably rip their head off. But with my grandparents, I actually find it slightly adorable. On the other side of the coin, I am the only one in the world who can lecture my Granddad about his hearing aids, or give him crap for being grumpy. I often feel that I have a "get out of jail free" pass with them. I love that I am the only one allowed in the kitchen with Grandmom while she's making Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner. The past two Thanksgivings I've actually felt a keen sense of sadness thinking of someone else taking over my tasks.
Memo was a porcelain artist when I was growing up. She always smelled like slip, paint, and turpentine. Although she hasn't painted in years, I will always associate those smells with her. Papayo will always smell like freshly cut grass to me. When I was a kid, he used to let me ride on the riding lawn mower with him. The one stipulation was that the blade had to be turned off before I climbed aboard, meaning that I got my ride after the grass was completely cut. Their yard is genuinely huge. As a kid, it seemed endless. Trees were covered in wisteria vines, and whole sections were overgrown. They had vast flower gardens, which they planted specifically to look like they'd just occurred in nature. Their yard is full of large, gray boulders. When my mom was growing up, Papayo pulled some of the smaller, flatter rocks together and made a "secret staircase" down from the brick patio into one of the side gardens. When I was about 15, I made it a special project to clean out that section, which had been completely overgrown. Memo and I planted daffodils after it was clear, and they still bloom every spring. Daffodils will always represent Memo and Papayo's house. There was also one special boulder, dubbed by a three-year-old me as "The Big Rock." I spent hours playing on that rock, living in my imagination. Looking at it now, it's still sizable, but not as epically humongous as in my childhood eyes. Every time I go to their house, however, I make it a point to go out and sit on The Big Rock, and ponder life a little bit.
Granddad used to make up songs for me. "Rockie rockie, row row," is definitely the most memorable, and the most frequently recurring. If and when I do have a family of my own, this will be a song that I'll sing with them. When I was 2nd grade and didn't know my multiplication tables, Granddad made it his mission in life to make sure I learned them. He'd mail me index cards each week and call at the end of the week to quiz me. He owned a service station for a long time, but became an elementary school teacher later in life. I envy his former students. My imagination, my silliness comes directly from Granddad, as though it had been transfused through an IV. Grandmom always smells like baby powder to me. She is one of the most sensitive people I know. She cries whenever we leave, and she is embarrassed by it every single time. She is super easily stressed out. A few years ago, we invited my best friend, Nick, to Thanksgiving with us. When we told her he'd be coming, she panicked that we wouldn't have enough food! Now, granted, my family is large. Usually there are around 25 of us at Thanksgiving. We always have a huge amount of food, including turkey, ham, stuffing, mashed potatoes, creamed corn, green bean casserole, pink jello salad, rolls, and four kinds of pie. But that year Grandmom convinced herself that there simply wouldn't be enough. So she supplemented by doubling the amounts of each side dish, meaning that she literally made 20 pounds of mashed potatoes. It was insanity, and so wonderful and quirky that it still makes me smile.
Having had them with me for my entire life, I know a lot of my personality comes from each of them. They are all so special to me, and I miss them every day. I know, without question, that they are not reading the blog (for reasons which I will share someday, as they are hilarious), but I wanted to write them this "love letter" anyway. So, to four of the most important people in my universe, thank you for everything you are and have been and will be.
Memo was a porcelain artist when I was growing up. She always smelled like slip, paint, and turpentine. Although she hasn't painted in years, I will always associate those smells with her. Papayo will always smell like freshly cut grass to me. When I was a kid, he used to let me ride on the riding lawn mower with him. The one stipulation was that the blade had to be turned off before I climbed aboard, meaning that I got my ride after the grass was completely cut. Their yard is genuinely huge. As a kid, it seemed endless. Trees were covered in wisteria vines, and whole sections were overgrown. They had vast flower gardens, which they planted specifically to look like they'd just occurred in nature. Their yard is full of large, gray boulders. When my mom was growing up, Papayo pulled some of the smaller, flatter rocks together and made a "secret staircase" down from the brick patio into one of the side gardens. When I was about 15, I made it a special project to clean out that section, which had been completely overgrown. Memo and I planted daffodils after it was clear, and they still bloom every spring. Daffodils will always represent Memo and Papayo's house. There was also one special boulder, dubbed by a three-year-old me as "The Big Rock." I spent hours playing on that rock, living in my imagination. Looking at it now, it's still sizable, but not as epically humongous as in my childhood eyes. Every time I go to their house, however, I make it a point to go out and sit on The Big Rock, and ponder life a little bit.
Granddad used to make up songs for me. "Rockie rockie, row row," is definitely the most memorable, and the most frequently recurring. If and when I do have a family of my own, this will be a song that I'll sing with them. When I was 2nd grade and didn't know my multiplication tables, Granddad made it his mission in life to make sure I learned them. He'd mail me index cards each week and call at the end of the week to quiz me. He owned a service station for a long time, but became an elementary school teacher later in life. I envy his former students. My imagination, my silliness comes directly from Granddad, as though it had been transfused through an IV. Grandmom always smells like baby powder to me. She is one of the most sensitive people I know. She cries whenever we leave, and she is embarrassed by it every single time. She is super easily stressed out. A few years ago, we invited my best friend, Nick, to Thanksgiving with us. When we told her he'd be coming, she panicked that we wouldn't have enough food! Now, granted, my family is large. Usually there are around 25 of us at Thanksgiving. We always have a huge amount of food, including turkey, ham, stuffing, mashed potatoes, creamed corn, green bean casserole, pink jello salad, rolls, and four kinds of pie. But that year Grandmom convinced herself that there simply wouldn't be enough. So she supplemented by doubling the amounts of each side dish, meaning that she literally made 20 pounds of mashed potatoes. It was insanity, and so wonderful and quirky that it still makes me smile.
Having had them with me for my entire life, I know a lot of my personality comes from each of them. They are all so special to me, and I miss them every day. I know, without question, that they are not reading the blog (for reasons which I will share someday, as they are hilarious), but I wanted to write them this "love letter" anyway. So, to four of the most important people in my universe, thank you for everything you are and have been and will be.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
An unexpected compliment
As we've discussed, I hate my walk. Not that it wrecks my life or anything, but it's something that people tend to notice about me, and frequently comment upon. In fact, at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass, a friend called me on my cell. He was sitting up on a hill a few hundred yards away, and saw me crossing the field. Amidst a mass of people, how did he know it was me? My walk. Now, I realize that this is not a bad thing. I know that it's unique, blah blah blah. Most of my friends tell me that my walk is, at turns, funny, happy, or even sexy. But folks, I grew up with a mom who didn't particularly want a daughter with a unique/sexy/funny/happy walk. She used to make me practice walking around the house, telling me which body parts to move more and which to move less. From a distance she'd see me and roll her eyes. She still frequently expresses her annoyance with the way my body moves. Mistakes not to repeat, I realize, but still a major cause of self-consciousness.
Generally speaking, as a result, I just don't like people even mentioning it. Any mention of my distinct gait causes me to instantly adjust every step I take, making me look even more ridiculous. Wednesday, however, I received the most random compliment from the most random source, and I've been glowing all weekend.
Walking down the hall in the ballet building, I noticed one of the Ballet Masters walking towards me. For those of you who don't happen to work at a ballet company (that'd be every single person reading the blog, I realize), a Ballet Master is someone who makes sure the dancers are staying true to the choreographer's wishes. Their responsibility is to keep the dance as pure to the original vision as possible. These people watch dancers all day long. Their job is about studying movement, knowing how to convey movement through words. I think it's like living poetry, if that makes any sense. At any rate, as I approached this particular Ballet Master, he grinned and said, "You still walk like a ballerina. It's for life, you know."
So I haven't danced in several years. So I've gained an-amount-of-weight-that-will-not-be-mentioned since last I was dancing. I still walk like a ballerina. I walk like a dancer.
Take THAT, Mom!
Generally speaking, as a result, I just don't like people even mentioning it. Any mention of my distinct gait causes me to instantly adjust every step I take, making me look even more ridiculous. Wednesday, however, I received the most random compliment from the most random source, and I've been glowing all weekend.
Walking down the hall in the ballet building, I noticed one of the Ballet Masters walking towards me. For those of you who don't happen to work at a ballet company (that'd be every single person reading the blog, I realize), a Ballet Master is someone who makes sure the dancers are staying true to the choreographer's wishes. Their responsibility is to keep the dance as pure to the original vision as possible. These people watch dancers all day long. Their job is about studying movement, knowing how to convey movement through words. I think it's like living poetry, if that makes any sense. At any rate, as I approached this particular Ballet Master, he grinned and said, "You still walk like a ballerina. It's for life, you know."
So I haven't danced in several years. So I've gained an-amount-of-weight-that-will-not-be-mentioned since last I was dancing. I still walk like a ballerina. I walk like a dancer.
Take THAT, Mom!
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Happy Fruitcake Day!!!
In order to understand my family, first you have to understand fruitcake. And no, I’m not referring to the fact that my family is full of fruits and nuts. While this may be the case, I’m actually talking about a yearly “bonding” experience that occurs within my family. You see, every year, right around Thanksgiving, my family gathers at my grandparents’ house to make fruitcake. Knowing even that much is giving you cold sweats, I’m sure. Ah, if it were only that simple. Believe me when I tell you that the fruitcake extravaganza is beyond explanation. You see, it all started with my great-great-grandfather. (Already you think I’m kidding. But wait, it gets better.) Great-great-grandfather Hickerson, felled a great big oak tree. Rather than burning it as firewood or something like that, what did he do? With nothing more than a humble hatchet, Great-great-grandfather Hickerson carved three beyond-gigantic bowls from its heart. According to a legend of biblical proportions, he then decreed that each year until the end of time, the Hickerson family would reunite these bowls and create the most diabolical fruitcake known to mankind. The fruitcake must be no less dense than brick, and must have a shelf life of no fewer than three decades. Bear in mind, this was before the days of chemical preservatives.
Now, most families would have long-since disregarded such a completely insane command. And if that were the case, we wouldn’t have a story. I leave it to you to decide whether this was fortunate or not. Regardless, my family did the one rebellious thing it has ever done: my family threw laziness to the wind and insisted upon honoring Great-great-grandfather Hickerson’s wish. Thus, each year in late November comes the day I dread beyond all others: Fruitcake Day.
Fruitcake Day, begins with the ritual reuniting of the bowls. Papayo, my grandfather, writes a poem each year to commemorate the event. Papayo decided to begin writing poetry about ten years ago when he acquired his first computer. I’m not sure why this inspired such poetic fervor, but I’d personally like to kill the person who encouraged him to purchase the computer. Alas, so it begins:
“Welcome, everyone, to Fruitcake Day! Now, as we all know, today will be the traditional making of the fruitcake, but we also have several other special activities planned!!! Uncle Earle has brought photos of the bear he killed with a bow and arrow, and we’d like everyone to take a moment to admire those. Additionally, we were unable to acquire an adequate amount of vanilla extract to substitute for the brandy in the recipe, so there will be genuine alcohol present today. Everyone, please be careful, and avoid prolonged contact with the blood of Satan. Any family announcements?”
I should point out that "family announcement time" is the time that everyone stares at me, the oldest grandchild, in the hopes that I'm going to shock them with the news that I'm getting married and will be having a baby five minutes afterwards. No such luck.
(My grandmother, Memo) “Ooh, everyone, wait until you hear Papayo’s poem this year! Read it, Eddie!!!”
“Mama! (chuckling) Well, do y’all want to hear it? Yes? Well, alrighty. Here goes!”
Now, at this point I always hope against hope that we will be spared mentions of God, Jesus, or wildlife. It’s not that I have anything against religion, but this part of my family loves God with a passion unseen by most living outside the Bible Belt. Yes, this side of the family is Southern Baptist, and proud of it. As for the wildlife, my grandparents volunteered as park rangers for most of my childhood. You would not even believe the stories that brings up!
“Ahem. So this year’s poem is inspired by a scene I observed out the kitchen window a few weeks ago. Marveling at the splendor the good Lord created, I could only put my thoughts down in Psalm!
Chipmunks like to roll all around
They are the Squirrels who live in the ground.
Tunnels they have, maybe under your feet
There they play, take naps, and sleep.
But now they are out
And with chippy voice they shout
Just what we all want to say:
Happy happy happy
FRUITCAKE DAY!!!”
Followed by wild applause.
I need a drink.
As I said before, however, alcohol is a BIG "no no" in my grandparents' house. My parents are both around 55 years old, and they still hide their booze when Memo and Papayo come to visit. In my childhood, it was always one of the most important tasks in preparation for their arrival. You had to make sure you hid it where there was no way they'd find it, because they are also innately interested in the inner workings of any home. It's insanity, I tell you, insanity. Memo and Papayo have been teetotalers for their entire lives. The ancient fruitcake recipe, however, includes a small amount of bourbon. Usually, they prefer to drench the batter in four or five bottles of vanilla extract, rather than obtaining the bourbon. Occasionally, however, Papayo sneaks off to a liquor store three counties away to buy a small bottle of the real stuff.
The actual making of the fruitcake batter falls to the women of the family. Since these bowls are antique and hand-made, no electronic appliances are allowed anywhere in their vicinity. And y'all, we make a lot of fruitcake. We're talking about enough fruitcake here that it requires
wait for it
60 eggs. Yes, sixty. All of which are mushed up with the rest of the super-sticky batter BY HAND. Spoons be damned, we mix this crap up with our fingers. As a child, this was all good fun, but in retrospect... ew. The worst part, however, is that, as kids, we were all forced to lick one of the fingers of the main fruitcake mixer's goopy hands upon completion of the mixing of the batter. Alas, all of my photographs of this occurring are in Virginia, but trust me, you're probably better left imagining things.
After the batter is made and poured into eight-gajillion bread tins (many of which pre-date the Civil War), the Men Of The Family are called in. Why? Because their job is now to decorate the fruitcakes with more candied fruits and nuts. Just to state the obvious, this is my father's personal hell. I believe he said that when he married my mom, he thought this was just part of the "hazing" ritual. No such luck, Dad, no such luck. The fruitcakes are then all packed into the oven, which is set at 350 degrees, and they bake for FOUR HOURS.
About five years ago, however, someone didn't set the oven correctly. Instead of a mild 350, the poor cakes roasted in the infernal heat of a 500 degree oven. They ended up like bricks. We all laughed about it and chalked it up to just one year of no fruitcake (DEAR GOD, WHAT WILL I EAT???). Memo and Papayo, however, were determined to enjoy the fruits of their labor. After some research, they found that they could steam the sliced fruitcake over some of the remaining bourbon. After trying it, they were thrilled! It took some time, though, so after several tries, they decided to edit the instructions somewhat. They heated the bourbon in the microwave, poked holes in the fruitcake-brick, and simply poured the hot bourbon over the top.
Let's pause here for a moment. I'm going to let this sink in. My 70+ year old grandparents, who have never had alcohol in their lives, are now eating a VERY dense cake soaked in warm bourbon.
Then they drunk-dialed my mom to tell her about their success.
I think we'll stop there for today. Happy Thanksgiving, everybody! Oh, and Happy Fruitcake Day, too.
Now, most families would have long-since disregarded such a completely insane command. And if that were the case, we wouldn’t have a story. I leave it to you to decide whether this was fortunate or not. Regardless, my family did the one rebellious thing it has ever done: my family threw laziness to the wind and insisted upon honoring Great-great-grandfather Hickerson’s wish. Thus, each year in late November comes the day I dread beyond all others: Fruitcake Day.
Fruitcake Day, begins with the ritual reuniting of the bowls. Papayo, my grandfather, writes a poem each year to commemorate the event. Papayo decided to begin writing poetry about ten years ago when he acquired his first computer. I’m not sure why this inspired such poetic fervor, but I’d personally like to kill the person who encouraged him to purchase the computer. Alas, so it begins:
“Welcome, everyone, to Fruitcake Day! Now, as we all know, today will be the traditional making of the fruitcake, but we also have several other special activities planned!!! Uncle Earle has brought photos of the bear he killed with a bow and arrow, and we’d like everyone to take a moment to admire those. Additionally, we were unable to acquire an adequate amount of vanilla extract to substitute for the brandy in the recipe, so there will be genuine alcohol present today. Everyone, please be careful, and avoid prolonged contact with the blood of Satan. Any family announcements?”
I should point out that "family announcement time" is the time that everyone stares at me, the oldest grandchild, in the hopes that I'm going to shock them with the news that I'm getting married and will be having a baby five minutes afterwards. No such luck.
(My grandmother, Memo) “Ooh, everyone, wait until you hear Papayo’s poem this year! Read it, Eddie!!!”
“Mama! (chuckling) Well, do y’all want to hear it? Yes? Well, alrighty. Here goes!”
Now, at this point I always hope against hope that we will be spared mentions of God, Jesus, or wildlife. It’s not that I have anything against religion, but this part of my family loves God with a passion unseen by most living outside the Bible Belt. Yes, this side of the family is Southern Baptist, and proud of it. As for the wildlife, my grandparents volunteered as park rangers for most of my childhood. You would not even believe the stories that brings up!
“Ahem. So this year’s poem is inspired by a scene I observed out the kitchen window a few weeks ago. Marveling at the splendor the good Lord created, I could only put my thoughts down in Psalm!
Chipmunks like to roll all around
They are the Squirrels who live in the ground.
Tunnels they have, maybe under your feet
There they play, take naps, and sleep.
But now they are out
And with chippy voice they shout
Just what we all want to say:
Happy happy happy
FRUITCAKE DAY!!!”
Followed by wild applause.
I need a drink.
As I said before, however, alcohol is a BIG "no no" in my grandparents' house. My parents are both around 55 years old, and they still hide their booze when Memo and Papayo come to visit. In my childhood, it was always one of the most important tasks in preparation for their arrival. You had to make sure you hid it where there was no way they'd find it, because they are also innately interested in the inner workings of any home. It's insanity, I tell you, insanity. Memo and Papayo have been teetotalers for their entire lives. The ancient fruitcake recipe, however, includes a small amount of bourbon. Usually, they prefer to drench the batter in four or five bottles of vanilla extract, rather than obtaining the bourbon. Occasionally, however, Papayo sneaks off to a liquor store three counties away to buy a small bottle of the real stuff.
The actual making of the fruitcake batter falls to the women of the family. Since these bowls are antique and hand-made, no electronic appliances are allowed anywhere in their vicinity. And y'all, we make a lot of fruitcake. We're talking about enough fruitcake here that it requires
wait for it
60 eggs. Yes, sixty. All of which are mushed up with the rest of the super-sticky batter BY HAND. Spoons be damned, we mix this crap up with our fingers. As a child, this was all good fun, but in retrospect... ew. The worst part, however, is that, as kids, we were all forced to lick one of the fingers of the main fruitcake mixer's goopy hands upon completion of the mixing of the batter. Alas, all of my photographs of this occurring are in Virginia, but trust me, you're probably better left imagining things.
After the batter is made and poured into eight-gajillion bread tins (many of which pre-date the Civil War), the Men Of The Family are called in. Why? Because their job is now to decorate the fruitcakes with more candied fruits and nuts. Just to state the obvious, this is my father's personal hell. I believe he said that when he married my mom, he thought this was just part of the "hazing" ritual. No such luck, Dad, no such luck. The fruitcakes are then all packed into the oven, which is set at 350 degrees, and they bake for FOUR HOURS.
About five years ago, however, someone didn't set the oven correctly. Instead of a mild 350, the poor cakes roasted in the infernal heat of a 500 degree oven. They ended up like bricks. We all laughed about it and chalked it up to just one year of no fruitcake (DEAR GOD, WHAT WILL I EAT???). Memo and Papayo, however, were determined to enjoy the fruits of their labor. After some research, they found that they could steam the sliced fruitcake over some of the remaining bourbon. After trying it, they were thrilled! It took some time, though, so after several tries, they decided to edit the instructions somewhat. They heated the bourbon in the microwave, poked holes in the fruitcake-brick, and simply poured the hot bourbon over the top.
Let's pause here for a moment. I'm going to let this sink in. My 70+ year old grandparents, who have never had alcohol in their lives, are now eating a VERY dense cake soaked in warm bourbon.
Then they drunk-dialed my mom to tell her about their success.
I think we'll stop there for today. Happy Thanksgiving, everybody! Oh, and Happy Fruitcake Day, too.
Monday, November 20, 2006
TGIM
Thank God It's Monday. This weekend was so absurdly awful that it was actually truly laughable. Let's put it this way: the high point of my weekend was a friend calling me to see if there was any way I'd be willing to help him remove something that was wedged in his ear. Seriously.
But looking forward to the future, it's nearly Thanksgiving! I'm sad that I'll be missing T-day with my grandparents, but I love this holiday, regardless. I've been planning my Thanksgiving-day post for weeks now, and I'm a little bit too excited about it, not going to lie. Thanksgiving is, more than any other day, all about family and tradition. Christmas is a close second, but for me the ritual of Christmas is actually begun with Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving day was the first day of "Christmas music" when I was growing up. We'd pile into the car on the way to Grandmom and Granddad or Memo and Papayo's house and crank up the first of our Christmas CDs. I love Christmas music to distraction. Thanksgiving was like the kickoff.
And let's not forget stuffing. Or Aunt Nancy's chocolate french silk pie. Lord help me, my mouth is watering!
Thanksgiving also represents the best quality time I get with my grandparents all year. Especially at Grandmom and Granddad's, my status as "oldest grandchild" comes with the benefit of being the only person allowed in the kitchen. Grandmom is obsessive about this. I am the Official Turkey Taster, the Official Arranger of Food, and now the Official Whiskey Sour Assistant.
Thank God it's Monday, and thank God we're entering my favorite time of year.
Happiness!
But looking forward to the future, it's nearly Thanksgiving! I'm sad that I'll be missing T-day with my grandparents, but I love this holiday, regardless. I've been planning my Thanksgiving-day post for weeks now, and I'm a little bit too excited about it, not going to lie. Thanksgiving is, more than any other day, all about family and tradition. Christmas is a close second, but for me the ritual of Christmas is actually begun with Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving day was the first day of "Christmas music" when I was growing up. We'd pile into the car on the way to Grandmom and Granddad or Memo and Papayo's house and crank up the first of our Christmas CDs. I love Christmas music to distraction. Thanksgiving was like the kickoff.
And let's not forget stuffing. Or Aunt Nancy's chocolate french silk pie. Lord help me, my mouth is watering!
Thanksgiving also represents the best quality time I get with my grandparents all year. Especially at Grandmom and Granddad's, my status as "oldest grandchild" comes with the benefit of being the only person allowed in the kitchen. Grandmom is obsessive about this. I am the Official Turkey Taster, the Official Arranger of Food, and now the Official Whiskey Sour Assistant.
Thank God it's Monday, and thank God we're entering my favorite time of year.
Happiness!
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Talking dirty
Ah, gentle readers, prepare thyselves. This is not a story for the faint of heart. Nor for the underage. Nay, I say unto you, continue reading at your peril.
Ahem.
My sister works at a mental health "halfway house." It is, frankly, as shitty a job as she could possibly have, but it pays the bills and is helping her save up some cash for her imminent return to the U.K. Sis is a remarkably normal person, at least in my view. We'll get into a philosophical discussion on the definition of "normal" some other day. I consider her to be a lovely human being, and so should you. Many of her co-workers at said institution, however, defy conventions of "normalcy," blurring the lines between what is socially acceptable and what is, shall we say, creepy. Or gross. In this case, I think "gross" is as apt a word as any.
It has recently surfaced that one of the counsellors has been viewing pornographic websites on the company computer at night. As in, while everyone else in the house is sleeping, this guy has been... uh... enjoying himself. Literally. The company, however, cannot fire him without meeting a sufficient burden of proof. That means that each day, someone has to go on the computer's history and print it out. Today, however, the printer apparently wasn't functioning. Meaning that my sister, my sweet, innocent, normal sister, had to read the listing of websites out loud over the phone to her boss. Let's just take one moment to ponder some of the options here:
"At 4:25 a.m. a site called giganticgonads dot com was accessed. At 4:42 he moved onto lusciousboobies. Next was a site named hotkittymonkeylove."
Way to go, sketchy co-worker. Way to go.
Ahem.
My sister works at a mental health "halfway house." It is, frankly, as shitty a job as she could possibly have, but it pays the bills and is helping her save up some cash for her imminent return to the U.K. Sis is a remarkably normal person, at least in my view. We'll get into a philosophical discussion on the definition of "normal" some other day. I consider her to be a lovely human being, and so should you. Many of her co-workers at said institution, however, defy conventions of "normalcy," blurring the lines between what is socially acceptable and what is, shall we say, creepy. Or gross. In this case, I think "gross" is as apt a word as any.
It has recently surfaced that one of the counsellors has been viewing pornographic websites on the company computer at night. As in, while everyone else in the house is sleeping, this guy has been... uh... enjoying himself. Literally. The company, however, cannot fire him without meeting a sufficient burden of proof. That means that each day, someone has to go on the computer's history and print it out. Today, however, the printer apparently wasn't functioning. Meaning that my sister, my sweet, innocent, normal sister, had to read the listing of websites out loud over the phone to her boss. Let's just take one moment to ponder some of the options here:
"At 4:25 a.m. a site called giganticgonads dot com was accessed. At 4:42 he moved onto lusciousboobies. Next was a site named hotkittymonkeylove."
Way to go, sketchy co-worker. Way to go.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Things I love
I feel like I've been kind of a downer for the past few posts. Not that I've had a bad few days (they've been fantastic, truth be told), I just haven't said anything without the somewhat unfamiliar tinge of sarcasm. Chalk it up to tiredness and me feeling a little bit like "Billy Badass." In light of that, however, I am taking a moment to rhapsodize on the first 25 things that pop into my head that I absolutely, without question ADORE.
1. When I'm in good playing shape and in performance, when everything seems to work and I lose the world around me.
2. Perfect kisses.
3. The first burst of sunshine after days of gray.
4. Fires in the fireplace.
5. Laughing so hard that my stomach hurts for a solid hour afterwards.
6. The feeling of pride after baking a cake from scratch.
7. Waking up with the warmth of a cat on my feet.
8. Tangible people-smells. I'm not talking gross smells here, folks. I just mean distinct scents that people have, the kinds that will always remind me of someone particular.
9. The feeling I get when someone tells me I made their day be being nice to them.
10. Soft T-shirts. Sweet jebus, I can't get enough!
11. And cheese. Any kind of cheese, in any circumstance.
12. The dream of my own home.
13. Really, really cold chocolate ice cream. None of this halfway melting shit. I want to have to chew it!
14. Seeing my friends become parents. It's scary and astonishing and beautiful, all at the same time.
15. Feeling inspired by people I love. How is it that you are all doing such amazing things with your lives? I feel so far behind, but I'm so proud to know you!
16. Lavendar.
17. Mmmmm, backrubs. Sigh.
18. Mix CDs are definitely one of my favorite things in the whole world. Don't be fooled by the fact that they are number 18. I love love LOVE them.
19. Lying underneath the Christmas tree and staring up at the lights when the room is dark. I don't think I'll ever get tired of this.
20. Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis, by Ralph Vaughn Williams.
21. Great big bear hugs, the kind that wrap you up and make you feel like you're protected from everything bad in the world.
22. Memories of my high school UU youth group. I don't think I've ever felt that safe.
23. Spaghetti. I swear, I've eaten spaghetti at least once a week for my entire life, and I NEVER get sick of it.
24. Fresh flowers in my apartment. I miss having a garden at home, and flowers make me feel like I'll have a garden again someday.
25. The message that my Grandmom and Granddad left on our answering machine this weekend. I will save it forever. It's just the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.
1. When I'm in good playing shape and in performance, when everything seems to work and I lose the world around me.
2. Perfect kisses.
3. The first burst of sunshine after days of gray.
4. Fires in the fireplace.
5. Laughing so hard that my stomach hurts for a solid hour afterwards.
6. The feeling of pride after baking a cake from scratch.
7. Waking up with the warmth of a cat on my feet.
8. Tangible people-smells. I'm not talking gross smells here, folks. I just mean distinct scents that people have, the kinds that will always remind me of someone particular.
9. The feeling I get when someone tells me I made their day be being nice to them.
10. Soft T-shirts. Sweet jebus, I can't get enough!
11. And cheese. Any kind of cheese, in any circumstance.
12. The dream of my own home.
13. Really, really cold chocolate ice cream. None of this halfway melting shit. I want to have to chew it!
14. Seeing my friends become parents. It's scary and astonishing and beautiful, all at the same time.
15. Feeling inspired by people I love. How is it that you are all doing such amazing things with your lives? I feel so far behind, but I'm so proud to know you!
16. Lavendar.
17. Mmmmm, backrubs. Sigh.
18. Mix CDs are definitely one of my favorite things in the whole world. Don't be fooled by the fact that they are number 18. I love love LOVE them.
19. Lying underneath the Christmas tree and staring up at the lights when the room is dark. I don't think I'll ever get tired of this.
20. Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis, by Ralph Vaughn Williams.
21. Great big bear hugs, the kind that wrap you up and make you feel like you're protected from everything bad in the world.
22. Memories of my high school UU youth group. I don't think I've ever felt that safe.
23. Spaghetti. I swear, I've eaten spaghetti at least once a week for my entire life, and I NEVER get sick of it.
24. Fresh flowers in my apartment. I miss having a garden at home, and flowers make me feel like I'll have a garden again someday.
25. The message that my Grandmom and Granddad left on our answering machine this weekend. I will save it forever. It's just the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Somebody's In-between Girl
First order of business for the day:
Congratulations to Will for the job offer! I am SO proud of you, and I am really excited to hear about your new pet insurance. Watch out, world!
Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.
The Existential Life Crisis has been roaring in full force for the past few days. I have never been an indecisive person. True, I don't trust my gut as much as I should, but I've generally run into my mistakes at full speed, realizing only months later the sheer stupidity of my actions. Recently, however, I feel paralyzed by the simplest of choices. Should I cancel my gym membership or keep it? Should I move into a cheaper apartment when my sister moves out? What do I want out of the wonderful world of dating? Am I doing the right thing by keeping a "day job," rather than playing full-time? Has the last year-plus of my life been one gigantic mistake? What color should I paint my toenails? Okay, so not so much on the last one, but the others are true. I feel like most of us are going through this right now. What is it about age 25 that seems to prompt this identity crisis? And why does it seem unique to our generation?
When my father turned 30, he had a major ELC. He quit his job as a high school band director, went home, and told my mom over plates of spaghetti that he was going to become an insurance salesman. He could work from home and make way more money in way less time. The only problem was this: My dad hates selling stuff. He'd sit in the basement for hours every day, staring at the phone. One day my mom got him to 'fess up that he hadn't made a single phone call. They moved to Blacksburg and entered graduate school a few months later. That decision led directly to my dad getting his current job (as, yes, a band director again), so I suppose the ELC had eventual positive ramifications. At least, I hope that's the lesson to be learned here.
The mid-twenties are, by their nature, an age of instability for most of us. Getting out of the fishbowl of school forces us out of every comfort zone we've ever known. We suddenly have to find ways of making friends without the convenience of sharing a major interest with everyone we see daily. Rather than being surrounded be people within a five-year age range, suddenly we're stuck with the label "adult." It's a word I tiptoe around like a colicky baby that's finally asleep; if I disturb it, I'll suddenly be forced to face reality and deal with my own discomfort. While the hurricane that has been plowing down my personal life for the past year seems to be subsiding (Please, not the eye of the storm. I've had enough.), I still feel my boat rocking, threatening to capsize at any minute.
I definitely used waaaaaay too many metaphors in that last paragraph, didn't I?
When I was a kid, I hated shopping. I still refuse to go clothing shopping with my mom. Why? Because, according to her, I am permanently "in between sizes." Clearly, we are all overly sensitive to our mothers' criticism of our bodies, but her analysis always makes me feel that there is something fundamentally wrong with me. And right now, I feel like my life is in between sizes. I'm not sure if this is just some kind of adolescent stage, where my life needs to grow into its feet (if that makes any sense), or if I just have to learn how to alter the world around me the way I alter my clothes.
I feel like this is my most convoluted post ever. I'm not really expecting any responses from the greater world, but does anyone else feel this way? Are there any good answers out there?
Congratulations to Will for the job offer! I am SO proud of you, and I am really excited to hear about your new pet insurance. Watch out, world!
Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.
The Existential Life Crisis has been roaring in full force for the past few days. I have never been an indecisive person. True, I don't trust my gut as much as I should, but I've generally run into my mistakes at full speed, realizing only months later the sheer stupidity of my actions. Recently, however, I feel paralyzed by the simplest of choices. Should I cancel my gym membership or keep it? Should I move into a cheaper apartment when my sister moves out? What do I want out of the wonderful world of dating? Am I doing the right thing by keeping a "day job," rather than playing full-time? Has the last year-plus of my life been one gigantic mistake? What color should I paint my toenails? Okay, so not so much on the last one, but the others are true. I feel like most of us are going through this right now. What is it about age 25 that seems to prompt this identity crisis? And why does it seem unique to our generation?
When my father turned 30, he had a major ELC. He quit his job as a high school band director, went home, and told my mom over plates of spaghetti that he was going to become an insurance salesman. He could work from home and make way more money in way less time. The only problem was this: My dad hates selling stuff. He'd sit in the basement for hours every day, staring at the phone. One day my mom got him to 'fess up that he hadn't made a single phone call. They moved to Blacksburg and entered graduate school a few months later. That decision led directly to my dad getting his current job (as, yes, a band director again), so I suppose the ELC had eventual positive ramifications. At least, I hope that's the lesson to be learned here.
The mid-twenties are, by their nature, an age of instability for most of us. Getting out of the fishbowl of school forces us out of every comfort zone we've ever known. We suddenly have to find ways of making friends without the convenience of sharing a major interest with everyone we see daily. Rather than being surrounded be people within a five-year age range, suddenly we're stuck with the label "adult." It's a word I tiptoe around like a colicky baby that's finally asleep; if I disturb it, I'll suddenly be forced to face reality and deal with my own discomfort. While the hurricane that has been plowing down my personal life for the past year seems to be subsiding (Please, not the eye of the storm. I've had enough.), I still feel my boat rocking, threatening to capsize at any minute.
I definitely used waaaaaay too many metaphors in that last paragraph, didn't I?
When I was a kid, I hated shopping. I still refuse to go clothing shopping with my mom. Why? Because, according to her, I am permanently "in between sizes." Clearly, we are all overly sensitive to our mothers' criticism of our bodies, but her analysis always makes me feel that there is something fundamentally wrong with me. And right now, I feel like my life is in between sizes. I'm not sure if this is just some kind of adolescent stage, where my life needs to grow into its feet (if that makes any sense), or if I just have to learn how to alter the world around me the way I alter my clothes.
I feel like this is my most convoluted post ever. I'm not really expecting any responses from the greater world, but does anyone else feel this way? Are there any good answers out there?
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Page 153
The other night I received a phone call from my two best friends of all time, Nick and Matt. We grew up a few blocks away from each other, and have been friends for over a decade. Until recently, both of them still lived in our hometown, so I see them pretty frequently. A few months ago, however, Matt accepted a job working in D.C. This has obviously prompted months of moving, sorting through boxes, and finding all kinds of shit that probably never needed to see the light of day.
Case in point: Our high school freshman yearbook.
The phone rings, the caller ID says "Matt," and I pick it up by saying something witty, like "Hey asshole." They don't call me eloquent for nothing! Surprisingly, Nick's voice comes booming over the phone with "You are such a NERD," followed by hysterical laughter. Matt follows with, "We're looking at yearbooks." I immediately quip, "Hey, I remember two guys who had bowl haircuts with center parts!" Well, now I've done it. They bring up my high school boyfriend (shudder), I bring up the girl they both made out with junior year on separate band trips. Finally, all possible insults exhausted (and all of us laughing harder than I've laughed in a loooong time), Nick says, "So, would you like to know why you're a nerd?"
Now, dear reader, I have never denied being a nerd. But here's the thing: these two have seen almost every embarrassing moment in my life, including the most humiliating thing I've ever done. More on that another day. These two also profess to be nerds. So clearly this is something beyond normal nerdiness, and I am, frankly, a little nervous. But hey, you only live once, right?
"Sure," I say, "Tell me why I'm a nerd."
"So we're looking at the comments in Matt's yearbook, and we found you. And you wrote, 'Matt, have a great summer, something about band camp, blah blah blah, love, abbersnail's full name with middle initial, page 153.'"
Matt chimes, "Abs, what do you think is on page 153?"
I am already laughing. "I don't know. Hopefully not something like me in my marching band uniform?"
Nick is beside himself. He can barely form words, but he manages to say, "Your CLASS PICTURE."
Okay, so now I'm laughing my ass off. And, might I add, I'm driving home from San Carlos in the dark. My car is swerving all over traffic. I'm usually a pretty good driver/talker, but all bets are off when Matt and Nick are involved. (Actually, there are about fifteen great stories about that, too. I really could just write this blog about my childhood and take up years of your lives.)
Even now, days later, I still laugh when I think of the two of them reading that note. The thing is, I remember myself at that age, and I'm sure my thought process was this: Just in case you forget who I am, just in case I think we're better friends than you think we are, now you have to remember. It's a little sad, and so typical of girls that age. It also reminds me how lucky I really am, to have these two people in my life to this day. Really, how many of us stay so close with people who knew us before puberty? (Maybe this is fortunate? Remembering some of the stories I'd like to share, I realize that perhaps it would be better if no one else remembered them, too!)
Regardless of all of that, I think back to page 153, and my response to the "class picture" comment:
"Yeah, well, in that class picture I seem to remember wearing a plaid vest and Lion King earrings."
Case in point: Our high school freshman yearbook.
The phone rings, the caller ID says "Matt," and I pick it up by saying something witty, like "Hey asshole." They don't call me eloquent for nothing! Surprisingly, Nick's voice comes booming over the phone with "You are such a NERD," followed by hysterical laughter. Matt follows with, "We're looking at yearbooks." I immediately quip, "Hey, I remember two guys who had bowl haircuts with center parts!" Well, now I've done it. They bring up my high school boyfriend (shudder), I bring up the girl they both made out with junior year on separate band trips. Finally, all possible insults exhausted (and all of us laughing harder than I've laughed in a loooong time), Nick says, "So, would you like to know why you're a nerd?"
Now, dear reader, I have never denied being a nerd. But here's the thing: these two have seen almost every embarrassing moment in my life, including the most humiliating thing I've ever done. More on that another day. These two also profess to be nerds. So clearly this is something beyond normal nerdiness, and I am, frankly, a little nervous. But hey, you only live once, right?
"Sure," I say, "Tell me why I'm a nerd."
"So we're looking at the comments in Matt's yearbook, and we found you. And you wrote, 'Matt, have a great summer, something about band camp, blah blah blah, love, abbersnail's full name with middle initial, page 153.'"
Matt chimes, "Abs, what do you think is on page 153?"
I am already laughing. "I don't know. Hopefully not something like me in my marching band uniform?"
Nick is beside himself. He can barely form words, but he manages to say, "Your CLASS PICTURE."
Okay, so now I'm laughing my ass off. And, might I add, I'm driving home from San Carlos in the dark. My car is swerving all over traffic. I'm usually a pretty good driver/talker, but all bets are off when Matt and Nick are involved. (Actually, there are about fifteen great stories about that, too. I really could just write this blog about my childhood and take up years of your lives.)
Even now, days later, I still laugh when I think of the two of them reading that note. The thing is, I remember myself at that age, and I'm sure my thought process was this: Just in case you forget who I am, just in case I think we're better friends than you think we are, now you have to remember. It's a little sad, and so typical of girls that age. It also reminds me how lucky I really am, to have these two people in my life to this day. Really, how many of us stay so close with people who knew us before puberty? (Maybe this is fortunate? Remembering some of the stories I'd like to share, I realize that perhaps it would be better if no one else remembered them, too!)
Regardless of all of that, I think back to page 153, and my response to the "class picture" comment:
"Yeah, well, in that class picture I seem to remember wearing a plaid vest and Lion King earrings."
Monday, October 09, 2006
Home away from home
I spent all day yesterday at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass in Golden Gate Park. San Francisco seems to be the capital of free concerts, and this one takes the cake, in my book. Three days of the biggest names in bluegrass, five concert stages, all free. Sadly, I managed to miss Elvis Costello, Gillian Welsh, and Steve Earle. Yesterday, however, was basically the most perfect day in San Francisco history. We're talking a cloudless sky, folks. This does not happen often! So the sis and I packed up a blanket, copious amounts of sunscreen (SPF 8 million), and a few bottles of water, and walked the five blocks to the Park.
There were thousands of people on the lawn in front of each stage. San Franciscans are not accustomed to sunshine, and immediately don their skimpiest attire for any outdoor event that involves sun. This is a city in which public nudity is legal, folks. Be forewarned. There were rows and rows of shacks selling fair food. Sis and I immediately acquired a corn dog apiece. (Ready to be floored? It was the first corn dog EVER for both of us. Um, yeah.) Then we scoped out a spot on the ground, between a big group of very drunk 40-somethings and a dad and two tiny kids. The kids spent the better part of the day "wrestling" with the dad, which seemed to involve a lot of jumping on his back and kicking him. And people wonder why I don't think I want children of my own. They seem to be such a joy!
Bluegrass is the music I grew up with. An Appalachian girl from a very young age, I had the added advantage of two parents who really found folk music fascinating. I remember all of us piling into the van and driving an hour or so to Cochran's General Store. Honestly, I couldn't tell you in what township this was located, but Cochran's was an institution. You could buy anything there, from five kinds of honey on the comb to overalls and boots to burlap sacks of flour to the reddest, most disgusting hot dogs I've ever seen or hope to see. Cochran's was also the home of a nightly bluegrass jam. Local musicians would show up, and the store employees would push all the shelving units out of the way. We'd sit on top of barrels and watch people flat-footing as the musicians played. It sounds like Andy Griffith, I know, but things move slower in the mountains.
As we sat in the sun yesterday, listening to the accents of home and the sounds of my childhood, I completely forgot that I was in San Francisco. (Okay, with the notable exception of when the fighter planes flew over from the Fleet Week expo by the Bay.) Despite my inch-thick layer of sunscreen, I still have a wide swath of red blooming on my back. Most notably, I can't seem to shake my own accent. My vowels are longer than they've been in months, and the cadence of my speech has slowed to the approximate speed of "molasses in January." Oh yeah, I went there. For at least one day, the dull homesickness I've been feeling evaporated. It was a good day.
There were thousands of people on the lawn in front of each stage. San Franciscans are not accustomed to sunshine, and immediately don their skimpiest attire for any outdoor event that involves sun. This is a city in which public nudity is legal, folks. Be forewarned. There were rows and rows of shacks selling fair food. Sis and I immediately acquired a corn dog apiece. (Ready to be floored? It was the first corn dog EVER for both of us. Um, yeah.) Then we scoped out a spot on the ground, between a big group of very drunk 40-somethings and a dad and two tiny kids. The kids spent the better part of the day "wrestling" with the dad, which seemed to involve a lot of jumping on his back and kicking him. And people wonder why I don't think I want children of my own. They seem to be such a joy!
Bluegrass is the music I grew up with. An Appalachian girl from a very young age, I had the added advantage of two parents who really found folk music fascinating. I remember all of us piling into the van and driving an hour or so to Cochran's General Store. Honestly, I couldn't tell you in what township this was located, but Cochran's was an institution. You could buy anything there, from five kinds of honey on the comb to overalls and boots to burlap sacks of flour to the reddest, most disgusting hot dogs I've ever seen or hope to see. Cochran's was also the home of a nightly bluegrass jam. Local musicians would show up, and the store employees would push all the shelving units out of the way. We'd sit on top of barrels and watch people flat-footing as the musicians played. It sounds like Andy Griffith, I know, but things move slower in the mountains.
As we sat in the sun yesterday, listening to the accents of home and the sounds of my childhood, I completely forgot that I was in San Francisco. (Okay, with the notable exception of when the fighter planes flew over from the Fleet Week expo by the Bay.) Despite my inch-thick layer of sunscreen, I still have a wide swath of red blooming on my back. Most notably, I can't seem to shake my own accent. My vowels are longer than they've been in months, and the cadence of my speech has slowed to the approximate speed of "molasses in January." Oh yeah, I went there. For at least one day, the dull homesickness I've been feeling evaporated. It was a good day.
Friday, September 15, 2006
My Mother's Daughter
My entire life we have given my mother crap about being scatterbrained. She says things like "Did you tell your sister about the thing you tried to do but didn't?" Um, what? Or she'll make a list with random words on it, and later wonder what it was about. Or get in the car, drive for ten minutes, and realize that she can't remember what she was about to do.
My plan all day was to head to Trader Joe's tonight to pick up groceries. One of my all-time best friends is coming to town tomorrow, and I didn't want him to walk in and find an empty refrigerator. Also, we have been ordering food WAAAAY too much this week. So all day I kept a grocery list on a sheet of scrap paper. Every time I thought of something, I'd check to see if I'd already written it down. If not, I'd write it on the list. So imagine my surprise when my sister/roommate began cracking up while reading the list in the car on the way to TJ's! When she read it aloud, I started laughing so hard that I started to cry. I literally had to pull off the road because I couldn't see.
Here's what my list said:
Berries
Tomato
Lettuce
Potatoes
Garlic*
Peaches
Morels
Garlic*
Onions
Shallots
Avocado
Garlic*
Shrimp (2)
Salmon
Chi**
Cream
TJ's***
*Reasons that I am not currently making out with anyone. Do I really need that much garlic? REALLY?
**I think this was supposed to say chicken. I can't imagine what else it meant.
***What? Was I planning on buying the whole store? Was I afraid I wouldn't remember the reason for the list???
My plan all day was to head to Trader Joe's tonight to pick up groceries. One of my all-time best friends is coming to town tomorrow, and I didn't want him to walk in and find an empty refrigerator. Also, we have been ordering food WAAAAY too much this week. So all day I kept a grocery list on a sheet of scrap paper. Every time I thought of something, I'd check to see if I'd already written it down. If not, I'd write it on the list. So imagine my surprise when my sister/roommate began cracking up while reading the list in the car on the way to TJ's! When she read it aloud, I started laughing so hard that I started to cry. I literally had to pull off the road because I couldn't see.
Here's what my list said:
Berries
Tomato
Lettuce
Potatoes
Garlic*
Peaches
Morels
Garlic*
Onions
Shallots
Avocado
Garlic*
Shrimp (2)
Salmon
Chi**
Cream
TJ's***
*Reasons that I am not currently making out with anyone. Do I really need that much garlic? REALLY?
**I think this was supposed to say chicken. I can't imagine what else it meant.
***What? Was I planning on buying the whole store? Was I afraid I wouldn't remember the reason for the list???
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
The scariest thing of my life
Meet my dad:
He's a college marching band director. Now, meet his Mini-me:
His students had a bobble-head made of him as a fundraiser. Seriously, this might be the creepiest thing I've ever seen. At the same time, however, I'm feeling a need to acquire one for myself. Really, how many of us know someone who is a bobble-head?
One more photo, just for good measure.
P.S. - If, for some unknown reason, you also feel the irresistable pull to own one of these fine pieces of history, click the link.
He's a college marching band director. Now, meet his Mini-me:
His students had a bobble-head made of him as a fundraiser. Seriously, this might be the creepiest thing I've ever seen. At the same time, however, I'm feeling a need to acquire one for myself. Really, how many of us know someone who is a bobble-head?
One more photo, just for good measure.
P.S. - If, for some unknown reason, you also feel the irresistable pull to own one of these fine pieces of history, click the link.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Enter the Alchemist Cats
It has suddenly occured to me that I have yet to introduce the Alchemist Cats.
Pierre came into my life nearly two years ago. His life began in Columbia, South Carolina, where he was found living out of a dumpster behind a bar in Five Points. He loves to have his tummy rubbed and to be held like a baby. Pierre's interests include butterflies, mozzarella cheese, and corrugated cardboard.
Puck and I met when he looked like this:
Now he looks like this:
I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm going to wake up one morning and he is going to suddenly be the LARGEST cat in feline history. Puck sometimes sucks on my shirt, like he's nursing. It's completely gross, but I feel so guilty for taking him away from his mom that I can't punish him.
Former Alchemist Cat, Drusilla, has moved on with her life. Like Demi Moore in that second Charlie's Angels movie, Drusilla used the Alchemist Cats to achieve her own agenda: pure, unadulterated EVIL.
Pierre came into my life nearly two years ago. His life began in Columbia, South Carolina, where he was found living out of a dumpster behind a bar in Five Points. He loves to have his tummy rubbed and to be held like a baby. Pierre's interests include butterflies, mozzarella cheese, and corrugated cardboard.Puck and I met when he looked like this:
Now he looks like this:
I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm going to wake up one morning and he is going to suddenly be the LARGEST cat in feline history. Puck sometimes sucks on my shirt, like he's nursing. It's completely gross, but I feel so guilty for taking him away from his mom that I can't punish him.Former Alchemist Cat, Drusilla, has moved on with her life. Like Demi Moore in that second Charlie's Angels movie, Drusilla used the Alchemist Cats to achieve her own agenda: pure, unadulterated EVIL.
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