The frigid December winds blew in this week making outdoors not a nice place to be. It's so cold that even the dog pauses before bolting out the door and it's the kind of cold that freezes your nose hairs the instant you step outside. This kind of cold air rips through your clothes and makes you feel naked because the thick parka you're wearing doesn't seem to matter.
For sanity sake, during these Arctic blasts, I reminisce about the steamy, dog days of summer. I hunker down for the winter and do tasks that I put off all summer, like filing. The other day, I came across the lyrics to one of my favorite songs, "Windfall" by Son Volt, and they conjured up random memories - some of them pleasant, some of them not.
Just a few short months ago I was sweaty and melting in the July heat driving to a creative non-fiction writing workshop in Northfield, Minnesota - a 4o minute commute south. On the first day, my normally dependable car lit up like a Christmas tree on the ride home. Every light on the dashboard flickered on and off as the car slowly lost power until it came to its peaceful resting spot on the side of the the highway.
Fortunately, enough juice remained in the engine to allow the power windows to open so that my travel companion, Amy, and I didn't have to stand outside on the boiling asphalt and blazing sun. We dialed our husbands. Then I dialed my mother-in-law to pick us up, while my husband dialed a tow truck. Amy and I passed the time standing outside when the temperature inside the car became too stifling, then sat back inside the car when our skin sizzled like eggs on a hot Teflon skillet. We dabbed our perspiring foreheads with pink Kleenex I managed to scavenge from the back seat.
We wondered aloud why no one stopped to help two "youngish" women on the side of the road. The heat was heavy and dangled in the air like a deflated helium balloon and the unseasonably dry air caused us to breathe shallow. We lumbered about because of the the blistering heat and the threat of sweat saturating our clothes. Another car stalled on the other side of the highway and we gave him a camaraderie wave. Lucky for him a tow truck was on its way and could radio in for another truck. Finally, a pick-up truck with South Dakota license plates stopped, the nice man asked if we needed help (we did not), and handed us two bottles of water as he drove away. The cool water barreled down our dry throat and sustained us until our ride came to our rescue.
During the writing workshop, I met a very cool woman named Monica, who is the wife of Jay Farrar, the lead singer/song writer of this great band. She was down-to-earth and unassuming, despite her rock-star wife status and she didn't seem to mind when I gushed about loving the song "Windfall".
I fell in love with it when it first came out, but the song became more significant when my newborn struggled to fall asleep on her own. I sat for hours rocking her in the darken bedroom, ignoring the clock that read 3AM, and listening to the low-hum of the radio I turned on to lull her to sleep. "Windfall" seem to play at the same time every night and the words "may the wind take your troubles away" resonated with me because I was going out of my mind with sleep deprivation and worry because she wouldn't sleep. Those words reminded me of what I heard so often back then from so many other mothers that "this to shall pass" and it did. Now I reflect with peaceful melancholy of a very special time with my daughter, despite the conflicting memories of the post-delivery, new-baby-mania haze.
So, in honor of reminders of certain memorable event and want-to-forget times in life and the things that you get you through them, I share these lyrics.
::::::::Windfall:::::::: (Jay Farrar)
Now and then it keeps you running
Sometimes it just won't die
Trail spent with fear
Not enough living on the outside
Never seem to get far enough
Staying in between the lines
Hold on to what you can
Waiting for the end, not knowing when
CHORUS:
May the wind take your troubles away
May the wind take your troubles away
Both feet on the floor
Two hands on the wheel
May the wind take your troubles away
BRIDGE:
Trying to make it far enough
To the next time zone
Few and far between past the midnight hour
Never feel alone
You're really not alone
VERSE 2:
Switching it over to A.M.,
Searching for a truer sound;
Can't recall the call letters,
Steel guitar, I settle down.
Catching an all-night station
Somewhere in Louisiana,
Sounds like 1963
But for now sounds like heaven.
CHORUS
May the wind take your troubles away
May the wind
Take your troubles away
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Classifieds
LOST:
A clean house free of tumbleweed sized dust bunnies made of pet hair.
Patience for dog training and cat brushing.
The energy to distinguish between dog toys and baby toys.
Agility to stop the cats before they swat at the baby when they’ve had enough of her kisses.
The ability to stop swearing at the dog even when the baby repeats it.
The willpower to break the dog’s bad habit of going outside, inside, outside, inside, outside, inside, outside to search for bunnies, inside to leave muddy paw prints on the freshly mopped floor, all within one hour.
FREE TO GOOD HOME: Two indoor tabby cats; one gray and sagging, one brown tiger striped with black tipped ears. Male. Neutered. Front and back claws included. Sheds. Hates vacuums. Old, tired, and cranky when hungry. Great companions for lounging. Litter box trained, except if box has lid. May need sedative or suit of armor for vet visits. Not good with kids, dogs, other cats, old people, pre-pubescent teens, mother-in-laws. Requires prescription “Science Diet” to prevent formation of crystals in urine. Eleven-year-old, 20-pound gray cat hates dogs, anything that moves quickly, small children. Tendency to swipe. Loves to cuddle if you’re feeling blue. Stalks until allowed to sit on lap. Prefers being carried over shoulder to walking. Passive aggressive. Hisses without reason or provocation. Licks hand lotion. Enjoys hiding between shower curtains while water is running. Ten-year-old, 15-pound brown striped cat likes to eat. Often. Whines relentlessly if not fed. Stands up on hind legs for treats. Propensity to swat objects off tables, pushes lamps, turns off alarm clocks. Not allowed in bedroom at night; destroys things at 2am out of perceived hunger. Wraps paw under closed bedroom door and rattles it. Prefers own company. Drools while kneading. Pulls thumbtacks off bulletin board with mouth. Sleeps in closets on dirty laundry.
These cats come as a set.
ALSO FREE TO GOOD HOME: Four-year-old, 40-pound beagle mix. Male. Neutered. Black, brown, white-tipped tail, pink striped nose. Healthy and current with shots. House trained and winner of Best in Class in obedience training. Does not come when called, does not sit on command. Finally responds to yelling. “Home Again” microchip in neck included. Enjoys walks. Chases squirrels and pees on every single tree. New owner must be able to withstand pull of crazed dog when he spots rabbits. Barks. A lot. At cats on couches, bees in flowers, and imaginary buglers in window. Does not bark at strangers. Citronella-spraying bark collar included. Fetches. Does not give stick back. Sleeps with humans. Prefers to be carried up stairs and hogs bed. Loves cats. Too much. Quickly forgets cat swipes across nose with sharp claws. Licks baby’s faces, cleans floors and dishes. Does not eat vegetables, Cheerios, or grapes. Pilfers and rolls in wet bath towels and rubs face in clean hair. Tendency to snatch baby bunnies on the run and adult birds from mid-air. Occasional gassiness, devours Greenie bones, chokes on rawhide chews. A year’s supply of treats included; needed to entice dog into house at midnight. Hates baths. Tolerates wet cloth wipe downs. Excitedly greets anyone who walks in the door. Jumps. Loves dog parks. Great with kids and other dogs.
Fenced-in yard preferred.
DESPERATELY SEEKING: A lifetime supply of cleaner for coughed-up cat hairballs. Lint brushes. The freedom to turn over in bed.
PERSONALS: In search of the perfect companion. Loyal. Trustworthy. Someone who won’t need therapy because they’re blamed for everything that’s gone wrong on any given day. Someone who is genuinely happy to see you, even if you’ve been gone for five minutes. Someone who is always home, curled up on the back of the sofa, purring patiently for attention.
FOUND: Unconditional love and forgiveness from someone who doesn’t hold it against you when you curse them for chewing a rug or vomiting on the mail left on the dining room table, leaving them at places with catchy names like “Dog Day Getaway” or “Pets Are Inn” for a week where they sleep in a small room, alone, on the cold, tiled floor, and putting Santa hats and reindeer ears on their heads and hold them in place while flashing bright lights in their eyes.
A clean house free of tumbleweed sized dust bunnies made of pet hair.
Patience for dog training and cat brushing.
The energy to distinguish between dog toys and baby toys.
Agility to stop the cats before they swat at the baby when they’ve had enough of her kisses.
The ability to stop swearing at the dog even when the baby repeats it.
The willpower to break the dog’s bad habit of going outside, inside, outside, inside, outside, inside, outside to search for bunnies, inside to leave muddy paw prints on the freshly mopped floor, all within one hour.
FREE TO GOOD HOME: Two indoor tabby cats; one gray and sagging, one brown tiger striped with black tipped ears. Male. Neutered. Front and back claws included. Sheds. Hates vacuums. Old, tired, and cranky when hungry. Great companions for lounging. Litter box trained, except if box has lid. May need sedative or suit of armor for vet visits. Not good with kids, dogs, other cats, old people, pre-pubescent teens, mother-in-laws. Requires prescription “Science Diet” to prevent formation of crystals in urine. Eleven-year-old, 20-pound gray cat hates dogs, anything that moves quickly, small children. Tendency to swipe. Loves to cuddle if you’re feeling blue. Stalks until allowed to sit on lap. Prefers being carried over shoulder to walking. Passive aggressive. Hisses without reason or provocation. Licks hand lotion. Enjoys hiding between shower curtains while water is running. Ten-year-old, 15-pound brown striped cat likes to eat. Often. Whines relentlessly if not fed. Stands up on hind legs for treats. Propensity to swat objects off tables, pushes lamps, turns off alarm clocks. Not allowed in bedroom at night; destroys things at 2am out of perceived hunger. Wraps paw under closed bedroom door and rattles it. Prefers own company. Drools while kneading. Pulls thumbtacks off bulletin board with mouth. Sleeps in closets on dirty laundry.
These cats come as a set.
ALSO FREE TO GOOD HOME: Four-year-old, 40-pound beagle mix. Male. Neutered. Black, brown, white-tipped tail, pink striped nose. Healthy and current with shots. House trained and winner of Best in Class in obedience training. Does not come when called, does not sit on command. Finally responds to yelling. “Home Again” microchip in neck included. Enjoys walks. Chases squirrels and pees on every single tree. New owner must be able to withstand pull of crazed dog when he spots rabbits. Barks. A lot. At cats on couches, bees in flowers, and imaginary buglers in window. Does not bark at strangers. Citronella-spraying bark collar included. Fetches. Does not give stick back. Sleeps with humans. Prefers to be carried up stairs and hogs bed. Loves cats. Too much. Quickly forgets cat swipes across nose with sharp claws. Licks baby’s faces, cleans floors and dishes. Does not eat vegetables, Cheerios, or grapes. Pilfers and rolls in wet bath towels and rubs face in clean hair. Tendency to snatch baby bunnies on the run and adult birds from mid-air. Occasional gassiness, devours Greenie bones, chokes on rawhide chews. A year’s supply of treats included; needed to entice dog into house at midnight. Hates baths. Tolerates wet cloth wipe downs. Excitedly greets anyone who walks in the door. Jumps. Loves dog parks. Great with kids and other dogs.
Fenced-in yard preferred.
DESPERATELY SEEKING: A lifetime supply of cleaner for coughed-up cat hairballs. Lint brushes. The freedom to turn over in bed.
PERSONALS: In search of the perfect companion. Loyal. Trustworthy. Someone who won’t need therapy because they’re blamed for everything that’s gone wrong on any given day. Someone who is genuinely happy to see you, even if you’ve been gone for five minutes. Someone who is always home, curled up on the back of the sofa, purring patiently for attention.
FOUND: Unconditional love and forgiveness from someone who doesn’t hold it against you when you curse them for chewing a rug or vomiting on the mail left on the dining room table, leaving them at places with catchy names like “Dog Day Getaway” or “Pets Are Inn” for a week where they sleep in a small room, alone, on the cold, tiled floor, and putting Santa hats and reindeer ears on their heads and hold them in place while flashing bright lights in their eyes.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Halloween Neurosis
Ah, Halloween. A holiday filled with witches, mummies, cobwebs, candy, and costumes.
Growing up in Northern Minnesota, where the temperature is never above freezing, Halloween costumes are required to fit over a snowsuit, so while they aren’t very creative, they are practical. The last Halloween my mother allowed me trick or treat, before I was deemed too old, my costume was a large piece of red burlap wrapped around my pink puffy nylon coat and blue snow pants which I belted with a colorful strip of fabric. I used lipstick to draw “war paint” on my face, tied a striped headband around my forehead, put a feather in it, and announced I was Pocahontas. It was the 70s, so I got away with this.
By the time I was 13, I was barred from trick or treating, but I still managed to sneak away and go in a friend’s neighborhood. When going door to door, asking for candy wasn’t cool anymore, we stayed inside and watched scary movies and told frightening stories. This fascination with being scared went beyond one night a year. We the passed time on weekends by watching every "Friday the 13th", "Halloween", and "Nightmare on Elm Street" movies and told too many of the baby sitter is in the house alone and the call is coming from inside the house stories.
I’m convinced this is the root of my present-day neurosis. All those horror movies and scary stories manifested itself into a phobia that there is always someone right around the corner, ready to do me harm. Any noise I hear coming from bowels of basement, I rationally dismiss it as the house is settling or more convincingly the cats are fighting again. Nevertheless, the irrational imp sitting on my shoulder says, "there is a man sitting on top of the washing machine and you will be blinded by the glimmering butcher knife he holds in his hand when you turn on the light.”
I use my cats and dog as a litmus test to gauge the level of my paranoia. If I hear a strange noise, I look to them to see if they heard it. Most of the time, they don’t move a muscle, so I dismiss it as the house is settling.
One night last Spring, my husband was out, my daughter was sleeping, and I was in the basement watching a movie. A romantic comedy, of course. The dog slept at my feet and the cats snored on the back of the couch. A loud, inexplicable noise came from the living room upstairs and all three pets snap their heads up from a dead sleep and looked at me. My lizard brain shifted into rational mode: Someone has just entered the front door. It was not my husband because he comes in the back door and besides, he knows of my phobia and announces himself. My daughter sleeps in a crib and does not climb out. Who and what could it be?
I resign myself to fighting off the intruder; but how and with what? What length will I go through to protect myself from the interloper? My dog is no different from most dogs – he follows me from room to room, and is excited and befriends strangers. But, I’m banking that his mere presence will temporarily distract the intruder while I make my move. I pause the movie and quietly walk up the stairs – dog at my heels.
Unfortunately for my prowler, I pass through the kitchen where I grab the largest butcher knife from its wooden block holder on the counter. I send the dog ahead of me as I leap through the doorway into the dining room, landing in a Ninja stance, with my legs bent at the knees, holding the knife with both hands in front of me. I might have even said “ah ha” as my feet hit the floor.
The room was empty.
I Ninja-leap into the office, flip on the light. Empty. Okay. He probably made his way upstairs by now.
I walk up the steps in the dark, sliding my back against the wall like the police do in the movies when they sneak up on the kidnapper. I snake my hand around the doorway to flip on the light to my bedroom. No one is there. Yet, some how the dog managed to get ahead of me and is comfortably resting his head on my pillow. Back in the hallway, I pause outside my daughter’s door. I hear nothing but the whirling fan that lulls her to sleep. Sanity and reason snaps me back. If I walk in that room, flip on the light, the hell I pay would be worse than seeing the (imagined) interloper. I listen a while longer and conclude, he’s not in there.
Maybe he’s behind the shower curtain.
Maybe I’m insane.
I return my weapon to its resting place in the kitchen. The cats have not moved from the couch and the dog re-assumes his position at my feet. I press Play.
Growing up in Northern Minnesota, where the temperature is never above freezing, Halloween costumes are required to fit over a snowsuit, so while they aren’t very creative, they are practical. The last Halloween my mother allowed me trick or treat, before I was deemed too old, my costume was a large piece of red burlap wrapped around my pink puffy nylon coat and blue snow pants which I belted with a colorful strip of fabric. I used lipstick to draw “war paint” on my face, tied a striped headband around my forehead, put a feather in it, and announced I was Pocahontas. It was the 70s, so I got away with this.
By the time I was 13, I was barred from trick or treating, but I still managed to sneak away and go in a friend’s neighborhood. When going door to door, asking for candy wasn’t cool anymore, we stayed inside and watched scary movies and told frightening stories. This fascination with being scared went beyond one night a year. We the passed time on weekends by watching every "Friday the 13th", "Halloween", and "Nightmare on Elm Street" movies and told too many of the baby sitter is in the house alone and the call is coming from inside the house stories.
I’m convinced this is the root of my present-day neurosis. All those horror movies and scary stories manifested itself into a phobia that there is always someone right around the corner, ready to do me harm. Any noise I hear coming from bowels of basement, I rationally dismiss it as the house is settling or more convincingly the cats are fighting again. Nevertheless, the irrational imp sitting on my shoulder says, "there is a man sitting on top of the washing machine and you will be blinded by the glimmering butcher knife he holds in his hand when you turn on the light.”
I use my cats and dog as a litmus test to gauge the level of my paranoia. If I hear a strange noise, I look to them to see if they heard it. Most of the time, they don’t move a muscle, so I dismiss it as the house is settling.
One night last Spring, my husband was out, my daughter was sleeping, and I was in the basement watching a movie. A romantic comedy, of course. The dog slept at my feet and the cats snored on the back of the couch. A loud, inexplicable noise came from the living room upstairs and all three pets snap their heads up from a dead sleep and looked at me. My lizard brain shifted into rational mode: Someone has just entered the front door. It was not my husband because he comes in the back door and besides, he knows of my phobia and announces himself. My daughter sleeps in a crib and does not climb out. Who and what could it be?
I resign myself to fighting off the intruder; but how and with what? What length will I go through to protect myself from the interloper? My dog is no different from most dogs – he follows me from room to room, and is excited and befriends strangers. But, I’m banking that his mere presence will temporarily distract the intruder while I make my move. I pause the movie and quietly walk up the stairs – dog at my heels.
Unfortunately for my prowler, I pass through the kitchen where I grab the largest butcher knife from its wooden block holder on the counter. I send the dog ahead of me as I leap through the doorway into the dining room, landing in a Ninja stance, with my legs bent at the knees, holding the knife with both hands in front of me. I might have even said “ah ha” as my feet hit the floor.
The room was empty.
I Ninja-leap into the office, flip on the light. Empty. Okay. He probably made his way upstairs by now.
I walk up the steps in the dark, sliding my back against the wall like the police do in the movies when they sneak up on the kidnapper. I snake my hand around the doorway to flip on the light to my bedroom. No one is there. Yet, some how the dog managed to get ahead of me and is comfortably resting his head on my pillow. Back in the hallway, I pause outside my daughter’s door. I hear nothing but the whirling fan that lulls her to sleep. Sanity and reason snaps me back. If I walk in that room, flip on the light, the hell I pay would be worse than seeing the (imagined) interloper. I listen a while longer and conclude, he’s not in there.
Maybe he’s behind the shower curtain.
Maybe I’m insane.
I return my weapon to its resting place in the kitchen. The cats have not moved from the couch and the dog re-assumes his position at my feet. I press Play.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Buzzing in my ears...
Somebody, I beg you to make me temporarily deaf. Help. I’m at a coffee shop right now working on some essays and there is a singing duo “performing” with a guitar and sound system – they have a whole set up to present themselves as professionals. And they are completely HORRIBLE – especially the woman.
I know I should just leave, but I already bought my decaf caramel mocha and if I go to another place, I’d have to buy something else to take up space in their shop and use their wifi and I really don’t want to. I have limited time and I’m not that crazy about coffee. Okay, now the guy is singing and he is equally awful – they both SUCK. Clearly the coffee shop owner didn’t listen to the demo tape before she agreed to let them play. People are clapping for them – they must be friends or are so hopped up on coffee they can’t distinguish between good and horribly awful sounds – because that what this noise is – just some really horrible sounds pretending to be singing.
Who are these delusional people who believe they can, or worse, should sing in public? They clearly invested some time and money to learn songs, have their own sound system, and secure coffee shop gigs. But really truly, they can’t sing. I am no singer despite studying it in college, but I think at least I can carry a tune (in the shower) but I have enough humility to not attempt this form of creative expression in public. This is not unlike sitting through a high school choir concert, feigning a smile as your best friend slaughters the “The Rose”. The only people not wincing are her mother and grandmother. The choir teacher is accompanying her on the piano, so she doesn’t have to take responsibility - her only charge is to ensure confidence and spirit in the mind of young impressionable teens.
Oh, now this is just cruel – the female part of this god-forsaken is performing duo is singing Joni Mitchell. Oh god, now he joined in. They're singing, “I really don’t know clouds at all” as a duet. A double dose of complete and utter suckness. I will have to blast Joni Mitchell when I get home to eradicate the annoying tinning sound haunting my internal auditory system.
“What would you do if I sang out of tune” he bellows. Bodily harm is not out of the question at this point.
These are the people who try out for American Idol and land themselves on the audition shows that kick-off the season, whose sole funtion is to poke fun at the lack of ability to carry a tune.
Where is Simon Cowell when you need him?
I know I should just leave, but I already bought my decaf caramel mocha and if I go to another place, I’d have to buy something else to take up space in their shop and use their wifi and I really don’t want to. I have limited time and I’m not that crazy about coffee. Okay, now the guy is singing and he is equally awful – they both SUCK. Clearly the coffee shop owner didn’t listen to the demo tape before she agreed to let them play. People are clapping for them – they must be friends or are so hopped up on coffee they can’t distinguish between good and horribly awful sounds – because that what this noise is – just some really horrible sounds pretending to be singing.
Who are these delusional people who believe they can, or worse, should sing in public? They clearly invested some time and money to learn songs, have their own sound system, and secure coffee shop gigs. But really truly, they can’t sing. I am no singer despite studying it in college, but I think at least I can carry a tune (in the shower) but I have enough humility to not attempt this form of creative expression in public. This is not unlike sitting through a high school choir concert, feigning a smile as your best friend slaughters the “The Rose”. The only people not wincing are her mother and grandmother. The choir teacher is accompanying her on the piano, so she doesn’t have to take responsibility - her only charge is to ensure confidence and spirit in the mind of young impressionable teens.
Oh, now this is just cruel – the female part of this god-forsaken is performing duo is singing Joni Mitchell. Oh god, now he joined in. They're singing, “I really don’t know clouds at all” as a duet. A double dose of complete and utter suckness. I will have to blast Joni Mitchell when I get home to eradicate the annoying tinning sound haunting my internal auditory system.
“What would you do if I sang out of tune” he bellows. Bodily harm is not out of the question at this point.
These are the people who try out for American Idol and land themselves on the audition shows that kick-off the season, whose sole funtion is to poke fun at the lack of ability to carry a tune.
Where is Simon Cowell when you need him?
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Stop and go away
A few things that I need to never hear about or see again:
- Paris Hilton
- Jessica Simpson
- Celebrities who have babies (and shouldn’t. i.e. Britney Spears)
- Celebrity couples who have one name (Brangelina, TomKat, also see #3)
- Patrick Dempsey’s hair
- Keanu Reeves in romance movies (with Sandra Bullock)
- Dumb celebrity baby names like Inspecktor Fighter Pilot, Apple, and Moxie
- All of the Desperate Housewives
- Fear Factor and Big Brother (I never saw them; just stop showing the commercials!)
- Fox news briefs
Friday, June 09, 2006
Graduation
Last weekend I attended my oldest niece's high school graduation. In two weeks I attend my 20 year high school graduation reunion.
When did all this happen? It sounds so cliche to say, but where did time go? It's true what they say you know, it happens before you notice.
One day you're holding your 6-year-old niece in your arms and she is wiping the strawberry Lip Smacker from your mouth with her tiny fingers to apply it to her own lips. The next day, you're wondering when did she grow breasts and why is she wearing French manicured finger nails?
At her open-house graduation party, as I fed my 20-month-old grapes from my plate, I eavesdropped on her friends. Not that 18-year-olds have enough deep insight to hold anyone's attention for very long, they were a little more interesting than the game of repeating "yes, grape" while my daughter said "gape". They said they were free and it hasn't sunk in that they won't go to high school anymore. Maybe I looked for myself in their circle. Was I really ever that wide-eyed and optimistic? I was probably just as naive in thinking that life just got easier. I was free to do what I wanted and didn't have to answer to anyone.
As I said my goodbyes, holding my baby and hugging my niece, the generational tug and the maternal instinct took over. I told her that in a few weeks I was going to my high school graduation. Her eyes grew wide and quizzical as she jetted her jaw forward. As if she had a hard time believing I went to high school at all and that I perhaps felt the same way she felt right then.
"Wow," she said.
"Hard to believe, I know. Look at 20 years gone by," I said.
As she looked me over, I thought don't look at the wrinkles, or the baby on my hip, or my freshly dyed hair to cover the gray. Remember everything you always knew about your cool Auntie Lori who went to college. Remember when I went to Europe. Remember when I lived in New York. Remember when you visited me in the cities and we went to Valleyfair. Remember our talk and my advice about college life. She smiled and I believed that somehow she knew what I meant.
In just a few weeks, I'll be discussing my life so far over cocktails (more like beer; I'm from a small town!) with my classmates. I will ask if they remember how they felt on graduation day. Will there be a bit of that optimism left or will it have turn to humorous sarcasm, as it has in my case.
Nevertheless, I would not change a minute of the last 20 years. Well, maybe I would realize sooner how quickly it goes by.
When did all this happen? It sounds so cliche to say, but where did time go? It's true what they say you know, it happens before you notice.
One day you're holding your 6-year-old niece in your arms and she is wiping the strawberry Lip Smacker from your mouth with her tiny fingers to apply it to her own lips. The next day, you're wondering when did she grow breasts and why is she wearing French manicured finger nails?
At her open-house graduation party, as I fed my 20-month-old grapes from my plate, I eavesdropped on her friends. Not that 18-year-olds have enough deep insight to hold anyone's attention for very long, they were a little more interesting than the game of repeating "yes, grape" while my daughter said "gape". They said they were free and it hasn't sunk in that they won't go to high school anymore. Maybe I looked for myself in their circle. Was I really ever that wide-eyed and optimistic? I was probably just as naive in thinking that life just got easier. I was free to do what I wanted and didn't have to answer to anyone.
As I said my goodbyes, holding my baby and hugging my niece, the generational tug and the maternal instinct took over. I told her that in a few weeks I was going to my high school graduation. Her eyes grew wide and quizzical as she jetted her jaw forward. As if she had a hard time believing I went to high school at all and that I perhaps felt the same way she felt right then.
"Wow," she said.
"Hard to believe, I know. Look at 20 years gone by," I said.
As she looked me over, I thought don't look at the wrinkles, or the baby on my hip, or my freshly dyed hair to cover the gray. Remember everything you always knew about your cool Auntie Lori who went to college. Remember when I went to Europe. Remember when I lived in New York. Remember when you visited me in the cities and we went to Valleyfair. Remember our talk and my advice about college life. She smiled and I believed that somehow she knew what I meant.
In just a few weeks, I'll be discussing my life so far over cocktails (more like beer; I'm from a small town!) with my classmates. I will ask if they remember how they felt on graduation day. Will there be a bit of that optimism left or will it have turn to humorous sarcasm, as it has in my case.
Nevertheless, I would not change a minute of the last 20 years. Well, maybe I would realize sooner how quickly it goes by.
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