Today

1.

I woke up today and it was storming.

I went for the early morning shift at work. Ad set went smoothly. That might sound like nothing to you, but it's one of two times that I can remember that happening.

We have a lady retiring after 35 years (I cannot imagine 35 years of retail). The ad set morning crew threw her a special party on our break. There were doughnuts, cinnamon rolls, platters of cheese and crackers, strawberry shortcake, and assorted other foods. I ate lots while listening to her tell us about the dance classes she took 30 years ago and the different steps she could lead--it was genuinely fascinating.

I left work and rushed to put gas in the car. I have a rewards card and today was payoff day--I saved 30 cents off each gallon I put in. I was way too excited.

I changed for church, picked up family and friend, and left. Halfway there, we were caught in a summer storm. It was a good storm. Loud, vicious, pelting, warm, and humid all at once. There is nothing like a good rainstorm to make you feel cocooned and content.

At church there was more food. I ate and enjoyed.

We left quickly after church to get home. I changed and ate quickly because I had to get back to work. Usually the Sunday afternoon shifts make me feel tired, hungry and cranky, but not today.

At work, my wonderful friend was back from vacation. We started trying to catch each other up on everything that had happened--we didn't get anywhere close, but we had fun trying.

I changed again. Headed back to church. Went to choir practice. I loved the music we were singing--for all the wrong reasons, and enjoyed the people I spent time with.

We headed home. I drove fast. I talked with Dad and then ate pizza. All were good.

2.

It doesn't sound like I had much time for reflection, but I found the time.

6 years ago today, the problem was technically over--the kids just didn't know it yet. We wouldn't be informed until Monday, but for all intents and purposes, it was over.

I've written about this anniversary on previous June 27th's, but I've never felt like I do now. It's a strange mixture of amazement, pain and joy--but the pain is lesser then it ever has been before; this time amazement and joy are taking over.

I wish I could tell those 16, 14, 12 and 10 (It's funny, but I never felt young) year olds that it was going to be better. It wasn't going to be easy, it wasn't going to be fast, and it certainly wasn't going to be complete, but it was going to be so much better.

I still have a long way to go. I won't bore you with all that still needs to be accomplished in my life, but it's a lot. There are things I would change about my current life, but nothing major like I would have 6 years ago.

People don't understand, but I'm serious when I say,
This is my life, and in it, I am content.

It's Inevitable

I think this is my third year of doing the whole post-every-week-in-the-summer challenge.
Most of the time, it's not a challenge. Usually I have things I want to say and you provide a perfect outlet. There is, however, always one week where I don't feel like writing--apparently, it's this week.

It's not that I don't have plenty going on in my life that I could tell you about--getting my wisdom teeth pulled, sister and friend leaving, Argentina, summer, where my home is (I'm not joking--that's actually a post I'm working on right now), and numerous other possibilities. I'm just saying that none of those feel right for today.

So, I'm taking the coward's way out and giving you this annoying piece of drivel (admit it--you have always wanted to use that word in a sentence).

I do, however, have one piece of amazing news that you absolutely must hear: The words toward and towards mean the exact same thing. Toward is used by Americans and towards by the British.

No wonder I have always been confused about which one to use. It's judgement and grey all over again.

I guess now I should recant the drivel word because nothing as important as that last piece of information could ever be considered foolish.

But I can't take back drivel--I just can't.

Ace in the Hole

Humanity can be sick.

I watched this movie as a kick-off to my summer and was utterly blown away.

You know what's going to happen from the first few scenes, but that doesn't detract from the repulsion that you feel begin to grow inside you in the first scene and that continues on long after the movie has finished.

Billy Wilder directs. He made this right after making Sunset Boulevard (utterly perfect in it's own way). Hole is grittier and meaner then Blvd.

Kirk Douglas does an amazing job showing the extents people go to for entertainment.

If you're not sick by the end of this movie, then there is something utterly wrong with you.

I don't want to say go enjoy, because that just seems wrong.

So how's this?

Go be disturbed.

Death (an inauspicious title)

I thought death would be different then it was.

It's not that I don't have experience with death. I do--more than most people. When I traveled last fall, I was surprised by how few funerals my teammates had attended. For most it was 3 or 4, and for one girl it was 2 (you must understand, she didn't like to feel sad). My funeral attendance is much higher then 4, so I thought I had a better idea of what it would be like.

My Pappy died this last semester, and I miss him. I know he wasn't really aware of what was going on toward the end of his life. I know the months he lived with us were some of the most stressful on my parents and us kids. I know I didn't know him as well as others did. But, of course, none of those negate love. And I loved him.

I could tell you what I loved about him: his passion for any ice cream, big band music, golf and grandkids. I could tell how he taught me to play golf and croquet--and neither well. But this isn't about my memories of Pappy. I have them and I treasure them, but that's not what this post is about.

I was surprised by how different my conception of death was and what actually happened in two ways.

First, I thought death would be quicker. We were told he wasn't doing well, so my Mom drove down. When she arrived, she called my Dad and told him to get on the next flight. He left Wednesday morning. We were told Pappy wouldn't make it through the night. He did. We went to classes on Thursday, and were told he would be gone by early afternoon. He wasn't. We were excused from classes on Friday and left to drive down to PA. All five of us were jammed into my sister's car (which did not make for a comfortable trip), we were assured that he would be gone by that night. He wasn't.

The trip was incredibly slow, snow was everywhere (this was February), and the roads were bad. We ended up sitting on the highway for 2 1/2 hours. Just sitting. Not moving a single inch. It was horrible. We had made the decision to go as far as my brother and his wife's place Friday night, and continue on Saturday morning. We didn't arrive at his place until almost midnight. We had been on the road for over 11 hours. And we had only gone about 6 hours. We all spent the night camped out on my brother's living-room floor.

Saturday morning we woke up unsure of what to do. Pappy was still alive. It sounds awkward, but it doesn't sound nearly as awkward as it actually was. There was some question if we should go back home, be there for the weekend, and then leave again on Monday. We spent the day in limbo: doing some homework, sleeping, eating, but always still very unsure. It was weird. Saturday night came and we were playing a game. The call came. We hugged. We cried. The wait was over.

Monday to Saturday were some of the longest days of my life. In this instance, death was not quick.

Second, I thought people would use the word death. Since the first call, until weeks after I arrived home, I didn't hear the word death once. I thought it was strange. That was, after all, what we were dealing with--wasn't it? I used it. My immediate family used it. What was so hard about saying it? When I was trying to move a paper date because I was going to be gone, the teacher asked me "Are the angels welcoming their own home yet?" For a second, I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Another asked, "Has he passed into eternal glory?" I was amazed at how carefully people were avoiding the word. I wondered if they thought that if the four letter word escaped their lips, I would break down weeping.

After sometime, I thought about the avoidance of the word. Does it sound too crass for such a time? I tried to think about how I felt when I knew someone around me was hurting, did I try to avoid the word also?

Death is sad. We all know John Donne's quote about how you should see and feel your feeble humanity in anyone and everyone's death, but we don't do that. We're surrounded by death. No matter how much you know that every bell tolling is for you, you are not prepared for the depth of feelings you experience when a loved one dies.

I stood in that awful room while pathetic music played over the speakers, looked at my pappy and cried. Yes, I cried for someone I loved, but I cried with others that I loved. They made all the difference.

Every man's death diminishes me, it's true. But certain deaths take more of myself with them when they are washed away into the sea.

I don't think Donne would disagree.

Oh, Ebert

Read this.

You have to click on the title of the post to get to the article.

I loved it.

I'll be back.

I don't want to figure it out--yet

Knowing what's going to happen in a book, movie, or tv show is a fine, acquired art. I've been able to perfect that art over the years, and now reading or watching anything is a constant race with myself to know what's going to happen before I'm supposed to find out (thank you, years of Agatha Christie books).

Some of my favorite books and movies are the ones that I didn't figure out until everyone else did. Sure, like you figured out the whole Maximilian/Rebecca plot twist. And that seriously amazing scene in that movie where suddenly every single piece of everything makes sense (and if you think I just referenced Memento, I'm feeling unspeakable pain for you--I really hate that movie.)

Recently, the figuring stuff out has become a little boring. When you read classics, you already know the ending simply because you've had to have basic knowledge of the book previously. Movies clearly have been unable to come up with anything slightly convincing in the past few years. And you can barely get on any entertainment website without finding out what happened in your favorite TV show before you get a chance to watch it.

I finished Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go about two weeks ago. I had wanted to read it,especially before the movie came out--I can't abide movie book covers. The book was voted as best novel of 2005 by National Book Critic Circles Award and named as one of the top 10 books of the decade by TIME magazine.

I made it a point not to research anything about the book--I didn't want any hints about what was going to happen. I had three sentences to go on: 1. Children at a boarding school, and all is not what it seems. 2. By the guy who wrote The Remains of the Day. 3. It is slightly creepy and powerful with a twist ending.

Now, after reading the first sentence, you'd better have a pretty good idea about what is going on, or I've lost all my faith in your premonitions.

I settled down with the book and enjoyed it. My pre-book-reading premonitions were not exactly correct, but I quickly corrected them (we're talking 3rd chapter here), and had the twist safely figured out a few chapters later. Admittedly, my entire theory could have failed because I was building it off one sentence, but I had such comfort in the knowledge Ishiguro had of this world that I knew I could trust him to make that sentence be as important as it should be. He proved me right.

It was not my favorite book, by any means. I'm not even sure I'll read it again, but I did enjoy the chase. I enjoyed feeling like this book had fooled plenty of people before me, but it wasn't going to fool me. I felt as if I was a little kid again, reading a mystery novel while tucked under the covers, grasping to every word, eager to discover the motive, the weapon, and the killer, and the wonderful feeling when you discover you're right.

Besides all that--it was a pretty good book.

Note: if you are interested in reading the book, I do recommend the not-researching any part of it before you read. After I read it, I checked google, wikipedia, and amazon. Any self-respecting reader could piece the whole story together by just those tidbits that everyone else let creep out. But wouldn't you like to see if you could figure out what happened using only the author's words which are, I promise you, far more enjoyable then some book review on amazon. At least he has style--and prose.