This blog inspired me quite a bit for this post. I've been reading some personal finance blogs, and this one really stuck to me. She also has a similar post, and it had me thinking of how I've had to trim things down.
I hate school loans. I like that I was able to go to college and finish in 4.5 years. I'm glad I'm not still in school. There is an upside to school loans.
I still hate them.
I'm really good at saving money. While yes, I did live in a dorm in college and did use the campus cafeteria, I still bought food for the weekends and other things I needed. My goal was to not pay more than $2.00 each for most things. Obviously things like facial cleanser cost a little more, and I did make exceptions for things like these sweet chili potstickers that I loved (and that are no longer made. Sad.) I did well, mostly.
Mentally, it made me consider needs vs. wants, like the author of My Alternate Life.
Deoderant is necessary. What isn't is the $4.00 tube that really doesn't do anything other than supposedly make your armpits beautiful or something.
That's the easy part.
I need a new car. It's not urgent right now, but my car is a 21-year-old minivan, which I have driven since high school. It was given to me when my parents bought a newer van later, and because my dad all about maintenance, it still runs pretty well. It's no Bugatti, but my commute to work is short and my van (affectionately known as Bessie, and referred to as "she" most of the time) does well.
But the old girl will not last forever. Machines don't. Soon I will need a new car. I want a Jeep Wrangler. If I had a lot of money, I'd get this gorgeous tangerine colored 2013 model I saw at a dealer outside town. If I had enough to buy an older one in cash (which I'd prefer), I'd settle for a late 90s Wrangler. They were still really good, and they hold their value. The reality is, I don't have quite enough to do that without depleting my savings, and I don't want to deal with another payment. The sad reality is, I probably have enough to pay cash an older model of something sensible.
Gross.
But I still have to make those school loan payments and live on what's left of my paycheck after the damage is done. There are many times I wish I hadn't taken out school loans. I'm getting married at some point. I want a nice wedding.
I think I can afford myself that want, because I have been saving up for that since I got my current job. I'm determined to not default on my loans. My dream is to pay them off in huge chunks, because that would be the best revenge on high interest rates.
Right now, I'm happy. I refuse to let myself stress out anymore over my loans. I still hate them, but with the measured coldness of an assassin. Those loans are going down.
And when they fall, it will be a really good day.
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Oh No Not Another One
I had one of those dreams again last night, as happens every few months or so. Suddenly, it's my wedding day, and I'm all dressed up, not at all how I want to be, and nothing is right and everything is ruined and there's country music playing and there are guests with jeans on.
In this dream, to my annoyance, I wasn't wearing the awesome dream dress that I had, in the dream world and in real life, already bought and paid completely for.
The ceremony looked like it was taking place in a Ruritan Club building in Dundas, Virginia (you've probably never heard of it; if you have, we might be cousins), where my mom's family has their annual family reunion. After the ceremony, when I was standing around, in the dream I said to my fiance "This isn't what I wanted. We'll have a real one later."
It's the first time in these types of dreams that I've done anything like that.
And I know why that particular dream occurred last night. Right before I went to bed, I was talking with him about our wedding, and having a little stressed moment because basically the only thing I've decided is that I want a chocolate wedding cake and also Doctor Who.
I've finally gotten him to agree to make some input. It's his wedding too. I don't think this is out of generosity on my part; I just think that the wedding needs to have elements of both of us. I need to start work on the cake topper soon. I at least know where I'm going to get the cake. I have my dress and my shoes and I need to get a good calligraphy pen so I can work at the invitations (once we set a date...) but even those are already designed. (By me.)
I don't even want to begin to think about the food right now.
Now we just need to figure out a venue for everything.
Ideally, the TARDIS would be nice because then we could just have everyone get to the church, load up, and have a nice, no fuss destination wedding (and also make a room for me and my friends to get ready on board.)
One can only wish.
The good thing is, I've now gotten my fiance into the planning process.
I was also skinny in my dream.
So at least that's something.
In this dream, to my annoyance, I wasn't wearing the awesome dream dress that I had, in the dream world and in real life, already bought and paid completely for.
The ceremony looked like it was taking place in a Ruritan Club building in Dundas, Virginia (you've probably never heard of it; if you have, we might be cousins), where my mom's family has their annual family reunion. After the ceremony, when I was standing around, in the dream I said to my fiance "This isn't what I wanted. We'll have a real one later."
It's the first time in these types of dreams that I've done anything like that.
And I know why that particular dream occurred last night. Right before I went to bed, I was talking with him about our wedding, and having a little stressed moment because basically the only thing I've decided is that I want a chocolate wedding cake and also Doctor Who.
I've finally gotten him to agree to make some input. It's his wedding too. I don't think this is out of generosity on my part; I just think that the wedding needs to have elements of both of us. I need to start work on the cake topper soon. I at least know where I'm going to get the cake. I have my dress and my shoes and I need to get a good calligraphy pen so I can work at the invitations (once we set a date...) but even those are already designed. (By me.)
I don't even want to begin to think about the food right now.
Now we just need to figure out a venue for everything.
Ideally, the TARDIS would be nice because then we could just have everyone get to the church, load up, and have a nice, no fuss destination wedding (and also make a room for me and my friends to get ready on board.)
One can only wish.
The good thing is, I've now gotten my fiance into the planning process.
I was also skinny in my dream.
So at least that's something.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Wonder
Adulthood is the only time we humans revel in the loss of something that defined us as children.
As children, we gaze at our world with wide open eyes at everything we see in our world. We think so seriously about going to the moon, maybe as a whole family, and wouldn't that be fun? We excitedly await Christmas, scan the heavens on Christmas Eve for a red nose and maybe some snow. Summer is barefoot time, an eternity long, full of that word we don't yet know but will later understand as opportunity. Potential. And maybe, sometimes we will call it magic.
It's hard to point out at what point the process of loss begins in us. It may come fast and harsh, not so much a process as a moment where we are changed. It may begin slowly, with little things here and there, always different for everyone. The kid who tells his group, in hushed tones, that he found all his presents in the closet before Christmas. Or it might be the day when, as you are showing off your wealth from the night before, gained for only the price of a tooth under your pillow, a classmate yells out "fairies aren't real." Yet we still argue, still hold on a little longer as these things steal bits and pieces of who we are, until one day it happens.
We let go of our wonder.
And we are only happy to let it drift away. It's a mark of being grownup, like wearing makeup or shaving for the first time.
And after being content to leave it alone and let it drift for awhile, we dive eagerly away from it, into darker waters.
We eagerly describe ourselves as cynical and jaded. We take on these world-wise titles while telling others how naive they are. And the world welcomes it. It was others who first told us to stop being naive, to stop being amazed and awed. We are forced by the pressure, so like a wave beating us into the sand, to accept that the faeries in the photographs aren't real, that it's just too warm for snow, that we will never stand on the moon.
And it makes us sad, so sad, that we must reminisce and laugh at our younger selves not for pleasure, but maybe in hopes of revisiting the wonder that we let drift away so long ago. We claim to hate hiking in the summer because of the bees, while at the same time staring at a photograph of a path that leads into a forest, and we long to follow.
And then there are more children, so like the way we were, so full of the joy at existence that it's contagious, and we marvel at how funny they are, knowing deep down we were like that. They grow, and we say, "heh, they're lucky they don't have work. Just wait...."
Yes. Wait. They will be like you one day, falsely jaded, lying about their cynicism to hide that maybe they miss the one thing they left behind when they crawled onto the shore and found themselves firmly rooted instead of floating.
There are times, always, for everyone, where something in the distance flickers, beckoning us, saying "Come here. I have something to show you" and we draw near to find that the wonder we thought we'd drowned, that we thought was gone forever, has followed us and never left.
It will never be what it was so long ago. It can't. We are different, and it has changed too.
And though we might not stand on the moon, or have snow in 50 degree weather, we can still gaze at the heavens, not seeking glowing red noses, but a vast universe of things we can't begin to imagine. We can revel in the sounds from a guitar amp. We get excited over a plot twist we never saw coming. We watch life push and struggle and be and we study it so much closer to know why it is so wondrous.
We are all geeks over something we hold dear. It's not an obsession or unhealthy or strange; it is hardwired in us. It is the sense of wonder that we let go, refined by the waters, following us onto the shore, tied by a rope so fine that we can ignore it, and calling to us when we find it again. It has grown up with us, become specifically tailored to us. It is us.
We are creatures of wonder, in a universe built for it, and in a time after time, when all the tears are wiped away from our eyes, we will know the greatest wonder of all.
As children, we gaze at our world with wide open eyes at everything we see in our world. We think so seriously about going to the moon, maybe as a whole family, and wouldn't that be fun? We excitedly await Christmas, scan the heavens on Christmas Eve for a red nose and maybe some snow. Summer is barefoot time, an eternity long, full of that word we don't yet know but will later understand as opportunity. Potential. And maybe, sometimes we will call it magic.
It's hard to point out at what point the process of loss begins in us. It may come fast and harsh, not so much a process as a moment where we are changed. It may begin slowly, with little things here and there, always different for everyone. The kid who tells his group, in hushed tones, that he found all his presents in the closet before Christmas. Or it might be the day when, as you are showing off your wealth from the night before, gained for only the price of a tooth under your pillow, a classmate yells out "fairies aren't real." Yet we still argue, still hold on a little longer as these things steal bits and pieces of who we are, until one day it happens.
We let go of our wonder.
And we are only happy to let it drift away. It's a mark of being grownup, like wearing makeup or shaving for the first time.
And after being content to leave it alone and let it drift for awhile, we dive eagerly away from it, into darker waters.
We eagerly describe ourselves as cynical and jaded. We take on these world-wise titles while telling others how naive they are. And the world welcomes it. It was others who first told us to stop being naive, to stop being amazed and awed. We are forced by the pressure, so like a wave beating us into the sand, to accept that the faeries in the photographs aren't real, that it's just too warm for snow, that we will never stand on the moon.
And it makes us sad, so sad, that we must reminisce and laugh at our younger selves not for pleasure, but maybe in hopes of revisiting the wonder that we let drift away so long ago. We claim to hate hiking in the summer because of the bees, while at the same time staring at a photograph of a path that leads into a forest, and we long to follow.
And then there are more children, so like the way we were, so full of the joy at existence that it's contagious, and we marvel at how funny they are, knowing deep down we were like that. They grow, and we say, "heh, they're lucky they don't have work. Just wait...."
Yes. Wait. They will be like you one day, falsely jaded, lying about their cynicism to hide that maybe they miss the one thing they left behind when they crawled onto the shore and found themselves firmly rooted instead of floating.
There are times, always, for everyone, where something in the distance flickers, beckoning us, saying "Come here. I have something to show you" and we draw near to find that the wonder we thought we'd drowned, that we thought was gone forever, has followed us and never left.
It will never be what it was so long ago. It can't. We are different, and it has changed too.
And though we might not stand on the moon, or have snow in 50 degree weather, we can still gaze at the heavens, not seeking glowing red noses, but a vast universe of things we can't begin to imagine. We can revel in the sounds from a guitar amp. We get excited over a plot twist we never saw coming. We watch life push and struggle and be and we study it so much closer to know why it is so wondrous.
We are all geeks over something we hold dear. It's not an obsession or unhealthy or strange; it is hardwired in us. It is the sense of wonder that we let go, refined by the waters, following us onto the shore, tied by a rope so fine that we can ignore it, and calling to us when we find it again. It has grown up with us, become specifically tailored to us. It is us.
We are creatures of wonder, in a universe built for it, and in a time after time, when all the tears are wiped away from our eyes, we will know the greatest wonder of all.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Family Reunions and Weddings
The concept of the family reunion is a funny one to me. How do you reunite with people you don't really know, and therefore were never united with?
I went to my mom's family reunion today. None of the cousins I actually know were there, mostly because of work, life, distance, birthdays, and other things. I usually see these family members at Christmas. Last week was my dad's family reunion. I see that family all the time, because they live around where I do. I ended up talking a lot to my cousin, who told me all about her cousin's (on her mom's side) wedding, then I played with my other cousin's kids.
Today, in the crowded, small, hot Ruritan club meeting house, I suddenly realized why the state of etiquette is the way it is today.
Back in the day, when family reunions were probably not as often a thing as they are now, it was an easier thing to invite family to a modest wedding. If they lived pretty far away, odds are they weren't gonna make the trek back from Oregon or wherever it was they carted themselves off to.
Today, we have cars. Or planes.
I looked at this huge crowd of people, most of whom I did not know, and realized that some of them will be wedding guests.
And it scared me. Suddenly, I have people I don't know showing up, maybe, if they do the gypsy thing, which I understood, from that gypsy wedding show, to mean that word is spread and people just show up. That's normal. That's expected. It's probably exactly how things used to be done everywhere.
Family reunions are probably included in the reasons why people get freaked out about wedding guest lists. What used to be uncomplicated has suddenly become quite a bit more tricky. Suddenly, you realize your parents existed before you entered into the world like a shrieking banshee, and they have cousins and relatives who you might not know and who will expect to get an invitation, even if they don't know you.
And now, what was once a situation of "fix enough for everybody" has now become "oh no, broke me now has to pay to feed 200 people" and even though every single one of the people your age goes "it's your wedding, do what you want" you know they probably don't quite get the way family can be and what is expected of you. I mean, my grandmother thinks it's improper to sit on a bed. We differ on that. I turned my bed into a makeshift couch.
I think I see the point of destination weddings now.
I went to my mom's family reunion today. None of the cousins I actually know were there, mostly because of work, life, distance, birthdays, and other things. I usually see these family members at Christmas. Last week was my dad's family reunion. I see that family all the time, because they live around where I do. I ended up talking a lot to my cousin, who told me all about her cousin's (on her mom's side) wedding, then I played with my other cousin's kids.
Today, in the crowded, small, hot Ruritan club meeting house, I suddenly realized why the state of etiquette is the way it is today.
Back in the day, when family reunions were probably not as often a thing as they are now, it was an easier thing to invite family to a modest wedding. If they lived pretty far away, odds are they weren't gonna make the trek back from Oregon or wherever it was they carted themselves off to.
Today, we have cars. Or planes.
I looked at this huge crowd of people, most of whom I did not know, and realized that some of them will be wedding guests.
And it scared me. Suddenly, I have people I don't know showing up, maybe, if they do the gypsy thing, which I understood, from that gypsy wedding show, to mean that word is spread and people just show up. That's normal. That's expected. It's probably exactly how things used to be done everywhere.
Family reunions are probably included in the reasons why people get freaked out about wedding guest lists. What used to be uncomplicated has suddenly become quite a bit more tricky. Suddenly, you realize your parents existed before you entered into the world like a shrieking banshee, and they have cousins and relatives who you might not know and who will expect to get an invitation, even if they don't know you.
And now, what was once a situation of "fix enough for everybody" has now become "oh no, broke me now has to pay to feed 200 people" and even though every single one of the people your age goes "it's your wedding, do what you want" you know they probably don't quite get the way family can be and what is expected of you. I mean, my grandmother thinks it's improper to sit on a bed. We differ on that. I turned my bed into a makeshift couch.
I think I see the point of destination weddings now.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Eating
I was healthier in high school. I know I was. I remember what I ate and what I did.
First came the "burn 3500 calories a day" thing the summer before my freshman year. I literally sat for hours on the exercise bike we had, because there was nothing else to do. I couldn't drive, and we lived out on Highway 301. Not exactly within walking distance of a pool, and that summer, the pool we went to wasn't even open that much until mid-July. So I read a lot and sat on that bike and tried to burn off a pound a day while watching A Makeover Story on TLC. It didn't work, but hey, exercise, because we lived on the world's shortest dead-end road and didn't walk the dog much.
I started to go to the YMCA to work out when i was in tenth grade. Every day after school. It was good stuff. I also played softball, but let's be honest, it's not exactly an aerobic sport except for the ten seconds you're running to a base.
Okay, so, yeah, pretty general self-improvement, right?
Well, I also turned into sort of a hippie around the same time I got into Lord of the Rings. I gave up pork, avoided red meat, didn't drink soft drinks (at all, ever) for like a year, and ate a whole lot of veggie burgers and tofu. I gave up dairy milk in favor of soy milk, and I drank a ton of tea and water.
Lately I've been missing those days.
I know I was healthier then, mostly because of what I didn't eat. I felt good most of the time, except for the times when I was sick. I mean, the exercise helped too, but the human body is a whole thing and needs completeness in nutrition to make the exercise work. What gets me is, I moved less then. I was in high school. I sat for seven hours a day, five days a week.
I'm gonna go back to how I ate back then. It really shouldn't be too hard. I still don't drink a lot of soft drinks at all. Maybe once a week. I just know that the terrible food at BJU didn't help (and there weren't options unless you wanted a salad that took a chance on being slimy from wilted lettuce.)
So, I guess I'm going to give the hippie thing a try again. Feels pretty awesome.
First came the "burn 3500 calories a day" thing the summer before my freshman year. I literally sat for hours on the exercise bike we had, because there was nothing else to do. I couldn't drive, and we lived out on Highway 301. Not exactly within walking distance of a pool, and that summer, the pool we went to wasn't even open that much until mid-July. So I read a lot and sat on that bike and tried to burn off a pound a day while watching A Makeover Story on TLC. It didn't work, but hey, exercise, because we lived on the world's shortest dead-end road and didn't walk the dog much.
I started to go to the YMCA to work out when i was in tenth grade. Every day after school. It was good stuff. I also played softball, but let's be honest, it's not exactly an aerobic sport except for the ten seconds you're running to a base.
Okay, so, yeah, pretty general self-improvement, right?
Well, I also turned into sort of a hippie around the same time I got into Lord of the Rings. I gave up pork, avoided red meat, didn't drink soft drinks (at all, ever) for like a year, and ate a whole lot of veggie burgers and tofu. I gave up dairy milk in favor of soy milk, and I drank a ton of tea and water.
Lately I've been missing those days.
I know I was healthier then, mostly because of what I didn't eat. I felt good most of the time, except for the times when I was sick. I mean, the exercise helped too, but the human body is a whole thing and needs completeness in nutrition to make the exercise work. What gets me is, I moved less then. I was in high school. I sat for seven hours a day, five days a week.
I'm gonna go back to how I ate back then. It really shouldn't be too hard. I still don't drink a lot of soft drinks at all. Maybe once a week. I just know that the terrible food at BJU didn't help (and there weren't options unless you wanted a salad that took a chance on being slimy from wilted lettuce.)
So, I guess I'm going to give the hippie thing a try again. Feels pretty awesome.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Post Worship Munchies
I grew up in a church that started at 11:00 A.M on Sundays. When I started going to a new church, their second service started at 10:30. I'm really good at getting ready fast in the morning, so I'd get up at 9:30 on Sundays that I actually went to church.
My church now has switched to one Sunday service, which starts at 9:30. I have to get up at 8:30, but that's not too bad. (No, I'm not used to it because I didn't go to Sunday school all that much growing up.) With the new schedule, church lets out around 11:30 or before.
Today we were planning to eat lunch with our aunt, but her church starts at 11 and ends around 12:30, so we had a nice window of time between getting home and changing clothes.
Bring on the Sunday munchies.
I think I know why, too, because all my life, I grew up with the rigid schedule of church then lunch. And today, we had Triscuit crackers, which would be more accurately named Triscuit crack. Yes. I munched them along with two small cups of coffee. After actual lunch at Taco Bell, I crunched some numbers and figured some life changes out.
It's been a strange day of munching and crunching and making decisions that I won't divulge here quite yet. But I'm pretty excited.
Bring on the awesomeness.
My church now has switched to one Sunday service, which starts at 9:30. I have to get up at 8:30, but that's not too bad. (No, I'm not used to it because I didn't go to Sunday school all that much growing up.) With the new schedule, church lets out around 11:30 or before.
Today we were planning to eat lunch with our aunt, but her church starts at 11 and ends around 12:30, so we had a nice window of time between getting home and changing clothes.
Bring on the Sunday munchies.
I think I know why, too, because all my life, I grew up with the rigid schedule of church then lunch. And today, we had Triscuit crackers, which would be more accurately named Triscuit crack. Yes. I munched them along with two small cups of coffee. After actual lunch at Taco Bell, I crunched some numbers and figured some life changes out.
It's been a strange day of munching and crunching and making decisions that I won't divulge here quite yet. But I'm pretty excited.
Bring on the awesomeness.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Reflections of a Future Terrible Parent, Part 2
Continuing from Part 1.
I'd never really labeled myself as anything beyond being a Christian. I went to a Baptist church back then. We started going because my cousin would go to Awana with her friend, who went to that church. I started going to Awana, and it just naturally happened that we started attending, because my dad grew up there. His parents had become Christians in the 1960s and that was the home church they chose. They still go there. The church also basically ran my school, but I was never aware of it beyond simply knowing. They felt separate and as a result, I never really felt that close to the church. I went on Wednesday nights, and later we'd start going more regularly on Sundays, and I did get involved more in high school. That was pretty fun. But I never labeled myself a fundamentalist. My clothing was decidedly unmodest (my shorts went mid-thigh and I wore a bathing suit to a mixed swimming pool) and my family wasn't that big into hymns. For awhile, I only believed in the King James Version of the Bible, but for no other reason that I had been told it was the best. I don't believe that anymore, and I'm ashamed to say that I made that declaration without any sort of backing or research, checking around, or even reading it much for myself. Despite all this, I was still pretty normal, and I was never a fundamentalist.
My reading tastes varied, as I mentioned before. I didn't delve into the classics, though. I read teen lit, and a lot of it. I'm sure that a lot of it was vapid and shallow, and I know some of my friends would raise an eyebrow and issue an intellectual disclaimer that the movie version was cute, but sort of silly. All this to say, I didn't grow up reading Pride and Prejudice voraciously. Fine if you do. I more enjoyed Treasure Island and Journey to the Center of the Earth. To this day, I still haven't read it. I might. Pride and Prejudice came with my Kindle app, and I own the 2005 movie (which I did like quite a bit. But it, alas, has "too much drama." Or something.) I still read a lot of YA lit. I liked Twilight (sorry to block your potshots here, but that doesn't make me unintelligent either.) I think part of the reason I do like the genre is because my local library didn't have a lot of it to offer that I liked then, and I was often too embarrassed to venture into the children's section. I'm writing a YA novel. Jane Eyre, as I understand the story, freaks me out a little. I mean, ew, the guy locks his schizo wife up in the attic and starts skirt-chasing a 20 year old, who likes it. That's officially grosser than Twilight right there.
So I won't make my sons or daughters read the classics because they're "good for them." I will train them to make the right decisions and to analyze everything, just like I do, and just like my fiance does. I didn't need ten thousand rules growing up because my parents taught me to think.
I said before that my mom went back to work once I was old enough to babysit my brother in the afternoons. I never got paid; it was just something normal that I did, every day, because my mom sacrificed a lot so we could have a private education. By no means did we live outrageously; our household was a frugal one. There were plenty of summer vacations, because building those memories is so important to my family, even today.
My junior year at BJU, I had this roommate who was mostly a very sweet person, but very sheltered. She was engaged to a man (and they're married now) who very much considered himself an authority in her life, in such instances as not letting her speak to any of her male friends. (I won't even touch on that. Make of it what you will.) Well, somehow there was some discussion or other in the room one day, between me and her and my two freshman roommates, about women working in WWII. (My great-grandmother was one such woman. I'm very proud of that.) I don't remember much about what happened through most of the conversation, but at the end, the older roommate said "But I believe women should have just stayed home after the war" in a condescending tone.*
And now, I can only think how spoiled rotten she was. She wasn't alone either. I know myself that stay-at-home moms do stuff, all day, especially if the kids are very young. It's a hard job. But I have known so many people who hold a quiet judgment for women like both my grandmothers, at least one of my great-grandmothers, and my mom. In a crowd of tenth generation Christian future homemakers and preachers' kids, I know I stood out, having come from a long line of women who worked and sacrificed a lot to give to their families.
So I will not hesitate to work if it means that my children will otherwise not eat or not have decent clothes.
That brings me to another point. See, growing up in a regular school, even if it was a private school, helped me understand people. Now, that's one thing that's not so unique at my alma mater, but there still are a lot of people in this country who are homeschooled. The US is pretty cool about that sort of thing, and I'm glad. But I'm also happy that I was never homeschooled, and it's very likely something I won't be doing.
I can hear the resounding "whys" now. I've actually been asked that, and in a confrontational manner. As if I hadn't thought it through. As if I had no idea what I was talking about.
But I have thought it through, and I have several reasons for not wanting to homeschool my children. For one, I don't want them to get a lopsided education. I only studied chemistry in college for one year, and, spoiler alert, I wasn't good at it. Same goes for math. Now, if there's something concrete I can focus on, like learning by doing stuff hands-on, then I'm good. That's why Physics was easier for me than Chemistry. Not easy, just easier. I still struggled, but I understood it better. I'm even convinced that Calculus could be conquered if one uses objects instead of concepts. But see, I don't know that my kids will learn the same way I do. They might, they might not. I don't want them to get an education so heavy in history and literature that they miss out on math and science and lose any opportunity for a calling. Even if I were to be a stay-at-home mom, my future husband, who is good at math and science, would be at work all day. I wouldn't be satisfied having my kids learn from a DVD. If it's obvious that one of my kids will love math or science, but has no way of learning past the most basic concepts, then there is a failure somewhere. Not everyone can major in English and love it. I sure wouldn't. Props to y'all who do. I believe an actual teacher needs to be there to help where I couldn't. If times are tough from a monetary perspective, I will work too. I've been told that there are bad influences in schools. And that all goes back to raising your child right.
So, I say again, I also will most likely not be homeschooling my children.
What I don't look forward to is the quiet judgment. I already know someone who looked quite surprised, and somewhat unpleasantly so, that I'm a whole two months older than my fiance, because "the husband should be older." Too late, I guess.
I'm not trying to insult anyone with the things I believe and the things I will do; I simply ask that the favor is returned. I'm not horribly altered because my life didn't have fresh baked muffins**, classes at home, and crappy old literature all the time, every day. I had a normal childhood and a normal adolescence. Yet still, I've had people, even friends, tell me the same thing a few times: "I didn't think you'd be a nice person until I got to know you." I don't even know what to say to that.
There's probably lots of other ways I'll manage to be a terrible parent, but I don't care. I learned from the awesomest. Cheers to "terrible" parenting.
*She also, for some reason, thought that my Dad's parents did not have a big wedding because they weren't church-going people at the time, and that it just wasn't important to them. My grandparents were poor. They couldn't afford a fancy old-money wedding, and were married by a minister in his office at his church. Same goes for my Mom's parents, who did attend church regularly. Tsk. Spoiled.
**I can bake the heck out of a chocolate chip cookie, though. Just sayin'.
I'd never really labeled myself as anything beyond being a Christian. I went to a Baptist church back then. We started going because my cousin would go to Awana with her friend, who went to that church. I started going to Awana, and it just naturally happened that we started attending, because my dad grew up there. His parents had become Christians in the 1960s and that was the home church they chose. They still go there. The church also basically ran my school, but I was never aware of it beyond simply knowing. They felt separate and as a result, I never really felt that close to the church. I went on Wednesday nights, and later we'd start going more regularly on Sundays, and I did get involved more in high school. That was pretty fun. But I never labeled myself a fundamentalist. My clothing was decidedly unmodest (my shorts went mid-thigh and I wore a bathing suit to a mixed swimming pool) and my family wasn't that big into hymns. For awhile, I only believed in the King James Version of the Bible, but for no other reason that I had been told it was the best. I don't believe that anymore, and I'm ashamed to say that I made that declaration without any sort of backing or research, checking around, or even reading it much for myself. Despite all this, I was still pretty normal, and I was never a fundamentalist.
My reading tastes varied, as I mentioned before. I didn't delve into the classics, though. I read teen lit, and a lot of it. I'm sure that a lot of it was vapid and shallow, and I know some of my friends would raise an eyebrow and issue an intellectual disclaimer that the movie version was cute, but sort of silly. All this to say, I didn't grow up reading Pride and Prejudice voraciously. Fine if you do. I more enjoyed Treasure Island and Journey to the Center of the Earth. To this day, I still haven't read it. I might. Pride and Prejudice came with my Kindle app, and I own the 2005 movie (which I did like quite a bit. But it, alas, has "too much drama." Or something.) I still read a lot of YA lit. I liked Twilight (sorry to block your potshots here, but that doesn't make me unintelligent either.) I think part of the reason I do like the genre is because my local library didn't have a lot of it to offer that I liked then, and I was often too embarrassed to venture into the children's section. I'm writing a YA novel. Jane Eyre, as I understand the story, freaks me out a little. I mean, ew, the guy locks his schizo wife up in the attic and starts skirt-chasing a 20 year old, who likes it. That's officially grosser than Twilight right there.
So I won't make my sons or daughters read the classics because they're "good for them." I will train them to make the right decisions and to analyze everything, just like I do, and just like my fiance does. I didn't need ten thousand rules growing up because my parents taught me to think.
I said before that my mom went back to work once I was old enough to babysit my brother in the afternoons. I never got paid; it was just something normal that I did, every day, because my mom sacrificed a lot so we could have a private education. By no means did we live outrageously; our household was a frugal one. There were plenty of summer vacations, because building those memories is so important to my family, even today.
My junior year at BJU, I had this roommate who was mostly a very sweet person, but very sheltered. She was engaged to a man (and they're married now) who very much considered himself an authority in her life, in such instances as not letting her speak to any of her male friends. (I won't even touch on that. Make of it what you will.) Well, somehow there was some discussion or other in the room one day, between me and her and my two freshman roommates, about women working in WWII. (My great-grandmother was one such woman. I'm very proud of that.) I don't remember much about what happened through most of the conversation, but at the end, the older roommate said "But I believe women should have just stayed home after the war" in a condescending tone.*
And now, I can only think how spoiled rotten she was. She wasn't alone either. I know myself that stay-at-home moms do stuff, all day, especially if the kids are very young. It's a hard job. But I have known so many people who hold a quiet judgment for women like both my grandmothers, at least one of my great-grandmothers, and my mom. In a crowd of tenth generation Christian future homemakers and preachers' kids, I know I stood out, having come from a long line of women who worked and sacrificed a lot to give to their families.
So I will not hesitate to work if it means that my children will otherwise not eat or not have decent clothes.
That brings me to another point. See, growing up in a regular school, even if it was a private school, helped me understand people. Now, that's one thing that's not so unique at my alma mater, but there still are a lot of people in this country who are homeschooled. The US is pretty cool about that sort of thing, and I'm glad. But I'm also happy that I was never homeschooled, and it's very likely something I won't be doing.
I can hear the resounding "whys" now. I've actually been asked that, and in a confrontational manner. As if I hadn't thought it through. As if I had no idea what I was talking about.
But I have thought it through, and I have several reasons for not wanting to homeschool my children. For one, I don't want them to get a lopsided education. I only studied chemistry in college for one year, and, spoiler alert, I wasn't good at it. Same goes for math. Now, if there's something concrete I can focus on, like learning by doing stuff hands-on, then I'm good. That's why Physics was easier for me than Chemistry. Not easy, just easier. I still struggled, but I understood it better. I'm even convinced that Calculus could be conquered if one uses objects instead of concepts. But see, I don't know that my kids will learn the same way I do. They might, they might not. I don't want them to get an education so heavy in history and literature that they miss out on math and science and lose any opportunity for a calling. Even if I were to be a stay-at-home mom, my future husband, who is good at math and science, would be at work all day. I wouldn't be satisfied having my kids learn from a DVD. If it's obvious that one of my kids will love math or science, but has no way of learning past the most basic concepts, then there is a failure somewhere. Not everyone can major in English and love it. I sure wouldn't. Props to y'all who do. I believe an actual teacher needs to be there to help where I couldn't. If times are tough from a monetary perspective, I will work too. I've been told that there are bad influences in schools. And that all goes back to raising your child right.
So, I say again, I also will most likely not be homeschooling my children.
What I don't look forward to is the quiet judgment. I already know someone who looked quite surprised, and somewhat unpleasantly so, that I'm a whole two months older than my fiance, because "the husband should be older." Too late, I guess.
I'm not trying to insult anyone with the things I believe and the things I will do; I simply ask that the favor is returned. I'm not horribly altered because my life didn't have fresh baked muffins**, classes at home, and crappy old literature all the time, every day. I had a normal childhood and a normal adolescence. Yet still, I've had people, even friends, tell me the same thing a few times: "I didn't think you'd be a nice person until I got to know you." I don't even know what to say to that.
There's probably lots of other ways I'll manage to be a terrible parent, but I don't care. I learned from the awesomest. Cheers to "terrible" parenting.
*She also, for some reason, thought that my Dad's parents did not have a big wedding because they weren't church-going people at the time, and that it just wasn't important to them. My grandparents were poor. They couldn't afford a fancy old-money wedding, and were married by a minister in his office at his church. Same goes for my Mom's parents, who did attend church regularly. Tsk. Spoiled.
**I can bake the heck out of a chocolate chip cookie, though. Just sayin'.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Reflections of a Future Terrible Parent, Part 1
When I decided in the spring of 2005, on a whim, to apply to and attend Bob Jones University, I had no idea what I'd be getting myself into. I was a little familiar with the school, mostly through some of the textbooks my Christian school used (there were some historical inaccuracies and brushovers) and the students who visited from the school (way too smiley.) But, for some reason that wasn't at the time at all obvious to me, I knew that I needed to be at that college in the fall of 2005. When I decided that, I was at a senior retreat for my class. I didn't know then that the man I'll be marrying in a few months was sitting in the same room, with his senior class. Later that year, because of a conversation with a good friend who also went to BJU (the only other person in my class to do so,) I met my now-fiance. It was more than I ever could have thought I'd receive simply for following an impression upon my soul. I never expected to even have many friends, as I'm not outgoing. But I have those too, thank God.
Everyone knows Bob Jones University is not without its flaws. It's become quite infamous lately, for what I think are grand missteps in judgement. It's also a place with many rules. Those I don't care about. I'm not here to really talk about Bob Jones University. It's the attitudes within a few in my generation (and older) that I encountered both at the school and outside of it that really cemented in my mind certain things I will not do when I am a parent.
I grew up in the 90s, as a normal kid. We moved around town a few times, but because I went to a private Christian school, I never had to change where I went. It was always the same place. Other than having to wear dresses every day to school, my childhood was not at all different than most other kids that grew up then. I devoured the Goosebumps book series, as well as The Babysitters Club. I don't think I owned many of the latter, and only one of the former. I also read the American Girl books (the ones that went with the dolls), but I didn't own many of them. The Bookmobile coming every 3 weeks was my own private Christmas; we didn't even have to go to the library, because it came to us. I loved that. I got my fill of BSC and Goosebumps, as well as other scary books for kids. I liked the spooky stuff. Seriously, the 90s was a great time to be nine years old. Before we got cable, a weekend trip to my Gramma's house in Virginia was a treat, because she did have cable, and therefore, we could watch SNICK on Saturday night. My favorite was the still-scary Are You Afraid of the Dark. I loved that show.
Until I was about eleven years old, my mom stayed home to take care of my little brother. When he went to kindergarten, she went back to work (she's a nurse.) This left me with the responsibility of us kids staying home alone every day, which was fine. We watched Kids WB and Fox 50 Kids. Animaniacs was an extraordinary show. I watched three straight incarnations of Power Rangers, as well as this show with some knights in Ireland. I freaking loved Mystic Knights. That show rocked. And none of it was educational. Saturday mornings were much the same, because ABC had all the best shows by then. (CBS had my heart for a while, though, as did Fox, which played Peter Pan and the Pirates.) Disney's Doug wasn't as good as the original, which aired on Nickelodeon. Still watched it, though. My best friend (who also went to my school) lived up the street, around the corner, and up this insane hill that probably wouldn't be so bad if I gave it a whirl at th age of 25. I biked everywhere in my neighborhood, exploring every nook and cranny to my hearts content. I finished 6th grade, started shaving my legs, and started junior high. I remember being a Britney Spears fan, back before she sorta lost it. Seventh grade was marvelously awkward for me. After that year, my best friend moved away, and we moved out of our neighborhood and across town. Another friend transferred, and the only link was a phone number (we didn't get internet until later that year), and a dude whom I'd known since 5th grade and whom I had declared to be my mortal enemy. Sort of. (Same dude was the friend who went to BJU. Funny how things turn out, ain't it?) It was a lonely year.
High school was better. Actually, it was pretty great. I was still an introvert, so I was the quiet one, but who cared if I could get away with stuff in my school. 9/11/2001 was at the beginning of my freshman year, and it was pretty scary because North Carolina has its good share of military bases. At some point in that time frame, I transitioned from my rather conservative peach eyeshadow and pink lipstick to smudged eyeliner in blue, green, or purple, and dark lipstick in red, purple, and sometimes silver. Blush was not something I was a fan of. Pallor was my friend. I liked books and stuff with bows and arrows in them, but I was also a girly-girl. The US invaded Iraq in 2003. 2004 brought Green Day's American Idiot, so that was awesome, but we also worried about the draft starting up again, and whether women would be drafted as well, if it came to that. I graduated in 2005, at the age of eighteen, and started preparing to go away to college.
I was not prepared for what I'd face from other Christians, since my upbringing in a Christian home had been so so very regular.
Everyone knows Bob Jones University is not without its flaws. It's become quite infamous lately, for what I think are grand missteps in judgement. It's also a place with many rules. Those I don't care about. I'm not here to really talk about Bob Jones University. It's the attitudes within a few in my generation (and older) that I encountered both at the school and outside of it that really cemented in my mind certain things I will not do when I am a parent.
I grew up in the 90s, as a normal kid. We moved around town a few times, but because I went to a private Christian school, I never had to change where I went. It was always the same place. Other than having to wear dresses every day to school, my childhood was not at all different than most other kids that grew up then. I devoured the Goosebumps book series, as well as The Babysitters Club. I don't think I owned many of the latter, and only one of the former. I also read the American Girl books (the ones that went with the dolls), but I didn't own many of them. The Bookmobile coming every 3 weeks was my own private Christmas; we didn't even have to go to the library, because it came to us. I loved that. I got my fill of BSC and Goosebumps, as well as other scary books for kids. I liked the spooky stuff. Seriously, the 90s was a great time to be nine years old. Before we got cable, a weekend trip to my Gramma's house in Virginia was a treat, because she did have cable, and therefore, we could watch SNICK on Saturday night. My favorite was the still-scary Are You Afraid of the Dark. I loved that show.
Until I was about eleven years old, my mom stayed home to take care of my little brother. When he went to kindergarten, she went back to work (she's a nurse.) This left me with the responsibility of us kids staying home alone every day, which was fine. We watched Kids WB and Fox 50 Kids. Animaniacs was an extraordinary show. I watched three straight incarnations of Power Rangers, as well as this show with some knights in Ireland. I freaking loved Mystic Knights. That show rocked. And none of it was educational. Saturday mornings were much the same, because ABC had all the best shows by then. (CBS had my heart for a while, though, as did Fox, which played Peter Pan and the Pirates.) Disney's Doug wasn't as good as the original, which aired on Nickelodeon. Still watched it, though. My best friend (who also went to my school) lived up the street, around the corner, and up this insane hill that probably wouldn't be so bad if I gave it a whirl at th age of 25. I biked everywhere in my neighborhood, exploring every nook and cranny to my hearts content. I finished 6th grade, started shaving my legs, and started junior high. I remember being a Britney Spears fan, back before she sorta lost it. Seventh grade was marvelously awkward for me. After that year, my best friend moved away, and we moved out of our neighborhood and across town. Another friend transferred, and the only link was a phone number (we didn't get internet until later that year), and a dude whom I'd known since 5th grade and whom I had declared to be my mortal enemy. Sort of. (Same dude was the friend who went to BJU. Funny how things turn out, ain't it?) It was a lonely year.
High school was better. Actually, it was pretty great. I was still an introvert, so I was the quiet one, but who cared if I could get away with stuff in my school. 9/11/2001 was at the beginning of my freshman year, and it was pretty scary because North Carolina has its good share of military bases. At some point in that time frame, I transitioned from my rather conservative peach eyeshadow and pink lipstick to smudged eyeliner in blue, green, or purple, and dark lipstick in red, purple, and sometimes silver. Blush was not something I was a fan of. Pallor was my friend. I liked books and stuff with bows and arrows in them, but I was also a girly-girl. The US invaded Iraq in 2003. 2004 brought Green Day's American Idiot, so that was awesome, but we also worried about the draft starting up again, and whether women would be drafted as well, if it came to that. I graduated in 2005, at the age of eighteen, and started preparing to go away to college.
I was not prepared for what I'd face from other Christians, since my upbringing in a Christian home had been so so very regular.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
So Far...
If you found your way here via a link from another site, then it is entirely possible that you already know about Weirdly Awesome NC, a really cool blog that's just recently started up. I only wish it had existed when I was about eleven years old, 'cause seriously yall, I would have eaten all that stuff up. I'm promoting it here today because the writer has been so kind as to link to my site from hers, specifically to my pictures of the whirligigs. Follow Weirdly Awesome NC on Twitter @WeirdAwesomeNC.
So I've been pretty busy lately. About a month after we lost Minnie, I adopted a new puppy, by the name of Pippa. She's a handful, and so full of energy, but it actually makes me glad I don't have to change diapers or deal with little hands grabbing for stuff. But I do like to believe that a puppy is practice for parenthood. I believe this because I remember my own childhood, and my brother's. One single instance involved a bottle of baby powder and making it "snow" in one of our bedrooms. Hint: it wasn't me declaring an indoor snowday.
I've also been pretty hard at work on my book, and I'm experimenting with digital publishing first. Horror Vacui is my first attempt at such. Marketing is really what worries me, once I get everything finished and ready to go. I hear tales of authors spending in the thousands for marketing. I'm gonna see what I can do with Twitter and things. I do like having this desk job, because it helps me get things done when there's downtime at work. The book's come a long way since I was fifteen years old and the text was based heavily on The Chronicles of Narnia, The Lord of the Rings, and Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. I know looking back that it wouldn't have ever been ready to publish then. Not even three years later. It needed a ten-year slow cook for every influence in my life to add flavor. I avoid directly taking things. Elves for instance. I have no elves in my story. I don't want them there, frankly.
I'd rather have guns. I've found myself wondering if my story can be truly considered fantasy. There are no fairy godmothers or prophecies from elven seers in times past, but there's also little to no modern technology after a certain point. Broadswords and bows are few. Discussing this with my fiance was a little inconclusive. I didn't grow up reading the numerous mediocre clones of J.R.R. Tolkien. His epic work was the only one of its type I've enjoyed. There are other books with swords and bows and arrows that I couldn't finish. If it can't be called a fantasy novel, then what?
I can't figure it out, that's for sure. Everything I write is in some way flavored by my entire life, not just the books I've read in the past three, five, or ten years. I did not destroy the book's original foundation. I just changed what was built on it.
Unlike many of my friends, I grew up reading Goosebumps and The Babysitter's Club. (Many friends of mine went to college with me, and more often than not, adult students of Bob Jones University had more sheltered childhoods. I like to imagine that many of my fellow students at BJU had stay-at-home moms. My mom chose to work so that my brother and I could attend a private Christian school. I have been judged and probably pitied for it, but I've never felt anything but grateful.) I read many YA books, including ones that the pseudo-intellectuals of my generation now deny they ever read. Yeah, I read shallow, vapid books. Recently, I enjoyed Twilight. Twice. I watch TV as well as lots and lots of movies. Zombieland was kinda gross but pretty funny. Legally Blond was hilarious and I still enjoy it. My brother, when he was young, kept the movie Back to the Future on loop, just about. I've seen the original Star Wars more times than I can count, and I really get a kick out of Dumb & Dumber.
Mash all of this together, and all of it, along with my personality, temperament, beliefs, and personal convictions are what make me. It will very naturally bleed into the things I create.
I refuse to label myself. Why limit my work?
So I've been pretty busy lately. About a month after we lost Minnie, I adopted a new puppy, by the name of Pippa. She's a handful, and so full of energy, but it actually makes me glad I don't have to change diapers or deal with little hands grabbing for stuff. But I do like to believe that a puppy is practice for parenthood. I believe this because I remember my own childhood, and my brother's. One single instance involved a bottle of baby powder and making it "snow" in one of our bedrooms. Hint: it wasn't me declaring an indoor snowday.
I've also been pretty hard at work on my book, and I'm experimenting with digital publishing first. Horror Vacui is my first attempt at such. Marketing is really what worries me, once I get everything finished and ready to go. I hear tales of authors spending in the thousands for marketing. I'm gonna see what I can do with Twitter and things. I do like having this desk job, because it helps me get things done when there's downtime at work. The book's come a long way since I was fifteen years old and the text was based heavily on The Chronicles of Narnia, The Lord of the Rings, and Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. I know looking back that it wouldn't have ever been ready to publish then. Not even three years later. It needed a ten-year slow cook for every influence in my life to add flavor. I avoid directly taking things. Elves for instance. I have no elves in my story. I don't want them there, frankly.
I'd rather have guns. I've found myself wondering if my story can be truly considered fantasy. There are no fairy godmothers or prophecies from elven seers in times past, but there's also little to no modern technology after a certain point. Broadswords and bows are few. Discussing this with my fiance was a little inconclusive. I didn't grow up reading the numerous mediocre clones of J.R.R. Tolkien. His epic work was the only one of its type I've enjoyed. There are other books with swords and bows and arrows that I couldn't finish. If it can't be called a fantasy novel, then what?
I can't figure it out, that's for sure. Everything I write is in some way flavored by my entire life, not just the books I've read in the past three, five, or ten years. I did not destroy the book's original foundation. I just changed what was built on it.
Unlike many of my friends, I grew up reading Goosebumps and The Babysitter's Club. (Many friends of mine went to college with me, and more often than not, adult students of Bob Jones University had more sheltered childhoods. I like to imagine that many of my fellow students at BJU had stay-at-home moms. My mom chose to work so that my brother and I could attend a private Christian school. I have been judged and probably pitied for it, but I've never felt anything but grateful.) I read many YA books, including ones that the pseudo-intellectuals of my generation now deny they ever read. Yeah, I read shallow, vapid books. Recently, I enjoyed Twilight. Twice. I watch TV as well as lots and lots of movies. Zombieland was kinda gross but pretty funny. Legally Blond was hilarious and I still enjoy it. My brother, when he was young, kept the movie Back to the Future on loop, just about. I've seen the original Star Wars more times than I can count, and I really get a kick out of Dumb & Dumber.
Mash all of this together, and all of it, along with my personality, temperament, beliefs, and personal convictions are what make me. It will very naturally bleed into the things I create.
I refuse to label myself. Why limit my work?
Friday, January 27, 2012
Minnie Cinnamon Cale, September 1996-January 25, 2012
"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.
At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting.
Yet I want the others to be about me. I dread the moments when the house is empty. If only they would talk to one another and not to me . . .
An odd by-product of my loss is that I’m afraid of being an
embarrassment to everyone I meet. At work, at the club, in the street, I see people, as they approach me, trying to make up their minds whether they’ll ‘say something about it’ or not. I hate it if they do, and if they don’t . . .
And grief still feels like fear. Perhaps more strictly, like suspense. Or like waiting; just hanging about waiting for something to happen. It gives life a permanently provisional feeling. It doesn’t seem worth starting anything. I can’t settle down. I yawn, I fidget, I smoke too much. Up till this I always had too little time. Now there is nothing but time. Almost pure time, empty successiveness . . ."
C. S. Lewis
My bed has been colder these past two nights.
I dreaded this, for so many years. Even since I was a child, I knew this day would come, deep down, though I hoped that, somehow, my family was touched with a sort of immortality.
On Wednesday, January 25, my little dog Minnie slipped quietly into eternity.
She'd been fighting cancer since sometime in November. I don't remember when. Her breath had just been stinking so bad, so I went to brush her teeth. She didn't mind the finger brush so much, but she didn't want me to grab her jaw and open it this time. She always let me do that before.
That's when I found the lump.
It was greenish and ugly. We thought maybe it was an abscess in her tooth. That would require surgery and removal of a tooth. I was fine with that, as long as my baby would be safe. She was fifteen years old. We'd celebrated our "anniversary" of fifteen years. I got her when I was ten, on my birthday.
It was melanoma, the most aggressive form.
We opted out of traditional treatments, both because of her age and because my family believes that chemotherapy and radiation do more harm than good. Mom said quality is better than quantity. We'd do some natural things.
Then it grew back.
We tried more. The Budwig Protocol. Essiac tea. Raw meat and vitamins and things to boost her immune system. Fresh water and love and comfort.
Slowly, the cancer began to take things. It took a few teeth at first, then bits of her gum, then half her palate. I found one of her teeth in my bed the other day. It scared me and broke my heart a little. She wasn't eating well and she'd lost weight.
We just kept giving her good things and loving her.
Tuesday night, she suddenly got very tired. She slept most of the evening, snoring, almost in a sort of coma. I just held her while she slept. We took her upstairs, and I put her on my bed, and we went to sleep.
The next morning, Wednesday, she walked around in circles in my room after jumping off the bed. It scared me, but I figured she just had to go to the bathroom, and I was right. We went back inside. I put her on the couch, and she started sleeping again. I tried giving her water, because she seemed dehydrated. Just medicine for now. Mom decided we should take her to the vet, and let her get some fluids and maybe, if she perked up, she could continue on them.
I got ready for work, and we took Minnie to the vet. She was mostly asleep, didn't even know we were there.
This wasn't my baby, at least not on the outside.
I had to go to work while Mom and Dad were still at the vet with the dog. They left her there, to get some fluids.
I worried the entire couple hours I was at work, and I called Mom. Minnie was at home, on the couch.
When I walked in, Dad was weeping. Minnie was asleep on the couch, her breathing somewhat labored. The vet had said she probably wouldn't live through the night.
I changed my clothes and just loved her. We kept a vigil all that afternoon and evening. I held her for a long time, and let her sleep. When the terrible snoring began, we laid her back on the couch so she could breathe easier. Mom and Dad went to get some supper, and I stayed behind, watching American Idol, stroking her head. Sometimes, she'd blearily open her eyes and look at the door, as if to ask when they'd be back.
We watched the rest of the show, and more TV, and then the news. We keep two lamps on, so the light in the living room is always soft and warm. The news was about to go off.
She sat up, looked at me and Mom, and started making this odd groaning noise, and struggling. Mom went to get Dad.
On the couch, as I stroked her head and talked to her and told her I loved her, Minnie took her last breath and slipped away into Heaven.
We buried her next to Buster, in a plastic box, wrapped in her plaid blanket and laying on a pink baby blanket she had. I kissed her once more before we put the box in the ground.
Life has not been the same since that night. It can never been again, not for me. There are other griefs that my family has endured, that I probably will never write about here. I keep myself disconnected from those horrors. They are too much.
I got Minnie for my tenth birthday. She was a complete surprise. She was a sweet, shy puppy who liked to sniff and run and stick by us, without a leash at all. As she grew older, her nosiness overcame her shyness and she wandered. Other animals in the neighborhood made her a fiercely protective dog. She loved walks, even when her short legs and age required the distance to be decreased. She loved my bed, and my rug, and my pajamas. Wendy's nuggets were a tradition for her on Wednesday nights.
I know that God is merciful. He didn't want her to suffer. I like to think that He sent Buster to get her and take her home. I believe that they're there now, in Heaven, together playing and chasing each other like they used to when they were young.
I think the hardest thing is the regret I have for the ten days I didn't get to see her. I flew out to Missouri to visit my fiance. When I got back, Minnie's health was sloping downward, very slowly. There are ten days of my life that I enjoyed very much, but ten days of Minnie's life that I can't get back.
God, I miss her so much. Yesterday morning, I came an instant close to asking my mom what I always asked, every morning I went to work early. "Where's Minnie?" I only got the first syllable out. It insisted, even if I held it back. For a moment, I forgot.
For a moment last night, it felt as though she was at my feet as I used my computer in bed. I looked down, almost automatically. She's still not here. Everywhere, I see what's left. Stains on my sheets and on a long pillow, from her mouth. A collar on an end table. Her water bowl in the sink. The memory of stroking her ears and tugging on them softly and scratching them. She loved when I scratched her back end. There are little marks on our hardwood floor in the hall, from her nails.
"People fall out of the world sometimes, but they always leave traces. Little things we can't quite account for. Faces in photographs, luggage, half-eaten meals. Rings. Nothing is ever forgotten, not completely. And if something can be remembered, it can come back."
I know I'll see Minnie again one day. My God is loving and good. He has seen fit to have trees in Heaven; why should He not also have the souls of those creatures who never sinned? But I'm selfish. I wanted Minnie to be here forever. As her health declined, and she could no longer be the dog I knew she wanted to be, I dreaded the day that I knew was coming. After she passed, though I am still grieving, there was relief. I didn't have to worry anymore.
She beat the cancer. When her little lungs took their last breath, the cancer died.
Minnie lives on.
She went with no fear. Fear is a human thing, a flaw instilled in us by the horrors we have wrought upon the world. Minnie was fearless.
Dad said she had a dream last night that she was twirling around on her back legs, a trick I called "ballet" when I was young. But in the dream, there was no one standing over her waving a treat around. She danced on her own.
I know eventually I will get used to her not waiting on the stairs when I come home in the afternoons, or sleeping on the couch, or hiding in the darkness of my bedroom. I know that I'll be accustomed one day to not hearing the swishy tapping of her nails during the nightly rounds she took around the hall and the kitchen. It will never feel normal, at least not from this side of it.
But I swear I've felt them, both Minnie and Buster, playing somewhere near.
It is likely that I will get another dog one day. That puppy will not be a replacement, not by a long shot. No one will replace Minnie, for she is irreplaceable. She left her mark on me, and I on her. I was ten when I got her. We bond with animals so closely not only because we love them and they love us, but because we become like each other. When she passed, it felt as thought part of my soul was taken from me, and I am not whole. Her legacy is a huge one, and any pups that come after her will be taught and brought up to be like her.
Rest in peace, Minnie, my lion-hearted little dog.
“Forgive my grief for one removed
Thy creature whom I found so fair
I trust he lives in Thee and there
I find him worthier to be loved.”
― Alfred Lord Tennyson
At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting.
Yet I want the others to be about me. I dread the moments when the house is empty. If only they would talk to one another and not to me . . .
An odd by-product of my loss is that I’m afraid of being an
embarrassment to everyone I meet. At work, at the club, in the street, I see people, as they approach me, trying to make up their minds whether they’ll ‘say something about it’ or not. I hate it if they do, and if they don’t . . .
And grief still feels like fear. Perhaps more strictly, like suspense. Or like waiting; just hanging about waiting for something to happen. It gives life a permanently provisional feeling. It doesn’t seem worth starting anything. I can’t settle down. I yawn, I fidget, I smoke too much. Up till this I always had too little time. Now there is nothing but time. Almost pure time, empty successiveness . . ."
C. S. Lewis
My bed has been colder these past two nights.
I dreaded this, for so many years. Even since I was a child, I knew this day would come, deep down, though I hoped that, somehow, my family was touched with a sort of immortality.
On Wednesday, January 25, my little dog Minnie slipped quietly into eternity.
She'd been fighting cancer since sometime in November. I don't remember when. Her breath had just been stinking so bad, so I went to brush her teeth. She didn't mind the finger brush so much, but she didn't want me to grab her jaw and open it this time. She always let me do that before.
That's when I found the lump.
It was greenish and ugly. We thought maybe it was an abscess in her tooth. That would require surgery and removal of a tooth. I was fine with that, as long as my baby would be safe. She was fifteen years old. We'd celebrated our "anniversary" of fifteen years. I got her when I was ten, on my birthday.
It was melanoma, the most aggressive form.
We opted out of traditional treatments, both because of her age and because my family believes that chemotherapy and radiation do more harm than good. Mom said quality is better than quantity. We'd do some natural things.
Then it grew back.
We tried more. The Budwig Protocol. Essiac tea. Raw meat and vitamins and things to boost her immune system. Fresh water and love and comfort.
Slowly, the cancer began to take things. It took a few teeth at first, then bits of her gum, then half her palate. I found one of her teeth in my bed the other day. It scared me and broke my heart a little. She wasn't eating well and she'd lost weight.
We just kept giving her good things and loving her.
Tuesday night, she suddenly got very tired. She slept most of the evening, snoring, almost in a sort of coma. I just held her while she slept. We took her upstairs, and I put her on my bed, and we went to sleep.
The next morning, Wednesday, she walked around in circles in my room after jumping off the bed. It scared me, but I figured she just had to go to the bathroom, and I was right. We went back inside. I put her on the couch, and she started sleeping again. I tried giving her water, because she seemed dehydrated. Just medicine for now. Mom decided we should take her to the vet, and let her get some fluids and maybe, if she perked up, she could continue on them.
I got ready for work, and we took Minnie to the vet. She was mostly asleep, didn't even know we were there.
This wasn't my baby, at least not on the outside.
I had to go to work while Mom and Dad were still at the vet with the dog. They left her there, to get some fluids.
I worried the entire couple hours I was at work, and I called Mom. Minnie was at home, on the couch.
When I walked in, Dad was weeping. Minnie was asleep on the couch, her breathing somewhat labored. The vet had said she probably wouldn't live through the night.
I changed my clothes and just loved her. We kept a vigil all that afternoon and evening. I held her for a long time, and let her sleep. When the terrible snoring began, we laid her back on the couch so she could breathe easier. Mom and Dad went to get some supper, and I stayed behind, watching American Idol, stroking her head. Sometimes, she'd blearily open her eyes and look at the door, as if to ask when they'd be back.
We watched the rest of the show, and more TV, and then the news. We keep two lamps on, so the light in the living room is always soft and warm. The news was about to go off.
She sat up, looked at me and Mom, and started making this odd groaning noise, and struggling. Mom went to get Dad.
On the couch, as I stroked her head and talked to her and told her I loved her, Minnie took her last breath and slipped away into Heaven.
We buried her next to Buster, in a plastic box, wrapped in her plaid blanket and laying on a pink baby blanket she had. I kissed her once more before we put the box in the ground.
Life has not been the same since that night. It can never been again, not for me. There are other griefs that my family has endured, that I probably will never write about here. I keep myself disconnected from those horrors. They are too much.
I got Minnie for my tenth birthday. She was a complete surprise. She was a sweet, shy puppy who liked to sniff and run and stick by us, without a leash at all. As she grew older, her nosiness overcame her shyness and she wandered. Other animals in the neighborhood made her a fiercely protective dog. She loved walks, even when her short legs and age required the distance to be decreased. She loved my bed, and my rug, and my pajamas. Wendy's nuggets were a tradition for her on Wednesday nights.
I know that God is merciful. He didn't want her to suffer. I like to think that He sent Buster to get her and take her home. I believe that they're there now, in Heaven, together playing and chasing each other like they used to when they were young.
I think the hardest thing is the regret I have for the ten days I didn't get to see her. I flew out to Missouri to visit my fiance. When I got back, Minnie's health was sloping downward, very slowly. There are ten days of my life that I enjoyed very much, but ten days of Minnie's life that I can't get back.
God, I miss her so much. Yesterday morning, I came an instant close to asking my mom what I always asked, every morning I went to work early. "Where's Minnie?" I only got the first syllable out. It insisted, even if I held it back. For a moment, I forgot.
For a moment last night, it felt as though she was at my feet as I used my computer in bed. I looked down, almost automatically. She's still not here. Everywhere, I see what's left. Stains on my sheets and on a long pillow, from her mouth. A collar on an end table. Her water bowl in the sink. The memory of stroking her ears and tugging on them softly and scratching them. She loved when I scratched her back end. There are little marks on our hardwood floor in the hall, from her nails.
"People fall out of the world sometimes, but they always leave traces. Little things we can't quite account for. Faces in photographs, luggage, half-eaten meals. Rings. Nothing is ever forgotten, not completely. And if something can be remembered, it can come back."
I know I'll see Minnie again one day. My God is loving and good. He has seen fit to have trees in Heaven; why should He not also have the souls of those creatures who never sinned? But I'm selfish. I wanted Minnie to be here forever. As her health declined, and she could no longer be the dog I knew she wanted to be, I dreaded the day that I knew was coming. After she passed, though I am still grieving, there was relief. I didn't have to worry anymore.
She beat the cancer. When her little lungs took their last breath, the cancer died.
Minnie lives on.
She went with no fear. Fear is a human thing, a flaw instilled in us by the horrors we have wrought upon the world. Minnie was fearless.
Dad said she had a dream last night that she was twirling around on her back legs, a trick I called "ballet" when I was young. But in the dream, there was no one standing over her waving a treat around. She danced on her own.
I know eventually I will get used to her not waiting on the stairs when I come home in the afternoons, or sleeping on the couch, or hiding in the darkness of my bedroom. I know that I'll be accustomed one day to not hearing the swishy tapping of her nails during the nightly rounds she took around the hall and the kitchen. It will never feel normal, at least not from this side of it.
But I swear I've felt them, both Minnie and Buster, playing somewhere near.
It is likely that I will get another dog one day. That puppy will not be a replacement, not by a long shot. No one will replace Minnie, for she is irreplaceable. She left her mark on me, and I on her. I was ten when I got her. We bond with animals so closely not only because we love them and they love us, but because we become like each other. When she passed, it felt as thought part of my soul was taken from me, and I am not whole. Her legacy is a huge one, and any pups that come after her will be taught and brought up to be like her.
Rest in peace, Minnie, my lion-hearted little dog.
“Forgive my grief for one removed
Thy creature whom I found so fair
I trust he lives in Thee and there
I find him worthier to be loved.”
― Alfred Lord Tennyson
Thursday, August 25, 2011
The Ghostly Carnival
"Magnificent desolation." The words of Buzz Aldrin as he gazed at the lunar landscape.
Are those words fair? Can I really use them to describe where I live? After all, it isn't truly desolate in Eastern North Carolina. It's not ruined. It's perfectly safe to live here. There's not a whole lot outside of the relatively small hubs that are our cities.
People who came before built houses and barns and lives, then left it all for us to find later. Empty intersections and forgotten homesteads.
In the far reaches of Wilson County, roads are narrow and shoulderless and the night itself is a presence. Take Wiggins Mill Road and just drive, past all the lone houses and single light poles and churches. You'll know when you get there.
These were taken in Wilson County, North Carolina. They are night photos of whirligigs built by Mr. Vollis Simpson. If you want to know more, check out this site.
Enjoy these pictures of the ghostly carnival. Some call it Acid Park, and repeat the very untrue local legend. The whirligigs are beautiful pieces of art in North Carolina. Mr. Simpson took an empty intersection and turned it into colors and light and wonder.
Magnificent desolation, indeed.
Are those words fair? Can I really use them to describe where I live? After all, it isn't truly desolate in Eastern North Carolina. It's not ruined. It's perfectly safe to live here. There's not a whole lot outside of the relatively small hubs that are our cities.
People who came before built houses and barns and lives, then left it all for us to find later. Empty intersections and forgotten homesteads.
In the far reaches of Wilson County, roads are narrow and shoulderless and the night itself is a presence. Take Wiggins Mill Road and just drive, past all the lone houses and single light poles and churches. You'll know when you get there.
These were taken in Wilson County, North Carolina. They are night photos of whirligigs built by Mr. Vollis Simpson. If you want to know more, check out this site.
Enjoy these pictures of the ghostly carnival. Some call it Acid Park, and repeat the very untrue local legend. The whirligigs are beautiful pieces of art in North Carolina. Mr. Simpson took an empty intersection and turned it into colors and light and wonder.
Magnificent desolation, indeed.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Fried Slice: Do I Really Need to Know?
So wedding stuff makes me grumpy. Just a bit.
Don't get me wrong. My own wedding is something I'm excited for. I'm going to get an awesome dress and a great cake and eat good food and marry the man I love. Sweet.
Hmm. Maybe I'm not talking about wedding stuff. Maybe I'm talking about marriage stuff. It's more important. The heart has to be ready, and that really has nothing at all to do with contracts or gum paste flowers or the lighting effects on the dance floor. That fact is pretty obvious, right? So let me back up and explain myself.
My fiance and I have been together for over five years. A good portion of that has consisted of a long-distance relationship. I live in North Carolina, he lives in Missouri. We have long visits. My dog loves him (and that's amazing.) Together, we've made a relationship that has had a lot of love and a few fights. We know we have quirks, because we've seen them up close. We also know that everything's gonna get really real at about 2:00 A.M. sometime in the future when one of us gets a wake-up call via the "icy foot zap." So yeah, I know relationships take work. Five years, remember?
Obviously, being a (reluctant) Twentysomething, I've had a few friends get engaged and married over the years. Yeah, I've only been engaged since January, but that sorta just made it official. I've always sort of known. My man's still in school and I'm paying for the wedding myself. Yeah, it's gonna be a minute. When I see my all friends getting speedily engaged and hitched like little matrimony moon rockets, I cringe a little.
'Cause I know and fear what's coming next.
The SAGELY SAGE ADVICE.
Okay, to be fair, only one person has actually offered THE ADVICE and that was quite some time ago. This individual had known the intended spouse for a few years, they dated for a short while (like very very very very very short) got engaged in the spring of 2010, and were married by the end of summer 2010. A few months later, after I posted my engagement announcement on Facebook, this person ADVISED me that marriage was hard work, but worth it.
Durr.
For me, that was the equivalent of someone informing me in a condescending tone that the invasion of Normandy occurred on June 6th, 1944. But imagine that the teacher or whoever was sharing this advice because I'd shared with them my intention to write my dissertation in pursuit of a doctorate, the subject of said project being the strategies and movements of the U.S. Airborne units during Operation Neptune and an exploration into the assault on Brecourt Manor. At this point, I think it would be pretty clear that I know what I'm talking about and have known for quite some time. Imagine the person with the condescending attitude having just watched the first scene of Saving Private Ryan like five minutes before and that being the first time they'd ever heard of the invasion of Normandy, let alone Operation Neptune or Operation Overlord.
That's sorta what it felt like.
And while that individual has been the only one to offer SAGELY SAGE ADVICE, I still have this reflex of...something, every time. There is joy for my friends, because finding the one person who is literally your other half is awesome. What I don't welcome is the advice that has the possibility of coming.
If you've just seen a clip of a film that features a few bloody minutes on one beach in Normandy, and that's all you know, as much as it has touched you and changed you, you cannot give me a full-on lecture about leg bags and the problems therewith. You can't tell me merely about the existence of Operation Market-Garden. I already know, and I've known a lot longer than you.
I don't hate advice, and I don't hate learning. Most people are like that. Because of the time I've invested in a long-distance relationship, just as if I'd dedicated my life to studying the details in World War II, I know stuff that others don't yet. I know what it's like to be hurt. I know what it's like to argue. Heck, I know how to fight dirty. But I also know how to love, how to forgive, and how to savor moments, even when the theater's heater is broken and it's 20 degrees Fahrenheit outside and somewhere in the 50-60 range inside.
This doesn't make me any better than the ADVICE offerer I mentioned earlier. But I do have the distinct advantage of time and patience and sadness and fights and near-breakups and forgiveness and love and joy and laughter.
In a word, life.
A better teacher by far than all the ADVICE I could ever get.
Don't get me wrong. My own wedding is something I'm excited for. I'm going to get an awesome dress and a great cake and eat good food and marry the man I love. Sweet.
Hmm. Maybe I'm not talking about wedding stuff. Maybe I'm talking about marriage stuff. It's more important. The heart has to be ready, and that really has nothing at all to do with contracts or gum paste flowers or the lighting effects on the dance floor. That fact is pretty obvious, right? So let me back up and explain myself.
My fiance and I have been together for over five years. A good portion of that has consisted of a long-distance relationship. I live in North Carolina, he lives in Missouri. We have long visits. My dog loves him (and that's amazing.) Together, we've made a relationship that has had a lot of love and a few fights. We know we have quirks, because we've seen them up close. We also know that everything's gonna get really real at about 2:00 A.M. sometime in the future when one of us gets a wake-up call via the "icy foot zap." So yeah, I know relationships take work. Five years, remember?
Obviously, being a (reluctant) Twentysomething, I've had a few friends get engaged and married over the years. Yeah, I've only been engaged since January, but that sorta just made it official. I've always sort of known. My man's still in school and I'm paying for the wedding myself. Yeah, it's gonna be a minute. When I see my all friends getting speedily engaged and hitched like little matrimony moon rockets, I cringe a little.
'Cause I know and fear what's coming next.
The SAGELY SAGE ADVICE.
Okay, to be fair, only one person has actually offered THE ADVICE and that was quite some time ago. This individual had known the intended spouse for a few years, they dated for a short while (like very very very very very short) got engaged in the spring of 2010, and were married by the end of summer 2010. A few months later, after I posted my engagement announcement on Facebook, this person ADVISED me that marriage was hard work, but worth it.
Durr.
For me, that was the equivalent of someone informing me in a condescending tone that the invasion of Normandy occurred on June 6th, 1944. But imagine that the teacher or whoever was sharing this advice because I'd shared with them my intention to write my dissertation in pursuit of a doctorate, the subject of said project being the strategies and movements of the U.S. Airborne units during Operation Neptune and an exploration into the assault on Brecourt Manor. At this point, I think it would be pretty clear that I know what I'm talking about and have known for quite some time. Imagine the person with the condescending attitude having just watched the first scene of Saving Private Ryan like five minutes before and that being the first time they'd ever heard of the invasion of Normandy, let alone Operation Neptune or Operation Overlord.
That's sorta what it felt like.
And while that individual has been the only one to offer SAGELY SAGE ADVICE, I still have this reflex of...something, every time. There is joy for my friends, because finding the one person who is literally your other half is awesome. What I don't welcome is the advice that has the possibility of coming.
If you've just seen a clip of a film that features a few bloody minutes on one beach in Normandy, and that's all you know, as much as it has touched you and changed you, you cannot give me a full-on lecture about leg bags and the problems therewith. You can't tell me merely about the existence of Operation Market-Garden. I already know, and I've known a lot longer than you.
I don't hate advice, and I don't hate learning. Most people are like that. Because of the time I've invested in a long-distance relationship, just as if I'd dedicated my life to studying the details in World War II, I know stuff that others don't yet. I know what it's like to be hurt. I know what it's like to argue. Heck, I know how to fight dirty. But I also know how to love, how to forgive, and how to savor moments, even when the theater's heater is broken and it's 20 degrees Fahrenheit outside and somewhere in the 50-60 range inside.
This doesn't make me any better than the ADVICE offerer I mentioned earlier. But I do have the distinct advantage of time and patience and sadness and fights and near-breakups and forgiveness and love and joy and laughter.
In a word, life.
A better teacher by far than all the ADVICE I could ever get.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
The Viewpoint
When I took the picture of this tucked away little piece of Americana pie, I think my brain exploded with the sheer potential. Seriously, I can only think of one other thing to do with this image, and that's classified information.
But here's a little exercise for you. Make a short story or a scene about the Viewpoint restaurant. Even if it has nothing whatsoever to do with your book, write a short piece with a few people.
In reality, the Viewpoint is located up near Fontana Lake and Fontana Dam in Western North Carolina. It's old. It's a little forgotten. Sometime recently, it was still open, because the colors are still incredibly bright. But at some point, a small piece of the world changed and travelers began to turn the other cheek as they passed, hurrying on up the road to a landmark or an attraction or something else much more important, somewhere generic enough to make it on Facebook. The real, raw, forgotten beauty in the world takes its time, always waiting for you to come back to it, infinitely patient until wind and rain and time gently pulls it back into the earth, leaving only an imprint behind to make you wonder what could possibly make you feel so at home when you've never been there before.
When you write a novel, one of the best things to do is latch on to that feeling, however you can. Novels are our own little universes. When you feel at home with your novel, that's when you're on to something. It won't be perfect in the first go, but that's okay. It's still coming from you, and no one else. Without that, it's really completely nothing.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
A Heads Up For This Summer
Southern Fried Fantasy is going on the road!
Sort of.
No, I mean, eventually we are, to Central Florida later in the season. But in the meantime, I thought y'all would like to see some pictures of the places that leave me with a profound sense of inspiration. Seriously, I can't even look at an old house without going "this is an opportunity for...dundundun...a story."
I think I'll start with a bridge.
No really.
Isn't it amazing?
This bad boy is located in Brunswick County, VA, near where my Gramma's home in Lawrenceville, VA (which Forks Washington cannot hold a candle to in terms of smallness and middle-of-nowhere-ness.) I am seriously in love with this bridge, and I plan to use the image for a future project not related to writing at all. This bridge is amazing in any light, but you can see that the day this picture was taken, the weather was cloudy.
What's the point?
I'm not sure, but it is a gorgeous picture, thanks to Kodak and my ability to take pics under pressure while dodging other cars on a two-lane road. I owe more to the location, however, and my upbringing.
I think my life would be a tad boring if I lived in New York City or any major area. I live in a suburban/rural (yes, it can be both) area, and there is a high degree of sheer quirk every day. A lot of my job takes me into the areas outside my town and into the county. Abandoned stores and derelict (don't you love that word?) tobacco barns dot the land. My great grandmother is buried in a tiny, and I mean TINY, family cemetery out in the literal middle of nowhere, near the birthplace of William Pender (who I may or may not be related to). These types of cemeteries are everywhere, including in front of an office building in town and in the parking lot of our outdated and mostly empty shopping mall. Cemeteries, barns, bridges, and abandoned houses date back to a time when the land was not quite tame and shoes were still optional.
You want it newer?
A duct-tape basketball goal near the rough part of town, a building labeled with ancient Egyptian names and acting as a home for abandoned cars, an old vehicle leaving a doughnut in the gravel parking lot of a trailer home...oh yeah. The Kenly skating rink, a popular birthday venue when I was younger, which had cigarette burns clear through the heavy wool inner walls.
Cities are boring. The West is desolate and kinda scares me a little. I'll take the hidden, quiet settledness of the Southeastern United States.
So ask yourself, for fun, what mysteries surround this bridge that I've provided a picture of?
If you want to write for this blog, please feel free to contact me. I'd love to have you as a guest.
Tune in tomorrow for a picture of...The Tramp.
Sort of.
No, I mean, eventually we are, to Central Florida later in the season. But in the meantime, I thought y'all would like to see some pictures of the places that leave me with a profound sense of inspiration. Seriously, I can't even look at an old house without going "this is an opportunity for...dundundun...a story."
I think I'll start with a bridge.
No really.
Isn't it amazing?
This bad boy is located in Brunswick County, VA, near where my Gramma's home in Lawrenceville, VA (which Forks Washington cannot hold a candle to in terms of smallness and middle-of-nowhere-ness.) I am seriously in love with this bridge, and I plan to use the image for a future project not related to writing at all. This bridge is amazing in any light, but you can see that the day this picture was taken, the weather was cloudy.
What's the point?
I'm not sure, but it is a gorgeous picture, thanks to Kodak and my ability to take pics under pressure while dodging other cars on a two-lane road. I owe more to the location, however, and my upbringing.
I think my life would be a tad boring if I lived in New York City or any major area. I live in a suburban/rural (yes, it can be both) area, and there is a high degree of sheer quirk every day. A lot of my job takes me into the areas outside my town and into the county. Abandoned stores and derelict (don't you love that word?) tobacco barns dot the land. My great grandmother is buried in a tiny, and I mean TINY, family cemetery out in the literal middle of nowhere, near the birthplace of William Pender (who I may or may not be related to). These types of cemeteries are everywhere, including in front of an office building in town and in the parking lot of our outdated and mostly empty shopping mall. Cemeteries, barns, bridges, and abandoned houses date back to a time when the land was not quite tame and shoes were still optional.
You want it newer?
A duct-tape basketball goal near the rough part of town, a building labeled with ancient Egyptian names and acting as a home for abandoned cars, an old vehicle leaving a doughnut in the gravel parking lot of a trailer home...oh yeah. The Kenly skating rink, a popular birthday venue when I was younger, which had cigarette burns clear through the heavy wool inner walls.
Cities are boring. The West is desolate and kinda scares me a little. I'll take the hidden, quiet settledness of the Southeastern United States.
So ask yourself, for fun, what mysteries surround this bridge that I've provided a picture of?
If you want to write for this blog, please feel free to contact me. I'd love to have you as a guest.
Tune in tomorrow for a picture of...The Tramp.
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