Paper

Received yesterday, about two months after finishing the semester. I gather they had some difficulties...

GED practice continues

Over the weekend, I completed the Reading and Science sets of my online GED practice tests. The reading went as expected -clearly, I know how to read. The science tests threw me several surprises, but I managed to struggle through. I need to study up on proteins and gene pairs and some other "stuff." I had some trouble with black rats and white offspring.

Still, the practice tests are bolstering my confidence in a big way. No matter how lost I felt, I managed to make a minimum of 60% on each subtest, usually more like 70-80%, with three to six subtests in each GED subject area. To earn my GED, I'll need at least 65% total in each of those subject areas: Writing, Reading, Science, Social Studies, and Math.

That last area, Math, is the one that I expect to be weakest in. I loved algebra back in high school, and I don't recall having trouble with math in general, but let's face it: I haven't had to take a math class since then, and other than some basic arithmetic it just hasn't come up much. I might read about and discuss science topics, history, geography. I certainly use reading and writing. But math?

So this weekend, I got through the Reading and the Science, and then I decided to do the Math... and the very first question that popped up had me staring blankly at the screen. "Duh... What's that supposed to mean?" Quickly, I closed the browser window.

What is it about math, I wonder, that scares some of us? This morning I went back to the math topics and worked my way through them, and I did fine. Not great, but certainly passing. In the process, I learned some key concepts, and on a fresh set of questions I'd be willing to bet my score will improve. But that first time I brought the test up onscreen, the vocabularly looked unfamiliar, and where in other subject areas I would try to work out the meaning, with math I said, "yikes, I don't know this, I can't do this."

Is it because I've heard so many people say, "math is hard"? Is it because in math, I expect there to be finite answers, so I expect my own knowledge to be cut and dried? Know/not know?

In the end, these GED tests are not really about knowledge. They're about logic, combined with experience. Sure, some of the questions would be impossible to answer without some of those aforementioned "key concepts." But enough -certainly enough to pass- can be deciphered with plain old "reading comprehension."

If the GED is a good representation of the abilities we expect our high school grads to possess (not by any means guaranteed), then two skills are crucial: Reading, and a willingness to create or discover an answer, versus simply regurgitating one. What are our schools doing to address that second requirement?

Simplicity, the series

In addition to getting my GED, this summer I also want to launch a comic strip. Right now, I'm in the process of developing the characters. It's an interesting process, because I have to think about what I can actually do consistently, so I can't just make one nice drawing and consider the character designed.

The central story of the strip is the relationship between a cat and a flightless baby bird. It's based on a time when our own cat, Simplicity Simone, brought a baby bird home for dinner. You can kinda see where this is going.

I started with the cat. I got a book about drawing cats ("Draw 50 Cats: The Step-by-Step Way to Draw Domestic Breeds, Wild Cats, Cuddly Kittens, and Famous Felines Like Morris the 9 Lives Cat") and have been using this as a starting point for practicing poses and attitudes. Next, I'll have to develop the bird. I wonder if there is a book I can use? Draw 50 Naked Baby Birds: The Step-by-Step Way to Draw Completely Helpless, Sightless Animals That Cannot Possibly Survive...

GED Day 1

I have piddled away most of this summer on inconsequential things like earning money and improving my health, but there is still time to accomplish something meaningful. One thing I'd like to do is take the GED exam.

According to the Southern Regional Education Board, GED stands for "General Educational Development." Often, however, people replace "Development" with "Diploma" or "Degree." This is because the "GED" is something you can get in lieu of a high school diploma. Well, it just so happens I never finished high school!

I dropped out. I got a job. I got an apartment. I worked. I traveled. And then when I decided I wanted to go to film school, Ryerson provided a "mature student" option. I met the requirements, and ultimately I earned a Bachelor's degree.

Now that I'm halfway to my Master's degree, I think it might be time to do something about that missing piece of paper. Sure, some friends suggested I could wait until after my doctorate. But since I am not taking a class this summer, this is as good a time as any. Step 1, I figure, is to figure out exactly where I stand. Do I need to study, or can I "wing it"?

To that end, I located some online practice tests. Today, I took my first set. The Southern Regional Education Board breaks this section of the GED down as follows:

Writing Skills, Part I (50 questions, 75 minutes)
15% Organization
30% Sentence Structure
30% Usage
25% Mechanics

I spent about 30 minutes on the four tests. I got 10 out of 10 on Sentence Structure, no surprises there, but I ran into a few problems with the others. One careless mistake in Usage, no big deal because I will pay more attention in the real exam. In Mechanics and Organization, I dropped three more questions on pretty subjective issues, so I spent some quality time rereading the tests and arguing with my computer screen. My final grade in Writing Skills Part I: 91.5%. I think I can safely "wing" this first section of the GED.

If you like, you can follow along with your own attempts on this site:
GEDPractice.com

The Reading tests are next! Oh boy!

Blogs and bubbles

It's funny that I'm such a johnny-come-lately with this blog thing. I've had an email address for about 25 years. I chatted on newsgroups via the usenet over 20 years ago. I was always the roommate with the PC. I was online with a Mac laptop when they didn't come with color screens. I met my husband online, for crying out loud. I thought I was a technogeek. But at some point the world caught up and passed me, and now there're all these blogs and flickrs and mp3s and I'm just lost in the wilderness, enjoying a look around, but not sensing a path.

My friend James has always understood that I'm not all that. He laughs at me. It turns out this is simply because he's brilliant, and I am one of those poor ignoramuses wandering helplessly at his feet. Luckily, he blogs! So when I have a moment of clarity and a good cup of coffee, I remember to visit his world and attempt to understand it all. This morning, I find that he has been talking about bubbles.

Someone recently suggested that Luther was too old for nipple rings. This will seem very much off-topic, but bear with me. Bubbles? It seems that on July 2, a whole lot of adults with or without kids trekked down to Old City Hall in Toronto to blow bubbles. There are even pictures to prove it, James reports.

This is the kind of gathering that makes me really miss "my old life." Outside Toronto (and New York and London), I have not met many adults that spontaneously gather to blow bubbles just for fun. This is whimsical. This is youthful, even. And outside a place like Toronto, Luther and I are told we are much, much too old to do such a thing. It's for "young people," or it's for "children."

So I've been wondering why people are so old outside the city? Why do they just stop playing? And once again, I find myself blaming the automobile. Picture this same event, for a moment, taking place in your average new-city sprawl. Everybody drives to the location. Everybody has to park. This alone rules out most locations where people would mingle with the wider world. The whole charm is lost, the whole silliness factor. A bunch of adults, some with children, standing around in a parking lot blowing bubbles. Uh huh. Fun. Okay, bye. Everybody walks back to their vehicles. The doors shut, and they are disconnected again. No more bubbles.

Everybody knows I miss the city. What I love is that I'm starting to understand why, and it's beautiful. People should live in cities and towns or be farmers. I think the two extremes are the only way to keep living. You should always know some guy who got his nipples pierced when his kid was in High School. You should always see people of all ages enjoying the world, making friends, sharing new experiences. And blowing bubbles.

And then they should blog about it all, so that everybody gets to be there with them.

Sex education

Remember, kids. There are only a few 100% methods of avoiding pregnancy:

1. Abstinence. I don't like that there's no real sex education in the schools, but I gotta say the abstinence option should always be at least pointed out. It is an option. You will not make a baby through abstinence.
   
2. Homosexual sex. We should promote this more. And educate people on how to have safe homosexual sex. Homosexual sex produces fewer unwanted pregnancies than heterosexual sex BY FAR. Just look at the statistics. Homosexual sex pregnancies: 0% in 2005. Let's have more homosexual sex, people!
   
3. Above all else, keep your distance from test tubes. If you must go near them, watch them very carefully. These are tricky bastards. Test tubes will get you pregnant before homosexual sex will. Watch yourself.

That is all. Next week we will talk about the good diseases versus the bad diseases. See you then.

A sip becomes a glug (and a burp)

I did something foolish last night, but I'm not sorry.

I read about a short fiction contest on Jason Evans's blog. (Strunk & White say it is "Evans's," not "Evans'," believe it or not.) The deadline for submissions was Wednesday at midnight. I thought it would be fun to write something, but with so little time?

A few hours later, I inexplicably found myself sending a precisely 250-word story to Jason Evans. I can only say the timing was right. I'd had a brief conversation about luthiery, a new word for me. And I'd admired and considered the haunting photograph Jason had posted as inspiration. But most importantly, perhaps, the quite immediate deadline prompted me to sit down and write, instead of pondering, procrastinating, and ultimately passing on the whole thing. Timing, it is said, is everything.

Also, calendars are useful. The deadline for the stories is Wednesday, midnight, June 28. A week later.

So I did something a little foolish. I wrote a 250-word piece of fiction for possibly the first time in my life, and I submitted it without giving it time to breathe. Uncorked, it does have character. Some interesting flavors. But it's a little undefined, a little murky. I should have decanted... instead of drinking straight from the bottle, glug, glug!

The thing, in short, needs some serious editing. But I'm not sorry. I like it. I'll edit it...

...sometime...



luthier: A lute-maker (OED Online)
luthier: One who makes stringed instruments (Merriam-Webster Online)

I don't get it

What's so hot about a "melting pot" anyway? I just don't get it.

Consider sushi. Consider a nice piece of mackerel on rice. The rice appears white, pure, but is actually delicately flavored with vinegar and sugar. The mackerel is oily and lightly pickled, rich with the taste and smell of the sea. A smudge of hot, green wasabi paste between fish and rice surprises the palate and the brain, making you a tiny bit light-headed. A sprinkling of chopped, young green onions and yellow mustard paste on top adds a fresh note, like you have only just stopped for a picnic on the side of a sunlit country road.

Ocean and earth, meat and grain, taste and feel. Each different flavor and each different texture adds to the sensation.

Can you imagine the same ingredients all melted together? Blech.

My cadillac conversion

Yawning, I stepped on the accelerator, hit my turn signal, passed the annoying white F-150 with the oblivious driver on my left, popped into the fast lane, and passed the smoke-yellow Cadillac with the peeling tint windows and the dangling driver-side mirror on my right. Finally out of that clump of stupidity, I sped off toward work and suddenly thought, When did this become a normal part of my life?

My old friends know that I don't drive. I grew up in downtown Toronto. I know the transit like the back of my hand. I have a very nice Brody mountain bike. I have at least two taxi cab telephone numbers memorized. And, after all, I rent, and parking spaces are expensive.

Evening driver's ed lessons were offered through my High School, before I dropped out. There was a small fee, quite a manageable amount, but I lived with my father, who had neither a car nor a license. I knew I wouldn't be using a license if I got one. And if I ever actually left Toronto, I'd only be moving to New York, or London, or perhaps Vancouver. City people don't leave the city. That's ridiculous. Small town people move to the city, and sometimes they don't like it and they leave again. City people are city people forever. What did I need a driver's license for?

Then I made friends with a military guy in the U.S. He knew cars. He apparently knew everything there was to know about cars. He actually owned more than one car! I'd shake my head and smile. What a quirky, funny interest to have. How frivolous. How exotic.

In January 2000, this same friend drove his Mustang convertible up to Toronto to fetch me for our third date. I tucked my trusty VCR, blue-glass wine glasses, and oriental rug into the small back seat, and put my Brody on a rack on the back. We drove South through snow. Partway to our destination, I helped replace a thermostat. And he did something with a whole lot of pepper. We arrived at what was instantly, patently my new home, and I unloaded my bicycle and started my new adventure.

And learned, very quickly, that one cannot live in middle Georgia without a car.

I fought this reality, I really did. I love my bike. And I was scared of driving. In the end, though, I wanted that driver's license as a kind of declaration. I've moved. I'm not going back.

Now I am a driver. And about 50 pounds overweight, because like everybody else here, I drive from point A to point B, and "exercise" is that effort of getting out of the car... and getting back in again. I miss the city more and more these days, the walking, the hailing of cabs, the way my sister and I could stand in the Subway without holding onto anything, and know which side's doors would open at any given station on the map. I miss riding my bike.

But I can't go back, you see. Because I also love my car!

Vroooom!





Vehicle profile:

Name: Rocinante

Specs: 1994 Honda del Sol Si, manual, red, with ABS, CC, A/C, some kind of exhaust modification so it buzzes rather than growls, and a truly crappy little stereo (but no antenna)

Purchase date: August 2005

Repairs: In March 2006, the clutch self-destructed while I was on my way to work. In May 2006, we took the car back off the jack stands and I drove it with a new clutch. Very nice! Three days later, on my way home, the brakes failed. A week after that, Luther installed a new brake master cylinder. The next day, I drove to work and back again, and the car was better than ever (well, except for the CC, A/C, and stereo, but whatever). Really great brakes, really great shifting, all beautiful. I took the top off. Life was good. The day after that, we decided to take this little hotrod to the base for some shopping, and it wouldn't crank. Windows go up and down, fuel pump makes that fuel pump sound... but I can't actually drive the car.

For some reason, I still love my Rocinante. Go figure.

The edge of the world

I just woke up from a dream.

I was trying to tell a student about a town he should visit. It's like Savannah, except it's smaller and better. It's the northernmost point of the United States. There's a little town, and waterfront. The main streets of the town come to a point, where there're a few entertainment businesses and nightspots and restaurants on the water. One of the businesses is built up on pilings, so that you can walk down from the road, underneath the business and out again, to the cold beach, rich with wildlife, and look out toward the edge of the world.

I couldn't remember the name of the town. It was making me batty. I made him get up from the computer, and I sat down and googled. I googled images, I google-mapped, I googled... and Google failed me. Despite the lovely head-and-shoulders massage the student was giving me, the frustration of being unable to find this place finally got to me, and I woke up.

After waking, I lay in bed frowning, trying to remember the name of the town. I'm awake now, so why can't I remember it? I went over some of the points of the dream in my mind... and the word "Savannah" stopped me. Savannah? In the dream, Savannah was the bigger, better-known destination near the town I tried to locate. But Savannah is in Georgia. It's nowhere near the northernmost point of the country. And when I'd said this place was like Savannah, I'd meant Key West, of course, the southernmost point of the United States, with two streets that end at that point, at the water, where many people each day have their pictures taken.

Listening to Luther's puttering sounds (oh goodie, he went downstairs and turned the coffee pot on!), I slowly realized that the northernmost town with the name I can't remember... only exists in my dreams. But the frustration is very real because I have indeed been there before. Several times.

Do you revisit places in your dreams?

The northernmost point has appeared in my dreams often. There is something like a river that comes up along the northwestern shore, with wilderness along the other side. Sometimes, in my dreams, I come up this waterway in a canoe, a kayak, a steamboat, a motorboat. Sometimes it's almost tropical, with alligators. I am sure to land at the town, because here is where the water is becoming dangerous, although sometimes I see whales and seals. The river opens onto some kind of bay (I'd have the correct terms if I'd paid more attention in Geography class, I'm sure), and sometimes there is an island in the center of it, and sometimes there is just water and a giant whirlpool, so coming in to the town is risky as you skirt the influence at the edges. But it is the point beyond the island/whirlpool that my heart always goes to in the dream. The beyond. The unknown, untraveled, silent emptiness of the North, on the icy water.

It's magnetic. Cheesy, I know.

I don't remember when I have visited before, or what happened in the dreams. Sometimes I get there by car, over hilly islands like the Eastern provinces of Canada. I don't think I've recognized it as recurring, before, but I know it now.This hasn't been my only recurring dream space. The last one I remember was a glass house. I came down to it from a cliff, down hiking trails marked by the Bureau of Parks or whatever, in the gathering darkness of evening. Sometimes I was pursued by mountain lions. Sometimes I died. But usually I came to the house at last, not intentionally, finding a glass house in the middle of a meadow, and feeling drawn in. I'd go to the house and step inside. And there was a dead man, a skeleton, a ghost in a chair. And I knew, I think, that I was also dead.

What amazes me is the landscape of it all. What if I could pull out all these parts of my dream world and establish them together in a shifting landscape that I could actually navigate? When I was small, I learned how to force myself awake from a nightmare, by opening my dream eyes wider and wider until my real eyes responded. Given the superimposed real world on my dream, I could choose the real and go to it. If I could now map out my wider dream landscape, what more could I control, I wonder?

Life support

Luther got some life insurance recently. I'd been bugging him about it. I worry that if some accident were to suddenly take him from me, I'd have to give up all of the plans we have together, and I'd have to run back to the safety net of Toronto, instead of pursuing what I think of as our dreams, if that makes sense. So I want some insurance, that I would be able to stay here (well, not here, per se) and do at least a few of the things that we would have done together.

But there's a reality, too, that I never did plan for a retirement or even a future before meeting him. And now that I can envision a future and have some expectation about it, I want to take what Luther can give me: Some security. With both of us here, his retirement is hugely important. If I lost him, on top of the wrenching grief, there would be the reality that I'd have just my lame-assed income. So that, too, is a part of why I asked that he get some life insurance.

Speaking of reality, however... the day he set something up, I got home from work, and there I was sitting on the couch when he reassured me by explaining what he'd done and what the particulars of the plan would be. And tears started slipping down my cheeks. And finally I asked that he stop explaining.

As a financial plan, life insurance is a good idea. It's a very wise idea in our particular case with our particular risks and needs. As a reality, it's hard to even think about. I know I have to know. But I don't want to know. I am not losing Luther. What is the point of having a money cushion, if I can't snuggle against it with my Luther in my arms?

All mothers, all the time

I hate Mother's Day. Even more, I hate Mother's Day weekend, Mother's Day month, and the advertising that leads up to it all. I hate the overblown miracle of it all.Making babies is a common occurrence. So common, in fact, that practically 50 per cent of the population at any given time can make a baby. Yes, in all liklihood, you too can make a baby.

Can you raise a baby to be a fully functioning, independent, adult human being? Maybe. Maybe not. But this requirement is not addressed on Mother's Day. No. Mother's Day proclaims that all mothers shall henceforth be idolized for their giving, nurturing, self-sacrificing beauty, with no actual proof of giving, nurturing, or self-sacrificing activities required.

Any stupid, selfish bitch, who does nothing at all to ensure that her children grow up into viable human beings, can glory in this day because it is, after all, Her Day. We must shower her in gifts. We must purchase meaningless platitudes printed on overripe greeting cards in freshly butchered flesh tones. We must take Mother out to eat, because of course the Kitchen is Her Domain so we couldn't possibly stay home and fix a meal for her.

Finally, we must take a moment or two to ponder the uselessness of fathers. Fathers, of course, can never rise to the holiness of mothers. They can only stand helplessly by, wringing their hands, alternately adoring and beating the mothers of their children. Fathers certainly do not do for children what Mothers do. Fathers don't nurture. Fathers are not "always there for me." Fathers get a day in the summer, not sanctified by the hand-made card industry known as public school. On Father's Day it is appropriate to give gifts of singing fish and bad ties, in a vain attempt to apologize for the fact that a father, through no fault of his own, can't possibly be as amazing, giving, self-sacrificing, and beautiful as a Mother, no matter how much he loves his children, teaches them, cries for them, and feels lost without them. He's no Mother, that's for sure.

Poor, poor Dad. Please take this crappy tool kit I bought off the Father's Day table next to the cash register as I was heading out of the grocery store, and don't forget to buy a diamond for the Mother of your child next May. After all, it was your seed that made her make the baby. You useless man, you.

Update 2: All school, all the time

This morning, I am waiting for my grades, due out later today. I know what they’ll be, but I don’t feel like the semester is really over until I can print out a grade report.

Bizarrely, I am a student all over again. I dropped out of High School because I hated school. I barely kept my head above beer in University. And here I am now, working in an office at a college. This was the place that would hire me, so far from my home town and the industry I knew best at the time, so this is where I’ve stayed.

Here at the college, one of the benefits available to me is that I can arrange to take classes for free, providing they are offered at one of the state schools, and providing they don’t interfere with my job. Having finally taken that last class to receive my Bachelor’s back in 2001, I decided that getting another piece of paper might be fun, so I searched for a degree program that would suit me.

Georgia doesn't seem to be really big on liberal arts, however. Here in middle Georgia, it seems clear the only reason you go to school is to get a job, and the jobs are in nursing, childhood education, and information technology. A business degree is almost frivolous. Fine arts, which is what I first looked at... is out of the question in most parts of the state.

Finally, I found a likely-looking program sitting squarely on the fence between the creative and the practical, managed by a state university in Marietta, about a 2.5 hour drive from where I currently live, straight through the traffic hell that is Atlanta. The Master of Science degree in Technical and Professional Communication sounded like it might indeed be up my alley, but could I actually get to an evening class and home again without killing myself? Could I, more to the point, actually pass the entrance exam?

Luckily, I eluded both the exam and the traffic. Southern Polytechnic State University was also offering a Graduate Certificate in Technical Communication as a fully online program. Admission required a couple of essays and some recommendations, but no exam.

Seven classes later, I am halfway to a Master’s degree. SPSU has graciously decided to extend an offer of a second online Certificate, an opportunity obviously created for the sole purpose of holding onto one of their star pupils, me. Yes, me. Why are you looking so shocked?

I will receive my new piece of paper in the mail in the coming weeks, but it looks like I am not finished after all. I will be back in class this fall. The former Becky Slocombe of Toronto, Canada, who never could stand school... works at a college; is in graduate school; does her best to support her gorgeous husband Luther, who is now a full time college student; and shares a home and her questionable wisdom and sense of humor with the teenaged Wil, who is a full time high school student. It’s all school all the time at the Hendricks household.

Update 1: Nine lives is too many

A few months ago, a skeletal mommy-kitten appeared, suddenly, outside our back door. I'd been in the middle of saying something to Luther and Wil, and I saw her through the glass. She stood, alarmed and ready to bolt, on the big, orange, riding lawn mower parked outside the door, black kitty on black plastic seat. She couldn't decide between hissing and meowing, so she did both, a sadly comical mix of fright and hunger.

There wasn't any stopping me. I guess there never is. I slid the door open a little. I called to her and held my fingers out. She approached, she hissed, she meowed, she hissed. And I reached over her and closed my fingers on the skin behind her head and pulled her inside.

I was so angry about that cat. The more she adored me, the more angry I became. We are not having a pet. We're going to travel the world and live on a sailboat and not know and not care where we'll stop for the night, and we are not going to stop and say, "oh, we can't go away for the weekend. Who will take care of the cat?"

Do you remember George Bailey in It's a Wonderful Life? He told Mary he didn't want to get married. He was so angry, because he was already trapped. Just like me with the cat.

Sometimes I feel quite trapped by my job, by this town, by a promise I've made and some others' goals that I want and need to support. So when the cat gets up onto my lap and curls up and purrs, I give her a dirty look and think nasty thoughts. You're on notice, cat. The minute we're free to go, we are outta here, and no cute, purring, clever, drinking-water-from-her-paw "Simplicity Simone" cat is going to get in our way.

Keanu Reeves is my neighbor

Last night I dreamt that Keanu Reeves was my neighbor. Actually, Keanu was only a small part of a more complex landscape, but not surprisingly, he's the part I remember. In real, waking life, Mr. Reeves did appear a number of times on a streetcar in my youth, before he was famous. He was striking, as he is now, so that I noticed him and recognized him when I saw him a second time. When he began to turn up onscreen, I remembered seeing him on the streetcar. Many years later, I now remember that striking young man as like an apparition, with a dreamlike quality, which is why it never seems strange when he shows up in my dreams. Last night, he lived two doors away and came over when my house was in an uproar over something, and we hung out for a quiet moment, like having a cup of tea, in the doorway.

Stopping for a cup of tea in a doorway is something I miss. The form it actually used to take was more like a glass of wine from a carafe on a patio with a friend, but the feeling was the same. There is that long sigh, that dust-speckled ray of sunshine, that you can enjoy with a friend on a warm afternoon, when the reason you've met at this cafe is not to catch up, not to make plans, and not to meet in preparation for some other event, but just because it's a warm afternoon and a glass of wine would be nice.

Now, my best friend lives here with me, and the closest we get to tea is when I go down to the cafeteria at lunchtime, and he closes the book he was studying, and we open our little plastic containers and eat lunch together. It's nice, but because our life is one ever-evolving project, we meet for tea between tasks, always on our way to something else. The exception is when we travel, not to visit family or friends, but just to go. Then, every moment is a cup of tea or a glass of wine, and I am in heaven.

I miss my Toronto friends. I miss the way my life used to be about catching one of them on the phone, and stopping somewhere on the way home and then just not moving on until hours later. That's not gone --but those warm afternoons have been transformed into long weekends that are far too few and far between, when my best friend and I get into a car, and turn onto a freeway, and just don't think about turning back.

give up Christmas?

After I dressed the tree this year, I thought, "what the hell did I do that for?" It doesn't seem worth it (even though I blogged about it and really do like my tree tradition).

The presents, though, I'm fond of. I think part of it is that in my family, we have pretty much given up doing Birthdays. My husband's family, sure, but if I send something to my sister or my Dad or something, it's because a good idea for a gift happened to come to mind at precisely the right time.

I am beginning to feel like Christmas, for me, is a little like when your house is getting pretty messy, but then you find out guests are coming, so you do the cleaning you should have been doing all along. Christmas says, "okay, ignore them the rest of the year, but at least right now, come up with a way to show that you were thinking of them."

I don't get stuff from any of them, actually. Mom made me take a card for her account, so she could say every year, "we didn't get around to sending anything, but you guys go out to dinner on us, okay?" And that's cool! So I don't have to play the whole reciprocal gift-giving guilt-trip game. But I always send something, wrapped up. No gift cards. Something that shows that I know what's going on in their lives and want to be involved, but can't because I'm far away.

I figure, if I don't know what's going on in their lives, I shouldn't send anything at all. It'd be pointless.

So... will I keep "celebrating" Christmas? Probably. But I don't spend a lot, and if the shopping crowds are too much for me, I don't go. I can always send the present after Christmas, when things have calmed down. Because the commercial aspect sure isn't about Jesus. And the love aspect isn't dependent on a calendar.

reindeer

reposted from 12 December 2005 on another, lamer, blog site

In September 2001, Luther was deployed. I was expecting the news, but I had to hear the reality by telephone from a hotel lobby in San Francisco. By the time I got home, he was gone.

In December, with our first Christmas as a married couple looming and Luther far from home, I went out to get a tree. We had a tiny two-bedroom apartment, with a room for the kids who were two states away, and a room for Luther and me and all the stuff that didn't fit elsewhere. There was a window in the livingroom that looked out on the apartment complex lot, an obvious place for some seasonal cheer. I like being by myself, but at that time, it was heart-breakingly lonely.

After getting the tree, I wanted to feel sorry for myself. I like the Christmas season for the sappiness, and I fully intended to enjoy it. Some wine or beer, some chips and dip, a romantic movie guaranteed to make me cry... all these things seemed more appropriate than ever.

At Eckerd's for some chips, I found this reindeer ornament. It remains my "Luther is far from home" memory, but it is also beautiful.

love tree

reposted from 11 December 2005, on another, lamer, blog site:

I don’t have a problem with Christmas. I loathe the inflatable decorations, and I could live without all the “Christmas is about the children” crap, but to each his own. My Christmas is about a tree, some presents, some good food and drink. It isn’t about Jesus and God, and it sure as hell isn’t about the children –at least, not especially. It’s a time of year when you get to have a little frantic fun, show the people close to you that you’re thinking about them, and remember stuff. That’s about it.

When I was a kid, we always had a real Christmas tree. Mom and Dad would drive us in the Volkswagon beetle to hunt down and kill our own tree at Horton’s Tree Farm. Toronto’s streets were slushy, but at Horton’s Tree Farm, there was endless snow. It always felt like my face was going to freeze off. We’d locate the Perfect Tree, and then Dad or my sister would chop it down and we’d drag it back to the lodge, where we’d have hot apple cider or hot chocolate and hot maple syrup candy, hardened in snow to a chewy consistency.

At home, Mom put lights on the tree, swearing the whole time as the needles pricked her hands and forearms. Then the ornaments would go up. Our ornaments were always old things that we’d had forever. Nothing fancy. Tarnished glass balls. Tinsel.

Later, these old things were gradually replaced by things that Paul brought to our family, or by new things that he and Mom collected. They started buying things when they were traveling, and occasionally added items to commemorate events or to remember a pet that had passed away. I had my own tree, wherever I was living, but I always tried to join Mom and Paul for the decorating of their tree. With all the memories and stories coming out of the box of decorations, tree decoration at Mom and Paul’s gradually became a special, annual event of its own. A nice dinner, some music, some wine, and with each ornament, a story or remembrance. I loved this event so much, I kept my own tree quite bare for the first few years. I limited my ornaments to lights and glass balls and a few new ornaments each year. I decided to let the collection grow through experiences, so each new ornament would signify some part of my life.

This is the tradition I brought South with me, when I moved here.

Luther had bought an artificial tree and lights and some plastic ornaments, so that he could have Christmas for his kids, when they came to visit him. When I joined him here, the artificial tree got replaced with a real one. We “hunted it down” at Home Depot with the kids, and brought it home on the roof of the little Subaru Justy. Then the ornaments from both little families were merged.

Last night, I decorated our tree of memories. Lights first, strands surviving from both our households. Stars next, the Georgia wire frame star up top, and the shiny filigree one from Toronto just below, perched in the branches. Luther teased me about having any star up top, since I am not a Christian. I don’t believe in God, I said, but I believe in stars!

After the lights and stars, the plastic balls go up. They mean more to me than any of the other ornaments. They are from such a difficult and sweet time, when Luther was alone and apart from the children he loves so much, purchased very much to say to them, “I’ll always love you.”

I’m glad that I’m able to share my tradition with him. I’m gladder still to have my Christmas tree filled with the love he feels for his family, along with the love I feel for my own. That’s what Christmas is about, to me. Some frantic fun, some time with family, and a pretty tree full of memories.

Eulogy 4.0

reposted from 08 December 2005 on another, lamer, blog site

Last night I said a sad goodbye to my good friend, 4.0.

I knew 4.0 only briefly. We met in college. I remember thinking she wouldn’t have anything to do with someone like me, but I was wrong. We wound up spending a lot of time together, some late nights, some really early mornings, and a lot of words. I was really impressed by her ability to always give it 100%, you know?

I was proud to have 4.0 as a friend. I even bragged about her! I actually felt smarter in her presence.

At times like this, you’re always tempted to say, “It isn’t fair.” But that’s not right. This isn’t about what’s fair. 4.0 never relied on “fair” to get her through things. Nor will I.

And it’s hard not to think that I lost 4.0 before her time. But let’s be honest, we all knew it was time. All the drinking sure didn’t help, and—well, I’ll just refer to her other problems the way she would have referred to them herself: “Distractions.”

4.0 was like that. She always had the perfect word for things. But now she’s gone, and it is time to move on.

Next semester, I hope to make a new friend. I’ll try to give her more time and effort than I was able to give to 4.0 these last few months. Until then, I plan to play hard and have fun and remember the good times, when I thought 4.0 would be with me forever.

In closing, I’d like to share a little thing she used to say to me. It may not make much sense to you, but 4.0 would understand.

4.0, I give you an A . Excellent work, my friend.

with this follow up, 19 December 2005:

Today I received the report on the autopsy performed on my dear friend, 4.0. Many of you will recall that I gave the eulogy at her funeral. I truly appreciate the many kind words, cards, and stuffed animals sent to console me. They really did help!

All your good thoughts surely contributed to the situation that has now arisen: The autopsy report has come in, and I am a little embarrassed to share the findings. In a situation such as this, 4.0 would no doubt quote Mark Twain in saying, "The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated."

Some of you, I am told, will better understand this as, "The bitch is back."
4.0 is recovering nicely. Time will tell whether she will be able to achieve her former health. I will certainly be looking to contribute what I can to her general well-being! My only real regret --and this I say in confidence-- is my own reticence. I am just so lazy! and now I will have to live up to 4.0's standards again. Don't get me wrong! She's top drawer, the best of the best! I just... sometimes wish I didn't have to strive to meet her level of performance.

Oh well. I'm glad I'll have her with me at the start of the spring semester! I'll be studying Marketing with Dr. Barnum, and I'll be building my portfolio with Dr. Hopper. It will be good to be working with 4.0 again, and giving her all I have. I look forward to the challenge 4.0's own personality has always represented.

To 4.0 herself, I have only one thing to say: Bring it on.

introducing: my Paul

reposted from another, lamer, blog site

Paul came into my life sometime after my eighth birthday. He is not my stepfather.

When I was eight, my father moved out of the house. I remember it because we had one of our regular Saturday family meetings, and the topic was something like, “you two have noticed that your mother and I have been fighting a lot, so we’ve been talking about how to solve that problem.” The proposed solution was that Dad get a place of his own. We’d still see him all the time, but he wouldn’t live in the same house, and so he and Mom wouldn’t have to fight. My sister and I agreed that this was a good solution for all concerned. Dad got an apartment downtown.

I don’t remember a big deal around meeting Paul. Both my parents already knew him, so it’s quite possible that my sister and I had already met him before he and my Mom started sleeping together. What I do remember is running into him in the hall occasionally at night (adults slept naked for some reason, but I don’t remember thinking he was ugly or anything), and that he had the COOLEST APARTMENT EVER. It was on Avenue Road, and the kitchen had black and white tiles and a café table with stools, and the livingroom had deep shag carpet, wall to wall drapes, and velvet chairs, one green, one red. We typically went there before or after my basketball games at the Y. Paul listened to jazz and read a lot.

The idea of having a stepfather or stepmother simply never came up. I had a mother, and I had a father. Their relationships with me had not changed. Paul became a part of my life, and I liked him and I guess he liked me. He was my mother’s boyfriend. Later, he was my mother’s life partner. I talked to him about stuff. He offered his wisdom when appropriate. I moved in with my Dad when I was eleven, and after that, Paul seemed like the only real adult in my life. As I grew up, more and more I found that my parents had to be taken care of, but Paul never seemed to need me. He just was there if I needed him.

Years later, I came to refer to Paul as “my third parent.” Today, however, I was told with no hesitation by a co-worker… that Paul is my stepfather. I sat there, a 38-year-old who has had Paul in her life for about 30 years of her life, and was told that Paul is my stepfather whether I use the word or not.

Why?

I can’t tell you why most people assume he is my stepfather. I can tell you why Paul is not my stepfather, and it’s this: Because my sense of “family” is not about a child living with a mother and a father. My sense of family is not so restricted. To me, family is two or more persons who are bound to each other for life. When a child is involved, family is the people that child can go to come hell or high water, for love and for protection, whether he needs to do so or not. But new family members don’t replace or substitute for the originals. I have a mother. Her name is Mary Ann. I have a father. His name is David. Any people they chose to add to my family when I was still a child, whatever gender or sexual preference or nationality… would be part of my family. Period.

Would they be, automatically, parents? No.

Paul was not my parent when I was growing up. I already had parents. I tried to respect other adults who were due respect, which he was. I conversed with them as equals when possible, and (sometimes) deferred to them as knowing elders otherwise. In my teens, I referred to Paul as either my friend or “my mother’s life partner.”

It’s as an adult that I realized how much he has meant to me, how he has always been there for me –but more to the point has always been there for my mother and enriched her life so much in ways that have supported my own. It’s as an adult that I can say without hesitation that I would simply not be me if it hadn’t been for Paul being a part of my life. It’s as an adult that I can talk with him in a kitchen in Newfoundland and wonder how I can ever repay him for what he has given to my mother and, through her, to me.

He is not my stepfather. That would in no way express what he means to me. Paul is my Paul. And I’m so very glad he is my friend.