Everything is upside down because you are not here. It hits me in the most unexpected places, on the most unexpected days and today is one of those. I can't call you and tell you about the books I'm reading, about the speakers I'm hearing, or about the big thoughts I'm thinking.
I thought about you as I slid into the cab and the driver spoke in a thick Eastern European accent. His voice was so deep, so low that I had to lean forward in my seat to hear.
"Where to?"
"MGM Grand Conference Center, please." I hold my bag on my lap and look out the window at the drizzle raining down on the Strip. It's not enough to fill puddles, just enough to give the street the illusion of being clean. It's the quiet of morning, no flashing signs, no men snapping fistfuls of paper women at passerby.
"Where are you from?" I ask, watching the corners of the windows etch with steam.
"I live here. Where are you from?"
"California."
"Los Angeles?"
"No, Northern California, the pretty part of the state-with lakes and mountains."
"I lived in California many years ago." He waits for the light to turn from red to green.
"But where are you from?"
"Romania." He clips the word and I hesitate for a moment, wondering why he left Romania, wondering what he isn't saying, always wondering, always wanting to know the rest of the story.
"I've been to Romania. My grandmother took me on a bus tour of Eastern Europe for my thirtieth birthday. Romania is beautiful. I always had my nose pressed to the bus window when we drove through Romania." My rush of words fog up the cab window.
"What towns did you visit?"
"Oh, I'm terrible with names. Say some of the names and I'll tell you if we visited the towns."
"Romania isn't very big. Only the size of Oregon." His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. His are brown almost black and mine are turquoise today. "Of course there's Bucharest. And there's Brashov."
"We visited Bucharest, but Brashov was my favorite. I prefer smaller towns."
"I am from Brashov."
"Do you visit Romania often?"
"I haven't been back there in twenty-six years." He says, the decades stacking in his throat, the lapse of time thick in his tone. He pauses and I don't say anything. "But I'm going back in March."
"This March?" I resist the urge to ask this stranger about the long stretch of years between homecomings.
He leaves me wondering and asks another question instead, "Why did your grandmother take you there?"
"For my birthday." I repeat.
"But why Romania?"
"She loves, um, loved-" I correct your life to past tense and it stops my heart for a moment. "She loved to travel to places she hadn't been before. She had a heart for meeting people all over the world."
"She gave this to you."
"Yes, it was a present for my birthday." I fiddle with my wallet, slipping out cash, guessing at the number of bills I'll need to pay when we arrive at my destination.
"No," his eyes smile in the mirror. "You're here. She gave you a love of travel."
"Yes, I suppose she did." I smile back.
"Her heart is your heart. Her blood is your blood."
The taxi comes to a stop at the curb. I hand a wad of folded up bills over the seat, more bills than I'd first counted out, still a paltry offering for this taxi driver who has walked the same streets you and I walked, an entire ocean and calendars of years away.
I think about how the cash I give him isn't nearly enough for the man who reminded me that you're still here, that my blood is your blood, that your heart is my heart.
"Thank you. Have a safe trip home." I say to him.
"You, too." He tucks the bills in his back pocket and flashes a last smile.
I step out onto the curb and I no longer feel so upside down. The rain holds its breath and I begin to feel righted again.
Showing posts with label Gramma Betty. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gramma Betty. Show all posts
November 17, 2012
December 30, 2011
My Grandmother's Skirt
A tiny crack splintered through my heart when I hung my grandmother's skirt up in my closet this Christmas. It's a red and green plaid skirt that sits perfectly on my hips and floats at my knees, a traveling pants sort of miracle being that I'm 6' tall and my grandmother was 5' on a tall day.
The skirt is one of two items I took from her closet when she passed away. The other was a bland oatmeal sweater that smelled like her. I kept that sweater on for days after she died, breathing in her smell even as I laid in bed nights, listening to the sounds that felt all wrong in her house.
But the skirt went unworn. Last year I couldn't put it on without crying and so it hung at the back of my closet, its red and green merriment lost in a dark corner. This year I was able to wear the skirt with only the slightest quiver in my bottom lip when I looked in the mirror.
I paired my grandmother's skirt with a green cowl neck blouse, a black jacket zigzagged with zippers, black tights and tall black boots with the skinniest of heels. For good measure I added my favorite leather studded bracelet. I remember my grandmother wearing the skirt, so proper in her heels and nylons and a red sweater on top. She would have laughed and shaken her head at her modest skirt paired with a my hints of edginess. A thousand times I wanted to send her a photo. I wanted our pictures to stand next to each other, each of us wearing this magical skirt, her red lipsticked mouth smiling out at my own pale grin.
Every single time I took her skirt out for a spin, I was showered with compliments. I'm not fashionable or trendy in any sense of those words. I'm gangly and awkward and when I can find pants that don't look like I'm readying for a flood, well, that's a fashion win in my book.
When I stepped out in my grandmother's skirt, it was a whole new experience.
"I love that skirt."
"That is a fantastic skirt!"
"You look radiant in that skirt. It really brings out the color in your cheeks."
Needless to say, I felt great in that skirt, so great that I carefully put it in my clothing rotation as often as possible. The skirt is so unabashedly red and green that the only possible month to wear it is December and so I decided to make the most of my month with my grandmother's skirt.
I took it to see 'It's a Wonderful Life'. I wore it to three Christmas parties. I wore it to the Christmas sing-a-long on the last day of school. And finally I donned it for our Christmas morning church service.
As we read the Communion passage, I held the plastic Communion cup, complete with wafer sealed on top, and swirled the grape juice so that it coated the sides of the cup red. I thought about how Christ's sacrifice covers my sins and I thought about how if I peeled back the wrapper on that cup and poured it on my skirt, the red wool would soak it up and nobody would even notice. For the record, I didn't pour it out. I savored the wafer on my tongue and washed it down with the bittersweet juice, running red down my throat.
After church and after all the gifts were opened at my mom's house, a knot caught in my throat when I hung my grandmother's skirt up that Christmas afternoon. I ran my hand over the wool and slipped the skirt back into the recesses of my closet. I squeezed into Spandex for a Christmas bike ride. Under a blindingly blue sky and with the taste of Communion still on my lips, I thought of all the gifts I've received this past year, both tangible and not.
And I smiled because somehow in spite of her passing my grandmother still manages to give incredible gifts.
In her skirt I felt vibrant.
I felt confident.
I felt beautiful.
And the most magical gift of my grandmother's skirt is that when I took it off, all those feelings remained.
The skirt is one of two items I took from her closet when she passed away. The other was a bland oatmeal sweater that smelled like her. I kept that sweater on for days after she died, breathing in her smell even as I laid in bed nights, listening to the sounds that felt all wrong in her house.
But the skirt went unworn. Last year I couldn't put it on without crying and so it hung at the back of my closet, its red and green merriment lost in a dark corner. This year I was able to wear the skirt with only the slightest quiver in my bottom lip when I looked in the mirror.
I paired my grandmother's skirt with a green cowl neck blouse, a black jacket zigzagged with zippers, black tights and tall black boots with the skinniest of heels. For good measure I added my favorite leather studded bracelet. I remember my grandmother wearing the skirt, so proper in her heels and nylons and a red sweater on top. She would have laughed and shaken her head at her modest skirt paired with a my hints of edginess. A thousand times I wanted to send her a photo. I wanted our pictures to stand next to each other, each of us wearing this magical skirt, her red lipsticked mouth smiling out at my own pale grin.
Every single time I took her skirt out for a spin, I was showered with compliments. I'm not fashionable or trendy in any sense of those words. I'm gangly and awkward and when I can find pants that don't look like I'm readying for a flood, well, that's a fashion win in my book.
 |
| My grandmother's skirt |
"I love that skirt."
"That is a fantastic skirt!"
"You look radiant in that skirt. It really brings out the color in your cheeks."
Needless to say, I felt great in that skirt, so great that I carefully put it in my clothing rotation as often as possible. The skirt is so unabashedly red and green that the only possible month to wear it is December and so I decided to make the most of my month with my grandmother's skirt.
I took it to see 'It's a Wonderful Life'. I wore it to three Christmas parties. I wore it to the Christmas sing-a-long on the last day of school. And finally I donned it for our Christmas morning church service.
As we read the Communion passage, I held the plastic Communion cup, complete with wafer sealed on top, and swirled the grape juice so that it coated the sides of the cup red. I thought about how Christ's sacrifice covers my sins and I thought about how if I peeled back the wrapper on that cup and poured it on my skirt, the red wool would soak it up and nobody would even notice. For the record, I didn't pour it out. I savored the wafer on my tongue and washed it down with the bittersweet juice, running red down my throat.
After church and after all the gifts were opened at my mom's house, a knot caught in my throat when I hung my grandmother's skirt up that Christmas afternoon. I ran my hand over the wool and slipped the skirt back into the recesses of my closet. I squeezed into Spandex for a Christmas bike ride. Under a blindingly blue sky and with the taste of Communion still on my lips, I thought of all the gifts I've received this past year, both tangible and not.
And I smiled because somehow in spite of her passing my grandmother still manages to give incredible gifts.
In her skirt I felt vibrant.
I felt confident.
I felt beautiful.
And the most magical gift of my grandmother's skirt is that when I took it off, all those feelings remained.
October 31, 2011
Letters to Gramma: You'll Never Guess
Dear Gramma,
You'll never guess what someone asked me for today. Never in a million, katrillion, quadfillion years.
I was quietly checking my e-mail this morning while walking to work. And there it was staring at me in my inbox. A request from another teacher.
Know what she needed? I'm in fits of giggles just thinking about it. Seriously, you'll never guess.
She needed to borrow a mini trampoline! Can you believe it? A mini trampoline of all things! I know, I'm dying laughing, too.
In about 0.2 seconds I e-mailed her back telling her she could borrowyours mine yours.
After school she drove me home and on the drive I told her about how you used to "train" for your trips by trampolining. Sorry to put "train" in air quotes, Gramma, but I just can't say it with a straight face. We were cracking up just at the thought.
Ahhh. Better.
After hearing the story of how I came to possess your trampoline, my colleague said she didn't want to take the trampoline because she was afraid something might happen to it. I told her that's the very reason she should take it. Something might happen to it. Something laugh out loud hilarious might happen to it.
You see, my colleague is going to use it in a spirit assembly that involves kids wearing superhero capes and doing silly tricks and eating disgusting foods. I told her that assembly is just the kind of thing that would've made you laugh.
So you should know that on Friday afternoon a bunch of middle school kids are going to be jumping and bouncing and having a ton of fun on your old trampoline.
And when I get it back I might just take a jump or two before putting it back in the closet. Gramma, you always made me laugh. You're still making me laugh.
I love you like crazy,
Alicia
You'll never guess what someone asked me for today. Never in a million, katrillion, quadfillion years.
I was quietly checking my e-mail this morning while walking to work. And there it was staring at me in my inbox. A request from another teacher.
Know what she needed? I'm in fits of giggles just thinking about it. Seriously, you'll never guess.
She needed to borrow a mini trampoline! Can you believe it? A mini trampoline of all things! I know, I'm dying laughing, too.
In about 0.2 seconds I e-mailed her back telling her she could borrow
After school she drove me home and on the drive I told her about how you used to "train" for your trips by trampolining. Sorry to put "train" in air quotes, Gramma, but I just can't say it with a straight face. We were cracking up just at the thought.
 |
| When you died, that's why I wanted your trampoline so badly in the first place. It makes me smile every time I look at it and remember you bouncing, ahem, "training" on it. Wait, I'm snickering too much. I have to stop and take a breath for a sec. |
After hearing the story of how I came to possess your trampoline, my colleague said she didn't want to take the trampoline because she was afraid something might happen to it. I told her that's the very reason she should take it. Something might happen to it. Something laugh out loud hilarious might happen to it.
You see, my colleague is going to use it in a spirit assembly that involves kids wearing superhero capes and doing silly tricks and eating disgusting foods. I told her that assembly is just the kind of thing that would've made you laugh.
So you should know that on Friday afternoon a bunch of middle school kids are going to be jumping and bouncing and having a ton of fun on your old trampoline.
And when I get it back I might just take a jump or two before putting it back in the closet. Gramma, you always made me laugh. You're still making me laugh.
I love you like crazy,
Alicia
August 30, 2011
Letters to Gramma: Envy in Grief
Dear Gramma,
I had a dream this morning, a nightmare actually. I dreamed that it was the day you died and I was alone in your house. I've had this dream before, a memory that comes back to me at night sometimes. But this time I was in your old house, in the house I visited as a kid, not the house you lived in when you died. I was walking through the house, crying up the creaky stairs. In the face of such a devastating loss, I crammed myself in the little closet that used to be a telephone room and I closed the door.
Your doorbell rang and I untucked myself from the corner of the closet. Out on the front steps was a real estate agent and a family ready to look at the house. In my dream I didn't even know the house was for sale. I explained to the agent that you had just passed away that morning and it really wasn't a good time. The agent pushed the door open and showed the family in. The mother started asking me all these questions. I gave them a tour of your house, staggering through the rooms of memories with a lump in my throat and tears welling in my eyes.
My alarm clock sounded and I've never been so glad for it to go off. I woke with that lump in my throat and swallowed it back down. My pillow was wet from crying. The dream felt so real that it took me a few minutes to realize it couldn't have been real because you haven't lived in that house for over 20 years. I swept away the cobwebs of the dream and pulled the covers up under my chin, wiping my eyes with the sheet. I miss you so much that sometimes it's a physical ache in my chest. This morning was one of those times.
I got up to ride my bike with Terry and Nick. A good hard ride was just what I needed. I pedaled up and across Shasta Dam, the water in the lake blue and glassy. We followed a new piece of trail and at a split I jumped on the old the river trail and Terry and Nick followed the road back home. I wanted to be by the river, to be near something beautiful. I rode fast, pushing a big gear, passing everyone I encountered.
I reached the Sundial Bridge where there was a breast cancer awareness walk. I got caught in a crowd of people dressed in pink. I felt the lump rise up from my belly and bob in my throat. I saw people walking in memory of loved ones lost and the ache stabbed at my chest.
Then I saw people walking with the word "Survivor" pinned to their shirts. There were stickers and pins and hats and everything else rightly proclaiming survivorship.
White hot envy bubbled up. And I know I shouldn't be envious that they survived and you didn't, but sometimes I am. Most days I think you won, Gramma, that you lived the best life of anyone I know. But some days I feel like cancer won, that it's unfair that other people survived cancer and you didn't. It's the ugly part of grief, Gramma, the part I hate the most. It's not that I wish these other people didn't survive. It's not that at all. It's that I wish you were still here, too.
I tried to get out of the crowd of walkers, but no matter how many times I called out "On your left!" or "Coming through!" they didn't move aside. The entire bridge was filled from one side to the other with walkers and survivors and pink shirts. I felt the tears pricking my eyelashes. I needed to be anywhere but there. I unclipped and walked my bike through the crowd, keeping my head down until I got to the road and onto the trail that would lead me home. I rode uphill, stomping on my pedals, crying until hot snot ran with my tears. By the time I got home I'd stopped crying, but the sadness remained.
Gramma, I don't mind dreaming of you. In fact, I love it when you talk to me in my dreams. But this dream was different. You weren't in it at all. And that's what makes the sadness stay, the fact that each day I get further and further away from the life that had you in it. Sometimes that loss devastates me all over again.
Come talk to me in my sleep, Gramma. Sidle up next to me and drawl "Hi, honey. How are you?" Make me watch Jeopardy with you while we eat ice cream for dinner. Come back, for just a little bit, even if it's only in my dreams.
Love,
Alicia
I had a dream this morning, a nightmare actually. I dreamed that it was the day you died and I was alone in your house. I've had this dream before, a memory that comes back to me at night sometimes. But this time I was in your old house, in the house I visited as a kid, not the house you lived in when you died. I was walking through the house, crying up the creaky stairs. In the face of such a devastating loss, I crammed myself in the little closet that used to be a telephone room and I closed the door.
Your doorbell rang and I untucked myself from the corner of the closet. Out on the front steps was a real estate agent and a family ready to look at the house. In my dream I didn't even know the house was for sale. I explained to the agent that you had just passed away that morning and it really wasn't a good time. The agent pushed the door open and showed the family in. The mother started asking me all these questions. I gave them a tour of your house, staggering through the rooms of memories with a lump in my throat and tears welling in my eyes.
My alarm clock sounded and I've never been so glad for it to go off. I woke with that lump in my throat and swallowed it back down. My pillow was wet from crying. The dream felt so real that it took me a few minutes to realize it couldn't have been real because you haven't lived in that house for over 20 years. I swept away the cobwebs of the dream and pulled the covers up under my chin, wiping my eyes with the sheet. I miss you so much that sometimes it's a physical ache in my chest. This morning was one of those times.
I got up to ride my bike with Terry and Nick. A good hard ride was just what I needed. I pedaled up and across Shasta Dam, the water in the lake blue and glassy. We followed a new piece of trail and at a split I jumped on the old the river trail and Terry and Nick followed the road back home. I wanted to be by the river, to be near something beautiful. I rode fast, pushing a big gear, passing everyone I encountered.
I reached the Sundial Bridge where there was a breast cancer awareness walk. I got caught in a crowd of people dressed in pink. I felt the lump rise up from my belly and bob in my throat. I saw people walking in memory of loved ones lost and the ache stabbed at my chest.
Then I saw people walking with the word "Survivor" pinned to their shirts. There were stickers and pins and hats and everything else rightly proclaiming survivorship.
White hot envy bubbled up. And I know I shouldn't be envious that they survived and you didn't, but sometimes I am. Most days I think you won, Gramma, that you lived the best life of anyone I know. But some days I feel like cancer won, that it's unfair that other people survived cancer and you didn't. It's the ugly part of grief, Gramma, the part I hate the most. It's not that I wish these other people didn't survive. It's not that at all. It's that I wish you were still here, too.
I tried to get out of the crowd of walkers, but no matter how many times I called out "On your left!" or "Coming through!" they didn't move aside. The entire bridge was filled from one side to the other with walkers and survivors and pink shirts. I felt the tears pricking my eyelashes. I needed to be anywhere but there. I unclipped and walked my bike through the crowd, keeping my head down until I got to the road and onto the trail that would lead me home. I rode uphill, stomping on my pedals, crying until hot snot ran with my tears. By the time I got home I'd stopped crying, but the sadness remained.
Gramma, I don't mind dreaming of you. In fact, I love it when you talk to me in my dreams. But this dream was different. You weren't in it at all. And that's what makes the sadness stay, the fact that each day I get further and further away from the life that had you in it. Sometimes that loss devastates me all over again.
Come talk to me in my sleep, Gramma. Sidle up next to me and drawl "Hi, honey. How are you?" Make me watch Jeopardy with you while we eat ice cream for dinner. Come back, for just a little bit, even if it's only in my dreams.
Love,
Alicia
June 29, 2011
30 Days of Celebration: Day 14, Giggling with Gramma
It's 4:19am and the house is quiet. The TV is off. No music plays on my iPod. Although I've got the house to myself, I've been up all night with a serious case of the giggles.
My family reunion is hours away and I've been squirreling away my free minutes and using them to turn the recently found footage of my grandmother into a movie. My hope is to make a copy for everyone in my family.
[caption id="attachment_4342" align="alignright" width="200" caption="Can you say 'dinner out'?"]
As I sifted through the footage, cut it apart and put it back together again, I found myself laughing right along with Gramma Betty as she recounted the story of buying her own engagement ring. I was snorting out loud as she told the hilarious tale of how she and my grandfather got engaged. Not to mention the story of how she convinced him to take her out to dinner by cooking chili night after night until he simply couldn't stand one more bite of it!
My grandmother was one smart cookie. Hang on a sec, let me just make a note of that. Chili for the next month. Oh who am I kidding, Terry would fall over dead if I ever cooked anything for dinner.
So today I'm celebrating staying up late and giggling with my grandmother, delighting in the ease of her smile and the twinkle in her eyes. I thought her laugh and her particular expressions were relegated to my faded memories. She always joked that her sense of direction was far superior to mine and it's proving to be true because long after leaving this earth, my grandmother has found her way back to me.
June 25, 2011
30 Days of Celebration: Day 12, San Francisco with Gramma
Yesterday I finished up the Technology & Writing Institute and flew to San Francisco where I would take a connecting flight to Seattle. When I landed in the S.F., I grabbed some dinner and wandered to my gate only to discover that my flight had been delayed an hour. An hour isn't much, so I plopped down on the floor by an outlet, eager to use this time to edit some of the footage of my grandmother.
I hit play and her voice streamed through my headphones, as if we were sitting in her living room chatting just like old times. I flicked through the footage to the place where I'd last left off and was elated to find that my grandma's next story was about her move from Texas to San Francisco when she was a young woman. She talked all about her first job and how much she loved the city, the very city I found myself in at that very moment. As I sat listening to her stories, I couldn't help but feel she was there with me.
Every now and then I'd peek up at the people around me, families laying down and sleeping, weary from a day marred with delays. I remembered the time Gramma and I were delayed in LAX. The airline gave us food vouchers. Reasonable people spent their vouchers on dinner, but we spent our vouchers on snacks for the plane and, of course, ice cream cones. What can I say-we were both dessert before dinner kinds of people. Life is short, so terribly short.
So today I'm celebrating divine moments when God uses His tender hand to orchestrate things so that I, a lonely traveler, could spend an hour in San Francisco with my grandmother as my guide.
June 18, 2011
30 Days of Celebration: Day 11, My Grandmother's Voice
In the wee hours of Friday morning I found myself ransacking the house like a mad woman. I was throwing open closet doors, heaving out boxes of stuff, rifling through filing cabinets in search of the only thing that might have a chance at saving my dying hard drive: the OS disk.
I was frantic. My laptop sat there looking forlorn, a gray screen with a flickering question mark on a lonely file folder.
Each blink of the question mark fired a new worry into my head. Why didn't I make a recent back up? Would I find the disk in time to save my hard drive? If I found the disk would it even work? Where could that disk be??? Aha! There it was next to my video camera at the bottom of a box of miscellaneous computer stuff on the floor of the office closet. I'd been looking for that video camera for years, but I didn't have time for it now. I grabbed the video camera and the disk and shoved the disk into my sick MacBook. I followed the steps I'd watched so carefully in a YouTube video made by some angel of a man who somehow knew I'd find myself in a rescue mission at 1am.
Sadly, no matter how many times I tried, and believe me I tried scads of times, my hard drive was too sick to even respond to the disk. My fingers flew through Google looking for another answer.
Aha! Take the hard drive out and let it cool off. Hmmm, now if I only knew where the hard drive was... A quick trip over to YouTube had some other angelic man showing me how to remove my hard drive.
I hurried out to the garage to get the teensy tiny screwdriver set my husband keeps in his car. Where was it? I felt the tears coming in a big lump bobbing in my throat. By this time my rescue attempt had gone on for hours and I was losing hope. Where was that darn screwdriver set? I searched the car top to bottom. Nothing. I could just picture my all my saved photos and documents bursting into flames. I'm pretty sure they don't really do that, but at 1:30 am, things start to get a little uncivilized in my brain.
I called Terry, who was working out of town, and between tears I explained my situation and that I needed that little screwdriver immediately or the world was going to implode! Calmly, he directed me to the screwdriver set located in a drawer in the workbench in our garage. Silly man, putting tools away where they actually belong.
Screwdriver in hand, I removed my hard drive to let it cool overnight. I posted a desperate message on FaceBook looking for any last-ditch genius solutions or any suggestions of places to take my hard drive for an autopsy. Then I staggered into bed where I dreamed that all the people in my photos on my computer were dismantling the novel I'd written one word at a time, carry off the words until all the people and all 50,000 odd words were gone and the only thing left was a giant question mark folder.
The next morning I put the hard drive back in only to have that question mark folder stare back at me. My FaceBook friends had come through with the names of 2 computer places known for resurrecting hard drives from the dead. I took my sad computer to both places and I only cried a little bit when they couldn't revive it long enough to retrieve anything. I cried a little more as I explained to them that I'd only backed up some of the photos from my trip with my grandmother and that those were what I wanted most. And it would also be nice to get back the novel I'd foolishly not backed up. Both computer places were so kind to me, not even charging me labor for the hours they spent trying with no success to recover my things. I left the second place with a new hard drive humming away in my MacBook.
Back at home I started the tedious process of reinstalling software. This involved hitting the enter key lots of times and then waiting and then waiting some more. While I waited for this new hard drive to make magic happen inside of my old computer, I picked up the video camera I'd stumbled across while ransacking my house earlier that morning. I plugged the camera into the wall setting it on the carpet near the outlet. I crossed my fingers that the camera somehow still had the footage I'd recorded a couple of years ago.
I pushed play and the living room filled up with my Grandmother's voice as she recounted stories of her life. I laid down on the carpet my face inches from her face on the tiny screen and I cried. It was so good to hear her voice, to hear her laugh again, to see her when she was healthy. I watched every second of the footage, even the bloopers I promised her I'd edit out later. Suddenly losing some photos of our trip didn't seem so bad now.
My computer started to make happy beeping noises as it came to life again. I jumped online to check my email and then remembered that last November when I was frantically hammering out my novel, I'd emailed myself a copy just in case. In a couple of clicks I was staring at it in all it's horrible rough draft splendor. I let out a little yelp of glee!
So yesterday and today I'm celebrating that sometimes, not always but sometimes, what is lost can be found again. And sometimes in looking for what it lost, something even greater is discovered.
I was frantic. My laptop sat there looking forlorn, a gray screen with a flickering question mark on a lonely file folder.Each blink of the question mark fired a new worry into my head. Why didn't I make a recent back up? Would I find the disk in time to save my hard drive? If I found the disk would it even work? Where could that disk be??? Aha! There it was next to my video camera at the bottom of a box of miscellaneous computer stuff on the floor of the office closet. I'd been looking for that video camera for years, but I didn't have time for it now. I grabbed the video camera and the disk and shoved the disk into my sick MacBook. I followed the steps I'd watched so carefully in a YouTube video made by some angel of a man who somehow knew I'd find myself in a rescue mission at 1am.
Sadly, no matter how many times I tried, and believe me I tried scads of times, my hard drive was too sick to even respond to the disk. My fingers flew through Google looking for another answer.
Aha! Take the hard drive out and let it cool off. Hmmm, now if I only knew where the hard drive was... A quick trip over to YouTube had some other angelic man showing me how to remove my hard drive.
I hurried out to the garage to get the teensy tiny screwdriver set my husband keeps in his car. Where was it? I felt the tears coming in a big lump bobbing in my throat. By this time my rescue attempt had gone on for hours and I was losing hope. Where was that darn screwdriver set? I searched the car top to bottom. Nothing. I could just picture my all my saved photos and documents bursting into flames. I'm pretty sure they don't really do that, but at 1:30 am, things start to get a little uncivilized in my brain.
I called Terry, who was working out of town, and between tears I explained my situation and that I needed that little screwdriver immediately or the world was going to implode! Calmly, he directed me to the screwdriver set located in a drawer in the workbench in our garage. Silly man, putting tools away where they actually belong.
Screwdriver in hand, I removed my hard drive to let it cool overnight. I posted a desperate message on FaceBook looking for any last-ditch genius solutions or any suggestions of places to take my hard drive for an autopsy. Then I staggered into bed where I dreamed that all the people in my photos on my computer were dismantling the novel I'd written one word at a time, carry off the words until all the people and all 50,000 odd words were gone and the only thing left was a giant question mark folder.
The next morning I put the hard drive back in only to have that question mark folder stare back at me. My FaceBook friends had come through with the names of 2 computer places known for resurrecting hard drives from the dead. I took my sad computer to both places and I only cried a little bit when they couldn't revive it long enough to retrieve anything. I cried a little more as I explained to them that I'd only backed up some of the photos from my trip with my grandmother and that those were what I wanted most. And it would also be nice to get back the novel I'd foolishly not backed up. Both computer places were so kind to me, not even charging me labor for the hours they spent trying with no success to recover my things. I left the second place with a new hard drive humming away in my MacBook.
Back at home I started the tedious process of reinstalling software. This involved hitting the enter key lots of times and then waiting and then waiting some more. While I waited for this new hard drive to make magic happen inside of my old computer, I picked up the video camera I'd stumbled across while ransacking my house earlier that morning. I plugged the camera into the wall setting it on the carpet near the outlet. I crossed my fingers that the camera somehow still had the footage I'd recorded a couple of years ago.
I pushed play and the living room filled up with my Grandmother's voice as she recounted stories of her life. I laid down on the carpet my face inches from her face on the tiny screen and I cried. It was so good to hear her voice, to hear her laugh again, to see her when she was healthy. I watched every second of the footage, even the bloopers I promised her I'd edit out later. Suddenly losing some photos of our trip didn't seem so bad now.
My computer started to make happy beeping noises as it came to life again. I jumped online to check my email and then remembered that last November when I was frantically hammering out my novel, I'd emailed myself a copy just in case. In a couple of clicks I was staring at it in all it's horrible rough draft splendor. I let out a little yelp of glee!
So yesterday and today I'm celebrating that sometimes, not always but sometimes, what is lost can be found again. And sometimes in looking for what it lost, something even greater is discovered.
May 6, 2011
Lessons From Dragonflies
It's dragonfly season in my classroom. Willow branches poke out of dank tanks atop our desks. Tadpoles dart in the murky water to escape the voracious appetites of our dragonfly nymphs.
And us? We wait, holding our collective breath until the day one of our nymphs makes the climb up a willow branch to molt a final time.
I've written about dragonflies before and I'll surely write of them again because in their metamorphosis from nymph to dragonfly, I find pieces of myself. Pieces of myself in times of grief. Pieces of myself in times of triumph.
Dragonfly nymphs molt about 15 times. The first molts take place in the water. When a dragonfly nymph is ready, when it's literally ready to burst out of its skin, in the cover of night the nymph climbs up a stick and using the hooks on its feet, the nymph holds on for dear life. Then the nymph pushes from within and breaks out of its skin right between the wingpads, leaving a large hole in the old skin. It's an act so violently beautiful that when my students ask me if it hurts, I can only blink back tears and eek out the words "I don't know."
I imagine it's extremely painful. Growth usually is. This week as I watched a nymph transform into a dragonfly, I thought of my friend, Lynn. She wrote about losing her mother, of being separated from someone who was entwined in every fiber of her life. After such a loss, when you have a gaping hole, how's it possible to return to life again when life as you know it doesn't exist anymore?
Life as the nymph knows it ends as life as an adult dragonfly begins. What you may not know about dragonflies is that after cracking open the back of their skin, they pull their head free and then their thorax, leaving their long flute of an abdomen still encased in the dead skin of the nymph. At this point the dragonfly flops over backward and takes a rest, stuck halfway between its old life as a water creature and its new life in the skies. The dragonfly rests like this for some time, like it simply cannot summon another ounce of strength to free itself from its old skin. When my grandmother passed away, I was stuck in between my life with her and my life without her. I couldn't rewind time, but the thought of moving on without her was unfathomable.
After the nymph hangs upside down for a while, a marvelous thing happens. In the ultimate display of mind over matter, the dragonfly flings its head up and grabs onto the stick again. Sometimes it can only grab back onto its exoskeleton, taking hold of the old life one last time. The dragonfly pulls its abdomen out of the cracked skin and waits.
It waits for its body to harden. It waits for its wings to be ready. This is when the dragonfly is in its most vulnerable state. After all that work to emerge, dragonflies are powerless against hungry birds and frogs. If the dragonfly crawls back into the water, it will drown because its abdomen now breathes air. It cannot fly away because its wings are too crumpled to take to the sky. In the sacred shield of night, the dragonfly is completely unguarded.
The dragonfly cannot move forward into this new life and cannot return to the old life either. It begins to shiver, but not out of cold. As the dragonfly shivers, blood pumps into the veins of the wings. Slowly, life flows through the wings and they begin to take shape. The dragonfly quivers and shakes until suddenly its wings snap open.
It's a clumsy flier at first, unsure how to move on the wind. Soon the dragonfly learns to slice through the air, taking in the beauty of the sky with its enormous eyes. The dragonfly leaves the stick, leaves the shell of its old life and lifts into the air. One of my students asked me if dragonflies remember what it's like to be a nymph swimming in the water or climbing up a stick. Again I could only offer a paltry, "I don't know."
I'd like to think that dragonflies do remember. I'd like to think they remember all the growth that had to take place in order to soar. I'd like to think they recall the night when the old self died to make room for a new life. And surely they recall the strength it took to heave their thorax up onto the stick and pull free from their old shell.
Night closes her eyes on me and in the warmth of my home, I wonder if any of our nymphs are making that brave climb tonight in our classroom. I think of my friends who are summoning measures of bravery I can't begin to fathom. I think of Lynn, who is choosing to breathe in and out each day without her mother. I think of my own mother and our loss.
I keep coming back to the vulnerability of the dragonflies as they're moving from one phase in life to the next. Sometimes that vulnerability, that willingness to be fragile, to grieve what is lost, is the very thing that births the strength to move on.
As Mother's Day stands tiptoe on my doorstep, I think of all my friends who have lost their mothers. My dear, dear friends, my Mother's Day wish for you is that you find strength in your time of need, that your memories of your mothers will give you strength to continue and that when the long night finally gives way to brighter days that you will find yourself soaring in the sky.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PoMN_yStbOk
And us? We wait, holding our collective breath until the day one of our nymphs makes the climb up a willow branch to molt a final time.
I've written about dragonflies before and I'll surely write of them again because in their metamorphosis from nymph to dragonfly, I find pieces of myself. Pieces of myself in times of grief. Pieces of myself in times of triumph.
Dragonfly nymphs molt about 15 times. The first molts take place in the water. When a dragonfly nymph is ready, when it's literally ready to burst out of its skin, in the cover of night the nymph climbs up a stick and using the hooks on its feet, the nymph holds on for dear life. Then the nymph pushes from within and breaks out of its skin right between the wingpads, leaving a large hole in the old skin. It's an act so violently beautiful that when my students ask me if it hurts, I can only blink back tears and eek out the words "I don't know."
I imagine it's extremely painful. Growth usually is. This week as I watched a nymph transform into a dragonfly, I thought of my friend, Lynn. She wrote about losing her mother, of being separated from someone who was entwined in every fiber of her life. After such a loss, when you have a gaping hole, how's it possible to return to life again when life as you know it doesn't exist anymore?
Life as the nymph knows it ends as life as an adult dragonfly begins. What you may not know about dragonflies is that after cracking open the back of their skin, they pull their head free and then their thorax, leaving their long flute of an abdomen still encased in the dead skin of the nymph. At this point the dragonfly flops over backward and takes a rest, stuck halfway between its old life as a water creature and its new life in the skies. The dragonfly rests like this for some time, like it simply cannot summon another ounce of strength to free itself from its old skin. When my grandmother passed away, I was stuck in between my life with her and my life without her. I couldn't rewind time, but the thought of moving on without her was unfathomable.
After the nymph hangs upside down for a while, a marvelous thing happens. In the ultimate display of mind over matter, the dragonfly flings its head up and grabs onto the stick again. Sometimes it can only grab back onto its exoskeleton, taking hold of the old life one last time. The dragonfly pulls its abdomen out of the cracked skin and waits.
It waits for its body to harden. It waits for its wings to be ready. This is when the dragonfly is in its most vulnerable state. After all that work to emerge, dragonflies are powerless against hungry birds and frogs. If the dragonfly crawls back into the water, it will drown because its abdomen now breathes air. It cannot fly away because its wings are too crumpled to take to the sky. In the sacred shield of night, the dragonfly is completely unguarded.
The dragonfly cannot move forward into this new life and cannot return to the old life either. It begins to shiver, but not out of cold. As the dragonfly shivers, blood pumps into the veins of the wings. Slowly, life flows through the wings and they begin to take shape. The dragonfly quivers and shakes until suddenly its wings snap open.
It's a clumsy flier at first, unsure how to move on the wind. Soon the dragonfly learns to slice through the air, taking in the beauty of the sky with its enormous eyes. The dragonfly leaves the stick, leaves the shell of its old life and lifts into the air. One of my students asked me if dragonflies remember what it's like to be a nymph swimming in the water or climbing up a stick. Again I could only offer a paltry, "I don't know."
I'd like to think that dragonflies do remember. I'd like to think they remember all the growth that had to take place in order to soar. I'd like to think they recall the night when the old self died to make room for a new life. And surely they recall the strength it took to heave their thorax up onto the stick and pull free from their old shell.
Night closes her eyes on me and in the warmth of my home, I wonder if any of our nymphs are making that brave climb tonight in our classroom. I think of my friends who are summoning measures of bravery I can't begin to fathom. I think of Lynn, who is choosing to breathe in and out each day without her mother. I think of my own mother and our loss.
I keep coming back to the vulnerability of the dragonflies as they're moving from one phase in life to the next. Sometimes that vulnerability, that willingness to be fragile, to grieve what is lost, is the very thing that births the strength to move on.
As Mother's Day stands tiptoe on my doorstep, I think of all my friends who have lost their mothers. My dear, dear friends, my Mother's Day wish for you is that you find strength in your time of need, that your memories of your mothers will give you strength to continue and that when the long night finally gives way to brighter days that you will find yourself soaring in the sky.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PoMN_yStbOk
April 22, 2011
Letter #9: Whisper To Me
Dear Gramma,
You've been gone over a year now. In some ways it feels like you were here just yesterday. Other days it feels like eternity has spread out in between us. I'm starting to forget what your voice sounded like. My heart breaks even typing those words because I need your voice in my life. This week I needed your warm Texas lilt to whisper in my ear.
I needed your voice when cancer took my friend's mother. I needed your words when cancer crept back into the brain of another friend's mother. In their sadness, my grief for you welled up in my heart and broke it all over again. My words of comfort were such a meager offering in the face of staggering loss, in the face of fear come to life. And yet, I feel like you would have said just the right thing. Once again I find myself wishing I was more like you.
Last night I prayed that you would come talk to me in my dreams. I long for you to sit down next to me, pat my leg and tell me everything will be okay. I dream every night. Most mornings I wake up recalling a fistful of dreams. But not last night. Last night was void of dreams. You were silent and I woke up alone in bed, missing you more than ever.
It's almost Easter and my memories of last Easter are snapshots flickering in the forefront of my mind. I remember singing in your church Easter morning, painfully aware that you weren't there next to me. I cried through worship, both for the beauty of Easter and for the agony of loss. I remember riding my bike up through your mountains, my heart bobbing in my throat.
Cancer is such a cunning thief. A year later, I still feel hollowed out. And maybe that's why I don't have the right words to say to my beloved friends. Maybe there aren't words to fill the cavern of loss.
Gramma, words never seemed to fail you. You could strike up a conversation with anyone and build a friendship in mere minutes. As for me, my words choke up behind my tongue and come out all wrong.
But this I know for sure, when my words fail my actions speak for me.
So when it comes to cancer, I'm letting my legs do the talking. With every spin of the cranks, I say no to cancer. When I stand and pedal up hills, I'm standing with my friends. And maybe one of these days when I'm riding through the plains and the wind is whipping through the wildflowers, just maybe it's your warm Texas lilt I'll hear on the breeze.
I love you so much. Come talk to me soon.
Alicia
You've been gone over a year now. In some ways it feels like you were here just yesterday. Other days it feels like eternity has spread out in between us. I'm starting to forget what your voice sounded like. My heart breaks even typing those words because I need your voice in my life. This week I needed your warm Texas lilt to whisper in my ear.
I needed your voice when cancer took my friend's mother. I needed your words when cancer crept back into the brain of another friend's mother. In their sadness, my grief for you welled up in my heart and broke it all over again. My words of comfort were such a meager offering in the face of staggering loss, in the face of fear come to life. And yet, I feel like you would have said just the right thing. Once again I find myself wishing I was more like you.
Last night I prayed that you would come talk to me in my dreams. I long for you to sit down next to me, pat my leg and tell me everything will be okay. I dream every night. Most mornings I wake up recalling a fistful of dreams. But not last night. Last night was void of dreams. You were silent and I woke up alone in bed, missing you more than ever.
It's almost Easter and my memories of last Easter are snapshots flickering in the forefront of my mind. I remember singing in your church Easter morning, painfully aware that you weren't there next to me. I cried through worship, both for the beauty of Easter and for the agony of loss. I remember riding my bike up through your mountains, my heart bobbing in my throat.
Cancer is such a cunning thief. A year later, I still feel hollowed out. And maybe that's why I don't have the right words to say to my beloved friends. Maybe there aren't words to fill the cavern of loss.
Gramma, words never seemed to fail you. You could strike up a conversation with anyone and build a friendship in mere minutes. As for me, my words choke up behind my tongue and come out all wrong.
But this I know for sure, when my words fail my actions speak for me.
So when it comes to cancer, I'm letting my legs do the talking. With every spin of the cranks, I say no to cancer. When I stand and pedal up hills, I'm standing with my friends. And maybe one of these days when I'm riding through the plains and the wind is whipping through the wildflowers, just maybe it's your warm Texas lilt I'll hear on the breeze.
I love you so much. Come talk to me soon.
Alicia
December 27, 2010
A Few of My Favorite Things
This Christmas I received many gifts that made my Grinch-sized heart grow. There are a few in particular that stand out. None of them are extravagant. None of them are expensive. They are simple and lovely. And I am blessed to have people in my life who gave me such wonderful gifts.
1. A friend made me a beautiful dragonfly necklace. She used understated earth tones and I appreciate the fact that she took time out of her impossibly busy schedule to create something she knew I'd love. I gave her a book. I bought it online. I am lame.
2. Our school has a Christmas Boutique where kids can shop for gifts for their families. One little girl, a blond fairy of a girl, kept shooing me away while she shopped because she had something in her basket I couldn't see. The next day she slipped a small box under our classroom tree. I unwrapped the box and inside sat this precious dragonfly brooch.
I wore the brooch all day and thought of the precious girl, who at the age of six is still little, but already has a big heart.
3. This giant Hershey's kiss was from another of my little ones. He's an affectionate boy and we've had some conversations about how we hug, but don't kiss each other at school. He gave me a basket of pansies and then handed me a wrapped box. When I opened it, he said "This kind of kiss is allowed at school, right?" The class erupted into peels of laughter and the clever little guy grinned from ear to ear.
4. I received this angel ornament from another student. The ornament is sweet and when I hang it on the tree each year, I will remember how tightly the little boy hugged me after I opened it. He also gave me dish of Hershey's kisses and repeated the line from the kid who gave me the giant chocolate kiss. In first grade if a joke is funny the first time, it's absolutely hilarious the second time around.
5. I have a friend who used to race bicycles and he always gives me awesome cycling stuff. This year he gave me a gift card to RoadID.com. My emergency shoe tag was wearing out and so I bought a shiny new one along with a wicking hat for spin class. There are two great things about this present. First, if something dastardly goes down on my bike, my shoe tag can help emergency workers figure out who I am very quickly. Secondly, and much less morbidly, RoadID gives a percentage of each sale to one of nine charities, so upon check out you can choose which charity receives some cash. Naturally, I chose LiveStrong.
6. My grandmother used to wear White Diamonds lotion. When she passed away earlier this year, I wore one of her sweaters just to have her scent on my skin. My aunt wrapped up a tube of White Diamonds for me this year and when I unwrapped it and unscrewed the lid, I was immediately filled with the scent of my grandmother, the scent of all the joyous memories we had together.
7. Okay, when I said none of the gifts I received this year were expensive or extravagant, I apparently had a brain hemorrhage and forgot about the gift Terry gave me. My hubby gave me a housekeeper for a year. Let that sink in for a minute. He gave me an Alice. Revel with me for a moment here: an entire year of no vacuuming, no dusting, no mopping. Ladies, I understand that you're probably swooning. Put your head between your knees for a sec and breathe. Yes, he is that good. No, he doesn't have a brother.
1. A friend made me a beautiful dragonfly necklace. She used understated earth tones and I appreciate the fact that she took time out of her impossibly busy schedule to create something she knew I'd love. I gave her a book. I bought it online. I am lame.2. Our school has a Christmas Boutique where kids can shop for gifts for their families. One little girl, a blond fairy of a girl, kept shooing me away while she shopped because she had something in her basket I couldn't see. The next day she slipped a small box under our classroom tree. I unwrapped the box and inside sat this precious dragonfly brooch.
"How did you know dragonflies are my favorite?" I asked her.
"You told me once a long time ago, when I was little, and I remembered." She smiled proudly, showing off the window where her front teeth used to be.
I wore the brooch all day and thought of the precious girl, who at the age of six is still little, but already has a big heart.
3. This giant Hershey's kiss was from another of my little ones. He's an affectionate boy and we've had some conversations about how we hug, but don't kiss each other at school. He gave me a basket of pansies and then handed me a wrapped box. When I opened it, he said "This kind of kiss is allowed at school, right?" The class erupted into peels of laughter and the clever little guy grinned from ear to ear.
4. I received this angel ornament from another student. The ornament is sweet and when I hang it on the tree each year, I will remember how tightly the little boy hugged me after I opened it. He also gave me dish of Hershey's kisses and repeated the line from the kid who gave me the giant chocolate kiss. In first grade if a joke is funny the first time, it's absolutely hilarious the second time around.5. I have a friend who used to race bicycles and he always gives me awesome cycling stuff. This year he gave me a gift card to RoadID.com. My emergency shoe tag was wearing out and so I bought a shiny new one along with a wicking hat for spin class. There are two great things about this present. First, if something dastardly goes down on my bike, my shoe tag can help emergency workers figure out who I am very quickly. Secondly, and much less morbidly, RoadID gives a percentage of each sale to one of nine charities, so upon check out you can choose which charity receives some cash. Naturally, I chose LiveStrong.6. My grandmother used to wear White Diamonds lotion. When she passed away earlier this year, I wore one of her sweaters just to have her scent on my skin. My aunt wrapped up a tube of White Diamonds for me this year and when I unwrapped it and unscrewed the lid, I was immediately filled with the scent of my grandmother, the scent of all the joyous memories we had together.
7. Okay, when I said none of the gifts I received this year were expensive or extravagant, I apparently had a brain hemorrhage and forgot about the gift Terry gave me. My hubby gave me a housekeeper for a year. Let that sink in for a minute. He gave me an Alice. Revel with me for a moment here: an entire year of no vacuuming, no dusting, no mopping. Ladies, I understand that you're probably swooning. Put your head between your knees for a sec and breathe. Yes, he is that good. No, he doesn't have a brother.
I hope your Christmas was full of lovely gifts and joyous memories. And even if your heart was already the right size, I hope this Christmas season made it swell at least three sizes bigger.
December 4, 2010
Five Golden Rings
Dear Gramma,The other day when my little ones were lining up to go to lunch, I asked if they wanted to sing a Christmas song on the way to the cafeteria. We sang Jingle Bells and then one of my little ones asked if we could sing "that one about the 12 things".
My voice caught in my throat and not a single word cracked out.
I stood thinking about singing The 12 Days of Christmas at your house and always hoping, wishing, crossing my fingers that I would get the card that said "Five Golden Rings". It was my favorite line. I could only imagine enough golden rings to slide on all the fingers of one hand. I remember you singing that line in your best warbling Baptist church vibrato. Your singing voice always made me giggle.
As I stood there watching my little ones pull their jackets on and grab their lunch boxes, I spun the gold ring on my right hand, the one my mom gave me from your trip to Greece together. It is carved with the Greek symbol for eternity. We walked to lunch singing and when we got to the part about the golden rings, I sang through the lump in my throat my voice trembling each time until I got to those four calling birds.Christmas is a hard time to be apart from you. The tree, the music, the decorations, the food-it all reminds me of you. Those memories are so sweet. And I'm thankful for all of them. I just wish you were here to make more.
But then I turn the ring on my finger and remember that this season, when I am singing of the Christ come to Earth, you are singing with Him for eternity, singing in your best Baptist church vibrato.
I can't think of a sound I'd like to hear more.
Come sing to me in my dreams, Gramma. Come sing to me about the Christ come to Earth. Sing to me about eternity. Sing to me about Heaven where five golden rings are a mere drop in the bucket.
Love,
Alicia
November 14, 2010
30 Days of Thanks: Day 14
Recently many of my women friends have lost mothers, grandmothers and even children. While I'm not thankful for the losses, I am thankful for my friends who are able to look grief in the face and also see blessing.
I am thankful for these women who wear their hearts on their sleeves and teach me about compassion and empathy.
I am thankful for these women who teach me about strength by getting out of bed each day to embrace life in all it's heartache and all it's glory. Sometimes the two are entwined and I'm thankful for that, too.
I'm thankful that love acts as a salve over tender places where we are burned and broken.
I'm thankful that love lives on beyond our earthly bodies, that we are not just flesh and bone, but we are filled with love, both past and present.
Click on the photo above to see some more amazing photos by this photographer and the 365 iphone photos project.
November 13, 2010
30 Days of Thanks: Day 13
Today I'm thankful for...
- waking up thinking it's Monday, then realizing it's Saturday and going back to bed.
- Writers Forum
- all the wonderful memories I have of my grandmother
- seat warmers
- reaching the halfway mark in my NaNoWriMo word count
- the Mexican train in Dominoes
November 10, 2010
30 Days of Thanks: Day 10
Ten days into this and I find myself making notes throughout the day of all the little things I have to be thankful for. It's a good shift, one I hope to hold onto long after the 30 days.
Today I'm thankful for:
Today I'm thankful for:
- parent volunteers
- cold nights perfect for sleeping in flannel pajamas and my grandmother's sweater
- long weekends
- the first dusting of snow on Shasta Bally
- unexpected pockets of free time
- my husband's eyes. After all these years, they still make me swoon.
September 6, 2010
Goodbye, White
Labor Day is here, banishing white pants to the back of the closet for another season. Well, I don't own any white pants, 'cause my bottom half just doesn't need that level of attention, so instead I'm writing about other white things that have come and gone.
Goodbye white lace on the baby pillow my mom stitched for me. I loved you until you were dirty tatters framing the yellow gingham, Come to think of it, goodbye white stuffing that filled the pillow and in the end came out in puffy lumps through the hole where I loved that pillow too thin.
Goodbye white stephanotis corsage that I wore to a junior prom. You were so much more beautiful than the red roses all the other girls wore. Good riddance to the boy that gave me that corsage and didn't ever talk to me again because I wouldn't smoke a joint and sleep with him. Wait, not even good riddance to him. Just riddance.
Goodbye Saturday morning sweetmilks with mounds of snowy powdered sugar spooned in the middle. This isn't so much a goodbye as it is a "See you later on a lazy winter morning." I will wipe powdered sugar from my lips and remember wiping my mouth on the corner of Grandpa's "Kiss Me, I'm Norweigan" apron.
Goodbye white seashells washing ashore in the shadows of the pier. I keep you in a jam jar on my night stand, remembering the day I last kissed my grandmother. I can't wait to walk barefoot in the sand and gather more shells for my jar.
Goodbye white wedding dress, all boxed up on the top shelf in my closet. I take you down every now and then and blow the dust off the front of the box. You made me feel like a princess on our wedding day. You were spotless and new and so was I. One day I will work up the nerve to free you from your box and wear you around the house. Until then, wait for me with your satiny train all tucked in.
Goodbye blackberry blossoms, bursting white among the thorns. It's time for you to rest, time to pull fall's burgundy blanket up to your chin as the earth breathes a sigh of relief. It's Labor Day and the laboring is done. For now.
Goodbye white lace on the baby pillow my mom stitched for me. I loved you until you were dirty tatters framing the yellow gingham, Come to think of it, goodbye white stuffing that filled the pillow and in the end came out in puffy lumps through the hole where I loved that pillow too thin.
Goodbye white stephanotis corsage that I wore to a junior prom. You were so much more beautiful than the red roses all the other girls wore. Good riddance to the boy that gave me that corsage and didn't ever talk to me again because I wouldn't smoke a joint and sleep with him. Wait, not even good riddance to him. Just riddance.
Goodbye Saturday morning sweetmilks with mounds of snowy powdered sugar spooned in the middle. This isn't so much a goodbye as it is a "See you later on a lazy winter morning." I will wipe powdered sugar from my lips and remember wiping my mouth on the corner of Grandpa's "Kiss Me, I'm Norweigan" apron.
Goodbye white seashells washing ashore in the shadows of the pier. I keep you in a jam jar on my night stand, remembering the day I last kissed my grandmother. I can't wait to walk barefoot in the sand and gather more shells for my jar.
Goodbye white wedding dress, all boxed up on the top shelf in my closet. I take you down every now and then and blow the dust off the front of the box. You made me feel like a princess on our wedding day. You were spotless and new and so was I. One day I will work up the nerve to free you from your box and wear you around the house. Until then, wait for me with your satiny train all tucked in.
Goodbye blackberry blossoms, bursting white among the thorns. It's time for you to rest, time to pull fall's burgundy blanket up to your chin as the earth breathes a sigh of relief. It's Labor Day and the laboring is done. For now.
August 5, 2010
Letter #7: Your Voice
Dear Gramma,
Today I woke up in the small morning hours and wandered out to the living room. The house was cool and dark and I tapped away on my computer, writing in the stillness. All the windows were open and the croaking frogs were the perfect metronome to my words. When I was done, I crept back into bed as Terry was getting ready for work. I drifted off to sleep for one last precious hour.
In that snippet of morning sleep, I dreamed that our family was having a party. It was a backyard party with crisp white tablecloths snapping in the breeze. Aunt Nancy poured some sort of exotic soup into bright white ramekins. She filled one too full, and soup dribbled over the edge, seeping into the tablecloth like a tea stain.
My mom and I set the tables and I stopped for just a moment to watch Terry. He sat near the grass and looked so handsome. He didn't see me sneak a peek. You always told me he just gets better and better looking with age and I couldn't agree more.
You arrived at the party and came up from behind me, putting your arm around my waist. I put my arm around your shoulder and kissed your cheek. It was so soft, like the cheek of a baby. You said "Hi, honey." Your voice was so clear. In my waking hours I have trouble recalling the particular lilt of your voice, the rhythm of Texas buried under years of California. But in my dream your voice was so familiar, so filled with love.
In my dream you had cancer, but it appeared you were undergoing treatment. I asked you "How are you feeling?" You squeezed my waist and said "Much better. How are you feeling?" I laughed and said "I'm feeling fine, Gramma, just fine." You said "That's good." and patted my bottom twice, like you always did. I have no idea why you always patted my bottom like that. Was it because I'm so tall and you were so small? Is that all you could reach?
There was music in the background and Uncle Jon and Aunt Jill danced close together on the patio. Hayley was mortified until Katie pulled her on the dance floor. Katie wore a gorgeous, dark pink dress that made her rosy cheeks even more striking. Katie and Hayley danced and laughed. Everyone laughed with them. You and I stood there, your arm still around my waist, my arm draped around your shoulder. You leaned into me, just the slightest little bit until your hair was touching my chest. We watched them dance and we were so happy.
You turned to me and asked "Is everyone here?" Before I could answer, I woke with a start back in my own bed. I gasped for air like I was breaking through the water's surface after swimming down deep.
My dream hung around me like gauzy sheets and as I sat up in bed, I realized my alarm hadn't gone off. I swung my legs over the edge and for a second my mind convinced me that my dream was real, that your cancer was responding to treatments. That you were indeed feeling better. That you were still here. My feet touched the carpet and I realized it was not real, that it was just a dream. A cruel dream that left tear drops on my shirt as I got dressed. The dream looped in my mind, always stopping when you asked "Is everyone here?".
In the unforgiving light of day, I answered your question. Everyone is not here. And today that thought has seeped into me, leaving me stained with sadness.
I love you, Gramma. Come talk to me in my dreams again soon.
Love,
Alicia
Today I woke up in the small morning hours and wandered out to the living room. The house was cool and dark and I tapped away on my computer, writing in the stillness. All the windows were open and the croaking frogs were the perfect metronome to my words. When I was done, I crept back into bed as Terry was getting ready for work. I drifted off to sleep for one last precious hour.
In that snippet of morning sleep, I dreamed that our family was having a party. It was a backyard party with crisp white tablecloths snapping in the breeze. Aunt Nancy poured some sort of exotic soup into bright white ramekins. She filled one too full, and soup dribbled over the edge, seeping into the tablecloth like a tea stain.
My mom and I set the tables and I stopped for just a moment to watch Terry. He sat near the grass and looked so handsome. He didn't see me sneak a peek. You always told me he just gets better and better looking with age and I couldn't agree more.
You arrived at the party and came up from behind me, putting your arm around my waist. I put my arm around your shoulder and kissed your cheek. It was so soft, like the cheek of a baby. You said "Hi, honey." Your voice was so clear. In my waking hours I have trouble recalling the particular lilt of your voice, the rhythm of Texas buried under years of California. But in my dream your voice was so familiar, so filled with love.
In my dream you had cancer, but it appeared you were undergoing treatment. I asked you "How are you feeling?" You squeezed my waist and said "Much better. How are you feeling?" I laughed and said "I'm feeling fine, Gramma, just fine." You said "That's good." and patted my bottom twice, like you always did. I have no idea why you always patted my bottom like that. Was it because I'm so tall and you were so small? Is that all you could reach?
There was music in the background and Uncle Jon and Aunt Jill danced close together on the patio. Hayley was mortified until Katie pulled her on the dance floor. Katie wore a gorgeous, dark pink dress that made her rosy cheeks even more striking. Katie and Hayley danced and laughed. Everyone laughed with them. You and I stood there, your arm still around my waist, my arm draped around your shoulder. You leaned into me, just the slightest little bit until your hair was touching my chest. We watched them dance and we were so happy.
You turned to me and asked "Is everyone here?" Before I could answer, I woke with a start back in my own bed. I gasped for air like I was breaking through the water's surface after swimming down deep.
My dream hung around me like gauzy sheets and as I sat up in bed, I realized my alarm hadn't gone off. I swung my legs over the edge and for a second my mind convinced me that my dream was real, that your cancer was responding to treatments. That you were indeed feeling better. That you were still here. My feet touched the carpet and I realized it was not real, that it was just a dream. A cruel dream that left tear drops on my shirt as I got dressed. The dream looped in my mind, always stopping when you asked "Is everyone here?".
In the unforgiving light of day, I answered your question. Everyone is not here. And today that thought has seeped into me, leaving me stained with sadness.
I love you, Gramma. Come talk to me in my dreams again soon.
Love,
Alicia
July 30, 2010
Letter #6: Postcards From You
Dear Gramma,
Last night I was enjoying the quiet of the wee morning hours. I could hear Terry snoring in the bed as I sifted through a box of things my mom gave me. There was a book of things I wrote in first grade that I can't wait to share with my class. There were cards from my first few birthdays. I traced your signature on the cards you sent me and I traced Grandpa's name, too.
Underneath the stack of birthday cards were items my mom brought back from your house, including the postcards you bought on our trip. The backs of the postcards were blank and I sat in our office staring at their stark backs. Tears welled in my eyes because those postcards will always be blank. I sunk to the floor, wishing for your words to trace with my fingers.
I flipped the postcards over and ran my fingers across each glossy image of the places we'd been together. It occurred to me that it was exactly three years ago to the day that you took me on that crazy bus tour for my birthday. We had such a good time, didn't we? As I studied the postcards, I remembered the day we visited Novi Sad. Do you remember when we stopped on that bridge and I asked you to take a picture of me with the beautiful buildings in the background?
You took this:
I asked if maybe you could take another picture. One that captured the buildings and especially the clock tower in the background.
You lined the camera up carefully and took this:
I laughed and asked if you could possibly take another photo with the buildings in the background and preferably my entire head.
For a third time you lined the camera up really carefully and clicked the button, confident that you'd certainly got a good shot that time. Do you remember how hard we laughed when we saw this?
And then our bus was leaving so we never did get a decent shot of that clock tower. Gramma, you were so good at so many things, but you were an awful photographer. Just awful. And I'm so glad because each time I think of that bridge in Novi Sad, I remember how hard we laughed that day and how relieved you were when I banned you from taking photos for the rest of our trip.
Later that night, we ordered banana splits for dinner in the hotel bar. The bar was closing and you asked the waiter to take our picture. We ate and talked well into the wee hours of the morning.
Thank you for taking me on that trip. And thank you for never sending those postcards to your friends. Three years later they have come back to me, reminding me that the things we saw on our trip paled in comparison to the time we spent together.
Love,
Alicia
Last night I was enjoying the quiet of the wee morning hours. I could hear Terry snoring in the bed as I sifted through a box of things my mom gave me. There was a book of things I wrote in first grade that I can't wait to share with my class. There were cards from my first few birthdays. I traced your signature on the cards you sent me and I traced Grandpa's name, too.
Underneath the stack of birthday cards were items my mom brought back from your house, including the postcards you bought on our trip. The backs of the postcards were blank and I sat in our office staring at their stark backs. Tears welled in my eyes because those postcards will always be blank. I sunk to the floor, wishing for your words to trace with my fingers.
I flipped the postcards over and ran my fingers across each glossy image of the places we'd been together. It occurred to me that it was exactly three years ago to the day that you took me on that crazy bus tour for my birthday. We had such a good time, didn't we? As I studied the postcards, I remembered the day we visited Novi Sad. Do you remember when we stopped on that bridge and I asked you to take a picture of me with the beautiful buildings in the background?
You took this:
I asked if maybe you could take another picture. One that captured the buildings and especially the clock tower in the background.You lined the camera up carefully and took this:
I laughed and asked if you could possibly take another photo with the buildings in the background and preferably my entire head.For a third time you lined the camera up really carefully and clicked the button, confident that you'd certainly got a good shot that time. Do you remember how hard we laughed when we saw this?
And then our bus was leaving so we never did get a decent shot of that clock tower. Gramma, you were so good at so many things, but you were an awful photographer. Just awful. And I'm so glad because each time I think of that bridge in Novi Sad, I remember how hard we laughed that day and how relieved you were when I banned you from taking photos for the rest of our trip.Later that night, we ordered banana splits for dinner in the hotel bar. The bar was closing and you asked the waiter to take our picture. We ate and talked well into the wee hours of the morning.
Thank you for taking me on that trip. And thank you for never sending those postcards to your friends. Three years later they have come back to me, reminding me that the things we saw on our trip paled in comparison to the time we spent together.Love,
Alicia
July 23, 2010
Seattle to Portland
208 Miles
208 miles is a long way to drive, let alone ride a bike, but last weekend, that's exactly what The Rocket and I did. The Rocket took a road trip to Portland and then hopped a bus to Seattle. I'm told she was well-behaved and didn't talk in her sleep too much. While the Rocket travelled by land, Terry and I flew to Seattle. The morning of the ride, I woke up at the unholy hour of 3:30 to yank on my Spandex and throw a bowl of Cheerios down the hatch. As we fought road construction to the start line, my stomach was a ball of nerves. With 10,000 cyclists participating in the Seattle to Portland ride, the start line was a hive of activity. I met up with my pals, Joan, Laura, and Jim. Terry kissed me goodbye, and at 5:15 we were off. My favorite part of the morning was riding through Seattle watching the sun rise above the downtown skyline.
I also rode by green fields filled with wildflowers, like the ones I used to pick in fistfuls for my mother when I was a kid.
The sky was overcast most of the ride and temperatures hovered in the sixties and seventies. It was a welcome relief from the scorching Redding heat and when it began to drizzle, I tilted my head back and let the sprinkles hit my teeth as I smiled, filled with joy to be on my bike.
3 Awesome Things With Wheels
With 9,999 other cyclists on the course, I was never alone. I thought of the rules Gramma and I had on our trip to Eastern Europe. Rule #1: See something new. Rule #2: Meet someone new. Rule #3: Eat ice cream. I was riding by all kinds of new scenery and crazy bikes. On the first hill, I rode past a three person wide bicycle. Yes, I know that's not technically a bicycle, but since they were riding across, not front to back, it's not a tandem either. I don't know what this thing was, but it was a bike with three riders that motored up hills like a sack of bricks. I also passed a unicyclist. I cannot even fathom what it takes to ride a unicycle 200 some odd miles. I'm just going to take a moment of gratitude for my comfortable bike seat. Maybe I'll write it a sonnet later. While the brick of riders and the uni were incredible, the most amazing bike (and again, I'm grappling for the right term here) was this:
It is the offspring of an unnatural romance between a bicycle and an elliptical machine. I saw two of these parked at the finish line which means there are at least two people on the planet insane enough to ride/run from Seattle to Portland. Incidentally, when I showed this picture to Terry, he said something like "I think I'd be awesome on a bike like that." He's right and that makes me feel a little bit stabby. Anyway, now I understand why there is a separate room for spin bikes at my gym. Who knows what might happen if they were left alone at night with the elliptical machines.
2 Creamsicles
After 100 miles there is a midline festival. I'd heard rumors that when you ride into the festival, there are people there handing out Creamsicles. I assure you, such Heaven does exist on Earth. Before I get to the Creamsicles, I have to backtrack a little. I'm a proud member of Team Fatty and on both days of the ride I sported Fat Cyclist jerseys. This means that throughout the ride I heard "Go, Team Fatty!" and "Fight Like Susan!" This warmed my heart knowing that Fatty has touched so many people with his efforts to fight cancer. When people rolled up next to me, they would usually open the conversation with a friendly "Hey, Fatty!" Now, let it be known here and now that if you call me Fatty when I'm not on my bike, there will be punching. Lots of punching. People who don't know Fatty's story asked about my jersey and I told them the story of Susan and my own story of riding for my grandmother.
There was also a large contingent of cyclists that felt they had to make sure my self-esteem was properly inflated. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of cyclists rode up to me and said "You're not a fat cyclist." I'd say a quick thanks, relieved that my jerseys were ironic and not truth in advertising. I've worked hard this season to trim up a bit, but after 50 or so people commented on my unfatness, I started replying a little differently. Instead of just saying thanks I'd say things like "It's more of a state of mind." People would laugh and then I'd tell them how I came to join Team Fatty. At mile 99, with Creamsicles dancing in my head, another cyclist rolled up next to me and this was our conversation.
"You're not a fat cyclist."
"Thanks. It's more of a state of mind."
"Oh, like p-h-a-t cyclist?"
"Yeah, sure. That and if I beat you to the midline festival, I'm going to eat my Creamsicle and yours, too."
He sprinted to the festival and I sprinted right after him, passing him just in time to grab a Creamsicle. He gave me his Creamsicle and I happily ate them both. One for me, one for Gramma Betty. Sorta like pouring one out for my homey.
1 Awkward Moment of Chivalry
I am a big fan of chivalry, specifically of men like Terry who hold doors open for women. At each rest stop there were rows of port-a-potties.
Did you catch the manufacturer's name? Honey Bucket. Has there ever been a more ill-fitting name for something? I think I've just found a new curse word. "Oh, honeybuckets!" or "Aren't you just a little honeybucket?" Yup, it totally works.
So there I was on deck for a Honey Bucket, waiting for a door to pop open. A man exited the last one, and I hurried over. And then he held the door to the port-a-potty open for me. It was awkward. I just stood there for a second until he let the door go. I don't really know why I felt so awkward except that nobody has ever held a port-a-potty door for me before. I feel kinda bad because I was stunned by this act of chivalry and I'm not even sure I said thanks. So, let me just say thanks to that guy now. Thanks, nice guy who held the door for me. I'll try to be less of a honeybucket next time.
1 Drawbridge
One of the best parts of the ride was crossing from Washington into Oregon. We crossed over the Columbia River by riding over a drawbridge. Joan snapped this photo as ride volunteers closed off traffic and let huge groups of cyclists go at a time. Crossing the bridge shoulder to shoulder with hordes of other cyclists was thrilling.
1 Good Cry
At around mile 160, I passed a sign for Prescott Beach:
My grandfather's name was Prescott and when I saw the sign, I immediately thought, "I've got to call Gramma and tell her about this!" And there it was. Grief bleeding through the scab that had begun to form in the months since my grandmother's death. Most of the time, I'm aware that she is gone, but every now and then I'll see something that makes me think of her. My reflexes react and I am left raw, missing her in a whole new way, grieving for all the things I will never get to share with her. I pedaled and cried. My legs were weary and my cadence was slow.
And then I thought of my mom. The same weekend I was riding for Gramma Betty, my mom was closing up my grandmother's house for the last time. Packing up her furniture. Sitting in the backyard one last time. Driving away with her heart in her throat. Riding a double century is hard, but I thought of how my mom was doing something so much harder. I thought of how my mom has been so strong and brave these last few months. I thought of how my mom is so much like my grandmother and how I want to be strong and brave, just like both of them. My legs began to pedal faster, my tears dried up and I sailed across the finish line.
32 Donors & 1,243 Dollars
Maya Angelou says "I will be myself. I will speak my own name." This season I have taken my hobby and used it to speak my grandmother's name. And now I speak your names because you have spoken for cancer patients and their families. Together we raised $1,243 for LiveStrong. You have overwhelmed me with your generosity. Thank you Adam C., Amy H., Andrea & Jeromy H., Anita J., Betty C., Cheryl P., Chris F., Christine W., Dale M., David & Vickey P., Debbie S., Diana P., Hayley L., Heather F., Jill S., John P., Katie G., Kathy V., Katie L., Krystle J., Marla M., MaryKay, S., Melody A., Nick W., Patti L., Peter K., Sallie C., Sam O., Sara S., Stacey R., Sue H., and Tracy H.
1 More Thing
It's been a fantastic, heartbreaking, beautiful cycling season. Thank you for being a part of the journey. I couldn't do it without you. Oh, and there's just one more thing before I go:
Fondly,
Alicia
April 30, 2010
Castles, Cows, and Rocks: Cycling in April
Dear friends and family,
April blew by in a rush of wind and rain, but when the weather cooperated, the sights from my bike were the kind that made me pull over and drink in the beauty that unfolded beneath my tires.
I set out to ride 400 miles this month and fell dramatically short. Weather was uncooperative, but also my month was filled with writing classes and the only thing I love more than riding my bike is writing. So, the goal of riding 400 miles is my carrot for May.
On Easter morning I went to my Gramma's church. (Yes, it starts out as an Easter story and ends with cows. That happens more than you'd think on a bike.) Where was I? Yes, Easter morning at church. Easter morning was particularly hard in the wake of my grandmother's death. It's always a day brimming with emotion for me anyway, what with the whole Christ rising from the dead thing. It moves me to tears, but the fact of the matter was that I was also profoundly aware of the separation between my grandmother and myself. She is in Heaven. I am on Earth. The time and space between us crushes me. And so there I was a weepy mess because of the goodness of the Lord and the profundity of my heartbreak. What's a girl to do with all that raw emotion? Work it out on the bike. Terry and I yanked on our spandex for the second annual Easter ride with my Uncle Jon. I say "second annual" because I'm hoping it will become a third and fourth and fifth annual Easter ride. When I travelled with my grandmother, we had three daily goals: to see something new, to meet someone new, and to eat ice cream. On that Easter afternoon we stopped at a convenience store where I met two men who marveled at how far we'd ridden. It was only a short ride for me, but I took care to puff out my chest and throw my head back in my best superhero pose to properly accept their accolades. Meet someone new? Check. As we rode, I brought the bike to a screeching halt. Okay, not a screeching halt because I never ride fast enough to make my tires screech, but you know what I mean. I stopped my bike and yelled "What are those?!?" To my right were large, hairy, straight horned animals. They had the body of a cow and the hair of a yak. My uncle calmly replied "Cows. They're cows." I eloquently said something like "Nuh uh!" They were Scottish Steer. They are the coolest looking cows I've ever seen.
See something new? Check. And that night, we ate ice cream. It was the perfect cure for missing my Gramma.
There comes a point in a cyclist's life when jerseys take on a life of their own, a stench of their own. A point when they stink straight out of the washing machine. A pair of my jerseys had reached this point and I had only two options: burn them or find a solution. I don't even know if jerseys will burn. I imagine they just glow and then the flame extinguishes itself in the face of all that neon. I clicked around and found a website that claimed the smell was from bacteria living in my jerseys. Things living in my jerseys? Blech. Let's all just put our head between our knees and breathe for a sec. The website suggested washing the infested items in hydrogen peroxide. So into the wash they went with a healthy pour of hydrogen peroxide. And they came out all bright and sparkly. I bravely held one up to my nose. Know what I smelled? Nothing. And nothing has never smelled so good.
I rode East toward Whitmore this month, out next to the fields of volcanic rock spewed from Mt. Lassen. It was beautiful. There I was marveling at the views when I spotted a butterfly headed toward me, flitting through the air, rising and falling in the breeze. I thought of how butterfly wings are powdery and delicate. I watched the butterfly pick up speed. I watched it pick up speed and hurl itself right into my helmet. It make a surprisingly loud "Thwap!" against my helmet, shook itself off and flew away. More power to you, kamikaze butterfly. I do not possess such positive feelings about the second insect. I was standing in my driveway after a ride with Terry when something began biting me inside my jersey. I rushed into my open garage, shoving my bike against the wall and yanking my jersey off while screaming at Terry "Something's biting me! Something's biting me! What is it? Do you see it?". He did not. He could barely keep a straight face as I stripped down to my bra and spandex and yelped like a crazy woman. I never did see the thing that bit me, but I did catch a glimpse of my neighbor across the street chuckling in my direction while he mowed his lawn.
Somewhere in Millville there is a small castle by the side of the road. It has a sign that says "Look in here." with two eye holes. I peered down into the holes and saw nothing except a pool of water. I swept back the ivy twisting along the top of the castle and was delighted to discover that it's called the Blarney Castle.
In the front of the castle, there's a sign that has been washed away by time and weather. I tried to find the story behind the tiny castle. Who built it? What was I supposed to see? Does it have anything to do with the real Blarney Castle in Ireland? It remains a mystery, one I'll have to investigate further as I ride by it again next month.
A mile or two from home, I rolled up to a four way stop. Perpendicular to me was an approaching 15 passenger van with the license plate KID MKR. If you take populating the entire earth as a personal challenge, that's your prerogative. It's not my bag, but to each his own. After stopping and waiting my turn, I proceeded with caution through the intersection. I say with caution because Mr. KID MKR was busy policing his multiple back seats and couldn't be bothered with a pesky stop sign. He would not have even looked up had it not been for Mrs. KID MKR, who upon seeing me, swatted at him with a rolled up newspaper. He stopped and looked at me like I'd appeared out of nowhere. Mr. KID MKR, it's obvious that you and I differ on our ideas of how to responsibly populate the planet. And that's okay with me. It's okay with me right up until the point when you start easing the overpopulation problem by taking out cyclists.
Thank you Christine W., Heather F., Jill S., John, P., MaryKay S., and Sallie C. I appreciate your support and generosity.
If you'd like to make a donation to the Lance Armstrong Foundation on my behalf, please go to: http://sanjose2010.livestrong.org/aliciamccauley. You can donate in memory of a loved one's life cut short by cancer or in support of a loved one who is battling cancer now.
On the ride out toward Whitmore, there are stacks of volcanic rocks, giants looming on the horizon, casting their shadows over the fields. I love these rock towers. They remind me of the story of Joshua leading the Israelites across the Jordan River. As they crossed the riverbed, they lugged 12 boulders on their backs, one for each tribe, and built a monument to remember that God was with them in their hour of need. I don't know who built the rock towers in Whitmore. I don't know why they took time to stack them one atop the other. What I do know is that they remind me that the Lord is with me in my grieving, in my hour of need. And that is something I desperately needed to be reminded of this month.
Fondly,
Alicia
http://sanjose2010.livestrong.org/aliciamccauley
April blew by in a rush of wind and rain, but when the weather cooperated, the sights from my bike were the kind that made me pull over and drink in the beauty that unfolded beneath my tires.
273 Miles
I set out to ride 400 miles this month and fell dramatically short. Weather was uncooperative, but also my month was filled with writing classes and the only thing I love more than riding my bike is writing. So, the goal of riding 400 miles is my carrot for May.
1 Herd of Scottish Steer
On Easter morning I went to my Gramma's church. (Yes, it starts out as an Easter story and ends with cows. That happens more than you'd think on a bike.) Where was I? Yes, Easter morning at church. Easter morning was particularly hard in the wake of my grandmother's death. It's always a day brimming with emotion for me anyway, what with the whole Christ rising from the dead thing. It moves me to tears, but the fact of the matter was that I was also profoundly aware of the separation between my grandmother and myself. She is in Heaven. I am on Earth. The time and space between us crushes me. And so there I was a weepy mess because of the goodness of the Lord and the profundity of my heartbreak. What's a girl to do with all that raw emotion? Work it out on the bike. Terry and I yanked on our spandex for the second annual Easter ride with my Uncle Jon. I say "second annual" because I'm hoping it will become a third and fourth and fifth annual Easter ride. When I travelled with my grandmother, we had three daily goals: to see something new, to meet someone new, and to eat ice cream. On that Easter afternoon we stopped at a convenience store where I met two men who marveled at how far we'd ridden. It was only a short ride for me, but I took care to puff out my chest and throw my head back in my best superhero pose to properly accept their accolades. Meet someone new? Check. As we rode, I brought the bike to a screeching halt. Okay, not a screeching halt because I never ride fast enough to make my tires screech, but you know what I mean. I stopped my bike and yelled "What are those?!?" To my right were large, hairy, straight horned animals. They had the body of a cow and the hair of a yak. My uncle calmly replied "Cows. They're cows." I eloquently said something like "Nuh uh!" They were Scottish Steer. They are the coolest looking cows I've ever seen.
See something new? Check. And that night, we ate ice cream. It was the perfect cure for missing my Gramma.
2 Stinky Jerseys
There comes a point in a cyclist's life when jerseys take on a life of their own, a stench of their own. A point when they stink straight out of the washing machine. A pair of my jerseys had reached this point and I had only two options: burn them or find a solution. I don't even know if jerseys will burn. I imagine they just glow and then the flame extinguishes itself in the face of all that neon. I clicked around and found a website that claimed the smell was from bacteria living in my jerseys. Things living in my jerseys? Blech. Let's all just put our head between our knees and breathe for a sec. The website suggested washing the infested items in hydrogen peroxide. So into the wash they went with a healthy pour of hydrogen peroxide. And they came out all bright and sparkly. I bravely held one up to my nose. Know what I smelled? Nothing. And nothing has never smelled so good.
2 Insects
I rode East toward Whitmore this month, out next to the fields of volcanic rock spewed from Mt. Lassen. It was beautiful. There I was marveling at the views when I spotted a butterfly headed toward me, flitting through the air, rising and falling in the breeze. I thought of how butterfly wings are powdery and delicate. I watched the butterfly pick up speed. I watched it pick up speed and hurl itself right into my helmet. It make a surprisingly loud "Thwap!" against my helmet, shook itself off and flew away. More power to you, kamikaze butterfly. I do not possess such positive feelings about the second insect. I was standing in my driveway after a ride with Terry when something began biting me inside my jersey. I rushed into my open garage, shoving my bike against the wall and yanking my jersey off while screaming at Terry "Something's biting me! Something's biting me! What is it? Do you see it?". He did not. He could barely keep a straight face as I stripped down to my bra and spandex and yelped like a crazy woman. I never did see the thing that bit me, but I did catch a glimpse of my neighbor across the street chuckling in my direction while he mowed his lawn.
1 Castle
Somewhere in Millville there is a small castle by the side of the road. It has a sign that says "Look in here." with two eye holes. I peered down into the holes and saw nothing except a pool of water. I swept back the ivy twisting along the top of the castle and was delighted to discover that it's called the Blarney Castle.
In the front of the castle, there's a sign that has been washed away by time and weather. I tried to find the story behind the tiny castle. Who built it? What was I supposed to see? Does it have anything to do with the real Blarney Castle in Ireland? It remains a mystery, one I'll have to investigate further as I ride by it again next month.
1 fifteen Passenger Van
A mile or two from home, I rolled up to a four way stop. Perpendicular to me was an approaching 15 passenger van with the license plate KID MKR. If you take populating the entire earth as a personal challenge, that's your prerogative. It's not my bag, but to each his own. After stopping and waiting my turn, I proceeded with caution through the intersection. I say with caution because Mr. KID MKR was busy policing his multiple back seats and couldn't be bothered with a pesky stop sign. He would not have even looked up had it not been for Mrs. KID MKR, who upon seeing me, swatted at him with a rolled up newspaper. He stopped and looked at me like I'd appeared out of nowhere. Mr. KID MKR, it's obvious that you and I differ on our ideas of how to responsibly populate the planet. And that's okay with me. It's okay with me right up until the point when you start easing the overpopulation problem by taking out cyclists.
$493 donated so far
Thank you Christine W., Heather F., Jill S., John, P., MaryKay S., and Sallie C. I appreciate your support and generosity.
$1,507 until I reach my goal
If you'd like to make a donation to the Lance Armstrong Foundation on my behalf, please go to: http://sanjose2010.livestrong.org/aliciamccauley. You can donate in memory of a loved one's life cut short by cancer or in support of a loved one who is battling cancer now.
1 field of rock stacks
On the ride out toward Whitmore, there are stacks of volcanic rocks, giants looming on the horizon, casting their shadows over the fields. I love these rock towers. They remind me of the story of Joshua leading the Israelites across the Jordan River. As they crossed the riverbed, they lugged 12 boulders on their backs, one for each tribe, and built a monument to remember that God was with them in their hour of need. I don't know who built the rock towers in Whitmore. I don't know why they took time to stack them one atop the other. What I do know is that they remind me that the Lord is with me in my grieving, in my hour of need. And that is something I desperately needed to be reminded of this month.
Fondly,
Alicia
http://sanjose2010.livestrong.org/aliciamccauley
April 26, 2010
Honeyrun
Honeyrun. Even the name brings goosebumps to my arms. It's one of those words that I feel like I have to utter in hushed, reverent tones. Honeyrun is the towering mountain on the Chico Wildflower bike ride. We go way back and my memories of Honeyrun are anything but sweet. There was the time I couldn't ride all the way to the top and had to hoof it for miles. Then there was the time my pants kept falling down, showing a full moon in broad daylight. These memories are punctuated by frustrated grunts and unchurchly words spewed while my legs and lungs threatened to collapse.
Today I faced Honeyrun again. The morning was cool and the fog that sometimes masks the valley below was nowhere to be found. I'd begun the ride early enough that I had Honeyrun mostly to myself. I dropped into my lowest gear, spinning slow, careful circles, craning my neck to see the pieces of the valley that had previously been kept secret from me. The green of the trees was the deep green of growth, of roots pressing down into the soil and drinking deep. Everything was hushed, save for the quiet rhythm of my legs pressing and pulling my pedals.
Each year, people spray paint messages over the gritty asphalt of the road. This year someone had spray painted the words "hope and serenity". As the words passed underneath my tires, I pondered them, savored them in my mouth like a rich chocolate. Amazingly enough, I was not out of breath and I chatted with other cyclists who passed me or the occasional cyclist that I happened to pass. But mostly I kept to the quiet of my mind, thinking of hope and serenity.
I thought of how I hoped the crest of the hill was just around the next corner. I thought of how serene Honeyrun really is before she is crushed by throngs of neon clad cyclists, carving her corners and cursing her voluptuous hills. I thought of how hope is hard to have in the envelope of grief. I thought of how serenity has eluded me so much of the year. And yet here they were, serenity and hope, rising up from the pavement to greet me on Honeyrun.
Further up someone had painted the Olympic rings and the Olympic Creed "Citius, Altius, Fortius." Swifter. Higher. Stronger. I know the Olympic Creed because my grandmother and I talked about it during the last winter games. I wished I could send her a picture of the Olympic motto, painted yellow against the black asphalt. How appropriate to be pressed with being swifter, higher and stronger here on this particular road that was carrying me higher until I touched the top of the treeline. And the simple act of turning the cranks over again and again was making me stronger right here, right now. As for swifter, well there's just no hope of that.
And there I was again, thinking of hope and serenity. I thought of how serene my grandmother looked when she was asleep and I kissed her goodnight one last time. I thought of Psalm 31:24. "Be strong and take heart, all you who hope in the LORD." I thought of how my heart was keeping time so effortlessly up this climb.
Before I knew it all of this thinking and pedaling brought the crest within sight. I was sorry to leave the beauty of the valley, sorry to turn onto a regular road void of words to ponder. I looked over my shoulder at Honeyrun splayed out behind me and for a second I thought about riding back down and pressing up that mountain again. Instead I took my heart, full of hope and serenity, and pedaled to the top, making sure my pedal strokes were just a little bit swifter than before.
Today I faced Honeyrun again. The morning was cool and the fog that sometimes masks the valley below was nowhere to be found. I'd begun the ride early enough that I had Honeyrun mostly to myself. I dropped into my lowest gear, spinning slow, careful circles, craning my neck to see the pieces of the valley that had previously been kept secret from me. The green of the trees was the deep green of growth, of roots pressing down into the soil and drinking deep. Everything was hushed, save for the quiet rhythm of my legs pressing and pulling my pedals.
Each year, people spray paint messages over the gritty asphalt of the road. This year someone had spray painted the words "hope and serenity". As the words passed underneath my tires, I pondered them, savored them in my mouth like a rich chocolate. Amazingly enough, I was not out of breath and I chatted with other cyclists who passed me or the occasional cyclist that I happened to pass. But mostly I kept to the quiet of my mind, thinking of hope and serenity.
I thought of how I hoped the crest of the hill was just around the next corner. I thought of how serene Honeyrun really is before she is crushed by throngs of neon clad cyclists, carving her corners and cursing her voluptuous hills. I thought of how hope is hard to have in the envelope of grief. I thought of how serenity has eluded me so much of the year. And yet here they were, serenity and hope, rising up from the pavement to greet me on Honeyrun.
Further up someone had painted the Olympic rings and the Olympic Creed "Citius, Altius, Fortius." Swifter. Higher. Stronger. I know the Olympic Creed because my grandmother and I talked about it during the last winter games. I wished I could send her a picture of the Olympic motto, painted yellow against the black asphalt. How appropriate to be pressed with being swifter, higher and stronger here on this particular road that was carrying me higher until I touched the top of the treeline. And the simple act of turning the cranks over again and again was making me stronger right here, right now. As for swifter, well there's just no hope of that.
And there I was again, thinking of hope and serenity. I thought of how serene my grandmother looked when she was asleep and I kissed her goodnight one last time. I thought of Psalm 31:24. "Be strong and take heart, all you who hope in the LORD." I thought of how my heart was keeping time so effortlessly up this climb.
Before I knew it all of this thinking and pedaling brought the crest within sight. I was sorry to leave the beauty of the valley, sorry to turn onto a regular road void of words to ponder. I looked over my shoulder at Honeyrun splayed out behind me and for a second I thought about riding back down and pressing up that mountain again. Instead I took my heart, full of hope and serenity, and pedaled to the top, making sure my pedal strokes were just a little bit swifter than before.
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