Friday, June 11, 2004
Open wide
Adam updated Emma's site with photos from her first trip to the dentist this week. Beware: You might be awestruck by her cuteness.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
Robert Paul
Emma's been asking lately about stories "from the farm," where I know she thinks I rose before dawn to feed the cows or hoe the garden or harvest the wheat.
We lived with Grandma a lot when I was a kid, and their house was on a ranch. Apart from an occasional combine ride, though, I didn't so much participate in the farming. My stories are more "from the country" than "from the farm": picking blackberries and swimming in the North Canadian, long walks down muddy roads and getting lost in the corn fields. But honestly, I was mostly on the couch, front porch or lawn chair with a book.
What tales I can tell, though, often involve Robert Paul.
Jesse and I were by far the youngest of all the grandkids on my mom's side. My mom was the fifth of six kids, and her baby brother didn't have children of his own. So most of my 13 first cousins were at least 10 years older than I was.
Robert Paul, though, was only my senior by two years. He was the product of Uncle Bobby's second marriage, which I don't remember at all. Robert Paul lived with his mom, so I didn't see him that often. Now and then, though, I'd stay the night with them or we'd end up at Grandma's at the same time. I didn't think about it till years later, but I'm sure he wasn't allowed to visit my house.
I've told Emma about the time Robert Paul and I were swinging on the heavy iron gates surrounding the cattle pens and chutes. (Really, there just wasn't that much to do.) One of us would stand on the gate while the other pushed. Given that the gate was 6 feet high and 10 feet long, it was a decent swing. Until I fell off. The gate smacked me in the head on its return, and I ended up unconscious in the dirt. (I know the silver-paint flecks hadn't had time to wear off our hands by the time we were doing it again.)
We ran across the giant hay bales. We tried to catch fireflies. We grew up.
Robert Paul's mom married a born-again holy-roller. I remember him telling me how he'd burned all his records at a giant church bonfire. Robert Paul lived in Led Zeppelin T-shirts, so I was fairly astounded (both at his gesture and at the waste). He didn't come to Grandma's much anymore, but I still visited him now and then. We were preteens, not allowed to share a bed or wrestle. His mom didn't allow many movies, TV or games, so we were running out of things to do together. And Robert's epilepsy was getting worse -- one of my scariest memories is listening to an attack over the phone. We'd been talking, he dropped the receiver and I could do nothing while he panted and thrashed.
But when he called a few weeks later to invite me to Sunday-night services, I didn't feel like I could say no.
It would've been seventh grade. I can't remember where I found a dress or shoes, but I must've. And I wore my mom's coat, because it was the nicest one we had. It was waist-length, some sort of gray twill, lined with a gray-and-pink knit pattern. I was glad to get the chance to wear it.
Until I couldn't take it off. The car was cold, and I buried my hands in my pockets, only to feel a baggie. I surreptitiously pulled it out ... and saw something green inside. I was horrified. Here I am in my mom's jacket with a bag of pot in the pocket. Going to church.
We arrive, and it's warm. Robert Paul's mom keeps urging me to shed the jacket, and I politely refuse. I'm out of place and uncomfortable already -- we don't go to church, at all, and when I've attended Vacation Bible School and the like with Rick's mom, it's at a serene Baptist church. The wildest things get is when the choir covers Amy Grant.
Here, people are speaking in tongues. They're seeing stars (or something) and passing out without the help of a bonk from an iron gate. The congregation -- Robert Paul included -- stomps and claps and cheers. The preacher quickly loses his coat, then his tie, as he runs up and down the aisles. I try to sink back into the pew, nearly as sweaty as the dancing worshippers around me. I'm convinced everyone can tell I'm a fake, that God can see me the way he speaks to them and I'm about to be struck down for carrying pot into his holy place. (It was only a year or so before I'd accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior in a fit of peer-pressure holiness at Falls Creek ... only to have forgotten by sundown, kissing a boy behind the cabin.)
I can't imagine what to say to Robert when it's all done. Now that I'm out of the building, not scared I'll be discovered, it's hard not to laugh. We go to Braum's for ice cream, make small talk, but it's clear I don't fit into this life. Nor would I want to. Somewhere in there, he's the kid I rolled down hills with. But I can't see him anymore.
They drop me at the entrance to our apartment complex, waving goodbye and saying they'll call next week. I storm in the door of the house, pissed at Mom. I pull out the baggie to wave in front of her ...
And it's aloe vera. A handful of small pieces, broken off the plant on our back patio, for Mom to dab on her cold sores.
I tell the full house how I'd feared God's wrath. I jump on the table, knocking a beer can out of the way, imitating the preacher. I fall to the ground, muttering nonsense, relishing the laughter of my audience. I even imitate reverent Robert Paul's off-key hymns, knowing that he wouldn't do the same to me. But the guilt quickly fades as I turn him into a caricature -- he's not as smart as I am, as good with people. He's got his God, I've got my books and jokes. I have to cope with my world, same as him. To this day, it's one of my all-time-favorite stories. Though I don't do the songs anymore.
It's the last time I can remember seeing Robert Paul. There may have been a couple more phone calls, maybe a meal at Grandma's over Christmas. But the next time I know I saw him was at his funeral. Robert Paul's Mom hadn't even listed Bobby in the obituary. That side of the family didn't exist for them anymore.
Can't say I blame them.
We lived with Grandma a lot when I was a kid, and their house was on a ranch. Apart from an occasional combine ride, though, I didn't so much participate in the farming. My stories are more "from the country" than "from the farm": picking blackberries and swimming in the North Canadian, long walks down muddy roads and getting lost in the corn fields. But honestly, I was mostly on the couch, front porch or lawn chair with a book.
What tales I can tell, though, often involve Robert Paul.
Jesse and I were by far the youngest of all the grandkids on my mom's side. My mom was the fifth of six kids, and her baby brother didn't have children of his own. So most of my 13 first cousins were at least 10 years older than I was.
Robert Paul, though, was only my senior by two years. He was the product of Uncle Bobby's second marriage, which I don't remember at all. Robert Paul lived with his mom, so I didn't see him that often. Now and then, though, I'd stay the night with them or we'd end up at Grandma's at the same time. I didn't think about it till years later, but I'm sure he wasn't allowed to visit my house.
I've told Emma about the time Robert Paul and I were swinging on the heavy iron gates surrounding the cattle pens and chutes. (Really, there just wasn't that much to do.) One of us would stand on the gate while the other pushed. Given that the gate was 6 feet high and 10 feet long, it was a decent swing. Until I fell off. The gate smacked me in the head on its return, and I ended up unconscious in the dirt. (I know the silver-paint flecks hadn't had time to wear off our hands by the time we were doing it again.)
We ran across the giant hay bales. We tried to catch fireflies. We grew up.
Robert Paul's mom married a born-again holy-roller. I remember him telling me how he'd burned all his records at a giant church bonfire. Robert Paul lived in Led Zeppelin T-shirts, so I was fairly astounded (both at his gesture and at the waste). He didn't come to Grandma's much anymore, but I still visited him now and then. We were preteens, not allowed to share a bed or wrestle. His mom didn't allow many movies, TV or games, so we were running out of things to do together. And Robert's epilepsy was getting worse -- one of my scariest memories is listening to an attack over the phone. We'd been talking, he dropped the receiver and I could do nothing while he panted and thrashed.
But when he called a few weeks later to invite me to Sunday-night services, I didn't feel like I could say no.
It would've been seventh grade. I can't remember where I found a dress or shoes, but I must've. And I wore my mom's coat, because it was the nicest one we had. It was waist-length, some sort of gray twill, lined with a gray-and-pink knit pattern. I was glad to get the chance to wear it.
Until I couldn't take it off. The car was cold, and I buried my hands in my pockets, only to feel a baggie. I surreptitiously pulled it out ... and saw something green inside. I was horrified. Here I am in my mom's jacket with a bag of pot in the pocket. Going to church.
We arrive, and it's warm. Robert Paul's mom keeps urging me to shed the jacket, and I politely refuse. I'm out of place and uncomfortable already -- we don't go to church, at all, and when I've attended Vacation Bible School and the like with Rick's mom, it's at a serene Baptist church. The wildest things get is when the choir covers Amy Grant.
Here, people are speaking in tongues. They're seeing stars (or something) and passing out without the help of a bonk from an iron gate. The congregation -- Robert Paul included -- stomps and claps and cheers. The preacher quickly loses his coat, then his tie, as he runs up and down the aisles. I try to sink back into the pew, nearly as sweaty as the dancing worshippers around me. I'm convinced everyone can tell I'm a fake, that God can see me the way he speaks to them and I'm about to be struck down for carrying pot into his holy place. (It was only a year or so before I'd accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior in a fit of peer-pressure holiness at Falls Creek ... only to have forgotten by sundown, kissing a boy behind the cabin.)
I can't imagine what to say to Robert when it's all done. Now that I'm out of the building, not scared I'll be discovered, it's hard not to laugh. We go to Braum's for ice cream, make small talk, but it's clear I don't fit into this life. Nor would I want to. Somewhere in there, he's the kid I rolled down hills with. But I can't see him anymore.
They drop me at the entrance to our apartment complex, waving goodbye and saying they'll call next week. I storm in the door of the house, pissed at Mom. I pull out the baggie to wave in front of her ...
And it's aloe vera. A handful of small pieces, broken off the plant on our back patio, for Mom to dab on her cold sores.
I tell the full house how I'd feared God's wrath. I jump on the table, knocking a beer can out of the way, imitating the preacher. I fall to the ground, muttering nonsense, relishing the laughter of my audience. I even imitate reverent Robert Paul's off-key hymns, knowing that he wouldn't do the same to me. But the guilt quickly fades as I turn him into a caricature -- he's not as smart as I am, as good with people. He's got his God, I've got my books and jokes. I have to cope with my world, same as him. To this day, it's one of my all-time-favorite stories. Though I don't do the songs anymore.
It's the last time I can remember seeing Robert Paul. There may have been a couple more phone calls, maybe a meal at Grandma's over Christmas. But the next time I know I saw him was at his funeral. Robert Paul's Mom hadn't even listed Bobby in the obituary. That side of the family didn't exist for them anymore.
Can't say I blame them.
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
Mystic River
Mystic River is one of the best books I've read in years. It's haunting. Horrifying. And so well written I felt like it could happen on my street, in my town.
I haven't seen the movie yet, though it's now No. 1 in our NetFlix queue. If it's half as good as the book, and it certainly looks to be, I'll be in awe. Adam actually gave me a hard time about choosing to read the book first, that I was "ruining" the movie for myself. I'm so glad, though, that I chose to experience it first through Dennis Lehane's well-crafted prose. And that I didn't know which actor -- Tim Robbins, Sean Penn, Kevin Bacon -- played which character -- cop Sean, grieving-father Jimmy, sexual-abuse victim Dave. A quick IMDB check tells me they're not cast the way I'd have done it, but I can't wait to see what they do with the roles.
The book is addicting. I picked it up Sunday and had to make myself put it down. I walked into a tree yesterday while reading it. (It was like I was 12 again, reading every available second. I was headed to my car after work, balancing a huge book, my portfolio, lunch bag, purse and umbrella with the novel propped open while I walked.)
For those of you who've been under a rock, I won't spill too many details here. Suffice to say, I don't want to let Emma out of the house alone -- not now, not when she's 11, not when she's 19. It's not a horror story, though horrifying. I'm not looking behind me as I cross parking lots in sedate Norman or jumping when doors slam. I am wondering what's happening behind closed doors. And what thoughts are racing through closed minds.
And my heart aches for all of the men, their wives, their families. I know they're just characters. But they're in me now.
I haven't seen the movie yet, though it's now No. 1 in our NetFlix queue. If it's half as good as the book, and it certainly looks to be, I'll be in awe. Adam actually gave me a hard time about choosing to read the book first, that I was "ruining" the movie for myself. I'm so glad, though, that I chose to experience it first through Dennis Lehane's well-crafted prose. And that I didn't know which actor -- Tim Robbins, Sean Penn, Kevin Bacon -- played which character -- cop Sean, grieving-father Jimmy, sexual-abuse victim Dave. A quick IMDB check tells me they're not cast the way I'd have done it, but I can't wait to see what they do with the roles.
The book is addicting. I picked it up Sunday and had to make myself put it down. I walked into a tree yesterday while reading it. (It was like I was 12 again, reading every available second. I was headed to my car after work, balancing a huge book, my portfolio, lunch bag, purse and umbrella with the novel propped open while I walked.)
For those of you who've been under a rock, I won't spill too many details here. Suffice to say, I don't want to let Emma out of the house alone -- not now, not when she's 11, not when she's 19. It's not a horror story, though horrifying. I'm not looking behind me as I cross parking lots in sedate Norman or jumping when doors slam. I am wondering what's happening behind closed doors. And what thoughts are racing through closed minds.
And my heart aches for all of the men, their wives, their families. I know they're just characters. But they're in me now.
Monday, June 07, 2004
Dreamweaver
Sleeping is one of my all-time favorite diversions. Too bad I'm not getting as much lately.
I've nearly lost the ability to nap. Yesterday, I tried to doze while Emma was asleep. And the click of the ceiling fan kept me awake. Now, I'm an old pro at napping while Adam watches TV, while Adam's typing away at the computer, while Adam mows the lawn ... I can sleep with the lights on and a soccer game (horns, drums and all) blaring. But not lately.
Nighttime is even worse, because that's not just bonus sleep. But I seem to be tossing and turning for an eternity before I can drift off (even my patented ABC method -- saying the alphabet over and over until I'm so bored I have to fall asleep -- isn't working these days). And when I finally am able to let go, my dreams are making me restless.
They're not all nightmares, exactly, though there are plenty of those. What I can remember, though, isn't exactly peaceful. Of late, I've been vampire/demon/monster slaying. Chased by convicts. Kidnapped by a strange man (I ended up throwing myself out of his moving truck). Last night, Adam and I were at some huge airport with our friends who live in Europe, trying to catch an international flight. I kept losing the rest of the group, wandering (and occasionally riding a bike) down long halls, stowing my baggage somewhere and not being able to find it, knowing we were going to miss our plane. It's not like I was murdering my mom, I know, but it doesn't make for good sleep.
And when I wake, it seems to take eons for me to get back to sleep. So when the alarm goes off in the morning, I'm pissed. It can't be time to get up. I haven't gotten enough rest yet.
I've nearly lost the ability to nap. Yesterday, I tried to doze while Emma was asleep. And the click of the ceiling fan kept me awake. Now, I'm an old pro at napping while Adam watches TV, while Adam's typing away at the computer, while Adam mows the lawn ... I can sleep with the lights on and a soccer game (horns, drums and all) blaring. But not lately.
Nighttime is even worse, because that's not just bonus sleep. But I seem to be tossing and turning for an eternity before I can drift off (even my patented ABC method -- saying the alphabet over and over until I'm so bored I have to fall asleep -- isn't working these days). And when I finally am able to let go, my dreams are making me restless.
They're not all nightmares, exactly, though there are plenty of those. What I can remember, though, isn't exactly peaceful. Of late, I've been vampire/demon/monster slaying. Chased by convicts. Kidnapped by a strange man (I ended up throwing myself out of his moving truck). Last night, Adam and I were at some huge airport with our friends who live in Europe, trying to catch an international flight. I kept losing the rest of the group, wandering (and occasionally riding a bike) down long halls, stowing my baggage somewhere and not being able to find it, knowing we were going to miss our plane. It's not like I was murdering my mom, I know, but it doesn't make for good sleep.
And when I wake, it seems to take eons for me to get back to sleep. So when the alarm goes off in the morning, I'm pissed. It can't be time to get up. I haven't gotten enough rest yet.
