I am eating a bologna sandwich. I can't tell you the last time I had one. I might have been ten. No, I was nineteen. I remember this now, because I was incredibly poor, and bologna was cheap. So were pickles and grape jelly. Our fridge was interesting. This sandwich is good; I put butter on it, along with the mayo, by the way. I always do, because my mom always did, and my grandma always did, and beyond that, my grandpa put butter on anything edible. And he lived to be 98.
Butter and mayo and bologna and bread. And let's just get it out in the open, I think it's stupid that "bologna" is spelled with a g-n-a at the end. So in the title, I spelled it "baloney." It works out better that way.
I'm eating this baloney sandwich and blogging, about nothing. About the sandwich, so far. Earlier this week, a female acquaintance of mine commented on a post I made on Facebook. She said I ought to write a blog; what I have to say helps her prepare for the future in raising her own children. (They're babies, still, and I've been there and done that already). Of course I told her I already do write one, and she should follow it. If she wants. Not that I'm an expert on child-rearing, but because sometimes, it's easier to deal with your own life if you can see that you're not alone. It's better than going to counseling, see, because you can read it and either say "Ahhh, well, there now, I'm not that crazy," or (and hopefully not) "Good grief, I'm in trouble." Self-diagnosis.
Anyway, after reading this acquaintance's suggestion, I asked myself, why do I write a blog?
For one thing, the computer doesn't talk back. It doesn't question. It allows me the freedom to "talk and talk" and it never rolls its eyes or pretends that I'm interesting.
I know there are other moms out there who must experience the same things I do. Life's trials and tribulations, moments of ultimate frustration with kids and husbands and family, along with moments of indescribable joy. My life is plain, yet it is never dull. We aren't rich or fancy, we don't take lavish vacations, and I can't, honestly, even remember the last time I ate dinner out somewhere. Unless you count Pizza Hut family night. So, I can't write about red-carpet-worthy events. I can write about my love for stuffed-crust, however.
Each blog is a snapshot of my mind at a current moment. Some days I am contemplative, some days nostalgic, and some days, I'm just writing because I need an outlet. A listening "ear." So I sit (with or without a baloney sandwich) and click the keyboard. I note that I'm getting crumbs on the keys.
There's this feeling of disbelief that people are actually reading what I write, yet they say they do. People have even said they like it. Perhaps they have related to something. Some blogs are a little pointless, like this one, maybe.
I don't know if you have ever experienced this, readers, but sometimes, when your mind seems to be flooded with thoughts, the last thing you could do is put them in writing. The thoughts are transparent; you cannot grasp them and nail them down. And they're so overwhelming, you'd love nothing more than to be able to do just that. Because if you could line them up, you could prioritize; make a plan. But you can't. Or I can't.
I keep hoping that by writing things down, eventually, things will sort out. They typically do.
So I just blog.
And develop wrinkles in my forehead.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
And the green grass grows all around
You know that saying, "about as exciting as watching grass grow..." or something like that? I realize this post might fit that bill. However, I decided it was important to note, in writing, how much I am actually grateful that my grass does grow, and how happy I am to mow it. Weird, eh?
When I lived in Georgia, I had a dinky push mower that was a pain in the rear to start, and nine times out of ten, I would pay some teenager to come and start it...and mow the lawn while he was at it. I couldn't be bothered, and it was so darn hot, your face would melt right off if you went out there. Really.
When I moved to Indiana, I found that the grass actually stayed green and pretty, and it wasn't so bad, once in a while, to cut it. In fact, I began cutting it regularly, which, I thought, was a novel idea. It also didn't really matter what I thought of it, because as the sole adult living in my house, I didn't have much of a choice.
Now, back to where I started, in Michigan, I wouldn't give up my lawn-mowing duty for anything. Well, maybe for a brownie sundae, but let's pretend that's not an option. In fact, I consider it a lawn-mowing privilege these days. It's an hour of peace and serenity, just me and the yard. But there's something more. And I had to get to the bottom of it. So a few days ago, perched atop my Yardman, I began thinking...as I tend to do. I don't take a Walkman, or I guess now it's an IPod...whatever those things are with the little buds that stick in your ear and make you oblivious to the world around you. I've seen the look that teenagers have when they are attached to those things, and it's spooky to me. I actually like to hear the rumble of the engine, the whirring of the blade. I watch the ground ahead of me, scanning for sticks, rocks, fallen walnuts. I watch along the creek as I drive past, looking for minnows or maybe a trout. I see when the snapping turtle is eyeing me, making sure we understand our place as cohabitants on this property. I note the progress of growth in the butterfly garden I've planted. I think of how I'll expand it next year. I begin reciting "Birches," my favorite Frost poem, while I circle the white, peeling trunk. I hum "Feelin' Groovy," and I feel every bump and curve of the land.
I do this weekly, whether it needs it or not. I come by it honestly; my grandpa was a habitual mower. There'd be weeks with no rain, and the grass would be all-but-dead, and George would say, at approximately the same time each week, "Well...guess I better mow." And he would. And it was my cue to go outside, too, because, well, I liked to be out there when he mowed. My childhood best friend and I would play while he would mow and then he'd bring his mower up to the corner of the driveway to remove all the clumped grass from the blade. He wore these dark brown cotton gloves, pretty much whenever he was outside, I remember. Sometimes he'd complain because the blade needed sharpening, but I don't even think he minded that much. He sharpened it on some sort of tool in the garage, telling me to "stay back" and I'd watch in awe as sparks flew around and his face skewered up with intensity. And always those dark brown gloves. One time I visited, as an adult, years after he gave up on mowing his own lawn, and the gloves were still on the shelves in the garage. I tried them on my hands; they were soft and worn and still smelled like grass.
Mowing, I suppose, has always been a comforting thing. It has always meant people were there, people who loved me and took care of me. At my childhood house, I enjoyed days when the mower came out, because it meant my dad was home. The few times I mowed the lawn in Georgia, I was always under the watchful eye of Sarge, my beloved dog and companion, who, at the time, was all I had..and therefore, was my home.
Sometimes now, my children will play on the deck while I mow, or ride their bicycles in the driveway. The dogs will lay on their bellies in the shade, sleepily supervising me as I pass by. I wonder if they, the kids and the dogs, like the mowing. They don't say.
In addition to my bond with the lawnmower, I'm taking up birdwatching. I didn't mean to, but they are kind of fascinating and beautiful. I especially like the morning doves that took residence in the crab tree. As a kid, my grandpa used to call to them from the porch swing in a sing-song voice, and Grandma would peg orange-halves to the maple tree for the Orioles.
But I suppose that's another post for another day.
When I lived in Georgia, I had a dinky push mower that was a pain in the rear to start, and nine times out of ten, I would pay some teenager to come and start it...and mow the lawn while he was at it. I couldn't be bothered, and it was so darn hot, your face would melt right off if you went out there. Really.
When I moved to Indiana, I found that the grass actually stayed green and pretty, and it wasn't so bad, once in a while, to cut it. In fact, I began cutting it regularly, which, I thought, was a novel idea. It also didn't really matter what I thought of it, because as the sole adult living in my house, I didn't have much of a choice.
Now, back to where I started, in Michigan, I wouldn't give up my lawn-mowing duty for anything. Well, maybe for a brownie sundae, but let's pretend that's not an option. In fact, I consider it a lawn-mowing privilege these days. It's an hour of peace and serenity, just me and the yard. But there's something more. And I had to get to the bottom of it. So a few days ago, perched atop my Yardman, I began thinking...as I tend to do. I don't take a Walkman, or I guess now it's an IPod...whatever those things are with the little buds that stick in your ear and make you oblivious to the world around you. I've seen the look that teenagers have when they are attached to those things, and it's spooky to me. I actually like to hear the rumble of the engine, the whirring of the blade. I watch the ground ahead of me, scanning for sticks, rocks, fallen walnuts. I watch along the creek as I drive past, looking for minnows or maybe a trout. I see when the snapping turtle is eyeing me, making sure we understand our place as cohabitants on this property. I note the progress of growth in the butterfly garden I've planted. I think of how I'll expand it next year. I begin reciting "Birches," my favorite Frost poem, while I circle the white, peeling trunk. I hum "Feelin' Groovy," and I feel every bump and curve of the land.
I do this weekly, whether it needs it or not. I come by it honestly; my grandpa was a habitual mower. There'd be weeks with no rain, and the grass would be all-but-dead, and George would say, at approximately the same time each week, "Well...guess I better mow." And he would. And it was my cue to go outside, too, because, well, I liked to be out there when he mowed. My childhood best friend and I would play while he would mow and then he'd bring his mower up to the corner of the driveway to remove all the clumped grass from the blade. He wore these dark brown cotton gloves, pretty much whenever he was outside, I remember. Sometimes he'd complain because the blade needed sharpening, but I don't even think he minded that much. He sharpened it on some sort of tool in the garage, telling me to "stay back" and I'd watch in awe as sparks flew around and his face skewered up with intensity. And always those dark brown gloves. One time I visited, as an adult, years after he gave up on mowing his own lawn, and the gloves were still on the shelves in the garage. I tried them on my hands; they were soft and worn and still smelled like grass.
Mowing, I suppose, has always been a comforting thing. It has always meant people were there, people who loved me and took care of me. At my childhood house, I enjoyed days when the mower came out, because it meant my dad was home. The few times I mowed the lawn in Georgia, I was always under the watchful eye of Sarge, my beloved dog and companion, who, at the time, was all I had..and therefore, was my home.
Sometimes now, my children will play on the deck while I mow, or ride their bicycles in the driveway. The dogs will lay on their bellies in the shade, sleepily supervising me as I pass by. I wonder if they, the kids and the dogs, like the mowing. They don't say.
In addition to my bond with the lawnmower, I'm taking up birdwatching. I didn't mean to, but they are kind of fascinating and beautiful. I especially like the morning doves that took residence in the crab tree. As a kid, my grandpa used to call to them from the porch swing in a sing-song voice, and Grandma would peg orange-halves to the maple tree for the Orioles.
But I suppose that's another post for another day.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Fearless
How is it that I am so much more tame now than I used to be? Last night, I was laying in bed, recalling that once upon a time, I went to Atlanta with a friend, and this friend took me to another friend's apartment, and at this apartment, people were smoking marijuana from a big thing that I learned, later, was called a bong. Or was it a hookah? I enjoy that word...but anyway, I had no idea. Really, I did not. And no, I didn't use it. But when we went to a bar, later, for a costume party, I did have a drink. Hey, I was 21. It was legal. Smart? No. I was in Atlanta and I knew 3 people, sort of. But...
I had no fear.
Then, on the way home, this friend stopped at a gas station. Pumped gas. And then got back into the car...only to shout expletives a few moments later when realizing that some...illegal substance that was apparently being carried in a pocket...fell out at the gas station. I didn't know we had been carrying an illegal substance in my Camry. I didn't even consider that, had we been pulled over by police, we could have gone to jail. The point is, even when I found out about it, I didn't panic.
I had no fear.
The thought struck me that I packed up my entire life into a U-Haul, said a casual goodbye to everyone I had ever known, and trucked my way to Georgia, to live in an apartment with my high school boyfriend. I navigated the streets of Savannah, GA over the next few weeks in my black Toyota Corolla, still not really mastering the art of driving a manual transmission; certainly not around those squares. At dusk, I hightailed-it back to my little apartment in not-the-best area of town, set the security alarm, and hunkered down for the night. I listened to sounds from other apartments. Yelling, cursing, banging. I watched suspicious-looking people walk past my sliding glass door, and I compulsively checked to make sure it was latched.
Because maybe I had a little fear.
To pass the time of loneliness, while my husband was overseas, I put myself through real estate school and began showing these amazing historic Savannah homes. Except they weren't all amazing...some were scary. Especially the one occupied by the schizophrenic man who pinned me to the wall and said "It's just me n' you, now, Blondie."
I had fear, but I had mace.
Recently, my sister was about to embark on a music tour with a group of folks she met on Facebook. She'd probably tell this story differently, but it's my blog and I'll tell it like I know it. She was meeting them in Chicago. I drove her to the venue; a sketchy place with walls covered in black trash bags, just down from Gino's East on Racine. Her attitude was nonchalant; she was ready to go take a stab at this touring thing. Only, having been her sister for 23 years, I sensed a little fear under all that armor. Either way, I knew I wouldn't convince her to nix the idea. At one-something in the morning, however, I got a call:
"I don't have anywhere to stay tonight. I'm stuck here, in Chicago, and they didn't arrange for me to stay with them," which translated, in a language only I could understand,to "these people turned out to be a little freakish, I can't do this tour, please, for the love of God, come get me."
For some reason I'd had a hunch this might happen, so my Nikes were at-the-ready and I was out the door and back to the Dan Ryan in no time. I wasn't pleased. Not at all. But, I recall that kind of life, I do.
Nowadays, I'm a walking ulcer. I'm addicted to Fox News, coffee, and worry.
Then again, my grandpa was a hand-wringer too, and he lived to be 98.
I had no fear.
Then, on the way home, this friend stopped at a gas station. Pumped gas. And then got back into the car...only to shout expletives a few moments later when realizing that some...illegal substance that was apparently being carried in a pocket...fell out at the gas station. I didn't know we had been carrying an illegal substance in my Camry. I didn't even consider that, had we been pulled over by police, we could have gone to jail. The point is, even when I found out about it, I didn't panic.
I had no fear.
The thought struck me that I packed up my entire life into a U-Haul, said a casual goodbye to everyone I had ever known, and trucked my way to Georgia, to live in an apartment with my high school boyfriend. I navigated the streets of Savannah, GA over the next few weeks in my black Toyota Corolla, still not really mastering the art of driving a manual transmission; certainly not around those squares. At dusk, I hightailed-it back to my little apartment in not-the-best area of town, set the security alarm, and hunkered down for the night. I listened to sounds from other apartments. Yelling, cursing, banging. I watched suspicious-looking people walk past my sliding glass door, and I compulsively checked to make sure it was latched.
Because maybe I had a little fear.
To pass the time of loneliness, while my husband was overseas, I put myself through real estate school and began showing these amazing historic Savannah homes. Except they weren't all amazing...some were scary. Especially the one occupied by the schizophrenic man who pinned me to the wall and said "It's just me n' you, now, Blondie."
I had fear, but I had mace.
Recently, my sister was about to embark on a music tour with a group of folks she met on Facebook. She'd probably tell this story differently, but it's my blog and I'll tell it like I know it. She was meeting them in Chicago. I drove her to the venue; a sketchy place with walls covered in black trash bags, just down from Gino's East on Racine. Her attitude was nonchalant; she was ready to go take a stab at this touring thing. Only, having been her sister for 23 years, I sensed a little fear under all that armor. Either way, I knew I wouldn't convince her to nix the idea. At one-something in the morning, however, I got a call:
"I don't have anywhere to stay tonight. I'm stuck here, in Chicago, and they didn't arrange for me to stay with them," which translated, in a language only I could understand,to "these people turned out to be a little freakish, I can't do this tour, please, for the love of God, come get me."
For some reason I'd had a hunch this might happen, so my Nikes were at-the-ready and I was out the door and back to the Dan Ryan in no time. I wasn't pleased. Not at all. But, I recall that kind of life, I do.
Nowadays, I'm a walking ulcer. I'm addicted to Fox News, coffee, and worry.
Then again, my grandpa was a hand-wringer too, and he lived to be 98.
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