Boy. Time sure does fly.
I’ve been slacking on the writing thing, dear reader, and for that I apologize.
We have a running debate here at the Jackson House (and, I suppose, in every CAP community) regarding whether or not our existence here constitutes “real life.” Undoubtedly, the work we’re doing and the people with whom we’re working are as real as it gets. Status-related, materialistic things like the size of one’s house, the make of one’s car, and the brand of one’s clothing are entirely inconsequential; basic survival is key, especially in the winter. I have to smile (albeit a little sardonically) this time of year as all of us are bombarded with countless advertisements for “the perfect gift.” Even my beloved J. Crew is promoting a cashmere/jewel/shoe of the month club for that special lady in your life. Know what my most-requested gift was this year from my elderly folks? Socks.
At the same time, though, this stripped-down version of the day-to-day is punctuated by instances of surrealism that do cause one to take a step back, shake her head, and ponder whether or not she’s just dreamt it all. It’s easy to get swept up, wrapped up, and caught up in the now-presumed miracle that begins each day with my eyes opening in dusky gray light that whispers “good morning” to our hollow before the sun does and ends when I slip into blissful unconsciousness before my head even hits my pillow at night. And that’s a good thing, really. I love being in love with my life here – with my participants, my community, and my surroundings – however real or unreal it is. The trouble is that it occasionally causes me to neglect the owners of the precious eyes that read these words now. And that’s no good.
At any rate, here we are in December. My one year anniversary is fast-approaching, and it blows my mind. I feel like if I were to come face-to-face with the girl who moved here at the end of last January, I’d cock my head to the side, a half-smile on my face, and try to place where, exactly, I knew her from. I remember driving slowly down Sandlick Road after spending a couple of days in Rockcastle on account of the snow and ice encapsulating my new home, my heart beating fast and my knuckles white on the steering wheel. I had only an idea then of how much my life would change, of the joy and pain my heart would experience, of the people I would meet and the situations I would encounter that would completely and utterly alter the rest of my time on this earth. I think I still only have an idea; there’s never all that much time to stop and think about it too much.
I wonder what she’d say to me. I look the same as she does – a little thinner, perhaps, and with a lot less hair. Knowing her, she’d shake my hand, trying to project a little more confidence than she was feeling, smile real big, and ask me to tell her a story. I know what I’d tell her.
Spend as much time as you can outside in the spring, and pick armfuls and armfuls of wild daffodils. The rock you hike to during WorkFest and YouthFest? That’ll be your retreat; go there more often than you feel like you need to. Speaking of retreats, soak up every second you can out on the porch before it gets too cold. Somehow the day just feels better when you’ve greeted the sun as it comes up over that hill. Keep your laptop away from liquids: you’ll miss your music a lot when it’s gone.
You’re going to have countless incredibly wonderful days, but you’re definitely going to be blind-sided by some rough ones, too. Just remember to keep your heart as light as a feather. Head up; chin up. Nothing is permanent: you are a temp. Beware of windshield time: I know you’ve never really had the chance to over-think before, but you will this year, and you won’t like it. Don’t ask too much of people. Actually, don’t ask for or expect anything of them.
Spend more time at that participant’s house, and when this one’s leg starts hurting, tell him to go to the hospital right away. This lady’s heart is broken; let her talk. And that one is terribly lonely; talk to her. On a lot of days, you’re going to be tired. Push yourself to get one more visit in before you go home. It means so much, and it’s why you’re here.
Don’t let Julia go off that rope swing. Watch out for that dumpster when you’re backing up the fifteen-passenger van. Spend more time in conversation with Steve. Bend those banjo strings, girl. Invest time and energy in your participants and in your community, but remember to save some of yourself for God. I know, I know. You find Him in those other things, too. That’s good. But give God His time. You’ll need it. When the light hits the frost in the morning when you go down that stretch off of 421 on your way to Booneville, go ahead and pull over. Take that minute. Same goes for that place up on Marcum Ridge. And when the spring rolls around and your senses are overwhelmed by the smell of a hundred different wildflowers as you start your walk down the driveway, let your heart do a somersault. Those are the moments that will get you through the not-so-stellar days. And love, love, love. It may surprise you, you naïve little thing, but it’s not always going to be a walk in the park. No matter how tough it gets, do it anyway. It’s the best kind of prayer.
There’s an underlying tone of departure in this post, I realize. I still have time left here in Kentucky, but it feels like my heart is already on the leaving side of “goodbye.”
Time sure does fly.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Cricket
Ah, Friday. It was the end of a particularly rough week, and I’d made plans to venture outside of the OC for the day to have lunch with a couple of friends and help out in Family Advocacy. I was pretty excited to just step back and take it easy; I’d been feeling slightly burnt out as of late.
As much as I absolutely love my work and my life here, at nine months in I’d be lying if I said that all of it doesn’t catch up with me once in a while. Just the Tuesday before, I’d come home from an exceptionally tiring day and gone straight to bed at 7:30 without saying so much as a “hello” to any of my housemates. Needless to say, in a family of eleven, if one goes to bed before double-digits it really isn’t fair to ask for or to expect silence. Therefore, I stumbled out of my room with my comforter a half-hour later, snuck through a seldom-used back door while the rest of the crew was otherwise occupied in the kitchen, and crawled into my van to rack up some REM points. This started out as a pretty sweet idea until somebody discovered my absence a couple of hours later and the entire house organized itself into a frantic search party, thinking that I’d snapped and embarked on some manic tear through the Appalachian hills as a result of my less-than-stellar day. I awoke in the front seat of my Chevy Uplander to the sound of my name being bellowed by the Jackson House men and echoing all around our hollow. Bless their hearts, but I wound up not quite getting the night’s rest that I so desperately needed.
So, when a housemate held our phone out to me on Friday morning and said that it was Earl’s daughter calling, I couldn’t help cringing. She’d told me the day before that her dad had been flown to Lexington from Kentucky River Hospital, and I’d asked her to keep me posted. Wish granted.
I softened when I heard tears in her voice. “They’re doing surgery,” she said. “My whole family is there and they want me to come. Can you drive me?” I sighed internally as I glanced at the kitchen clock and let thoughts of my low-key Friday vanish. “Give me a couple of hours, okay?”
We drove the two hours from Vincent to Lexington in time to meet the rest of the family after Earl had come out of the operating room. We waited inside a small room for a report from the front lines. Sarah was there, as were another one of her daughters and Earl’s two brothers from Indiana. Earl and Sarah’s two sons and their wives were in town, also, but were out grabbing lunch. I tried to gauge from the mood of the present company how gingerly I should tread.
“So are you one of them liberals from New York?” the smaller brother asked me, his eyes small and hard.
“Actually, I’m part of the red minority in that state,” I answered slowly.
Well, from that point on, we were all the best of friends.
A nurse entered the room and gave us an update. It turns out that the burning Earl had been experiencing for the past few weeks was a two foot-long blood clot in his right leg. Had he not suggested that as a possibility to the doctor in Breathitt County, we’d have been gathered for a very different and much more upsetting circumstance.
I spent the entire day with the whole family waiting for Earl to be wheeled to his recovery room in the ICU. They’re a mixed bag, to be sure, and they certainly made their presence known in the sixth floor’s main waiting area. Earl’s two brothers are complete opposites: Andy is a slight fellow, with his hair neatly parted on the left and a bright green and purple polo shirt tucked into his blue jeans; Ricky’s gray hair was parted straight down the middle, and overalls covered his substantially larger gut. The two sons present were big, beefy men – one is a mechanic, while the other followed in his father’s footsteps to become a truck-driver. The women all remained quiet, dozing on and off throughout the afternoon. Not the men, however.
“Check out how her second toe is bigger’n all the rest of ‘em,” one son whispered theatrically to Andy.
“She’s like a monkey,” Andy concurred.
“Where’s she from again?” another brother asked Laura on the other side of the room.
“New York,” Ricky interrupted.
“Well, how in the hell did she wind up here?”
“Not enough Republicans up there for her.”
“Well, she’s no fool.”
“We should call her Cricket. Sorta sounds like Bridget. And she’s tiny. Like a cricket.”
“Way she snorts, though, makes her sound like a barnyard.”
“You know the way to tell a woman’s from ‘roud here? Barefoot and pregnant.”
“Well, she’s already practically barefoot.”
“Didn’t she date that Jimmy boy a while back?”
Here I interjected. “I did NOT date Jimmy. We got pizza once.”
“Well, we might have her pregnant by May, after all!”
After a while, the brothers took one of Earl’s sons and set out in search of food, weary from an afternoon of merciless teasing. The rest of us continued our vigil. Finally, at long last, a nurse came in to us and said that our guy was able to start receiving visitors two at a time. I smiled at his son and daughters, but Sarah took my hand. “Come on, baby,” she said, standing up stiffly. “Let’s go see Dad.” I hesitated and looked at their kids, but they nodded eagerly, so I walked arm-in-arm with Laura past the nurses’ station and into Earl’s room.
The chaos of the hospital bullpen dissolved in the peace of Earl’s dimly-lit room, and I felt the usual calm associated with this man fill me up. He looked exhausted but comfortable in the hospital bed’s clean sheets, his long white hair swept back across his pillow. His eyes met mine and his eyebrows shot up in pleasant surprise. I felt my eyes prickle with tears as I asked, “How're ya feelin’, Earl?” Flint struck steel somewhere deep in his eyes and that old wry grin flitted faintly across his lips. “Mostly with my fingers.”
As much as I absolutely love my work and my life here, at nine months in I’d be lying if I said that all of it doesn’t catch up with me once in a while. Just the Tuesday before, I’d come home from an exceptionally tiring day and gone straight to bed at 7:30 without saying so much as a “hello” to any of my housemates. Needless to say, in a family of eleven, if one goes to bed before double-digits it really isn’t fair to ask for or to expect silence. Therefore, I stumbled out of my room with my comforter a half-hour later, snuck through a seldom-used back door while the rest of the crew was otherwise occupied in the kitchen, and crawled into my van to rack up some REM points. This started out as a pretty sweet idea until somebody discovered my absence a couple of hours later and the entire house organized itself into a frantic search party, thinking that I’d snapped and embarked on some manic tear through the Appalachian hills as a result of my less-than-stellar day. I awoke in the front seat of my Chevy Uplander to the sound of my name being bellowed by the Jackson House men and echoing all around our hollow. Bless their hearts, but I wound up not quite getting the night’s rest that I so desperately needed.
So, when a housemate held our phone out to me on Friday morning and said that it was Earl’s daughter calling, I couldn’t help cringing. She’d told me the day before that her dad had been flown to Lexington from Kentucky River Hospital, and I’d asked her to keep me posted. Wish granted.
I softened when I heard tears in her voice. “They’re doing surgery,” she said. “My whole family is there and they want me to come. Can you drive me?” I sighed internally as I glanced at the kitchen clock and let thoughts of my low-key Friday vanish. “Give me a couple of hours, okay?”
We drove the two hours from Vincent to Lexington in time to meet the rest of the family after Earl had come out of the operating room. We waited inside a small room for a report from the front lines. Sarah was there, as were another one of her daughters and Earl’s two brothers from Indiana. Earl and Sarah’s two sons and their wives were in town, also, but were out grabbing lunch. I tried to gauge from the mood of the present company how gingerly I should tread.
“So are you one of them liberals from New York?” the smaller brother asked me, his eyes small and hard.
“Actually, I’m part of the red minority in that state,” I answered slowly.
Well, from that point on, we were all the best of friends.
A nurse entered the room and gave us an update. It turns out that the burning Earl had been experiencing for the past few weeks was a two foot-long blood clot in his right leg. Had he not suggested that as a possibility to the doctor in Breathitt County, we’d have been gathered for a very different and much more upsetting circumstance.
I spent the entire day with the whole family waiting for Earl to be wheeled to his recovery room in the ICU. They’re a mixed bag, to be sure, and they certainly made their presence known in the sixth floor’s main waiting area. Earl’s two brothers are complete opposites: Andy is a slight fellow, with his hair neatly parted on the left and a bright green and purple polo shirt tucked into his blue jeans; Ricky’s gray hair was parted straight down the middle, and overalls covered his substantially larger gut. The two sons present were big, beefy men – one is a mechanic, while the other followed in his father’s footsteps to become a truck-driver. The women all remained quiet, dozing on and off throughout the afternoon. Not the men, however.
“Check out how her second toe is bigger’n all the rest of ‘em,” one son whispered theatrically to Andy.
“She’s like a monkey,” Andy concurred.
“Where’s she from again?” another brother asked Laura on the other side of the room.
“New York,” Ricky interrupted.
“Well, how in the hell did she wind up here?”
“Not enough Republicans up there for her.”
“Well, she’s no fool.”
“We should call her Cricket. Sorta sounds like Bridget. And she’s tiny. Like a cricket.”
“Way she snorts, though, makes her sound like a barnyard.”
“You know the way to tell a woman’s from ‘roud here? Barefoot and pregnant.”
“Well, she’s already practically barefoot.”
“Didn’t she date that Jimmy boy a while back?”
Here I interjected. “I did NOT date Jimmy. We got pizza once.”
“Well, we might have her pregnant by May, after all!”
After a while, the brothers took one of Earl’s sons and set out in search of food, weary from an afternoon of merciless teasing. The rest of us continued our vigil. Finally, at long last, a nurse came in to us and said that our guy was able to start receiving visitors two at a time. I smiled at his son and daughters, but Sarah took my hand. “Come on, baby,” she said, standing up stiffly. “Let’s go see Dad.” I hesitated and looked at their kids, but they nodded eagerly, so I walked arm-in-arm with Laura past the nurses’ station and into Earl’s room.
The chaos of the hospital bullpen dissolved in the peace of Earl’s dimly-lit room, and I felt the usual calm associated with this man fill me up. He looked exhausted but comfortable in the hospital bed’s clean sheets, his long white hair swept back across his pillow. His eyes met mine and his eyebrows shot up in pleasant surprise. I felt my eyes prickle with tears as I asked, “How're ya feelin’, Earl?” Flint struck steel somewhere deep in his eyes and that old wry grin flitted faintly across his lips. “Mostly with my fingers.”
Thursday, October 14, 2010
The Country Poet
“I’m not sure I’m the girl you’re looking for,” I said doubtfully.
Hannah shook her head. “He’s not trying to court you. He just needs a friend. He can’t talk to nobody in this town.”
I wasn’t convinced. It’s not that I didn’t trust Sam; I did. I just wasn’t confident that my involvement in this particular piece of family drama would yield positive results. He was having trouble with his woman – actually, with two of his women. His ex-wife was giving him grief over custody of their two kids, and his current long-term girlfriend had stolen from the family and used the money to buy drugs. And although Hannah was simply worried about her eldest son, I couldn’t help but feel like I would walk into my office on the morning after our conversation to a very angry dope head and a twelve-gauge.
“Just take down his number,” Hannah pleaded. “He saw you in town the other day and said to me, ‘Mama, I just feel like I can trust her.’”
Against my better judgment, I added Sam’s number to my contacts list. I kept it there for a week or so and contemplated what my best move would be.
As much as my common sense was telling me to lose the number and forget about it, I couldn’t. Sure, my job title is “Elderly Caseworker” and I have absolutely no professional or personal background to help a fellow through a situation like this one. But this was family. Just a few weeks ago I’d gone to their reunion and shared stories, laughs, and wonderful food with the whole lot of them. Heck, I’d even gotten up in front of a hundred strangers and belted out “Amazing Grace” with banjo and steel guitar accompaniment. In short, there was an established bond there, and it counted for way more than common sense. And so I decided to call Sam.
Truth be told, I was as curious as I was concerned. Sam is your quintessential stone-faced, strong and silent farmer. Tall and gaunt, his face is a constant ashen color, his cheeks and eyes sunken in and partially hidden under a baseball cap pulled down low. He seldom smiles and never laughs. And while he’s always regarded me with kindness, I’d never had a conversation with him that extended past “Hey, how are ya?” Frankly, I could count on two hands the number of words I’d actually heard out of his mouth. Needless to say, I was intrigued to find out what it was that he believed he could share with me.
I waited one night until the Jackson House had wrapped up dinner and walked outside onto our porch with my cell phone. I found his name and hit Send, a strange butterfly fluttering in my stomach. Sam’s voice ended the ringing on the line and I told him who was calling. “Hiya, Sam. It’s Bridget. Your mom gave me your number.”
He sounded a little awkward on the other end, though not at all surprised. We exchanged pleasantries for a few moments, but it quickly became apparent to the two of us that if we’d never spoken this way when spending hours in each other’s company, then we certainly weren’t going to start on the phone this night. So we jumped right into it.
Sam told me about the two women he’d loved – how he’d given everything he could to them and how he’d been taken advantage of when they both turned to drugs. He told how his first wife had tried to use his kids to hurt him, and how his current girlfriend had proven to be a pathological liar.
“Bridget, I know that I’m capable of loving so much,” he said, his voice rising with emotion. “I just want to find a woman who’s going to love me as much as I love her.”
I’m glad that we were having this conversation via phone because, for the half hour that Sam poured out his soul to me, my mouth hung open. I’d had no idea that underneath that gray, non-descript exterior beat a heart so full of warmth and passion. I remained silent for a long time and let Sam get everything off of his chest. He talked about being lonely, and how at thirty-nine he believed that it was too late to start over. He said that he felt trapped in this place due to the custody battle involving his kids, and knew that his options (so to speak) were limited here. He insisted that he really loved his current girlfriend despite – and really perhaps because of – all of her problems. He was eloquent in his sincerity, his speech almost lyrical in its beautiful honesty. Sam became a country poet to me that night, tragic and sad and much wiser than I.
Sam and his girlfriend are still together; he took her back, much to his family’s chagrin. He’s helping her to work through all of her issues with the patient stoicism and loyalty of a saint, and he continues to work constantly to support her and his children. Sam and I have since resumed our smile-and-nod friendship. There’s a certain understanding in our eye contact now, though. Our “Hey, how are ya?” is like a secret code for “Hang in there. Sometimes love is tough. But it’s always worth it.”
Hannah shook her head. “He’s not trying to court you. He just needs a friend. He can’t talk to nobody in this town.”
I wasn’t convinced. It’s not that I didn’t trust Sam; I did. I just wasn’t confident that my involvement in this particular piece of family drama would yield positive results. He was having trouble with his woman – actually, with two of his women. His ex-wife was giving him grief over custody of their two kids, and his current long-term girlfriend had stolen from the family and used the money to buy drugs. And although Hannah was simply worried about her eldest son, I couldn’t help but feel like I would walk into my office on the morning after our conversation to a very angry dope head and a twelve-gauge.
“Just take down his number,” Hannah pleaded. “He saw you in town the other day and said to me, ‘Mama, I just feel like I can trust her.’”
Against my better judgment, I added Sam’s number to my contacts list. I kept it there for a week or so and contemplated what my best move would be.
As much as my common sense was telling me to lose the number and forget about it, I couldn’t. Sure, my job title is “Elderly Caseworker” and I have absolutely no professional or personal background to help a fellow through a situation like this one. But this was family. Just a few weeks ago I’d gone to their reunion and shared stories, laughs, and wonderful food with the whole lot of them. Heck, I’d even gotten up in front of a hundred strangers and belted out “Amazing Grace” with banjo and steel guitar accompaniment. In short, there was an established bond there, and it counted for way more than common sense. And so I decided to call Sam.
Truth be told, I was as curious as I was concerned. Sam is your quintessential stone-faced, strong and silent farmer. Tall and gaunt, his face is a constant ashen color, his cheeks and eyes sunken in and partially hidden under a baseball cap pulled down low. He seldom smiles and never laughs. And while he’s always regarded me with kindness, I’d never had a conversation with him that extended past “Hey, how are ya?” Frankly, I could count on two hands the number of words I’d actually heard out of his mouth. Needless to say, I was intrigued to find out what it was that he believed he could share with me.
I waited one night until the Jackson House had wrapped up dinner and walked outside onto our porch with my cell phone. I found his name and hit Send, a strange butterfly fluttering in my stomach. Sam’s voice ended the ringing on the line and I told him who was calling. “Hiya, Sam. It’s Bridget. Your mom gave me your number.”
He sounded a little awkward on the other end, though not at all surprised. We exchanged pleasantries for a few moments, but it quickly became apparent to the two of us that if we’d never spoken this way when spending hours in each other’s company, then we certainly weren’t going to start on the phone this night. So we jumped right into it.
Sam told me about the two women he’d loved – how he’d given everything he could to them and how he’d been taken advantage of when they both turned to drugs. He told how his first wife had tried to use his kids to hurt him, and how his current girlfriend had proven to be a pathological liar.
“Bridget, I know that I’m capable of loving so much,” he said, his voice rising with emotion. “I just want to find a woman who’s going to love me as much as I love her.”
I’m glad that we were having this conversation via phone because, for the half hour that Sam poured out his soul to me, my mouth hung open. I’d had no idea that underneath that gray, non-descript exterior beat a heart so full of warmth and passion. I remained silent for a long time and let Sam get everything off of his chest. He talked about being lonely, and how at thirty-nine he believed that it was too late to start over. He said that he felt trapped in this place due to the custody battle involving his kids, and knew that his options (so to speak) were limited here. He insisted that he really loved his current girlfriend despite – and really perhaps because of – all of her problems. He was eloquent in his sincerity, his speech almost lyrical in its beautiful honesty. Sam became a country poet to me that night, tragic and sad and much wiser than I.
Sam and his girlfriend are still together; he took her back, much to his family’s chagrin. He’s helping her to work through all of her issues with the patient stoicism and loyalty of a saint, and he continues to work constantly to support her and his children. Sam and I have since resumed our smile-and-nod friendship. There’s a certain understanding in our eye contact now, though. Our “Hey, how are ya?” is like a secret code for “Hang in there. Sometimes love is tough. But it’s always worth it.”
Friday, September 24, 2010
The King
Autumn is an exciting time here in Kentucky. As nature ages gracefully, the leaves change and set the hills on fire in a blaze of scarlet, amber, and gold. Mornings wake up the day with a decidedly crisp chill in the air, and the fog is taking longer and longer to burn off in the valley of Booneville. Front yards are slowly filling up with pumpkins, bales of hay, and scarecrows. The old folks are taking turns making predictions about the coming winter, each more ominous than the last and quickly followed up by war stories of Januarys survived.
Perhaps, though, the most exhilarating Fall activities are the slew of county fairs that are threatening to occupy our every weekend. These festivals are no frivolous New York affair featuring beer tents and wire leashes for invisible dogs. Oh, no. County fairs around here are serious business. Young and old battle it out in 4-H contests for canning, quilting, painting, and vegetable-growing, and local musicians show their stuff at down-home talent competitions that win the victors a Walmart gift card and a year’s worth of bragging rights. There are banjos, mandolins, guitars, and more Appalachian clogging than you can shake a stick at. And as far as sustenance goes: well, if you can fry it and run a stick through it, you can most certainly ingest it (before jumping on the giant pirate ship ride and sorely regretting it).
During the past few weeks, my Kentucky family and I have immersed ourselves in the local flavor of our current surroundings. We kicked things off at the Jackson County Fair in our CAP hometown of McKee, which I followed with the Booneville Fair in the OC. A few of the J-House ladies checked out the Richmond Pottery Festival, while the ever-wise McCreary gals opted for the Bourbon Festival last weekend. This past Sunday, a few of my friends and I attended the Berea Spoonbread Festival.
Spoonbread is a type of cornbread that’s pudding-like in consistency, not like the dense, crumbly cousin that we live on down here. Seeing as how there’s a whole festival named after it, five of us splurged on a single three-dollar helping and eagerly gathered around the bowl with our spoons to try it. We all took our bites at the same time and chewed them slowly before looking up into the faces around the circle and seeing our own confusion reflected in each of them. Okay, so spoonbread isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’m quickly learning, though, that a small town doesn’t need a real reason to celebrate community.
We wandered about the grounds, looking at the different stands and sampling the various fares offered from brightly colored booths smelling strongly of oil and clogged arteries. Eventually, we found ourselves sitting in a pavilion next to the music tent, eating snow cones and impatiently awaiting the arrival of the final act of the festival and the one for which we’d really come in the first place.
Will “Teen King” Reynolds is a sixteen year-old reed of a boy who – you guessed it – impersonates Elvis Presley. Do yourself a favor and Youtube him. All it took was for us to see his name and promotional photo in the festival program, and we knew there was no question that we’d have to be present for his show. He’s been doing this routine for years. When discussing the show later on in the McKee Rite Aid, the cashier knew exactly who we were talking about; she’d seen him at an Independence Day celebration in Richmond a few years back. What I’m trying to say, kids, is that this fellow if kind of a big deal.
Tamara and I were sitting at our picnic table surrounded by other cheery festival-goers while Christel and Ben went off to make phone calls before the music started up. While we girls were chatting, we heard a blood-curdling scream; we, along with the other thirty people in the pavilion, whipped our heads around to see who’d caught on fire. Alas, Ben came running over to us, eyes like saucers and the Superman symbol he’d had the kids’ face painter draw on his chest just peeking out over the top button of his flannel shirt.
“YOU GUYS. HE’S HERE.”
It took us a minute to realize that he was, in fact, talking about the Teen King. With those around us now looking at all three of us with some alarm and much interest, Tamara and I sprung from our bench and fled the scene, making a bee-line for the parking lot where the King himself was exiting his Oldsmobile with his grandparents and girlfriend in tow.
And what a King he was. He was dressed in a pale blue jump suit, his large white belt and many rhinestones catching the September sunlight and making him sparkle. His perfectly coifed black wig had not a hair out of place, and I can only assume that blue contact lenses allowed him to hold us in so piercing and icy a gaze. He was putting on a white scarf when we approached him, positively star-struck.
He graciously agreed to take a picture with Ben and me. Upon later review, I’m not entirely sure whether or not the curled lip was evidence of Mr. Reynolds staying in character or a sign of impatience for those of us who are so very far below his particular brand of royalty.
The show was just as spectacular as we’d hoped it would be. Afterwards, Ben and Trevor, who himself was sporting Batman’s emblem on his t-shirt, were banned from the Fun Slide for flying down headfirst, Ben bellowing the Superman theme song on the way down. And so we headed out.
But Lee County’s Woolly Worm Festival is right around the corner; its main draw is a massive caterpillar race. “Excited” doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Perhaps, though, the most exhilarating Fall activities are the slew of county fairs that are threatening to occupy our every weekend. These festivals are no frivolous New York affair featuring beer tents and wire leashes for invisible dogs. Oh, no. County fairs around here are serious business. Young and old battle it out in 4-H contests for canning, quilting, painting, and vegetable-growing, and local musicians show their stuff at down-home talent competitions that win the victors a Walmart gift card and a year’s worth of bragging rights. There are banjos, mandolins, guitars, and more Appalachian clogging than you can shake a stick at. And as far as sustenance goes: well, if you can fry it and run a stick through it, you can most certainly ingest it (before jumping on the giant pirate ship ride and sorely regretting it).
During the past few weeks, my Kentucky family and I have immersed ourselves in the local flavor of our current surroundings. We kicked things off at the Jackson County Fair in our CAP hometown of McKee, which I followed with the Booneville Fair in the OC. A few of the J-House ladies checked out the Richmond Pottery Festival, while the ever-wise McCreary gals opted for the Bourbon Festival last weekend. This past Sunday, a few of my friends and I attended the Berea Spoonbread Festival.
Spoonbread is a type of cornbread that’s pudding-like in consistency, not like the dense, crumbly cousin that we live on down here. Seeing as how there’s a whole festival named after it, five of us splurged on a single three-dollar helping and eagerly gathered around the bowl with our spoons to try it. We all took our bites at the same time and chewed them slowly before looking up into the faces around the circle and seeing our own confusion reflected in each of them. Okay, so spoonbread isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’m quickly learning, though, that a small town doesn’t need a real reason to celebrate community.
We wandered about the grounds, looking at the different stands and sampling the various fares offered from brightly colored booths smelling strongly of oil and clogged arteries. Eventually, we found ourselves sitting in a pavilion next to the music tent, eating snow cones and impatiently awaiting the arrival of the final act of the festival and the one for which we’d really come in the first place.
Will “Teen King” Reynolds is a sixteen year-old reed of a boy who – you guessed it – impersonates Elvis Presley. Do yourself a favor and Youtube him. All it took was for us to see his name and promotional photo in the festival program, and we knew there was no question that we’d have to be present for his show. He’s been doing this routine for years. When discussing the show later on in the McKee Rite Aid, the cashier knew exactly who we were talking about; she’d seen him at an Independence Day celebration in Richmond a few years back. What I’m trying to say, kids, is that this fellow if kind of a big deal.
Tamara and I were sitting at our picnic table surrounded by other cheery festival-goers while Christel and Ben went off to make phone calls before the music started up. While we girls were chatting, we heard a blood-curdling scream; we, along with the other thirty people in the pavilion, whipped our heads around to see who’d caught on fire. Alas, Ben came running over to us, eyes like saucers and the Superman symbol he’d had the kids’ face painter draw on his chest just peeking out over the top button of his flannel shirt.
“YOU GUYS. HE’S HERE.”
It took us a minute to realize that he was, in fact, talking about the Teen King. With those around us now looking at all three of us with some alarm and much interest, Tamara and I sprung from our bench and fled the scene, making a bee-line for the parking lot where the King himself was exiting his Oldsmobile with his grandparents and girlfriend in tow.
And what a King he was. He was dressed in a pale blue jump suit, his large white belt and many rhinestones catching the September sunlight and making him sparkle. His perfectly coifed black wig had not a hair out of place, and I can only assume that blue contact lenses allowed him to hold us in so piercing and icy a gaze. He was putting on a white scarf when we approached him, positively star-struck.
He graciously agreed to take a picture with Ben and me. Upon later review, I’m not entirely sure whether or not the curled lip was evidence of Mr. Reynolds staying in character or a sign of impatience for those of us who are so very far below his particular brand of royalty.
The show was just as spectacular as we’d hoped it would be. Afterwards, Ben and Trevor, who himself was sporting Batman’s emblem on his t-shirt, were banned from the Fun Slide for flying down headfirst, Ben bellowing the Superman theme song on the way down. And so we headed out.
But Lee County’s Woolly Worm Festival is right around the corner; its main draw is a massive caterpillar race. “Excited” doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Bless Its Heart
It’d been a particularly rough day. I dragged myself up the steps of the front porch rather melodramatically and pouted as I headed straight for Annie’s outstretched arms, while Ginny cooed, “Bless its heart.”
Annie’s a tiny woman, part Cherokee with a full head of red hair that she usually wears in a plait that reaches the small of her back. She lives in a beautiful old white house sitting on top of a hill in Vincent; it’s one of my favorite spots in Kentucky. The walls are layered with cream planks that are turning yellow with age, and the dark wooden doors are covered with intricately hand-carved molding. After my visits with her in the spring, one of my favorite things to do was to run across her back property with her dog Ginger on my heels. I’d reach its highest point and throw myself down in the tall, sweet-smelling grass, sending up a plume of jewel-colored butterflies against an achingly blue sky. A big wrap-around porch conducts the most beautiful breeze on balmy summer evenings when we sit with her family on the swing and wave at the passing cars. Annie considers me to be a daughter to her now, and I see her children and granddaughter as my own relatives. There are few things to which I look forward more at the end of a long day than unwinding with the whole lot of them in a cloud of cigarette smoke at their kitchen table.
Annie’s granddaughter Kelly is eight years old and cute as a button. So, when she asked me to buy something for her school’s fundraiser to assist her in her generation’s relentless pursuit of Silly Bandz, I had no choice but to succumb to the requests of the freckle-faced little sprite. I signed up for twenty issues of Time magazine (I know it goes against all of my “El Rushbo” upbringing, McCormacks, but I’d already bought a subscription to Southern Living from another kid, and People en Español just wasn’t that enticing). As I didn’t have the cash on me that afternoon, I arranged with Kelly and her mother Ginny to meet me at the elementary school at 7:30 the next day.
Ginny greeted me with a warm smile in the chilly gray morning light as I waited for them outside the cafeteria. At thirty-seven years old, her face is beginning to show the effects of years of sun and smoking, but her brown eyes lend a pretty softness to her expression. Kelly sleepily took the ten bucks I handed to her and let the corners of her mouth curl up ever-so-slightly in thanks.
I hugged Ginny and said, “See you at your mom’s house later?”
“Of course,” she chuckled. “We always wind up there one way or another.”
I drove up Annie’s hill at about 4:30, looking forward to listening to their family banter for an hour before returning to my own Kentucky family. I walked in to a very different scene, however. Annie, her son, and her daughter-in-law sat silently around their table, chain-smoking their cigarettes and silently staring straight ahead. Annie looked up at me, her deeply wrinkled face creased even further with worry. “Ginny and Kelly were in an accident over in McKee. Kelly was taken to Berea, but they flew Ginny to UK.”
I looked at them, startled, and sat down in the vacant chair at the end of the table. “How are they now?”
“No one’s telling us anything when we call,” Annie said helplessly. She pushed the phone into my hands. “You try.”
I got through to the emergency room and discovered that Ginny was responsive, but in bad shape. I asked if it would be helpful to have a family member there, to which the nurse replied, “Uh, yeah.”
The obvious dawned on me then: neither Annie nor her son have a car and therefore had no way of getting to UK. I asked Annie if it would be alright for me to represent her family at the hospital, and she eagerly agreed. Bringing her daughter-in-law with me, I jumped into my minivan and sped off for Lexington.
After spending a fair amount of time in the waiting room, we were allowed to make our way through the maze of gurneys and plastic curtains back to Ginny’s bed in the ER. Her tiny 108-pound frame lay twisted up in the sheets, her left foot visibly swollen and her face contorted in pain. I rushed to the side of the bed and began to sweep her dark brown hair away from her face. She tried to open up her swollen eyes to look at me without much success. “It’s Bridget, Ginny. I’m here. I’m here.” She tried to repeat my name, but the left side of her mouth remained stubbornly limp, and she looked alarmed at the realization that she was unable to speak normally.
She’d suffered a stroke while driving. Kelly later explained that her mother had been acting rather strangely upon leaving their appointment, and that she’d just “fallen asleep” on their drive back to Owsley. They’d careened into a ditch on a remote roadside (something that proves to be a constant threat around here). Once their vehicle had come to a stop, Kelly had crawled out of the car with a chipped collarbone, up the embankment, and to the first house she saw. When nobody answered her knock, she ran into the street and flagged down a coal truck, saving her mother’s life.
As doctors and medical students drifted in and out of the room, Ginny continued to writhe in pain; due to the fact that she hadn’t been given an MRI yet, she was unable to take any sort of pain-killers. When the doctors revealed that she’d not only broken her foot in three places, but had also crushed her pelvis, I really wasn’t sure how much longer Ginny could take it. It’d already been hours since the accident and, because of the lack of family presence and pertinent personal information, nothing had been done to her in that time except for the insertion of an IV of fluids.
The doctors saw the need to stabilize her heel before proceeding with an MRI. The fracture wasn’t compounded, but the nature of the break was such that every movement threatened to push the broken bone through the skin. Two medical students began to cast it, and Ginny cried for them to stop, trying to lift herself up. I gently held her shoulder down, stroking her hair and shushing her the way I imagined my mom would have if it were me laying on that bed.
“You’re doing a great job,” I whispered as she whimpered under my hand. “I’m so proud of you. And Kelly’s going to be so proud of her Mama.”
“For what?” she mumbled through her uncooperative lips as a tear slipped down her broken nose.
I smiled and loved her so much at that moment. “For being so brave.”
The plaster eventually hardened, and Ginny fell asleep out of pain and sheer exhaustion as I held her hand. It sounds ridiculous, but I felt a strong protective, maternal instinct as I hovered over her pain-stricken face and broken body. It felt like somebody else – someone much older and more confident – was answering the doctor’s questions, giving direction to Ginny’s sister-in-law on how to update the family, and filling in Ginny’s husband when he finally arrived at UK from Berea Hospital. I felt as if Ginny was my very own, and I wanted to stay by her side through everything the doctors did to her that night. This was impossible, I knew, but I was so grateful to have been able to be with her as she endured all of that suffering. There’s a certain intangible but extraordinarily resilient bond that forms between people where intense suffering is involved. It can’t be created amidst everyday circumstances, and it can’t really be explained. It’s a bond that transcends normal human contact because suffering, like true joy, taps into psychological and emotional wells that are only accessed rarely, when something so deeply affects an individual that the usual reactions just don’t suffice.
When the surgical team wheeled her away to put pins in her foot and to scan her brain, I kissed her forehead and told her I loved her. Her “I love you, too” was muffled, but it meant the world to me.
Annie’s a tiny woman, part Cherokee with a full head of red hair that she usually wears in a plait that reaches the small of her back. She lives in a beautiful old white house sitting on top of a hill in Vincent; it’s one of my favorite spots in Kentucky. The walls are layered with cream planks that are turning yellow with age, and the dark wooden doors are covered with intricately hand-carved molding. After my visits with her in the spring, one of my favorite things to do was to run across her back property with her dog Ginger on my heels. I’d reach its highest point and throw myself down in the tall, sweet-smelling grass, sending up a plume of jewel-colored butterflies against an achingly blue sky. A big wrap-around porch conducts the most beautiful breeze on balmy summer evenings when we sit with her family on the swing and wave at the passing cars. Annie considers me to be a daughter to her now, and I see her children and granddaughter as my own relatives. There are few things to which I look forward more at the end of a long day than unwinding with the whole lot of them in a cloud of cigarette smoke at their kitchen table.
Annie’s granddaughter Kelly is eight years old and cute as a button. So, when she asked me to buy something for her school’s fundraiser to assist her in her generation’s relentless pursuit of Silly Bandz, I had no choice but to succumb to the requests of the freckle-faced little sprite. I signed up for twenty issues of Time magazine (I know it goes against all of my “El Rushbo” upbringing, McCormacks, but I’d already bought a subscription to Southern Living from another kid, and People en Español just wasn’t that enticing). As I didn’t have the cash on me that afternoon, I arranged with Kelly and her mother Ginny to meet me at the elementary school at 7:30 the next day.
Ginny greeted me with a warm smile in the chilly gray morning light as I waited for them outside the cafeteria. At thirty-seven years old, her face is beginning to show the effects of years of sun and smoking, but her brown eyes lend a pretty softness to her expression. Kelly sleepily took the ten bucks I handed to her and let the corners of her mouth curl up ever-so-slightly in thanks.
I hugged Ginny and said, “See you at your mom’s house later?”
“Of course,” she chuckled. “We always wind up there one way or another.”
I drove up Annie’s hill at about 4:30, looking forward to listening to their family banter for an hour before returning to my own Kentucky family. I walked in to a very different scene, however. Annie, her son, and her daughter-in-law sat silently around their table, chain-smoking their cigarettes and silently staring straight ahead. Annie looked up at me, her deeply wrinkled face creased even further with worry. “Ginny and Kelly were in an accident over in McKee. Kelly was taken to Berea, but they flew Ginny to UK.”
I looked at them, startled, and sat down in the vacant chair at the end of the table. “How are they now?”
“No one’s telling us anything when we call,” Annie said helplessly. She pushed the phone into my hands. “You try.”
I got through to the emergency room and discovered that Ginny was responsive, but in bad shape. I asked if it would be helpful to have a family member there, to which the nurse replied, “Uh, yeah.”
The obvious dawned on me then: neither Annie nor her son have a car and therefore had no way of getting to UK. I asked Annie if it would be alright for me to represent her family at the hospital, and she eagerly agreed. Bringing her daughter-in-law with me, I jumped into my minivan and sped off for Lexington.
After spending a fair amount of time in the waiting room, we were allowed to make our way through the maze of gurneys and plastic curtains back to Ginny’s bed in the ER. Her tiny 108-pound frame lay twisted up in the sheets, her left foot visibly swollen and her face contorted in pain. I rushed to the side of the bed and began to sweep her dark brown hair away from her face. She tried to open up her swollen eyes to look at me without much success. “It’s Bridget, Ginny. I’m here. I’m here.” She tried to repeat my name, but the left side of her mouth remained stubbornly limp, and she looked alarmed at the realization that she was unable to speak normally.
She’d suffered a stroke while driving. Kelly later explained that her mother had been acting rather strangely upon leaving their appointment, and that she’d just “fallen asleep” on their drive back to Owsley. They’d careened into a ditch on a remote roadside (something that proves to be a constant threat around here). Once their vehicle had come to a stop, Kelly had crawled out of the car with a chipped collarbone, up the embankment, and to the first house she saw. When nobody answered her knock, she ran into the street and flagged down a coal truck, saving her mother’s life.
As doctors and medical students drifted in and out of the room, Ginny continued to writhe in pain; due to the fact that she hadn’t been given an MRI yet, she was unable to take any sort of pain-killers. When the doctors revealed that she’d not only broken her foot in three places, but had also crushed her pelvis, I really wasn’t sure how much longer Ginny could take it. It’d already been hours since the accident and, because of the lack of family presence and pertinent personal information, nothing had been done to her in that time except for the insertion of an IV of fluids.
The doctors saw the need to stabilize her heel before proceeding with an MRI. The fracture wasn’t compounded, but the nature of the break was such that every movement threatened to push the broken bone through the skin. Two medical students began to cast it, and Ginny cried for them to stop, trying to lift herself up. I gently held her shoulder down, stroking her hair and shushing her the way I imagined my mom would have if it were me laying on that bed.
“You’re doing a great job,” I whispered as she whimpered under my hand. “I’m so proud of you. And Kelly’s going to be so proud of her Mama.”
“For what?” she mumbled through her uncooperative lips as a tear slipped down her broken nose.
I smiled and loved her so much at that moment. “For being so brave.”
The plaster eventually hardened, and Ginny fell asleep out of pain and sheer exhaustion as I held her hand. It sounds ridiculous, but I felt a strong protective, maternal instinct as I hovered over her pain-stricken face and broken body. It felt like somebody else – someone much older and more confident – was answering the doctor’s questions, giving direction to Ginny’s sister-in-law on how to update the family, and filling in Ginny’s husband when he finally arrived at UK from Berea Hospital. I felt as if Ginny was my very own, and I wanted to stay by her side through everything the doctors did to her that night. This was impossible, I knew, but I was so grateful to have been able to be with her as she endured all of that suffering. There’s a certain intangible but extraordinarily resilient bond that forms between people where intense suffering is involved. It can’t be created amidst everyday circumstances, and it can’t really be explained. It’s a bond that transcends normal human contact because suffering, like true joy, taps into psychological and emotional wells that are only accessed rarely, when something so deeply affects an individual that the usual reactions just don’t suffice.
When the surgical team wheeled her away to put pins in her foot and to scan her brain, I kissed her forehead and told her I loved her. Her “I love you, too” was muffled, but it meant the world to me.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Coming Home
Sunlight streams through the windows and shines off the whitewashed walls of the tiny church as blue-haired women in their Sunday best shuffle their way into pews reserved by tradition and habit. This weekend is Homecoming here at the Green Hollow Methodist Chapel, and one of my gals has invited me to be a part of her family today. I’ve taken my seat in the back, right behind Ella Mae and her son. Slowly, the rows in front of me fill up with generations of people who have come through this place at various points in their lives; hugs and excited greetings are exchanged as folks catch each other up on the past year.
As the conversation dies down, the pastor walks up to the front of the church and grins broadly at his congregation before inviting everyone to stand and sing. A hundred voices meld together and rise to an arched ceiling that embraces the joyful noise like an old friend. I mouth the words but don’t allow any sound to come out; aside from not being familiar with these old hymns, I feel like my voice would stick out amongst that gathering above us, a harsh New York accent trampling on beautifully soft Southern lilts. I’m content to listen, and my voice is content to rest (for once).
After a few verses, we sit and the pastor begins to take a role call. He announces the last name of each family in the parish, and all those present from that group stand. Some families have upwards of twenty members present, coming from as far away as California. Others – like Ella Mae’s – have two, but they represent their lineage and stand just as tall. The pastor introduces the oldest member of the congregation; at ninety-four, she stands proudly behind me as he calls out her name, beaming in a bright pink and purple floral print dress and surveying her church family, one which she has seen grow and change more than anybody else in this building has. Our attention is then directed to the youngest member who, at four months old, sleeps blissfully through the first of many homecomings, completely unaware that the eyes that smile on him now will watch him closely as he develops a little personality and contributes in his own way to Green Hollow's rich history.
After some preaching and more beautiful singing, we get up and file slowly through a door at the front of the church into a gathering area. Miles and miles of Southern cooking stretch out in front of me. In a traditional show of friendly competition, each lady has made her own specialty dish with the flair and panache of a five-star chef. Oh, sure, they’ll bat their eyes and dispense cordialities, but don’t be fooled: this is a blood sport (my compliments to whoever whipped up the potato salad, by the by). These people know how to cook. And they sure know how to eat.
We eventually roll away from the banquet tables and back into the church, where it’s open mic time. I’m blown away by the natural talent within this tiny community; each young singer that steps up to the front of the congregation is better than the last. While keeping an ear open, I make my way to the vestibule, where there are large scrapbooks set out featuring thousands of newspaper clippings from years past about the church’s members. I skim through the generations, watching one girl grow from a birth announcement to an engagement announcement to a wedding announcement. I look around and see her sitting close to her young husband, and I smile when I notice that she’s just starting to show. A pretty blonde woman comes and stands next to me, serving as a guide of sorts as I continue to explore this church through its periodical records. She tells me that she’s thirty-nine and a teacher at the county high school, but she has a youthful light and warmth about her that makes me feel like a peer. We fall into conversation easily, and I learn that the expectant mother inside is her younger sister. Hearing my accent – or lack thereof – she asks me where I’m from and which church I attend. I answer New York and give the name of my parish, and I notice the slightest trace of a raised eyebrow (Catholics aren’t traditionally all that popular in these parts). I quickly explain, “My horns and pitchfork are in the car.”
I’d had high hopes of being the recipient of a few smiles at this church, perhaps of being granted the chance to be graced by a conversation or two with its charming members. I’m happy to report to you that, due to that comment, I am known as the “Catholic New Yorker with Sass” to the Green Hollow Methodists, and have since received numerous dinner invitations. How’s that for ecumenism?
As the conversation dies down, the pastor walks up to the front of the church and grins broadly at his congregation before inviting everyone to stand and sing. A hundred voices meld together and rise to an arched ceiling that embraces the joyful noise like an old friend. I mouth the words but don’t allow any sound to come out; aside from not being familiar with these old hymns, I feel like my voice would stick out amongst that gathering above us, a harsh New York accent trampling on beautifully soft Southern lilts. I’m content to listen, and my voice is content to rest (for once).
After a few verses, we sit and the pastor begins to take a role call. He announces the last name of each family in the parish, and all those present from that group stand. Some families have upwards of twenty members present, coming from as far away as California. Others – like Ella Mae’s – have two, but they represent their lineage and stand just as tall. The pastor introduces the oldest member of the congregation; at ninety-four, she stands proudly behind me as he calls out her name, beaming in a bright pink and purple floral print dress and surveying her church family, one which she has seen grow and change more than anybody else in this building has. Our attention is then directed to the youngest member who, at four months old, sleeps blissfully through the first of many homecomings, completely unaware that the eyes that smile on him now will watch him closely as he develops a little personality and contributes in his own way to Green Hollow's rich history.
After some preaching and more beautiful singing, we get up and file slowly through a door at the front of the church into a gathering area. Miles and miles of Southern cooking stretch out in front of me. In a traditional show of friendly competition, each lady has made her own specialty dish with the flair and panache of a five-star chef. Oh, sure, they’ll bat their eyes and dispense cordialities, but don’t be fooled: this is a blood sport (my compliments to whoever whipped up the potato salad, by the by). These people know how to cook. And they sure know how to eat.
We eventually roll away from the banquet tables and back into the church, where it’s open mic time. I’m blown away by the natural talent within this tiny community; each young singer that steps up to the front of the congregation is better than the last. While keeping an ear open, I make my way to the vestibule, where there are large scrapbooks set out featuring thousands of newspaper clippings from years past about the church’s members. I skim through the generations, watching one girl grow from a birth announcement to an engagement announcement to a wedding announcement. I look around and see her sitting close to her young husband, and I smile when I notice that she’s just starting to show. A pretty blonde woman comes and stands next to me, serving as a guide of sorts as I continue to explore this church through its periodical records. She tells me that she’s thirty-nine and a teacher at the county high school, but she has a youthful light and warmth about her that makes me feel like a peer. We fall into conversation easily, and I learn that the expectant mother inside is her younger sister. Hearing my accent – or lack thereof – she asks me where I’m from and which church I attend. I answer New York and give the name of my parish, and I notice the slightest trace of a raised eyebrow (Catholics aren’t traditionally all that popular in these parts). I quickly explain, “My horns and pitchfork are in the car.”
I’d had high hopes of being the recipient of a few smiles at this church, perhaps of being granted the chance to be graced by a conversation or two with its charming members. I’m happy to report to you that, due to that comment, I am known as the “Catholic New Yorker with Sass” to the Green Hollow Methodists, and have since received numerous dinner invitations. How’s that for ecumenism?
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Interview with a Hitchhiker
He sat leaned up against the guardrail to my right in front of the Booneville post office, a contented smile on his face, his blue and milky eyes mimicking the August sky, if not able to reflect it. A worn and well-loved knapsack sat on the ground next to him, the only other object in the world that, if it could talk, would be able to tell you all of the things that the two of them had experienced together.
I’ve always held onto a romantic and completely irrational envy of the hobo. Granted, my housemates would roll their eyes and be quick to point out to you, the reader, my J. Crew-infused wardrobe and inability to create a meal without using twenty-four ingredients and every pot in the kitchen – evidence that I not only couldn’t cut it riding my thumb out on the road, but that I probably couldn’t make it a hundred miles in my Cobalt without a GPS and a Starbucks. Nevertheless, I can’t think of too many occupations that would naturally allow for better stories and, thus, I covet this one.
I turned these thoughts over in my head as I watched the man. My world is so very different from his. Mine contains beautiful relationships with wonderful individuals; his contains a single overwhelmingly intimate relationship with the road. My alarm clock wakes me up from my warm bed every morning; his wake-up call is when the rising sun hits the windshield of the abandoned car he’s sleeping in. From Monday through Friday, I basically know which occupation and responsibilities will fill my time; he works when he needs to eat, and never once wonders if a meal will come his way. He places his complete trust and whole self at the mercy of the endless stretch of highway in front of him. He has forsaken all permanent and tangible human relationships in favor of a life of solitude and off-beat adventure. His dearest friend is the stranger who gives him a lift or a five-dollar bill. He loves it. And a part of me wants it.
A left turn would take me to my office with its desk covered in hurriedly scribbled notes and its phone with messages recorded by cherished old voices. My day would be filled with the interactions that I’ve come to adore these past seven months, comfortable and predictable as they’ve now come to be. But I couldn’t help myself.
“Where ya headed?” I hollered out my rolled down window. He glanced in my direction, neither enthusiastically nor nonchalantly. I was just another passer-through (albeit a very excited one).
“Beattyville,” he drawled. That meant that I’d be back in Booneville within the half hour. My mind was made up. “Hop in!”
He picked up his bag and slowly walked over, asking if I was sure I didn’t mind. “Not at all,” I smiled. “It’s on the way.” He put all of his worldly belongings in the back of my van and stuck his head through the passenger-side window to thank me once more before climbing in. I did a double take.
“Road Dust?!”
It was the nephew of one of my favorite participants. I’d spent a few afternoons with him on her front porch in the past, holding my breath and not daring to blink or interrupt as he told me story after story of his adventures on the road. He’s been hitchhiking since the age of sixteen – that’s almost forty years of being a true vagabond. He’s gotten into numerous fights, saved a few lives, and come close to losing his own. And, though his health has begun to fail him, he has no plans to settle down any time soon. He loves the freedom that this lifestyle affords him, and will probably continue in this vein until he dies.
It would come as a surprise to anyone just meeting him, but Road Dust is a very talented artist; his specialties are buildings and landscapes. Having discovered this from his aunt during his last visit, I asked him to sketch me a church. I received it after Road Dust had already jumped onto a passing truck en route to his next destination. It hangs in my room now, an 8.5 x 11 inch looseleaf masterpiece (to me, anyway).
We chatted as I brought him to the highway about where he’d been and what he’d been up to during the past few months. He hadn’t decided yet whether he’d be Cincinnati-bound or sleeping in Georgia that night. He did mention, not without blushing, that his aunt had suggested that I’d “make him a good woman” (a claim which she later roundly denied, revealing that the idea actually came from the bachelor himself). When I pulled over to let him out, he flashed a big smile, shook my hand, and said that he’d see me later.
As I watched him trudge toward Route 52, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of loneliness for him. Later that morning I sat at my familiar desk, called up a few of my familiar participants, drove around the familiar courthouse square, and visited a lot of familiar houses. I received big hugs from familiar arms and discussed familiar topics with familiar folks who have come to see me as one of their own.
There’s a big wide beautiful world out there, for sure, and I’m looking forward to seeing more of it someday soon.
But, for now, familiar will do quite nicely.
I’ve always held onto a romantic and completely irrational envy of the hobo. Granted, my housemates would roll their eyes and be quick to point out to you, the reader, my J. Crew-infused wardrobe and inability to create a meal without using twenty-four ingredients and every pot in the kitchen – evidence that I not only couldn’t cut it riding my thumb out on the road, but that I probably couldn’t make it a hundred miles in my Cobalt without a GPS and a Starbucks. Nevertheless, I can’t think of too many occupations that would naturally allow for better stories and, thus, I covet this one.
I turned these thoughts over in my head as I watched the man. My world is so very different from his. Mine contains beautiful relationships with wonderful individuals; his contains a single overwhelmingly intimate relationship with the road. My alarm clock wakes me up from my warm bed every morning; his wake-up call is when the rising sun hits the windshield of the abandoned car he’s sleeping in. From Monday through Friday, I basically know which occupation and responsibilities will fill my time; he works when he needs to eat, and never once wonders if a meal will come his way. He places his complete trust and whole self at the mercy of the endless stretch of highway in front of him. He has forsaken all permanent and tangible human relationships in favor of a life of solitude and off-beat adventure. His dearest friend is the stranger who gives him a lift or a five-dollar bill. He loves it. And a part of me wants it.
A left turn would take me to my office with its desk covered in hurriedly scribbled notes and its phone with messages recorded by cherished old voices. My day would be filled with the interactions that I’ve come to adore these past seven months, comfortable and predictable as they’ve now come to be. But I couldn’t help myself.
“Where ya headed?” I hollered out my rolled down window. He glanced in my direction, neither enthusiastically nor nonchalantly. I was just another passer-through (albeit a very excited one).
“Beattyville,” he drawled. That meant that I’d be back in Booneville within the half hour. My mind was made up. “Hop in!”
He picked up his bag and slowly walked over, asking if I was sure I didn’t mind. “Not at all,” I smiled. “It’s on the way.” He put all of his worldly belongings in the back of my van and stuck his head through the passenger-side window to thank me once more before climbing in. I did a double take.
“Road Dust?!”
It was the nephew of one of my favorite participants. I’d spent a few afternoons with him on her front porch in the past, holding my breath and not daring to blink or interrupt as he told me story after story of his adventures on the road. He’s been hitchhiking since the age of sixteen – that’s almost forty years of being a true vagabond. He’s gotten into numerous fights, saved a few lives, and come close to losing his own. And, though his health has begun to fail him, he has no plans to settle down any time soon. He loves the freedom that this lifestyle affords him, and will probably continue in this vein until he dies.
It would come as a surprise to anyone just meeting him, but Road Dust is a very talented artist; his specialties are buildings and landscapes. Having discovered this from his aunt during his last visit, I asked him to sketch me a church. I received it after Road Dust had already jumped onto a passing truck en route to his next destination. It hangs in my room now, an 8.5 x 11 inch looseleaf masterpiece (to me, anyway).
We chatted as I brought him to the highway about where he’d been and what he’d been up to during the past few months. He hadn’t decided yet whether he’d be Cincinnati-bound or sleeping in Georgia that night. He did mention, not without blushing, that his aunt had suggested that I’d “make him a good woman” (a claim which she later roundly denied, revealing that the idea actually came from the bachelor himself). When I pulled over to let him out, he flashed a big smile, shook my hand, and said that he’d see me later.
As I watched him trudge toward Route 52, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of loneliness for him. Later that morning I sat at my familiar desk, called up a few of my familiar participants, drove around the familiar courthouse square, and visited a lot of familiar houses. I received big hugs from familiar arms and discussed familiar topics with familiar folks who have come to see me as one of their own.
There’s a big wide beautiful world out there, for sure, and I’m looking forward to seeing more of it someday soon.
But, for now, familiar will do quite nicely.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Hiatus
My sincerest apologies to those who are kind enough to glance at this little diary every now and then. Due to an unfortunate and sudden rendezvous between my laptop and an overly aggressive glass of juice, I haven’t had the luxury of banging away at my keyboard during the occasional late night when sleep eludes me. Therefore, since it would appear that my own computer won’t be of much use to me any time soon, I’ll be moving my writer’s workshop to the community room of the Jackson House, my temporarily blank pages to its over-sized computer screen. And I’ll try to catch you up a little on the stories I’ve been withholding for the past month and a half. But, for now, I’ll just give you a sense of how I’m doing.
Life’s been feeling very much like a storm-battered ship lately. We’re in the middle of a lot of turnover here at J-House and, while I love the folks who are here very much, I’ve bid farewell to quite a few members of my family in the past few weeks, and it’s made for a heavy heart at times.
Admittedly, I’ve never been very good at saying goodbye. As a result, I usually opt out of saying it at all. “I’ll be seeing you” tends to be my phrase of choice; it postpones the inevitable reality that life isn’t slowing down, people are moving on, and relationships are changing rapidly. Of course, our lives are punctuated by a series of hellos and goodbyes. They essentially form the parameters of all of our human contact. In one way or another, you and any person you’ve ever come across have greeted each other; something within you sought out and reached something within that other person, whether he’s the man you married or the guy who changed your oil last week. Where you both went after that initial contact is a matter of personal choice and chance, I suppose. But, when everything is said and done, you and your friend will part ways. Maybe it’ll be death that separates you. Maybe an argument and a broken heart. Maybe a smile, a handshake, and a hand-off of keys.
Or maybe it’ll be a new school, a new job, a new opportunity. Perhaps life will ultimately be what comes between you. And, in many ways, that’s something to be celebrated. If love means truly, selflessly, and actively seeking the greatest good for another person, then moving on to that which God has planned for us not only calls for happiness, but for rejoicing.
And, as I stroll down this shady old Kentucky dirt road with these incredible individuals, I will rejoice with them. I’ll get excited with them about tomorrow. I’ll smile as they embrace the gifts of looking back down this road they’ve traveled on – far past the point at which I’m standing – and of acknowledging how much they’ve grown and how far they’ve come. And then I’ll smile until it hurts as they head toward a path that breaks away from the road that I’m on. With a final hug (and more than a few tears on my part), I’ll watch them disappear through the trees and stride toward a new set of challenges and triumphs. Then I’ll link arms with the ones who are still on this blessed patch of dirt, and we’ll keep walking. Soon enough, one of those paths will emerge from the woods and produce a new sister here and a new brother there, and I’ll fall in love all over again.
This moment – the one between the hellos and the goodbyes – will never happen again. I think, really, that its passing is the thing that I mourn. But the sun that shines on us as we walk now is that same that did when we walked with the ones who’ve left. The wildflowers growing on the side of the road, the muddy lake up at Camp AJ, our roof (above which the shooting stars and fireflies are brightest) – all of these things bear witness to this moment and to all passing ones. These fragments of time are indelibly a part of who I am and who I have every hope of becoming. And when my little path comes up on my current dirt road, I’ll know that I loved with every inch of my heart. And I’ll have left nothing on the table.
Life’s been feeling very much like a storm-battered ship lately. We’re in the middle of a lot of turnover here at J-House and, while I love the folks who are here very much, I’ve bid farewell to quite a few members of my family in the past few weeks, and it’s made for a heavy heart at times.
Admittedly, I’ve never been very good at saying goodbye. As a result, I usually opt out of saying it at all. “I’ll be seeing you” tends to be my phrase of choice; it postpones the inevitable reality that life isn’t slowing down, people are moving on, and relationships are changing rapidly. Of course, our lives are punctuated by a series of hellos and goodbyes. They essentially form the parameters of all of our human contact. In one way or another, you and any person you’ve ever come across have greeted each other; something within you sought out and reached something within that other person, whether he’s the man you married or the guy who changed your oil last week. Where you both went after that initial contact is a matter of personal choice and chance, I suppose. But, when everything is said and done, you and your friend will part ways. Maybe it’ll be death that separates you. Maybe an argument and a broken heart. Maybe a smile, a handshake, and a hand-off of keys.
Or maybe it’ll be a new school, a new job, a new opportunity. Perhaps life will ultimately be what comes between you. And, in many ways, that’s something to be celebrated. If love means truly, selflessly, and actively seeking the greatest good for another person, then moving on to that which God has planned for us not only calls for happiness, but for rejoicing.
And, as I stroll down this shady old Kentucky dirt road with these incredible individuals, I will rejoice with them. I’ll get excited with them about tomorrow. I’ll smile as they embrace the gifts of looking back down this road they’ve traveled on – far past the point at which I’m standing – and of acknowledging how much they’ve grown and how far they’ve come. And then I’ll smile until it hurts as they head toward a path that breaks away from the road that I’m on. With a final hug (and more than a few tears on my part), I’ll watch them disappear through the trees and stride toward a new set of challenges and triumphs. Then I’ll link arms with the ones who are still on this blessed patch of dirt, and we’ll keep walking. Soon enough, one of those paths will emerge from the woods and produce a new sister here and a new brother there, and I’ll fall in love all over again.
This moment – the one between the hellos and the goodbyes – will never happen again. I think, really, that its passing is the thing that I mourn. But the sun that shines on us as we walk now is that same that did when we walked with the ones who’ve left. The wildflowers growing on the side of the road, the muddy lake up at Camp AJ, our roof (above which the shooting stars and fireflies are brightest) – all of these things bear witness to this moment and to all passing ones. These fragments of time are indelibly a part of who I am and who I have every hope of becoming. And when my little path comes up on my current dirt road, I’ll know that I loved with every inch of my heart. And I’ll have left nothing on the table.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
I heard a fly buzz.
I’ve been in this room before.
I’ve witnessed the cough that rattles against the rib cage of a dying loved one, the lungs which emit it growing ever closer to giving in altogether. I’ve seen the furrowed brow, knit in the confusion of a life passed too quickly and in the pain of feeling it slip away. I’ve seen the gaping mouth, lips dry and cracked, tongue purple and swollen and unable to form words of comfort to the heartbroken family members who stand at the side of the bed. I’ve seen the soul flutter behind glassy eyes like a trapped bird striving to break free of its decaying bonds of flesh.
I’ve heard words spoken as if they would be the last ever heard by that loved one. I’ve seen hands reach out to caress and hold old, withered fingers that grab blindly for some sort of reassurance. I’ve beheld eyes that brim over with love that words can no longer communicate, that perhaps never could be expressed before this point.
Watching someone die is the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. But I count the time I spent with my grandfather before he passed away as one of God’s greatest gifts to me. You learn a lot about a person - and about yourself - when verbal communication is no longer an option, and when the time allotted on this earth to spend with that person could never possibly be enough. And since none of us know exactly what comes next, all you can do as he approaches the great chasm between life and death is to let him know that you’re there with him, and have the grace to let go when he has to continue his journey on his own.
It won‘t be long until Emma’s sister passes away. After ten years of putting off visiting Berthie, Emma finally made a point of getting over to the nursing home. During our first visit, Emma patted her sister’s hand and said in her small voice, “Who am I? Don’t you know me?” Berthie opened her eyes once and said, “That’s Emma, isn’t it?” before falling back into a stupor. After we left that day, she suffered a stroke that took away any ability to speak. Our visits now are silent, punctuated only by expressions of happiness, sadness, or despair that flash across Berthie’s tired face. I know it’s difficult for Emma to have to see her sister this way, especially after she neglected to see her for ten prior years of relatively good health. But I tell her how much it means to Berthie that she’s there now, that she’s a point of immense support for her sister at this time.
It doesn’t make it easier. But there’s so much to be learned from a person’s final days. I just hope that Emma forgives herself in enough time to see that.
I’ve witnessed the cough that rattles against the rib cage of a dying loved one, the lungs which emit it growing ever closer to giving in altogether. I’ve seen the furrowed brow, knit in the confusion of a life passed too quickly and in the pain of feeling it slip away. I’ve seen the gaping mouth, lips dry and cracked, tongue purple and swollen and unable to form words of comfort to the heartbroken family members who stand at the side of the bed. I’ve seen the soul flutter behind glassy eyes like a trapped bird striving to break free of its decaying bonds of flesh.
I’ve heard words spoken as if they would be the last ever heard by that loved one. I’ve seen hands reach out to caress and hold old, withered fingers that grab blindly for some sort of reassurance. I’ve beheld eyes that brim over with love that words can no longer communicate, that perhaps never could be expressed before this point.
Watching someone die is the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. But I count the time I spent with my grandfather before he passed away as one of God’s greatest gifts to me. You learn a lot about a person - and about yourself - when verbal communication is no longer an option, and when the time allotted on this earth to spend with that person could never possibly be enough. And since none of us know exactly what comes next, all you can do as he approaches the great chasm between life and death is to let him know that you’re there with him, and have the grace to let go when he has to continue his journey on his own.
It won‘t be long until Emma’s sister passes away. After ten years of putting off visiting Berthie, Emma finally made a point of getting over to the nursing home. During our first visit, Emma patted her sister’s hand and said in her small voice, “Who am I? Don’t you know me?” Berthie opened her eyes once and said, “That’s Emma, isn’t it?” before falling back into a stupor. After we left that day, she suffered a stroke that took away any ability to speak. Our visits now are silent, punctuated only by expressions of happiness, sadness, or despair that flash across Berthie’s tired face. I know it’s difficult for Emma to have to see her sister this way, especially after she neglected to see her for ten prior years of relatively good health. But I tell her how much it means to Berthie that she’s there now, that she’s a point of immense support for her sister at this time.
It doesn’t make it easier. But there’s so much to be learned from a person’s final days. I just hope that Emma forgives herself in enough time to see that.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Better People
This past weekend, Wilmore, Kentucky saw 18,000 Christians flock to its fields for Ichthus, a tremendous music festival fondly dubbed “Christian Woodstock.” I volunteered to do recruitment for CAP in the Global Village tent, and was really looking forward to being in the thick of the festive atmosphere that’s inherent in any event that celebrates music’s role in our culture.
The night before I set out for the festival, I’d been in a Richmond emergency room all night with a participant who was feeling “sick to her stomach.” Far be it from me to deny care, I hung with her in the hospital for six hours, and didn’t wind up getting back home to Jackson House until 11:30 that night. With a four o’clock wake-up call looming in front of me, I packed my bag full of clothes that, I believed, looked professional, but approachable. After three hours of peaceful slumber in my bed (a commodity which, I’ve since learned, I truly take for granted), I jumped into my CAP minivan and sped off to Ichthus.
I pulled onto the fairgrounds and was blown away by the sheer size of the event. Thousands upon thousands of tents covered the grass, and people straggled along the dusty roads that attempted to lend some sort of order to the overnight shanty town. I hadn’t the faintest idea of where to park so, being that there were no attendants and that no one really seemed to care very much, I pulled up on some empty grass, threw it into park, and left my trusty vehicle behind to explore on foot. I soon came across the rest of the CAP crew, most of which were slowly waking up from underneath an enormous white tent that was to be our shelter for the rest of the week.
I jumped into action fairly quickly. All of those professional-but-approachable outfits were cast aside without circumstance in favor of light blue t-shirts that read “Faith in Action” on the front. I manned the information table with a few different friends throughout the weekend, and I had the opportunity to meet a lot of really wonderful folks. Our fellow Global Villagers were a mix of better people, doing and representing awesome things about which they were truly passionate. Many of the individuals who inquired at our display told stories of mission trips, youth groups, and big plans - all in the name of God. In most instances, it was quite inspiring.
In many other cases, however, I was just plain freaked out. While there were a few bands with which I was familiar (Switchfoot, Relient K, Casting Crowns), on the whole, there were a lot of strange kids at this festival. Up until this past weekend, I hadn’t been acquainted with heavy metal Christian music. Oh, yes. It exists. And it’s loud. And obnoxious. Especially when you’re inside a tent. Furthermore, the individuals who adhere to this particular brand of praise and worship music all fit a fairly specific mold: dyed and heavily gelled hair, shirts with big lettering on them, skinny jeans, and neon plastic sunglasses. Add to this the ubiquitous “Free Hugs” signs and the scarcity of showers, and I was running pretty darn low on patience with the whole lot of them by the end of the week.
On our last day of recruiting, a friend and I were walking through the dust, soaked in sweat and loudly complaining about everything pertaining to the festival. Everybody smelled. We were hot and covered in dirt. The thought of going into that tent for another three hours was absolutely repulsive. More than anything, though, we were tired of having “God” shouted at us. For me, there is no reverence in a shirt that says “High Five If You Love Jesus.” There was little respect or gravity in the numerous “Virginity Rocks” tees. I felt as if, for all of the yelling, preaching, testifying, and singing, an image of this Christianity had been crafted, and everyone at this festival was trying to fit it. None of it felt genuine to me, and I was feeling rather cynical - even skeptical - about all of it.
As my friend and I finished up our rant, a boy came up to us. He was tall - taller than me - but had a young face that, at the moment, looked confused and worried.
“Excuse me. You all look nice. I’ve been goin’ through some tough times lately. I was wonderin’ if y’all could pray over me.”
My friend and I didn’t look at each other, but I knew that she was just as taken aback as I was. There were 17,997 other people on those grounds who would have been more than happy to fulfill this fellow’s request, and he picked the two pessimists in the sea of willful believers. Without much hesitation, though, we nodded our heads and each put a hand on the boy’s shoulders.
And I prayed for strength and courage for him to see his challenges through to the end. For the comfort to know that he is loved beyond all comprehension, and that he is not alone in any of his battles. For the grace to see God’s Hand in his struggles, and to find meaning in his suffering. For the faith that will undoubtedly bring him through to the other side. When I’d said “Amen,” the boy wiped his eyes, gave us a small smile, and walked away.
And I realized, as I walked away a little shakily, that I’d been praying as much for myself as I had been for him.
The night before I set out for the festival, I’d been in a Richmond emergency room all night with a participant who was feeling “sick to her stomach.” Far be it from me to deny care, I hung with her in the hospital for six hours, and didn’t wind up getting back home to Jackson House until 11:30 that night. With a four o’clock wake-up call looming in front of me, I packed my bag full of clothes that, I believed, looked professional, but approachable. After three hours of peaceful slumber in my bed (a commodity which, I’ve since learned, I truly take for granted), I jumped into my CAP minivan and sped off to Ichthus.
I pulled onto the fairgrounds and was blown away by the sheer size of the event. Thousands upon thousands of tents covered the grass, and people straggled along the dusty roads that attempted to lend some sort of order to the overnight shanty town. I hadn’t the faintest idea of where to park so, being that there were no attendants and that no one really seemed to care very much, I pulled up on some empty grass, threw it into park, and left my trusty vehicle behind to explore on foot. I soon came across the rest of the CAP crew, most of which were slowly waking up from underneath an enormous white tent that was to be our shelter for the rest of the week.
I jumped into action fairly quickly. All of those professional-but-approachable outfits were cast aside without circumstance in favor of light blue t-shirts that read “Faith in Action” on the front. I manned the information table with a few different friends throughout the weekend, and I had the opportunity to meet a lot of really wonderful folks. Our fellow Global Villagers were a mix of better people, doing and representing awesome things about which they were truly passionate. Many of the individuals who inquired at our display told stories of mission trips, youth groups, and big plans - all in the name of God. In most instances, it was quite inspiring.
In many other cases, however, I was just plain freaked out. While there were a few bands with which I was familiar (Switchfoot, Relient K, Casting Crowns), on the whole, there were a lot of strange kids at this festival. Up until this past weekend, I hadn’t been acquainted with heavy metal Christian music. Oh, yes. It exists. And it’s loud. And obnoxious. Especially when you’re inside a tent. Furthermore, the individuals who adhere to this particular brand of praise and worship music all fit a fairly specific mold: dyed and heavily gelled hair, shirts with big lettering on them, skinny jeans, and neon plastic sunglasses. Add to this the ubiquitous “Free Hugs” signs and the scarcity of showers, and I was running pretty darn low on patience with the whole lot of them by the end of the week.
On our last day of recruiting, a friend and I were walking through the dust, soaked in sweat and loudly complaining about everything pertaining to the festival. Everybody smelled. We were hot and covered in dirt. The thought of going into that tent for another three hours was absolutely repulsive. More than anything, though, we were tired of having “God” shouted at us. For me, there is no reverence in a shirt that says “High Five If You Love Jesus.” There was little respect or gravity in the numerous “Virginity Rocks” tees. I felt as if, for all of the yelling, preaching, testifying, and singing, an image of this Christianity had been crafted, and everyone at this festival was trying to fit it. None of it felt genuine to me, and I was feeling rather cynical - even skeptical - about all of it.
As my friend and I finished up our rant, a boy came up to us. He was tall - taller than me - but had a young face that, at the moment, looked confused and worried.
“Excuse me. You all look nice. I’ve been goin’ through some tough times lately. I was wonderin’ if y’all could pray over me.”
My friend and I didn’t look at each other, but I knew that she was just as taken aback as I was. There were 17,997 other people on those grounds who would have been more than happy to fulfill this fellow’s request, and he picked the two pessimists in the sea of willful believers. Without much hesitation, though, we nodded our heads and each put a hand on the boy’s shoulders.
And I prayed for strength and courage for him to see his challenges through to the end. For the comfort to know that he is loved beyond all comprehension, and that he is not alone in any of his battles. For the grace to see God’s Hand in his struggles, and to find meaning in his suffering. For the faith that will undoubtedly bring him through to the other side. When I’d said “Amen,” the boy wiped his eyes, gave us a small smile, and walked away.
And I realized, as I walked away a little shakily, that I’d been praying as much for myself as I had been for him.
Monday, June 14, 2010
An Indecent Proposal
"Bridget, if I divorce my wife, will you marry me?"
I shook my head and smiled at the man-child sitting in front of me. A big guy in his early thirties, Jack is a sweetly simple fellow with an unruly head of brown hair and big blue eyes that look perpetually inquisitive. "No, Jack. That's very sweet of you, but my future plans involve a few acres in upstate New York, two big dogs, and a shotgun."
Jack's the son of one of my participants, and they're two of my favorite people to visit. His mom, Hannah, always greets me at her screen door with a big, toothless smile and a "Come on in, girl!" I usually like to try to end my day at their house; they have a porch that hangs above the road below, and I've spent many a relaxing afternoon sitting there with them, watching the wind blow through the trees amidst the chirping of their many birds. They're the kind of people with whom awkward silences don't exist. Just comfortable ones.
In April, Jack had asked Lucas and I to come over on a Saturday for a trail ride that's held annually at the Sugar Camp Saddle Club. Every year, thousands of people come to camp out there with their horses and spend the weekend riding the miles of trails around the area. We gladly obliged, bringing with us another volunteer, Alex, and plenty of food for a cook-out. It was a really wonderful day, spent talking, barbecuing, and looking at the horses and their riders as they trotted along the road in front of the house. It was plain to see that Jack was on top of the world to have the rare opportunity to entertain company. Before we left, we all signed a contract mandating Jack to quit smoking; if he didn't, and he lit up in my presence, I was given license to hit him. The contract still hangs on their refrigerator, to the great amusement of anyone who visits the house.
On this day, I asked Jack how his visit with his wife had been. She lives in Louisville, where she works in a nursing home and takes care of her aging father. Jack, meanwhile, stays in Owsley County to take care of Hannah. As a result, they only see each other once every several months. He said that his visit had gone well, but that he'd been mugged by three men after leaving the grocery store on his last day there. He crossed the room and had me feel his throat, which was still sporting a nasty knot from where one of the men had punched him. He never reported it; law enforcement isn't all that it should be down here. I was alarmed by the size of the bump, and begged Jack to schedule an urgent visit at the medical clinic for the following day. He's the kind of person that you instinctively want to protect from anything bad in this world. He nodded his head in response to my request, eyes wide, and promised that he would call the next morning.
Conversation then turned to their upcoming family reunion at Natural Bridge. They've been talking about it for months now, and they've graciously invited me to come. When I thanked them, Jack shook his head.
"You and Lucas are the best friends I've ever had," he said, nodding gravely. "I mean, I've had friends in my life, but I never met anyone like you two."
Hannah nodded in agreement. "There's some people who'll stab you in the back, then turn ya 'round and stab ya again. But you all are like family."
Jack grinned. "When you all come to visit after you leave here, don't do anything silly like stay in a hotel or nothin'. We got beds here. Don't make no sense to stay someplace else when you got friends with room."
I was truly grateful for their hospitality. Not because their living quarters are a grand show of luxury; on the contrary, rooms of their house are literally disintegrating off of the foundation. It was, rather, the authenticity with which they freely opened their home and their family to me that almost brought tears to my eyes. I can't imagine having a heart so pure and a capacity to love so great that I could generously accept - as Hannah and Jack have - relative strangers with such grace and ease. The only thing we've ever done for the two of them has been to sit and talk with them. But I've found that, more often than not, that's the only thing that human beings require to truly be happy: to know that they count.
As I prepared to leave, Hannah clapped a weathered and care-worn hand on my shoulder and shouted, "We better see you at that reunion, girl!"
I wouldn't miss it for the world.
Besides, there will be banjos.
I shook my head and smiled at the man-child sitting in front of me. A big guy in his early thirties, Jack is a sweetly simple fellow with an unruly head of brown hair and big blue eyes that look perpetually inquisitive. "No, Jack. That's very sweet of you, but my future plans involve a few acres in upstate New York, two big dogs, and a shotgun."
Jack's the son of one of my participants, and they're two of my favorite people to visit. His mom, Hannah, always greets me at her screen door with a big, toothless smile and a "Come on in, girl!" I usually like to try to end my day at their house; they have a porch that hangs above the road below, and I've spent many a relaxing afternoon sitting there with them, watching the wind blow through the trees amidst the chirping of their many birds. They're the kind of people with whom awkward silences don't exist. Just comfortable ones.
In April, Jack had asked Lucas and I to come over on a Saturday for a trail ride that's held annually at the Sugar Camp Saddle Club. Every year, thousands of people come to camp out there with their horses and spend the weekend riding the miles of trails around the area. We gladly obliged, bringing with us another volunteer, Alex, and plenty of food for a cook-out. It was a really wonderful day, spent talking, barbecuing, and looking at the horses and their riders as they trotted along the road in front of the house. It was plain to see that Jack was on top of the world to have the rare opportunity to entertain company. Before we left, we all signed a contract mandating Jack to quit smoking; if he didn't, and he lit up in my presence, I was given license to hit him. The contract still hangs on their refrigerator, to the great amusement of anyone who visits the house.
On this day, I asked Jack how his visit with his wife had been. She lives in Louisville, where she works in a nursing home and takes care of her aging father. Jack, meanwhile, stays in Owsley County to take care of Hannah. As a result, they only see each other once every several months. He said that his visit had gone well, but that he'd been mugged by three men after leaving the grocery store on his last day there. He crossed the room and had me feel his throat, which was still sporting a nasty knot from where one of the men had punched him. He never reported it; law enforcement isn't all that it should be down here. I was alarmed by the size of the bump, and begged Jack to schedule an urgent visit at the medical clinic for the following day. He's the kind of person that you instinctively want to protect from anything bad in this world. He nodded his head in response to my request, eyes wide, and promised that he would call the next morning.
Conversation then turned to their upcoming family reunion at Natural Bridge. They've been talking about it for months now, and they've graciously invited me to come. When I thanked them, Jack shook his head.
"You and Lucas are the best friends I've ever had," he said, nodding gravely. "I mean, I've had friends in my life, but I never met anyone like you two."
Hannah nodded in agreement. "There's some people who'll stab you in the back, then turn ya 'round and stab ya again. But you all are like family."
Jack grinned. "When you all come to visit after you leave here, don't do anything silly like stay in a hotel or nothin'. We got beds here. Don't make no sense to stay someplace else when you got friends with room."
I was truly grateful for their hospitality. Not because their living quarters are a grand show of luxury; on the contrary, rooms of their house are literally disintegrating off of the foundation. It was, rather, the authenticity with which they freely opened their home and their family to me that almost brought tears to my eyes. I can't imagine having a heart so pure and a capacity to love so great that I could generously accept - as Hannah and Jack have - relative strangers with such grace and ease. The only thing we've ever done for the two of them has been to sit and talk with them. But I've found that, more often than not, that's the only thing that human beings require to truly be happy: to know that they count.
As I prepared to leave, Hannah clapped a weathered and care-worn hand on my shoulder and shouted, "We better see you at that reunion, girl!"
I wouldn't miss it for the world.
Besides, there will be banjos.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
The Hurricane Gang
A couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity to head over to Rockcastle County for a few days to aid in the disaster relief efforts that have been going on since flooding moved through the region earlier this month. CAP's Disaster Relief program, led by Sherry Buresh, was created at the time of Hurricane Katrina. Now, whenever there's a need for a response, emails are sent out and CAP and community volunteers spring into action.
I went over on Wednesday night and met up with several friends who'd been there since Sunday evening. We slept in a church that had graciously opened its doors to us for the week. As you can probably imagine, things are very touch-and-go at the home base of a relief effort. Any time I saw Sherry, she was pacing back and forth, puffing away on a cigarette and trying to figure out where, exactly, the individuals needing help were located. If you'd watched the news at all in May, you know that there's an obvious need for assistance here. The problem is that many of those who need the help - for reasons of pride or misinformation - haven't alerted the necessary authorities, so it follows to reason that organizers of relief efforts can't track them all down. Therefore, I never knew what I'd be doing until the morning of each work day. And, frankly, that was perfectly fine with me.
Thursday morning, I was told that I'd be working with Mark - an awesome volunteer from the Sandy Valley region - and five members of the O'Shea volunteer group. Now, working with an organization that has the word "Christian" in its title means that incoming short-term volunteers often come to us from church groups and Catholic high schools. The O'Shea crowd, on the contrary, was a phenomenal group of folks from the O'Shea pubs in Louisville. Tom O'Shea, the owner, was with me on Thursday; he owns the four restaurants and is honestly one of the nicest guys I've ever met. He's got five kids whom he's put through Catholic high school. One night during the week they traveled from Mount Vernon to Louisville to watch his son play baseball. In short, talking to him felt like talking to any of the dads I knew from the rink or the ball fields on Long Island. We went to a house in Richmond that day to clear out a basement. Luckily, there wasn't all that much in said basement, so we only had to move some boxes and a few pieces of furniture before hacking away at the walls. Afterwards, we covered everything in a bleach solution and called it a day before noon. "The O'Sheas," as we came to call them, had to hit the road early that day, so Tom asked Mark and I to accompany the rest of them to Berea from some coffee and good conversation. We gladly obliged their request, and spent some time at Berea Coffee & Tea enjoying their laid-back company, slinging one-liners and laughing loudly. It felt like we were at an Irish pub. Or a McCormack family gathering. Both good things.
The following day, I went with a different group of CAP volunteers to Casey County, where we'd been told there was a trailer that needed to be vacated of its furniture. We met its resident, Rodney, outside. He was a big man with a face that housed a permanent smile over a neatly trimmed white beard and tiny eyes that had deep laugh lines etched into their corners. He'd only lives in his trailer, which he rented, for a year; that's when he'd lost his job in Cincinnati and moved down to Kentucky with his wife who, at only sixty years of age, has been battling Alzheimer's for over a year now. All of his furniture had been destroyed or contaminated by mold after the "Five Hundred Year Flood," and we had to clear all of it, jumping over holes in the rotting floor as we moved over the water-logged carpet. The outlook was pretty bleak for our friend. But he hung in there with us all day, helping as much as he could and never complaining once. He looked at the experience as a test of sorts, and had complete faith that everything would work out in his favor, despite the fact that his landlords appeared to be entirely insensitive to his situation and seemed to be taking advantage of him and his wife. Reader, I fell in love with Rodney; his sense of humor and fiercely optimistic attitude were inspiring. The privilege of going through a lot of his personal items with him - hearing his stories and being his audience - was an absolute gift. When the day came to a close and he had to go pick up his wife at her adult day care center, he gave me a bear hug that threatened to wring the tears from my eyes.
Just down the way from Rodney's trailer was a trailer belonging to another man named Bert. Bert was sixty-eight years old, had been completely slammed by the disaster, and was working diligently the entire time we were at Rodney's with nothing but a pair of torn latex gloves and an old surgical mask. It was evident that he had put a lot of work into his home; decorative paneling lined the walls and wood floors ran throughout. As we pulled off the sheet rock, though, we could see that the water had already done its worst. Mold had infested absolutely everything, and we believed that it would only be a matter of time before the trailer was condemned. Bert must have had an inkling of this, too. When I spoke with him, though, he only had wonderful things to say. He said that this daughter hadn't spoken to him for several years but, upon hearing about the floods, she'd driven to him immediately and spent three days working in his home with him.
"Everything happens for a reason," he said to me, slowly and emphatically. "I'd gladly take all of this in return for my daughter speaking to me again. I'm a blessed man." He smiled a beautiful, genuine smile and said, "And you folks are the answers to my prayers."
He looked around the gutted remnants of his home and said, almost to himself, "Everything I wanted to get done today is done 'cause of all of you. Ain't no way I coulda done this without you all. You came in here like a hurricane." The thought seemed to strike him, and he stopped surveying the wreckage and let his hopeful eyes find mine. "Hurricane! Can I call you guys the Hurricane Gang? Is that alright?"
I couldn't think of anything that was more alright at that moment.
I went over on Wednesday night and met up with several friends who'd been there since Sunday evening. We slept in a church that had graciously opened its doors to us for the week. As you can probably imagine, things are very touch-and-go at the home base of a relief effort. Any time I saw Sherry, she was pacing back and forth, puffing away on a cigarette and trying to figure out where, exactly, the individuals needing help were located. If you'd watched the news at all in May, you know that there's an obvious need for assistance here. The problem is that many of those who need the help - for reasons of pride or misinformation - haven't alerted the necessary authorities, so it follows to reason that organizers of relief efforts can't track them all down. Therefore, I never knew what I'd be doing until the morning of each work day. And, frankly, that was perfectly fine with me.
Thursday morning, I was told that I'd be working with Mark - an awesome volunteer from the Sandy Valley region - and five members of the O'Shea volunteer group. Now, working with an organization that has the word "Christian" in its title means that incoming short-term volunteers often come to us from church groups and Catholic high schools. The O'Shea crowd, on the contrary, was a phenomenal group of folks from the O'Shea pubs in Louisville. Tom O'Shea, the owner, was with me on Thursday; he owns the four restaurants and is honestly one of the nicest guys I've ever met. He's got five kids whom he's put through Catholic high school. One night during the week they traveled from Mount Vernon to Louisville to watch his son play baseball. In short, talking to him felt like talking to any of the dads I knew from the rink or the ball fields on Long Island. We went to a house in Richmond that day to clear out a basement. Luckily, there wasn't all that much in said basement, so we only had to move some boxes and a few pieces of furniture before hacking away at the walls. Afterwards, we covered everything in a bleach solution and called it a day before noon. "The O'Sheas," as we came to call them, had to hit the road early that day, so Tom asked Mark and I to accompany the rest of them to Berea from some coffee and good conversation. We gladly obliged their request, and spent some time at Berea Coffee & Tea enjoying their laid-back company, slinging one-liners and laughing loudly. It felt like we were at an Irish pub. Or a McCormack family gathering. Both good things.
The following day, I went with a different group of CAP volunteers to Casey County, where we'd been told there was a trailer that needed to be vacated of its furniture. We met its resident, Rodney, outside. He was a big man with a face that housed a permanent smile over a neatly trimmed white beard and tiny eyes that had deep laugh lines etched into their corners. He'd only lives in his trailer, which he rented, for a year; that's when he'd lost his job in Cincinnati and moved down to Kentucky with his wife who, at only sixty years of age, has been battling Alzheimer's for over a year now. All of his furniture had been destroyed or contaminated by mold after the "Five Hundred Year Flood," and we had to clear all of it, jumping over holes in the rotting floor as we moved over the water-logged carpet. The outlook was pretty bleak for our friend. But he hung in there with us all day, helping as much as he could and never complaining once. He looked at the experience as a test of sorts, and had complete faith that everything would work out in his favor, despite the fact that his landlords appeared to be entirely insensitive to his situation and seemed to be taking advantage of him and his wife. Reader, I fell in love with Rodney; his sense of humor and fiercely optimistic attitude were inspiring. The privilege of going through a lot of his personal items with him - hearing his stories and being his audience - was an absolute gift. When the day came to a close and he had to go pick up his wife at her adult day care center, he gave me a bear hug that threatened to wring the tears from my eyes.
Just down the way from Rodney's trailer was a trailer belonging to another man named Bert. Bert was sixty-eight years old, had been completely slammed by the disaster, and was working diligently the entire time we were at Rodney's with nothing but a pair of torn latex gloves and an old surgical mask. It was evident that he had put a lot of work into his home; decorative paneling lined the walls and wood floors ran throughout. As we pulled off the sheet rock, though, we could see that the water had already done its worst. Mold had infested absolutely everything, and we believed that it would only be a matter of time before the trailer was condemned. Bert must have had an inkling of this, too. When I spoke with him, though, he only had wonderful things to say. He said that this daughter hadn't spoken to him for several years but, upon hearing about the floods, she'd driven to him immediately and spent three days working in his home with him.
"Everything happens for a reason," he said to me, slowly and emphatically. "I'd gladly take all of this in return for my daughter speaking to me again. I'm a blessed man." He smiled a beautiful, genuine smile and said, "And you folks are the answers to my prayers."
He looked around the gutted remnants of his home and said, almost to himself, "Everything I wanted to get done today is done 'cause of all of you. Ain't no way I coulda done this without you all. You came in here like a hurricane." The thought seemed to strike him, and he stopped surveying the wreckage and let his hopeful eyes find mine. "Hurricane! Can I call you guys the Hurricane Gang? Is that alright?"
I couldn't think of anything that was more alright at that moment.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
There are only so many tomorrows.
After weeks of hearing me talk about them incessantly, my friend, Lucas, came with me to visit Earl and Sarah about a week and a half ago. Their place really looks fantastic; a church group from Ohio came down for YouthFest and we were able to do a huge clean-up in the yard and paint the trailer. The results were remarkable, and Earl, Sarah, and their family were thrilled with them. And I was thrilled to have been able to help them to obtain something that they wanted so badly.
Lucas is a great story-teller, and I couldn’t wait for him to get to talk to Earl. Entering their home is always such a treat for me, and I was eager to share the experience with a member of my Jackson House family. Anything that’s worrying me outside their door melts away with Sarah’s bear hug and Earl’s kiss on the cheek, and I settle myself in for a visit filled with genuine warmth and hospitality. On this particular day, their son, Marshall, was over. He was freshly home from the hospital after nearly dying; he’d had a heart attack, and if his brother hadn’t found him in time, he wouldn’t have been with us that day. He filled me in on the details of his near-death experience. Forty-five years old, Marshall had almost a child-like quality about him. Despite his goatee and buzzed white-blonde hair, his perfectly round eyes and earnest manner in recounting the story reminded me of a kid trying to explain his way out of a broken window, baseball bat in hand. He lit up a cigarette as he detailed the shunts that had been put into his heart to prevent further complications. I allowed myself a small smile at this as I continued to give him my full attention.
We stayed for about an hour; Earl could have easily talked to Lucas about his truck-driving days all afternoon, but we had a few more stops to make before night fell. Earl and Sarah gave both of us big hugs, asked us to come again soon, and walked outside to bid us farewell. As we were pulling away, I saw Marshall with a new cigarette in his mouth. “Marshall,” I yelled out the window with a grin. “You just had heart surgery, dude. You gotta quit those things. They’ll kill you.” He smiled sheepishly, saying, “I know, I know.”
I attended Marshall’s wake tonight.
He was clothed in a white, slightly wrinkled polo shirt. His casket was very simple, with fake flowers adorning the foot of it.
I received word that Marshall had passed late this afternoon when Sarah called Family Advocacy - she’d apparently misplaced my number - and asked them to pass the message along, saying that she really wanted me to be at the viewing. I pulled into the funeral home’s parking lot, and was greeted with the sight of a huge group of people standing around outside the building. I walked toward the crowd, and spotted Sarah at about the same time she saw me. I saw her draw in a sharp breath, and she began to elbow her way out of the middle of her guests.
“There you are! I was afraid you wouldn’t get here!” She finally got to me and threw her arms around my neck.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah,” I spoke into her gray hair.
“Thank you, baby. He ain’t sufferin’ no more,” she replied, looking up with sad eyes. “Let me introduce you to the rest of my family.”
She took me around the parking lot, and I shook hands with the children I hadn’t yet met. Then she brought me inside to see Earl.
He was sitting against the wall, staring at the floor in front of him blankly. I’d only ever seen his eyes when they snapped with a bright blue flame in conjunction with a witty remark. Or when they endeavored - unsuccessfully - to hold back a sparkle under his hawkish white eyebrows in anticipation of a good story. Now, they were torn by an immeasurable pain that dwelled deep within them. It was as if I could see his broken heart through those eyes, and they caused my heart to break, too. He saw me, stood up, and hugged me. I told him how sorry I was, and his response was to ask about Lucas, to say that he thought the world of him, and to tell me how much he and Sarah loved me. Even at his lowest point, Earl took it upon himself to teach me about love.
Once inside the temporarily empty chapel area, I spent a few moments with Marshall and said a prayer for him and his family before the parking lot crowd began to make its way inside. While I was still at the front of the room, Sarah came in and slipped her arm around my waist. And that’s where she kept it as people began to filter into the room. At first, I was a little uncomfortable; I figured that her family would want to be next to the casket with her, and that I had no business standing there as she greeted the mourners. On the contrary, though, as each person came up to pay their respects, Sarah would hug them with her left arm - her right arm still firmly around me - and would say, “This is the CAP lady who painted my trailer. She’s my baby.” In between guests, she would rest her head on my shoulder, hold me close to her, and murmur all of her “why” questions into my sweater.
Earl came in to check on Sarah at one point, and he put his arm around her, holding onto my wrist which was resting on her shoulder. The three of us stood there in a familial embrace, the two of them exchanging looks full of hurt and worry for one another, and my heart threatening to burst at having the privilege of once again bearing witness to their simple and overwhelmingly authentic love story.
As the evening wore on, I came to understand that my role there wasn’t “transient volunteer.” It wasn’t even “CAP lady.” For some beautiful reason that continues to be beyond my understanding, Earl and Sarah had made me a part of their family. I didn’t have to ask for it, and I didn’t even know it was happening until I was already in love with them. They allowed their broken hearts to expand to include me. And for that, I consider myself to be incredibly blessed.
Lucas is a great story-teller, and I couldn’t wait for him to get to talk to Earl. Entering their home is always such a treat for me, and I was eager to share the experience with a member of my Jackson House family. Anything that’s worrying me outside their door melts away with Sarah’s bear hug and Earl’s kiss on the cheek, and I settle myself in for a visit filled with genuine warmth and hospitality. On this particular day, their son, Marshall, was over. He was freshly home from the hospital after nearly dying; he’d had a heart attack, and if his brother hadn’t found him in time, he wouldn’t have been with us that day. He filled me in on the details of his near-death experience. Forty-five years old, Marshall had almost a child-like quality about him. Despite his goatee and buzzed white-blonde hair, his perfectly round eyes and earnest manner in recounting the story reminded me of a kid trying to explain his way out of a broken window, baseball bat in hand. He lit up a cigarette as he detailed the shunts that had been put into his heart to prevent further complications. I allowed myself a small smile at this as I continued to give him my full attention.
We stayed for about an hour; Earl could have easily talked to Lucas about his truck-driving days all afternoon, but we had a few more stops to make before night fell. Earl and Sarah gave both of us big hugs, asked us to come again soon, and walked outside to bid us farewell. As we were pulling away, I saw Marshall with a new cigarette in his mouth. “Marshall,” I yelled out the window with a grin. “You just had heart surgery, dude. You gotta quit those things. They’ll kill you.” He smiled sheepishly, saying, “I know, I know.”
I attended Marshall’s wake tonight.
He was clothed in a white, slightly wrinkled polo shirt. His casket was very simple, with fake flowers adorning the foot of it.
I received word that Marshall had passed late this afternoon when Sarah called Family Advocacy - she’d apparently misplaced my number - and asked them to pass the message along, saying that she really wanted me to be at the viewing. I pulled into the funeral home’s parking lot, and was greeted with the sight of a huge group of people standing around outside the building. I walked toward the crowd, and spotted Sarah at about the same time she saw me. I saw her draw in a sharp breath, and she began to elbow her way out of the middle of her guests.
“There you are! I was afraid you wouldn’t get here!” She finally got to me and threw her arms around my neck.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah,” I spoke into her gray hair.
“Thank you, baby. He ain’t sufferin’ no more,” she replied, looking up with sad eyes. “Let me introduce you to the rest of my family.”
She took me around the parking lot, and I shook hands with the children I hadn’t yet met. Then she brought me inside to see Earl.
He was sitting against the wall, staring at the floor in front of him blankly. I’d only ever seen his eyes when they snapped with a bright blue flame in conjunction with a witty remark. Or when they endeavored - unsuccessfully - to hold back a sparkle under his hawkish white eyebrows in anticipation of a good story. Now, they were torn by an immeasurable pain that dwelled deep within them. It was as if I could see his broken heart through those eyes, and they caused my heart to break, too. He saw me, stood up, and hugged me. I told him how sorry I was, and his response was to ask about Lucas, to say that he thought the world of him, and to tell me how much he and Sarah loved me. Even at his lowest point, Earl took it upon himself to teach me about love.
Once inside the temporarily empty chapel area, I spent a few moments with Marshall and said a prayer for him and his family before the parking lot crowd began to make its way inside. While I was still at the front of the room, Sarah came in and slipped her arm around my waist. And that’s where she kept it as people began to filter into the room. At first, I was a little uncomfortable; I figured that her family would want to be next to the casket with her, and that I had no business standing there as she greeted the mourners. On the contrary, though, as each person came up to pay their respects, Sarah would hug them with her left arm - her right arm still firmly around me - and would say, “This is the CAP lady who painted my trailer. She’s my baby.” In between guests, she would rest her head on my shoulder, hold me close to her, and murmur all of her “why” questions into my sweater.
Earl came in to check on Sarah at one point, and he put his arm around her, holding onto my wrist which was resting on her shoulder. The three of us stood there in a familial embrace, the two of them exchanging looks full of hurt and worry for one another, and my heart threatening to burst at having the privilege of once again bearing witness to their simple and overwhelmingly authentic love story.
As the evening wore on, I came to understand that my role there wasn’t “transient volunteer.” It wasn’t even “CAP lady.” For some beautiful reason that continues to be beyond my understanding, Earl and Sarah had made me a part of their family. I didn’t have to ask for it, and I didn’t even know it was happening until I was already in love with them. They allowed their broken hearts to expand to include me. And for that, I consider myself to be incredibly blessed.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Angel
I’m partial to the FoxNews channel.
As such, I’ve never watched a single broadcast of CBS Evening News. Nor did I ever catch Katie Couric in her role as the perky wake-up call on the Today show. On the whole, I’m fairly unfamiliar with much of her work and, frankly, entirely uninterested. The same cannot be said for Clara.
Clara is the roommate of one of my participants who currently resides in a nursing home. My participant, Violet, is a doll. Her hands are crippled beyond repair or use with arthritis, and one can tell by spending time with her that her mind is starting to go, but she bears the carriage of a true southern genteel lady. She is reserved and soft-spoken, but entirely warm and graceful, with impeccable manners. When I give her a hug, her head of wavy white hair fits perfectly under my chin, and I could easily wrap my arms around her tiny frame twice.
If the proprietors of the Owsley County nursing home searched the entire county - no, the entire state - I don’t think that they could have possibly found a roommate for Violet less compatible than Clara. She isn’t old; I’d place her at about fifty. She has brown hair cropped close to her head, and she’s a big lady - in size, presence, and volume. She’s definitely a few fries short of a Happy Meal, so to speak, but I really love chatting with her when I go in to see Violet. Granted, she bogarts the conversation in such a way that I often have to bring Violet someplace else in order to catch up with her. However, the resulting laughs make the minor inconvenience totally worth it.
Clara is the biggest Katie Couric fan I’ve ever met. I mean, I wish I loved anything as much as this woman loves Katie Couric. When she first found out that I hail from New York, her round eyes grew wider, her mouth hung agape, and she asked in an awe-struck voice, “Do you know Katie Couric?” When I answered in the negative, she threw her hands up in the air, sat back, and said, “I’m ashamed of you.” Well.
In the visits that were to follow, we often touched upon the topic of Ms. Couric. Over time, I was able to alter my original answer to the point where I could speak freely about my numerous discussions with the anchor, referencing our BBM correspondence and frequent coffee shop conversation. During my last visit with Violet, Clara handed me a piece of folded yellow paper and gravely gave the order to pass it along to my good friend, Katie. The following passage is a faithful duplicate of the words written therein:
#1 Reporter in the World
To = my best friend Katie Couric =
I want to meet you in person, you can say you are on assignment. I have watched loved you and admired you for years.
fly into Lexington Ky., rent a red Toyota Camry, come to Booneville, Ky., the nursing home. Make sure you make it interesting.
Your best friend Clara
(over)
Eventually, I want to be called Angel.
Katie, I asked Charlotte at the Hazard hospital how you were, I was told I was you. Katie, will you it was or is possible, help me and let me tell you the truth about God and Jesus and me.
I will tell the truth.
As I took the note, Clara looked up slyly at me and asked, “Are you an angel?” I smiled, shook my head, and said, “No, but I’ve been told that you are.” She threw back her head and howled with laughter. As Violet and I slowly walked down the hallway lined with people forgotten and discarded by society, I could hear Clara’s laugh still, punctuated by the exclamation, “An angel!”
And yes, I am absolutely sending that note to Katie Couric.
As such, I’ve never watched a single broadcast of CBS Evening News. Nor did I ever catch Katie Couric in her role as the perky wake-up call on the Today show. On the whole, I’m fairly unfamiliar with much of her work and, frankly, entirely uninterested. The same cannot be said for Clara.
Clara is the roommate of one of my participants who currently resides in a nursing home. My participant, Violet, is a doll. Her hands are crippled beyond repair or use with arthritis, and one can tell by spending time with her that her mind is starting to go, but she bears the carriage of a true southern genteel lady. She is reserved and soft-spoken, but entirely warm and graceful, with impeccable manners. When I give her a hug, her head of wavy white hair fits perfectly under my chin, and I could easily wrap my arms around her tiny frame twice.
If the proprietors of the Owsley County nursing home searched the entire county - no, the entire state - I don’t think that they could have possibly found a roommate for Violet less compatible than Clara. She isn’t old; I’d place her at about fifty. She has brown hair cropped close to her head, and she’s a big lady - in size, presence, and volume. She’s definitely a few fries short of a Happy Meal, so to speak, but I really love chatting with her when I go in to see Violet. Granted, she bogarts the conversation in such a way that I often have to bring Violet someplace else in order to catch up with her. However, the resulting laughs make the minor inconvenience totally worth it.
Clara is the biggest Katie Couric fan I’ve ever met. I mean, I wish I loved anything as much as this woman loves Katie Couric. When she first found out that I hail from New York, her round eyes grew wider, her mouth hung agape, and she asked in an awe-struck voice, “Do you know Katie Couric?” When I answered in the negative, she threw her hands up in the air, sat back, and said, “I’m ashamed of you.” Well.
In the visits that were to follow, we often touched upon the topic of Ms. Couric. Over time, I was able to alter my original answer to the point where I could speak freely about my numerous discussions with the anchor, referencing our BBM correspondence and frequent coffee shop conversation. During my last visit with Violet, Clara handed me a piece of folded yellow paper and gravely gave the order to pass it along to my good friend, Katie. The following passage is a faithful duplicate of the words written therein:
#1 Reporter in the World
To = my best friend Katie Couric =
I want to meet you in person, you can say you are on assignment. I have watched loved you and admired you for years.
fly into Lexington Ky., rent a red Toyota Camry, come to Booneville, Ky., the nursing home. Make sure you make it interesting.
Your best friend Clara
(over)
Eventually, I want to be called Angel.
Katie, I asked Charlotte at the Hazard hospital how you were, I was told I was you. Katie, will you it was or is possible, help me and let me tell you the truth about God and Jesus and me.
I will tell the truth.
As I took the note, Clara looked up slyly at me and asked, “Are you an angel?” I smiled, shook my head, and said, “No, but I’ve been told that you are.” She threw back her head and howled with laughter. As Violet and I slowly walked down the hallway lined with people forgotten and discarded by society, I could hear Clara’s laugh still, punctuated by the exclamation, “An angel!”
And yes, I am absolutely sending that note to Katie Couric.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Another mark against flip flops.
Since I’ve come here, I’ve had to defend my flip flop wear on more than one occasion. Granted, I had to do that all the time in New York, especially during the winter months. But there are enough people on Long Island who forego the comforts of closed-toed shoes to make me look relatively normal or, at the very worst, like a rebellious bohemian (thanks, Dad). Here, it’s generally regarded as nuts. Presumably, this is because shoes were such a precious commodity for most of my participants when they were growing up, so the idea of someone choosing not to wear shoes - particularly in snow or mud - is pretty crazy.
Nevertheless, as I have for over four years now, I continue to stubbornly wear my multi-colored collection of two-dollar, rubber-soled podiatric noise-makers. So, when it was decided that my housemates and I would help to clean up our street with some of our neighbors in recognition of Earth Day, I thought nothing of setting out with a pair of basic brown flippies. We split up upon leaving the house, armed with bags, gloves, and a tenacity that would have put Al Gore himself to shame.
My friend Kristen and I headed up towards Camp AJ. We skipped our way along the road, looking for pieces of trash to pick up, bursting at the seams with a burning desire to rid Sandlick Road of any and all refuse. Imagine our chagrin when we discovered that there weren’t nearly as many “trashes” on the road as we’d anticipated. Not wanting to be the team that came up short, we started to look off-road for our treasure. I suppose it was about fifteen minutes into the project when we thought we’d hit our payload.
We both spotted it at the same time: a neat little row of cans and bottles down the embankment, resting comfortably on a bed of dry leaves. We knew what we had to do. For God, country, and Mother Earth, we had to get down there to retrieve them. We picked different places at the side of the road to make our way down the steep slope and gingerly began to sidestep to the bottom. Kristen made it down quickly and successfully. Me? Well, not so much.
I slipped and slid the short way down which, in and of itself, was nothing to write home about. It’s no secret that grace is not a God-given aspect of my nature; I mean, let’s face it, how I’ve made it this far without major catastrophic incident is miraculous. Kristen and I both laughed at me when I stopped. Mid-snort, though, I looked down to address a sudden, sharp pain in the bottom of my foot. And, wouldn’t you know it, there was a broken soda bottle stuck in there. It’d gone right through my flip flop and directly into my heel.
Kristen and I just sort of contemplated it for a while. Then, given that the puncture was on the bottom of my foot, it started to bleed pretty freely. Kristen sprung into action, removing the bottle and promptly cuffing my jeans so as to avoid blood stains (following the order of my own priorities). We were pretty much at a loss for what to do next after that, so she helped me back up to the road and I began to limp my way back to the house, leaving Valley Forge-style bloody footprints on the pavement.
Lucas intercepted us and graciously offered to help me back up to the house, volunteering himself as a human crutch. I swear, it really wasn’t that bad. It looked much worse than it actually was. All the same, he patiently cleaned and bandaged the wound, and I nearly felt as good as new. I carefully limped out into the kitchen, where I was asked by the housemates coming in - fresh off the victory won from an hour’s work of picking up trash and beautifying the earth - when my last tetanus shot was. I couldn’t remember, but reassured them that I’d be perfectly fine and that the inoculation would be entirely unnecessary. I was quickly voted down, though, and when the threat was made to call my dad about it, I consented to bring myself to a Booneville clinic.
The waiting room of this particular clinic is decorated appropriately for its clientele. The beige walls sport three different mounted animals, and I overheard one patient telling another about the coon he’d killed in his yard just a half hour before. When everything was said and done, though, I got the shot. I did not get lockjaw. And I will continue to wear flip flops until my arches fall. But, given that my grandmother’s reading this, I’ll make the promise to wear thick-soled shoes for the next trash clean-up.
Nevertheless, as I have for over four years now, I continue to stubbornly wear my multi-colored collection of two-dollar, rubber-soled podiatric noise-makers. So, when it was decided that my housemates and I would help to clean up our street with some of our neighbors in recognition of Earth Day, I thought nothing of setting out with a pair of basic brown flippies. We split up upon leaving the house, armed with bags, gloves, and a tenacity that would have put Al Gore himself to shame.
My friend Kristen and I headed up towards Camp AJ. We skipped our way along the road, looking for pieces of trash to pick up, bursting at the seams with a burning desire to rid Sandlick Road of any and all refuse. Imagine our chagrin when we discovered that there weren’t nearly as many “trashes” on the road as we’d anticipated. Not wanting to be the team that came up short, we started to look off-road for our treasure. I suppose it was about fifteen minutes into the project when we thought we’d hit our payload.
We both spotted it at the same time: a neat little row of cans and bottles down the embankment, resting comfortably on a bed of dry leaves. We knew what we had to do. For God, country, and Mother Earth, we had to get down there to retrieve them. We picked different places at the side of the road to make our way down the steep slope and gingerly began to sidestep to the bottom. Kristen made it down quickly and successfully. Me? Well, not so much.
I slipped and slid the short way down which, in and of itself, was nothing to write home about. It’s no secret that grace is not a God-given aspect of my nature; I mean, let’s face it, how I’ve made it this far without major catastrophic incident is miraculous. Kristen and I both laughed at me when I stopped. Mid-snort, though, I looked down to address a sudden, sharp pain in the bottom of my foot. And, wouldn’t you know it, there was a broken soda bottle stuck in there. It’d gone right through my flip flop and directly into my heel.
Kristen and I just sort of contemplated it for a while. Then, given that the puncture was on the bottom of my foot, it started to bleed pretty freely. Kristen sprung into action, removing the bottle and promptly cuffing my jeans so as to avoid blood stains (following the order of my own priorities). We were pretty much at a loss for what to do next after that, so she helped me back up to the road and I began to limp my way back to the house, leaving Valley Forge-style bloody footprints on the pavement.
Lucas intercepted us and graciously offered to help me back up to the house, volunteering himself as a human crutch. I swear, it really wasn’t that bad. It looked much worse than it actually was. All the same, he patiently cleaned and bandaged the wound, and I nearly felt as good as new. I carefully limped out into the kitchen, where I was asked by the housemates coming in - fresh off the victory won from an hour’s work of picking up trash and beautifying the earth - when my last tetanus shot was. I couldn’t remember, but reassured them that I’d be perfectly fine and that the inoculation would be entirely unnecessary. I was quickly voted down, though, and when the threat was made to call my dad about it, I consented to bring myself to a Booneville clinic.
The waiting room of this particular clinic is decorated appropriately for its clientele. The beige walls sport three different mounted animals, and I overheard one patient telling another about the coon he’d killed in his yard just a half hour before. When everything was said and done, though, I got the shot. I did not get lockjaw. And I will continue to wear flip flops until my arches fall. But, given that my grandmother’s reading this, I’ll make the promise to wear thick-soled shoes for the next trash clean-up.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Fireflies
I saw my first fireflies in Kentucky tonight.
When I was a little girl, the only day that could come close to rivaling the sheer, unbridled joy of Christmas morning was the first day of fireflies.
Seeing them tonight immediately transported me back to Winding Lane. My brothers and I were up with the sun and, after nourishing ourselves with Cap’n Crunch and ice cold milk, we took off running, carpe-ing that diem like it was our job. We’d warm up with a neighborhood bike ride around the block (on the sidewalk, of course). The more, the merrier. Next activity up would be driveway hockey; I would usually either play in net or spin the Jock Jams turntable on our old boom box. Around this time we’d break for lunch. We’d sit out in the backyard and eat the tray full of sandwiches that Mom made us and contemplate life as only a child under the age of eight can. Then it’d be back to business. Tag, hide-and-seek, Nerf wars. Boy, our schedules were packed. We’d drag ourselves into the house for dinner, sun-drunk and breathless, wolf it down as quickly as possible, and head back out for the best part of the whole day - twilight.
I think even at that age we understood the magic of the hour. The air smelled sweeter, it weighed heavier on our tiny, sweaty brows. If we’d been playing wiffle ball all day, we’d have to stop, because the ball would play tricks on our eyes in the hazy gray light and the bases would start to disappear (I would inevitably be the first casualty in this circumstance, and I often had the bruises to show for it). We’d play a few rounds of tag but, frankly, it’d been a long day of running and tagging and laughing, and it was time to rest. Porch lights were on, and we could hear the murmurings of our mothers sitting outside with each other. The grass felt so cool on our dirty little feet, so we’d plunk down in it and spread our arms out to the darkening sky and soak it all in like we were the only people on the face of the earth and all of this was for us.
And then, there they were. Little points of light winking at us from above. Like stars, but stars that we could catch and hold and whisper our wishes and secrets to. Oh, man. At that moment, my little heart knew no greater bliss. Summer lasted forever and every single day would be spent like this one. My brothers and I would never get older, and we’d always be best friends with the boys on the block. Our moms would always be there to keep an eye on us, and the fireflies would light up the night sky for all eternity.
Love was so incredibly simple then. We existed, therefore, we loved. We loved absolutely everything, from the grass crinkling under our necks to the balmy breeze brushing over our scraped and sun-tanned legs. Our wide eyes drank in those tiny glowing spots in the big night and we felt warm and safe in the arms of the universe. “Vulnerability” meant nothing to us. We were invincible. At least until September.
Somewhere along the way, I think we tend to lose sight of this love. Love becomes a word, a thing convoluted and contrived and confused. We forget that love is. It doesn’t have to be explained. Excuses don’t have to be made for it. We don’t have to look for it, and it doesn’t have to find us. It shouldn’t hurt, and it shouldn’t make us to be something that we aren’t.
We know love when we lay down our weary heads and find comfort waiting for us there. When we don’t have to try to justify our existence; we’re accepted and cherished in our pricelessly broken states. When a light as tiny and seemingly insignificant as that of a firefly can lend meaning to our entire being, and give us hope for a million tomorrows.
When I was a little girl, the only day that could come close to rivaling the sheer, unbridled joy of Christmas morning was the first day of fireflies.
Seeing them tonight immediately transported me back to Winding Lane. My brothers and I were up with the sun and, after nourishing ourselves with Cap’n Crunch and ice cold milk, we took off running, carpe-ing that diem like it was our job. We’d warm up with a neighborhood bike ride around the block (on the sidewalk, of course). The more, the merrier. Next activity up would be driveway hockey; I would usually either play in net or spin the Jock Jams turntable on our old boom box. Around this time we’d break for lunch. We’d sit out in the backyard and eat the tray full of sandwiches that Mom made us and contemplate life as only a child under the age of eight can. Then it’d be back to business. Tag, hide-and-seek, Nerf wars. Boy, our schedules were packed. We’d drag ourselves into the house for dinner, sun-drunk and breathless, wolf it down as quickly as possible, and head back out for the best part of the whole day - twilight.
I think even at that age we understood the magic of the hour. The air smelled sweeter, it weighed heavier on our tiny, sweaty brows. If we’d been playing wiffle ball all day, we’d have to stop, because the ball would play tricks on our eyes in the hazy gray light and the bases would start to disappear (I would inevitably be the first casualty in this circumstance, and I often had the bruises to show for it). We’d play a few rounds of tag but, frankly, it’d been a long day of running and tagging and laughing, and it was time to rest. Porch lights were on, and we could hear the murmurings of our mothers sitting outside with each other. The grass felt so cool on our dirty little feet, so we’d plunk down in it and spread our arms out to the darkening sky and soak it all in like we were the only people on the face of the earth and all of this was for us.
And then, there they were. Little points of light winking at us from above. Like stars, but stars that we could catch and hold and whisper our wishes and secrets to. Oh, man. At that moment, my little heart knew no greater bliss. Summer lasted forever and every single day would be spent like this one. My brothers and I would never get older, and we’d always be best friends with the boys on the block. Our moms would always be there to keep an eye on us, and the fireflies would light up the night sky for all eternity.
Love was so incredibly simple then. We existed, therefore, we loved. We loved absolutely everything, from the grass crinkling under our necks to the balmy breeze brushing over our scraped and sun-tanned legs. Our wide eyes drank in those tiny glowing spots in the big night and we felt warm and safe in the arms of the universe. “Vulnerability” meant nothing to us. We were invincible. At least until September.
Somewhere along the way, I think we tend to lose sight of this love. Love becomes a word, a thing convoluted and contrived and confused. We forget that love is. It doesn’t have to be explained. Excuses don’t have to be made for it. We don’t have to look for it, and it doesn’t have to find us. It shouldn’t hurt, and it shouldn’t make us to be something that we aren’t.
We know love when we lay down our weary heads and find comfort waiting for us there. When we don’t have to try to justify our existence; we’re accepted and cherished in our pricelessly broken states. When a light as tiny and seemingly insignificant as that of a firefly can lend meaning to our entire being, and give us hope for a million tomorrows.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Evenin'
Neighborliness is something that people around here pride themselves on. And it’s something that struck me as one of the greatest differences between eastern Kentucky and Long Island from day one. Sharing is a given; since so many people do without, those with are almost always happy to lend a hand. There’s a strong sense of community and hospitality that I’ve never experienced anywhere else.
This evening, one of my housemates was baking bread for the dinner he’s preparing for tomorrow. We did most of the shopping for it last night and, when confronted with the conundrum of whether or not to purchase eggs, I assured him that we had plenty in the fridge back home. Well, turns out we didn’t. He discovered this halfway through the dough-making process; the recipe called for two egg yolks that were not currently in our possession. Luckily, they would be brushed onto the risen dough, meaning we had plenty of time between the braiding and the brushing to go out and acquire the necessary comestibles.
See, the problem with Smalltown, USA is that nothing stays open very late - something to which I’ve yet to grow accustomed. So, when we set out at just past nine, I figured we’d have some luck somewhere. First stop was IGA. Closed at nine. Then, RiteAid. Closed. The gas station? Well, they had milk, Lunchables, and bologna. No eggs. My friend had the idea that the Hilltop Pizza across the street from the pumps would be able to sell us a couple of eggs. Unfortunately, they had none on the premises, though they did genuinely seem like they would have been glad to assist us if they had.
We surveyed our options. Being that we currently reside in farm country, we contemplated trying our luck with finding an actual egg-laying chicken which would be willing to part with some of her handiwork. Ah, but where there’s a farm, there tends to be a sawed-off shotgun. So, that was a no-go. We figured that our best plan of attack would be to head west through Sand Gap; there are a few convenience stores there, and surely one of them would be open and have eggs. If all else failed, we’d drive straight on to Berea, home of the nearest Walmart.
Suddenly, inspiration struck. The nights are getting warmer here, and the front-porch-sitters have begun to make their way out to their nocturnal posts. Why not test this Southern hospitality theory and try our luck?
We passed by a Church of God that had a large white colonial next to it. There were three figures sitting on the front porch. It was decided that the following would make a better story than “we drove all the way to Walmart.”
“You’re doing all the talking,” I told my friend as I turned the car around on a dirt road and pulled into the driveway.
I parked my New York-plated Cobalt and we both nervously climbed out. As I sauntered away from my vehicle, trying to project a more confident air than I felt, I heard the word “evenin’” escape from my lips. Straight up dropped that “g” and replaced it with a casual, folksy apostrophe. The silence I received in response indicated that I wasn’t fooling anyone.
My friend chimed in, playing the Christian Appalachian Project volunteer card like I’d never seen it played before. The man and woman on the porch looked at us warily, but not in an unfriendly manner. My friend went on to explain the situation, and before he could even finish, the lady smiled warmly and asked, “How many eggs do you need?”
As she ran inside to help us out, her husband informed us of his love for eggs, particularly the fried variety. We small-talked about the places from which we came until his wife returned and, beaming, handed us our two coveted eggs. We thanked them profusely and, cradling those eggs like they were newborn babies, scurried off to our car. We were practically giddy as we drove home, so excited were we to have been treated with such grace and good will by two perfect strangers.
My friend’s bread turned out beautifully. And Glen and Penny - because those are their names - will be getting a loaf of it tomorrow night.
This evening, one of my housemates was baking bread for the dinner he’s preparing for tomorrow. We did most of the shopping for it last night and, when confronted with the conundrum of whether or not to purchase eggs, I assured him that we had plenty in the fridge back home. Well, turns out we didn’t. He discovered this halfway through the dough-making process; the recipe called for two egg yolks that were not currently in our possession. Luckily, they would be brushed onto the risen dough, meaning we had plenty of time between the braiding and the brushing to go out and acquire the necessary comestibles.
See, the problem with Smalltown, USA is that nothing stays open very late - something to which I’ve yet to grow accustomed. So, when we set out at just past nine, I figured we’d have some luck somewhere. First stop was IGA. Closed at nine. Then, RiteAid. Closed. The gas station? Well, they had milk, Lunchables, and bologna. No eggs. My friend had the idea that the Hilltop Pizza across the street from the pumps would be able to sell us a couple of eggs. Unfortunately, they had none on the premises, though they did genuinely seem like they would have been glad to assist us if they had.
We surveyed our options. Being that we currently reside in farm country, we contemplated trying our luck with finding an actual egg-laying chicken which would be willing to part with some of her handiwork. Ah, but where there’s a farm, there tends to be a sawed-off shotgun. So, that was a no-go. We figured that our best plan of attack would be to head west through Sand Gap; there are a few convenience stores there, and surely one of them would be open and have eggs. If all else failed, we’d drive straight on to Berea, home of the nearest Walmart.
Suddenly, inspiration struck. The nights are getting warmer here, and the front-porch-sitters have begun to make their way out to their nocturnal posts. Why not test this Southern hospitality theory and try our luck?
We passed by a Church of God that had a large white colonial next to it. There were three figures sitting on the front porch. It was decided that the following would make a better story than “we drove all the way to Walmart.”
“You’re doing all the talking,” I told my friend as I turned the car around on a dirt road and pulled into the driveway.
I parked my New York-plated Cobalt and we both nervously climbed out. As I sauntered away from my vehicle, trying to project a more confident air than I felt, I heard the word “evenin’” escape from my lips. Straight up dropped that “g” and replaced it with a casual, folksy apostrophe. The silence I received in response indicated that I wasn’t fooling anyone.
My friend chimed in, playing the Christian Appalachian Project volunteer card like I’d never seen it played before. The man and woman on the porch looked at us warily, but not in an unfriendly manner. My friend went on to explain the situation, and before he could even finish, the lady smiled warmly and asked, “How many eggs do you need?”
As she ran inside to help us out, her husband informed us of his love for eggs, particularly the fried variety. We small-talked about the places from which we came until his wife returned and, beaming, handed us our two coveted eggs. We thanked them profusely and, cradling those eggs like they were newborn babies, scurried off to our car. We were practically giddy as we drove home, so excited were we to have been treated with such grace and good will by two perfect strangers.
My friend’s bread turned out beautifully. And Glen and Penny - because those are their names - will be getting a loaf of it tomorrow night.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Go now.
You are forgiven.
It’s easy to get overwhelmed in life, even if you’re living in Paradise. And it’s not necessarily always a matter of negative energy bogging us down. Sometimes we can get so swept up in the excitement and movement of every day that we forget to bring our feet back to earth and take a breath.
I found myself falling into that familiar pattern recently. It’s funny: I recently spoke with my brother, who told me that the question of whether or not I ever have a bad day here in Kentucky had been raised back home on the island. I had to laugh. When I look at my past blog entries - which happen to be how most of you keep up-to-date on what I’m up to down here - I really do appear to be walking on clouds, conducting a blissful existence filled with rainbows, wildflowers, and sunshine. For the most part, this is remarkably true. But there is the occasional sensory overload, a few days where I realize that my mind, body, and soul are moving at different rates of speed and I need to find a way to refocus my energy on what I’m here for (in other words, whatever the Boss is wanting).
Holy Week is such a perfect time to tackle this task. It’s such a naturally grace-filled time; even if you’re not trying to get closer to God, He’s nearly impossible to avoid. On Palm Sunday, an announcement was made after Mass that confessions would be heard at the church on Wednesday, accompanied by Eucharistic Adoration. Now, despite the fact that the thought of Confession makes me start wringing my hands (as you Newman kids know quite well), I was missing my churches on Long Island very much: my dark, hidden back corner at St. Joseph’s, the reverence and community of the Holy Hour at the seminary, even the musty old chapel at Joe’s Place. And I was feeling like I was trying a little too hard to be in control. So, I decided that I had to make it there. And, though it kept me up most of the night before, I went.
I won’t go into the gory details of my imperfections. I don‘t have the necessary space here, nor do I have the interest of my readers (well, that may not entirely be true, but if you‘re reading this, chances are you have a fair enough idea of all that’s wrong with me). Let’s just say that, upon leaving the church, I felt a much-welcomed sense of peace within me. The sun was casting a golden glow on everything, and with my friend driving home, I let the wind hold my hand outside the window and run its fingers through my hair.
We got back to Camp AJ, and my friend wanted to check on the status of a jugline he’d set out earlier. We hopped into a canoe, yours truly landing directly in a very chilly puddle of water. The night was pleasant, and we rowed out to the jug floating on the surface. Well, he rowed. I made a valiant effort. Thank God, these people seem to have quickly become accustomed to the fact that, for all of my good intentions, I tend to be a complete and utter gong show. I think they get a kick out of it for the most part, actually.
Anyway, having realized an absence of fish on the line, we spent a few minutes drifting, listening to the sounds of the birds and frogs chirping in the twilight. We eventually made it back to the dock and, being that my jeans were already soaked, I was seized with the notion of getting the rest of me equally wet by jumping into the lake.
This isn’t nearly as crazy as it sounds, guys. I’m the only one in my house who hasn’t done it, yet. The night was getting a little chilly, but I was still on this Penance high and, damnit, I was going to make the most of it. So, after ten minutes of “You won’t do it”s and repeated false alarms with my friend (who really couldn‘t tell until the very end whether or not I was serious), I jumped.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have never been so cold in my entire life. That dark water closed over my head, and every square inch of my skin was electrified by the cold. My lungs compressed, and I couldn’t even feel my blue-jeaned legs as they propelled me to the surface, where I gasped for air, wide-eyed and watching my friend enjoying my shock a little too much. He jumped in, too, of course, and we scrambled back up onto the dock, shivering and laughing before jumping in one more time for good measure. Then we tore up to the house in my car, windows down and blasting Led Zeppelin almost louder than we could sing along to it.
How awesome it is to be free. To be able to shed the mantle of guilt and pain and worry that gets heavier every day you’re on this earth in order to fold yourself in an embrace of love and forgiveness that’s always there and always has been. To quit letting your shortcomings hold you back from all that this life has to offer. To jump in and get the thrill of your life, to climb out dripping and shaking and smiling and thanking God for letting you wake up that morning. To get a second chance at a fresh perspective. To feel alive because you are.
It’s easy to get overwhelmed in life, even if you’re living in Paradise. And it’s not necessarily always a matter of negative energy bogging us down. Sometimes we can get so swept up in the excitement and movement of every day that we forget to bring our feet back to earth and take a breath.
I found myself falling into that familiar pattern recently. It’s funny: I recently spoke with my brother, who told me that the question of whether or not I ever have a bad day here in Kentucky had been raised back home on the island. I had to laugh. When I look at my past blog entries - which happen to be how most of you keep up-to-date on what I’m up to down here - I really do appear to be walking on clouds, conducting a blissful existence filled with rainbows, wildflowers, and sunshine. For the most part, this is remarkably true. But there is the occasional sensory overload, a few days where I realize that my mind, body, and soul are moving at different rates of speed and I need to find a way to refocus my energy on what I’m here for (in other words, whatever the Boss is wanting).
Holy Week is such a perfect time to tackle this task. It’s such a naturally grace-filled time; even if you’re not trying to get closer to God, He’s nearly impossible to avoid. On Palm Sunday, an announcement was made after Mass that confessions would be heard at the church on Wednesday, accompanied by Eucharistic Adoration. Now, despite the fact that the thought of Confession makes me start wringing my hands (as you Newman kids know quite well), I was missing my churches on Long Island very much: my dark, hidden back corner at St. Joseph’s, the reverence and community of the Holy Hour at the seminary, even the musty old chapel at Joe’s Place. And I was feeling like I was trying a little too hard to be in control. So, I decided that I had to make it there. And, though it kept me up most of the night before, I went.
I won’t go into the gory details of my imperfections. I don‘t have the necessary space here, nor do I have the interest of my readers (well, that may not entirely be true, but if you‘re reading this, chances are you have a fair enough idea of all that’s wrong with me). Let’s just say that, upon leaving the church, I felt a much-welcomed sense of peace within me. The sun was casting a golden glow on everything, and with my friend driving home, I let the wind hold my hand outside the window and run its fingers through my hair.
We got back to Camp AJ, and my friend wanted to check on the status of a jugline he’d set out earlier. We hopped into a canoe, yours truly landing directly in a very chilly puddle of water. The night was pleasant, and we rowed out to the jug floating on the surface. Well, he rowed. I made a valiant effort. Thank God, these people seem to have quickly become accustomed to the fact that, for all of my good intentions, I tend to be a complete and utter gong show. I think they get a kick out of it for the most part, actually.
Anyway, having realized an absence of fish on the line, we spent a few minutes drifting, listening to the sounds of the birds and frogs chirping in the twilight. We eventually made it back to the dock and, being that my jeans were already soaked, I was seized with the notion of getting the rest of me equally wet by jumping into the lake.
This isn’t nearly as crazy as it sounds, guys. I’m the only one in my house who hasn’t done it, yet. The night was getting a little chilly, but I was still on this Penance high and, damnit, I was going to make the most of it. So, after ten minutes of “You won’t do it”s and repeated false alarms with my friend (who really couldn‘t tell until the very end whether or not I was serious), I jumped.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have never been so cold in my entire life. That dark water closed over my head, and every square inch of my skin was electrified by the cold. My lungs compressed, and I couldn’t even feel my blue-jeaned legs as they propelled me to the surface, where I gasped for air, wide-eyed and watching my friend enjoying my shock a little too much. He jumped in, too, of course, and we scrambled back up onto the dock, shivering and laughing before jumping in one more time for good measure. Then we tore up to the house in my car, windows down and blasting Led Zeppelin almost louder than we could sing along to it.
How awesome it is to be free. To be able to shed the mantle of guilt and pain and worry that gets heavier every day you’re on this earth in order to fold yourself in an embrace of love and forgiveness that’s always there and always has been. To quit letting your shortcomings hold you back from all that this life has to offer. To jump in and get the thrill of your life, to climb out dripping and shaking and smiling and thanking God for letting you wake up that morning. To get a second chance at a fresh perspective. To feel alive because you are.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Well.
Sometimes there are just no words.
I love language.
I love to read. I love to write.
I love to tell stories. I love to hear stories.
I love to ponder and contemplate and wonder.
I chose to be an English major based solely on the fact that I’m endlessly fascinated by words and their meanings, how we can twist them and manipulate them and string them together to create something beautiful and meaningful. What incredible power a simple word can have! A few letters combined in the right sequence can lift a person up or strike him down, change his life for the better or completely destroy him. Our most precious traditions have been passed down and recorded by voice and pen; the stories that make us who we are are composed of words that echo in our very souls.
The tragedy of it all is that words fall short when they’re needed most. At the moment I want to harness the power I know them to have, I realize that all of it dwarfs in comparison to the idea I wish to convey.
So, I can’t tell you exactly how I met God today. Just know that He’s here, and He’s really lovely.
I love language.
I love to read. I love to write.
I love to tell stories. I love to hear stories.
I love to ponder and contemplate and wonder.
I chose to be an English major based solely on the fact that I’m endlessly fascinated by words and their meanings, how we can twist them and manipulate them and string them together to create something beautiful and meaningful. What incredible power a simple word can have! A few letters combined in the right sequence can lift a person up or strike him down, change his life for the better or completely destroy him. Our most precious traditions have been passed down and recorded by voice and pen; the stories that make us who we are are composed of words that echo in our very souls.
The tragedy of it all is that words fall short when they’re needed most. At the moment I want to harness the power I know them to have, I realize that all of it dwarfs in comparison to the idea I wish to convey.
So, I can’t tell you exactly how I met God today. Just know that He’s here, and He’s really lovely.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Well, at least I can drive a Zamboni.
When my boss, Carolyn, offered me the opportunity to get certified to drive a twelve-passenger van for YouthFest next week, I jumped at the chance for obvious reasons.
Alright, there really was no reason for me to want to do it. She asked me. I figured, why not? I had every confidence that I could get that great beast of a van to hug the curves of the Appalachian hills like my Cobalt in no time. And it’d be a fantastic opportunity to hang out with my group of kids on the way to and from the worksites every day.
So, yesterday, Jordan and I drove over to Mount Vernon where I was to meet Charlie for my driving test. I met Charlie about a month ago when he gave me my original set of driving privileges for the Cobalt and the minivan. He’s a salty, middle-aged man with a full head of gray hair and a mustache, and I’d been warned that he’s a tough cookie. At our first meeting, he stood in his black windbreaker, scrutinizing me over a glowing cigarette, not looking particularly happy to be standing in the freezing rain with a girl in a J.Crew blazer and flip flops who didn’t know how to check her own oil. He warmed up to me, though; we chatted about car shows and guns, and I reckon he actually grew tolerant of me (thanks for that, Dad).
He greeted me with a smile - of sorts - when I showed up to commandeer the twelve-passenger van yesterday, saying, “I’m terrible with names. I know you as the Flip Flop Girl.” I’ll take it.
I think the omen I should have heeded was my initial inability to start the thing. I actually had to be shown how to turn the key in the ignition. I should have gotten out, right then and there. But, no.
We were driving for about two minutes, and Charlie told me to head up towards the top of the hill and back over a small bridge in front of one of the CAP offices.
I cast a sidelong glance. “Playing with fire, aren’t we, Charlie?”
“No, no. I trust you.”
I slowly began backing it over the bridge, keeping the bright yellow sides of the concrete in my mirrors. Let the record show that, while backing into parking spaces is CAP policy, I’m absolutely terrible at it. My housemates can attest to this. Every ounce of my energy was focused on not falling off of that bridge.
Charlie’s cell phone rang loudly. We both sort of jumped. Charlie chuckled and said, “Means you hit something.” I laughed nervously as he answered it.
And then I hit the dumpster.
We looked at each other with expressions of shock. Mine incorporated a fair amount of horror. We both jumped out and ran around the back of the van. At first glance, I didn’t see any damage, and I said a quick prayer of thanks. Then Charlie pointed at the taillight. Well, what was left of it.
I can actually hear the collective groan coming down from the Island.
He had me continue driving for about a half hour around town. I did a fair enough job. I even backed up pretty well later on. He concluded that there was nothing wrong with my driving, and proceeded to make excuse upon wonderfully thoughtful excuse for my first little car accident. Alas, upon speaking with the legal representative, he was unable to pass me. He had every intention, though, of re-testing me in the morning and giving me privileges. “Be back here tomorrow at ten,” he said. I headed over to Jordan in the minivan, feeling like I’d just failed a midterm and needing some Mom-like encouragement. We picked wildflowers and got ice cream. Thanks, Jordan :)
Anyway, I got to Mount Vernon at ten o’clock this morning to be greeted by Charlie and Carolyn in the parking lot.
“They’re not going to let you test again,” Carolyn said, as kindly as she could.
“Oh.” I was absolutely mortified.
“It has nothing to do with your driving,” Charlie jumped in.
“Right,” agreed Carolyn. “After your little mishap, they want to take the twelve-passenger van off of the fleet for a while so that they can really determine how safe it is. Nobody’s going to be allowed to drive it.”
I was the first person to test in the twelve-passenger van. Pretty sure I’m the first person to get into an accident during her driving test. This is why we can’t have nice things.
I dragged my feet back to my minivan, feeling oh-so-sorry for myself. I’d had every intention of keeping the broken taillight a sweet little secret between myself and a few people. By next week, I’d be driving that thing like an old pro, and no one would be the wiser. No such luck. I’d have to swallow my pride and reveal the casualty to everyone in the Elderly Services program and in my house. Ugh.
Needing to get some work done, I headed to my office and organized the papers from the nursing students’ visit last week. Then I decided to visit a few of the homes to which we’re bringing YouthFest kids so that I could let them know when we’d be stopping by to turn their domiciles upside down.
On Monday, we’re going to see Maggie. I love Maggie.
I called before leaving Booneville, and she said that she’d be expecting me. I backed into her gravel driveway, now completely paranoid when going anywhere in reverse. Even moonwalking has lost its charm. I let myself into her screened-in porch and tapped on her front door. I received no answer.
I let myself in, looking to her usual spot at the kitchen table. She wasn’t there. All the lights in the front of the house were off. I felt panic start to rise in my chest, but then I heard a small squeaking sound in a back room.
I walked across the kitchen and into the hallway, where I could see Maggie sitting at her sewing machine, concentrating intently on winding a bobbin. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Hey, lady,” I smiled.
She jumped up a little, caught sight of me, then broke into gales of high-pitched laughter. I trotted into the room and hugged her neck. She grasped my arm, laughing into my face, and yelled, “You little booger! Bless your heart!”
And just like that, my day was made beautiful.
Alright, there really was no reason for me to want to do it. She asked me. I figured, why not? I had every confidence that I could get that great beast of a van to hug the curves of the Appalachian hills like my Cobalt in no time. And it’d be a fantastic opportunity to hang out with my group of kids on the way to and from the worksites every day.
So, yesterday, Jordan and I drove over to Mount Vernon where I was to meet Charlie for my driving test. I met Charlie about a month ago when he gave me my original set of driving privileges for the Cobalt and the minivan. He’s a salty, middle-aged man with a full head of gray hair and a mustache, and I’d been warned that he’s a tough cookie. At our first meeting, he stood in his black windbreaker, scrutinizing me over a glowing cigarette, not looking particularly happy to be standing in the freezing rain with a girl in a J.Crew blazer and flip flops who didn’t know how to check her own oil. He warmed up to me, though; we chatted about car shows and guns, and I reckon he actually grew tolerant of me (thanks for that, Dad).
He greeted me with a smile - of sorts - when I showed up to commandeer the twelve-passenger van yesterday, saying, “I’m terrible with names. I know you as the Flip Flop Girl.” I’ll take it.
I think the omen I should have heeded was my initial inability to start the thing. I actually had to be shown how to turn the key in the ignition. I should have gotten out, right then and there. But, no.
We were driving for about two minutes, and Charlie told me to head up towards the top of the hill and back over a small bridge in front of one of the CAP offices.
I cast a sidelong glance. “Playing with fire, aren’t we, Charlie?”
“No, no. I trust you.”
I slowly began backing it over the bridge, keeping the bright yellow sides of the concrete in my mirrors. Let the record show that, while backing into parking spaces is CAP policy, I’m absolutely terrible at it. My housemates can attest to this. Every ounce of my energy was focused on not falling off of that bridge.
Charlie’s cell phone rang loudly. We both sort of jumped. Charlie chuckled and said, “Means you hit something.” I laughed nervously as he answered it.
And then I hit the dumpster.
We looked at each other with expressions of shock. Mine incorporated a fair amount of horror. We both jumped out and ran around the back of the van. At first glance, I didn’t see any damage, and I said a quick prayer of thanks. Then Charlie pointed at the taillight. Well, what was left of it.
I can actually hear the collective groan coming down from the Island.
He had me continue driving for about a half hour around town. I did a fair enough job. I even backed up pretty well later on. He concluded that there was nothing wrong with my driving, and proceeded to make excuse upon wonderfully thoughtful excuse for my first little car accident. Alas, upon speaking with the legal representative, he was unable to pass me. He had every intention, though, of re-testing me in the morning and giving me privileges. “Be back here tomorrow at ten,” he said. I headed over to Jordan in the minivan, feeling like I’d just failed a midterm and needing some Mom-like encouragement. We picked wildflowers and got ice cream. Thanks, Jordan :)
Anyway, I got to Mount Vernon at ten o’clock this morning to be greeted by Charlie and Carolyn in the parking lot.
“They’re not going to let you test again,” Carolyn said, as kindly as she could.
“Oh.” I was absolutely mortified.
“It has nothing to do with your driving,” Charlie jumped in.
“Right,” agreed Carolyn. “After your little mishap, they want to take the twelve-passenger van off of the fleet for a while so that they can really determine how safe it is. Nobody’s going to be allowed to drive it.”
I was the first person to test in the twelve-passenger van. Pretty sure I’m the first person to get into an accident during her driving test. This is why we can’t have nice things.
I dragged my feet back to my minivan, feeling oh-so-sorry for myself. I’d had every intention of keeping the broken taillight a sweet little secret between myself and a few people. By next week, I’d be driving that thing like an old pro, and no one would be the wiser. No such luck. I’d have to swallow my pride and reveal the casualty to everyone in the Elderly Services program and in my house. Ugh.
Needing to get some work done, I headed to my office and organized the papers from the nursing students’ visit last week. Then I decided to visit a few of the homes to which we’re bringing YouthFest kids so that I could let them know when we’d be stopping by to turn their domiciles upside down.
On Monday, we’re going to see Maggie. I love Maggie.
I called before leaving Booneville, and she said that she’d be expecting me. I backed into her gravel driveway, now completely paranoid when going anywhere in reverse. Even moonwalking has lost its charm. I let myself into her screened-in porch and tapped on her front door. I received no answer.
I let myself in, looking to her usual spot at the kitchen table. She wasn’t there. All the lights in the front of the house were off. I felt panic start to rise in my chest, but then I heard a small squeaking sound in a back room.
I walked across the kitchen and into the hallway, where I could see Maggie sitting at her sewing machine, concentrating intently on winding a bobbin. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Hey, lady,” I smiled.
She jumped up a little, caught sight of me, then broke into gales of high-pitched laughter. I trotted into the room and hugged her neck. She grasped my arm, laughing into my face, and yelled, “You little booger! Bless your heart!”
And just like that, my day was made beautiful.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Stars
“The sky was clear - remarkably clear - and the twinkling of all the stars seemed to be but throbs of one body, timed by a common pulse.”
- Thomas Hardy, Far From the Madding Crowd
This past week, I had the pleasure of working with nursing students from the University of Scranton. They stayed up at Camp AJ with the WorkFest crews, and my fellow Elderly Services volunteers and I took them to a different county under our jurisdiction each day. The students visited our participants in the context of health fairs in each county before coming with us for home visits, during which they checked blood pressures, heart rates, and medications. Their gentleness and passion for their work is absolutely inspiring, and they brightened the days of every person they met this week (mine included!).
This past Thursday, I’d mentioned to a few of the students that, if they wanted, I could take them up on a hike that evening to the rock above camp. We’d finally had a beautifully clear day after a week of cloudy skies, and I wanted them to see the stars. Almost all of them decided to come, so my housemate Lucas and I set out with lanterns and flashlights up the hill. The students were good sports; they kept us laughing the entire way with repeated outbursts of “BRIDGET, WHERE ARE YOU TAKING US?!” We promised them it would be worth the minor struggle.
It was.
We got to the flat top of the rock and picked our spots. We hadn’t been there long when one of the WorkFest groups came up and joined us. It was crowded, but there was enough sky for everyone. The heavens were heavy with brilliant stars, and the inky black branches surrounding us twisted their way toward them achingly. It looked as if they’d pierced the suede canopy of deepest blue above, leaving pinholes that let the universe shine down on us with the glorious exuberance that has inspired stargazers since human beings first thought to look up.
“Isn’t it crazy to think about how long that light has been traveling from those stars to us?” I mused. “For all we know, some of these stars are probably...”
“…dead,” Lucas finished.
After a few minutes of silence amid the chatter of the students, Lucas turned to me and said, “Do you think we could be like stars? You know, having the impact of our actions last after we’re gone?”
I can say this to every person who has come to work with CAP through WorkFest or the University of Scranton these past few weeks: you are stars. Your enthusiasm, energy, and willingness to go the extra mile have not gone unnoticed and they will never be forgotten, neither by the participants you helped nor by the volunteers with whom you worked. The time you spent here may have been short but, I promise you, the effect of your presence in eastern Kentucky is a priceless blessing that won’t go away. So, thank you for shining your light so radiantly.
A quick shout-out is in order. Erin, Terry, Regina, Christy, Kirstin, Tricia, Lindsay, Caitlin, Megan, Emily, Johnson, Nicole, Barb, and Marilyn. It was such an honor to get to know you and to work with you. You’re all amazingly talented, passionate individuals, and you kept me laughing (and snorting) all week. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Come back any time. Sooner rather than later.
- Thomas Hardy, Far From the Madding Crowd
This past week, I had the pleasure of working with nursing students from the University of Scranton. They stayed up at Camp AJ with the WorkFest crews, and my fellow Elderly Services volunteers and I took them to a different county under our jurisdiction each day. The students visited our participants in the context of health fairs in each county before coming with us for home visits, during which they checked blood pressures, heart rates, and medications. Their gentleness and passion for their work is absolutely inspiring, and they brightened the days of every person they met this week (mine included!).
This past Thursday, I’d mentioned to a few of the students that, if they wanted, I could take them up on a hike that evening to the rock above camp. We’d finally had a beautifully clear day after a week of cloudy skies, and I wanted them to see the stars. Almost all of them decided to come, so my housemate Lucas and I set out with lanterns and flashlights up the hill. The students were good sports; they kept us laughing the entire way with repeated outbursts of “BRIDGET, WHERE ARE YOU TAKING US?!” We promised them it would be worth the minor struggle.
It was.
We got to the flat top of the rock and picked our spots. We hadn’t been there long when one of the WorkFest groups came up and joined us. It was crowded, but there was enough sky for everyone. The heavens were heavy with brilliant stars, and the inky black branches surrounding us twisted their way toward them achingly. It looked as if they’d pierced the suede canopy of deepest blue above, leaving pinholes that let the universe shine down on us with the glorious exuberance that has inspired stargazers since human beings first thought to look up.
“Isn’t it crazy to think about how long that light has been traveling from those stars to us?” I mused. “For all we know, some of these stars are probably...”
“…dead,” Lucas finished.
After a few minutes of silence amid the chatter of the students, Lucas turned to me and said, “Do you think we could be like stars? You know, having the impact of our actions last after we’re gone?”
I can say this to every person who has come to work with CAP through WorkFest or the University of Scranton these past few weeks: you are stars. Your enthusiasm, energy, and willingness to go the extra mile have not gone unnoticed and they will never be forgotten, neither by the participants you helped nor by the volunteers with whom you worked. The time you spent here may have been short but, I promise you, the effect of your presence in eastern Kentucky is a priceless blessing that won’t go away. So, thank you for shining your light so radiantly.
A quick shout-out is in order. Erin, Terry, Regina, Christy, Kirstin, Tricia, Lindsay, Caitlin, Megan, Emily, Johnson, Nicole, Barb, and Marilyn. It was such an honor to get to know you and to work with you. You’re all amazingly talented, passionate individuals, and you kept me laughing (and snorting) all week. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Come back any time. Sooner rather than later.
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