My daughter, the second grader, started back to school this week. This picture is from that first day of school. She's waiting while I scrambled up the eggs for breakfast.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Summertime Blues
My daughter, the second grader, started back to school this week. This picture is from that first day of school. She's waiting while I scrambled up the eggs for breakfast.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Note to Self
When suffering from insomnia, find a more enjoyable way to pass the time than washing the shelves of your refrigerator.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Rhapsody in Blue
I was in the middle of a perfectly mediocre book. Nice characters. Small story. Page-long moments describing the cakes this narrator liked to bake. The text cursorily touched on the issues of any inter-generational household, but the main attraction was the cakes. The book wasn't bad, it wasn't great. Just right for curling up with in bed each night as my brain circles the idea of sleep.
But I hit a moment about half-way through the text that has stuck with me. An eighty-something year old grandmother, life-long elementary school accompanist, sits down to the piano to settle a good-natured bet with her ex-husband. The ex-husband has placed some wager that the woman cannot play without sheet music. She dusts off the piano bench and plays an expressive, tumbling, sultry, jazzy rendition of Rhapsody in Blue that leaves the whole family gobsmacked.
The characters are no strangers to the sight of the woman's knobby hands at the piano. But her playing was always in the context of private piano lessons or accompanying the fourth grade chorus. Her posture impeccable, her sheet music neatly organized, and the music was always supportive and efficient. The depths of her talent and passion as a musician had eluded them. By the end of the chapter I felt a little drunk with a sense of glee.
It's one of those moments I deeply hope for. Late in my life to still be a bit of a mystery, hear someone utter the phrase "I never knew you had it in you..." at least once. To inspire a sense of surprise, no matter how small or fleeting, in myself or a room of my familiars. Hoping I won't grow brittle inside my own skin with age. Some part of my brain, or spirit, or living would still be malleable.
If I could walk away twenty bucks richer from the wager we had riding on it...well...all the better.
___________________________
Reading with Naomi: Flush by Carl Hiaasen
Currently Listening To: Feminism and The Future of Women by Estelle Freedman
Potential Overshare: I got a promotion at work and was overcome by a Sally Fields moment where I felt valued and well liked. Good stuff.
But I hit a moment about half-way through the text that has stuck with me. An eighty-something year old grandmother, life-long elementary school accompanist, sits down to the piano to settle a good-natured bet with her ex-husband. The ex-husband has placed some wager that the woman cannot play without sheet music. She dusts off the piano bench and plays an expressive, tumbling, sultry, jazzy rendition of Rhapsody in Blue that leaves the whole family gobsmacked.
The characters are no strangers to the sight of the woman's knobby hands at the piano. But her playing was always in the context of private piano lessons or accompanying the fourth grade chorus. Her posture impeccable, her sheet music neatly organized, and the music was always supportive and efficient. The depths of her talent and passion as a musician had eluded them. By the end of the chapter I felt a little drunk with a sense of glee.
It's one of those moments I deeply hope for. Late in my life to still be a bit of a mystery, hear someone utter the phrase "I never knew you had it in you..." at least once. To inspire a sense of surprise, no matter how small or fleeting, in myself or a room of my familiars. Hoping I won't grow brittle inside my own skin with age. Some part of my brain, or spirit, or living would still be malleable.
If I could walk away twenty bucks richer from the wager we had riding on it...well...all the better.
___________________________
Reading with Naomi: Flush by Carl Hiaasen
Currently Listening To: Feminism and The Future of Women by Estelle Freedman
Potential Overshare: I got a promotion at work and was overcome by a Sally Fields moment where I felt valued and well liked. Good stuff.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Acceptance Ltr
A college acceptance letter landed in my mailbox yesterday. Seeing the University of North Dakota letterhead, scanning the congratulatory text, my eyes dropped to the bottom of the page and I felt little woozy with the sudden rise of panic.
Some people hyperventilate with fear and, in all seriousness, I envy such composure. Because I’m a plop-down-on-the-floor-can’t -catch-my-breath nervous crier.
UND sent the one-page letter of congratulations and attached the civil engineering degree requirements. That was the kicker: the degree requirements. I scanned the list which included three semesters of calculus, fluid mechanics, a course in reinforced concrete. The class titles hit the back of my brain and crumpled me up with a feeling of dread. Given the drama of falling to the floor to cry, I can’t say this was a small moment exactly. I felt wildly ill-prepared, and was gonna’ need a minute here...you know...on the floor. Maybe two.
I sat there wondering what could possibly compel me to do this sort of thing? Suddenly lurch toward aspects of this world, fields of study, I know so little of. Embrace the likelihood of failure on my part, for what? Why, on earth, would University of North Dakota look at my application, my academic history, and then say "OK"? Who reads these applications anyway?
I tried to quell my woozy brain with phrases like earning potential, and career advancement. But the words just flopped down on the floor next to me. It takes a minute, or two, before I can remember . It has to do with seeing more of the world around me. The quiet sense of surprise that comes along for the academic ride. Being introduced to new ideas and thoughts I haven’t considered before. Reading a textbook or scribbling notes during a lecture and thinking: huh, is that right?
Eventually the screen door closed itself. I quit crying. Remembered to breathe then chuckled at the irony of falling to the floor to cry over being accepted to the degree program. Dusted my butt as I got up off the floor and went into the kitchen to get dinner ready.
It’s hard to mention that moment in my entry way and in the next breath say I’m excited. Brace your neck for whiplash, though, because I am. I’m excited. My academic adviser calls sometime next week, and classes start at the end of this month. I have a lot to learn.
Some people hyperventilate with fear and, in all seriousness, I envy such composure. Because I’m a plop-down-on-the-floor-can’t -catch-my-breath nervous crier.
UND sent the one-page letter of congratulations and attached the civil engineering degree requirements. That was the kicker: the degree requirements. I scanned the list which included three semesters of calculus, fluid mechanics, a course in reinforced concrete. The class titles hit the back of my brain and crumpled me up with a feeling of dread. Given the drama of falling to the floor to cry, I can’t say this was a small moment exactly. I felt wildly ill-prepared, and was gonna’ need a minute here...you know...on the floor. Maybe two.
I sat there wondering what could possibly compel me to do this sort of thing? Suddenly lurch toward aspects of this world, fields of study, I know so little of. Embrace the likelihood of failure on my part, for what? Why, on earth, would University of North Dakota look at my application, my academic history, and then say "OK"? Who reads these applications anyway?
I tried to quell my woozy brain with phrases like earning potential, and career advancement. But the words just flopped down on the floor next to me. It takes a minute, or two, before I can remember . It has to do with seeing more of the world around me. The quiet sense of surprise that comes along for the academic ride. Being introduced to new ideas and thoughts I haven’t considered before. Reading a textbook or scribbling notes during a lecture and thinking: huh, is that right?
Eventually the screen door closed itself. I quit crying. Remembered to breathe then chuckled at the irony of falling to the floor to cry over being accepted to the degree program. Dusted my butt as I got up off the floor and went into the kitchen to get dinner ready.
It’s hard to mention that moment in my entry way and in the next breath say I’m excited. Brace your neck for whiplash, though, because I am. I’m excited. My academic adviser calls sometime next week, and classes start at the end of this month. I have a lot to learn.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Long Day
3 a.m. - Naomi climbs into my bed. Lays down directly on top of me. Cheek to my chest. Her curly hair in my mouth. No explanation. Not even a mumble.
Eventually she rolls over. I vacate the bed. Tuck her under the covers next to McKibbin. I tip-toe into her room and climb between the sheets of her twin bed.
4:55 a.m. Naomi wanders around upstairs until she find me. She reclaims her own pillow. Exhales that heavy, rhythmic sigh of sleep directly on my face.
7 a.m. Already awake, Naomi has a whispered conversation with her stuffed bear in the bed next to me. Oh, she says with genuine surprise. Are you awake?
9 a.m. Pancakes.
11 a.m. Serve as tour guide for what is packed where in Naomi's suitcase. Some last minute revisions, noted omissions.
12 p.m. Target store. Random purchases.
1:45 p.m. McKibbin drives us to South Bend, NE.
2:30 p.m. Camp Kitaki check-in. Naomi meticulously makes her bunk-bed. She nervously situates and re-situates the contents of her suitcase.
2:50 p.m. My kid, who has perfected the art of good-byes after years of departures for outings, overnights, field-trips, play-dates and classroom environment...suddenly looks at her shoes, her arms limp by her sides, as we hug good-bye.
3:30 p.m. McKibbin pulls into the parking lot of a bar outside South Bend. He offers to buy me a shot of bourbon.
Eventually she rolls over. I vacate the bed. Tuck her under the covers next to McKibbin. I tip-toe into her room and climb between the sheets of her twin bed.
4:55 a.m. Naomi wanders around upstairs until she find me. She reclaims her own pillow. Exhales that heavy, rhythmic sigh of sleep directly on my face.
7 a.m. Already awake, Naomi has a whispered conversation with her stuffed bear in the bed next to me. Oh, she says with genuine surprise. Are you awake?
9 a.m. Pancakes.
11 a.m. Serve as tour guide for what is packed where in Naomi's suitcase. Some last minute revisions, noted omissions.
12 p.m. Target store. Random purchases.
1:45 p.m. McKibbin drives us to South Bend, NE.
2:30 p.m. Camp Kitaki check-in. Naomi meticulously makes her bunk-bed. She nervously situates and re-situates the contents of her suitcase.
2:50 p.m. My kid, who has perfected the art of good-byes after years of departures for outings, overnights, field-trips, play-dates and classroom environment...suddenly looks at her shoes, her arms limp by her sides, as we hug good-bye.
3:30 p.m. McKibbin pulls into the parking lot of a bar outside South Bend. He offers to buy me a shot of bourbon.
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