The Toothpick Tower

This evening I went to a writer’s workshop led by the poet Hermine Meinhard. After introductions, she began a writing exercise by littering the table with a motley group of objects—corks, coffee filters, toothpicks, nails. The moment the toothpicks spilled out of the box, my eyes welled with tears of nostalgia; and I felt like I’d been pulled back in time—like hearing a song that returns you to the moment you first heard it, complete with attendant sights, smells, and feelings.

Carrie’s eighth-grade science teacher assigned the semester final: The Toothpick Project. It was actually a study in engineering design, with size and height specifications for a toothpick-and-Elmer’s-glue structure that, when completed, had to support the weight of a 10-pound bowling ball.

As was typical at the time, Carrie procrastinated. She started perhaps a week before the project was due and did a tiny bit. The vast majority was done the night before and into the early morning hours of the day it was due.

We had boxes and boxes and boxes of toothpicks. Can you imagine how many it takes to construct a tower a foot high and 6-8” in diameter? The little wooden creatures took on a life of their own in achieving random distribution throughout the house. I remember telling Care that we would be using the leftover toothpicks 'til she was in college. We did. And they were always a sweet reminder of The Toothpick Tower constructed in haste, that groaned in protest, but upheld the bowling ball.

The Slump—it's not just for sports anymore

I’m trying to figure out why I’m now in the biggest dating slump of my adult life. Could it be that I’ve suddenly lost all social skills and have become a social pariah? Bad juju? Bad breath? Global warming? Maybe it’s because I don’t meet a lot of guys in my kitchen. (I can hear it now, “What’s a babe like you doin’ in a dump like this? Obviously not floors and windows.”) I guess I really haven’t been getting out much.

My friends Patti and Matt apparently thought so too because they wrangled me out of my cave for Saturday’s Beerfest at Quivey’s Grove. “Oh look! We have an extra ticket! You MUST come. There’s a whole group going that’s very fun!” Free ticket. Limitless beer. Best part: the wonderful people that are Patti and Matt I haven’t spent nearly enough time with of late. Sure. I’ll come out of hibernation for that.

We all met at Monkeyshines, a bar about a mile from QG. This allowed us to throw down some food to serve as belly primer for the beer, and also provided convenient parking and avoidance of the traffic crush. The group seemed nice, and of course it was great to see P&M. Once we were primed, we made the stroll to Quivey’s. OMG! WHAT a day! Crystal blue skies, temps in the high 60’s—it was a rush just to be outside.

The abundance only increased when we arrived. Twenty-five breweries at twenty-five tables giving out multiple flavors of beer on tap. It was better than an alcoholic Baskin Robbins. I kept running into friends and acquaintances I hadn’t seen in awhile. (Could The Cave be the culprit?) We exchanged hugs, told our stories, caught up with each others’ lives.

Standing under a tree with the gold and red of the season burning bright, I got into conversation with one of Matt’s friends. Days before, Patti had mentioned, with strong implied meaning, that some of Matt’s single friends would be in our group. I probably said something like, “Oh cool” or some other how-nice externality that interprets to something like, “Oh yeah? So what? Big deal.” As we talked, I had a hard time hanging on to my cynicism. He was smart. Interesting. Seemed like one of those people who has a core of solid decency fueled by a certain dynamism that makes it appealing rather than admirable-but-boring.

In our first 10 minutes of conversation, he invited me to go on a Dec ’05 Argentina mountain-climbing expedition. I called his bluff and accepted. I’ve never had good luck with guys who early on offered sweeping invitations for major future events. However, if someone I knew little or none said, “I’m going to Antarctica for Christmas. Do you want to go?”, I’d jump at that too. I was never good at passing up the potential for adventure. He did have the good grace to get my phone number.

It’s been so long since I’ve had the luxury of The Man Thing—that masculine presence in a social situation where there is some mutual interest, and that “Y” chromosome gives off an aura that’s stronger than musk. A drug I’ve been off for awhile. I had to make a conscious effort to get away—seek out the porta-potties, find other people to talk to, try a new beer—anything to avoid just standing there glassy-eyed, getting fix after fix and giving this man the impression that I had become a permanently-affixed barnacle on his ass.

Despite or because of having gone on countless dates in my lifetime, it becomes no less awkward, no less exciting, no less confounding to wonder if the phone will actually ring. Although the Quivey’s meeting was tantalizing, I expected nothing. Hoped a bit. But didn’t really do the Miracle on 34th Street “I believe” thing. After three days, I’m assuming my phone number has been deep-sixed. You can’t expect the cynicism to melt in one easy lesson on a clear afternoon with a wealth of beer. But damnit! Barry Bonds never went this long without a hit.

What Would Superman Think?

I don’t feel overly preoccupied with morbidity, but my blog of late would seem to deny that assessment. But hey, people die, dogs have surgery, wars are waged, fears arise. It happens. And well… last night Superman died, and I simply can’t let that pass without commentary.

This morning when I heard the news that Christopher Reeve had passed on, I felt much more sadness than I normally do for even someone in the Hollywood community whose work I admire greatly. And let’s face it—Reeve at his height of fame was acclaimed for movies that required B-grade acting. His gift to me was ultimately becoming my biggest ally on bad days.

In case you’ve been living in a cave for the last decade—a cave without even a battery-operated radio or a couple Dixie cups with a string—Christopher Reeve played Superman in four incredibly successful movies of the same name and variously assigned numerals. His career was much more extensive, of course, but those were the flicks that made him fly both literally and figuratively. Then in 1995 he was thrown from a horse and paralyzed from the neck down. He had always been an activist, but after this event that at worst would have sent me into a permanent sulk and, at best, motivated me to perpetuate my blog by moaning into voice-activated software… well, Reeve was made of finer stuff. He took this horrible, life-flattening event and with this leaden tragedy alchemically made gold with his activism, expending enormous effort to make the way better for present and future victims of his fate. The man never gave up.

So what does this have to do with me? A few years ago I was having just a completely crappy day and was totally bummed and… surely I don’t have to tell you what it’s like to have a bad day. Back then I didn’t even have a blog to whine to. At some point I started thinking about Christopher Reeve, and how if I were he and had had this day complete with everything going wrong, it would still be the best day of my life because I was breathing without a ventilator and feeding myself and by God walking on my own two legs. I then imagined what it would feel like to be deprived of walking and to get it back and the joy that would accompany such a momentous event. In that moment, it felt like my obligation on Reeve’s behalf to really appreciate what a wonderful miracle I had goin’ there. Suddenly my day took on a sheen of amazement and happiness because I was WALKING! And even running. Okay, we’re not talking land speed records, but we’re not talking wheelchair-bound either.

I guess having this indirect relationship with “Superman” has been a little like having an imaginary friend. Whatever it is, it has been highly effective as my litmus test and reframer when bad days happen. “Hmmmm… what kind of day would this be for Christopher Reeve?” Then taking on those feelings of joy and amazement yet again. Once in awhile I try it, and my Inner Bitch mutters, “Oh for chrissake, even HE thinks it sucks!” And that makes me laugh, so it’s still a win.

This morning on the news, they replayed a 2002 interview in which he said how jealous he sometimes felt as people did the simplest physical tasks without realizing how precious those moments were. He mentioned watching a guy get out of a chair and stretch, and thinking, “You’re not even thinking about what you’re doing and how lucky you are to do that.” I probably don't fully know just how lucky I am, but because of Christopher Reeve, I have a much better idea of and appreciation for it than I would have otherwise.

If there is an afterlife, forget resting in peace, Chris. Catch up on your running.

Time of the Season

Sure, I could look at the calendar to see that it’s autumn, but I prefer not to take my cues from such a blunt instrument for a season so nuanced. As early as August, signs that the door was closing on summer appeared—some as subtle as a blush, and others with the impact of a linebacker. Perhaps it was the chilly summer that provided premature encouragement to trees to start shamelessly changing colors and dropping leaves as wantonly as pole dancers at a Republican Convention. And to a girl raised in the wilds of Texas and Oklahoma where the pigskin is a holy sacrament, the commencement of Monday Night Football signals its own autumnal equinox celebration.

Over the last couple weeks, almost every run and walk with the dogs has been accompanied by encroaching seasonal early warning systems, including dawns that are waking up later every morning and sunsets retiring the light before it seems fit. When I first started hearing repeated raucous bird sounds, I couldn’t identify the source. Did someone in the neighborhood keep ducks? Then I looked overhead and saw Canadian honkers cutting their graceful “V” like a pointer to Florida. Oh yeah. We’re not in Texas anymore, Toto. Those birds of a feather are splittin’ before the snow falls.

This morning the ultimate “other shoe” of finality dropped. I dutifully picked up after Murray and Bill (yes sir, yes sir, three bags full), and as I got to the far side of Northland Park where I usually dispose of these treasures, I saw that the big, green park trash cans had been removed—not to be seen again until late spring. I don’t care what the calendar says. Winter is here, and tonight the flannel sheets are goin’ on the bed.

Bill Update

When I got home from work, I had a message from Dr. Christman, Bill's veterinarian. The lab report is in. [Drum roll] The envelope, please....

The "mass" was a fatty tumor, and it was benign! (Unlike the gas the patient is currently passing, which is totally noxious.)

Wahoo! I'm SO relieved! Many of you who read my blog have sent good wishes, and even get-well cards. Bill and I both thank you all so much for your concern and kindness.

Just One

When I go to a restaurant solo and the host says, “Just one?”, I will usually tease, “JUST one? Is that not enough? Do you have a two-person minimum?” My reaction was in a slightly less humorous vein when I was listening to the news Sunday, and a commentator wrapped up the report on yet another Middle East bloodbath with “Just one American soldier was killed.”

JUST one? Like that wasn’t enough? Or it was barely significant enough for her to even waste the oxygen to expel the information? I wonder if that soldier’s mother, upon hearing the news thought, “Oh well. It was just one.” How many tears will be wept this week and this year over that “just one”? How many lives had that “just one” touched, and how many of those will be unalterably changed because of that moment when “just one American soldier was killed”?

Maybe it hit a particular nerve due to the phenomenon of 'when one person dies it's a tragedy, when 10,000 die, it's a statistic'. All I know was that suddenly "just one" seemed up-close and personal, and the tragedy was in the depersonalization.

http://www.alternet.org/waroniraq/20080/

Requiem

I’ve gone from being an inveterate partier to something of a recluse, and my activities of this past weekend speak volumes of that transformation. From the time I returned home from work Friday night until I went to work Monday morning, I left the house only twice. The first foray was to buy a lottery ticket and a burger. The second was for the social highlight of my weekend—singing at a memorial service for a man I'd never met.

As I was driving to the church, it occurred to me how odd it was to be devoting my Sunday afternoon to someone about whom I knew so little. The man, nameless to me, had apparently attended the Unitarian Church. His widow sings in the choir, but I don't really know her either since I’m new and she’s a soprano. As the radio announced the 0-0 close of the first half of the Packers/Giants bout, I inwardly grumbled that I could safely deduce the deceased and his family certainly weren’t Packers fans to have planned a service occurring in the middle of a game.

Once at the church, I found the tables where I could deposit my food contribution (hell, no, I didn’t cook—I’ve been transformed, not replaced by a freakin’ doppleganger!), and expended extaordinary culinary effort to arrange my fancy pickles and olives in faux crystal dishes. The choir warm-up was starting, so I assumed my place for the brief rehearsal. The music and camaraderie dissolved the little piece of resentment I'd harbored about spending a gorgeous Sunday afternoon not only inside but without even the benefit of a big-screen TV.

With my head feeling a bit dull and thick (not atypical, some would say) and 30 minutes remaining before the service commenced, I went in search of coffee. After a couple false starts, I found the life-giving substance in what is known as the “West Living Room” in this fabulous Frank Lloyd Wright-designed building. There I also stumbled onto displays set up to share glimpses of David Woodward’s life.

The pictures showed an attractive man, with a character-chiseled face and neatly trimmed beard. An obituary, blown up to poster size, indicated that he was considered important enough by the New York Times to rate an impressive amount of copy. He was British. (In the memorial service, his brothers in their UK brogues lovingly explained that he had merely been on loan to us Yanks for 40 years. Perhaps that heritage explains why there was no empathy for planning his memorial service around American football legacies.) Dr./Professor David Woodward "transformed the history of cartography from a directionless Eurocentric field into a respectable subject now global in scope." He and Ros had three children, one of whom died tragically at 7 in 1978. And David himself had died before his time of bile duct cancer just four days shy of his sixty-second birthday.

On a table a couple letters were displayed that appeared to have been written to Ros in his initial stages of infatuation with her. His intelligence, warmth, dry wit, and gentle self-deprecation were evident in these very brief missives, not to mention his glowing adoration of this woman to whom he was ultimately married for almost four decades. Copies of books he had written were on the same table.

During the memorial service I learned more about this quiet man, his unflagging drive in his profession, his remarkable lack of ego, his kindness, his amazing wit, his influence on and support of colleagues and students, and his propensity for mind-numbing detail. Of course, it was the guy who had the least relevant material to share who took up a full quarter of the service. One of David’s former colleagues, a dry and dusty cartographic librarian, seemed to think nothing of detailing 20 years of David’s resumes, including the full text of letters exchanged, and pretty much 30 minutes of excruciating detail about the history of cartography. This is the stuff Vogon poetry* is made of—it’s always the most boring person who thinks it’s okay to spend the most time making people contemplate chewing their collective foot off at the ankle to escape. My ass fell asleep during this sonmanbulistic trial by dullness, and I was surprised I could hoist said dead ass out of the seat when Mr. Anethesia finally wrapped it up, and it was time for our choral number.

Despite that one extremely long and disheartening stretch of verbal desert, the service was ultimately an event that left me wishing I had known David Woodward, even if it had been only during the one brief semester he sang in the choir. To him I say: Sing on, David. Make your maps in heaven. Chart the maps of history and the history of maps. Know that you were treasured by many. And that there are those of us who haven't met you who value your legacy as a remarkable human being who illuminated the aspirations of others and exhibited humility in an arena where egos were more the norm. Live on, Dr. Woodward.
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*See Douglas Adams' "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy".

Singin’ in the Comeback Choir*

When I started my “I need to recreate my life” campaign and went to the desperate measures of seeking out the Unitarian Church, I knew that chances were it was merely a temporary aberration. I went to one church service. I went to one choir practice. And I was hooked. The first fix is free.

The following Sunday we—the choir that now had me in it—performed. I was hooked more.

Music for me probably started in the cradle. Ours was a model dysfunctional American family, but in retrospect I can see so many cool things that my parents did that more than counter-balanced their wrong turns. My folks are just not what anyone would traditionally associate with the word “cool”—then or now. But I think about how my mom played accordion, my dad played the violin, and they both played piano—and they were just awful at all of these pursuits. My dad’s little joke was “If you can’t sing good, sing loud.” Except where some of our family musical abilities were concerned, it wasn’t exactly a joke. And now I think this was one of their great gifts to us—that freedom to make and enjoy music without the crippling burden of having to be perfect or even good in order to fully participate.

When I was a little kid my two sisters and I would sing while we washed and dried dishes, and I probably learned to harmonize before I learned to tie my shoes. On vacations we would sing in the car when we weren’t arguing. We sang in church. I consider the Church of the Nazarene to be an incredibly destructive force that probably should have come under scrutiny for its carnage to the human psyche way before the Muslims got a bad rep—but by golly, their music was great! I was in both school and church choirs throughout junior high and high school. I even made Oklahoma All State Choir my sophomore year. Once I started college, my choir days were mostly over. But that didn’t keep me from singing.

During Carrie's formative years, she would be embarrassed and try to shush me when I would start singing, which was often and anywhere. I had to remind her that public humiliation of my progeny was not only my right but my duty as a parent. Friends have always been much more forgiving and even seem to delight in my tendency to burst into song at the least or no provocation. Their enjoyment seems to escalate in direct proportion to the number of drinks they’ve had.

Now, in addition to karaoke and impromptu singing, I’m back in choir. Church choir, no less. Dan, our director, strikes the perfect balance of expecting excellence from us, while recognizing that we’re an amateur volunteer group. We sing great music that’s a stretch, and it sounds amazing. Well, maybe not the first time or two through it…

Thursday evening I was at a going away party for one of my co-workers, and when I mentioned that I had to leave to go to choir practice, our receptionist started belly-laughing. Then she looked at me and said, “You are kidding, aren’t you?” It took a lot to suspend her disbelief. It’s true folks—every Thursday night as I go to church choir practice, there are frost warnings in hell. I love defying the odds. For now my money is on the Jewish axiom: God respects me when I work—but he loves me when I sing.
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*With apologies to Bebe Moore Campbell

You Can’t Keep a Good Dog Down

I was surprised by the number of people who said they would pray for my dog, and delighted with their effectiveness. Bill’s surgery went well. The mass was completely "encapsulated", so it hadn't wrapped around anything else and was pretty easy to get out (at least that's what the folks at the vet’s said—not like I was there—I don't want to give the impression that this is a first-person account and that I've taken up veterinary surgery in my spare time). They said that a dog’s “wrist” (that’s what I call it anyway) is not a place where fatty tumors usually develop, but they're more hopeful that's what it was rather than the Big C. We'll know more in a week or two when the lab results come back. I'm still worried for Bill, but not as much as I was.

When I picked him up after the surgery, he was limping but not zombie-like as I'd expected. As an act of faith in his longevity, I had had them clean his teeth while he was anesthesized. One molar was cracked and had to be pulled. The poor creature. That morning he had joyfully jumped into the car thinking of nothing but a nice ride. I can’t imagine his sense of betrayal when he awoke to a bandaged and painful wrist, a missing tooth, and sore gums. For me it was another $270 in unplanned expenses in a financial train wreck of a quarter. Lordy...

Bill limped around for a couple days. Slo-mo, but not bad at all for what he’d been through. During that time Murray kept trying to get him to play. Murray loves to incite—he'll bark or generally run around—trying to get Bill or me or anyone handy to play with him or chase him. If Murray were a kid, he would definitely be Class Clown. He tried his usual antics with Bill, who was havin' none of it and would just lie there as Murray barked at him. Part of their normal routine is that Bill won't let Murray have any toys, although I think Murray just goes along with it as part of their script. A couple times Murray went so far as to do the unthinkable and PICK UP A TOY RIGHT IN FRONT OF BILL. Oh my, THAT got Bill onto his feet, even in his semi-ambulatory state! Murray would drop the toy immediately, and then Bill would lie down again—so Murray’s mission wasn’t fully accomplished. But talk about dog psychology! Who needs television?

As of this evening Bill is no longer limping, and he's back in the fray of playing, protecting the toys from Murray, and exhibiting full energy. It will be another week or so before the lab report is back. It hangs like a little cloud, but I try to be positive and think about those faithful prayer warriors who are in Bill’s corner, favoring the miracle of good outcomes. So far, so good.