Farewell Poem

I drive back to the office this evening, and on my way I pass Logan Elementary. I have parked less than half a block away from this school every day for the last 19 years, and each day the building seems to have aged a little more. (I wonder if I have, too? Nah!) I take a hard, long look at the school and consider pulling over and snapping a few photos of the ivy-covered steps and bricks and the boarded-up windows, especially the steps, but I decide not to. After all, I never went to school here, and I can remember being inside this place only one time, despite being so close to it for so long.

The last time I called you, I was sitting on the steps of Main Street School just past midnight one Friday in 2003. My grandmother had died two mornings before, and you had shown up unexpectedly to offer your condolences and eventually to tell me those oh-so-familiar words: “Call me.” You gave me your newest number, and in my haste to scribble it down, I barely noticed that you had somehow included an extra numeral ... and so, after waiting until everyone else was asleep and walking up to the school so I could have complete privacy, I could not get through to you. I tried almost every possible combination, but I could not reach you.

I was surprised and pleased enough, actually, that you had found me to tell me you were sorry about my grandma. I had written about her death in a journal entry on some now long-forgotten forum; still, I had no idea you even knew — even though you had told me, not all that long ago, that reading my “online shit” reminded you of “At My Most Beautiful” song by REM: “you always listen carefully / to awkward rhymes / you always say your name / like I wouldn’t know it’s you ...”

... at your most beautiful.

The next time you called me was right before 10 o’clock on my 40th birthday. Sometime during the conversation, you told me you might need to lean on me over the next few weeks/months, and I assured you that I would be there for you. (“You might not know it to look at me,” I told you, “but I can be a really excellent listener when I want to.”) I also tried to apologize, using actual spoken words for the first time since then, but you quickly changed the subject and I never tried again.

You called me once more after that, and even though we’ve had each other’s number for more than a year, there have been no more phone calls; I vowed not to and you simply don’t. There are countless text messages and random photos from you just waiting to be deleted from my phone, now, and just yesterday I got a reminder that your birthday is next week.

I already knew this, of course: The first time you called me, I was a bit mortified because your voice sounded like that of a 12-year-old. Immediately, I asked you how old you were, and you told me. “What year were you born?” I asked, still not quite believing you, and without hesitation, you replied, “I was born at six minutes after midnight on July 6, 1968.”

I e-mailed you the night I got the reminder because I knew that once July got here, I didn’t want to think about you anymore.

I’m hanging up now, and I want you to tell me goodbye.

TAKE me out ...

... to the ballllllllgaaaaaame!

: )

OK, so we made our second venture to nuBusch Stadium in downtown St. Louie. This time, the supreme nachos AND the hot dogs AND the ice cream (of course!) were good. (Last time, the hot dogs were a rather questionable. Sorta petrified-textured, and not altogether warm. What the fuck? How difficult is it to cook a dog? And how can you run a ballpark and NOT have good hot dogs? Gimme a break!)

Anyhoo, here are Karl, Diane and Cindy (holding the always-fab supreme nachos ... though I was a tad annoyed that they hadn’t gotten ’em with hot peppers!)

Random action shots, including National League MVP Albert Pujols (I’d really like to photograph him ... nude! What a stud!) and my personal favorite Cardinal, shortstop David “Little Engine” Eckstein (that is not his actual nickname, but he reminds me of The Little Engine That Could ... plus he just got the game-winning hit in tonight’s game!)

The Lovely collects Coca-Cola memorabilia and LOVES Stan “The Man” Musial.

A colorful Cardinals clock:

And a nifty sunset:

Pulp can move, baby!

Err, I mean, turtles can move, baby, when they really wanna.

: )

Driving on one of the shelter roads this afternoon at Wayne Fitzgerrell State Park, I see this little guy/gal in the middle of the road.

So I’m thinking: Turtle! Cool!

I throw the car into park, grab the camera and get out. Soon as I do, though, the turtle picks up the pace. I’m pleased, though, ’cause I was half-expecting it to duck ’n’ cover, pull its head, legs and tail into the shell and ignore me.

Instead, it fairly scampers over the grass and then sits there, looking warily at me but giving no indication that it intends to hide.

Turtles are cool.

: )

Yet hope is this horizon ...

Train Depot in Hope, Ark. (May 27, 2006)

I gotta love any photo that depicts me in full dorkdom, and this one succeeds quite nicely, I believe.

: )

The title of this post comes from “Speeding with Dom,” a poem by Bob Zordani that I keep going back to over the years because, from various times, lines from it keep resonating with me, within me and then all around me.

I’m pretty sure I have always been a pretty hopeful person. Well, maybe not when I was 9 or 10; those years, if not for a teacher whom I adored and the precious refuge of school, I’m not quite sure what abyss I would’ve tumbled into. And, OK, yeah, there were some dark days in college, most of them enhanced by a raging hangover that tinged the edges of my journey toward self-awareness. And then there were a few months a little over four years ago, not that far removed from 9/11 and my own personal disasters, during which I wasn’t all that hopeful about anything, really.

Aside from those and random moments scattered along the way, I can’t complain. I consider myself to be an optimist. While my mom has always cautioned me to “hope for the best, but expect the worst,” I have pretty much always taken this approach: “Hope for AND expect the best — who knows, life just might surprise you!”

I feel especially hopeful today, and I honestly believe I owe that to my friends. Old and new, faraway and near (distance- and closeness-wise). And, of course, my family members, many of whom I don’t see nearly as often as I should, but all of whom have always been so incredibly supportive that I know, without them throughout the years, I would not be the person I am today.

(Is this starting to sound like an acceptance speech, or is it just me?!)

: )

I’ve heard it said that when one door closes, another one opens. I’ve always thought that statement was a little overly optimistic, even for me, but the events over the past several months are starting to convince me otherwise. I have made a new friend at work (Susan, my crossword cohort) and a new friend online (Jane, who is far cooler — and everything that goes along with it! — than I could ever hope to be), and what these new friends have done for me is make me even more optimistic and hopeful about my life.

They make me want to throw open all the doors (side, front and back, even!) and the windows and open myself up to the world of possibilities. They remind me how blessed I truly am to know all the people I know (and love), all of whom give me hope, every day.

Yet hope is this horizon,
the swing of stars and seasons.
So tonight let’s howl at the moon,
whirl among stubbled fields,
through gulleys and creek beds,
over barbed wire and electric fences,
whirl, whirl like gods gone mad!

Reflections: Quittin’ Time

Tonight’s Sunset at Rend Lake

But you pretend and I pretend / That everything is fine / And though we should be at an end / It’s so hard admittin’ / When it’s quittin’ time

I am the world’s worst quitter.

I can remember only one thing I ever quit in my life, and that was basketball my freshman year of high school.

I started playing basketball on the playground of Main Street School when I was in fourth grade. Rickey, Brad, Tony and I migrated from the baseball/kickball diamond over to the basketball courts. I wasn’t any good at basketball: I was short, slow, not very good at dribbling and couldn’t shoot all that well. Plus I didn’t really like the way the ball got my hands all black and icky from the asphalt playground (hey, I am a girl, after all).

: )

I probably would have given up basketball entirely if not for my teacher, Mrs. Weakly, who told me that I “shouldn’t be playing with the boys all the time, anyway.” That served only to make me more determined to play whatever sport the boys were playing, whenever the season.

Still, I never got any good at basketball. And I didn’t care all that much because I preferred baseball and softball and tennis and badminton and football, anyway. However, I was looking forward to high school because we had a girls’ basketball team, and I was pretty sure I’d be pretty good. Or at least good enough to play.

I was horrible.

I hadn’t grown all that much, I was still slow, and I really couldn’t dribble or shoot all that well. Not good qualities when, obviously, the only spot you can even think about playing is guard — a position that generally requires quickness, good ballhandling skills and the ability to shoot, occasionally.

Added to this was a fact I had not realized whilst shooting hoops on the elementary school court: When you play basketball, what you do most is run. And run. And run. And run. And just when you think you cannot possibly run one more step or your shins are going to explode and/or you’re going to puke up anything you’ve eaten for the past three days, the coach blows the whistle and you know it’s time to run sprints.

Then she makes you shoot free throws and run a wind sprint for every one you miss. Which, for me, always meant additional running because — guess what? — I pretty much sucked at free throws, too.

I lasted about a week as a member of the Shelbyville Rams girls’ basketball team. Or maybe two days, I can’t really remember. All I remember is how much I hated to run and hated being one of the slowest players on the floor, and also how much I hated getting yelled at, basically, for being so bad. (I should note that I was coming off a freshman tennis season in which I was named Most Improved. Which is kind of a nice way of saying, “Yeah, you pretty much sucked at the beginning of the season, but by the end of the year, you could actually keep the ball on the court for a shot or two.” Still, I was flying high after that and thinking that I might actually have a decent high school athletic career ahead of me.)

As much as I hated basketball, though, I hated the idea of quitting even more. And I can’t even say why: Clearly, the coach didn’t think I was any good; I was sure it would be no great loss for the team.

The only person that this decision affected was me.

I mean, here it is, 27 years later, and I’m still thinking about it!

I remember telling the coach I was quitting. She asked me why; I hem-hawed around and gave her some excuse about basketball not being as much fun as I thought it would be, how I guessed I was hoping it would be more like tennis, somehow, and how I just didn’t feel like I was ever going to be as good as the rest of the players. She just stared at me the whole time I babbled and, when I was finished, said, “OK.”

No trying to talk me into staying on the team. No pep talks. Just, “OK.”

I regretted it every day for the rest of the season. I have no idea why.

Sophomore year, I decided to give it another go. I wasn’t any taller or quicker, and I hadn’t done anything in the off-season to improve my ballhandling or shooting skills. It seemed like we had to run more this season than the year before, too, but somehow, I stuck with it. I ended up being one of the last three players on the second string of the JV team — which meant, if we were winning or, more likely, losing a game by 15 points or more in the final two minutes, I would usually get to play.

Di’s 1980-81 Season Stats: Season high, 4 points; season total, 12 points; free throws, 0-f0r-10.

I didn’t bother going out my junior season. By that time, basketball didn’t matter to me at all. (I did go out for manager of the girls’ basketball team my senior year ... only because I had a crush on one of the varsity starters.)

: )

In grade school, when you wanted to break up with the boy or girl you were “going with,” you would “quit” him or her. And usually not face-to-face, either: You’d send your best friend up to deliver the bad news at recess, so that by the time you had to go back inside, you’d officially be broken up.

When I was in sixth grade, for a few weeks during the winter, we learned how to square dance during what would have normally been our morning recess period. Square-dancing was pretty cool, actually; we got to learn how to promenade and do-si-do and all that stuff. Plus, at the time, one of my best friends, Cheri, and I were going with two boys who also happened to be best friends, Dirk and Rickey, so we’d all get to be in the same square every day, along with two other random couples.

One day, Cheri and I decided to quit Dirk and Rickey. For no apparent reason that I can recall. We knew we had to time this quitting very carefully, though; otherwise, we’d end up stuck with who knows what boys.

We decided we’d quit them right after square-dancing that day but before the bell rang to get lined up for lunch.

Just before we headed to our squares, though, Dirk came up to me and Rickey went up to Cheri, and in a flurry of words, delivered the news that our respective boyfriends were quitting US! We were shocked AND angered — not because we were being dumped; I mean, that’s what we wanted in the first place, to break up! — but because they had quit us! The nerve — and right before square-dancing, too!

: (

The four of us stayed in our same square but refused to acknowledge and/or touch each other during the whole session. (Have you ever tried to allemande left without actually touching your partner’s hands? It’s kinda strange, lemme tell ya!)

: )

A girl I loved quit me recently.

She’s quit me a few times before, actually, and every time, if I were to be perfectly honest with myself and the rest of the world, I probably deserved it. One time, I really really deserved it; in fact, I’m not sure how we ever came back from that one, but we did, and I actually allowed myself to believe that if we had somehow gotten through that mess, we just might end up being friends, after all.

I was wrong — and believe me, as much as I hate quitting or being quit, I hate admitting I was wrong even more.

It hurt like hell for a little while, but honestly, somehow, this time didn’t hurt as much as the others because this time, I realized that it wasn’t all about me.

Then I started to realize that very little about our entire relationship was actually about me. And it occurred to me that, as much as I would’ve liked to have pinned that entirely on her, I really couldn’t.

People only wield as much power over you as you allow them.

Like it or not, this girl has been a part of my life for the last six years. She will continue to be a part of the landscape of my mind for a long time to come; that’s how it is when you allow yourself to care about someone.

I am a better person for having known her, and there will be times, I am sure, that I will miss her. And I will feel sad for her and for me because I know, in my heart, that we could’ve been something very good for each other, something very real, if not for the mistakes that we both made.

For now, though, I have quit caring.

It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary.

1-syllable things I like to do

listed alphabetically because I’m a dork

ache act add bat bend bet bike bitch blog bluff breathe burp catch chat cheer chop choose clap come cook cram crop cruise crunch crush cry cut dance date dice draw dream drink drive dwell earn eat feel find flirt fly frame fuck glare go grill grin grope grow heal hear help hide hike hit hug hum jam kick kid kiss laugh lead learn leave leer lick like lob look love lust meet melt mend mince move nap neck need nod own pass pay peek pick pitch play poach praise pray print prod race rant read rent rest ride roll sail score see seek serve share shoot shop sin sing slack sleep smash smell smile snack sneak sneeze snooze sob speed spin squeeze squint squirm stare stay steer stir storm stray stroll surf sweat swing talk tame taste teach tease think throw touch trade traipse trust try veer wade walk want wash watch wave win write

more to be added as they occur to me

It’s coming!

The Wimbledon Championships at the All England Lawn Tennis Club.

: )

My favorite time of the summer!

The 1st Day of Summer

Kinda hot today, but what the hell? It’s SUMMER!!!

: )

I had intentions of rambling tonight, but then I had computer fuck-ups and various slowdowns and now, here I sit, mildly annoyed and in not quite the same frame of mind as before (a very good frame, I might add; matter o’ fact, it’s still quite good ... I’m just not as wide-awake as I was earlier, and now I’m thinking more about sleeping than I am about writing!)

*shrug*

Found some chicory today, right here in town.

And I have no idea what these are, but they caught my attention as I drove around the lake.

(They remind me of this glass bobbing bird thingie Grandma Ginny used to have; she’d set it next to a cup of water, and the bird would keep bobbing its head, as if it were drinking the water.)

: )

I’ve been noticing these black-eyed susans for quite some time now, but I’ve been resisting the urge to photograph them. Why? I’m not sure. I mean, maybe it’s my nature to notice vibrancy and colors and even the uniqueness of everything but to keep on going, wandering cluelessly onward, not even knowing what I’m looking for, when there’s so much beauty right in front of me.

(I do this with people, too, sometimes ... but I’m learning.)

And then I saw deer. Everywhere, it seemed. And I discovered that some deer actually like having their pictures taken (at least this one did).

And some of them will give you a few seconds, and then that’s it.

Some of ’em never slow down.

I missed a pretty cool sunset by a couple of seconds. Hopefully, though, there’s another one tomorrow.

: )

Nasturtiums! (WTF?!)

OK, so I was gonna title this post “Poppies for Jane” ’cause, turns out she likes ’em, too ... and then I was thumbing through this cool book called Best Garden Plants for Illinois from Lone Pine Publishing (which, OK, authors Aldritch and Williamson, I have not yet had time to review, but here I am, promoting your publication on a World Wide Web site that is visited every day by, like, 20-some people [most of them stopping by, it seems, by Googling “how to cut your own hair” and finding that post I made a summer or two ago when my gal-pal and her mother, who also happened to cut my hair at the time, had a major falling out and I did not wish to get caught in the middle of that, so I bought some clippers and gave myself a haircut!]) and discovered that the flowers I had photographed are not poppies but are, in fact, nasturtiums!

Who knew?

(Hmm, probably every fledgling horticulturalist out there ... which, obviously, I am not. I mean, what the hell, the only plant that I have proven, consistently, that I can keep from killing is the philodendron ... which, as we all know, is virtually impossible to kill. Yes, I do seem to have good luck with the philodendrons!)

: )

I have to say, I like these lil’ nasti plants, even the leaves. The flowers remind me of a cross between a poppy and a hibiscus — a poppibiscus, perhaps! — and we all know how I feel about those flowers.

Love ’em!

: )

So, anyway, Jane: These are for you. (Freshly shot and everything!)

Mimosas

I drank mimosas the morning of (or was it the morning after?) Dave and Maureen’s wedding. Clearly, they were a very different kind of mimosa than these (they were made with orange juice and champagne, and they tasted WONDERFUL because I was oh-so-hungover).

Anyhoo.

Coneflowers

Gold & Barnlight

I took a turn down a road leading to the Greenwood Cemetery, mainly because the cemetery had an American flag flying on a tall pole, surrounded by tombstones, and I thought it might make for a good picture with the sunlight shining over the trees. However, the sun was too bright and the cemetery was too dark, and there was simply too much contrast.

I continued down the road, which quickly became a rocky one-lane pathway of sorts. Not too bumpy, though, so I thought I would follow it to see where it went. The road curved to the right (east) and I could see an old barn ahead and off to the left (north). Just past the barn was a white house that could have been lived-in; a 1970s model sedan was parked in the yard.

The car had grass growing up past its tires, so I figured no one was home. I snapped four shots of the barn and then drove back the way I had come in. (The road appeared to keep going a ways to the east, but I suddenly had that Talking Heads song, “Road to Nowhere,” playing in my head.)

We’re on a road to nowhere; come on inside ...

Pinkish

I like these flowers. They were sorta hiding behind their own leaves and the leaves of another plant planted right next to them, right there alongside the driveway The Lovely shares with her neighbors, but I saw them a couple of days ago, somewhat unexpectedly, when I was turning my car around.

Open

Get a good look: This is one of the few times you will ever see my sister and me with barrettes in our hair! (I believe we are approximately 2 and 3 here ... which was about the last time I was taller than she!)

This has been a perfectly slackerrific afternoon; in fact, I had big plans of taking a nice, long nap ... and then the sky started darkening and rumbling, and you could just tell it really wanted to rain ... which made me desire nappage even more.

Then I remembered the car window was down. Then I kept thinking of items I need to pick up at Wally World (60-watt light bulbs, cat food, padded evelopes) later. Then I wondered: Do I want to go to the Sesser Homecoming Parade at 4? Then I thought of a few topics about which I have some random thoughts and might want to write ...

And then, before I knew it, I was out here in the living room, re-downloading software for my scanner ’cause it was refusing to perform properly. After that, I had to edit a couple of photos — and by this time, naturally, the rain is coming down and the thunder is booming just perfectly for an afternoon nap.

This is the first weekend in, like, forever that I haven’t had A Plan — or, if not a specific schedule, something that I absolutely had to do. Not that I’m complaining about having things to do and people to see (or is that things to see and people to do? : )) — matter of fact, most times, that is the only way to get something accomplished, really: Write it on the calendar (now that I am no longer a sports editor, I never write anything on my calendar) or commit it to your mental Things to Do list or whatever it takes so you know, on this date, I have A Plan.

: )

Life feels exciting right now. I believe, in my heart, that this is because I have let go of the sadness and feelings of rejection that had been kicking my ass for several weeks (years?) and because I have embraced the notion of allowing myself to open up my heart and my soul and my mind to the possibility of loving the people I love as much as I possibly can love them. Sort of a no-holds-barred approach, which is rather unlike me.

After all:

Apathy is bliss ... no?! And every word to “I Am a Rock” ... right?!

I read this post by Kelly a few weeks ago, and it cut right through, as her words often do ... and I tried to comment on it, but — wouldn’t you know it? — Blogger (hehe, I just typed “Blooger”!) refused to cooperate ... and then I tried to write about the topic, myself, and I got sidetracked by something.

Mostly, I don’t want anyone I know and love to doubt that I love them. Hey, they might not love me the exact same as I love them — who knows, they might not even like me that much; it might be one of those cases in which, yeah, they realize that, somewhere, deep down inside: OK, yeah, I sorta love Di, but godDAMN, could she be any more annoying sometimes?

And, really, how often do we truly love each other the exact same amount? Seems to me that almost all relationships have varying levels, various states of equilibrium. We all give and take what we can, and sometimes, we find that balance.

At this moment, I am alone. I am listening to my Bruce! CD (song: “Lea”) and thinking that it is already one of my favorite albums, and I am writing. Later today and tomorrow, I will be surrounded by people I know and love — and, yeah, they know it! After that, back to work, and along with everything, I will see more people I know and love, out there in the real world and out here in the virtual world and everywhere in-between.

I keep thinking that, of all the things I could possibly be doing (well, almost all of the things; there are at least a few that take precedence, and no, I will NOT elaborate because, well, I’m trying to keep this bloggie as close as humanly fucking possible to being PG-rated!) at any given moment, I would most like to be playing catch or badminton out in the yard with my sister.

I like the idea of camping ...

I like the idea of camping. I really do. I always have, ever since the days when Debra and I and the rest of the kids in the neighborhood would have sleepovers in our big orange tent set up in the yard — the same tent where, one summer night between fourth and fifth grade, I let Jerry get to third base (bypassing first and second), mainly because he liked me and I was sorta wondering how it felt to be touched down there. (Trust me, it wasn’t sexual, but it was sensual; we fell asleep with him holding me, and ever since then, I’ve always loved falling asleep with someone holding me, somewhere.)

It has been approximately 13 years, give or take one or two, since I’ve been camping. Which is inexcusable, really, considering I live near a lake that has at least 10 public or private campgrounds around it. Plus there’s always the option of setting up camp pretty much anywhere, really, but ... I don’t have much desire to do so. I hate trying to sleep when I’m hot and sweaty — especially when it’s not The Good Kind of hot and sweaty! — and I hate mosquitoes, and every time I’m out past sundown in any kind of woodsy area, I get attacked by those damn bugs!

Still, I do like the idea of camping. And I am especially intrigued by the notion of selling all (well, OK: most!) of my worldly possessions and buying an RV and living in it, traveling from place to place based solely on where I feel like going ... and where I have friends who won’t mind me parking in their garage or back yard for a few days at a time!

: )

Di: The shoes were so hideous-looking, I simply had to have them!

They’re the Merrell Chameleon something-or-others; I got them on sale toward the end of last year and wore them for the first time when I was out in Arizona, and I’ve also worn them to go tromping around here. (I don’t actually ever call what I do “hiking,” but, boy, if I did, these shoes would be GREAT for it!)

: )

Some critters from the past coupla days:

This is a great spangled fritillary (and possibly a beetle or some other kind of bug) on pinkish flowers that look like kittens or maybe teeny-tiny elephants.

An upside-down ladybug on white flowers. (OK, OK: I know I am slacking in the research department ... but I know at least one person who would give me a little credit for that!)

A honeybee lands on some butterfly milkweed.

The flowers in these next two shots are the same color of the dress my mom made me when I went to Prom my freshman year of high school.

They Might Be Poppies

Seems kinda late for ’em, and here I am, too lazy to look in my lil’ books, so ... for the moment, let’s just pretend they are, shall we?

(again with the wheat!)

I can’t tell you what it is about wheat fields that fascinates me so.

They just do.