All This and College Tuition

On Sunday, we got ready to leave town and Angie arrived. We started off the trip with a bit of Carolina Barbecue and then split into 2 cars for the drive (a consequence of having 3 1/2 people who get carsick if not in a front seat or driving). Angie and I drove down together, allowing for some nice sister time. It had been a very long time since we'd been together at all, and it was a nice opportunity to talk.

We also made the drive more interesting by stopping a few times. Once, we stopped for firewood -- along highway 70, I think. Why? Well, we'd not found good ways to buy firewood here, and I wanted to be able to use the fireplace. The purchase of firewood was an adventure, in that there was an empty shack with a radio running and no human in sight. We called the number on the side and were given instructions:
"You see those piles of wood off to your right?"
"Yes"
"You want one of them?"
"Yes"
"There's a green mailbox on your left. Put $20 in there and then you can take a pile."
"Okay, thank you."
Still alone, but with the distinct feeling we were being watched, we deposited the money and lugged the wood into the trunk of the car. I felt almost as if I had just been given instructions for where to leave the suitcase of money in some surreal crime drama. We giggled as we drove off, because we felt like we had been stealing. I don't think either of us are quite used to that sensation.

The house by the wood shack. (Note the name of the website on the bottom right corner of the billboard. Also note the lovely yard sale sign. Yes, we are juvenile.)

We also stopped and bought Piggly Wiggly T-shirts. They are sure to be a hit in the land of "Ralphs" and "Vons".

Angie's blog does a great job of describing the rest of the trip to Morehaed City/Beaufort. I'll only add a few notes about the drive and the hotel. And I will share a few favorite photo memories in the next entry.

So, about the hotel... we learned that sometimes paying about $10 more for a room means a huge difference in what one can reasonable expect. Mom and Dad were kind enough to pay for our lodging, for which I am very grateful. I hasten to add that this is about the hotel, which really should have thought about providing SOME level of service, not my parents' choice of venue. The hotel claims that their laundry staff walked out on them earlier the day we arrived. The claim seems reasonable for soooo many reasons. I don't think we will soon forget the mattresses with "trenches" that you roll into in the middle of the night. The complete lack of towels in the other room. The lack of toiletries. The sheets complete with holes and rather suspcious stains. The shower wet from the previous guest, and her dirty towel hung on the back of the bathroom door (It was covered with make-up). Ahhhh. The joys of sleeping in a public bedroom. hahaha. The room didn't diminish our enjoyment of the time. We'll just add this particular hotel which shall remain unnamed to the "not staying there again" files.

The drive back I made with Dan and Angie. We stopped for firewood again. Same shack. Same erie abandoned-but-not-abandoned feeling. Knowing the drill, we deposited money and loaded up a pile, eying the nearby house suspiciously. It also looked sort of lived-in but abandoned. We were just finishing up and about to drive off, when, sure enough, a man rode up on an ATV from the building some ways away from the shack in the other direction from the house. In my mind's eye he had a rifle on his lap. I am almost certain that is an exaggeration. However, I assure you... it would not have been out of place.

I rolled down my window, greeted him, explained that I had deposited a $20 bill in the green mailbox and taken a pile of wood. He sort of grunted that that was fine, and off he drove and off we drove.


The wood shack and its proprietor.

The other memorable thing about the drive itself was our time passing through military towns. There was a stretch of a few miles where all of the fences bordering the highway had been covered by hand-made signs welcoming home various service men and women. They were brightly colored and heartfelt. We noticed that in one of these towns, almost every other building was a barber specializing in military haircuts. There were more barbers than restaurants. It gave the town a very strange feel indeed.

I close this entry with a photograph or two of the building about a block or two from our hotel. It's a US military building, and it's rather sad, worn and defeated in appearance. I think the message painted on the ramp which I suppose may sometimes display a nice heavy artillery vehicle or something similarly imposing and somehow "cool" says it all:

"All This and College Tuition."

It's too late for me now, what with my weight problems and my age... but to think I took out loans to go to UCLA when I had THIS as an option!

Nothing better to do

There I sat. The bench was hard and cold. The light, inadequate. Still, it was just enough to read by if I held my music at the proper angle. When I realized that, I suddenly deeply regretted lacking the foresight to bring along my library book. Rehearsal had been over for about 10 minutes, and Daniel had been gone for about 40. I was growing bored and needed something to do, so I picked up one of my many sheets of music and debated whether to attempt to sing some Charpentier under my breath.

The only light actually situated in the room was several feet away, at the opposite corner, above the desk where the guard, an off-duty sheriff, tan uniformed, a bit thick through the middle, distinctly bored, and rather obviously gun-carrying, also sat and waited. For him the wait was about the hands on the clock. At 10:30 he could lock up. For me, the wait was about something a bit more difficult to pin down. Sometime in the next hour Daniel would reappear, having picked up a friend who was fresh off a plane from Los Angeles.

The guard and I had already discussed his plight and mine. It was decided that since it really wasn't safe for me to walk anywhere else to wait, and since waiting outside wasn't any safer, if Daniel hadn't appeared by 10:30, the guard would drop me off at a pub nearby that might keep late enough hours that I could duck inside and out of harm's way to finish my wait. I would call Daniel and tell him where to find me, and it would all work out somehow.

In the meantime, I waited there in the foyer of the old Arts building. It was roomy and mostly made of glass. It had the look of an edifice intended to make an impression -- large, angular, strong lines that promise strength and beauty. There was plenty of glass and metal. Lately, the only impression the interior of the place gives is that it really needs some care. The hard lines have gone soft with age. The carpet is worn and ragged. The walls have taken on an institutional pallor more fitting for a hospital than a theater or gallery. A sign at the doorway leading into the rest of the building proclaims the intent to refurbish. In the meantime, though, the place is somewhat gloomy.

My bench was up against one of the glass walls to the exterior of the building, and the light that I read by was that of a street lamp filtered by the leaves of a tree. My eyes strained to distinguish the notes in the dappled light. I had decided to sing as quietly as I could, but the little bit of noise I was making soon became uncomfortable for me. Although I had needed to raise my voice to make myself heard by the guard when he had asked me some inane question moments earlier, I felt too exposed to muddle through the baroque masterpiece with an audience, even one as unlikely to listen or even hear as the present company. When I glanced up, I noticed that most of the time he was lost in his thought, staring off into the distance behind me, and his look varied between boredom and pain. He was aware of my presence, but I was clearly the least of his worries.

Determined to keep my mind and hands occupied, I settled on whispering rhythms, gently tapping my hand or my foot to keep the beat steady as I navigated the eighth and sixteenth notes with the dexterity and subtlety of an elephant climbing stairs. Thus I remained, drilling the more difficult passages in fits and starts, until the last people had trickled out of the building and the pale blue display on my cell phone indicated that 45 minutes had passed and 10:30 had come.

I lowered my music to my lap and looked expectantly up at the guard. For his part, he wandered near me and inquired as to when I had last heard from my husband and when I thought he would arrive. My wait was perhaps just 10 minutes longer, so the guard decided to wait there with me. Just the two of us, tired and bored in a big, empty building, with nothing better to do than wait.

"How long have you been married?"
I started a little, wondering at the simultaneously personal and casual tone of his question.
"Five years last month."
"My wife just left me after 23 years."*
"Oh. I'm very sorry." What does one say?
"Her name is Kelly. Look out the window behind you there."
I turned, and there on the next building over was the name of some business "Kelly ..." I didn't catch the rest. The rest hardly mattered. Speechless, I looked back at him and put my music down on the sloppy pile next to me.

"We met some new people. They have money. Lots of money. I don't. One of the women is young and worth millions. She goes both ways, if you know what I mean. Well, Kelly started hanging out with the woman more and more. Fine, I thought. She's found friends... and one of the men, I think, though I can't be sure... I think she may have left me for ..."

"I didn't see it coming. I had no idea... We were childhood sweethearts... we'd known each other since we were in third grade...

"I've never lived alone before... the house is so quiet..."

I interjected into his story now and then a quiet concerned murmur or a reflective question, as he filled in the details of the house, the kids, the bills, the history ... he talked on like nobody had listened in a long time. Perhaps nobody had. I was a captive audience, and he was in need of one.

"I think that may be your husband now." It had been eight minutes. He gestured to a car just pulling up outside. Indeed, it was him, with our friend, just as expected. I gathered up my things and left out the door that he had opened for me. "See you next Monday," he said.

"Yes, uh, I suppose you will. Take care."

I walked out to the car to join my faithful, constant husband who had, as he always does, come for me as promised. The guard went about the business of closing up for the night, before driving in silence to his empty house.

I'm not sure why. Sometimes it mystifies me. But I seem to be the hearer of stories everywhere I go. Stories like this one -- so often offered freely, unsolicited. Ordinary stories about ordinary people made extraordinary only by the details that separate each one of us. It has happened countless times. Almost without fail, whenever I sit or stand alone with nothing better to do, someone comes to me with a story to tell... usually a sad one.

Listening is powerful, too, it would seem. Once, in college, I listened to a stranger selling magazines, who then proposed marriage on the spot. He'd take me to Arkansas with him. We could leave right away.

I declined.

Sometimes listening is uncomfortable, but I don't have the heart to silence the storytellers. I feel too much for them and understand all too well the need to unburden one's soul through words. Simone Weil says, “Difficult as it is really to listen to someone in affliction, it is just as difficult for him to know that compassion is listening to him.” Difficult, yes... but somehow freeing and cleansing. For both, perhaps. I'm not sure if this, listening when perhaps nobody else will, is the gift I offer other people, or if this spontaneous trust is somehow their gift to me. Perhaps it is a gift we give to each other.

I do know one thing. When the sun goes down in my life, as from time to time it does, I pray someone will be there, sitting quietly in the darkness... with nothing better to do than to listen to me.

*The details have been changed.

Introducing Talia Rose

Talia Rose
Born 3:37 am, August 15, 2007
21 inches, 8 pounds, 13 ounces
to Erin (Nikki's sister) and Jon

"What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet..."

As it happens, this particular rosebud has a very special name.

Talia is a name with dual meanings, "lamb" (from Aramaic) or "dew from heaven" in Hebrew, and "blooming" or "flourishing" in Greek. (This is the bit that mattered to her mommy and daddy).

While I doubt her parents know it, Talia is also the Portuguese name for a lovely white wine grape, and, in the Sicilian dialect of Italian, the word means "I wish" or "Look!" depending on who you ask.

Talia is also sometimes the anglicized form of "Thalia" -- the Greek muse of comedy.

With all the richness of her name in mind, I wish for this precious little lamb, a life of laughter and joy, and that she may bloom in ever-changing beauty like a rose, and grow in character and depth with age like a fine wine, so that all who see her may be drawn to her ("Look!") and find in her the refreshing dew of the divine.

It's a girl!

My sister Erin gave birth in the wee small hours of the morning to a not so wee small baby (8 pounds 13 ounces and 21 inches). Everyone is healthy, though I hear the new mom and dad are more than a little tired. Meanwhile, those of us who can't be there to see the newest addition of the family in person are eagerly awaiting the announcement of her name and lots of pictures.

When I have more to offer by way of photos and name, I will post again. In the meantime, here's a picture of what the little one looked like about 7 weeks ago. Of course, it's a bit hard to see her in the photo, but you can see the effect she had on her mommy. :D

All the Heart he Needs

Justin is only a day old, but he's not wasting time when it comes to making an impact on other people's lives. Like every baby, he overflows with the newness and simplicity and beauty that brings out smiles and the softer, gentler side of grown-ups. Unlike most babies, Justin suffers from a severe congenital heart defect and will have to undergo surgery in the first days of his life.

It's not clear what the future holds for him -- how much he will suffer, how much he will overcome, how much he will accomplish -- and that's hard to think about. I don't claim to really understand why some of us are chosen to endure hardships that others of us will never face, but I do believe it all somehow figures into a plan that is much larger than our limited perspectives. I don't understand, but I am grateful for the way this little gift of God has already challenged my thinking and allowed me to glimpse God's faithfulness in and through circumstances we would not have chosen for ourselves and those we love.

If you pray, please pray for Justin and his family. They keep a blog here, updated as often as is practical. I would invite you to visit it to see Justin's picture and read more about his situation. His family has bravely chosen to make their very personal struggle public in hopes that it will encourage or help others whose loved ones are born with serious challenges like Justin's.

While medical science tells us that Justin's heart is imperfect, the truth is that he is a perfect creation of God with all the heart he needs to be an inspiration and a joy to others.