I know that I'm writing less and less, but this time it's because of something besides laziness and lack of inspiration. I received a letter from my Internet service provider informing me that last month my Internet account used over 60 more GB than normal. It went on to explain that that could be caused by several things, all of them terrible. Viruses and spyware were the first listed and that scared me so bad that I can't even think about it. This is my one computer, if something happens to it, or if it needs to be repaired for some reason, that's the end of my relationship with pretty much everyone I know. What makes me fearful is the fact that every time I check my email I have about 1,000 "returned mail" emails, informing me that my message "Tits (expletive) cum (expletive, expletive) dick" could not be delivered. These emails are NOT from me. Where are they coming from? Who is doing this? And, most importantly, how can it be stopped? Could that be what is causing this increase in Internet usage? I suspect this could be the problem. In the time it's taken me to write this I've gotten five of these emails. Now six.
The other cause listed in the letter is that if you have a wireless router (which I do) I may have unauthorized users logging on to my account. When I set up the router I was on the phone with India for about two hours and was exhausted and in tears most of that time. By the time the Internet was working, I didn't want to mess with anything else, anything else being setting up a password protected account. That is not a mistake I will soon make again. I imagine all of my neighbors having wild Internet parties where all the guests are told to bring their computers and hand-held devices for a night of YouTube and porn compliments of the sucker who is actually paying for Internet. I attempted yesterday - when I had Internet - to secure my account and now I don't have Internet. None of us have Internet. I don't know what happened. I managed to lock the account, but now even I can't get in.
Other causes include innocuous things such as someone leaving a streaming music player on or a newsreader set to automatically download message bodies. I suspect my problem is one of the two things I mentioned above, or a combination of the two, or as my attitude towards my thieving neighbors grows increasingly hostile, one was somehow caused by the other. How else would such explicit stuff be being sent from my virgin computer?
Right now I'm sitting on the floor in front of the TV tethered to the modem. Story is on my back "driving a truck." I just wanted to send out this urgent call to the more computer literate masses. I can't go another round with India tonight. How is this happening and how can this be fixed? My back is hurting and don't care to sit on the floor and angrily pound at my keyboard any longer. Although I guess it is my fault for not securing my Internet account... I'll be checking my email when I can.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Eating out in rural Arkansas
Once you drive past all the towns large enough to offer restaurants like Denny's and Cracker Barrel, you will find one of two things: A tiny place set into the side of a cliff with a breathtaking view of the mountains in the springtime, or the Memory Lane Cafe. I imagine the Memory Lane Cafe started out as a woman in a kitchen who made good hamburgers. Then maybe she got her Big Idea, bought a small house and converted it into a place that could eek through a restaurant inspection. As popularity grew so did the haphazard additions marked by uneven floors and single doorways connecting them to the rest of the establishment. That's what I was thinking about when the waitress came in to replace the three burnt-out light bulbs above our table and I realized I was actually sitting in a small shed with one doorway to the original dining area, one doorway to the newer "Game Room" and one doorway outside with a doorbell sound to alert the staff that someone has just come in the back.
The menu at the Memory Lane Cafe is what you might expect, hamburgers mainly, but what is exciting is the selection of things not otherwise ever fried. The fried pickles are always good, but can be found in a lot of places now. I got the fried green beans. With a side of ranch dressing. It seemed like the healthiest choice, and I would never get on my high horse to order a salad or seasonal fruit in a place like that anyway. I don't care for the "so you think you're better than me?"-look. Best just to try to fit in.
On the walls were things that might take you down memory lane, if your particular lane went straight to Graceland. There were the typical lacquered tree-trunk-clocks with airbrushed Elvis, but there were also photographs of Elvis with grease stains on them that had finally been taken down from above the stove of a person whose lane might really have lead to Graceland and put in a frame for all to see. There were drawings of Marilyn, and lunch boxes with Buddy, all the typical "Memory Lane" stuff. In addition to the memorabilia there were posters for local events and community projects, such as the "Eating Our Way to Proficiency!" program with the local grade school, and the upcoming "Donkey Basketball" event. That one had to be explained to me. The donkeys don't play basketball, people do-riding donkeys. People attend because it's funny. Also funny is that while the rest of the country takes on the childhood obesity epidemic, we're eating our way to proficiency and playing basketball riding on donkeys.
It was nice though to sit there and listen to the people around me, especially right before lunch time. Everyone knows each other, of course. Most of them come there every day. When a couple walks in the woman requests the seat facing the door, "in case anyone I know walks in." The Memory Lane Cafe was more of a curiosity to me, but for the people who eat there it really is a kind of time capsule. They've lived in that town their whole lives and knew everyone who walked in the door, their parents, and their children. Curious though it was, it seemed like the familiarity could be kind of comforting. It would have to be, right? It made me kind of want that life, just the knowing what to expect out of every day and every person. That might have just been the ranch dressing talking though. Everything is better with a side of ranch dressing.
The menu at the Memory Lane Cafe is what you might expect, hamburgers mainly, but what is exciting is the selection of things not otherwise ever fried. The fried pickles are always good, but can be found in a lot of places now. I got the fried green beans. With a side of ranch dressing. It seemed like the healthiest choice, and I would never get on my high horse to order a salad or seasonal fruit in a place like that anyway. I don't care for the "so you think you're better than me?"-look. Best just to try to fit in.
On the walls were things that might take you down memory lane, if your particular lane went straight to Graceland. There were the typical lacquered tree-trunk-clocks with airbrushed Elvis, but there were also photographs of Elvis with grease stains on them that had finally been taken down from above the stove of a person whose lane might really have lead to Graceland and put in a frame for all to see. There were drawings of Marilyn, and lunch boxes with Buddy, all the typical "Memory Lane" stuff. In addition to the memorabilia there were posters for local events and community projects, such as the "Eating Our Way to Proficiency!" program with the local grade school, and the upcoming "Donkey Basketball" event. That one had to be explained to me. The donkeys don't play basketball, people do-riding donkeys. People attend because it's funny. Also funny is that while the rest of the country takes on the childhood obesity epidemic, we're eating our way to proficiency and playing basketball riding on donkeys.
It was nice though to sit there and listen to the people around me, especially right before lunch time. Everyone knows each other, of course. Most of them come there every day. When a couple walks in the woman requests the seat facing the door, "in case anyone I know walks in." The Memory Lane Cafe was more of a curiosity to me, but for the people who eat there it really is a kind of time capsule. They've lived in that town their whole lives and knew everyone who walked in the door, their parents, and their children. Curious though it was, it seemed like the familiarity could be kind of comforting. It would have to be, right? It made me kind of want that life, just the knowing what to expect out of every day and every person. That might have just been the ranch dressing talking though. Everything is better with a side of ranch dressing.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Springtime
Once again, it's been a long time since I've written anything. Mostly that's because I've been lazy and have had nothing to write about. About the time I started feeling guilty and getting serious about writing something, I got sick. It started last week when I was getting headaches everyday. It's been years since I've gotten headaches on anything like a regular basis and I attributed it to the horrifying green wind that we get down here this time of year. I think it's the pine that irradiates everything with its pollen stuff. About this time of year everything is green, and not the good "everything is so GREEN!"-green like you might get in the Pacific Northwest. The worst is the cars, everyone's car is coated with a thick powder that looks like pale moss. It's awful. I feel safe in saying that that is why I was getting headaches. Then the headaches turned into a persistent cough and congestion, which I called "really bad allergies." I never had allergies until I moved down here, but Arkansas will test even the most healthy. And that got worse and worse and worse, quickly. My whole body ached, I was going to sleep at 8:00 every night, my eyes felt swollen shut, on and on.
I have a thing about going to the doctor. I don't like doing it. I'm not totally against doctors in general, it's just a major inconvenience and I never seem to get out of the office without a prescription for antibiotics. I do have a thing against antibiotics. I think their over-prescription is contributing to the very real possibility of some sort of virulent superbug that will wipe out most of the world population. Plus I feel like they throw my whole body out of balance and it takes a month of eating yogurt to get all the internal flora back in order. The major inconvenience is mainly because I don't have a "regular" doctor. I only get sick once a year and it's about this time of year and it's always bronchitis and I have no need for an annual physical, so when I get sick I call the local clinic and they squeeze me in to see whatever doctor is on call. Which means I spend two hours sitting in the waiting room.
So yesterday every breath felt like it was ripping my lungs in half. I could hardly swallow anymore and would have liked to cough, but couldn't for fear that my whole head might explode. I called the doctor. As usual it was a doctor I had never seen before. I think I waited about a day too long because I couldn't do anything but calculate my odds of being the next person called the whole hour-and-a-half I was in the waiting room. I watched people and figured the probability of them being a regularly scheduled patient (who will go in before me) or someone who, like me had called in to take their chances (who will only go in before me if they got there before me). I counted the number of people who went in versus the number of people who came out. "Why aren't they calling someone, I know there's an empty room back there!" It was all I could do. I was desperate to get through those doors.
The doctor on call yesterday was a woman. Most women down here seem to be either gynecologists or pediatricians, so it was nice to actually have a woman doctor treating me, looking in my mouth. She didn't take any x-rays or anything, which they usually do on my annual bronchitis visits, but I guess she pretty much had the case closed when she opened my chart and saw my history. All she had to do was listen to my lungs and ask me how I was feeling. I left with an inhaler and some antibiotics.
I'm feeling a little bit better today. I've got to go to the store and buy some yogurt, but at least I'm starting to feel up to it. I'll try to write more regularly. Thanks for sticking with me.
I have a thing about going to the doctor. I don't like doing it. I'm not totally against doctors in general, it's just a major inconvenience and I never seem to get out of the office without a prescription for antibiotics. I do have a thing against antibiotics. I think their over-prescription is contributing to the very real possibility of some sort of virulent superbug that will wipe out most of the world population. Plus I feel like they throw my whole body out of balance and it takes a month of eating yogurt to get all the internal flora back in order. The major inconvenience is mainly because I don't have a "regular" doctor. I only get sick once a year and it's about this time of year and it's always bronchitis and I have no need for an annual physical, so when I get sick I call the local clinic and they squeeze me in to see whatever doctor is on call. Which means I spend two hours sitting in the waiting room.
So yesterday every breath felt like it was ripping my lungs in half. I could hardly swallow anymore and would have liked to cough, but couldn't for fear that my whole head might explode. I called the doctor. As usual it was a doctor I had never seen before. I think I waited about a day too long because I couldn't do anything but calculate my odds of being the next person called the whole hour-and-a-half I was in the waiting room. I watched people and figured the probability of them being a regularly scheduled patient (who will go in before me) or someone who, like me had called in to take their chances (who will only go in before me if they got there before me). I counted the number of people who went in versus the number of people who came out. "Why aren't they calling someone, I know there's an empty room back there!" It was all I could do. I was desperate to get through those doors.
The doctor on call yesterday was a woman. Most women down here seem to be either gynecologists or pediatricians, so it was nice to actually have a woman doctor treating me, looking in my mouth. She didn't take any x-rays or anything, which they usually do on my annual bronchitis visits, but I guess she pretty much had the case closed when she opened my chart and saw my history. All she had to do was listen to my lungs and ask me how I was feeling. I left with an inhaler and some antibiotics.
I'm feeling a little bit better today. I've got to go to the store and buy some yogurt, but at least I'm starting to feel up to it. I'll try to write more regularly. Thanks for sticking with me.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Small things that make me feel like everything might be okay
I can't remember a time in my life when I thought "I can't believe I'm getting paid to do this!" Any time I've ever been paid to do anything it's been something horrifying that you'd have to pay me to do, like calling people and asking them to give me money for handicapped people whom I've never met, or driving out past the civilized world of cell phone reception and down into a canyon in order to get out of the safety of my car, hike up an un-passable drive, to a trailer home with the door open just wide enough for me to see someone shove something out of my line of sight, and say "Hi! I'm here on behalf of the US Government!" Those are things that you have to pay me to do, and no matter what you're paying me, I feel like I'm getting cheated.
So it was new and exciting the other day when I was driving out to Dover, Ark. on a delivery when I caught myself thinking "I'm getting paid for this!" The weather had just turned nice so I had the windows rolled down, the radio was playing something like Steve Miller Band, and I was on a long stretch of road, going somewhere, doing something - and getting paid. Usually I'm getting paid to sit in an office and look at columns of numbers, which I certainly don't complain about. I like the people I work with, I have my own desk, and the freedom to do pretty much whatever I want as long as I get my work done as well. And the actual work isn't that bad. It's not studying lost manuscripts in a language only I understand or impressing the world with my creative spirit - but it's close. And it's the best thing I can hope for right now. And it offers me the opportunity to sometimes, if one of the delivery people calls in, deliver parts and listen to the radio in a car I don't own, whose gas I don't buy.
Most of the time my life makes me feel like I'm trying to run through deep sand, choking on my lack of self-confidence and inability to communicate along the way. I worry a lot about how I'm going to get through all the days that are left, which at my age could be very many. And driving to McAlister's Station, I wasn't worrying about all of that. I wasn't worrying about anything. I was just driving, moving fast and easy, cheerful and calm. I was relieved to find that, at that particular moment, despite the many things that stress me out, all it took for me to be happy was a beat-up Chevy with no air or floorboards and a person in need of some shop towels and a blower motor switch. And surely the world will never run out of those two things.
So it was new and exciting the other day when I was driving out to Dover, Ark. on a delivery when I caught myself thinking "I'm getting paid for this!" The weather had just turned nice so I had the windows rolled down, the radio was playing something like Steve Miller Band, and I was on a long stretch of road, going somewhere, doing something - and getting paid. Usually I'm getting paid to sit in an office and look at columns of numbers, which I certainly don't complain about. I like the people I work with, I have my own desk, and the freedom to do pretty much whatever I want as long as I get my work done as well. And the actual work isn't that bad. It's not studying lost manuscripts in a language only I understand or impressing the world with my creative spirit - but it's close. And it's the best thing I can hope for right now. And it offers me the opportunity to sometimes, if one of the delivery people calls in, deliver parts and listen to the radio in a car I don't own, whose gas I don't buy.
Most of the time my life makes me feel like I'm trying to run through deep sand, choking on my lack of self-confidence and inability to communicate along the way. I worry a lot about how I'm going to get through all the days that are left, which at my age could be very many. And driving to McAlister's Station, I wasn't worrying about all of that. I wasn't worrying about anything. I was just driving, moving fast and easy, cheerful and calm. I was relieved to find that, at that particular moment, despite the many things that stress me out, all it took for me to be happy was a beat-up Chevy with no air or floorboards and a person in need of some shop towels and a blower motor switch. And surely the world will never run out of those two things.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Spark!
When I was sitting in my office today I thought I had a great idea. Something fun, interesting. At the time I couldn't wait to get home and share my idea with everyone and now that I am home I'm feeling a little self-conscious. But I'm going to share my idea anyway.
Stanley Milgram was a social psychologist. He went to Harvard and was a professor at Yale. And he conducted two of the two experiments that I remember studying in my psychology classes. One was, simply, "The Milgram Experiment." That's the one about obedience and authority, morals and personal responsibility, in which participants willingly administered 450 volt shocks to another person, who in these experiments was an actor pretending to be electrocuted by the fake shocks - but the actual participant didn't know that as he was steadily turning that dial higher and higher. It's memorable, and worth reading about. I tried to attach a link, but I can't figure out how to do it. Just look up "Milgram Experiment" on Wikipedia. I know there's an extra step there because I'm computer illiterate, but it really is very interesting.
The other one is his "Small World Experiment." That's the one that taught us all about the six degrees of separation. He sent packages to 160 random people living in Omaha, Nebraska with instructions to forward them on to someone who they thought would get the package closer to this one particular person, unknown to them, a stockbroker in Boston, Massachusetts. In the experiment it took an average of six people to get the package to him. Thus, we live in a small world where we're only six people away from anyone.
Here's the idea: Since I'm financially, emotionally, and in most other ways stuck in Arkansas, let's play. Six degrees of separation, that is. I'll write the name of someone who I want to contact me and every one of you reading this (all 10 of you) think of someone you know who could get my message one degree closer. Let's see how long it takes. I mean, if you're interested. I'll start easy. Someone not famous. Someone who is probably local to most of you. The person who actually started this whole thought process for me was Dr. Fred Durer. He is the doctor who delivered my seven-year-old, Adam. I liked him a lot and I was thinking that, if I delivered babies for a living, I would be desperately curious about what these babies were like as children and adults. I wanted to tell him that Adam is an artist, and that he's really good at building things with Legos, very focused and serious, and that his hair still isn't dark like mine.
I could Google him, or give his office a call, but I don't need to actually have a phone conversation with him, and I could write a letter, but I'm not a savage, if I don't have your email address I can't write to you. I don't even think I own any paper. So what I need is the email address for Dr. Fred Durer. Or better yet, slip my email address, somehow, into his pocket with a note about how it got there. Maybe that's too creepy, I just thought that rather than getting information back to me through the chain it would be easier to just have the information going one way. That would be a bit too much like telephone and we all know how that ends up. I'm usually too embarrassed to even say what I think I heard. Okay, information going one way. Get him my email address, surely he'll be curious enough about this crazy experiment to contact me. He'll really have no idea who I am, so we better clarify that I was a patient and he delivered my son. Also, I'm married and an entire state away, so there's no funny stuff going on. That's your task. I send you out into the world, each by your own paths, in search of this one man. And how much more special will he feel knowing that a whole army of bored people who waste work hours reading their friend's blogs have been mobilized on his behalf, instead of a nice card? I'm excited. I am the spark that becomes the flame, the stone that causes the ripple that becomes the crashing wave! We can do this!
If this works, we'll try someone else. It's doesn't have to be all about me either, give me ideas. Who do you want to draw near in six degrees? How about Kevin Bacon?
Stanley Milgram was a social psychologist. He went to Harvard and was a professor at Yale. And he conducted two of the two experiments that I remember studying in my psychology classes. One was, simply, "The Milgram Experiment." That's the one about obedience and authority, morals and personal responsibility, in which participants willingly administered 450 volt shocks to another person, who in these experiments was an actor pretending to be electrocuted by the fake shocks - but the actual participant didn't know that as he was steadily turning that dial higher and higher. It's memorable, and worth reading about. I tried to attach a link, but I can't figure out how to do it. Just look up "Milgram Experiment" on Wikipedia. I know there's an extra step there because I'm computer illiterate, but it really is very interesting.
The other one is his "Small World Experiment." That's the one that taught us all about the six degrees of separation. He sent packages to 160 random people living in Omaha, Nebraska with instructions to forward them on to someone who they thought would get the package closer to this one particular person, unknown to them, a stockbroker in Boston, Massachusetts. In the experiment it took an average of six people to get the package to him. Thus, we live in a small world where we're only six people away from anyone.
Here's the idea: Since I'm financially, emotionally, and in most other ways stuck in Arkansas, let's play. Six degrees of separation, that is. I'll write the name of someone who I want to contact me and every one of you reading this (all 10 of you) think of someone you know who could get my message one degree closer. Let's see how long it takes. I mean, if you're interested. I'll start easy. Someone not famous. Someone who is probably local to most of you. The person who actually started this whole thought process for me was Dr. Fred Durer. He is the doctor who delivered my seven-year-old, Adam. I liked him a lot and I was thinking that, if I delivered babies for a living, I would be desperately curious about what these babies were like as children and adults. I wanted to tell him that Adam is an artist, and that he's really good at building things with Legos, very focused and serious, and that his hair still isn't dark like mine.
I could Google him, or give his office a call, but I don't need to actually have a phone conversation with him, and I could write a letter, but I'm not a savage, if I don't have your email address I can't write to you. I don't even think I own any paper. So what I need is the email address for Dr. Fred Durer. Or better yet, slip my email address, somehow, into his pocket with a note about how it got there. Maybe that's too creepy, I just thought that rather than getting information back to me through the chain it would be easier to just have the information going one way. That would be a bit too much like telephone and we all know how that ends up. I'm usually too embarrassed to even say what I think I heard. Okay, information going one way. Get him my email address, surely he'll be curious enough about this crazy experiment to contact me. He'll really have no idea who I am, so we better clarify that I was a patient and he delivered my son. Also, I'm married and an entire state away, so there's no funny stuff going on. That's your task. I send you out into the world, each by your own paths, in search of this one man. And how much more special will he feel knowing that a whole army of bored people who waste work hours reading their friend's blogs have been mobilized on his behalf, instead of a nice card? I'm excited. I am the spark that becomes the flame, the stone that causes the ripple that becomes the crashing wave! We can do this!
If this works, we'll try someone else. It's doesn't have to be all about me either, give me ideas. Who do you want to draw near in six degrees? How about Kevin Bacon?
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
My Family
It was only once I had kids that I started thinking about family in terms other than "people who share the same last name as me." As a kid you don't realize that not every family is like yours. Then once you get older you start experiencing holidays with other people and one day someone passes you stuffing that isn't from a box, and you understand that every family is different. At least that's how it happened for me.
I just got back from a trip to Houston to visit my sister, aunt, uncle, grandmother and grandfather. Dad and Adam also flew down from Chicago. This was the first time I'd seen some of them in about five years. It was interesting, in my late-blooming adulthood, to try to make sense of my family in the context of "people who contributed to the person I am today."
Grandmother reads. Their house is filled with books. She recently quit reading a book because the first line was not a complete sentence. She looks pretty much the same to me as she always has, she's gotten cuter. I think because she's gotten so thin her eyes look really big and blue and she's got this little button nose that I wish I had inherited. Grandfather is full of purpose, always has been. I remember watching him open the shades in the kitchen as a kid. I have no idea why this struck me or why I remember it to this day, but he did it so slowly and carefully. The whole wall is windows, so there were a lot of shades and he opened each one so seriously and perfectly. Most people would kind of rush through opening that many shades, and not really pay attention as they were doing it. Not my Grandfather.
My Uncle Mike and Aunt Moira live in my great grandmother's old house. We called her Muddie. I still don't know why, I'm one of the youngest of the great grandkids, so the name was there long before I came along. She lived until she was 106. She was a school teacher and had long hair that she always wore in a bun, sometimes with braids. We went to see the house and get cold Cokes and ice cream sandwiches. Muddie always had cold cokes and ice cream sandwiches and it's a requirement now that anyone living in that house offer them to family members stopping by. There is a doorframe where she used to mark our heights. It's mostly faded, but the best I could tell was that someone was about three feet tall on March 18, 1981. Uncle Mike told the story of my great grandfather who woke up one morning and exclaimed "someone cut down a corner tree!" He was looking at his ceiling made of wooden planks. One of them had three notches cut into it and being a land surveyor he knew that the corner of a property was marked by three notches in a tree. And sure enough, there it was, the plank with three notches.
Looking at that plank, I kind of realized that this was not a story about a person very different and far away from me, like most of the stories I hear or tell. This was a story about a person who is part of me, who might like to know me, who might find it interesting that I get cold in 75-degree weather or that I have dark brown eyes. It made me proud that I've got the blood of a man who can look at a piece of notched wood and tell you that someone is now wondering where the edge of their property is. Furthermore, a small bit of a woman who lived in three centuries lives on in me. There's a part of me that, if cultivated a little bit, has that certainty and confidence of a man who opens shades in a way that makes it memorable to a 13-year-old. And, if not the cute button nose, there's a perfectionism in me of a woman who closes a book after finding that a sentence is not complete. I am my father, in a diluted form, who is a writer like his mother reads and like his father closes blinds, thoughtfully and with certainty, and I am my mother who, when asked what he writes and she loses the words, does something that totally sums up who he is AND who she is. She holds her hand to his chest and says, "he writes this."
Family is not just a shotgun blast of people who share the same last name after all, then. I'm not sure yet in what ratios all these little elements come together in me, but they're all there and that makes me proud. Not that my family is better than yours, but it is mine and it's comforting. Thank you, family.
I just got back from a trip to Houston to visit my sister, aunt, uncle, grandmother and grandfather. Dad and Adam also flew down from Chicago. This was the first time I'd seen some of them in about five years. It was interesting, in my late-blooming adulthood, to try to make sense of my family in the context of "people who contributed to the person I am today."
Grandmother reads. Their house is filled with books. She recently quit reading a book because the first line was not a complete sentence. She looks pretty much the same to me as she always has, she's gotten cuter. I think because she's gotten so thin her eyes look really big and blue and she's got this little button nose that I wish I had inherited. Grandfather is full of purpose, always has been. I remember watching him open the shades in the kitchen as a kid. I have no idea why this struck me or why I remember it to this day, but he did it so slowly and carefully. The whole wall is windows, so there were a lot of shades and he opened each one so seriously and perfectly. Most people would kind of rush through opening that many shades, and not really pay attention as they were doing it. Not my Grandfather.
My Uncle Mike and Aunt Moira live in my great grandmother's old house. We called her Muddie. I still don't know why, I'm one of the youngest of the great grandkids, so the name was there long before I came along. She lived until she was 106. She was a school teacher and had long hair that she always wore in a bun, sometimes with braids. We went to see the house and get cold Cokes and ice cream sandwiches. Muddie always had cold cokes and ice cream sandwiches and it's a requirement now that anyone living in that house offer them to family members stopping by. There is a doorframe where she used to mark our heights. It's mostly faded, but the best I could tell was that someone was about three feet tall on March 18, 1981. Uncle Mike told the story of my great grandfather who woke up one morning and exclaimed "someone cut down a corner tree!" He was looking at his ceiling made of wooden planks. One of them had three notches cut into it and being a land surveyor he knew that the corner of a property was marked by three notches in a tree. And sure enough, there it was, the plank with three notches.
Looking at that plank, I kind of realized that this was not a story about a person very different and far away from me, like most of the stories I hear or tell. This was a story about a person who is part of me, who might like to know me, who might find it interesting that I get cold in 75-degree weather or that I have dark brown eyes. It made me proud that I've got the blood of a man who can look at a piece of notched wood and tell you that someone is now wondering where the edge of their property is. Furthermore, a small bit of a woman who lived in three centuries lives on in me. There's a part of me that, if cultivated a little bit, has that certainty and confidence of a man who opens shades in a way that makes it memorable to a 13-year-old. And, if not the cute button nose, there's a perfectionism in me of a woman who closes a book after finding that a sentence is not complete. I am my father, in a diluted form, who is a writer like his mother reads and like his father closes blinds, thoughtfully and with certainty, and I am my mother who, when asked what he writes and she loses the words, does something that totally sums up who he is AND who she is. She holds her hand to his chest and says, "he writes this."
Family is not just a shotgun blast of people who share the same last name after all, then. I'm not sure yet in what ratios all these little elements come together in me, but they're all there and that makes me proud. Not that my family is better than yours, but it is mine and it's comforting. Thank you, family.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Umami
I know that it's been a very long time since I've last written anything. That's partially because I missed so much work from the snow that when I went back, I worked long hours (from approximately 9-5) to catch up and partially because another of our delivery drivers had to leave for a family emergency and that left me to do both my job and her job for an incredible eight hours a day. I hit the ground running every morning and hit the bed with equal enthusiasm each night. I have delivery stories to tell, and a very funny idea about what Lil Jon, Ludacris, and Usher would have to say about me delivering auto parts in rural Arkansas listening to their music ("WHAAAT?" says Lil Jon), but what I want to write about tonight is the Academy Awards, and more specifically, the rowing scene in "The Social Network."
I'll start with the definition for "Umami." It is one of the five tastes, together with sweet, sour, bitter and salty. It is popularly referred to as "savoriness." Honey is sweet, lemons are sour, coffee is bitter, and pretzels are salty. Umami is a little different, it simply adds body to food, gives them heft. It is the difference between Sam's Choice Cola and Coca Cola. I buy Sam's Choice because it's cheaper, but I prefer Coke. I thought it was the packaging or the advertising, or the desire to pass up the cheaper product for the name brand, but it turns out it's umami. Coke has it, Sam's Choice doesn't. There are people who study this, who make a living tasting food and determining this quality. For me it's more vague, it's just this imperceptible balance that you can't quite define, but you know you crave. It's a kind of perfection, this thing you seek without knowing exactly what you're looking for. And when you find it, you know it.
Since I learned the definition of umami, or rather, since I learned of the concept of umami, I've found myself applying it to everything. I'm fascinated by it. My favorite pair of jeans has umami. That song "If I Had a Boat," by Lyle Lovett has umami. John Hannah reading W.H. Auden's "Funeral Blues" in "Four Weddings and a Funeral" has umami. The rowing scene in "The Social Network" has umami. I saw the movie a few weeks ago. I saw it because I like Jesse Eisenberg and I was excited to see what Trent Reznor would do with a movie score. I liked it because it turns out that Mark Zuckerburg is one of those people who are such geniuses at what they do that they are totally mystified by human behavior and because of the rowing scene. I'm going to do my technologically-disinclined best to upload a link to this scene here so you can see what I'm talking about.
The whole movie is pretty good, but this scene stands alone. It's a very simple scene. They're just racing boats. The song is very simple. We've all heard the tune so many times I can't remember where it originally came from. It's recognizable, but somehow sinister - which I like. I've watched it several times trying to figure out why it gives me chills. I'm not sure, but I think it's this: If you'll watch, the entire scene has a rhythm. It follows a beat. Everything works together, the images, the acting, the editing, the sound, like in those few minutes everyone put forth their very best effort at the thing they're best at, purely, and it all came together like a dance.
Even after writing this I'm not sure what to make of umami, or if I'm describing it right. Maybe, in the larger, Annie's-over-thinking-things sense, it's different things to different people. Certain things just resonate with some people. For me it's my Gap jeans, it's a songwriter singing a simple song about riding a pony on his boat, it's "He was my North, my South, my East, and West, My working week and Sunday rest" in a Scottish accent. It's people rowing boats to a song we already know, and finishing a sentence, taking a hot bath and going to sleep.
Thanks for sticking with me, those of you still reading. I'll try to be better about posting more regularly.
I'll start with the definition for "Umami." It is one of the five tastes, together with sweet, sour, bitter and salty. It is popularly referred to as "savoriness." Honey is sweet, lemons are sour, coffee is bitter, and pretzels are salty. Umami is a little different, it simply adds body to food, gives them heft. It is the difference between Sam's Choice Cola and Coca Cola. I buy Sam's Choice because it's cheaper, but I prefer Coke. I thought it was the packaging or the advertising, or the desire to pass up the cheaper product for the name brand, but it turns out it's umami. Coke has it, Sam's Choice doesn't. There are people who study this, who make a living tasting food and determining this quality. For me it's more vague, it's just this imperceptible balance that you can't quite define, but you know you crave. It's a kind of perfection, this thing you seek without knowing exactly what you're looking for. And when you find it, you know it.
Since I learned the definition of umami, or rather, since I learned of the concept of umami, I've found myself applying it to everything. I'm fascinated by it. My favorite pair of jeans has umami. That song "If I Had a Boat," by Lyle Lovett has umami. John Hannah reading W.H. Auden's "Funeral Blues" in "Four Weddings and a Funeral" has umami. The rowing scene in "The Social Network" has umami. I saw the movie a few weeks ago. I saw it because I like Jesse Eisenberg and I was excited to see what Trent Reznor would do with a movie score. I liked it because it turns out that Mark Zuckerburg is one of those people who are such geniuses at what they do that they are totally mystified by human behavior and because of the rowing scene. I'm going to do my technologically-disinclined best to upload a link to this scene here so you can see what I'm talking about.
The whole movie is pretty good, but this scene stands alone. It's a very simple scene. They're just racing boats. The song is very simple. We've all heard the tune so many times I can't remember where it originally came from. It's recognizable, but somehow sinister - which I like. I've watched it several times trying to figure out why it gives me chills. I'm not sure, but I think it's this: If you'll watch, the entire scene has a rhythm. It follows a beat. Everything works together, the images, the acting, the editing, the sound, like in those few minutes everyone put forth their very best effort at the thing they're best at, purely, and it all came together like a dance.
Even after writing this I'm not sure what to make of umami, or if I'm describing it right. Maybe, in the larger, Annie's-over-thinking-things sense, it's different things to different people. Certain things just resonate with some people. For me it's my Gap jeans, it's a songwriter singing a simple song about riding a pony on his boat, it's "He was my North, my South, my East, and West, My working week and Sunday rest" in a Scottish accent. It's people rowing boats to a song we already know, and finishing a sentence, taking a hot bath and going to sleep.
Thanks for sticking with me, those of you still reading. I'll try to be better about posting more regularly.
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