Ah.
Friday, August 25, 2006
G-strings in the woods.
Ah, Yosemite.
Ah.
Ahhhhhhh.
More than being cradled by mountains on all sides, more than the rivers, the bear, the deer, the stars that took your loneliness from you, the cedars, more than the crickets, do you want to know what part of Yosemite my mom and I most enjoyed?
The ten thousand-year-old, wrinkled, chestnut-colored white man in a G-string. In only a G-string.
"Oh, Jess meant to type Speedo. Those are pretty funny."
No I didn't. I mean he was wearing a G-string.
"Maybe she means small shorts. That girl sure exaggerates a lot."
I do not mean small shorts. I mean a tiny, black, beautiful, satin G-string semi thong. I do not exaggerate.
My mom and I saw him on our second day in Yosemite as we were pumping away on the bike trail. I thought he was a mirage, there to lift me from my pine tree and mountain reality. Our legs pedalled slower and then not at all and we turned to watch him walk over a hill. I thought, I guess he likes the sunshine and his own groin area a lot. But then as I climbed Yosemite's mountains and explored waterfalls and fell into a tumbling love with every piece of dirt in that park I thought, you know, this guy knows what's going on. He makes sense-just being with nature, no clothes in the way, letting the sun love you; Mom, let's strip!
We didn't, but we totally almost did. Yosemite makes you want to roll around in it naked and never leave. In fact, I don't even want to be a professor anymore. I want to be a mountain.
Please feast on these delicious views.
.
Ah.
Ahhhhhhh.
More than being cradled by mountains on all sides, more than the rivers, the bear, the deer, the stars that took your loneliness from you, the cedars, more than the crickets, do you want to know what part of Yosemite my mom and I most enjoyed?
The ten thousand-year-old, wrinkled, chestnut-colored white man in a G-string. In only a G-string.
"Oh, Jess meant to type Speedo. Those are pretty funny."
No I didn't. I mean he was wearing a G-string.
"Maybe she means small shorts. That girl sure exaggerates a lot."
I do not mean small shorts. I mean a tiny, black, beautiful, satin G-string semi thong. I do not exaggerate.
My mom and I saw him on our second day in Yosemite as we were pumping away on the bike trail. I thought he was a mirage, there to lift me from my pine tree and mountain reality. Our legs pedalled slower and then not at all and we turned to watch him walk over a hill. I thought, I guess he likes the sunshine and his own groin area a lot. But then as I climbed Yosemite's mountains and explored waterfalls and fell into a tumbling love with every piece of dirt in that park I thought, you know, this guy knows what's going on. He makes sense-just being with nature, no clothes in the way, letting the sun love you; Mom, let's strip!
We didn't, but we totally almost did. Yosemite makes you want to roll around in it naked and never leave. In fact, I don't even want to be a professor anymore. I want to be a mountain.
Please feast on these delicious views.
.
The new house.
This is the house.
This house has a billion shelves. These are my favorite.
This is the view from the patio.
.
This house has a billion shelves. These are my favorite.
This is the view from the patio.
.
Monday, August 14, 2006
What God has joined together...
Early November '88- A handsome man knocks at the door to ask my mom and me out on a date. We go the movies and see Crocodile Dundee II. Also, we eat candy. After the movie, the man gives me a stuffed lion and brainstorms names with me. Maybe Fred, he says, but I say that's ridiculous. It's a stuffed lion. My black cat is Black Kitty, my stuffed animals are Brown Bear, Medium Brown Bear, Purplish Monkey, Pink Baby and so on. Fred? No. I suggest Bigger Lion as I have a smaller one already.
August 13, '88- My mom marries Mitch Farris, the man who brought me Bigger Lion.
Happy anniversary, you two.
August 13, '88- My mom marries Mitch Farris, the man who brought me Bigger Lion.
Happy anniversary, you two.
hey CA
In the Philadelphia Airport, a security guard said, "Didn't I just tell you to take your cat out; you don't want to put a cat through the X-Ray machine. And again, you need to take off the sweater around your waist." She said it like I needed a babysitter. Or a helmet. "You're right, I don't want to X-Ray her. I was taking her out slowly because she's really scared," I said. I wanted to say, "I'm not stupid, I'm great, and you're bad at life." My eyes teared up because I hate when people talk like that. When I was putting Ebony back in her case a little girl- nine maybe- in a hot pink shirt said, "Love your cat." "Sorry?" I said. "I said, I love your cat. She's fabulous." And my eyes teared up again because she'd erased the security guard.
I saw the fam as I was coming down the escalator. They jumped and grinned. I'm finding, I think, that we are all sensitive from too many recent changes, like cold hands that burn when held under water that's only tepid. Things in the world- like a sigh- feel extreme, even though they probably aren't. Mom, why are you breathing that way? I don't ask that, but I do almost say, Tell me anything right now to all members of my family all the time. I want to know how they are.
The house looks like my family's house. It's wooden interiors and bright spaces look like my mom. The small moments of beauty- an old picture in the back of a shelf that you have to peer at from up close- look like my dad. Lindsay is everywhere in classy black frames and pottery arrangements. The dogs pant and shed. The views shake your heart up.
Pictures are coming.
Yosemite is coming.
My Mac is coming.
No more posts are coming for at least another week, though.
I saw the fam as I was coming down the escalator. They jumped and grinned. I'm finding, I think, that we are all sensitive from too many recent changes, like cold hands that burn when held under water that's only tepid. Things in the world- like a sigh- feel extreme, even though they probably aren't. Mom, why are you breathing that way? I don't ask that, but I do almost say, Tell me anything right now to all members of my family all the time. I want to know how they are.
The house looks like my family's house. It's wooden interiors and bright spaces look like my mom. The small moments of beauty- an old picture in the back of a shelf that you have to peer at from up close- look like my dad. Lindsay is everywhere in classy black frames and pottery arrangements. The dogs pant and shed. The views shake your heart up.
Pictures are coming.
Yosemite is coming.
My Mac is coming.
No more posts are coming for at least another week, though.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
What's the story, morning glory?
In my apartment building this morning, while waiting for the elevator to arrive at my floor, I looked out the window and saw a beeeeeautiful woman sleeping on the roof two buildings away. She wasn't on a roof deck, or even a flat roof; about 3 feet from where she lay, there began a decline. Dangerous! She slept curled on a huge, blue blanket and with nothing over her. A small duffel bag supported her head. She wore blue jeans and a red tee-shirt with a bandana around her neck. Her long nut-colored hair lifted in the wind. I ran back to my apartment to get my camera, but I forgot about the whole lost keys situation, so I went back to the window to stare at her some more.
Who is she?! What was she doing?! Where'd she get the bravery to sleep on a slanted rooftop?! Is her story a happy or a sad one?! Why is she so pretty!? Where are my keys?!
I'm making up a million stories about her.
Who is she?! What was she doing?! Where'd she get the bravery to sleep on a slanted rooftop?! Is her story a happy or a sad one?! Why is she so pretty!? Where are my keys?!
I'm making up a million stories about her.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
"Teacher, there's an eyeball on Basil's pencil."
Sean and I fight about pens. Why do I steal his deliciously thick G3 pens? How do those fat, luscious writing utensils end up in my bag after he bought them? Because I believe in taking responsibility for my actions, I’ll explain it to you- by blaming it on my 1st grade teacher.
I trace it back to September of '88....
My family moves to Bensalem, Pennsylvania and I enter a new school. I’m scared every day to go to class because my teacher, Mrs. Dameron, has one good eye and one eye that looks like a cracked marble dipped in mucus. Long ago, when Mrs. Dameron attended fourth grade in London, a school chum bit off the eraser from his pencil and accidentally gouged her eye with the metal end. We only use crayons in class.
Naturally, because my fine motor skills developed with the use of chunky crayons, I gravitate towards chunky pens. I’m helplessly attracted to them and should be lauded for my self-knowledge and strong instincts rather than scolded for thievery.
P.S. Eventually, Mrs. Dameron became one of my favorite people. I learned to look past hideous disfigurement to appreciate the person inside; thus my relationship with Sean can exist.
P.P.S. I’m just kidding about Sean being disfigured. He has impeccable bone structure.
I trace it back to September of '88....
My family moves to Bensalem, Pennsylvania and I enter a new school. I’m scared every day to go to class because my teacher, Mrs. Dameron, has one good eye and one eye that looks like a cracked marble dipped in mucus. Long ago, when Mrs. Dameron attended fourth grade in London, a school chum bit off the eraser from his pencil and accidentally gouged her eye with the metal end. We only use crayons in class.
Naturally, because my fine motor skills developed with the use of chunky crayons, I gravitate towards chunky pens. I’m helplessly attracted to them and should be lauded for my self-knowledge and strong instincts rather than scolded for thievery.
P.S. Eventually, Mrs. Dameron became one of my favorite people. I learned to look past hideous disfigurement to appreciate the person inside; thus my relationship with Sean can exist.
P.P.S. I’m just kidding about Sean being disfigured. He has impeccable bone structure.
Oh yeah? Well, my Dad is 12 feet tall.
I used to work with a lady at Cambridge U.P. named Ana-Claudia. She told great stories- the one about her and her mother’s secret language was my favorite. On the subway one day, at age 7 or so, A-C asked, “Hey Mom, what’s a vagina?” She posed it loudly, freely, feeling secure in their blanket of secret syntax and vocabulary. Some people in the car burst out laughing and A-C’s mother told her to hush. “But why?” asked A-C, not understanding despite the “hush” and the laughter, “this is only ours. No one knows what we’re saying, silly.” Turns out the “secret language” was Spanish.
My Dad and I have a secret language- as complex as Spanish- constructed over time by fights, contentment and trying to know each other instead of just be related to each other. It’s mostly a language of cadence and tones. We communicate in the downbeats between “okay” and “well.” When I’m sad especially, he locates my rhythms and beats back his own in a “so” and a pause, then a question. He’s like a heart monitor or a vibrating locust.
Sunday night, I washed my face in tears. They were stress tears and left red streaks down my cheeks like a too-strong astringent. So what’s the big deal? I cry all the time- happy tears like spritzer, angry tears like pop rocks or lightning, nostalgic tears like happy tears but milky, sad tears, frustrated tears, oh man it’s only Tuesday tears- seriously, all the time. The big deal this time was that the tears accomplished nothing. Usually, crying allows me to acknowledge things and leave them; the tears tip their hats to the emotion or cause of emotion and walk on with a, “Good day.” Two days ago, though, I sat in tears, in a cluttered apartment, in the midst of moving and throwing things I loved away and so when my Dad called, I paused, sniffed, waited and lilted while saying I was fine, really fine, no problem here, just fine. I sounded competent and sturdy like an oak bookcase- an oak bookcase anchored to a wall!- when really I was a nylon with a run. I very much like being self-sufficient.
My dad called yesterday and confirmed his daughter comprehension skills. He’d made a few calls, and a man who works with him, transporting apples in his truck from east to west, planned to pick up all the things I cried over and bring them to California where they will sit in the garage of my parent’s new house- my dresser, with a thin, flat surface that pulls out so I can write letters on it, my butcher block table that can take a knife chop or the hot metal of a cookie sheet and still look beautiful, my clothes (my personality), my bike, my pictures, my books (my companions)- everything! Sean and I wrapped, boxed, taped, drank, sweated and lugged and soon enough Dave pulled up in his slightly-smaller-than-an-18-wheeler truck and helped us lift my life into the sweet smelling trailer. When we were finished, I asked, “Will you take this?” and handed him a 20. He smiled with his one front tooth and from behind his thick glasses his eyes looked huge and swimming and imploring, which is probably why we talked for a half hour about his daughters, his dinner and his boss.
After Dave left, I climbed the stairs to a different apartment. The empty places weren’t sad, they just were. With bigger motions than I could use an hour before, I danced a bit. Dust bunnies spun around from the air I pushed while I stomped some happiness into the floor. I called my Dad, “Was that a dream?” I yelled into the phone. “Everyone at the restaurant under us was looking and laughing and Dave was cool and acted like this was so normal! Jesus. Thanks Dad. That was ridiculous and awesome.” And I beat out rhythms of joy and ease then went back to packing for Ireland.
My Dad and I have a secret language- as complex as Spanish- constructed over time by fights, contentment and trying to know each other instead of just be related to each other. It’s mostly a language of cadence and tones. We communicate in the downbeats between “okay” and “well.” When I’m sad especially, he locates my rhythms and beats back his own in a “so” and a pause, then a question. He’s like a heart monitor or a vibrating locust.
Sunday night, I washed my face in tears. They were stress tears and left red streaks down my cheeks like a too-strong astringent. So what’s the big deal? I cry all the time- happy tears like spritzer, angry tears like pop rocks or lightning, nostalgic tears like happy tears but milky, sad tears, frustrated tears, oh man it’s only Tuesday tears- seriously, all the time. The big deal this time was that the tears accomplished nothing. Usually, crying allows me to acknowledge things and leave them; the tears tip their hats to the emotion or cause of emotion and walk on with a, “Good day.” Two days ago, though, I sat in tears, in a cluttered apartment, in the midst of moving and throwing things I loved away and so when my Dad called, I paused, sniffed, waited and lilted while saying I was fine, really fine, no problem here, just fine. I sounded competent and sturdy like an oak bookcase- an oak bookcase anchored to a wall!- when really I was a nylon with a run. I very much like being self-sufficient.
My dad called yesterday and confirmed his daughter comprehension skills. He’d made a few calls, and a man who works with him, transporting apples in his truck from east to west, planned to pick up all the things I cried over and bring them to California where they will sit in the garage of my parent’s new house- my dresser, with a thin, flat surface that pulls out so I can write letters on it, my butcher block table that can take a knife chop or the hot metal of a cookie sheet and still look beautiful, my clothes (my personality), my bike, my pictures, my books (my companions)- everything! Sean and I wrapped, boxed, taped, drank, sweated and lugged and soon enough Dave pulled up in his slightly-smaller-than-an-18-wheeler truck and helped us lift my life into the sweet smelling trailer. When we were finished, I asked, “Will you take this?” and handed him a 20. He smiled with his one front tooth and from behind his thick glasses his eyes looked huge and swimming and imploring, which is probably why we talked for a half hour about his daughters, his dinner and his boss.
After Dave left, I climbed the stairs to a different apartment. The empty places weren’t sad, they just were. With bigger motions than I could use an hour before, I danced a bit. Dust bunnies spun around from the air I pushed while I stomped some happiness into the floor. I called my Dad, “Was that a dream?” I yelled into the phone. “Everyone at the restaurant under us was looking and laughing and Dave was cool and acted like this was so normal! Jesus. Thanks Dad. That was ridiculous and awesome.” And I beat out rhythms of joy and ease then went back to packing for Ireland.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Helen?
Phone rings.
HELEN: English and Drama Graduate Studies office.
ME: Hi. My name is Jessica Farris and I’ve been accepted to the Masters program in Anglo-Irish literature. I think we've talked before. I just have a quick question.
H: Sure (but it sounds like shooer). How can I help you?
M: Oh, well, you know how I’ve been accepted? Ha, of course you do. I just said it. Heh. Well, I’m still not sure when classes start or when I can move in or when any fees are due.
H: We’ll send the information out in a week and a half.
M: Oh, great. Okay, great. Thanks.
H: You’re welcome. Goodbye.
M: Bye.
Two and a half weeks later.
HELEN: English and Drama Graduate Studies office.
ME, CHECKING UP: Hi. I've called before. My name is Jessica Farris and I’ve been accepted to the Masters program in Anglo-Irish literature. I just have a quick question.
H: Right (but it sounds like reight); hello. How can I help you?
M,CU: Well, my parents just moved across the country and I used their address as the permanet mailing one. Should they be on the lookout for that packet of information yet? They say it hasn't arrived.
H: We haven't sent it. It will go out shortly.
M,CU: Oh, gotcha. Sorry to call again; I'm just so excited to know what's going on! I'll let my parents know.
H: Okay. Goodbye.
M, CU: Bye.
Hey, look at that. Two more weeks went by.
H: English and Drama Graduate Studies Office.
ME, SLIGHTLY WORRIED: Hi. My name’s Jessica Farris. Sorry I'm calling so much. I’ve been accepted to the Masters program in Anglo-Irish literature. I just have a quick question.
H: Great (but it sounds like greeeet) yes; I remember you. What’s the question?
M,SL: Oh, it’s the same one I guess. I feel like I’ve called you for like the seventh time. Haha. Hahahaha. This is probably annoying. Sorry, but I still haven't gotten the packet. I think the term starts on the 11th, but I wasn’t sure whether there was an orientation before the class starts or not and I'm trying to plan when to quit my job and visit my parents and...
H: We’ll send the information packet out in a couple of days. Orientation starts September 28th.
M,SL: The 28th? But? If the term starts...oh it’s okay. Hey, thanks. You’re always so helpful. I’ll wait for the packet.
And then guess what…
H: English and Drama Graduate Studies Office.
ME, THE AMERICAN DRIVEN TO INSANITY, WITH BAGS UNDER MY EYES AND A JAR OF FINGERNAIL CLIPPINGS WHICH I CALL "BUDDY" AND CARRY EVERYWHERE UNDER MY ARM: Hi. My name’s Jessica...
H: Farris, (but it sounds like, Police? I need to take out a restraining order); I know. Yes?
MTADTO,WBUMEAAJOFCWIC"B"ACEUMA: Oh, well, oh man, I need to take you out for dinner or something, huh? We’re in a pretty committed phone relationship. Haha. Hahahaha. This is probably annoying again. Sorry. I’m sorry. Sooo, when do you think the info will be sent out? Did you do it already? I only ask because I want to book my ticket and stuff. You know, there's so much up in the air right now.
H: We’ll send it out in another few days. You can move in the week of September 4th, if you want.
MTADTO,WBUMEAAJOFCWIC"B"ACEUMA: But I don't even know if I have housing yet.
H: Right, but if you do, you can move in the week of September 4th.
MTADTO,WBUMEAAJOFCWIC"B"ACEUMA: Wonderful. Awesome. The week of the 4th. But remember when you said orientation was the 28th?
H: Yes, I do.
MTADTO,WBUMEAAJOFCWIC"B"ACEUMA: Well. Hey, I’ll keep an eye on the mailbox. Haha. Okay, but Helen?
H: Yes?
MTADTO,WBUMEAAJOFCWIC"B"ACEUMA: Do you know when this is going to arrive?
H: Yes, I do. In some time soon it will arrive.
MTADTO,WBUMEAAJOFCWIC"B"ACEUMA: Sure; of course. What did you say, Buddy? You can't wait to slap Helen's face when you see her? You're the only one who understands me. Wanna make toast?
Click.
HELEN: English and Drama Graduate Studies office.
ME: Hi. My name is Jessica Farris and I’ve been accepted to the Masters program in Anglo-Irish literature. I think we've talked before. I just have a quick question.
H: Sure (but it sounds like shooer). How can I help you?
M: Oh, well, you know how I’ve been accepted? Ha, of course you do. I just said it. Heh. Well, I’m still not sure when classes start or when I can move in or when any fees are due.
H: We’ll send the information out in a week and a half.
M: Oh, great. Okay, great. Thanks.
H: You’re welcome. Goodbye.
M: Bye.
Two and a half weeks later.
HELEN: English and Drama Graduate Studies office.
ME, CHECKING UP: Hi. I've called before. My name is Jessica Farris and I’ve been accepted to the Masters program in Anglo-Irish literature. I just have a quick question.
H: Right (but it sounds like reight); hello. How can I help you?
M,CU: Well, my parents just moved across the country and I used their address as the permanet mailing one. Should they be on the lookout for that packet of information yet? They say it hasn't arrived.
H: We haven't sent it. It will go out shortly.
M,CU: Oh, gotcha. Sorry to call again; I'm just so excited to know what's going on! I'll let my parents know.
H: Okay. Goodbye.
M, CU: Bye.
Hey, look at that. Two more weeks went by.
H: English and Drama Graduate Studies Office.
ME, SLIGHTLY WORRIED: Hi. My name’s Jessica Farris. Sorry I'm calling so much. I’ve been accepted to the Masters program in Anglo-Irish literature. I just have a quick question.
H: Great (but it sounds like greeeet) yes; I remember you. What’s the question?
M,SL: Oh, it’s the same one I guess. I feel like I’ve called you for like the seventh time. Haha. Hahahaha. This is probably annoying. Sorry, but I still haven't gotten the packet. I think the term starts on the 11th, but I wasn’t sure whether there was an orientation before the class starts or not and I'm trying to plan when to quit my job and visit my parents and...
H: We’ll send the information packet out in a couple of days. Orientation starts September 28th.
M,SL: The 28th? But? If the term starts...oh it’s okay. Hey, thanks. You’re always so helpful. I’ll wait for the packet.
And then guess what…
H: English and Drama Graduate Studies Office.
ME, THE AMERICAN DRIVEN TO INSANITY, WITH BAGS UNDER MY EYES AND A JAR OF FINGERNAIL CLIPPINGS WHICH I CALL "BUDDY" AND CARRY EVERYWHERE UNDER MY ARM: Hi. My name’s Jessica...
H: Farris, (but it sounds like, Police? I need to take out a restraining order); I know. Yes?
MTADTO,WBUMEAAJOFCWIC"B"ACEUMA: Oh, well, oh man, I need to take you out for dinner or something, huh? We’re in a pretty committed phone relationship. Haha. Hahahaha. This is probably annoying again. Sorry. I’m sorry. Sooo, when do you think the info will be sent out? Did you do it already? I only ask because I want to book my ticket and stuff. You know, there's so much up in the air right now.
H: We’ll send it out in another few days. You can move in the week of September 4th, if you want.
MTADTO,WBUMEAAJOFCWIC"B"ACEUMA: But I don't even know if I have housing yet.
H: Right, but if you do, you can move in the week of September 4th.
MTADTO,WBUMEAAJOFCWIC"B"ACEUMA: Wonderful. Awesome. The week of the 4th. But remember when you said orientation was the 28th?
H: Yes, I do.
MTADTO,WBUMEAAJOFCWIC"B"ACEUMA: Well. Hey, I’ll keep an eye on the mailbox. Haha. Okay, but Helen?
H: Yes?
MTADTO,WBUMEAAJOFCWIC"B"ACEUMA: Do you know when this is going to arrive?
H: Yes, I do. In some time soon it will arrive.
MTADTO,WBUMEAAJOFCWIC"B"ACEUMA: Sure; of course. What did you say, Buddy? You can't wait to slap Helen's face when you see her? You're the only one who understands me. Wanna make toast?
Click.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Oh my God, this is delicious. I should have another.
The memo I wrote in my head today while standing in line at Rite Aid:
_________
MEMO
_______________
August 2, 2006
To: Brunette Rite Aid cashier
From: This girl watching you eat it right now
From: This girl watching you eat it right now
STOP! eating your boogers in public. Or all together if you'd ever like to not be a gross weirdo. We do see you. Being behind the counter does not and has not ever made you invisible. You are handling our purchases and our change and you're making us gag. Don't you care? On a nice note, your eye make-up is lovely.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
LOVE!
Longtime neighbors invited my mom, dad, sister and me to their home on my last night as a person whose family lived in Mahopac, NY. They kept Lindsay’s glass and mine filled with homemade chocolate milkshake while they popped beers for my Dad and replenished the Merlot in my mom’s wineglass. The neighbors asked and asked and asked us all questions then they listened to our answers. Three children tried to sit on me at once and a smile washed my eyes in tears . While sticking a finger in Wendy’s (one of the three) armpit, I tried to secure the warmth of the Wallis’ home in my memory so I could give it to others later and because I would miss them all ferociously.
Yesterday, my great aunt Cosi wrote a note the length and width of the paper towel she’d used as paper. It began, “Hello Yung'uns!” and ended with a drawn heart. Zippered into a vibrant cloth bag next to the note, a scarf waited for me to find it. It was a thank you scarf in a thank you bag. Strong threads of green, blue and indigo will soon decorate my shoulders or dash color around my hips when I wear a black dress. I’ve already planned the scarf's participation in many future outfits.
Cosi knocked on the door after her first day of Philadelphia travel and entered with sunflowers. I was modeling the scarf and saying thank you and she stood under her bag straps with full hands while I held nothing but my present. I didn’t take the flowers, thinking they couldn’t be another gift for us; but of course they were and of course they needed water. Cosi set down her bags and, with her fingers, wrestled the rubber bands binding the flowers and the tape closing the paper and the paper covering the flowers and I watched without helping which makes me disappointed in myself when I think of it.
Last night, we all ate different shrimp dishes at Vietnam. Cosi reflected on the primal comfort of being sheltered in someone’s home. She thanked Sean and me for what she compared to stopping on a journey and having one’s feet washed and swathed in ointments. We feel thankful for free dinners and the songs in her voice.
To be worthy of these presents, flowers, dinners, and her! I'll continue to offer berries and bread thick with nuts and seeds in the morning. I'll ask questions about her Philadelphia days upon returning home from work, listen to her answers, give her an extra blanket at night when the air conditioner blows a chill draft in her direction, make Sean wear shorts to bed instead the usual boxer-briefs so she doesn’t catch any cracks or morsels through the open door and I'll try to create a warmth strong enough to secure a memory.
Yesterday, my great aunt Cosi wrote a note the length and width of the paper towel she’d used as paper. It began, “Hello Yung'uns!” and ended with a drawn heart. Zippered into a vibrant cloth bag next to the note, a scarf waited for me to find it. It was a thank you scarf in a thank you bag. Strong threads of green, blue and indigo will soon decorate my shoulders or dash color around my hips when I wear a black dress. I’ve already planned the scarf's participation in many future outfits.
Cosi knocked on the door after her first day of Philadelphia travel and entered with sunflowers. I was modeling the scarf and saying thank you and she stood under her bag straps with full hands while I held nothing but my present. I didn’t take the flowers, thinking they couldn’t be another gift for us; but of course they were and of course they needed water. Cosi set down her bags and, with her fingers, wrestled the rubber bands binding the flowers and the tape closing the paper and the paper covering the flowers and I watched without helping which makes me disappointed in myself when I think of it.
Last night, we all ate different shrimp dishes at Vietnam. Cosi reflected on the primal comfort of being sheltered in someone’s home. She thanked Sean and me for what she compared to stopping on a journey and having one’s feet washed and swathed in ointments. We feel thankful for free dinners and the songs in her voice.
To be worthy of these presents, flowers, dinners, and her! I'll continue to offer berries and bread thick with nuts and seeds in the morning. I'll ask questions about her Philadelphia days upon returning home from work, listen to her answers, give her an extra blanket at night when the air conditioner blows a chill draft in her direction, make Sean wear shorts to bed instead the usual boxer-briefs so she doesn’t catch any cracks or morsels through the open door and I'll try to create a warmth strong enough to secure a memory.
How I learned I hated freedom.
A funny email from the boss-man--
This is truly a sad day for the AACR.
Just in case you misunderstood—August 2 is the last day to sign up for events at the AACR Picnic. There’s no law that says you can’t sign up before then.
Signing up early allows the Picnic Activities Committee to more effectively schedule the events. Here we are, 5 days after the signup sheets were posted, and let’s just say the response has not been overwhelming. Heck, it hasn’t even been whelming.
Did you realize that twice as many people have signed up for badminton (8) than softball (4)? Are you kidding me? I’m sure badminton is very popular among the hoity-toity upper crust, but softball is the people’s game. You don’t need skill, you can drink beer while you play, and trash talk is not only permitted, it’s encouraged! What could be more American than that? So do your patriotic duty and sign up to serve on the softball roster. The choice is simple: either you like softball, or you hate freedom.
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