The Life and Times of Bettie Page

This may seem like an odd post for me, but I wanted to make note that America lost a cultural icon, of a sort, on Thursday. Bettie Page died at the age of 85. You can read a little about her life here.
Who among us can say that our actions ushered in a cultural revolution wearing our unmentionables? Who can say Madonna copied US rather than the other way around? Spunk. Everyone, I think, recognizes spunk. Not to mention, a spunky woman who's also a dish.
Bettie had a tough life, and tough from the very beginning. And to be honest, when you cast an eye over the details of her life, there's just as much to be sad about as there is to admire.
When I look at her marriages, I find that what I really hope for is that she had someone she could really count on.
I'd like to think that the woman we depended on to usher in a revolution had someone she could depend on. Rest in peace, Bettie Page.

Tallulah Gorge Adventure

You learn things when you're traveling with dogs for the first time. I think that statement is a sub-category of the you-learn-things-when-traveling-with-small-children-for-the-first-time, only it's embarassing in different ways.

When I went to north Georgia for the weekend colors, I decided that it was time to get my dogs accustomed to traveling with me. There's a guy on flickr who lives in Colorado and owns a handsome German Shepherd, a female he takes *everywhere*. He loves posting these pictures of his handsome dog galloping around Eldorado Canyon or Jones Pass, romping at Engineer Pass and the ghost town of Animas Forks.

My dogs could do that. Sure they could. Petey would love it. Mollie would love it.

Well, I learned a few things, like I said. First, if I'm going to be out, they need to be on separate leashes. This would mean that the person I'm climbing the trails with could take the calm, sane dog (Petey), while I manage the slightly crazy dog (Mollie). They also need to be on harnesses, as I kept having this terrible vision of them both backing out of their collars and running along the trails of Tallulah Gorge, unencumbered by the restrictions of leashes.

The next thing I learned is that lots of people like bringing their dogs out on the trail. German Shepherds. Beagles. And something I couldn't identify, but would compare to a grizzly bear with a long tail.

The next thing I learned is that Mollie doesn't like those dogs. When she doesn't like those dogs, she barks. A lot. More than a lot. As I sat with her, holding her next to me on a convenient bench, a woman who'd been on the trail behind us approached me and said, "Is this the only dog here? From the top of the trail, I thought there had to be a pack of them."

"No, just this one," I said with a slight smile, which I hope conveyed the proper tone of, "And thanks for saying that out loud. You can leave now."

The next thing I learned is that, even when Mollie has reasonably stopped barking, and is settled down next to me, she's not completely through with the batshit crazy phase, and small children should not pet her. Particularly not near her head, which is next to her face, which is really close to her teeth. It's really not a good idea at all. Nope. You guessed it. She snapped at a little girl. Bit her, to be precise. Broke the skin. Tears. Embarrassment. Paranoia of impending lawsuits. Long story short, the pleasant outing with the kids was bigger that we could handle the first time out. Full of remorse, I didn't just lead Mollie back to the car, I carried her back to the car. Uphill. Mollie is heavy. She needs to be on a diet. I thought my lungs would explode. Another smartalecky-older-woman observed us as we trudged back to the car. "Huh, nice life," she said, indicating the dog. Mollie could have made it up the hill, I'm sure. I just didn't want her out of my sight. I got my workout that day. And this was an otherwise momentous day, because Petey, who never NEVER nevah does his business (I mean number two) while on a leash, actually was so excited by all the smells of *actual* nature that he took care of things like he'd done it all his life. He became a man (or a dog rather), on the trail. It was a shining moment. I knew it couldn't last. He was crushed when I put them both back in the car. I'm quite sure he dressed her down the rest of the trip.

Women. You could see him muttering this under his breath.

Maybe I should also get Mollie a muzzle. I think I'll be looking into some high mountain gear before I head up to Animas Forks with my animas. We're learning.

--Laura

Happy Birthday, Dad

I'll see you Tuesday. I wasn't able to outsource the cake duties to my friend, Dan, so get ready. I know you're used to mom's cakes which lean like a drunken sailor. I hope mine taste good *and* stand up straight.

I look forward to it.

-Laura

A Visit to Travelers Rest, Georgia

Last weekend I went to north Georgia for a dose of fall color. In my opinion, if the seasons were four sisters in the same family, fall would be the ridiculously pretty sister, the one who also had a great personality.

We were also able to stay in the city of Toccoa without spending any on lodging, thanks to my aunt, who owns a rental in Toccoa. Her mother would normally be there, but had been recently moved to a nursing home due to some health issues. So we were asked to stir up the place a little, and so that's what we did.

The visit to Travelers Rest was a bit of an accident. After a day of exploring Tallulah Falls gorge, we came back to Toccoa a little early to turn in, but a little late to do an entirely new activity, so I thought a drive to the South Carolina border would be a bit of a novelty. Toccoa sits about 20 minutes from the border, and the road you take passes by the turn to Travelers Rest. So that night, I mentioned it, and promised that we'd stop by to have a look the next morning, when we could actually see it. I doubted that it would be open on Sunday, however, but figured we could look around the grounds.

Well, Travelers Rest WAS open the next day. There was a cost to view the interior and get the tour, but you could wander the grounds for free. Admission: $4. Surprisingly, we were the only ones I saw paying the admission fee. The vast majority of people were wandering the grounds aimlessly reading signs they probably had no context for understanding.

And can I tell you something? I had no idea of the historical significance of the place. I was astounded. This unassuming spot in northeast Georgia has been touched by Creeks and Cherokees, commerce and bloodshed, Civil and Revolutionary war soldiers, politicians and merchants. It's been the crossroads of commerce and the center of obscurity. It was prized by the richest man in Tugalo Valley.

I saw it all for $4.

Some of my pictures are here.

But there's a cautionary tale here as well. The funding for the site is being cut, forcing the facility to cut days, hours and jobs. The jobs they are cutting include people who know more about this facility and the surrounding area than all but some of the oldtimers still living. We spent hours there listening to their stories, about past visitors, family reunions involving the white and black descendants of the same family line, about all the nooks and crannies of this fascinating historical gem. These same people fear for their jobs.

But here's what I'm getting at. The economy is bad these days, but this is our history. So instead of driving long distances to spend money you're concerned about parting with, go online today and find your Travelers Rest. The national register of historical places is a good place to start, and they have listings by state. They won't all be cheap tickets. But lots of historical sites are ridiculously cheap and crying for your attention. And if we don't value them, they will disappear.

If you're going to stimulate the economy, think about saying something with your money, about what you value and about what you think needs preserving. I think all historical societies will appreciate your business.

Legacy

The father of a friend of mine passed away Sunday. I found out because he posted the information within hours on facebook. In the note, he said he hoped he'd be half the man his father was.

I've been thinking about that for the past few days, wondering what it would be like to lose your father before you've reached adulthood yourself. Of course in many circles, a guy still in college qualifies as an adult, but most of us of a certain age know just how unprepared for life you are at that age. I know there has to be that thought in the back of his mind that says to him, you know, I want to make my dad proud, but when I am the one guiding my own ship without any advice from my dad, where will I steer it?

Joe's father was an older man, and I still see them in my mind's eye, walking into the sanctuary for mass. I often get a good view of people as they find their seats, because I cantor regularly, which puts me in a position to face the congregation. Before Joe left for college, they'd arrive together, Joe steadying his father as the man made his way slowly and painfully to the very last pew in the back, the last row on my left. Our sanctuary is rounded in the back, so this pew is smaller than the ones flanking the center aisle. I assumed he chose it so that he and Joe could sit alone, and so that he could get in and out more easily when it was time to come forward to receive communion. I always smiled at Joe if I could catch his eye, because I often thought how kind Joe was to match his pace to his father's pace, and be so attentive.

I think Joe must wish to have those days back now, because the alternative, to be without a father, must feel like hanging suspended over a canyon, knowing there is nothing tying you to the earth, knowing you are seconds from a free fall.

Sure, that feeling has to fade with time, with the experience of making decisions and defining yourself without the guidance of a parent. But it's my guess that it never goes away.

John Henry, rest in peace.

--Laura

Random Wednesday

In stark contrast to last week, this week has been without turmoil. My car passed emissions, work has been steady, and I've made more headway toward paying off my student loan ahead of schedule.

Plus, tomorrow is my birthday.

Birthdays for adults aren't the same as for kids, eagerly awaiting the excesses of toys and sugar and party games. I think for me, they serve as reminders, as a time for evaluation and assessment, and as a way to set milestones. For example, I spent one birthday with friends in a plaza in Madrid. This year, I will spend it with friends in a restaurant in Buckhead.

There is special significance to my birthday this year. I decided in the last few days to tailor my original statement about being in Colorado by 2009. I looked at my driver's license as I was driving home a few days ago and I realized that it will expire on my birthday next year. So I decided to be more specific. I decided that I will not renew this driver's license. My next license will be from Colorado, and I will celebrate my birthday there. It will take some time before I know if I will make my birthday with months to spare or if I will make it by the skin of my teeth. We'll just see.

I suppose it sounds sentimental to set a goal like that around your birthday. First, I'll tell you that I did it because I'm realistically on track to make it happen. Even after months, I am still on track to pay off debt #1 by January. Clearing debt #1 will free up reserves for debt #2.

I realize that clearing debt doesn't get me moved, but I've made progress there as well. I've spoken to someone who is buying homes in the area, not to fix up and sell, but to fix up and rent. It turns out that this economy has required many people to rent because they can't qualify for loans. It turns out, there are property managers out there who will take care of my property, and it turns out that I can afford them. As I was saying to my mother, heck, I'd love to have those people manage my property NOW. The point however, is that I'm no longer worried about the house. It will rent until it can be sold. I will put it in hands more capable than my own to maintain it, and I will move. The house will not hold me back.

Will I transfer with my company or get a new job? Well, hand me $150K and I'd buy a franchise in one lucky Colorado city, set up shop and live off ramen until the business began to prosper. Odds are, however, that not only will no one hand me $150K, but no business started right now to sell birdwatching supplies would prosper. But I realized one thing recently. I really don't need to wait for market conditions to begin my life. I can pinch pennies just as well in CO as I can in GA. How exactly will I do this? I don't know, today. All I know is that I will do it. With debt#1 and debt#2 gone, I will need a lot less to live on for a while, and that will help. A job will not hold me back.

So I refined my arrival date to "by October 2009" because I realistically believe I can manage it alone. But I'll tell you, I don't mind if the goal is a little sentimental too. I'm a sentimental person. As much as I like taking care of business with my head on straight, I also like being cared for. Because, the truth is, while I can do this alone, with discipline to pay off these debts and courage to put my house in the hands of a property manager, I don't want to do this next year alone. I'm sure I will need the patience and support and encouragement of those who love me, because there's something I believe is true: if those who love me will have some faith in me and invest in me this year, I will be richer than if I'd been handed $150K. And I sincerely believe that they will be too. By a longshot.

So on the eve of my birthday -- to all those who've been a gift and a blessing in my life this year -- I love you. Thank you for all the support you've given me. I hope I have done the same. Here's to another year.

- Laura

Bird Identification

This weekend I discovered the Chattahoochee Nature Center. I'm already a fan.

The Nature Center starts as a place to rehab wild animals who've been abandoned at birth or have been injured. The layout reminds me of a summer camp for kids, with lots of flat areas to play and have picnics, and old fashioned wooden directional signs. In fact, quite a few kids were there. As I arrived, there was even a birthday party going on. I imagined how a kid would feel wandering through all the critters which were immediately available for viewing. Because before you even leave the nature store, you can visit snakes and turtles. A steps beyond, there's a butterfly garden that's swarming with butterflies of all sizes and colors. Some, unfortunately, were incredibly camera shy.

Beyond the butterfly garden, the raptor display, with hawks, owls, an eagle with exhibitionist tendencies and slinking vultures. These guys can't be reintroduced to the wild, for whatever reason. And circling through their pens are dozens and dozens of smaller perching birds. I was even able to see them with the naked eye. I wrote down some physical features, and I've been trying to identify them since Saturday.

One was simple to identify - I saw a cardinal. But I also saw what I think was an eastern kingbird. There was also a black one with a red racing stripe along his eye, and another one with beautiful row after row of white on black stripes on his wings. I don't know what they were -- yet. I'll get introduced to them in good time. It's okay, because when I wasn't sure what I was looking at, there were always the clearly labeled fellas - the barred owl, the turkey vulture, the red-shouldered hawk -- to keep me company.

That and the lazy beaver of unusual proportions. He lifted one eye haughtily at me as I disturbed his sleep.

And after my walk through the wetland marshes, where I spotted a great blue heron and canada geese, I returned and he was swimming. Pesky thing.

They have scientists there. Toward the end of the month they will have a bird walk.

I will be there. Let's see what I learn.

--Laura

The Greenie in Me

I have a fundamental problem with the passing of the analog television. For example, my current television, the largest I've ever owned, is perfectly fine. Turns on. Turns off. Changes channels. Plays DVDs.

Why would you toss it?

I sent away for the TV Converter box coupon. I guess around February I'll go out and get the box and see how that works. The boxes are expected to be between $50-$70, but the cards take $40 off that price.

Some out there will use this as an excuse to get that lovely new television set you've had your eye on whenever you've wandered into Best Buy. I understand.

But should you choose this option, remember the poor little analog television. Be kind. Perhaps you can Repurpose it -- put it in the back bedroom and attach the DVD player to it for the kids. Donate the television to any charitable organization that will accept it. Recycle it -- contact your local hazardous waste and recycling program. When you're buying the new television, ask the retailer if they will take and recycle the old set for you.

Another option is to check out Earth 911. They list manufacturer-specific recycling programs.

Other programs include: My Green Electronics, and the National Recycling Coalition. Some of these allow you to search for electronics recyclers by zip code.

Don't put our friendly analog out at the curb. Do your part to keep those TV parts out of the landfills. If you don't think it's worth a little extra effort, read this article from the Environmental Law & Policy Center.

--Laura

P.S., S.P.

Watch.

Random Monday Thoughts

I didn't get to the Museum Days on Saturday. I was planning to tour the Southern Civil War and Locomotive Museum, and it would have been outdoors. The thought of being close to possible poison ivy infestation again made me cringe. I am still itchy from my adventures this past month.

So I mowed the yard. With a weedeater. My mower is busted. I'm sure it's not serious, but I can't fix it.

But that's a task I'm going to put off until next spring. In the meantime, I'm going to pay down a student loan. If I'm able to stay focused, it will be paid off before the grass is green again.

I learned recently that the only real mark against my credit is my debt load. In this troubling economy, I feel fortunate. I can put extra money on the two debts I still have. I have a great dad who also works with me on a one of these debts, both by keeping me focused and by making a contribution "to the cause" each time he sees that I have made a payment of my own. I am not getting behind, I am getting ahead. And when I compare my situation with others, my debts are pretty small indeed. Once they are paid, I will have plans in place to steer my financial independence into a new life for myself. It's something I find exciting, and I don't even see the entire picture yet.

Most of the canvas of my life remains to be painted.

There are days when I'm impatient to move forward. And then a day like today happens, when the economy pops and the government buyout plan fails. I see clearly on days like today that even if I was in the position financially to carry out some of my plans, the economy wouldn't be ready for me. Eventually it will be, and by then, I will be ready to put some of those larger plans into action.

But I have smaller plans too. Smaller chunks that include my personal life and not just what I want in a career. And I can work on those smaller, personal chunks today. I don't have to have the entire picture of my life painted and drying on canvas before I make my first step. Who would even want that?

So here's a goalgetter revelation. I'm going to leave Atlanta in 2009. There, I've said it. I'm tired of the traffic. I'm tired of where I'm working. I'm tired of making the best of a bad situation. I moved here to further my career and improve my quality of life and neither one happened. I gave it a long and honest shot. I waited for my reward as a thoughtful and diligent employee. But that reward is not coming. So I'm going to do this for myself. And I don't want to live in the south anymore. I've made friends here. I've made good friends here. I've become part of a community. But it is not my home.

A while ago, I graduated from a college in Colorado and I came back to the south to be near my family, and also, frankly, because I didn't have any better ideas. I've reflected on that decision a lot this past year, and I realized something. It was a mistake. I should have stayed out there. I should have gotten my knuckles bruised. I should have taken my hard knocks. Because bruises and knocks are unavoidable, and because Colorado is where I felt at home. I didn't spare myself any hardships, or avoid any tough lessons. But I think I have less to show for my hard work, because I'm not happy with where I am.

So I'm going to change it.

--Laura

Read This Website

One of my favorite websites is Smithsonian Magazine online. Why? It's possible that I'm a closet museum nerd. But I'll give you a few reasons.

First, from pure aesthetics, it has one of the prettiest homepages, ever. The pictures in the scrolling banner are amazing. The people who designed this page had one thing in mind: Inspire. Do you want to see another side of the Middle East? They will show you the latest archaeological find in the heart of Iraq. Are you trying to save money in this tough economy? Don't feel deprived, just a few clicks away you'll find an article about Russia's Trans-Siberian railway. You want something a little closer to home? Read about the 'secret' Catholic Jews of the San Luis Valley. Listen to a video about bluegrass music in Floyd, Virginia. The people of Smithsonian Magazine show people the world.

Second, it makes you feel smart. Sure, other people will read yahoo. Other people will read about celebrities online. Do you want to know what Britney Spear's mama is saying about Sarah Palin's daughter? Or would you rather spend a few extra minutes reading about the woman behind the Muppet's Miss Piggy?

The choice is clear.

Third, being interesting is sexy. Being smart is hot. Wow your neighbors. Always have something interesting to talk about. Be the life of parties. Know your history. Don't get caught talking about politics. Or, if you feel the need to, put it in historical perspective.

Tomorrow is Museum Day. There are two museums I'm debating between - you'll find out later which one I chose. When you can get out to a museum, particularly a smaller one in your local community, I really encourage it. Because where else could you see some of the most fascinating oddities than in a country where the permanent wave was invented?

If you have the chance, see a neat museum for free. Find information for your state here. And if you can't get out tomorrow, take a little trip anyway, and let Smithsonian Magazine be your guide.

--Laura

On My Street

I saw a hawk on my street.

I was leaving the subdivision for the grocery store. My milk had gone sour, and I needed a few other things so I decided to take a trip. And that's when I saw him.

About 4 houses down, standing in the front yard was a hawk. Dark and mottled, I think he was either a broad-winged or a Red-tailed. I can only tell you this after looking him up, so I really have no idea if he had a red tail or not. I didn't have my camera.

He was standing on something though. He had just caught lunch when I slowed my car to stare at him. He didn't look away. "You can't have my lunch," he was telling me.

And oh was he gorgeous. Dark plumage, even on his chest, which you don't see every day.

And there's a thought I had about this. Did I notice hawks before today, or was I too busy with my own thoughts? I'd like to think I would notice such things. But he existed before today, and I don't remember the last time I saw one. In fact, I don't remember seeing one in my neighborhood, so what does that mean?

I like to come up with fancy observations that make sense of the world around me. I'll let go of that this time. I saw a hawk, and for me, that's rare. And he was gorgeous.

I'll just enjoy it.

---Laura

When It's Still

I was sick today. I won't go into detail, but it hasn't been pleasant, and the room I've visited the most has been the bathroom.

I had some interesting moments at home though. Our local NPR station added a new show to their lineup, called The Splendid Table. You can guess at the content of course. It has a call in feature, where people ask anything from what to do with extra firm tofu (always marinate it first) to what to look for in a table wine.

When I listened, a man called in to proclaim his love for Japanese dumplings. They had another name, but he described it as a pork or beef dumpling, so that's what I remember. Anyway, his wife was a vegetarian, and wouldn't try the dumplings, so he wanted to figure out a way to modify the recipe so she could enjoy it as much as he did.

The host was helpful, with several variants from mushroom to sweet potato. After discussing it, she says to him, "Well your wife is very lucky to have such a special husband who would go to such special care for her." His voice adopted the tone which told you he was smiling when he said, "She's such a gift in my life, she's worth all the extra work."

It was like a "Sleepless in Seattle" moment. I'm sure the female half of the listening audience wanted to reach through the radio and hug him.

I wonder-- what did she do that he felt so gifted to have her in his life, that after a decade or so of marriage, he'd call in reinforcements to find a Japanese dumpling they could share, because he really liked this dumpling, but it just wasn't good enough unless he could share it with her.

I don't remember much of the rest of the show. I'm sure the culinary advice was interesting and helpful. What stuck with me was the sound of a smile in the voice of a man who was clearly made richer by the gift of another person's life. And he knew it. That's not just a splendid table, it's a splendid life.

--Laura

Stalking Birders and Bird Sightings

Minor confession time here: I was supposed to arrive at 7:30 this morning to hook up with the Audubon guide to take a tour. Only thing is, I kind of dawdled this morning and didn't leave the HOUSE until 7:30. And it took a little longer to get to the park than I planned for, so it was around 8:15 before I arrived. WELL, you would have thought they were giving away free fried chicken or something, because I had to park down the road from the Visitors Center (the meeting place) and walk across the street to get there.

The Ranger was extremely helpful.

Me: Do you have a birder's checklist?
Her: Yes (hands me a checklist)
Me: Do you know the best places in the park to view them?
Her: No

And see, a "No" leaves little room for a followup question. And this park is noted in BOOKS, WEBSITES AND BIRDING PUBLICATIONS as one of the Top 100 Birding sites in the country, particularly during the fall migration, so you'd think she'd be a little more prepared for that question, and be a bit more encouraging.

However, who should come to my rescue but one of those waspish white women I have mentioned before? She and her, oh I don't know, boyfriend-- husband-- brother-- had just walked into the Visitors Center seconds before and not only was she prepared to hand me HER birders checklist, she asked if I KNEW there was a birder's audubon field trip going on RIGHT THIS MINUTE?

I said no. When you are looking at a bird enthusiast, and you are an amateur, I had this suspicion that she'd turn on me, if only in her mind, if I said, "Yeah, I knew about it but I was more interested in 15 more minutes of sleep than getting here on time to follow a group of birders around. I mean hey, I like warblers, but I'm not going to see them good at only 4X magnification, you know what I mean?"

Oh no, I didn't say all that. I tilted my head and said, "Wow, really? I didn't know that. Do you know where they are?"

"Well, for the last 40 minutes, they were just out in the parking lot," offered her boyfriend/husband/brother. My mind mocked me. "Great, the last set of birders you wanted to hang with WOULDN'T hang out in the parking lot, and now, just as you assumed they don't linger, here's a group that DOES."

"Really?" is what I actually said.

"Oh yes," he said. "There are so many birds around right now that you can see quite a few warblers, thrushes and rails just down in the field next to the parking lot." They both nodded. It was clear they had seen their fill. They were now waiting for the bus to take them to the top of the mountain, while the others had opted for the more physically demanding task of walking the entire way.

Which is what I did. And I took the trail rather than walking up the paved road, believing that to be the better option. A few minutes after I arrived at the top, what should I see but a clump of people walking up from the road? By the way, you can spot birders from a distance, without binoculars. When you're in a park, they're the ones in street clothes rather than exercise clothes, in goofy hats, with binoculars and field guides.

You can't miss them. Look at this picture. The one in the red shirt has the harness I told you about, for the heavy binoculars.

Anyway, this shot was taken about 15 minutes before I joined them. Because, as the Audubon guide said at the top, "Well, you're welcome to take the trail back, but the best birding is from the paved road."

Grrrrrrr. Dude, if I had only heard that two hours earlier!

I was able to hang with them for a short time, but despite being a big girl with bad knees, I walked even faster than these people did. It's okay though, I spotted some cool stuff they missed. Oh yeah, they were too loud too.

I'll go back though. I'll tell you why. When I was on the trail coming up the mountain, I sat on a rock outcropping as people walked by and waited to see the birds. I'd heard them playing in that stretch of the woods and I knew if I sat long enough, I'd see a few. Well, I saw one at the crown of the trees, and another sitting in a stand of trees, but all from a great distance and not in great detail.

As I stood up finally to resume my walk, I looked up. Before my eyes, a bird flew up from the brush, like the crest of a wave. He shot up into the air and perched on a branch less than 50 feet from me. And he stayed. Like he was staring.

"Oh hi there, baby," I said in a whisper. He was a stranger. I have no idea what he was, but he was mine. He was there for me.

--Laura

About Birding: Part II

Now for some other observations about birding.

Number two: Birders like accessories.

I'm not sure why this is the case. Could it be that they have more disposable income, given their age? Could it be that the neck strap on their pair of binoculars is excruciatingly painful, therefore making a shoulder harness absolutely necessary?

Does it matter? You can get one at Wild Birds Unlimited for $24.99. This is good to know. A time will come when I want to sell things to birders, so it's nice to know they like to buy things.

Now, if I can just spot birds. I had trouble with this while I was out, but I was using stadium binoculars, which have a magnification of 3-4X. According to the reading I've been doing, it's better to have something in the 7-8X range, like one of these.

Who knew?

Oh, another observation. Number Three: Biologists are geeky coolness. Our guide for the morning was Chris. I had a feeling if he weren't being a BIRD guide, he'd more easily do the kind of exploring I prefer, which means stopping for anything and everything that looked interesting. But while we were out, he identified plant and animal life, told us interesting facts about barred owls (their hearing is so acute they can hear your heatbeat from 5 feet away), and he explained why trees that are drought stressed will uproot in a heavy rain.

Besides, he knew a lot about birdcalls.

If you've never listed to bird calls before, I recommend two sites. One is the site hosted by Cornell University's lab of ornithology, called All About Birds. Cornell University is the organization that Wild Birds Unlimited partners with as well, and with the right software downloaded, you can listen to all kinds of birds.

Another features all the birds of North America - WhatBird.com. I like this one because it also has a bird identification feature, which lets you narrow down birds you've spotted by color, size, habitat, etc., in the hopes of locating the birds you saw on the trail. I haven't put this to good use yet, but I hope to in the future.

Finally, I want to mention that the Fernbank Science Center is pretty neat. If you live in the Atlanta area, it's a great place for kids, gardeners, and all budding or closet scientists. After the birdwatching, I relaxed for a show in the planetarium, to find out what was going on in the night sky. On Friday nights, if the sky is clear, they invite you to come to the Observatory. They do all kinds of exhibits on butterfly gardens, composting, the latest Mars mission and native plants and animals.

And if you aren't a closet scientist, maybe you should be. There's nothing like hands on experience to get you interested in your surroundings. There are worse hobbies.

--Laura

About Birding: Part I

Saturday morning I got up pretty early and drove to the Fernbank Science Center in Atlanta. This should not be confused with the Fernbank Museum, which has clear signs leading to it from all major streets. No, to get to the Fernbank Science Center, you need to take the ramp leading to the Carter Center, then PASS the Carter Center and drive to Moreland Avenue before reaching Heaton Drive.

Located nearby is the King Center (as we southerners pronounce it, KANG), the contested foundation in honor of Martin Luther King, Jr. And had I been in the shape to sit in a bar and have a beer afterwards, I would have gone to Manuel's Tavern, an Atlanta institution for 40+ years, if you're a Democrat. They have great nachos.

Anyway, enough of that. I went to the Fernbank for the birds. Only, I got there late, owing to the wrong turn. Shoot. Birders don't sit in the parking lot and drink coffee and gab for a few minutes, sharing equipment tips, trading industry secrets, bragging about birding expeditions.

When I arrived, the birders had already entered the forest. I was dismayed, walking around the entire perimeter of the center to see if I could spot them. But you know, I was born in the country. So when I noticed that the gate to the "backyard" of the complex had a padlock, but the padlock wasn't shut, I snuck through. And when I noticed that the padlock to the forest was in the same condition, I snuck through that too. Then I hoofed it down to a small clump of birders, and took my place in the group like I'd been there the entire time.

I had driven a long way, and I didn't want it to be a wasted effort.

As this was the first time birding in a group, I make the following observations.

1. Birders are skinny. Like runners. Like bikers. They are primarily waspish middle aged women who do not sweat. Darn birders. There wasn't wasn't a single "Person of Color" in the group. Now if you're a big girl like me, you're going to be welcomed, because that's the polite thing to do, but you're going to sweat in an old growth forest with a full tree canopy and no access to moving air. Given this situation, you're going to feel a little self conscious. Struggle to tame this urge.

I say this because if you jump in and talk to people anyway, they are going to be helpful, because they are still women, and women like to share secrets. If they were stunned by the amount of sweat I could produce, and why wouldn't they be when I am stunned by the amount of sweat I produce, they didn't mention it. And when I told one woman where I had been already, and how it seemed easier to spot birds alone than in a group where right that minute we were CLODDING ALONG IN THE FOREST TALKING ABOUT BLUEBERRY PIES, she agreed.

"You attend these walks because you have free access to a biologist who is experienced. You learn a lot more and gain experience faster when he is able to pave the way for you. But when you are able to spot birds on your own, it's better to be alone or with a partner who doesn't grow impatient being with you quietly for hours. This is a learning environment. But it's not the best way to find birds."

That made sense to me. In fact, the woman I spoke with was more of an outdoor camper, not quite as pale and skinny as the rest of them. She had come to birding because she enjoyed camping, and wondered about the birds who produced the songs she heard.

When I was alone, I found dozens of fascinating things and took lots of pictures. With the group, I couldn't stop when I wanted, so I only took a few. But I did learn (I think) the difference between the call of a titmouse and a warbler. I learned that bluejays can mimic the sound of a hawk. I learned that you shouldn't play sound recordings in a forest to draw birds, because you can actually kick them out of their territory if your recorded bird "wins." I learned that the crow population is in trouble from the west nile virus. And while listening to bird calls online, I learned that I can really draw my dog Mollie's attention when I play the sound recordings. She's mighty stinking cute when she's trying to figure out how a bird got into my laptop's keyboard.

I have other observations, but I'll save them for another time.

--Laura

Vanishing Georgia: New Manchester Mill

Recently I visited Sweetwater Creek State Park, in Lithia Springs, Georgia. I posted about it here. An interesting feature of the park is the New Manchester Mill, or rather, three walls of the mill, which was built prior to the beginning of the Civil War and was destroyed by Sherman in the Atlanta Campaign. The approach to the mill is by a footpath, making it difficult to believe that the area was once a city of 400-600 people. Just like my back yard, if you leave foliage alone long enough, it will obscure any evidence of human trespass.

In the south, mills pre-date railroad history, as before reliable railroad transportation, water was the way to go. In order to do much more than run a family farm and stay alive, settlers had to have power. A river provided both transportation and power. First, you could carry most anything up or down a river. Second, the water power itself would generate power if you built a mill on it. Mills could make cloth. Mills could cut trees into lumber. Mills could grind corn. All to be moved up and down the aquatic highway. And, if you were smart, if you could swing it, you could build a mill, or you could run a ferry, and that made you an instant celebrity, well, at least until someone got the idea to build a bridge next to your ferry.

At any rate, there are at least 15 historic ferries in the Atlanta area, most serving to move people along the Chattahoochee River. Most were built in the 1820's and 1830's. Vann's Ferry, run by a man half Cherokee-Half Scottish and one of the most infuential Cherokee leaders of his time. Power's Ferry, owned by James Powers, a plantation owner. Pace's Ferry, owned by Hardy Pace, one of Atanta's earliest citizens.The Roswell Mill, located not far from the New Manchester, made the uniforms for the Confederate soldiers. They even called the color of the uniforms "Roswell blue" after the mill. And the New Manchester made the material for the tents. Some say, as a result of this, both became targets for destruction in Sherman's Atlanta campaign.

And now the New Manchester, once a center for Georgia commerce, hated by men, sits gracefully in a lush bed of vegetation. You could ask a dozen Georgians, even people living close by, and I wonder how many would even know it existed. Draw your own conclusions as to whether or not Sherman accomplished his goal. He certainly put the mill out of commission, but I hope that Georgians do what they can to preserve their heritage, by enjoying the beauty of the surrounding rocks, creek and forest. I think that's a pretty nice way to remember the place.

--Laura

You Just Never Know

I've had an account with flickr now for almost a year. I know this because I got my notice to renew a few days ago. This site stores all my pictures, either scanned or digital, along with video clips. It has an interesting feature that allows you to track, in a general sort of way, the hits you get on your pictures.

It's interesting... what other people find interesting.

For example, one of the pictures that got the biggest hits over time was a picture of my grandmother standing in her dining room in Sidney, Nebraska. For the longest time, I thought people were really perverted, because the picture was named Dad-21, as it was the 21st picture in a series that I uploaded at one time. But when I changed the title to something else, the hits kept coming.

Well, I looked up the statistics for the hit, and as it turns out, the most viewers came from one site: brace.net. The rest came from a blog on this same site, called Back Neck Braces Blog. If you look at the sidebar, where the pictures change, you'll see my grandmother sitting with my dad, winking at the camera. See, my grandmother died of cancer, and in the last years of her life had to wear a back brace.

I guess people aren't always as bad as you think.

It turns out that another couple of my pictures have made it onto another site. It's called StormPulse. In 1979, we lived in Coosawhatchie, South Carolina. 1979 was also the year Hurricane David hit on the Atlantic side of the southeastern U.S. I had three old pictures dad had taken of the damage to our property. And now, you can see them displayed on StormPulse. I have to say, our pictures look pretty tame, next to the picture of the huge tree crushing a schoolbus.

You just never know what people are going to find interesting.

Yesterday afternoon, I was talking to co-workers in my office. One has a freshman in college, and he recently had an assignment to visit a historic site in Georgia and write a report on it. He chose Warm Springs, GA, site of "the little white house" where FDR did his convalescence. The problem was that the assignment asked for a Civil War era historical site. Something significant prior to 1870.

Well! It turns out, I had just been to New Manchester Mill, located within the boundaries of Sweetwater Creek S.P. I had pictures, not just of the mill, but of the plaques which described the workings of the mill. I downloaded them and emailed them, and he was able to do his report from that material alone, then ask the professor if she'd understand that he did the work, but would go to the site that weekend. She agreed.

I got a bottle of wine out of it from a delighted mother. And a nice compliment about one of the pictures I took of the mill.

The bottle was certainly a nice gesture, but the compliment made my day. She asked if photography was my hobby. I was tempted to show her all the pictures I've become proud of. For example, my duck. Or my duck dancing. Or my duck walking like an Egyptian.

Here I am, a big girl with a bad back and sore knees, who can't quite feel her legs right now after running the "personal trainer" program on the gym's elliptical for a half hour, and I'm grinning from ear to ear because, in my possession, taken by my own hand, I have a picture of a duck.

You just never know what will interest people.

--Laura

Music Therapy Tuesday

The fall season returns to the south. Hurricanes begin sweeping up from Cuba, and if they hit on the Gulf side, they are certain to bring rain even to Atlanta.

Another sure thing is all the obligations fall brings. For parents, it's new school schedules, from academics to athletics. At my parish, it means the summer break is over and new classes and committees take over. If you were voted to sit on parish council, the meetings are fresh and new and people stay over to chat and reconnect. By January, inevitably, most people are more concerned about getting home before the chill sets in. In September however, it's still warm after dark, so people stand in the parking lot in companionable clusters, solving the world's problems under the floodlights.

For me, fall is always a return to choir practice, each Tuesday night. They started last week, but I wasn't able to be there, so tonight was my return. I was struck by the community intertwined in the seeming repetitious drudgery that is Tuesday Night Traditional Choir practice.

The choir contains people from all walks of life, but I'll admit it, I'm the youngest. I am surrounded therefore by about a dozen older folk who love the sound of my voice and when I push open the doors each evening to enter the church sanctuary, I'm greeted with sounds of approval. "Hey! Laura's here." I'm sure this must irritate the choir director, who wishes it didn't happen every time (or that I'd get there early, heaven forbid). 

Afterwards, everyone wants to know just a little bit about me. "Oh, I haven't seen you recently, I miss you." or, "Well how's work, are you still okay?" or, "You look good, have you lost weight?" or, "How's your mother and father? Are they coming for a visit soon?" At one point in my life I would have viewed this as intrusive, but it's just natural to me now. They love me because I'm like a child they wished they'd raised but don't have to be responsible for. I'm not asking for money or needing a place to stay, so they think I'm pretty great.

But something else, very important, goes on during practice. I call it as music therapy. 

We were learning a new Psalm for the season, and it was in chant - a special style known as a Gelineau tone. I couldn't find a real Gelineau tone online, but this rendition is conveys the idea. Learning a new song always involves a process that goes something like this:

First, you stumble over each note, reaching for it, wondering where it is, waiting for the piano to find it for you. You get through the first verse and everyone realizes that you didn't know the piece, so the director instructs you to repeat it. On the second try, you do a bit better, but now the piano is distracting, and it changes notes before you think it should, and the two of you sound like you're competing to have a conversation, one trying to be louder than the other. 

Then comes the third try. You take a deep breath. You readjust your glasses. You hold the book closer. You know that on Sunday, you're going to need to stand up front of the entire congregation and deliver this song. You cannot count on the choir to cover up your mistakes. 

The world slips away in this moment. The other singers and the piano cease to be a distraction. You receive the opening note, and you anchor yourself on it. And the notes begin to guide you. Up-Up-Up-Down-Up. First phrase is done. Up-Up-Down-WayDown-Up.  

Oh, you've got it now. The entire phrase has a progression and a form. And the next phrase builds on the first, creating a tension, then resolving it. And so does the next. And so does the next. It's hard to explain, but the notes on the page suck you into them. You balance on them. You steady yourself on one note, then reach for the next. 

The concentration gets you through without flaw finally, and you are able to relax. The next time you sing it, you can even add some flavor, some color, rounding vowels, improving phrasing. 

And that's when you look up, and practice is over, and you realize that for a full hour and a half, you had no work to do but balance on those notes. No one called you. No one had a crisis. All your worries belonged to someone else. I'm not sure how your day goes in an average week, but to find something that distracts me from mine for an hour is a real treat. It's like a visit to a spa, only free. I walk out humming. I drive home humming. I fall asleep humming. 

A sponge bath for the brain. Rest for the restless. Music therapy.

--Laura

Zoo Atlanta's New Arrival

The entry on the Zoo Atlanta website couldn't have been more enthusiastic:

Saturday, August 30 10:10 p.m. A Cub is born!!!

On September 1st, however, some problems began, prompting the zoo staff to move the baby to an incubator. They were concerned that Lun Lun wasn't producing enough milk to sustain the baby.

By Tuesday however, the baby was reintroduced to mama and mama seemed really happy to see the cub, cradling it. And the cub has gained weight, which is an encouraging sign indeed.

Perhaps you wonder why I'm blogging about this. Well geez, look at the last baby we had at Zoo Atlanta, Mei Lan. Now that is stinking cute. I remember that when the experts from China saw Mei Lan, they commented that the panda would have good fortune because the face shape was so pleasing and round. Can you disagree? So, this month we've doubled the baby population. What's wrong with blogging about that?

--Laura

Museum Day

September 27th is Museum Day, when museums and cultural institutions nationwide open their doors free of charge to Smithsonian magazine readers and Smithsonian.com visitors. The day is a celebration of culture and learning, and treats visitors to the free-admission policy of the Smithsonian Institution.

The local Marietta Museum of History (pictured to the right) is participating in this event. I'm sure there will be at least one museum in your area doing the same. Take the opportunity to see what your local area has to offer - no risk involved, and I guarantee you'll learn a lot.

For a list, by state, of other participating venues, visit the Smithsonian website here.

--Laura

I Believe in Community

I got a great email from my dad's cousin yesterday. She said she was going through boxes, and had found lots of Burke papers - birth and marriage certificates, First Communion documents, stuff like that. She wanted to know if I'd like to have it.

Of course I did.

I returned her email with a chatty one of my own, and among other bits of news, I shared some of my latest goals with her. I find that expressing my goals has become easier these days. When my priest asked what had been going on for me lately, I told him as well. There's a calculated reason for this. I believe in community.

When I was younger, I used to have a negative opinion of community. I viewed them as oppressive and restrictive, viewed the people as nosy and judgmental. Certainly, some communities can be. But there's a subtle line there, and it's worth noting. When you let a community tell you who you are, they will control your life. But when you tell a community who you are, they will support you instead. And in fact, if you share with a community not only who you are, but who you want to be, whenever possible they will help you get there.

When you're a kid, that means the adults in the neighborhood will buy the worst tasting beverage imaginable from your lemonade stand and declare that it's fabulous. When you're an adult, that means they encourage you, tease you, quiz you, and hold your feet to the fire while you develop your plans. Their persistence can sometimes even substitute for your own, reminding you that your goals aren't all in your head.

In fact, just the other day when I confessed to a friend that my goals were big and scary, she did just what a community member does. She gently encouraged me to get over it, with these words: Dreams are no more scary than real life. If your dreams were unrealistic, you'd know it. But you know they aren't.

This may not seem connected to the memorabilia I mentioned earlier. I was reminded however of a piece of family history I already have. In these obituaries, you see people, recently deceased, being described by the loved ones they left behind. You can't help but wonder how you'd be described if someone were writing yours.

These family members had a loving community to miss them when they were gone, a community that knew who they were. So at my age, as I am reconnecting with who I am and who I always wanted to be, I acknowledge not only that I have dreams, but that I can nurture them into reality. I find that I want my community to know that the dreams are as much a part of me as the real bits they already know about. I'm not afraid of telling them in case I were to fail and embarrass myself. In fact, I'm not even afraid of falling or failing anymore, I'm just afraid of not trying. And I need them, along with my family, to remind and encourage me to keep trying.

That's how hard things get done. With help. And when you know that getting help will definitely make hard things easier, don't you want everyone to know?

--Laura

Feeding the Hungry Heart

Thanks to Hurricane Fay, it has been raining all week. It began in earnest on Sunday, the day I chose to go hiking in Sweetwater Creek State Park. Yes, good timing, that.

Anyway, I had taken an umbrella, a bottle of water and some trail mix, so I felt fully prepared, and I got some nice pictures. This fern is one of them. I felt pretty artsy when I took it.

I began the day with mass, as I was scheduled to sing on Sunday. Normally, with an activity like hiking planned, I would have gone to the evening mass on Saturday, but as Deacon Bill would say, I was working the noon mass this weekend.

As it happens, Joe the organist sped through all the music at noon, for reasons known only to him. I don't think anyone minded, except me, though it wasn't because I wanted to add any particular spin to the songs. It's just that singing and breathing are vitally intertwined, so a quick song poses an interesting dilemma over how to do both. Fortunately, since I wanted to get some hiking time in before too much of the day had passed, people seemed satisfied when I sang on getting their spiritual hunger satisfied with the gift of finest wheat at a fast clip rather than at a more gentle or contemplative pace.

So back to the woods. Sweetwater Creek park is an interesting jewel in the center of an urban sprawl. Unlike many people I encounter there, I don't trudge through the place intent on getting exercise. Mainly this is because I'm a big girl with a bad back and regardless of how fast or slow I go, walking 4 or 5 miles is going to count as exercise for me. But the other reason is that when you speed through the trails to accomplish having hiked the trail, in my opinion you might as well have done your 5 miles on a treadmill at Gold's gym. Frankly, you miss everything.

For example, no one noticed the turtle, big as a dinner plate, sunning himself on the shoals in the creek. Or the tree frogs dancing around the base of a tree near the falls. Or what I'm certain was a blue-tailed skink. You can see my picture of him (or her) here.

In fairness, they also missed the two snakes. But I'll tell you something, they were just red corn snakes which they say make great pets. Not my pets, but that's what they say. I saw the first one while I was looking for the dinner plate sized turtle. I spotted the second one when I fell face forward into a tidal pool in the shoals. Later, I also got a little lost.

Maybe you're glad you missed my adventures. Maybe Gold's gym is sounding better and better. It's okay if you feel that way. All I'm saying is this: I went to the woods this weekend, and I have the bruises to prove it. And the stories. If I'd gone to the gym, I wouldn't have bruises or memories of snake encounters, but I probably wouldn't have remembered it, period.

Kahlil Gibran said, "When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight."

I guess that's not conventional wisdom, but I see it. You value the things that require something from you. When you lose a loved one, weren't they first your joy? When you find your joy, isn't your delight due in part to the fact that at one time you hungered for it? If you hadn't missed it to begin with, would it have satisfied so completely when you found it? I think not.

Sunday, I went to the woods, and found joy in it. I guess without realizing it, I had hungered for it. It was nice to feel alive again, instead of lazy on a Sunday. It was a nice change from apathy.

--Laura

Village Elders

My encounter with Tom, the pool guru, got me thinking about my elders.

The African proverb, made so popular by Hillary, claims that it takes a village to raise a child. That can be taken to mean that lots of people contribute to a child's well-being, in fact to the well-being of... well, anyone's being. But there's more to this than meets the eye.

I've always been fortunate to have lots of older people in my life. They say in some of the "birth order" literature out there that only children will develop the strongest relationships with people years younger or years older than themselves. This has been true for me. As a young girl, I loved to visit Mrs. Margie, who taught me how to make sugared violets. In college, most of my friends were 3rd or 4th year, even when I was a freshman. When I graduated and moved to the mountains of north Georgia, I befriended the "blue haired" set because of my work schedule, and delighted in their company as much as they delighted in mine. Today, even as a young adult, I spend a fair amount of my time with adults old enough to be my grandparents.

And if you don't do this, I caution you. I think you're making a mistake.

I don't think it's healthy to surround yourself only with people your own age. This is why I've never felt comfortable in social settings geared to Young Professionals or Young Singles or Young Adult Catholics. These people are all in the same boat I'm in. Heck, some are a lot worse off than I am, so the only real satisfaction I get is in knowing I'm not quite as screwed up as the guy sitting next to me.

I prefer the multi-generational approach to living: people much older than myself, people younger than myself, people my age and people from all walks of life. People in different stages of life are interesting. They have things to teach you.

One such couple befriended me in the north Georgia town I lived in prior to moving to the Atlanta area. I first met Rita when I began taking instruction in the church. Because I worked 3-11, I could pop by the church and help her and the other "Garden Angels" tend to the church grounds. She was a silver-haired, practical woman who despite living the last 2 decades in the south had still managed to retain her Minnesota accent. She and Gordy lived on the lake and had made a hobby out of adding onto their house. They were healthy and industrious people, and by now it was the size of the Pentagon.

By the time I entered the church, they had both become good friends, and once a month or so I was invited to their house for dinner. Those were some of the most enjoyable evenings of my time in that town. We'd talk about everything from history, politics, religion, dating, work, you name it. In fact, we often covered all those topics in one night, until we were all tired and yawning, and they were still reluctant to see me go. Keep in mind, these were not lonely elders. They had 6 kids who were regular visitors to the river house. They were constantly on the go, involved in both their community and their church. Gordy had taught himself how to design web pages "just to keep myself out of the bars."

They were interesting. They weren't like me. They had things to tell me about how to live my life. They were interested in what I had to say. They respected me, and I respected them.

What makes that different from friends your own age? Well, that's hard to put into words. Maybe it's because you aren't in the same stage of "figuring things out." They have seen things you haven't, and they listen with a relatively neutral ear.

The other thing is that they teach me to be a little less harsh on myself. Older people like to take breaks. They don't tackle the whole day at one time. They get where they are going by pacing themselves, but they get there nonetheless. Sometimes, I forget that I should stop for a while and rest, refresh and renew myself between projects. Much like the observation that "you always will have the poor with you," there will always be a task set ahead of us, with things to take care of. Your ability to do this hinges on the time you take for yourself, to restore yourself, to keep yourself physically and emotionally strong, and the time you take to learn from your experiences. Otherwise, life stays pretty much the same, and you become a mindless cog in the wheel, endlessly repeating the same behaviors and getting the same results.

Sitting a spell, talking it out with an older friend who wants little more than your company is insurance - against turning your life into an endless assembly line of duty and responsibility.

I heard this once: Yankees will spend thousands a year to sit on a couch and talk to a stranger, calling it "therapy." Southerners spend an afternoon with friends, sitting on a couch and call it "just visiting."

If that's just a southern thing, I'm sorry, it's time to expose the secret. The economy is bad these days, people, so take advantage of this tip. Consulting with the village elders is free, and the rewards are immeasurable.

--Laura

A Real Goal Getter: Part VI

I'll pause for a minute about what my goals are, to tell you a little story, because I had the most interesting experience at the pool the other day.

As I was finishing my swim, an old man entered the indoor pool area to take his own afternoon swim. He was East Indian, with clear, warm skin. Nevertheless, he was so wrinkled, I had the desire to iron him. I'd learn later that he was quite old.

We exchanged pleasantries, and I liked his gentle nature and his warm smile so much, I must have been grinning at him, because he continued to speak to me after he got into the pool. We discussed the Pool Closing Tragedy, the alternate Aquatic Center down the road, ways to get the best value for our gym membership dollar, and the advantages and disadvantages of paying for a full membership versus paying ala carte.

The tone of the conversation suddenly changed.

"I am 75-years-old," he said. "I came to this country with $45 in my pocket. But I was determined to get an education. Now I have a PhD." I congratulated him, but was a bit confused, because this seemed to have nothing to do with our previous conversation. But he continued.

"I've seen tragedy in my life. My child, my only son, worked for the government. He gave his life for his country at the American embassy in 1998, when he was only 37. I stood over his casket and I told him that for him, my son who was always so worried about my health, I was going to lose weight and quit smoking. Many people complain about quitting smoking and how it will make you gain weight, so I decided to do both at the same time. When I began, I weighed 250 lbs. I just got off the scales in the other room, and I weigh 181 lbs."

I congratulated him, and he thanked me. Then he said the most remarkable thing.

"So many people say they want to do big things, but immediately come up with excuses why they can't. If you want to drive to Chicago, you don't wander around Douglasville, get low on gas, then go back home. You go to mapquest, you plan your route, you plan where you will need to stop and sleep, and then you head out with a full tank of gas. It takes preparation and it takes a plan. The excuses are just things to look past. You cannot let them get in your way."

"People let obstacles and not goals guide them," I said, letting him know I was actively listening to him. In fact, I was enthralled that this man would be saying these things to me, a reformed slacker, a real goal getter. He smiled at me and nodded, satisfied that I understood him.

All the things he said to me wouldn't fit in this entry. It was funny though that the night before, in the bathroom of a nightclub, I paused from the entertaining evening I'd had with friends to look at myself in the mirror and speculate on the wisdom of all my recent plans and goals. Were they crazy? Was I crazy? Did my reach exceed my grasp? Was this all too hard? Would I ever be able to afford to make the changes I wanted to make?

Call me crazy, but I think the next day brought my answer, from a man who lost his 37-year-old son and his only child and in doing so learned a thing or two about goals. Only to share that lesson with a 37-year-old only child standing on the edge of a pool, who is learning a thing or two about setting goals herself.

--Laura