Vacation with a Purpose

People have different agendas for vacations. I remember growing up, my dad and I went on vacation with a family friend and his grandson, David. We went to the Disney establishment in Florida. I think we should have known better. Nothing good can come from Disney.

Anyway, this friend was a typical Type-A personality. Every waking minute was planned. And most minutes were waking minutes. He liked to be on the go constantly. Lord have mercy, it was tedious. The man did not have an "Unwind" button.

There's the opposite of course, doing absolutely nothing. I'm not in favor of that either. I think a vacation should have a purpose. But when I work 49 weeks out of the year serving someone else's purpose, I think on vacation, I should serve my own. I even think Mr. Harry deserved the vacation he wanted. I just didn't want to share it. Fortunately, that was the last time we did.

I'm enjoying mine. As you and your family plan cookouts, reunions or family vacations to the Statue of Liberty, the Biggest Ball of yarn in Idaho or the ancient steps of Malta, seek a vacation that serves you. My wish for you is rest and restoration.

--Laura

Confession: Part I

Since my audience here is probably less than a hundred (that’s funny, it’s probably less than six), I feel comfortable with this confession: I once authored a mystery-romance novel.

I thought of this recently when I was thumbing through the pages of Southern Homespun a book by a family friend. Occasionally I look it up on Amazon to see if anyone is selling copies. Thinking about her book made me think of my own.

Mine was never published of course, but as a junior in High School, I believed I could emulate the style of mystery-romance novels written by Phyllis A. Whitney, someone I’d been reading for a few years because mom liked her.

(At 37, it doesn’t escape me that had my passion been boys, the hard sciences or computing, my life might be much different today. History not so much – because who gets a job with a history degree? I love history now, but I think my 16 year old self did me a favor on that front at least. I’m a bit chapped with her about the other ones though; I bet I would have been good at computers. She could have put a little more shoulder into it. She was convinced she was going to be a foreign correspondent).

She, well I, was also convinced I could write a mystery-romance novel following Whitney’s time tested formula. She was at thirty books by the time I began copying her. And she lived to 104, so that alone is impressive. Anyway, her formula is basically this:

1. Girl discovers mystery is afoot.
2. Mystery tries to kill/maim/injure girl.
3. Girl is perky and sets about to solve mystery.
4. Boy shows up and Girl is irritated yet strangely attracted to Boy. Note: they need to be forced together by chance. This Girl is independent, like Nancy Drew with the titian blonde hair.
5. Boy and Girl fall in love. Kissing ensues.
6. Dramatic tension: Something suggests the Boy isn’t who he says he is and may want to kill Girl!
7. Climactic Moment: Girl tested by extreme danger, mystery killer is revealed and Boy is cleared.
8. Tie up all loose ends of mystery. Kiss Boy. Plan future. The End.

So during one class each day (Yearbook), I wrote my version of this story in a mead spiral notebook. I had won it in a contest that year, along with a box of mead paper products. I still do most of my writing in longhand and struggle to do any real thinking while I’m typing. I’m not sure why.

When I had finished the novel, I typed up the story, using my parent’s typewriter. It was an iron beast with its own black hard plastic carrying case. I stored the entire manuscript in a shirt box.

At some point not long after that I got my first computer. It was a Leading Edge, Model D. and I wanted to be different, so I got the amber CRT monochrome monitor. It had two floppy drives. I don’t remember it running windows, and it is the sole reason I know any DOS commands. I was going to use it in college. I was on the crest of the personal computer age, so of course the novel was meant to go on my new computer and saved on a disk.

Plan's First Fatal Flaw: I destroyed the typewritten pages as I input the story.
Plan's Second Fatal Flaw: I didn’t make copies of the disk.

To cut to the chase, the disk corrupted one day and I lost all but about 50 pages of the end of the book.

--Laura

An Atlanta Night Out

This is the Terminus 100 building on the corner of Peachtree and Piedmont, named I assume because Atlanta was once called Terminus. I took the shot heading to an office party at Fogo de Chao, a Brazilian steakhouse. As a reward for being the second best account in the region, we got money for a party, so this place with its selection of 15 different meats was chosen for our celebration.

I like driving into Atlanta the back way. By this I mean I skip the interstate. I take Moore's Mill Road (named for Moore's Mill, which was established on Peachtree Creek by Thomas Moore in 1828), which runs through, in my opinion, some of the nicest property in Atlanta. Atlanta is a city of decadent greenery and pathetic streets, and my route through Moore's Mill, West Wesley and Peachtree Road is abundant in both. I do not pass by the aging luxury on West Wesley without the phrase "Gracious Living" coming to mind. There are areas in Atlanta just as lovely. But I'm familiar with this drive, which gets me into the city and beats I-20 any day of the week.

I'm not sure I've ever eaten where the final tab came out to around $100/head. But that was with drinks included. In addition to the meal, I had some sort of fruit cream for dessert, a brazilian lime drink, a dirty martini, a cappucino and two shots of patron. We were trying to spend what had been given to us, what can I say?

At this restaurant, there's no menu. There's an extensive salad bar with everything from smoked salmon and proscuitto to asparagus spears and heart of palms. You could make a meal with that alone, but you dare not. Because the table was also laid with small metal dishes of fried polenta, mashed potatoes and fried plantains. Then the servers, called gauchos, fly around the room at a dizzying and overwhelming pace, holding sharp knives and metal skewers of meat poised over shiny metal saucers. They cut portions at your table, or slide portions off the skewers to your plate. Of all the selections, I think the baby lamb chops were the best. Bright pink, they were cooked just enough that no blood was left on your plate when you cut them, but so sweet and tender that you could almost skip chewing. One of the husbands called them "stunning." I tapped Dan, my unofficial date, several times just to see if he was conscious. This would be a bad date restaurant, because men seem to be rendered incapable of conversation by the endless stream of meat.

As we left, I headed behind the restaurant, because I'd done self-park instead of valet. It was late and much of the wait staff was outside, talking in Spanish and smoking. Suddenly the fancy evening was over and I was transported, away from the sophistication of the restaurant, to a scene of working people whose cars cranked hesitantly and sounded poorly tuned. As I put on my seatbelt, I stared at a group of waiters standing in the streetlamp's light. I wondered if they resented how large parties like us lingered to the very end, or if, as my director implied, the tip we left more than made up for the tired feet and sore backs. And as I drove home through the tall buildings and outdoor patio restaurants which Atlantans love, I noticed many in black pants and white shirts, the standard waiter's ensemble, sitting exhausted on curbs, waiting for buses on what must be their busiest night of the week. I hope my director was serious and had tipped enough.

As I returned to West Wesley, I wondered what it would be like to live without want or a sense of dread over financial obligations. Not only this, but to perhaps to be "old money," where neither parents nor grandparents had known a paycheck to paycheck existence.

Another road you cross on West Wesley is Howell Mill. They say it's named after Clark Howell, who was a prominent turn-of-the-century name both in the Atlanta Democratic party and the newspaper industry, which at one time was the same thing. His daddy ran with men like Joel Chandler Harris, an industrious newspaper man before he was a folklorist. They say Clark Howell's run for governor near the turn of the century sparked the Atlanta Race Riots (not as much because of him, but because of his opponent, who won). During his career, he won a Pulitzer, hired other journalists who did the same, steered the Atlanta Journal Constitution for over fifty years and served on special commissions under two presidents, almost a third. He even founded a radio station at Georgia Tech, for giggles. It strikes me that when you come from a family like that, you never wonder, tucked behind your tree-lined drive, if you will have enough money to get your roof fixed.

It makes me wonder if maybe a few of the roads around Atlanta shouldn't be named for guys who make their living each night working until they're exhausted, take the bus home to save money, and still figure a way to pay the bills and do right by their family.

The Happiest Day of the Year

I’ve made the decision today to shorten my entries. This is after reading a story on the NPR website that says the internet has reduced our attention spans. Turns out, at around 800 words a piece, I’m long winded. Well who in my family didn’t know that already?

Speaking of family, my mother has pneumonia and is taking drugs. Mom, if you’re reading this, you should stop, you need to rest. It’s not good for a woman with a pacemaker to have pneumonia, and you sounded terrible. There, please go to bed now.

Another story on the Atlanta Journal Constitution this morning proclaimed that this was the happiest day of the year. This was determined by a psychologist in Wales. It’s my understanding from people who’ve been that Wales is one of the gloomier destinations on the Irish Sea. It’s also called the Land of Song, which I suppose people must do to keep their spirits up. I guess what I’m saying here is a psychologist from Wales would have to find this subject mighty important.

Anyway, he came up with a formula for predicting the happiest day, which looks like this:
O + (N x S) + Cpm/T + He. Which is time spent outdoors (O) plus Time in Nature (N) times the Socialization of summer (S) plus the positive memories of childhood summers (Cpm) and factoring in the temperature (T) and the anticipation of vacation (He).

Wow, this guy is really into summer.

So how many of you agree? Was this your best day ever? I give it a mixed review. Work was a wash, but taking his equation, I decided to up my chances of feeling good. I got home, called a few people (stimulating pleasure centers in my old noodle), then I went outside to mow the backyard. Well, until I ran out of gas. But that was a good start, right? And my hammock was calling me. So I took a little time out to swing under the trees, think about my vacation time next month, and play with my animals who always entertain me. Then I watered my vegetables, picked up a few things around the house and now I’m listening to a new CD that came in the mail today by Chris Thile, who wants to tell me that Not All Who Wander Are Lost, the title of his CD and a quote from Tolkien as it turns out. So far, the first track, “Song for a Young Queen”, is pretty up tempo.

So I don’t know, maybe happy days can be predicted by an equation. Maybe what happens instead is you set a goal to be happy and you bring things to the table to make it happen. What do you think? This psychologist also predicts that the gloomiest day of the year will be the third Monday in January. I guess we’ll just need to wait and see.

Mom, seriously, go rest.


Chris Thile, "Song for a Young Queen"

Remembering Trayne

A friend of mine will be receiving a kidney transplant soon, in July. They determined that a cousin was a suitable donor, so she is leaving work at the end of the week to begin taking two immunosuppressant drugs before starting IV medicines. All this in hopes she will not reject the organ.

I’m worried about her. I wish I could do more than worry. It can really make you feel lousy when you know your limitations. I’m not the doctor who will help her, and this transplant is needed to save her from a lifetime of dialysis or worse. Her problems are clearly more than I can manage. But I’d still like to fix them.

My choir director’s dog also died today. I thought the remembrance he did was touching. I edited a bit but I’m including it here:

Dear Friends,
Trayne the Poodle went to Doggie Heaven today after a year-long struggle with an enlarged heart and eventual heart failure.
I had taken off last Friday to perform the deed and then I heard on TV about canine hypoglycemia and a treatment that seemed to work. He had all the symptoms, so I purchased some Pedialyte and he actually rallied on Saturday. However, after the weekend it was obvious that this palliative would not work for long.
Like Sarge the Shepherd/Wolf who died in 1987, Trayne was able to eat until the end and he gobbled up his dog food this morning, but could not even stand on all fours to eat it.
The staff at Avondale Veterinary Hospital was very supportive and made a difficult situation bearable. His cremains will eventually be placed in an urn to stand next to the other receptacles for my German Shepherds Sarge and Bear.
Trayne came into my life at the end of January, 1995 as a gift from my friend. He helped me get used to life in Georgia when I still missed, not only my faithful German Shepherd, Lady, but also my two pet lizards. Lizards make very good pets.
Trayne is survived by Bébé the Maine Coon Cat who will receive much more attention now that the jealous poodle is no longer underfoot.
Trayne was a stalwart at Emory Gardens Condo during our ownership. During this period Sharon Rowland arranged for kitty to arrive, supposedly as a pet for the poodle. Both animals thrived at Oak Creek Apartments from October, 2000 until the present.
I don’t know if any of the great Russian composers has composed a Panikhida for canines!
We will all meet at the Rainbow Bridge.
With sadness, Joe

I remember a particular day when Joe first mentioned that his dog’s health was failing. He discussed the symptoms and options for a moment then said he’d need to put him down. I remarked that I knew it would be a really sad day for him and expressed my sympathies. He said, “Yes, but I know why the dog is sick. All he knows is that he’s hurting. And if I don’t put him out of his pain then I wouldn’t be doing my job as his caretaker. I’d be keeping him alive to make the loss easier on me.

I had to blink rapidly a few times to keep from crying myself. Joe is a portly man well into his 60’s, and I don’t have any sort of romantic designs on him, but I thought that was the manliest thing I’ve ever heard. If you don’t get why I’d say that, then you’ve never lost a beloved pet. They are probably the closest thing many people get to unconditional love and acceptance, and letting them go because you know it’s the right thing to do is still very hard. And I think wanting to spare your pet the confusion of a few week’s suffering even if it means having them put to sleep is just about the most decent thing I’ve ever heard.

I’ve always liked Joe, but I think that was the first time I ever measured him against something that mattered. Sleep well, Trayne.

Second Self

Last night I went to a pub with a friend to hear a local band. It’s hard to get bands to travel to our side of town and gas prices have curtailed our outings, so we dropped hints to management that we’d come ONLY for the band. But we like this place, recently opened. Joe the Bartender makes good dirty martinis, or so Stacy tells me, and they are a buck less than the ones we get across town.

My friend and I discussed our day, and she told me about a guy who tried to pick her up in traffic by leaning out of his truck window and holding his phone against his ear.

“Phone sex?” I wondered. She laughed and we dismissed the incident. Stacy told me she’d be seeing her boyfriend tomorrow.

“That’s cause for celebration,” I said honestly. Sam lives a few towns away and is a patrolman with horrible hours. While the two of them are dating, scheduling time together has been… challenging. I think this is the forth time she’s been to his house this year.

It’s June.

I mention this and she sobers. “What’s the alternative? The guy who thinks hitting on a stranger in traffic is classy?”

“I don’t know. He’s not a bad person. I just know the relationship isn’t giving you what you want. He doesn’t have to be a bad man to be the wrong man.” I say this because I’ve known Stacy for a while, I’ve seen her second self and I know it’s not happy.

Single women all have a second self. While we live a complete life in singlehood, we’re always feeding that second self – the person we’d be if we were dating. Make no mistake; this isn’t a fake person. It’s just one we keep stashed away to bring out when the need serves. And while we may have a full singlehood, this second self often sneaks out.

It’s like the person who’s remodeling their house. Wherever they go, they notice something they’d like in their own home. “I love that travertine tile! That would like great in my kitchen. Did you put it down yourself?”

The second self sees aspects of people’s character or qualities in a relationship that we’d like in a man, which we’d like in a relationship of our own. Let me be clear. We don’t want your boyfriend. We don’t want your husband. But we do want ours.

And different women want different things. I know for Stacy, while I’m one of her best friends, she’d much rather go to Charleston next month with Sam than with me. Destination with Sam? Any Town, USA. And I remember recently we were returning home from a night out. We were laughing because we’d shared the evening with the table of people next to us, three or four couples. They were obviously old and comfortable friends. They’d joked with us and we’d enjoyed their company. And later Stacy said, “You know, that’s something I want. Spending the evening with friends, having fun and sharing it with my guy.” The wistful tone in her voice turned us both quiet for several minutes. That’s the key. She wants his time.

The rest of her second self I’ll leave to her. I have my own.

My second self emerges in flashes, like memories I haven’t had yet. And the meaningful stuff is what takes places around the house. I want us to be quietly in the house, each doing our own thing. But whenever we pass each other in the hall or the kitchen, we manage to touch, a quiet and affectionate acknowledgement. I imagine him bringing a friend home after work and I invite him to have dinner with us, and we all pitch in for an impromptu cookout.

In the winter, the seed catalogues arrive. We plan the spring garden together. What about cantaloupe? How about an experiment growing Russian black tomatoes? In the spring, we work outside, getting sunburned as we prepare the garden. We share chores during the week. I get a phone call during the workday from him, asking if there’s something he can pick up on the way home. Backyard cookouts. Learning how to do new things together, or better still, him teaching me something he knows while I teach him something I know. Turning the stereo up loud and dancing some crazy dance in the livingroom, laughing the whole time. I want to sing to him. Get lost with him. Walk around the neighborhood with him in the cool of the evening.

There’s bigger stuff too. Holidays, discovering traditions we’d like to share. Being there for each other when something is difficult. Learning to trust each other. Discovering he is my protector and my safe haven. Finding a creative way to tell him that I took a test that morning, and it was positive. Discovering that sometimes he cries when he holds the infant who looks just a little like him and just a little like me. Falling asleep next to him each night.

These things belong on a road I can’t travel by myself. I have friends I plan my garden with. I have friends I share my holiday with. I have friends I go on vacation with. It’s just not the same and it never will be. I don’t like to focus on my second self too much because I think she takes energy away from my present, and I'm seriously proud of who I am and what I’m about. I’m proud of the way I handle myself at work, I’m proud of the way I keep my house and I know I make a contribution to my community.

But my second self is always there, waiting.

Mary Chapin Carpenter, "Only a Dream"
The song isn't really related, but I love it.
--Laura

The Story - IV: Scent of Ocean

I was dying. Memories of home faded. Neither past nor future called me and I did not wish for them. The day was pushed forward only by the sound of my breathing and the voices of the trees, telling me stories I did not know in a language I did not understand. But I had stopped scheming to escape this place, and I could feel death hover closer each day. I wondered when he would grow impatient enough to take me. I did not fear it because I did not care.

But one day the air changed. This would be such a small thing in a wide wide world, but where there are no breezes, even a small breeze is noticed. Did the trees notice as well? I did not lift my head to draw attention to it. They would notice movement from me like I noticed the scent which had traveled to me on the air.

But of course they would have noticed too, their heads all full of leaves, sensitive to every turn of the air and likely to talk about each one. But it wasn’t a breeze exactly. More like a scent in the air which was so distinct that it felt like a breeze. It was just a stir, but it felt strong. It was strong enough to hold me, waiting and attentive.

The leaves continued to gossip though as if nothing had happened. And there was no new stirring. The scent did not get stronger. Eventually it faded and I stopped waiting. It was not coming back.

And then it did come back. At first, the shock of recognition was sharper than its repeat performance. Still I maintained stillness in my body and the trees said nothing. And this time the scent was stronger, and I opened one eye wider to locate its source.

Vines above my head seemed different when I stared at them long enough. They didn’t move precisely, but seemed to bulge as if they carried a new weight, as if they’d grown new tendrils which added to their bulk. There was a difference there. And that was all I knew. So I breathed. And I waited. And I watched.

Days later, light reflected against something new between the vines. It was pale, but it was streaked in mud. It didn’t move though so much as it pushed. It was pushing through the vines. But it hadn’t broken free. So I breathed. And I waited. And I watched. And I felt a difference in my spirit.

Days later, the scent of the ocean grew. It triggered my memory of water lapping at my ankles and sun heating my face. I breathed more deeply to trap the smell in my lungs and realized I had grown stiff and heavy in my limbs, staring up at the bulge in the vines and the pale thing pushing through. I flexed my spine then, slowly at first. Surely the trees knew of this new presence. Surely I would not betray it to move, to notice it, to respond?

So I reached for it. I wanted to know so badly what it was. But I was afraid to touch it, afraid that it would pull away. It didn’t know me. It didn’t know I was safe. I moved closer to it, to see it more clearly. It was pale skin. It was a hand. Much like my own and yet harder. And when I brushed the tip of the finger, my touch was so light it did not flinch. It did not think me anything more threatening than a moth. And I breathed. And I waited. And I hoped.

The day came when the fingers of the hand stretched through the vine barrier, each one individually but with the same purpose. The hand wanted to break free. The hand wanted inside this place. So I steadied myself. I reached toward it, and with my fingers I brushed against the hard curling fingers. Without hesitation, they tightened over my hand so quickly I was tempted to pull away. But I didn’t. I stood my ground and I held them fast. I rubbed my thumb across the top of the knuckles, and it tightened just that much more. The hand was firm. The grasp was strong. The vines parted. And the air was flooded with the scent of the ocean.

The shadow of death grew still and then shrank.

David Wilcox, "How Did You Find Me Here?"

Salon Day Sunday

Sunday I went to the salon to get my hair cut. Nothing extravagant. I go to a chain salon, which you know can be problematic if you also go to one. You know what I mean. Each time is an adventure with someone new, because the last person who cut your hair doesn’t work there anymore.

About three months ago however, I met a woman who does good work with my head. Then I made the mistake of not learning her schedule. The next time she wasn’t working and I got a disaster cut, so much so that I couldn’t complete my other errands. I headed home to wash it and try to style it back into something which resembled me.

I learned my lesson. Before I went this time, I called ahead to get her schedule, which is when I learned she works on Sundays. When I got there she already had someone in the chair, so I asked to wait. I was prepared to camp out like I was waiting for Springsteen tickets.

As I was sitting there with my magazine, I watched Judy work. My eyes drifted around the room while I chatted with other ladies there. It was a quiet Sunday before most of the customers would arrive, and it was a relaxed and friendly hen party. And it struck me. I was in a room with all these women, and I was the only white girl there. One African-American ran the cash register; another was getting her hair styled by a Korean woman. And an East Indian woman spoke on the phone in a language I did not know.

I smiled and enjoyed my surroundings, because that wouldn’t happen just anywhere.

I’ve always been comfortable in the company of women of color. I remember having a job during the summer between my first and second year of college. A woman people referred to only as “T” befriended me. She had this legitimate night job with me, cleaning the public areas of a resort hotel, and she sold drugs on the side. As we worked, she’d entertain me with stories about the last time her house was shot up. Strangely, she had a crush on one of the security guards at the hotel, which for some reason didn’t seem ironic at the time. At any rate, one day he’s talking to her and I walk up. He stops talking nervously and she tells him not to worry because I’m alright. Later, when he left, I asked her what she meant and she laughed at me and said, “I meant that you don’t see color. So, you’re alright.”

What she said wasn’t entirely true. I do see color. And I recognize that there are significant differences between me and women who aren’t white. It’s just that the differences don’t bother me. I rather like them.

And I loved being in the salon that morning. All these women were cheerful and talkative. And had it been a similar group of white women, I’d be evaluating myself next to them. Who had a better body, who had a better hair cut, who was more glossed up, could I wear that top, the list goes on and on. And there’s no reason that I wouldn’t compare myself to these women as well; I just don’t. The color of their skin gives them all something I could never have. With other white women, I could have shinier hair if I used a certain product. I could have a tighter belly if I did more exercises. I could be darker if I went to a tanning bed. But I could never have what these women have. And knowing this frees me somehow to just enjoy their company. So I did.

Just before it was time for Judy to do my hair, the East Indian woman asked if I needed a shampoo and I said yes. Judy instructed her to give me a good one, because she knew me and I was a good customer. She needn’t have bothered. The woman gave me one of the most glorious shampoos. She massaged my scalp with every finger. It’s possible that while my eyes were closed, she used her toes too. When I left the chair, I was more relaxed than I had been in ages. A hair cut, blow dry, two bottles of shampoo and twenty-five dollars later, I felt like I’d been to a spa day. It’s hard to explain.

Cutting my own hair is something I’d never do unless I was trapped through a long winter in a high mountain cabin. Even then I’d probably resort to hats. So somehow it is wonderful to me that these people would spend their day taking care of me. After I left I’m sure they went on with the rest of their day as if I hadn’t been there, not knowing that they’d so refreshed me that I was grinning from ear to ear and kinder to everyone I saw the rest of the day. Sunday it hit me profoundly just how nice it was to be treated to a lovely shampoo by a sweet East Indian lady and a haircut by a cheerful Korean woman who’s facing the prospect of her only son joining the military during war times. I could hear her worry as she told me about it. But she had enough generosity left over to take special care with my hair because she attended my parish (when I can, sweetie) and liked my “awesome singing voice” during mass. She called me a blessing.

Last Sunday, her generosity blessed me right back. Thanks Judy.

--Laura

The Story - Part III: In the Woods

Time lost its importance and its passage went unmarked. The trees blocked out all but the thinnest rays of sunlight. They rationed and measured everything. I knew activity only when they provided small meals or let rainwater pass through their branches and over their leaves to me. Even sound was muffled, and this is how I knew I was in a prison of their making. As I had walked in the edge of the gentle woods, on the outskirts of the Elders, the woods had been loud with the sound or rustling leaves, crashing pinecones and acorns, the crackling of trees stretching their limbs. Now they did not want me to know of the world outside this place.

At first I continued to struggle, to reason with them. I am not your daughter, I told the Elders. I do not fit here. Your ways are not suited to me. But they could taste youth in my words and hushed me as they would an inexperienced child, stretching more and more vines between me and my freedom, until I feared the vines would take over what little space remained to me, and I was silent.

So in silence I pushed attacked the woody vines, and they remained. In silence I sat with my back to them, and pressed my flesh against their hard unforgiving surface. They would not give way, so I pressed harder. They would not give way, so I pressed harder still until the vines clung to me, taunted by my pressure and pleased with my spine. They encircled me as an abandoned and desolate sculpture. The more I pushed the tighter they clung until I was uncomfortably restricted. I finally extracted myself like a spring bud escaping its branch. I found relative safety with my back against the roughness of tree bark, and I was still.

And I think this was when I first became acquainted with the scent of death. Until I knew its name, I could only identify the smell of fear in it and turn away. But death would lurk in shadows, intertwined in the vines surrounding me. So to find it, I rested my head against the trunk of a tree, barely moving, tilting my head inch by inch, until I could tell when the scent was the strongest. Then I stared at the shadows in front of me until they separated, until they took shape. The forms would gesture to me. It was then that I knew death waited for me.

Still, I could hear my friends. They were not loud or close. At times I worried that I only imagined them. I feared all that remained was my powerful longing for their company. But in a place of such stillness, where the scent of death is so powerful, even the smallest thing is a big thing. When sky’s breezy fingers probed delicately through the vines and feathered my hair, I knew it was my friend and not my longing. And when it sought me in this locked up place with clear sunny fingers, unafraid and tender, it gave me courage in a deep place inside. Days would pass and I would not hear from it, then I would see a ray of light pointing to a spot on the forest floor, revealing a small glistening bead of dew on a single blade of grass. I would edge toward it slowly, drawing little attention to my movements, moving a few inches at a time, stopping to sleep, then waking to move again. And when I reached the blade of grass, I would extend a single finger to the fragile fellow and the drop would coat the top of my finger. I knew it was a greeting from my friend, who despite the greed of the trees found something to spare for me. It was a miracle I could tell no one about, but I protected it in my heart.

This is how my life was reduced. And I had to participate. Because to spend my hours waiting on signs which were few and far between was to waste hope on what might not be. My mind thirsted for the next touch of the wind, the next cool drop of water on my fingertip. Eventually they would forget me, I knew, and the signs would stop coming. I would be left to this place for whatever purpose the trees had. My friends would find more engaging companions. Losing them, losing the hope in them would be worse somehow than losing my journey and my freedom. So I gave them up early. I stopped looking for their signs. Hope creaked to a halt and I was left alone with my worn and tired thoughts.

And the trees marked my days.

The Story - Part II: Journey

My companions brought joy to me, stroking my hair and whispering in my ears. I walked tall with an easy stride and did not worry about the passing of time. The path from the birthplace of my memories was smooth. Novelty distracted me! The sky delighted me with colors she’d never shown me. I was a traveler, she said, and should be treated to new sights. And the air was different here too, gathering leaves to swirl in the air or shout unfamiliar sounds across the waves to jangle around my ears. Birds knew different dances here and they displayed them, eager for a new appreciative eye. I paid them homage with my delight.

Earth often reminded water to refresh me, and within its banks it would slow seriously and invite me to drink. When I reached the banks however I could see how beneath the surface it could barely contain its giggles. It did not want to be the majestic flowing water of life, not then. It wanted to play. I would drink deeply so it could return to its games. I loved the water that day, because it was delicious and clean and because it could dance.

My companions comforted me. I found love in their generosity. And time carried me further away from home. Each day the path got a little rougher. I wouldn’t speak as much to the waves or the air as I had to look where I was going or stumble. And the sky seemed further away those days, hiding behind trees. She would still shake their tops, which made them gossip noisily and analyze her in minute and specific detail, but I would hear her thoughts second hand, in leafy echoes.

I also noticed the thirst of trees for the first time. They clamored for water. So when I spoke to the water, our conversations were spare and forced, as it seemed to be telling me it had little of itself to go around. I rationed myself, leaving my thirst not completely quenched. I did not want water to mind my company. That was the first memory I have of concerning myself with such matters.

The trees were friendly enough though, always inviting me further down my path. They intrigued me with stories from their memories, which stretched further back than my own. They explained that they had created this path just for me, at a time way before my own existence. This fascinated me. What would be around the next curve? What would I see at the top of the next hill? It was all an adventure.

And when I was tired, I would sit at their feet. They would shade me from storms and high winds, and speak in soothing leafy whispers until I drifted in sleep. They seemed eager to tell their stories to me, as eager as trees can be in their steady unflinching nature, eager like I was an adopted daughter who needed to learn both their stories and their ways. Memory became more important to me than the present in fact, and I would walk for long stretches where all I concentrated on were the trees and the tales and the step in front of me. Birds and wind and sunrises could not distract me. I took delight in purpose.

I do not remember when I first lost the sky and when the taste of sunlight became unfamiliar, but suddenly I missed it. Suddenly I was hungry for it and it was missing. And one special day I woke and sensed they had abandoned me. The air was not gone, but it was not as I remembered. It was quiet and tight and seemed somehow to have aged. I was in the Deep Woods, I was told, and this was its proper name, and here is where I would stay.

I looked around me, examining my surroundings. The pathway out had been obscured as if the trees had decided to link their branches together and contain me inside them. Had there always been vines here? I could not tell you, but they had grown up at some point. They were thick and strong and I could not break them. When I probed too deeply I found thorns and drew my hands back.

Above all was the whispered leafy encouragement. Slow down, they told me, you move too much. You should stop. You should be still. And I was still. Not to rest, but to be dulled and turned into lead, or into earth where nothing green will grow.

--Laura

The Story - Part I

I have no people to hold my memories. I have no one to recall a time beyond my mind’s own reach. And from my earliest memories, I lived in a land of light and air. The sky was wide and clear, an ever-changing palette of bright and shadow. It was always the same but never the same.

Sometimes it was ferocious, swallowing all the colors of the rainbow and stretching its shoulders that the colors might flame against its breast like war paint. Sometimes it was dazzling with heat which reached from valley to peak, making the air sizzle and hum. Sometimes it was cool and deep like a stone from a mountain cave, covering the land with the cool weight of mist. And even when it was dark it had different moods. There was silver darkness when the trees and rocks would glow. There was amethyst darkness which swallowed the ocean and consumed boundaries. There was coal darkness studded with diamond star and pearl moon.

The earth ruled this splendor, providing the sky with endless landscapes to both play and rest. Paint from the sky spilled all over the place too, as the loving courtship was messy and enthusiastic in turn. Speckles of blue, green, purple and yellow littered the earth’s shoulders and hair, thighs and belly. Its cheeks blushed with reds and rosy pinks. Its arms were brown and strong.

It would hold the colors of fire and let all of them gather to dance in the palms of its hands. The fire would crackle and hiss but never quite take over the earth. After some unspoken agreement, the fire would still itself mostly, until it stood in one spot like a young mustang, mastered but untamed.

This could exhaust the earth however, so when it tired, when it stooped its shoulders to drink from cool streams, the water would caress the earth with tender hands, and soak up the colors too. It would soak them up and reflect them back to the sky, which would ripple the water’s surface in a loving gesture, as a parent reassuringly stroking a child. But the water was secretive too, and would hide the colors deep within its breast, carrying the hues down to the warm southern riverbanks and into the sea. With great swells of generosity it would fling them in the air, letting the colors splash in its cool strength and ride upon its shoulders.

I don’t remember when I decided to leave this home. Nothing put fear in my heart. I lacked for nothing.

At some point though, I realized my time there was finished, and I made preparations to leave. The earth was all about the basics. It wanted me to have food and clothing for my body and feet. Like a mother dressing its child, it made sure I would not go cold, or hungry.

The water and the sky were unconcerned. They would travel with me, they giggled. They would gossip about me to all their playmates who would recognize me when they saw me and see that I was refreshed and out of harm’s way.

Fire kept to himself, but soon found ways to whisper some of his secrets in my ears. He gave me his wisdom that I might conjure him anywhere, and have him warming me with his stories whenever I may wish to hear him. He assured me he would not be far away.

My leaving then was happy and exciting, loud with dancing waves and birds riding in the folds of the sky’s swirling skirts. I was alive and strong and my story was about to begin...

-- Laura

Help yourself. You're family.

There’s a stage to every friendship, where a person stops being a guest in your house. If they ask for a glass of water, you reply, “Help yourself. You’re family.”

Some people reach this more quickly than others, and while it sounds like a title you bestow on a person when you’re too lazy to get up and get them a glass of water, it’s really a much more delicate arrangement than you might realize. Without being aware of what has happened, an agreement has been established between the giver and the recipient of the “you’re just family” title.

First, the giver is comfortable enough with the recipient of the title that they don’t rush to the kitchen to make sure the glass is actually clean before filling it. This is either because they know they washed the dishes last time instead of their children or significant other, or they realize that if the recipient of the glass doesn’t think it’s clean enough, they’ll wash the glass themselves without giving the dirty glass a second thought. And that thought doesn’t give you the shivers the way it might with random folks, because family won’t tell your business out in the neighborhood.

Second, the recipient actually does know where the glasses are kept, because they’ve been in the kitchen plenty of times and over the years they’ve washed the glasses a few times to boot. They may have even washed a few forks. And they know where the ice is, and they know that there’s a bottle of wine chilling in the fridge for after one of “those days” at work, because that’s the way it always is.

It’s always a bit of a balancing act in relationships: when does someone hear “you’re just family” for the first time? Don’t be too stingy with the title this year, okay? Connections these days are tough. People are so busy keeping families healthy, companies satisfied and their summer lawns mowed that it’s harder than ever to reach out, connect and form friendships. And friendships, once established, are difficult to maintain under those daily pressures.

This weekend my parents updated me on a couple they know. When my mother was in the hospital undergoing heart surgery, one of them stayed with my father and me in the waiting room the entire day. He just took off work, so that dad would have a masculine voice in his ear keeping him distracted the way I did not have the strength to do. Now, he and his wife are so busy that my parents rarely see them, and they are struggling to maintain connections.

The same evening my friend Stacy told me about a neighbor having marital problems because she’s on call so much with her government job that her husband only sees her when she’s rolling into bed.

Another friend of ours lives with her boyfriend, yet sees him less than three times a week because he is caring for his ailing father.

Many people I hold dear are so busy that I’m lucky to see them at all, or only in passing. And these are just my friends, so you can imagine that they hold the same complaints against those they share beds, vows or genetic material with. It’s just hard to stay intact when so many responsibilities pull you in so many directions. No one has an ideal situation. You rarely know when you sign up for a relationship just what kind of challenges it will face. In fact, I think if you know them upfront, you might just be one of the lucky ones. You might just need to feel grateful that you had some advanced warning, because plenty of other people get caught up in the first blush of romance, and the challenges just sneak right up on them.

So this summer, when anyone bothers to check in on you and there’s even a little hint that they might want to see you face to face, worry a little less about the state of your house. Toss everything embarrassing in the spare bedroom and tell them to come right on over. You never know; you may need them as much as they need you. This summer might just be the start of a beautiful friendship. Don’t miss that opportunity to tell a previously casual friend, “Help yourself. You’re family.”

--Laura