I listened to an NPR interview with T. Boone Pickens a few weeks ago.
T. Boone Pickens isn't someone I'd shortlist for a humanitarian award. Being a democrat, I wouldn't be programmed to like him much. He's a previous supporter of "Dubya." He was active in the Republican party through all the wheeling and dealing 80s. He was a corporate raider and the epitomy of the big oil man.
And yet, in this interview, there was more to his story. His political activism includes the standard contributions to his state's university, but also to aid Katrina victims and end horse slaughter. And now, according to the Washington Post, "perhaps the strangest role" Pickens "has fashioned for himself is his current one: the billionaire speculator as energy wise man, an oil-and-gas magnate as champion of wind power, and a lifetime Republican who has become a fellow traveler among environmentally minded Democrats -- even though he helped finance the 'Swift boat' ads that savaged" Sen. John F. Kerry's presidential campaign. In an editorial, the New York Times reports Pickens "has decided that drilling for more oil is not the answer to the nation's energy problems. President Bush should listen to his fellow Texan and longtime political ally."
How about that?
In the interview, T. Boone stated that he was an old man and that he felt this was the legacy he wanted to leave. Maybe you're skeptical about his intentions. But I guess if I believe Bill Gates wants to spend the rest of his days doing humanitarian work, I believe T. Boone Pickens has the desire to make a difference too. So does he have the best idea out there, believing in wind and solar as a viable alternative to foreign oil? I don't have the answer to that. But I think his idea deserves to stand up in the marketplace of ideas and be challenged and examined.
So give it a "look see."
--Laura
Monday, July 28, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
A Real Goal Getter: Part III
Continued from "A Real Goal Getter: Part II"
On Saturday I was running through the grocery store collecting stuff I needed for a party later that afternoon.
I first noticed him on the canned vegetables aisle. An elderly man, he steered a motorized chair, the ones provided by the grocery store. His face looked tired and red, as if each breath were a struggle. My reaction was to switch roll my cart down another lane and double back so I wouldn’t have to navigate around him.
I would encounter him later though, in the frozen foods section. And being trapped by his vehicle, I decided to feign a deep interest in whether I’d get frozen spinach or broccoli. And as he passed me, I realized that he was humming. The store music system was playing a really old Dionne Warwick song, “Reservations for Two,” and he was humming along like a paid backup singer.
Huh.
I spent the rest of my visit wondering why he’d feel moved to hum along with such a poignant duet. Did he have a lady love at home he wished to reconnect with? When he got back home, did he hug her a little tighter than usual, making her wonder just what had gotten into him?
Lately I’ve been doing a lot of goal setting. I know my plans will take time and discipline, but I believe that I’m being drawn in new directions and that ultimately a move is in my future. It is tempting during a transitional period to evaluate your current conditions and find them wanting, kind of a “sour grapes” game with yourself. I remember doing that in high school, when I determined that everything about the South was backwards and ridiculous and how happy I was to be getting out.
But I returned to the South after college, and I think in the years I’ve lived here I’ve made peace with what’s bad about it and what’s good. There’s more good than I realized. It didn’t need to change. I needed to change.
And now, as I am forging a new path which will probably lead me out of the South yet again, which will get me back to a place I never really wanted to leave, it’s kind of fun to pass a little old man in the grocery store, and know he was more than some nobody to avoid because he was in a big old awkward chair I didn’t want to navigate around. He was a man moved by an old love song, who seemed to have his own tender memories and who seemed to identify with some of those deeper emotions we all ascribe to. It made him interesting to me.
Maybe this time, when the time comes for me to leave the South again, I can take the good parts of it with me. I think in the midst of new resolutions about goal setting, it’s important to acknowledge that goals allow you to strive toward something, and not run away from something. When I left as a young woman, fresh out of high school, I was running away from all I thought was bad. This time, I think when I leave, I will hold onto all the things which make me strong and capable and healthy. I’m excited to learn how that will impact my plans.
I can’t help but believe it will shape things for the better.
But more on the actual goal setting later…
On Saturday I was running through the grocery store collecting stuff I needed for a party later that afternoon.
I first noticed him on the canned vegetables aisle. An elderly man, he steered a motorized chair, the ones provided by the grocery store. His face looked tired and red, as if each breath were a struggle. My reaction was to switch roll my cart down another lane and double back so I wouldn’t have to navigate around him.
I would encounter him later though, in the frozen foods section. And being trapped by his vehicle, I decided to feign a deep interest in whether I’d get frozen spinach or broccoli. And as he passed me, I realized that he was humming. The store music system was playing a really old Dionne Warwick song, “Reservations for Two,” and he was humming along like a paid backup singer.
Huh.
I spent the rest of my visit wondering why he’d feel moved to hum along with such a poignant duet. Did he have a lady love at home he wished to reconnect with? When he got back home, did he hug her a little tighter than usual, making her wonder just what had gotten into him?
Lately I’ve been doing a lot of goal setting. I know my plans will take time and discipline, but I believe that I’m being drawn in new directions and that ultimately a move is in my future. It is tempting during a transitional period to evaluate your current conditions and find them wanting, kind of a “sour grapes” game with yourself. I remember doing that in high school, when I determined that everything about the South was backwards and ridiculous and how happy I was to be getting out.
But I returned to the South after college, and I think in the years I’ve lived here I’ve made peace with what’s bad about it and what’s good. There’s more good than I realized. It didn’t need to change. I needed to change.
And now, as I am forging a new path which will probably lead me out of the South yet again, which will get me back to a place I never really wanted to leave, it’s kind of fun to pass a little old man in the grocery store, and know he was more than some nobody to avoid because he was in a big old awkward chair I didn’t want to navigate around. He was a man moved by an old love song, who seemed to have his own tender memories and who seemed to identify with some of those deeper emotions we all ascribe to. It made him interesting to me.
Maybe this time, when the time comes for me to leave the South again, I can take the good parts of it with me. I think in the midst of new resolutions about goal setting, it’s important to acknowledge that goals allow you to strive toward something, and not run away from something. When I left as a young woman, fresh out of high school, I was running away from all I thought was bad. This time, I think when I leave, I will hold onto all the things which make me strong and capable and healthy. I’m excited to learn how that will impact my plans.
I can’t help but believe it will shape things for the better.
But more on the actual goal setting later…
Sunday, July 20, 2008
A Real Goal Getter: Part II
Continued from here:
So was being a reporter a worthwhile goal for me back in college? Probably, but it wasn’t one I was attached to strongly enough to tackle the obstacles.
People who know me say I am my own harshest critic, but as I evaluate the past, I think I’ve done this more than once, too easily letting obstacles determine my path, better known as the path of least resistance. It’s easy to do. Why not take the path where you can see further out, where the future is clearer? And then after doing it once, why not do it again? And so on and so forth, and in so doing, a life is shaped.
But here’s something to consider. Goals are a refection of your values and principles. People don’t set goals to be losers, they set them to achieve something they want. So if you stay focused on your goals, what you’re saying is that you see yourself. You see where you want to be, and you’re willing to invest in decisions that will get you there.
On the other hand, obstacles are the things getting in your way. They don’t reflect anything about you, they obscure goals. Does it make sense then that if you take the path of least resistance, guided by whichever way the obstacles guide you, that sooner or later, you lose all sight of yourself?
I think about it like this. Obstacles are challenges. When you overcome them, you grow and become stronger. If you avoid the obstacles, you skip lessons you need to learn. Goals remind you that there’s something out there larger than the immediate obstacle you’re facing. Goals help us get things done.
Here’s how it works. When you set a goal, let’s say you want to drop 30 pounds, the obstacles become navigable. What’s your obstacle? Maybe it’s your diet. So you do some reading, you educate yourself and make lifestyle changes to eliminate the obstacles.
Try approaching someone with, “I’m so unhappy I can barely breathe.” How would you respond if someone said that to you? Now try this. “I am unhappy with my weight and I would like to lose 30 pounds.” Well! Eureka, the advice starts to roll then, doesn’t it? I’ll bet you could list five things to change without even thinking about it.
So a goal gets things done because it creates a purpose. When you have purpose, often the resources needed to fulfill that purpose magically spring from nowhere. Only they aren’t coming from nowhere at all. They’re simply more obvious because you were looking at things a new way.
When I realized I’d need an advisor in the University of Colorado’s School of Journalism, I dodged that obstacle, thinking I was pretty clever. And today I read that the Atlanta Journal Constitution is cutting jobs by 8% because of the economy, so maybe I could content myself with the fact that I chose a profession doomed by the internet, and think myself clever still.
But the story made me consider this: had I graduated with a degree in Journalism, would I be in Atlanta, waiting to see if my job is affected? I don’t think so. The reason I don’t is because I know I didn’t thoughtfully evaluate my move to Atlanta based on its commute, its quality of life and whether or not I liked the climate. Simply put, I moved where my job transferred me. So after years of living here, is it any wonder that despite the friends I’ve made and the activities I participate in, I feel no particular affinity for this location?
So did I lose myself by allowing my obstacles to determine my path? I’m not sure I know the answer yet, but I’m working on it.
More on this later.
-Laura
So was being a reporter a worthwhile goal for me back in college? Probably, but it wasn’t one I was attached to strongly enough to tackle the obstacles.
People who know me say I am my own harshest critic, but as I evaluate the past, I think I’ve done this more than once, too easily letting obstacles determine my path, better known as the path of least resistance. It’s easy to do. Why not take the path where you can see further out, where the future is clearer? And then after doing it once, why not do it again? And so on and so forth, and in so doing, a life is shaped.
But here’s something to consider. Goals are a refection of your values and principles. People don’t set goals to be losers, they set them to achieve something they want. So if you stay focused on your goals, what you’re saying is that you see yourself. You see where you want to be, and you’re willing to invest in decisions that will get you there.
On the other hand, obstacles are the things getting in your way. They don’t reflect anything about you, they obscure goals. Does it make sense then that if you take the path of least resistance, guided by whichever way the obstacles guide you, that sooner or later, you lose all sight of yourself?
I think about it like this. Obstacles are challenges. When you overcome them, you grow and become stronger. If you avoid the obstacles, you skip lessons you need to learn. Goals remind you that there’s something out there larger than the immediate obstacle you’re facing. Goals help us get things done.
Here’s how it works. When you set a goal, let’s say you want to drop 30 pounds, the obstacles become navigable. What’s your obstacle? Maybe it’s your diet. So you do some reading, you educate yourself and make lifestyle changes to eliminate the obstacles.
Try approaching someone with, “I’m so unhappy I can barely breathe.” How would you respond if someone said that to you? Now try this. “I am unhappy with my weight and I would like to lose 30 pounds.” Well! Eureka, the advice starts to roll then, doesn’t it? I’ll bet you could list five things to change without even thinking about it.
So a goal gets things done because it creates a purpose. When you have purpose, often the resources needed to fulfill that purpose magically spring from nowhere. Only they aren’t coming from nowhere at all. They’re simply more obvious because you were looking at things a new way.
When I realized I’d need an advisor in the University of Colorado’s School of Journalism, I dodged that obstacle, thinking I was pretty clever. And today I read that the Atlanta Journal Constitution is cutting jobs by 8% because of the economy, so maybe I could content myself with the fact that I chose a profession doomed by the internet, and think myself clever still.
But the story made me consider this: had I graduated with a degree in Journalism, would I be in Atlanta, waiting to see if my job is affected? I don’t think so. The reason I don’t is because I know I didn’t thoughtfully evaluate my move to Atlanta based on its commute, its quality of life and whether or not I liked the climate. Simply put, I moved where my job transferred me. So after years of living here, is it any wonder that despite the friends I’ve made and the activities I participate in, I feel no particular affinity for this location?
So did I lose myself by allowing my obstacles to determine my path? I’m not sure I know the answer yet, but I’m working on it.
-Laura
Thursday, July 17, 2008
The (S)Low Country
Savannah is known as "The Coastal Empire." Just across the river, coastal Carolina is known as the "Low Country." Its nickname: The Slow Country.
When the marketing folks were picking out labels, you just have to wonder, "Did they mean to?"
My mother's family is gathering this week in south Georgia for a reunion, my grandfather's family name is Rollins. That side of the family is more shadowy to me than my grandmother's side of the family, dominated by close knit sisters. Two of those sisters married three of the Rollins brothers; my grandmother married one (Ralph) and my great-aunt Helen married two. Bennie died before his first son was born, and his younger brother Walter felt it was his duty to provide for the widow of his brother. This is a picture of their family in 1963.
So in a true southern cliche, our family contains double first cousins, or "kissing cousins" as some call it.
So this weekend I will drive mom down to see everyone. I will try to take lots of pictures, I will help my mom get the fruit tray which will be her contribution to the reunion potluck, and people familiar and unfamiliar will sit around a table at some random gathering hall to share stories I've heard in one form or another most of my life. They'll talk about Minnie Jean. They'll talk about Freddie. They'll talk about Harold, Walter, Austin and Ralph.
I've been to Savannah several times since I left home in 1988. This weekend it will be a distinctly different perspective, punctuated with family stories and connections. We will all pause from our usual weekend activities for a day to recall where we came from.
It will give Slow Country a whole new meaning.
--Laura
When the marketing folks were picking out labels, you just have to wonder, "Did they mean to?"
My mother's family is gathering this week in south Georgia for a reunion, my grandfather's family name is Rollins. That side of the family is more shadowy to me than my grandmother's side of the family, dominated by close knit sisters. Two of those sisters married three of the Rollins brothers; my grandmother married one (Ralph) and my great-aunt Helen married two. Bennie died before his first son was born, and his younger brother Walter felt it was his duty to provide for the widow of his brother. This is a picture of their family in 1963.
So in a true southern cliche, our family contains double first cousins, or "kissing cousins" as some call it.
So this weekend I will drive mom down to see everyone. I will try to take lots of pictures, I will help my mom get the fruit tray which will be her contribution to the reunion potluck, and people familiar and unfamiliar will sit around a table at some random gathering hall to share stories I've heard in one form or another most of my life. They'll talk about Minnie Jean. They'll talk about Freddie. They'll talk about Harold, Walter, Austin and Ralph.
I've been to Savannah several times since I left home in 1988. This weekend it will be a distinctly different perspective, punctuated with family stories and connections. We will all pause from our usual weekend activities for a day to recall where we came from.
It will give Slow Country a whole new meaning.
--Laura
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
A Real Goal Getter: Part I
We’ve all heard the saying that if you don’t know what you want, you won’t know when you get it.
Now there are those people who maintain an unconflicted existence where this is concerned. They always knew that they wanted. At six-years-old they found their passion and set themselves like a planet in its orbit onto their goal.
Then there’s me.
Maybe you can relate to my story, so I’ll share it with you. When I entered college, my goal was in journalism, ideally an investigative reporter or the more lofty title “foreign correspondent.” I felt I had the natural curiosity, creativity and sense of humor to be good at the job. I envisioned being a roving NPR reporter.
At least until my novel sold.
Somewhere along the line I got sidetracked. And I’ll tell you what happened, because it took me a while to put my thumb on it and maybe I can save you this mistake – the School of Journalism required an assigned advisor, and my issues with authority figures were so intense that I switched majors rather than submit. That’s a regret I’ve carried for a long time, that I resisted an authority figure put in place specifically for my benefit. But see, I was learning to navigate my own ship under my own steam and I was doing a pretty sloppy job of it. I didn’t want anyone to know that (like it was a big secret), nor did I appreciate what I viewed as scrutiny.
So yes, as time passes, there are definitely those days when I wish I could walk back to my college campus and say, “You know, I really didn’t explore my options while I was here. How’s about we start again, because now I know what I don’t know.”
When I think of how pretty my Colorado campus was, and how much time I wasted hiding incompetence I was supposed to possess at that age, I feel pretty silly. I guess everyone looks back with that observation.
More on that next time…
--Laura
Now there are those people who maintain an unconflicted existence where this is concerned. They always knew that they wanted. At six-years-old they found their passion and set themselves like a planet in its orbit onto their goal.
Then there’s me.
Maybe you can relate to my story, so I’ll share it with you. When I entered college, my goal was in journalism, ideally an investigative reporter or the more lofty title “foreign correspondent.” I felt I had the natural curiosity, creativity and sense of humor to be good at the job. I envisioned being a roving NPR reporter.
At least until my novel sold.
Somewhere along the line I got sidetracked. And I’ll tell you what happened, because it took me a while to put my thumb on it and maybe I can save you this mistake – the School of Journalism required an assigned advisor, and my issues with authority figures were so intense that I switched majors rather than submit. That’s a regret I’ve carried for a long time, that I resisted an authority figure put in place specifically for my benefit. But see, I was learning to navigate my own ship under my own steam and I was doing a pretty sloppy job of it. I didn’t want anyone to know that (like it was a big secret), nor did I appreciate what I viewed as scrutiny.
So yes, as time passes, there are definitely those days when I wish I could walk back to my college campus and say, “You know, I really didn’t explore my options while I was here. How’s about we start again, because now I know what I don’t know.”
When I think of how pretty my Colorado campus was, and how much time I wasted hiding incompetence I was supposed to possess at that age, I feel pretty silly. I guess everyone looks back with that observation.
More on that next time…
--Laura
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Savoring Slow Food
I woke this morning to an overcast sky and gentle rain. As I took the dogs out to do their business, I moved my strawberry plant from under the eaves where it normally resides to a spot in my yard where it would receive a drink. Yesterday at the farmer’s market I got a basil plant for a dollar, so I placed it right next to the strawberry for company. Later today I will give it a new home in a larger pot.Yesterday I spent a few hours at the Marietta Square Farmer’s Market. The tomatoes in my garden are still ripening and ones in the grocery stores still taste like cardboard. I decided the next best thing was to buy something fresh from a local grower and get out in the sunshine.
Well okay, it was hot out there. It's July in Georgia. But it was worth the trip. I ran across raw, unpasteurized honey, all kinds of decorative and culinary herbs, beautiful artisan breads, and even cups of worms (for your compost pile). But stand back for the tomatoes.
Heirloom tomatoes are a joy to behold if you’ve never tried them. There’s just one thing you need to understand about them. They are ugly. I was talking to one of the vendors, asking her questions about hybrids versus heirloom varieties, and an elderly woman paused next to me, surveying the Cherokee purples, the green zebras and the Brandywines. She paused though at one of the tomatoes the woman called an “Aunt Anna.”
“Is it a tomato?” she asked cautiously. I nodded. “Yes ma’am,” I said. “It just looks like a mango.” She nodded, listened a few more seconds to the conversation I was having with the vendor, then moved on.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder it seems. I got a few pounds of tomatoes from each vendor who had some. And with that, I made conversation with people who felt strongly about heirloom tomatoes, who were scientific in their approach to growing them, were communal in their approach to sharing them, and who made the commitment to come out to the heat of the farmer’s market every Saturday to make their living from their own efforts.
Those tomatoes were so good.
In two weeks I’ll lay my money down again, to get enough tomatoes to put up for the fall. I still don’t know how my tomato patch will produce this year, so I want to get a batch of them now, so I don’t miss them so much in January. This will be my first experience putting up vegetables in season, and hopefully not my last.
For now though, I’m enjoying the season’s harvest – fresh, local and ugly. It was a wonderful weekend.
For more information on Georgia Organics, I encourage you to visit this website: http://www.georgiaorganics.org/
And for more information on locally grown produce in your area, click on the Local Chapters link at this website: http://www.slowfoodusa.org/
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Be Decent
I got a compliment at work today. One of my favorite people in the company was on the phone with my manager when he said, “Do me a favor and say hello to Laura for me. She’s one of my favorite people in the company.”
Stuff like that is great to hear, isn’t it? I was particularly touched because it came from someone who is, in my opinion, one of the most decent people I know.
I know plenty of smart people. I also know some good managers. But this guy is simply decent, and that quality makes him stand out above everyone else.
You may wonder what I mean by decent. Well, in his professional capacity, he’s a project manager. I worked with him on one of the more rewarding and challenging projects of my career, so I got to watch him in action.
There are smarter men in the company, I’m sure. People with more technical knowledge. He's smart, don't get me wrong, but he doesn't know everything and knows he doesn't need to know. What makes him a brilliant project manager is how he treats people. I've watched him throughout the course of a day, and from the person picking up the trash at the end of the day to the Call Center worker bee on the other end of the phone, he knew everyone by first name. And he treated them all like they were people. Not cogs in a wheel or as obstacles to getting where he wanted to go. He didn’t even treat them as “human resources” at his disposal. He spoke to each and every person on the team as if they were fully engaged in solving the problem at hand. He wasn’t demanding of excellence, he was just so committed to the project himself, so interested in the outcome, and so engaged in seeing it work in the real world that he rolled up his sleeves and got in on the ground floor of each problem that needed to be tackled. He got involved until he understood the problem, understood the severity of the problem, and discussed potential solutions. He drew people into his world. Pretty soon everyone else on the team was fully engaged in solving the problem as well. No one wanted to disappoint him. He created one of the most pleasant working environments I’ve ever experienced.
You don’t forget being around a person who values you, and does it genuinely, and all the time. It’s inspiring.
Normally, I’m paid to be a cog in the wheel. I struggle each day to stay smart and engaged and focused at work. It’s disheartening to say that because work takes up a third of my day. And by the time I sleep, another third is gone. Half of the rest I have to spend time being my own personal cog, doing laundry, washing dishes, putting groceries away, any mundane chore you wish to name. So there’s a 1/6 of my day where I really get to shine. And I’m going to admit this – sometimes I don’t feel like it, sometimes I don’t have any leftovers to spare to for my own ambitions.
So listen, if you’re a manager of people, I’m going to reveal a big secret to you. In the dozen or so years I’ve spent with one company, I’ve run across two managers who inspired me to be good at what I do. I wish I still worked for them. So if you think you’re doing great because as a manager you’re smart or funny or fair, please spare me, okay?
Work on being decent. People won’t forget it.
Stuff like that is great to hear, isn’t it? I was particularly touched because it came from someone who is, in my opinion, one of the most decent people I know.
I know plenty of smart people. I also know some good managers. But this guy is simply decent, and that quality makes him stand out above everyone else.
You may wonder what I mean by decent. Well, in his professional capacity, he’s a project manager. I worked with him on one of the more rewarding and challenging projects of my career, so I got to watch him in action.
There are smarter men in the company, I’m sure. People with more technical knowledge. He's smart, don't get me wrong, but he doesn't know everything and knows he doesn't need to know. What makes him a brilliant project manager is how he treats people. I've watched him throughout the course of a day, and from the person picking up the trash at the end of the day to the Call Center worker bee on the other end of the phone, he knew everyone by first name. And he treated them all like they were people. Not cogs in a wheel or as obstacles to getting where he wanted to go. He didn’t even treat them as “human resources” at his disposal. He spoke to each and every person on the team as if they were fully engaged in solving the problem at hand. He wasn’t demanding of excellence, he was just so committed to the project himself, so interested in the outcome, and so engaged in seeing it work in the real world that he rolled up his sleeves and got in on the ground floor of each problem that needed to be tackled. He got involved until he understood the problem, understood the severity of the problem, and discussed potential solutions. He drew people into his world. Pretty soon everyone else on the team was fully engaged in solving the problem as well. No one wanted to disappoint him. He created one of the most pleasant working environments I’ve ever experienced.
You don’t forget being around a person who values you, and does it genuinely, and all the time. It’s inspiring.
Normally, I’m paid to be a cog in the wheel. I struggle each day to stay smart and engaged and focused at work. It’s disheartening to say that because work takes up a third of my day. And by the time I sleep, another third is gone. Half of the rest I have to spend time being my own personal cog, doing laundry, washing dishes, putting groceries away, any mundane chore you wish to name. So there’s a 1/6 of my day where I really get to shine. And I’m going to admit this – sometimes I don’t feel like it, sometimes I don’t have any leftovers to spare to for my own ambitions.
So listen, if you’re a manager of people, I’m going to reveal a big secret to you. In the dozen or so years I’ve spent with one company, I’ve run across two managers who inspired me to be good at what I do. I wish I still worked for them. So if you think you’re doing great because as a manager you’re smart or funny or fair, please spare me, okay?
Work on being decent. People won’t forget it.
--Laura
Monday, July 7, 2008
You've Been Extremely Helpful!
I will never forget parallel parking on Folly Beach.
Saturday night was the last night of my Charleston vacation. Stacy and I decided to drive to Folly Beach for dinner. If you’ve never been, it’s the last island in a cluster of islands surrounding Charleston, and locals call it the “Edge of America”. We located the restaurant on the corner of a prominent intersection.
Right next to the flashing lights of the Ambulance and the Fire Truck.
Stacy’s expression implied she thought that was a bad sign. “They don’t appear to be coming FROM our restaurant,” I observed.
The center of town was a cross between a carnival and a bike rally. The breezes blowing from the beach were fierce and the last street vendors of the day were taking advantage of them to display all manner of flashing and blinking, whizzing and whirling wind toys. Stacy found a parking spot near the restaurant and started to parallel park, but got stuck because she was used to parking her mustang and not my RAV4. I got out of the car and stood on the curb to direct her in.
While I stood there, I was mildly distracted by the conversation going on behind me. Two residents, male and female, were walking on the sidewalk behind me. Suddenly the man stopped and said, “I can’t wear these, they are too big!” His female companion stopped next to him and said, “Here, try mine.”
His slurring told me he was drunk, but I had to turn around to determine that he was referring to his flip flops. I was relieved. There were so many other things he could be taking off. The two twirled in a boozy dance as they held onto each other, coordinating the exchange of flip flops while maintaining their compromised sense of balance. They perfectly balanced the whizzing and whirling wind toys across the street.
Stacy commanded my attention from the car. “Am I close enough to the curb now?” she wondered.
“I don’t think this is the place where we need to worry about perfection. Looks good to me.”
We reached the restaurant and had our names on the waiting list before Frick and Frack arrived. Their conversation soon included us as a matter of course.
“It’s all your fault,” the man told Stacy. She apologized. “That’s how it all starts,” I said. He immediately agreed. The woman then spoke up to tell us she wasn’t speaking to him. He didn’t seem to mind.
“You know what I’m talking about,” I told him with just a little gangster bravado. I had no idea what I was talking about, but he laughed knowingly. Stacy says he only had one tooth, but I didn’t see that one, so I think it was just wishful thinking on her part. He looked like a pirate who’d lost his crew and his way.
“Ladies, you’ve been extremely helpful!” he shouted abruptly.
We watched him walk off with his female companion. They both swayed like island palms in a stiff breeze. “I hope they stop when they hit water, or they’re both going to drown,” Stacy said.
The restaurant was a hole in the wall. The food was served in plastic bowls. We ate with plastic forks. Our drinks were in plastic cups. The food was great however and we giggled most of the night. It was just one of those “you had to be there” moments.
And I’m really glad I was.
--Laura
Saturday night was the last night of my Charleston vacation. Stacy and I decided to drive to Folly Beach for dinner. If you’ve never been, it’s the last island in a cluster of islands surrounding Charleston, and locals call it the “Edge of America”. We located the restaurant on the corner of a prominent intersection.
Right next to the flashing lights of the Ambulance and the Fire Truck.
Stacy’s expression implied she thought that was a bad sign. “They don’t appear to be coming FROM our restaurant,” I observed.
The center of town was a cross between a carnival and a bike rally. The breezes blowing from the beach were fierce and the last street vendors of the day were taking advantage of them to display all manner of flashing and blinking, whizzing and whirling wind toys. Stacy found a parking spot near the restaurant and started to parallel park, but got stuck because she was used to parking her mustang and not my RAV4. I got out of the car and stood on the curb to direct her in.
While I stood there, I was mildly distracted by the conversation going on behind me. Two residents, male and female, were walking on the sidewalk behind me. Suddenly the man stopped and said, “I can’t wear these, they are too big!” His female companion stopped next to him and said, “Here, try mine.”
His slurring told me he was drunk, but I had to turn around to determine that he was referring to his flip flops. I was relieved. There were so many other things he could be taking off. The two twirled in a boozy dance as they held onto each other, coordinating the exchange of flip flops while maintaining their compromised sense of balance. They perfectly balanced the whizzing and whirling wind toys across the street.
Stacy commanded my attention from the car. “Am I close enough to the curb now?” she wondered.
“I don’t think this is the place where we need to worry about perfection. Looks good to me.”
We reached the restaurant and had our names on the waiting list before Frick and Frack arrived. Their conversation soon included us as a matter of course.
“It’s all your fault,” the man told Stacy. She apologized. “That’s how it all starts,” I said. He immediately agreed. The woman then spoke up to tell us she wasn’t speaking to him. He didn’t seem to mind.
“You know what I’m talking about,” I told him with just a little gangster bravado. I had no idea what I was talking about, but he laughed knowingly. Stacy says he only had one tooth, but I didn’t see that one, so I think it was just wishful thinking on her part. He looked like a pirate who’d lost his crew and his way.
“Ladies, you’ve been extremely helpful!” he shouted abruptly.
We watched him walk off with his female companion. They both swayed like island palms in a stiff breeze. “I hope they stop when they hit water, or they’re both going to drown,” Stacy said.
The restaurant was a hole in the wall. The food was served in plastic bowls. We ate with plastic forks. Our drinks were in plastic cups. The food was great however and we giggled most of the night. It was just one of those “you had to be there” moments.
And I’m really glad I was.
--Laura
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Confession: Part II
After the Great American Novel Tragedy (GANT), you may wonder why I didn’t start over, just re-write the story. I’ve joked in the past that the reason was because it was so bad that I was doing the world a favor. For example, the story was set in Ireland, a country I’ve never visited. Most of the main characters were Irish, and at that point in my life I’d not met a single Irishman. If the cardinal law of writing is to start with what you know, I’d broken it.
But my joke about its quality isn’t completely true. Parts of me know the book wasn’t bad, just naive. I followed the formula for that genre precisely. And I still remember Maeve, my Nancy-Drew like American. I remember the mystery man, Ian. I even remember Angus, the groundskeeper (because all Irish estates need groundskeepers). I still have the blueprint of Ian’s estate in my head, from the house (manor?) to the grounds. Ian even powered his estate using hydroelectricity. He was an engineer. He’d come up with the plans himself. He was mysterious and awesome.
I set the story in County Waterford because I have family roots there. As I was describing the landscape, I wrote about the estate being near ruins of an ancient round tower. I thought that was unrealistic, so I did research on the area. Well it turned out that near Ardmore, in County Waterford, situated minutes off the main Waterford - Cork road, is just such a round tower, ruins from the 12th Century.
The significance of this event should be underscored, because it was the impetus later (on a campus noted for foo foo hippy-ness) for my college pagan phase. I was convinced that I was psychic and if I developed my natural talents, I could be a conduit, tuning into the cosmos like an elegant old radio adjusting her buttons from static to station – from confusion to understanding. Oh, and of course, my ancestors had something to do with that old round tower. One day I’d be sensitive enough to hear what they wanted to tell me about it.
I’m serious. Well, I was.
So what about re-writing the story? Well, the decision to discard it was unconscious at first. I was in college by then, with distractions like work, school, trying to become an adult. Briefly after graduation I did try to take it up again. But I got a job and put it aside once more, that time for good. Today I couldn’t tell you where the remnants of my manuscript are, or if they even exist. It belongs to the shadows of nostalgia.
It’s funny, because for years I regarded this as a failure. I’d never be that earnest dedicated girl again. I couldn’t even re-write a story that was tucked away in the corner of my mind. People say, you can’t go back. Well they were right, I thought, and I clung to that regret. That’s how I viewed everything I did in my life, whenever I experienced failure. I was just a hopeless list of good ideas I could never quite carry off.
But in the meantime, I wrote. Not the great American novel, but about ordinary events from my life that gave me insight on the Big Picture. Maybe there’s still a part of me who wants to be psychic – be that elegant old radio tuning from static to station – only I’ve reached the point in my life where I’m not calling on the ancestors or copying from an expert. Now I know how to speak for myself.
And so here’s the truth. The book I wrote then was for a particular time and place. When I attempted to recreate it, I couldn’t write the same story because I wasn’t the same person. I could no longer write for her, the girl who was trying to become someone else. Time will tell if I’ve lived up to that girl’s expectations. Sometimes it’s hard to escape the worry that I’m letting her down. She was a cool kid, quirky and interesting and worth getting to know.
But making my adult self proud seems more productive than living in the past. I’m not that kid anymore, so it’s unrealistic to try and please her. I’m still writing. I still try to move from static to station, which makes me cool. I don’t have it all figured out yet, which keeps me quirky. I’m still learning, and I think that makes me worth getting to know. So in all the ways that count, I think I still am that kid.
But I’ve learned things she didn’t know, like how to speak with my own voice instead of copying others. I’ve learned how to mend fences and heal from hurt. I’ve learned what’s important to me and what I can live without. And the thought that I still have so much left to learn doesn’t make me tired, I find hope in it, because it means I can meet someone new each day without even leaving home.
And everyone who takes the time to acquaint themselves with me will share in the discoveries, just as I will learn from them. Is that the definition of success? I don’t know. I think maybe it’s my definition of life. Time will tell.
--Laura
But my joke about its quality isn’t completely true. Parts of me know the book wasn’t bad, just naive. I followed the formula for that genre precisely. And I still remember Maeve, my Nancy-Drew like American. I remember the mystery man, Ian. I even remember Angus, the groundskeeper (because all Irish estates need groundskeepers). I still have the blueprint of Ian’s estate in my head, from the house (manor?) to the grounds. Ian even powered his estate using hydroelectricity. He was an engineer. He’d come up with the plans himself. He was mysterious and awesome.
I set the story in County Waterford because I have family roots there. As I was describing the landscape, I wrote about the estate being near ruins of an ancient round tower. I thought that was unrealistic, so I did research on the area. Well it turned out that near Ardmore, in County Waterford, situated minutes off the main Waterford - Cork road, is just such a round tower, ruins from the 12th Century.
The significance of this event should be underscored, because it was the impetus later (on a campus noted for foo foo hippy-ness) for my college pagan phase. I was convinced that I was psychic and if I developed my natural talents, I could be a conduit, tuning into the cosmos like an elegant old radio adjusting her buttons from static to station – from confusion to understanding. Oh, and of course, my ancestors had something to do with that old round tower. One day I’d be sensitive enough to hear what they wanted to tell me about it.
I’m serious. Well, I was.
So what about re-writing the story? Well, the decision to discard it was unconscious at first. I was in college by then, with distractions like work, school, trying to become an adult. Briefly after graduation I did try to take it up again. But I got a job and put it aside once more, that time for good. Today I couldn’t tell you where the remnants of my manuscript are, or if they even exist. It belongs to the shadows of nostalgia.
It’s funny, because for years I regarded this as a failure. I’d never be that earnest dedicated girl again. I couldn’t even re-write a story that was tucked away in the corner of my mind. People say, you can’t go back. Well they were right, I thought, and I clung to that regret. That’s how I viewed everything I did in my life, whenever I experienced failure. I was just a hopeless list of good ideas I could never quite carry off.
But in the meantime, I wrote. Not the great American novel, but about ordinary events from my life that gave me insight on the Big Picture. Maybe there’s still a part of me who wants to be psychic – be that elegant old radio tuning from static to station – only I’ve reached the point in my life where I’m not calling on the ancestors or copying from an expert. Now I know how to speak for myself.
And so here’s the truth. The book I wrote then was for a particular time and place. When I attempted to recreate it, I couldn’t write the same story because I wasn’t the same person. I could no longer write for her, the girl who was trying to become someone else. Time will tell if I’ve lived up to that girl’s expectations. Sometimes it’s hard to escape the worry that I’m letting her down. She was a cool kid, quirky and interesting and worth getting to know.
But making my adult self proud seems more productive than living in the past. I’m not that kid anymore, so it’s unrealistic to try and please her. I’m still writing. I still try to move from static to station, which makes me cool. I don’t have it all figured out yet, which keeps me quirky. I’m still learning, and I think that makes me worth getting to know. So in all the ways that count, I think I still am that kid.
But I’ve learned things she didn’t know, like how to speak with my own voice instead of copying others. I’ve learned how to mend fences and heal from hurt. I’ve learned what’s important to me and what I can live without. And the thought that I still have so much left to learn doesn’t make me tired, I find hope in it, because it means I can meet someone new each day without even leaving home.
And everyone who takes the time to acquaint themselves with me will share in the discoveries, just as I will learn from them. Is that the definition of success? I don’t know. I think maybe it’s my definition of life. Time will tell.
--Laura
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