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

Kids Change Things

I pasted these pictures together because they have to be viewed together to be fully appreciated.

When dad traveled across country, he was in drill sergeant mode. Up early, say 2-3 am. He'd do that to have several hours under the wheel before the sun came up. Then when the driving was the worst with rush hour, he'd stop for breakfast. When rush hour traffic died down, he'd be back on the road. There would be drinks and sandwiches in tupperware containers in the back, because he'd never stop for dinner, and past the lunch hour he'd never stop period unless he was filling up with gas. Dinner was never bought at a restaurant, because that was the most expensive meal to buy on the road.

In short, that is how he rolled.

Then I came along. And at first, the practice continued. I would be piled in the back with blankets, and mom would navigate. I was too young to really care.

This particular day I woke from a sound sleep and said, "I need to potty NOW," with the demanding voice only a three year old can muster. Mom said, "You'd better find that child a tree."

But just because I was sleepy didn't mean I wanted my butt photographed. Sometimes the papparazzi is just unsatiable, I swear.

Last night I had a conversation with a friend. His daughter is six, and he was sharing in excruciating detail all the things that went into getting his daughter through a dance rehearsal. Truly non-daddy activities, like finding the sign-in table located in some random room of a large highschool, dealing with hair ribbons, pouting adult dance instructors and the disorganization which comes with a room full of dozens of little darlings under the age of seven.

For some reason, I was reminded of my own dad. Like the time he was the only dad on my Kindergarten field trip. I wonder if he thought all those moms were disorganized too, and if he wished he could be somewhere - ANYWHERE - else during the "Find your buddy and make sure you are holding hands!" part of the instructions. I'm sure he felt pretty out of place too, now that I look back on it.

My friend is a single dad, so he doesn't have the luxury of leaving his daughter at rehearsal to get food while mom waits on her. He has to play the parent in tune with the disorganized adults and the very real demands of a tired and hungry little girl, who is truly too tired and hungry for a late evening dance rehearsal. So while the stories about the instructor are funny on one level, I can see how it would be difficult for a single parent to handle both at one time. It would be nice after all to deal with one thing at a time, rather than divide your energies between a child who needs dinner and an adult who wants your "full cooperation" if you're not paying attention to them.

Life. Exhausting sometimes.

At the end of the day though, kids seem to have the ability to remind you of one thing. We're all people, just trying to muddle through without leaving too much butt exposed. And if you're paying attention, kids can also teach you what's more important than arriving at your destination on time and under budget. They show you that it's important to stop for a while to get your tummy filled and your bladder emptied. Because truth be told, the plans we make really aren't the point of life at all. The time we take to stop and care for others... I think we all know that is really the point of it all. That's where our best memories are made. It's the present, and that's where healthy people live.

This picture is a perfect example. It doesn't portary my dad racing down the road at 2am. It's a picture taken during a break from all that. That's the time, be it a potty break or the moment at the end of the day when you're washing the goop and glitter of ballerina practice from your child's hair, where you rest, heal from the indignities you suffered that day, and find your purpose. And your joy.

My wish for everyone who reads this: Enjoy your day.

--Laura Burke

Baby Powder and Vaseline

This is a picture of me standing near a tree in the front of our house. At the time, we lived in a little town called LaMonte, Missouri. My dad was stationed at Whiteman AFB.

The expression on my face stems from the fact that I was unaccustomed to 1. that much clothing, and 2. shoes. My parents took all these photos of me because it was such an event getting me properly outfitted for the weather. They usually got me this wrapped up and then I'd tell them I needed to go the bathroom and they'd have to start all over again. Lamonte was the house we moved to after Guam http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Guam where if people told you that an event was formal, it meant you wore shoes. I hate shoes to this day.

Later, in the summer of that year, I would have a gleeful day of destruction with my best friend, Brenda. She lived across the street. We decided to pull pranks all day.

First we tampered with my dad's slop jug. This was a cold glass bottle he kept filled with water in the door of the fridge. While he was working outside, he'd come in the house and tilt back the slop jug for a drink. That day, we the jug, coated the bottom of it with vaseline, and refilled it.

Missing a sense of immediate prank gratification, we decided to play. So we poured a full container of baby powder out on the hardwood floors in my bedroom to make a skating rink. With bare feet, it was possible to skate if we kept "re-icing" the floor. After we'd had fun with this, we were covered in powder, so we went to the bathroom to wash off. Somehow we ended up taking off all our clothes while in the bathroom. Quickly we arrived at our next idea. We thought it would be fun to race outside and flash the neighbors. Naked, we ran outside, but quickly lost our nerve as cars began to ride by, so we hid behind this tree for what seemed like an eternity, until we could get back inside without being seen.

I think that was the same day we played gas station with my dad's car and filled his tank with the garden hose, but I can't remember. It seems like a lot of trouble for one day, but we might have done it all at once.

The gas station day, whether that day or another, did not end well for any of the children suspected of participating. But no adult knows for sure who actually pulled the prank. And I still won't name names.

In Remembrance - Margie Boulware, 2006

My friend Margie died in the spring. I find myself thinking of her this time of year.

Mother called me when Margie died. As chance would have it, I had left the cell phone in the car, vital piece of technology that it is. I listened to the message the next morning. When she said she had something to tell me, but didn’t want to say over the phone, I knew someone had died.

Dad answered when I called, so he was the one who told me. “Laura, Mrs. Margie died.”

I was surprised. Things like that are supposed to happen of course, but sometime in the future, when you’re expecting it. She had been in my thoughts recently. As I was looking through some old Christmas cards, I realized that both my mother and Mrs. Margie had sent me a card with a polar bear on the front in the same year. I laughed when I realized that they’d both been on such a similar wavelength. And with that came the thought that on my next vacation to Savannah I needed to devise a way to sneak over to Okatie for a visit.

I remember the last time I dropped by on my way home from the Savannah Irish festival in February. Ann was there, and I didn’t have long to stay, but a visit to the area wasn’t right without a hello to Mrs. Margie. And as usual she’d been full of plans. She was a little thinner and a little slower in her steps maybe, but she was the same vital, interesting person I’d always loved. It is difficult to grasp that she is gone. That will take some getting used to.

When mother told me the circumstances of her death, I said, “Well mother, if you could choose how you would die, I think that’s what you’d pick.” Mrs. Margie wasn’t a person for nonsense, so it struck me as particularly appropriate that in one breath she was here, and then a few breaths later she was not.

The Margie I knew had an open door policy with me. And she really seemed to love listening to any nonsense that came out of my mouth on any given day and at any time I wished to share it. Since I was a kid, I tried not to let on how important that was to me. Growing up, you can be really dumb sometimes.

But I loved being in that house in front of the fire or sitting at the kitchen table and talking for hours about nothing special. I spent more time talking to Mrs. Margie than I spent with my own grandmother, who thought I was too quiet and bookish “just like” my mother. I don’t know that I had more in common with her, but with her I came fresh and without that genetic baggage that comes with being “just like” someone you raised. And her gift was to listen to me chatter on like I was just the smartest, most fascinating person she ever knew, when I was really just a loner and a kid. I in turn thought she hung the moon. Really.

I always kept an eye out for her truck on Camp St. Mary’s road because I knew she’d wave if she saw me. Being on the river was always better if we managed to spot her in the boat or fishing on the dock with her mother. And there always seemed to be at least one excuse to turn down the dirt road leading to the Boulware Place, so that I could pick up our conversation where we left off.

And I can remember vividly that when I got my college acceptance letter, and no one else was home, my first thought was to walk straight from the mailbox in front of my house over to tell Margie, because I knew she wouldn’t mind one bit. That’s the best kind of adult there is.

I regret that these are the kinds of things you always save up to say about someone after they’re gone. I think about all the good it would do just to have it all said while everyone is alive and healthy and can still appreciate the heart that went into saying it. What I hope is that through all the chattering I did back then, by the fireplace or out in the barn or at the kitchen table or in that hulk of a truck or out in the boat on the water, that she knew already that she was the best kind of adult a kid could have as a friend. I will miss her.

--Laura