Monday, November 16, 2009

Where does the time go?

It's hard to believe it's already the middle of November.  Christmas is next month? Thanksgiving is next week?  The boys are all about I want - I want - I want, marking catalogs and pointing out commercials.  Their Christmas lists seem long enough to give one Lego set or one electronic gadget to every child in Tucson.

Mother and Jane are in India right now -- yes, India -- and won't be back until after Thanksgiving.  I'll be hosting her husband and kids at my house.  It will be very strange. Let me write down HERE the thought that has occurred to me, so I don't have to say it to anyone else.  When I moved out here two years ago, we were pretty sure that was Mother's last holiday season, and nobody was very confident about Jane's health status either.  So two years ago, the possibility of neither Mother nor Jane being present at the holiday dinner table was all too real, all too grim.  We never dreamed that they'd both be gone for a GOOD reason.  Good reason, or not, it feels very strange.  May they both be with us NEXT year.

NaNoWriMo is half over, and I am not, unfortunately, halfway through my book.  I wrote two really good chapters and then hit an emotional wall.  I've had to rub my head a bit and catch my breath.

On the other hand, I have a new post up at 50-something Moms.  Pop on over to read about Photographs, Memories, and Field of Vision.

Wednesday, November 04, 2009

My guys: Gotta love 'em

HardPlace may not have stellar grades, but his teachers selected him to receive a significant 6th grade honor. There are four categories of awards, with one boy and one girl receiving a certificate in each category:
  • Active Christian
  • Life-Long Learner
  • Effective Communicator
  • Problem Solver
HardPlace received the award for Integrated Individual, the person who best exemplifies all four characteristics. I am so proud of him.

Rock, on the other hand, followed some girls into their bathroom. He received a discipline slip.  It was totally innocent, just following them in while talking, but he still crossed a privacy line that the school takes very seriously. The child makes me crazy.

I love them both beyond the telling.

Satisfaction

Maybe Mick Jagger couldn't get any satisfaction -- one of many reasons I am grateful for not being Mick Jagger -- but I can.

My first post is up at 50-Something Moms, and I am pleased.  Pop on over and read about my conferences with the boys' teachers. 

My participation in NaNoWriMo is also going well: As I work on one section of my memoir, my brain is already churning on the next one.  It's very satisfying.

For your amusement ...

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Sunday, November 01, 2009

As promised

Here is the Headless Horseman, with his accomplices.



Rock had a great time trick-or-treating, of course.  HardPlace thought he was too old to wear a costume, but he dressed in black and grabbed his super-cool Nerf dart gun, the one with a laser sight.  As soon as we met some of the local 11YOs, HardPlace disappeared. Turns out all the neighborhood 10- and 11YOs had the same idea: There was a veritable band of boys in black with different weaponry.  What IS it about boys and guns?

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Excuses, excuses

My blog's been quiet lately, for which I apologize.

Last week was my mom's 74th birthday and the boys' parent-teacher conferences. Both events were occasions of great hubbub and to-do.

This week contains, of course, Halloween and All Saint's Day, which means I've been busy with costumes.


St. Michael the Archangel -- chosen because Rock gets to carry a fiery sword -- is all set to go for the All Saint's festival at school tomorrow. Of course, there will be no angels emerging from our house on Halloween night: Look soon for a photo of The Headless Horseman.

I've been asked to join the women who write for 50-Something Moms. My first objection was that I'm not 50 yet! That didn't seem to be a stumbling block for them. Then I wasn't sure I could commit to submitting two posts a month -- you see how sporadic I've been here lately. But I was cajoled into it. My ego needed the boost, that's for sure. And I also need the motivation. So ... I'll be pointing you over there to read some of my work.

And then there's NaNoWriMo. I've been spending a lot of time mulling and thinking and musing and noodling in preparation. Those of you who've expressed an interest will get a steady dose of Alicia there.

I am hoping that all the writing that I am committed to will just keep my fingers moving, and that I will get back into a more regular blogging routine. I do actually miss blogging; I just need to find my writing zone again. Here's to it!

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

NaNoWriMo Me?

November is National Novel Writing Month, during which several thousand psychologically unbalanced people1 commit to writing at least 50,000 words of deathless prose fiction under an externally imposed timetable. Annie had posted about this last week, wondering if she would participate this year; I mused in a comment that perhaps I could use NaNoWriMo to write my book, even though it's not a novel.

After some consideration and encouragement, I have decided to go ahead and do just that: I will be writing my grief memoir -- which will be far less than 50,000 words -- during the month of November. An important part of NaNoWriMo is posting your writings online and receiving constructive criticism -- an online writers workshop. As Ann said, "It's a brave new world." **gulp**

Since it's not a novel, and it's not fiction, I can't be an official participant in NaNoWriMo, and I'm not crazy about putting my writing out there for anyone to see and comment on anyway. But many of you have been reading this blog and writing comments for years (years? how did that happen?), and I have come to respect and value your opinions. If you are interested in watching it take shape, if you would be willing to offer constructive criticism, let me know and I will give you access. Post a comment to this blog entry with your email address and then delete the comment immediately. I'll receive your information in an email and, on the first of November (or thereabouts), will send you the link for reading and reviewing my efforts.

**Gulp**

Wish me luck!

1 Just kidding, of course, but you have to be at least a LITTLE unbalanced to submerge yourself in a world of your own creation. And think that other people will want to join you in it. And decide to do it according to someone else's rules.

Tuesday, October 06, 2009

Who knew?

It turns out that I am a Type A personality. You wouldn't know it to look at the disorganization that is my household. You wouldn't know it from my -- ahem -- relaxed relationship with time. But I am totally Type A. No, I didn't take some fancy psychological test. I didn't even take a fluffy Facebook quiz. I simply encountered a Type B personality and wanted to tear my hair out.

I've been exchanging emails with a fellow for a few days and we finally had a phone conversation this evening. His online profile was somewhat sketchy, but we'd had some decent emails, so I was willing to call him. I was immediately turned off by his voice -- not a good sign. His tone was somewhat high-pitched and his speech was languorous and slow. But I'm not so shallow as to hang up on someone because I don't like his speech patterns.

As the conversation unfolded, however ...

Well, I started doing This ... then I switched to That ... no I don't have a degree ... well, I was laid off, so I moved here from California ... No, not really ... I realized that I don't need to have a "calling" ... I've decided that I really just need to go with the flow ...

Good idea. You go with the flow. Flow on by. Flow on out of here.

I'll be finishing up the outline for my book, thankyouverymuch. And organizing that stack of bills in the corner. And folding that laundry. And and and generically getting my life into order. Thank you, Mr. Type B, for that wake-up call, for showing me what I want my life NOT to be!

Monday, October 05, 2009

Am I a writer?

Annie has posted a quotation a few times that I've brushed off, something along the lines of a true writer can't not write, can't walk away from a project and not go back to it. (I searched her blog to get the quote right, but couldn't find it.)

I've brushed the quote aside because I have always thought of myself as a writer. I love words, I love the sound of words, I love putting words together in a way that sounds beautiful and creates meaning. But I also walk away from projects without completing them. So maybe I'm not a writer after all.

A local writer's group has a monthly reading. It's not an open mike session; pieces are vetted beforehand. I know that I have some "good stuff" and I really do enjoy getting up in public and talking before a group of people. But I have yet to choose one piece, polish it, and submit it.

That book inside me? It's still inside me. I've written the intro, and it's wonderful, and I've gotten great feedback from people who've seen it. I've written most of the first chapter. I know what is going to be in each chapter yet to be written. And it is all yet to be written.

A writer who doesn't write can't really call herself a writer, can she?

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Catching up: Family

My mother and sister are both doing amazingly well. It's been nearly 3 years since Jane was diagnosed with stomach cancer and had her entire stomach removed. She is doing wonderfully well, with clean results on all her regularly scheduled scans and blood work. She is ever aware of the Sword of Damocles, but she is healthy and happy and loving her family to pieces.

Two years ago this month, I moved to Arizona when my mom was diagnosed with advanced ovarian cancer. She was given 12 to 18 months to live, and -- well, 2 years later, she feels great and is loving her family to pieces. The doctors know that the cancer is still there -- they saw it during her last surgery -- but she feels good and is choosing not to have regular blood work. She feels so good and has so much energy that she is even going (with my sister and a woman who's been her friend for 45 years) to India in November. How wonderful is that!?

My mother and sister are both driving me absolutely crazy. I have no privacy. My mother wants to see me every day. She wants to swim in the pool and play the piano every day, even if I'm not home. She doesn't understand that her being here even when I'm not still counts as being in my space. I still have to have the house picked up and the kitchen counters cleared, because I don't want her to see that I didn't wash last night's dinner dishes. (I know, I know. I should have washed last night's dinner dishes. It's good for me to keep the living room picked up.)

In all fairness, Jane has really stepped up in the last month or so, intervening on my behalf. I think she's even getting Mother to accept that I really don't want to see her every day. When we talk about it between ourselves, Jane says that the time will come when Mother needs us every day, when she will be dependent on us for everything. Until then, she needs to give us a breathing room and what Jane calls "days off." (Mother is often at Jane's house for quilting conversations and baby fixes. My sister's grandson is too utterly adorable for words, and my mother adores him.)

And Jane makes me want to tear my hair out. She keeps saying things about how well I'm doing, and how much better I am than I was when I moved out here. She's so glad I'm handling things so much better than I was. In truth, she has no idea how I'm really doing at all, because she really doesn't want to know. Mother doesn't either, actually. But while my mom simply shuts me down if I try to talk about anything emotional, Jane's response is more infuriating.

Everything, every little thing, has a positive spin on it. I tried to tell her about crumbling when I had to pull out Nick's death certificate. I was choking back the tears on the phone, until I said something along the lines of then I just had to pull it all together and volunteer at school. Her response? Let's hear it for having to pull it all together! There's something to be said for being too busy to think about it. She makes me want to scream Not everything has a silver lining!

But being out here does have a silver lining. I've made no secret about how much I miss Maryland, how isolated and lonely and trapped I feel. But this time with my family -- my mother, my sister, my nephews -- is wonderful. It's been good for everyone, myself included. I know my being here has helped both my sister and my mother in their respective recoveries. This "bonus year" with my mom is a gift too precious for words. And it's been wonderful for my boys as well, to develop real relationships with their grandmother, their aunt and uncle, and even their cousins who are so much older than they.

I've got no complaints.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Catching up: Project 2,996

Project 2,996 was started in 2006, to mark the fifth anniversary of the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. I thought it was a wonderful way to ensure that the individuals who were killed were not lost in political soundbites and patriotic fervor. I put a lot of myself into writing the tribute, and I will honor the memory of Chris Slattery all my days.

I spent a few days in 2006 reading through the tributes others had written. In fact, it seemed as though most people who wrote tributes made a point of visiting as many other bloggers as they could, leaving links for people to follow. I could see a remarkable sense of community building, as I saw the same names in the comment sections, as I received comments from other bloggers. Some of my current blogging buddies, in fact, are people I met through Project 2,996.

In 2007 and 2008, I simply linked back to the tribute I'd already written. I wasn't aware that Project 2,996 was ongoing until I got an email in mid-August asking if I wanted to participate again this year. Of course I said I would. And again, I spent the better part of two days reading through the other tributes. And I got very depressed. Not saddened by the tragic loss of human life, but depressed by what a different experience it was this time around.

First, I was utterly disheartened by how many people failed to honor their commitment to the project. They said they would write a tribute, and didn't. I know that life gets in the way -- boy do I know that! -- but even now, 11 days later a random browsing found that 10 percent of the people who volunteered to write a tribute didn't, as though the lives lost weren't important enough to remember. That makes me very sad.

Second, it seems as though very few people made any effort to visit the tributes posted by others. I have over 60 comments on my post, but I visited and left comments at over 500 blogs. At most of those blogs, I was the first or second person to comment, and even now, hardly any of the tributes I visited this morning have more than two or three comments. There is certainly no sense of communal bonding in this year's effort.

Third, I was terribly upset by the politicizing of the memorials. More than a few of them veer off into attacks on President Obama, as though the direction in which he would like to lead the country somehow dishonors the memory of those who have died. Quite frankly, I think that the memory of the dead is more greatly dishonored by those who raise the spectre of "socialism" in their so-called tributes. Several people were outraged that the President called for September 11 to be a national day of service, even though the idea for that came from families of several of those who died that day.

I was most distraught by the general tone of the blogs I visited: It seems as though this year bloggers on the left side of the aisle weren't interested in honoring those who had died. Over ninety percent of the blogs I visited were papered with invectives against President Obama. I remember seeing lots of flags on blogs for the 5th anniversary, lots of yellow ribbons in support of our troops. I also remember seeing a few countdowns until President Bush was out of office, a few yellow ribbons urging that our troops be brought home.

I know that I did NOT see angry screeds against President Bush incorporated into the pages honoring the 2,996 who had died. I know that I did NOT see grotesque pictures of President Bush as Hitler or as The Joker. I didn't even see banners screaming that the President was a liar, even though by the time 2006 rolled around, that accusation would clearly have been well founded.

I did leave one or two comments on some of these pages, suggesting that it might have been more respectful for the personal politics to have been set aside. But I didn't bookmark them, to see if the authors responded. In 2006, I wrote that "I found myself feeling a powerful connection to the other tribute authors." This time around, I'm afraid, I felt a powerful disconnect, miserably isolated.

I felt isolated not only as a supporter of President Obama (and his "socialist" health care reform), but also as a human being. I wanted to read the tributes and join with others in remembering those who had died. But so much of what I read was more about angry politics than about solemn remembering. So much of what I read was more about questioning birthplaces and decrying health care plans than about honoring those who sacrificed their lives to save others. So much of what I read was screaming about patriotism, instead of actually reflecting patriotism.

I'm not sure what I was most aware of as I read through more than 500 blogs: sorrow for the lives lost that tragic day, despair at the loss of community that I felt at the beginning of this Project, or dread of the effects of the sheer vitriol that I encountered with every click of my mouse. But it was a terrible experience, one that left me depressed on so many levels.

Will I continue to participate in Project 2,996? Yes. I will remember Chris Slattery as long as my heart beats and honor him as long as my computer has pixels. But I may not visit so many tributes in the years to come. It was far too discouraging and disheartening.

Monday, September 21, 2009

The car chronicles -- postscript

After buying the new Mazda on Saturday, I went down to the VW dealership to get my things from the Passat. I'd gotten most of the boys' junk out of it before it was towed away, but there were maps and umbrellas and a few dozen stray Legos, nail clippers and notebooks and lipstick, postcards and an icon and a cross hanging from the mirror. Stuff.

I was okay walking away from the car. There was a twinge, of course, mostly of the sort that everyone feels when saying goodbye to a 10-year-old vehicle. This was the car we'd bought together. This was the car we'd brought Rock home in; this was the car we'd taken on vacations; this was the car we all rode together in. I was sad, of course, but the Passat had served me well. Nick would have been pleased we'd gotten 10 years out of it; he'd be happy with my choice of another Mazda (he and I both drove Mazdas when we met).

But this morning, I had to take the VW title to the Mazda dealer. Because both our names were on the title, I had to take Nick's death certificate as well. I was so matter-of-fact about digging it out of the filing cabinet; I handed it so casually to the Mazda salesman, brushing aside his startled expression of sympathy. It was just part of the business deal.

But when I got back into the car, I started crying. I pulled myself together and headed out on my errands. I got to the parking lot at Point A, called a friend, and started sobbing. I pulled myself together, ran my errand, got to the parking lot at Point B, and started crying. I pulled myself together, ran my errand, and went to the boys' school for lunchroom duty. I could barely breathe until the chattering hubbub drowned out the internal wailing.

That damned death certificate. It's such a brutal document. I remember reading it when I first received it. Every word of it. Again and again. As if understanding the words on that piece of paper would help me understand what had happened, as if reading about how Nick died would explain WHY he died.

I didn't read the words today. Five years later, I still know what they say. And I still don't understand.