Repercussions

Someone made fun of me for having a slinky today.

You know who you are.

You are dead to me.

-b

Worth Day

My friend Rory told me today that they don't call them birthdays in their family. They call them "Worth Days." He said that he always wanted his children to know they were worth something.

I like that.

Today is my Worth Day. And, when I look at the volume of friends and acquaintances who took a second to send a good wish, I have to assume that I'm worth something to a few people (outside my family), at least.

That's a nice feeling.
Being worth something to somebody.

-b

Hint

My mother makes the best pumpkin bread.
I'll be home in a few weeks.

Hi, Mom.

-b

Jane Doe

Jim took Bernice for a walk around the block tonight. He came back with Bernice AND Jane Doe:


Looks like Dave's getting a dog!!!!! WooHoo!!!

-b

Elk and Dad and Jim

My Dad is a serious and avid bowhunter. He hunts with a longbow. A lifelong passion, Dad has many animals on the wall at home, all of which he got with a bow and arrow. There's a kudu, a wildebeest, a caribou. A couple of gemsbok and a really ugly wild boar, amongst a plethora of other things. There's even an antelope. Antelopes can run 40-50 miles per hour, and Dad got one with a bow and arrow.

He can't seem to get an elk, though.

Dad went to Colorado three weeks ago for another elk hunt and came back empty handed. He said it was a good hunt, but still, no elk.

Jim went to Colorado last week. Unlike Dad who has been unable to get one elk, Jim shot two. Here are the shots he got.

Shots #1 and #2:


-b

Elvis and Me and Springsteen and Jackson Browne and Tony and Gold City

When I was little, I thought my Mother knew Elvis. My Mom told me that my brother was named after Elvis because she had an affair with Elvis, but she loved my Dad more. So, she broke Elvis' heart but told him she would name her first-born son after him.

As a four year old, this made complete sense to me. As a five year old, I told it to my kindergarten class during show-and-tell. As a grown up, well, let's just say that whatever Mom needs to tell herself is just fine with me.


I got an invitation to a house concert by Jackson Browne. Do you know what I would pay to go to something like that????? Apparently, not $750. But, goodness, how amazing would that be?!?!?! I'm salivating just thinking about it. I shall use the, "Oh, I'll be out of town," excuse for the official record. Since I will be.


Tony and I were talking about the house concert today. And, then we starting talking about Springsteen who Tony will be seeing in the near future. And then about the crazy things people do to meet celebrities (should we pretend to be caterer's at the Browne concert? Is it worth a night in jail? Maybe. Aren't I too old to worry about a record?) And then he told me about Springsteen jumping the wall at Graceland to meet Elvis. And, then I Googled that story and here it is:

[Perhaps] the most famous incident of wall jumping occurred one night in 1976. Bruce Springsteen, who was enjoying the first rush of great fame and had just played Memphis on his Born to Run tour, decided to catch a cab to Graceland. Noticing a light on up at the house, he climbed the wall and ran to the front door. As he was about to knock, Security interceded. He recalls asking, “Is Elvis home?.” Answer: “No, Elvis isn’t home, he’s in Lake Tahoe.” (It was true.) Springsteen attempted to impress the guards by telling all about his being a recording star and his having recently made the covers of Time and Newsweek, as he was politely escorted to the street. (Perhaps they didn’t believe him or hadn’t heard of him yet.) Years later in a concert, he told the story and commented:

"Later on, I used to wonder what I would have said if I had knocked on the door and if Elvis had come to the door. Because it really wasn’t Elvis I was goin’ to see, but it was like he came along and whispered some dream in everybody’s ear and somehow we all dreamed it. And maybe that’s why we’re here tonight, I don’t know. I remember later when a friend of mine called to tell me that he’d died. It was so hard to understand how somebody whose music came in and took away so many people’s loneliness and gave so many people a reason and a sense of all the possibilities of living could have in the end died so tragically. And I guess when you’re alone, you ain’t nothin’ but alone. So anyway, I’d like to do this song for yous [sic] tonight, wishing you all the longest life with best of absolutely everything."

I did something adventurous once, too. My first cut after I moved to Nashville was in the late 90's with a southern gospel group called Gold City. They were singing at a concert at the Municipal Auditorium in Nashville. My brother was visiting and we wanted to hear them do the song live (I'd not heard their version yet.) We were too poor to pay the concert ticket fee (what? $15?), so we went down, found the freight entrance to the Auditorium, and walked in with the stage deliveries. We were so rebellious.

Because I'm Just.That.Cool.
Sigh...

-b

Postcards to Me

Italy was my dream place. I booked a ticket there a few years ago when I made the "List of Things I'd Regret if I Died Tomorrow." Not visiting Italy was #1.

I remember the moment I booked the trip. I put my credit card information in and pressed, "Confirm."
I looked up to my friend Pat who was sitting there working quietly and said, a little flushed, "I just did it." I was a little shocked at myself.
"What did you do this time," she asked, knowing how I am.
"I booked the trip to Italy. I just did it."
She smiled and said, "Good for you. It's about time."

I went alone by choice, and for those weeks I did anything and everything I wanted. It was the only few weeks of my life that have ever been strictly about me, and it was glorious. Every last minute of it.

I have been reliving the trip through my scrapbook this evening. I'm having myself a blast over here. :-) The couple years of life that led up to the trip had really left me with just a few friends who I was in touch with. I had been kind of isolated, to understate (yes, Joel, I know.) So, when I got to Italy, I didn't really have many people I felt like I could send postcards to. Not that they wouldn't have welcomed a postcard, it's just that one might have come out of left field.

So, I sent them to me. I told myself what I was doing, how I was feeling, and how proud I was of myself for going alone and being 'fabulous.' haha. They started showing up at my house about a week after I got back.


These little postcards have been some of the best gifts I've ever given myself.



-b

The Incident and The Person and The Thing

Several weeks ago I was unwillingly involved in what we'll call the "incident." I won't talk about it so don't bother asking. The incident isn't the point of the post. However, it's background that you need to know.

Last night I walked across the street and got my mail for the first time in a week, which is typical for me. I was going through the junk, the flyers and the bills when I came upon an envelope with a handwritten return address and a name at the top which, frankly, made me kind of want to vomit. I don't know The Person very well at all, and the fact that The Person was (directly and indirectly at the same time) involved in the 'incident', AND that The Person had my home address--well, all I could think was, "Oh, dear. I'm going to have to leave town now. This is my 'get out' notice."

A handwritten envelope? Does this happen in 2009? I put the envelope on the counter and stared at it. Gang, you can't imagine the profound sorrow and the anger and the disappointment and the embarrassment this incident caused me. The lost sleep. The worrying about every possible implication and the playing over of my (firm) reaction to said incident in my head. My OCD had so many field trips over this one. To be honest, I shut down for a few weeks, and I said to my closest people on more than one occasion, "This isn't what I signed up for. If this is how it's going to be, if this is how it really feels, I don't know that I want to be involved anymore." Relationships are everything in what I do, and I'd put some stuff on the line for what I deeply felt was just and right. No, for what I deeply feel is just and right.

And here was this envelope, from this person I don't really know, in my house on my kitchen counter. We hadn't spoken, and I didn't even know the role The Person had played in the mess. I had a few scenarios, but only guesses.

After about ten minutes of walking in and out of the kitchen, picking the envelope up and putting it back down, and doing it all again, and again, I finally tore it open. The Person had handwritten a note to me about the incident. The Person went so far as to offer an apology that The Person didn't really seem to owe me.

It was pure class. The Person actually wrote out a note and mailed it to me. Not an email, not a text, but a real note in black ink. In 2009. I'm impressed beyond words.

We shouldn't be so afraid to talk to each other.
We should all be reminded how powerful the pen and the page really is.
We should write notes when something compels us.

We should all be that classy.

-b