Merry Christmas…

Merry Christmas.

Yeah, let’s start there. It’s been a while since I’ve posted (as usual), and I’m getting the cringe as I look at some of the emo posts from a while ago. Honestly, I may delete them. I think that’s a little shallow, but I’ll do it anyway. My blog, my rules, after all. 

It’s Christmas again, same time every year. And once again, Molly and I are the only ones awake. She’s snuffling around and I’m sitting here, thinking thoughts about the presents waiting under the tree. 

I don’t have much to post tonight, just wanted to get the ball rolling again. 

K

spartans

Let’s try something a little different:

Spartans
I come from an old family of Spartans.
(We’re actually from southwest Ohio)
In that land, our blood flows like a river,
Mighty and enormous, pretty cold in the spring.

We may not look much like ancient warriors,
But, from the depths of our bespectacled,
Broad shouldered, rounded belly hearts,
A stunning greatness and ferocity arises.

Because, honestly, don’t get me started on it.
Some days I could kill them all on my own,
But, offer to give me a hand and you’ll pull back
A quite bloody, thoroughly rebuffed nub.

Ask me about my mother, the greatest woman
To ever give birth to four children, or any at all.
Ask me about my father, the world’s best golfer,
And the absolute best maker of popcorn, unrivaled.

Ask me about my siblings, with their penchant
For ice cream in big bowls and for half-finished
Projects in a basement full of hidden wonders.
Ask about the basketball hoop and dead grass.

Maybe that’s where it all comes back to then,
dead grass. Push mowers and ice-filled glasses,
Summers I spent ingesting chlorinated water.
Desperately trying to get out of being dunked.

It’s school projects finished the night before
with leaves from the dying trees in the yard.
The concept of sharing a car when three people
have different places they desperately want to be.

Snow days spent shoveling the sidewalk, hating
The snow, the shovel, the car driving by, everything.
Looking up at a shovel full of snow plunging down
Filling my eyes, hood, and heavy sense of injustice.

It’s not like it’s easy, after all, being a Spartan.
It’s not enough, not near enough, to be super-smart.
You’ve got to solve rubix cubes with relative ease.
I always peel the stickers off myself.

To be a Spartan you have to be willing to stand,
With your broad shoulders against ours, holding
the line against that rapid machine-gun laughter,
And know that, as always, silence is stagnant.

A Spartan might not lead the charge into battle,
But wisdom is, in fact, the greater part of valor.
And while we normally don’t win foot races,
You’ve no hope of catching our whirling minds.

So, perhaps we’re a new breed of Spartans,
the kind who dress in crisp business casual,
Who wield weapons of leisure, attitude, and
wage war only while driving on the highway.

Nevertheless, my family comes from an ancient line.
We built castles while you were defending hovels.
We are always at war against someone or something,
And, we are more alive than anyone else I know.

rhinestones.

In a million tiny ways, my writing has been validated. The messages are difficult to list and, sometimes, even more difficult to remember. After all, that one time that so-and-so said that my essay didn’t need editing isn’t really a clear message.

So, suffice it to say, the positive messages I have received about writing have never been parades or positive Amazon.com reviews, though I hold out hope. Instead, they’ve been the small things, the times when I’ve checked online only to see a comment from someone who I didn’t have to bribe first, or gotten a paper back with a compliment scribbled in the margins.

One of the biggest positive moments happened when I was very early. My mother put my in the Christmas family newsletter. “Katelyn,” she said, “is continually attempting to write the next great American novel.” When I found that, I read it several times, over and over. I suppose it stuck with me even still. My parents, especially my mother, believe that I can handle it, can write something truly brilliant.

Another moment, albeit one that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth comes from another adult that I used to revere. This person, a teacher with too much influence over my thoughts and likes, once gushed about a paper that I wrote for her. She said it made her cry. She said it in front of the whole class! I may have levitated from my seat for a moment. Since then, times have changed. I no longer care for this person or her opinion, but the compliment still rings true. I made her cry. Something I wrote was that good.

Those are some of the most prevalent positive writing moments that I have experienced. Thinking back on them never fails to bring a smile to my face, even here at B&N with the hillbilly bride behind me gushing over rhinestones. Ah… inspiration….

the concept

Dear After Me,

I had a good day. I know, bizarre, right? I never seem to post after good days. Well, don’t call this a new leaf. One post is never a new leaf. You can’t even see the leaf from here. Got that? No leaf.

When I was little, it never occurred to me that there was anything weird about the way I played with my toys. Or rather, the way I made them communicate. They talked, just like people in books. And me, well I was the facilitator. I didn’t speak in the voices of my characters. Instead, I told their stories. Third person narrative, all the way.

I didn’t realize this was weird until I played with someone who wasn’t in my close family. She watched me telling stories with my characters for a few minutes and then told me that I was doing it all wrong. By that point it was too late. I was the narrator.

It wasn’t until years later that I grasped the full meaning. I never wanted to be my barbies when I was younger, I just wanted to tell their stories. I don’t think that this is what made me a writer. I think that this was me writing all along.

Sometimes being a storyteller means that other people will tell you that you’re doing it all wrong. That doesn’t mean you’ll stop. Because, more than likely, you couldn’t, even if you tried.

“The shortest distance between truth and a human being is a story.”
Anthony De Mello

someone like you…

Dear After Me,

It’s too late to be blogging, nearly 2:00. Besides, who knows if this will even live to see the light of day, this sudden inspiration, this sudden break from fear. Because honestly, that’s what’s holding me back. Fear.

It’s sweet but acrid, like eating something delicious only to find that it leaves a taste in your mouth that you can’t stand. Fear is safety, fear is… knowing that if you don’t jump, you won’t fall. If you don’t say something, your face won’t burn with embarrassment, and, most importantly, if you don’t bare your insecurities, you won’t have to deny them later. That’s fear.

But fear is also regret, knowing that you’ll never see the top of the hill, you’ll never get to express your opinion, and you’ll never feel clean.

I’ve been cleaning lately. Not my room, though it certainly needs it, no, I’ve been cleaning my emotional closet. There’s just one thing I can’t get at, too far to reach on tippy toes, too far away to reach. And I need to reach it, badly. Because, even though I love this old shirt, love the way it fits, the way it makes me feel, and the way I can always pull it out, it’s old and raggedy. It’s worn and degrading. I deserve better. It’s time for a new one. It had it’s chances, more chances than I’ve ever given anything. And, surprise of surprises, end’s means didn’t pan out.

Metaphors aside, I’ll stay metaphorical. If I were going to call this anything, I’d call this the end of an era. A depressing, disappointing, informative, wonderful, day-dream era. It’s been sweet but acrid. I will miss it, I will miss all of it. Still, I think the person I’m becoming won’t miss it, ever.

K.

make them like you instead…

After Me,

The concept of the ellipsis, the idea that simply by adding enough stopping points that you could cause an idea to continue, astounds me. An ending. That’s what a period is, right? It stops a thought. Finished. Kaput. And yet, upon a second swing-by of the idea, it grows on you. You see, a period isn’t just a stop, it’s the creation of a start too. By ending, you can start again. Without a period, there would never be room to take a breath and begin fresh. Finally, a period ends things. It doesn’t drag on, doesn’t require additional thought. It hermetically seals leaking words.

This really wasn’t what I had intended to write about.

I had a marvelous night. I met one of my favorite new authors, had dinner with friends, and laughed until my smile hurt. I made plans and hatched schemes and, and, and. I guess words don’t really describe it. Calling it magical would be cliche. Nothing happened tonight that couldn’t have happened any other night. Calling it memorable would be a lie. I want to have so many nights like this one that they run together like ice melting into water. Calling it fun would be foolish. The word fun can no more describe my friends than a picture can smell like homemade bread.

So, call it necessary, call it enlightenment, call it therapy. Whatever you call it, please don’t let it ever end.

K.

PS. This period business requires some more thought.

Dear After Me,

I have begun this post three times. The first try ignored the space between the last post and this one. The second try mentioned it. The third try made a joke about it, and the fourth try sidestepped it. Tada, see what I did there? Yeah, I thought so.

So much has changed in the past five months that to begin with “so much has changed” might be an understatement. At this point last year I was… well I certainly wasn’t here.

I’m employed, After Me. A real live grownup with a job and a car and I might still live in my parent’s house, but we’re working on that. My car is red, if that matters, which I don’t really think it does.

I see different people now. I’ve renewed friendships, made some new ones, and am currently trespassing the treacherous paths of friending co-workers on Facebook. It looks like I’m going to have to find a new method of social expression. Eek.

To be honest, that’s not why I’ve begun blogging again. You may dislike hearing this, but I felt for a few months that I had perhaps outgrown you. My last blog was meant as a capstone, an encapsulation of this period. You can build on a capstone though.

Spring is coming, After Me, and maybe it’s time to come out of hibernation. We’ll try this again, just to see how it goes.

K

vines.

This is a story about a garden and a truck and a man with a smile like you wouldn’t believe. This is a story about Alzheimer’s. This is a story about a family. This is a story about life and death. My Poppy died on September 6, 2010, though that seems to be starting at the end of the story.

When I think about my grandfather, I think of a few things. I think of a truck and a garden. I suppose calling a truck really doesn’t do it justice. This wasn’t just one truck, it was a lifetime of trucks. They were mostly blue or black, with enough room in the bed for five and half lawnmowers and enough room in the backseat for four and a half grandchildren. Though, honestly, that doesn’t do them justice either.

Thinking about Poppy’s truck is like thinking about the man himself. I will never forget climbing into the backseat, trying not to touch rusty and dirty tools that I couldn’t identify. I will never forget waiting outside of school for him to take me to the orthodontist, or his hand smacking my knee and singing about buckling my seatbelt and Froggy went a courting while he took me to horse back riding lessons. I will never forget digging in the bed of the truck when it was full of mulch, or watching the road, holding on for dear life and trying not to talk because he’d turn so he could hear every word you said.

I remember putting sodas in the fridge before climbing into the truck to mow grass, three or four across the back seat, always grudgingly, hating that lucky kid with his face in the vent up front. The way we would unravel like a sleeping bag while mowing and try to pack ourselves back in, sticky with sweat and the knowledge that there was always more grass to be mowed, never quite fitting, but getting home all the same. I remember that truck, I don’t think I could forget.

Poppy had a garden, in the middle of the suburbs. When he was himself, you would never go a day without seeing him out there, tilling, pulling weeds, or just roaming. Then, when he started to leave, he would ride his tractor in circles, a big straw hat on his head. That garden was a staple of my childhood. They say that most people will eat a pound of dirt during the course of their lifetime. I got my pound of dirt early, picking strawberries, blackberries, and red raspberries straight from the garden. I was helping, making jelly.

Poppy had another kind of garden, one that you couldn’t really see. As much as he loved his garden, I think he would have given up the first for the second any day. It sounds foolish to call his family a garden, but he was the sun. When Poppy was in a room, every conversation faced him. This may have been because he couldn’t participate otherwise, or because of the sheer force of his personality. He was never an angry man, never had to fight for the attention of those he loved best. Our faces, like the flowers he loved so well, were always turned to him. He was the center of this garden and he took care of us. And then later, when he couldn’t be the sun, he was the center again. This time, it would be our turn, and we would care for him.

When Poppy died, it was a mercy. Alzheimer’s had slowly stripped away from him first his memory, then his health, and finally his dignity. It was easy and simple to say that he was at peace now, he could hear, he could see, and he could remember. Still, the garden has lost its sun, and no one can step in to take his place. I am picking up my pieces, learning to grow a little wilder, and missing the man who made me who I am. I miss you Poppy.

slacker

Dear After Me,

It’s been more than a month since I’ve blogged. That’s pretty bad, I guess. I’ve been doing the rounds at Kroger, going on vacation, singing at a wedding, buying office furniture and… just existing. I suppose that’s the wrong sort of thing to think, but it’s honestly what’s been happening. I haven’t done anything cerebral, apart from one conversation in Russian and the little bits that sink into my day.

I might have a job, After Me. I’ll know tomorrow. I should be excited. I should post it to facebook, should let my friends celebrate with me. But I haven’t. It’s not that I don’t think I’ll get it, it’s just that… maybe I’m not sure it’s what I want to get. I have a feeling I’m starting over at Kroger. I have to work my way back up from the bottom, while controlling the urge to be annoyed at the process and I’m not even at Kroger.

I’m part of an entitled system. Once upon a time, someone told me that I could do anything, be anything that I wanted to be. Is it any wonder that what I want to be is out of my grasp? Don’t get me wrong, After Me, I am excited. I’m just processing tonight, processing and catching you back up.

I’m sorry, I’ll be around more.
K

36 minutes

Dear After Me,

My birthday is in 36 minutes. I will be 23. I have to be honest, 22 hasn’t been anything super special, and I’m not holding out much hope for 23. This isn’t to say, of course, that nothing wonderful happened while I was 22 or that nothing wonderful will happen when I’m 23. It simply means that these wonderful things, and there have been many, happened in spite of, or perhaps in addition to my respective age.

I should have blogged before now. Honestly, I’ve been busy. I know that’s no excuse, but, sorry or not, it’s the excuse I’m using. Work has been… mixed. I haven’t worked an evening shift yet, for which I am grateful. It seems that I have finally reaped some of the benefits of seniority. The system that has penalizing me from day one has turned around in my favor. Know what else, After Me? Things have been going well, really well. Today we had four barristas and, dare I say it, we had fun.

The minutes are ticking away. In a few short minutes, my 23 year of life will begin. Who knows what it will bring or what I will experience? Year 22 certainly had its ups and downs, some of which I still haven’t ironed out. Here’s to hoping that 23 will be relatively clear of the downs. It probably won’t happen, but the upward slant of my handwriting keeps me hoping. I’ll keep you updated After Me. I hope things are going well for you.

Still, do you think it’s too much to wish that people got my birthday right when they sent me well wishes on Facebook? Maybe that’s just small beans.

Love,
K.