Nothing smells more like ‘project avoidance’ than Pinesol™ and Lemon Pledge™.

When I was in high school, my mother could always tell when I had a big paper or project due because it was the ONLY time I would clean my room.

Suffice it to say 20×2 is Saturday and my home is getting cleaner by the day.

So this morning I was running a little late and actually had to use the “Man Iron”.

You know, that’s when you throw your slightly wrinkled shirt in the dryer on high for a few minutes and pretend/hope that it took the wrinkles out.

My relatives live in a very rural part of Tennessee. I had vague memories of it from 30 years ago. It really hadn’t changed much. I recognize it, because I grew up in a place that hasn’t changed a great deal in the last 30 years. However, since I moved to Dallas I have seen the rural, empty countryside where I once drove my motorcycle to ‘get away from it all’ while I was in college become the burgeoning suburb where only a few years later I ultimately bought a house. Life moves faster here.

When my family and I first arrived at my uncle’s home only a few of the relatives had yet arrived and so the conversation was casual and flowed between them almost as if we weren’t there. They mostly talked of their crops (large personal gardens). They were deeply in tune with the seasons and the environment/weather. To hear an 80 something year old woman talk about her corn and her crops utterly astounded me. I knew she had received some help with it, but for the most part she still planted, tended and gathered for herself. We had FRESH corn, potatoes, green beans, etc. None of them still raised animals for slaughter, but I remember the time when we/they did. Later my uncle told me all about growing tobacco, how to dry it and separate it into grades for selling. I was reminded of how out of touch most of us are with the simple necessities we need to survive and nourish ourselves. Perhaps I know too little about the basics in life, and too much about the philosophy.

Several of my relatives were also very musically skilled; mostly they loved bluegrass and southern gospel. I think only one had ever learned to read music. It was a skill they passed down through the generations, by ear and from the heart. Pianos, guitars, banjos, mandolins and the like were basic household staples. They had often gathered together to bond, eat and play many times over the years we were absent. They reminisced and shared the stories of the lives we had missed. One that I most enjoyed was a time when they had been camping and heard a young man playing a ‘mean banjo’ during the day. They sought him out and invited him to their nighttime campfire jam. He came by later that evening and gratefully joined their session. It didn’t take long for them to realize that he only knew one song. He had bought his banjo from a fellow on the condition that he be taught how to play ‘Cripple Creek’. So the seller complied and the buyer worked hard to perfect it. He played it like a master, but it was all he knew. So as the jam progressed those present would let the music flow and wind through the trees, and every couple of songs or so my uncle would announce, “Let’s take it up the Creek again George” and they would all move back into the only piece their guest could play. It sounded like they all left the event loving the song ‘Cripple Creek’ more, instead of becoming sick of hearing it. I wish I could have been there.

I guess it was only natural for me to wonder what my life would be like if we had stayed. There is much of it that I really would’ve liked to experience, but only for a couple of weeks at a time. I thought that it would have been really difficult to ‘get out of Tennessee’ and get to where I am now. But as 3D said, it probably wouldn’t have been much harder than it was to get out of the small mining town where I grew up in Montana. She’s probably right, and no matter what it would have just been in my nature either way.

Finder’s fee to Kitcar. Thanks for sharing this with me.

Mosh

It takes some time to load but it’s worth the wait.

I’ve had a myriad phantom visions floating weightless in me for years, but in an instant I felt a force like gravity quickly pull them to where they now rest, silent and gentle in my breast. I often wondered if the images in my mind’s eye were memories or dreams. I could trace the faint outline of events, but time and uncertainty always seemed to quickly erase them. As I stood in front of my relative’s house, breathing the sweet, autumn mountain air, I was able to look through my windows in time more clearly than ever. Some of the dust had been wiped away, and although the broken edges still remained, many of the lines that I once thought were cracks had disappeared. As I walked through the yard I could hear the laughter of children, their shouts, their taunts and their giggles. I could see them huddled around the tree where we hid away from the adults, to play with matches. I followed their footsteps as they adventured in the barn, climbing, jumping and discovering. And I could see their faces faintly smiling behind the glass panes of the playhouse. Yes, it was true. The place of my early youth really did exist, and I could see my once uncertain memories play out like living ghosts before my eyes.

I wonder if the ‘74 hauself could have seen the ghost of the ‘04 hauself standing in the yard? …Nah, it looked like she was too busy running and playing to stop and notice something as mundane as the faint outline of a young woman with tear-filled eyes, standing off to the side of the yard, smiling.

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Proust be proud. I sit here enjoying being solidly in my chair remembering myself remembering myself, and once again feeling transported. Someday in the future I will re-read this and remember writing it. Ha! Excellent. (LOL I know I’m weird.)

Just got home from a wonderful trip and an amazing journey. Revelations to follow in the coming days, but right now sleep comes first.

I leave tomorrow for Tennessee to visit my paternal relatives who I haven’t seen since I was 5 (a couple months short of 30 years). I guess so far the weird part is that I don’t feel much of anything. I sit, still within myself, in the silence, and I can honestly say I have no real expectations, or even any major emotions around it all. I suppose when I return on Monday I will have an abundance of feelings related to the event. But really I am very calm and centered. Some of my family members are excited, apprehensive, or even nervous, but I’m not and I guess that’s o.k.

It’s happening at a good time for me really. My life, my world, and my heart are full right now. I’m comfortable and confident in/with myself. I guess if I had to sum it up, it’s like this: I’m open to new people and new blessings, but nothing and no one can take the great gifts I already have, so I have nothing to lose. At the most I think I can say it will be interesting.

And if there is one thing true about me, I’ve always loved an adventure.

I hate to see an unhappy puppy. I wish I could make all ‘puppies‘ happy.

Generally I have a dislike of organized religion, but I still like to be exposed to the philosophies they are built around. So, on Sunday Saltina and I went to see the great Buddhist master Khenpo Tsultrim Gyamtso Rinpoche. He was offering a meditation session and workshop based on his latest book. We both hoped it would be an enlightening experience. However, I think you have to be in a frame of mind that is open to enlightenment before you can receive it, and I don’t think Saltina or I ever got there. When we approached the registration table the lady looked up truly dumb-founded to see the two of us standing before her, rough from the night before, me with my Liquor logo baseball hat turned backwards. I got the sense we were going to be a bit out-of-place. It was when Saltina looked at me and said, “We’d better get inside quick, before all the greedy Buddhists get the good pillows” that I was certain we didn’t quite fit.

Don’t get me wrong we were both quiet and well-behaved during the actual event. But I’m not saying it was easy. Much of the beginning mediation was done through song, which actually I found myself enjoying, despite that fact that both of us were certain the tune was being made up on the spot by the interpreter. At one point Saltina also pointed out that ‘the Nun’ up front (female monk-practitioner? monk-ess? monk-ette?) was wearing curtains. Actually, I think she really was. Finally, when Rinpoche spoke, he sounded a lot like Jabba the Hutt. For a minute I wondered if he was actually mocking us in return.
“Dunp lonlhh non plup nom dom frump.” [Funny all these crazy Americans paid money for this.]
“Mumfph plu dong maai pop fru dom, nom dom.” [The chick in the back smells of vodka, and her friend keeps farting.]

The only thing that might possibly save us from an eternity burning in the hell-fires promised by Christian mythology is the fact that we have now placed our undying souls at the displeasure of the Buddhists as well. We will most likely be reincarnated forever as Mockingbirds. I’m sure Saltina would gleefully enjoy all the pooping on things. Hmmm…come to think of it, so would I.

I just got home from the Susan G. Komen Race For The Cure. What a powerful and moving experience. I was a bus captain for my company, but once we arrived I found that I very quickly separated myself from the group. I like being ‘alone’ in a crowd because it allows me to focus and absorb the total energy without fixating on my immediate circle. It was overwhelming to see all the survivors and those who walked with personalized placards pinned to their backs in memorial to the many ladies lost to breast cancer. So as I walked through the throng in the wee, dark hours of the morning I was glad to be wearing my unnecessary sunglasses as they hid the pool of tears welling in my eyes. My breast was filled with sympathy, compassion and hope. I was reminded of American Beauty where the young boy is overwhelmed by the beauty he sees in the world around him. I felt that exact sentiment immensely.

After I worked my way to the front of the 1-mile walk starting point I was happy to run into my at work walking buddy co-worker. She and I walked together as she shared the very personal story of her fight with breast cancer earlier this year. I’ve only known her a short time, but I had no idea she was a survivor. It was wonderful to get to know her better and to have the opportunity to reflect on her intimate struggle as we walked to support a cure.

I also thought about my dear high school friend/neighbor who currently works as a breast cancer research scientist in Florida. I thought about all the chemistry exams he and I studied for together and was happy that he at least had taken it to the next level. I know that the work he does is so important for the world, and yet he makes less money than a lot of the car salesmen I know. It frustrates me sometimes when I see the skewed values in this world. I am very proud of him and his choice to use his amazing talent in a positive and powerful way, despite the hardships. He is one of my heroes.

Later as I stood on the sidelines and the sea of pink-adorned survivors made their way to the center stage I stood with the sun fully shining in my now water-filled eyes, rivers flowing down my face, my sunglasses hanging uselessly on my shirt, I was filled with admiration for the courageous women who stood before me. My tears became the proud symbol of my support for their personal triumphs.

I am filled with gentle and deep awe. Thank you ladies. All the best to each and every one of you. May the Universe return what your strength deserves.

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On a much less profound note:
I am curious as to why we ‘walk’ a mile and ‘run’ kilometers. Is walking somehow more ‘American’ while running is more ‘European’?