Memoria

I decided to do a little bloggy reorganization today and so over the next few weeks, I will be moving posts over from my Memoria blog. When I started it, the only other blogging I was doing was, well, this first post explains it. . .

January 1, 2006

I was opening up an old journal today... It hadn't been opened in over 3 years but with the new year I felt an urge to write. I think I was influenced by a book I just finished, A God Shaped Hole. I actually didn't care for the book all that much but the main characters were writers. I think I was jealous of them and their dedication to journaling.

An old email from my Uncle L.T. fell out of the journal. It was written almost 2 years to the day before he died. As I read it, I was filled with a familiar sense of longing. . .

longing to see him
longing to talk to him
longing to talk about him with someone.

I never feel comfortable asking someone, "Hey, can you stop what you are doing and let me tell you about my dead uncle whom you've never met?"

I've been doing a family blog, updates on what we are up to, etc., and with this desire to write, I thought that I would start this blog as a place for me to go when I am missing someone and to write about them. This is intended as an outlet for me. Maybe no one will ever read it. That's okay. But I'll get it out there--share that grief and longing. I'll put it out into the aether and see what happens--internally, emotionally, in any way at all.

So, as time allows and as I find myself thinking about Uncle L.T. or Aunt Margaret, Grandma or my brother, this blog, Memoria, will be here for me.

Until then,

Mary-LUE

Memoria fulfilled its purpose for me. Over the course of a handful of posts, I wrote about a few of the people who I've lost in my life and it helped release a little of the pressure inside of me. I only told a few people about Memoria. I was afraid for others to read it. I was scared. However, it wasn't long before I wanted to write about more and Life, the Universe and Everything was born. Over the last year, I've become more comfortable with others reading my writing. I'm not scared anymore. And while Memoria wasn't the place to write about life, the universe and everything, Life, the Universe and Everything is definitely a place to share about those I wish to remember.

Another Note, a Quote and an Equation

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There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge.

-- "Red Wind" by Raymond Chandler

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When t equals the time change and s equals metaphorical Santa Ana winds and a equals underlying sleep apnea. Solve for the following:

t + s + 1/3a

And the answer is?

t + s = 1/3a =

A Note for You

Flashback Friday: a Walk Through My College Transcript

I've been telling people that I am planning on going back to school in the fall to pursue an M.S. in Education, however, that's not entirely true. I'd decided to go back to school, but until this week, I hadn't actually done any planning. Realizing that the fall would be upon me in a flash, I decided I'd better get moving. So get moving I did--literally. I walked the 15 minutes to the community college to request, in person, the first of my transcripts. I attended there so long ago, requesting them online wasn’t an option. (Has it really been almost 25 years?) One hour later, I was back at home for five minutes before hopping in the car to drive the two miles to the small, private university where I would request my second set of transcripts.

Here, because the university is so small, I was not required to pay for the transcripts and I was able to wait (about three whole minutes) to get an unofficial copy for myself. Ouch. I'd forgotten what a horrible student I was the first two and a half years of college. As I perused my mix of As, Bs and Cs, (and one D--shame on me!), I also was treated to a little slide show of memories. So, the following is probably both my debut and final curtain call of Flashback Friday. Debut because I can't resist sharing this walk through my transcript, and final curtain call because Sunshine Scribe, Alpha DogMa and I'm sure a couple of others are much more able to do it justice.

Let's set the Way Back Machine to August of 1983. I weighed a mere 109 pounds and owned a pair of Dolphin shorts and sported a full, layered, hot rollers-required do. Blue eyeliner was popular and my favorite pair of shoes were white leather shoes which looked like the pair on the cover of Joe Jackson's Look Sharp album. I'd already dropped out of community college the previous year, and after working full-time since then, I'd decided I was ready to go back to school. I convinced my wealthy father, from whom I was estranged, to pay the significant tuition and so I found myself--in a turn of events I did not come close to appreciating--attending college with my tuition and dorm residence paid in full. No student loans. I was only required to pay for the few meals my meal card didn’t cover, gas and car insurance. One part-time job at a software development company took care of that.

More interested in "experiencing" college than attending classes, I managed to fritter away my time in such a manner that I ended my first semester with one A, two B's and 2 C's. (Lest I forget to tell you, I not only took it easy in my classes, I never registered for more than 13 units. I was definitely not the driven to succeed type.) Well, don't be impressed in the slightest with the one A because it was New Student Integration and only worth one unit. A future English major, I managed a C in Grammar and Composition. (I now hang my head in shame.) Grammar and Composition was taught by a teacher who my friends and I decided had no business teaching college students. Because we were 18 & 19 years old and knew more than any other people on the planet, we felt we were making a point by sitting in the back row and making fun of her and skipping as many classes as humanly possible. Life of Christ I, the class responsible for my other C, was taught by a revered professor, required weekly Scripture memorization and commentaries (An assignment in which we were required to take copious notes on assigned verses of the Bible from the collection of Bible commentaries in the library.) If you remember how well I did as a senior in high school with mundane, repetitive work, you might guess how earnestly I did NOT apply myself to that task.

I did better in my Introduction to Psychology and Theology of Ministries classes. The psychology class was taught by a brilliant, funny professor and had multiple choice tests, so with a little reading and decent class attendance (encouraged by a TA who took an interest in me), I managed a B. I remember little about my efforts in the other class except that the teacher was eccentric and as long as you made sure to parrot back what he wanted, it wasn't too difficult to get a B.

(Don't worry. I’m not going to take you through all 63 units of my career at this college.)

As I examine my transcript for the years 1983-1985, I see a pattern emerging. A steady stream of Cs and Bs with a few As thrown in for good measure. Sadly, I can explain almost all of the As away. For example, my oral communication class. I received an A. The teacher for that class, whom we called Dr. Chins--for reasons which should be self-explanatory--had a habit of falling asleep during speeches. That's right. Nodding off, head on chest, I think he gave us the benefit of the doubt. Of course, he may just not have wanted to risk a student complaining about a bad grade. Next, there's Journalism for Publication. I was the editor-in-chief, star reporter and graphics designer for the school paper. Why? I was the only one who took the class that semester. Ah, the good old days of layout boards, typewriters and rubber cement. I got an A because the paper was published, not because I was good at publishing it.

I am actually somewhat proud of the Bs I managed: Introduction to Literature, World Civilization since 1600, American Government, Romans. These were classes with teachers I respected and subject matter which interested me. My lack-of-study-habit affected me, but I managed two papers with perfect grades of which I am proud to this day. As I peruse my Cs, the characteristic which they all have in common is lots of busy work. Now, I'm not saying it wasn't worthwhile busy work, but huge notebooks with fill-in-the-blank worksheets and weekly Scripture commentaries were too time consuming and uninteresting. I simply chose to spend my time doing other things. (See making out with Paul reference later in this post.)

In addition to my classes, I also got flashes of other memories of that time in my life. When I look at that C in Grammar and Comp., I not only remember sitting in that back row, laughing at our teacher's Pebbles-like pom-pom on top of her head, I also remember the four or five of us who hung out in those first weeks of college. I can recall the nights becoming more brisk and walking around campus laughing at anything and everything. Oh, to be that young and that arrogant, or should I say ignorant, again.

I'm also transported back to the early days of my relationship with Paul when I would be hoping to catch glimpses of him as he attended the state university across the street. Eventually, I would get to know him much better as we sometimes made out in his or my car (rarely, only rarely). I can remember talking to each other over the patio wall of my dorm room and walking on the overpass bridge which connected the two campuses.

A parade of roommates passes through my mind. Most of whom, I got along with. One, well, let's just say I don't know how I made it through one semester with her. Wait, make that two. I just remembered the girl who used to wake up at 6:00 every morning when she would proceed to turn on a particularly heinous Christian song (Powder Room Politics) with no regard to the three of us sloths who woke up just in time for our 8:00 a.m. classes. Blech! There is only one of my roommates with whom I stayed close for any length of time. We were close for many years before life, with its way of interfering, finally sent us down that road of still treasured but distant friends.

These were the years when I started creating some distance from my family for reasons I wouldn't understand until well after the birth of my son. I was always home for holidays but it was rare for me to otherwise spend a day at home. (I only lived 20 minutes away.) In December of 1985, my father presented me with a list of demands. After two and a half years of not interfering, he decided it was time to assert himself. I finished my last semester, inquired of my employer whether I could work full-time and then simply cut off contact with my father. The story is very complicated. (Aren’t they always.) I can't pretend I made all the best choices, but ultimately, I don't regret that temporary severing of ties.

I didn't return to school until after I married Paul. A couple of years older and in a stable relationship, I became a better student. My second semester at UTD, a fellow classmate and I decided to get together for lunch to discuss an upcoming assignment. Hours later, sitting over gigantic cups of coffee at The Dream Cafe, the lunch crowd long gone, I had a new friend. One that I believe I will have forever. With both of our husbands frequent travelers, we spent vast quantities of time together eating Le Petit Ecolier cookies, drinking coffee, making German pancakes, studying, eating even more food. We read and corrected each other's papers and were there for each other through a few personal crises...

But that's a story for another day. Maybe after I get my transcripts from UTD.

Blog Recommendation

I read this post today and laughed (I'm horrible, I know!) and then turned reflective. Excellent writing by Julie Q of mental tesserae, a new read I came across by snooping around Em's blogroll. You know it's going to be good when you have a reference to Greek tragedy and Girl Scout cookies in the post title.

Sleeping with Bread: with bloghorrea and very few commas

My mind is ajumble right now. It has been a long, but good, day. Bobby, the hamster is spinning madly around his little pink wheel, all set to ride to Nowheresville for the next eight hours. The whrrr, whrrr, whrrr of his plastic transport provides the background noise for this post. I've got something of a headache and I don't know if it is from allergies, too much sun (Yes. You read that right. It was in the low 80s today.), or low blog sugar levels. I want to watch TV, finish reading What is the What, and blog simultaneously. I know I can manage two out of three, but three out of three would probably make my already aching head explode. I'm using the laptop and a wireless connection which has already proved unreliable enough that an utterly brilliant comment was lost over at The Ravin' Picture Maven's most recent post. (The only good thing about it being lost is that I can claim it as genius and no one can prove otherwise! Hah!) So, what's a woman to do on a night like this? Ramble on like a maniac, of course. It's free form Sleeping with Bread where you take a bunch of ingredients, throw them together in the bread machine and hope it turns out all right.

First, the ingredients, in no particular order.

One viewing of Amazing Grace

One husband on a business trip from Tuesday to Sunday

One son, age 14, put on a plane as an unaccompanied minor for the first time on Friday, returned with father on Sunday

One trip to Petco to leave guinea pigs for adoption

One white-with-black eyes dwarf male hamster purchased complete with all pink Crittertrail cage, breast cancer awareness version. (Really.)

One windy two hour session at Sam's Club selling Girl Scout cookies with clingy daughter who won't speak or look at one person.

One weekend of bad food choices which virtually wipe out all floater points on Weight Watchers plan for the week

One does of further engrossment (Is that a word?) in What is the What

One trip out to the movies with sweet, thoughtful friend (See Amazing Grace above.)

One deduction of 1.5 pounds from total body weight (measured before weekend food binge)

One weekend with daughter alone

One purchase spree of too many items in one weekend for daughter

One generous dash of food for thought regarding identity crisis (see talk with thoughtful friend), purpose and calling in life (see Amazing Grace), epiphany regarding Year of Restraint (in car alone)

Mix all these ingredients together and you come up with a jumbled up, tired in a good way woman.

A woman who is thankful for her comfortable bed at 8:41 at night.

A woman who is a little sun- and wind-burnt.

A woman who was surprised at how well her daughter entertained herself at home while said daughter's brother was out of town.

A woman who cannot stand the state of her house one more week and has requested her husband take a day off this week, said day to be dedicated to the ordering of the household--no excuses.

A woman who is relieved her son's travel was without incident.

A woman who cannot get out of her head the use of the term unaccompanied minor in the book What is the What to describe these poor Sudanese boys who experienced so much over so many years and then cannot help but compare their experience to that of her son who, for a fee of $75, was literally escorted to and from the plane and handed into the hands of his father in Dallas.

A woman who's ready to watch Heroes and get lost in the world of cheerleaders who can't die, policeman who can read minds, artists who paint the future, political hopefuls who can fly, former Dr. Whos who are invisible, cute Japanese men who manipulate time and desire to fulfill their destiny to be heroes.

As always, this week's Sleeping with Bread posts will be found here.

Women are Fantastic Friday: A Hole in the Fence Meme

To graduate or not to graduate, that is the question...

One day, a couple of weeks before high school graduation, my Senior English teacher called me back into her class after the bell rang. She looked me in the eye and told me quite bluntly: "Mary, you are about to NOT graduate from high school." I had begun my high school career with a high B average. Capable of more, I was never all that enthusiastic about homework, thus my semester grades would always be lowered by a few zeros in the grade books. With each year, there was more homework and more reading required and lower grades. I'm sure my teachers experienced much frustration with my performance. I eagerly joined in class discussion and almost always performed well on tests. Ask me to bring in homework, though, and you'd more than likely be left wanting.

I remember my junior year we were required to write a term paper. Each step in the process, we were to have checked off by the teacher. One Friday, I sat in class with my note cards, outline and rough draft. My teacher was going to check off all three the same day. My comparison of Dick Diver from Tender is the Night and Jay Gatsby from The Great Gatsby was due the following Monday. It was now or never. Before Mrs. G. could place those three little check marks in her grade book, a voice came over the loud speaker announcing a bomb threat. We were to evacuate the room immediately and convene on the football field. We weren't supposed to take the time to gather our things, just get out of class. NOW. IT'S A BOMB THREAT. I was hustling my little self out of there as quickly as possible when my teacher called out to me: "Mary! Grab your work!" Apparently there are some things worth risking life and limb and my term paper research was one of them! There was no bomb. The students of our school were quite safe and my term paper was turned in the following Monday.

The first semester of my senior year, I had a consumer math class. I believe these classes have been phased out, but I spent a semester learning how to balance a checkbook, file a tax return and amortize an entire 30 year mortgage. Of course, me being me, I didn't turn in my loan calculations. BORING! I was graced with an F+. F+? Is that even possible? The teacher, Mr. B., decided to give me that most unusual grade so that I could make up my work the next semester in night school. (Yes. That is how old I am. We had night school classes available for high school students. We had driver's ed, too.) All I had to do was complete the missing loan assignment and I would be done. So, for a few weeks, with much resentment in my less than rational teenage heart, I calculated the interest, added it to the principle, subtracted the payment--over and over again--30 years worth.

So now, I found myself looking at Mrs. A. and at a loss for how to respond to her declaration: "Mary! You are about to NOT graduate from high school." To be honest, I don't remember everything that happened during that conversation. I have vague memories of stomach pain, rows of zeros in the grade book and some sort of understanding of what work I would need to complete in order to pass her class. Cut to graduation day. I had managed to fulfill all my graduation requirements. The tradition at my high school was for all the graduates to walk to their seats with the teachers lined up on either side of them at the entrance to the stadium. As I passed Mrs. A., she grabbed my hand and shook it, exclaiming, "You did it!"

I credit Mrs. A. with throwing the metaphorical glass of cold water on my face which I needed to wake up to my situation. She was an excellent teacher and I realize that she always saw my potential. She encouraged me to take the AP English exam. I refused because I was angry that I was being asked to take the test when they wouldn't allow me to register for the AP class. Now, I can look back and appreciate that she thought I had a chance of passing the test even without the preparation I would have received in the class. Sadly, I think that kind of encouragement was so foreign to me; I didn't know what to do with it. I was trapped in my "Can't Do" attitude.

Today, on Women are Fantastic Friday, I'd like to give a virtual toast to Mrs. A. A teacher who cared. Thank you, from the bottom of my high school diploma holding heart!


(I hated this picture of me in the yearbook. I had too much foundation on and not enough of any other kind of make up so my face washed out completely. My hair needed to be cut and so my bangs did this flippy thing. Ugh! I did have better photos taken to pass out to my friends but was stuck with this one for the yearbook.)








Women are Fantastic Friday is hosted by Sophie at A Hole in the Fence.



I did it! Have you?