A funny thing happened this morning. After packing himself (and his laundry) into my car across the street from campus, Eric wended his way up to the room Formerly Known As Eric's (see Prince, circa 1994) and settled in. Mere steps behind him was Allison, his younger sister who had something to share.
Minutes later, I heard Allison doing one of her many voices, while one delighted brother prodded her on, telling her she'd done a good thing. Turned out, she wanted to share with him a recent text she'd received in which a friend made a vicious slur against a group that needs no more enemies. Apparently, Allison put that friend in his place, possibly leaning on some salty (albeit, texted) language to make her point.
Eric could not have been prouder of his sister. And I think she walked a wee bit taller shortly after conveying that story.
Seems that, somewhere in their recent timelines, Eric and Allison have come to enjoy each other. And I could not be happier.
Duh.
...and, if I'm to be honest, I have to give some of the credit to Allison's recently acquired cell phone with unlimited texting. Two weeks ago, our dear friend, whose name also is Allison--you can connect the dots if you want to...we certainly did--invited Little Allison to join her cell phone's family plan. Now THIS is what I call "family planning!" The two went phone shopping that night and Little Al came home with some jazzy number, working the tiny keyboard like a stenographer on crack.
Ever since then, Allison and Eric have been in regular (and, I don't doubt, occasionally annoying) contact. This, apparently, is note passing for the 21st century, and I must admit that I sort of support it.
Via texting, Eric let Allison know that he'd been accepted into a hard-to-get-into Film and New Media program at UNL. She knew before I did. Via texting, she managed to annoy her big bro through most of an evening recently (although I think they both secretly enjoyed the digital prodding).
In the Holt household, all this texting is the equivalent of that weird, secret language that toddler twins share between themselves. And I could not be happier to be left out of that loop.
There's something infinitely valuable about a device that keeps siblings in touch with each other, while also (miraculously) keeping their parents at bay.
I, for one, am content to sit on the dock of this bay.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
Pursing My Lips
I'm watching "Antiques Roadshow" right now and am listening to two women rave about an old French purse. My relationship with purses is like my relationship with teddies and the Daughters of the American Revolution.
Yeah, pretty much nonexistent.
Oh, I've owned purses. Two, to be exact. My mom bought me one in junior high and showed me how to carry it (I am not making this up), advising me to carry it around everywhere so that it could become like another appendage to me. I saw no need for another body part, though, and brought it to school exactly once, immediately stuffing it into my locker, next to my math book and some old Wacky Pack stickers.
The second purse I owned--also purchased by my ever-hopeful mother--was about the size of a videocassette. VHS, not Beta. It was a Coach bag, which probably means something to most people. Tidy and not too flashy, I actually carried it to my job at KFOR Radio for an entire year, managing not to lose it, though I have no idea where it is now. It held about four things--my chapstick, a few dollars, my license and a tampon.
Speaking of tampons, most purse-wearing people want to know how I've managed to be a fully-flowered yet non-purse-wearing woman all these years. Well, let's just say it got a bit more difficult after tube socks went out of style. Since those tall-socked glory days, I have learned dozens of ways to transport tammies from place to place. A long sleeve, the elastic of my cotton briefs, a book bag or even a lunch sack all have harbored both heavy- and lite-days companions. Though it can be problematic when I stick my lunch in the fridge. And, if you ever visit the women's bathroom in the East High lounge, know that--as I type this--there is a cottony soft selection for any day of the month. All tucked under the right-hand cushion of the couch.
Thirty eight years of being a Kotex mule. I'll admit that some things get old.
Purse wearers also have asked me how I transport other "must haves," like my license or keys. Mostly, I'm a pocket jammer, hard to do in some outfits. I also have a school bag that harbors my gum, some notebooks, a few dozen sexy pens and my keys. It is not a purse, though. Please do not call it that.
I suspect that I'll make it through the rest of my life without ever again donning a purse. That little fact will probably be the death of my ever-lovely, always-fashionable mother, who, for the past 50 years, has simply wished that I would share my sister's sense of style.
Or at least put on a little blush and brush my hair once in a while.
Yeah, pretty much nonexistent.
Oh, I've owned purses. Two, to be exact. My mom bought me one in junior high and showed me how to carry it (I am not making this up), advising me to carry it around everywhere so that it could become like another appendage to me. I saw no need for another body part, though, and brought it to school exactly once, immediately stuffing it into my locker, next to my math book and some old Wacky Pack stickers.
The second purse I owned--also purchased by my ever-hopeful mother--was about the size of a videocassette. VHS, not Beta. It was a Coach bag, which probably means something to most people. Tidy and not too flashy, I actually carried it to my job at KFOR Radio for an entire year, managing not to lose it, though I have no idea where it is now. It held about four things--my chapstick, a few dollars, my license and a tampon.
Speaking of tampons, most purse-wearing people want to know how I've managed to be a fully-flowered yet non-purse-wearing woman all these years. Well, let's just say it got a bit more difficult after tube socks went out of style. Since those tall-socked glory days, I have learned dozens of ways to transport tammies from place to place. A long sleeve, the elastic of my cotton briefs, a book bag or even a lunch sack all have harbored both heavy- and lite-days companions. Though it can be problematic when I stick my lunch in the fridge. And, if you ever visit the women's bathroom in the East High lounge, know that--as I type this--there is a cottony soft selection for any day of the month. All tucked under the right-hand cushion of the couch.
Thirty eight years of being a Kotex mule. I'll admit that some things get old.
Purse wearers also have asked me how I transport other "must haves," like my license or keys. Mostly, I'm a pocket jammer, hard to do in some outfits. I also have a school bag that harbors my gum, some notebooks, a few dozen sexy pens and my keys. It is not a purse, though. Please do not call it that.
I suspect that I'll make it through the rest of my life without ever again donning a purse. That little fact will probably be the death of my ever-lovely, always-fashionable mother, who, for the past 50 years, has simply wished that I would share my sister's sense of style.
Or at least put on a little blush and brush my hair once in a while.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Won't You Be A Neighbor?
Finn and I just returned from an hour-long walk. You'd think that, in an hour, two relatively healthy beings could cover more than four blocks. Then again, it is the loveliest of days and, all along the street, people were as prevalent as magnolia blossoms. I can nary walk by a smiling neighbor anymore than I can bypass a magnolia tree in full bloom.
There's a reason I consider the word "neighbor" to be a holy word. And it's not just because it made the stone tablet's top-ten list.
That same respect I give to the word, though, falls flat when I think about what happened to Trayvon Martin, the unarmed black Florida teen who was shot while walking in a gated community. His family's community.
What happens to us as people--as a society--when we fail to know our neighbors? I'd argue that we lose far more than the occasional shared beers on the front porch. When we choose not to know our neighbors, more often than not, we end up thinking of them in terms of human Tweets--casting a handful of stereotypical descriptors in their general direction.
Not many people shine in the afterglow of simple stereotypes. Certainly, Trayvon did not benefit from such sweeping conclusions.
I know that there is a movement afoot today, one in which people are asked to don hoodies to honor the life of Trayvon. Certainly, the intent is good--to raise awareness that there is more to a person than the clothes he wears.
But I think there's an even better way to honor him. Why not shed the hoodie and walk across the street today? Introduce yourself to that neighbor whose name has never crossed your lips before. Take a walk, say "hello," make a connection that goes far deeper than any hoodie could go.
Be a neighbor to someone.
There's a reason I consider the word "neighbor" to be a holy word. And it's not just because it made the stone tablet's top-ten list.
That same respect I give to the word, though, falls flat when I think about what happened to Trayvon Martin, the unarmed black Florida teen who was shot while walking in a gated community. His family's community.
What happens to us as people--as a society--when we fail to know our neighbors? I'd argue that we lose far more than the occasional shared beers on the front porch. When we choose not to know our neighbors, more often than not, we end up thinking of them in terms of human Tweets--casting a handful of stereotypical descriptors in their general direction.
Not many people shine in the afterglow of simple stereotypes. Certainly, Trayvon did not benefit from such sweeping conclusions.
I know that there is a movement afoot today, one in which people are asked to don hoodies to honor the life of Trayvon. Certainly, the intent is good--to raise awareness that there is more to a person than the clothes he wears.
But I think there's an even better way to honor him. Why not shed the hoodie and walk across the street today? Introduce yourself to that neighbor whose name has never crossed your lips before. Take a walk, say "hello," make a connection that goes far deeper than any hoodie could go.
Be a neighbor to someone.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
In Praise of Doing Nothing
Some people are great musicians. Consider my friend Suzy. She can make a single cello note sound like heaven. Or maybe it's the other way around--and she makes heaven sound like a single note from the cello. Anyway, she's really, really good.
Other people reign supreme in the kitchen, so skilled that they make chopping vegetables look downright sexy.
Me? I excel at doing nothing. Thus, my three-nap day, broken up with three walks, a few sips of a white-mocha something-er-other at Starbucks with friends, four and a half pages of "Cutting for Stone" and a mostly-completed crossword--rather pathetic, considering it's Tuesday.
Yeah, that's right. I had me a Capital-D Day! And I think you ought to have one, too. That's why I'm going to share some secrets with you:
1. It's possible to swim in a pool without doing laps. Actually, it's possible to be in a pool without even swimming. My point? We don't have to prove something every time we do something. Sometimes, showing up and soaking in it is plenty.
2. A really good calendar doesn't require a thing from us, except to enjoy the awesome, slo-mo reveal of next week's featured photo. Yeah, I still write down birthdays and when I think I might be having my period, but, otherwise, my calendars are tabla rosa to me.
3. Spring Creek Prairie is 20 minutes and 200 years away. It is always windy, always beautiful, always "out there." Today, its ponds were chock full of swollen tadpoles, their shores dotted with turtles and a muskrat or two. Oh, and there's no admission fee on Tuesdays.
4. When you go to a public library, you can get AS MANY BOOKS AND MATERIALS as you can cram in your car and NO ONE calls the cops! It's, like, unbelievable!
5. "No" is a beautiful, freeing word. Said enough, it even can add back the shine to our "yeses."
6. There is an amazing, free show just outside your window. It's called "nature." Or "neighbors." Or, in some regions of the world, "life." I recommend catching the next show, which starts in, oh, right now.
Other people reign supreme in the kitchen, so skilled that they make chopping vegetables look downright sexy.
Me? I excel at doing nothing. Thus, my three-nap day, broken up with three walks, a few sips of a white-mocha something-er-other at Starbucks with friends, four and a half pages of "Cutting for Stone" and a mostly-completed crossword--rather pathetic, considering it's Tuesday.
Yeah, that's right. I had me a Capital-D Day! And I think you ought to have one, too. That's why I'm going to share some secrets with you:
1. It's possible to swim in a pool without doing laps. Actually, it's possible to be in a pool without even swimming. My point? We don't have to prove something every time we do something. Sometimes, showing up and soaking in it is plenty.
2. A really good calendar doesn't require a thing from us, except to enjoy the awesome, slo-mo reveal of next week's featured photo. Yeah, I still write down birthdays and when I think I might be having my period, but, otherwise, my calendars are tabla rosa to me.
3. Spring Creek Prairie is 20 minutes and 200 years away. It is always windy, always beautiful, always "out there." Today, its ponds were chock full of swollen tadpoles, their shores dotted with turtles and a muskrat or two. Oh, and there's no admission fee on Tuesdays.
4. When you go to a public library, you can get AS MANY BOOKS AND MATERIALS as you can cram in your car and NO ONE calls the cops! It's, like, unbelievable!
5. "No" is a beautiful, freeing word. Said enough, it even can add back the shine to our "yeses."
6. There is an amazing, free show just outside your window. It's called "nature." Or "neighbors." Or, in some regions of the world, "life." I recommend catching the next show, which starts in, oh, right now.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Up Close and Very Personal
"Sloppy raggedy-assed old life. I love it. I never want to die." - Dennis Trudell
My friend Mike died two weeks ago. Ninety seconds later, his tennis partner pounded the life right back into him, and, suddenly, life wins, 40-love.
I tried to play it cool when I visited him in the hospital, but underneath it all, I was a bit of a wreck. I kept thinking about that intimate moment of life-versus-death, that experience those two friends shared on the tennis court, . . . and I have no idea how either one can go on, unchanged.
I know I feel different.
I spent the last few moments of my dogs' lives with them, one dying at the loving hands of a vet, the other choosing his own exit. Despite how hard it was to stay there, to look them in the eyes and hold them, I would not trade those moments for anything. Crush my heart a thousand times, if that's the cost of living a well-loved life.
Walking around Holmes Lake this morning, Finn happily tugging on his leash so as not to miss a thing, I thought about those moments when life is intimate beyond measure, when our awareness is piqued by every small thing, both perceived and unseen. It is good to feel life, to let it move through and change us. And it is easy to do on the dam of a Midwestern lake with the brisk spring winds swirling around you.
Spring in the Midwest is a time to feel grateful. Everywhere, new life is bubbling up, pushing its way through the clotted, hard soil. When one thing dies, life always is at the ready, patching things up to make room for something new.
Life fills the holes, which is a good thing, even if we miss what was there once before.
More often than not, life wins, 40-love.
My friend Mike died two weeks ago. Ninety seconds later, his tennis partner pounded the life right back into him, and, suddenly, life wins, 40-love.
I tried to play it cool when I visited him in the hospital, but underneath it all, I was a bit of a wreck. I kept thinking about that intimate moment of life-versus-death, that experience those two friends shared on the tennis court, . . . and I have no idea how either one can go on, unchanged.
I know I feel different.
I spent the last few moments of my dogs' lives with them, one dying at the loving hands of a vet, the other choosing his own exit. Despite how hard it was to stay there, to look them in the eyes and hold them, I would not trade those moments for anything. Crush my heart a thousand times, if that's the cost of living a well-loved life.
Walking around Holmes Lake this morning, Finn happily tugging on his leash so as not to miss a thing, I thought about those moments when life is intimate beyond measure, when our awareness is piqued by every small thing, both perceived and unseen. It is good to feel life, to let it move through and change us. And it is easy to do on the dam of a Midwestern lake with the brisk spring winds swirling around you.
Spring in the Midwest is a time to feel grateful. Everywhere, new life is bubbling up, pushing its way through the clotted, hard soil. When one thing dies, life always is at the ready, patching things up to make room for something new.
Life fills the holes, which is a good thing, even if we miss what was there once before.
More often than not, life wins, 40-love.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
A Rush-an Revolt
Like many Nebraska teenagers, Mark and I both detassled corn to line our young pockets. While my two years on the crew were marked with laughter, pranks and generally fond memories, Mark's detassling stories are rough and ugly. He describes his crew in chain-gang terms, rabid and always teetering on disaster. My favorite of Mark's detassling stories is a rough one as well, but one with a corn-silk silvery lining.
A bully dominated his bus, a mean weasle who wreaked havoc the way a boy's gym locker just generally reeks--with great and sordid consistency. Each day, this bully would hassle one kid in particular, the proverbial 99-pound weakling. Each day, the weakling took it, while the rest of the guys cowered quietly in their pleather seats.
. . . until the last day, when the weakling simply had had enough.
That day, as both bully and bullied left the bus for one last time, the little guy turned to the weasle, grabbed his arm and promptly snapped it in half, as a choir of boisterous cheers broke loose aboard the bus.
Surely, 61-year-old Rush Limbaugh would've had his arm broken by now. Surely, by now, someone would have delivered the message to him that it was time to behave like a grownup.
By now, one would think, the American public would have grown tired of a man who sits alone in a sound booth, day after day after day, hiding behind a microphone, beholden to no one except his sponsoring corporations, saying anything he darn well pleases, as though looking out at the world from an insulated room somehow gives him insight and courage.
As much as I'd like to snap his arm, I have another, even greater hope for Rush Limbaugh. I hope that his mother is no longer around to hear her son's poisonous tongue. I hope he has no children, no young people who must--time and again--explain their father's red-faced rants. And I have hopes for his wives, his co-workers and his friends (does a talk-show host who never has guests have co-workers? Or friends?). I hope they all have tinitus, and are no longer able to discern the blubbering notes of his lumbering voice.
We can do better than Rush Limbaugh. And I'd say today is as good a time as any to begin that journey.
So, let's turn the dial together and find a new station to listen to.
A bully dominated his bus, a mean weasle who wreaked havoc the way a boy's gym locker just generally reeks--with great and sordid consistency. Each day, this bully would hassle one kid in particular, the proverbial 99-pound weakling. Each day, the weakling took it, while the rest of the guys cowered quietly in their pleather seats.
. . . until the last day, when the weakling simply had had enough.
That day, as both bully and bullied left the bus for one last time, the little guy turned to the weasle, grabbed his arm and promptly snapped it in half, as a choir of boisterous cheers broke loose aboard the bus.
Surely, 61-year-old Rush Limbaugh would've had his arm broken by now. Surely, by now, someone would have delivered the message to him that it was time to behave like a grownup.
By now, one would think, the American public would have grown tired of a man who sits alone in a sound booth, day after day after day, hiding behind a microphone, beholden to no one except his sponsoring corporations, saying anything he darn well pleases, as though looking out at the world from an insulated room somehow gives him insight and courage.
As much as I'd like to snap his arm, I have another, even greater hope for Rush Limbaugh. I hope that his mother is no longer around to hear her son's poisonous tongue. I hope he has no children, no young people who must--time and again--explain their father's red-faced rants. And I have hopes for his wives, his co-workers and his friends (does a talk-show host who never has guests have co-workers? Or friends?). I hope they all have tinitus, and are no longer able to discern the blubbering notes of his lumbering voice.
We can do better than Rush Limbaugh. And I'd say today is as good a time as any to begin that journey.
So, let's turn the dial together and find a new station to listen to.
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