Carving Memories

After I attended the Becoming an Outdoors Woman conference in Halsey National Forest two years ago, I bought myself some nifty tools for navigating my new outdoorsy world.  Granted, I still live mostly indoors, but I like knowing that--if needed--I could now make my own waterproof matches, properly bandage a simple wound or locate a cleverly-hidden token on a geocaching adventure.

When I was making all those post-conference purchases, I also thought long and hard about buying a decent Gerber utility knife--something I had never even heard of before sleeping in a 28-bed bunker with a surprising array of outdoor-hungry, occasionally pungent Nebraska women.  But I never did buy one.

And now, this morning, I wish I had bought that knife, because I really feel like I should be notching the trunk of an old  tree with a list of all the firsts and lasts that have filled me these past few months.  I imagine that, in ten years, my fingers would appreciate running through a knotted, pulpy river of personal recollections, helping me to remember this particular chapter in my life.  And that Gerber knife would've helped them do just that.

Instead, today I am left to imagine myself gripping that "lightweight anodized aluminum handle" and working my way up the trunk of said tree, leaving behind proof that I was here and there were some stories that mattered very much to me. Four of those notches, in particular, would garner my fingers' attention:

•First, they would find a deep, long gash, made in a surprisingly singular motion, marking the 28-year-arc of my mostly happy life as a journalism teacher.  Tucked inside that narrow, carved gorge would be a hundred memorable stories told in adolescent scrawl, each one jarring loose a young voice that needed to be heard.

•Just above it would be a fresher, clumsier scar exposing still-green wood.  Within it is the story of my newest chapter, as school librarian, one that is still writing itself.  This, too, I imagine, would feel good to my fingers--a hopeful, story-filled lineation not yet complete in its journey.

•The next notches--the oldest--are neither graceful nor smooth, each disrupted by knotted burls that force my knife to find a new path.  These are the arcs of my life as mother and daughter, each precious and complicated and beautiful in its own mysterious, jarring ways.  Less sure than the others, these clumsy paths tell my fingers that they have found my main storyline, the one that writes all the others.  And so, my hand rests here, on this imperfect place, and soaks in all that it means to have been Jane Holt, way back in 2015, when my knife was so busy documenting these momentous days.

You can understand, then, why I have visited the great digital Amazon this morning, my eyes rolling over all those Gerber knives, my head in a hundred different places.

Of Lily-Livered Chickens Trying to Do the Right Thing

It's true. Yesterday, I knowingly put some frozen chicken breasts on the kitchen counter and then walked away for, like, six hours, until a small pool of pink liquid had gathered under those now-flaccid cuts.  And then, instead of throwing them out, I grilled the chicken up and served it to my family, complete with a nice splash of lemon juice and olive oil atop it!

(Spoiler Alert!) NO ONE DIED!  In fact, one family member even complimented me on the dish!

Have I really grown so concerned about my children's impending personal bankruptcy as they ponder buying cars and renting bad-landlord apartments that I've actually decided it's better to just poison them with air-born bacteria  than face the inevitable difficulty of witnessing their penny-pinching, Ramen-riddled near futures?!


One word--no.

And, while I have no intention of making room-temperature chicken  a regular menu item, I do think there's something to be said for making our peace with this messy, hard-to-lasso life, which is a difficult enough task without fretting all that raw poultry.

Right now, for instance, my siblings and I can wish all we want that our parents were excited about the idea of giving up their independence but, as the saying goes, wishing doesn't make it so.  And that means that this next chapter of our lives--even without considering the trajectories of our own children's lives--will probably be messy and frustrating and, I hope, laced with more compassion and patience than I can muster up at this particular moment.

Best, then, to accept what Dennis Trudell called "this sloppy, raggedy-assed old life" and find the sweet spots, the quiet and lovely moments in which we are most alive, and savor them.

[Disclaimer to my Home-Ec teacher:  Ms. Keep, I want you to know that I almost always follow safe food-prep procedures and try really hard to plate up colorful, well-balanced meals for my family)

Signs, Signs, Everywhere a Sign

I'm not much for yard signs, although there are two signs in my front yard as I type this--assuming no students came along in the middle of the night and replaced them with flamingos or plastic forks.  One of my signs, in particular, makes me smile, because it represents my friend Annie's courage, as well as my hope for a sparkly future.

I suppose it's possible that someone driving well beyond the speed limit down Woods Avenue might mistake my signs for birth announcements, considering that first names are prominently displayed on them--ANNIE and MEG--and given that "It's a Boy" and "It's a Girl" now seem kind of passe.

Anyway, I am not quick to say "OK" when a candidate asks if my lawn would like to be aerated with promotional materials.

More than anything, it's my sense of neighborliness that dictates my hesitation.  I am very much in favor of being a good neighbor, regardless of affiliations.  And it would kill me if a neighbor didn't come over to borrow an egg just because of a stupid sign I have in my yard.

Even though it kills some Republicans to refer to our country as a Democracy (just as some knuckleheaded Democrats choke on the word "republic"), democracy--at least in its old-timey form--once was a strong advocate for just such equal access and interchange.   But these days, when the go-to modus operandi is bulging veins and spittle, a yard sign can feel a bit like an aggressive line in the sand.

"Beware!  Cross with caution, all ye who listen to Rush (both the radio guy AND the annoying 80s band)!" 

And here's where I'm going straight to the crapper, because the signs that affect me most these days aren't even political, unless Jesus is running for an office and I didn't realize it. 

Maybe I'm just one of those sniveling spiritual weaklings who is too embarrassed to wave any sort of "I like God!' flags for fear that someone might expect more of me, but sometimes I struggle when I happen upon the "Jesus, I Trust in You" yard signs that I keep seeing around town.  . . . and not only because of their unfortunate color combination and cartoony depiction of an otherwise awesome being. 

For me, they can feel like a gate-less fence--a barrier rather than an invitation to come over and share a beer and chat about things.  Sometimes, I swear I can even see a wagging finger of spiritual superiority and hear a voice that hisses to me "Better luck next time, sucker!"

Yeah, I know.  This is all probably just a sign that I need to live a better life, or at least get on some decent meds. And, frankly, I'm secretly hoping that it really is just me, because the alternative is much harder for me to bear.

An Easter Story for 2015

April 4, 2015

On that early morning, God thrust his heavenly hand into the inky skies, indigo wisps of dawn curling off the tips of his mighty fingers.  He did not stop until his palm had rested upon the cool edges of the earth's shadowy boulder.

A handful of disciples had gathered atop the lake's dam, their eyes drawn to the ruddy full moon sitting low in the southwest skies.  Slowly-silently--God rolled that boulder across the moon, infinitesimally erasing it from the skies.

And when the moon had become but a curved sliver of light in the horizon, God pushed once more, until the earth's boulder had snuffed all of its fire, leaving the disciples gasping in its absence.  By then, choirs of red-winged blackbirds and their sparrowed brethren had broken into song, unable to keep the story to themselves.

Against the whining backdrop of far-off sirens, the disciples stood up, brushing the gravel and grass from their stiff limbs, and wended their way back to their cars, the first pink promise of the sun drawing their attention now eastward.