hesitant to name what we're becoming
we woke up early to a bright saturday morning that felt very autumnal. went to jim & patty's for coffee (someone stole my latte) and then dropped old clothes off at goodwill - no point offering them to friends, they're beyond the point of desire and style. montana is in the kitchen, looking at me with "why don't you love me" eyes. peter is outside, working on the house. matt & macy are coming over for halibut tonight. ruthie's mix is playing on her laptop. i don't know how else to explain this, and even reading this, i can't understand why, but things seem perfect right now.
under that weather
two things regarding being under the weather:
1) our neighbor is a meteorologist. and though i know this and am certain that there is much more to his personality than his profession, i draw a frantic blank whenever we try to talk. absolutely all i can think about is clouds and rain and sun and such. thus, that's all i talk about. i'm sure he absolutely hates being greeted by "so, how's the weather lookin'?" and he has to absorb it with a hesitant laugh. and i'm only adding to this.
2) i'm feeling sick. and am sitting here on the computer surrounded by approximately half a dozen used tissues. someone tell my sinuses to be more sustainable, would you?
water certainly does the job
katie and i found ourselves at the driftwood room tonight. it's the bar in keith's hotel - the hotel deluxe (much too hip for me, i only feel comfortable there because keith greets us at the door. if only i had stayed with that independent film gig from high school, i may actually appreciate how each floor is designed after a specific director). if the doug fir lounge decided to get dressed up for a night on the town, it would be the driftwood room. katie and i made ourselves at home in our long sleeved t-shirts amongst portland's up and coming and had a conversation so honest that we found ourselves drinking our water as if it were whiskey. it certainly would do the job right, wouldn't it?
the week waits for us. Lord, let us be more patient this time around, teach us to trust. sunday nights have notoriously been difficult for this reason.
my grandfather died twenty-two years ago today. my mom was giving me a bath when we got the phone call. she left me in the lukewarm water and i stared at the closed bathroom door, waiting for her to come back. we had a full length mirror on the back of the door, and i can still remember staring at myself, waiting for the door to open, for mom to come back. i had no idea that in that moment, the baratta heritage was shifting one generation. pop pop is gone.
the newly acquired ipod brings a whole new dimension to life. i recently downloaded a song from ruthie's collection - it's from motorcycle diaries. listening to it reminds me of guevara's compassion for the people of northern south america. and this brings to light my own startling lack of compassion. i feel like i actually cared for people in college. but now, it's all about me: my life, my job, my husband, my house, my dog, my friends. God, give me compassion for others, not looking through them, but seeing them truly.
the proverbial ticket home
the other day i thought about the church i grew up in. any of my authentic appalachian memories stem from there. the men stand around quietly with their hands in the pockets of polyester pants pulled up too high. they'd shake hands with the pastor and in so doing, would slip him a $10 bill. they'd yell at the kids to get out of the cow pasture, pull out their pastel suits for easter sunday, call each other "brother", and stand stoically during the invitation. they said my dad was a yankee. after living there for twenty-five years, still a yank. sometimes i wonder about this. did he ever miss the bristling hubbub of new york city, certain songs bringing him back, longing to ride the subway to wherever it would take him on a sunday afternoon? or did he find the southwest virginians entertaining: those who had been to new york city once ("I guess i was right plum there in the middle 'cause they was a sign sayin' uptown and another says downtown"), those who saw no need to leave the county, those who had gone to Roanoke for their honeymoon? did he see it as a cultural immersion: saying "y'all" to fit in, answering "roanoke" when asked where he was from ("Oh naw, you ain't from roanoke - you from somewhere up north, i know that"), pulling out his banjo and violin-turned-fiddle when appropriate? did he find it amusing when his four-year old daughter came home from preschool saying, "what in tarnation?".
we just bought our tickets home for christmas. five days in virginia with the sweet grass that will no doubt be brown, the dogwoods flowers gone, the poplar tree bare. winter, always winter.
how indicative is this. i sit down to write and have nothing to say. i feel sort of like i've been gone and am now back in the midst of society and I'm trying to piece my way through. and i guess that's it.
