Christmas 2007
Road trip! After years of using vacation time to write or hibernate in uncomplicated bliss, I decided to go for a drive instead. I studiously ignored the fact that gas was $2.79 per gallon (oh, the good ol' days of August) and decided that Scottsboro, Alabama - where I have kin - would be a perfect destination. Because the gittin' there needed to be at least as much fun as the arrivin', I packed the car with staples like cashews, chocolate, and cold turkey roll ups from Costco. For comic relief I threw in my sister, and just to make things interesting we decided to rely on the GPS and use the AAA triptiks only when the GPS turned us in the direction of, say, Montana. Not that we wouldn't have liked to see Big Sky country, but I didn't have enough time off scheduled to travel to Scottsboro by way of Butte.
GPS navigation is a curious thing, and I sure hope the government has a more sophisticated set up than my Toyota, though maybe they don't and it explains why we have outposts where nobody really wants us. Anyway, the first miscue happened while we were searching for our overnight accommodations in Johnson City, TN. We were on the exit ramp when I spied a sign that showed the Comfort Inn logo and an arrow pointing left with .2 miles noted as the distance to our beds and a shower. Simultaneous to this, the calmly compelling voice of the GPS (and why is it female? shouldn't there be a choice?) was directing us to turn right. My sister, uncertain that she really wanted to trust me or the GPS at this juncture, chose that exact moment to examine the map in her lap, thus missing the sign and closing off her ears to the directive.
So what's a girl to do when the fingerpost points in one direction and the voice in her head says turn in the other? What would you do? It wasn't exactly a burning bush moment, but I have to tell you, what the voice lacks in inflection, it makes up for in insistence. I turned right.
Curious now, we allowed the voice to take us where it would. Two miles later we were in a residential neighborhood, surrounded by same ol', same ol', with more cul-de-sacs than through streets. That's when the GPS notified us that "Streets for this area are not marked and step-by-step guidance is no longer available." It was real polite about it, too. Heh. Heh. That's the thing about the voice, it never changes tone, volume, or cadence, but you just know it's laughing at you.
Relying on our own finely honed sense of direction, we made it to base camp. (Our father's father walked from Lake Bajkal north of Mongolia in Siberia back to his family in Krakow at the end of WWI - it took him 7 years - but the gene to get where you're going must come from somewhere.)
The next day we toured the Biltmore Estate. I confess that this part of the trip was a bit of a busman's holiday, since visiting the Biltmore is like doing research for a book. We finished the day with a wine tasting at the estate's winery where I had the opportunity to exercise my perfectly pedestrian tastes by swirling, sniffing, swishing, and swallowing. See, here's the thing. The kind of wine they serve at these things is wasted on me. I actually prefer Mogen David. What can I say? My taste buds were spoiled by communion wine. I finished cleansing my palate with grape juice.
Rather impulsively, we decided to do the next leg of the trip by taking the Blue Ridge Parkway out of Asheville to its end at the Great Smoky Mountain National Park. The parkway has a top speed of 45 mph. I don't think I ever went that fast. For one thing, it twists and turns and tunnels while climbing and falling past breathtaking vistas - when you aren't in the clouds. For another thing, it's lacking a lot in the way of guardrails. It seemed as if each mountain had its own weather system. The GPS, though, kept us on track through hairpin turns and curves that were marked with yellow caution signs that we had never seen before. (When the sign ahead looks like Captain Hook's artificial appendage, attention must be paid.) The slim blue line on the navigation system caught Yvonne's glance one too many times, and when she observed this:
her response was, "Oh, my God, we're going to drive off the edge of
the world!" The kind thing to do would have been to bitch slap her,
but I was trying to negotiate that hairpin and needed both hands on
the wheel. Besides, it did look as if we might drop off into a vast
gray nothingness. Or it could have just been the fog.
We arrived safely in Alabama, had a splendid time visiting, and the surreal tourist-thing we did was visit the Unclaimed Baggage Center. This is a repository for all the items lost in transit by airlines and passengers and shipping companies. A sample of what's been left behind: bridal gowns (no kidding); skis; iPods; digital cameras; jewelry; watches; toys; athletic wear; neck pillows; shoes; laptops; and evening gowns. That's just off the top of my head. There's a whole separate building for books. It was bizarre, perhaps bazaar. You decide.
In other news, the flamingo wars from last summer are over. I publicly surrendered to my neighbors by dedicating my September '07 release to them. I'm still riding my bike, although I had a heart-stopping moment when it was stolen off the rack on my car while I was at work. An observant neighbor saw it was missing and called me. The police returned with the bike and the culprit about 10 minutes after the theft was reported. Without GPS. The kid was about 11 years old and full of "I'm sorry." Yeah. Yeah. Sorry that he was caught. I think I said something to him along the lines of, "!*$&#)*%#@*!" The cop just let me be a crazy woman for a couple of minutes. It felt good. Then I felt bad, but not so bad that I didn't press charges. I've been working with kids too long to let it go.
Here's hoping in 2008 that all signs point favorably, that your journey is amazing, and that when you hear a voice in your head, you make sure it's your own.
XOXOXOXO,
Joanne
Christmas 2005
"It's like riding a bike," they say. "You don't forget." What a crock, I say. I mean even riding a bike is not like that...there are some things you do forget.
Back in April I decided to make exercise a priority. I was determined to put it at the top of my to-do list, higher than writing and work and washing the dishes. Okay, so washing dishes was not exactly ever on my to-do list, but you get the idea. I made a commitment to walk on the local rails-to-trails path no matter the weather : two miles in the morning - and if I could swing it - two miles in the evening. I was out there in the rain with my umbrella, and I trudged along when morning temperatures dipped into the teens. I knew, however, that climbing temperatures might very well be my undoing. As the heat and humidity began to settle over the Ohio Valley, I had a vision of myself simply melting on the trail into a thoroughly unattractive puddle of trans-fats. I began to think wistfully, then seriously, about the advantages of being on a bicycle and enjoying the illusion of a breeze. Sure, I'd have to expend more energy, and the breeze would be akin to turning a blow dryer on high and aiming it squarely at my face, but at least the air would be moving.
The last time I was on a bike it had one gear, I back-pedaled to brake, and there was a basket on the front for my dog Toto. (I'm only lying about the dog. I put my school books in the basket and occasionally, my feet.) That bike was a gift from Santa so I know for a fact it was free. My new bike, on the other hand, has 24 gears, requires manual ambidexterity to brake, and has no basket, although I did spring for a darling little bell so people can dive to either side of the trail as I bear down on them. This bike was not free. Not even close.
There were accoutrements as well: a water bottle, a rack for the car, oil for the chain, a cable lock, a tire pump, and the aforementioned bell. Interestingly enough, the proprietor of the bike shop did not try to sell me a helmet, knee or elbow pads, goggles, or bug repellent. In retrospect, I believe this is because the last thing I signed before I left the shop was probably not my credit card receipt but a cleverly disguised life insurance policy in which said proprietor would become the beneficiary of all my worldly goods in the event of an untimely (but wholly predictable) accident.
So as not to embarrass myself too much, I took my bike to the lesser traveled end of the trail, wrestled it off the rack, and climbed on when the coast was clear. I wobbled uncertainly on the gravel path and sometimes veered into the high grass, contributing, I like to think, to the crop circle myth. I tested the braking system; I adjusted the seat. I kept a death grip on the handle bars. The thing of it is, while I didn't exactly forget how to ride a bike, the bike I was remembering how to ride still had training wheels.
Riding, though, was a different story, and not only did I become more aware of the grade, I realized too late that I'd really chosen the wrong end of the trail to start out on. I was now heading uphill to get back to my car. I felt the strain in my legs, but I told myself it was a good kind of hurt, and I remained single-minded in my desire to go the distance. I got to where my car was parked and decided I could keep going to the other end of the trail -another mile beyond my car and still slightly uphill. I pushed ahead, feeling quite like I had accomplished something right up until the moment it was time for me to turn around.
Still can't imagine what I was thinking, trying to make a tight turn on the trail itself, but I was off the path in an instant. No high grass here, just rocks and more rocks, all of them about the size of pumice stones one normally uses in the shower to remove calluses from one's heels. I immediately lost control. There was nothing for it but to get off the bike - quickly.
I slid off the seat, set my feet down, and my knees folded faster than a bad poker player.
Naturally I did what anyone does in a situation like that: I looked around for witnesses to my humiliation. I was quite alone. I count this as fortunate, not so much for myself as for the potential witnesses. I would have cheerfully beat them with my tire pump - once I was able to push the bike off me and actually stand again. Those pumice-like rocks, by the way, removed elbow, knee, and chin calluses, although bleeding was an unhappy consequence of making this discovery.
In spite of the forces of gravity, I'm still riding. I suppose I'll have to give it up when that blow dryer breeze turns into wind chill and go back to walking full time, but I've surprised myself with how much I've enjoyed being outdoors, batting away the gnats, ringing my bell, and greeting fellow travelers on the trail.
I hope you're finding something that makes you smile every day.
Christmas 2004
Happy Holidays! If one examines the global picture, it's been an eventful year. Moi? It's been a couple of digital moments. I count that as a blessing. Essentially it means the family is a healthy as it can be, work continues to challenge and delight, friends stay close, and what occupies my thinking are the important questions like why do drivers brake at the entrance to a tunnel and will we ever get a good cheesesteak hoagie outside of Philadelphia.
In pondering matters of maturity, I came to the realization that I must be a grown up because I can now lick a Tootsie Roll pop all the way down to the Tootsie center without chomping. That is some serious delayed gratification. In pondering matters of age, I came to the realization that I'm getting old(er) because I'm quite content to test the wide variety of massage chairs at the mall while waiting for friends to finish shopping. But in pondering matters regarding what keeps me young-at-heart, I know I'm just fine, thank you very much, because my favorite movie of the year was Finding Neverland.
My happy homeowner's project this year was a new roof, downspouts, gutters, and soffit and fascia. My house isn't very old, so this was one of those I'm-resenting-the-heck-out-of-doing-it projects. I've had problems off and on with leaking skylights from the day I moved in (literally). The problems seemed to increase exponentially over time. The day after the contractor finished, cleaned up, moved all the hardware out, we had a tremendous storm. The fury of the storm woke me, but I stayed in bed just thinking how good it felt not to be worried about a leaky sunporch. Still, there was so much lightning and thunder that I couldn't sleep. I went downstairs to get a jump start on some work project. I hit the bottom step and that's when I heard plop. Drip. Plop. Drip-plop. It was with some trepidation that I went to the sunporch - which is where my home office is. I didn't have a single leak. I had fifteen, including a small waterfall through my new ceiling fan. Once again, the value of owning so much Tupperware was borne home to me. At 5:30 a.m. I called the contractor and explained the problem. He assured me he would be out as soon as the department of highways moved the fallen trees out of his lane. Yeah, yeah, we all have our problems. I could have cleared his lane without the assistance of heavy equipment on the strength of my adrenaline rush alone.
The leaks were taken care of, and in defense of the contractor, it was not a roof problem, but a siding problem. However, I no longer sleep so easily when I hear rain is in the forecast.
Here's hoping that good things come your way in the new year.
Christmas 2003
So here it is, time to write my annual holiday epistle, and I'm thinking, what do I have to tell my friends that I haven't said before? This year was not so different from last year in terms of the highlights. Okay, I celebrated the diamond anniversary of my birth in 2003. That was sort of a millstone, er, milestone. Since I know many of you on my list enjoyed the same celebration, my question is: "Have you ever seen so much black crepe paper and over-the-hill paraphernalia in your life?" That's just wrong.
With so much (yawn) activity, is it any wonder I thought of just resubmitting last year's letter for your reconsideration? Then I remembered a particular moment from 2003 that I thought I'd like to share. No big thing, just my view from…
I love going to the movies. I think my enjoyment is due in part to some wonderful memories of going to the movies downtown (dahntahn in Pittsburghese) with my grandmother. DVDs are terrific, but for me it's not the same as having the theatre experience, and now, with stadium seating, I don't have to worry that the kid with spiked hair the color of an eggplant will block my view. The downside of the DVD/video revolution is that there always those members of the audience who forget they're not sitting in their family rooms and supply running commentary as if they are. All that chatter and me without an automatic weapon. It's not to be borne.
So…I'm at the movies with my sister, and we're enjoying being alternately scared and provoked into thinking by 28 Days Later, sort of an epic doomsday zombie picture. The scene currently on the screen is the quiet-as-death English countryside. The camera pans to some giant windmills lining the side of the road. Don't think Don Quixote windmills with canvas sails. Think modern, very tall and stately metal windmills - kind of like silver bullets with 3 elegantly long and slender blades rotating at the top.
As the camera moves past these ghostly, silent sentinels, my sister leans toward me and whispers, "Those are like the ones you can see on the dirt bike."
The dirt bike? What the h*ll is she talking about? So I lean toward her and conscious of the 30 or so other patrons in the theatre, I whisper back, "What?" Our heads practically touching at this point, so careful are we to observe good movie etiquette, she whispers back, "You can see them on the dirt bike." Okay. Now, my sister's cool, but as far as I know she's never ridden a dirt bike, and why these windmills would be visible on one is completely outside my comprehension. Still in need of clarification, I very quietly inquire again, "What?"
"The dirt bike," she says. At my blank look, and a little out of patience with me now, the sister improves her enunciation, biting off each word as she tells me, "Those-are-like-the-ones-you-can-see-on-the-turn-pike."
Turnpike! Oh! Mental head slap!
What happens next (and I'm dating all of us by offering this comparison) is the movie theatre equivalent of that classic Chuckles the Clown episode from the Mary Tyler Moore show, the one in which Mary chides all her friends for laughing at one time or another after the untimely passing of Chuckles. Mary does not laugh, of course, not until the most wildly inappropriate moment - at Chuckles' funeral service.
So here I am, in the silent-as-the-grave theatre, watching a movie filled with ever mounting tension and barely acceptable levels of cannibalism, and this dirt bike/turnpike misunderstanding hammers my humorous so hard it was like I was mainlining nitrous oxide.
Laughter at this level doesn't just engage me, it overcomes me. That's why I'm stuffing gobs of my sweatshirt into my mouth to try to keep the sound contained. My shoulders are shaking. My head's bobbing. I'm sinking down in my seat, trying not to call attention to myself, but oh no, the seat's also a rocker, so it's shuddering along with the rest of me. My eyes are scrunched tight and tears are still being squeezed out of the corners. And, just to keep things really interesting, when these paroxysms of laughter reach a certain epileptic-like frenzy, there is always the possibility that I'm going to wet myself. Every time I try to tell my sister about what I thought she said, I start the shaking, bobbing, shuddering all over again. She's laughing now, going through a modified version of the contortions I'm making, as desperate as me not to disturb others.
We might have managed the thing if it weren't for the fact that I need to get some air. Trouble is, I'm still trying to expel a breath. The autonomic nervous system goes into overload, and this air in/air out confusion sets up the dreaded uvula oscillation in which that hangey-downey thing at the back of my throat vibrates like a plucked string, except that instead of twang! I get damp, strangled, sucking noises.
One simply surrenders at this point. Fortunately, laughter this hard spreads faster than a computer virus. The movie goers behind me were chuckling, the seats to the left of me were rocking, and I caught a glimpse of some shaking shoulders to my right.
Here's hoping that 2004 gives you a little uvula action. Life's a funny, funny thing even when you have front row seats to the end of the world.
