Charlie!!!

This is the best thing EVER! 

why? why why why why why???

Memo to Washington State:  It’s Spring.

back from Los Angeles!

We LOVED our trip to California over Spring Break!  We visited Chris, one of Justin’s best friends and one of my favorite people, and stayed with him at his place… a staggering two to three block walk from the beach.

Pictures are up in the online photo album — just click on the picture of the cliffs.

Day 1 — we drove up to Rancho Palos Verdes and went hiking around the cliffs on the coast, then went and ate at an Irish restaurant right on the beach.  Gorgeous.  Took lots of pictures.  Felt pale in comparison to all the great tans walking around me!  I had forgotten how beautiful California can be.  Palm trees everywhere, all these fragrant flowers on the warm breeze… lovely.

Day 2 — Easter Sunday seems like a great day to go to a theme park, right?  We drove out to Anaheim and went to Knott’s Berry Farm (we originally considered Disneyland, but it’s kind of a rip-off, and KBF is a MUCH better deal).  I hate to say this, but Easter was actually one of the best days to go — the crowds were way down.  We only waited in a couple of lines, and those were for about 10-15 minutes, which is nothing.  The last time Chris went, he vowed he would never go back again, because he did nothing but wait in lines, but we were able to nearly reverse that painful experience for him. 

Favorite rides:

Ghost Rider — This was a super cool wooden rollercoaster we rode about 5 times (and it’s a pretty long ride in comparison to the others), constantly trying to make funnier faces for the photo.

Supreme Scream — Did this one twice, and it was fully worth how much it scared the crap out of me.  Takes you straight up 254 feet in the air, then drops you straight down, hitting 50 mph in three seconds.  It feels like you’re weightless on the way down.  Amazing ride – although, as it was nearing the top and I could see for miles, I kept on saying, “No… no… no… this was not a good idea…”

Perilous Plunge — Not so favorite because the harness left bruises on my arms, but it took guts to ride it, so I’m pretty happy with myself.  This one’s pretty simple.  Takes you up in the air 115 feet, then throws you down a waterfall at 77 degrees (almost straight down), splashing down in a pool at the end, leaving you soaking wet (which is nice since the weather’s warm).

Day 3 — Chris had to work, so Justin and I nerded out at the local Starbucks for an hour and then hit the beach.  It was a little chillier than it had been the day before, and I didn’t realize I was burning (usually I can tell pretty quickly).  My attempt to “even out” the burn from our hiking on the cliffs did not go so well, and the rest of the trip became an adventure in aloe vera application.  Still, it was great just to chill out for a few hours in the sand, watching the waves and taking it easy together.  That night, we went with Chris to dinner and then to a large arcade, where we played some skee-ball.  The prizes were pretty lame, so we picked up 110 rubber thimbles and had fun placing them in various locations on our walk home.

Day 4 — Too tired and sunburned to do much else, we went to Starbucks and played Rummy 500 for about three hours.  Went back to the arcade and played more skee-ball — this time coming home with 8 visored pink and black do-rags, which we insisted on wearing around the house when Chris got home from work.  Introduced Chris and Justin to the wonder that is Bucca di Beppo’s Italian restaurant.  Ate way too much (three people at a family-style restaurant is a little small), but it was worth it — and we had leftovers, anyway.

Day 5 — Weather wasn’t so great (An extremely chilly 65 degrees — we promptly turned into huge weather wimps during our stay) so we ate at Joe’s and then hung out at home and played Carcassonne and poker til it was time to go to the airport.

On the flight home, it was a little shocking when our plane kept on having to do these holding patterns because Seattle was getting SNOW.  (Even more shocking when we finally landed — my poor sunburned skin was NOT ready for this).  We landed about an hour late, but made it home safe and sound, so grateful for the trip but glad to be back in our own bed.

Thanks for having us, Chris! 

happy weekend

First off, happy birthday to my “little” brother Kevo, turning the big 25 tomorrow.  (Here’s to lower insurance rates, kiddo!  Here’s to being a true adult!)

Justin is sitting next to me playing Oregon Trail on facebook.  Everyone’s getting cholera.  And someone just stole 60 bullets.

My dear friend Jules is in Europe right now (for three weeks!).  I decided on a closer adventure.  On Tuesday, Justin and I went and finally got our tattoos.  It was fun, albeit a little painful — though I was expecting worse.  I was thinking searing pain, and it was more like little bee stings.

I’ll be 28 in a few months, still, I was nervous to tell Mom.  I’m horrible at keeping secrets from her, though, so I called her on the way home to get it over with.  She said “I don’t like you anymore.  And I don’t like that husband of yours, either.  He’s not my favorite son-in-law anymore.”  And then she giggled.  For several minutes.  Justin: “Tell your mom that no matter how many tats she gets, she’ll always be my favorite mother-in-law.”

She called later on that evening: “Does it hurt?  I hope so.”

We’re thinking about getting her a gift certificate to a local parlor.

Here’s the design we got, based on something I made for Justin for his 26th birthday (our first birthdays celebrated together).  We still laugh at how sheepish he felt at getting this framed handmade gift.  He had bought me a Strongbad T-shirt. 

(This was right after the tattoo was finished, it will lighten up as it heals.  Also… could I have more freckles?).

Talking to our good friend Levi, he asked where we’d gotten them at.  Justin’s is on his shoulder, and mine is on my back.  “Oh…” he said, “where at on your back?”

I began laughing, realizing he was tactfully trying to suss out whether I’d gotten a tramp stamp, also known as a lower-back tattoo.  I set his fears at ease and let him know it was up on my shoulderblade, but had a good laugh at him all the same.

We have paper-writing to get to today, but we’re going to take it easy this morning, grab some coffee, head downtown to the Bagelry for some warm bagels (the kind with the huge granules of salt, like on a pretzel!  Yum!). 

Two more weeks… and then some sunshine in LA.  We’re coming, Chris!  (That is, unless you die of dysentery first).

katrina: part one

This is the intro for a draft I’m currently wrestling my way through.  I think the reason I’ve avoided any in-depth writing about this trip is that it’s simply too big to put into good words.  This is my attempt…. finally.  This will probably change a ton between now and the end of the quarter, but I thought I’d throw it on out there anyway.   

The click of my camera’s shutter won’t respond fast enough. I cautiously maneuver my way over splintered boards and scattered piles of rubble, snapping photographs as quickly as I can before I have to move on. Glancing down, a Cabbage Patch doll stares up at me wide-eyed from where he lies in the debris. Torn earth partially covers a lonely shoe, once white. Both ends of a brass doorknob lie twinkling in a patch of grass. A tire swing hangs listless from a giant tree; behind it, what was once a home has been flattened beyond all recognition.

Mundane objects have now become extraordinary.

All is quiet save an occasional rustling breeze. A faraway bird calls whoo-hoo, whoo-hoo, whoo-hoo, and to me it sounds just like a television jingle I’ve heard about a thousand times. The imposing silence resumes. I continue to work quickly, sifting through the remains of what was once a neighborhood. Aim, shoot. Aim, shoot. Then – a voice calling me back to the van. We’re moving on. I hesitate, wanting a few more moments here. There’s so much to see here, so much I haven’t captured yet. Please. Just a few more minutes.

I am here only a week. This is my first day here, and I am amazed by what I see.

***

I sat glued to the television just like everyone else during that last week of August in 2005. Entranced, I stared at the mass of color as it spun counter-clockwise, moving northward over the warm ocean. Green. Yellow. Red. The colors froze, quivered, and began again at the bottom of my screen. The swirling image repeated its pattern, making landfall over and over. While it devoured the tiny grey states on the satellite map, I listened to solemn newscasters talk about evacuation efforts and what “Category Five” means. Like everyone else, I crossed my fingers, said a prayer.

When the storm changed course and missed a direct hit on New Orleans, I naively thought all was well, but when the spinning radar gave way to footage of wind and waves surging over miles of coast, it became clear that all was far worse than anyone had imagined. Awful as it was, looking away was impossible.

A few months later, I sat in an air-conditioned board room watching first-hand camcorder footage recorded at the height of the storm. A marketing company I worked for raised funds for non-profit organizations, and one of my clients was working in the disaster relief area. The shaky cameraman tried to capture every bit of the violent destruction he could, while trying to make sure his family was as safe as possible. Due to his wild panning back and forth across the scene, I was quickly growing nauseous, but I was so drawn in, I couldn’t stop watching. No matter how bad the train wreck, it seems I have a compelling need to watch it happen, although I am not totally sure why.

Television has made voyeurs of us all, I suppose. We are quite used to watching things crumble live on the morning news.

***
Today I am part of a small group that is driving over to Melanie’s place to help clear her yard and search for some of her belongings, now that bulldozers have removed what was left of her house. Mere walking distance from the beach, her neighborhood is particularly hard-hit. As we take a right onto the street where Melanie lives, I think I see a home that somehow escaped severe damage, but then I see piles a story high of the home’s innards in the front yard. Even the homes that remain standing are empty, ruined shells only. The waves spared none.

We park the van, and Melanie is instantly out her front door to welcome us. Whatever I initially expected of a person who has lost nearly everything, Melanie is none of those things. She’s been cooped up with her husband and teenage sons in a small FEMA trailer for seven months now, yet her grin is as wide as her face. She hugs each of us instantly upon introduction, and insists that we have some sweet tea before beginning work. I take my first sip, am instantly addicted.

We work in pairs, each of us taking on a section of the yard. My attention is instantly drawn to a small upright piano lying on its back. Melanie says it washed up from a few houses down, and it lies right where the waves left it. Grass grows through each crevice and the wood is weathered gray from exposure to sun and salt. The keyboard is warped and rickety. While some keys have miraculously remained in place, others are strewn about the shelf where music must have rested once.

I imagine these keys were once played regularly, perhaps during a child’s dutiful practice time, perhaps during a recital, perhaps accompanied by a voice. The lifelong pianist in me aches at this sight. Picking up two of the loose black keys, I wipe off grains of sand and quickly put them in my pocket. One of the men has begun breaking the piano into pieces with an axe. I wince with the first two blows. Carrying each mangled piece carefully, we throw the piano bit by bit over the fence into the ditch. If the garbage trucks ever arrive, they’ll start with the ditches first.

An unwritten code exists here. Anything considered trash is thrown in the front ditch. Anything that is potentially salvageable is set apart, in case the family returns. All that’s left of the house across the street is a floor and chimney, yet in one corner there are neat little stacks, Melanie’s doing. Vases. Chipped china. A Pyrex dish. Forks and knives. A toy or two. Framed pictures. I see this pattern repeated in each neighborhood I visit.

The afternoon is a series of small victories sandwiched between long spells of fruitless searching. It is slow work, even as we are trying to move quickly. We dig gingerly, not wanting to break anything we uncover. I unearth a ceramic dog’s face, which turns out to be a cookie jar. By some miracle, we also find the lid intact – a wagging tail. I sheepishly show Melanie our find, sad I don’t have something better to report, but she is grinning, excitedly trying to explain: this was a wedding present from her grandmother, who owned one just like it when Melanie was a child.

Beneath an overturned bathtub, her mother’s silver. Over in the grass, a large photo from her honeymoon. Each time, Melanie acts as if we’ve placed the whole of her old life back into her hands.

I am humbled, and quickly becoming overwhelmed. Any help we can give isn’t even a drop in the bucket. It is more like a drop in the ocean.

my teachers

It’s really hard to believe, but we are in the last few weeks of our winter quarter.  I’ve so enjoyed it.

Gone is much of the anxiety I felt my first quarter back, when I was wondering if I could even do this.  Now I know not only that I can do this, but that I’m right where I need to be.  I love the program I’m in and am enjoying getting to know my profs, who are warm and very supportive.

There’s Lee, whose nonfiction class I look forward to every week.  Number one, she’s fluent in sarcasm, which is always a plus with me.  Two, she’s so helpful, full of ways to trick yourself into actually writing — the stuff that only comes with experience as a writer.  She lets us in on all those things.  Third, she refuses to structure us, much as students seemingly beg her to.  “How long does this need to be?” someone inevitably asks.  “Long enough to do whot it needs to,” she replies.  “Should I use this form in my essay?”  “I don’t know.  Try it.  It may work, it may not.  You just have to experiment and figure out whot works for you.”

That, and she’s just a cool person.  I would almost be intimidated by her because I always do this with women I admire, but whenever we bump into her at a reading or something, she always waves us over like she’s thrilled to see us.  Which helps a lot toward me getting over myself.

I was up visiting Michael the other day to pick up my portfolio from last quarter, and a current professor of mine walked in — they share an office.  I can’t imagine more opposite office mates. 

Michael is pretty casual and easy-going in his button-up shirts and fleece vest.  He’s begun class with Shel Silverstein poems.  He’s teaching a Gaming-as-Literature course next quarter (Justin is so bummed he can’t take it).  Dr. M. wears tailored suits every day (shoes shined perfectly, handkerchief in the pocket, hair perfect) and has a tendency to stop his lecture and stare students down if they have the gall to arrive late to his class (or worse, leave early).  He flicks the light off and back on again as he enters the room, as if to say, “Ok, I’m here, prepare yourself for a brilliant lecture.” (which it will be — the two hours fly by).  Michael teaches fairly non-traditional texts, and Dr. M. is passionate about the canon.

In fact, when my newer prof walked into the office, I said, “Oh, hi, Dr. M.”

Michael looked up with a bit of shock.  “You’re Dr. M.?”  Clearly he thought I’d been far too casual with a guy whose name is Nicholas, never Nick.

“Oh, yeah, I go by that sometimes,” he said, a slight smile on his face.

I loved it.  It was all I could do not to burst out laughing. 

Justin and I talked with them for a while, and they both took time to encourage me in their own ways.  Michael, by flipping through my notebook and saying, “You really started kicking ass there near the end of the quarter.”  Dr. M., by grabbing his list of how many A’s he’d awarded on the first exam (three), telling me that when I get an A on his exam, it means something.  I think he’d hate for me to think he’s a soft grader.  He’s got a reputation to uphold. 

These two very different professors both took time out of their day just to chat.  I don’t know why this warmth surprises me, but it always does.  Although I’ve had varying degrees of success throughout my college experience, I’m so grateful for teachers who took time to get to know me, who made themselves available to help me along the way.  Even though some of these names are from classes almost ten years ago, I still remember.

I hope to be this kind of teacher someday. 

moving vans in athens

Metaphor: to carry from one place to another.