Bad memory

_MG_2185bw

My sister once convinced me to eat a crabapple from this tree in my grandmother’s yard. She told me it would taste good and I believed everything my big sister said.

It did not taste good. It was remarkably terrible, actually.

That’s not the bad memory I’m referring to, though. That’s one of many stories of her pranking me throughout my youth. The crabapple, the red onion she told me was red cabbage, the hot sauce on my peanut butter sandwich. Those stories gets retold at least twice a year at family gatherings and we all laugh at how mean she was to her little sis.

No, the bad memory I am referring to is whether this is the actual crabapple tree at all. I can’t tell by looking at it and I distinctly remember it being located closer to the road. I don’t even know if this is a crabapple tree at all.

The bad memory is mine.

(Here’s the tree in color if that helps make it easier to identify.)

Boo

I wanted to write something about ghosts. Something about how when they show up in your dreams they steal rest from you all night long. Not the kinds of ghosts that wear sheets and chains or the kinds of spectral presences that populate spooky stories. I’m talking about the kind of ghosts that used to live large in your life but that you killed off, metaphorically speaking, so you could move on. About how when they use your dreams to resume their presence in your life, it sucks the wind right out of you. Who gave them the right?

I wanted to write about those ghosts but I couldn’t come up with anything to say, really.

Making a break

I once made a bindle and ran away from home up this road. Think I was around 6 or 7. Sister came to retrieve my in my dad's giant silver Ford. I did not get very far. I never do.

I once made a bindle and ran away from home up this road. I don’t remember what awful domestic injustice led to this action, or which cartoon convinced me I needed an actual bandana-tied-to-a-stick bindle to carry my things.

I think I was around 6 or 7 and the day was waning but I started the trek up the gravel road next to our old house, toward the hog barn and grain bin, completely unsure of where it would lead once it passed the cluster of farm equipment I was familiar with. I had followed my dad up there several times to watch him work, but I still had no idea where that road eventually led. I remember watching pigs be born in that little hog barn, and my dad having to help the sow deliver. I think I remember that, anyway. Turns out my memory is an unreliable narrator.

My sister came to retrieve me in Dad’s giant silver Ford pickup. I didn’t resist.

I did not get very far. I never do.

Remember when I used to doodle on dummies during news meetings?

doodle14 doodle13

doodle12 doodle11

doodle9 doodle10

doodle8 doodle7

doodle6 doodle5

doodle4 doodle3

doodle2 doodle1

My trip down memory lane via Flickr has been epic tonight.

Remember that time I shot photos at the last White Stripes show ever?

glowing2

drumsticks

strutting

hair

singalong

goodnight

We didn’t know it was the last one, of course.

Happy 10th birthday, T&G

I have been blogging for 10 years this month. I can’t figure out the exact day I really started because I began “blogging” using Geocities-hosted web pages that I slapped up on my old (dead) domain, theology-and-geometry.com. The Wayback Machine used to keep a bunch of my content from that site archived, but I’ve noticed over the years the amount that it indexes continues to dwindle, and now you can’t even really get past the splash page for any of the dates.

I would write a post — with hand-coded html formatting — on a basic page, and then for the next entry, create a new page for the previous post so it would link behind the first page, cut and paste the previous entry and put it on the new page and then put my new entry on the splash page. And so on. God, it was tedious. And then that November, Blogger happened. And that, friends, sealed the deal. Blogger made it so incredibly easy. And I could dink with how the whole thing looked a lot more easily than in Geocities. Also, Blogger would work on a Mac. Geocities’ PageBuilder thingy wouldn’t. Can you imagine?

So that is why my archives here only go back to November 2003.

I was a student then, a year away from wrapping up my college experience and thrusting myself into the workplace. Ugh. “Thrusting.” I lived with my boyfriend in a small one-bedroom apartment — with a laundry room! — that we paid $425 a month for. We had two ferrets. We had a rule that at night we would only watch things on TV that were nonviolent, nonthreatening and nonaggressive. I played video games. I wasn’t speaking to my sister and I don’t remember why. My family’s political incorrectness was really novel and annoying to me then, and made me question my DNA origins.

I worried constantly about grades and assignments and all three of my jobs. “I am tired of working 51 hours a week” is a thing I wrote, and EL OH EL because if I could drop into my 2003 self’s dreams I would laugh in her face about thinking that working 51 hours a week in college was going to be the last time I would work so hard.

It was a sweet little life. Not without its trials, of course. I sort of wish I had used my time in college to break out of my comfort zone a little more. Travel more. Sleep around, maybe? Do a lot of mind-expanding drugs? I don’t know. I say I should have done those things but I am pretty sure I would have felt completely ridiculous even trying to have some kind of typical wild college experience. I’ve been middle-aged my whole life.

So here’s to 10 years of writing it down. Gonna aim for 10 more.

31 years and 30 days

The other day I learned that a childhood friend shot and killed himself. I had lost touch with him since graduating and leaving Hardin County. Honestly, I probably didn’t have a whole lot to do with him during high school either. We ran in different circles and I had my head up my boyfriend’s ass all through high school. I always thought he was so cute, though. I remember him being so silly, too. In middle school, group of us would spend lunch in our English teacher’s classroom, playing cards and being silly.

I learned about it through Facebook. Some cryptic comments here and there got me suspicious and I kept checking Topix until someone asked and confirmed that he had shot himself. His obit says he was an NRA member.

I don’t know. The whole thing just makes me really fucking sad.