theology&geometry

While digging through old photos today to scan into the new scanner I recently introduced to my other electronics (they are getting along swimmingly for now), I found a photo of the boys in my fifth-grade class, their names labeled on the back. And I remembered I went to school with an Elvis. Try and figure out which kid is named after the King:

Click the picture to be taken to Flickr to see the answer.

Last weekend I traveled to my hometown to reunite with two of my very oldest friends, Tamara and Crystal. We were thick as thieves in high school (with bouts of adolescent spattiness throughout our friendships, of course), and then went our separate ways after graduation. Tamara and I — with the exception of some months of no communication because we are sometimes stubborn, foolish girls — have mostly kept in constant contact, but I lost touch with Crystal. The three of us got together in Alabama back in … 2003? My memory is bad. But that was the last time we all hung out. Until last weekend.

I’d like to be able to say it was just like old times, and I guess in some ways it was, but it was incredible how much we all had changed. And not just the way we’d changed, but the ways in which the very worlds around us had changed and changed us. Our families have expanded and contracted, often simultaneously. We’ve had to confront the mortality and vulnerability of our parents and our own bodies. We are no longer invincible, and we know it.

It is always so interesting getting with your oldest friends and telling old stories. They remember what I’ve forgotten and I remember what they don’t. Except some things they remember seem so improbable to me (Crystal said she remembered being at my house the night Princess Diana was killed, and how we’d spent time at my grandmother’s house, trying to sneak cigarettes; I would have DIED of stress overload trying to smoke around my house or my grandmother’s house), and really prove that memories are just stories we console ourselves with. What I think I know about myself — or anyone else — is not necessarily what’s true. (Yes, please do insert “what is truth?” tangent here.)

Crystal brought along another of our classmates, Tim, who showed us pictures and video on his phone of his two kids. These are not tiny baby children; he is a proud pop of a little girl who is old enough to know all the dance moves to some popular song I’ve never heard but who is still too naive to realize her dad is making a video of her on his phone that will embarrass her for the rest of her life, if he thinks to put it on a disc. It is not quite right to think of anyone I went to school with as being in charge of anyone else’s tiny life, but as I coast into my thirties (and Facebookstalk everyone from HCHS who friends me), I’m willing to bet that my and Tamara’s and Crystal’s childfree status puts us firmly in the minority. I’m taking bets on which one of us will end up knocked up first.

“Are y’all going to the reunion?” Crystal asked us. Without hesitation, a chorus of “uh, no” erupted from all mouths in the room. Although, I’ll admit, I’m conflicted. There are some people I really would like to catch up with. I do still get a little sick to my stomach when I think about high school, but I wonder if I’ve not grown up enough to be over most of that by now. It wasn’t all that bad, was it? I imagine the sickness I feel is actually shame over how I acted in high school. I was a wet blanket — a stone-faced high-horsin’ bitch a lot of the time, partially as a function of what was back then clearly some serious social anxiety. I’m terrified that I will never be forgiven for that, the way that I still have not quite forgiven some people for being who they were in high school too.

Whew. High school. What a country.

I want to get up to Buffalo to visit Tamara this winter. Yes, that’s insane, I know. But that’s when I’ll have time off and, well, winter is just around the corner, don’t you know, and if I am going to truly experience her chosen home for its charms, I think in the middle of a backbreaking snow storm would be the perfect way to do it. I hope the manfriend isn’t sick of me by then, so we can both go and he can go see his beloved Bills lose in person. Heh.

My grandmother broke her shoulder during a fall a few weeks ago, and now she’s living in Decatur County with my aunt and uncle until she regains control of her arm and can once again perform all those awesome arm functions that differentiate human adults from human babies. Ass wiping, mostly.

(Grandmaw, if you ever read this, I hope you will laugh at that joke and not be scandalized. I love you and the internet does too.)

Monday afternoon as I was lounging around my parents’ house, pretending to be a teenager with mono, I got a call from my aunt. See, my grandmother writes the community news column for the local weekly paper, and as she is presently both unable to type and separated from her computer, submitting her column has been a bit of a chore. My aunt, not wanting to drive thirty minutes to my grandmother’s house, wanted to know if I’d be able to take dictation and e-mail the column to The Courier. But first I had to go retrieve some things (a calendar, a note left on the door) from Grandmaw’s house.

It is not often that I get to go rooting around in my grandmother’s house all alone. And that’s probably for the best. My grandmother’s house holds a place in my memory rivaled only by my parents’ current house. It is the place where much of my life’s mythology took root, a place of memory and substance and family lore. My parents built their house on land adjacent to my grandparents’ property; something akin to a football field’s length separates the two houses and over the years we wore a path in the grass between the two that has, heartbreakingly, recently grown up.

I remember spending the most sacred summer afternoons of my life on my grandparents’ back porch, jockeying for a position on the swing but settling for the not-yet-dry-rotted plastic chairs as the adults had their adult conversations and the kids mashed lumps of Play-Doh onto the dusty table made of a giant tin panel laid on top of a black iron kettle. Large scalloped ash trays were always within arms’ reach of the adults, and held the dark, smoldering butts of More brand cigarettes until my grandmother quit cold turkey.

The dogs — there have always been dogs, so many dogs — drank out of large plastic half barrels left at the edge of the porch to catch the rain water. My grandmother would sit and absentmindedly pick ticks off the ones who would let her. In my memory my grandfather didn’t spend a lot of time outside. I really only remember him during his days caught in a tangle of severe emphysema, where he was tethered to a breathing machine at all times and lived on the couch in the den, wheezing his way in and out of every day and working up the energy to get to the bathroom and back.

When the adults weren’t watching, we kids would invent entire worlds in that lush back yard. A retaining wall surrounding the house created a neat little creek that would babble with the slightest bit of rain, and there was even a little path and bridge leading to the side of the house that wrapped around to the porch. The whole place was blanketed in my grandmother’s flowers — many of them tiger lilies that would produce those little black beads we used to love to steal and hoard — and it was easy to imagine each tree as its own house. My brother, my cousin, and I would play neighbors out there. In the fall we’d pull up these reedy things that we’d pretend were firewood, and we’d go from “door” to “door,” bartering and sharing, depending on our moods. When the acorns were on the ground we’d gather them and pretend they were the groceries we’d foraged so hard to collect.

That back porch hasn’t enjoyed the company of a family gathering for more than a decade now. It’s junked up and cluttered and caked with dirt dobbers’ nests and dog hair and bird shit and a thick layer of neglect, and I stood there Monday and looked at it and just felt sick. Growing up is just this seemingly endless reel of the things you loved crumbling, sometimes slowly, and that is the part of adulthood that I am not handling very well.

My yard — hell, my entire neighborhood — smells like honeysuckle right now. The entirety of the western fence in my back yard is draped with the stuff. I snuck two licks of nectar the other day and thought about all those times as a kid I’d been out in a pasture somewhere and felt like I’d found some exotic delicacy when I came upon a clump of sweet honeysuckle blooms.

Lately I’ve been listening to a lot of Built to Spill. I’ve loved that band for years but for some reason recently their sound fits neatly into my life in ways it did when I first really got into them. I used to steal all kinds of their lyrics for blog post titles back in 2003 or so. There is something about their music and Doug Martsch’s voice that will always remind me of my years in Murfreesboro, when I’m fairly sure I thought I had everything figured out. In retrospect, I was an itty bitty baby.

I had a moment with a robin today. Might be the same one who always pops up when I’m outside in the yard. Saraclark says he’s waiting for me to move branches and leaves and uncover worms for him to eat. So I guess I’m being used. But it’s still pretty interesting to be minding your own business and then turn around to see a bird two feet from you, watching your every move. I stopped and stared hard when I noticed him standing there beside me.

He blinked first.

That made me think of “Why I Like the Robins” by Hum. And when I came inside and started listening to it, I couldn’t stop the flow of Hum. Because sometimes Hum is really just right. Okay, Hum is usually always really right, more right than most of their contemporaries, if they can be said to have contemporaries at all. Hum takes me back to a time in my life when what few fears I had were completely superficial. I remember sunshine on my legs and car rides to Corinth. White sunglasses and ring pops. Smiles in photo booths.

While trying to dig for a version of “Iron Clad Lou” without the voiceover at the beginning, I found out they’re reuniting for a free show in Chicago’s Millenium Park on May 31. Cue the plotting and scheming ways to get up there for that.

From ye olde Formspring: I’ve never introduced myself to you, in person at least. I think you are intelligent, attractive, a wonderfully acerbic wit, creative, enviable, enigmatic, intriguing, and constantly searching. What’s an ideal fella to you?

Hot dang! I like fellas who heap on the sweet words. That’s pretty much ideal. :) (<---- when I put an emoticon in an actual post, I mean it.)

This question immediately made me think of this long, drawn-out dreamboy description I wrote in my diary many, many years ago. And, because I'm stalling on how to describe my current ideal fella AND I enjoy every opportunity to laugh at sweet little virginal teenage me and her sweet little virginal teenage worldview, I’d like to transcribe what I considered the perfect dude on June 16, 1997:

Tall, about 5’11″ to 6’1″. Lean, but not skinny. Medium brown hair, amazing blue-green eyes, 5 o’clock shadow of light brown hairs.

His hair is a grown out bowl cut that wisps in and out of his face like Chris Hardwick’s. His jawline is perfectly chiseled and his voice is deep. It’s smooth and almost buttery. His laugh is infectious and boyishly cute. His smile is bright and radiant and reveals almost perfect teeth. His body is muscular, with only slightly defined pecs and a hint of a six-pack. A loose t-shirt hangs over his too-big-for-me-but-I’m-comfortable jeans that are cleverly buttoned just below the elastic wasteband [sic, yes I just sic'ed myself] of his plaid boxers. His feet are hidden beneath folds of denim, and are clad in scuffed looking Airwalks or Vans, probably close to a year old and borrowed from a friend. Inside this incredible-looking creature is a childish curiosity about the world in which he lives. He’s smart, but not in a conventional way. His grades are good (but not good enough for his parents) but he lacks scholastic enthusiasm. Often during class, he is caught drawing cartoons or sketching the teacher as the devil. (later edit: Or writing poetry.) He is a favorite among peers, but not because he’s popular or greatly desired. His popularity comes with his constant wish to be an individual and his incredible sense of humor. He is humble, never uttering a conceited word, and he is the most considerate being on earth. He treats his mother as if she were a porcelain doll, his father as a comrade.

This guy’s heart is open to all walks of life. He judges but not purposely or vindictively. His concience [sic!!!] forces him to always admit when he’s wrong; saying he’s sorry is never a problem.

When he loves, he loves with every fiber of his being. His is romantic, not afraid to share his feelings, or say what he means.

His dreams are vivid and shiny; mostly about fame, but he realizes the reality that covers them. He doesn’t shun the idea of marrying and having a family; it’s his #1 dream.

He’s multi-talented and loves all forms of art. Music is his companion, art is his friend, and his friends are the world to him.

But when he is in the mood for private-time [sic], he retreats to his room and daydreams of his love, and their future together.

He would never neglect her; she means the world to him. He would sacrifice all just to see her happy.

He’s mature and caring, not entirely afraid to cry, but very masculine when he needs to be.

In other words, internet, I totes thought I was going to meet and marry a skateboarding-themed JC Penney ad some day. Jeez O. Peete.

I wrote that description of my ideal man as I was being slowly and excruciatingly pocket vetoed by my first boyfriend, who had just graduated high school and suddenly, without warning, had stopped talking to me in anticipation of all the sweet college ass he was about to get once he arrived in Knoxville. It took him a full three weeks of no contact with me before he caught me in the chip aisle of the grocery store where he worked and dumped me on the spot. I didn’t protest; I just sort of nodded my head expectantly, trying to be super understanding because why WOULD a college freshman want to stick with a high school sophomore, especially me, especially in Hardin fucking County, population LAME? We shook hands — really — and I snatched a bag of Doritos and got the fuck out of there. I buried that confusion and resentment deep, though. Real deep. You can’t tell at all, I know!

So. In the intervening years, my expectations for what the male sex should offer me have, uh, simplified somewhat. I no longer daydream about crumpled denim cascading around skateboard shoes or (wince) wispy, grown-out bowl cuts, but I do love a man who can make me laugh. That’s absolutely No. 1. And before, when I said he had to be smart but not conventionally smart? Yeah, no. I now fully admit that I like ‘em nerdy. Nerdy and booksmart, in my self-indulgent little bubble, also implies a certain set of sociopoliticalpsychoreligious beliefs I needn’t really get into here. I don’t mind some ambition. A good work ethic (and, obviously, a job — maybe even a career — and plenty of independence). He’s got to be easy on the eyes, but my definition of that is ever-changing, so I won’t spend any time defining it now. Creativity. BUT NO MORE MUSICIANS. No offense, musicians. You’re all just too, uh, complex for me. That said, we have got to be able to share music. Swap mixed CDs and get wistful about hooks and lyrics and interesting chord progressions and finding songs that speak to the now in the way that so much good music does. He should be kind, at his core. He needs to be silly. And to know that my favorite game will be trying to embarrass him in public. Or not trying and embarrassing him anyway. Because I’m a fucking dork. He’s got to get my humor. He’s got to get me. And he’s got to want me. Every fucking crazy inch of me: The me who sings in the car, talks to herself at the house, speaks in complete sentences to the cats, takes pictures of everything, has an unscrubbably filthy mouth, and always laughs a tick too loud.

He should have a grand romantic gesture or two up his sleeve that he can pull out periodically to make sure I am not completely eaten up with cynicism.

He needs to have a good relationship with his family, and be able to fit into my crazy family with relative ease. He should probably be open to having a family of his own, because, despite my better instincts, I imagine I would like to have a family some day. And I’m going to need a solid partner.

Well. I thought I had simplified what I want, but maybe I haven’t. Nope, I’d say maybe I’m pickier than ever.

I wasn’t supposed to be born on Christmas. I was due Dec. 12, but my mom didn’t go into labor until Christmas Eve. And she kept laboring for 23 hours, walking and walking and walking around the hospital floors to try to make the labor go faster. She made 49 trips, she said, many of them with my grandmother by her side. Mom says she remembers the click of Grandmaw’s cowgirl boots on the sterile hospital linoleum.

In the delivery room, my mom caught a glimpse of my dad’s T-shirt and flipped out. It sported drawings of cow patties accompanied by the words: “Been a farmer many years and haven’t stepped in any yet.” I’m betting my mom hasn’t cussed that much before or since.

She says that at some point, her IV popped out of her hand and started whipping around the room like a firehose. Blood was going everywhere. In that picture up there, you can see some dried blood on her hand. So … I instantly began creating chaos the second I entered the world. Hell, I started with the chaos by being stubborn and late and then practically ruining a holiday for my older sister, I guess. She said she refused to acknowledge me or call me by name for weeks after I was born, since my arrival had TOTALLY thrown Santa off his game.

I get a kick out of that story. You just can’t take my family anywhere, including the hospital.

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Many months ago I uploaded this photo of my birth announcement. Reading it now, it’s so very bizarre. My mother’s name isn’t even mentioned until the last paragraph. The woman who gave birth is the LAST PERSON MENTIONED. Also, I love how she’s the “former” Fran. Seeing as how she’s Mrs. Steve now. So odd how social conventions have changed in (nearly) 30 years. And by “odd” I mean “awesome” because my feminist sisters helped move us past that invisible wifey shit. Well, they got the ball rolling. We’re not totally there yet. I’m pretty sure my parents’ joint checking account has checks that are emblazoned with “Mr. or Mrs. Steve Turner.” Yep.

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This year is the first year I’ve worked on Christmas Day and not been able to be with my family at all. It has been odd. I don’t particularly care to be away from them on this official Time With Family day. The family did, however, call me on speakerphone and sing the birthday song to me. And I’ll get to see them Sunday. So I’m excited about that. And I really, really need to finish their gifts but I’m not sure it’s going to happen in time. Eeeeeek.

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I hope everyone has had a fabulous Christmas, devoid of blood-spraying IVs and cow poop-themed anythings.

The Sidelines crew, circa 2001 (photos by Matthew Starling, if memory serves):

And what group photo would be complete without a group display of rude gestures?

I’d been wondering what I’d done with these photos for a while. They were tucked inside a shoebox in my storage trunk.

These people are more than partially responsible for my completely unhealthy addiction to newspapering. Also mom jokes.

My grandmother e-mailed me this photo, taken yesterday at the Dodge Store on Wayne Road in Savannah, Tenn., where, as high schoolers, Phil and I would go and get pizza sticks, jojo potatoes, chicken strips, a roll, and Golden Flake sourdough butter pretzels — a fine spread to take home to consume in the pulsing glow of a television.

I like to think that I would be entirely overqualified for the advertised position.