Mamaw

 When I was in elementary school we did not have a digital thermometer.  Glass thermometers full of mercury are a relic these days but they provided those of us in our mid-30s and above with the perfect tool for skipping school.  I'd feign some vague pains, mom would bring me the thermometer, and when she left the room I'd press the tip against the light bulb for a few seconds and then shake the scary 105 temp down to a reasonable 100 or so.

At the time, mom and dad both worked.  So being sick meant a trip to Mamaw and Papaw, which was really 90% of the reason for my sick day effort. Being sick in their home meant a cozy snuggle on the basement couch with cinnamon toast on command and an orange juice far superior in quality to whatever my mom bought. Being a doctor, Papaw was a bit wiser to my game than Mamaw, I think.  But he never gave me away. I was the first grandchild and I'm sure as a general rule I got away with a few ploys that the later generations did not. I'll get wrinkles first, so I feel like this is a fair trade. 

Sometimes I wasn't faking.  I spent a week at Mamaw and Papaw's when I had the chicken pox. I was an itchy, ornery mess but there was something magical about that cinnamon toast, something medicinal in the bright yellow of that smiley face cup. The wet washcloths on my forehead were cooler in that basement, the pillows softer. And a sick nerd loves nothing better than a pile of National Geographic and Encyclopedia Brittanica. 

My years of sick days with my grandparents were limited, something I can't blame on digital thermometers but must blame on distance when we moved away. While I spent less time convalescing on that basement couch, the years of Mamaw's cool, loving touch and soft kiss on my cheek continued for a total of 36 lucky years, through Papaw's death, the birth of additional grandchildren and great-grandchildren, a dear second grandfather in Onis, multiple moves and adventures, and an impressive number of hurricane evacuations on my part. 

I am the eldest of thirteen grandchildren and the span of years and distance between us has meant that while we've always prayed for and loved one another, we haven't always known each other incredibly well. But we all loved and were loved by Mamaw. We've all felt her hands on our back, we've all shared a Dove chocolate with her, felt her softest of kisses as we said goodbye. We've laughed with her, prayed with her, and heard her "I love you," complimented her lipstick or her scarf, drawn her a million pictures and sent her postcards from faraway lands, and in loving and knowing her, we've loved and known each other a little better. 

Families are full of so many different dreams and personalities and hills and valleys, it's easy to see how the connections of childhood can fade with the addition of years and new families, a new generation. But that's what makes that communal experience of a grandmother's love that much more precious and powerful. Because as the years go on, remembering what it felt like to set the table for Thanksgiving, to go to church together, to smell the cinnamon toast in the toaster oven, to pretend and climb mountains, to dig through drawers for old love letters, to marvel at faded pictures of our parents as children, to tell Mamaw what you wanted to be when you grew up, and listen as your cousin answered the same question, those are memories imprinted on our bones. They're the guts of what it means to be loved, to be a family that loves well, a family that looks heavenward and gives thanks when Mamaw goes Home.

Age

I spent this past weekend back in the Motherland, Arkansas, visting family and celebrating the pending nuptials of my brother and his fiancee with a small bridal shower.  The day before the shower I slept in a bit, curled up in the same room I occupied during my Hurricane Katrina semester, when I spent hours sitting on the floor of that bedroom wondering what was underwater. I stared at the ceiling for awhile that morning, the same way I did over five years ago, curious what my former self would think of Rachel Now.

After a deliciously humid run (I miss that sticky heat), my mom and I headed over to the assisted living facility where my Mamaw and Onis (my stepgrandad, alternate grandfather, pinch hitter gramps...I love him dearly, but he's not my Papaw) now live.  We sat on a couch and watched them do their quasi-aerobics (head turns and arm waving) and then returned to their room and chatted with them and their physical therapist as they continued their exercises.

The hills around my Mamaw's home provided a rougher run than I'm used to, and my quads were singing while I nestled in their overly warm room on a couch I've taken naps on since childhood.  As I watched Onis concentrate to maintain his balance while the therapist pushed him lightly from side to side, the ache in my thighs made a firm underline (not quite an exclamation point) beneath the image of progressing age.

Onis is 100. He struggles to maintain his energy. Headaches and stomach pains often leave him quiet and frustrated. He doesn't hear well but hates to be spoken to in a loud voice, so conversations are a delicate balance of louder-than-normal talking and repitition. But he smiles easily, he has a solid, endearing laugh, and he loves my Mamaw well. To be 100 and still be able to recognize and cherish so many family members, still eat a helping of fried chicken, still mutter his prayers with the same reverence of ten prior decades...it's a beautiful thing.

I watched him and my Mamaw, with my mother laughing and telling stories beside them, and recognized how quickly it all seems to move sometimes. Marriages, babies, graduations fall in line like dominoes, each child and grandchild checking off various social boxes, stumbling over proverbial hurdles, celebrating serendipity and love, as they march down the path God crafted for them.  And most of those milestones are easily shared, easily savored.  The physical ones are trickier.  Individual pains, difficulties, just become internal and I don't know that any family could handle the anxieties of all its members, the multiple heartaches and daydreams of growing up and aging.

I ran a mere seven miles that morning, burdened by heat I was unaccustomed to, and felt rather disappointed in myself that I did not push myself over more hills.  And a couple hours later I watched my Mamaw practice walking.  Walking. 

I take for granted the ease with which I can force my body to accomplish what I set before it.  More importantly, I take for granted the length of time set before me and those I love. I lived with my Mamaw and Onis for five months while my former home dug itself out from under Katrina.  And I took for granted the ease with which they could sit at the dinner table with me, watch Law and Order with me, play games, and give me hugs before bed.  I took for granted every "I love you," because despite having lost two grandfathers so far, there is some piece of my heart that feels grandparents are eternal.  Stones.  Diamonds.  Unshakable forces that cannot be brought down by bad lungs, bad knees, multiple decades.

I know that I took them for granted less this weekend.  Loved my Mamaw in her purple outfit, her purple silk scarf, her perfect lipstick and rouge, her smile watching her future granddaughter-in-law open boxes of napkins and rolling pins and gravy boats.  Loved Onis as he sauntered slowly down the hall, as he valiantly let Mamaw talk him into exercise class, as he smiled at stories of Scotland and told the same stories of Harrison, Arkansas we'd all heard a million times.

It makes me sad to think that they are old, that one day my parents will be old, that I will be old. But it also humbles me to know that God gave them all to me, that I should be born into such a family of which I am so unworthy, that He would surround me with love and stories and strong, beautiful, Godly women and men who cherish their children so well.  The genes of my parents gave me tough, sturdy knees, capable of climbing humidity-laced hills on a morning run.  But beyond flesh, I am simply grateful to have a family that, itself, is sturdy. Strong. 

Lipstick

On my thirtieth birthday I wore red:

red reminiscent of skinned knees

and four-eyed eyelids puckered by November allergies.

A red sweatshirt I wore in the third grade,

A yellow star in the center and rhinestoned clouds weeping rhinestone tears.

Thirty years and a sweatshirt still lingers.  And the smell of dirt beside a Southern jungle gym, red sweatshirt ripped at the shoulder by some ill-timed leap.

Red hair is less red against Red Diva lipliner.

The red I never wear crept into a plastic bag, clutched by my mother as she searched for her own mother's perfect shade.

Only grownups wear red lipstick.

Only daughters search for perfect reds for perfect mothers as they valiantly embrace age from hospital beds.

Not too orangey.

Not the pink-tinted one.

The Revlon with a touch of blood in it, of earth, of grownups and children and warm, Sunday mornings spent in churches without fans.

Reds with a touch of Texas in them, Arkansas, or Minnesota, or Tennessee, a splash of a few months toasting sisters in Times Square or South Korea or all-the-sisters-sound-the-same-on-the-phone

  Reds bought and lost and kept in a million handbags in a million places beside a million men, many of whom never matter at all.

Reds of childhood sweatshirts hanging from monkey bars too far apart, and of Mamaw's lips, soft and loveworn, pretty for the World,

Sticks to the wine glass

And the cup of sweet tea

Both sipped in loved company,

Both moments made perfect by their color.

Baseball

There are few things more holy to a summer than a baseball game. I attended my first Twins game recently at the widely heralded (deservedly) brand spanking new Target Field. While I remain firm in my belief, rooted in a childhood dedicated to the Cardinals and their Arkansas farm team, that the National League is far superior to the "fake baseball" attempted by the AL, I can give credit where credit is due for a good game. I attended with a fellow baseball-lover (I should say "fake baseball"-lover since he's a Twins fan but since he provided the tickets, I'll overlook that flaw) and I don't think there's anything better on a sunny afternoon than a mild tshirt-shaped sunburn, good company, and a homerun to cheer for.

I bought a scorecard as soon as we entered and enjoyed relearning all the chickenscratches my Dad taught me as a girl. There's a certain satisfaction from that backwards K (called strikeout) and the filled in black diamond of a homerun. I also like the 6-4-3 of the double play. My favorite position in softball was shortstop, and I liked owning that "6."

On Saturday I'm headed to a Saints game, the minor league team in St. Paul that boasts $5 tickets, burn-your-ass metal bleachers, and a pig mascot that runs around the field at will. It's very different from the major league experience, but honestly, save a Cardinals game in my former hometown, I much prefer the minor league feel. It reminds me more of the first baseball games of growing up, the ones spent at Ray Winderfield Field (only a handful of people will notice that childish mistake), hot dogs and mosquitos, crowd cheering for Geronimoooooooo Pennnnnna. Those are the games that spell B-A-S-E-B-A-L-L in my heart. The Saints games remind me of those hot, Arkansas evenings, even if the Minnesota sun is significantly kinder than those Southern scorchers.

I think, too, that a baseball fan is simply more my sort of human than other sports fans. Football can be fun to watch, and I admit to getting jazzed for New Orleans this past February. But my affection for football is fleeting, and only emotionally tied to the handful of my kid brother's games I caught while he was in high school. I've never cared about basketball (an apathy born of one miserable season spent "playing" basketball in middle school when I would sob for an hour before practice because I loathed it so much).

Baseball. Now that is a sport worth loving. A slow one at times, to be sure, steeped in decades and decades of history, generations of rivalries, old wounds, underdogs, and the smell of dirt and chalk and soft, sweaty leather. Baseball fans are fervent but they're also patient. Football is over in a blink, barely a dozen games to sink your teeth into. Baseball requires weeks, months of dedication. An exhaustion of sweeps and death spirals, records to break, pulled tendons, perfect games, rainouts, games ahead, games behind. I respect that slowness. And I respect the fan that settles in for the long haul in April, the promise of sun and a homerun peeking through springtime's clouds.

Mid-July is prime baseball season. Squinting against the glare, the near-scream of joy for the nearly-fair nearly-homerun, the smell of bug spray and beer and mustard. It's a specific slice of the year, before the smell of autumn creeps across the grass and forces the acknowledgment of other seasons. I love that slow creep of darkness, when the outfield lights buzz on, love the sugary promise of cotton candy, and the way my ponytail dissolves in a cascade of sweaty strings after I jump up too many times to cheer. I just love it.

Swing away!

River

My family makes a familiar drive this week to Arkansas. It's remarkable only in its sameness, its Americana-drenched stereotype of road trips and gas stations and kids ignoring Dads, noses buried in books.

But the drives I've made criss-crossing the Midwest and the Central South, remind me constantly of how tied my family is to this deep, darling trench carved by the Mississippi. I have lived in Arkansas, Missouri, Louisiana, and Minnesota, four states equally beholden to the might of that river. I felt it least, perhaps, in Arkansas, as I was a child and largely remember smaller rivers and streams.

In Missouri and Louisiana, however, it was a powerful, destructive, glorious force. Not long after moving to St. Louis, I remember volunteering with dad to sandbag areas threatened by the Great Flood. I remember that dark, gloomy water creeping up to the topmost steps of the Arch grounds, remember the newscasters and their shock at 100 year water levels. But in most instances the Mississippi in St. Louis was a sleeping giant. A river that loved the Cardinals, and lovingly reflected the blues and greens and reds of fireworks at the VP Fair.

The river in New Orleans was more than a river. More than a highway. It was sister to an ocean that threatened us. Sister to a Lake that flooded us. In every request for directions, it was a landmark, a true North. "Drive toward the river. Drive toward the lake." By the time she reaches New Orleans, the river is so strictly corseted by levees, one can hardly fault her for impertinence. Her deadly, hurricane-laden anger. But in her peaceful moments, she was a beautiful silver thing. And when I watched her spill into the Gulf, watched that brown bleed into blue, it seemed like the world was made correctly, with no flaws, that God knew how to make water, knew how to build land with tiny, tiny, tiny pinpricks of sand, knew how to return it all to the sea.

I have lived away from this river and I have loved the years I spent away from her. But there is something haunting and tempting and simply home-like in driving through the farmland and cities she built. It is land she carried and created, like some happy alchemist, depositing promises of fertility in dark dirt. I feel at home in many places. In the mountains of East Tennessee. In Jackson Square in New Orleans. On top of the Sindi Sud in Marrakech. Climbing those blasted rocks on Pinnacle Mountain. But there is a familiarity and warmth in simply living and traveling and building a life in this cradle of the Mississippi. And that was a five paragraph title for the following poem:

I leave the river often, freedom knit to my brow
And I am strong and unkind to memories of her mud
Wrapped round my ankles, cushioning my falls
I leave and she is worthless in her beautiful flood.

Sometimes I run, breathless in my escape
Fingers stretched wide on the wheel, heel to the road
You are a bitch, you River, you destroyer of cities,
You burn, you break, and you carry me home.

Sometimes I wander, eyes cast on some distant parade
Of adventures and dreams and dark, riverless nights.
I forget the river, her slow, steady explosion
And weave ribbons instead of water into my riverless life.

But always I return, feet, heart, head
Glued to this open, cupped palm of a river
This open wound of a river, itching for new blood
Always I stray, and always I return
Into and away, beyond and beholden
To my sly, angry, precious Mississippi mud.

Twas the Night Before Turkey

I'm at my parents' house making pecan pie. I've mixed the dough for the crust and it's resting, wrapped in plastic wrap (I hate plastic wrap), butter properly melting into what will be the perfect base for a classic Southern mixture of karo syrup, pecans, and molasses.

My brother won't be here this year, which is more than sad. It is less of a home for the holidays when one of us is missing. All the food will be the same (with the addition of black-eyed peas) but without Rob's characteristic laugh and teasing of older and younger sister, it just won't be quite as warm a day as it could be.

It's odd, how relationships change. I remember my dad telling me once that I was "more related" to my brother and sister than I was to my parents. I am made up of half my mom, half my dad (simplifying the genetics, I know) so we are only half-related to either of them. But my siblings and I are all the same combo, the same starting point, the same raised voice when we came home too late, the same kiss on a skinned knee, the same "no, you cannot skip church" to the same impertinent teenage question.

But despite that sameness, I honestly loathed my brother when we were younger. I really did not understand the point of his existence. If he had a purpose beyond annoying the snot out of me, I could not figure it out. In my eyes, we had nothing in common, nothing to bond over, nothing to share. This anti-relationship continued until I was in high school, a couple years after my sister entered the world. My baby sister was impossibly easy to love. She was like my little doll and she loved me unconditionally, never yelled, never snatched the TV remote from me, never tattled. Not like my brother. At all.

My relationship with Rob shifted in high school. I remember realizing once that we liked the same band, which seemed odd to me. And I gave him a hug when he fought with dad. But I think we really grew closer in the summers after freshman and sophomore year of college, when I was waitressing the graveyard shift at Denny's, 10pm to 6am. On my off days, when my sleep pattern was totally messed up, I'd bring Rob into Denny's for cheap seasoned fries and we'd sit in the smoking section so I could be the bad influence and coolly smoke cigarettes and drink coffee and expound upon the life experiences of a college student. I still think cigarettes make a person look cool. Anti-smoking campaigns in the education systems of Arkansas and Missouri clearly failed me.

Shortly after getting his license, Rob drove with me back home after I graduated from college. Rob drove the majority of those miles, many of them in the winding mountain roads of West Virginia, as I sobbed over lost friends. And somewhere in Indiana we stopped at the worst excuse for a Denny's in America, whose lack of seasoned fries was the cap to an already surreal manic breakdown on the highway that left us both laughing so hard we had tears rolling down our faces. I have no idea what was so funny.

It's an odd, wonderful thing when your sibling becomes a person beyond your blood. When you realize you'd genuinely want to know them even if you didn't grow up in the same houses, with the same dogs. My brother and I are infinitely different. Conservative vs. liberal. Sports fan vs. theatre nerd. And the differences run deeper than those surface affiliations...

But I would not want to know the person I'd be without my brother. It is cliche to say, "I would not be who I am today..." but it is wholly accurate. And the people that truly fit that category, the people who have actually shaped the human you've become, are so precious and so few. To be surrounded on Thanksgiving Day by the other three people who have molded my life just makes it all the more striking that the fourth is not here.

I miss you, Rob. And we are due for seasoned fries.

Renew

I ran (and finished) my first marathon yesterday.

It was chilly to start, low 40s. I had some gloves to begin but was able to toss those aside after two or three miles. I started chatting with another girl at the start and we ran together the first 5 miles. Unfortunately, her pace was faster than I usually start for long runs and I paid for that later in the race.

The first 8/9 miles went incredibly easy. Beautiful route around the lakes, sunshine, lots of crowds cheering everyone on and more boomboxes playing "Eye of the Tiger" than was really necessary.

I got lovely, supportive hugs twice from Sharon in that first leg, and again around 12 where I also saw my parents and sister. Julie was waiting for me around mile 14 and at 20 my parents and sister were on the sidelines again, cheering me on. My boyfriend, Jason, had the misfortune of missing me around mile 25, which was partly my fault as by that point I had stopped scanning the crowds and had my eyes firmly stitched to the pavement.

The race was not difficult until mile 18 or so. I suppose that's pretty typical. At 18 I was bored and frustrated by the pain in my left foot, aggravated that a pain I'd never had on any training run was choosing Marathon Day to introduce itself. Is that a muscle? A bone? Whatever it was, it ached for four miles straight and then disappeared (replaced by other pains, of course). At 20 I was exhausted and felt like if I stopped at all I would never get my engine started again. So when I saw my family just past the 20 mile mark, I couldn't stop for hugs. I did smile, I think.

Mile by mile, I can't differentiate much between the miles 21 to 26. But I did cry a bit at mile 23, stopping for powerade. A little old woman shook her fist at me goodnaturedly and said, "you can do it, sweetie." I felt like a wimp, crying in public like that. But I bucked up with the powerade. 23 and 24 were pure misery. The miles felt twice as long as I thought possible and the "you're almost there"s being screamed from the crowd started to annoy me. Because after running 24 miles, knowing I still have 2 more to go does not feel like "almost there" in the slightest. It feels like an eternity. I could tell the screams that were coming from former marathoners (or maybe they just had a better grasp of the pain involved) because their cheers were more specific. "8/10 of a mile more of this hill and then it's flat again" "less than half a mile until the next water stop"...those smaller milestones were much more reasonable in my head.

I carried two Bible verses with me, Isaiah 40:31 (but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength, they will rise up on eagles' wings, they will run and not grow weary, walk and not grow faint) and Hebrews 12:1 (therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that entangles and run with perseverance the race set before us). I have both memorized, generally, but carried post-its with me to read over while warming up at the Metrodome and just in case some emotional meltdown required some spiritual sustenance down the road. Mile 23/24 required such sustenance. I didn't break out the post-its (I think I forgot they were tucked in my pocket, actually). And I couldn't remember much of the verses at all. Hebrews altogether vanished. All I could remember of Isaiah was eagle wings and "renew their strength" so each beat on the pavement was accompagnied by an (I assume) intelligible-only-to-God prayer to give me wings and "renew" my strength. I remember praying something along the lines of, "I know you promise only to renew my strength, you don't promise that this will feel good. I know it will hurt. Just renew my strength enough to get me to the end. However that renewal works, just renew me enough to finish. Please. Amen."

And, as is so often with God, his answer was weird. For some reason the eagle wing thing got me thinking about birds which led to me thinking about this baby bird I found growing up in Arkansas, that my parents let me attempt to nurse to health from the comfort of a cardboard box in the garage. I spent at least 10 minutes trying to remember the name I gave that bird. And then what about that kitten I found once? Did I name that? Did we give him away or did he run away? I couldn't remember. Oh, and Rocky! The "flying" squirrel that fell on my head off our roof in St. Louis and we kept in an easter basket hung from a tree limb for a day before calling animal control. But what was the name of that bird I found? I remember it started with a T, I think. Or maybe an S. And what happened to him? I assume he died. Did I bury him? I remember burying some goldfish. And a couple hamsters, including Buster, who might have been inadvertently murdered. What was the name of that bird?

This mental detour carried me through 23 and midway into 24. By the time I realized I'd been running that entire time I could see the sign for mile 25. I felt lifted. Renewed?

I will admit that 25 felt good. Not physically good. My heart just felt tired, my lungs felt tired. I thought maybe that's what it feels like to die, or if not to die, to grow old. Sounds morbid, but the thoughts get a little wacky near the end. 25 felt physically awful. But mentally, it was the first time I'd thought, "you're actually going to pull this off."

Before 25 I was mainly going for mini-milestones. Mile 6, eat a gel. Mile 8, put the iPod on shuffle. Mile 12, eat a gel. Mile 19, get a banana. Mile 23, eat a gel. Intersperse some powerade stops in there. But at 25 it dawned on me that I was 1.2 miles from the finish. Even if I walked the rest (which I didn't), I would finish with time to spare. So 25 was a happy mile and knowing I'd done it helped me believe that mile 25 was not actually 7 miles long (although it felt that way). I thought that must be what "renewal" feels like, in any sense of the word. To feel completely exhausted and yet suddenly find some wellspring of energy or hope or passion that just makes you know that what felt over is not actually over. You still have work to do. And you have been blessed with the power to complete it.

At the top of the hill, with about .4 miles left to go, you can see the finish line. A huge American flag waving over a line at the foot of the Capital. I turned off my iPod then, wanting to remember the sound of finishing. And I told myself to remember what that felt like. Not to forget that feeling, too, and not just the feeling of leaden icepicks driving through my thighs. Remember that lump in your throat when the finish line was visible. A metaphor for everything. (And yes, only an English major would state to themselves--you're living through an actual metaphor right now, not a simile, a metaphor!)

Isaiah 40:31 doesn't waste its time on simile either. Upon renewal, you do not rise up on something like eagles wings. Those wings are actual and real. Wings that carry you when you recognize you can no longer carry yourself. Wings that give you a moment to catch your breath, renew. Then cross that line.

Flowers and Indian Food and Such

I bought myself flowers today at the farmer's market in downtown St. Paul. Flowers and fresh radishes and peppers (including a purple bell pepper...I did not know they come in purple). After work I raced home to trim the flowers, plop them in a too-short vase, change clothes, and hurry to meet a dear friend for Indian food a few blocks from my place.

I met this friend through this blog. He found my blog and noticed I was a transplant, originally from Arkansas, and having spent a good deal of time himself in Little Rock, was pleased to find an Arkansan braving a Minnesota winter. We eventually met for breakfast and have been friends ever since. He's my running coach/cheerleader, although I'm sure he doesn't think of himself as such. He reassures me that my toes won't actually fall off, running downhill sucks for everyone, and I can, in fact, do this. And all while being humble and kind and encouraging, despite my incessant insecurity and occassional whining.

I say all this because at dinner I was struck by how bizarre and serendipitous life can be. I find friends in such odd, spectacular ways, I can only attribute such blessings to God. How gentle and brilliant of God to know that running would be important, that training would be important, and that I'd need a new friend to hold my hand, so to speak, when mile 13 seemed impossible. I honestly don't know if I would have signed up for the half-marathon had I not met Chris. We actually talked about it the first time we met, I mentioned running, that I enjoyed it, and then, out of nowhere, I said I'd thought about a half-marathon in the spring. Really? I'd thought about that? When? Where on earth did that come from? But Chris jumped right in, encouraged me, and within weeks I was signing up for Stillwater. Which isn't to say that Chris hasn't been important in other ways, or that I value him only for his marathon training prowess and constant support, but pursuing this goal is very new, and sometimes scary, for me. Chris has made committing easier, made it seem less daunting.

I'm always impacted when people are not surprised. The last time I saw my Grandfather Welch alive he asked me what I wanted to do or be after college. I told him I wasn't sure, but maybe an actress, or a writer. He smiled and said, "that wouldn't surprise me." It sounds like nothing, I realize. But sometimes having someone support you and not be surprised by the challenges you place before you or the goals you set for yourself is a powerful, powerful thing. My Grandfather didn't say anything typical regarding how tough it is to be an actress or how being a writer really wouldn't be financially viable. He just smiled, loving and kind, and I knew he expected what I wanted to expect of myself. And that was a great gift. Chris has the same influence on my running, which has become a very important slice of my life. Despite my doubts and hesitance, Chris is not surprised by my goal, and his assurance that I'm capable of success fuels me well when mile 15 hurts.

There are many people who influence my training and who keep me going. My dad is incredibly important in this as his encouragement (beyond just your basic daddy-daughter stuff) is born of a similar drive to run, some similar struggles, similar obsession with competing more with oneself than with the World. My dad gets It, and that's key. My dad is the one who taught me to run by daily, diligent example.

But Chris was the first one that inspired me to race. Not against anyone or anything. Just race. And his lack of surprise at my progress makes me feel like maybe someday I won't be surprised either when I succeed.

Cousins

I spent the past weekend celebrating Thanksgiving in The Motherland (aka Arkansas), surrounded by too much food and a tribe of cousins I see too infrequently.

Cousins are a strange, beautiful lot. It seems both serendipitous and ill-conceived to throw people of such varying personalities into the same family and expect them to love one another. God, to me, occassionally seems a bit hilarious in his matchmaking.

After all, what are we supposed to have in common? We are the children of one parent's siblings. We share grandparental DNA. The bulk of us look nothing alike, some graced with height via paternal genes, others doomed shortitude thanks to our maternal roots. A handful of us with red hair (of varying shades), some with glasses and some without.

As the eldest, I always felt somewhat separate from the younger cousins. This was largely by my own choosing, I liked being the old one. I liked being the first to do things (though I've now been surpassed on both the marriage and child-bearing agendas). I liked traveling far away and coming back to share stories, pictures. But this past weekend I didn't want to sit at the grownup table anymore (where I've been sitting for over a decade). I wanted to talk and gossip and laugh and play games and be sad and be happy with the cousins that for so long were "young" and are now simply "younger".

I always knew Brent, Kristin, and Lauren, better than my other cousins. We spent a small segment of our lives together, attended each others' birthday parties. I gave them my dog when we moved away. My other cousins, though loved, were always distant. But it was good to see them growing, becoming the adults they'll be someday. And it made me sad to have missed so much of their lives. I look at Lauren and Kristin and think, you are on the edge of so many wonderful things! Even the shitty things, even the jobs you hate, even the cold, even the decisions you are unsure of, they are all such wonderful things to endure. How excellent to be unaware and confused but with the potential to be fantastic! And I just want to hug them and promise them that everything will happen. Perhaps everything won't work out. But everything will happen, and God carries all of it in his hands. And I am glad my sister looks up to them, the way, perhaps, they once looked up to me. They are women I want my sister to wish to become.

It makes me think of my siblings, Rob and Caroline. Will our children love one another? Will they see each other often or only on holidays? Will they be born in the same state? Will they drift and move away? Will they be short? Redheaded? Who will look up to the eldest? Who will hate being the youngest?

Who will sit at the grownup table too soon?

Favorite Spaces

I asked a friend a couple days ago to tell me his favorite place abroad and his response inspired me to think up my favorite spaces, stateside and in the whole wide world. And here they are, in no particular order, totally subjective and based purely on the company involved, the daydreams had, and the presence of sunny skies on the day(s) visited:

1. Favorite beach: Essaouira in Morocco. The blue and white of the boats sticks with me, as does my first and only camel ride, which occurred on the sand outside the city.

2. Favorite mountain: Roan Mountain, Tennessee. Family is everything.

3. Favorite mountain range: The Atlas in Morocco, specifically, the pass between Marrakech and Ourzazate.

4. Favorite large city: Marrakech, London

5: Favorite middle-sized city: New Orleans, Bath (England), Tours (France)

6: Favorite small town: Elizabethton, Tennessee

7: Favorite place to get lost: the souk in Marrakech

8: Favorite breakfast place: That one cafe in Bath with the crazy good eggs and sausage

9: Favorite lunch place: Reginellis in New Orleans, Hanout to the left of the second street in Youssoufia, Morocco with the hottest bread and freshest sardines, Imos in St. Louis, Sims in Little Rock, The Flying Fish in Little Rock

10: Favorite dinner place: Muriel's in New Orleans, Delachaise in New Orleans, Leila's kitchen in Morocco, Cunetto's in St. Louis

11: Favorite snack: sweet peanuts and fresh steamed chickpeas in Morocco

12: Best shopping: Magazine Street in New Orleans, the section of the souk in Marrakech with the crazy lanterns and yarn, the dye section of the Fes souk

13: Best nightlife (bars/pubs): Bath, New Orleans

14: Best theatre: Fox Theatre in St. Louis

15: Best place to swim: waterfall on the road to Hana, Hawaii

16: Best place to have a great time even though you have no knowledge of the language: Vienna

17: Best cheesey tourist location: Big Ben, Buckingham Palace

18: Best cheese: Tours, France, and the Porter's Cahill at the Delachaise in New Orleans

19: Best wine: Tokaj, Hungary

20: Most terrifying/exciting car ride: cab between Marrakech and Ourzazate

21: Prettiest scenery: Alaska, driving to Denali

22: Best place to breathe deep: Audobon Park in New Orleans in the spring, top of Pinnacle Mountain in Arkansas, square outside the theatre in Tver, Russia, with a bit of snow in the air

23: Most beautiful sounds: "Allah Akbar" prayer call during Ramadan in Marrakech ("God is great" translates for any faith), Caroline singing in the car, when my mom calls me "Honey", morning on the Roan, slap of running shoes on pavement, rain on my window in New Orleans, wind at Tintagel Castle in Cornwall, sound of a bat hitting the ball at Busch Stadium

And there are more favorites tucked away, I'm sure. But this is a good start.

An Accent?

I went to a friend's party last night in celebration of her passing the bar exam. It was a happy, familial affair with champagne, toasts, a cheesily decorated cake, and lots of hugs. I didn't know anyone there besides the lady of the hour so I spent some of the evening talking with her friends, all of whom are from the Minnesota/Iowa/Wisconsin area.

I never think of myself as having a Southern accent. This is largely because I am from the South and so I know what an accent truly sounds like. My mom still has hers, and my extended family members have accents ranging from Texas to Arkansas to Tennessee to the Carolinas (yes, they're all different). I, having moved to Missouri at 10 (and Missouri is NOT a Southern state), lost my accent pretty rapidly and picked up only parts of it upon living in Virginia and Louisiana. I know that it comes out a bit more when I'm around my family and also when I'm sleepy or angry, but I really don't have a strong accent so it surprises me when people pick up on it.

Four times last night people asked where I was from. When I told them I was originally from Arkansas and had moved here from New Orleans, they all shook their heads and said, with varying degrees of self-congratulations, that they knew I was from the South. I am not offended by this in the slightest, mind you. I am, assuredly, a proud Southerner and will always happily recount how I managed to end up in this frozen tundra. And most people love to hear the "y'all" and the sing-song nature of an accent. But it still trips me up a bit, reminds me that I'm not from here, even though I really do not need a reminder.

But I do like having a story to tell, I always have. I like coming from somewhere different, knowing something different. It's hard for me to invision living in one place for all of my life, the way many people here have. In some ways I envy their comfort, the friends they've had since they were in utero, the knowledge and familiarity they have with a specific stretch of space. But I am also glad that I've lived in several states (and even a couple countries), have family in several more, have traveled extensively and called faraway places "home" and not thought it odd. But after years of wandering about with no true desire to be in one place for too long, I can grasp the merit in roots. And I think Minneapolis is a good place for roots.

But I'm still going to say y'all.

The Motherland

As soon as I step foot in Arkansas my heart relaxes. Despite the heat, the humidity, my lungs fill up faster. My body was born here and it recognizes Home. I am happy in Minneapolis, as I was happy in Kansas City, and St. Louis, and so happy in New Orleans. But my happiness in Arkansas has a heavier feel. The weight of family and love and barbeque and the hill where I crashed my bike and the vacant lot where I played house and the best dog in the world and the plum trees I laid under and the yellow jackets that made my feet swell and the walk to the bus stop at the top of the hill and the cinnamon toast at Mamaw's when I had the chickenpox and the swing set that tipped too high and...

Craving a Place

I crave Arkansas the way some people crave chocolate or red wine or a perfectly baked apple. I crave the heat of the South these days, because Minnesota does not have a real summer. Summer here is a warmer version of spring, with little humidity, and too much wind. I crave the heaviness of Southern heat, the thickness of the air, the feel of sweat sliding swiftly down your spine or hanging lightly on your collarbone. I crave that pregnant silence in the afternoon, when even the bugs are too hot to talk, and the whole earth feels like the quiet calm before some great storm.

I spent a hiccup of time in North Little Rock following my evacuation from New Orleans. On several occassions I skipped class (did I retain anything that strange semester?) and drove to Pinnacle Mountain (pictured). I packed tuna salad and crackers and carrots and hiked to the top in the indian summer heat of September, and held orange leaves in my hand in October, November. I took my journal to the summit, wrote horrible poems about broken New Orleans, and sat for hours. Pinnacle probably doesn't even qualify as a mountain. It's not part of the Ozark chain, and having spent ample time in the Blue Ridge, Pinnacle doesn't come close to those old giants. And the Rockies, those young upstarts, have Pinnacle dwarfed by thousands of feet. But I crave that ancient, sloping, easy "mountain" and the quiet rocks at her top. I grew up climbing that glorified hill and I cannot wait to climb her again. Soon.

A Week From Today

I will be on the west side of Memphis, crossing the river, touching Eastern Arkansas and curving towards Little Rock. A mere 113 minutes from my Mamaw's house and my Marmee's hugs.

My Very Own Marriage Proposal

This little message is in honor of my dear friend, Kitty Kat. Miss Kat recently acquired a shiny bauble for her left hand ring finger and I wish her all the JOY in the world.

But, Miss Kat is not the only one acquiring proposals. That's right, ladies and gents, I received one of my own this past Thursday morning. I was sitting at Walmart doing homework while my four new tires were being mounted or spun or voodooed (whatever you do to new tires) when the main mechanic came in to tell me that I was missing two lugnuts on one tire and he could not mount a new one without said nuts. The problem was that Walmart, being uber-American and so hoighty-toighty, did not carry lowly German Volkswagon lugnuts. So I walked to one auto place and they were out and then I called a cab to take me to the VW dealership. My cabbie arrived in yellow splendor and as soon as I hopped in he said, "Damn! You the sweetest thang I seen a sure long time." Yes, sweetest thang. I smiled my sweet smile and asked him to take me to the dealership and along the way I mentioned something about New Orleans. He asked if I was married and upon hearing my answer he said, "you need to take me down there with ya." Fabulous. So after trapping myself two lugnuts at the dealership, the cabbie asked me when we would be getting married. This question was followed by the truly important one, "you know how to make that jammy-laya stuff? Cuz that stuff is damn good." I assumed he meant "jambalaya" and was about to tell him I did not know how to make it when he informed me that his first tasting of it was when he was in PRISON. Evidently at the state penitentiary in Arkansas they have special days of different varieties of ethnic food. Mexican, Chinese, etc. And his favorite day was Creole day. Awwwww.

I think it's meant to be.

Holy Crap, I got a Perm!

Um, yeah. This is what happens when I'm bored and/or depressed and/or indecisive about my attractiveness. I always feel slightly guilty screwing with my hair because everyone's always telling me how pretty it is. And I truly appreciate that. But despite the fact that I was blessed with, I admit, gorgeous red hair (hey, we all get, at the very least, one vanity to revel in, right?) it is the same hair I've had since birth. I've had lovely red hair for 24 years and it's been painfully straight the whole time (give or take the handful of months I crimped or permed it in the 80s).

So, this salon was having a sale on perms and I just bit the bullet. I've been wanting a perm for an age but felt a bit sheepish admitting it. But I have stick straight hair and I'm tired of it so now I have CRAZY AWESOME FABULOUS red corkscrews popping out of my head. Sweet! I know, dear friends of mine, it sounds insane. It is slightly insane. But it's joyful hair and my hair was looking sad. We can't have sad hair looking back at us in the mirror. We must have masses of JOYFUL INSANE hair to look forward to every morning. And I've always had this feeling that redheads should have curly hair, a la Orphan Annie. I always felt I'd been robbed of my redheaded birthright. Just rectifying the situation.

Tripping

This morning I went to Barnes and Noble because I've become addicted to iced coffee with cinnamon. I drank half the cup and then drove to school (yes, I relocated due to Katrina. I'm currently studying at University of Arkansas-Little Rock Law School and am counting the days until I can return to N'Awlins). In the process of walking to the building from my car, while balancing my family law texts and wearing my new pink heels, my knee seemed to momentarily dissolve and I landed in the grass. This is my life. I don't know why it made me happy to fall down, but it did. I've been walking around in a semi-daze these past few weeks, missing New Orleans, missing my friends, missing a life I loved. I've been hard as nails and have maintained perfect posture in my classes and have smiled to the point of pain. It felt good to trip and spill things and be clumsy. Clumsy and comfy is what I am in New Orleans. This is so hard to explain. Here I've just been trying to maintain the status quo, try not to feel too much or I'd explode. Never stop crying. But recently I've started to relax again, be happy again.

I still haven't laughed MY laugh. It's odd to think about, that I haven't had a huge outright guffaw (those who know me know what I'm talking about) for weeks. But it's coming, I can feel it. And for some reason, getting grass stains on my knees brings me that much closer.

Much love to my roommate Stephanie, for being a friend and compatriot amidst landlord drama, boy drama, evacuation drama, cleaning-out-the-fridge drama, too-much-wine-in-the-hotel-room drama, etc. You are a blessing. And I can't wait to love New Orleans with you by my side again.