I almost stepped on this toad when I was taking pictures of the sunset. Turned out that the pictures I took of him were better than the sunset photos anyway. He was a very cooperative and photogenic fellow, even though I must’ve scared the snot out of him.
“See, feel these blades and make sure they don’t move too much,” Daddy says. We’re both hunched over the front fender of the Volvo with our hands just behind the radiator, testing the give of the plastic blades of the fan. We check all of the fluid levels, bounce the fender to test the shocks, look around for loose vacuum hoses. He shows me the parts of the engine that are too hot to touch, and points out the stains of burnt oil on the manifold. Then he tells me to check the oil and feel the belts, plying them to sense the proper tension.
This is how Daddy always is, gentle, but firm. If I need help, he’s happy to give it, but if I don’t and he knows that I don’t, I’ve got to do it myself. Daddy’s a carpenter and an all-around Renaissance Man. There’s hardly anything he can’t do or learn to do. And he believes the same of me. As soon as I could lift a drill, I was using that drill. As soon as I was strong enough to wield a hammer, I was beside him, hammering and helping. If I hit a knot, he would reach in and give the nail a sharp, deft pound for me. He’s never belittled me, even through all my stupid questions and mistakes. Anything I’ve botched, we’ve simply repaired. And I’ve learned from it.
Some of my best memories are the quieter ones. I learned to drive with Daddy, and our trips together were some of my favorite times. There was one time when we drove all the way to a little town called Wilbar to pick up some snow tires for the Volvo, because they were a slighty unusual size that was hard to find in stores. When we got there, we found out that the man had sold them earlier that day, even though we’d called ahead and inquired about them. Most people would’ve been irate at having driven an hour and half or two hours to find their tires sold out from under them. But Daddy and I shrugged it off and enjoyed the drive home, reveling in the beauty of the countryside we passed through. There was something so wonderful about it, and so simple. I was just out for a drive with my daddy, with no specific goal in mind and no need to hurry or worry.
Daddy is almost as much of a goofball as I am, too. When my brother, Benjamin, and I were little, Daddy would take us to the playground, where all the tame, demure parents would be sitting on the benches that were built for tame, demure parents to sit on and read their magazines and stock market reports. But Daddy is not a stock-market-report-reader or a tame, demure parent. His playground personality was the Monster. It was pretty simple. Benjamin and I would run like heck to get away from the Monster, and scramble into any nook or cranny we could find. My dad would run around the playground like a madman, intent on searching us out and scaring us to death. This probably concerned a good many of the tame, demure, stock-market-report-readers, but Daddy didn’t care.
And this is one of the many things I love about Daddy. He doesn’t care about the shallow opinions of shallow people. He is completely himself all the time, regardless of what other people think of him. He instilled in me that same stubborn confidence, the feeling that if people don’t care for me for their petty, superficial reasons, they aren’t worth my worry anyway. And Daddy is one of the people in my life who has complete, utter confidence in who I am, and confidence in my abilities. Probably more confidence than I rightly deserve. He loves who I am. Daddy, for this and so much more, I am grateful. Thank you. I love you. And I love who you are, too.
I’m the sort of person who feels a little lost or out of sorts if I don’t have a book to read. I usually eat breakfast with a spoon in one hand and a book in the other. I read while I’m waiting for the lame, slow dial-up to load. I read whenever I get any sort of free time at all. So needless to say, I was very sad when I found myself too busy to read for fun the past couple of semesters. Now I’m trying to make up for lost time, and the summer is a beautiful expanse of time filled with lovely books. The past couple of books I’ve read:
Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. It’s instructions on writing, but Anne Lamott is so hilarious that you’ll enjoy it and be entertained by it even if you’re not a writer. And if you are a writer, she offers a lot of good advice and writerly tidbits, most importantly, you’re not alone if you’re trying to write and instead feel like chucking your pen or pencil or notebook or computer at the wall. However, she tends to repeat herself quite a bit. Her anecdotes are clever ways of rehashing what she’s already said and driving home points that have already been driven home. Also beware: though she is hilarious, and though her wit is pinpoint sharp, she can sometimes seem a little wrapped up in herself and her own stunning sense of humor. She often seems about as immature, petulant, and hormonal as your average teenager. Sometimes more so. But still an excellent read.
Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier. Frazier definitely has a finger on the pulse of humanity. His characters are rich, interesting, and winning. Occasionally, the book, which is set during the Civil War, will seem slightly disjointed when he uses a word or comparison that has tumbled out of a later era into his prose. Also, the novel’s parallels to the Odyssey are a little blatant sometimes, especially when the main character has bizarre encounter after bizarre encounter. You find yourself thinking, “Oh, Frazier meant for this character to represent a Siren!” Which is a little disruptive at times. But Frazier’s poetic descriptions and attention to detail make it a wonderful book.
Next in Line:
On Writing by Stephen King. And maybe a collection of poetry by Beth Ann Fennelly. Other suggestions?
Wesley has tagged me in a meme today. So here is everything you ever wanted to know about me. I’m only supposed respond with one word, but I’m gonna cheat, because I don’t feel like one word will say much.
1. Where is your cell phone? Happily cell phone-less.
2. Relationship? Happily single.
3. Your hair? Long, brown. Soon to be chopped off to the shoulder.
4. Work? That’s for Monday.
5. Your sister? None, but I’ve got one incredible brother.
6. Your favorite thing? Too many things. I’m a packrat.
7. Your dream last night? About a jewel thief. It was silly.
8. Your favorite drink? Whole milk, by the gallon.
9. Your dream car? Mini Cooper, in blue metallic fleck.
10. The room you’re in? Family/living/dining. It’s one big room.
11. Your shoes? None right now.
12. Your fears? Plenty, mostly stupid.
13. What do you want to be in 10 years? Professional artist, freelance writer, graphic designer.
14. Who did you hang out with this weekend? My friend John and my family.
15. What are you not good at? Admitting when I’m wrong.
16. Muffin? Hmmmm. Blueberry?
17. One of your wish list items? New card for my camera.
18. Where you grew up? Raleigh area.
19. Last thing you did? Play the piano.
20. What are you wearing? A Topsail Beach t-shirt I’ve had since I was six that was my mom’s before that.
21. What aren’t you wearing? Pants. Just kidding!
22. Your pet? I want a dog. Specifically, a corgi.
23. Your computer? A Thinkpad, which I love dearly.
24. Your life? Pretty dang blessed.
25. Your mood? Pretty dang happy.
26. Missing? Friends and family who are gone.
27. What are you thinking about right now? About how silly this list makes me look.
28. Your car? ‘82 Volvo station wagon. Hippie-mobile with close to 230,000 miles on it. Wonderful car until something blows up.
29. Your kitchen? Nice view while washing dishes, leaky fridge.
30. Your summer? Lazy so far, yet somewhat productive.
31. Your favorite color? All of them.
32. Last time you laughed? About two minutes ago.
33. Last time you cried? Three months ago, maybe? I hate to cry.
34. School? Chapel Hill.
35. Love? Too much to name. Most importantly, God and my family.
I snapped this photo yesterday. He kept looking away as I got closer. You know, the “I can’t see you, you can’t see me” thing. I got within about five feet for this shot, and he finally got nervous and ran off.
He’s so small that he’d nestle comfortably in the cup of my hands. He might be cute now, but he’ll grow up to become a lean, mean eating machine and destroy all the plants in the garden.
Or he might grow up to be worse than that…
I wrote this poem after an incredibly weird coincidence. I happened to be listening to the Beatles’ “Come Together.” Good song, strange lyrics. Anyway, at the same time, I was reading a book. And just as the song said “juju eyeball,” I read the word “juju.”
I’ve never even seen the word “juju” in print.
Heck, I really didn’t even know what it meant.
And in case you don’t either, here’s what my dictionary said: Juju: An object used as an amulet or charm in West Africa, OR, the supernatural power ascribed to such an object.
That said, why on earth would something like that happen? And what does it mean? Why exactly would God want me to pay extra attention to the word “juju?” Other coincidences are equally useless for me. About 1 in 4 times, when I’m thinking about a song or even humming it, lo and behold, when I turn on the radio, that’s the song that’s playing. It’s extraordinary sometimes, and pretty cool, but also generally pretty useless.
But useless or not, coincidences are astounding. Our lives tend to float in confusion and ambiguity, and coincidences are like little nails that tack us to reality in our ephemeral worlds. They pull you down to reality by giving you a jolt or shock, by reminding you that you’re not floating around in nothingness, but that instead you could run into something familiar at any time, that paths are crossing everyday. And they are, even though coincidences go largely unrecognized. Yeah, the occasional one ends up in the Guinness Book of World Records, you know, when long-lost quintuplets all just happen to be visiting Niagara Falls at the same time and all run into each other. But smaller ones go ignored everyday.
But yeah, I should just give you the poem. It definitely needs editing, since I spat it out in only about ten minutes. But in any case, here it is:
Coincidences
You are on a highway in Nevada,
so grown-over that grass springs undisturbed
from the expansion cracks in the pavement.
It is straight, so straight, in fact, that
you steer with only a pinkie hooked
in the bottom of the wheel, with a can of Pepsi
in your other hand. You’re doing 80,
but you could do 100 while reading a novel
or taking a nap or changing clothes
and still be safe. You haven’t passed anyone
since the diner 150 miles ago.
So why is it that while you drive, distracted,
while you are reading your map or novel,
or changing clothes or napping, while you’re
thinking about other things and watching
the sun setting in your rearview mirror,
why is it that at that moment, a car is stalled
in the middle of an intersection just feet away?
Why do you collide with the only car you’ve seen
on this road? Why do surprises crop up
where there should be no surprises?
And why is it that when you’re traveling in Paris,
or London, or Greece, you run into your boss,
or your neighbor, or your old high school friend?
Why, when you’re reading an unusual word,
does the song you’re listening to say
that exact word?
Why do men who live at opposite ends of the earth
meet and find that they happen to be long-lost twins?
Why, when I open my mouth, do the words
that I am about to say pop out of your mouth?
And as we wait on this road for the tow truck
to come and clear our cars away,
as we wait, shivering, shocked, astonished,
why is it that we do not say more, acknowledge
this astounding crossing of paths, the intersection
that weird fate has brought us to?
