Pride and Joy

Music was a huge part of my childhood, and, as a result, plays a crucial role in so many of my memories growing up.  Although my immediate family members lacked the natural musical talent that so many inherit, we are passionate about the songs and artists we love.  The record player was constantly spinning in the living room.  For years, I could not fall asleep without someone crooning in the background.  On Saturdays, my mom would coerce Grant and I into doing chores by letting us choose the albums.  Some days, we would dust and mop to Led Zeppelin or the Dead.  Other times, we made slightly cheesier selections, all the better to dance to!  Billy Joel singing about his Uptown Girl or Manhattan Transfer convincing me to fall in love with a fictional boy from New York City...

August 27, 1990, one of my most poignant memories of my dad.  Quinn had come to pick Grant and I up from daycare.  When we got into the old clunky T-bird, tears were streaming down Quinn's face.  This was unusual.  I had seen him cry before at funerals, but never in the context of our real life.  Stevie Ray Vaughan had been killed in a helicopter crash.  I had just turned 10, and I remember feeling confused.  Why was my daddy so distressed when he did not even know this man?  My parents and their partners in crime (my extended family) had seen Stevie perform countless times at little clubs in Lubbock, Austin, Dallas.  Those songs, Stevie's voice, his guitar playing...  They were a part of our story, a part of our life soundtrack.  To this day, I tear up when I hear Texas Flood.  Although I did not grasp the impact fully at the time, Quinn lost a dear friend that day.  Whenever I have a visceral response to a song, when it transports me to the past, I remember this moment as the first time I grasped the impact that music can have on life. 




Somewhere along my path to adulthood, my beliefs and ideals veered astray.  As a result, I've learned it is best not to bring up politics when Quinn and I get together.  Although we will never have a civil discussion about gun control or who we voted for in the last election, we can always bond over music.  Last night, after returning home from our 4th of July celebration, we spent a few hours comparing notes on newer loves (Old Crow Medicine Show) and debating the merits of old favorites (he posits that Frank Zappa's live version of Whipping Post is the best, but the Allman Brothers will always win my vote).  I am forever grateful that we share this common ground. 

Well you've heard about love givin' sight to the blind
My baby's lovin' cause the sun to shine
She's my sweet little thing, she's my pride and joy
She's my sweet little baby, I'm her little lover boy
-SRV

I recently read a New York Times article on the Gift of Siblings.  The author talks about how "family closeness isn’t a happy accident", but a series of decisions and "many overlapping memories, which are in turn our glue."  We don't choose our siblings, so our early years are entwined by necessity.  Once we reach adulthood, we make an active effort to protect that closeness; we choose to maintain the relationship for the remainder of our lives. 

I've been thinking about Big G a lot this week, as we rapidly approach his 28th birthday (how is this even possible?  In my mind, he is still a goofy 13 year who awkwardly flirted with my friends and only showed affection with name calling and punches... Hmmm, maybe not so much has changed).  The article choked me up, reminded me of all the events in my life that would not have been the same without him.  He is the one person in the world who can rip me apart with a single comment- he knows my weaknesses, my insecurities.  He knows exactly which buttons to push that result in total destruction.  That power comes from sharing a core.  As different as we are in outward appearance and action, we are remarkably (scarily) the same.  He is also the first person I call when I'm really excited about something in my life or I need to vent.  I don't always tell him my deepest, darkest secrets, but after a bad day, I can talk about nothing with him and instantly feel better. 

In my state of emotional foolishness, I called him up to tell him about the article and make sure he knows how much I love and miss him.  As he is apt to do, he immediately ruined the moment.  "Wait...  You mean when I get old enough, I can choose to not hang out with you anymore???"  Ba-dum-ching.   

Happy 28th to my favorite monster.  Here's hoping we can put up with each other for at least another few decades... 

Memory Care?

I journaled my way through Scotland- this lovely little notebook with a crushed velvet cover, filled with silly observations, bad poems, sketches, and a long list of all the lit I read while I was there. My little book made an excellent companion when I was ever so lonely in that slightly foreign land. Given the similarities to my current setting, I attempted to start a new paper journal in January. It didn't work out so well. Part of the blog therapy is in the typing and erasing. On paper, there are scribbles and strike-throughs that look ugly and betray me, a constant reminder that my indecision knows no bounds... With typing, I can write a whole novel and erase it, leaving perfect white/empty space with one key stroke. And that is comfort, as if it never happened. With whatever I publish, I give the false illusion that the perfect words always come to me at the perfect moment, a finished product before it leaves my fingertips, sounding just the way I want the first time around, rather than the 25th.

All of this is a roundabout way of explaining my return after such a lengthy hiatus. I missed writing, and I missed the occasional insights that sporadically result from my ramblings.  Be patient as I get back into the swing.
.....

They moved Nana to the third floor this past weekend. I was home during the transition phase, when she was only spending days upstairs. The upper level is a safety precaution masked as a kindness- they have more sunshine, a rooftop patio where they sit in 85 degree weather, bundled up in sweaters and long pants. It is an uncomfortable environment. During our first visit, I immediately honed in on several women giving Nana the evil eye. I'm overly sensitive to female bullying- the undercurrents; subtle ousting from the inner circle; deliberate/catty comments and gestures... By kindergarten, girls have mastered this art, and it becomes more refined and vicious with age. When we walk her over for lunch, one woman actively shakes her head "no" as Nana sits down at her table. Luckily, Nana is oblivious (although I'm quite certain once she feels more comfortable, she'll be engaged in ostracizing other newcomers- she has a knack for picking out flaws and disliking people based solely on appearance).
Hank, the Sunrise mascot, an old, overweight lab mix, rides the elevator until someone punches in the code to get off on the third floor. He is a scavenger, and his odds of finding treasure are much higher amongst the forgetful. There are always random bits dropped on the floor, and sometimes he gets truly lucky when a resident sacrifices their whole plate for the valiant cause of maintaining his growing belly.

On the second day, Eden accompanied us. Every woman on the floor crowded around. The first to approach commented "I never thought I would see you again, my beautiful girl!" She beamed, the brightest smile you can imagine, and asked for a hug. Eden was immediately compliant, but the woman would not let her go, I could see fear creep into Eden's eyes, so I held her hand and gently pried her away. Eden refused to leave my side until the visiting middle school volunteers invited her to join their bingo game. One of the staff members (my favorite, thus far) sang and danced to Golden Oldies blaring from a small portable radio. As she watered the flowers on the patio, she stopped to check on each resident, kissing them on the head, complimenting their choice of outfits, checking about current pain levels and overall comfort.

This is the most painful part of the whole ordeal. Nana's timeline is not intact- the dates and events are confused. They ebb and flow, no longer carrying any semblance of linearity. Since Christmas, she relives Papa's death on a near daily basis. She frets about funeral arrangements and questions what made him get sick so quickly. After she works herself up into a frenzy, crying forever-fresh tears of grief, she realizes that Papa has been gone for awhile, but she is never quite sure how long. Last week, last year? We have long past the five year mark...  Selfishly, I don't want this process to go more quickly, because we don't know when we lose her recognition of us, but it is beyond cruel for her to suffer in this way. How many times can you lose a husband? How many times can you be torn away from your house and the red dirt community that is all you've ever known?

On top of the time travel, Nana's delusions continue to become more unusual. During mother's day brunch, her mouth was burning. She asked over an over why I put pepper sauce in the fruit salad, and she did not approve of jalapeno-flavored chocolate peanut butter cups. She slept in her chair the night before because there were bugs crawling in her bed. She couldn't understand why the little cats and dogs in her room refused to eat the snacks she left out for them. This is how our brains, our anatomy betray us. 

She did not say much during our visits. She held my hand, staring into the distance, asking me occasionally if I had found a husband yet (as if this status was likely to change overnight- a visit would be incomplete without a few reminders of my profound failure in all feminine duties). Her silence speaks volumes- the confusion and frustration bottled up, likely to explode later when only Deb-Deb is around to pick up the pieces.

I want more than anything to take her pain away, to pick a happy moment for her to focus and fixate on. I don't know what her choice would be, so I will remember her from photos laughing on a cruise ship with Papa by her side or square dancing in one of her ridiculously fluffy skirts. I will remember her creating masterpieces behind her easel with paint brushes and photographs strewn across the room; shelling bushels of black eyed peas from the garden; happily telling us stories of Deb-Deb and Steve when they were little... I will remember all of us gathered around the kitchen island in her impecably decorated house, eating watermelon (sprinkled with salt) with giant spoons. If I remember hard enough, maybe my memories will find their way back to her. 

My suitcase is full of books...

A lovely TED talk by Susan Cain.

When she described her grandfather's apartment, I was immediately transported to the farm. My Mema's house contained furniture and all the usual items necessary for human occupation, but this could not disguise its true purpose as a repository for books. Bookcases lined every room except the kitchen, and if you happened to peer inside any given closet, you would find bags overflowing with miscellaneous paperbacks. I remember sitting together but in solitude, reading for hours, only occasionally breaking the silence to compare notes on a story or relate a particularly amusing passage. Precious, happy hours, when I did not have to fight to hide my social awkwardness.
The interview process at INS made me painfully aware of my own introversion. I left Montreal feeling exhausted and drained, fearful that my lack of social grace might impede my career development. This talk was a much needed reminder that the other things I bring to the table are just as valuable as a loud and powerful voice.

Match...

A year has passed, and I'm back in the same strange position- my future riding on the results of a computer algorithm. Interviews in early February in freezing Montreal, before my fate is decided on February 29. Obsessive email checking is near the end. From 10 applications, I have 9 interviews, and only one site left to hear from. I shouldn't be so anxious/excited to hear from the last place. As it stands, I can make a decision based on training opportunities and fit, but if Dallas gets into the mix, things suddenly become more complicated. Family and familiarity, all wrapped up into one tidy bundle... Impossible to predict how much that will alter the composition of my decision making tree.

As ready as I am for a change, it will be harder than I ever imagined to leave my desert home.

Formulating a null hypothesis

Ryan Gosling can even make statistics sexy... Stolen from our former (and favorite!) stats TA.

When life hands you lemons...

Walking home yesterday, I found myself thinking about Miss Mary Ann. It always catches me off guard- how quickly the memories (and the tears) well up and overflow... No matter how many years pass, the thought of her smile and her infectious laugh remains bright and powerful. Mary was eternally optimistic. Of late, my heart has been so bogged down- with anger and sadness and worry. I wish that I could capture even a bit of her spirit.
I suppose I am becoming more superstitious in my old age, but as soon as I thought of her, the song I was listening to ended and shuffle landed on an Elliott Smith song that I never paid attention to before.

"Talking to Mary, you know you don't have to shout
She can hear what you're thinking, like you were saying it right out loud..."

I miss you, my beautiful friend.