They were replaying, in conversation, a blow-by-blow of what they’d done earlier that morning: sledding. It doesn’t snow here the way it does “up north.” The threat of a half-inch closes down most businesses and schools.  We’d gotten several inches, actually.

And they had gone sledding.

And they were talking about it.

One guy said, “Yeah, I hit you pretty hard.”

Another guy said, “Yeah, you did.”

They laughed at that. Then, said the exact same thing again, using different words, and laughed again.

From where I sat, they seemed to be having a really good time talking about nothing. Or rather, the same thing.

It prompted me to say to Thomas, who was with me, that I wondered exactly what it is we talk about. Do I ever say anything worth talking about? Not just between me and Thomas, but between me and you, me and the world, me and everything.

I really couldn’t answer.

And Thomas, being a good friend, wasn’t going to a) encourage me in the irony of talking about whether or not I have anything worth talking about, and/or b) tell me the truth.

But, he understood.

Maybe there’s not even really a problem, here. Maybe it isn’t about what you say when you’re with your friends as much as it’s about being with your friends.  Still, it takes a few brave people to hang out, and then say nothing the whole time, wouldn’t you say?

On the other hand, everything you say can’t be a pearl of wisdom.

The issue, then, is striking a balance.

I’ve noticed in myself—because this hypersensitivity to blabbering didn’t just raise its head yesterday—that I do talk about myself a lot. I do. In almost every conversation I enter into I find that I try at almost every moment to correlate whatever it is we may be talking about to myself.

I do this for several reasons: equal disclosure, familiarizing myself with subject matter, using myself as a safe example. That’s what I tell myself, at least.

I’m sure the people on the other end of the conversation don’t see it that way, per se.

And yes, OK, OK, sometimes I bring the subject back to myself to maintain a modicum of interest in conversations, especially those I find boring.

But, then, don’t we all do this? Who can pay attention forever? Not me.

Perhaps, we should take a moment and dissect a conversation, though.  

A conversation is two or more people engaged in a point of interest with either corresponding  or opposing views. (I threw that “opposing” in there, although technically that’s called an argument). In general, one person offers a statement; the others then add to it or redirect by offering a separate statement, right?

Am I close on this?

In Speech, I used to teach the old formula that Communication (which is, in its most basic form, a simple conversation) = a Speaker  (Information) + a Medium + a Receiver– as little Noise/Interference as possible.

In that formula, I’m afraid I’m the Noise/Interference, much more often than I’m the Receiver. Because people in general bring a lot of “noise” with them: cell phones, distractions, menus, time constraints, make-up, it’s an endless list dependent only on the environment in which the conversation is being held.

I, at least, recognize that I’m responsible for a lot of my own “noise.”

First, it’s hard for me to concentrate, even with big ears. I say I listen too hard, but maybe that’s a plain, good, old-fashioned lie.  I do listen for too many things. And so, sometimes, I pick up the wrong indicators, and respond to a minor point, or no point at all, in a conversation.

I often miss cues.

The other day I was at the theatre, helping build the set for our upcoming production of The 25^th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee; I play Panch, who doesn’t sing because I don’t sing during the cold months if I can help it; the temperature is too hard, too thick on my vocal cords.

We cycled through several topic-strings, one in particular involved my recent trip to Orlando and the E.T. ride at Universal, which led to technological advancements in amusement park attractions, which then jumped to The Goonies and Martha Plimpton and Stand By Me and the fate of those boys in the movie both literal and cinematic and then here’s what happened:

Paul, the director, was in heaven stabilizing a platform for the pianist; heaven is what we call the upstairs part of our stage. He said, “I wonder what the significance of the M&M’s is.”

I had the perfect, made-up response, and said, “It’s all marketing. E.T. had Reese’s Pieces, so The Goonies took on M&M’s.”

I was wrong on a lot of accounts. I knew for instance The Goonies had successfully secured a coup with the Baby Ruth, and assumed I’d just forgotten the scene with the M&M’s. (I hadn’t. There are no M&M’s in the movie); I also incorrectly thought that the movies had come out in the same year. (Again, no. E.T. – 1982; The Goonies – 1985). I also thought we were still talking about E.T. and The Goonies. (But, we were not).

Paul was referencing a scene in the musical.

They were gracious enough to not call me out on it, but I think it’s because I’m already considered a wild card in conversations, as in, God only knows what Kris will say, just keep talking. He’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but he’ll laugh at anything, so roll with it.

So, I rebounded by laughing, naturally, as if I’d made a joke so funny and of such wit and internalized reference that to explain it would render us all fools for not having caught it in the first place. (That rarely works, by the way; instead, I just come across as weird and eccentric, but not the cool, fun kind).

Yet, when I think through the many conversations that I’ve had, I’m not sure I’d change anything, really. Maybe I didn’t always understand everything being talking about; maybe I faked it; maybe I meant it; maybe I gave good advice, or talked about myself the whole time. Maybe I’m just a conversational hazard.

I don’t know. I can’t remember every conversation.

But, what I do recall is that I was there, with you or him or her or us or y’all. I listened, you listened, we listened. We shared; we disagreed; we agreed.  We gossiped; we stood up for ourselves; we sympathized; we misheard, whatever.

When the dust settles in the years to come, all we’ll really remember is that we went sledding, we went to lunch that one time, we worked on the set, we talked about movies, etcetera.

We’ll just remember that we were together.

Period. 

And really, that’s all that’s worth talking about…

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But, something is making me have crazy, exhaustive dreams, as of late.

It’s not the first time I’ve had crazy dreams, but rather, it is the first time I’ve had a regular string of them. I’m going on Week 3, now.

Which makes for 21 nights of what can truly be called dreams of “complete abandon.” I’ve been shot twice, lately; nearly drowned off the coast of Mykonos (a place I’ve never even been to); ran for a position on the EU Board of Alderman (that’s right: I was living in France at the time, in a small village with half a water well—ask me later); unsuccessfully tried to thwart two hitmen by using an Egyptian accent (the discarded pizza box in the garbage can out by the road gave me away); manifested wings in one dream, because God told me to, and flew around half the country instructing the trees as to what their decorating duties would be between now and Christmas (I vaguely remember arguing for some time with an aging magnolia about her ‘holiday indifference’); rebuilt a wall in a friend’s house by using spit and cement steps; and last night, survived two tornadoes in the basement of a gnome’s castle somewhere outside Asheville, North Carolina…with my mother.

I know, I know, I’m fairly amazing. But, we knew that, already.

What bothers me the most is that in each of these dreams, to date, I always catch a glimpse of an ex of mine, standing somewhat aloofly in a corner, or behind a curtain—much like they did during our relationships—trying so very hard to “blend” in.

Something they never did seem to accomplish.  Not a one of them.

And despite my growing ability to control my dreams, to some extent, known as lucid dreaming, I seem unable to eradicate my subconscious of the impact, the impressions, they have all made on me.

It isn’t surprising I suppose that each of these dreams correlates with each of them, and interchangeably. Storms, bullets, flight, burial.  It doesn’t take a genius to align the “meaning” of a dream to one of them. But, now that I’m awake, and the house still stands (my tornado dreams are, admittedly, frighteningly vivid and believable), I’ve decided to sit down and reckon these mind-missions out.

Far be it from me not to render unto Ceasar, what is Ceasar’s.  Regardless of the messiness of what eroding relationships leave behind in the mental backwash of a breakup, it stands to reason (if for no other reason than to preserve sanity), that you take away something that is good, something that has made you a better, stronger person.

(I didn’t make that up, did I?)

So, now, I’m sitting upright in my very wonderful bed (I hold no grudges against it, though I may well be suing the pillows), and I’m forcing myself to think of what it is each of them gave to me. What did I learn from them?  (I’m hoping that by answering this question, I will exorcise their dream-demons, or if you will, their dreamons).

I’m surprised at what I’m discovering, too.

With Bill, for instance, I walked away the most heartbroken, but then again, I was 18, mindless, invincible, not a little sexy, and blessed with a razor wit. (These are not good combinations for undergraduates to possess, by the way). In addition, though, I was also desperate, and desperate people are copycats.

Copycats are, if little else, amazing listeners.

And Bill had a lot to say, which he said through music. I love jazz to this day because Bill made me listen to it. He felt it was important that an educated man in America know and understand the most Americanized form of music: jazz. Bill learned to love jazz as a child in Taiwan. Even if I’d hated it (which I do not), I would have listened to jazz all day long, just for the appreciation of that bit o’ irony.

And then came Bo. 

A true musician, a piano player, and…well, I’ll stop my description there. I was with Bo the longest.  His passion was in opera, mostly, but also a deep sense of respect for classical music, and, I’m proud to say, he’s on his way to becoming a rather famous accompanist.  His credits include the best opera houses in the country; his academic pedigree certainly allowed him great opportunity.

If it weren’t for him, for instance, I wouldn’t understand why I tear up hearing Beethoven’s Appassionata, or why I obsessively play Liszt’s The Mephisto Waltz on repeat when I have long sections of time to myself to write. Or why I can actually sit through all of Tosca. Listening attentively.

After Bo, came Brit.

With Brit, I just learned how to swallow BC powder without water.  But, in his defense, I didn’t get my headache until we were already on the road to Dismal’s Canyon. (Again, irony, but by no means, was it a repeat experience on my Do Again List).

Now before you count these up and wonder how I, of all people, ever settled for only three lovers, let me stop you by saying, “Hush.”

I was never as bad as I made myself out to be. And there were others, I just didn’t “click” with them the way I did with these three. And who even knows why I clicked with them?  Growing pains, I guess.

Certainly a learning process:  I was young, confused, I had questions that nobody wanted to answer. Trust me, I prayed for years. (Still do, by the way).

But, I had to live the best way I knew how. To take the lessons given, however hard they were taught to me, and go from there. I like that I still cry when I listen to Chopin, or Debussy; I have no shame in admitting that I will spend hours in front of the bathroom mirror (any mirror, Amanda might say), singing at the top of my lungs, along with Ella or trying my best to out-sing Tony, or Frank, or even Chet Baker (I’m a belter so the soft falsetto is a challenge); and I will take with pride, to the grave, the amount of masculinity added to my personal style now that I can shoot BC powder with a straight face. Because that stuff is awful.

And though I’m more than happy to stay single, I have, as a definite precaution, made myself sign a contract stating that I will, at the least, never again have a relationship with any man whose name begins with the letter “B.”

 You know, just to be safe…because, try as I might, I simply can’t stay awake forever.

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Well, I remember that and also this: I discovered fried green peas. They were at a small grocery store known as Jay’s, which was next to an auto plaza known as Carl’s, which was just down the road from the only restaurant for miles around, known as Hank’s.

Talk about a first-name basis.

I had to drive this last lingering distance to West Branch by myself. Pattye, whom I’d come on this trip with, was in the car ahead of me with our friend Scott, who was in Michigan directing his version of Rent, styling, modernizing it if you will.

(By the way, good job, Scott).

I’d only been to Michigan once before. I’d taken the train the last time; perhaps you’ve read my blog on that eventful trip.

I saw no dead animals, that time, though. I was rightly mesmerized that so many raccoons had come to Michigan to meet their deaths.  I tried very hard to turn them into badgers or wolverines, or a jaunty mix of both, but sadly, their markings were too obvious.

I’m not sure what I expected out of this second venture northward: pickled herring stands, brown patches of grassless lawns, perpetual Christmas. (I saw none of these, either, during my first foray to the Great Lakes State, and I must confess, I felt a little cheated. Then I remembered that Rose Nylund was from Minnesota, and forgave the whole state).

But, I was at least, on this trip, better prepared. Thanks to Al Gore’s Internet.

See, I did a little thing called research. (Which, I’ve discovered, is a lot like a drug—addictive).

Michigan is chock-full of things to see, and things to do. Did you know that among its many monikers, it is also called the Great Beer State? There’s also a large German influence in Michigan, most notably seen in the village of Frankenmuth, or as locals call it Little Bavaria. And though we didn’t get a chance to visit it, I hear Mackinac Island is well worth it. After all, Condé Nast Traveler called it “one of the top ten islands in the world.” I mean, that’s got to be a good thing, right?

In retrospect, though, I realized that Michigan is a state best seen by train. The reason? You don’t have to drive a train.

Plus, like every other state in the contiguous USA, a highway is a highway. By any other name, it becomes an interstate. Bottom line: boring.

Of course, I’m not one who appreciates driving like others.  (There are a few who do).

And like most every other state, the highways, the interstates aren’t built to take you to a place, as much as through it. Meaning? The charm of Michigan isn’t seen from I-75, or Highway 10. Though, unfortunately, its state motto doesn’t really encourage you to take the next exit ramp. I mean, what can you expect from a state whose motto boasts, “If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you.”

I had looked all about me. And all I saw were dead raccoons, which I pretended were freaks of a badger-wolverine hybrid to keep myself interested enough not to run off the road.  (Badgers, I learned later, weren’t even associated with Michigan; they belong to Wisconsin).

It was all the same to me: the north—one large, cold state.

It wasn’t until I stopped, and got out of the car, that I learned my mistake.  That I remembered where, despite landmarks and sites of interest, the true charm of any place lies: in its people.

The people of Michigan are good, honest, people who a) don’t mince words, and b) don’t mix drinks. They also like a hearty pizza.

And they are resiliently, surprisingly, hospitable. I thought that was only in Mississippi; maybe it’s an “M state thing.” Though I wouldn’t bet on Montana.

After our brief stay in Lansing—only for the night of the performance—we were invited to stay with Scott at his mother’s (Anne) house, a quaint two-story, loft-style bungalow, near Lake Houghton, I believe, and it possessed all the magic that a cabin in the woods should: tall cathedral trees, bird feeders, quiet and serene back porch, and the following morning, a breakfast that could feed the neighborhood.  In a sense it did, his mother’s best friend, who told us her grandkids call her Granma Ribs, made short work of the front door welcome mat.

The evening before, they sat in front of the fireplace and enjoyed a few cocktails while regaling us with a barrage of amusing stories about their lives, their children, the strength of commercial lubricants, and gay marriage. Pattye and I at once saw the potential for a cable-style TV program: Ms. Anne and Granma Ribs. There would be a censorship disclaimer at the start of each episode. I think, before we went to bed, we’d gotten halfway through Season 2.

It was hardly twenty minutes into their dialogue before I felt what I always hope to, when traveling. I felt at home. When you’re on the road, for any length of time, that feeling is well worth the drive.

Earlier that night, we were taken to Hank’s, the local restaurant, vis-à-vis juke joint, where we met with our first round of colorful locals. What I will say about these Michiganders is the men smile and nod a lot and the women will kiss anything that moves. You will, no doubt, draw your own conclusions, but after the dust (of hairspray and makeup) has settled, and the John Deere caps removed, you end up sitting at a table with people you know. And oddly, people you like.

I don’t think they believe in strangers, in Michigan.

Which is a good thing.  It works for us down south. So, I guess what’s good for the goose, is good for the Michigander.

After a few rounds, a pizza the size of Pittsburgh, and what I’m pretty sure was an accidental lap dance from a woman named Shelia, we called it a night, and that’s when I saw the pièce de resistance: that huge, expansive Michigan sky.

I turned to Pattye and said, “They don’t make them like anymore.”

“No,” she replied, “They really don’t.”

I’ve seen a few clear skies in my day, but clear stars? That’s rare.

Just like Michigan.

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Or over a month, whichever sounds worse.

This past weekend, though, I found myself in Biloxi, smack dab in the middle of Mississippi’s manmade coastline…and I didn’t clean up a thing.

I didn’t have to.

Now, it wasn’t entirely a planned trip. We’d been wrestling with the stress of moving, jobs, waiting, impatience, final grades, and a brief interlude of “rest,” shall we call it, before I was to begin teaching for the summer. This period lasted for two weeks.

The plan was to get away, even if it was just a day or two. The plan was originally, to visit family. Family that lives in Hattiesburg. Hattiesburg which is close to the coast. So, being that close, well…you know what they say: When in Rome, might as well drive on out to Villaggio dei Pescatori.

Rome’s not quite on the beach, itself, you see.

Of course, Biloxi’s no Rome, or Villagio dei Pescatori, but let me tell you—a very easy, relaxing, fairly inexpensive, little getaway, it is.

And that was a pleasant surprise.

I was more than ready to drop everything, should someone approach me and miraculously know that I’d registered as a Volunteer because guilt goes a long way with me, but believe it or not, there was not a drop of oil in sight along the Mississippi coastline.

Nada. Zip. Zilch. Can you believe it?

Since Katrina, it appears that they’ve finally made an effort to clean up the coast; the oil spill however threatens to put a big, shiny kink in that plan. But, it hasn’t…yet.

The Mississippi Coast is untouched and bearing its rather empty beaches to the masses in all its native glory.

Granted, the Mississippi Sound carries that age-old fishy smell, but at least it’s a natural smell. They can hardly help where the Barrier Islands were put by Mother Nature.  And on the plus side, the beaches now have real sand, deep sand, up to your ankles easy, and it is as sugared as our neighbors over in Alabama.  (Another neat fact? We walked out nearly 300 feet into the Sound and it barely grazed our thighs. I found out later that we’re one of the only natural harbors in the world where the depth between shore and islands is never more than 20 feet deep.

…oh, and before I go any further, I would be remiss if I didn’t offer apologies to K.P.  But, don’t worry! We’re going back, avec you, I promise…!)

OK. Continuing…

One of my tiny dreams has always been to visit Ship Island, and since this spur of the moment trip wasn’t all that well-planned, Amanda and I literally drove into the Harbor parking lot with less than minutes to spare.  The foghorn was blasting (it was a terrifying sound, but not nearly as terrifying as the beer-drinking family that we had to squish in beside on the boat; almost four beers each, not even ten minutes into the ride; I nicknamed the mother, Cooter Brown).

My advice? Don’t be late to the boat.  

In my mind, I expected that there’d be no people on board. I thought they might be scared to visit, considering the oil spill. I shared a moment with Amanda where we thought that might still be the case. If not in the Sound, then definitely around Ship Island.

Again, I am happy to say, I was mistaken.

And though the boat was packed to the brim, the island had plenty of room to spare.  The shores were pristine; the water on the western side was gorgeous. I mean, shockingly beautiful: a clear, jade green. We got there early that morning, before the beach was awake and aware of intruders…but Ship Island, as you know, is a preserve, and its beauty, though small, is nonetheless breathtaking for all its untouched-ness.

The sun was scorching, however; they’re not kidding about that. And once on the island, you’re there until they come back and get you. There are no houses, condos, resorts on it. Just a snack stand, some showers, and pavilion with picnic tables and restrooms, and what feels like endless beach.  With real waves. That was always a disappointment in the Sound. The barrier islands keep waves out, but out on the barrier islands, it is a very different story.

And the wildlife.  I can’t tell you how many crabs we saw while beach-combing. And I’m not talking about your typical shore crab. I’m talking about crabs that are as big as a baby’s head. They eventually got tired of the sight of us and headed out to sea, with the fish, a few of which, about arm’s length, were not afraid of me.

I think the most amazing thing we witnessed were the dolphins. They literally jumped fully out of the water and chased the boat’s wake, there and back; the ride took about 50 minutes, each way. They were impossible to photograph, sadly.  

Our five hour sun-bathing, beach excursion was over before I could blink, though I did blink quite a bit both at the brightness of the sun on the sand, and the sunscreen dripping down my face. I’ve never known so hot a sun. Or sea water: I swear, it was as warm as a bath in most places.

Before we left though, history nut that I can be, I wanted to tour the much-smaller-in-real-life-than-in-the-brochure Fort Massachusetts. It took less than ten minutes, and offered two vital things: cooler spots to rest in, and fantastic views of the whole island. In the distance, you could just spot Gulfport and Biloxi, and the towers which are the economic livelihood of the Mississippi Gulf Coast: casinos.

I know I rarely harp on and on about these types of things, and I apologize if there’s a severe lack of anticipated wit in this particular entry, but, I’ve always been pro-Mississippi, if for no other reason than a man should take pride in where he comes from. I realize there are lots of things about our history that don’t put us in the best of light (we re-thought a tour of Beauvoir, but I still wouldn’t mind seeing inside it); still, there’s an awful lot that is and should be put up under the harshest fluorescents: the continuing saga that is a our gulf coast is one of them…and not just the usual destinations of Biloxi and Gulfport. On my return trip, we’ve been invited to stay in Bay St. Louis, which I hear is just shy of being an arts-colony, with slightly more private beaches, teeming with sea oats and shallow waters. 

I can hardly wait.

Especially if Fate changes course and the oil drifts our way. (It still seems a bit inevitable, doesn’t it?)

Where we stayed was under $100 a night; we weren’t there long enough to see holes eaten in our wallets, but it was a condo, and it was by the beach…though not on it. We could have easily bought fresh shrimp (they’re still allowed to fish in the Sound) and eaten at the condo, but instead, we shelled out money for two coast-only meals: a place called Shady’s (Thai-American fusion) and the Beau Rivage buffet, famous as is.

Altogether, we spent less on this beach trip than in previous years; we typically go to Gulfshores, Alabama, where the sand and sea are generally nicer, but the food isn’t.  However, with a boat ride to the Barrier Islands (Ship Island cost $24, round-trip), and a bevy of better restaurants…I’m hard pressed not to consider an in-house trip to the Mississippi Gulf Coast an emerging better buy.

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I have never, believe me, ever been one to litter. I don’t like it. I find it tacky, low-class, and uneducated of people to throw trash along streets, highways, and front yards. I’m sure some of this has to do with the near religious obsession U.L. and I had with his own front yard, when I was growing up. The first beer can I ever saw was face-down in his bed of calla lilies, the ones that sat out near the end of the driveway.

People threw trash in the yard, all the time. It wears on you. It reeks, of refuse and disrespect.

So, I grew up hating the idea of natural beauty being marred by discarded McDonald’s bags and the occasional Budweiser can.

But, sometimes though the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, a strong wind can come along and blow it a few feet further down the orchard.

That has happened to me, recently, I’m afraid. And ever since, karma hasn’t left me alone.

Six days ago, to be exact, in some terrible lapse of personal judgment, I rolled down my window and threw my gum out of it. Just like that. Like I didn’t know any better.

Five days ago, as I was walking to my afternoon class, I stepped in a fat, fresh wad of pink-hued Bubble Yum. I am still regretting it, even though I reasoned, as you probably will, that it was no less than I deserved.

It’s gotten worse, though.

Chewing gum has now given way to my cell phone. Which I have come to hate with the burning passion of a thousand flaming suns…and not just for its proclivity for butt-dialing.

Further, I’m afraid it’s warranted.

You see, this past weekend I flat-out told my phone, to its interface, that I hated its guts. (And I do; we’ve had a torrid past as of late).

It rebelled by shutting off. Turning back on. Freezing up. Shutting off, again. Rebooting itself, and so forth.  I reached such a pinnacle of absolute disgust that I did the unthinkable: I went to the Verizon store and waited my turn.

Just me and my Blackberry Storm.

For over an hour. In the Verizon store, have I said that part?

This is the second thing I hate. Not just waiting, mind you, that’s bad enough, but waiting in the Verizon store, and let me tell you why. I have come to the conclusion that the majority of people who are Verizon customers are a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

Myself included.

When my turn to speak finally came, I’d been standing behind the woman with a hundred children, thirty-two of which she brought inside with her, I believe the other sixty-eight were in the Chevy Caprice Classic with the illegally tinted windows (something a student of mine was ticketed for, I learned, earlier this semester).  Oh, how they enjoyed the store!  I can only assume she held the largest number of private shares of stock in Verizon as her children, her little loud kiddies, were given free run of the floor. They picked up every item from car chargers to silicone phone covers and hid them elsewhere in the store, pretending they were Easter eggs (what is this residual obsession with Easter, this year?), or my favorite, as every toddler is a turncoat-in-waiting, where one child decides, suddenly, that what every other child is holding is what he/she was supposed to hold.

Thus, tears are shed. Yanked. Pulled. Slapped. Dropped. Yelled. Hollered.

And, of course, most importantly. Ignored.

I was, I swear, an inch away from scolding them, myself. But I feared that, as in most families, maternal tolerance has a threshold that only runs blood deep. Should I have intervened, they would have formed a pack mentality, and attacked me. Even though I know she had to feel the same as I did. She would punish them, accordingly, though; not me.

I could respect that, but just barely. (I’ve been with my nephews before when they were out of control, and I’m not sure I would have stopped a stranger from jerking a knot in them, personally).

After she and her mighty clan exited, I stepped up to the counter and explained my problem. Below is a transcript of this exchange.

HIM: “So, what’s the problem?”

ME: “My phone. It won’t do what I tell it to.”

HIM: “Ah, issues with the Voice Activiation?”

ME: “What?”

HIM: “The Voice Activation, it’s not responding?”

ME: “Oh, no, no, I don’t even know about that. I don’t use that.”

HIM: “Oh. Ok.”

ME: “I just mean, the phone, the whole thing isn’t working. No Internet, no—“

HIM: “Whoa. No Internet? You can’t get the Internet on it?”

ME: “Uh, no, not anymore. It stopped—“

HIM: “When did it stop?”

ME: “Day before yesterday.”

HIM: “That is not good, that is not good, not with a Storm.”

ME: “Right. Well, I need…can you fix it?”

HIM: “Oh, I bet I can. Let me see.”

He then proceeded to take the entire phone apart. We waited for five minutes. Then, he put the entire phone back together. We waited again. He turned the phone on. We waited some more.

The phone then worked. I was elated…mostly because I’ve spent a good deal of money on this stupid phone and I expect it to do what it’s made to do.

But then, along came karma.

As he said, “ ‘Cause these here, these Storms, they’re top of the line, they’re good and they need to…shoot, hold on a second, please….”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his own personal Storm (no pun intended), held it up to his ear and said, “It’s not me, I didn’t mean to call you. It’s this phone. I don’t need anything. Talk to you later.”

“Sorry,” he said, “My phone keeps dialing my Mom.”

“It’s fine,” I replied, smiling, “I know just how you feel.”

The service was free, so I left after it was fixed thinking, It’s a real shame that they don’t sell gum here.

A real shame, indeed.

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• I daisy-chained the heck out of this head cold.

That is an absolute lie.

I have no record of good days versus bad days. I just try to get through them, either way. Like the rest of the herd.

I was reared by a bona fide cynic. I got it honest. Our world view was as follows: Bad day…well, at least, it’s only got 24 hours to live. A good day…well, same deal.  So, wipe the smile off your face and a) get back to work, or b) quit slouching in the pew and sing out.

Sounds drab and pitiful, doesn’t it.

But, of course, this is what Memory does to the average, plain moments of our pasts. What I call the day-fillers. You know, those parts that at the time we live through them we don’t really give much credo to them until one day, someone reminds us of a “moment” and all of a sudden, as we sift through those “moments” searching for a thread of recognition, we notice that we’ve rolled them all into this big, cerebral, massive chunk that we’ve labeled the “good old days?”

For some reason that changed this week for me. Because I noticed that each chunk, when broken back into its respective pieces was really the life I thought I was missing. Those weren’t just days filled with aimlessness and detritus of ennui and structure.

Those day-fillers, they were, and are, the real memories. The Full Life.

And guess what? That Life, those memories, both are completely at our mercy, at the feet of each and random whim that crosses our minds.

I’ll try to unpack that a little.

I used to have such angst or dread, and worry and stress, and fear and disregard for mornings, and evenings, and work, and…you know, that crappy substance that is day-filler, those aggravations, second helpings of cake, family photo albums, funerals, boring conversations and grocery store encounters, traffic jams, looming deadlines, burnt suppers, and egg hunts we all experience but seem to forget until some fine spring morning bursts onto the scene and we spend half the day rubbernecking about the “way it was.”

Last week, I found out that before it “was,” it’s the “way it is.”

(God, this kind of cheese is better suited for a piece of toast, but work with me…I’m new at this sort of self-discovery).

Because I swear it never really occurred to me that I was like the CEO of my Conscience, and in charge of my Memories.

What a simple, yet startling revelation.

All this time, I faced each day with headache and reality-wrestling because those days were inevitable. And how on earth do you fight what can’t be changed, right?

Well, here’s how: you remind yourself that each day has more than one hour, and each hour can be its own.

This past weekend, I hit a point where I fully became aware of the approaching upheaval I not only designed and created, but invited into my life. I have no idea what all is about to happen to me, in the next few months. I’m walking away from comfort, stability, and completely throwing myself into the spotlight of a final curtain call. (Aaaaaaaaaand, scene).

But, like any natural disaster, the following day when the sun comes back up and apologizes, there’s nothing to do but the doing, left. I’m leaving home, leaving Starkville (again), leaving, period. However, this time, I’m moving with purpose (that old theatrical adage), and I’m actually going to take time to stop when it feels too heavy, too overwhelming, and smell the roses.

Or, in my case, the wisteria. (Is this making any sense? My editor is gone this week…)

In my weekend clean-up of an, as of late, neglected house, I collected many items such as clothes, trinket-things, alarm clocks, candlesticks, etc. and instead of finding some other unnecessary place to put them, decided to donate them. (In this case, to the 50-some-odd victims of the terrible Crossgates fires, out on Highway 82). And unlike a typical donation, I gave away things I still wanted, still used, and you know what, it felt great.

I wasn’t expecting that.  But…

…doing good things really works.

And I can do a little good, everyday.

I can make “good” a part of the typical routine of conducting the “business” of myself. That’s a memory I can make for myself, and I can do it right-out, upfront, on any given day, regardless of the traitorous time-stealer than any job becomes.

Whether it’s donating things, smiling back, saying thank you, wishing someone well, sending positive thoughts, or, dragging the wicker chair off the front porch and putting it under the wisteria in the front yard and reading a book. (Thus, the above comment about wisteria).

Did you know: Until this past Sunday afternoon, I had no real idea how many people walked right by my house. Amanda and I are so often too tired to appreciate the yard, after working all day (even though we plant our own vegetables and herbs and flowers, each season). It’s as if we just reserve a little energy for that one long, backbreaking Saturday and plant everything at once…to be done with it.

That’s the problem, I’ve realized.

And I have a feeling that’s about to change. Now that I’ve figured out that time really is a gift, a privilege, not a task-master.  

I had no less than six people stop to say Hello, as I sat under my wisteria, facing the magnolia (our house really couldn’t be more Southern). They had such nice things to say about the yard, though it’s in progress, and some asked what all I’d be planting this year. One man even offered to finish raking for me; I’d started that process earlier that morning. (Of course, I realized his offer was only partly in my favor).  

They all, however, gave me a deeper sense of satisfaction about the amount of time I’d spent on the yard, even though I’d done that out of guilt and responsibility. But, the way their comments settled on my mind spilled a little downward, to my heart, and I didn’t feel burdensome, anymore.

I felt invigorated.

It wasn’t a chore; it was a choice.

And that’s my motto for this spring, with its cheesiness and all. There’s a lot I can’t change, but my goodness, there’s so very very much I can. So much so, that I had to ask myself: Why the hell haven’t I been?

My answer: I hadn’t read Epictetus yet.

So, whether it’s a shovel, a gift card, a pat on the back, whistling a tune, prayer, an email, words of encouragement, or continuing to read an irregularly written blog like this one, it’s not hard to do good, for others.

Being good…well that’s a different story.

Let’s just shoot for doing good, for now, shall we?

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• You can go home again…it's just frustrating.

And I don’t just mean having to look it up in a dictionary. Since, I come before the mandatory use of home computers.

I had a personal encounter with the word.

It’s surprising, though, what one’s personal history of fads says about oneself. For me, in retrospect, my string of passing fancies was equivalent to that annoying solid beep of an emergency broadcast—“ in the event of an actual emergency, contact information will be provided.”

That second part there, that never happened.

Some of my “interests” were rather unique to me and me alone. Aside from the veritable sexual deviant scream of my addiction to jelly bracelets, in third grade, and the cheerleader-look of a Scrunchie bunched up on the top of my hip, right or left, holding a wad of a paint-splattered or tie-died T-shirt, I also went through a phase of wearing bells knotted at the end of various widths of ribbon necklaces.

Just because, I guess…

God, the praying my family must have done behind my Bugle Boy button-up back.

It got worse, though.

I wanted charms for my bracelets; I rarely left any day of the school week during the early 90s without a tight-roll to my blue jeans; and I believed with my whole heart in color coordinating my swatch watch with my slouch socks or, on fun days, with any of my enviable collection of Hypercolor shirts.

My fads were cries for help. Loud, in-your-face, gossip-creating cries. I see that now.

Granted, I never did fall for the love-you-and-leave-you lure of a fanny pack, but really, is that any consolation, considering the above-mentioned atrocities?

I suppose, looking back, one could argue that I was merely trying to bridge the brokenness in the wake of having no parental influence from either of the two people who, having come together after some football game, “worked together” in giving me life.

I think I was just secretly a greedy child. I liked attention.

Even if it came at the expense of name calling, as it did that confusing afternoon in which a young boy said something along the lines of “You’re a blah blah blah, and a something else yadda, yadda, yadda, fad.” Or, so, that’s what I thought he was referencing.

It turns out that it wasn’t.

What’s the point, here, you ask?

Last night, while channel surfing, I came across a National Geographic special on intersexed children. It’s much more of a biological occurrence than you might at first think.

I found it both difficult to watch and too engaging not to.

I think I found this to be the case because it’s such a grossly misunderstood occurrence, and not just for intersexed children—for any that are different, be it from Nature or Nurture. My heart bleeds a lot for the infirm, unfortunate, and overlooked. It doesn’t take much to get me “on your side.”

Keeping me there, though, usually involves a free meal, and/or a bottle of Marco Negri.

What disturbed me the most, though, and thus has led me to this discussion of fads, was the story I saw last night of a young seven-year-old boy who told his parents that he was supposed to be a “girl.”

Instead of arguing with him, they said, Fine, OK, you’re a girl. And, living in Japan—they’re an American  military family, no less—they have allowed their son to become their daughter. The child is happy, thoughtful, mannered, and despite the unbearable amount of verbal abuse this child has put himself through at school, seemingly well-rounded.

Perhaps that last comment has you perplexed.

I speak, though, from a place that knows. Because for many, many years of my life my whole purpose of being, my every prayer, was predicated on the off-chance I might go to sleep one night and wake up the next morning, a girl. It reached such a pinnacle of anxiety and self-hatred that two things emerged: a very, very uncomfortable confrontation involving U.L., Salathiel, the late Uncle Jerry, a young Hispanic man named Gabriel, and Uncle Jerry’s unsuspecting next-door neighbors in Pocatello, Idaho; and, an admission to myself of a real truth: I was unhappy in my own skin…and felt very alone.

I used to also pray at night for cancer, instead, because at least that could be removed. Or treated.

Nothing floats with quite the same consistency as truth. It, more than almost anything else in the world, will always rise to the surface, and when it does, it’s about as heavy as a paper plate.

The internal struggle of identity is beyond description, whether it involves the pressure to play sports when you’d rather read, or the precarious balance of being a boy when you really, truly think you’re not one.

I imagine puberty will be a living nightmare for this child.

And I know that psychiatry would argue against such parental white-flagging to what may appear as the misled whim of an adolescent. But, deeper still, is the fact that I believe we’re drawn, as early an age as two or three, perhaps, to the things that shape us. No matter what we do to hide them, pretend they’re Nothings, overlook them as valid, they are there as signposts, warnings, or words of encouragement.

How much easier it would be for all children, who struggle with identity and social placement, if we (as the proverbial outsiders, since it “always happens to someone else,” right?) just took that knowledge in stride. Fads are important barometers, but barometers aren’t meant to be alarming. They’re meant to gauge pressure.

I’m not saying fads force us into being the shape we appear to be born into. Rather, they let us know  what we’re capable of becoming; they’re indicators, decisions, options. And the only thing that has to pass…is the moment, if needed, or the awkwardness of realizing something’s not quite right, even when it doesn’t feel wrong.

Fads are an invitation to the party. They’re gifts of permission. Saying, OK, so you’re a boy who likes dolls. Well, go for it. Ride it out.  

And, though, it’s usually best done in the privacy of your own home; sometimes, you gotta go to Idaho.

I know this is just a theory, but it works…on me.  I just have to recall the things that I found myself most drawn to throughout my childhood to see that the picture I’ve painted for myself was an extremely colorful one, albeit with some really heavy lines and a little too Olan Mills.

It was a piece of art, all the same.

Fads are totems of Identity, our growth as a person.

For my cousin Mikey, in fifth grade, it was a bolo tie or bust.  While I snuck a cameo out of Tigi’s jewelry case and wore it over my breast pocket.  He had the entire Ewok Village; I had an Easy Bake. He collected Garbage Pail Kids cards; I framed the adoption papers of my two Cabbage Patch Kids. He preferred Aerosmith and Poison; I bought every single Amy Grant ever released, as a crossover pop-artist, as well as the one-hit wonder and brief tastemaker that was Karen White. He played in the mud and looked for worms to go fishing. I made mud pies and served them to the ants.

And my family, they had to know. One Christmas, Aunt Ruth gave him an envelope with money in it. To me, she gave a doll that she’d crocheted.

I guess they just assumed it was a phase.

As if.

But, now, it’s not like I didn’t do boy-things. I did. I loved to go fishing; I grew my own vegetables (still do), and on more than once occasion, I’ve aimed and shot a BB gun.

It’s just that as I got older, I was more inclined to buy acid-wash jeans that had BB bullets sewn down the leg in a swoop design. Remember those? That didn’t last for long.

I was an unavoidable totem, too tall and obvious, until the windbreaker made its debut. And everyone had one.

Thank god for the windbreaker, though.

Otherwise, I’d never know how much I didn’t want to fit in.

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• A word about lesbians…

Itawamba County’s School Board has decided to cancel the local high school’s prom because one student, a lesbian, wanted to wear a tuxedo and bring her girlfriend as her date.

Of course, the media is licking its chops, I’m sure, over this newest political deep-fried Panic Button. All the more so because it’s straight from the Heart of Dixie, also known as the Buckle of the Bible Belt. It was only a little more than a decade ago, wasn’t it?, when we were splayed across the nation’s newsrooms (again, the culprit being North Mississippi) over school prayer.

Today, it’s a gay girl and the threat of a prom.  (Though, the more serious danger, to me, would be the fact that a high school gym would be filled to the rim with acne, teenagers, and a spiked punch bowl).

I’m a bit confused, to be honest, about all of it. And what I think it boils down to isn’t really politics. It’s personalities…and the fact that change is only OK when it’s already happened; in other words, become tradition.

I grew up straddling generations: mine versus U.L.’s, who tipped his hat to Tigi’s generation which started at the end of the 19^th century. So, I’m well aware of the discrepancies between our two struggling cultures.

I’ve tried valiantly to marry these two competing frames of reference my entire life. I’ve tried to take what’s good about U.L.’s worldview and tie its thin thread of logic around the finger of my own, more liberal perspective.

Because I do not believe they are all that mutually exclusive.

No, they’re a lot more alike than we want to admit. What’s different, you see, isn’t our personal philosophies; it is Us. As individuals.

That’s why politics doesn’t work…and why it does.

Every issue that faces this country, and aside from “hurt feelings” and “recognition” (which, granted, are important in the world of politicizing), there are still far greater things to worry about, I think, than a lesbian in a tuxedo, dancing with her girlfriend.

Even if it’s in Mississippi.

Until the age of eighteen, I spent as much time in my homegrown Southern Baptist church as I did in school. I know all too well the fervor of conviction that guides the decisions most of Mississippi’s religious make.

I used to be just like them. And while there’s a lot of good in being that way, there’s an equal amount of bad in being that way. Which we ignore in the South.

And that’s the problem.

Don’t get me wrong. I believe in Jesus. But, I also believe in Red Bull. And what I mean by that is this: We are all grown-ups. We ought to know important from ridiculous. We ought to be able to distinguish between faith and fact. We ought to have no trouble recognizing progress from protest.

But, as Itawamba proves, we don’t.

What’s at stake here has nothing at all to do with “rules” or “policies.” It’s reputation that we’re worried about. It’s what people will think, what people will say about Us, about Mississippi, what they will say about our “personalities,” as a people, as southerners, and as Christians.

It’s about letting go of what we never questioned because we were afraid that if we did, we might find out that we were wrong. Or, heaven forbid, that there was more than way to answer the question. Because, like it or not, Christian or no, this young girl, this lesbian, is Mississippi, too.

I learned that lesson the hard way, myself.

When I was in college, I saw what my church friends were doing, behind closed doors. Hell, I was doing some of it myself. And I well remember a party I threw at my apartment one weekend in which, I’m certain, several people became pregnant, if not drunk, and high…and all those others things that were so, so “wrong.”

Don’t misunderstand: stupid people do stupid things, and when stupid things are done, there are consequences.

But, that’s not the same thing as morality.

It just leaves the same kind of scar.

In small doses, these friends accepted any number of “social ills” and “misfits.” Much like Jesus did, in his own day. But, there was an interesting correlation: as the number of people grew, the amount of support lessened.

For instance, no one minded that I was gay, at first. When it was just a few of us, hanging out. But, that evening, in my own apartment, when the number of those who had congregated grew into double-digits, and we were sitting around my den playing Truth or Dare, and my “truth” was brought out (because I didn’t think it was that big of a deal; it was old news to me—plus, it was MY APARTMENT), well God Above, you would have thought the world exploded.

I was mortified. I would never do anything to intentionally harm my family’s good name or embarrass myself, but I mean, for the love of God, where was all the support I’d been given, earlier?

Who was the bigger coward: Me, for facing my personality, my own struggles, or the fair-weathers, who were so worried about what “people would think” for befriending a homosexual?

This is why, in my opinion, politics will never truly work; we cannot separate ourselves from our upbringing. It’s why the majority never represents the majority. Because any majority must necessarily be incestuous, and feed on itself. It’s philosophical cannibalism.  When any given Congressman is sitting in his/her office weighing the consequences of their decisions, their upcoming votes, when he/she is all alone and searches within to find the “truth,” what do you think they rely on?

Nine out of ten times, their faith, I believe. Whatever it may be. Currently, the majority of our Congressmen are Christians.

And their internecine struggle forces us all to constantly compromise…which may work on the larger issues: democracy, health care reform, I don’t know…but it never seems to work on the smaller issues, which really aren’t, in retrospect, issues at all. They’re scapegoats.

I mean, really: the entire prom is cancelled because of a tuxedo and a lesbian? 

I can’t even remember if I went to my prom. (I did, but you get the point).

Besides, it was the after-party that needed supervision.

But, let’s stay pragmatic about it, shall we? Let’s make this a “teachable moment.” What is learned by cancelling the prom? What does the student body benefit from this decision?

I can’t think of a single, real thing.

I mean, with school prayer, an actual constitutional right was being re-addressed, that of the separation of church and state. And as much as I believe in God, Jesus, Christianity, the Works, I also recognize the importance of the Separation of Church and State. I believe in that, too.

But, what’s the lesson with this current Mississippi joke of “standing up for what we believe is right?” This cancelled prom?

All I can think of is this: If you’re going to stand up for what you believe in around here, you better make sure it’s on the right foot.

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It just fell out. You know, I was standing around, my mouth was open, and then, Boom. There it was, a whole sentence, a sentiment of ontological bent, floating around the room.

Now, I usually say things for two reasons: Either I like the way it sounds (which is a sort of philosophy in and of itself), or I’m not aware of what I’m saying (which is more often the case).

Of course, far be it from me to retract a statement. Unless it’s slander or the like. No, I’d much rather pretend I meant I knew what I was saying and argue you down. It’s part-hobby, part-the-way-I-am. It’s also how I learn.

Because if I pace myself, and you know as well as I do that Argument is a finely-drawn art, I can find my way out by digging my way further in. In other words, I find some half-baked flaw in my own self-designed debate and make a remark a la “Didn’t I say that?”

To which the response is, No, I don’t think you said that.

And then, I’m pretty sure I did, why I was say anything else? That doesn’t make any sense.

If the wine has been forgiving, so will the other person, and before you can ask for the rest of the bottle, the whole point has been forgotten, or has been turned into a “teachable moment.”

This, by the way, is a phrase too often bandied about in my family, most often used at what I’d considered an inopportune moment, as an attempt to cover over what is more likely a cry for help than education.

For instance, Wynn got his head stuck in the wrought-iron fence during Christmas (as have all of us, at some point or another, be it Christmas or a Tuesday evening) that for some unknown-1960s-esque-decorating reason lines the sunken, inner den at Nana’s house. He has a big head; we don’t affectionately refer to him as Chunk just for the hell of it.

He pulled and gawed and hollered, until finally, he figured out how to remove his head from the grip of the twisted iron.

It was, we concurred, a teachable moment for him.

This only works if it doesn’t happen a second time, though.

The other night—and this has been a month back— it was my head, not Wynn’s, stuck in a verbal bit of ironwork, also known as “chit-chat.” I was browsing around, admiring the handiwork of original artists, at an event known as First Fridays, a local venue that showcases, as you might have guessed, new and original art. I love attending and when able, purchasing some of this art. I’ve lined my walls with it.

And this was a particularly interesting First Fridays that was highlighting the work of what I assume was, by all stretch of the imagination, an “avant-garde artiste.”

Every piece of his objet d’art was rumor-worthy, trust me. There were the usual “attacks on modern society,” such as the reconfigured computer keyboard, and the smashed-out TV set hypnotizing the bowling pins carved into the shape of an armada of swans, if you will.

All clever, indeed.

He also, single-handedly, wrapped every item he possessed in newspaper (the comics, naturally), and made every person in attendance open a present, which he filmed. I ended up with catnip and a collection of CDs by artists I couldn’t have cared less about, but the idea of it, that was appealing.

Even the glass ornaments he’d personally filled with urine.

I know. Right?

I only mention this rather engaging visual (if unsettling) because it was there that this sudden burst of philosophy fell from my mouth, skipping the rim of my glass of Moscato, and thrusting itself upon the ears of those standing beneath these balls of pee with me.

“Is that so, Kris?”

“Is what so?”

“What you just said…if something’s possible, then it’s necessary?”

Tongue-in-cheek-like, I pointed to the glass ornaments of yellow liquid, “Well, it explains this, doesn’t it?”

A tight laugh.

“Yes, but not really.”

I countered, “So, what are you saying? That everything has to have a point?”

What followed was a discussion of Being tinged with Purpose, which I admit I didn’t quite follow to the “flat middle of a solid T,” but I did begin to sense a deeper truth: We just plain don’t like thinks that don’t make sense.

We are a people of Order. And I mean that quite literally.

This artist, for whatever reason, had collected his urine into glass ornaments and then hung them in degrees of yellow hue from the ceiling. From a distance, it was rather nice to look at, because it was “in an order,” a design. Once we discovered what it was in truth, then the opinion shifted and we were, at various levels, appalled, disgusted, confused, intrigued.

Without Order, we couldn’t approve because approval requires labels. And labels, if they’re good ones, don’t need explanation.

Which led to: Is there such a thing as art for art’s sake? and Do we have to “know” why?

The argument deepened, to drastic depths, which I suppose is an important facet of any conversation regarding philosophy. One doesn’t just “go around” initiating new schools of thought without hearty, healthy debate, it seems.

Not that that’s what I was trying to do.

I’d actually and honestly come up with that “what’s possible is necessary” quip as a means of encouraging myself in my upcoming move to NYC; it isn’t easy to uproot yourself at 33 and leave a good job that you’ve got under your belt—good as in salaried.

I guess it’d been wafting around my mind ever since, because, to me at the time, it sounded pretty heady and important.

But, dear god, let the lesson be learned, by all: you better think through the things you let slip on the lip. Because, that comment as a means of encouragement, Fine, it works. But, if it’s to hold its weight, it has to work in all situations. (And I don’t know, maybe it does).

I certainly had no answer, though, when asked, “So, if I murdered you, right here, right now, that’d be OK because according to you, if it’s possible, it’s necessary?”

“I can’t imagine why anyone would ever want to murder me,” I said. My head now firmly caught in its own wrought-iron.

“Yeah, but still…”he said.

I was becoming uncomfortable at this point. I saw no way out.

So instead, I did what Wynn did. I pulled (at my shirt); I gawed (which is sort of like a low, guttural murmur) and I hollered (or, in this case, I laughed, too loudly).

I looked him square in the face and said, “You’ve got to look at it from both sides, naturally.”

“What?”

I had no idea what I meant, but I continued, “…as in, it is necessary that I get some more wine, and it is also…possible.” With that, I slathered on a smile, and excused myself, heading for the Moscato.

Which was safely an entire room away…from him and the urine.

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There are quite a few branches there to be sure, of mismatched friends and who-not I’ve come to claim as family, but it starts further down, at the root, and trust me, it is one hell of a strong one.

Her name is GamVa.

Short for Grandma Virginia. Who isn’t actually my grandmother.

She’s not even really related to me. Not even a little bit. But that doesn’t make her any less “blood” in my eyes. She’s been as indelible a mark in my life as Blackburn molasses are to a sugar biscuit.

And as real as a thorn.

GamVa never had any children. Just a husband. Papa Leon. She spent several years abroad as a nurse, during World War II. I’m not sure what Papa Leon did, though, during the war. He had polio, and aside from a wry sense of humor and a very successful knack for financial planning, he did little more than drive his motorized ECV down the main street of Philadelphia (Mississippi, that is) as a way of asserting himself, I imagine.  He was also an avid collector of books.

A collection I inherited, I’m more than happy to say.

My only solid memories of him, he died in my tween years, was the green visor he wore at all times, an arguably unhealthy insistence that I read Mark Twain’s The Innocents Abroad “if nothing else, mah boy,” and his ability to hide any ignorance of a given subject, which was rare, behind a steady gaze.

He was a perfect match for GamVa, and after he passed, I melded his essence, if you will, into hers, who, in lieu of children, had U.L., Salathiel (which, by the way, is a name I didn’t have to make up), and a feist named Spanky.

On these three, she doted.

And her dotage began in full-earnest the year I turned nine.

She’d been around long before then, but after Tigi’s death, it seemed a natural move for GamVa to “assume” that place made vacant by Tigi.

Though they weren’t all that similar.

GamVa, having never had children, had little patience for them. I count it a blessing that I’d been brought up the way I had been, as I would rather have been in absentia, somewhere else in the house, reading any book I got my hands on, or pretending I was Lady Aberlin, than to be underfoot.

In retrospect, that seems to have been my saving grace. Because she always looked to me as “adult-lite.”

That’s not to say that GamVa wasn’t charming in her way. Through her, I learned the value of not just a hard-earned dollar, but what could happen with a well-placed dollar. What love she may have not naturally developed for children, she had in great, banded bundles for smart investing. And this is something she encouraged in me. She had all the patience in the world for clever conversation, stock portfolios, and bridge…which subsequently led to an obsessive habit she had of carrying several decks of cards, always, with her: stuffed in suitcases, her purses, the glove compartment (with her nerve pills), in every drawer of every room in the house.

She’s 93, today. And yes, there are days when she can’t remember what a refrigerator’s function is, or who I am, but she can, without hesitation, tell you where absolutely every deck of cards in the house has been stashed. She spends her days with U.L. and Salathiel (her boys) worrying over little more than a game of Gin Rummy or Skip-Bo and if she’s “had muh suppah yet.”

Incidentally, she eats constantly, if you don’t keep an eye on her, and half the time, makes you “go fish” in the middle of a game of spades.

I love her in an easy way, though, now, because I realized that all my life, she never placated. She never changed. She was giving, considerate, but fair and stern, and, like a human expectorant, didn’t abide by raucous behavior, filthy decorum, or laziness. That, though it may come across as a harsh representation of a woman I do truly love and deeply, is actually quite the opposite in my mind.

It is GamVa, as much as anyone else in my life, who instilled in me the absolute value of Real Character.

Here, in my small life which seemed to be continuously supplanted with rich personalities and then at such a young age, was a woman, once tall and sturdy, who had tended to the wounded as a war nurse abroad during the tumultuous 1940s when the world was against itself, who taught herself three languages, and who said what she meant, all the time.

That’s Real Character: owning the piece of ground on which you build your promise. No matter what.

This next bit won’t be the best story to make my case, but it’s the first of such cases she’s made in my life, so I’m going to share it with you.

1986. I’m nine. We’re at GamVa’s large, beautiful old house, an expansive, rollicking piece of competing architectural history, with its pillars of salt (that’s what I used to pretend they were), full of rooms no one ever used. The house is gone, now, sadly.

U.L., Miss Nickels, Salathiel, Papa Leon, GamVa, and another woman I cannot recall, are sitting in the back of the house, in an overlooked room GamVa turned into a “card-playuhs nook,” rustling cards over a green-felt table top. The edge of it was wood-lined, with cup-holders and trenches, I imagine for cards, but instead, they held thin dishes of cashews and olives and dips.

I was in the library, adjacent to this room, by myself, as I was most of my childhood…often by choice. I had been watching NOVA on PBS, one of a handful of television shows I was allowed to watch, growing up. The feist, Spanky, now long dead, was several feet away in front of the hearth, on his pillow.

Between us lay a chewed tennis ball.

I’d never really tried to like, pet, or remotely look in the direction of Spanky before.

I wish that I’d left it that way.

Instead, I chose to sprawl out on the floor, and being primed with an adolescent’s energy, plopped myself onto my stomach, in front of the television.

This proved to be a mistake.

Spanky, though fat, sprang to his jowls and shot, like a bullet, to my face, and before I could react, he had bitten me, on my bottom lip…and wouldn’t let go.

The odd thing is he wasn’t growling.

I, however, was yelling.

The room flooded with everyone except GamVa, who knowingly lingered to the last, standing framed in the doorway between the two rooms, a slight smile hanging on her mouth.

“Spaahnky.” He released his bite on her lilting calling of his name, and went back to the hearth and lay down.

U.L. was angry at the dog, but GamVa calmly said, “Noow, Larr-uh. This isn’t his fauuult. He’s a dawug. That’s what dawugs do.”

U.L. went to defend me, next.

“Ah’m not anuh angriyuh at Kris than Spaahnky. But, what we’ve loorned,” she continued, in my direction, “from this is that dawugs do what dawugs do, and people, people don’t.”

A pause, and then, “Try sittin’ in a chaiyuh.”

Heartless? Not really. Childhood-robber? Probably. I mean, what kid doesn’t like lying on the floor in front of the television? The point? Understood, loud and clear. There’s a time and place for all things, and when one of those things is where a child should sit, the answer is always in a chair.

The bite was more of shock than of pain; I needed no stitches. I certainly didn’t try to “warm up” to Spanky, after that, but I learned that afternoon that whether we realize it or not, who we become has a lot to do with where we lie.

Literally and figuratively.

See…I never told them that I’d teased the dog with that blame tennis ball, after I sprawled out on the floor. He had every right to come after me.  No, instead, I just sat in the chair and kept watching “Return of the Osprey” on NOVA, my two hands, firmly locked like a vice, across my stomach, my fingers tightly around that tennis ball, hidden beneath my knuckles.

And smiling.

Just like Gamva had been in the doorway.

Related Posts:

• Yes, Virginia, I am a vegetarian.
• Nothing but the blood: Tigi
• Five foods that made me who I am.
• I don’t have to use a walker to pump my gas.
• I’d never seen a hook rug before, mind you.