Because I, personally, like a hobby that’s a challenge. And both of these are. It is not so easy to lie, as you might think. The closer you are to someone the craftier you have to be. But, I like that. I’ve always been good at crafts, thanks to Vacation Bible School.

Ask U.L.

He’s kept every single thing I ever made at VBS, with the exception of that frightening plastic Jesus-on-the-cross-shaking-hands-with-PawPaw objet d’art I made, when I was six. I don’t blame him for that, though; it’s difficult to know how long these things should bake in the oven before they’re ready. Also, why on earth six-year-olds would be given anything, plastic or otherwise, that required an oven is nothing I can fully explain.  Anymore than I can tell you why I received an Easy Bake for my seventh birthday.

Hide your secrets. He's back.

But, U.L., like it or not, would lie to me and say, “I love it.” And, sweet man that he is, kept everything like it was a treasure…some in public, but most of them in the cedar chest, “for safekeeping.”

I don’t want to flat out say I learned how to lie from him, but I can’t deny that it was a routine part of my upbringing, under the wily auspice of “sparing someone’s feelings.”

Because that’s not lying; that’s “good manners.” When you spare someone’s feelings.

Eavesdropping is another thing, altogether.

And no, it’s not the same as gossip. Technically speaking, you’re not actively participating in the gossip itself; you’re merely hearing it. It’s more like being a human garbage can for jealous, backbiting, enviable biddies and their wayward tongues.

And, who’s going to say a garbage can is a bad idea?  People don’t want trash in their lives. That’s how I think of gossip; it’s trash you can’t wait to get rid of. That’s why I eavesdrop; I’m the trash can. If your trash includes a commentary on the “pitiful woman who forgets to put a bra on when she cuts the yard, and doesn’t cut the yard until You Know Who gets off work because they’re having an affair ,” then I’m more than happy to eat your garbage.

That kind of trash is 100% pure treasure.

But it doesn’t always come easy. That’s why I have to lie, sometimes, to be honest.

A well-placed lie encourages confidence, and once confidence is attained, you can leech right onto their tongue and pull out all number of stories, rumors, beliefs, hopes, fears…

Maybe I’m just an evil person, like my Aunt Estelle says.

But, I don’t think I am; I don’t think I’m doing anything different than anybody else does, aside from admitting it.

I lie and eavesdrop because a) it makes me feel like a spy which is something I always wanted to be, and b) Why not. Nothing quelches a bad day like a good lie and a strong arm-shelf (which I imagine one would use with which to lean on, straining to overhear what shouldn’t be overheard). Oh, and FYI: “quelch” is a word in the same category as “ginormous.”

I heard she was made of ham.

I don’t do anything damaging, per se, with the information I make-up or overhear other than use it a base for a character, or a story line, or cocktail conversations because they’re not real.

And, hey, it’s not like I haven’t been lied to or gossiped about. Heck, I’m basically an urban legend…rumors about me are so old they’re just south of being a fine cheese.

I remember two, specifically:

1)  After my Oral Interp class one afternoon I had a strange, young man (whom I’d only met briefly, and by briefly I mean that he was coming into the party as I was leaving) approach me outside of McComas Hall and tell me he was praying for me.

I was touched if a bit put-off, but I said, “Thank you. May I ask why?”

“I heard,” he mumbled, “And we think you’re brave.”

A pause.

“I’m just, I’m very sorry for your illness,” he finished.

“Oh, OK. Well, thank you.”

I mean why tell him otherwise; attention is attention, and surely to God, by now he knows…or thinks I’m a survivor. He held the door open for me, patted me on the back. Suggested I eat peanuts, which I’m assuming was a clue as to what I was suffering from…or, perhaps he was hoping I was anaphylactic and this make for an “easy out.”

The second time was a bit harsher.

I was just nineteen, as thin as three seconds and a breath of air, and completely hairless (this was at the height of my sexual identity issues and eating disorder – more on that when I’m intoxicated), and for whatever reason, I was cast against type as Captain Brackett in South Pacific. This news made its rounds throughout the campus, like a fire-sale.

Even my Spanish Instructor had something to say about it, in front of the class, which resulted in a healthy bout of laughter.

I felt horribly miscast and overwhelmed, for the second time in less than a year, but I reminded myself that even amid the horrible anticipation of my role as Big Daddy, earlier that semester, I had managed somehow to get them on their feet for an exhaustingly, well- deserved ovation…and I do say so myself.

I’d just have to do it again.

After opening night, I was hesitant to attend the reception. I treaded to the dressing room, rinsed the make-up off, pulled on my civilian attire, which had just begun to include a hat, and put my glasses back on – I would just slip away, like that, nothing to it.

I tried to tiptoe through the side lobby, but a few other actors — some of the chorus of Seabees — were also exiting through that way, and we all got stopped by this achingly sweet elderly couple, holding punch and a shared paper plate of melons and strawberries.

You can always blame a strawberry. Always.

“OH! Here they are!  Trying to sneak off! Hey! Y’all did great!  Just great…such great voices!!”

(You should note: Captain Brackett doesn’t sing).

But they thought I was part of the Chorus…so, maybe I could slip on away…

“Thank you, thank you,” we murmured.

I took a step toward the doors, when I heard: “Even that Captain did a good job, but we’re confused about it, though.”

I couldn’t resist. This was eavesdropping at its best: they didn’t know who I was, at all!

“What about?”

“Well, as many people as are on this campus, I don’t understand why they let a girl play it. But, she was very good, all the same.”

I paused, swallowed, a bit excited and angry and proud and hurt.

I took off my cap, so they could get a good, full look at my face.

“I am that girl,” I said.

The woman reached her hand out, took mine in hers, and said, “And you do a real good job, honey.”

…

Liar.

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Putting the two together does not help, because the spectrum on which they reside is of equal value. Both haunt my dreams, and continuously.

I’m hoping…against hope I would imagine since we’re entering that stage of the season where thunderstorms lurk around the farthest oak trees, down the highway, and then appear suddenly, from the limb tops…still, I’m holding out that the weather will be nice toward the end of June when I must board a plane and fly to Tacoma, Washington.

For funsies, you say?  No.

Not for funsies.

My thoughts exactly.

For competition. The community theatre I work with is taking a play to Nationals, this year, and those are being held in Tacoma, Washington.  As the director, I have no choice but to get on a plane, and fly to an airport, where I will de-board and get on another plane and fly to another airport.

I’ve already had nightmares, now, for weeks.  We won regionals back in March. We are now in June. That is like, what, more than a week, at least. That much math I can do.

Last night, though, perhaps a shimmer of calm?, I dreamed I was on a plane flying to Washington, and I was actually doing all right. Of course, there were large beds in the plane, and a high ceiling, and a bar, and it was at night, and the windows had heavy curtains that were closed, and so OK, basically, it was a house, not a plane, it was a flying house.  

Whatever, get off my back.

What’s important is that we landed, this time. In Washington. And we had to grab a taxi which was, in fact, a boat with wheels, in fact, eight of them, and it was very cold in Washington; I had no jacket, so the cab driver gave me his scarf, which I never gave back to him.  On the way to the airport, because in my dream I had apparently only flown all the way to Washington to take a taxi to yet another airport and fly right back, I got to see two moose mate.

I guess that’s the way you’d say that.

It wasn’t a real pleasure to watch, but I was rather unable to do anything about it. (Maybe make it an -ing word. I saw two moose mating).

The point is, I made the trip there and back and all was well.

But, if the sky looks like it does today, I may not get on that plane. Even though Lyle says I have to because the ticket’s already been paid for. And, money spent is a big bag of guilt. That much we all know, huh.

(Sidebar: one of my students today told me her initials were B.A.G., and that she didn’t know it was “stupid” until she got an L.L. Bean bookbag that Christmas she was in third grade and there, emblazoned on it were her initials, which, her friends quickly and readily identified as being a word that also described the thing itself. They were smart children, I guess. 

Please tell me that you’d laugh at her, too?)

I don’t know exactly when I became obsessive about bad weather. I’m not negatively affected by it, like my friend Angie, who, no matter what time of day or night it is, will call you every minute of the hour until the storm passes to make sure you’re alive, or in a basement, or a closet, so forth, and so on.

She’s as bad as U.L. Except he calls every minute of the hour, everyday, regardless.

But, at some point, in my tender years, which I should tell you only came to their end last month, I began to hoard, in my subconscious, some irrational attachment to severe weather. The worse the weather, the greater my fear and enjoyment of that fear, I can’t explain it, but it’s that feeling that makes my groin tickle, in a good way. I was a man born in crisis, so I suppose I have an affinity for it.

Never know where you'll find a promise.

Amanda often says what I’ve heard U.L. say before: there’s a safety in the sense of having something happen that is so much larger than we are. To be made to feel small is an equalizer, a reminder that we’re more alike than not. Despite the fact that I heard a sermon once which indicated that we bring destruction on ourselves. I heard that sermon, no lie, at least three times, in the immediate wake of Katrina. I was embarrassed and upset, I couldn’t accept that anyone would believe that.

I mean, I feel pretty sure God said He was going to stop doing that to people.

What I mean to say is after great tragedy, comes the simple reminder that wealth, age, race, gender, status, none of it holds back the Hem of Fate. It drapes without consideration.

As much as I dream about flying and crashing and all the anxieties that come with air travel…I also dream, and a great deal more, of tornados. Specifically, tornados. Out of all the bad weather phenomena.

They’re not on my list of phobias like being struck by lightning (which comes I think from wearing metal rims on my glasses all these years), or ingesting glass (I blame GamVa for this – she gave me a book, when I was very young, about the Roman Emperors and How They Dealt With Their Foes. In particular, the story of Elagabalus and his feeding ground glass to his “invited guests,” i.e. his competitors, really seems to have stuck. To this day, if I’m in the kitchen and cooking and I drop a jar, a plate, anything, and it shatters, the entire kitchen must be put on lockdown and cleaned, glass or not. FYI: I will not drink from a chipped glass, either).

No, tornados are just wild. A fascination, not a phobia. A fear, not a fault.

But, why I dream about them is anybody’s guess.

Mississippi isn’t in Tornado Alley, but we get our fair share of them. I think they probably cause more damage in our state, per capita, than elsewhere. I’m not sure, but for some reason, I’ve grown up in awe of their beautiful devastation. They remind me a little of family reunions…except you’d have to share the basement.

Amanda sent me an email awhile back describing the “meaning,” or “implication” of my dream motifs. Along with tornados, I tend to dream about shoes and feet, a good deal, and almost nightly, about teeth. I was intrigued by the “meanings” these habitual images portray in my dreams, but also, a little exhausted by it. 

Here, read for yourself about tornados:

Tornados
To see a tornado in your dream, suggests that you are experiencing some extreme emotional outbursts and temper tantrums. Is there a situation or relationship in your life that may be potentially destructive? To dream that you are in a tornado, signifies that you are feeling overwhelmed and out of control. You will be met with a series of disappointments for the next week or so. Your plans will be filled with complications. To see several tornadoes in your dream, represent people around you who are prone to violent outbursts and shifting mood swings. It may also symbolize a volatile situation or relationship.

 That’s hardly conducive to a good night’s sleep.

You only got two options.

And yet, I wait, in anticipation, to go to sleep each night…mostly, I should be honest here, because I can’t wait to see where my dreams will take me. I do curl up with some trepidation, as I certainly don’t want to get caught in a nightmare. Last night, for instance, was a close call. I’ve only had a few lucid dreams in my lifetime. So, it’s a risk.

But, as I sit here typing, I hear a soft peal of thunder in the background, and in that bizarre way that bad weather has over me, I feel comfortable knowing that if danger is stinging the edges of these clouds, I’m as helpless as anyone else to it, and so, why worry.

No, instead, I’m thinking to myself: I might as well take a nap – what happens is going to happen, either way. So, if you’ll excuse me…I need to brush my teeth and settle into the couch…because I’ve got a tornado to catch.

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