Remembering

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January 16, 2012 in Listening, Remembering by Colleen | 1 comment

When I was a sophomore in high school, I camped out for U2 tickets with my friend Dionne and a boy named Ed, a boy I had never previously met, a friend of a friend, who had a camper, and was as eager for good seats as we were. We met at my house the night before, a Sunday, I think, and parked next to the Peaches Records and Tapes on 72nd and Federal. We didn’t sleep a wink, both out of excitement and fear – the neighborhood being slightly sketchy, listening to U2 in the dark, tape after glorious tape, while we spoke reverently, and in hushed tones, on every manner of subject related to the band.

We got our tickets after they made the horde that assembled by morning all cross the street then run back, P.E. style. Ms. Schenk would have been proud. The effort paid off, and we got floor seats! We congratulated ourselves on a job well done, bid adieu to Ed, only to see him one more time at the show, wearing a green plastic visor with flashing lights, ensuring he’d be caught on camera while they filmed Rattle & Hum.  Though I don’t remember if he was.  It’s been a long time.

Dionne and I went back to her house, skipping school (with our parents permission – we were good girls with excellent negotiating skills), and, in hindsight, made an entirely appropriate decision to watch The Gods Must Be Crazy. For just as a Coke bottle falling from the sky is crazy, so would be the notion of camping with a stranger for tickets to hear music rather than obtain food or something life sustaining. We humans, and in particular, teenage music fans, are a funny lot.

Thanks be to the digital age, we can now buy tickets from the comfort of home or a wi-fi hot spot, with the help of a credit card and swift fingers. I learned this firsthand on Saturday, after deciding that seeing Radiohead, live and in person, is something I must do before I die.

Truth be told, I am rather surprised at myself. I never thought I’d go to a show like this again, generally preferring small venues over being jostled and lost in a crowd, no, a sea of humanity.  But being that they are in my top three bands of all time (How very high school of me!), the bullet was bit and seats procured, though for five times what I paid for a show back in the day. Ouch! It’s a different world.  Now where is Kadeem Hardison?  Maybe he can come with me if the hubster can’t…

I would be remiss if I failed to mention the instigator of my great love of music, my dad, Jim.  Growing up, he played record after record from a collection of hundreds, introducing me to a very wide world, and for which I am eternally grateful.  Thank you Daddy, and Happy Birthday!

For Keith

November 16, 2011 in Remembering by Colleen | Permalink

In seventh grade, I liked you, and we hung out at the Harvest Festival.  You took a jab at me, “Muscle weighs more than fat, you know.”  But then you offered me your coat when I was cold, that shiny red satin with Arvada emblazoned on the back and your name stitched on the front.  My heart soared, and our friendship was sealed.

Later and always, we would talk The Rolling Stones, dreaming of going to concerts, singing all the lyrics we could remember, and you doing your best Mick Jagger.  The Stones are playing as I type this, “Take me to the station and put me on a train…”  And my heart aches to think you won’t be passing this way again.

Another time, I sat in the front of Mark Carpenter’s old and lovely Mustang, discussing baseball and the fuel efficiency of speed limits while you fooled around in the back with a friend.  She would break your heart a little and in that break mine.  You deserved better.

Then, best of all, in college we ran into each other on the street in downtown Denver, sunshine and not a cloud in the sky.  The timing was right, and we spent the hours before sunset strolling the streets, laughing, talking, reminiscing, and dreaming before disappearing from each other’s lives.

I am grateful for that day and the other remembered bits, too, your sweet smile, that way you shuffled your feet, your fine penmanship, that rock star autograph, and your mad math skills.  The worst bit?  That I never told you, but hope you knew somewhere in your heart, all the same.  The Salt of the Earth you were.  May you find Satisfaction and Shelter in the sweet hereafter.

So Much to Say!

October 21, 2011 in Celebrating, Eating, Remembering by Colleen | Permalink

Seriously, if I spoke all of this week’s typed words aloud, my throat would hurt.  Actually, my throat does kind of hurt.  The lovely Maren, my Arts & Letters partner in crime, is in town and we’ve been having fun adventures and yakking it up, though not a single word about A&L.  How funny is that?  Our conversations take place everywhere but there.  Yakkety-yak and a jolly good time.

Speaking of jolly good times, the hubster and I spent Tuesday evening at the Willamette Week’s Secret Supper for Restaurant of the Year, Podnah’s Pit.  It’s a beyond delicious barbecue joint in a beautiful space in Northeast.  I must admit I was a tad disappointed with the choice because it is somewhere I’ve eaten numerous times and kind of wanted a new experience.  However, both of the other restaurants local eaters love and felt more deserving of the honor, St. Jack and Little Bird, are places the hubster and I have enjoyed equally stellar meals. So, no matter what, it would have been a repeat for us.  What are you gonna do?

That being said, it didn’t make it any less fun or crazy delicious.  We were lucky to be sandwiched between some really nice people, software developers and non-profiters on one side and psychiatrist wine makers on the other.  I know – interesting combination! The wine, beer, and conversation flowed, majorly (Not a word?  Really?) so, and we chatted like high schoolers in the cafeteria while digging into a meal that can only be described as epic and bordering on the hedonistic.

There was wedge salad with creamy chunky blue cheese, corn bread, mac and cheese, collards (the only item I didn’t like – I want beans with my BBQ, not limp greens!), brisket, prime rib, pulled pork, and ribs, which maybe doesn’t sound like a lot when in small portions (or if you’re a linebacker), but the plate was absolutely piled with food.  We had to get strategic so as to keep everything on the plate and still eat.  I ate all I could and felt full and belchy (classy!) until the end of Last Call with Carson Daly, which, just in case you aren’t in the know, is over at 2:35 in the AM.  That’s a meal and a half, my friends.

The photo is what we took home, the heaviest to go box of our lives: lunch and dinner for the hubster on Wednesday, a late morning snack for me, and lunch again for the hubster on Thursday.  Like I said, epic.

Part of the magic of the evening was that we knew not a soul, yet felt wholly at home with our table mates.  Portland is chockablock with neat-o people.  I love you, Stumptown.  We also had a small world moment when I discovered that one of the psychiatrists at the table (for my family – think half Joe, half Bush 43 wearing Daddy’s cowboy hat!) practices in the same building as a doctor I saw years ago.  What are the chances?

Sadly, however, Dr. Newton died just two weeks ago.  It came as quite a shock, and my heart ached at the news.  Here was this guy who helped me through a very dark period, a psychiatrist without feeling like one.  He talked about the outdoors and visiting Yosemite and getting sun in winter.  We talked about everything, big things, but mostly little things, triggers, and ways to overcome them.  Minor shifts in perspective that created great breakthroughs in my overall wellbeing.  “Instead of thinking that roadkill is dead, think of it as sleeping, forever.  Oh look, that squirrel is sleeping!”  He was the first psychiatrist to make me laugh (squirrel!) and truly help me see that I was okay and needn’t take drugs to feel better or worry so much or bury myself in guilt or doubt.  I was and would be fine.  And I am with much thanks to you, Dr. Newton.  Peace to you in the sweet hereafter.

Let’s just keep the love going a moment – thanks to you ALL for reading and being my friends.  Big hug!

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Lessons in Taxidermy

September 14, 2011 in Reading, Remembering, Spotlighting by Colleen | 1 comment

Dazzling and terrifying.  These are the words that echo over and over again in response to both the text and its author, Bee Lavender.  Goll-ee.  I remember seeing this book somewhere, maybe at Powell’s after it first came out in 2005, and being really intrigued by the cover, especially that shade of blue ink.  It reminds me of the mimeographs of elementary school and our secretary, I’m pretty sure she was called Mrs. Price (tall {or maybe just to a child under age eleven}, thin, and perfectly coiffed every day of my entire Thomson Elementary career, a variation on what Jackie O. would have looked like if she took the job), turning the crank on that blue barrel shaped machine, and making the most positively pleasant sound.  Then there was the paper immediately after, cool, slightly damp and smelling, in the most heavenly way, of whatever chemical rendered it all possible.  I’m sure it was all quite toxic and part of the reason I am the nutter butter I am today.  That said, I still loved it.

And this gem of a book, to which I am returning.  I didn’t read it then and specifically remember not wanting to.  Knee deep in the throes of endometriosis (my condition is not even a word in my lousy dictionary/spell checker {I did NOT mean endomorphism!} – that so many women suffer from such a horrible disease and it doesn’t even register as a “real” word is beyond annoying), the thought of taking on someone else’s physical pain, even via a book, was out of the question.

Were it not for Facebook, I probably wouldn’t have given it another thought.  Then Byron, a friend from my elementary school days (I’ll bet he remembers Mrs. Price, too), found me and, as I discovered from a link posted on his wall, just so happens to be married to the author.  So there you go, a message from the universe that I might enjoy what his wife has to say.

Boy, did I ever.  Bee Lavender writes about life, growing up in the outskirts of society in a place at once tender and violent, and her body being riddled by cancer after cancer, illness after illness, tragedy after tragedy, from the ripe age of twelve.

Her life is a steady succession of shocks, and though there is ample reason to feel pity for her, a teen mother, a body that will never be cancer-free, more surgeries and procedures than I can even fathom, it is certainly not her aim.  Quite to the contrary, she is the type of woman who has taken her lot, for better or worse, and seen it as greater than the sum of its parts, far, far greater.  She understands the repetition of life, the ceaseless cycles, and is ever more keenly aware of death and our proximity to it, at any given moment.

Yet, she’s hardly been afraid to live or exert her power.  She travels, dances, and drives the countryside.  She is fun and funny.  She cannot be contained.  She speaks her mind.  She shares wholeheartedly.  Dazzling and terrifying and absolutely worth reading.  In a single sitting– I nearly forgot to mention that.  I couldn’t put it down.

Ten Years Gone

September 11, 2011 in Loving, Remembering by Colleen | 1 comment

 

The hubster and I were on vacation on September 11th, waking up at a bed and breakfast in Anacortes, Washington.  There was no television, so we were half-listening to a Canadian radio station (in French) as we chatted happily about our plans for the week, glad we had decided to visit this remote place instead of our first plan to visit New York City.  In between our talking, I remember thinking that the radio hosts were getting pretty worked up about some sort of hypothetical terrorist attack.  Then they started talking faster, and, for me, a bit incomprehensibly before saying, “Oh mon dieu!  Mon dieu!”  At that point, I knew it wasn’t a hypothetical situation and told the hubster we better search the dial for something in English.  Then we knew.  The “mon dieus” were the first tower collapsing and our world changing.

We went to breakfast and the truth of the morning hovered like a pall, affecting everyone with its ripples of darkness, and occasionally letting in more light.  At first, it was quiet, guests eating in disbelief and wonder.  Soon, however, another couple arrived, angry and ready to bear arms against any and all who disagreed with their brand of thinking.  All while I ate my sausage and eggs.  I decided I didn’t like B&B’s anymore.

Then there was the question of travel.  We were  meant to take the ferry to Orcas Island later in the morning, but there were serious doubts it would be running.  At that point, no one knew what other modes of travel would be hijacked or sabotaged.  It was such an awful, conflicted feeling.  “I want my vacation to go on, despite the world crashing down.”  And then, just like that, it did.  We loaded our car onto the ferry and chugged along the water, admiring the views of land and sea under a bright blue sky, all the while feeling rather heavy and sad.

We arrived and did all the normal activities one expects, getting a little lost before gaining our bearings, shopping for groceries and at the touristy shops, eating the pure goodness of a lemon-slice pie at a cute-as-can-be restaurant, walking, hiking, reading, star-gazing.  We were lucky and knew it, heart and soul.

Most striking were the absences.  So many of my memories are like films, a Super 8 reel peppered with soundtracks of voices, laughter, music, animals, passing trains, planes, and automobiles.  This would not be the case, here, in this place, for there was a dearth of sound.  Hardly anyone spoke, anywhere, save to convey essential information.  Then there was the house.  It lay just a few hundred yards from the end of the road, a beautiful, contemplative spot, surrounded by gardens, a view of the water, and still more quiet.  There were no trains, certainly no planes, and not a single automobile sound penetrated the woods.  What’s more, there was no television or newspaper, absolutely no image of the tragedy that occurred.  So in my normally vivid imagination, when I thought about what happened, there was a distinct blackness and the occasional radio voice to fill the void.

Ten years gone.  Has it really been so long?  Now there are pictures, horrible and terrifying, and sounds equally so, and a change in perspective with the fluidity of time.  Before, the only loss was of my naiveté.  Now, my brother is a firefighter, living and breathing, yet he is every single one who died that day.  The shy smile, the tilt of the head, the conviction to move forward before all was lost and we had to start anew, every single day.

 

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