The Great Unpleasantness

When Hurricane Irma came barreling through town, there was the usual panic. People left a week ahead of time and bought up all the gas and water jugs they could find... and then went for a day at the beach. As you know, Irma was a slow moving storm. It took ages to get here and in some ways that made it less scary. I say that as someone who wasn't having to prepare for the disastrous version that hit so many south of here. I feel awful about what Irma has done. There are lots of terrible things in life but as a homebody, losing my house and safety bubble is one of the most heartbreaking things. That's their home. Imagine having a beautiful, laughter filled home on a Tuesday and by Friday you live in a crowded shelter with just what you could carry. I can't really imagine that.

Now that I've said that, forgive me for telling you what a great day we had when Irma passed through. We had knee-deep water in the back yard. That's a first at the Union house. 

 After all the hijinks, splashing, laughing, and kayaking in the back yard, we came inside and played board games and Pig, ate leftover birthday cake, and then all got very sleepy. The rain stopped around four o'clock and the guys went home.

And then we woke up the next morning...

We stood in the yard hooting and laughing white we watched the dock in the storm. The whole thing from end to end was lifting and pitching and snaking through the water. It was very interesting to watch and I felt much less heartbroken about losing this one as it now feels like a very possible occurrence, much less unthinkable than before. Dad was a trooper too and laughed at the irony and the wasted money and time. 

Maybe this go-round I'll be able to have the Grand Reopening Celebration I was hoping for. 

Mini-quiche here we come!

Dreams

Lately I’ve been having the sort of dreams that I imagine a six-year-old girl would have. Dreams about ice cream, baskets of puppies, and finding money. I also dreamt of a shopping spree in West Elm but the wonders of that store typically aren’t discovered until one’s early twenties. I woke up very embarrassed that I really had that dream.

Regardless, this is a refreshing change from my standard selection of dreams, which rotate between plots of being chased and hunted all within a theme focused on murder or dismemberment. I’ve always had gruesome dreams. I remember Ari once suggesting a Freudian-esque study be done on me. “You’re such a happy person.” she told sixteen year old Lu, “It’s strange you have such violent dreams.”

I have a number of reoccurring dreams. I’ll tell you about them.

1) I’m running from someone (who’s going to kill me) except that my legs are weighted down so I run in slow motion while everyone else is galloping towards me at full speed.

2) I get picked up and carried off somewhere (to be killed) and when I scream no sound comes out so no one comes to save me and

3) I often dream that my teeth fall out.

This post is getting animal themed photos. This is my dog park pal, Mac

BUT the most exciting dream involves playing a rousing game of Hide and Seek with a gaggle of British Red Coats from the Revolutionary War. Though my dream is set in modern America, they insist on wearing their historical costumes and operating on the lackadaisical rules and regulations of their outdated era. I’ve had this dream about twice each year for the last seventeen years. I can pinpoint this dream to the year 2000. I was ten years old and watched The Patriot for the first time. Shortly after was the debut of the Red Coat Dream.

The first few years were the most stressful. You see there is a catch to this game of Hide and Seek, which is precisely what makes it fall under the category of Bad Dreams. The rules are simple. I hide and eight Red Coats come looking for me. The game takes place entirely within my childhood home and you cannot hide outside. I must hide separately from my parents and sister and I cannot hide in the same spot I hid in the last time I had the dream. When I’m awake I usually can’t remember where I hid last but my brain stores it away and reminds me just in time to go find a new spot before they kick down the front door.

Now, the Bad Dream part, if the Red Coats find me, they stab me through the stomach with their bayonets. Right now the score is about 50/50 but I wake up in terror 100% of the time. As the years have passed, I’ve formed a one sided kinship with the Red Coats, who seem to give me a little more time each year to find a good spot to hide. Just moments into the beginning of this dream, before the start whistle is blown, if you will, one of my layers of subconscious always goes, “Aww crap, it’s the Red Coat dream!” and then multiple subconscious layers grumble and grunt while a few go very tense and one of them runs off to go ask my brain where we hid last year.

My most conscious subconscious then works to keep me calm. I encourage myself, remind myself of the successful outcomes we’ve had in the past, and also point out that the Red Coats probably look forward to this dream as little as I do. I also standby to wake myself up if things get too scary. I’ve gotten very good at realizing I’m dreaming and telling me to wake the crap up. During less stressful versions of the Red Coat Dream I consider chuckling at those silly fellas when they barrel right past my newest ingenious hiding place. While I’m hiding, I can hear an argument of subconscious-es. Some of them are very aware that I’m dreaming but others still take the job very seriously as it has dire outcomes if I choose not to participate. Sometimes, if I feel really good about my hiding place, I tell the subconscious that wants to wake me up to “Shut up!” so I can see if they’ll really find me. “I wanna see if I’ll make it!” I tell my unconscious conscience.

I’ve told my family of the horrors of my dreams and they only seem confused and unconcerned and then tell me about the wacky, fun ones they have. All of them have had The Flying Dream; a delightful experience where they lift off into the air and have the sensation of flying.

“You can really feel it!” they tell me, their faces full of joy.

“I got to fly over Charleston Harbor!” Dad told me with childlike enthusiasm. Mom has had the flying dream a gaggle of times and even Ellen, Ellen, has gotten to soar over open ocean. For years they’ve regaled tales of the weightless freedom they feel in the Flying Dream and for years I’ve longed to be free from my subconscious terrors and float into the sky, spread my arms, and feel the wind on my cheeks.

And then one night, while I was running with weighted legs from a man in trench coat, I lifted off of the ground. My legs kept running forward though no street was beneath them. The farther they ran the higher I lifted and then a gust of wind blew me forwards and I lay on my stomach in the air. I soared over my parents house, along the length of my favorite dock, and out over Charleston Harbor. It was a thrilling sensation, so thrilling that one of my pesky conscious subconsciouses shouted “It’s the Flying Dream!” so loudly that I woke up instantly.  That marks the angriest I’ve ever been with myself.

A month ago, I dreamt a new dream. I was driving too quickly around a corner in Mt. Pleasant (my subconscious knew that I was heading to TJ Maxx but that’s not a pertinent detail) and I crashed my car into a wall. Moments before, when I lost control of the car, I knew I would hit this wall and subsequently, kick the bucket. Knowing this, in my dream I calmly said, “God, please take me.” and in that moment my car hit the wall and I crashed through the windshield and over a ledge.

The interesting thing is that it wasn’t scary and it didn’t hurt. It was very quiet and I moved through the air silently, very awake, just waiting for the next thing to happen. Once over the ledge, I dropped very slowly. I floated downward like a piece of paper falls to the ground and while I drifted, I had the most intense feelings of joy and excitement. I knew God had something really great coming. It was so simple. My soul left my body on Earth and just went right on to the next thing. I didn’t miss my life here, I knew I loved my family, and I knew I’d see them so soon and couldn’t wait for them to get here. It was the most wonderful feeling of peace.

BUT, this can’t be a Laura dream unless it has a disappointing ending so, as I basked in peaceful hope and readied myself for heaven and unfathomable greatness, God played a cruel joke on me and had me wake up in a hospital bed, having survived the crash, and therefore subjected to more harsh years on Earth fighting over sale items at TJ Maxx.

I woke up from this dream somewhat concerned that I had “died” in my sleep and also very excited to die one day. Maybe I had that dream because God wanted to tell me to stop worrying so much, to remind me that he’s got me and that this life is temporary. We have so much more to look forward to.

I’ve also been thinking about the idea that we are souls within bodies instead of one whole entity. Imagine an army of souls and that we’re all similar but with different gifts and God picks us up by our wispy heads and dangles us over a few different body options and then plops us down into the one he likes best for us. When you think of it that way, it’s amusing to point and laugh at all the different shapes we have to work with.

“Haha! Look at the knees on that body!” we could sneer.

“God gave me a body with no hair and a bum leg!” one might complain.

“Haha!” all the souls would chuckle. “How’s God expect you to work with that?”

I’d never thought of my body and face and hands merely as a mode of transportation and productivity for my soul. Our bodies are what we identify ourselves with. We could probably pick our lips and feet and shoulders out of a line-up of body parts and fondly or shamefully claim them as the ones that were assigned to us. And it’s true I suppose. I’ll live in this body until it gives out one day, like the battery in a remote control Tonka truck.

Then I thought of our bodies as listings on a heavenly MLS and everyone we see walking around is currently being rented.

“John lives in there, Susan’s renting that one, and last I heard Dan had to take his to a hospital for a tune up but they patched the leak and he’s dong fine.” Unborn babies in bellies are contingent condo listings and hospice care is collection of foreclosed homes. 

This thought made me laugh.

Because I'm simple.

Labor Day

For labor day I ventured six hours up the country up to a little town called Bracey, Virginia with my favorite fellas to stay at Hayden’s Family Lake house with them for the long weekend. The lake house has been the site of Hayden’s family get-togethers for more than twenty years. Hayden is the oldest of four boys and all but one brother was present with his sweet folks and a brother’s brand new wife, making a group of nine of us lazing around on the cozy sofas and basking the sun on the deck like a family of lizards. I really loved this place. It was Honbon-ish but in a camp for little boys kind of way. We played games all weekend. Not just board games and charades but sports and physical exertion kind of games. I fancy myself one of the guys most of the time. It is likely that none of the guys see me this way but I ignore this and pretend that I’m an especially cool girl that can keep up with guy-humor and shock men folk with unexpected comments from such a ladylike package. In reality I’m a whiny, unathletic, and lazy member of the friend group and I keep them all updated on girlish woes and the wedding industry. Who wouldn’t want that around? 

So when we got to the lake and they had two games of ping-pong simultaneously starting in different wings of the house before I had even set my bags down, I realized I would be no match for this kind of weekend. They swam and Wakeboarded. They threw Frisbees, whiffleballs, and footballs. There was Badminton, Cornhole, Spikeball, and Golf. We played ping-pong, video games, dominos, and a plethora of other mystery games. Also, we shot guns at cans.

We read books, swung in hammocks, napped in chairs, sunbathed, snacked, and told stories. I briefly partook in most of these activities and am proud to inform you that it turns out I’m good at Badminton and I hit my target every time I fired a gun. They called me Annie O and I beamed with pride. Everyone rotated cooking meals and collectively we ate 5 pounds of bacon in three days. The bacon and coffee morning combo made Erik and me feel sick.  

When the guys scampered off to do things that would result in personal injury, I stayed back at the house with Hayden’s Mom and asked her all about life raising four boys. She just looked at me a bugged her eyes out. We were great friends after that.

I reckon I met Hayden 5 or 6 years ago. He was hosting trivia at a pub downtown. He was matter of fact and polite so I assumed he must be a put-together professional type but that tickles me now. Hayden is very professional and polite but he’s also very similar to enthusiastic children on a playground during lunch hour. He’s a full throttle fella and it took time to learn to read him. I asked his Mom about him and she lazily rolled her head back and said, “I don’t know why he’s like that.” She said the boys get progressively more lackadaisical as you go down. Hayden the first, is a finance guy. Kevin, the last, works on a farm and sleeps in a tent. One of them is an old soul and the other calls Mom often, just to chat. She said at some point she just threw her hands up and let those boys wander off and hoped they came home without injuries. “You just can’t control that!” she declared, possibly hoping to defend her seemingly unconcerned mentality. I thought she was perfect.

We played more games, ate more bacon, and stayed up late chatting while Kevin strummed his guitar. We celebrated Hayden's 32nd birthday with two cakes, two pies, half a cheesecake, and a box of cookies. It felt like Hayden's 8th birthday, with all those toys and bug bites around. I wished I could stay forever. 

Our drive home was much quieter than the one going up. Brett drove almost wordlessly, stopping only once for some Labor Day traffic. I tried to boost morale with incessant chatting about all of my personal problems and the ways in which I think life could be better. They shut me up quickly and instead we told a story, line by line going in a circle around the car and it had us all in stitches. 

It's the simple things.

One Day As Will Hon

Shortly after returning from our big venture, Mom, Dad, and I made the trip to Goode, Virginia for an express HonUnion visit but without Will and Katie and also under the circumstances of “short notice” and “just for two days.” For that reason I will not give this post a “Honbons: And Other…” type title that you have gotten used to after a more lengthy HonUnion.

This HonUnion was different. There was less goofing around and more business on this visit. We all had things going on outside of the dream bubble you sink into so easily on the Hon Farm. We talked big changes, new plans, life questions, business meetings, and we chased a couple refrigerators around the house in such a way that we tore up four rooms in the process. But more on that later.

We arrived in the afternoon and hugged those Hons the special way that only they hug. They hug with purpose. We came barreling in with our groceries and suitcases and while we all filed into the kitchen, I noticed their wigs in the next room, sitting on the back of a chair, ready at moments notice. I smiled fondly at those wigs.

We ate dinner out that night and came home to eat sweets and slump and talk with each other. Laurie had prepared homemade ice-cream sandwiches that Don preferred to eat disassembled. We talked and laughed and my parents got sleepy before we’d even mentioned a round of Shanghai. As we prepared for bed and said our goodnights, Laurie said, “You’ll be in Will’s room tonight.” and I grabbed my little bag and headed up the stairs. I’ve always stayed in Tripp’s room on our Hon visits. Tripp’s room is a “shrine to Western Culture” while Will’s focuses more on “American Sports.” I like the cozy warm colors in Tripp’s room and the lamp on his bedside table. But the best part of Tripp’s room is the view. It’s in the back of the house and looks out at the hills and the barn and the big Virginia sky.

I wondered why Laurie had changed my quarters. I noticed Tripp’s door was closed. “What’s going on in there?” I wondered as I rounded the banister and walked down the hall to Will’s room. I pushed open his door and found this waiting for me.

I got ready for bed via the Wilhelmina lamp. I never turned any real lights on and just clicked that one off before bed. It wasn’t until morning, when I lifted the shades that I got a good look at Will’s room. I thought about all the different kinds of mornings Will woke up for in that room and what he barreled out into when he went downstairs for the day. I realized I was living a day as Will Hon. I was laying there all excited to go downstairs and talk with my parents (I mean, Don and Laurie). What would we do today? What would we eat? What sorts of undecipherable wisdom will Don bestow on me today?

So I will recount for you, our one full day in Goode through the eyes of Will Hon, played by Big Lu.

 * * *

I woke up early, lifted the shades and flopped back down into the pillows. I took a deep breath and stretched my toes out past the end of the bed. I rolled over and admired my football jersey hanging on the wall by the closet. “The good years.” (I imagine he would mutter.) And thought about the time that one guy really messed up our play and Coach got so mad he…

I heard Mom close her door and tiptoe down the stairs so I got up, put on a sweater, (That was me. I was cold.), and jumped down the stairs to say good morning. She smiled so brightly at me when I rounded the corner and she hugged me and asked me how I slept. “I’ve made some coffee,” she told me, “and there’s cold brew if you’d rather have that.” And then Mom scampered off to feed the dogs. I grabbed a special mug from the cabinet by the microwave. It’s a staunchly confederate mug that Tripp and I bought for Dad one year. The mug boasts about Robert E. Lee and about a month later I would think of this mug after hearing about the events that took place in Charlottesville. I took my unintentionally racist coffee onto the porch where I threw a tennis ball for Doc and then settled into a big chair to look at the view. It was chilly out and when Mom came out with her coffee she laughed, turned right around, and then reappeared with a blanket for me. Mom’s just lovely that way. (Will would need a blanket, right?) We weren’t there ten minutes before Mr. Chris came stomping out onto the porch in his pajamas, one eye still closed and his hair standing in every direction. We talked business and strategy and Mr. Chris laughed loudly at his own comments. Dad came out next, dressed and ready for the day before any of us. He and Mom sat on the swing chatting with Chris and tossing balls for Doc over and over again. Mrs. Nancy came out last, still in her pajamas but had put on “half her face.” She joined us on the porch and Mom ran to get her a blanket too. “You Sandlappers and your thin blood” my parents said to the Unions.

We had a big day ahead of us. Our refrigerator crapped out the day before the Unions arrived. We’d survived so far on non-perishables and whatever Mom could stuff in the basement cooler. We searched local retailers for the perfect fridge but we had height restrictions to abide by so it made the search tricky. After while, Dad and Chris headed out to go make a sale. Us girls (I mean, the women and I) stayed behind to get dressed and have a lazy morning. I went back up to my room to get my toothbrush. While I was in the bathroom I read the Recipe for Happiness and while I brushed my teeth I learned about The Life of the Fool Proper. I wondered how many times I’ve read these. Then I got dressed and I looked at myself in the mirror and said, “Dude. Attack this day.” And I hopped back down the stairs for girl-talk.

I did my best to contribute to the conversation but I don’t have children or chronic aches just yet so at times I couldn’t relate. In my mind I thought about man-stuff, sports, politics, and firing guns. Later in the afternoon, the Dads came back with a brand new refrigerator. We shuffled furniture around and took pictures off the wall to make a pathway for the appliances. It’s been so long now that I don’t remember the order of things, but we got one of those fridges all the way around to the hallway when we realized it wouldn’t fit so we had to turn it around and go the other way. There was a path of destruction leading through the whole first floor of the house. Dad and Chris did most of the heavy lifting and shimming things into place but I contributed my tremendous strength when hoisting the old one into the trailer. Dad says Chris had all the weight.

Mom was delighted by her new refrigerator. She ohhed and ahhed while placing shelves where she thought they would go best. We all beamed at the new fridge and celebrated with a round of Shanghai. We ate dinner out that night and came back to more card games and Nancy and Chris asking Mom and Dad to squeeze out a few wisdom nuggets for that unmotivated daughter of theirs. (That’s me.) They weren’t sure they could manage a whole nugget a day. “Maybe between the two of us…” Mom said.

I didn’t want to go to bed that night. I knew it would all be over the next day and I felt like I still had stow-ries to hear and wisdom nuggets to translate. I brushed my teeth, read about that proper fool again, and climbed into bed to read.

* * *

The next morning I woke up as Big Lu again. I packed my little bag and gathered the books Laurie had left outside of my door last night for me to take home and read. In a very Non-Will-like fashion, I had developed a little cold from the chilly Virginia air. I sniffed and snotted my way through our “farewell breakfast” and reluctantly said goodbye to my favorite people. It was quiet in our car as we drove back to Charleston. We’re always sleepy from late nights playing cards and sluggish from a weekend consuming sugar. I was deep in thought about lots of things. Those Hons have that effect on you. I lazily felt around in my bag for a tissue and couldn’t find any. I must have gone through the whole pack. I thought to last time I had a tissue and I realized I had one in my hand when I fell asleep last night. It was not in my hand when I woke up.

Hey Hons, I think I left my tissue in Will’s bed.
I’m really sorry.