The Year's Last Ramble

Last year, on this date, I wrote that I couldn't remember the year so much because I was existing in a chaotic limbo state where lots and nothing were happening at once. I'd like to second the notion again for this year, with the newer thought that perhaps this is what life begins to be as you slowly get older and older. Maybe you remember things more clearly as a young person because they're all so novel and unfinished. How could you ever forget the first time a customer service rep regarded you as just any ole person? "Can you believe they said that... to ME?" Or perhaps the first and second and third time you went out with your friends as an enthusiastic twenty-something and met new people and stayed up late enjoying... well, other people. It's so fun when it's new. It's still fun when it's old, you just don't remember the details because it's added to a solid foundation of familiarity. 

So it seems, a year later I'm still giddily oozing through my days; thrilled about breakfast and Brett coming home, frustrated by aimlessness, excited about weekends of dog walks and experimental cooking. I don't think I really need much more from life - but I do wish I'd pay attention to the details.

All photos curtesy of the dreamy mid-twenties phone.

Last week I found the cell phone I was using in my mid-twenties. That doesn't seem that long ago until you remember that I'm effectively in my mid-thirties now, and married to someone leaving that category for their late-thirties. My mid-twenties phone is full of beach pictures, Surf Bar friends, lists of countries to visit, and long text conversations with people I've forgotten about who, if you had asked me, I'd would have said I never texted. I don't remember having that guy's phone number and chatting with him about random things over many months. Who is Sara J? And Wes from San Francisco? Why did I not bother with last names? 

My mid-twenties phone was full of pictures of houses I liked, clothes, and furniture, and gardens. My text conversations with Ari were about the guys we were hanging out with and who we liked and who we could marry and who wouldn't leave us alone even though we'd obviously put them in the friend zone. My mid-twenties phone feels light and tropical. My mid-thirties phone is laden with emails and pictures of my cats. What struck me as I browsed through the mid-twenties phone was how it buzzed with hopeful wonder about my future. It was dreamy and excited, occasionally frustrated. Where would I live? What would I do? Who will be at my side? These can be such fun questions when you're just being let out of the gate. A great world of potential.

I told Brett all about it when he got home. "... and I was texting this guy named Carl - I have no recollection of that human... and I found this great picture from a day Ari and I went to the beach... and this note I wrote when I was mad at Ellen...and a list of books I wanted to read - Sylvia Plath was big." It all gave me a big, warm swell of nostalgia and feeling exactly what I thought life was going to feel like once I had a fella and a house and a job I was proud to have. I thought days would be longer, that I'd see lots of different people in each of my days, and have clothes I was excited to wear. I thought the problems that would pop up could easily be solved with honesty and kindness. I thought there'd be time to meet Mom for coffee, pop in on Dad in the office, leave small "just because" gifts on friends' doorsteps, and that I'd want to eat pizza much more frequently than I do.

You just don't count on becoming so tired and achy. Pizza makes you feel gross the next day. Coffee gives you panic attacks, and you don't have enough time or money to spoil people the way you wish you could. This isn't depressing, mind you - it's the opposite. It's funny and endearing to peek in on the hopeful, somewhat unaware youths. How dull youthfulness would be without all that hopefulness.

I realized I don't have any real future hopes. This isn't entirely new - you know I've never had a goal before. I've always been a rather drifty member of society. Apart from my very real hope that I figure out what to do with my animal advocacy Master's situation, I don't really think about my future. I'm wondering if that's normal. Am I too young to be content? It does seem like there's an awful lot of years left to fill, but I don't want to become someone who spends frantic years moving from house to house or job to job looking for something that every book and movie will tell you is a kind of internal acceptance that life isn't so grandiose. What happens after you figure that out and check that box?

Well I'll tell you. You become a community educator!

Some days I do wake up feeling dark and broody. All those hours to fill. It seems a rotten thing to complain about - there are so many that only hope for an empty day. I mean less to discuss boredom and more to highlight the human (or perhaps "developed" nation) drive to feel productive or else useless, worthless, and even gross. It must certainly be a thing of modern life, for being a human before cars and computers surely involved lots of what today are called soft activities; writing, conversing, observing and the like. Waiting for crops to ripen or bread to rise or the harsh summer to pass, even traveling short distances likened life to a never-ending "bus stop wait" kind of existence. Spending a day with needlepoint, musical instruments and tea was completely acceptable. Of course that was for ritzy folks. Others lived life as farmers and blacksmiths and house servants. In any case, today's pace expresses the modern values. Has pace killed peace?

What am I rambling about? Oh yes. 

I had an activists epiphany this summer. I spent the first year of my school program hoping to get a job with one of the big farm animal advocacy organizations. In my brain, they're the ones "on the front lines" working for policy change and awareness and what not. How cool to be such a person. And over the last year of halfheartedly watching the job vacancies, I noticed that I don't really fit the bill. I'm not well versed in fundraising strategies, drafting bills, or any kind of tech work. Those three jobs were available in spades - I reckon cause most people aren't well versed in those skills. They never seemed to need any general workers; folks with enthusiasm and minimal other competencies. 
So I applied for an admin position. "It's not ideal," I said to myself, "but I'll get my foot in the door and then they'll see how useful I could be (because I sure don't)." I made it through the first round of interviews to the second; the work simulation. They gave me a list of everyday jobs to do. "Organize these tasks, respond to this angry club member, etc" and while I sat there justifying the quick response to a frantic coworker ahead of drafting the monthly newsletter, I realized I was already bored. It didn't seem like I'd be doing much for the animals, just indirectly, by organizing other people's days. Also, I didn't get the job. 

So I moped for a few days. It's good to mope. It's a kind of simmering. You have to lose all of that hopeful optimism so that you're grumpy enough to finally blurt out what it boiled down to, what it is you really want. As in "Ugh! I just want someone to love me!" or "Ahh! I just want to leave it all and live in a van!" That sort of thing. So I moped around awhile and finally said, "Ugh! I just wish the people in Charleston understood our food system!" 

So then I did a big Googling one night, looking for any local people or organizations talking about food access, animal agriculture, and regenerative farming. I'll go ahead and tell you it was like looking for genuine happiness in the dentist's office. Then I became frantic. I Googled for anyone nearby that had anything to do with humane education. Turns out it doesn't exist here (or most places for that matter, yet). I realized I was going to have to build a curriculum and then become a college professor just so I can tell people what they have a right to know about the chemicals, I mean food, they are eating.

In polishing that panic over the following months, I have redirected my future plans towards community education. What does that mean? Great question. If I could answer that I'd be doing something productive with my days instead of trying out handstands and other acrobatic maneuvers up against the wall by the front door. Do I pop into high schools as a guest speaker on factory farming and land degradation? Do I teach a summer series on fishing, trawling, and climate change hosted by the local aquarium? Do I make YouTube videos on food labels, human nutrition, and hormone-laden-cancer-causing-chemical-food for people who don't want hear the message I want to share? Maybe I host local events and sneak in a little blurb about animal sentience and ethics and don't buy milk because they torture the cows! 

I'm still working out the details... though your thoughts on the matter would be appreciated.
(Yes, you. Email me your thoughts. I'm floundering.)

As the year ends, I somehow feel lost on a one way road, but I also think I might be hopelessly content.

Pack Up Losers

Even though I frequently worry about giving you only pithy updates, it sure has been a long time since I highlighted the majestic mundanity of life. 

As is frequent, I will accompany my musings with loosely unrelated photographs. 

We had this great weekend back in September around Mom and Lee's birthdays. Ellen, Mom, and I had a Girls Day where we went out and painted pottery and followed it up with a little tea party. The pottery painting really struck us all as funny. I was huddled over a square trivet painting octopus tentacles cascading down one side, Mom was using a stencil to paint a hot air balloon on to a ceramic ornament, and in the time it took us to work on these, Ellen splatter painted two different pieces, and used her free time to test out paint pens and travel-inspired sponges. 

The funny bit was the different levels of dedication to the task, as well as the outcomes despite the dedication. You see, we foolishly planned our tea time, not allowing for the precious time it takes to paint a masterpiece. We were rushing and slinging paint, cackling and franticly adding details and smudges. 

"Hurry up man!" Ellen would say, "We gotta leave in 5!"

"Raahh!" Mom would growl as her second layer blended into the first.
"But I'm only on the 6th leg!"

Ellen watched impatiently, her pieces long since behind the finish line, sharing a cigarette. "We gotta go!" she'd shriek.

Yaaahh!" Mom would emit again, never looking up from her balloon.

"Just let me add the suction cups!"

"I'll go pay!" Ellen took hasty little steps up to the register while Mom's and my hands trembled with laughter as we worked to finish our masterpieces. 

"Let's go! Let's go!"

Mom, and Ellen's "Leisure Club" inspired art.

We finally abandoned our pieces, grabbed our sweaters and purses, and hustled into the parking lot. We piled into Ellen's car and headed for Downtown. "Out of my way!" she'd growl at slow-moving vehicles. "People just don't know how to drive!" We tore through town, flew over the bridge, and came to a screeching halt in the parking garage. Purses and sweaters. Move move move. We swiftly shuffled into the hotel, down the long echoing corridor, and rounded the corner to the tea room. 

"Yes," Ellen said with an elegant, feminine voice, "We have a tea reservation for Union?"

"Right this way." We gracefully glided into our seats and fanned our napkins across our laps. 

"Thank you," we said, as the calm and refined women we are. 

Eisenhauers at Golden Hour

The next night we had a big family dinner out at a restaurant Downtown to celebrate all three of our September birthday family members, and while we were there, we saw Brett's brother, out celebrating his September birthday. That sort of thing is great fun. 

The following morning, Brett and I set out for coffee and breakfast and wound up stumbling upon a little furniture store having a moving sale and we surprised ourselves by purchasing a bookcase. We were both oddly thrilled by it and dared suggested haggling for it. We went home to mull it over and work out a haggling plan. Neither of us are the type, so this took mental prep and the larger car. We both hope we age into people who are comfortable making other people uncomfortable. Unfortunately the store owner already possessed this skill, so Brett and I wound up purchasing it for more than our bottom line. "We still got a discount," we reassured each other.  In any case, it's called a "chubby cubby" bookcase, and we left one lined with a small blanket for Ferguson. 

Since I was already feeling wild, I followed Brett to the gym, (my first time in one, ever!) and I had the best time in there, dangling from the machinery and swimming in the pool. I have not since gone back, and I think it's best to leave it as a positive memory. When we came home, I painted our bedroom, we took the dogs to the park, and then we ended our day by making just the best soup for supper. 

It was one of those weekends that are so uncommon for the lack of things that must get done as well as the presence of mystically-timed good spirits of all the people at once. Usually, someone has at least one burdensome thing to take care of, but this weekend was like the breeze tickling the tops of the marsh grass. No obstacles or restrictions, just floating along from one good moment to the next.

I'm ending with Halloween pictures because Ethan and Owen with their pumpkins is just the best thing.

Natalie Snortman

Ari came across a Craigslist ad for a small pig for sale to be used for a barbeque, and sent it my way. It read; Not well tempered to be a pet and I don't need any more females. $50 - will make for a good small BBQ.

I bought that darling pig first thing the next morning. Wild-eyed and giggly, I made preparations. What have I done? What will I do? What do pigs need? Will anything in my yard make her sick? How will I find her a forever home, because I can’t keep her, right? Right? I started making some phone calls.

She arrived on Wednesday in a small dog crate. She was quiet and still. I wondered if she would bite me when I opened the cage. Oh but she stepped right out into my yard, blew right past me, and sauntered over to my persimmon tree. She did not look back at her previous owner and carried right along munching on acorns and mapping out her new haven. She’d been in a small pen up until now (9 months) and would occasionally break out into a little trot, grunting short, carefree snorts as she ran. 

I spent the whole day watching her. She was beautiful, funny and curious. My dogs spent the whole day with their noses pressed against the backdoor. Watching. Drooling. I decided to name her Natalie. She took no interest in me at all and the one time I tried to pet her she nearly jumped out of her skin. So I just let her root around and tear up my grass as a few of family members came in and out throughout the day to see her. Around 5:00 Ari texted, "I'm leaving work early to come see her!"

All day I’d kept an eye on Natalie and she’d been just fine. So while I waited for Ari, I went inside to start prepping dinner, and when she arrived, we went into the backyard and I called “Natalie!” who certainly doesn’t know her new name. “Hmm, I don’t see her. Natalie!” There was no sign of her. That’s weird. “Ari, I think she’s gone.”

“No, I’m sure she’s here somewhere. Could she be under the porch?"

Just then I saw it, the bent-out-of-shape wire fence she had pushed under. 

“Ari, there’s a hole in the fence!” I ran towards the house to get a leash. Ari ran towards the end of the yard. 

“I see her, she’s about 4 houses down!”

Ari and I went scampering down the street. I already felt defeated. I can’t even pet her. How am I supposed to get her home? My neighbor Jim pulled into his driveway just as we were passing his yard. He was wearing a beautiful suit and was on the phone with his wife. 

“Jim!” I yelled, “Help! My pig got loose!”

“Your pig?” Jim let out a hearty laugh and then switched to FaceTime so Kim could see. “Baby, you gotta see this! Laura has a pig.” He pointed his phone at Natalie and giggled and went over to meet Ari. “Hi, I’m Jim, this is my wife Kim.” Then Kim says, “Ari? Interesting name. You're not a CPA are you?” 

“Hey guys, “I interrupted, "Can we focus? Natalie!!”

Natalie heard me yell and came running. In that moment I felt ten feet tall. She knows her name. She obviously loves me. Jim decided to go get an apple to help lure her home. 

“Maybe we can ‘Hansel and Gretel’ her back to your house,” Ari suggested. Jim emerged with apples and potatoes and it scared Natalie. She darted off down the street. It was dusk. We were losing light. Oh goodness she was fast.

The three of us chased her (Jim in his suit, Ari in a short, flouncy dress) for about 15 minutes before Brett, came home and joined the hunt. We would corner her but she’s smart and would do a fake out run one way and then dart the other direction. We had several lines of defense trying to corral her back to the house. Cars were slowing down to watch us all running hopelessly behind this torpedo pig. Jim was in stitches about it. He was throwing apples and sweet potatoes and Ari was scampering around holding an eggplant. The light was almost gone. Another 15 minutes went by. I knew that if this was anyone else I would find it hilarious, but I was horrified at the thought of losing her… and then I’d get terribly tickled at the sight of Ari, just wholeheartedly chasing a pig in her sundress. Natalie was beginning to blend into the shadowy foliage. If she were to get into the woods across the street we’d never find her. The lot of us ran up and down the street and through other people's backyards, yelling her name, tripping over garden beds, sometimes getting so close to her that we were certain we had her… but she’d explode into action again. I worried her little heart was going to pop.

Then Kim got home. She was enlivened by the situation. “Look at the cute little pig!” The five of us managed to corner her near a pile of scrap metal in someone's yard and keep her there while Jim ran to get a dog crate. We put it at the end of a narrow run and then Jim scared her into our makeshift hallway. Finally, after a 45 minute chase, it was completely dark out, she ran into the cage and we closed the door. I felt so guilty and terrible, but Jim and Kim were thrilled about the events of the evening. “This is the most exciting Wednesday we’ve ever had!” 

We kept her in the tollbooth overnight since we knew she couldn't be trusted in the yard.

The next day, I got a call back from Missy, the woman that runs The Goatery. What a turn of events. 

 “We’d be glad to help her however we can.” So we drove out to Johns Island for Natalie's private homecoming. Natalie is half Kune Kune breed pig, and The Goatery has four resident pig supervisors who are also Kune Kune. Missy thinks they’ll have similar temperaments and might accept Natalie into their family. 

While Brett and Missy loaded Natalie into a temporary pen, I looked around at all of the resident animals watching the commotion. Cows stared blankly while they chewed. Goats craned their long necks. Chickens beebopped their way over to see the new friend. The pigs, the four giant pigs we hope will take Natalie in and show her a good life, well they didn’t even bother to turn their heads. They were sunbathing, their miniscule wagging tails were the only sign they were still alive. All of the animals were so calm. Content. Wonderfully lazy. Apparently they’ve been gorging on pumpkins all week, a favorite snack among the animals. Nearby neighborhoods gather their Halloween pumpkins and drop them off for the animals to enjoy. There was a giant pile of them over by the chicken trailer.

A chicken pecked at my sneakers and then lifted her ruffled skirts and ran when I tried to pet her. Another strutted right into Natalie’s pen. Natalie was distracted by the fresh pumpkin. "See her straight tail?" Missy said, "It means she's stressed. We'll give her some space." 

Missy told me she’d let me know how the pigs get on with each other, and that I can come visit Natalie anytime. “You did the right thing,” she told me as Brett hoisted the dog cage back into the car. 

Curious new goat friends.

Earlier that morning, while waiting to hear back from Missy, I sat in the tollbooth with Natalie and did my homework. I felt so awful keeping her in a cage, the least I could do was keep her company. She stared at me intently while I read. It felt like she could see through to my soul. She has the biggest brown eyes and the longest eyelashes. Before I went back inside, I opened the cage to clean out her latest deposit. Unlike before when she would recoil when I got too close, she just laid there and watched me, wiggling her nose when my hand was closest to her. “Are you trying to smell me?” I held out my hand and she pressed her big wet nose into my palm and then tried to pull my fingers into her mouth with her rubbery lips. I laughed and pulled my hand away. She snorted a short disapproving grunt, so I put my hand back out. She sniffed again, this time she didn't try to eat me. And just like that I was petting her. Long scratchy pets down her back and in between her ears. I was thrilled. Her previous owner said Natalie wouldn’t let them pet her, that she had a bad attitude. Was I the first person get to pet Natalie? I felt 10 feet tall again. She’s trying to trust me. Now I worried my little heart would pop. I thought about the day that she gets comfortable enough to let someone give her a belly scratch. “Oh just wait, Natalie. You’re going to love belly scratches.” I closed up the cage again and grabbed my coffee cup and my school work. “Hang in there, darling. You’re almost there.”

The next day Missy sent me a video of Natalie and the other Kune pigs grunting at each other from across the yard. (Natalie is in a pen by herself while everyone adjusts.) She was standing on her hind legs, leaning on the fence to look across the way at the other pigs. She would hop back down, run a few circles and then stand up again to look and grunt. It was playful and hopeful and cute... and then I noticed the little curl in her tail, making the tip of it stick straight up.

The Football Game

We went down to Mississippi to go to an Ole Miss Football game. Brett was eager to reminisce and show me the life he’d lived for a while. You know I don’t like crowds or loud noises, also, I managed to go to two colleges without football teams, so I knew this was one of those hits you just have to take for the sake of your marriage.

The first thing to delight me was the Mississippi accent. Oh it’s so bouncy and energetic. Coming from Charleston, with our elongated drawl, I was surprised by the rapid fire blast of words that are thrown at your face when someone greets you. Though maybe this was just a trait of Brett's best friend Landon, who picked us up at the airport in Jackson and talked at us the whole way to the tiny town of McComb, a ramshackle place with a poverty rate of 35%. Landon is a giant of a man with a voice that sounds like he’s got rocks clanging around in his throat. He calls Brett by his last name but it's like the word is being shot out of a cannon that grew up in the deep south. Ahzenhar!

“And you’ll never guess, Ahzenhar, member that guy? That guy with the tattoos that don't make any sense? Well they caught him cheatin’. And they caught him doing it in his in-laws bed!” We listened to him talk about all the town scandals for a good hour and half, and he hardly took a breath in between. The endearing part of the gossip though was that it seemed like Landon had to tell us, not for the sake of spreading stories but as though he needed us to confirm his outrage. “That's just not right. Y’all don’t think that’s right do ya?” Before we’d even gotten to McComb, we knew all the cheaters, addicts, inmates, and hoarders, as well as who was ill, who was grieving a loss, and who had a problem being neighborly. “But anyways, how y’all doing? Ahzenhar, you still working for The Man?”

We pulled into Landon’s driveway and unloaded our stuff. Landon’s wife Kristin came out to greet us. “I hope y’all are hungry. I’ve got supper on the stove. Now I know you don’t eat meat,” she told me, “so I’m ona try makin’ lentils.” We spent the evening somehow learning more about the citizens of Pike County who all seem…left behind, somehow.

“Ahzenhar, your wife let you eat meat at night, or are you eatin’ sissy meals?” For all the teasing they did about my eating preferences, which don't seem all that odd back home, Landon stayed aware of my options everywhere we went. “I’m not sure they’ll have anything for Lue there. She needs some protein. Lookater.” Kristen was much less interested in my nutrition over the weekend. It was hard to find vegetables in the restaurants, let alone a protein source that didn’t come from a dead animal. Everywhere we went, the options were meat and bread. “You could just have a bite of sausage and be done with it,” Kristin told me, and then stared at me, waiting for my revelation. One day Landon ordered a salad, “for my health” he said with a grin. It was chicken, bacon, and cheese on a single leaf of romaine lettuce. Even Landon laughed at it. “I guess this is a sorry salad. You know what though, I do love red beans n’ rice. I could eat that everyday for lunch. Dutin’ even need meat.” 

On game day we drove to Oxford and set out making food to bring to a tailgating party. Tailgating, I learned, is where you stand around eating and socializing for many hours prior to a football game, where you then go on to eat and socialize. Kristin prepared assorted meats wrapped in crescent rolls. “You eat pepperoni though, right?” I volunteered to make something as well, though Brett immediately understood it was so that I wouldn't be hungry all day. Naturally I made a fruit and vegetable platter. And it was beautiful. I used every color in the rainbow. I sliced peppers and blanched asparagus, cubed a melon and did cucumbers on the bias. It was a lush and abundant display. I felt great pride towards my veggie tray and hoped it would somehow inspire Kristin.

I’d been expecting a parking lot full of truck bed coolers and small charcoal grills. I figured people would be wearing brilliantly colored jerseys and grease splattered t-shirts.

Instead we were in a massive park shaded by moss-laden oak trees outlined with orderly red brick pathways. The grass was the greenest grass and the sunlight speckled through the trees like it would in a romance movie. There were no gurgling cars or shlubby husbands clinking beer cans. There were tents. Huge tents for each group of gathering friends, like a farmers market. Like an old-money southern farmers market. The tents had chandeliers, flower arrangements, and tv’s showing other football games. The people in the tents were wearing their Sunday best; the men in their button-downs, and women in dresses and heels. “What is this place?” I whispered to Brett. It suddenly made sense to me why, for the first time in our marriage, Brett made me change my clothes when I came out in jeans and sneakers. For the current girl students at the school, the uniform was any short dress or skirt but with all-white cowboy boots. Fascinating. 

We left our crescent rolls and veggies in our base of operations tent, and then bee-bopped around meeting Brett’s old friends. It felt like a Discovery Channel expedition of sorts; this strange fancy tailgating experience, me in a Mississippi ghillie suit trying not to be noticed. I watched Brett and Landon slap and smack the guys they love while Kristin told someone’s wife about the guy with tattoos that make no sense. 

Since I despise small-talk and new people, I mostly loitered around the food tables in people’s tents, hoping to find a fun treat. Ground beef salsa. Bacon-topped rice krispie treats. Sugar, carbs, meat. My stomach grumbled. We were acres from my veggie platter. Perhaps somewhere someone had brought a side of broccoli salad? Coleslaw? Most sides were in the realm of lobster mac n’ cheese. I thought about the people in McComb who probably couldn’t afford to eat lobster. What a difference an hour on the highway made in terms of wealth and ingredients. Even still, the lifestyle basics were the same. 

We circled back to base of operations two hours later. I was ravenous. All the chips and hot dogs and pepperoni crescent rolls were gone. Lone, broken crackers sat atop otherwise empty trays. A spilled dollop of salsa here, a cheese cube there. But shining bright in the middle of the folding table, a rainbow of colors beaming among tan and white burger buns, sat my veggie platter. Completely untouched. Perfectly intact. Not a grape out of place. Frankly it looked stupid - sitting there surrounded by discarded napkins and ravaged casserole dishes. Like most quietly beautiful things, it sat alone, overshadowed by the temporary pleasure of salt and grease. Brett frowned at it, and then set out to eat the whole thing out of spite. Or redemption. Or maybe just to make me feel better.

The following were my questions:

Why?

Do people not recognize these foods?

Is it because they are raw?

Do they only eat them cooked?

Maybe they eat their vegetables cooked within other foods. Like soup.

Is it because it's healthy?

Do the people know about the lack of nutrition in the other dishes?

Does nutrition matter?

Is this an education issue?

Is this a systemic issue?

Am I the problem?

I thought about the day before when I was shopping for the vegetables. I had been stunned when one small bunch of asparagus cost $6. Well no wonder people aren't eating vegetables. Who could afford to? For $6 dollars you could buy a bag of chips and a jar of salsa that would feed 5 or 6 happy grazers. That asparagus could only feed two, who would still be hungry after. At home, in my ritzy town, that same asparagus would cost $3. Why does it cost more in a town with less money?

It made me look around at the tailgating park through “sad goggles.” I stopped noticing that there were only meat dishes available to eat and suddenly noticed all the additional crap food, chemical-y food, the plastic tablecloths, plastic forks, cups, bowls, plates. The excess and the extravagance of it all. The farmers market style tailgating thing seemed like a lot of effort when you could just go a friends house. And why does your tent need overhead lighting in the middle of the day? And then I hated myself for being that person. That self-righteous, tree-hugging, “I can't enjoy this because there is injustice in the world” kind of person that nobody wants to hang out with. “It's a special occasion,” I told myself. “People are celebrating,” but I also knew that wasn't true. Don't they have football games every week? And aren’t you supposed to celebrate after you know who wins? 

Just 100% overwhelmed.

Prior to coming to Mississippi, Brett was trying to explain to me the “point” of a football game. “Well, it's exciting. It's a competition. And you have a team you know. Your tribe. And you have your flags and your chants…” 

For some reason I thought about a medieval, nordic battle of sorts. Big, hairy men running down a hill with axes and horns. While it’s a stretch to compare football to war, I could understand the hope and connection and pride of your little raided village. Of course you would fight back and bring your people to victory.

“... there's camaraderie and lots of surprises…” So maybe if the football games were just a little something going on that people could watch on tv, that would make some sense. That could be fun. But there in the stadium I could only see an industry; a money-making, brainwashing, propaganda “be a man” scheme. 

“... and you get to know some of the players and then you're really rooting for them…” And I didnt want to be thinking these things. I wanted to be another person who understood why all of it was fun. I wanted to be swept up in the action while guzzling soda from a cup so big I have to hold it with both hands. 

“... and there are dancers and music and snacks…” But I couldn't unsee it. It’s way too much. How can we spend so much money on a frivolous feeding-frenzy celebration when an hour away there's a tiny town where no one can afford to buy fruit? What does that say about our priorities? Entertainment over basic needs? Of course not, right?

And this isn't what you're supposed to be thinking about when you go to a football game....but no one ate any vegetables! Why? When did meat become the only food that matters?

“...and if you win, you feel like something big happened to you.” And it isn't the people’s fault. They don't set the prices. They don't want to have to choose between their health and their rent payment. There are plenty of people who wish they could afford nuts and salads and food that will make them feel better. Why does the food that makes you feel better have to cost so much. Should that be a basic right, or something?

“... and if you lose, you feel fired up for next time.” I looked around at the thousands of people shaking plastic pompoms that will go on to clog up some waterway somewhere. It’s some kind of Jumbotron mentality. Build a stadium so big, so packed full of potential spenders that they can't actually see the game they came to watch. Then, we'll just hook up a giant tv for them to watch it on... and just tell them it’s part of the experience. 

I promise I was not a buzzkill. This was all going internally in the background, while I learned the school chant and ate boiled peanuts and made Landon laugh.

If someone had just eaten my veggie tray...

This Again

Can you believe it's been two years since I last assaulted you with a video montage? What have I been doing? And why do I insist on making these? What about all the good stuff that gets left out? You could argue those are the best moments because I'm not preoccupied filming things and also, the best things can't be filmed. Because the best things are surprises. Spontaneous moments of humanity never to be viewed again. Isn't life a treat? 

So this time, because Brett says the clips are too fast and frantic and jumbled, I let whole moments play out all the way. Uh huh! And, I went in the order that they happened in real life. Yep. Am I on the road to documentary films? 

Do enjoy.

Honbons: And Other Sandy Treasures

It's just that you remember your time with the Hons in such a serene and giddy kind of way that you can't really bother stringing together words about it, because they won't really do it justice. Am I perhaps obsessed with them? Sure, but I imagine anybody would be if they stumbled upon a whole group of people that can effortlessly talk to their soul. I don't even know how they do it. It's not like we're talking about intellectual things. So how do you drive off feeling all inspired and hopeful with a twinge of brokenheartedness? Hmm? Can you answer that?

The lot of us met on Topsail Island. It's pretty nearly a halfway point for both parties and I wondered why we've just figured this out. Maybe the adults knew - felt like a revelation to me. Initially I was going to miss this HonUnion, but then Brett got sent up to Baltimore so I figured it was a good time for me abandon my side of the responsibilities too. I hopped in the car with Mom and Dad and we barreled up the road with our M&Ms. The Hons had already been there a few days working anther tans, so everything was all set up and ready when we arrived. It was particularly fun to meet Evan again. We've only hung out with her one other time when she was still only speaking Scottish (aye) and toddling around in a nerve-racking way. This time she was chatty and opinionated and highly mobile. She has lots to say about lots of things, and I had the adorable experience of sharing the bunk bed room with her. More on that in a bit.

The weekend highlights are as expected: junk food, stowries, and Shanghai (for the adults). We lollygagged in the sun, dipped toes in the water, and mostly sat in beach chairs under "The Cabana" which was a legless tent structure you fill with sand. Mom was enthralled by it and told me so everyday. Oh we talked work stuffs and school stuffs and family stuffs. We laughed at the misfortunes of others (YouTube), wrangled dogs, and marveled over Laurie's granola. 

I got the most tickled on an evening we ventured out to a restaurant. Mom, Dad, and I rode over with Papa Don behind the wheel. Who knows what we were muttering about when someone noticed an ant in the car, and then another, and another. "This car had ants!" one of my parents shouted. At the same time I found out that Don has tinnitus and I had lots of questions. "How loud is it? Can you tune it out?" Then Mom noticed some chickens outside. 

"Look, chickens!" 

"There's another ant," Dad exclaimed. 

"Bok bok bbboookk," (Those are Mom's chicken noises.)

"Is it both ears or just one?"

"It's hot back here," Dad said.

"Bbbrrrgookk!"

"How much farther? I don't like riding in the ant mobile."

"No, don't turn the air up, its cold."

"Did it come on slowly or did it just start ringing one day?" 

"Maybe the chickens would eat these ants."

"Are we almost there?"

I didn't notice anything too odd about the ride until Don got tickled and gave us a play by play of the last few minutes. That's when we really saw ourselves. The ride back was equally great because we had to stop somewhere to get Dad some ointment for a suspicious rash. 
It's the little things. 

In the evenings, the adults would play Shanghai while I talked at Will and Katie. They are polite listeners. We discussed all manner of topics ranging from espresso machines to childlessness. Mostly, Katie and I talked about all the ways we have noticed sudden aging. The problem with this is that if any of the adults caught us, they's say something dismissive like, "oh you think that's bad..." and the thing is that yes, we do. Because we new at this. And it is all so surprising. We know it will get worse. Let us ease into it. 

Katie and I are both reluctant to pack up our skinny jeans and purchase a one-piece bathing suit. 

"I'm just not ready for that," Katie said. 
"Yeah, that's stage one," I told her, "...the gateway." Meanwhile Will and I discussed subjects of great depths like man-buns and pants from Lands End. Did we kids touch on topics like ethics, religion, business-owning, and our futures? Sure, but the bits you remember are who prefers which celebrity and at what point someone with too much muscle begins to look unintelligent. 

During most of all of this Evan was around, chattering, organizing things, working in her workbooks. She'd eat a little, go play on the beach and then have a nap. The perfect day. In the mornings, her alarm clock would chime at 8:00 and the talking would commence. Each day she got out of bed and talked me though her thoughts about what she'd wear that day. She'd pull out each item of clothing, tell me a bit about it, and then put it in its respective pile. "This is my strawberry dress. Lollie gave it to me."

"This is my paw patrol underwear. I don't think I'll wear this today." 

"This is my glitter skirt. My mom got it for me." I'd lay in my bunk bed and watch the piles grow larger one by one. When she set out her last item, she'd turn to me, put her arms out to the side and say, "What should I wear today?" 

Sometimes she already had something in mind that she wanted to wear, but she'd still patiently listen to my thoughts, hold up the article in question, and then she'd say something classy and polite to shoot it down. "Well that is nice, but I think it's too hot today for that. I was thinking maybe my word shirt?" One morning, she let me pick out everything from underwear to hair clip. Once she was ready she'd come stand next to my head and say, "What are you going to wear today?"

Will and Katie must have told her not to talk to me until she was sure I was awake because I would look at her when her alarm clock would clock off and say "good morning" and then she'd nod her head, confirming that she was sure I was awake, and then start talking as though there had been no lull in the conversation. "You know what I have back home in my room?"

On our last night together, Evan pieced together one of life's biggest concepts and had a tough time reckoning with it. There she was, swinging on the porch swing while Lollie sung to her and I don't know how it went down but she started asking about death with her giant soft eyes and little face all smushed up and concerned, and what are you supposed to say that little precious bundle? Everyone tried to distract her. Uncommitted answers. Vague confirmation. 

"Am I going to die?" she finally asked at the dinner table. Eyes-bugged. Food was pushed around plates.

"Little help here, Dad?" Katie said to Will. 

"Well," he said looking down at his plate, "Everyone does at some point." (Not a direct quote - this seems like one of those instances where you want to accurately depict the parent's good efforts and intentions - but I was busy mentally retreating from the conversation.) In any case, Evan had an existential meltdown that came and went throughout dinner and required a handoff of sitting in assorted laps learning what it means to be alive.

"Well, it's kind of like a hand in a glove..."

I don't know how they patched it up and if it carried on into their ride home the next day, but I found myself feeling at peace for Evan. She's got the very best people walking her through life.

And of course then there is that awful last day, where you pack up all your crap, have one last bowl of granola, and then get back on the highway. A depressing day to be sure. We hugged our favorite people goodbye, but not before Lollie reserved another beach house for the same time next year. "Y'all would come back, right?" 

Since then, I've been trying to lure Lollie to town with my mango-sized persimmons. 

She and Don said they were free for Christmas...

I'll leave you with my new favorite photo - I'm having it blown up and framed.

Gives me a big stupid grin every time.

Ole Budds

Of all the things I think about writing someday, I'd never really thought about my Ode to Buddy. He's always been such a boisterous fixture in our lives, it wasn't until recently that it ever really occurred to me that we wouldn't have him around. For years I thought to write an essay on Budd's; his life as a true Lowcountry Dog. It would celebrate his fondness for saltwater activities and local cuisine, and also acknowledge his very relatable tendency to hide from the heat of the day with afternoon naps on the cold slab of marble at the base of the fireplace.  

What other dog had a self-appointed role as Dock Guardian but a lowcounrty pup; patrolling the length of those boards up and down, up and down. No bird shall land here. Violators will be prosecuted. He took his shifts so seriously, we could rely on him to forgo privacy and decency, and leave a steaming pile in the midst of his workspace. Occasionally we would remark about his inaugural poo at the first of the warm Spring weather or encourage visitors to watch their step. As he got older, his shifts were shorter and less spirited, but he'd still lay there and bark when he thought the birds needed a reminder, and then he wander down a ways and leave his mark.

But don't let the Dock Patrol fool you. He was a worthless guard dog; running from danger, leaving his family behind. Dad once charged him in the night with a flashlight and Buddy ran off barking. You couldn't walk him either. He'd drag you however far you dared venture out and when he came upon other dogs, brace yourself. He'd come with me, off leash, on my night time jogs and once he'd seen me safely back to the driveway, he'd head out into the night to party. For thirteen years he escaped the backyard and for thirteen years Dad would find a hole, patch it up and say, "I got him this time!" 
Hours later you'd find him casually sprawled out in the front yard, enjoying Dad's defeat more than the freedom. 

He wouldn't come when you called him. He'd pretend not to hear you. He'd breathe his hot breath on you while you ate, and put his giant rump in your path as you moved through the house. He sure loved fanny scratches. He tolerated pets of other kinds, but those were more for you than for him. He softened up only one time after I'd had surgery and must have smelled like unconsciousness and chemicals. He broke his code of hardened ethics and sat with me and licked my face until I was better again. He never gave me another kiss after I recovered. He wasn't about doling out kisses. He was a man's man.

Here I've listed all these things that made him an unruly family dog. Buddy did his own thing, but did it with enough charisma that you wanted to keep him around. In human form, I imagine he'd be that friend that always disappears at some point during your night out, but shows up later the next day with coffee and donuts. "Dude, where were you last night?" you ask that friend. "Oh you know, just out following vibes, bro." Then you smile at their wild, twinkly eyes, shake your head, and enjoy the time you do have with them. I think it's that no one ever told Buddy he was a dog. So he climbed aboard jet-skis and kayaks and demanded that you go faster and faster.

Watching such a spirited trouble-maker descend first towards achy legs and then stiff joints tricks you into thinking that it won't be that bad. His enthusiasm never wavered. So he took a few extra seconds to get going... but then he'd be up and out again. Nothing'll stop him. He'd limp along and find a good place to lay down and then he'd enjoy the view and twinkle his eyes at you and you'd know he was still living out his adventure. The hard part is making the call for someone else. How do you tell when it's getting to be too much for him? That's the bit that makes you feel guilty when you go over to his house but he's not there anymore. 
On his last day he didn't get up to greet me when I came over. Usually he'd come whooping through, grunting and corralling me into a corner so that my only option was to give him fanny scratches. But that day he just laid on his cold slab of marble, breathing shallow, closing his eyes for long stretches. We loaded him up into my passenger seat and Budds and I went on one last cruise together. He laid his head on the windowsill while I drove and he took in the sights and smells. It was a very peaceful ride - no boisterous barking or antsy dancing around in the backseat. 

Just old Budd's feeling the wind in his hair on his way to his next adventure. 

The Warp Speed Yellowstone Trip

Quite spontaneously Erik invited Brett and me to come stay at his family's cabin in Idaho, just an hour and a half outside of Yellowstone Park. We said "yes" just as spontaneously. 

We did a foolish thing and spent our very first day hiking around Yellowstone. As anyone who has visited will tell you, it's a heap of beautiful views and vistas of wonder. Being the only girl on this day, I felt lots of pressure to keep up with the long-legged men-folk and not be the reason they didn't get to hike as far as they wanted to. There was only one occasion, after I had fallen down, when I had to stop for frequent breaks because the incline was too steep for someone from the flattest town of all time. I'd stop and talk to other hikers as an excuse to catch my breath.

Back at the cabin that night, Brett and I cooked supper in the tiniest kitchen and waited for Erik's friend to arrive from Colorado. She'd left that morning and drove across a collection of states to spend the rest of the weekend with us. We set the little fireplace ablaze and then spent the night chitchatting and telling stories. There was only one bedroom in the cabin (downstairs) and then there was a little loft with two beds in it. Brett and I shared one bed while our new friend took the other. Unbeknownst to us until bedtime, some of the fireplace fumes were circumventing their flue duties and instead, were collecting up in our loft. It was smokey up there and Brett said he woke me up twice in the night to make sure I was still alive. We didn't sleep well that night and woke up with headaches the next day. We did not go on to light the fireplace ever again.

On the second day, we did a foolish thing and drove to Big Sky to go white water rafting. I was very nervous about this but since the rest of my weekend comrades are the brazen fearless type, I had to just go along with it. In addition to having never rafted before, I knew the water was very cold and I was mostly nervous about winding up in it. Then, just before setting out, the tour company had to give their spiel about how people have died doing this so pay attention and follow the rules. I looked at Brett hopelessly. I'll tell you that I stayed highly nervous the whole time, and then when it was over I was so thrilled and relived that I wanted to go again. 

We dilly dallied in Big Sky, ate some lunch, got some coffee, and then made the trek back to the cabin ni Island Park. After showers and naps, we set out on the lake in canoes before deciding that it was too much effort. 

I say all of our decisions were foolish ones because on the third day, Brett woke up with altitude sickness. We'd both been feeling minor symptoms of it - being the littlest bit dizzy, having a hard time eating - but Brett woke up all weak and puny and queasy, so we bowed out of the day's trip to see the Tetons. Erik and Jordan set out around 9:30 as Brett got settled in the recliner. As it turns out, when you get to a high up place, you're supposed to sit still for a couple days and drink lots of water. What they say not to do is immediately go hiking and partake in other strenuos activities where you go long stretches without water. We didn't read about this until it was too late and the Jolly Lean Giant had succumbed.

What I loved about the day in the cabin, was caring for The Big One and getting a glimpse of the future. The cabin has no tv or other modern distractions. Brett and I sat together under old quilts and looked out he window all morning. He'd nod off and I'd read a bit and then at noon I said, "Well, I guess it's time for some lunch. Can I make you something?"
"I'm not hungry," Brett said.
"Well you gotta eat something or you'll feel worse," I said from in the little kitchen.
"What?"
"I said you gotta eat somethin' or you'll feel worse!" I looked at Brett over in the recliner and saw the 70 year old version of him. "Here," I said, somewhat more brusque than normal, "Eat some watermelon."

We were suddenly a well-worn old couple, just spending the day the way you do when the world isn't asking you for things anymore. I loved it. But also I'm glad to not live there just yet. While Brett napped I cleaned the cabin and worked my way through the checkout checklist. We sat by the water awhile, fed some ducks, and then read a little more. 

"This is what it's going to be like someday," we said, beaming at each other.

Erik and Jordan got home around 10:00pm and pretty much fell right to sleep. Due to our distance from the Bozeman airport, we had to get up at 2am to get to the airport at 4am to be prepared for our 6am flight home. Driving a winding, pitch-black Montana highway with buffalo in the road at 2am is one of the more stressful activities I've partaken in. Brett was feeling much better by then, so he did the driving while Erik and I tried to stay awake. 

Clint and Susan picked the three of us up from the airport and we sat in a row in the backseat in big Montana stupors. It was a real whirlwind three days - and it felt like a little tease. 

We're just going to have to go back.