I started a different blog over the summer, one that I was determined to keep distinctly separate from this blog because the subject matter dealt with wouldn't have anything to do with the sorts of things I ramble about on this blog. But over the months, I realized that to keep the two separate was to separate two aspects of myself. I'd rather be one jumbled mess than have a split personality, so I decided to just merge the two together.
So, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to repost the things I wrote at my other blog here. I'll put the original date in the subject line just after the title of the post. No, not everything that I wrote has to do with recognizing things that are distorted and choosing to believe truth, and yet... they do, some more than others of course, but still.
In short, I began learning about the real food movement over the summer; I started uncovering the truth about the food industry and chose to take what I'd learned and 1) apply it to my own life and 2) share with others. I'm certainly not the first to do this, and I suppose I won't be the last either. And I'm not even all that great at it. I just posted my discoveries and musings (and a few recipes); I didn't dedicate myself to becoming an authority on the subject. I'm afraid I won't be the place to come to learn about the movement, but perhaps what I write here will in some small way encourage someone else to start the journey toward the truth.
Anyway, that's what the next several posts will be. And after that? It'll be back to my inconsistent ramblings. Ah, well. Perhaps 2011 is the year that I'll become consistent? One can only hope.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
Clarity from a Pair of Swollen Ankles
Before I was pregnant, I hated my ankles. Loathed them. Cursed them, tried to hide them, wished I could change them (tried several times), and eventually gave up on them and resigned myself to the fact that they'd be one of my "problem areas" forever. But then they got worse. Much worse.
Pregnancy has been full of many surprises, mainly in the way my body has changed, but the one thing that caught me the most by surprise was how swollen ankles could actually make me thankful for (and actually miss) my normal, pre-pregnancy ankles.
It was hot a few weeks ago--incredibly hot--106 degrees, in fact. And no, I don't have air conditioning. To say I was miserable would be an understatement, and I know that you ladies who've been pregnant through heat waves will understand. One day, I got home from work, sat on the couch and put my feet up because they were aching after having been on them all day. When I glanced down at them, I was shocked to see they'd tripled in size. Tripled. It reminded me of the scene in Hitch when Will Smith's character has an allergic reaction to seafood and his face swells up to the point where he's virtually unrecognizable. My ankles did the same sort of thing.
When Joey got home that evening, he asked me how I was surviving the heat. All I had to do was show him my ankles--they spoke for themselves. From that moment on, I decided that I had to laugh at them (they were comical, after all), otherwise I would cry. I cried anyway, though. Those things stuck around for several days; they were there so often that they became the new normal, and I started forgetting what my normal ankles looked like.
Then one morning when I got out of bed, I looked in the mirror (as I often do), and noticed something incredible--my ankles. They were beautiful! They were slender and dainty and made my feet feel pretty again. And then a strange thought struck me: they were back to their normal selves. I hadn't had to work hard for them or put up a huge fight--nope, all I had to do was recognize the beauty that had always been there, the beauty that I failed to see before. I wished I had a short skirt and high heels that were made for 8 month pregnant ladies, but alas, I settled for my regular work pants and flats that day. And of course, when I got home, those ankles were swollen to high heaven again, and the little ankles I used to know were again obscured by the new puffier ones. But I went to sleep that night with a strange feeling--contentment with the ankles that I have. Happy that they were swollen, because had they not been, I would not have had that moment in which I realized how lovely my ankles are. And through that, I realized that my body is just that: a body. It's not my spirit, it's not my soul, it's not my intelligence and it's not my heart. Those things have remained constant even though my body has not. And while realizing that my ankles weren't half bad was a big deal for me, realizing that who I am is pretty fantastic despite how I look was even more important. Lord help me to hang on to that.
I admit that I've wavered between being angry and being resigned to the fact that my body is changing during the past few months. At the same time, though, I've been in awe of my body, realizing that it's capable of so much more than I've given it credit for in the past. I used to chastise this body of mine, I would look at it with contempt and think that I had to control every little thing in order for it to be even remotely close to being "ok." But I guess that's another story. For now, saying I'm thankful for my swollen ankles is enough. The puffiness reminds me of the truth, and the truth is that my body is just one aspect of who I am, and though it may change one way or another during different seasons of my life, the truth of who I am won't change. And I got all that from a pair of swollen ankles.
Pregnancy has been full of many surprises, mainly in the way my body has changed, but the one thing that caught me the most by surprise was how swollen ankles could actually make me thankful for (and actually miss) my normal, pre-pregnancy ankles.
It was hot a few weeks ago--incredibly hot--106 degrees, in fact. And no, I don't have air conditioning. To say I was miserable would be an understatement, and I know that you ladies who've been pregnant through heat waves will understand. One day, I got home from work, sat on the couch and put my feet up because they were aching after having been on them all day. When I glanced down at them, I was shocked to see they'd tripled in size. Tripled. It reminded me of the scene in Hitch when Will Smith's character has an allergic reaction to seafood and his face swells up to the point where he's virtually unrecognizable. My ankles did the same sort of thing.
When Joey got home that evening, he asked me how I was surviving the heat. All I had to do was show him my ankles--they spoke for themselves. From that moment on, I decided that I had to laugh at them (they were comical, after all), otherwise I would cry. I cried anyway, though. Those things stuck around for several days; they were there so often that they became the new normal, and I started forgetting what my normal ankles looked like.
Then one morning when I got out of bed, I looked in the mirror (as I often do), and noticed something incredible--my ankles. They were beautiful! They were slender and dainty and made my feet feel pretty again. And then a strange thought struck me: they were back to their normal selves. I hadn't had to work hard for them or put up a huge fight--nope, all I had to do was recognize the beauty that had always been there, the beauty that I failed to see before. I wished I had a short skirt and high heels that were made for 8 month pregnant ladies, but alas, I settled for my regular work pants and flats that day. And of course, when I got home, those ankles were swollen to high heaven again, and the little ankles I used to know were again obscured by the new puffier ones. But I went to sleep that night with a strange feeling--contentment with the ankles that I have. Happy that they were swollen, because had they not been, I would not have had that moment in which I realized how lovely my ankles are. And through that, I realized that my body is just that: a body. It's not my spirit, it's not my soul, it's not my intelligence and it's not my heart. Those things have remained constant even though my body has not. And while realizing that my ankles weren't half bad was a big deal for me, realizing that who I am is pretty fantastic despite how I look was even more important. Lord help me to hang on to that.
I admit that I've wavered between being angry and being resigned to the fact that my body is changing during the past few months. At the same time, though, I've been in awe of my body, realizing that it's capable of so much more than I've given it credit for in the past. I used to chastise this body of mine, I would look at it with contempt and think that I had to control every little thing in order for it to be even remotely close to being "ok." But I guess that's another story. For now, saying I'm thankful for my swollen ankles is enough. The puffiness reminds me of the truth, and the truth is that my body is just one aspect of who I am, and though it may change one way or another during different seasons of my life, the truth of who I am won't change. And I got all that from a pair of swollen ankles.
Monday, June 28, 2010
When Things Turn Upside Down
Joey's got Vertigo. It came upon him suddenly yesterday afternoon as soon as we got home from Montera Beach. It was awful to watch him spiral downward into a shell of who he normally is. Selfishly, I was upset that he "had to get this" on our Anniversary. But then, after a quick check of the spirit, I realized that we had just gotten back from a wonderful weekend full of fun anniversary stuff, and that we were, essentially, done with our celebration by the time we got home. The only thing left was to have a slice of our anniversary cake (which I had been looking forward to intensely!).
In a split second, I went from feeling frustrated with him for feeling sick to being relieved and thankful we were home before it all hit him. Then, before I knew what hit me, I was scared. Terrified. Even though Joey was pretty sure it was Vertigo, my mind played games on itself and I had big scary scenarios all lined up in my mind (like heat stroke, a brain tumor, a head injury, etc). Watching him struggle to walk just a few steps, not being able to do anything to cool our room down (it was intensely hot last night), and feeling powerless to do anything but simply tell him that I'm there if he needs anything... it made me realize how truly out of control I am over so much. And even though our first year of marriage hasn't been difficult, or perhaps because our first year has been so good, I felt in control of things. But last night I felt completely out of control. Even though my head knows that ultimately we aren't in control, I realized in a profound way last night that things can change in an instant, and our whole world can be thrown off balance.
I spent the evening watching a bad movie, eating good ice cream, and wondering what would happen next. When I finally went to bed, I watched him intensely for several minutes to make sure he was still breathing. I was afraid that something more severe was going on and that we should have rushed him to the emergency room. Instead, I had to lay there next to my husband on our first anniversary willing myself not to worry about him, but to trust that not only was Joey right, but that God was in control.
Today, he's better. Not great, but better. We were able to get him in to see a doctor first thing this morning, but she didn't do a whole lot for him, except for perhaps allay our fears that something more serious was going on. Today? Today I'm realizing that perhaps I overreact to things, even though my heart is in the right place. Having my heart in the right place doesn't really do a whole lot to help the situation except to reassure Joey that I'm here for him. Today I wonder how I'll grapple with things that are more serious. I cried last night when Joey fell asleep, not because I was upset he was sick on our anniversary, but because I was scared of the unknown. Today I realize that every day is an unknown. And adding a baby to the mix makes things even more of an unknown. Someone new to worry about, right?
But the kicker is that worrying doesn't accomplish anything. It's hard not to worry, and it's difficult to take thoughts captive and not allow our imaginations to run away with us, but seriously, it's something I am choosing to do because I cannot live life in fear. It's debilitating. Living a life of worry or fear simply isn't living.
Anyway, I think I'm starting to ramble. The good news? Joey's trying to type along with me as I write this. I think he's getting bored of laying around feeling dizzy. Or perhaps he's feeling a little bit better. I think it's a combination of both.
Happy first anniversary to us!
In a split second, I went from feeling frustrated with him for feeling sick to being relieved and thankful we were home before it all hit him. Then, before I knew what hit me, I was scared. Terrified. Even though Joey was pretty sure it was Vertigo, my mind played games on itself and I had big scary scenarios all lined up in my mind (like heat stroke, a brain tumor, a head injury, etc). Watching him struggle to walk just a few steps, not being able to do anything to cool our room down (it was intensely hot last night), and feeling powerless to do anything but simply tell him that I'm there if he needs anything... it made me realize how truly out of control I am over so much. And even though our first year of marriage hasn't been difficult, or perhaps because our first year has been so good, I felt in control of things. But last night I felt completely out of control. Even though my head knows that ultimately we aren't in control, I realized in a profound way last night that things can change in an instant, and our whole world can be thrown off balance.
I spent the evening watching a bad movie, eating good ice cream, and wondering what would happen next. When I finally went to bed, I watched him intensely for several minutes to make sure he was still breathing. I was afraid that something more severe was going on and that we should have rushed him to the emergency room. Instead, I had to lay there next to my husband on our first anniversary willing myself not to worry about him, but to trust that not only was Joey right, but that God was in control.
Today, he's better. Not great, but better. We were able to get him in to see a doctor first thing this morning, but she didn't do a whole lot for him, except for perhaps allay our fears that something more serious was going on. Today? Today I'm realizing that perhaps I overreact to things, even though my heart is in the right place. Having my heart in the right place doesn't really do a whole lot to help the situation except to reassure Joey that I'm here for him. Today I wonder how I'll grapple with things that are more serious. I cried last night when Joey fell asleep, not because I was upset he was sick on our anniversary, but because I was scared of the unknown. Today I realize that every day is an unknown. And adding a baby to the mix makes things even more of an unknown. Someone new to worry about, right?
But the kicker is that worrying doesn't accomplish anything. It's hard not to worry, and it's difficult to take thoughts captive and not allow our imaginations to run away with us, but seriously, it's something I am choosing to do because I cannot live life in fear. It's debilitating. Living a life of worry or fear simply isn't living.
Anyway, I think I'm starting to ramble. The good news? Joey's trying to type along with me as I write this. I think he's getting bored of laying around feeling dizzy. Or perhaps he's feeling a little bit better. I think it's a combination of both.
Happy first anniversary to us!
Friday, June 4, 2010
Stream of Consciousness
I admit it. I'm at work, and technically I should be working, except that I cannot concentrate, I'm uncomfortable, and I feel like I could fall asleep at any moment. My sinuses hurt, which is causing a nearly unbearable headache, and to make matters worse, all I want is a big, tall, icy cold Coke. The one thing that I should NOT have. Caffeine + unneccessary amounts of sugar = not the best choice for my pregnant self. What I should do is get up and get a tall glass of water, but there's a helium tank blocking the water fountain, and I don't feel up to finding another one.
Up until this point I've felt like my classes have been somewhat of an inconvenience to me. An unwanted interruption in the middle of my day that makes everything so much more stressful and busy than I'd like. Now that it's over, I feel a little sense of loss, like I'm losing something that I've invested a lot of myself in, and now I'm not sure what to do with myself. I've experienced this before--it's not new. Graduations, job changes, moves--they all bring this sense of "What now?" with them. And somehow, I always figure out what to do with myself when the next step comes.
Transitioning to part time here is a beautiful blessing that is scary and unsure. The cut in pay isn't that much, but what makes it seem more significant is the loss of medical coverage. Trying to figure out how to get coverage when you're 4 months pregnant doesn't seem smart, if you ask me. Seems like folks could deny me. Suddenly I'm worried that this decision was flippant, that I made it out of my own selfishness instead of making a logical, sound decision. But when I think about grading piles of essays, tests and homework; planning lessons; reading and lecturing on novels; and all of the administrative stuff that comes along with teaching, I know that this is a blessing. Not having to work more than 6 hours a day when our little baby arrives will be something I am utterly grateful for. Today, I'm trying to keep my eye on that truth, instead of the obstacle of needing health insurance and having to revise our budget.
Being pregnant comes with such a strange mix of emotions. One day, I'm perfectly fine, happy to be alive and secure in the knowledge that this is God's grace to my fearful heart that actually believed (however irrationally) that children would be an impossibility for me. With nothing more than my own anxiety to base that idea on, I realize now how crazy I must have sounded when I would talk about my fears. But still, being so irrational about it, and wanting it desperately, made acceptance more difficult than I ever imagined it would be. I thought I'd jump for joy, cry my eyes out, and relish the idea of being a mom-to-be. Instead, I cried a little, but mostly I shook. And I approached this pregnancy thing with an attitude of disbelief. I thought the doctors were wrong, and that I was right. That their instruments were flawed, and that my finite mind was more intuitive than they were. Even when we finally heard the heart beat, I doubted. Now that my tummy is starting to protrude and my pants don't fit without one of those belly band things, I'm starting to reconsider. And yet, I have a new fear that when they finally do the ultrasound, the baby will be a tumor that secretes hormones that make it SEEM like I'm pregnant, or that something will be wrong and the baby will be sick or disfigured. Talk about hope, eh?
Joey tells me that I can be crazy and irrational because he'll be the rational one for both of us. His belief is inspiring, comforting, and reassuring most of the time. But there are still those dark moments when I put on a smile and act like I'm secure about all this, when in reality I'm doubting something. If it's not the idea of the baby itself, then it's the idea of myself as a mother. And I know, in my rational mind, that all of it is a load of crap. But I also know that it feels very real to me, and I feel almost like I've got a split personality about all of it.
I told Christy early on that it felt like everyone was more excited about this baby than I was, and that was such a hard thing to admit because it felt like I was saying that I wasn't excited for this child, or that I didn't love it or wasn't happy about it. The good news? She absolutely understood. She had felt the same way when she was first pregnant with Brennan. After talking to her about it, I think the truth is that I feel this way because I'm the one who's carrying it all--the baby, the anxiety, the pressure, the fear...I'm the one who deals with the reality of it every single second of every single day.
But then there are those glittering moments where I see that everything is just as it should be, that this is the time I've been waiting for, praying for, yearning for. This is a dream come true. A prayer answered. And I guess in the end, that's the real truth to hold on to.
Up until this point I've felt like my classes have been somewhat of an inconvenience to me. An unwanted interruption in the middle of my day that makes everything so much more stressful and busy than I'd like. Now that it's over, I feel a little sense of loss, like I'm losing something that I've invested a lot of myself in, and now I'm not sure what to do with myself. I've experienced this before--it's not new. Graduations, job changes, moves--they all bring this sense of "What now?" with them. And somehow, I always figure out what to do with myself when the next step comes.
Transitioning to part time here is a beautiful blessing that is scary and unsure. The cut in pay isn't that much, but what makes it seem more significant is the loss of medical coverage. Trying to figure out how to get coverage when you're 4 months pregnant doesn't seem smart, if you ask me. Seems like folks could deny me. Suddenly I'm worried that this decision was flippant, that I made it out of my own selfishness instead of making a logical, sound decision. But when I think about grading piles of essays, tests and homework; planning lessons; reading and lecturing on novels; and all of the administrative stuff that comes along with teaching, I know that this is a blessing. Not having to work more than 6 hours a day when our little baby arrives will be something I am utterly grateful for. Today, I'm trying to keep my eye on that truth, instead of the obstacle of needing health insurance and having to revise our budget.
Being pregnant comes with such a strange mix of emotions. One day, I'm perfectly fine, happy to be alive and secure in the knowledge that this is God's grace to my fearful heart that actually believed (however irrationally) that children would be an impossibility for me. With nothing more than my own anxiety to base that idea on, I realize now how crazy I must have sounded when I would talk about my fears. But still, being so irrational about it, and wanting it desperately, made acceptance more difficult than I ever imagined it would be. I thought I'd jump for joy, cry my eyes out, and relish the idea of being a mom-to-be. Instead, I cried a little, but mostly I shook. And I approached this pregnancy thing with an attitude of disbelief. I thought the doctors were wrong, and that I was right. That their instruments were flawed, and that my finite mind was more intuitive than they were. Even when we finally heard the heart beat, I doubted. Now that my tummy is starting to protrude and my pants don't fit without one of those belly band things, I'm starting to reconsider. And yet, I have a new fear that when they finally do the ultrasound, the baby will be a tumor that secretes hormones that make it SEEM like I'm pregnant, or that something will be wrong and the baby will be sick or disfigured. Talk about hope, eh?
Joey tells me that I can be crazy and irrational because he'll be the rational one for both of us. His belief is inspiring, comforting, and reassuring most of the time. But there are still those dark moments when I put on a smile and act like I'm secure about all this, when in reality I'm doubting something. If it's not the idea of the baby itself, then it's the idea of myself as a mother. And I know, in my rational mind, that all of it is a load of crap. But I also know that it feels very real to me, and I feel almost like I've got a split personality about all of it.
I told Christy early on that it felt like everyone was more excited about this baby than I was, and that was such a hard thing to admit because it felt like I was saying that I wasn't excited for this child, or that I didn't love it or wasn't happy about it. The good news? She absolutely understood. She had felt the same way when she was first pregnant with Brennan. After talking to her about it, I think the truth is that I feel this way because I'm the one who's carrying it all--the baby, the anxiety, the pressure, the fear...I'm the one who deals with the reality of it every single second of every single day.
But then there are those glittering moments where I see that everything is just as it should be, that this is the time I've been waiting for, praying for, yearning for. This is a dream come true. A prayer answered. And I guess in the end, that's the real truth to hold on to.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Childhood Memories Part 2
The day after I started this post, memories started flooding my mind! Now as I lay here tonight, I'm having trouble remembering what I had remembered! (Go figure.) Oh well. I'll sit here for a moment and see if anything else comes to mind...
6. I vividly remember one summer day when I was about four years old when a man without a mustache walked into the kitchen through the garage door, swept my mom into his arms and gave her a huge kiss. I'm not sure if I heard something and came into see what was going on or if I was already in the kitchen, but what I do remember is the fact that I had no idea who this strange man was who was kissing my mom. In my little mind, my dad wasn't home, so there shouldn't be a man kissing my mom! The thing is that it was my dad-- I just didn't recognize him. He'd been gone that summer, away at grad school in Indiana for the past two months or so and while he was there, he shaved off his trademark mustache, but I had no idea! To my recollection, he hasn't shaved that mustache off since.
7. Speaking of when my dad was away at school, I remember the very first time I ever cooked dinner by myself. Again, I was about four years old and one evening decided that I really wanted to cook dinner for our family. When I asked my mom if I could do so, she said, "Well, what are you going to make?" I remember saying with confidence, "Bologna surprise," I dish I made that up on the spot. I had no idea what I'd make before I asked her if I could make dinner, but that was my idea when she asked me. I must have chosen it because 1) I LOVED bologna and 2) surprise meant that I could make it up as I went. When my mom asked me (probably stifling a chuckle) what bologna surprise was, I responded very matter-of-factly that it was bologna stuffed with cheese, rolled up and secured with a toothpick, then heated in the toaster oven so the cheese melted (like she should have known what that was...). She said, "Ok...well, what are you going to serve with it?" I quickly glanced up above the fridge and saw a bag of plain Ruffles. "Potato chips," I responded, because you know, it just complements it so well...
I don't know why she let me go through with it, but she did. And I remember watching those bologna rolls in the toaster oven, making sure they didn't burn. I also remember how good those things tasted! We all ate them for dinner--even my mom. And while I'm sure she ended up having something else to eat after we'd all gone to bed, to this day, I appreciate the fact that she not only let me go through with it, but she also tasted my creation. From that day on, my mom let me experiment in the kitchen all the time. I think she instilled confidence in me by letting me come up with creative recipes (which I'm sure were sometime were downright disgusting), and never made me feel like my ideas were silly. To this day, I love to experiment in the kitchen, but my ingredients have become a bit more sophisticated than bologna.
8. I am scared of the moon. Or, well, perhaps it's more accurate to say that I used to be scared of the moon, but sometimes I still get a little creeped out by it. I blame it on my father. My dad liked to pick on me, most likely because he knew I was an easy target. (Wonder where my brothers learned that from?) On nights when we happened to be in the car when the moon was especially bright (and usually nearly full), he would say to me in a sort of sing-song voice, "I see the moon and the moon sees me!" to which I would reply, "No! I don't want the moon to see me!" I hated the idea of the moon watching me. I could see a face in the moon, a face that I can still see to this day. I hated the way it would follow me; it didn't matter which way the car turned or how many trees or houses we passed by that blocked it from view. Whenever the road cleared, there it was, peering into the car window watching me. I couldn't escape it. Oh, how it scared me! By the way, my dad still teases me about that.
9. I don't remember going on many shopping trips with my mom, other than trips to the grocery store or to Target. Shopping for clothes wasn't something that we did very often when I was little, except for making the trek to Livermore every once in awhile to go to the big Goodwill store there. I remember the day when my mom told me I shouldn't be telling people where we got our clothes; up until then, I thought Goodwill was a pretty awesome place. We got to go pick out just about anything we liked, and we always came home with some great treasure. I remember one day I was playing with one of the neighbor girls, proudly wearing my new sweatshirt I had just gotten at Goodwill. It was yellow with puffy lambs on it I think (or something equally disgusting by today's standards). At the time, it was very in and I had wanted one badly. Anyway, my neighbor friend complemented me on the sweatshirt and asked me where I got it. I told her that I had picked it out at the Goodwill store in Livermore. My mom was outside watering or something and overheard our conversation. Later that evening, she told me that I didn't need to tell my friends where my clothes came from, that the Goodwill store was our little secret discovery and that no one else needed to know about it. I think that was the moment when I realized our family was a bit different than others.
We didn't have a lot of money when I was growing up, but I really didn't notice until after that day. My mom didn't take me clothes shopping much, but she didn't really need to. All my clothes either came from the Goodwill store or from those magical brown paper bags that my mom kept at the top of the hall closet. I lived in hand-me-downs, and I loved them. Some good friends of my parents had two little girls that were a bit older than me and they would always pass their clothes on to me after they'd outgrown them. I remember the days when my mom would pull a bag down as being some of the best days ever; I loved trying things on and seeing how I looked in them. We used to make such a mess in the hallway, because for some reason, that's where I always seemed to try things on.
I have such an appreciation for second hand things now; things that have a history, things that are well-used and well-loved, things that are appreciated far more than they would be if they were easier to come by.
10. Ok, here it is: memory number 10. I remember my Grandpa Guzman. He passed away when I was 11, just before Christmas that year, I believe. I remember hearing the news, and I remember wondering why I couldn't cry. Thinking about him now, remembering how I felt when he died and thinking about how things changed in the aftermath of his death, all of it brings tears to my eyes, but I barely shed one tear at the time of his death. Maybe I was in a state of shock, or maybe it just didn't have the same effect on me then as it does now.
When I remember him, I remember a jolly man who always lit up with a smile when I came into the room. He used to have new teddy bears waiting for me when we'd visit he and Nonie up in Auburn. He would take my brothers and I fishing in his pond and let us ride his tractor; he would give us piggy back rides and take us on hikes on his property. I can hear that strange noise he used to make, the noise that sounded like he was working on getting something out of his teeth. I can smell the toasted bagel and the port wine cheese spread that he loved to have at probably any time of the day. And I remember his hands, his leathery skin and the way his hugs felt--strong, secure, safe. Most of all, I remember what our family was like before we lost him.
My grandmother (Nonie) changed forever when he died. She was never a terribly warm, outwardly loving person, but after she lost him, bitterness took hold of her heart and affected her interactions with everyone from then on. I understand it; losing a husband would be beyond painful and life would be excruciatingly lonely after that. I've learned that perhaps she has always been like this, but now that she's on her own, it's a bit more obvious. She pushes people away. Drives them away, really. It started with my Uncle Al and his family, and now it's moved on to my family. I used to think that this would have never happened had my grandfather been alive; but when I said this to my dad one day, he told me that Grandpa Guzman wasn't really the man I knew. As a grandfather, that was the real him, but as a person, as a man, as a father, that wasn't him. Apparently he had an iron fist and on more than one occasion belittled my father's choices in life. He wasn't an easy man to love for my dad, but for me? He was a hero. I love that his memory is pure in my heart and that I have those special moments of joy with him. I don't have that with Nonie. And I tried. I tried many times to get close to her, but all I found was rejection. I'm not sure where I"m going with this part of the memory. It's not particularly good, and it is certainly intertwined with memories from the not so distant past. I guess this is the one that wanted to get out tonight, though.
And now that I've gotten the ball rolling, I find that I have several more memories from before I hit Junior High. I prove the statistic wrong, which was the whole point, right? I guess I shouldn't be surprised; in my family, I seem to be the one who remembers things, the one who corrects others when they've got a story wrong, or the one who people ask about an insignificant detail just because they know I'll remember. I'm the one with the memory. Sometimes it's a blessing, as memories are so often wonderful, and sometimes it's not, as memories are also often hurtful or confusing.
There really is a lot to be learned from memories, things we can learn about why we are the way we are.
6. I vividly remember one summer day when I was about four years old when a man without a mustache walked into the kitchen through the garage door, swept my mom into his arms and gave her a huge kiss. I'm not sure if I heard something and came into see what was going on or if I was already in the kitchen, but what I do remember is the fact that I had no idea who this strange man was who was kissing my mom. In my little mind, my dad wasn't home, so there shouldn't be a man kissing my mom! The thing is that it was my dad-- I just didn't recognize him. He'd been gone that summer, away at grad school in Indiana for the past two months or so and while he was there, he shaved off his trademark mustache, but I had no idea! To my recollection, he hasn't shaved that mustache off since.
7. Speaking of when my dad was away at school, I remember the very first time I ever cooked dinner by myself. Again, I was about four years old and one evening decided that I really wanted to cook dinner for our family. When I asked my mom if I could do so, she said, "Well, what are you going to make?" I remember saying with confidence, "Bologna surprise," I dish I made that up on the spot. I had no idea what I'd make before I asked her if I could make dinner, but that was my idea when she asked me. I must have chosen it because 1) I LOVED bologna and 2) surprise meant that I could make it up as I went. When my mom asked me (probably stifling a chuckle) what bologna surprise was, I responded very matter-of-factly that it was bologna stuffed with cheese, rolled up and secured with a toothpick, then heated in the toaster oven so the cheese melted (like she should have known what that was...). She said, "Ok...well, what are you going to serve with it?" I quickly glanced up above the fridge and saw a bag of plain Ruffles. "Potato chips," I responded, because you know, it just complements it so well...
I don't know why she let me go through with it, but she did. And I remember watching those bologna rolls in the toaster oven, making sure they didn't burn. I also remember how good those things tasted! We all ate them for dinner--even my mom. And while I'm sure she ended up having something else to eat after we'd all gone to bed, to this day, I appreciate the fact that she not only let me go through with it, but she also tasted my creation. From that day on, my mom let me experiment in the kitchen all the time. I think she instilled confidence in me by letting me come up with creative recipes (which I'm sure were sometime were downright disgusting), and never made me feel like my ideas were silly. To this day, I love to experiment in the kitchen, but my ingredients have become a bit more sophisticated than bologna.
8. I am scared of the moon. Or, well, perhaps it's more accurate to say that I used to be scared of the moon, but sometimes I still get a little creeped out by it. I blame it on my father. My dad liked to pick on me, most likely because he knew I was an easy target. (Wonder where my brothers learned that from?) On nights when we happened to be in the car when the moon was especially bright (and usually nearly full), he would say to me in a sort of sing-song voice, "I see the moon and the moon sees me!" to which I would reply, "No! I don't want the moon to see me!" I hated the idea of the moon watching me. I could see a face in the moon, a face that I can still see to this day. I hated the way it would follow me; it didn't matter which way the car turned or how many trees or houses we passed by that blocked it from view. Whenever the road cleared, there it was, peering into the car window watching me. I couldn't escape it. Oh, how it scared me! By the way, my dad still teases me about that.
9. I don't remember going on many shopping trips with my mom, other than trips to the grocery store or to Target. Shopping for clothes wasn't something that we did very often when I was little, except for making the trek to Livermore every once in awhile to go to the big Goodwill store there. I remember the day when my mom told me I shouldn't be telling people where we got our clothes; up until then, I thought Goodwill was a pretty awesome place. We got to go pick out just about anything we liked, and we always came home with some great treasure. I remember one day I was playing with one of the neighbor girls, proudly wearing my new sweatshirt I had just gotten at Goodwill. It was yellow with puffy lambs on it I think (or something equally disgusting by today's standards). At the time, it was very in and I had wanted one badly. Anyway, my neighbor friend complemented me on the sweatshirt and asked me where I got it. I told her that I had picked it out at the Goodwill store in Livermore. My mom was outside watering or something and overheard our conversation. Later that evening, she told me that I didn't need to tell my friends where my clothes came from, that the Goodwill store was our little secret discovery and that no one else needed to know about it. I think that was the moment when I realized our family was a bit different than others.
We didn't have a lot of money when I was growing up, but I really didn't notice until after that day. My mom didn't take me clothes shopping much, but she didn't really need to. All my clothes either came from the Goodwill store or from those magical brown paper bags that my mom kept at the top of the hall closet. I lived in hand-me-downs, and I loved them. Some good friends of my parents had two little girls that were a bit older than me and they would always pass their clothes on to me after they'd outgrown them. I remember the days when my mom would pull a bag down as being some of the best days ever; I loved trying things on and seeing how I looked in them. We used to make such a mess in the hallway, because for some reason, that's where I always seemed to try things on.
I have such an appreciation for second hand things now; things that have a history, things that are well-used and well-loved, things that are appreciated far more than they would be if they were easier to come by.
10. Ok, here it is: memory number 10. I remember my Grandpa Guzman. He passed away when I was 11, just before Christmas that year, I believe. I remember hearing the news, and I remember wondering why I couldn't cry. Thinking about him now, remembering how I felt when he died and thinking about how things changed in the aftermath of his death, all of it brings tears to my eyes, but I barely shed one tear at the time of his death. Maybe I was in a state of shock, or maybe it just didn't have the same effect on me then as it does now.
When I remember him, I remember a jolly man who always lit up with a smile when I came into the room. He used to have new teddy bears waiting for me when we'd visit he and Nonie up in Auburn. He would take my brothers and I fishing in his pond and let us ride his tractor; he would give us piggy back rides and take us on hikes on his property. I can hear that strange noise he used to make, the noise that sounded like he was working on getting something out of his teeth. I can smell the toasted bagel and the port wine cheese spread that he loved to have at probably any time of the day. And I remember his hands, his leathery skin and the way his hugs felt--strong, secure, safe. Most of all, I remember what our family was like before we lost him.
My grandmother (Nonie) changed forever when he died. She was never a terribly warm, outwardly loving person, but after she lost him, bitterness took hold of her heart and affected her interactions with everyone from then on. I understand it; losing a husband would be beyond painful and life would be excruciatingly lonely after that. I've learned that perhaps she has always been like this, but now that she's on her own, it's a bit more obvious. She pushes people away. Drives them away, really. It started with my Uncle Al and his family, and now it's moved on to my family. I used to think that this would have never happened had my grandfather been alive; but when I said this to my dad one day, he told me that Grandpa Guzman wasn't really the man I knew. As a grandfather, that was the real him, but as a person, as a man, as a father, that wasn't him. Apparently he had an iron fist and on more than one occasion belittled my father's choices in life. He wasn't an easy man to love for my dad, but for me? He was a hero. I love that his memory is pure in my heart and that I have those special moments of joy with him. I don't have that with Nonie. And I tried. I tried many times to get close to her, but all I found was rejection. I'm not sure where I"m going with this part of the memory. It's not particularly good, and it is certainly intertwined with memories from the not so distant past. I guess this is the one that wanted to get out tonight, though.
And now that I've gotten the ball rolling, I find that I have several more memories from before I hit Junior High. I prove the statistic wrong, which was the whole point, right? I guess I shouldn't be surprised; in my family, I seem to be the one who remembers things, the one who corrects others when they've got a story wrong, or the one who people ask about an insignificant detail just because they know I'll remember. I'm the one with the memory. Sometimes it's a blessing, as memories are so often wonderful, and sometimes it's not, as memories are also often hurtful or confusing.
There really is a lot to be learned from memories, things we can learn about why we are the way we are.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Childhood Memories
This week I've been teaching my American Lit students about the little things in life, about the small details that will slip by us unnoticed if we don't take the time to see them as they're happening. I read the other night that most people don't have more than ten memories from childhood, other than things they remember from pictures. When I read that, I wanted to prove it wrong. I thought surely I had more than ten. Perhaps they're not big, ming-blowing or life-changing memories, but I'm sure I must have more than ten. Here's my list...let's see how it goes...
1. The way the aroma of bacon frying and coffee brewing mix so brilliantly at my Grandpa and Nonie's house in Auburn that it would rouse us from our beds and beckon us to the kitchen early in the morning. As a rule, Guzmans never liked to get up early, but when we were at Grandpa and Nonie's, that smell was magic. To me, that's the way mornings should always smell.
2. When I was little, maybe 4 years old or so, my Aunt Natalie and Uncle Bob took my older brother Ben and I to the beach in Santa Cruz. I don't remember if my brother Zach was there too or not, but that's sort of beside the point. I was wading in the ocean, and I'm not sure if my aunt and uncle were holding onto me or not, but a big wave came, knocked me down and dragged me back into the ocean. My Aunt freaked! I remember that vividly. I remember not really knowing what to do. I wasn't scared, really, but I do remember feeling helpless. Perhaps I was in a state of shock or something, but I remember the way it felt to not know up from down, to have no idea how I'd get back to the surface to breathe my next breath. And I remember them pulling me out. I don't know who it was--Aunt Natalie or Uncle Bob, but I remember Aunt Natalie was shaken. She was probably more scared than I was. I also remember being very cold. Santa Cruz isn't the warmest beach in the world. Even though this memory isn't the most beautiful in the world, I look back on it and recognize just how much they loved me and the mix of wanting to let me experience new things as well as terror when something went wrong. I was just fine in the end, and my mom wasn't upset about the whole ordeal (to my recollection). At least, I don't think she was; I ended up doing many more things with Aunt Natalie and Uncle Bob after that :)
3. My grandparents have a big orange tree in their backyard that's been there for as long as I can remember. One summer in particular, I remember spending the day at G&G's house and having an "orange picnic" in their front yard. We picked our oranges, which was very exciting, and then took them out to eat them on the front lawn. The funny thing about this memory is that I hated oranges. I liked the juice, but that was about it. So, I peeled my orange and chomped down on the little piggies with my molars and sucked the life out of those little wedges (and then I made a nice little pile of the discarded orange bits). My grandma was probably appalled, but what could I do? I hated oranges.
4. Speaking of Grandparents and fruit, I remember the first (and I believe only) time I heard my grandmother swear. We were on our way home from visiting my Aunt Natalie and Uncle Bob in Fresno and we stopped at Casa de Fruita, possibly for lunch or a bathroom break or something. When we got back into their cursed Ford, that dark blue one that was supposed to have been their "nice" car, it wouldn't start. That thing gave them more trouble; I guess it wasn't surprising to them that it wouldn't start, but all the same, it made my Grandmother so mad that she (with her arm around me in the back seat), said "Damn." I think. Or maybe she said "Shit." Or maybe she said "this Damn car..." Ok, I admit that the memory is fuzzy, but I do remember that she said something that shocked me. I never expected to hear her talk like that, but I think that was the day that my grandmother became human in my eyes.
5. My dad used to take us to the back parking lot Centerville Presbyterian Church to let us "drive." We had this monstrously ugly beast of a van, which made the idea of driving it terrifying and exhilarating all at once. He'd sit us on his lap and control the gas, but we had to steer. I remember he used to gun it when we were almost at the fence, and he'd say "not yet! Not yet!" and make us wait to turn. Then he'd slow way down and let us turn at the last minute. That always scared me beyond words. But I loved it.
6. My brother Zach used to associate various odd things with the different days of the week. Perhaps he still does; I should ask him. We used to ask him to list them for us, prompting him with a day of the week and laughing ourselves nearly to death when he'd say a certain day reminded him of rubber bands. I can't remember which day that was now, though. Again, I should ask him...) Anyway, we used to speculate why he'd associate certain things with certain days, and eventually we had them pretty much worked out except for Wednesday, which he associated with McDonald's french fries. Eventually, it dawned on us. On Wednesdays, we had Kid's Company at church, the midweek church event for kids at CPC. My dad was the children's pastor at the time, so we'd often stay late until all the other kids had gone home. On random nights, for no particular reason, my dad would stop by McDonald's and get us all small french fries. And then we'd go home and watch Home Improvement, which we had set the VCR to record before we left. Those were the best nights. And I'm sure it's why Zach associates those fries with Wednesdays.
Well, I've made it to number 6, but I've run out of time today. I've got to get into the shower & off to a baby shower in an hour, so I'll leave for now, but I will be back. I'm sure I've got another 4 memories at least! I'm going to prove that I'm not part of the statistic!
1. The way the aroma of bacon frying and coffee brewing mix so brilliantly at my Grandpa and Nonie's house in Auburn that it would rouse us from our beds and beckon us to the kitchen early in the morning. As a rule, Guzmans never liked to get up early, but when we were at Grandpa and Nonie's, that smell was magic. To me, that's the way mornings should always smell.
2. When I was little, maybe 4 years old or so, my Aunt Natalie and Uncle Bob took my older brother Ben and I to the beach in Santa Cruz. I don't remember if my brother Zach was there too or not, but that's sort of beside the point. I was wading in the ocean, and I'm not sure if my aunt and uncle were holding onto me or not, but a big wave came, knocked me down and dragged me back into the ocean. My Aunt freaked! I remember that vividly. I remember not really knowing what to do. I wasn't scared, really, but I do remember feeling helpless. Perhaps I was in a state of shock or something, but I remember the way it felt to not know up from down, to have no idea how I'd get back to the surface to breathe my next breath. And I remember them pulling me out. I don't know who it was--Aunt Natalie or Uncle Bob, but I remember Aunt Natalie was shaken. She was probably more scared than I was. I also remember being very cold. Santa Cruz isn't the warmest beach in the world. Even though this memory isn't the most beautiful in the world, I look back on it and recognize just how much they loved me and the mix of wanting to let me experience new things as well as terror when something went wrong. I was just fine in the end, and my mom wasn't upset about the whole ordeal (to my recollection). At least, I don't think she was; I ended up doing many more things with Aunt Natalie and Uncle Bob after that :)
3. My grandparents have a big orange tree in their backyard that's been there for as long as I can remember. One summer in particular, I remember spending the day at G&G's house and having an "orange picnic" in their front yard. We picked our oranges, which was very exciting, and then took them out to eat them on the front lawn. The funny thing about this memory is that I hated oranges. I liked the juice, but that was about it. So, I peeled my orange and chomped down on the little piggies with my molars and sucked the life out of those little wedges (and then I made a nice little pile of the discarded orange bits). My grandma was probably appalled, but what could I do? I hated oranges.
4. Speaking of Grandparents and fruit, I remember the first (and I believe only) time I heard my grandmother swear. We were on our way home from visiting my Aunt Natalie and Uncle Bob in Fresno and we stopped at Casa de Fruita, possibly for lunch or a bathroom break or something. When we got back into their cursed Ford, that dark blue one that was supposed to have been their "nice" car, it wouldn't start. That thing gave them more trouble; I guess it wasn't surprising to them that it wouldn't start, but all the same, it made my Grandmother so mad that she (with her arm around me in the back seat), said "Damn." I think. Or maybe she said "Shit." Or maybe she said "this Damn car..." Ok, I admit that the memory is fuzzy, but I do remember that she said something that shocked me. I never expected to hear her talk like that, but I think that was the day that my grandmother became human in my eyes.
5. My dad used to take us to the back parking lot Centerville Presbyterian Church to let us "drive." We had this monstrously ugly beast of a van, which made the idea of driving it terrifying and exhilarating all at once. He'd sit us on his lap and control the gas, but we had to steer. I remember he used to gun it when we were almost at the fence, and he'd say "not yet! Not yet!" and make us wait to turn. Then he'd slow way down and let us turn at the last minute. That always scared me beyond words. But I loved it.
6. My brother Zach used to associate various odd things with the different days of the week. Perhaps he still does; I should ask him. We used to ask him to list them for us, prompting him with a day of the week and laughing ourselves nearly to death when he'd say a certain day reminded him of rubber bands. I can't remember which day that was now, though. Again, I should ask him...) Anyway, we used to speculate why he'd associate certain things with certain days, and eventually we had them pretty much worked out except for Wednesday, which he associated with McDonald's french fries. Eventually, it dawned on us. On Wednesdays, we had Kid's Company at church, the midweek church event for kids at CPC. My dad was the children's pastor at the time, so we'd often stay late until all the other kids had gone home. On random nights, for no particular reason, my dad would stop by McDonald's and get us all small french fries. And then we'd go home and watch Home Improvement, which we had set the VCR to record before we left. Those were the best nights. And I'm sure it's why Zach associates those fries with Wednesdays.
Well, I've made it to number 6, but I've run out of time today. I've got to get into the shower & off to a baby shower in an hour, so I'll leave for now, but I will be back. I'm sure I've got another 4 memories at least! I'm going to prove that I'm not part of the statistic!
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
"The 'scratch' that satisfies my itch"
I feel so silly. Moments before starting this post, tears were running down my face, my nose began to fill up, and my face turned red from the strain of it all. It's been four hours. That's it. Four hours since I dropped Joey off at the airport. And somehow all I can do is think about how much I miss him. Already. After only four hours.
We've only been married for seven months, but somehow in that short span of time we have created a new standard of peace, comfort, and normalcy. Without him around, I feel sort of incomplete, like something essential for survival has been taken from me, like I can't quite catch my breath.
After trying to distract myself in the living room for a few hours, I finally resigned myself to the fact that it was ok to go to bed at 9:00. When I pulled down the sheets, I saw a note waiting for me. It said, "I love you. I miss you. You're the "scratch" that satisfies my itch." The note was made twice as sweet by the double meaning of "scratch." We may be the only couple on the face of the earth that don't call each other babe, honey, hun, sweetie, or anything remotely similar. But Joey does call me Scratch. Why? Somehow he derived it from Rachel (Rach ... Ratchet ... Scratchel ... Scratch. Ah, the evolution.) Anyway, I give him a hard time about pet names sometimes because I feel the urge to call him something special, something other than what everyone else in the world calls him. Joey is great; it's his name, and I'm happy to call him that, but it's not anything special. Having him call me Rach is fine, too. I don't mind at all. But again, it's nothing special. For him to call me Scratch and to make it meaningful instead of just playful touched my heart. I needed that.
It's pretty easy for me to be distracted by things, to become preoccupied with something and let my mind dwell on it. Tonight? My mind was dwelling on the fact that I missed Joey, and feeling insecure about it. I felt silly for missing him so much, silly because I was sure he didn't miss me even half as much, and frustrated that I couldn't just ignore my feelings and get on with my evening. After I found the note, I realized that my heart needs a tender reminder that there is a love that is constant no matter what crazy emotion I may feel on a given day. In a way, he is the scratch that satisfies my itch, too. We all have itches. We all have needs and desires that can become irritants in our lives, feelings that we cannot seem to shake or get rid of no matter what we do on our own. To have someone who helps satisfy those itches? Priceless.
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