Scrapbooking

When I was a teenager, starting at 14, I kept a scrapbook. It wasn't full of cutesy stickers or pictures with scalloped edges, that wasn't a big thing until a few years later.  This one was a photo album, the kind made from a 3-ring binder full of pages that are sticky on each side and covered with a sheet of clear plastic, crafted into a baby book - you know, those things moms-to-be get at their baby showers and then keep in the box it came in, shoved in the closet or basement ,until you find it long after those babies are no longer babies and you stick it in the yard sale or donate it to goodwill?   This one was given to Momma when she was pregnant with Dylan.  It had a gender-neutral mother goose fabric and was trimmed with alternating blue and pink lace.  The fabric was quilted, and lightly stuffed, and had a picture-frame sleeve sewn into the front cover.  But, as a 14 year old girl suddenly with a new life outside of my family, I felt a primal urge to document the important and awesome things that were happening in my life, and it was full of those pages that are sticky on both sides, and so when I found it in the back room downstairs and mom said I could have it, cover be damned, this would fit the bill.  I called it "my book".  As in, "Do you want to come over and hang out and look at my book? I made a new page last night."  Or, "I have an entire page of my book devoted to him,"  or, "here, look at this page in my book, it'll explain how I feel better than out loud words can." 

I spent hours physically formatting pages with high-school class schedules and picture-day wallet-sized photos of my friends, cutting out, with normal straight-edge scissors, from-film pictures taken at Kat's house, at Drill meets, at family events, so I could paste them into my book. I pasted in Valentines from classmates, comic strips, and handwritten poems.  I poured over old copies of Readers Digest (from Granny & Pappaw's house) and cut out the best quotes that seemed so epiphanic, so important and new and big to my young 14 year old brain:

"We are born with our eyes closed and our mouths open, and spend our entire lives trying to correct that mistake of nature."

"The words penalty, restrict and violate appeared more times in President Clinton's health care bill than in his crime bill."

"When one door of happiness closes, another opens, but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us."

"An apology is the super glue of life; it can repair just about anything."

I drew pictures with pencil, practicing the shading skills I was learning in my freshman art class.  I cut article titles from Cosmopolitan (mine) and Home & Gardens and Woman's Day and Ladies Home Journal (all mom's) to paste into collages to express my heartache when my boyfriend kissed another girl.  I made pages filled with birthday cards from my aunts and grandparents and friends.  And more Reader's Digest quotes:

"When one finds himself in a hole of his own making, it is a good time to examine the quality of workmanship."

"Being defeated is often a temporary condition.  Giving up is what makes it permanent."

Newspaper articles from my friend's rappelling accident, the one that nearly killed him. 

There's a pretty definitive line where I find my dad's old Time Magazines.  All of a sudden, there's a political spin on the pages - they're not just about my day to day life, my relationship drama - there's all of those things, then you turn a page, and there's a black and white cartoon of a man holding a gun on a doctor who's standing between the legs of a pregnant woman who's lying on a table, and the doc is holding the pointed edge of a knife over her belly.  The caption says "Justifiable homicide?"  The question mark is in the shape of a fetus.  Other additions to this page include cut-outs of protest posters that read "choose life, abortion kils" and "why not kill the baby killers?"  The next page has pics of flag code violations titled "Do you salute the dog?" and a "Powell '96" button.  Turn the page -  A cartoon from 2/15/93 that shows a line of people waiting in front of a sign that reads "white house tour" - the guide says "The Clintons ask that there be no smoking in the white house."  one of the citizens in line asks, "What if we don't inhale?" 

TIME didn't change my scrapbooking style, but it definitely gave me a new facet of my opinions to explore.  The traditionally "women-focused" magazines I was drawing from didn't invite me to have a political opinion, and while I am appalled at much of what I apparently believed back in 1994, and while I know none of that was geared toward me, I will always have a soft spot in my heart for that first introduction into political conversation. 

I said all that to say this:  The girls who find their dad's old TIME magazines today are working with way better material than I ever had.  I'm going to go find a few copies of this one tomorrow to keep on hand.

A Christmas Story

My Facebook post from Friday:

Natalie Fowler

December 20 near Louisville, KY

My morning has been filled with an ACTUAL CHRISTMAS MIRACLE and I'm so excited I can't hardly stand it. I'm bouncing up and down in my chair.

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The story:

A Christmas Story

December 25, 2013 at 9:34 pm

A Christmas Miracle is what I promised. Sometimes, I get so excited about the way I think life should work out, I end up forgetting that reality is usually not so kind.  Still, I live behind these rose colored glasses.

My Daddy, whom I love and adore, way back in 1982, received from my Momma, for his 30th birthday, a wooden chess set.  It was beautiful - the pieces were hand carved and polished, the board was made with love - it was a wonderful board that graced the top of our entertainment center for as long as I can remember.  I spent hours as a girl peeking in on my dad and his friends as they hunched over the set, moving the pieces in mysterious ways, so silent and serious.  It seemed a very boring game to me, but the love my Daddy had for that board made it seem like something grown up and important and something I very much wanted to experience with him - so eventually, I learned the game of chess on that board, taught by a very patient father who tried his best to explain to his precocious daughter why it was okay that the King, which was so very important to the game, could only move in the same limited capacity as a Pawn.  (I still don't get it, I'll be honest with you.  The Queen was totally the boss of that game.)  I haven't played chess in years, and Daddy had taken to favoring the less-bulky convenience of downloaded games on his phone, but the last time I played was on that board, and I know Daddy still occasionally pulled out the set to have a game with his buddy Jim.

Daddy's chess board was such a fixture in our home - like the cabinet that holds the CDs, and the dining room table - you may not use it every day, but it was always there. Until one day it wasn't.

The hows and whys of the board's disappearance aren't tales for this story, but the loss, when it was noticed, was heartbreakingly sad, and it deeply hurt my Daddy that it was gone.  I have a ridiculous sentimental side that comes straight from my Papa - small tokens can carry the value of gold and gems if given by the right person, for the right occasion - and I could see in his eyes when he told me his chess set was gone, and I hurt for him.  We tried to find it, but by the time we tracked it to it's last known location, it was gone again.  Forever, it seemed.

The Friday before Christmas, I was in my boss's office, sharing Christmas shopping woes.  I told him how i wasn't finished shopping for Daddy, but all I wanted to get him for Christmas was a chess set to replace his missing one, but you can't replace handcrafted with mass-produced.  Dan cocked his head to the side, then turned to his computer and typed something in - I came around his desk to look, "Are you on Craigslist?"  The first search for "chess set" returned dozens of listings, but he narrowed it to wooden sets and listings with pictures.  The third listing, from Lexington Craigslist, was my Daddy's chess set.

I called the man with the listing, confirmed he still had the board, made an offer, got his address, and told him I'd see him the next morning.  I looked at the listing for another 5 minutes, heart racing.  Could it really be my dad's set?  Yep, it had the wooden box he used to store the pieces.  I recognized the green felt on the bottom of the pieces.  Dan emailed me the link to the listing, which I forwarded to Momma, followed by a phone call, "That's it, isn't it?"  "Nat, I think it is."  I knew it!  I was beside myself with joy - I wanted to leave work that minute and drive to Lexington and have it safe in my hands, then under my tree, ready to be reunited with my Daddy.

All afternoon, all night, all morning Saturday, I had visions of how I'd give Daddy his gift.  Sneak in and set it up under their christmas tree so it's waiting for him Christmas morning, like a gift from Santa?  Each piece wrapped indiviually and the board as the final present?  A video taking him along on our journey to Lexington and back, with the big reveal at the end?  Regardless, I knew it would be perfect, and he would be so thrilled and excited, and this would be the best Christmas ever, for more reasons than just being Geneva's First.

Jimi and I loaded Geneva into the car in the middle of the cold rain Saturday morning, and headed out to pick up our Christmas Miracle.  It was a jovial trip - I was bubbling with excitement, visions of rooks and pawns and knights and queens dancing in my head.  The seller was waiting for us in his driveway when we pulled up, and I got out of the car with the money in my hand.  He brought me the board...

And I knew immediately it wasn't my Daddy's chess set.  While Daddy had for years left the board assembled, ready for game-play, there was no discoloration on the white squares on his board; this board had little round circles where the color of the wood was changed by years of exposure to light or smoke.  The board was nice, just not as nice as my Daddy's.  The box of pieces was smaller, not as nice as Dad's, and the pieces themselves were 2/3 the size of Dad's pieces, and not nearly as finished and polished.

I hated the chess set being offered to me.  I gave the man $100 and put it in my backseat anyhow, and drove away.  I made it to the stop sign at the end of the street before the tidal wave of tears I'd been holding back broke free, and I sobbed and sobbed, heartbroken for my Daddy's loss all over again, and now for my failure to fix it and make everything better.

My day was ruined.  Sweet Jimi saw me deflating fast and tried to perk me up, but I was allowing myself to sink and wallow- how could i have been so foolish, and so wrong?  And does this mean that Daddy's board really is gone forever, with no hope of ever coming back to us?

By the time we got home, my head was clearing from the shock.  That sounds melodramatic, doesn't it?  That's really what it was, though - I was so completely certain we'd found my Dad's board that I was absolutely blindsided by the fact that it wasn't.  I looked at a Craigslist photo and convinced myself of what I saw and allowed not a moment's thought to the idea that I could be mistaken.  Foolish.  Anyhow, by the time we got home that evening, I was more reasonable.  I took out the board and the little wooden box and examined both closely.  I opened the box and held the pieces in my hands - they're hefty for their size, and while the carvings aren't polished, they're quality.  It's a nice chess set.  Anyone who enjoys the game would be proud to have it.

I wrapped it with love, and gave it to Daddy today.  I couldn't stop myself from crying, or for apologizing for it not being "his" - he cried too, though, and replied "it's mine now".

Christmas was full of the most important things, and not a damned one of them was carved of wood.  Perspective, I has it now.

And then I filled up for $2.98 a gallon on the way home.

Christmas Miracle, indeed.

29.4 - A lovely Sunday

We started off straightening and cleaning the house, rearranging living room furniture, making the house liveable again.  Then his brother came over, followed shortly by Momma and Daddy.  The men-folk headed off for an afternoon showing of "Lincoln", leaving Momma and I behind to make a couple of batches of peanut brittle and a few hours of conversation.  It was wonderful to spend the afternoon with her - I don't spend nearly enough time with my Momma, and lately I have a nagging sense of guilt over that fact.  She lives so close, I have no excuse for not making time with her more of a priority.  Lately I feel a sense of urgency, like I NEED to be in her presence more often.  Impending motherhood is to blame, I imagine, and the realization that she's not going to be here forever and I sure as hell better appreciate her while she is. 

After the candy-making, we sorted through a couple boxes of baby clothes passed down to me from Stacy - we oohed and aahed over the tiny pastel outfits, sorting by size and saying over and over again how no one needs to buy us any more, we've got plenty to get us through at least the first six months. 

In between the candy-making and clothes-sorting, I picked apart the beef roast I'd been simmering in the crock-pot all day and turned it into veggie beef soup - it's finishing its cooking on the stove now while I'm lying back on the new chaise and Jimi watches the latest Batman flick. 

It's been a perfect day; I'm happy and content.  Life is good.

Kentucky Derby 2012

As I've said a few times, I went to the Kentucky Derby this year.

It was the second time I've been - bossman gave me tickets 2 or 3 years ago - 

but this was my first Derby with my Daddy.

And it was my first trip to the infamous Infield.

This town gets down during Derby time.

We have a huge fireworks show to kick off two weeks of partying, 

and by the time Derby day itself, the first Saturday in May, rolls around,

the locals are filling up my Facebook feed with things like,

"One more day and this town can get back to normal."

 I like the partying, though.

Even if I rarely participate in any of it,

I love the atmosphere of excitement and fun, 

and I love that people from all over come to our city

and see all the awesome we have to offer.

Daddy says his favorite thing about the Derby 

is all the beautiful women in pretty dresses.

The men dress pretty well, too.

The neighborhood near Churchill Downs isn't high dollar real estate;

in fact, it's maybe a little on the rough side.

But that neighborhood rocks out Derby week.

Every house has someone standing in front with a sign that says 

"PARK HERE! $10"

Or $20, or $40, depending on how close you are to the track.

The 'hood becomes a block party -

everyone is grilling out 

(and entrepreneurs are selling hot dogs and burgers and bottled water),

music is blaring,

rednecks and hoodrats in chinos and polos driving golf carts and offering rides to the pretty rich folk who'd never intentionally come into this neighborhood after dark or during off-season.

I should've taken pictures of that.  THAT was the real Derby.

Oh well, these mostly-what-you'd-expect shots will have to do.  

Daddy met us at the house early Saturday morning, 

just as I pulled a hashbrown casserole from the oven.

I made smoothies, too.

We found close parking for $10, 

then caught a golf cart to the Infield gate.

(I almost left our admission tickets in the car.  

Having to go back for them would've been the ultimate walk of shame.)

In our own golf cart chariot.  An excellent shot of the back of my Daddy's head.

Approaching the Infield entrance gate.  At this point, everything's still fine.  No indication that anything is amiss.

Wait a second.

Wait just a minute.  Is that the line?

Dude in the middle there?  Preachin' 'bout Jesus.

At this point, Daddy's about to lose his shit.

He's doing that helpless hands-in-the-air shrug he does when he's frustrated,

and gesturing toward the crowd with a look of shocked disbelief.

"It'll take HOURS to get through this."

The line wasn't moving.  

At all.

See, this is the only entrance through which you can take chairs and coolers and the like.

Everything - EVERYTHING - has to be searched 

to make sure you're not trying to blow the place up

or drink without paying the track tax.

So I said, "Fuck this.  We don't have chairs or a cooler.  Let's walk around to the main entrance."

So we did.

No lines here!  Just walk right up, walk right in.

Security "checked" my purse - 

I held it open and he stuck a wooden skewer into it for one swipe and waved me on.

I really should've packed a flask.

These guys were my first favorites of the day.
I don't know it for a fact,
but I'd bet $100 that they had those suits tailor made.
They fit them like gloves.
One day, I too will be awesome enough to wear something outrageous in public.

Jefferson County's Smoking Ban applies to all bars and restaurants and public venues in the county...
Except Churchill Downs.  Smoke it up, Ladies and Gents!

You get to the infield through a giant tunnel that runs under the racetrack.
I asked Daddy,
"This isn't going to be like that tunnel scene in The Stand, is it?"

Notice how they're all facing the same direction? 
They're not facing the racetrack.

These people too.  They've positioned themselves where they are very purposefully.

So they can see the board, of course.

That's the track, through those fences and girls there.

Hey look!  I saw a horse! 
Lots of locals go to Derby and never see a horse, so I felt I was doing pretty good.

Derby is like camping, but with less fire and booze. 
There's still booze,
but at $9 for a beer or mint julep, there's not booze like you'd see around a campfire.

Daddy's friends brought their transistor radio to listen to the commentary.
Blast from the past!

Place your bets, folks!

It was hot and humid and expensive out there, so we only planned to stay for a few hours, beat the rush getting out, and be home in time to watch the big race on TV.

This was the crowd 4 hours before the main race, 

when I was trying to place my Derby bets before we headed home.

There are no chairs at the Derby unless you bring your own. 
Plan to pull up a piece of pavement.

We got lost in the college party section on our way out.
I smelled dope out there!

This was 4 hours after we'd by-passed the Infield entrance gate.
These people are just coming in from that line. 

And we all lived happily ever after.  

(And I won $52.60 when 2 of the 7 horses I bet placed first and second in the actual Kentucky Derby.

First time I've ever cashed a winning ticket.  YAY!)

I never blog anymore.

I went to the Kentucky Derby last weekend.  I did.  I have pictures and video, too.  One of these days, I'll transfer that stuff from camera to computer to here, but probably not today.

My Daddy turned 60 yesterday.  We're having his birthday dinner tonight.  Italian.  After boot camp, so I can eat my weight in pasta. 

I spend a lot of time thinking "one of these days, i'll..." and then I never take the next step and actually DO.  I'm gonna stop that.  Which "that", I'm not sure yet.

There's a lot in my head, but it's mostly work stuff that I'm trying to not forget about between now and the time I get back to work.  The crazy's pretty quiet these days.  Nice change. 

Don't read this. The sirens just went off.

Dinner was at Momma's tonight.  Every time I'm with her, I want to be closer to her.  When I'm in her presence, I'd agree to almost anything, so long as it put me closer to her. 

I found myself watching her tonight, looking for signs.  Signs of where I've come from, and where I'm going.  I see my lines in her lips and eyes - hers are where mine are going.  I want to know everything she's ever seen, touched, tasted, heard, thought.  All of it.  I could spend the rest of my life by her side and not know it all.  Especially the parts she doesn't want to share.  Which is most of it, I fear.

She knows Zanzibar.  Z-bar, she called it.  She used to do shots there, with so and so from the hairdresser board, back in the seventies.  Do I even know this woman?  She said we should go there on my birthday, and do shots.  My mother.  "I can't do shots, Momma, I get too drunk."  "Me too, Nat.  You do those five dollar things they sell in the test tubes that aren't very strong, then you can do a bunch."  WTF?  Are we really having this conversation?

The stories my dad tells with passion, she doesn't remember.  Daddy says he has the letters to prove it, Momma says, "we need to burn those" and my heart skips a beat - Daddy's promised to protect and save them for me, but what if she really does get to them first?  My beginnings are in those words, and there's a door there to the people my parents were before they were parents, and I desperately want to know those people.  She wouldn't really burn them, would she?

My great-grandmother is 99 years old.  She's recently been admitted into a nursing home with dementia.  For 20 years, I've had this idea that one day I go visit her with a tape recorder and ask her to tell me all of her earliest memories - what it was like as a teenager during the depression, how it was to birth 9 children at home, did she really have to boil the laundry?  What did she do when she had her period?  What was it like to be celibate for 40+ years?  What was the truth behind that story about the time she cut her hair and her Daddy cried?

It's too late for my questions now.  I've missed my window.  My Granny's gone too, and with her the first-hand account of how she met and fell in love with my Papaw, who, seeing her for the first time, pointed at her through a diner window and said to his buddy, "That's the woman I'm going to marry."   I'll never be able to get clarification on that raw egg she said saved my Aunt Pam's life when Pam was just a baby and barely able to hold down any formula.  What was it like when she went to the hospital, when they shocked her with electricity for having what is now recognized as postpartum depression?  Raising teenagers in the late 60s, early 70s?  Finding out at 40 that you've got a degenerative disease?  Losing the love of your life after 43 years when your plans for the day included lunch and fishing?  Learning, by accident, that you have cancer, and deciding not to say anything to anyone because all you want is to be reunited with him?  Granny said her peace, I suppose;  I wish I would've listened more closely.  The words I remember first, these days, when I remember her voice, are "There's no use crying over spilled milk."  I remember my outrage, "You're SO MUCH MORE than spilled milk, Granny." 

These women in my life.  These strong, deep women, who've taught me so many lessons, but it feels like I was only barely listening, and then, just on the surface.  Now I find myself wanting desperately to know more, so much more - but so much is lost, gone forever.  

My Momma's still here.  She has so many things to tell me, about all of her wonderful adventures, and she doesn't even realize.  She's a hard shell, but she'll talk to me one of these days.  I need to go around more often - not just to get her stories, but because I love her probably more than any other one person in the entire world and it makes her happy to see my face.  And I love it when she talks to me.  I love her voice.  I love holding her hands.  I love putting my arms around her and feeling her bony little shoulders.  I love the way she feels when she hugs me, even if she is a little stand-offish sometimes.  I love how nice she is to me, and how she's always supportive.  She told me tonight that I sing better than her and I think I've never received a higher compliment; her praise is worth a hundred times the value of the most precious metal. 

Twenty minutes, that's how long it takes to drive from my house to hers.  I let weeks and months go by without a visit - sometimes I saw her more when I lived in Michigan.  I am ashamed. Every time I see her I say to myself, self, from now on you will see your Momma at least once a week, and then I do nothing; I don't go see her, I barely call her, I am pathetic and horrible.

I keep thinking there's going to be a day that comes where a switch is thrown and all of a sudden I have to see my Momma three or four times a week and I will be a good and diligent daughter...and then I think, yeah, that'll probably happen when I have a baby...and then I think, but what if I don't ever have a baby?  Will there be no switch?  Oh, and holy crap, I'm a terrible person for not giving them grandkids yet, what if I never do, I'm a horrible daughter...


And I have to admit, I'm always sorta worried that there really is a Heaven like Granny and Papaw described it, and they're totally watching me when I'm masturbating, and I wonder how they'd feel about that, because I know that they'd fucking hate that I've had all that pre- and post-marital sex, but we never really talked about the masturbation thing and I hope that they look away if they're given the option to watch. 

And now that I've typed that paragraph out loud, I may never be able to masturbate again.

Which is sort of a shame, because now what am I going to do with that 8 minutes of my lunch break?

And now I can't believe a post that started out about a visit to my parents' house for dinner has turned into a discussion about my sick or dead grandparents and then masturbation...

Um.  'night.

Impromtu Dinner Party

Everyone's fed, sated, entertained, watered, made comfortable, entertained some more, left for home.

Drive safely, I love you!  I say it to each of them, and mean it with my whole heart.  Especially our last guest.  I'm so glad I called him on a whim, I'm so glad he accepted the invitation.  "Daddy, I know Momma's having Bunco tonight and you're sorta kicked out of the house.  Would you want to come over here after work and have a brat or a burger or a hot dog and some baked beans?  We're having a few people over, it's no trouble that you're not off till 9.  Yeah?  Great!  See ya then!"  

There are still two ears of corn outside, shucked but ungrilled.  Those were supposed to be for me and Jimi, or me and Daddy.  I'm not sure which - regardless, they're still fresh.  Gonna have to remember to bring those in. 

I moved the love tree to its outside home a few days ago, and when we subsequently rearranged the living room, the giant beanbag ended up on top of the place previously occupied by said plant.  Which had a drip tray with a crack in it.  Which got the carpet wet.  Which, in turn, soaked the bottom of the beanbag cover, resulting in a mildewy smell and some last-minute furniture swapping and a run to the CVS to get some Lysol and Febreeze. 

Have I mentioned our dryer's broken?  Cause it is.  And so I can't wash the cover.  Fuck.

It's fine, though.  The thing was a big hit on the front porch with an old blanket thrown over top, and the Lysol and sanitizer did the trick on cleaning the stain and removing any bad smells.  I'll wash the cover when the dryer is repaired, which had best be this weekend or I'm going to have to buy new underwear. 

I'm very proud of my house.  It makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside when people who've not been here before compliment us on this particular knickknack, or that photo collage.  When someone says our home is comfortable, I beam.  Yes, that's exactly what we were going for.  :)

We sat on the front porch, talking talk I don't remember, very important stuff, the stuff the world is made of, enjoying the breeze and the cool night air.  It's perfect weather - still in the 70s I'd recon, even at nearly 11 at night.  I don't know what happened to Spring, but welcome Summer!

Happy Father's Day, of course

He'd get down on all fours and let me climb on his back and ride him around the living room.

He picked me up every time I asked, until that one time when he said I was too big.

He stayed up till after 2 a.m. that time I was in the fourth grade advanced program, trying to figure out that "new math" math problem.

He spanked me with a plank of wood when I was six and changed my conduct grade from a "U" to "O" (using the wrong shade ink - d'oh!).

He grounded me from the radio for 9 weeks when I failed every class the first grading period of sixth grade.  I was a week shy of the end of that banishment, lying on the floor of my bedroom, working on my science fair three-fold poster-board, singing along with the newest New Kids On The Block tape (which Momma had bought for me as some sort of reward I didn't really deserve), when he came in, pointed at the stereo and said "I thought I was clear?", meaning "What the fuck are you doing listening to the stereo when I clearly grounded you from that shit for 9 weeks and we're only eight weeks into it, young lady?!"

He taught me to love Rock -n Roll; specifically, The Beatles.  I'll never hear a Beatles tune without thinking "I love ya, Daddy."

When he turned 37, he said, "My dad died when he was 36.  I always wondered if I'd make it to 37."

When I was 16, my oldest cousin on his side of the family got married.  He took me on a drive and told me how his dad had died saving his life.  I said, "Does Momma know?"  "Natalie, I've been blessed to have a lot of great friends in my life, but your mother is the best friend I could ever hope for, and the best friend I'll ever have.  I tell her everything.  I can tell her anything."

He taught me what love is supposed to look like.

He showed me how love is supposed to feel.

He was downsized from his job as a corporate executive at Black & Decker and took a job delivering newspapers to stay busy while hunting for full-time work.  At a family gathering, I described him as a "paper-boy".  He held his tongue until we were on our way home.  I'm still ashamed of the way my words made him feel that day.  I'm still proud of the fact that he respected himself enough to share with me the way my words made him feel.

I was 20 and Momma wanted an electric knife for Christmas.  The only one I could find was made by Black & Decker.  I told Daddy, on Christmas Eve, and he was aghast.  "Seven years ago, do you know what that company did to this family?  They pulled me into a boardroom the day before Christmas Eve and told me I could either resign my position or I'd be terminated. They replaced me with two 21 year olds with college degrees.  You have to take that knife back."  And that's how I found myself scouring every Meijer and Walmart and Target within a 30-mile radius for an electric knife on Christmas Eve 2000.  For the record, I found a non-Black&Decker one and the holiday was saved.

I was 21 and back home after a brief stint as a "grown-up".  I stayed out all night, arriving home at 7:30 or so to take my morning shower and head to work.  He met me at the front door; Momma was already gone for the day.  "Don't you ever do that to your mother again.  She was up all night worried about you."  He was genuinely pissed that I'd hurt his wife.  I don't know if I've ever felt so small or put in my place.

I'm a teenager, smart as hell but too smart for school, failing every class even though I've got the highest test scores; I'm sitting at the breakfast bar, he's standing across from me.  "I'm just so disappointed, Natalie.  I work to give you every opportunity - what else do I need to do for you, to make you try?"  Fuck, I was such an asshole.

The day before my driving test, I've had my permit for 6 months.  After a 20 minute tutorial in my high school's parking lot, he takes me to Bob & Cindy's hood in the Highlands (where the hippies live).  The homes all have street parking, no driveways.  He directs me to an open spot between a Mercedes and a BMW and reminds me to turn the wheel when the side mirrors line up with the taillights - and I nail it.  The next day, he parks the van and says "It'd be a shame to have come all the way out here for nothing..." and I sign up for my exam.  I ace it - no points missed on parallel parking, I note specifically.

He holds my hand as we walk into my 3rd grade classroom - all I can see are the cursive alphabet letters crawling across the top of the walls.  OMG, I don't even recognize the letters!!!  "Daddy, I don't think I can do this..." I whisper up to him.  He's so tall, so strong.  He squeezes my little hand and whispers back, leaning in toward me, "Yes, you can."  He was right.  I did.

Michigan, May 2002 -"Mom, we want to get married June 15.  I know it's just a few weeks, but it's the only weekend that works before his sister leaves for Europe."  "Well, I don't think your Dad will be able to get off work."  Que waterworks/hysteria.  I called Daddy - "Daddy, we want to get married June 15th and Momma says you won't be able to get off work but it's the only day that works and I can't get married without you!!!"  "Natalie, do you think I'd miss my baby girl's wedding?  You pick whatever date works for you, and I'll be there, don't you worry, sweetheart."  Of course he was.

Phoenix, February 2006 - "Daddy, I'm so sorry.  I feel like I've let you down, I'm so sorry."  "Sweetheart, stop that.  I'm just so sorry you're having to go through this, and we just can't wait to have you back home.  I love you."

July 2006 - "What are you doing with yourself, Natalie?"

April 2010 - "I worried about you, if you'd find your way.  But you have, and I'm so proud of you."

Some words are worth waiting a lifetime to hear.

God, I hope I've made him proud.  I'll never have the words to express how much he means to me, or how much better my world his because he's my Daddy.  I just hope he knows I love him.

I'm not getting on a soapbox today. Promise.

Saturday morning.  It's pouring rain outside.  We're attending a wedding at 2 p.m.; a Catholic wedding - only my second ever Catholic wedding.  At least I won't be quite so lost this time; I've attended two Catholic services so far this year, I'm becoming an old pro.  I have nothing to wear, so I'm going shopping this morning to find something.  Cross your fingers and say a little prayer that no one gets killed in this process, will you?  I'm not a good clothes shopper.  I hate clothes shopping, and I usually come home hating myself.

I'm pretty excited about this wedding, strangely enough; I haven't cared much for weddings since my divorce, sort of the way baby showers are off limits since my miscarriage.  But this wedding, this is a wedding I'm looking forward to because the party is going to be kick-rockin'-awesome.  The bride is the daughter of a man and woman my Daddy's known since the late seventies; he was roommates with both of them when he got out of the Army and came back to Kentucky.  (That's the part of the story that always made me go "huh?  why was a girl living with you?"  I hope you're there with me, because I'm going to tell you...)

Daddy was living in a house in Taylorsville with several other guys, three or four, and one of them, Gary, was dating a girl named Tina.  Tina lived in an apartment upstairs from a funeral home.  She was smart and spunky and skinny and completely belonged in the seventies, with her flipped back hair and itty bitty bikini.  One sunny afternoon, Tina decided she was going to sunbathe.  On the front lawn.  Of the funeral home.  During a wake.  (There's a chance I made that "during a wake" part up, but it makes the story funnier, doesn't it?)  Tina was asked to vacate her apartment, which she came to understand when her belongings were thrown out on the front lawn.  When she showed up on their doorstep with all her things and a sob story about no place to go, the guys couldn't send her away.  That's how she came to live with a bunch of dudes.

Tina and Gary eventually married and moved to the Highlands in Louisville.  (That's where the hippies live.)  They had a house that was, in my childhood eyes, huge and open and eccentric and colorful and awesome; I think it was the first house I was ever in that had 10-foot ceilings, and I'm sure that detail influenced my opinion greatly.  There was one big living room downstairs full of bookshelves and knick-knacks (I've mentioned my love of all things clutter, I believe?)  The kitchen was off to the left, with white cabinets and white appliances and a white tile floor.  The stairs were on the far right of the living room, and there was no handrail; I remember clinging to the far wall on my way upstairs, knowing if I got too close to the right I'd fall onto the bookcases below.  At the top of the stairs was Caitlin's bedroom, and then Tina & Gary's room beyond that; I remember thinking I wouldn't want my parents to traipse through my bedroom every morning and night.

I loved going to Tina & Gary's house.  Tina talked to me like I was a grown-up and I liked that.  I remember when Caitlin was born - I remember holding her when she was teeny and new and bundled in a blanket; it's my first memory of holding a baby.  Caitlin and I became friends, even though we didn't see each other often; they were zoo members and would often invite Momma and I to join them for the day.  I spent the night at their house, and from one of those visits comes my most vivid memory of Tina, the one that defines her in my mind as being a free spirit:

It was morning.  Caitlin and I were eating cereal or waffles or something at the little table in the kitchen; Tina came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her...mostly.  I diverted my eyes; nakedness wasn't something you frequently saw in my household.  I mean, there was that one time when I had that awful nightmare and woke up screaming and Momma came running into my bedroom in her panties and nothing else, and there was Daddy right behind her in his tighty-whities; but that was a pretty isolated event.  We weren't prudes, we just kept ourselves clothed most of the time.  Anyhow, Tina noticed my embarrassment, and she called me on it:

"What's wrong, Nat?"  She flung open her towel and shook it from side to side, as if she were trying to dry off her back, her large breasts swaying from side to side, her belly jiggling - "They're just BOOBIES!!!"  Caitlin jumped up and yelled "Boobies!!!"  and ran over and grabbed Tina's right breast and bounced it up and down a couple times.  They were laughing hysterically.  I was too, in a nervous 'what the fuck just happened' sort of way.  Tina closed up her towel and went on to explain how nudity is nothing to be ashamed of, we're all made of the same parts.

A few years later, Tina decided she wanted to be a doctor, so, at 35, she went back to school and did just that.  She thrilled me with stories of Gross Anatomy and disgusted me with tales from her residency (like the one about the lady who had a horrible smell coming from her girl parts and couldn't figure out why, for weeks, until she saw Tina and Tina discovered a three-week-old forgotten tampon that was mouldering in the lady's vag.  I understand if you need a moment to puke now.  I'm sorry.)  She promised to deliver my first-born child free of charge, so long as I was married and a college graduate.

They moved to Ohio, and our visits stopped for years.  We went to see them once; they owned a farm and horses.  Gary let me ride, but put me bareback on a horse that hadn't been ridden in weeks, and I was immediately thrown.  It was my first time on a horse.  I got back on, with a saddle, but my opinion of horses was forever changed.  I was 13.  Caitlin was away at school.

I tried to find Tina a few times over the years, but I never knew where she was living.  I'd heard she was working at Bellevue in New York, after deciding medicine wasn't for her and psychiatry was where it was at; I heard she had a private practice down near Mammoth Cave, KY.  She popped up again a few years back, showing up on Momma & Daddy's doorstep unannounced, like a surprise party wrapped up in one person.  We connected a few months later and had dinner and shared a joint, talking of our lives and how they're nothing like we'd pictured 20 years ago, but I've not seen her since.

Today will be good.  I've not seen Caitlin since before we hit puberty.  Many of Momma & Daddy's friends will be there, and that guarantees a good time will be had by all.  And if I don't leave right now to go shopping, I'm not going to have anything to wear and there will be a major clothing-crisis-meltdown, so I'd better go.

Happy Saturday, Friends!  I hope it's sunny where you are, even if only in your heart.  :)