hibernation

It's not that I don't have anything to write about.

(because, oh, I do)

It's just that I have decided that there are some things that I would rather people figure out on their own.

i can't help it

There are very few things in life that make me laugh harder than this book. I think that half of it is the illustrations-- I just start laughing looking at them. It is very hard not to love idiotic, impertinent little Nutkin.

please don't touch. thank you.

I don't know whether or not it's possible for short-term exposure to a culture to start altering your personality, but I think it might have happened to me.


Those of you who are even remotely acquainted with me realize that I am NOT a touchy-feely person. You could probably call me a kleptomaniac, or maybe even organized before you could call me a hands-on person. Because I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, touchy-feely. Or should I say, was not?


All the social graces in my family were bestowed upon my mother-- she is a brilliant hostess, can make conversation with anyone, and has this talent for making people feel generally welcome. And that is where the social graces in my family end. I have been described as 'endearingly awkward'. Endearing? Maybe. Awkward? Ding-ding-ding. Spot on. To throw me in amongst a room of strange people always makes me feel like a dog that a bunch of guys threw in a pool to bet on whether it would sink or swim. That's just conversing with others. If you were to actually touch me...good heavens.

So, back to Africa. You would just be having a conversation and realize, "Okay, you are definitely going to stand here and hold my hand THE ENTIRE TIME we talk." or you are going to stand with your arm around my shoulders, or through my arm. You are going to drag me off by the hand somewhere. Or, hey, guess what, apparently everyone here wants to hug everyone else. Why must you people constantly touch me?

Yeah. And so then, all of the sudden, I was the one standing with my arms linked with other people, or dragging people off by the hand, or hugging people. Where on earth did all that come from? It was like, out of the blue, I couldn't not touch people. Someone commented, "Was that Ashlyn in that picture, lying on the floor with her arm around some lady's head while smiling?" Um. Yeah, apparently it was.

Temporary, or permanent change? I have no earthly idea, but as intrigued as I am, it freaks me out.

Aside from that, everything was incredible-- God really showed up and did a lot of things in and through the team. He opened some opportunities and closed others, but then, any mission trip is like that. He also painted an incredible picture of the global Church-- our family half a world apart. The whole thing takes my breath away.

things i will (and will not) do when i am an old lady*

(that's assuming I make it that far)

1. I will not have that haircut. You know the one. The one that is pretty much a status symbol with septuagenarian women across the country. It is puffy and wispy and reminds one of a spun gray confection perched atop the head (gross, someone have a go at a better description, please.) I don't care if I have to have a buzz cut, but I refuse it.

2. If a child asks me to play with her, I will not continue to stare mournfully out the window and reply, "As soon as this cloud passes over the house." without ever turning to make eye contact.

3. If I there are ever any children in my house for any reason, I will be absolutely sure to set up the tallest ladder I can find. Underneath that ladder, I will set up a very large and wonderfully springy mattress. Do you have any idea how great it is to jump off a ladder and land on a nice mattress? You could probably do it for hours.

4. I will not judge the location of everything by the nearest K&W Cafeteria, Cracker Barrel, Shoney's, or roadside motel.

5. I probably will drive a Cadillac or an Oldsmobile. I'm sorry. I know that I've disappointed you sorely, but let's face it-- they are pretty much classy. Maybe I'll get an obscene bumper sticker for the back to redeem myself for this.

6. I am not going to be one of those old women who looks like she is 33 because that freaks me out in a very large way. Seriously, kudos for staying healthy and all that, but there is such a thing as aging gracefully. I mean, it really reminds me of Dorian Gray. Weird.

7. I will not allow any plaques, tapestries, paintings, or inspirational posters with angels, cherubs, small rabbits in gardening togs, or small children skipping in a circle holding hands into my house. I would sooner procure a poster that says 'Mary-- Mother of Mexico' with said revered virgin superimposed over the Mexican flag and hang it in the entryway.

*a list gleaned from resolve, experience, and a tiny bit of revulsion.

a necessity

It perched on top of the cabinet that housed our TV and gazed down on the rest of the room. If you had looked at it long enough, it might have begun to seem smug and slightly imperious, like a judge swathed in his somber black robes, surveying his court. It was smug because it knew that I wanted it dearly.

Whether or not you believe that boxes can possess things such attributes is entirely up to you, but I'm telling you that this box did.

The box seemed to have been engineered with the sole purpose of tempting me-- the chipped paint, the smooth curve of the lid, and the ancient-looking hinges-- they all held some undefinable allure. I coveted that box. I knew that coveting was a sin, thanks to various Sunday School teachers and Bible Time every morning in Mrs. Matthews' second grade class, but such a box was so wonderful that God himself probably couldn't help yearning for it. And if God coveted it then surely he wouldn't condemn me for a bit of wanton sin...

It had the most wonderful things inside of it: a ticket stub, various dingy old coins, several pocket knives, various shiny pins shaped like planes and crosses, a pendant commemorating the 75th anniversary of Coca-Cola, and a picture of my cousin Reginald looking for all the world like the sort of kid who got beat up every day during lunch period for his money. It was in short, the best thing ever.

The concept of a box of treasures is pretty much integral to a childhood. Basically, the whole idea here is that it is useless to try and raise a child without one. Absolutely useless. Don't even try it.

envy

So, you are walking through a parking lot. Any parking lot. Walking past row upon row of immaculately parked cars and then you see THAT car. You know, the car that is parked inches away from the car on the left side, so close that the driver had to clamber over the console and exit the right side door to take advantage of the the abundance of unoccupied space on that side. The rear of the vehicle juts awkwardly out into the lane and is an impediment and a general nuisance to oncoming traffic, and a source of scorn to pedestrians.

That would be my car. Mmmhmm.

Everyone tells me that parking is an acquired skill. Liars. Every last one of them. It never really occurred to me that nobody else seems to have this problem until I was talking to one of my friends who got her license like maybe a month ago. "Yeah," Allie said, "my parking isn't even awkward anymore." I think my jaw almost hit my chest. And Allie drives a truck that is bigger than mine, so don't try and tell me that she drives a car so it's easier for her, or some junk like that. You either can park a car, or you can't. It's a skill you're born with. There's probably a gene for it.

Basically, I have 'parking envy'...I watch people whip into parking spaces perfectly straight-- a wonderful blend of precision and speed, and I sigh. Why can't I just park? They can just do it...it is like a light, fresh spring breeze. My parking? Well, it's more like someone trying to dock a ship.

Yesterday, I went to the grocery store, or maybe it was at church or something, but where it was was totally irrelevant because I had to park. Grant was with me and I parked, and turned off the truck. "Oh my gosh." Grant said. "What?" I really did want to know what had caused my brother to say that in such a tone of quiet awe. "You just parked and didn't have to back out of the space." It was a profound moment. We both sat and absorbed it for about three seconds and then we went and bought a bunch of milk (okay, so that was the grocery store.) The whole point of that is that decent parking jobs are few enough for me to be seriously notable to my normally sarcastic brother. That's not good.

Now what's really fun is my bi-monthly sojourn to pick up horse feed. That's where I have to back into a parking space to have feed loaded. I always manage to back up to a pole so that they can't open the back of my truck. And it's always the same person who loads the feed, so I'm like, "Wait, I'm really sorry, I can fix that. Really." I'm fairly sure he hates me and that I ruin his week. But that's his problem because I was born like this. Sad, but true.

If you are like me, I'm really sorry. It's hard to come to terms with. But you can do it. The first step is admitting you have a problem. We might even be able to start a support group.

*this post is dedicated to pull-through parking spaces.

glaucomys volans

Two weeks ago, I put some of my extra school pictures in an envelope, sealed it up and sent it off to Blue Ridge, Georgia to my grandparents. I addressed the envelope to my grandmother, which basically guarantees a thank-you note...Mama is a Southern Lady and so I fully expected the generic, floral-patterned thank-you card that promptly showed up in the mail four days later. What I didn't expect was for my grandmother to slip effortlessly from expressing her appreciation in her flowing blue script to giving me this gem:

"We caught a flying squirrel in the attic a couple of weeks ago. It made so much noise it actually sounded like a person in the attic. It was trying to get off the large glue trap and chewed most of its tail off. We haven't got anymore, so maybe we got all of them."

I anxiously await the day I can get away with slipping things like that into thank-you notes.

nostalgia

As I've gotten older, my tastes in decor have changed, which I suppose is natural; however, on the corner of my dresser, I stubbornly clutch onto a small piece of my childhood. A jet black stallion stands frozen in mid-gallop-- he is indisputably everything a good horse should be: loyal, and bright-eyed and powerful with an intelligent forehead and an eager, inquiring look. He isn't perfect though-- both his ears are chipped and white scratches mar the sheen of his body (reminiscent of the fights that occurred between him and my neighbor's Breyer model of Pilgrim, from The Horse Whisperer. You should have seen how gallant and courageous he was during such fights-- it was typical for him to leap four times his height straight into the air before battering the the other horse into the ground. After that, he generally ran off with all of Pilgrim's mares. It was, in short, amazing.)

Ever since enrollment in school, I sustained my ideal of the Black Stallion with Walter Farley's books of the same name. During recess, I pretended I was Alec, and I constantly trained Shetan for his next race (which he would miraculously win, no matter what handicap was placed on him. Actually, it was miraculous that Shetan was even allowed to race, seeing as the Jockey Club would have never allowed it because he wasn't even a Thoroughbred. But the mind of a blissfully oblivious 3rd grader knows no limits, I guess...)

Later in 3rd grade, I actually started riding real horses (which in no way interfered with the riding of imaginary ones during recess) and to my delight and against all odds, the humble little barn where I rode was in possession of one Jet Black Arabian Stallion by the name of Kasheik. Kasheik was perfect-- a glistening black coat, a flagging tail, a forelock so long that he constantly had to toss it out of his eyes, which made him look defiant, and one white mark in the center of his forehead which was curiously shaped like a tornado. Of course, it goes without saying that I instantly loved him.

After my lessons, I would hang adoringly on the fence of his paddock while he paced, silent and furious, with eyes burning-- much too absorbed in being moody and stallion-like to notice the scrawny blond girl who watched his every move. On occasion , he would deign to come over to sniff me and I would feed him the peppermint that I saved and as a rule, would feed only to him. Oh yes, and did I mention that Kasheik was the grandson of Cass Ole -- the horse who starred in the movie The Black Stallion? As far as I was concerned, Kasheik was the Black Stallion. It really couldn't have gotten much better...

Of course, as a horse with such bloodlines, Kasheik was owned by a Very Wealthy Man-- one Chris Grant. Mr. Grant never came to see his horse and of course, I fumed at this man for owning this wonderful, glorious stallion and never coming to see him. It was basically sacrilegious. It was at some point around this time that I decided that I was going to marry Kasheik. Marry him, and live out the rest of my life within the confines of his stall and pasture. I have since been persuaded that marriage within my own species is infinitely preferable and somewhat more generally acceptable. I was such an interesting kid, though...

Eventually, the barn closed down and all the horses were sold. I lost track of Kasheik . Five years later, a friend was showing me snapshots of the barn where she boarded her mare, and a photo of a small black horse peering inquiringly out of a stall caught my eye. He wasn't sleek any longer, his forelock was short, he looked small, but in the center of his forehead was one white mark that was curiously shaped like a tornado. I asked my friend the horse's name-- "We call him Sheiky because no one can pronounce his real name." (typical Southern barn...) No doubt in my mind that it was him-- with most of the sons and grandsons of Cass Ole standing at stud, how did this one horse slip through the cracks to live an obscure life in a barrel-racing barn? Somehow after that, my ideal was gone-- closure, maybe? Anyhow, the ungrateful, unloyal, bay Thoroughbred who more often than not throws me off without a bit of guilt, and who can be counted on to blow snot all over me at least twice a day is just as perfect to me now as Kasheik was then.

Yet, the jet black stallion stands on my dresser.

hamstern (german: 'to hoard')

I hoard things. It is a newfound discovery of mine. Apparently, it isn't material things I hoard-- it is an idea, a song, a word, maybe a memory. All locked up. All secrets. Not secrets like little girls share at sleepovers after their mothers have told them a hundred times stop-talking-and-sleep-because-you-have-things-to-do-tomorrow. Not who likes who, or who is doing something illicit and heinous-- things like that are sometimes better to share. But these things, if I told you one, it would very likely seem commonplace and incredibly mundane-- you would think I was being ridiculous, and it is entirely possible that I am being just that. But if I told you one of these thoughts, it wouldn't be special anymore-- the odd, mysterious appeal that the thing held for me would vanish because you might not attach the same importance to tit that I do. Risk. Know what I mean? Maybe. Maybe not.

The best way to describe it would probably be a collection. Occasionally, I take my little pile of thoughts and go to the front room in the house where hardly anyone goes and I sit cross legged on the enormous couch, clutching a pillow and I turn over the thoughts with my mind like someone turning over a collection of small, precious things with their hand. They enjoy the shape, and the curvature of the things, maybe the color-- it is nice and pleasing because they know the things and they are familiar. Everything in my collection is as familiar to me as any tangible thing and it makes me happy to sort through it. So I smile.

Kind of reminds me of this:
"So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby who was lying in the manger. When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart."
-Luke 2:16-19
Mary storing up proof that her child was actually the Son of God. I don't know-- I just enjoy reading that. Not like I have a secret like Mary though. Being able to say, "Hey, I'm pregnant with the Son of God." pretty much trumps anything I have.

Anyhow, I have no idea why I do this-- maybe I just keep secrets for the sake of having them? I guess I will continue to add to my collection.