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.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
ponder
- What is more important to cultivate-- a natural talent, or an acquired skill?
- Why must my neighbor constantly run heavy machinery in the wee hours of the morning? How does he manage to drive his bulldozer more backwards than he does forwards so that there is a constant beeping noise?
- Why can I not open a banana withouth turning the top into mush that oozes out the sides? Have I missed some secret?
- Is God sarcastic? Job 38-- or am I misinterpreting it grossly?
- The yogurt container in our fridge proudly announces that it contains 6 'live and active cultures'...not one, or four, but 6. A bold 6 with a sunburst behind it. Should this really make me want to eat it?
- Does it grate on anyone else's subconcious when you see someone walking around with a large red spot on the back of their calf because they have sat with their legs crossed for a really long period of time?
- Does my chin really quiver when I'm telling a lie?
Monday, December 24, 2007
and what have you done?
So, photography is not really my cup of tea, but sometimes it is easier for me to just show you something rather than attempting to describe it and completely messing it up...
I love my family... Merry Christmas everyone, and I hope yours is as wonderful as mine.
I love my family... Merry Christmas everyone, and I hope yours is as wonderful as mine.Saturday, November 24, 2007
cranberries and drive-thrus mean thanksgiving
Dad insisted that I drive to my grandfather's house for Thanksgiving because he likes me to drive through Atlanta. I'm not really sure why he always insists on this and I'm not really sure why I always agree to it because A. I almost always rear end someone in Atlanta traffic B. I almost always go the wrong way and C. I always have to take my family through a drive-thru.
Not that I am normally a composed and systematic person but I cannot do anything right in a drive-thru. And really, it is not for lack of trying. Usually one of the following things happens:
A. I order. My family doesn't know what they want to order. And then suddenly they all know. At the same time. And then they start yelling it at me because everyone else is yelling and they want to be heard. I slowly sink down in the seat and wish to disappear into oblivion.
B. Ordering goes smoothly. I go forward and begin to pull out the required amount of cash, plus exact change. I love to give exact change. It is a bright spot in my life. Did you know that if you carry 4 pennies, 3 quarters, 2 nickels, and 1 dime then you have the least amount of coins that you can make exact change for anything with? I hand the coins out the window into the palm of the expectant cashier and proceed to drop half of them and then, while mumbling apologies, I climb out of the car and pick them up. When I finally do get them to the lady, she looks disgustedly at the small collection of coins in her hand. I feel like I should offer her hand-sanitizer or something. But I don't because that is just not something that you do. Society really does not have the correct appreciation for exact change.
C. Ordering goes smoothly. I proceed to the second window or whatever and don't get close enough to the window. I can't back up because there is a car behind me. So I smile sheepishly at the girl who is there to take my money and she looks down her nose at me, completely unamused, with her little visor perched imperiously atop her forehead, and rolls her eyes. I completely unbuckle and stretch about 5 feet, with my entire upper body out the window and hand her the money. I then hang suspended over the abyss while the girl takes her sweet time getting the receipt. It is really awkward.
There is an infinite amount of situations like this that I am forever getting caught in, so I won't elaborate any further. Anyhow...
An Excerpt from my Thanksgiving...
My little cousin Kelsey and I are sitting at the table stringing cranberries and popcorn to hang up on a tree so that my grandfather can watch the birds from his kitchen table. We have proceeded so far in relative peace and silence when suddenly I notice that Kelsey has stopped with her needle in midair and is regarding me thoughtfully. I scoot my chair away from her slightly because she is the kind of kid that might be entertaining notions of stabbing me with said needle to laugh at me or something. Then she speaks...
"Ashlyn, do you guys decorate for Halloween anymore?"
"No, it is a Satanic holiday."
Okay fine, I didn't actually say that-- for heaven's sake Kelsey is like 9-- but it still would have been funny.
So, I really said...
"No, we did when Grant, and Ans, and I were younger, but we just don't do that anymore."
"Oh." Kelsey looks slightly crestfallen at my admission. "Well we still do. But I do it for different reasons than Alyssa (her younger sister) because I have different beliefs than she does."
Kelsey says 'beliefs' in such a tone as to cause me to stop stringing popcorn completely and sit and stare at her.
"And what kind of beliefs do you have, Kelsey?" I unfreeze myself.
"Well, I believe in Vampires. I study superstitions like that. I have a whole book on vampires and werewolves."
I raise one eyebrow and concentrate very hard on stabbing through the center of my cranberry. "Really?"
"Yes. And in that book, there is this story about this ghost targeting a girl," at this point, Kelsey has put down her needle entirely and is gesturing expressively with her hands, "and the ghost killed her father," now she leans in closer to me conspiratorially and whispers, "and the ghost pulled the girl's hair." With this climactic bit of information off her chest, she sits back down and begins stringing cranberries.
Delightful child. We are going to have a talk.
Not that I am normally a composed and systematic person but I cannot do anything right in a drive-thru. And really, it is not for lack of trying. Usually one of the following things happens:
A. I order. My family doesn't know what they want to order. And then suddenly they all know. At the same time. And then they start yelling it at me because everyone else is yelling and they want to be heard. I slowly sink down in the seat and wish to disappear into oblivion.
B. Ordering goes smoothly. I go forward and begin to pull out the required amount of cash, plus exact change. I love to give exact change. It is a bright spot in my life. Did you know that if you carry 4 pennies, 3 quarters, 2 nickels, and 1 dime then you have the least amount of coins that you can make exact change for anything with? I hand the coins out the window into the palm of the expectant cashier and proceed to drop half of them and then, while mumbling apologies, I climb out of the car and pick them up. When I finally do get them to the lady, she looks disgustedly at the small collection of coins in her hand. I feel like I should offer her hand-sanitizer or something. But I don't because that is just not something that you do. Society really does not have the correct appreciation for exact change.
C. Ordering goes smoothly. I proceed to the second window or whatever and don't get close enough to the window. I can't back up because there is a car behind me. So I smile sheepishly at the girl who is there to take my money and she looks down her nose at me, completely unamused, with her little visor perched imperiously atop her forehead, and rolls her eyes. I completely unbuckle and stretch about 5 feet, with my entire upper body out the window and hand her the money. I then hang suspended over the abyss while the girl takes her sweet time getting the receipt. It is really awkward.
There is an infinite amount of situations like this that I am forever getting caught in, so I won't elaborate any further. Anyhow...
An Excerpt from my Thanksgiving...
My little cousin Kelsey and I are sitting at the table stringing cranberries and popcorn to hang up on a tree so that my grandfather can watch the birds from his kitchen table. We have proceeded so far in relative peace and silence when suddenly I notice that Kelsey has stopped with her needle in midair and is regarding me thoughtfully. I scoot my chair away from her slightly because she is the kind of kid that might be entertaining notions of stabbing me with said needle to laugh at me or something. Then she speaks...
"Ashlyn, do you guys decorate for Halloween anymore?"
"No, it is a Satanic holiday."
Okay fine, I didn't actually say that-- for heaven's sake Kelsey is like 9-- but it still would have been funny.
So, I really said...
"No, we did when Grant, and Ans, and I were younger, but we just don't do that anymore."
"Oh." Kelsey looks slightly crestfallen at my admission. "Well we still do. But I do it for different reasons than Alyssa (her younger sister) because I have different beliefs than she does."
Kelsey says 'beliefs' in such a tone as to cause me to stop stringing popcorn completely and sit and stare at her.
"And what kind of beliefs do you have, Kelsey?" I unfreeze myself.
"Well, I believe in Vampires. I study superstitions like that. I have a whole book on vampires and werewolves."
I raise one eyebrow and concentrate very hard on stabbing through the center of my cranberry. "Really?"
"Yes. And in that book, there is this story about this ghost targeting a girl," at this point, Kelsey has put down her needle entirely and is gesturing expressively with her hands, "and the ghost killed her father," now she leans in closer to me conspiratorially and whispers, "and the ghost pulled the girl's hair." With this climactic bit of information off her chest, she sits back down and begins stringing cranberries.
Delightful child. We are going to have a talk.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
this is not normal
Today, I am home alone. I don't get to be home by myself often, so it is rather lovely when I can be. I meander around the house in jeans and an oversized t-shirt and everything is quiet. Because I can think when it is quiet. I've been thinking a lot lately.
It is very disillusioning to realize that something that you have dreamed of since childhood, may not be part of the plan for your life. I love my horses, they are the thing I am passionate about-- honestly I can't think of many things I'd rather do than gallop Tom full out without a saddle down the trail. But sometimes I can think of things that I'd rather do. And it scares me. Because I know that I can't take a horse to college-- so, do I just lose that? I mean, that is something that I have let define who I am for so long...does that part of me just disappear? I have always been 'Ashlyn, the girl who rides horses'-- what am I without it?
(As you read this, please realize that I am not depressed-- I know this is way off my normal tone. After I write this, I'm not going to go into the kitchen and swallow a bunch of pills. Honestly. I'm just searching and thinking and I need to get this out of my head however incomprehensible it is.)
I know all these people who have known what they have wanted to do since like, 8th grade. And everyone leaves for school next year. And I don't know what I want to do. And I'm staying home to figure it out. This frustrates me badly-- something I've noticed about myself is that I can't stand not knowing the finish. I can't not have a goal. Like at cross country practice when Coach wouldn't tell us how much we were going to run...I hated the feeling of apathy, just running, and running endlessly and not knowing where the finish was and not being able to regulate my pace according to where I knew the finish was. Even that drives me up a wall, and now my life is like this? Good heavens.
Sometimes I think I know what I want to do. I think I have everything all figured out. I want to work at a national park, I want to have a medical career, and so on and so forth. And then I don't. And then God puts a new variable into my life and I stand there with my mouth open going, "Wait! I thought this was what I was supposed to do! What is this?" I've been learning lately that I just need to stop thinking that I know where God is going ("I know he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.") because my preconceptions can keep me from going where He really wants me.
So, the new variable is Africa. I didn't go over and expect to come back wondering if I felt a call or not. It just sort of happened. And so it gets thrown into the mix.
"Just pray about it." that is what everyone tells me. Dad said, "Just pray about it, Ash. He might not answer you immediately. He may just want you to persist in that prayer and to sit there and just bask in you talking to Him for awhile. He may want you to pray for a couple of months." All right, not what I wanted to hear, but Dad is wise and I love him and I know he's right. But it is not that easy for me always because I am not good at making time for God. There, I've said it. I procrastinate with God like I procrastinate with the rest of my life and it carries over from there to there. I'm not saying that apathetically like, "Oh, I'm just not good at it. That is the way it is. It can never change." I've really been trying lately. And I think God has been talking. Which has been good, because sometimes I felt like I could make up an imaginary friend and talk to it and have it be more real than God. I'm not trying to be sacrilegious, or funny-- that is really how I thought about it.
"Fine." I say, "Fine, fine, fine." You win. I will be obedient. Because You promised that if I seek you with all my heart that I would find you. (Jeremiah 29:13) Because it isn't a one part thing. It is a two part thing. I seek and you reveal. And somehow through all of this, I am reminded that I didn't choose you before you chose me.
I swore I would never do one of these confessional, long post things. But I have. I just really needed to describe all that. Even if no one reads it, but I felt like people needed to know. Not sure why. I just did.
It is very disillusioning to realize that something that you have dreamed of since childhood, may not be part of the plan for your life. I love my horses, they are the thing I am passionate about-- honestly I can't think of many things I'd rather do than gallop Tom full out without a saddle down the trail. But sometimes I can think of things that I'd rather do. And it scares me. Because I know that I can't take a horse to college-- so, do I just lose that? I mean, that is something that I have let define who I am for so long...does that part of me just disappear? I have always been 'Ashlyn, the girl who rides horses'-- what am I without it?
(As you read this, please realize that I am not depressed-- I know this is way off my normal tone. After I write this, I'm not going to go into the kitchen and swallow a bunch of pills. Honestly. I'm just searching and thinking and I need to get this out of my head however incomprehensible it is.)
I know all these people who have known what they have wanted to do since like, 8th grade. And everyone leaves for school next year. And I don't know what I want to do. And I'm staying home to figure it out. This frustrates me badly-- something I've noticed about myself is that I can't stand not knowing the finish. I can't not have a goal. Like at cross country practice when Coach wouldn't tell us how much we were going to run...I hated the feeling of apathy, just running, and running endlessly and not knowing where the finish was and not being able to regulate my pace according to where I knew the finish was. Even that drives me up a wall, and now my life is like this? Good heavens.
Sometimes I think I know what I want to do. I think I have everything all figured out. I want to work at a national park, I want to have a medical career, and so on and so forth. And then I don't. And then God puts a new variable into my life and I stand there with my mouth open going, "Wait! I thought this was what I was supposed to do! What is this?" I've been learning lately that I just need to stop thinking that I know where God is going ("I know he will rise again in the resurrection on the last day.") because my preconceptions can keep me from going where He really wants me.
So, the new variable is Africa. I didn't go over and expect to come back wondering if I felt a call or not. It just sort of happened. And so it gets thrown into the mix.
"Just pray about it." that is what everyone tells me. Dad said, "Just pray about it, Ash. He might not answer you immediately. He may just want you to persist in that prayer and to sit there and just bask in you talking to Him for awhile. He may want you to pray for a couple of months." All right, not what I wanted to hear, but Dad is wise and I love him and I know he's right. But it is not that easy for me always because I am not good at making time for God. There, I've said it. I procrastinate with God like I procrastinate with the rest of my life and it carries over from there to there. I'm not saying that apathetically like, "Oh, I'm just not good at it. That is the way it is. It can never change." I've really been trying lately. And I think God has been talking. Which has been good, because sometimes I felt like I could make up an imaginary friend and talk to it and have it be more real than God. I'm not trying to be sacrilegious, or funny-- that is really how I thought about it.
"Fine." I say, "Fine, fine, fine." You win. I will be obedient. Because You promised that if I seek you with all my heart that I would find you. (Jeremiah 29:13) Because it isn't a one part thing. It is a two part thing. I seek and you reveal. And somehow through all of this, I am reminded that I didn't choose you before you chose me.
I swore I would never do one of these confessional, long post things. But I have. I just really needed to describe all that. Even if no one reads it, but I felt like people needed to know. Not sure why. I just did.
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