80th birthday phone call

It was so good to hear her voice—exactly the way I’d know it for years.

“I sure do miss you!” she announced. “I do not care for this other person. It’s not my Amie.”

Privately, my heart lifted to hear this. It *feels good* to feel irreplaceable. But I couldn’t say that. “I know. But give her a chance. It can’t be easy stepping in after all these years.”

My family on Earth is so good to me.

[From a letter to a friend nearly a year ago--reflections on relocation.]

I don't know where to begin.

For the past couple weeks, in particular, I keep looking around thinking, "What the fuck has happened to my life?"  The first two days back in WV I cried constantly.  My mother settled into a chair with a tall glass of wine (with ice) and a bunch of cats on her lap to watch some nameless legal show and ignored me.  It was like being 14 all over again.

I feel homesick, although for what or where I really can't say.  Most likely I just feel homesick for one of my grandparents' front porches in the early 80s, when I had seen or experienced very little of the world and when all I needed was an extra five minutes to play outside before dinner or to finally distract my grandpa from his baseball game so he would talk to me instead ("Papaw, have you ever had a mustache?  How old were you?  How long did you have it?  Would you ever have one again?").  Obviously, I can't go back there.

And that leaves me here.

My friend came to see me.  Judith.  She lived in an identical apartment above me when I lived at 3333 W. Grace Street in Richmond, VA.  23221.  I met her shortly after I moved in.  One weekend morning I was unpacking and cleaning and whatnot, and waiting for my landlord to come and unclog my kitchen sink so I could move on with my day.  Suddenly my upstairs neighbor drained the dishwater in HER sink and my kitchen began flooding.  I threw on my flowery bathrobe and ran upstairs to plead with her to please, PLEASE plug her sink!  Just for now.  Her large dog (a boxer mix named Jojo to whom I would later sing, "Jojo left his home in Tuscon, Arizona for some California grass...") came charging and barking to the door.  After some delay, she cautiously peered out through her cracked front door.  She seemed nice but a bit reserved and more than a little startled by my dramatic, breathless appearance at her front door on a Saturday morning.

When she wanted to visit me upon my unceremonious return to the area, I warned her that I was staying at my father's and he lived a little off the beaten bath.  She said adamantly, "I will find you."  And she did, thank god.  Spending a couple days with her and watching her play with my daughter made me feel normal--like my old self for awhile.

This morning at 6am I stood at my father's kitchen sink eating a half sandwich with last night's slow roasted pork and surveying the landscape, and it felt good.

I can't say much for the events that have taken place in between Judith's visit and that sandwich.

I had a job interview on Friday.  At [a local mental health facility] in Clarksburg, WV.  It is located just feet away from the old hospital in which I was born, and it was a completely baffling experience.  The two women who interviewed me were as sweet as could be and incredibly informal.  Mary Sue and Peggy.  They stared at my resume and then up at me and said, "What brings you here from San Francisco?"

Oh, ladies.  If only I could succinctly answer that question.

The were puzzled as to why I had a PhD in psychology but no license to practice therapy.  At one point, one of them asked the other, "Did you see on her resume that...." The other one cut her off:  "I read it," she said.  "I read every bit of it."

They seemed to want to try to fit me in SOMEwhere in the organization and promised to talk to their HR to see what they could offer me.  "Honey, you might not even want the job after you see the salary," Mary Sue warned.  Possibly as much as $40,000/year less than I made at my last position.

Oh, Mary Sue, I want it.

I heard them talking about me before I was even down the hall.  "She's so nice!" was the main thing I heard.

I am nice.

My mother was dogging San Francisco as a place to raise a child.  "I hear frogs outside every night!" she bragged, as if that fact alone were enough to sufficiently make her point.

"Yes, but I could count every person of color in my high school on one hand and I can still remember all their names!" I countered.  "Because there were so few of them."

"We have the Mexicans and the Orientals here now," she offered.

Yes, it's true.  And if they're not picking our produce, they've opened a restaurant.  My friend Shannon tells me there is a popular Chinese restaurant here that keeps a large bowl of Doritos on the food buffet.  And they're very popular.  And everyone still finds it hilarious to joke that the chicken is actually cat.

To be continued.  Sorry.  I didn't even bother to edit this for typos as I usually try to do.  Stream-of-consciousness.  My household is starting to wake up.  Send.

A few things in no particular order

1. Brooklyn. Huh. I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

2. Lately I have been worrying that I am going to have twins. This is followed by worries that I will have no baby at all. I'd really like to relax about this stuff. I'll be happy with just one healthy one.

3. My friend and her boyfriend are moving to Portland, and I am sad. I haven't gotten to hang out with them for a couple of months, but they're a lot of fun and they live in my neighborhood and I will really miss knowing they're nearby. I was so eager to see them off, apparently, that I showed up for their going away party tonight a total of 10 days early. (Idiot.) Since I was all made up and at the bar, I pulled up a barstool, ordered a cranberry juice, and chatted with a few folks before turning around and going home.

4. At about 1am, I lay in bed thinking about my grandparents. This actually happens quite a lot. I was the first grandchild, and I was remembering how my grandmother always told me that after I'd spent the night with them as a baby, my grandpa would keep my tiny undershirts under his pillow so he could smell me when I was away. I'm not sure anyone has ever loved me so much before or since. I miss my grandparents so intensely that at least once a week I cry for them. I think I might always.

5. On Thursday, I am most likely going to meet Ivan's mother for the first time. I am nervous about this. She was incredibly kind to me when I wrote to her a couple of weeks ago.

6. My erratic sleep habits are really starting to become a problem. I have a doctor appointment later in the week that I really think may help me with that.

Awash in the post-taco glow

I know. I'm off living my life and not writing about it. Crazy, huh?

A bus hit me in my car. Still dealing with insurance and, as TK said, some of the organge-y goodness has been squished out of Julius.

On July 3 I passed the five year mark of living in San Francisco. It filled my mind with nostalgia and memories of the day that Chris and I arrived with the moving truck feeling exhausted and wary and anxious. So many things have happened since then. I have fallen into and out of love, gotten jobs, gotten fired, made new friends, lost one friend, lost my two beloved grandparents, traveled, has emotional breakdowns, got help, got lost, got found...and so on.

I have some decisions to make. I keep putting them off, hoping they will get easier.

Foggy brain

I dreamed of Maple Lake and popsicles and Isuzu Troopers. And my grandpa.

Año Nuevo

I wanted to post a New Year blog.

I wanted to curse 2009 and welcome 2010. I wanted to reflect on New Year's resolutions and my history with and without them. I wanted to say that I couldn't believe it's now been a decade since Chris and I sat on my couch in my first apartment in Richmond, VA, wondering if all hell would break loose when Y2K arrived.

Tonight I was at Safeway when Rod Stewart's "Ooh La La" came on. At first I was pleased and hummed along as I picked out my yogurt for the week. By the time I got to the frozen foods aisle, I heard:

I wish that I knew what I know now
when I was younger.
I wish that I knew what I know now
when I was stronger.

I started to cry. "Fuck," I thought. "Way to start out 2010: sobbing to Rod Stewart in front of the frozen pizza."

It's just that I really want this year to be different, and no words I can say or write can sufficiently convey just how urgently I want that. Every year I approach the new year with renewed hope about what my life might be, what I might accomplish. I suppose most people do.

This New Year's Eve I stared at the blue moon and thought about my best year so far: 2004. I finished grad school and my entire family came to be with me. My grandpa and grandmother were still here. I started training for a marathon and was in the best shape of my life. I felt like I was going places.

It's just that I've lost so much time. I have now lost years to depression, and I'll never get them back. I have always had a tendency toward nostalgia and melancholy, and my focus on absence--on the people I have loved best and most who are no longer with me for whatever reason--overtakes me for long periods of time.

They're never coming back.

I am turning 33 in a couple of weeks.

I am going to run. I am going to run my fucking ass off.

Gobble

After all of my weird obsessing and reading/comparing of, like, 500 cornbread stuffing recipes, it turned out awesome. I was so pleased.

Yesterday I spent my fifth Thanksgiving at Nannette's house. Fifth! How is it possible I've been here so long? This year Jenny and Scott were missing, and there were several people I don't really know there. It just wasn't the same. I mean, our food was lovely. Everyone was in good spirits. But many of the people there didn't feel like MY people, and it made me feel a little sad. The best part by far was spending the morning and afternoon cooking and drinking mimosas with Angie and Nannette and periodically sending and receiving texts of Thanksgiving wishes. I am still wondering about the mystery texter, though.

In the late afternoon hours, someone from a 650 number texted me and said, "Goble, goble, goble!" Goble? I returned the text with, "Hi! Gobble to you, too! I'm sorry, but who is this?" The person responded, "Is this amy?" (Obviously it is not someone who knows me very well.) I texted, "This is Amie! Who's this?" and never heard anything again.

I find that my cell phone book fills up with names of people I don't remember. They come from dates I've gone on--times that I was meeting someone for a drink or coffee and we exchanged cell numbers in case anything happened. Because those times are generally the first and last date, the phone number stays in there and I promptly forget who it is. Last night in my food-induced coma, I sat down and deleted all the numbers I didn't recognize: Daniel, Kevin, Paul, Jon, Jon, etc. It makes it sound like my life is much more exciting than it actually is, I think.

Last night I got home around 10pm, and it was a relief to have quiet. My dreams were vivid and specific, and one of those times when I woke up to realize they weren't true and I burst into tears.

Today I will go back to Nannettes for a leftover dinner. You can bet I'm gonna rock that stuffing's world.

My dear friend Beau and his new wife are in town, and during the next two days I will show them around San Francisco sites, views, and restaurants. (Because more eating is exactly what I will need.)

Yesterday would have been my Papaw's 80th birthday. He loved Thanksgiving and I always loved when his birthday fell on Thanksgiving. I miss him terribly.

It looks like I will only be buying one Christmas present this year, and I'm trying to decide how I feel about that.

I will be 33 soon.

All this grateful (and ungrateful) business

Several people I know are naming something they're grateful for on Facebook every day until Thanksgiving. Even though these are friends of mine and very lovely people, this practice makes me a little nauseous. Probably because I am cranky and cantankerous and bitter and jaded.

Still.

I thought I'd do my own version here. I wanted my version to include a lament about the things I am ungrateful for, too.

Please excuse any sap that may follow, and if you think it will nauseate you too much, you might want to take a rain check on this blog entry.

Things I am grateful for:

- Friends I can call when I’m sitting in my car for hours because I don’t know where to go.

- Little birdie belly feathers.

- Getting a teaching job for the spring semester because I will be much less broke in the months to come.

- My grandparents and my aunt, without whom I would probably be dead, in prison, or on crack. Possibly all three.

- Nannette. For being my friend during the most challenging years of my life thus far, even when it was hard for her, and for talking sense into me on one very dark evening. Without her I would have left San Francisco behind already.

- Cindy. For knowing me almost better than I know myself; for being insane in nearly identical ways to myself (and I say that with love), for listening to me at times when I am nearly incoherent, and for being my first grown up best friend.

- Christopher. For loving me when I was unable to love myself.

- My many friends at work who make each day Monday through Friday more bearable, who put up with me dropping into their offices when I need a break, and without whom I would have taken a bazooka to the joint. Ruben, Shayna, Wendi, Laurie, Tamara, Jodi, John, Peggy, and Diana: I love you to pieces.

- For a free washer and dryer in my building. SCORE!

- For Yan, Patrick, Scott, Brian, Amber & Suzie, Judith, Amber, Shannon, Dave, Kelli, Jenny, Tony, Lauren, and Cyrano for taking me out, getting me drunk, calling me, texting me, sending me sweet packages, going to dinner with me, inviting me to their parties, visiting me in the hospital, and letting me crash at their houses even if I was far away (mentally or physically), drank too much, didn't call back, was doped up on morphine, and/or didn't show up.

- Danita and Nan, for treating me as part of the family no matter what.

- The color green for adorning my walls, pants, shoes, umbrellas, and coats and for cheering me up in the most ridiculous and random ways.

- The funniest, weirdest, and most thoughtful book club in the history of the world.


Things I am not grateful for:

- Several days without antidepressants because I am totally broke.

- Four parking tickets waiting to be paid.

- E. for making up his mind, J.H. for not being in the right mental space at the right time, P. for breaking my heart, and J.T. for what amounted to persistent booty calls.

- A very specific person whom I see five days a week who makes me distinctly unhappy, treats me like I am stupid and incompetent, has unreasonable expectations, seems to always suspect that I have or am about to screw her over, and blames me for what feels like everything.

- C.J.B. for leaving without saying goodbye and re-smashing my heart into itty bitty pieces.

- The raccoon fight club that meets nightly behind my house.

'"E" is even more than anyone that you adore...'

Once or twice a year, I became incredibly hopeful about my finances. This was when the Power Ball jackpot reached at least 200 million dollars--the prize amount was prominently displayed on the large billboard over the interstate near my house. Similarly hopeful folks began to line up to buy tickets at local gas stations and convenience stores, and the news ran nightly updates about how large the pot had grown.

Though my grandpa devotedly played the lottery in all its forms--not just Power Ball but also Pick 3, Pick 4, and various scratch-offs--I never really played. Every Sunday evening when I spoke to him on the phone he would update me on how he had done in the lottery the previous week. Usually he had a couple of Power Ball number or, on especially lucky weeks, had won $5 on a scratch-off ticket. "I'm still working on that million dollars," he would tell me, "and when I win you'll never have to work again." I would laugh and usually tease him about how he was certainly taking his sweet time winning this million dollars. "One day, hon," he would assure me, "one day." Even though I wasn't a player, I always felt like I had a chance of winning because he was playing on behalf of the family.

In the winter of 2004 when the Power Ball reached 300 million, I broke down and bought a ticket; Chris and I both bought one. I believed firmly that we should each buy our own ticket and that only one per person should be purchased. I felt that one special ticket was much luckier than some bulk amount of tickets. I also liked choosing my numbers myself: specifically ones involving 2's, 4's, and 8's. I felt that I was more likely to win if each number was carefully chosen with intention and meaning, the way one might choose apples for a special pie, or a greeting card with just the right words for the occasion.

Chris and I got our tickets and sat in the living room waiting for the 10:59pm drawing before the nightly news. I had never before been so certain of winning, and in anticipation I mentally and verbally spent my money. "I want to go to Fiji," I gushed, and stay in one of those huts on stilts over the water with a glass table top that I can open and feed the fish." I went on. "I will pay off my credit cards and buy a cockatoo and a jet ski. I'll spend time in Germany and Italy and France, and I'll go to Norway to see a fjord." Chris listened as I rattled off my selfish desires, and then I went on to plan how much money I would give to each of my family members and close friends. Then he cut me off.

"You're telling me you would give out money?" he asked. I was startled out of my reverie.

"Of course," I answered. "My grandpa and I've always planned who to give our money to if we won."

He shook his head is disbelief. "You'd GIVE money away?" he reiterated incredulously.

I was surprised that he was so surprised, "Yes," I answered again. And then something dawned on me. "Wait. You wouldn't?"

"No!" he answered without hesitation. "It would be MY money."

I couldn't hide me shock. "You wouldn't give any money to your mom? or your grandma? or your brother? What about me?" He relented that he would buy gifts for people; he would make sure I had something if I needed it and he would buy our birds golden cages, but that he wouldn't give away any money. It would be his. Period.

I felt a growing sense of alarm rising in me. I kept insisting that it wasn't possible for him to be so selfish with so much money and really? He wouldn't give any to me? I began to reassess the millions of dollars I had mentally allotted for him. He stood firm. He also didn't believe that I would actually go through with giving any money away were I to win.

"But, but," I sputtered, "my grandpa and I ALWAYS talk about who we'd share our money with!"

"I think everybody SAYS they would share their money, because they won't actually win and it doesn't really matter. I'm just being honest."

By this point I was angry.

"Why are you getting so upset?" Chris asked in bewilderment. "It's not like it matters. It's not like we're going to win. You're getting mad at me for something that's not even going to happen!" I insisted it was the principle that was disturbing to me, and that I still couldn't believe he wouldn't share.

This conversation has come back to me many times over the years. Part of me feels like there is at least one moment in every long relationship during which you look at your partner and don't recognize them. Another part of me wonders...was this it? Was this the turning point at which we began a descent into irreconcilability? Could I have stopped it? Should I have pretended to agree with him?

I often wonder if he remembers this conversation, and if he still feels the same way. I wonder if and how aging and wisdom have affected his reflections on us, if at all. I wonder if and how I am described to other people he encounters. Does he blame me? Does he refer to me as batshit crazy? Does he thank his lucky stars I am no longer near? Does he make allowances for us having met so young and for trying to navigate a relationship when we had no idea what we were doing? Does he neglect to mention me at all? Does he regret leaving without saying goodbye? Does he hope he never lays eyes on me again?

"I should have been a pair of ragged claws, scuttling across the floor of silent seas."

I worked 40 hours this weekend as part of a video shoot.
I met and got to know amazing women who reminded me why I do what I do.
After working the first half of today--Monday--I came home and collapsed.
I dreamed of Richmond
I dreamed of driving down Broad St. with you, trying to decide which restaurant to go to. Mekong? Casa Grande? Maybe over to Thai Diner?
I dreamed of another Thanksgiving without my grandma and yours, and I woke up and cried.

Horny butt

I've always had a special affection for old men. I think it came largely from having wonderful grandpas--the loved me and cuddled me and played with me and tickled me. For an attention-hungry little girl, this was addictive. I craved their affections: there was nothing like climbing up onto their laps and feeling that I was completely safe.

This preference for old men did not always serve me well.

Growing up in a small town, specifically on Lawman Avenue, you got to know your neighbors. I made it my business to get to know them--or at least to make a nuisance of myself. I picked their flowers, stole the apples off the trees in their yards, ate their candy, played spotlight with their children and grandchildren, and rode my Big Wheel in their driveways. One of these neighbors was Mr. Horner directly across the street from our little white house.

Mr. Horner was the grandfather of my friend Ronnie, who visited frequently and played with me whenever he was in town. Mr. Horner liked to sit out in a lawn chair early in the morning in his carport. Since I was frequently lonely and up early watching Pinwheel on Nickelodeon in the summers before anyone in my house was awake, I would occasionally sneak out of my house and run across the street to visit with him. I liked to think that I provided him with much-desired entertainment. He sat very quietly and didn't say much, so I sang, did cartwheels, and performed Pop Warner cheers in an effort to win him over and make him crack just one smile.

Early one morning, I elected to show him the Pepsi-Cola cheer:

Pepsi-Cola! Pepsi-Cola! Royal Crown!
You gotta hypnotize 'em
Boomerize 'em
Knock 'em down!
Hey!

He seemed to be impressed, and invited me to come over and sit on his lap. I eagerly ran over and climbed up, and he put an arm around my back. Suddenly I felt strange and began to chatter nervously as he listened. When I paused for a breath he said, "Give me a kiss." I hesitated, but in the end decided a kiss was harmless. As I moved toward his cheek to deliver a peck, he suddenly turned his head and thrust his wet, slimy tongue in my mouth. Horrified, I jumped off his lap and ran home as fast as I could.

I hurled myself through the front door, locked it securely, and closed the living room curtains. My heart thumped in my chest, and I was terrified that if I looked out the window, I would find him up on the porch, trying to get in. After several minutes passed, I moved the heavy gold curtain a few millimeters to the right, and peeked out. He was still sitting in his carport with his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap.

I didn't know what to do. I felt dirty and embarrassed. For some reason it never occured to me to tell my mother or stepfather; instead, I told my friends Christel and Traci. "EWWWW!" they screamed. "He french-kissed you!" I gagged at the thought of his slobbery tongue. Traci squealed, "Mr. Horner is gross! What a horny butt!"

For years afterward, we stood in my front yard and screamed at his house, "Horny butt! Horny butt!" Our mothers were puzzled as to our hatred for him, and gave an amused smile despite themselves whenever we referred to him as "horny butt."

"Do you know what 'horny' means?" my mom asked me.

"Yes," I answered matter-of-factly, "it means he has horns coming out of his butt."

She laughed as said, "You guys should stop bothering him." But we never did. We made prank phone calls to his house, rode our bikes through his yard, and knocked on his doors and windows and quickly ran away.

As an adult looking back, I realize this was my first introduction to grandpas who weren't as wonderful as mine, and this was a bitter realization. Even so, I thought that Mr. Horner was an exception to the kindly grandfather rule, and for the most part maintained my naive belief that men--especially old men--naturally cared about and wanted to protect little girls. I would go on to learn that he was not the only one, that sometimes men wanted to hurt little girls.

I got my first real six-string.

Today and throughout the month of November I am participating in National Novel Writing Month ("NaNoWriMo"). In order to get 50,000 words in 30 days, I figure I need to average around 1650 words per day.

I'm using NaNoWriMo to generate memoir material on as of yet unexplored topics. On occasion I may post bits and pieces here.

It is difficult already, because part of the challenge is not to self-edit--something at which I excel. I'm trying really hard just to let the words flow and not come out like a completed product as I normally would strive for. I am tempted to sit here and explain in detail that parts of my writing that I want to work on, but to be honest, I'm emotionally exhausted. Even just THINKING ABOUT the material on which I'm writing today makes me cry like a baby, and it has worn me out.

Here is a little bit of free-writing that I did as part of my first NaNoWriMo writing. It's unplanned and unstructured. It's more of a collection of memories and impressions than an actual story. But here it is.

* * * * *

Occasionally people will ask questions like, “Where would you go if you could go anywhere?” My head always jumps to the years of approximately 1982-1985. All of my grandparents were there, there were still a lot of bad things I hadn't yet seen, I still believed in Santa Claus, and I still thought I was meant for great things.

On second thought…let’s stick to 1982. Kindergarten in Miss Wilking’s class was a good time for me.

I didn’t know it at the time, because I didn’t know any different, but there was something special about going to my paternal grandparents’ house and being surrounded by my entire family: grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins. Everybody ate and talked and argued and smoked and laughed all at once. They were a noisy, rowdy, and occasionally raunchy bunch. My grandpa and uncles told dirty jokes that I didn’t understand and didn’t find funny. My grandmother encouraged us kids to eat more tomatoes, cucumbers, and peppers and less chips and cookies. And my cousins and I ran through the house, up the back steps, and across the steep backyard and back again, constantly on the move in case we were missing something. There was a feel of excitement in the air.

Negotiations of who would get to spend the night with whom began early, and we planned and coordinated our strategy like seasoned army generals. Crouching on the front porch, away from the earshot of adults, we organized our attack and planned for the fun that would follow our sleepover victory.

“Let me ask pappy and grandmother first. They’ll say yes. Once they say yes, your dad won’t be able to say no.”

“When we play school, I get to be the teacher.”

“You always get to be the teacher!”

“That’s because I’m the oldest and I know how to write in cursive like a teacher.”

“No you don’t! You don’t write real letters—you just pretend to cross t’s and dot i’s!”

I can remember the smell and the feel of the lush blackberry bushes up on the hill in the back yard like it was just yesterday. I can feel the bars of the swingset on the backs of my knees like I am still hanging upside down from them. I can see the rust patches on the swingset, and feel it jump when I swing too high. I can remember the chalky residue the paint left on my sweaty hands. I can hear my cousins’ shouts, and I can see my family down the hill grilling burgers and drinking beer.

The air is hot and sticky—the humid remnants of a summer day in the mountains of West Virginia—and the fireflies begin to come out at dusk. I can still feel their ticklish legs walking around inside my cupped hands, trying to strike the balance between keeping them securely cloistered away and being careful not to crush them. (Once my stepdad thought he would be clever and he squished the butt of a firefly to get the glow-in-the-dark light out. He put in on my finger like a diamond ring as I stared in horror at what he had done and started to cry.) I can hear the rise of the cricket chirps in the grass as the air begins to cool and the night approaches. I am once again filled with the desire to fill a jar with fireflies and take care of them—my own personal night-light forever and always.

Inspiration and the forms in which it comes

I have always needed a lot of attention.

I didn't get a lot of it from my parents, but my grandpas--whenever I visited--lavished me with it. I soaked it up like a thirsty plant. Time, affection, love: I couldn't get enough.

When I couldn't get my needs met from others, I found ways to make do and meet them myself. I would tuck myself in bed, wrap my arms around myself in a tight hug, shower my hand with kisses and pat them all over my face, and murmur night-time endearments to myself: "Good night, sweet girl. I love you so much. I love you more than anything in the world. You're my baby; you're my sweetheart. Good night."

These intense needs are cute and endearing in a little kid, but not so much in a grown woman--especially in a grown woman who doesn't always know how to ask for what she wants and needs.

As an adult I have found that this need has a profound effect on me. Attention and affection--or the lack thereof--have dramatic effects on my writing, inspiration, and creativity and the forms which they take. It profoundly affects my mood which is, at best, tenuous. It is also surprisingly easy to confuse sex with the attention that I crave. I have worked hard to be conscious of these distinctions and to learn to better distinguish when I need one or the other. Or both.

I still hoard attention when I can get it. I try to store it up and allow myself to savor the memories of it during dry spells however long or short they may be. Lately I luxuriate in it whenever I can, and I am starting to feel writing inspiration coming to me. It's still a bit elusive--like fireflies heading up, up, and just beyond my reach. But I keep jumping and swatting at the air, trying to bring them down to me.

10 things that are true.

1. It means a lot that she still writes to me.
2. I can't open that box.
3. I tried to take care of you.
4. I didn't take care of myself.
5. I miss having a grandpa.
6. She inspired me to sign up.
7. I am intimidated by the suddenness.
8. I can't stop imagining horrific crashes of cars and planes when I drive.
9. She walked across the bridge with me to help me feel less afraid.
10. French onion Sun Chips are best.

"For a year we caught his tears in a cup."

Año (part two of two)

spring enclosed grief i can't go with you please stop asking me empty space please ask me just one more time detaching waiting drying up closing up summer regroup trying again hope eager mistaken premonitions comparison tentative as usual it became important new adult freedom fears mornings have a whole new meaning why haven't I heard from you please ask me one more time I will say yes fall trying to keep it together sleeping in the car trying and trying because it only takes one I wrote a letter confession falling behind more erratic fleeting winter I'm drowning obsession 98 feet deep this time last year you predicted it the nights are so long sleepless I just need a break losing control I'm going down chanting and rocking and screaming clinging to the shower wall Nannette's tears a voice of reason answers questions an orphan grieving spring trying

"Even though we ain't got money, I'm so in love with you honey..."

As many of you know, my grandfather passed away on Feb. 7. There was an insurance policy divided three ways that my mother, uncle, and I are supposed to receive. I got the paperwork for it today, and I was woefully unprepared for the flood of emotion that would along with the copy of the death certificate that accompanied it.

Apparently there is another insurance policy that is in dispute between my mom, uncle, and step-grandmother. Lawyers are being consulted on both sides. My mom's trying to tell me not to talk to Wanda. I want no part of any of this. I don't know who's right and wrong, but it makes me sick that they've resorted to this.

On the meeting of Eddie and Ruth Ann

(They were my maternal grandparents.)

He was on a street corner waiting for a bus. She was helping to carry a mattress down the sidewalk. He watched her go by, staggering beneath the weight of the mattress. He thought she was beautiful and wanted to ask her out, but she looked rather busy at the time. Every time he went to that bus stop after that he looked for her; it put a little extra bounce in his step on the way to catch the bus. Finally one day she was there.

She stood primly off to the side in a long red coat, looking much more put together than the day she was carrying the mattress. He felt nervous, but the memory of the long wait to see her again spurned him to action. He quietly introduced himself and asked her for a date, and she accepted with a smile.

The rest is, well...

Self-imposed constraints

I'm trying to work up to writing memoir pieces about people who have been in my life since I was less than 10 years of age. This feels trickier to me because: 1) those earliest paths are so well-worn in my mind that they're easy to write about--they almost write themselves, and 2) I have no qualms writing about my parents and grandparents and my very earliest friends. It feels stickier, however, to write about people more recently in my life--especially given that I am submitting these pieces for publication and working up to a book. I'd love to talk to other memoir writers about how their subjects deal with showing up in their pieces.

I have one very emotional piece that I wrote about 2 1/2 years ago that I haven't had the courage to make public. Parts of it are so dark--and all of it is so personal--that I'm not sure I can bear it. I keep thinking I should just do it quick and get it over with. Like pulling off a band-aid. But then I remember that it's not just me that it has the power to hurt, and I stop.

Planning ahead, repeating: A series of vignettes

I always wanted to go to summer camp, but my family was broke, broke, broke. So I slept in the backyard and ate clover, pretending they were special wild mushrooms I'd found that would give me the power to fly away if I just ate enough. I wonder what the neighbors thought--see the wild-haired little girl in the yard with her pillow, gobbling down grass, desperately wanting it to be enough.

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I used to keep a small bag packed in case our house caught on fire. I wanted my most treasured items at arm’s reach at all times in case I needed to flee fast. I remember one incarnation of my emergency kit was a little plastic suitcase that included my grandmother’s obituary, a quarter my grandpa gave me for good luck before my 4th grade spelling bee, a little red metal truck—not much bigger than one of the Hot Wheels—that came from my dead great grandfather in the event I was born a boy, a rubber mermaid with blue hair that I loved, and a piece of my mother’s lingerie because it smelled like her perfume.

Looking back I’m quite impressed with my emergency kit’s thoroughness because, at present, my emergency earthquake kit only contains a few bottles of water.

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Repetition has always comforted me. As a child, one way I fulfilled this need was by pretending to sell hot dogs. It's still not clear to me why I did this because, for as long as I can remember, I've loathed hot dogs. But when I was upset and alone I would regularly gather up the raw hot-dog-making materials and pretend to sell them for hours.

The green waxy rhododendron leaves from the bush in our front yard made perfect buns. Broken sticks served as the actual "meat" (if any part of a hot dog can be called such). Freshly mown grass played the part of multiple toppings, including relish and sauerkraut. But my personal favorites were the onions. I would scrape white paint chips off our house that badly needed re-painting--and if I were ever to have been caught for this there would have been hell to pay--and break them up into bits for chopped onions. In my neighbor's yard a small dried up well with a lid made a perfect drive thru window.

I prided myself on the quality of my ingredients (each one hand gathered!), the value of my hot dogs (only pennies apiece!), and my unfailingly courteous service. Every once in awhile, though, a customer would get snippy with me. At my hot dog stand, the customer was not always right. When I was unable to reason with them I would take their order, throw it through the drive-thru window into their car, and tell them to go fuck themselves as I’d heard my mother do with various real and imaginary people. Then I would brush the chopped onions off my hands while muttering, "Some people are never happy," and put on a big smile for the next customer pulling up for their order.

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My grandpa and I spent a lot of time together when I was very young. On weekends we often went out to breakfast. We would eat in silence, mostly looking out the window or at the other diners; occasionally we would comment on the quality of the food.

My favorite weekends were those when we went to Shoney’s. If you’re not familiar with Shoney’s, it’s a sit-down family restaurant that has breakfast, lunch, and dinner. On the weekends they were known for their breakfast bar with its endless supply of steak fingers and bacon. I enjoyed the food, but what I really loved was filling out the comment cards.

Part of my excitement was that I was even allowed to fill one out in the first place. My mother never would have allowed this, but my grandpa patiently loaned me his pen and answered my questions about the spelling and meaning of words like “accuracy” and “promptness.” If asked, he would also describe to me his own assessment of the meal.

I was also excited because it was so rare that anyone wanted to hear what I had to say, and here was a restaurant—a corporation—who wanted to know in detail about how my dining experience had been. So I told them. Over and over. I filled a card out each and every time we went to Shoney’s. I related the details of our order down to who had ranch dressing on the side. I carefully and truthfully rated our service and meal and overall dining experience. I reported on the server’s cheerfulness and the cleanliness of our table. I was convinced I was providing an important service. The Shoney’s company had a reliable source on the operations of their store in Bridgeport, WV and, because I loved Shoney’s, my comment cards were invariably glowing.

One day an official-looking letter arrived for me at my grandpa’s house. I squealed with glee when I saw that it was from Shoney’s. I just knew they were writing to thank me for all my efforts, and to encourage me to continue providing them with feedback! I ripped it open excitedly and my grandpa and I read it together:

Dear Miss Ashcraft, it began. How thrilling! How official! We at Shoney’s thank you for your business and your feedback via our comment cards. I knew they were paying attention! We value the feedback of our other customers, too, and ask that you do not complete any more comment cards. Please continue to enjoy our restaurants. Sincerely, Shoney’s

I was crushed and began to cry. I had thought they wanted to hear what I had to say, even if I ate the same meal every visit. I never did fill out any more comment cards at Shoney’s. I was filled with terror that—as soon as I picked one up—gunmen would surround my grandpa and I and haul us off to jail. He was just an old man! He wouldn't be able to handle doing time like I would. I put on my stiff upper lip and fought the urge to comment, knowing in my heart I was protecting our futures.

For my papa

Last night I dreamed of my Papaw and Grandmother's house on Chestnut St. in Clarksburg. They lived in a big old two-story red house across from the graveyard until I was about 12 years old, and I have so many memories of being in this house.

In fact, if I could go back in time and do anything, one of the two things I would do would be to spend a weekend with them at this house circa summer 1984.

In my dream they were still gone, but the house was frozen in time--down to an icy glass of Papaw's bourbon and Sprite sitting on the end table next to his place on the couch. I wandered through the house and took everything in.

I examined the threadbare flower-print couch. The clock on the horse and carriage still sat on top of the giant television, along with pictures of papaw and grandmother as children. There was the small set of shelves with my aunt and uncles' and father's senior pictures on it next to the living room doorway. The sheers hanging on the windows still smelled like papaw's cigarette smoke.

In the hallway was the old desk with years of doodling on it and the old yellow telephone with the dial. The china cabinets in the hall and dining room still sat silently, holding their fancy dishes. The organ waited to be played. As I walked to the back of the house, it started to grow dark outside and I felt my old childhood fears of what was waiting for me around the corner re-emerge.

The kitchen smelled of coffee and still contained my cousins' and I's Strawberry Shortcake mugs, the yellow tupperware sugar bowl, and the little ceramic figurine of a little girl that held the toothpicks. My eyes shifted to the dark doorway that was the entrance to the basement, and I knew I was too afraid to go down there. Instead, I decided to go upstairs.

I climbed the 17 stairs covered in old green shag carpeting, and along the way I touched the pieces of wood in the banister that I knew were loose. My memories of this staircase were particularly strong, because my cousins and I regularly slid down the steps on our butts, counting each step as we thumped our way down; my uncles Jim and Joe regularly put us on their backs and shoulders and ran down the staircase. We screamed with delight and terror as they yelled, "Who's your favorite uncle!?"

I came to the top of the staircase to the clothes hamper and the bathroom doorway, and recalled that my grandmother reported seeing her mother-in-law's ghost at this very spot. A shiver of fear ran down me. I gulped it down, wanting my dreamy reverie to last longer.

The bathroom still contained my favorite things: the child's backscrubber shaped like a giraffe (which I now own); my grandmother's robin's egg blue Estee Lauder power box with the giant silky powder puff inside; Close-Up toothpaste; a bar of Zest soap in the shower, and the bottle of Chloroseptic which I loved to spray into my mouth to make my throat numb. I smiled when I eyed the toilet paper, remembering the day Michelle and I had unraveled two whole rolls to wad up and stuff under our shirts to make us look pregnant. We got in trouble for being so wasteful, and the family used a plastic bag of wadded up toilet paper for the next couple of days.

That's as far as I got in my dream. I never made it into any of the bedrooms. But I was grateful to re-experience the sights and smells and memories of this house again.