Thanks to Dave Barry's blog for this story and for making me laugh. Way to go - Mrs. Thompson.
http://www.knoxnews.com/news/2009/apr/19/honeymoon-topped-off-by-a-4-inch-beard/?woot
Showing posts with label Just Because. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Just Because. Show all posts
Monday, April 20, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Virginia Tech, April 16th
We will continue to invent the future through our blood and tears and through all our sadness.... We will prevail....
-- Nikki Giovanni, University Distinguished Professor, poet, activist
-- Nikki Giovanni, University Distinguished Professor, poet, activist
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
For Be. Fri.
Just for you. I feel like you needed some cheering up. Also, of all the people I know, I feel like you would appreciate the following more than anyone else.
For others, I have gotten word back from U. Maryland & Pittsburgh on the state of the union after the last scans and visual impairment. I have the neurosurgical consult appointment tomorrow at Hopkins and then I will do my best to synthesize and provide an executive summary of the current situation once I can cross-reference notes and take a deep breath.
But, today, I am looking for some distraction. And, I found it! This falls into the category of There Are People That Are Worse Off Than Us. Or maybe, Sometimes There Are Things You Cannot Do Anything About No Matter How Hard You Try.
Those that know me well are fully aware of my love/hate shark relationship. I will watch all the Discovery Channel shark shows with my feet safely hidden under a blanket and never dangling over the couch (just in case). And then DVR to watch later, in case I have not sufficiently scared myself on first viewing.
One common thread among the shark shows is how they spend 58 minutes of each show detailing the most horrific shark attacks in the history of horrific shark attacks and then 30 seconds at the end reassuring viewers that the shark did not WANT to bite that poor, dead person in half and then eat them, but it just happened because the shark got confused. Kind of the feelings I have when I discover I have "accidentally" eaten all the cupcakes in our pantry. Again. I thought they were seals! Clearly.
So I read this article with interest. Here is the full link so I cannot be sued for plagiarizing:
For others, I have gotten word back from U. Maryland & Pittsburgh on the state of the union after the last scans and visual impairment. I have the neurosurgical consult appointment tomorrow at Hopkins and then I will do my best to synthesize and provide an executive summary of the current situation once I can cross-reference notes and take a deep breath.
But, today, I am looking for some distraction. And, I found it! This falls into the category of There Are People That Are Worse Off Than Us. Or maybe, Sometimes There Are Things You Cannot Do Anything About No Matter How Hard You Try.
Those that know me well are fully aware of my love/hate shark relationship. I will watch all the Discovery Channel shark shows with my feet safely hidden under a blanket and never dangling over the couch (just in case). And then DVR to watch later, in case I have not sufficiently scared myself on first viewing.
One common thread among the shark shows is how they spend 58 minutes of each show detailing the most horrific shark attacks in the history of horrific shark attacks and then 30 seconds at the end reassuring viewers that the shark did not WANT to bite that poor, dead person in half and then eat them, but it just happened because the shark got confused. Kind of the feelings I have when I discover I have "accidentally" eaten all the cupcakes in our pantry. Again. I thought they were seals! Clearly.
So I read this article with interest. Here is the full link so I cannot be sued for plagiarizing:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/jan/13/australia-shark-attacks
For all those busy people that want bullet points, here you go. These are verbatim tips about what to do if attacked by a shark:
* If you are in the water, remain calm. You cannot outrun a shark and sharks can sense fear.
* Keep your eye on the shark at all times. Sharks may retreat temporarily and then try to sneak up on you.
* If you can't get out of the water right away, try to reduce the shark's possible angles of attack.
* Fight. Playing dead doesn't work. A hard blow to the shark's gills, eyes, or, as a last resort, to the tip of its nose will cause the shark to retreat. If a shark continues to attack, or if it has you in its mouth, hit these areas repeatedly with hard jabs, and claw at the eyes and gills.
* If you are near shore, swim quickly, but smoothly. Thrashing will attract the shark's attention.
* Sharks have difficulty biting things that are vertical (their nose gets in the way) so avoid leaving your hands and feet loose or going horizontal to swim away from the shark.
* Sharks can't breathe out of water, so, if possible, hold the bitten part of your body out of the water, and get their gills into the air and they will let go of you.
* Sharks tend to thrash prey around to tear chunks out of it, so you should latch on to the shark.
* Repress the urge to scream. Screaming will not deter the shark much and may provoke it further.
To summarize: just lift the bajillion pound shark out of the water using any body part that has not yet been bitten off, while avoiding "tearing" teeth and remaining silent and still - DO NOT SCREAM! - and then swim quickly, but evenly, to shore, as you curl into a tight ball and hold yourself vertical, keeping an eye on the shark, while hoisting any partially severed nubs out of the water and continuing to swim (silently, vertically, and quickly), looking over your shoulder. Got it?
Um ... advantage: shark. Not to discredit the author, but I feel like the practical applications of this piece of journalism are somewhat limited. I think the easier solution is to move to Iowa and take up running. You are welcome for sharing. And, see, don't you feel better now?! It could be worse.
Love, St. Ends.
For all those busy people that want bullet points, here you go. These are verbatim tips about what to do if attacked by a shark:
* If you are in the water, remain calm. You cannot outrun a shark and sharks can sense fear.
* Keep your eye on the shark at all times. Sharks may retreat temporarily and then try to sneak up on you.
* If you can't get out of the water right away, try to reduce the shark's possible angles of attack.
* Fight. Playing dead doesn't work. A hard blow to the shark's gills, eyes, or, as a last resort, to the tip of its nose will cause the shark to retreat. If a shark continues to attack, or if it has you in its mouth, hit these areas repeatedly with hard jabs, and claw at the eyes and gills.
* If you are near shore, swim quickly, but smoothly. Thrashing will attract the shark's attention.
* Sharks have difficulty biting things that are vertical (their nose gets in the way) so avoid leaving your hands and feet loose or going horizontal to swim away from the shark.
* Sharks can't breathe out of water, so, if possible, hold the bitten part of your body out of the water, and get their gills into the air and they will let go of you.
* Sharks tend to thrash prey around to tear chunks out of it, so you should latch on to the shark.
* Repress the urge to scream. Screaming will not deter the shark much and may provoke it further.
To summarize: just lift the bajillion pound shark out of the water using any body part that has not yet been bitten off, while avoiding "tearing" teeth and remaining silent and still - DO NOT SCREAM! - and then swim quickly, but evenly, to shore, as you curl into a tight ball and hold yourself vertical, keeping an eye on the shark, while hoisting any partially severed nubs out of the water and continuing to swim (silently, vertically, and quickly), looking over your shoulder. Got it?
Um ... advantage: shark. Not to discredit the author, but I feel like the practical applications of this piece of journalism are somewhat limited. I think the easier solution is to move to Iowa and take up running. You are welcome for sharing. And, see, don't you feel better now?! It could be worse.
Love, St. Ends.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Thursday, October 2, 2008
A Smile in My Liver
If you have not read Elizabeth Gilbert's novel Eat Love Pray, I suggest you drive to Borders immediately and then call in sick tomorrow so you can stay in bed and devour it. It is warm and witty and funny and poignant and delicious. If you do not love it too, I owe you a chocolate martini.
Without ruining the story, the author travels to several places and the last stop on her journey is Bali. While in Bali she studies with a medicine man who advises her that part of her meditation practice should include sitting and smiling everywhere ... even in her liver. I am trying to force the smile in my liver thing lately and hope it catches on to the rest of me. I'll keep you posted on how that works out.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
The Cab Ride I'll Never Forget
A moment of levity on a self-absorbed day. If you read nothing else this afternoon, read this.
The Cab Ride I'll Never Forget
by Kent Nerburn
Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. One time I arrived in the middle of the night for a pick up at a building that was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.
So I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.
"It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated."
"Oh, you're such a good boy," she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"
"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.
"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice."
I looked in the rear view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.
"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long."
I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you like me to take?" I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now." We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.
"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.
"Nothing," I said.
"You have to make a living," she answered.
"There are other passengers."
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.
"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."
I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?
On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life. We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware—beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.
The Cab Ride I'll Never Forget
by Kent Nerburn
Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. One time I arrived in the middle of the night for a pick up at a building that was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.
So I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.
"It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated."
"Oh, you're such a good boy," she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"
"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.
"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice."
I looked in the rear view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.
"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long."
I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you like me to take?" I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now." We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.
"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.
"Nothing," I said.
"You have to make a living," she answered.
"There are other passengers."
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.
"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."
I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?
On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life. We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware—beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Phobia
My friend just sent me an e-mail questionnaire about fears. As a general rule, I do not respond to e-mail surveys. I would like to pretend it is because I am too busy at work to be bothered, but it is more likely because I am too busy at work screwing around on Facebook to be bothered. For some reason, I guess I was in the mood to ponder what scares me. I post below because after spending a full fifteen minutes (a.k.a. $75 in billable hours) completing it, I realized I have been wasting time all day and felt guilty. But if I POST it - I feel less like I am wasting time and more like I am ... Oh, I don't know. I needed a mind break. That is my story and I am sticking to it.
Things I am really scared of:
- Spiders
- Terrorists
- Wal-Mart
- People that use phrases like "I doesn't …" (see Wal-Mart)
- My bikini wax lady
- Dog ick on public sidewalks (Ethan's shoes always find it and it makes me gag. Bring a baggie, people.)
- Nuts (and Epipens)
- Certain judges
- Blue food
- Bats (the flying kind)
- Blood (mine or that of others)
- Raw chicken (so … eww… sinew-y)
- Visible panty lines (a public health crisis)
Things I am not scared of:
- Roller coasters and upside-down amusement park rides
- Heights
- Dentists (Hi Dad!)
- Horses (or jumping horses over 4-foot fences)
- Big dogs (either the animals or the 1980's T-shirt brand)
- The number thirteen
- Tequila shots
- Aliens
- Rabies (I have been through the full complement of rabies anti-serum, thanks to my ill-fated attempt to rescue a Baltimore stray cat)
- Knock-off handbags (ChanNel – good enough!)
Things I am little scared of:
- Flying (Actually, it is more the crashing that concerns me. The flying part is fine.)
- The teacup ride at Disney World
- Sharks (BUT I would go on a Great White cage dive in a heartbeat. Awesome.)
- Jogging at night (Ok – jogging, in general)
- The fact that I suspect that my Blackberry is smarter than I am and would win in an IQ challenge
- The "7s" question at the neurologist (if you are not lucky enough to have your own neurologist, this makes no sense to you)
- When my husband says "Oh, I can fix THAT!" (if you are lucky enough to have your own husband, this makes perfect sense to you)
- When my husband goes to the grocery store and I actually need specific items (Milk!? What!? And WHERE am I supposed to find something like that?!)
- Raising a teenage boy (someday)
- Not raising a teenage boy (someday)
Regarding said boy, he has his own fairly significant and creative list of fears. Ethan does not like to sleep in his room at night, alone. I wish it were just a simple fear of the dark we were dealing with. But if you met me, you would realize that with my "worry" genes, it likely goes much deeper than that. I (foolishly) thought that we could have a rational discussion about "scary things" by talking about them and thereby alleviate some of the fear. Umm. No. And no.
Salient highlights of this conversation:
Good mother attempt: "Why don't you tell me what scares you and then we can talk about it?"
"Nooooo! I am too scared to talk about it!"
After much cajoling on my part, the list began with, "Seals in the bathtub ..."
Me, confused: "Um? Seals? Like Navy Seals? Like, Miss Rachel's husband? Because he is really nice!"
It turns out he was referring to the "Ark, Ark" kind of seal, the ones that like fish and balancing balls on their noses. Those vicious, blood-thirsty monsters of the deep.
I tried. I pointed out how cute seals were and how they only ate fish and how they like ocean water, not bath water ... but, ultimately, I could not satisfactorily reassure him that I was 100% SURE that there was NO possible way EVER that a seal could not get into our bathtub. Maybe one would escape from the circus in Baltimore and hitchhike thirty minutes up I-95 to our suburb where it would notice that our front door was unlocked and turn the knob with its big flipper then flip up the stairs and discover our bathtub, where it would lay in wait until Ethan's bath that night. Unlikely? Yes. But could it happen? I suppose it could. I just read an article about a woman in Maine who found a 9-foot python in her washing machine. Things happen. And so we moved on to ...
"Men on stilts looking through my bedroom window at night while I am sleeping ..."
Um? I asked (gently, while biting the inside of my cheek) whether he had even SEEN a man on stilts. In our neighborhood. Looking though his window?
He replied, gravely, that he had not. But that he thought about it ALL THE TIME.
I told him that I was fairly certain that men, even those on stilts, were not tall enough to reach up to the second-story window and that if they tried to they would probably be unsuccessful because the window is so high.
I knew I had lost this match when I saw his expression change and yet ANOTHER terrifying thought crossed his mind .... Men on stilts falling off their stilts into crumpled heaps!! INJURED AND BLEEDING men in a giant tangled human pile outside of his bedroom window!! While he was sleeping!!
At which point I had no choice. I was forced to concede that indeed, the world could be a horrifying place, and perhaps he should join Jeff and I in our bed tonight. Just to be safe.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Public Service Announcement
It is a scary world out there:
Victoria's Secret Sued Over Thong Incident (Copyright, AOL, 6-18-2008)
A 52-year-old California woman is suing lingerie giant Victoria's Secret, claiming that a "design flaw" on a pair of V-string panties caused her to suffer an eye injury. According to court documents, Macrida Patterson says that a decorative metallic object flew off of a thong she was trying, causing permanent cornea damage, after striking her in the eye. It's the latest lawsuit involving the lingerie maker this year.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Clarification
Recently several friends have inquired as to whether I planned on "having my boobs done." I was confused. At first I thought it was some sort of secret conspiracy regarding the state of my cleavage and was insecure. I wondered if once you reached a certain age, sorority by-laws required all former members to have reconstructive work on their feminine wiles, but I was not aware of this fact because I had skipped those parts of the sorority meetings in college since I was too busy making out with R or M or F .... or G ... or T ... to attend. And then, it was pointed out to me that I indicated in a prior post that I would be "off to buy boobs."
To be clear: I was helping a friend pick out some slip-on enhancements, so to speak, for an oddly-configured bridesmaids dress. Sorry to disappoint (that is a shout out directly, to you, Dear Husband). If I do end up needing surgery in the future, however, I will be sure to see if I can get some sort of package deal on the brain/boob thing. Because all men know the two are correlated. Absent that development, no plans to upgrade what nature intended and has served me well (enough) for 20-some years.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Deep Thoughts
First order of business: Facebook is my new favorite time-waster. A.R. - remember summer associate time at our old firm when the firm would print a bound copy of the incoming summers' profiles, with photos? And how you would annotate the photos and we would pass them back and forth via inter-office mail for hours, laughing and laughing at how witty we were, even though collectively we were billed out at over $500 an hour and should not be wasting even one minute of time in such an egregious and unprofessional manner? It is totally like that, but FUNNER!
Topic Two: My son was leaving preschool yesterday when he got a used condom stuck to his shoe in the parking lot. Don't worry, I boiled the shoes as soon as we got home - but ICK. Who the hell? In a preschool parking lot? Bet it was that little red-head tart from the Twos room, she is always wearing short little skirts and flashing her diaper when she exits her mom's minivan at drop-off.
Topic Three: I cannot get this song out of my head: "In her apple-bottom jeans ... with her Reeboks with the straps ... turned around and gave her big booty a slap ... "
1) Apple bottoms sound delicious, like a dessert I would very much enjoy with some cinnamon ice cream.
2) Reeboks have straps now? Really? I need some strap-on shoes. I have been known to trip and actually walk out of my shoes, as I trip. Straps would very much help my cause.
3) I, as possessor of a big booty, do not routinely slap it. Perhaps I should start. The next time I am in court arguing a point instead of raising my voice and gesturing, I will simply turn around and give the big booty a slap for emphasis. Booyah - opposing counsel! How you like THEM apples?!
Friday, May 16, 2008
Chocolate Day!
I was at the printer at work today when I noticed the office bulletin board announcement stating that every Friday for the rest of the month will be Chocolate Day. Are you kidding me?! I have NO idea what this means but can you think of anything better?! Maybe Free Pony Ride and Multiple Orgasm Day ... Hmm. I'll suggest that for the month of June.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Maroon and Orange - One Year Later
April 16, 2007. I enter my son’s preschool building and watch unseen through the classroom window. He is engaged in some type of complex, made-up game involving flying toy cars and inexplicably, a rhinestone princess tiara. I am spotted and his face opens up into a grin; the smile reveals the chipped front tooth that was the result of an unfortunate meeting between his mouth and the concrete pavement. He runs over and I hug his warm little body, his baby-fine hair resting against my cheek. I can no longer hold back the tears I have suppressed since earlier today when I learned of the massacre at Virginia Tech, my alma mater.
His blue eyes widen, sincere with concern and confusion. In his limited world experience, tears are reserved only for matters of substantial injury or severe injustice, such as being deprived dessert after eating his carrots. “Why are you crying?” he asks. I can’t speak. His teacher helpfully provides the answer which eludes me, “Honey, your mommy is just happy to see you today.”
My cousin is an engineering student at Virginia Tech and has classes at Norris Hall, where thirty victims fell. My family waited anxiously to hear the good news that he escaped unharmed. During the shootings his class went into lock-down, barricaded inside Randolph Hall, close enough to hear the gunshots and see the SWAT team through the windows. He knows two people who were killed, and surmised via e-mail that “I guess it stands to reason, on a campus like this, everyone is linked somehow to everyone else, but it’s still surprising how many of my friends lost somebody among the thirty-three who died today and even though I never met these people, I’ll still feel their loss through our mutual friends.”
In August 1993, my parents dropped me off at the West Ambler-Johnston residence hall, the same freshman dormitory where the violence began. My first day on campus was hot and muggy. Hundreds of lively students flooded the halls and stairwells, eager to begin their collegiate experience. The throngs of parents appeared not quite as eager, judging from the lingering hugs and earnest lectures about “staying out of trouble” and reminders to “come home soon.”
The elevators in my dorm were broken, so my father gamely lugged a minivan’s worth of luggage up four flights of stairs. My mother, ever the perfectionist, had obtained a list of recommended supplies from the university. She had spent the preceding weeks in a manic consumer scavenger hunt to ensure that I began college with every item on that list including, to my new roommate’s disbelief and amusement, a personal-sized fire extinguisher for our dorm room. As my father finally unloaded the last item of luggage, and said farewell for now, my roommate and I happily surveyed the surroundings that would be our home for the next four years. Our entire lives stretched out in front of us, full of promise and hope.
During my time at Tech, I met and befriended people from all over the country, from all walks of life. There was the girl who would become my roommate for the next two years, kind enough to overlook my obvious lack of housekeeping credentials, funny enough that I hated to turn off the lights at night because we were having so much fun talking and laughing. There was the shy, freckled boy, an initial romantic prospect, who after many joint study sessions fraught with tempered flirtation, became my close friend and confidante. There was the girl who enjoyed incense and listening to the Grateful Dead, who spent more than half her waking hours designing and building formidable projects for her architecture classes.
Virginia Tech was a peaceful and secure place; college was where I studied hard, fell in love (and then out again) and crossed the threshold from teenager into adulthood. Tragedy in my circle meant a lower grade in a course than anticipated, breaking-up with a boyfriend, or saying good-bye to a beloved grandparent who passed away after a long and happy life. My friends and I grew up, some went on to jobs, some went on to medical or law school (which for the record, is nothing like college); now, many are married and have children.
As I watched the media images of the massacre, my heart shatters for those who have been deprived of these simple and wonderful memories by one horrific act of violence. My heart breaks further for the moms, dads, sisters, brothers, relatives and friends who sent their loved ones off to embark on the college experience in a beautiful, tranquil place (perhaps armed with personal fire extinguishers?) only to learn that their loved ones will never be coming home again. There are few things more cruel than a parent burying a child.
I unearthed a decade-old Virginia Tech sweatshirt last night from storage. It is faded, the sleeves and collar are frayed from repeated wearing. I haven’t put it on in years because -- let’s face it -- maroon and traffic-cone orange are not exactly a girl’s best colors. In college, though, I didn’t care. I wore it often and with pride. I checked myself out in the mirror and asked my four-year old son for his opinion, “So, how do I look?” He surveyed me solemnly before answering, “You look very handsome, mommy.”
I couldn’t agree more. Go Hokies.
His blue eyes widen, sincere with concern and confusion. In his limited world experience, tears are reserved only for matters of substantial injury or severe injustice, such as being deprived dessert after eating his carrots. “Why are you crying?” he asks. I can’t speak. His teacher helpfully provides the answer which eludes me, “Honey, your mommy is just happy to see you today.”
My cousin is an engineering student at Virginia Tech and has classes at Norris Hall, where thirty victims fell. My family waited anxiously to hear the good news that he escaped unharmed. During the shootings his class went into lock-down, barricaded inside Randolph Hall, close enough to hear the gunshots and see the SWAT team through the windows. He knows two people who were killed, and surmised via e-mail that “I guess it stands to reason, on a campus like this, everyone is linked somehow to everyone else, but it’s still surprising how many of my friends lost somebody among the thirty-three who died today and even though I never met these people, I’ll still feel their loss through our mutual friends.”
In August 1993, my parents dropped me off at the West Ambler-Johnston residence hall, the same freshman dormitory where the violence began. My first day on campus was hot and muggy. Hundreds of lively students flooded the halls and stairwells, eager to begin their collegiate experience. The throngs of parents appeared not quite as eager, judging from the lingering hugs and earnest lectures about “staying out of trouble” and reminders to “come home soon.”
The elevators in my dorm were broken, so my father gamely lugged a minivan’s worth of luggage up four flights of stairs. My mother, ever the perfectionist, had obtained a list of recommended supplies from the university. She had spent the preceding weeks in a manic consumer scavenger hunt to ensure that I began college with every item on that list including, to my new roommate’s disbelief and amusement, a personal-sized fire extinguisher for our dorm room. As my father finally unloaded the last item of luggage, and said farewell for now, my roommate and I happily surveyed the surroundings that would be our home for the next four years. Our entire lives stretched out in front of us, full of promise and hope.
During my time at Tech, I met and befriended people from all over the country, from all walks of life. There was the girl who would become my roommate for the next two years, kind enough to overlook my obvious lack of housekeeping credentials, funny enough that I hated to turn off the lights at night because we were having so much fun talking and laughing. There was the shy, freckled boy, an initial romantic prospect, who after many joint study sessions fraught with tempered flirtation, became my close friend and confidante. There was the girl who enjoyed incense and listening to the Grateful Dead, who spent more than half her waking hours designing and building formidable projects for her architecture classes.
Virginia Tech was a peaceful and secure place; college was where I studied hard, fell in love (and then out again) and crossed the threshold from teenager into adulthood. Tragedy in my circle meant a lower grade in a course than anticipated, breaking-up with a boyfriend, or saying good-bye to a beloved grandparent who passed away after a long and happy life. My friends and I grew up, some went on to jobs, some went on to medical or law school (which for the record, is nothing like college); now, many are married and have children.
As I watched the media images of the massacre, my heart shatters for those who have been deprived of these simple and wonderful memories by one horrific act of violence. My heart breaks further for the moms, dads, sisters, brothers, relatives and friends who sent their loved ones off to embark on the college experience in a beautiful, tranquil place (perhaps armed with personal fire extinguishers?) only to learn that their loved ones will never be coming home again. There are few things more cruel than a parent burying a child.
I unearthed a decade-old Virginia Tech sweatshirt last night from storage. It is faded, the sleeves and collar are frayed from repeated wearing. I haven’t put it on in years because -- let’s face it -- maroon and traffic-cone orange are not exactly a girl’s best colors. In college, though, I didn’t care. I wore it often and with pride. I checked myself out in the mirror and asked my four-year old son for his opinion, “So, how do I look?” He surveyed me solemnly before answering, “You look very handsome, mommy.”
I couldn’t agree more. Go Hokies.
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