Spit

I was sweet on a neighborhood boy.  He was in the sixth grade, I was in the fifth.  A younger girl rarely caught the eye of an older boy in those days.  He was popular and had a little sister who knew how to make pom-poms out of tissue paper.  She was pretty and he was athletic.  They were a sibling power couple.

"Kirk's such a fox.  He's tuff," I remember saying to a friend within earshot of my dad.  "He's the best basketball player in the whole school."

Basketball is a religion in Indiana, or at least it was in the 70s, so the fact that my little Hoosier crush played the game well, elevated his celebrity.

"You like Kirk?" my dad asked.  "That kid spits all the time."

It was true.  Kirk was a spitter.  Maybe he still is.  But the way he spit as a kid was neat.  He'd walk down the sidewalk, sometimes dribbling a basketball, look to the side and spit with speed, force and precision.  He spit with equally precise frequency, like a high-pressure lawn sprinkler, ticking methodically across the grass.  It was awesome.  It also might have been a compulsion, but it melted my butter.

*****

I was looking at family video recently.  Chris and the two older boys braved a thrill ride at a local amusement park in August. The five-year-old boy [he was actually still four when the video was taken] and I are a crack team of backpack watchers and videographers.  It was the end of the day, which is my excuse for putting a four-year-old in charge of belongings.  I think he bummed a smoke from the people next to him, and karate-kicked potential abductors in the stomach.

"Spit" is a small part of the video, but I know my family will appreciate it.

Soaring and Spit from Chris Ross on Vimeo.

Who's Counting?

I'm beginning to lose count.  It was either my 28th, but possibly only my 27th, moving violation.

People gasp, wonder how I continue to drive legally and ask me how much my insurance costs.  It's not that bad.  Over a 28-year time period, I've received tickets in a handful of states and have watched the total leap when I've been at fault in a non-injury accident... or four.  Did you know a person can receive multiple tickets in ONE accident?  I learned this when I was 18.

NOTE:  It's important for me to remind people that alcohol has never been a factor in any of my moving violations.  As a matter of fact, I only recall one ticket occurring at night and it was a [w]reckless driving ticket [I wasn't even speeding].  I was on my way to my then boyfriend's [now husband's] apartment, and became distracted because a bug the size of a small bird was flying around the cockpit of my car.  The police officer pulled me over -- something about erratic driving -- helped me get the bird-bug out of my car, then ticketed me.  He sympathized when I said I was afraid the bug would get caught in my hair, but told me I should have immediately pulled over and battled the bug on the side of the road

The 28th, but possibly 27th, moving violation occurred in July.  Middle Boy and I were in Colorado for a week so he could attend a daily music camp.  I was driving to the hotel after dropping him off one morning, chatting with my mother-in-law on my HANDS FREE DEVICE, driving with the flow of traffic [I think], when I saw flashing lights in a side view mirror.

"Oh my gosh!  I think I'm being pulled over.  I don't even know what I'm doing wrong," I said to my mother-in-law.

The police officer was on a motorcycle, noticed me noticing him in my rearview mirror and pointedly gave me the "PULL OVER!" sign with his hand.  He almost jerked himself off his motorcycle motioning so wildly.

I was offended.

"I need to go," I said to my mother-in-law.  "He's huffy."

I gave the police officer the JUST-A-MINUTE sign with my hand followed by the I'M-ON-THE-PHONE sign [resembles the "hang loose" sign], and politely wrapped up the conversation with my mother-in-law.

I probably shouldn't have done that.

The police officer was a small person.  Literally.  The two of us together might have weighed 225 with my weight contributing more than his to the total.  Although, he did have that big gun.

I drive a mid-sized SUV.  The officer was not amused when I used his mirrored sunglasses to fix my bedhead, and I don't think he appreciated it when I apologized for not noticing him on his little motorcyle.  He said, "I've been trying to pull you over for quite some time."

"Well, I am SO sorry.  I was on the phone with my mother-in-law, and we hadn't spoken in a while.  We're trying to coordinate dinner plans for my son.  And I didn't see the little motorcycle."

He asked me all the usual questions.  I said all the usual stuff.  No, I didn't know I was speeding.  Yes, I realize it's dangerous.  I'm sorry.  I have no business behind the wheel of a car.  I'll be more careful and pay attention.  I'm an idiot.  Are points shared between states, yet?  Thank you, Officer.

I drive legally.  My insurance is a little on the high side, although not as high as one would think.  I have a few photo radar tickets [I don't think those should count.] and the majority of my speeding tickets are for slightly over the limit.

I simply get caught when I break the rules, even unintentionally.  Always have.  Snitching cookies, sneaking out, skipping school, accidentally speeding or changing lanes too quickly [who knew?]... busted.  I view my bumbling criminal abilities as life's way of watching out for me.  I've been spared. 

So my ticket history is shameful.  I'm aware.  But, I've only had one cavity in my life.  That should count for something.

Inspiration

When both of my grandmothers died, nearly twenty years apart, the importance of moments and not mementos was never more profound.  Especially with the people I feel connected to in life.

Although, I admit my desire to occasionally visit each woman's last apartment as it was when they died.  Furniture they'd each had for years, arranged just so; clothes pressed and hanging in closets; and kitchens organized similarly -- one grandmother preferred vodka in her liquor cabinet, the other bourbon.

A Graceland-like shrine in memory of Georgie and Jane would be nice some days.

But it's just stuff.  The older my grandmothers became, the more they shrugged their shoulders at their own belongings and boxes of sentiment.

When Georgie died, my mother's mother, all Mom wanted was one of her rose bushes.  Mom dug up a pink rose bush, placed it in a plastic bag, sat with it on the flight home after my grandmother's service, and planted it in her yard.

I have a few things from each of my grandmothers.  There are no family heirlooms or valuable antiques, but some old books and a photograph or two bring me great comfort and joy.

And a desk.  When Mamaw died last summer [Dad's mom, Jane], I had the space for a few pieces of her furniture.  A dresser and two night stands have been sanded, painted and repurposed in our home.  But it's the old, mahogany desk with drawers that stick and darkened brass hardware, that speaks to me every day.  "Come over here and sit.  You're not too busy.  Talk to me.  Think.  Write."

After some refurbishing, we placed the desk in a small area in our bedroom that has become my writing space.

I don't always sit at the desk.  Sometimes I sit on the small couch, or the rocking chair with the computer on my lap.  But I feel supported, encouraged, and inspired.  Not to mention reminded of the difficulties women endured in prior generations with fewer opportunities.

I don't have a piece of furniture from Grandmother Georgie, but the roses from my own garden are reminders of her fortitude and love.

The tequila bottle the flowers are displayed in?  A gift from my mother, who is very much alive, and collects them.  Mom does not drink the tequila [anymore], but asks bartenders at nice restaurants to save the expensive, unique looking bottles for her.

Mamaw would love the tequila bottle vase.  Grandmother [Mom's mother] would say, "Oh, for god's sake, Kaye Anna.  I think we can do a little better than that."

I love it all.  The desk, the roses, the tequila bottle, but mostly I love the reminder of the interesting, smart, strong women that are mine.