An Eastern Shore Writer

Barcade = Geeking Out

2012-01-29T11:26:00.000-05:00

In Philadelphia, there is a small, nondescript building in Fishtown on Frankford Avenue. The brick frontage doesn't give away what lies inside, only a small neon sign indicates what you're walking into - Barcade. It is a modern day mecca for every child of the 80s: a vast assortment of really good beers and a long line of old school video games. Geeking out is not optional here.

You will geek out. Hard.

Every child born in the 1970s and early 1980s holds a special place in their heart for the old arcade games. We spent countless hours and nearly every cent of our allowances geeking out in dimly lit arcades. Remember the classics: PacMan, Mrs. PacMan, Donkey Kong, Arkanoid, Rampage, Frogger, Paper Boy, Punch Out, Galaga, Burger Time, Tetris, Final Fight, Double Dragon, and on and on. There were never enough quarters and there was never enough time. It was exhilarating and exasperating: just one more level, just one more minute, just one more checkpoint... just one more!

The ups and downs of geeking out is a lesson we all learned young.

When my sister, Kristen, told me about this place, I demanded that she take me on my next trip to see her. She and her husband live just north of Philly; I stayed down on the Eastern Shore of Maryland where we were born and raised. Kristen is now as fluent in city life as I am in the nuances of living on the coast. (My heart will always belong to the ocean.) But on my last visit to see my sister, she was true to her word and we made Barcade a stop on our run through Philly.

We walked in and I was immediately drawn to the old meets new interior: exposed bricks, wooden beams, metal duct work set against the pulse of neon lights and the shine of the multitude of taps at the bar. Of course, we made our way to the bar first where I promptly ordered my favorite - a pint of hard cider. We clinked our glasses to friendship and getting our game on. I saw that little look in my sister's eye and we broke for the back room where old truly met new again: the arcade games.

As soon as I saw the rows of arcade games, I started taking a little road trip down memory lane. Back to when I was just a kid. My sister and I were regulars at Skateland, the local skating rink in Salisbury, Maryland. The rink was the place to be - every kid, regardless if you were cool or not, was there. Acid washed jeans, teased hair, jelly bracelets... skating along to Michael Jackson, Madonna, Phil Collins, Def Leppard, Tears for Fears, and on and on. But, during breaks from the rink, we hit up the snack bar for pizza and sodas or we'd get lost in the back arcade. Playing Skeeball on skates can be a difficult endeavor! There were several racing games and I remember how awkward it was to use a roller skate on the accelerator pedal. How I loved Pole Position and Out Run!

"You got any small bills?" Kristen yelled to me, yanking me out of 1989.

I handed her a five and she fed it through the slot. Ah, yes, that lovely sound of a quarters falling out of the cash machine! We scooped up the quarters and made our way towards the Rampage machine followed closely by Arkanoid. These were two of our all-time favorites. I wonder how much of our allowance was deposited into these games, probably enough to cover my mortgage for a month or two! But this is how adults think, not kids. No, kids just want to be happy... a lesson that I'd do well to remember more. Kristen and I marveled at how bad we were at these old games now. Weren't these games easier then? We just smiled and kept plunking quarters in.

And then there was DigDug. Asteroid. Super Mario Brothers. A hard cider in my hand. A pocket full of quarters. My sister's laugh. Memories. Wait, no Q*bert machine? How sad. More quarters - I found a $1.25 on the floor! High-fives and smiles. New memories.

Oh, Donkey Kong! How you have eluded me all these years! It took me fifty cents to just remember how to reach the princess on the first level, but it was money well spent. As I played and struggled to get my timing on jumping each barrel, I thought about the old arcades on the boardwalk in Ocean City and how much time I've spent in there, both as a kid with my little sister and as an adult. No matter how old I get, I will always hold a special place in my heart for the pinball machines and Skeeball and air hockey games and how those sounds of the bells and dings and whistles mix in the salty ocean air. And deep in my heart, I know that I will always love geeking out.

We killed our drinks and we spent all of our quarters. It was time to head out and make our way to our next venture: The Blind Pig for dinner and then Union Transfer for a concert. I took one last long look at the banks of old arcade machines and I embraced a little connection to something that felt long gone. I was glad to be reminded of that. We made our way passed the bar and headed towards the door. As the cold January air hit my face, I laced my arm through my sister's and looked up at the dark night sky... and I was happy.

On A Pirate Ship

2012-01-19T09:02:00.000-05:00

I fell in love when I first laid eyes on her.

The Bounty was a beautiful ship, a wooden two-mast schooner, and she was anchored just off the coast of Curacao. We had made reservations for an afternoon aboard for sailing and snorkeling in the reefs surrounding the island. As we boarded, I couldn't help but turn my gaze upward. My eyes got lost in the tangle of thick ropes and in the folds of tanned, canvas sails. The wooden banisters were worn smooth and I couldn't help but run my hands over those edges again and again. I barely knew what to look at next: the blue sky, the bluer sea, the green and brown railings, the multitude of metal reels and pulleys, the rugged captain, the boyishly handsome deck hands...

We hadn't even set off on our voyage and I was already lamenting our return.

In my mind, I expected Captain Jack Sparrow to emerge from the lower level, shouting orders and swigging on a bottle of rum. Or maybe Davey Jones with those slippery tentacles and that lobster claw would appear at the large wheel and terrify us with that maniacal laugh. But this is just how my mind works... an overactive imagination combined with an affectionate soft spot for the "Pirates of the Caribbean" series.

We set sail for the Spanish Waters out of Jan Thiel. This was only the second time I'd been on a ship with sails and I was enamored with the crispness of them, the way they puffed and pulled as the wind pushed up against them. Everything around me felt more intense. The sun was warm and the breeze was cool and I could feel both simultaneously on my skin. The strangest sensation grew within me: I was calm... I was happy.

The blue water crashed against the wooden hull. I listened. It sounded like Mother Ocean was playfully shushing us. My sister and I talked and laughed, exchanging grins and happy glances. We looked over at our mother and she was smiling back at us. I knew I was living in a moment that I would remember forever. We were sailing and I swear I felt as free as the wide open sky above me.

We passed by the rock quarry. The abandoned quarantine house on the cliff. An old fort. The captain recounted the various histories. I was spellbound.

Lunch was amazing: chicken satay with a divine peanut sauce, fresh fruit, sweet rolls, and as much rum and beer as we could put away. Not too long after our bellies groaned from the feast, the captain announced we were headed for the sunken tugboat for snorkeling. I remember passing on that last round of Amstel Brights for fear I'd drown from too much beer and chicken and sheer delight.

When the captain dropped anchor, I grabbed my snorkeling gear and headed towards the side of the boat. The choice was to use a little rope ladder or jump. Well, that wasn't much of a choice, really. I leapt. Down, down, down... in! As I popped my head back above water, I looked up at the newest love of my life, The Bounty, with her tall wooden masts, brown against a blue sky, those crisp sails, and her green and gray-white sides gleaming brightly in the island sunshine. Stunning and beautiful.

She stole my heart. And, given the opportunity, I would have gladly left my entire life behind to become a pirate.

I imagined life aboard a ship, overly romanticized, of course. A life at sea. Vast open spaces. Watching the sun emerge from the ocean in the morning only to sink below again at the end of the day. Starry nights. A brilliant full moon, reflections breaking over the waves. Storms in which thunder rattles the wooden deck while lightning cracks and sizzles overhead. Hard work. Calluses. Salt. Sunburn. Sea legs. And, what the Bounty represented most, freedom.

Once we were all in the water, we swam towards the sunken tugboat. As I peered through my mask, my heart literally stopped as I heard the "Jaws" theme play in my head. The vast blue sea was endless in front of me. The long line of the anchor and the wide hull of the Bounty looked small against the big backdrop of the ocean... and I just knew it was a matter of time before something wild emerged from the depths. (Again, too many movies.)

I turned my attention towards the sunken tugboat. Thousands and thousands of tropical fish of every possible shape, size, and color emerged into my field of vision. Slowly and carefully, we floated among them. I dove down and admired the rainbow of an ecosystem unfolding in front of me - coral formations, sea anemones, urchins, and fish set against a cyan sea. Instead of being a pirate, I temporarily considered growing gills and a tail like a mermaid.

Inevitably, we had to return to the ship. This time, I had to use the rope ladder to return to the deck. We toweled off and grabbed a round of cold beers. The wind pushed into the sails and the would-be pirate ship began another graceful journey. I leaned back against the smooth wooden railing, taking in that warm, Caribbean sun. The journey was breathtaking and I cannot remember many other moments in my life that felt so absolutely perfect.

Like a fish in the sea or a bird in the sky, I was sailing and I was free.

Our Notie Girl

2012-01-13T09:17:00.001-05:00

A year ago today, I lost a lady that I adored as much as my natural grandmothers. Notie Bunch lived to the tender age of 97 and she was one of the most amazing women I've ever met. A preacher's wife with a penchant for wine and dirty jokes: she was exactly who I want to be if and when I find my silver days. She loved with a heart as wide as the open spaces between her heaven and this world. The very last time I saw her, she gave me an incredible gift, one of my young life's greatest lessons.

Notie was born in South Carolina and lived in Virginia and on the Eastern Shore of Maryland so naturally, she retained that sweet, southern accent to prove her roots. Her voice was unmistakable. When she called your name, you couldn't help but go running. I loved to listen to her tell stories about growing up. She was one of the only people I ever knew who actually used a Ford Model T car as a primary means of transportation and I was enamored with the story she used to tell about going out with her father to crank it up. Literally. Crank the car engine. (As a child of the technology generation, this intrigues and baffles my electronically-inclined brain.)

She grew up, married a handsome young preacher named Harry Bunch, and had four children. Photos of Harry and Notie from the 40s and 50s reveal a young couple that could have played in any number of Hollywood movies. Harry's square jaw, dark hair, and deep eyes to Notie's coy smile, fashionable dresses, and slender figure. When I said to her that I thought he was a good looking fellow, she grinned and quickly replied, "You bet he was!" More than life itself, she adored that preacher man.

Together, they had two boys and two girls. Their youngest daughter, Ginger, is my mother's best friend. I have known Ginger for years and years, but it feels like she and her family have been in my life since the very beginning. Maybe that's just how old souls work. We felt like family (still do) and now I realize that's because we chose to be family.

I have always known that we can learn a great deal from the older folks around us if we just stop and listen to them. Notie was no different. Once, out of sheer curiosity, I asked her who was the first President that she could remember. Her answer: "Well," in that adorable drawl, "I think it was Coolidge!" (Side note: Calvin Coolidge was our 30th President who served from 1923-1929.) But her age was always just a number because I have never met a young person with half the zest for life that she held. Even at 94, my Notie girl, as I affectionately called her, did shots of tequila with me on my 28th birthday. The idea was jokingly suggested, but Notie piped up and said that for me, she'd do anything. Stunned, I asked her if she really wanted to do that - I mean, tequila? At her age? But she never batted an eye. We poured the salt, shot the Cuervo, and bit the limes. I never took my eyes off of her. And, when we were done, she tossed her head back and laughed as everyone at my birthday party was caught up in an absolute state of shock, disbelief, awe, and hysterics. She was like a little kid at Christmas. She was bigger than life.

And there a thousand more stories just like it. That was our Notie. We adored her but not as much as she adored us.

She lived for years with Ginger and her husband, Gary. But as Notie started to worsen and decline physically over the year, she was moved to a nursing home. It was a decision that everyone dreaded but ultimately knew was coming.

Make no mistake: Notie continued to be the life of the party even there. She always took the seat at the head of the table in the dining room so she could keep tabs on all her friends. Her friends included a woman who chewed on a cell phone, another lady who constantly cradled a baby doll, a woman with part-time dementia, and a lady who was never without a tiara. Notie was the most lucid and so naturally she was their leader. And after dinner, she would sneak a sip or two of wine that Ginger brought for her... with a doctor's prescription, of course. She loved visitors and took great delight in regaling us with stories, which were usually a mash up of something old, something new, something a little smutty, and always something funny.

But each visit, our Notie got a little more frail, a little weaker. Then, one afternoon in January of last year, I got a call from my mother. Notie was in the hospital. This was mostly likely her time and, if I wanted, I could come say good-bye. I swallowed hard against the lump that was forming in the back of my throat. I said I was on my way.

In the hospital bed, surrounded by blankets and beeping machines, my Notie girl looked so small. I hugged and kissed Ginger, Gary, and my mother. Go see her, they said. They were smiling and crying. I walked over to the bed and bent down to her so we could be as close as possible. She was wide awake and as soon as we came eye to eye, the biggest smile broadened across her face. I reached down and found her hand. And she said, in the strongest of whispers, "I love, love, love, love you."

"I love you too, Notie."

"I'm going home."

I pushed my forehead to hers so she couldn't see me cry, "I know."

And from there, we exchanged our whispered good-bye. I stroked her forehead and ran my fingers through her snow white hair. She never stopped smiling and I was so completely awe struck by her calm nature. She wasn't afraid. No, she was happy. When I looked down at her again, all I could see was that my Notie was filled with serenity and peace. How could I want anything else for her?

So, I gently squeezed her hand and kissed her forehead. "Good-bye, Notie girl." And with that, I let go. She passed a few days later.

But in my very last moment with her, Notie taught me something valuable - a lesson I will cherish. I always knew I had a lot to learn from her, and at the end, I had to listen extra carefully, but I got it. She was giving us the gift of letting go. Notie understood where we were and she gave us the only thing she had left - peace. I will never forget what it was like to see her that way: smiling, serene, and happy while living through the minutes of her last hours. She wanted us to have the very best parts of her and we do... alive and well in our hearts and in our minds.

There is a great deal that the living can learn from the dying. This is what I know now. For Notie, it wasn't about the end or the sadness or the grief. No, none of those parts. It wasn't about the dying.

It was about the living.

Lessons From Sky Buzzin'

2012-01-09T12:00:00.000-05:00

Yesterday afternoon, I parked at the end of Runway 1-4 and opened the sunroof. Even though it's January, the temperature was nearly 55 degrees. My old yellow dog was curled up in the passenger seat. I fiddled with the radio until I found something good. I laid back in my seat and gazed up. A small plane buzzed by and I watched it descend and land with a slight skip. I turned my eyes towards the circling skies just above and smiled.

* * *

My father was endlessly fascinated with aviation and always itched for the open skies. At our house, on a clear night, you could see the alternating green and white directional light from the local airport flashing over the treetops in our backyard. He talked about learning to fly often and my mother encouraged him to go take lessons. When I was six, he finally got his private pilot's license - one of his proudest moments.

Within a few months, once he built up his confidence and experience, he started taking me up. He said he needed a co-pilot. He flew a modified Cessna 172: it was white with gray and blue stripes and lettering. The call numbers on the tail contained "zero nine three echo" - I remember this because of the way we had to call into the tower when we were in motion. The inside was snug and made of a sand-colored canvas and cloth. I was small so I couldn't see over the instrument panel in front of me, leaving me to strain to see out of my small side window. I remember twisting against the seatbelts every time in an effort to widen my view.

Every single time, my father performed an impeccably responsible and thorough pre-flight check and balance. My father, under normal circumstances was a bit of a silly, gregarious man, but as a pilot, he was intensely focused and serious. He taught me how to check the fuel, which quickly became my favorite thing to do. I was not incredibly mechanically inclined, but crawling up under that wing and using the sample tool made me feel competent and important. He told me to make sure the fuel was clear and without any odd coloring or particles and so I would hold the vial up to the sun, checking it from every angle like a chemist working on an important discovery. I walked around the body of the plane, sliding my hands along the metal sides and bumpy rivets. If I saw any ding or scratch, I was sure to call out to him so he could give it a good double-check.

Flying is part math and part poetry. In the air, he explained to me what each single instrument did: altitude, air speed, attitude, directional indicator, and on and on. I was always annoyed by the calculations but quickly realized that, despite my overall disdain for math, it was the numbers and equations and rules that were keeping us aloft and thereby keeping us alive. I learned to appreciate math, albeit temporarily. The poetry comes when you look out the window and see the world below look as differently as it ever has before. I especially loved the flights over the ocean. There was something magical about watching the brown and green earth below me dissolve into a blue hue... and looking out to see the blue sky and the blue ocean terminating in a thin, perfect line. As we flew along the coast, I could make out the familiar landmarks: the inlet, Trimper's Amusement park, the boardwalk, the fishing pier, and the assortment of big hotels. His fascination became my own: it's a wondrous and thrilling perspective. And it makes you see everything with reborn eyes.

Once, he took my sister and I on a night flight over the ocean. When the lights of the beach town faded behind us, the black abyss stretched out like the universe. As he tipped the wings into the darkness, my belly dropped and it simply delighted me. My sister had trouble with the air pressure on her ears and spent the entire trip laying in my lap in the backseat of the plane. But I was enamored with it. I stared out and up... I always wanted to be an astronaut. I mean, how daring and adventurous it would be to leave the planet and be weightless among the stars! What could that feel like? Would your belly ever stop flip-flopping? Wouldn't your brain be permanently drenched in adrenaline? It seemed like a glorious, wild ride! But once I learned that my nemesis and its sidekick - math and science - were required in copious amounts, I left that preoccupation behind. But, I had these moments... sky buzzin' (as he called it) with my father and that was close enough for me.

And so, in those early years of my life, I learned to turn my eyes up. I watched planes. Wide open skies. Circling above. I even made up a game of choosing destinations for the planes I saw in the sky. Try it: the next time you find yourself outside... on the beach, in a park, in your front yard, watching a meteor shower... just kick back, look up, and wait. When you see a plane cross overhead, imagine where it's going and always go with your first instinct. (Oddly, a lot of my planes are headed for Miami, Florida or Bangor, Maine.)

If we couldn’t go up, then he would take me to the airport anyway.Inside the small building at Bayland Aviation, there was an old Coke vendingmachine in the back where only the pilots could go and he’d buy us a couple ofCherry Cokes or Mello Yellows and we ride out to the end of Runway 5 andsit. There was a particular spot, rightoff Fooks Road, where the fields and forests gave way to an expanse of asphalt. He’d kill the engine and we’d listen for thatfamiliar mechanical hum overhead. In thosemoments, he’d ramble on about the workings of a Dash-8 or the differences between this jet and that one or about how a plane from Easton crashed at thisairport on the night before he did hisfirst solo. I gazed out the windows and let my imagination run: who were thepassengers? Where had they been? More importantly, where were they going? I made up little stories about business mencoming in to sell alarm systems or medical equipment or an old lady headed toNorth Carolina to visit her sister one last time. The pilot who was going topropose to his lovely girlfriend as soon as he got back from this trip. The blonde flight attendant who dreamed ofbeing an actress on a soap opera. Mymind ran on and on. So, I never mindedthe quiet or the chatter, the mechanical hum or the buzz of the insects in the fieldgrasses around us. And in those moments,I appreciated the ability to sit still. Listen. Daydream.

No matter how old I get, I always find comfort at the airport or at the end of a runway. I remember those old days with my father. I remember learning to embrace new horizons and perspectives, to appreciate the things I understood easily and the things I could not, to listen and let my mind wander a bit. I remember that I learned to not be afraid.

And those are lessons I should remember a little more often...

Free

2012-01-07T15:05:00.001-05:00

I stole this idea from my friend, Ashley, a reporter for the AP and fellow word nerd. Each year, she chooses a word to represent what she wants and needs, what she hopes for in the coming months. It's part mantra, part prayer, and part touchstone. On Christmas Eve, over cookies and ginger tea, she invited me to think it over. A new year in a single word.

The whole idea intrigued me: I've never been good at following any of the countless and pointless resolutions I've made. They are a series of broken or forgotten promises made to myself or the universe or to no one in particular. By the dawn of spring, I'd barely even remember them. So, her idea stuck with me: instead of a resolution, maybe I could just pick a defining word and see how it goes. After careful thought, I have chosen my word.

Free.

2011 was a monster and it nearly ate me alive. I escaped, somehow, but my wounds have barely healed. My heart was broken; my skin was burned. My mind was stretched and torn in a manner that I haven't felt in recent history. (But, then again, show me a writer that wasn't a bit tattered around the edges. Sometimes, I think writers are destined for these sorts of bouts of agony... lest we forget how to bleed on the page.) But, all of the hurt is a thick chain wound around me. And I know that I am the only one who can undo the binding. I have to choose to set myself free in the months ahead.

Free.

Where I once longed for the blue horizon, I am now walking towards it and I can feel my body breaking into a run. I cannot allow my fears and my worries to keep me rooted in quicksand any longer. Life is much too short for that. I have to believe anything is possible now - I have to believe I can find a quiet peace within myself. Maybe, as long as I can embrace this second chance, just maybe I will finally become the best version of myself.

Free.

These days and months ahead, my eyes will be clearer. My heart will mend. I will walk in the sun. Alone or in a crowd, I will not get lost anymore. Stronger, faster, happier, and centered: this year, I will be free to be me.

Found Under A Bottle Cap

2011-12-16T22:03:00.000-05:00

Here's a true story.

The summer before my senior year of college, I had lunch with Leah, an old friend from high school. I was anxious about the months ahead, especially post-graduation life. On this particular day in late August, we sat in the local bagel shop and we talked about the finality and the unknowns. I was staring down the barrel of perhaps the most important school year of my life and I was half-scared I wouldn't make it. To Leah, I mused: what will I do once it’s over? What are the choices? What am I supposed to do? What do I want to do?

And then I confessed: "I am feeling suffocated."

Leah nodded her head in agreement and twisted the cap off of her drink. “Steph,” she said. “Look.” She passed the drink cap to me and in small, block letters, stained by grape juice, I read the inscription.

"Happiness is a decision."

Leah always seemed happy. You could look at her and see what some might consider a strange girl, but she was completely comfortable in her own skin. A quality I envied and admired. She proudly wore 7-11 employee shirts even though she worked at the Circuit City in town; her pants came from a thrift store and the shoes on her feet were the same ones worn by the skater boys in our class. There was a tube of Chapstick hanging around her neck on a rope and she kindly reminded everyone that you never know when you're gonna need soft lips. When all the cool kids were getting the latest models, Leah lusted after a late 1970s Volkswagen Beetle which she paid to have painted orange with sparkles in it. (For Halloween, she made a green cardboard thing and attached it to the top of the car and proclaimed that she was driving a pumpkin.) We'd ride around in her Beetle and belt out the lyrics to No Doubt songs, especially "Spiderwebs." Leah was a misfit of a harmless, happy sort. And in some ways, I was too. Or at least, I wanted to be... and still do.

Anyway, I kept that bottle cap for years. I always wanted to be reminded of a few things:

* When I am staring down the barrel of something scary and unknown, I need to remember that choices have to be made. It's better to make the wrong decision than to languish in indecision... although it is far preferable to make the right decisions. But life is hard and full of pitfalls and mistakes simply get made. We get scarred up and we fall down at some point or another. We just have to do the best we can and when we know better, we must do better. (I think Maya Angelou once said something to that effect and I'm sure she said it much more eloquently.)

*Happiness is a decision. In the recent months, as I have been alone, I have become more keenly aware that there is one undeniable truth. At the end of the day, I must be able to lay my head down and feel centered. I need to find a way to make peace with myself and all the little splinters that exist within me. I have to find some harmony between my head, my heart, and my gut. For most of my life, much of my happiness has been predicated on other people being ok or an external set of conditions being met and so my happiness wasn't always truly authentic to me. Now, I am faced with an overwhelming question: what will make me happy? Deep down on a soul level? I think I am beginning to figure it out... and it is both terrifying and tantalizing.

*Misfits are the very best kind of folks. I need to remember Leah's example. It is ok to be comfortable in your own skin... to say boldly to the world, "This is who I am, like it or not." It is ok to be different and strange and a misfit. At the end of the day, happiness is a state of being based on the decisions we make. And I am ready to choose now.

Finally.

Simplicity

2011-11-29T22:39:00.001-05:00

Do you remember the night we sat out on the jetty? The sun sank low over the harbor and cast a orange-pink light over the ocean as it rushed into the inlet. We sat barefoot on the rocks as the currents swirled just a few feet below us. We didn't talk much. We didn't have to, really.

Do you remember that? I do. And it leads me to this...

When everything falls down, when all seems at a loss, there is always the constancy of life: the sun always sets. The ocean continues to crash. The moon runs through its phases. Seasons come and go. We breathe in and we breathe out. One foot in front of the other. And, at the end of the day, we nestle down and drift off to a warm, sound sleep so that we can greet the dawn again with fresher eyes.

We must remember the simplest of things.

Unwritten In November

2011-11-23T22:04:00.000-05:00

The summer lingers in my mind even as the cold of the impending winter bites into my bones.

- - -

The boardwalk was surprisingly busy for a Saturday in November. An older, heavy set man strolled passed me with his face shoved into a bucket of Thrasher's french fries. (I smiled because, if you know anything about Thrasher's, then you understand exactly how reasonable that is.) Seagulls squawked and picked at the remains of fries and funnel cakes left on the ground. The arcades were open: the music of bells and whistles streamed out into the chilly afternoon air. A little boy ran up behind his sister and pulled the trigger on a neon orange cap gun. Startled, she smacked him on the shoulder and then returned her attention to the guy behind the Atlantic Stand counter.

I zipped up my jacket and blinked as the cold wind swept through the crowd. I kept walking. Life goes on. It must.

Just a few months ago, the summer blistered our bodies. The days reached over 100 degrees; there was little relief from the heat and the haze and the humidity. We passed those days on the beach... under umbrellas, icy bottles of cider in our hands, our blanket just a short sprint from the cool refuge of the ocean. The clouds never lingered too long. We laughed and talked and day dreamed. And, although the sun was burning everything in sight, life seemed easy.

We stared out, straight ahead... The horizon was endless. A perfect blue line between this world and heaven: it looks like a promise stretched out in front of you. Your eyes get lost in the expanse of it and your mind wanders towards the unseen edges. Everything and anything is possible. The future is unwritten. All you have to do is believe.

Just believe.

I spent those days with my head lost in the spaces between the sand and the breakers, that little place where the sea foam bubbles up and quickly fades away. I did not care how much the sun burned my skin: the only things that mattered were the sounds of laughter, the smile of a friend, the wishes made on falling stars, the pulse of the sea, running for miles in the last minutes of daylight, watching the sunrise, stealing a quiet moment to enjoy a fiery orange moon, and pushing towards that horizon full of unknowns.

Because I did believe. I still do.

But now, walking the boardwalk, all zipped up in a thick jacket with my hands buried in my pockets to keep them warm, I couldn't help but feel the pangs of sadness in my heart. I miss the warmth of the summer. I miss the feeling of the sun on my skin and the sheer exhaustion of an afternoon in the Atlantic. I miss the days lasting longer into the twilight and the moments when night finally came and the stars emerged from a black velvet sky. I miss lying on my back and begging for one to fall down.

My eyes traveled ahead. Many of the stores had closed up for the winter and that further served to reinforce that my summer was gone. I looked out towards the ocean, over the sand, towards that beautiful horizon... The cold air brought tears to my eyes. (Or, at least, that's what I told myself.)

As I turned around to head back, I tried to shake the lonely feeling that had rooted down inside of me. This wasn't going to be forever, I reminded myself. It's just a temporary hibernation. The seasons come and go as is their very nature. The cycles must complete: summer to autumn to winter to spring to summer again. This is how life works and we cannot stay in one frame forever. We shouldn't.

I glanced again, this time over my shoulder, at the sand stretching out towards the sea and the sea pushing against the sky. When the winter comes, I will seek refuge in my warm memories of a glorious summer. And, when the spring comes and all the brown turns to green again, I will emerge too... a stronger version of me. Growing and rebuilding. The sadness will be flushed out. After the days and months ahead, my eyes will be clearer and my heart will be healed.

And when the times comes, I will shed my winter skin. I will be ready for the strength of my summer sun.

Stop

2011-11-07T17:09:00.000-05:00

When my eyes opened this morning, after dreaming of the desert, I realized that my world had stopped spinning.

It was 6:00 a.m. and everything was dark, save for the glow of my alarm clock. I sat up and swung my feet over the side of the bed. I stared at the floor and thought of the desert. (The dream made little sense, as is typical for my dreams. I was dressed for a blizzard, standing on a cliff in the desert, staring down into a narrow river. I wanted to jump in...) The sunrise was moments away, I knew, but I turned to wedge my fingers in between the blinds just to double-check. Darkness. Back to the clock. Three minutes had elapsed since my alarm went off. Just a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity.

Time works that way when you realize just how lonely you feel.

Over the past several months, I have loved and I have lost. Some fell to natural causes, a couple were taken away by the fickleness of the human heart, and one was murdered. I moved, I worked, I ran, I tried, and I didn't stop. Life swelled like a tidal wave in front of my eyes. But the end result of these difficult months is this: I am alone. And completely by choice.

Change is often thrust upon us... and sometimes, we have to choose it.

The tolls have made my heart heavy and left me without the desire to write a single word. The blank page wasn't an enemy - I simply had nothing to say. This terrified me because writing has always been my fail-safe. When little else made sense, I had words and pens and empty lines on paper and they always helped. But, this year, it's been increasingly difficult for me to get what lies in my head and heart out... the disconnect was everywhere.

But I am determined to find my way back to the page, back to words. I know life runs in cycles and this cycle is a rough one. But although there has been little poetry and much drama, both comedic and tragic, I know that it has not all been bad. The tears and upheaval have been punctuated with bright stars, laughter, and glimpses of a blue horizon. There were many good days. I hold onto those minutes of happiness because I have to.

This morning, I felt alone. Tonight, I am surrounded by words and a couple of blank pages. It is a solitary comfort, but I'm grateful for it.

Along The Water's Edge

2011-06-26T22:58:00.000-04:00

I opened my eyes. The ocean stretched out in front of me for a thousand miles. My legs shifted. For days now, I'd been longing for this: an evening run on the beach. I took a deep breath and turned north.

The sun had already set. Twilight was creeping in over the tops of the hotels that lined the beach. With each step, I watched the sky slip through the various shades of blue.

I ran in the place where the ocean begins to recede from the sand, just where the last flash of the whites of the breakers disappear. Over the music playing in my headphones, I could still hear the dull crashing of the ocean. I ran along the edge, every so often changing my course to avoid getting caught up in the rising tide. I watched the ocean pull back, recede into itself and swell again.

There is something hypnotic about its constant nature.

As I ran, I noticed the remaining signs of life... beach-goers squeezing every last minute for all it was worth. A little girl played in the waves, squealing when the remnants of the breaking waves pushed into her. Another little girl, avoided the water all together and moved like a skittish pony when the water crept up towards her. I ran past a group of teenagers tossing frisbees with lights inside. The pirouetting of the flashes of light caught my eye. So much so I nearly ran into a man with a fishing pole.

My mind was slipping into an easier gear as my legs stretched and pushed against the wet sand. I can't explain how or why it happens like that... I just know it does and that's enough. The constant humming of my own brain drives me from one weird place to another. But then again, I guess maybe that's how it is for everyone - we all have to contend with what lies within our own skulls. And we all have to figure out the best ways to manage the noise, the buzz, the voices, those things inside of us that never go away.

A little farther up the beach, I saw a faint orange glow. There was a bonfire going and I could see people sitting around it, laughing and talking. The smell of the burning wood mixed with the salty air filled my nose and I couldn't help but smile.

I had no idea how far I had gone nor did I care. In moments like that, my autopilot serves me well. All I had to do was exist, breathe in and out, and keep moving. I ran along the dying breakers and I couldn't help but think about what that might mean. Why am I always searching for the edges of things? I am always so restless.

When I decided to turn around and head south, I was beginning to feel the run. The burning in my muscles, in my lungs. Sweat. I welcomed them. A smile widened across my face.

The ocean continued to crash down again and again. In the fading twilight, the place where the ocean met the sand and the sky was blending into one dark terminus, each one indistinguishable from the other. The horizon was a haze of navy hues and it went on forever.

I could see the bonfire again. That old familiar scent lingered in the late evening air and it made me happy.

Then, the hotels began to turn on their night flood lights and the beach was awash in a fluorescent glow. The foam of the breaking waves was brilliant white against the blackness of the ocean. I turned my gaze towards the hotels: as people returned to their rooms, there was a golden glow cast out of the windows. Strange patterns formed, like half-filled honeycombs. I shook my head... this is how my mind works.

I continued running, looking ahead for the hotel that marked my entry to the beach. I was getting close to it when a large wave crashed and soaked me from knees down. My shoes filled with sand and cool water. I laughed and slowed my pace. You can only run along the edge for so long...

You'd think I'd know better by now.

I finally came to a stop and dropped down into the sand. I pulled off my water-logged shoes and socks. I faced the Atlantic. My heart racing. Sweating. Breathing hard. I walked down into her breakers and I closed my eyes.

Status Un-Haitus

2011-03-06T16:24:00.000-05:00

The winter chill is breaking and I'm kicking out of my cocoon.

Over the holidays, I lost two dear friends: one moved away to Connecticut and the other passed along to other side of this world. The bitter cold and threats of snowstorms did little to ease my reclusive mood. I barely felt like writing. But here it is... March and I am rolling up my sleeves and digging into new projects.

To get out of this rut, I've been playing around with new mediums for storytelling and I'm really excited about a few prospects. I think, every now and again, I need to change up the routine. I forgot that writing was supposed to be fun, not just a means to an end. I am coming back to the table with refreshed eyes and a sly grin.

Look out.

Good-bye, Waycroft. (Part 2)

2010-09-07T23:14:00.000-04:00

I opened the back door and stepped into the living room. Our empty living room. The sofa, the Hoosier cabinet, the new rug... all gone. I lost my breath. I walked into the middle of the room and felt the tears coming. The house that had been my home for more than 30 years was now a shell. As I walked across the floor, I heard the echo of my footsteps.

I wandered into the kitchen. The cupboards that once held bags of flour and canned goods were vacant. Countertops that once collected items from everyday living were bare. I ran my hand along the fridge - also empty. My mind raced back to our elementary school days when report cards and spelling quizzes covered the refrigerator, top to bottom.

In the dining room: no table, no china cabinet, no dishes, no chairs. All of that was now perfectly situated in my mother's beautiful new house. After our parents separated, our mother began having Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners at her house. We invited anyone who might not have had a place to go and, as everyone passed the sweet potatoes and turkey and dressing, a new kind of family was emerging. Right there. In our dining room. Now, all that was there to remind me was the green tiffany lamp hanging in the center of the room... just like it always had.

I turned my eyes to the left and saw the vast space in front of the fire place. The old den looks huge now that the big leather sofa and flat screen television have found new residences. As my eyes followed along the blank walls, I remember every spot that we had put the Christmas tree. The far corner by the front door. Directly in front of the center windows. In the other corner, by the fireplace. My heart was breaking.

I ventured upstairs, blinking back tears and fighting against my knotted stomach. Luckily, the movers spared me the last insult as I found my old bedroom still in tact, although I know that is momentary. But I glanced across the hall. The only thing that remained in my mother's bedroom was the indentations on the carpet where her antique brass bed used to be. My sister, Kristen, and I used to lay on the bed and look at each other through the bed rails, pretending like we were locked up in a jail cell. As I stood looking at the empty floor, I remembered the many nights of nightmares and sickness that prompted me to stand in that exact same spot, whispering to my mother, "Are you sleeping?" (She never was, ironically.)

The house felt so quiet. But, a new family was just months away from moving in. A mother, a father, a little boy, and two young girls. Soon, the voices of children would fill these hallways and rooms. If there was ever anything to stave off my breaking heart, it was the knowledge that this house would be a home again. And soon.

I am old enough to understand that nothing lasts forever and I am old enough to be happy for my mother who is over the moon in her new house. I want her to be happy, more than anything else. Leaving Waycroft is simple and bittersweet. I will remember this place in my head and heart.

As I pulled the door closed behind me, a tear slid down my face and a smile emerged. After all, life just goes on.

Here's to the next chapter...

Good-bye, Waycroft. (Part 1)

2010-09-01T17:47:00.000-04:00

Saying good-bye is heartbreaking business.

---

Truthfully, my mother had awaited this day for years now, but the prospects of moving had only become a reality in the last few months. She had been handed an unexpected gift: her dream house (owned by a friend of hers) was suddenly available. Ma couldn’t believe her luck. The possibility of this new house brought out a light in her eyes that I hadn’t seen in entirely too long. Finally, her day had come. The Mayflower trucks were on Waycroft Drive, emptying the home we had shared as a family for more than 30 years.

Instead of heading to Waycroft, I went to work. I tried not to think about what was happening in the old neighborhood. Ma called me a few times at my office. I could hear the excitement in her voice, ringing behind every word.

“It’s almost 11 and they’ve already got everything on the trucks! Just a table or two is all that is left!”

I forced a smile. “Well, good. I’ll bring lunch to you guys at the new place in an hour or so.” Deep down, I knew what was coming and I knew I wasn’t prepared. This was new.

After lunch was over, my sister, the professional horticulturist who so kindly drove into town the night before, went back outside to work on the courtyard and pond. My mom and her friend, Ginger, continued to direct traffic around the new house. Brass bed? Oh, yes, in the spare bedroom to the right. The leather sofa? Sitting room in the front. Dining room table? Under this chandelier, please. My mother was absolutely glowing.

Then it happened.

In between the placement of a chair and a table, I caught her attention. “I’m going to head to my house. Get out of these heels and grab a change of clothes. I’ll be right back.”

Then my mother said, “Oh, could you stop by the old house and grab a few things for me?”

“Sure.”

And then she rattled off a list: the vacuum cleaner, a dust ruffle, the kitchen garbage can. “No problem, Ma.”

She squeezed my hand. I kissed her forehead and quickly left. On the drive to my house, I couldn’t get passed the knot in my stomach. I left home when I was 18 and headed off to college. I never really returned home after that save for summer breaks and a few months post-graduation. I’ve owned a little house on the outskirts of Salisbury for nearly seven years now. My sister, Kristen, moved to Philadelphia more than three years ago. And, since our parents divorced seven years ago, Ma has been the only one in that house. She’s been the last one standing on Waycroft Drive.

On the drive to my old house, I was on auto-pilot. Driving this route was second-nature; I must have done this a thousand times in the past seven years. Six turns. A couple of miles. My new house to my old house. Over the bypass. Next to the graveyard. Down a country road snaked between two large cornfields. Passed the golf course. Oh, yes, I could do this drive blindfolded. I pulled in the driveway. Still just going through the motions. I was surprised that I felt a bit numb walking up the porch steps.

All that changed with the turning of a key.

Into The Breakers

2010-08-08T22:37:00.000-04:00

I have long held the belief that salt water cures all.

Chicken pox? Take a dip in the ocean. Sinus trouble? Swim for a bit. Sore throat? Minor cuts and abrasions? The ocean will see you now. A broken heart or a worried soul? Well, yes, those too are cured with a few moments at sea.

. . .

We made our way over the dunes in the hot August sun. My sister and her friends were already there. Thomas and I plunged across the lava-like sand; sweat was already running down his face. He's a fair-skinned Irish boy and I'm a well-tanned Eastern Shore girl. In spite of his sensitivities, he loves the ocean almost as much I do. We found the girls and set up our makeshift camp: a rainbow umbrella, a chair, a towel, bottles of frozen water, and an ample supply of sunscreen.

My sister wanted to go swimming. The sun was beating down on us with the kind of intensity that threatens to destroy, not just burn. The thought of the coolness of the ocean on my skin ... we practically ran to the breakers. We had heard in the news that a tropical storm lingered off the coast of Bermuda, about 800 miles away. Even when storms are far out to sea, we can still feel and see its effects: this day was no difference. The current was stronger than usual and the waves were higher than normal.

As we swam out, I could see where the ocean was white-capping. Soon, I was diving under occasional three and four foot swells. We laughed and swam; we dove and did flips into the rolling ocean. The cool water ran over us and I could taste the sea water as it dripped down my face, through my hair. I watched my little sister, now a grown woman, grin ear to ear after surfacing from a plunge underwater. Thomas and I exchanged a few salty kisses that were more comical than romantic. There, in the sunshine, as I dove under a large wave, I felt free...

. . .

We retired from the ocean after a long swim. Thomas took up residence in the shade while I dropped my body onto a towel in the full glare of the summer sun. I dug my feet deep into the warm sand. I looked up at the Atlantic, and, just like clockwork, a thousand thoughts flooded my mind. This happens every time. Staring at that horizon makes my mind tumble and fall.

The past few days have been especially rough for me. I was looking to run away and so we did. We got as far as Ocean City and the Atlantic. For me, there has always been (and probably always will be) an irresistible draw to the ocean. She is wild and dangerous; she is beautiful and subtle. She reminds me that, although I am just a piece of a larger puzzle, I am lucky. After all, not everyone gets to bask in her glory and breaking waves whenever they want. I am beyond fortunate to live in such an amazing place.

My broken parts are on the mend, I feel certain. A few more trips and I may consider myself healed.

Fuel To Burn

2010-08-03T22:59:00.000-04:00

Ten years ago, my grandmother asked me if I had ever heard of the Pilchard murder. No, I said. She directed me to a marble top desk in her living room. In the second drawer from the bottom was a stack of old newspapers, yellowed and fragile. Within moments, I was devouring the chilling tale of the Pilchard murder... a series of events that read like a Hollywood movie only this was real. It was wrenching and sad, but interesting and complex as well. As I read the words from that awful winter of 1940, something in the very core of me felt electrified. There was this burning to write, a desire to narrate this story. The intensity of the fire stayed; the research and the emotions became fuel for me.

Recently, I stumbled upon another story that has reignited that old flame. In the winter of 1968, a prisoner shot and killed two men while making an escape from the Salisbury courthouse. While this is the sum of the story, it too has several layers of complexity. I awake each day eager to write this story, to find a new piece of the puzzle. While I don't really want to make a habit of writing murder mysteries, this particular story has reached me in a way that nothing else has in recent months.

So, here's to writing. Like this again.

And may all these poor souls find peace.

"Running On Faith"

2010-07-01T21:37:00.001-04:00

I don't know if I have any faith left in me.

This is a hard admission for a girl who was raised to believe in and respect something higher and greater. I spent my hours in a church pew, staring at a vaulted ceiling while the red velor cushions itched at the backs of my legs. I remember the lessons, well, some of them anyway. Be kind and loving. Be tolerant and respectful. Honor your parents. Don't hurt people. Don't judge. I've always understood that faith is a good thing.

But I have spent my first thirty years doing a lot of hard running and wistful thinking. Broken hearts and broken bones; my scars remind me of the narrow misses. I seem to be hard-wired for movement and most of the folks I know with any amount of faith seem better at sitting still. I don't know if I ever had it or if I just lost what little pieces I had along my way.

Am I running from faith or towards it? I simply do not know, but what I am certain about is that all of it will catch up with me sooner or later. I wonder when this body is going to give out. I wonder how long I can keep running while checking over my shoulder at every turn. Faith doesn't dwell in those kind of anxious moments, not for me anyway.

Sometimes, as I lay in bed at night, I pray. In the absolute darkness, I clasp my hands in front of my chest and whisper. I don't know who exactly is listening, but I hope that I'm heard. Maybe that is the first step of faith.

Me, Shiloh, and Neko Case

2010-06-15T22:39:00.000-04:00

A few evenings ago, I was driving down a back road in Wicomico County, headed home from my mother's house. It was approaching dusk. Shiloh, my basset hound/golden retriever, was riding shotgun; Neko Case was singing on the radio.

The corn was nearly thigh-high. I am always amazed at how fast it grows. In a few days, it'll be hip-high. The sun was setting on the edge of the field, slipping down behind a row of shadowed trees. I imagined crickets chirping. It was so peaceful... I wanted to pull over and just stay for a moment.

Shiloh rested his head on the open window sill, letting the air rush over his face, closing his eyes on ocassion. Sniffing constantly. I envy his serenity.

Neko Case was singing, "I'm a dying breed who believes... haunted by American dreams." Being haunted is a curse and a blessing. Or at least, this is what I've decided. Ghosts will stop you cold but then force you to run.

I leaned back in my seat. Felt the wind rush through the open windows. Listened. Thought. Over the past few weeks, my mind has been unsettled. I've been pulled tighter than a drum and the stress has been evident all over me. At the end of the day, I'm just looking for one simple thing: a little bit of peace. I try to put some ink on paper, hoping that my peace is in the lines and in the spaces between the letters. It helps, I won't lie, but once in a while, there's just not enough ink.

Shiloh turned away from the window and I rubbed his head. As I pulled to a stop at an intersection with another back country road, I heard the crickets and a frog. And there, in that little moment, I smiled.

Still

2010-05-14T22:13:00.000-04:00

I'm sitting on my back door step, writing this under a sky that threatens to storm. Occasional flashes and distant growls. The wind rushing through the leaves sounds like rain or like faded applause. My old yellow dog is uneasy and whining nervously. Across the open field behind my house, in the distance, I can hear the fire station horn blaring, cycling up and down the tones. My thoughts are swirling, but mostly, I keep coming back to one: try to be still.

An old friend once told me that I am always moving, pacing, doing, running. "You're never still, you know." She smiled at me when she said it so I couldn't take offense. But this struck me.

I asked her what she meant. She said that as long as she has known me (more than 25 years), she has never seen me stop. "You're always into something, moving towards a goal or something. You just go, go, go. And that's alright for the most part, but you know, at some point, you gotta relax. You gotta learn to breathe."

Stop. Listen. Breathe.

But the truth is... I don't know how to stop moving. I've heard that sharks must move or die - they need that continual motion in order to keep water flowing over their gills, in order to breathe. Maybe I am built like that. Maybe this never-stopping is how I keep breathing.

"Don't you ever get tired?" she asked.

I thought about it. Sleep is a relative stranger to me. When I was young, I used to try to keep awake as long as I could because I was plagued with night terrors and nightmares. That part never really changed. These days, I sleep, but just enough. I grow tired just like anyone else, but the fatigue gets shoved aside because I can't stand its slowing effect.

The sky is rumbling again, but the wind has stopped. An insect is chirping in the field. I've been sitting here for more than twenty minutes. My mind is a mangle of thoughts that I can't get straight. And that old feeling is rising up inside me again...

I'm leaving.

Letters from Curacao

2010-02-17T19:05:00.001-05:00

Night has fallen in the Caribbean. I am exhausted but entirely happy. The warm breezes remind me of just how far away from home I am. This morning, we left Baltimore under a deep blanket of snow and an uncomfortable cold. Tonight, I sit mere feet away from a softly lolling Caribbean Sea.

The tree frogs have started an evening chorus, small pleasulant chirps not quite in unison. Palm trees sway, creating a rustling backdrop for the frogs. All I can do is listen.

It has been a long day of traveling. My eyes are growing heavy. I am already dreaming of blue water.

Android Test

2010-02-14T23:18:00.001-05:00

Testing Blogger app for my Android...

Location : 1903-1969 Autumn Grove Ct, Salisbury, MD 21804,

Running in the Rain

2010-01-17T18:02:00.000-05:00

I feel certain that the neighbors think I've lost my mind. Secretly, I fear they may be right.

I awoke this morning to the sound of the rain, lightly tapping on the roof and window, sliding down and dripping into pools below my bedroom window. The morning carried that bluish-haze of not-yet-morning; I just listened.

Shiloh, our bassett hound/golden retriever, was whining. He is, as we say, "weather sensitive" and this morning meant two different things for us. For him, it was a terrible punishment; for me, it was a sweet punishment. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and Shiloh looked at me with those sad, big brown eyes. "It's ok, boy, it's just the rain." I rubbed his head and he whined again. He is not easily pacified.

I grabbed my running gear, iPod, and headphones. This was the first test for my waterproof jacket. I was counting on it to save my beloved iPod. On second thought, I grabbed a set of dry clothes... yes, I was certain I'd need them. Shiloh followed me to the door, tail tucked between his legs. "Come on, Shi. It's ok. Really. Just rain." I smiled at him, but he was inconsolable.

The drive to the old neighborhood took a few minutes. The rain was coming down pretty steady; the temperature gauge said it was 45 degrees outside. Cold. Wet. Run. It started to sound like a bad plan, but I tend to follow the worst of my ideas. I turned up the radio to drown out the wipers and it was an old country and western song. It was awful and it made me smile. Soon, I was pulling into my favorite running haunt: the old neighborhood.

This is the part where I began to question my sanity.

I stepped onto the road. The rain was coming down, not in sheets but not lightly either. Just sweet and steady. Music filled my ears; water was seeping through my running tights. Stretch. Stretch. Deep breath and the cold filled my lungs. Was I drowning? I exhaled and an evil smirk stretched across my face.

Run.

The first thing I lost was my hood. It flipped back and exposed my dry head. I tried to pull it on again but it just kept slipping off. Forget it. Without any cover for my poor head, I knew I'd have to cut this one short. Damn it. Well, I decided, if it will be short, then it will be fast.

I lowered my head and pushed my legs faster. Rain drops were collecting in my hair, slipping down my neck, and sliding down my back. The chill on my spine was unnerving and satisfying. I kept moving, stretching my stride and splashing in puddles. I could feel the water beginning to bleed into my shoes. Rain trickled into my eyes. I ran faster.

The second thing I lost was my mind. As I rounded the corner in the back of the neighborhood, I realized that this was absolutely crazy. What am I doing? Wait, I know what... but why? Why do I do things like this? Then I remembered and that evil smile stretched back across my face.

"Come on, girl. You can finish this." My lungs were burning and I was soaking wet, rain dripping from my hair and my chin. And I was freezing. The folks who lived next door to my mother drove past me in a pick-up truck. I couldn't even lift my eyes to see them. I am insane. And they probably think so too.

God help me.

I finished my run. My body was cold and numb - fingers, toes, thighs, forehead. But I felt alive. I walked a few paces, spitting and stretching. It was a bad idea, running in the rain. I knew it before I did it, but I couldn't help myself. This is how I'm built: crazy ideas with forceful and relentless follow-through. Once I was full of self-destruction; now I temper myself with days like this.

A raindrop fell from my hair onto my cheek and slid down to my chin. That was enough.

Hello New Year

2010-01-06T22:24:00.000-05:00

The new year came in and I barely noticed. We were laughing, drinking, dancing... the room was spinning so fast. The music was loud and I felt each note in my bones. Surrounded by friends, cameras flashing, catching us in wild poses and making strange faces, smiling with ear to ear grins, we could not stop laughing. Someone dropped a wine glass. We kept dancing. My focus was slow and uncertain. I heard my name and answered with a glass raised in the air. Everything was out of control and I was at ease.

At the countdown, I was in my Thomas's arms, smiling up into his sweet face. Nothing else mattered. I kissed my husband and hugged my friends. More loud music. Another round of drinks. Camera flashes. Laughter. A deliciously spinning room. I know how to navigate my way through this sort of madness.

Flashes of images and disjointed phrases comprise the remainder of my memory for the night. The sun came up before I went down for the count.

In the haze of the next morning, I only had one resolution. Find my camera.

Old Eyes

2009-10-10T23:50:00.000-04:00

The photograph fell out of the book and slowly drifted to my feet. I picked it up, curious, and flipped it over. Recognition gripped me: I knew her long ago, in a time so far away. I stood rooted to the floor but my heart begged me to look away.

"Put it down. Put it away. Forget about it." My heart pleaded.

"I can't help it." I said.

Those eyes. Her eyes. That sweet face pulled me backwards through time into decades long forgotten. She was the picture of innocence. She still is.

My heart spoke again, "I can't take this, please, I'm begging you. Stop looking at it."

I flipped the picture over. Someone wrote 1988 on the back in blue ink. Kodak paper. My heart slowed its tremors but my stomach was churning. I almost hadn't notice that my fingers were pale and a bit unsteady. I wandered the house for a moment, book in one hand, her photograph in the other.

The book was Mark Twain's "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer" and the photograph was a girl that I once knew. I finally found myself outside, sitting on the back porch. The sun was setting behind the cornfield, casting a golden glow over the impending twilight. A cool breeze drifted over me. I felt feverish.

There are things in this life that are hard to admit and there are some that you simply cannot admit. I am struggling for words. The book slips to the floor. The photograph is curled in my hand. My heart begs me to leave it alone, but I am a fool, a glutton for selfish punishments.

I look out over the golden twilight. It is a gift to be alive, to see such things as this set against a backdrop of crickets and emerging stars. I have come so far... only because I... This is what drives my guilt: with every glance at that photograph, I see someone who got hurt, someone who never deserved a thing that was pushed on her, someone who was changed forever. I see a girl I left behind.

How do I make amends for that? Tell me now, heart of mine. What am I supposed to do for her now? You beg me not to look at her face, her eyes... but doesn't she at least deserve the acknowledgement? Tell me now. All the days and years that have grown between then and now... my eyes are older and sharper. My stomach drops at the sight of her. It tears me up inside. What am I supposed to do?

I opened my hand. The photograph remained curled. Somewhere in the distance, I heard an owl. I closed my eyes.

"I'm so sorry."

Tonight

2009-09-01T23:05:00.000-04:00

I cannot close my eyes. I never rest when you are far away. What would you have me do?

Mornings find me weary. I struggle to keep the fear inside my skin. That it might show terrifies me more, but these days, I am fighting something all the time. You said it would be fine. I wanted to believe you.

I tried. But I remember that night. When it all changed. The night I changed.

There are broken pieces, love, and they are scattered about us. Pieces of you and me and our life. How do you reconcile innocence and poison? It seeped in like rainwater, like pride. We can run or we can stand against it. You know I'd follow you into hell.

What would you have me do now?

Tempest

2009-07-16T21:36:00.001-04:00

It is always the same dream.

The storm is approaching. I know the tornadoes are spiraling down. Or, I can see the tidal wave headed for shore. Maybe a hurricane looms on the horizon. Either way, I am caught in a tempest with no sign of escape.

I watch the sky grow dark and pregnant with fury. Someone I love is nearby but doesn't understand the storm is coming, that it is going to be devastating. I begin a maddening dash to warn them, to save them. Sometimes, I find them and they won't take me seriously. I beg and plead for them to come with me. Sometimes, I find them but we can't get far enough away. We race upstairs to avoid the water coming in through the doorways or we jump in a car and try to out run the funnel clouds touching down all around us. Sometimes, I just search until the sky rips open. But I always wake up just before I know it's too late.

In waking hours, storms give me peace. In sleep, they are monsters.

I remember in one these dreams, I was at the beach. Surfing. Sea glass hunting. I noticed that the waves were getting higher, crashing with more ferocity and foam. I backed out of the water and saw the sky turning purple. The color of a traumatic bruise. I looked around but all the other beachgoers were happy and clueless. Lightening struck. Thunder rolled. Waves crashed. Still, no one noticed. I ran for the boardwalk to warn my mother and sister. As I ran off the beach, my legs felt heavy and each glance over my shoulder made me panic. The sky was alive with destruction.

I often wonder if it means anything at all. A long time ago, someone gave me a book about the interpretations of dreams and imagery. I read that dreamers of tempests will be beset with calamitous trouble and friends will treat them with indifference. I'd rather face down a real tornado.

Letters from 1938

2009-07-13T22:51:00.000-04:00

I just read through a stack of old love letters that my grandfather sent to my grandmother when he was stationed at Fort Monroe, Virginia. The letters start in October 1937 after a vacation they spent together. I assume it was the beginning of their courtship. (I'll have to verify this with my mother.)

The letters have yellowed with time; the edges of the envelopes are fragile. Three one-cent stamps adorn the tops. In the middle, my grandfather's neat handwriting addresses the letters to "Miss Mae Chapman Greenbackville, Va" and there is only one interruption: an old postmark stamp. I handle them with care. These are a part of my history.

I read the letters in which my grandfather announces that he wants to marry her, that he is in love with her, and that he's just sick over it. In one letter, he says he was nearly heartbroken when he discovered she had taken another date with a young man. He said he feared the new man might be a better man than him and he hoped that she wouldn't fall in love with him.

I never really knew my grandfather. He had a massive stroke when I was about 3 years old and he never really spoke much after that. I have always wondered what I missed, what experiences we could have shared, what I might have learned. He passed away a few days after I turned 16. Our story ended there.

Until tonight. Luckily for me, there are many letters left to read.

2009-06-17T22:48:00.000-04:00

I know that no one is reading this. Tonight, it's better that way.

Over the past few months, I have struggled to find a balance in time and creativity. I long for more time to write, but the course of life pulls me in so many other directions. Most days, I lay my head on the pillow and I haven't written a thing. This begs the question: who is a writer that does not write? I am scared of that answer.

But here I am tonight, writing something... something that no one will read or critique. Something that will be forgotten as soon as I press a button. But it is more than I have done in days, weeks. Honesty is bitter pill.

Tonight, I write because I am overwhelmed and putting words down has always saved me. Mostly, from myself.

PAC 14

2009-04-06T19:36:00.000-04:00

On Thursday, April 9, I will be recording a segment for PAC 14 television. As I understand it, Phil Tilghman will be interviewing me about Crossings, the Sophie Kerr prize, and Washington College. (Phil is a fellow WC alum!)

Something Old

2009-04-05T21:54:00.000-04:00

Searching through an old trunk, I found this. It's an Endgame essay that I wrote in December 2000 for The Collegian - a monthly magazine at Washington College. I was 21 when I wrote this to a friend of mine who was the editor of The Collegian. We had been using the Endgame essay at the back of the magazine to banter about life and youthful philosophies.

___

I am no longer reproachful of the days I spent lost or too hopeful for my own good and I refuse to apologize for the moments when I triumphed and the seconds I spent trembling in naivete. I made my choices and they led me to this place - the end. But we've all wandered our own broken and homeless roads and found our own conclusions: these are my conclusions, dear friend, these are mine.

You said I know I am brave because I've gone bungie-jumping and you said I know I am lovely because someone once told me so. These must be easy assumptions for someone who writes to tell the world his biggest fear is chocolate chip cookies and that his life is centered on what he cannot figure out; mostly himself. But what you fail to recognize about me are the shades of gray that lie between your simple white and black mathematics.

Standing in the middle of the sky with a rope to my back, I was far from brave - pins and needles ravaged my scalp and neck. There was a brief moment of hesitation and then weightlessness. Falling back to earth was falling into an understanding with a more experienced version of myself. I wanted to jump because I could not imagine the fall; I jumped because I could never describe the landscape with the horizon at my feet. Bravery is not living life without fear, but living life to challenge those fears which we dare not rouse.

I think you are wrong, however, loveliness is not in my gray eyes, nor is it in my cheeks that flush when I cannot do the math in marketing class. I have my own imperfections that peek though my skin in the form of scars, freckles, and sometimes wart. But these are my eyes, my scars, and my distinctions to marvel at and love. (I remember the first time someone told me I was pretty - I threw a rock at his forehead and was sent to the principal's office. Young girls are taught to be beautiful but not to admit it out loud.)

But in the end, I am proud of us. You tell all your fears and I, in turn, announce my shortcomings. Sharing secrets with the world is a precarious undertaking. No one wants to go back to 5th grade gym class and be laughed at because you stole the ball from your opponent only to run the wrong way down the field. Being picked last for the game is the same as being disregarded in the public eye. Biting our lips, we retire to the comfort of our pens and the twilight.

As writers, we take this risk with every word we write, every story, poem, and essay we create and publish for a stranger's eyes. You and I are brave because we understand the risk and take it anyway. This is strikingly similar to bungie-jumping: we tie our words to our fleshy spines and dangle over the edge for a moment and free fall into ourselves. Writers are not brave because we write without fear. Writers are brave because we expose our soft underbellies to the harsh scrutiny of critics who may laugh at us once we get down the field.

So, my friend, if you are nervous about your future, let it go. If you are anxious because you don't know who will greet your worst times with a reassuring smile, let it go. If you are confused about how your happy ending will be scripted, let it go.

Can you hear me? I said let it go because we are brave and we are five words beyond lovely. Strict mathematics of white and black are for elementary school politics; now, we face those shades of gray where it is up to us as individuals to decide where we fit, what we believe, and who we want to be.

My shades of gray: I have fears and I am imperfect. I am in love with my childhood sweetheart and I am searching for a career that doesn't involve too many numbers for me to blush over. But I've never been so happy and so unaware of what lies ahead and therein lies the loveliness of my life.

I will tell you: there is no reason to be afraid of the things you cannot see in your future. Were you ever afraid of Christmas presents wrapped in solid red and green paper or the friends you would meet down your forking road? But you will say you are afraid of your parents passing or your unexpected failures and your unforeseen ulcer. Then I will tell you this: there is no reason to be afraid of life on a forking road because at the very least, you're still walking. The journey is the happy ending.

2009-03-14T12:27:00.002-04:00

I will be using this site to publish information on book events and signings. I'm also working on my second book so I'll post updates on that as well. Hopefully, I will have a good update very soon!

New Around Here...

2009-01-13T17:41:00.003-05:00

This is my first post on Blogger.