A Place Called Home

Yesterday I went to see how the new house is coming along. My parents' new house that is. I mean, the mortgage will be in my name and I have to sign all the papers. But for all intents and purposes it's Mom & Dad's. I went to their house yesterday at the tail end of the garage sale they were having. So much stuff to get rid of. Stuff I didn't even remember they had. Some stuff I don't think I've ever seen. And some of my stuff. Still! I thought I'd got it all. But no. My old desk was in the garage sale. I've had that desk since High School. And up until I moved a few months ago, I was still using it. I suggested to Mom that if she couldn't sell it, I could find a place for it in my little house here. Then someone called her back saying they wanted it. I felt a little pang.

So last night I headed home; I'd been watching the World Series before I left. Albert Pujols had just hit his first home run of the series. By the time I got here though, Albert had hit two more! A dizzying display of power, fit for the record books.

Speaking of books, the shelves I put up in the spare bedroom fell down on Friday with a loud crash. I was downstairs and when I heard it, the first thing I thought was "Oh God, not the computer!" I don't know why, the computer is on a perfectly stable desk. But it was the shelves where I'd put my baseball card albums and books and memorabilia items. And my sheet music books. All of it fell on my bass amp, bringing with it little bits of dry wall. I guess the anchors I put in the wall weren't strong enough. The only casualty seemed to be the big Dalek. His eye stalk broke off. Everything else was fine. I've decided to be safe; I won't put up another wall shelf there. I'll get another bookcase instead. I spent part of the afternoon patching up the holes with spackle.

Little by little this place is coming together. Last weekend, I pruned the rose bushes out front. I used this pair of heavy-duty utility scissors since I have no gardening implements. It worked pretty well. But boy those flowers sure are serious about the whole thorny thing. Next time I'll have to find some gloves. I was gonna ask Dad if I could borrow his pruning shears this weekend to tackle that tree in front of the kitchen window. Just to trim it so you can actually pass by on the sidewalk without getting smacked in the face. But when I took a look out there Friday, it had been trimmed already. I guess the landlord has someone come round every now and then.

I also put up a new lighting fixture in the kitchen. Since the cover on the old one broke, I'd been living with the bare florescent bulbs. I got a fixture the same size that fit in the same place, but I started installing it before I realized I'd have to cut the power to the house, and work using only the daylight from the windows. Yeah, that didn't go so well. I took too long, it got dark, and I was standing on a ladder holding this fixture up over my head with a flashlight clenched between my chest and my chin. Then I dropped the flashlight.

I managed to get it fastened enough so that I could let it go. And soon after, the lights were back on. I felt pretty handy. Except for the whole getting hit in the face with the wire leads. They actually drew blood. Not enough though that I had to hide from my parents until it healed, rather than explaining what boneheaded accident I'd had this time. I wore long pants so they wouldn't see the very pronounced burn mark from Rory's tailpipe. Though I proudly showed it off to my Club mates at the Motortober event. My own little MINI branding. And I got a free oil change and lunch to boot.

So a little bit of damage done, but some reward too for good intentions. And as much as I can manage, I feel at home.

Ghost of a Dog

She's only been gone a week, but Dad says both he and Mom have had dreams about her. And then there is the jarring realization of her not being there when you come home. And in the middle of the night, you wake up in anticipation of her wanting to go out. And when you get out of bed, you check to make sure you don't step on her. And her hair is still everywhere.

How come it still makes me cry when I think about her? The way she snored softly when they gave her the sedative. And how her little tongue stuck out. The tongue she'd used so often to lick my feet. I'm her second favorite, I always liked to say.

Miracle had her quirks. She barked and barked for seemingly no reason. Hence the nickname, Miss Barky Bark. She could be sitting next to you on the couch for hours, and then if you got up and came back she would growl at you like she'd never seen you before. She was funny like that.

And at one time or another, she bit each one of us, leaving little scars on hands and legs. No one could understand how we still kept her around after that. But we knew it was just because she got spooked and we'd try to be more careful.

She had many other nicknames too. Mirala, Boo Boo, Grumpus von Puppybottom, Monkey butt, Fluffa, Woofie, Wooba and Woobie. We were always coming up with new ones. It was almost like we loved her so much one name wasn't enough. Though she came with one that was already tough to live up to. She was rescued by firemen days after she was born when she and her brothers and sisters had been left out on a freezing cold New York sidewalk in January. The puppies piled on top of each other to keep warm and those unlucky enough to be on top died. She was saved by being on the bottom of the pile. So the firemen that found her, took her to the pound and called her Miracle.

She was a beauty, everyone who saw her said. Big and fluffy like a lion (Puffy Lion Dog), the black tongue, stout frame and temper of a Chow Chow, the floppy ears and long nose and big paws of a Golden Retriever. She was our Golden Chow. Out in public we had to warn people, she wasn't great with strangers. But when you got to know her she was really sweet. She was chicken when it was storming out, or if fireworks were being launched, or even if it was just windy. But she protected Dad, and her turf 'til the end. By then so much of her hair had fallen out, she couldn't get up the stairs like she used to, and her allergies were unrelenting. But we couldn't bear to part with her any sooner than absolutely necessary. It was the hardest thing trying to decide when her quality of life was at its low point and it was time. She still looked at you with those brown eyes (one of them as ever overcome by eye gook) and her tail still wagged.

But she went peacefully to sleep and now she's in doggie heaven, running and barking and licking. And maybe she'll even run into my little Tiffer up there. Wouldn't they make a pair!

Sunrise

Of course I remember where I was. Don't we all? It was a Tuesday. I was in my apartment in Provo, UT getting ready to go teach my freshman English students at BYU. I didn't often turn the TV on in the morning, but I did for some reason that day. The plane had already hit the first tower. It was just after 7:00 a.m. MST (9:00 a.m. in New York). It was one of those morning shows and at first I wasn't sure if they were showing a clip from a new movie or if this was really happening. Or if it might be a terrible accident. While I was watching, the second plane hit. There was no denying now that this was real and intentional. I sat down. In shock. What was I doing? What should I be doing? All I could do, was watch my hometown under attack. And then there was the Pentagon. And the plane that went down in Pennsylvania.

Memories are fuzzy at this point. I know I got to school for my 8:00 class. But neither me nor my students knew what to do. Should we have a lesson? Go home? The class next door had a TV so we peeked in at the news as the other class was watching transfixed. There wasn't enough room for all of us to join the other class. So we went back to our room. Did we attempt a lesson? I honestly can't recall. I'm pretty sure I let the students go early so they could get to a TV or otherwise follow events. I went next to where my creative writing class met, and our professor gathered us together and took us upstairs to the English Dept. lounge. We were watching in there when I saw the tower collapse. I think it had already happened at that point, but we were seeing it replayed as the footage would be for days and weeks to come. The president of the university cancelled classes for the rest of the day, and there was a prayer session in the Marriott Center for all the students. Speakers came up to lead us in prayer, praying for the victims as well as asking the Lord to give us strength to weather this ordeal. I think it lasted about an hour, by the time we all filed in and then out.

When I got home I called my dad. My parents had moved to Vegas by then, so he no longer worked at JFK. But I thought he might hear something, anything at the airport that would shed some light on things. Air travel would be suspended. Schools closed. Baseball games canceled. It was all news all the time on TV.

Besides my friends and ward members in Provo, I sought out my friends online. Jules was in New York, I think it was a while before we heard from her. The rest of us met on the message boards and in the chat room. I remember writing to Skip seeking some kind of comfort. We were just in the beginning of our correspondence then. But Skip's wisdom and compassion were something for me to hold on to. And I began to pour my feelings out to him. He became sort of a lifeline. I waited for his messages each day. And I continued to rely on him as my primary sounding board. It helped that he, and Jazzie and our other friends in the U.K. and Europe could see what was going on in America and expressed their horror and sympathy and also their calmness in some respects as places like London were no stranger to terrorist attacks, and they were there to say, it's bad now, but it'll get better.

Later, bomb attacks in Madrid in 2004 and in London on 7 July of 2005, and many others, showed that the danger was everywhere. Before 9/11, we hadn't seen anything like this in the U.S. But now we were aware, as our friends in other parts of the world always have been, that this could happen again, anywhere, at any time, to anyone. Security measures changed at airports and other places too. What would have been considered great inconvenience before was now a fact of life. We could never go back to the time when we always felt safe.

Yet, life had to go on. It was early December of 2001 when I first got back to New York. I went to my friend Alina's wedding, and a Starsailor concert with Jules. New York had gotten back to business. But it was still in the air, debris blowing all over the city from the big hole in the ground. Or just the psychic debris. I never went to Ground Zero. I still haven't to this day even though I've been back to New York a few times since. I went instead to stay with my friend Hina and her family. I went instead to Citi Field to see my Mets play. I went instead on a Duck Boat tour of Manhattan. And I went instead to my 20-year high school reunion.

In February of 2002, Salt Lake City welcomed the world for the Olympic Winter Games. There was more security, sure. But we got on with it, and enjoyed the achievements of athletes from countries near and far. That summer I took my first trip overseas since 9/11, to teach in Belgium and to travel around Europe and the U.K. I met more friends, and went to concerts and taught kids and just had a great time. I went back to London in 2007 with my parents and had a great time then too.

In the years since 9/11 I've finished school and taught more students. I've had relationships and changed jobs and moved house a few times. I've had worries and felt anger and seen more sadness, but some happiness too. Ten years on, everyday the sun still comes up.

Space Dementia

Having my own space again...it's great, it really is. But it's weird, it's so quiet. No Miracle to wake me up. No Mom and Dad calling me down to dinner. It's strange how you get used to things. I am still glad I moved out, the commute is so much easier, but it seems like suddenly things started changing at light speed.

Grandma passed away on 7/11. It happened fast. The Tuesday after I came back from New York, she was walking around like normal. Complaining, arguing, making no sense, being her usual self. But she insisted Mom take her to the hospital. After a whole day of tests, she was admitted. She argued, she said, let's make an appointment and come back tomorrow. But no, the doctor said she wasn't going anywhere. We knew she was in Stage 4 of her breast cancer. But no one could tell us what would happen next, or how long it would take. We hurried to try and get her affairs in order. I bought a living will kit, but we never had time to use it. Wednesday night the hospital released her and sent her to a hospice. Mom rode with her in the medical transport. I followed in my car. It was a nice place, she had a big private room. Upon arrival, she was already giving the nurses her demented version of her treatment. She wanted antibiotics, but didn't get them. Or she got them, but they were the wrong ones. Or the doctor tried telling her what her problem was, when she knew it was something else. Just an infection. He was overreacting. She wasn't in her right mind. I felt like apologizing to the nursing staff. She does that, babbles on about stuff that's not true, etc. But it was unnecessary. They knew exactly what was going on. They see it every day.

I took Mom home. It was late by then, so I got to bed. Went to work the next day. When I got home, Mom and Dad said the doctor at the hospice saw her, and finally gave a prognosis. It would be four weeks at most, he said. She could only stay in the hospice for the first 5 days. That's all Medicare would pay for. Mom fretted about what to do next. Where would she go after Tuesday? Would she come home? Go to another home?

The next day was my moving day. I went about it as planned. Dad and I did the heavy lifting until Annette could come with Ryan and Kira. After loading up from the storage and the house, we were on our way. We got to my new place and the five of us made quick work of unloading. I just had them leave everything, with the exception of the more valuable items, in the garage. I could organize and move stuff around later. We headed back home, returned the truck and called it a day. I slept in George's old room, and Saturday got up early to get started on Day 2. I picked up the truck and met George and Heather at their storage. We loaded up the furniture. George and I headed for my place and I had him text/call Nancy and Pedro to see if they could help unload. Me and George actually got most everything off and into the house before anyone else got there. We had to take the couch around through the front door.

Nancy arrived, and then John (Pedro had his violin lesson). They were super helpful in getting stuff upstairs, especially the mattress and box spring. Slowly we took other furniture up, taking dressers and tables without the drawers. We got the dining table put back together. Then we sat down to have some cold drinks and chat. George talked to John about his police work, since John has cops in his family. Then we headed back with the truck. We got caught in a downpour on the freeway and ended up being a bit late returning the truck which annoyed the lady at the storage. But oh well, we were done now. George and I got something to eat and then headed back to Mom & Dad's. I picked up a few more things, including my bed linens, stuffed them in the car and then went off to spend my first night in the new place. Sunday I got up early and cleared out the rest of the storage unit. I didn't look like much was left, but after getting it into the car, we were fully loaded. After unloading and hauling more stuff in from the garage, and starting to unpack the kitchen, Mom called and said she and Dad were on their way. They stopped by for a half hour and then they were off to get back to grandma. I followed a little while later.

When I got to the hospice, Heather and George were there, and we sat there watching Grandma sleep, and sneaking glances at the TV where the Mets were on ESPN. Dad noted she had really gone downhill and it probably wouldn't be much longer.

Monday I meant to go to work, but I was exhausted from the weekend. I called in to let Theresa know, and that things didn't look great with Grandma. Also, I had to wait for the plumber. The toilet had overflowed Sunday night and flooded my bathroom. I had to use every towel I had to soak it up and keep it from seeping into the carpet of my room and the closet. The plumber came quickly though and took care of it. So I used the rest of the day to get some things organized, bring more stuff in, etc. Around 5:30, George called me to tell me Grandma had passed. It happened after Mom had spent the night, and stayed at her side, but had momentarily stepped out of the room. She felt terrible that she wasn't there at the last moment. But Grandma was never alone. Not like when Grandpa died. When I arrived, I told her I was sorry, but that she did everything she could do. Mom, Dad, Heather, George and I sat in the room for a while, waiting for the mortuary guy to come. We each said our goodbyes. Then we headed home.

We ordered a pizza and then George and Heather went home. I slept upstairs with Mom. I had a fitful night and woke up with a weird numbness in my hands. I hadn't been prepared to stay over. I didn't have my meds and I slept in a dress that was still in my closet. After getting up, and watching TV for a while after breakfast, I was still sleepy. Mom and Dad had to go meet the mortuary guy again to make arrangements, but they told me to go back to bed since I was still tired. I think I slept until 2 p.m.

After dinner, I headed back to my place. I needed my meds to sleep and a change of clothes. I took off Wednesday too, but Mom ended up not needing me for anything. I went back to work Thursday.

I'm still slowly unpacking and getting things set up. In the meantime, Mom & Dad are selling the house. They wasted no time, once me and Grandma were gone. They have a realtor and people have already come to look at it. They want to build a new house a few exits away, all on one floor, which is what they've been wanting for a while now.

Next, Miracle will be gone. Dad says he's not ready to lose her yet. And frankly, neither am I. She does have a bunch of health problems. But like Grandma, she's still walking around the house, living like normal. Slower, but just as barky. Whenever I stop by the house, I'm relieved to see she's still there. But sometime soon, she won't be.

And I'll be back at my place. Surrounded by the quietness of space.

The Letter

I haven't really written much of late, but I thought I'd post a rambling letter that I sent to our lovely friend Jake Slichter a few weeks ago. I won't post his response which was characteristically charming and kind. And, despite what follows, he still claims it's nice to hear from me...

Hey Jake,

Silly question, but do you happen to know Jennifer Egan? (Growing up on Long Island I had this fantasy that all writers in Brooklyn knew each other.) I just finished reading "A Visit from the Goon Squad," and saw she mentioned Semisonic and thanked you for your book. And I thought, hey, I thanked Jake in my book too (well, my Master's Thesis). I finished the book on the bus home from work yesterday, a bus that brings me from Nevada Test Site back into Las Vegas where I live now. I work for a government contractor as a technical writer out there. Commuting 4 hours a day, and working 10. I'm just glad to have a decent job. Still, it's a long way from teaching English Composition at BYU. Back then, idealist that I was, teaching your road diaries to my students as personal narrative examples, especially the one about Vegas, it seemed highly unlikely that I'd end up here.

The memories came rushing back of that time, now 10 years ago, the Semisonic bbs, and meeting the gang at the All about Chemistry gigs. And September 11th. That morning I was getting ready to go teach my class, and then everything changed. As I was thinking about this, my bus pulled into the Department of Energy complex and the Security officer was coming down the aisle, checking our badges. He bent down because he dropped one of his ammo magazines, which made me laugh for some reason.

I got in my car and drove home on I-15, passing the Las Vegas Strip where a building-sized banner advertised "The Beatles Love by Cirque du Soleil, Now in it's 5th year!" And it struck me, God how long have I been here?! How did all this time go by? Which of course is what Goon Squad is about. I thought about how no one even writes emails anymore; those are the old days now! Since everything happens in 140 character bursts and Facebook updates. Well, you know, we're all still in touch, but not reaaaally...

It makes books an even greater miracle, just the fact that anyone still has that kind of attention span. I can't manage to write anything more complex than a sporadic blog entry. Everyone has a blog. Everyone's a writer. So to make something stand out from all the noise, that's a lot of pressure. And it's doing my head in. Being a tech writer makes me a WINO (writer in name only). I keep telling myelf that it's because I don't travel much these days, not much adventure to draw from. But that's not it. I wish it was.

So now bin Laden is finally gone. I was watching the Mets v. Phillies game when the announcers broke in with the news, and it spread through the crowd, along with the chanting of USA...USA. The Mets and Phils went into extra innings, and I switched back and forth from ESPN to the President's speech. I pulled for my Mets to win it. Strike a blow for New York, I thought, then just as quickly I remembered the plane that went down in Shanksville. And the fans kept chanting...and I thought wow, something Mets fans and Phillies fans can actually agree on.

Monday, I got back to my office, filled with government workers, all abuzz with the big news, but they're making me sad, my colleagues, with their snide comments about the Pakistanis and Muslims in general; they still don't get it. One particularly ignorant woman actually said the Navy Seals should be let loose on the Mexicans trying to cross the border. She says stuff like that all the time.

I looked at the photo on my desk, me at a Mets game with my best friend's kids, a Pakistani-American family, the kindest most generous people I know. Hina, who is my best friend from high school in New York, she told me that on September 11th, she couldn't get to the kids' school to pick them up because of the chaos, and that she was frantic because there was already speculation about who was behind the attacks. I don't remember the anti-Muslim sentiment erupting so immediately. But the kids go to a Muslim school across the bridge in N.J. and it wasn't the first time they'd met with the ignorance. And it certainly won't be the last.

Back on the bus, a few tears rolling down my cheek, I wondered, would things ever change? Would people ever learn? And meanwhile, would I ever make something of myself? Is there still time? Time really is a Goon.

Still, every once in a while, I wake up excited, because I've dreamt that I finally caught a glimpse of that mysterious Maskipper, though he's always gone just before I can reach him. And by the time I'm fully awake, he's slipped completely away.

So Jake, why am I sending this random and disjointed missive your way? I guess because of all the connections that are coming up lately. And because I knew you'd get it. And because you have helped to bring about some of those great magic times. And because you're still one of the coolest guys I know. I hope this finds you well.

Cheers,

Jennifer :)

Bicycle Race

I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike...I want to ride my bicycle I want to ride it where I like....and not fall over.

Girls & Boys

I'm beginning to think that Jemma may need her own blog. Not only has she accepted a marriage proposal from Mo, with the prospect of a full blown Second Life wedding, she has somehow also obtained a girlfriend, Megan. This is all with Mo's blessing, and participation! He actually found Megan, a noob on her first day of SL, wandering on a beach, perhaps on Orientation Island; he didn't say.

This whole thing makes me think Skip may have been the wisest of all, keeping his identity hidden all these years. Well we always knew he was wise, and I have requested his Maskipperly advice more than once. But it goes back to the age old question (well, as age old as the interwebs), "Who are you talking to online? Is it a real person, or someone playing a role, pretending to be someone else?" Or maybe it's that person feeling free to finally be themselves, without the limitations of snap judgments, or a physical body.

Tom Boellersdorf's ethnography of SL discussed the population of residents who have physical handicaps in real life, and yet are free to walk and run and fly like any other SL resident. Does that make their SL identity false, or deceptive? Not at all. Some of these residents choose to have their avatars use wheelchairs or other aids, even though they don't have to. Does this make them more authentic? Perhaps they just remain as they are already comfortable with themselves. Similarly, I've created Jemma in my own image, as a short, full-figured woman. Does that mean it's me doing everything she does, or is she just my agent, able to safely try things out that I would never really do? Whether it be bungee jumping, or a new haircolor, or something more significant.

What makes me (and/or Jemma) uncomfortable then is when Mo and Megan confess about their real lives. "In real life I want this," or "In real life I feel that." They both sound really similar when they speak like this. In fact at first I thought perhaps Mo created Megan as an alt. It just seemed too convenient that a willing noob, still in noob's clothing, could be found so readily. And she also talks like maybe English is not her first language, just like Mo. Now I'm pretty sure Megan is not an alt. Mo would have to be quite a multitasker.

Speaking of Alts, Marshall attended his first SciFri. On his own due to continued sporadic outages of the SL grid on my iMac, he was immediately welcomed by a cute girl there.




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