For Granddad, in loving memory

My granddad died a few weeks ago. He had been sick for many months. I did not witness his decline first hand, but I heard through my mom.

I remember lying on the floor listening to my Granddad and Mom tell stories, everything from teaching experiences to the latest family drama. He notices me perusing a book of his many hundreds and tells me that if I find something I like I should take it. I'm a good kid, so I insist I could never do such a thing, but he persists. Take whatever you want, Lisa. They're no use to me, I've read them all before. He was just generous with other things as well. He gave my sister and I however much we wanted one year when we visited in December to buy each other gifts for Christmas. He also gave us a 200th anniversary book of Peanuts cartoons, which I still treasure enormously. He gave gladly and often, so that he died with very little money to his name. In a last act of generosity, he insisted that the money from his stocks be divided evenly between his children, even those whom had recently and needlessly hurt him without apology, the details of which I won't go into here. This will (hopefully) allow my mom, sister, and I to visit Europe next summer before Amy and I are too old and settled to travel with Mom. We think of and thank him often.

Several years ago, he almost died from an excruciating kidney stone. My mom flew up to Maine to be with him while he recovered in the hospital. She was by his side or within shouting distance the entire time. She washed her clothes in the sink and hung them in granddad's closet. She washed in the shower that came with his room, and when that wasn't available, she washed her face in the bathroom sinks. She had to live on food from vending machines when the cafeteria was closed. All this she endured just to be with him in his time of need, because none of her brothers and sisters could come every day to the hopistal (it was quite a ways away from everyone). Dedication and sacrifice - such is the power of a daughter's love.

Before this tragedy, he had been overweight and an alcoholic. Now, he was neither. The following summer I saw him and had to keep from gasping aloud at the transformation. He had lost much weight in hospital that he never gained back. He looked good for his age, though his face was more wrinkled and he wore a scraggly white beard. He was happy painting, reading, and gardening in his cabin, which my uncles built for him by hand, in Maine on one uncle's property. He was excited to serve us grapes, cheese, and crackers, a dinner fit for a king. He moved slower now, with a cane, but he was still autonomous. He still had his sharp wit and his senses. Though there were times he got lonely, he spent much time with my uncle's family and the Bowdoinham community. He was even thoroughly accepted at a woman's book club with my uncle, who is still a crazy pot-smoking rebel, though he is now a grandfather himself.

Much as I love my grandfather, I did not know him very well. We lived in separate states. I'd see him once a year and I'd love listening to his stories for a couple hours, then we'd say goodbye and that'd be that for a year. He was kind to me, and I loved him even though I saw him so infrequently. I miss him, certainly. Knowing that I can never again discuss philosophy, which I was just beginning to study in college before he died, with my Philosophy professor of a granddad is upsetting to me.

When my mom told me that Granddad was dying, just after spring break, I insisted that she and Dad let me skip a week of classes to go to Maine and visit him with her and my sister (for the first time I found myself thankful the work was so easy to make up). I am SO GLAD I made that trip. It was a very trying time for all involved, but the time I spent with my granddad, to make him happy even for a short time, was incredibly worth it. He was living then with my other aunt and uncle who reside in Maine. He looked much worse than I'd ever seen him before. A lifetime of alcohol overindulgence was finally catching up with him. His body was slowly shutting down. He could not control his bowels. He moved painfully slow and required a walker, though he stubbornly insisted that he could move on his own. His hearing was almost all gone, and I had trouble speaking so he could hear me properly. His eyes looked sunken and sad. He was small and stinky and lonely and he lashed out at the people who were doing the most for him because his mind was finally going. He would make mean remarks about my aunt, who was his biggest advocate. The woman who was working full-time on illustrating a children's book, and packing up all her things for a big move, and being hostess to us, and battling demons of her own, still spent more time and energy than anyone caring for him. He was so out of it that he could not understand why they didn't pay him more attention, spend more time with him. He had no idea that constantly needed assistance and cleaning-up. As my uncle said, he had no idea of his effect on the world around him.

It was hard to be with him, but it gave me the deepest satisfaction to listen once more to his stories. I wanted to see him smile again, to be flocked to instead of avoided. It hurt to see the rest of my family so frustrated with him that they often pretended he wasn't there, too tired to deal with him. And it hurt me to see him hurt them with such careless, callous words. I finally had an opportunity to discuss philosophy with him as I've wanted to do for a long time, and I fairly burst with pride when he complemented one of my philosophy term papers. And because I was new and a guest, therefore I did not have to clean up after my granddad, whenever he was around I spent as much time with him as I could, telling jokes and asking him to tell me stories or explain something about a famous philosopher or saint. (My grandfather was a life-long devout Catholic and liberal Democrat. Take that, stereotypists!) Besides spending time with him, I hoped that I was making things easier for my poor uncle, who was always exhausted from finishing up a house he was building by hand, and my aunt.

I mentioned that we shared jokes? My Grandad had a wonderful sense of humor, and whenever he saw us he'd always have some new joke up his sleeve. But his favorite of all time, which he couldn't get through without cracking up, went like this: a woman and her infant were on a train, and the infant was crying. A man came over to give the baby some food to make her feel better. The man is shocked to see the ugliest baby he's ever beheld, all wrinkly forehead, red, crying eyes, big chin, and sharp angles. So he offers the food to the woman, "Here, would you like a banana for your monkey?" (I don't get it either, but I love how much he loved that stupid joke.)

If I have any regrets, it's that I never got to say a final goodbye to Granddad. I went out for a night walk the last day we were there, and while I was out he had to go to bed. I stupidly did not bring my cell phone, so when I got back it was too late.

My granddad died peacefully in my uncle's house on June 4, 2009. It's been very hard watching my mom grieve the loss of her father, with whom she was very close.

As kids, my mom and her siblings used to toast the great philosophers each morning. Socrates! they'd shout, and take a drink. Plato! Aristotle! Then, Dad! And they’d splash a fingertip wet with OJ in the air. Cheers, Granddad. Tell me someday what the ancients have to say about that.

Happy Father's Day, Granddad. Whenever I read one of your books, which you finally convinced me to take, I think of you. We love you, miss you, and think of you often. <3

Spare Change Summer, pt. 1: So Long and Thanks for All the Cupcakes

I am going to write a series of entries about my Spare Change Summer, so titled because 1. It is summer now, 2. All I have in my pockets is spare change, and 3. Life outside my pockets has lately been nothing but change (with some to spare, if you want it).

I’ll begin with having to leave my first internship early because the small, nonprofit publishing company I work for just went under. All my colleagues at my internship were laid off with five weeks notice. This is naturally upsetting and hard for all of us to process. We are going through a mourning process. The company is small enough that my colleagues are all familiar with one another, and get along well with each other for the most part. Some have even found close friends. They get together outside of office hours as well, mostly at bars, but many will probably lose touch with friends without seeing them on a daily basis.

I have only ever worked one real, paying job (two counting Coldstone, but I don’t because it was terrible and I was only there a week), but I still know that I was lucky to be a part of the Heldref community. There was a lot of camaraderie, energy, and enthusiasm. I didn’t get to know anyone super well, but everyone was kind and helpful even when I asked too many questions, which I greatly appreciate. The coffee (I don't drink) and tea (I do drink) were free, which is always a nice treat. Best of all, to celebrate one of my coworkers getting married, someone brought in cupcakes, orange juice, and champagne! It's the best way to wake up in the morning, let me tell you. Drinks were mixed in these tiny champagne glasses from Michael's. They were so adorable. I felt like a real member of the Heldref family when they said it was okay for me to consume alcohol even though I was only 18. I will really miss that.

But forget me for a second (I know what you're thinking - that's impossible!) Try to imagine the people who have invested so much time, energy, and hard work in this company. I am a humble part-time, unpaid intern who has been with them for a little under a month. I came out alright from this tragedy. I got some solid work experience in the editing field. I didn't lose my job, or worse yet, benefits and retirement plans. I don't have any kids to put through college, or bills to pay. Some of my colleagues have spent decades with Heldref, and now they have to start the job search all over again, with very few positions open for humanities and science journal editors. And while five weeks is a long time to look for a new job, this could not have happened at a worse time. It’s nearly impossible to get seasonal work mid-June, and there are very few open and permanent editing positions available. I wish them all good luck in their job hunting.

As for me, I have miraculously found a summer internship canvassing with a nonprofit group on Capitol Hill, but I have some qualms about this job. I don’t want to lay them all out here because you never know who might find this, but basically I have heard bad things about how they treat employees. Much as I need the money, I am not anxious to repeat the nightmare that was my Coldstone experience. I start work July 6, and I hope things go well. Cross your fingers for me and...

...walk in beauty.

Don't want to be Atrophy Wife

Have you ever felt that if you didn’t have some new thoughts to digest you were going to explode with the urgency?

I feel as though my brain has atrophied this past year. I am sure this is not (entirely) true. But certain skills that I had so finely honed throughout high school are beginning to slip. Writing, as I mentioned before, is one of them. Simple mathematics is another, as well as basic chemistry, biology, and physics skills, although these skills have yet to be tested in college, so I can’t say for sure. What else has suffered? Thinking critically? Filling in multiple choice bubbles? Granted, some of the things they trained us for in high school were useless, like how to use a scantron. Those do not exist outside of high school, thank god. I’m also sure I learned things that I can’t realize now, or ever begin to quantify or qualify.

But too often my brain is zoning out because it can’t think of something to ponder. I am very reflective by nature, but I have noticed myself losing the ability to keep myself entertained and occupied, and relying on other people and things, be they television, computer, or whatever, to keep me occupied. Is this just a natural part of growing up? Is this just my imagination flickering goodbye like Peter Pan’s tinkerbell after she drinks the poison? I will clap loud and proud – I believe in imagination!!!

This may not be something I should be worried about. I may simply be realizing that I am an “adult” now, done with my first year of college and considered by US law and society to be an adult, albeit totally financially dependent on my parents. I only have three years left before I leave school forever (unless I get a Masters or become a teacher, or both - I will not be getting a Ph.D., probably) and start having to worry about grown-up problems and figure out how I’m going to support myself. It won’t be easy. How am I going to learn how to do all that?! Eh, I have three whole years to work it out...

Or maybe I should be worried. My work in college came easy to me, for the most part. There were a couple times I was challenged, mostly by philosophy papers, but everything came disturbingly easy. Calculus was an exception, which had the worst of both worlds: I’d taken it the year before so I learned nothing new, but I was still terrible at it.

Now part of the problem was that I didn’t take many AP classes in high school, so I couldn’t get out of many core requirements. And another part was I didn’t understand first semester that just because a class fills up does not mean there’s no room for you. I also assumed for some reason that it would be bad for me to take more than 4 classes, even though one was only two credit hours per week. (St. Mary’s College of Maryland is weird by MD State colleges – our usual is 4 credit hours per class instead of 3) I think I was partially reacting to being overworked in high school (and underpaid) and as a result not doing very much in way of extracurricular activities or sports. I went from academics being my sole reason in high school to it being an afterthought of sorts my first year of college.

But I recognize the good that came of this – I joined many interesting clubs, namely Philosophy, Meditation, St Mary’s River Project, and Capoeira. I saw plays, movies, lectures, concerts galore. I played, talked, laughed, ran, sang, skipped, danced so much with many good friends. It was GREAT. Really, truly, fantastically awesome. :) And I don’t mean to bash that at all, because I’m very thankful for the ease with which I made good friends and the opportunities I had to be happy with them. All I did, in college, it seems, was play. Which doesn't seem like such a bad thing...

But all play and no work makes Jane a dull girl. At times I was restless, bored, ashamed, and/or lonely without enough work to occupy myself. I love being challenged to new levels. I definitely was challenged physically in Capoeira, and socially, having to live so closely with three stranger girls (who soon became two friends and one close acquaintance). But I was used to academic challenges being thrust upon myself by a rigorous high school curriculum with great teachers challenging me in humanities magnet classes and everything else AP or honors courses, and I expected college to do the same. And for a while I was bitter that I was “settling” for a state school, which is a narrow-minded prejudice of mine which I’ve worked really hard to overcome. And I think I’ve finally succeeded. St. Mary’s is a fabulous college and I am proud to be a Seahawk. But at the time of first semester, I was a little bitter. Is this it? I thought. This is too easy. I loved learning sign language, but level 1 was easy. I loved writing fiction in my Victorian Monsters seminar, but again it was no challenge. I did not enjoy my ridiculously easy poli-sci class because I can honestly say I learned nothing new in that class. And there was Calculus, and I loathe that even when I have a good teacher, which sadly, I did not. I can’t say why I didn’t just sign up for more classes – I was under credit, so I could have done it easily. My time was instead spent hanging with friends, going out to school-sponsored activities and attending a variety of clubs, which I did enjoy tremendously.

Even at the time, the very idea that I was getting dumber scared me shitless. The slow realization that I don’t have to work at anything was terrifying and saddening. I certainly loved my classes, especially second semester, which had a good bit more work for me to do. My friends were way more stressed than me, but when they talked to me, they sounded so intelligent, so learned and experienced. I wondered how I sounded to them. Among some of my friends in college, I was cute, funny, and child-like, but I wondered how well I was respected. I loathed the idea of being “left behind”, not getting as much out of college as my peers. I want so badly to know how things work and the history of people and ideas and to understand the world around me.

Now that I’ve had time to reflect, I have made peace with my decisions and I think many of my fears were overreactions. But I am still upset by the idea that I need other people in order to be challenged, that I can’t go out there myself and find things to test myself when classes disappoint.

Conclusion: I need to be challenged by other people. If this does not happen, I have a hard time doing it myself. I want to learn how to better challenge myself, when stuck in a stultifying situation.

I can't imagine anyone caring enough to read all that. If you did, I don't deserve you as a reader. That's the cumulation of many thoughts I've been mulling over this past year. It kind of exploded out of me (without any editing - yay!) I'll try to make my next post a little more focused and less self-centered.

:: El Fin ::

//Edit//

I think this deserves its own entry at some point, but there is something I forgot to mention in this post which is very important to me. While being challenged is important, I want my work to help make the world good. This is part of the problem I have with going to college in the middle of nowhere, where without a car it can be hard to reach out to people outside my campus. That doesn't mean I'm not proud of the work I did teaching children about the Chesapeake Bay watershed through the St. Mary’s River project. But I know I can do more. I don’t have much money to give, but I have time and energy and enthusiasm, and I want to bring happiness and safety to those who need it most. There is so much suffering in the world. I refuse to sit idly without doing something to help.

Fed Up

I have tried so many times to start this blog, but each time the battle was lost before it even began. After reading friends' entries, I thought "There's no way I can compete with that." Not that I have to, but in my head I would always be comparing my work with theirs and finding mine lacking.

Then I got Fed Up.

Fed Up with second-guessing my writing. Fed Up with not writing enough because I am too afraid that I have forgotten how to write well. My first year at college did not exercise my writing muscles as much as I'd hoped it would, which was disappointing. Academically speaking, I was more challenged and wrote more during my senior year of high school than freshman year of college.

I was Fed Up with giving up. So what if I'm just rambling without any coherent structure or Big Thinks? Though I'd like to think this will be somewhat more sophisticated than my xanga entries from my middle school years, I can't get rid of this nagging doubt that five years from now I'll think all of this is crap. And so what if that happens? Is that so bad? Writing captures my thoughts, emotions, and ideas as they are RIGHT NOW, and I have no way of knowing which will still be relevant to Future Me, and which will be thrown into the deep blue sea, to be caught in the vast expanse of the InterNet, and most likely thrown back, like underweight tuna. I feel like playing with capitalization today, maybe punctuation tomorrow, and who knows, perhaps I'll write a cinquain or two while I'm here.

I have a few goals for this blog: 1. I'd like to be able to write these posts without editing until the entire entry is done, and without deleting any content. I need to learn how better to ignore my very loud, bossy, coffee-drinking, chain-smoking harlot of an inner editor. I've always been a perfectionist when it comes to my writing, and now that I have an internship with a small publishing company where I do nothing but edit all day, it's harder than ever for me to get out of editing mode.
2. I want to write a little every day. I hope that writing regularly for this blog will get me in the habit of writing every day, although I most likely won't post more than once or twice a week.
3. Some readers would be nice, but if I stay my blog's only reader, I'd still be happy.

So look out world! I'm a leaf on the wind, watch me soar.