I'm not quite sure how to even begin. I silenced this blog for the last four months. Autumn simply slipped through my fingers. Five sections of writing classes, six weeks of guests, devouring every last moment with my Nicholas and my Rosalie. Kage, Luka, Kady, Dave, Nick's parents and grandfather - momentum thrusted us into the holiday season with no such remorse. And then, Nick and I relished every moment together. We shopped. We went for long walks with Rosalie. We sipped Mocha Freezes at our new favorite coffee shop on the North Shore. We cuddle beneath the Christmas tree juxaposed to American Horror Story on FX. We slept in. We took naps. We cooked and we baked and we soaked up every last moment together......
And then the weekend before deployment was here. Too quickly. Like cool molassas we waded through last weekend. The days seemed to lag and pass entirely too fast both at once. We established guildlines for the weekend. No cell phones. No meaningless internet browsing. No iPad games. No television, with the exception of bowl games or playoffs, but we could only watch one game so as not to waste our weekend on the couches. And certainly absolutely without hesitation, we were not to speak of Monday. We were not to speak of the year. We were not to acknowledge deployment.
But the blade of truth severed our good intentions on that last rule. Deployment. Goodbye. Monday was ever-present all weekend. Dread gutted us in quiet moments. The anticipation and emotion of the weekend, despite the fact that we truly and sincerely enjoyed each other, was exhausting. My dear friend who endured deployment still too recently, warned of that last day. And, so far, it truly was the hardest. The minutes crept in painful reminder that this was it. This was it until October. It was not quick like the rip of a bandaid. It was like a slow incision without a local anesthesia. And of course, insult to injury, I caught the flu on our last day together! The awful smegma that films the nose and throat with tears was amplified by chills, sneezing, aches and exhaustion.
But Monday came and went. Nick and I, though apart, have hunkered down into our new normal. Fuzzy face time via the 'Tango' app and the sparatic, though frequent!, gchat messaging. Spring 2013 arrived at the college and I truly had no option but to move forward. Class- class class - class. I lived for this weekend, wherein I promised myself that in my new-found free time I will immerse myself in the pages of novels, living another life as a character perhaps in Paris in the 1800s or on the beach of Newport in present day. And, as I promised my mother (hi Mom!), I will reopen the digital pages of my blog and force myself to write and write often.
So here it is: The blog is reopened. Cheers to a new year and to new adventures with Hobbes.
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Friday, September 7, 2012
Celebrating Birthdays since 2005
Seven years ago, senior year just started at Cortland High. Summer lingered, but cool nights in early September promised the frosts of fall would settle soon.
Nick and I weren't officially dating yet, but his birthday is September 7th, and he was more than my friend. And I wanted to surprise him with what then turned into the first of many birthdays together.
I remember sneaking a moment in whispers with his mom to brainstorm. I didn't want to give him anything that his family already had planned. I did have one idea, though.
At night when Nick and I returned to his house, sometimes it was pouring. Sometimes it was snowing. And most of the time, we were just exhausted or it was just cold, and Nick would stand at the corner of his garage and punch the key pad to open the door. That damn garage door almost never opened on the first try. So he tried the second code, which only worked sometimes. The process took longer than necessary. For his birthday, then, I wanted to give him a garage door transmitter like his parents had.
Labor day weekend, I drove to Sears with the garage door make and model etched on a sticky note from Nick's mom. I purchased a key-chain door transmitter, and I think Nick even called on my way out of the store, quizzing me on what errand I was running in Ithaca for his birthday.
The very first birthday I celebrated with Nick was on a Wednesday night. His Mimi and Papa were in town to see Nick's football game that Friday night. I arrived after dinner for cake and ice cream and to give Nick his birthday present.
Wrapped in a cardboard tshirt box, I place the garage door opener and a framed photograph of the two of us at our friend Krista's pond party -- And, to step out of the memory, about two months ago, I was sorting through boxes and found the exact photograph I gifted him at the very beginning of us.
Nick and I weren't officially dating yet, but his birthday is September 7th, and he was more than my friend. And I wanted to surprise him with what then turned into the first of many birthdays together.
I remember sneaking a moment in whispers with his mom to brainstorm. I didn't want to give him anything that his family already had planned. I did have one idea, though.
At night when Nick and I returned to his house, sometimes it was pouring. Sometimes it was snowing. And most of the time, we were just exhausted or it was just cold, and Nick would stand at the corner of his garage and punch the key pad to open the door. That damn garage door almost never opened on the first try. So he tried the second code, which only worked sometimes. The process took longer than necessary. For his birthday, then, I wanted to give him a garage door transmitter like his parents had.
Labor day weekend, I drove to Sears with the garage door make and model etched on a sticky note from Nick's mom. I purchased a key-chain door transmitter, and I think Nick even called on my way out of the store, quizzing me on what errand I was running in Ithaca for his birthday.
The very first birthday I celebrated with Nick was on a Wednesday night. His Mimi and Papa were in town to see Nick's football game that Friday night. I arrived after dinner for cake and ice cream and to give Nick his birthday present.
Wrapped in a cardboard tshirt box, I place the garage door opener and a framed photograph of the two of us at our friend Krista's pond party -- And, to step out of the memory, about two months ago, I was sorting through boxes and found the exact photograph I gifted him at the very beginning of us.
Since then, we've celebrated in Cortland, in Buffalo, in Boston, in Poughkeepsie and in Skaneateles. We've celebrated apart where 'wrapped' meant in a UPS box with packing noodles. And this year, we're celebrating together in Hawaii. The morning began with orange rolls and it will end somewhere in Honolulu this evening.
Happy birthday to you, my Nicholas! Cheers to the last seven years and to the next seventy to come :)
2006 - Cortland
2007 - Buffalo
2008 - Poughkeepsie
2009 - Boston
2010 - Skaneateles
2011 - We celebrated in October before the wedding :)
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Photojournalism
“What i like about photographs is that they capture a moment that’s gone forever, impossible to reproduce.”
-Karl Lagerfeld
Ko Olina Sunset Catamaran
31 August 2012
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
When I Grow Up: Life Goal
It's taken me a few days to collect my thoughts for this post. That, and the first two weeks of school is chaotic for any teacher!
Recently, I have been thinking, and Nick and I have been talking, about life goals and future plans. It's funny, really, since the Army likes to project their acceptance of a family's future 'plans'. Really, in the army, it's just faux planning since the Army already has a plan for the active duty member, which takes precedence over the family 'plan'. This bothers me, a lot, but this particular post does not exist for me to air my hesitations and concerns with the military.
As any type-A human being, I am a planner, an organizer, and someone who likes to have complete control of any and every situation, really (hey- it's honesty!). My personality, then, as you can infer, clashes with my lifestyle, as very little is planned or controlled by me. Which leaves me, as of late, pondering what I do have control over. There's so much I am uncertain of with regards to my future career and my future ultimate education and career goals. But I have made a decision, recently, a new life goal. This is something I can control and moreover, work toward.
My new life goal is simple: I want to be somebody's Barb Milligan.
Most of you (if there is a collective 'you') who read my blog have probably never heard of Barb -- unless, of course, you are from my hometown. This is the part of this blog with which I've struggled: How can I describe Barb to someone who doesn't know her? Whenever I skype with my B, and then tell someone I've done so, I fumble my words.
"She's like my second mom, or-- well... she's my neighbor--no but that's vague. I don't know; she's Barb."
I first befriended Barb Milligan on a chilly autumn evening when I was 10 years old.
Let's back track, first, though.
I knew Barb before I could talk. She went to school with my father. Her youngest daughter (another dear, dear friend of mine) and I played at the park together. My younger brother and I patiently waited on the list of future Spaghetti Heads--- the name of the collective kids Barb takes care of during the day. In elementary school, Luka and I walked, hands held with 'the big kids', down the road, across the street and around the corner into Barb's gate. We would all unlace our shoes, hang our sweatshirts and gather around her kitchen table. Barb scooped us bowls of mac and cheese (or whatever snack was on any particular day) and took drink orders-- always in coffee mugs; then, we took turns talking about our days at school.
B would ask our questions about our stories, ask us what we had for lunch, and she really asked, like our moms would, except they were still at work. If we had a bad day, it went through Barb first. If we had a great stories, our excitement busted and spewed all over Barb's table first. Then, she'd point out all the activities she had set up around the house and in the backyard. Any kid could choose from a plethora of activities to decompress from the day, and yet, each option was still cognitively stimulating. Always make believe or reading or building, perpetual dreaming and growing.
But, like I said, I first befriended Barb Milligan on a chilly autumn evening when I was 10 years old.
Everyone was done, including me. I was stuck in the 4th grade with a hateful bunch of classmates. This was before 'bullying' was a buzzword at faculty and PTA meetings. My parents were at a loss. The school was placating everyone, but it was hollow and shallow. I wasn't a victim. I was never a victim. But the meanness that oozed from the two fourth grade classrooms swelled, sticky and bitter.
I remember throwing on a sweatshirt and my sneakers and marching over to Barb's with my mom in the brisk darkness after dinner. I already knew Barb and loved Barb, but I had never been to her house after dark on a school night. Going was Mom's idea.
Before we knocked on the side door, it swung open. Barb stood at the top of the half-stairs in a tshirt that said: "Fuck you, I have enough friends!"
I was ten. And while I'd definitely heard "fuck" before, I'd never read it on a tshirt that a grown up was wearing. Before I think I even had time to process, Barb assured me that the tshirt was a poignant contribution to the conversation we were about to have.
Mom and I sat down at the kitchen table. Barb poured me a chilled mug of juice (and I'm sure she poured my mother a glass of wine...or five), and there, I had the most honest, real conversation I had ever had with two adults about school and bullying. What was going on was not ok. I learned that that night, and it was that pivotal moment wherein I can trace my strong intolerance for bullying and my emotional love for those who stand up against it. And. My friendship with Barb.
I don't even know how to sum up the subsequent years of my life at Barb's kitchen table.
Many times, I sat there with Barb's daughter, sharing stories and secrets and Mary Kate and Ashley gossip. Barb listened and Barb mentored. I loved and respected Barb as much as I loved and respected my own parents. She was honest. She was loving. And she was real. I have two absolutely wonderful parents; but Barb wasn't my parent. She reinforced everything my parents said, but coming from another adult, who I also considered my friend, her messages held more weight during my teenage years.
Here's an example of her mentorship:
During senior year, I faced off with an activities advisor after I published an op-ed in our local newspaper about the administration at our school. The advisor gave me two choices: I could be a leader at my high school or I could have an opinion. Furious, enraged, all of the other adjectives to describe the burning in my chest that day, I left school grounds without permission. Adrenaline blinded any rational thought. Mom was across town and not on her lunch break yet. Dad's classes always took place at the college, nearly 20 minutes from the high school. But I cognitively assessed this in a millisecond. Rather, I climbed in my car and sped off down the hill toward Barb's kitchen table.
I sipped juice from a chilled mug and refused to relinquish my rage as I relived the story to Barb. And just like any other mentoring moment that happened in that kitchen, Barb had a plan.
She sat down in her chair beside the stove. She spread her cloth napkin out, as if the napkin could be a playing field, and she was going to propose ideas for plays. We talked about possible consequences of my actions (both writing the article and leaving school without permission). She used the socratic method to walk me through contemplating the value of having a strong opinion and (as if it's mutually exclusive) being a leader at the high school. As she talked, she moved the sugar bowl around the cloth napkin. It didn't help her illustrate anything, but it's what she does when she's in mentor mode. And I love it.
Barb had read the article, and I felt strongly supported sitting there in her kitchen. But we talked about the consequences of speaking out against something like a school administration. And before I left her kitchen table, we also talked about the value of having a strong voice and having the courage to share that voice as a thinking, caring, committed member of one's community.
I was still in trouble at school; I anticipated consequences when I returned, both for the op-ed and for ditching grounds, but I was at peace with my decision and my consequences. And I established peace at Barb's.
It's been like this for my whole life. And don't kid yourself; my mother and I have a great relationship. She knows everything. But there is something about sitting at that kitchen table with a mug (or now, a glass of wine or sometimes even a shot of Ouzo) that provides yet another perspective to any situation. I text Barb. I skype with Barb. When I'm homesick, I miss everything about my parents and my house AND I miss running around the corner, into the back gate, hanging my jacket on the hook and sitting down at B's kitchen table.
Nick even said the other day that someday (not any any time soon, so don't speculate here), we'll have to pay our Barb and Mike to travel the world with us because we whole-heartedly want our children to be raised Milligan -- like so many children of Cortland are.
Barb is 1 part mother, 2 parts friend and 100% mentor and ab-fab human being.
So this is my goal. It's huge. It's nearly impossible, as I don't think a single soul on this Earth has the potential to be Barb. But I'm going to try. I am who I am in part because of this woman. I am inspired by her zeal and her fervor. My goal, then, is be that inspiration for someone else.
Recently, I have been thinking, and Nick and I have been talking, about life goals and future plans. It's funny, really, since the Army likes to project their acceptance of a family's future 'plans'. Really, in the army, it's just faux planning since the Army already has a plan for the active duty member, which takes precedence over the family 'plan'. This bothers me, a lot, but this particular post does not exist for me to air my hesitations and concerns with the military.
As any type-A human being, I am a planner, an organizer, and someone who likes to have complete control of any and every situation, really (hey- it's honesty!). My personality, then, as you can infer, clashes with my lifestyle, as very little is planned or controlled by me. Which leaves me, as of late, pondering what I do have control over. There's so much I am uncertain of with regards to my future career and my future ultimate education and career goals. But I have made a decision, recently, a new life goal. This is something I can control and moreover, work toward.
My new life goal is simple: I want to be somebody's Barb Milligan.
Most of you (if there is a collective 'you') who read my blog have probably never heard of Barb -- unless, of course, you are from my hometown. This is the part of this blog with which I've struggled: How can I describe Barb to someone who doesn't know her? Whenever I skype with my B, and then tell someone I've done so, I fumble my words.
"She's like my second mom, or-- well... she's my neighbor--no but that's vague. I don't know; she's Barb."
I first befriended Barb Milligan on a chilly autumn evening when I was 10 years old.
Let's back track, first, though.
I knew Barb before I could talk. She went to school with my father. Her youngest daughter (another dear, dear friend of mine) and I played at the park together. My younger brother and I patiently waited on the list of future Spaghetti Heads--- the name of the collective kids Barb takes care of during the day. In elementary school, Luka and I walked, hands held with 'the big kids', down the road, across the street and around the corner into Barb's gate. We would all unlace our shoes, hang our sweatshirts and gather around her kitchen table. Barb scooped us bowls of mac and cheese (or whatever snack was on any particular day) and took drink orders-- always in coffee mugs; then, we took turns talking about our days at school.
B would ask our questions about our stories, ask us what we had for lunch, and she really asked, like our moms would, except they were still at work. If we had a bad day, it went through Barb first. If we had a great stories, our excitement busted and spewed all over Barb's table first. Then, she'd point out all the activities she had set up around the house and in the backyard. Any kid could choose from a plethora of activities to decompress from the day, and yet, each option was still cognitively stimulating. Always make believe or reading or building, perpetual dreaming and growing.
But, like I said, I first befriended Barb Milligan on a chilly autumn evening when I was 10 years old.
Everyone was done, including me. I was stuck in the 4th grade with a hateful bunch of classmates. This was before 'bullying' was a buzzword at faculty and PTA meetings. My parents were at a loss. The school was placating everyone, but it was hollow and shallow. I wasn't a victim. I was never a victim. But the meanness that oozed from the two fourth grade classrooms swelled, sticky and bitter.
I remember throwing on a sweatshirt and my sneakers and marching over to Barb's with my mom in the brisk darkness after dinner. I already knew Barb and loved Barb, but I had never been to her house after dark on a school night. Going was Mom's idea.
Before we knocked on the side door, it swung open. Barb stood at the top of the half-stairs in a tshirt that said: "Fuck you, I have enough friends!"
I was ten. And while I'd definitely heard "fuck" before, I'd never read it on a tshirt that a grown up was wearing. Before I think I even had time to process, Barb assured me that the tshirt was a poignant contribution to the conversation we were about to have.
Mom and I sat down at the kitchen table. Barb poured me a chilled mug of juice (and I'm sure she poured my mother a glass of wine...or five), and there, I had the most honest, real conversation I had ever had with two adults about school and bullying. What was going on was not ok. I learned that that night, and it was that pivotal moment wherein I can trace my strong intolerance for bullying and my emotional love for those who stand up against it. And. My friendship with Barb.
I don't even know how to sum up the subsequent years of my life at Barb's kitchen table.
Many times, I sat there with Barb's daughter, sharing stories and secrets and Mary Kate and Ashley gossip. Barb listened and Barb mentored. I loved and respected Barb as much as I loved and respected my own parents. She was honest. She was loving. And she was real. I have two absolutely wonderful parents; but Barb wasn't my parent. She reinforced everything my parents said, but coming from another adult, who I also considered my friend, her messages held more weight during my teenage years.
Here's an example of her mentorship:
During senior year, I faced off with an activities advisor after I published an op-ed in our local newspaper about the administration at our school. The advisor gave me two choices: I could be a leader at my high school or I could have an opinion. Furious, enraged, all of the other adjectives to describe the burning in my chest that day, I left school grounds without permission. Adrenaline blinded any rational thought. Mom was across town and not on her lunch break yet. Dad's classes always took place at the college, nearly 20 minutes from the high school. But I cognitively assessed this in a millisecond. Rather, I climbed in my car and sped off down the hill toward Barb's kitchen table.
I sipped juice from a chilled mug and refused to relinquish my rage as I relived the story to Barb. And just like any other mentoring moment that happened in that kitchen, Barb had a plan.
She sat down in her chair beside the stove. She spread her cloth napkin out, as if the napkin could be a playing field, and she was going to propose ideas for plays. We talked about possible consequences of my actions (both writing the article and leaving school without permission). She used the socratic method to walk me through contemplating the value of having a strong opinion and (as if it's mutually exclusive) being a leader at the high school. As she talked, she moved the sugar bowl around the cloth napkin. It didn't help her illustrate anything, but it's what she does when she's in mentor mode. And I love it.
Barb had read the article, and I felt strongly supported sitting there in her kitchen. But we talked about the consequences of speaking out against something like a school administration. And before I left her kitchen table, we also talked about the value of having a strong voice and having the courage to share that voice as a thinking, caring, committed member of one's community.
I was still in trouble at school; I anticipated consequences when I returned, both for the op-ed and for ditching grounds, but I was at peace with my decision and my consequences. And I established peace at Barb's.
It's been like this for my whole life. And don't kid yourself; my mother and I have a great relationship. She knows everything. But there is something about sitting at that kitchen table with a mug (or now, a glass of wine or sometimes even a shot of Ouzo) that provides yet another perspective to any situation. I text Barb. I skype with Barb. When I'm homesick, I miss everything about my parents and my house AND I miss running around the corner, into the back gate, hanging my jacket on the hook and sitting down at B's kitchen table.
Nick even said the other day that someday (not any any time soon, so don't speculate here), we'll have to pay our Barb and Mike to travel the world with us because we whole-heartedly want our children to be raised Milligan -- like so many children of Cortland are.
Barb is 1 part mother, 2 parts friend and 100% mentor and ab-fab human being.
So this is my goal. It's huge. It's nearly impossible, as I don't think a single soul on this Earth has the potential to be Barb. But I'm going to try. I am who I am in part because of this woman. I am inspired by her zeal and her fervor. My goal, then, is be that inspiration for someone else.
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