I ran a half marathon today, my third within this past year. My pace was nothing to write home about, but I finished at a respectable time and that’s good enough for me. I hadn’t been preparing as I would have liked in the last few months. The Haunted Hustle in Middleton, Wisconsin was a nice course and, as it turns out, the weather was perfect. I wouldn’t want to live in Wisconsin by any means, but it was certainly nice to visit. Fortunately I didn't suffer from a right calf issue that plagued me during the St. Louis half marathon in April and resulted in an awful run time, but my performance today certainly doesn't match my time in South Carolina last November when I was in fairly good shape due to an 11-week military training program. Those previous 13-mile runs in November and April, I must confess, were cherished moments in my life. Today's event was okay, but nothing special. I'm still assessing my ability to run a full marathon, but until I lose about twenty pounds or so, it's off the table. Frankly, after today, I'm wondering whether I should run another thirteen-miler!Saturday, October 29, 2011
Haunted Hustle
I ran a half marathon today, my third within this past year. My pace was nothing to write home about, but I finished at a respectable time and that’s good enough for me. I hadn’t been preparing as I would have liked in the last few months. The Haunted Hustle in Middleton, Wisconsin was a nice course and, as it turns out, the weather was perfect. I wouldn’t want to live in Wisconsin by any means, but it was certainly nice to visit. Fortunately I didn't suffer from a right calf issue that plagued me during the St. Louis half marathon in April and resulted in an awful run time, but my performance today certainly doesn't match my time in South Carolina last November when I was in fairly good shape due to an 11-week military training program. Those previous 13-mile runs in November and April, I must confess, were cherished moments in my life. Today's event was okay, but nothing special. I'm still assessing my ability to run a full marathon, but until I lose about twenty pounds or so, it's off the table. Frankly, after today, I'm wondering whether I should run another thirteen-miler!
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Here We Go Again!
Here we go again. I teach a course on terrorism and every once in a while the so-called “911 Hoax” comes up. (I suppose it doesn't help that a former governor of the state where I teach espouses this hateful re-writing of history!) I’ve addressed this issue elsewhere on this blog, as well as conspiracy theories more generally. Talking to people who believe that 911 was not the work of foreign terrorists but rather the Bush administration, Jews, the World Bank and just about anyone else is like talking to fanatical members of a religious sect. They have no proof that the Neocons, Mossad, or the CIA (at the behest of Israel of course) blew up the towers. They spit out things they’ve heard, third-hand evidence at best, without testing the “evidence.” Again, talking to these people is like talking to a religious fanatic, whose views are just as much based on hatred than anything else. And if you counter their view with reason and science, then they see you as either part of the cover-up or a dupe used as a pawn by the conspirators. Still, at the end of the day, the burden of proof lies with them.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
A Coastal Drive (5/8)
Part II
The first of September. For Maryanne, this day always marked the beginning of autumn, hands down her favorite season, and it came on Thursday to boot, her day off. She understood that fall was, technically speaking, three weeks away, but once September got its start, even if only one day in, it’s as if the atmosphere changed. Autumn was quietly announcing its arrival, and the pleasantly wistful mood that inevitably took possession of a blondish freckled girl growing up in Ohio still had its effect on a middle-aged woman living on the Pacific coast.
Just seeing the word September on her calendar or laptop screen conjured up images of cinnamon sticks and apples on a cutting board in a crowded kitchen; a mug of pumpkin spice latte on a brisk morning; cornhusk dolls lying pell-mell on the windowsill; chrysanthemums and asters in gardens past; and her grandma’s delicious bramboraks sizzling in the pan. These wonderful things filled her mind like a cornucopia, and some of them—sadly, not her grandma’s potato pancakes—would once again come to fruition in the course of the season.
September was the month of Kirsten’s birthday too, and what with their moderately renewed relationship since the “accident” nearly two months ago, Maryanne wanted to do something special with her daughter. (Moderately, for what it’s worth, was Maryanne’s own phrasing of the situation in a conversation with her friend Cal.) If she could get the time off work before Kirsten’s classes got intense, perhaps they could spend a weekend of retail therapy together in Vancouver, a beloved vacation spot in happier family times when Kirsten and Scott were children.
If you were to sneak a peak at the whiteboard calendar on Maryanne’s fridge, you would see the words Margaret’s @ noon playfully written on this day in three colored pens and punctuated with a smiley face. Margaret Brenton and her husband Neil operated Madame Roland’s Bed and Breakfast Inn in a remodeled Victorian house Margaret had inherited from her mother.
The septuagenarian couple had opened it up in what is now downtown Flaherty, conveniently located at the fork of two main business streets. They had it refurbished in the late Nineties when select downtown businesses, awarded grants from an ambitious urban renewal committee (Margaret’s deceased parents being the chief benefactors thereof), went through a “makeover” to attract tourists and their money.
Attached to the Inn was a quaint little restaurant and antique shop, where Maryanne and her old lady friends, as well as Maryanne and Maryanne’s friend Carla, a forty-something divorcée who also moved to Oregon from the Midwest, would talk the latest gossip.
“You’re looking so well, Maryanne,” Margaret said in her trademark hostess voice as she brought a pint of half and half from the kitchen.
A friend of Margaret’s, Paula, a widower pushing 73 and living with her daughter, agreed. “Yes, sweet thing. It’s pleasant to see you with us, and looking so healthy today. We’ve missed your company.” Maryanne hadn’t attended Margaret’s “salon” since her accident. In fact, she hadn't visited the ladies at the Inn for nearly six months due to work and John not wanting her to hang out with gossipy ladies.
“Thank you, everyone. I think I'm doing fine these days.”
Sipping coffee and listening to pleasant chitchat was a source of great comfort for Maryanne after her trials and tribulations. They sat at the table next to a large bay window with a view of Main Street. Paula went a bit long on her grandchildren in Georgia, a subject of pride that usually ended on a sour note: her son's busy schedule and no visit to grandma in years. Maryanne and Carla would usually sneak a funny face to each other when Paula went on and on.
The fifth regular member of the kaffeeklatsch, Cheryl, was a high school librarian in her fifties whose husband encouraged her to spend time with “the gals” and thereby leave him alone at home, guilt-free of an impossible honeydew list and with plenty of cold ones stacked by the couch. Not especially gifted in social tact, she seemed intent on violating an unspoken rule in such social settings: when one of your friends returns to the group after having overcome a few setbacks in life—a car accident, surgery, and the demise of a serious relationship—you don’t bring these matters up, unless the friend brings them up herself. Cheryl could have easily stuck to the two topics that she and Maryanne have in common, namely flower gardening, marigolds above all, and raising a difficult son, though Cheryl’s Cody is six years older than Scott.
“Have you spoken to John since his visit to the hospital?” she asked. Her question was awkward enough, as it didn’t blend organically into the tabletop conversation, but additionally so since Cheryl was usually rather tacit, apart from weighing in with Maryanne now and then on the aforementioned topics.
“No,” responded Maryanne. “I just don’t think…”
“I’m sorry for prying.”
“No, it’s okay, I…”
“Very well, then,” interjected Margaret the hostess, seemingly chipper as ever. “Let’s try my new boysenberry scones, and I won’t take No for answer, that includes you, Carla. “ Carla, thin as a rail, was always watching her weight. “You will be my guinea pigs, as I’ll be adding these scones to the breakfast menu.”
Everyone knew what Margaret was doing, and she had made this Very well then comment once before, with the requisite tone of enthusiasm somehow mixed with maternal authority, during an ill-fated discussion on religion a few months ago. At the time Paula’s daughter Connie was in attendance; unbeknownst to everyone except her mom she was an atheist, and not exactly timid about it. Carla, a Sunday school teacher, perceived an attack on her faith, rightly or wrongly. Margaret, seeing her pleasant tea time about to take a sour turn, applied the brakes with an invitation to sample her strawberry crepes.
Margaret had her husband Neil bring in the scones on a silver tray while she shifted the conversation to one of its default topics: Margaret’s mother and her exploits during the 1930s and 1940s.
Maryanne admired the relationship between the Brentons, Margaret and Neil. While she saw them bicker about almost anything under the sun, she envied the equality and mutual respect they enjoyed, something that had eluded Maryanne all these years. But she enjoyed above all listening to Margaret talk about her amazing mother, Mary Jeanette, who became known as “Madame Roland,” after the famed heroine of the French Revolution. Like her spiritual forebear, Mary Jeanette hosted a salon where literati and powerbrokers of Oregon came to drink cordials and discuss issues of the day, in the very same room overlooking Main Street Flaherty where Margaret, Maryanne, and friends got together for discussion and the latest gossip.
Maryanne knew the story well, and the enigmatic photo of Margaret’s parents in a framed photo on the wall behind Margaret’s seat served as further fuel for her imagination. The photo dates from the late 1920s, about the time that Maryanne’s grandparents immigrated to the United States from Czechoslovakia. Margaret’s father, Jesper Lemark Jr., a lumber magnate and the richest man in southern Oregon at the time, is looking into the camera with a slight smile and his arms akimbo, sporting a dark suit and a straw hat, while Mary Jeanette is wearing a long, flowing dress more typical of Victorian days than the Roaring Twenties. Yet, she was no traditional wife, for one of the many unconventional views she defended, and defended rather ardently, was the rounding up of Japanese Americans in Oregon and sending them off to detention camps during the War.
As Margaret went on about life in Flaherty in the days of yore, and while everyone was oohing and awing over the scones, Maryanne looked out the bay window at the light rain and mist that had appeared. It was a fine “autumn” day in the Northwest, she thought to herself, and it would only get better in the evening. She was looking forward to Kristine and her friend from the university visiting for the weekend.
“I’m sure I’ve told you about the time when my mother and the local police locked horns over the Japanese-American fishers. That was just after Pearl Harbor…”
From her vantage point, Maryanne watched through the window as a car pulled up to the curb. She always sat in the cushioned chair that faces the street to take in the nice view. The Brentons had always kept their place well landscaped. They had a bonsai garden near the front door, and in another week or so Margaret’s chrysanthemums would be in full bloom.
Margaret continued to regal everyone with stories of her family, while Maryanne saw a man in a baseball cap get out of the car. She recognized him instantly: It was Mark Denison. For some reason she kept watching him silently, not letting on to her friends at the table that the man who saved her life was outside in the street.
Evidently Mark was searching for something, Maryanne thought to herself, even as she nodded to something either Margaret or Paula had just said, half conscious of the conversation that she was ostensibly engaged in. Was he looking for her?
Mark pulled out his cell phone and glanced at it. He walked across the street in the opposite direction of the Inn toward the sandwich and soup shop but stopped midway and turned back to his car looking puzzled.
“Excuse me a moment,” said Maryanne, nudging her friend Carla and nodding toward the window. Carla was the only one there who knew something about Mark, though she had never seen him before. Maryanne described him to Carla “a nice man with a certain dark intensity about him.” (About the same time she described him to Cal as “a strange guy with a good heart.”)
“Okay, dear,” responded Margaret.
The women followed Maryanne with their eyes as she exited the Inn, then turned toward the window to see what was going on. Who’s that man? Does Maryanne know him? Is she okay? Suffice to say, Margaret’s mother and her boysenberry scones were no longer the topics du jour.
“That’s the man who Maryanne hit at the vista,” explained Carla, putting two and two together.
“Oh?”
Maryanne walked gingerly down the wet stone path toward the street. The rain was light, and the sun was returning. Mark spotted her instantly.
“Maryanne?”
“Mark? What are you doing here?”
A large yard of grass and judiciously planted shrubs and flowers separate Margaret’s Bed and Breakfast from the street, so the women couldn’t hear what they were saying. What they observed, however, was rather curious.
The two of them seemed cordial and friendly at first. What are they saying? Suddenly Maryanne become upset, only to return to an amiable demeanor.
“Maryanne told me he’s a nice person.”
“I should think so,” Paula opined, “if you’re going to risk your life for someone else.”
“He looks nice,” said Cheryl, “but I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley.”
“Why would you say that?” asked Carla.
“I’m sure he’s a wonderful person. I’m referring only to his physical appearance. He seems…imposing.”
“Yeah? I don’t get that,” said Carla. Had they been able to hear the conversation outside, they would have discovered the secret buried in Maryanne’s heart.
“Mark?” Maryanne approached Mark. For some inexplicable reason, he looked to her like an abandoned animal seeking shelter. She shook off that notion when she heard his voice, a voice she could imagine leading men into battle.
“Maryanne,” he responded.
“Are you looking for me?”
“Yes. Your daughter said you’d be here.”
“Is there something wrong?”
He hesitated. “I need to ask you…”
“Ask me what?”
“I know this sounds crazy…”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you okay? I mean, you’re not still thinking about killing yourself, right?”
“What? Is that why you’re here? To ask me that, again?”
“Sorry to be so blunt, Maryanne, but I can’t let this go.”
“You can’t let what go?”
“I…” Mark searched for words.
“Listen, I don’t know what you think you heard me say, but you’re mistaken…”
“Mistaken?”
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself that day….And even if I was, why is that your business?”
“I can’t explain…”
“I think you’ll need to, Mark. I mean, you can’t just ask me a question like that, right?”
“It’s a spiritual thing, sort of…”
“What do you mean by that?” Maryanne looked back at her friends staring at them through the window and up at a beclouded sky. “We can’t talk her, like this.”
“You’re right. I should have phoned you, but I didn’t want to ask you on the phone.”
“Listen, you saved my life. I think that means I owe you a coffee.” Maryanne chuckled. “Are you available on Monday after I get off work, around 5:30pm?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be in the area?”
“I can be.”
“The coffeehouse here in Flaherty at 5:3o then. I’ll have some questions of my own, Mr. Denison!”
“Okay,” came Mark’s laconic reply, as water dripped from the visor of his Seattle Seahawks cap.
As Mark returned to his car, Maryanne thought about the changes in her life since the last time she saw him. Her relationship with Kirsten and even Scott had been good. Whatever lingering affection she had for John, the erstwhile man of her dreams, had subsided, a development within that she could not have fathomed before the accident. And with encouragement from Carla and Cal, she decided to take the position as trauma coordinator after working in the Emergency Department at Siebeck for nearly a decade. Her boss had been advocating Maryanne for the position for years. Such a career move would entail a conference in Portland every month, much more responsibility, and more involvement with the politics of hospital administrators. Jenny cautioned her sister about taking on such so soon, but Maryanne was determined to put the past behind her.
She no longer knew why she almost drove off the cliff on that fateful summer day only two months ago. Clearly the meds had put her off-balance. She used the term “accident” without any question in her mind. Then Mark came into her life again.
When she returned to the kaffeeklatsch, Cheryl asked: “So, is everything alright? Mr. Denison seems like a nice man, no?”
“Cheryl!” scolded Carla.
“I’m just asking.”
Maryanne smiled at both Cheryl’s nosy nature and Carla’s smack-down response on her best friend’s behalf.
Margaret didn’t miss a beat in restoring the casual atmosphere. “Neil, bring us some more tea, would you dear? Well, I was just telling them about the time when mother told the mayor he was a racist...”
Attached to the Inn was a quaint little restaurant and antique shop, where Maryanne and her old lady friends, as well as Maryanne and Maryanne’s friend Carla, a forty-something divorcée who also moved to Oregon from the Midwest, would talk the latest gossip.
“You’re looking so well, Maryanne,” Margaret said in her trademark hostess voice as she brought a pint of half and half from the kitchen.
A friend of Margaret’s, Paula, a widower pushing 73 and living with her daughter, agreed. “Yes, sweet thing. It’s pleasant to see you with us, and looking so healthy today. We’ve missed your company.” Maryanne hadn’t attended Margaret’s “salon” since her accident. In fact, she hadn't visited the ladies at the Inn for nearly six months due to work and John not wanting her to hang out with gossipy ladies.
“Thank you, everyone. I think I'm doing fine these days.”
Sipping coffee and listening to pleasant chitchat was a source of great comfort for Maryanne after her trials and tribulations. They sat at the table next to a large bay window with a view of Main Street. Paula went a bit long on her grandchildren in Georgia, a subject of pride that usually ended on a sour note: her son's busy schedule and no visit to grandma in years. Maryanne and Carla would usually sneak a funny face to each other when Paula went on and on.
The fifth regular member of the kaffeeklatsch, Cheryl, was a high school librarian in her fifties whose husband encouraged her to spend time with “the gals” and thereby leave him alone at home, guilt-free of an impossible honeydew list and with plenty of cold ones stacked by the couch. Not especially gifted in social tact, she seemed intent on violating an unspoken rule in such social settings: when one of your friends returns to the group after having overcome a few setbacks in life—a car accident, surgery, and the demise of a serious relationship—you don’t bring these matters up, unless the friend brings them up herself. Cheryl could have easily stuck to the two topics that she and Maryanne have in common, namely flower gardening, marigolds above all, and raising a difficult son, though Cheryl’s Cody is six years older than Scott.
“Have you spoken to John since his visit to the hospital?” she asked. Her question was awkward enough, as it didn’t blend organically into the tabletop conversation, but additionally so since Cheryl was usually rather tacit, apart from weighing in with Maryanne now and then on the aforementioned topics.
“No,” responded Maryanne. “I just don’t think…”
“I’m sorry for prying.”
“No, it’s okay, I…”
“Very well, then,” interjected Margaret the hostess, seemingly chipper as ever. “Let’s try my new boysenberry scones, and I won’t take No for answer, that includes you, Carla. “ Carla, thin as a rail, was always watching her weight. “You will be my guinea pigs, as I’ll be adding these scones to the breakfast menu.”
Everyone knew what Margaret was doing, and she had made this Very well then comment once before, with the requisite tone of enthusiasm somehow mixed with maternal authority, during an ill-fated discussion on religion a few months ago. At the time Paula’s daughter Connie was in attendance; unbeknownst to everyone except her mom she was an atheist, and not exactly timid about it. Carla, a Sunday school teacher, perceived an attack on her faith, rightly or wrongly. Margaret, seeing her pleasant tea time about to take a sour turn, applied the brakes with an invitation to sample her strawberry crepes.
Margaret had her husband Neil bring in the scones on a silver tray while she shifted the conversation to one of its default topics: Margaret’s mother and her exploits during the 1930s and 1940s.
Maryanne admired the relationship between the Brentons, Margaret and Neil. While she saw them bicker about almost anything under the sun, she envied the equality and mutual respect they enjoyed, something that had eluded Maryanne all these years. But she enjoyed above all listening to Margaret talk about her amazing mother, Mary Jeanette, who became known as “Madame Roland,” after the famed heroine of the French Revolution. Like her spiritual forebear, Mary Jeanette hosted a salon where literati and powerbrokers of Oregon came to drink cordials and discuss issues of the day, in the very same room overlooking Main Street Flaherty where Margaret, Maryanne, and friends got together for discussion and the latest gossip.
Maryanne knew the story well, and the enigmatic photo of Margaret’s parents in a framed photo on the wall behind Margaret’s seat served as further fuel for her imagination. The photo dates from the late 1920s, about the time that Maryanne’s grandparents immigrated to the United States from Czechoslovakia. Margaret’s father, Jesper Lemark Jr., a lumber magnate and the richest man in southern Oregon at the time, is looking into the camera with a slight smile and his arms akimbo, sporting a dark suit and a straw hat, while Mary Jeanette is wearing a long, flowing dress more typical of Victorian days than the Roaring Twenties. Yet, she was no traditional wife, for one of the many unconventional views she defended, and defended rather ardently, was the rounding up of Japanese Americans in Oregon and sending them off to detention camps during the War.
As Margaret went on about life in Flaherty in the days of yore, and while everyone was oohing and awing over the scones, Maryanne looked out the bay window at the light rain and mist that had appeared. It was a fine “autumn” day in the Northwest, she thought to herself, and it would only get better in the evening. She was looking forward to Kristine and her friend from the university visiting for the weekend.
“I’m sure I’ve told you about the time when my mother and the local police locked horns over the Japanese-American fishers. That was just after Pearl Harbor…”
From her vantage point, Maryanne watched through the window as a car pulled up to the curb. She always sat in the cushioned chair that faces the street to take in the nice view. The Brentons had always kept their place well landscaped. They had a bonsai garden near the front door, and in another week or so Margaret’s chrysanthemums would be in full bloom.
Margaret continued to regal everyone with stories of her family, while Maryanne saw a man in a baseball cap get out of the car. She recognized him instantly: It was Mark Denison. For some reason she kept watching him silently, not letting on to her friends at the table that the man who saved her life was outside in the street.
Evidently Mark was searching for something, Maryanne thought to herself, even as she nodded to something either Margaret or Paula had just said, half conscious of the conversation that she was ostensibly engaged in. Was he looking for her?
Mark pulled out his cell phone and glanced at it. He walked across the street in the opposite direction of the Inn toward the sandwich and soup shop but stopped midway and turned back to his car looking puzzled.
“Excuse me a moment,” said Maryanne, nudging her friend Carla and nodding toward the window. Carla was the only one there who knew something about Mark, though she had never seen him before. Maryanne described him to Carla “a nice man with a certain dark intensity about him.” (About the same time she described him to Cal as “a strange guy with a good heart.”)
“Okay, dear,” responded Margaret.
The women followed Maryanne with their eyes as she exited the Inn, then turned toward the window to see what was going on. Who’s that man? Does Maryanne know him? Is she okay? Suffice to say, Margaret’s mother and her boysenberry scones were no longer the topics du jour.
“That’s the man who Maryanne hit at the vista,” explained Carla, putting two and two together.
“Oh?”
Maryanne walked gingerly down the wet stone path toward the street. The rain was light, and the sun was returning. Mark spotted her instantly.
“Maryanne?”
“Mark? What are you doing here?”
A large yard of grass and judiciously planted shrubs and flowers separate Margaret’s Bed and Breakfast from the street, so the women couldn’t hear what they were saying. What they observed, however, was rather curious.
The two of them seemed cordial and friendly at first. What are they saying? Suddenly Maryanne become upset, only to return to an amiable demeanor.
“Maryanne told me he’s a nice person.”
“I should think so,” Paula opined, “if you’re going to risk your life for someone else.”
“He looks nice,” said Cheryl, “but I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley.”
“Why would you say that?” asked Carla.
“I’m sure he’s a wonderful person. I’m referring only to his physical appearance. He seems…imposing.”
“Yeah? I don’t get that,” said Carla. Had they been able to hear the conversation outside, they would have discovered the secret buried in Maryanne’s heart.
“Mark?” Maryanne approached Mark. For some inexplicable reason, he looked to her like an abandoned animal seeking shelter. She shook off that notion when she heard his voice, a voice she could imagine leading men into battle.
“Maryanne,” he responded.
“Are you looking for me?”
“Yes. Your daughter said you’d be here.”
“Is there something wrong?”
He hesitated. “I need to ask you…”
“Ask me what?”
“I know this sounds crazy…”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you okay? I mean, you’re not still thinking about killing yourself, right?”
“What? Is that why you’re here? To ask me that, again?”
“Sorry to be so blunt, Maryanne, but I can’t let this go.”
“You can’t let what go?”
“Listen, I don’t know what you think you heard me say, but you’re mistaken…”
“Mistaken?”
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself that day….And even if I was, why is that your business?”
“I can’t explain…”
“I think you’ll need to, Mark. I mean, you can’t just ask me a question like that, right?”
“It’s a spiritual thing, sort of…”
“What do you mean by that?” Maryanne looked back at her friends staring at them through the window and up at a beclouded sky. “We can’t talk her, like this.”
“You’re right. I should have phoned you, but I didn’t want to ask you on the phone.”
“Listen, you saved my life. I think that means I owe you a coffee.” Maryanne chuckled. “Are you available on Monday after I get off work, around 5:30pm?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be in the area?”
“I can be.”
“The coffeehouse here in Flaherty at 5:3o then. I’ll have some questions of my own, Mr. Denison!”
“Okay,” came Mark’s laconic reply, as water dripped from the visor of his Seattle Seahawks cap.
As Mark returned to his car, Maryanne thought about the changes in her life since the last time she saw him. Her relationship with Kirsten and even Scott had been good. Whatever lingering affection she had for John, the erstwhile man of her dreams, had subsided, a development within that she could not have fathomed before the accident. And with encouragement from Carla and Cal, she decided to take the position as trauma coordinator after working in the Emergency Department at Siebeck for nearly a decade. Her boss had been advocating Maryanne for the position for years. Such a career move would entail a conference in Portland every month, much more responsibility, and more involvement with the politics of hospital administrators. Jenny cautioned her sister about taking on such so soon, but Maryanne was determined to put the past behind her.
She no longer knew why she almost drove off the cliff on that fateful summer day only two months ago. Clearly the meds had put her off-balance. She used the term “accident” without any question in her mind. Then Mark came into her life again.
When she returned to the kaffeeklatsch, Cheryl asked: “So, is everything alright? Mr. Denison seems like a nice man, no?”
“Cheryl!” scolded Carla.
“I’m just asking.”
Maryanne smiled at both Cheryl’s nosy nature and Carla’s smack-down response on her best friend’s behalf.
Margaret didn’t miss a beat in restoring the casual atmosphere. “Neil, bring us some more tea, would you dear? Well, I was just telling them about the time when mother told the mayor he was a racist...”
_______________________________
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Living the Dream
I’ve been on military orders these past two weeks to conduct a 100% Change of Command inventory as the incoming commander of a headquarters detachment. I’ve been staying at a La Quinta about 10 minutes away from the Army Reserve Center. I sit in an office throughout the day until the supply sergeant has located and laid out pieces of equipment for me to inspect and check off the property book. We’re not making the progress I would have liked but I’m still ahead of the game. I’m allotted a certain amount of time to complete the inventory and so far we’re ahead of schedule. In the late afternoon I go running at a park near the hotel. Then I retreat to the hotel with some food, take a shower, eat, check in with my online class, watch the news on TV and a murder mystery on the internet, and try hard to fall asleep. I’ve been struggling with insomnia lately. It’s been a bit of Groundhog Day here. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Black
Sorrow, borne of regret and sundry emotional pains I shall not specify, infects my soul like the cruelest poison that slowly seeps into the marrow and core of my body, destabilizing me to such an extent that walking, talking, and engaging in the other basic activities that social animals perform on a daily basis are monumental achievements for me. Would that I could function like most people seem to do. I find the Self, weighted with the blackest of bile and nowhere to turn for solace, a veritable prison cell. Dark secrets are locked inside and I must carry them in my heart every single day.
I had a dream that I was walking through a pond in the wee hours of the night. The water was murky, the air crisp, the surrounding trees menacing. The sludge underneath made it increasingly difficult to cross to the sidewalk on the other side. Initially, I sloshed through the slimy, viscous water with little effort, but soon thereafter, I was in the thick of it. I thought I'd get stuck there in the middle of wet darkness. It painfully occurred to me that wherever I was going, I was going alone. Wherever I'd end up, I'd end up there alone. I suppose this is not a new revelation to me, not even in waking hours, but for some reason this dark epiphany frightened me so.
This dream was one of those rare instances when I became aware in the course of the dream that it was in fact a dream. You'd think this mental awareness would have helped the situation, no? I mean, why did I continue to feel such fear and isolation if I knew it was merely a dream? When I was kid and had one of these self-cognizant dreams, I'd just close my eyes and wake up. It usually happened during a nightmare, and I had plenty of those as a kid. For instance, I'd be walking down a dark hallway expecting something to leap out at me at any second, and just as it did so I’d close my eyes and wake up in my bed. I didn't avail myself of this escape route, however. I just stood there in the water. The eerie mise-en-scène, like something from a Poe story or a Tim Burton movie, was surrounding me, closing in on me. Before I eventually awoke, I felt alone and afraid in an unbearable sea of black.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
A Coastal Drive (4/8)
Maryanne resolved to go on with her life. How could she not? Perhaps Mark Denison and his van at the vista point were divine intervention. She didn’t know for sure. Sitting in a hospital bed for three days and staying at home for nearly two weeks of leave gave her precious time to think. The respite did her good. Working in her flower garden, a chore long overdue, worked wonders for her, even if she was beset by an indefinable emotional numbness. The thought of suicide at least was no longer at the forefront of her mind.
Kirsten's presence at home and overall concern for her mother were additional solace, never mind that Jenny had to encourage her niece to be helpful. Though Maryanne still didn't approve of the decisions that Scott had been making and was continuing to make, all seemed to be forgiven. For what it's worth, her Ex, Chuck, had called a few days after the fateful day from Arizona or wherever the hell he happened to find a woman he could leech off. Of course the louse called when she was already discharged from the hospital.
As an act of sheer willpower, she opted to be her cheerful self at work; some members of the hospital staff—and I’m talking about Siebeck Veterans Hospital where she works as a nurse—couldn’t believe Maryanne had been in such an accident. What was going through her mind after a failed attempt at suicide is difficult to say. I mean, it's not as if all of her problems went away. Still, her attempt to kill herself was an act of passion, a hasty decision from a woman who saw no way out at the time. Clearly, those anti-depressants had also an ill-effect on her.
When people come close to death and live to tell about it, they often have a feeling of redemption, a sense that they’ve been given a second chance in life. Those who try to take their life and don’t succeed, however, don’t have this same outlook. Despite the comfort of family during her convalescence, Maryanne felt that aforementioned emotional numbness. Everything around her seemed surreal. One thing she knew for sure: she would take her secret with her. There was only one problem: Mark Denison.
Leave me alone and let me die! Maryanne mulled over these words. Did she really say this? She didn’t remember saying these words, but surely this guy Mark would not lie about it. Why would he? And the more she thought about it, the more she wondered why he wanted to tell her what she had said.
Eventually Maryanne shared with me what had happened, but I'm getting ahead of the story. I’m not much of an omniscient narrator. No, I’m a nurse assistant and had known Maryanne for about two years prior to the incident. Truth be told, I also have aspirations of being a writer some day. I hope to write a novel about my experiences at the Veterans Hospital. Believe me, those hospital shows on cable TV don’t really give the half of it. But I thought Maryanne’s situation, which I hope to unravel for you in due course, demanded a narrative.
Henceforth I shall refer to myself in the third person to avoid confusing the role of omniscient narrator with a periphery character such as myself. But let me first clarify something about Maryanne, at the risk of showing my bias. She’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. When I found out she was in the hospital, let alone finding out almost a year later that her accident being the result of a suicide attempt, I was heartbroken.
I get along well with the hospital staff, and I wouldn’t consider any of my colleagues “homophobic,” with the possible exception of Neil Stafford, the head pharmacist, who’s otherwise “old school” and not very talkative. Still, when my long-term relationship fell apart after I caught Dan cheating on me, I was devastated and didn’t feel comfortable sharing my grief with anyone at work. Frankly, I felt so alone in the world and withdrew into myself. Then came Maryanne, with her hugs, good cheer, and infectious smile.
She listened to my lament and saw my tears. She went out of her way to spend time with me in those initial weeks when I was struggling to put my life back together. Hurting from my own situation and knowing something about Maryanne's search for love, I had hoped she had truly found her soulmate.
In perhaps an unguarded moment, Maryanne once described John as the “love of her life.” John Eilers had much to recommend himself, and it’s not a mystery that Maryanne fell for him. He is handsome, charming, and the kind of guy you wanted to hang out with at a pub. No doubt these qualities made him one of the most successful real estate agents in Oregon.
He called Jenny, once he heard about the accident, a few hours after she was admitted to the hospital.
Maryanne’s sister knew that the relationship had been going through some hardship, but she was unaware that John had called it off. He arrived at the hospital with flowers in hand.
“Hi, Maryanne,” he said softly as he entered her hospital room. With Maryanne unresponsive to John’s arrival, Jenny took the flowers and thanked him.
“I would have come earlier, but I was…well, it doesn’t matter. What happened, Maryanne?”
Maryanne slowly looked up at John with different eyes than those before the day of her accident.
“I don't know,” she responded without emotion.
John looked at her with a mixture of suspicion and guilt.
“I was looking for some papers in the passenger seat and wasn't paying attention to the road.”
“Uh.” John looked at Jenny. “Do you mind if we have some time?”
After Jenny closed the door behind her, John turned to Maryanne. “I am so sorry.”
“For what?”
“For what? For this.” John gestured toward Maryanne's bandaged arms. “All of this. I mean, for wanting to end our relationship and... I could have handled things differently...”
“What are you talking about?” Maryanne knew very well what he was insinuating.
“An accident?” John shook his head slightly and wore a skeptical face.
Conflicting emotions were swirling inside Maryanne's bandaged head ever since John entered the room. She realized deep down that if he told her at that very moment that he reconsidered and was a fool for breaking off the relationship so abruptly, she would take him in her arms, cling to him and never let him go. Why not? That’s what she had wanted. Yes, if he were to express his desire to get married and spent the rest of his life with her, she would succumb. But of course no such words were forthcoming. Despite her strong feelings for the man who stole her heart, for the man she was convinced was were soulmate, at the same time she hated herself for wanting to regain “paradise lost” so readily. After the accident, things were different. Did she want to be with John again? Before she rammed her SUV into a white van on the edge of a precipice, the answer to this question was clear as day. Now, she was emerging out of a haze, not quite the same as before, about to embark on a journey to heal body and soul.
Kirsten's presence at home and overall concern for her mother were additional solace, never mind that Jenny had to encourage her niece to be helpful. Though Maryanne still didn't approve of the decisions that Scott had been making and was continuing to make, all seemed to be forgiven. For what it's worth, her Ex, Chuck, had called a few days after the fateful day from Arizona or wherever the hell he happened to find a woman he could leech off. Of course the louse called when she was already discharged from the hospital.
As an act of sheer willpower, she opted to be her cheerful self at work; some members of the hospital staff—and I’m talking about Siebeck Veterans Hospital where she works as a nurse—couldn’t believe Maryanne had been in such an accident. What was going through her mind after a failed attempt at suicide is difficult to say. I mean, it's not as if all of her problems went away. Still, her attempt to kill herself was an act of passion, a hasty decision from a woman who saw no way out at the time. Clearly, those anti-depressants had also an ill-effect on her.
When people come close to death and live to tell about it, they often have a feeling of redemption, a sense that they’ve been given a second chance in life. Those who try to take their life and don’t succeed, however, don’t have this same outlook. Despite the comfort of family during her convalescence, Maryanne felt that aforementioned emotional numbness. Everything around her seemed surreal. One thing she knew for sure: she would take her secret with her. There was only one problem: Mark Denison.
Leave me alone and let me die! Maryanne mulled over these words. Did she really say this? She didn’t remember saying these words, but surely this guy Mark would not lie about it. Why would he? And the more she thought about it, the more she wondered why he wanted to tell her what she had said.
Eventually Maryanne shared with me what had happened, but I'm getting ahead of the story. I’m not much of an omniscient narrator. No, I’m a nurse assistant and had known Maryanne for about two years prior to the incident. Truth be told, I also have aspirations of being a writer some day. I hope to write a novel about my experiences at the Veterans Hospital. Believe me, those hospital shows on cable TV don’t really give the half of it. But I thought Maryanne’s situation, which I hope to unravel for you in due course, demanded a narrative.
Henceforth I shall refer to myself in the third person to avoid confusing the role of omniscient narrator with a periphery character such as myself. But let me first clarify something about Maryanne, at the risk of showing my bias. She’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. When I found out she was in the hospital, let alone finding out almost a year later that her accident being the result of a suicide attempt, I was heartbroken.
I get along well with the hospital staff, and I wouldn’t consider any of my colleagues “homophobic,” with the possible exception of Neil Stafford, the head pharmacist, who’s otherwise “old school” and not very talkative. Still, when my long-term relationship fell apart after I caught Dan cheating on me, I was devastated and didn’t feel comfortable sharing my grief with anyone at work. Frankly, I felt so alone in the world and withdrew into myself. Then came Maryanne, with her hugs, good cheer, and infectious smile.
She listened to my lament and saw my tears. She went out of her way to spend time with me in those initial weeks when I was struggling to put my life back together. Hurting from my own situation and knowing something about Maryanne's search for love, I had hoped she had truly found her soulmate.
In perhaps an unguarded moment, Maryanne once described John as the “love of her life.” John Eilers had much to recommend himself, and it’s not a mystery that Maryanne fell for him. He is handsome, charming, and the kind of guy you wanted to hang out with at a pub. No doubt these qualities made him one of the most successful real estate agents in Oregon.
He called Jenny, once he heard about the accident, a few hours after she was admitted to the hospital.
Maryanne’s sister knew that the relationship had been going through some hardship, but she was unaware that John had called it off. He arrived at the hospital with flowers in hand.
“Hi, Maryanne,” he said softly as he entered her hospital room. With Maryanne unresponsive to John’s arrival, Jenny took the flowers and thanked him.
“I would have come earlier, but I was…well, it doesn’t matter. What happened, Maryanne?”
Maryanne slowly looked up at John with different eyes than those before the day of her accident.
“I don't know,” she responded without emotion.
John looked at her with a mixture of suspicion and guilt.
“I was looking for some papers in the passenger seat and wasn't paying attention to the road.”
“Uh.” John looked at Jenny. “Do you mind if we have some time?”
After Jenny closed the door behind her, John turned to Maryanne. “I am so sorry.”
“For what?”
“For what? For this.” John gestured toward Maryanne's bandaged arms. “All of this. I mean, for wanting to end our relationship and... I could have handled things differently...”
“What are you talking about?” Maryanne knew very well what he was insinuating.
“An accident?” John shook his head slightly and wore a skeptical face.
Conflicting emotions were swirling inside Maryanne's bandaged head ever since John entered the room. She realized deep down that if he told her at that very moment that he reconsidered and was a fool for breaking off the relationship so abruptly, she would take him in her arms, cling to him and never let him go. Why not? That’s what she had wanted. Yes, if he were to express his desire to get married and spent the rest of his life with her, she would succumb. But of course no such words were forthcoming. Despite her strong feelings for the man who stole her heart, for the man she was convinced was were soulmate, at the same time she hated herself for wanting to regain “paradise lost” so readily. After the accident, things were different. Did she want to be with John again? Before she rammed her SUV into a white van on the edge of a precipice, the answer to this question was clear as day. Now, she was emerging out of a haze, not quite the same as before, about to embark on a journey to heal body and soul.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Kentucky
I just spent two weeks in hot, humid Kentucky for my annual military training as an Army Reservist. I have few memorable and interesting experiences from this trip, a couple of exceptions being a daylong train ride with a train crew from my transportation company and a visit during off hours to a few Civil War sites. The Battle of Richmond occurred here in August of 1862. The Confederacy won the battle, but—spoiler alert!—Johnny Reb lost the war. On one day a soldier injured his ankle playing basketball, so his platoon sergeant and I took him to the hospital. On this and other occasions I had an opportunity to drive into Richmond, which is located about fifteen minutes up the road from the Blue Grass Army Deport, the site of our training exercise. I had a pleasant experience. Richmond houses Eastern Kentucky University and offers a decent number of stores and food joints. The people are friendly as could be, especially toward the military. I went to a Hardee's one day and a Starbucks another; someone insisted on paying for my meal on both occasions. Senior citizens came up to me and either expressed appreciation for my service or talked about their sons’ experience in Vietnam. Kentucky seems like an okay place to live. Years ago I applied for a position at the university in Louisville. If I lived there, I'd probably just drink bourbon whiskey all the time.
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