Diary of a LAN Manager

Story title ideas: For Rent: 105 Charles Place

Here I stand again, speaking to an empty room. My thoughts aren't worth the cyberspace they would take up if I cared to tweet or post to Facebook, but here I stand anyway. I had no idea how long it had been since my muse had forced me to write. I used to write almost daily, poetry mostly, when I was younger and believed that someone cared what I had to say. I wanted to be e.e. cummings or T.S. Eliot or anyone who seemed to be so comfortable in his own skin to pour out his emotions onto a blank page. It took me a few years to realize that the writers who filled my pantheon of literary deities were not that comfortable after all, but wrote because not writing was more painful than the spilling of emotion. So I think I will take up my keyboard once more, wade out into the battle, and write.

Spring made a brief appearance in Nashville, then proceeded to try to wash us down the Cumberland before exiting somewhere mid-May and letting summer in early. We skipped June and July and proceeded straight to August - or at least the heat would lead you to believe it. Time passes in such a blur. My youngest turned twenty, my nephew turned one, and it's been a year since Momma passed away. I try not to dwell on it, honestly. But some days are harder than others. Mother's Day was hard. Her birthday was hard - even my birthday was a little tough to get through, considering that all I could seem to think about was that last year I spent my birthday in a funeral home. I think she would be laughing at me now, though, if she were here, as I try to tend to my mini-garden on the deck. Last year I got one lonely tomato from my two tomato plants; this year, I have enough green beans to almost be worth cooking up, but the tomatoes don't look promising at all. I think I'll go home...

Four seventeen thirty-eight. No, these are not the winning numbers in the lottery; they are the words I heard my mother struggle to speak each time the various staff members at the clinic and in the hospital asked her to confirm who she was. Four seventeen thirty-eight. It was easier than trying to make them understand April, since the page they were looking at had the numeric convention of her date of birth. Four seventeen thirty-eight. April 17, 1938 was Easter Sunday. My grandfather was said to have called his firstborn his little Easter Bunny; my grandmother refused to let him name the child Bunny and settled on Bonnie instead. I don't remember my grandfather much, except that he had a huge smile, a booming laugh, and that he smoked cigarettes pretty much until his last day on earth in 1967 when he died of lung cancer. But I have no doubt that he loved his little "Bunny" very much, as did my grandmother. Because Easter is a moving holiday, it never fell on April 17th...

On the ride into work this morning I let myself be lost in the foggy mist and enjoyed the last of the snow from this past weekend. It will no doubt be gone soon, soaked into the ground as if it never existed. Snow for me has always held a deeper meaning. I am happiest when it snows, yet I couldn't begin to explain why. So I looked out the window, imagining romantic characters striding across the pure white expanses, and just breathed in the beauty. Snow wraps around the seemingly dead landscape, and whispers promises of rebirth and renewal as it gently cradles the world in its soft, white blanket.

I thought about deleting all the past posts - none of them have any meaning to anyone but me anyway- but I couldn't do it. Let them sit there, unread and unremembered. There were no posts in 2009. There was nothing positive I could find to say, although there were happy moments mixed with the sad. The sweet mixed with the bitter. The birth of my nephew, the death of my mother, the numbness that followed, and lingers. The start of my journey towards an MBA, the job that no longer inspires me, the purchase of an Airstream to help bring me back to center. That was 2009. This is 2010. It's time to turn and face forward, and soldier on.

Bon mot for the day: We tend to live in the past when we can't see much of a future.

"O wad some Power the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us!" It has occurred to me of late that I've spent most of my life knocking around like the proverbial bull in a china shop, leaving hurt feelings and destruction behind me as I go. If I go back and analyze conversations and situations I've been in, I can see how some people I've been around could easily believe I'm a jerk. I cannot make any excuses for my behavior. To say that I didn't mean to be rude or hateful isn't sufficient. To claim cluelessness is to deny that my behavior was my fault. I have no way to make any of it right, nor is there any reason for anyone to believe that my future behavior wouldn't be just as offensive to some. I'm trying to make amends. I just don't know what else to say or do.

Like a bad penny.... We used to scuba dive as our hobby, a hobby which eventually led to the procurement/construction of a small dive trailer to haul four sets of gear and four cylinders. It was a simple but elegant design - a box on a single axle frame, with the beginnings of a mural painted on both sides, and dive flags at either end. The kids had helped paint it, with Stephen taking special pains with the sharks. When we moved to Nashville, we sold it. We didn't dive as often, and we had no place to store it. Nearly ten years have passed since that October in '99 when we came up here, and I hadn't thought much about the trailer. I thought I had seen it the last time we went to Greenfield, but I wasn't sure. Then Saturday my mother-in-law called to say the neighbor across the street had our trailer for sale. The neighbor was asking a certain price, and we offered a little less. She called back later to say it was ours for the picking up. Sunday we made the trip to fet...

Cancer sucks. I'm not whining, I'm just stating facts. It sucks. It doesn't play by the rules, and it certainly doesn't fight fair. When they said Momma's cancer was back, Iwas frustrated. She already fought this thing. It should have been the end of it, not just the beginning. When they said it was just in her lungs, I was slightly encouraged. There's no cure, but there can be control - it's possible to keep it beaten into submission. But they didn't tell us the whole truth, and they may not have known the whole truth, so I'll try not to lash out at the people I believe are trying to help her, not hurt her. The MRI painted a much darker picture. Three spots on the brain. And oh-by-the-way, what are you doing about the tumors on the spine? WHAT tumors on the spine? Who knew? When did they know? Why didn't they communicate this? But again, it does no good to bash the people who are trying to help. So a new battle plan has to be executed in this fi...

I have a picture on my desk of my dog. I don't keep photos of the kids. I should, but it's something I didn't do before, and while I have them at home, I just don't do it here at work. But I have a photo of Bear, stuck in a gaudy green magnetic "My Dog Is Incredible" frame I got for signing up for a newsletter. The photo was taken back in Greenfield, probably in '97 or '98. She was maybe three years old, tops. I used to joke with people that she liked that picture best, because it was taken when she still had her girlish figure and she didn't weigh the 120 she did five years later. She's all smiles, contented lounging on the floor, ears perked up. It's the way I want to remember her, full of life, contentment, and just happy to be a part of the family. Today was a rough day. I didn't want to do it. But I knew it was really past time, and that nothing the vet could do could undo aging. She was 13, her hips and muscle mass was fading fast...

A random glance through the local free paper recently led to the realization that Chris Botti was coming to play the Ryman. Over my protests, my daughter purchased tickets, and so it was that Wednesday evening was spent in awe, and my iTunes are still stuck on my Botti playlist. Music may be my second language, but I still don't know the words to describe jazz. My initial fear was that he would be some blow-hard (pardon the pun), stuck on himself pretty boy who only wanted the spotlight on him. How wrong I was. He celebrated everyone's contribution onstage, was self-deprecating, and was genuinely fun to watch. It's almost as if he had come to play in my living room, entertaining a few hundred of my friends. We were thoroughly entertained by a master showman and trumpet player, and his supporting band members. And I will never look at Google's "did you mean" the same way again.

So I had my summer all planned. Heather graduates: Check. Heather gets wisdom teeth removed: Check. Heather schedules knee surgery to clean up a torn meniscus, and I schedule to take a week off for her recovery, with plans to work on a wedding dress for her older sister: Check. Right before my birthday, all my planning took a detour. I know people think I'm being flip when I say that life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans, but it's just a variation of the old Irish saying, "If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans." Well, I guess He's laughing up a storm. Momma's cancer is back, with a vengeance, and has moved into her lungs. I convinced her to seek treatment here, and I'm in the process of moving her in with me. And that week off? I bought the material. I'll get started on the dress later. I will get it done. But I have other things to take care of as well, and I'm determined not to let things get me down. S...

Oh, the mistakes you'll make.... Heather graduated recently. All three of my kids made it through high school, and the older two more or less put themselves through college. I don't take credit, but I am proud of all of them. At Heather's graduation, which was more variety show than "Pomp and Circumstance, ad nauseum," the kids did a production of Dr. Seuss' "Oh, the Places You Will Go." It was amazingly professional, even with understanding the caliber of student who attends this school. Heather's performance with the select group of orchestra members was likewise phenomenal (and yes, I'd say that, even if she weren't my kid). But the Seuss performance was very appropriate, and reminded me of some things I've told my kids, but failed to remember myself, chief of which is that life isn't fair. Fair is a weather condition. Sometimes you'll be surrounded by friends and family who support you. Sometimes you'll be alone. Some...

The cafeteria is crowded with employees and "visiting" families - a euphemism for suffering, because most have that look of pain mixed with hope. The drone of hundreds of conversations is near-deafening. A young man with a hard hat walks up to the piano in the corner, sits down, and carefully places his hat on the floor. Those who notice exchange worried looks; he's wearing a tattered West Coast Choppers sweatshirt and a red bandana wrapped around his head. Gently, he raises his hands, closes his eyes in concentration, tilts his head slightly, then begins to play "As Time Goes By". There is no parody in his playing - he plays with love and emotion, never missing a note, carefully controlling the tempo, leading his keyed partner in a tender dance.

" Love is patient, love is kind and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant " "Least said, soonest mended" "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can put my heart through the shreddder" Words have power. No one denies that. Words can build, words can break. Words chosen in anger can crumble a relationship of many years. Words taken out of context to build support for an argument can be devastating. The stronger my feelings are, the less I want to say for fear of saying the "wrong" thing, for fear of being misunderstood. When I snap under the pressure and try to vent, like a pressure cooker that's been cranked up too high, usually everyone involved, myself included, gets burned. I've been publicly humiliated enough. I surrender. I'm tired of fighting. I give up. I'm the witch you say I am if it will make all of this stop.

"I don't have time to be sick. There's just too much going on right now." How many times do we say that? How many times do we ignore the warning signs - Slow! Yield! Warning! - until we hit the big red STOP! or else? We tend to pay attention to that one - most of us, anyway. So my stomach hurt. So what. According to the ads on TV, I should just take a dose of Pepto and I'd be right as rain by morning. I ignored it. Worked through it. Popped Tylenol and blamed it on stress or maybe bad chicken. I was fine. It was Memorial Day, and I was GOING to feel better! Saturday I couldn't cough without crying. It occurred to me that it hurt this bad when my appendix was near the rupture point - but it was gone, and the pain was on my left. There's really nothing over there to hurt like this, right? I was trying to tough my way through another day when my mother called. It was bad news - my aunt Mildred had passed away during the night, after fighting breast cancer an...

A brief discussion of the rights of grandparents.... with apologies for those whom this might offend. My friend Mike has a lovely little grandchild. His granddaughter was born to his son and his son's live-in (they opted not to marry so as not to mess up her college funding). Subsequently, the two decided they didn't want to spend the rest of their lives together, so the son began proceedings to establish legal parental rights. This process has not gone well, and the girl's mother also wants to block Mike and his wife from access to the child. So off to court they go - and I can't say that I blame them. They want what's best for this child, and the mom isn't quite meeting their standards. But I'm not blameless in this discussion either. My children had three sets of grandparents, so to speak. My husband's parents, my mother, and my father and his wife and family. Out of respect to my mother, and because I never quite repaired the relationship with my fat...

Today they held the parade for the 2007 World's Biggest Fish Fry in my hometown of Paris, TN. It's a significant "floating" date for me, because on Fish Fry Friday eighteen years ago, I was in an accident while on the way to take Stephen to ride on a float in the parade. I had stayed up until past 1:00am putting the finishing touches on his sailor outfit that I had made, and maybe lack of sleep clouded my judgement just a bit. We were late. Anyone who knows me knows that's one of my trademarks. I'm always late - time management escapes me, which is why I'd been up late working on the suit. It was a beautiful, clear, April morning, and we were just about halfway between Greenfield and McKenzie, going through a wide spot in the road known as Pillowville . A truck had pulled out in front of me, going about 30 in a 55. Ahead was a passing zone, and nothing was coming. So I did what people do when they're running late and don't want to do 30 all the wa...

When I first heard about blogging, I thought it was cool. I had friends at work with LiveJournal, and I found reading their thoughts, looking at the things they found funny, and listening to their favorite songs to be more entertaining than anything else I could do on the web. I seldom find funny things on the web by myself. I find them because someone else saw them first. Sooooo.... since my childhood aspiration was to become an author, I thought it would be a perfect fit. I could finally put what I was thinking down on paper, and pretend I was a real writer. Sadly, I realize what a hack I am. Because music is such an integral part of how I communicate, I find myself quoting song lyrics to express a feeling, rather than coming up with any original thoughts of my own. I find myself quoting poetry for the same reason. I'm afraid to put down what I really think or really feel because no doubt I'd step on someone's toes. It's very constricting. Creativity is stifled under ...