Seven Memories

1.

"Hey Holly, I have something to tell you."

I paused in mid-step, unconsciously reaching out with my right hand and grabbing the railing on the stairs. Turning, I looked out the window at the fall leaves covering the ground, phone cradled against my ear. I was surprised that Will had happened to call while I was back in town to see The Tempest, but I considered it a happy coincidence.

"Oh? What's up?" I asked, trying to sound casual. He seemed far too excited for it to be bad news, but I'm naturally paranoid.

"Kim's pregnant! We're expecting a baby next summer! We haven't told hardly anyone yet, so I don't necessarily want to you tell everybody, but I had to talk to you and let you know that..."

I grinned and continued to stand in that stairwell for thirty minutes as Will's joy flooded out of the cell phone.


2.

"What did you think of it?" Will asked as I threw his script down on the desk in front of him.

"I've beta'ed better fanfic," I noted dryly, looking at the bent top page of Car Wars. It really wasn't that bad of writing, but for the past several months it seemed like everyone had done nothing but stroke his ego about his writing, his acting, his singing... really, just about anything he'd done. And, for his age, he was good at those things. But somebody needed to keep him from getting too big a head.

Good thing I was around.

"I understand it's supposed to be a parody, but the characters..."


3.

With practiced ease I slipped around and between tables, taking pictures of all our friends currently at Fazoli's.

"Make sure to get all the cousins!" Kim teased.

"That's what I'm doing," I replied with a grin.

Alumni and current students were all crammed together at the long table, around twenty of us eating and catching up with one another. We had completed a reading for Hero Squad earlier that afternoon and were celebrating with laughter and cheap pasta.

Finally I made my way back over to where Will, Kim, and Sherri were. Will grinned and poked Sherri in the side.

"You know, when I told you to get as many people together as you could, this was the last thing I expected. Thank you."


4.

We hurried along the sidewalk, trying to get back to the theater in good time. "...and then there's option c: chicken nuggets," Will said.

Big T and I had gone several steps before we realized that Will had completely stopped walking. Big T and I exchanged puzzled looks before turning back towards him. Will had taken off his orange hat and looked as bemused as we felt.

"You know... I think that may be the most random thing I've ever said."


5.

A horrible trombone noise filled the apartment, and I awoke with a start. I shot upright on the couch in an instant, looking around a bit in panic.

Sherri and Will started laughing at me and told me to go back to sleep. "It's just the music they play when Godzilla..."

"Wait!" I said, my tired eyes fixing on the television screen. "Is Godzilla using a breath attack and flying?"

They just kept laughing at me.

Grumbling about stupid Japanese monsters, I rolled over and went back to sleep.


6.

"Sorry I don't call as much any more. It feels weird to call a married woman at night."

Will was on his way to Kroger and had needed someone to talk to. It made me happy as we rarely got the chance to talk much on the phone any more.

"I understand. I'm always paranoid I'm going to wake your family up if I call at night, and I hate to interrupt you during the day," I replied.

We kept chatting, catching the other person up on everything new going on in life. After a bit, Will explained, "I was really nervous to send that manuscript to you, you know. All I could think of was you walking into that classroom, slamming my script on the desk and telling me how it was utter crap."

I blinked a few times. That wasn't how I remembered it. Then again, it had happened over ten years ago.

"Well, we both know I wasn't the nicest person in high school..."


7.

I was collecting the last of my things on my desk, making sure I had everything I needed for the upcoming weekend. It was going to be my last state tournament for Forensics. In less than a month I would finally graduate from high school, and in the fall I would be starting college.

Now is no time to get sentimental.

It was a little weird not having Will going with us. We would of course be stopping at the Japanese steak house again (how Mr. and Mrs. H were going to manage nearly thirty high school kids on a weekend trip...). In the past it had always served as a birthday celebration for him.

"Hey Holly, miss me?"

My ears registered who it was before my eyes fully pinpointed where Will was standing. As soon as they had a lock, however, I took off running and nearly tackled him in a hug. "What are you doing here?"

Will laughed, barely managing to keep his balance. "Mr. H was needing another chaperon for the trip, and asked if I'd like to go with...." He laughed again, and I let go of him. "I can't believe I finally succeeded in surprising you."

*    *    *    *    * 

Happy birthday, Will!

This too, shall pass

"Do you mind if I step out to smoke while you set up the next board?" Hip Gamer asked as Never Too Old started pulling out a new map and arranging mini-figs on it.

"No, go ahead. It'll be a moment," Never Too Old replied.

Hip Gamer and Something Catchy went outside while Sam and Curly milled around getting drinks and chatting with Never Too Old. Walking Hyperbole had left earlier that evening to rescue Adorable Nurse from a flat tire, so Curly was filling in for him.

I stayed in my chair, feet tucked under me to try and keep them warm. The weather had turned suddenly cold and wet that day, and the house was protesting the abuse. Pulling out my iPhone-turned-iTouch, I first checked in on Facebook and then scanned over Twitter to see what was what. As I idly made my way up the series of tweets an announcement that President Obama would soon be addressing the nation caught my eye.

That's strange, I thought to myself. Why would he be having a press conference this late on a Sunday night?

About that time, Hip Gamer and Something Catchy returned and took their places at the table, and the quest to rid the temple of invading Gnolls resumed.

My character (Moira, not Annie) had just buried an arrow in the shoulder of a Gnoll when the sound of Mario catching a mushroom filled the air. All eyes turned to Hip Gamer as he pulled out his phone to check the text message.

"Holy crap," Hip Gamer said, surprise plain upon his face. "I'm glad Rapier Wit keeps an eye on the news. Osama bin Laden's dead!"

"I had wondered why the President was holding a press conference..." I mumbled to myself, pulling my phone back out and accessing my list of political blogs.

Everyone babbled atop one another as more details of the raid emerged. Poor Never Too Old kept trying to push us through the encounter so we could wrap up for the night, but I at least was distracted from the game.

It was difficult to wrap my brain around the idea that bin Laden was dead. 9/11 occurred my senior year of high school, and in many ways was the defining moment when I entered into the adult world. That day marked the first time when I could truly understand the implications of a major event. Nearly ten years later, the man responsible was finally taken down.

The euphoria of the moment startled me.

It is a bizarre moment to realize that you are celebrating the death of another human being. But I also recognized that I would have felt that same euphoria had I heard that we had captured bin Laden, as opposed to having killed him. It wasn't that he was dead--it was that that particular chapter of our history was now, hopefully, closed.

An end of an era, if you will.

Love you, Mama

Fifty-nine years ago today, Grandma Nena brought my Mama into this world. Today, she and Papa and a couple of their friends are headed out east to celebrate this fact. With any luck, they'll return a little bit richer than when they left.

Happy Birthday, Mama! It was good to see you this weekend, and I can't wait to hear how your trip went. :-)

Sucked in

Books are dangerous for me.

For as long as I can remember, I have loved reading books. When I was a child, the punishment my parents used to threaten me with wasn't losing sweets or television, but my books. I would spend hours and hours and hours reading.

The problem, however, is that it's very difficult for me to focus on getting anything else done when I have a book. School work, housework, jobs, friends, family--it all has a tendency to fall by the wayside. If for some reason I can't read right then--like when I was having to take customers' calls, for example--I was still focused on the book. Why had the characters done that? How was the author going to tie these disparate plots together? When will they catch the bad guy?  


This can be a very bad thing.


The very first test I failed was in first grade. Being a rather bright child, I typically completed my classwork ahead of my classmates and was frequently bored in class. This resulted in my constantly talking to the other students and disrupting class, so my teacher moved my desk to the side of the room and made me sit by myself.

On one such occasion where I'd finish my classwork well ahead of the others in the class, I pulled out a book and started reading, since there was no one nearby to talk to. Next thing I knew, the teacher was going around the classroom asking for everybody's spelling tests. When she asked me for mine, I looked at her blankly and wanted to know what spelling test. Apparently, the class had finished working on whatever project I'd completed, and so the teacher moved on to the next thing, the spelling test. I, however, did not do this, because I was busy reading a choose-your-own-adventure book. Since I wasn't paying attention, she just failed me on my test.

Twenty years later it still pisses me off to think about it, to be honest. I've always privately suspected she forgot I was over in my corner, and then blamed me for occupying myself.

But I digress.

Thankfully, as I grew older, I developed a knack for being able to hear my name and pull myself out of the book I was reading and participate in classes. But that all-encompassing hold that books have over me never truly diminished. After I graduated college and had to start working for a living, my consumption of books drastically decreased. I simply couldn't afford to split my attention off from my work, especially since it had a tendency to be rather dangerous for me.

Now-a-days, I rarely pick up books and read them any more. Not because I dislike reading--far from it. But when I pick up a book, that pretty much means that the next 4 to 24 hours are shot, because I'll keep reading until the book is finished, and I rather enjoy being productive around my home and taking pictures and blogging and gardening and spending time with my friends and... well, you get the picture.

Every now and again, however, I allow myself to go off on a binge. Which is why I disappeared last week.

Sooner or later I've got to learn moderation.

Addendum

Should you decide that it is an excellent day to go out and take pictures of incoming spring-time, please remember to either a) take your keys with you or b) not lock the door behind you.

Thank goodness I had the back door open so Tiger could see out.

That is all.

It's dangerous to go alone

Today marks the 25th anniversary of the original Zelda's release in Japan.

This makes me happy, but also make me feel incredibly old. I was almost two when it came out.

The first game system I really remember is the NES, which my brother got for Christmas one year, I believe. My father's reasoning was that it would save money in the end, because every time you died in-game, you didn't have to pay another quarter to play again.

My family fell in love with Zelda when they played it. My parents and big brother spent hours and hours drawing out maps for each of the dungeons on graph paper. Not only did they make the layouts, but included what enemies were in each room, where to use bombs, what needed keys, and the best routes to take to find everything and beat the dungeon quickly.

In the intervening years, we have recopied those maps on at least four different occasions, because the previous versions would grow so old and yellow that you could hardly see what was written on them any more.

The Legend of Zelda's been such an integral part of my family's culture, that it became a right of passage to beat the game. I believe I was about 11 or 12 when I finally beat it. I had downloaded an NES emulator onto my computer and started playing through it. Mom saw what I was doing and told me to dig out the NES and play it old-school.

Mom and Dad then proceeded to guide me through the dungeons and give me tips and hints. Prior to that, I had always manned the maps and told them where to go.

It was a bizarre feeling.

This past Christmas, we guided Sam through the game. It was a bit different of course--they had downloaded it onto the Wii, since the NES now lives with Sam and I. Still, after a couple of days Sam had destroyed Ganon and rescued the princess. When he had finished, I heard C-3PO in my head saying, "You are now a part of the tribe!"

(I know the original quote is "we are now a part of the tribe," but that's the wonderful thing about imagination--it can adapt.)

So, it is with great joy that I celebrate Zelda's 25th anniversary!

It's all Star Trek's fault

"I hate driving in Dallas. Assholes," grumbled Sunshine. Long strands of his hair were covered in oil and sawdust, sticking out every which way. It made him look a little like a mad scientist.

Several of us were sitting on the edge of the stage, injecting more caffeine and sugar into our systems on our break.

"Tell me about it," I replied. "Of course, my Dad would consider it a walk in the park. He went to high school in L.A. after all, and learned to drive there. Though, he says it wasn't nearly as bad back then in the sixties as it is today." I then proceeded to take another swig of Mountain Dew in a vain hope of not feeling quite so bloody tired.

"That explains it!" exclaimed Props Guru, looking up from where he was carving foam a little further down the stage.

"That explains what?" I asked, looking at my other coworkers and seeing they were just as confused as I was.

"You. I've been trying to figure you out for over a year. You grew up in Kansas, went to a Baptist school, and yet your whole outlook is incredibly liberal. I just knew there had to be something," Props Guru explained, long fingers flying about and emphasizing his words.

At the description of me as incredibly liberal. Audio Mentor had to suppress a laugh. I could tell. Honey, his eyes seemed to say. you are a moderate. Don't ever let them try to tell you otherwise.

Before I could say anything, however, Props Guru leaned forward, asking eagerly, "Your dad was a Californian hippie, wasn't he?"

For a brief moment, I considered setting him straight. As far as I knew my father was never an actual hippie, and he'd hated living in California. Dad couldn't wait to get back to Kansas.

But Props Guru looked so utterly pleased with himself.

With a bemused expression, I replied, "More of a biker, but yeah. I guess you could say that."

Sorry, Dad, I thought to myself. I don't have the time, patience, or heart to explain it's all Star Trek's fault.

Hard sacrifices

I grew up in a union house.

My mother, once upon a time, was a union steward at Ma Bell (yes, back before they broke up into the Baby Bells we all know today). My father has been a proud member of the IAM union for well over 30 years, and even though he's now retired, he still pays his dues to the union.

Papa went on strike five times during his time at "the flying-B ranch," if I remember correctly. As a child, I didn't really understand the significance of it. It just meant that every four years my Daddy would vote on a contract, and sometimes that contract was bad and my father would be home a lot more than usual.

As I grew older, going on strike in my head meant financial worries and stress for my parents--would we be able to pay our bills, have food, etc. The food, of course, was supplemented by the union. Cereal, beans, rice, peanut butter, flour, sugar, canned corn, canned green beans--anything that had a shelf life and was cheap. But the rest of it... I knew families that lost houses, or cars, or got way behind on bills because they were on strike.

My parents lost their first house due to a strike. It's why I grew up in my home town.

But, for all of that, I never remember either of my parents expressing regret for "going on strike." They also instilled in me the idea that it was The Right Thing To Do when necessary.

I remember how angry my parents would get when the local media would try to present the strike as an argument over wages. My father told me more than once that it wasn't about wage increases, but what was happening with the benefits. In the sixties, seventies, and eighties, the company (in exchange for not raising wages at the time) agreed to pay for their employees' insurance, to provide pensions, and to ensure that a worker could not be arbitrarily laid off because they were making too much money in comparison to younger workers. Later on, as health costs started rising and pensions became rarer and rarer in industry at large, they would try to take those away from the workers. And the union, because they could negotiate their contract for the group as a whole, could go on strike and force the company to honor previous agreements and ideas.

Because these people were willing to put their homes and families' well being on the line, they would walk away with a better contract than what they started off with (or, at least, one that wasn't worse than the previous). And because the big manufacturers in the city would provide benefits or increase wages for their workers, the smaller industries in the are would follow suit to a certain extent, and everyone benefited.

Too often, people who go on strike are presented in the media as these lazy, greedy people who are trying to screw businesses out of profits. In reality, these are often people who work in dirty, dangerous, and/or tedious jobs, and oftentimes would work more than 40 hours a week at it. And they'd put everything on the line to help their fellow workers out.

I started thinking about all of this, because I've been keeping an eye on the situation in Wisconsin, where the governor there is trying to push a bill through the legislature to remove the right for public employees to do collective bargaining, a.k.a. have unions. I've also been reading about the thousands of protesters who've been storming the capitol, even to the extent where the governor has been forced to do government business at a nearby corporation because he could not get into the capitol building.

I confess, I did a bit of cheering in my living room this afternoon when I read about various members of the state senate who have gone out of state to prevent there being a quorum so that the legislation does not pass.

Basically, I wanted to let my little part of the world know that I support the workers in Wisconsin. Because I do understand what it's about, and I'm proud of them for making hard choices.

After all, I grew up in a union house.

A little pick-me-up

It's cold and all of my joints are letting me know it (not to mention my three cats and the snow falling outside).

But I came across this this morning, and it immediately brightened my day. It's from Not the Messiah, which is the oratorio version of Life of Brian.

Enjoy!

Failing Illusions

Christmas when I was six. 

There comes a time in the life of every child, when they learn that Santa isn't real. For some it happens as they approach middle school. For others, it happens much, much earlier.

I figured it out when I was 4 years old.

My grandparents had moved back into town the previous summer, and were now living in a small retirement complex where my Grandma Nena still lives to this day. My parents had driven down with my brother and I on Christmas Eve, or perhaps the day before. After 20-odd years, some of the details are hazy in my mind.

I do remember the tree that was set up in the corner of the living room, positioned so you could see it whether you were in the living room or the kitchen. Presents were piled up beneath the tree, and I happily helped my mother unload our presents from the car to put under the tree.

The day progressed, and there was much laughing and talking, food and card games. While the adults were playing bridge (or perhaps it was hand and foot?), I played in my Grandmother's bedroom, chattering at myself the whole time. In the course of my play, my doll fell off the bed onto the opposite side of the room, and when I went to retrieve it, several presents wrapped in brown paper and ribbon were piled on that side.

Confused, I pattered back out to the living room, announcing, "Mama, Mama, we missed some of the presents that need to be under the tree!"

I imagine the panicked looks that the other adults must have been exchanging, but I honestly don't remember them. My mother looked at me with a surprised expression, "Where are they?" she asked.

"Next to Grandma Nena's bed! Come look!" I told her, leading them to her bedroom.

But when we got there, there were no presents.

I was now genuinely upset. "But they were there! I promise!"

"Well, if they were, they're not now. But it's time for dinner now, sis," said my brother as they lead me back to the front room.

We settled in and around the dining room table, and soon all thoughts of the mystery presents disappeared from my head. After dinner, Grandpa Jim insisted on all of us piling into the van and driving around town, looking at all of the pretty houses glowing with Christmas lights and good cheer. When we got back to the house, Aunt Di read my brother and I the Christmas story.

Soon it was time for presents, and I fleetingly thought of the packages I'd seen earlier, but they never made an appearance that evening. Before long it was time for little girls to be in bed.

The next morning, there was much excitement because, of course, Santa had been to visit during the night. When my sleepy head padded out to the front room, what did I see beneath the tree?

Brown paper packages tied up with string.

Faithful friends who are dear to us...

Outside, two pillars of red and green framed a porch drenched in icicle lights as a lightly chilled wind blew dark clouds across an eclipsing moon.

Inside, the house was cheery and bright. A modest tree stood before the front window, decorated with angels and ornaments found over the years. Beneath the tree, a pile of presents steadily grew as each group of guests arrived. Stockings were hung on the wall with care, between shelves laden with books and holiday trinkets.

Ensconced in the big chair sat Walking Hyperbole, his hand unconsciously running through Adorable Nurse's hair as she sat on the floor in front of him. Hip Gamer gestured and talked animatedly from his place on the couch, a holiday drink in hand. Beside him lounged Rapier Wit, long, lanky legs splayed before him, while Gleeful Traveler sat also on the floor and leaned against Hip Gamer's legs. Curled in a large, leather office chair next to Rapier Wit, Literary Cat relaxed and watched the proceedings with a knowing gaze. Sher-bear nibbled a cookie made especially for her while she sat at the table, with the occasional laughing exchange with Literary Cat.

My Sam was perched on the keyboard chair, leaning his chin against the back of the chair, just behind Walking Hyperbole and Hip Gamer. I sat at the table with Literary Cat and Sherri, soaking in the joy of having my family in my home.

We sat and watched as images from the past five years flickered across the screen, while Christmas Carols intermixed with Fall Out Boy, Flogging Molly, Great Big Sea, Lily Allen, and Five Iron Frenzy in the background.

As a picture of Adorable Nurse playing amongst rocks and waves came on the screen, she said "I love that shot of me!"

"I really miss that shirt. Whatever happened to it?" Hip Gamer wondered as another picture from his college days appeared.

Walking Hyperbole sat up a little straighter, "I really have lost weight already. That makes me feel awesome!"

Another picture scrolled across the screen. "Whoa! Check out Sam's monstrous beard!" Hip Gamer said.

I piped in, "That was taken my senior year, so yes, we have proof that he and I did meet at school."

"That was your birthday party Rapier Wit, remember?" Sam added.

Rapier Wit beamed. "That's right! Does this mean I can officially take credit for your relationship now?"

Meanwhile a portrait of Sherri in Central Park came up.

"That's a great picture of you, Sher-bear," said Adorable Nurse.

"Thank you!" she said, only a trifle bashful.

On the television, Literary Cat and Rapier Wit posed at their wedding.

"And that's a picture of Literary Cat going 'I'm tired of taking pictured now," Adorable Nurse laughed.

"I'd been taking pictures all morning before we even got there! Yeah, I was tired of it," Literary Cat replied.

"There's a lot of pictures from weddings on there," I said. "Weddings are about the only time we take pictures when all of us are together."

Rapier Wit gave the couple next to him a sly grin, "Hear that Hip Gamer? It's up to you to have the next wedding so we can take pictures again."

At that point Hip Gamer decided it was time for all of us to open presents.


Friends are the family we choose for ourselves.
--Edna Buchanan

Growing Up

Editor's Note: I meant to post about this earlier, but 3-day weekends have a tendency to make everything go wonky.


Over the weekend, Sam and I attended a local community theatre production of Little Women, based on the novel by Louisa May Alcott. As we walked back to our car after the show--dodging other drivers and trying not to freeze to death--it struck me just how much my relationship with theatre has changed over the years.

Ten years ago, my only real exposure to theatre was the productions our high school had performed and the occasional trip to Crown Uptown in Wichita. Had I seen this production then, I would have thought it fantastic and highly enjoyable, especially since it was based on one of my childhood-favorite novels.

Five years ago, I was on the verge of graduating from college with a bachelor's in theatre. Had I seen this production then, I would have spent the whole time picking apart the acting done in the show. While there were many splendid moments in the show, not all of the actors were strong throughout, and many of the character choices did not match the image I had in my head for the characters. Most likely I'd have attended with several of my fellow students, and we would have spent the next day ridiculing it to our classmates. Not because it was a bad show--because it wasn't--but because all of us at that time were very much theatre snobs, and would have insisted we could have done it better.

Two years ago, I had come to the decision that I needed to get away from theatre, at least for awhile. I'd injured myself during my latest gig, and was finding in myself a desire to settle down. During that time, though, I'd done multiple professional shows and seen Broadway/West End shows. This production of Little Women would never have registered on my radar, and had I seen it then, my focus would have entirely been upon all of the little technical slip ups--the dark spots on stage, the lamp that kept flickering in and out--as well as the mishaps with lines and entrances.

This weekend, however, I had what I consider now to be the better response. It actually made me happy. Yes, a part of me did notice the parts that weren't perfect. However, I had an absolute blast. It was fun for me to see people--many of whom were untrained for this--experiencing the joy of being on a stage and interacting with the energy of the audience. I loved all of the little details that were in the set design, and highly impressed with the period costumes that they'd managed to piece together. Overall, it was a very merry experience.

And I realized that this is what I missed about theatre, and why I had burned out. I missed the absolute joy that comes from creating a good story, and seeing people grow and do better. Having been away from it for the past couple of years, I was able to appreciate the way the whole community came together to enjoy what their local thespians had managed to put together to present to them.

More importantly, I came to the understanding that even if I never actually work in a theater again, I want to be that person who goes to the local plays, musicals, operas, concerts, and art shows. It may not be Broadway, the London Symphony Orchestra, or the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but it is still the arts, and still needs to be supported and cultivated.

It was a happy discovery.

Four Years Ago....

"What are you doing between shows today?" Drama Manager asked.

Never looking up from the intense game of Connect 4 I was playing, I replied, "Don't have any plans. Debating whether or not I want to drive all the way out to the apartment, just to turn around and come back a couple of hours later. Why?"

"Good, then Music Geek and I are taking you to get your Christmas present." the tall blonde replied, satisfaction radiating off of her in waves.

That made me look up from the game. It would be lost in three moves any way, and Magic Bed Guy was grinning far too smugly.

"Oh? What is it?" I asked.

"You'll find out on the way." Music Geek piped up, skulls and crossbones emblazoned across her chest.

No amount of pleading or wheedling on my behalf would cause either girl to relent, and so I had to wait until we'd finished the latest show of A Christmas Carol to find out.

Finally, all of the students were out of the theater, and I made my way back to the green room were the others were waiting on me.

"Ready to go get your present?" Magic Bed Guy asked, as apparently he was driving us.

"Yes, but what is it?" I mock-wailed, thoroughly enjoying myself.

Music Geek and Drama Manager exchanged a long look as we headed out towards the car, as if debating how much longer they could stay mum before I hurt them.

"We've decided to get you a cat." Drama Manager declared as she and I crawled into the back seat.

"What?!"

I had made no secret that I loved cats and dearly missed Tiger. They had all heard my reasoning that a cat is easier for a theatre person to take care of than a dog is.

"We're taking you down to the SPCA to get a cat." Music Geek clarified.

If I thought the students had taken forever to get out of the theater, it was nothing compared to the excruciatingly long drive to the SPCA.

Twenty minutes later, we walked through the door.

A long counter ran down the right side of the room, behind which a ragged woman was processing an adoption for an energetic ball of licky fur that I later found out was a black lab. Another woman told us to feel free to look around at the animals available.

Next to the counter were four cages, each of which contained a cat. Inside the top cage was two cats about a year old. The first, Austin, had white fur with black patches/spots, similar to Sherri's Oreo. The second was a pure black cat standing protectively in front of his brother.

"Well aren't you a cutie." I said, sticking my finger through the wire mesh at the black cat. His name tag read Nelson.

Nelson batted playfully at my finger, then stuck his cheek next to it in a clear command to scratch it. I complied.

"Let's go see some of the other cats." Drama Manager said, gesturing towards a room further back.

I told Nelson he was a handsome lad, scratched under his chin one last time, and headed towards the back room. Two steps later I felt something catching on my shirt, and when I looked back, Nelson had reached his paw through the gaps in the cage to catch my shirt.

"Don't worry, I'll be back." I reassured him as I disentangled his claws.

Music Geek wanted to go look at the dogs before we continued looking at the cats, so we wandered back to the dog area first.

"Aren't pugs precious?" she wondered wistfully, as though she didn't already have one.

"I like labs myself." Drama Manager replied. Her boyfriend had recently gotten one to train as a hunting dog.

"Don't have the time or space for a dog, unfortunately." I told them, and then went back to where the other cats were. Music Geek and Magic Bed guy stayed behind with the pups, but Drama Manager went with me.

Kittens were cavorting with a bell. A couple of the older cats were curled up towards the top of the cat trees in there. Tabbies, calicoes, a Manx, two Siamese cats, and several tuxedo cats stared up at me from behind the glass.

None compared to Nelson, though.

After several minutes of Drama Manager trying to interest me in the kittens, I wandered back to the front room where Nelson and Austin were.

Nelson was at the back of the cage with Austin, but when he saw me he wandered back up to where I was.

"You know I can only take one of you, right? I can't afford both of you right now."

Well, more accurately I couldn't even afford one; my friends were getting me a cat for Christmas.

Nelson gave a sad look back to his brother, then meowed at me. It was the prettiest meow I'd ever heard.

"Okay then." I told him, scratching his chin.

Drama Manager told the lady behind the counter we were getting Nelson. Thirty minutes later we walked out with a very frightened cat in a cardboard carrier.

"I don't care for the name Nelson, though." I murmured to him through the box as we bounced over railroad tracks.

A very frightened meow answered me.

"It's okay, we're almost there." I assured him.

Drama Manager, Music Geek, and Magic Bed Guy made suggestions the entire ride back to my apartment. Like any good group of theatre technicians, they had numerous creative names, from pop culture to literature to names like Spot. As I thought about their creativity, I suddenly knew what my black cat's new name would be. Just then, we pulled into the parking lot of my apartment complex.

"Welcome home, Techie."

Here he is, four years later.

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

The lights were dim in the house. Sam and I had curled up on the couch with a couple of mugs of coffee, intending to kill some time while we waited for our food to settle. Our intentions were to go to the gym a little later in the evening,

Dinner was put away and cleaned up, though the cats were still prowling about waiting for their food. We'd decided against playing a game, because invariably when that happens, we end up playing games all night and never complete our errands. Nala hopped up on Sam's lap and started rubbing her head against his chin, which slowed down his coffee intake considerably.

The screensaver kicked on on our computer, which in turn is hooked up to our new television (a Christmas gift from Sam's grandparents). We talked about our day. Sam told me how the design was going on the new website, the FedEx class he's taking to be able to ship chemicals, and the excitement of actually selling a spa at work; I told him about the potato soup I made up on my own that day, the latest internet scandals and memes, and of course all of the cute things the cats had done to entertain me.

After a bit, the screensaver popped up one of the videos I have from my college years. Sam commented on how one of these days I'd have to narrate these videos so he knows what's going on, since the screensaver doesn't play sound. Instead I woke the computer up and actually started playing through some of those old videos--will helping Sherri with her contemporary math class, Sherri maiming Mama Cow, Walking Hyperbole calling Adorable Nurse while Rapier Wit bounced to Mario Kart music in the background, Tiger when she was a kitten....

It was a wonderful opportunity to allow him a glimpse into my life back then, and the way many of our mutual friends interacted as college students. While Sam's first year and my last year at our Alma Mater overlapped, we never met one another. He came to be friends with all of my friends the following two years, due to his friendship with Rapier Wit. 

(At least, that has always been my contention. 

Sam insists that he and I met each other during a trip to Bartlesville to see our friend, Living Life, in The Complete Works of Shakespeare: Unabridged. He recalls details of the trip that he would only know if he went with, but none of us remember him being there. What's more, he insists that he and I rode in the back of the car and talked the whole way there and back.)

Steadily we worked our way through my senior year of college, watching more video snippets: College Players dressing up as pirates, street performers in London, rehearsals in Dorland, and a trip to the Renn Faire. My redheaded husband was growing sleepy, despite the coffee in his system, though he swore he wasn't bored looking through my memories. Still, I figured I should wrap it up, and so at random selected one last video.

The camera was panning across a table full of people, and I was pointing out who some of the people were that featured in stories I'd told him. 

"Of course you know who that is. And that's Drew." I pointed out.

"Wasn't he in the music program? I swear he worked as an assistant for my Dad or something." Sam asked.

To be honest, I couldn't remember the exact details, though yes, I did know he'd been involved with the music program.

"That's the guy who played El Gallo in the Fantastiks with his girlfriend. And that's--wait a minute! Is that you?!"

As the camera had continued to pan down the table, there was this shot:

There before our eyes was proof that Sam and I actually had crossed paths during college. 

I remembered vaguely that there was a guy Rapier Wit had known when he was in Jr. High/High School that had shown up at our college, and obviously that guy was Sam. Still, it startled me to realize I  had video and pictures of Sam from before what I think of us our "official" meeting. 

Meanwhile, Sam was oblivious to the shock running through my system.

"I remember that. He had called me asking if I wanted to go to the Renn Faire, and I had told him, 'Sure, when is it?'

'Um, we're leaving right now.'

'Man, there is no way I can go right now, I'm in the middle of something.'

Then he told me to meet y'all for food afterwards."

Check it over before you take a bite...

Sometimes, I like to close my eyes and call forth a memory and try to remember as much detail about it as I can. Initially I started doing this as a part of a game of "What if?" that I'd play. For example: what if my brother had gone to college instead of into the Navy? or what if I hadn't gotten strep throat in 7th grade and hadn't missed all those pre-algebra classes? How would it have changed my life?

In order for the game to work correctly, however, I'd have to pull forth as detailed of memories as I could of certain incidents before I could begin imagining how things would have turned out differently. I found that the more I would play my "What if?" games, the more I spent time just trying to stretch my memory and recreate exact scenes.

Sounds like it should be easy, doesn't it? But I've found that because I love pictures so much, that often times all I can remember of an event, place, or person, is the pictures I have of them, instead of the actual memory. And then, I had the thought earlier today that perhaps I could, from time to time, try and write out one of these memories that I'm trying to recreate.

So, here's one memory:

I'm in the lunchroom/all purpose room of my elementary school. From my perspective, it's a huge room, with a half-a-dozen lunch tables set up in it--one for each grade that takes lunch there, plus one for the teachers. I'm seated at the table closest to the teachers, because I'm in the first grade. Early spring sunshine comes through the windows in the east wall behind me, but it's cool and almost watery. The lunch table is covered with a brown, fake-wood laminate. The bench seats are connected to the table and can be folded up on top of it, and the table in turn can then also be folded in half for storage.  I'm small enough that the toes of my sneakers just barely brush cold linoleum below.

This is me at 6, before the tooth fell out.

I can't recall who's sitting next to me--I could make good guesses based off of who was in my class, but I can't actually visualize them. In front of me is a pea-green plastic tray, with flecks of grey and white. The tray is divided into six sections--a long thin one on the left side for silverware (fork and spoon--no knives for grade schoolers!), a larger rectangle for the main entrée and a medium circle for our potatoes are at the bottom of the tray, and across the top are three squares--one for our fruit, one for our veggie, and one for our carton of milk. I have chocolate 2% milk (it's before the school went to skim milk), a greasy, pale brown potato cake, lukewarm canned pineapple chunks, an ice cream scoop of sour coleslaw (yech!), and a large hot dog on a bun.

My left incisor has been loose for a week or so, and my parents keep saying it'll come out soon. This is a scary thought for me, because I know when my dad goes to the dentist to have work done on his teeth, he always complains about how it hurts. The prospect of having a tooth pulled out (because I didn't understand the difference between baby teeth falling out and adult teeth being pulled out) terrifies me.

The hot dog is a shriveled, reddish-brown thing, drowned in a sea of ketchup and cradled in a hot dog bun that was fresh maybe at the beginning of the semester. Maybe. I listen to all of my classmates chattering around me as I reach down to take a bite of the hot dog.

After taking the bite, I immediately realize that something is very strange. There's a weird popping sensation, and mouth feels strangely warm--and not due to the hot dog. As soon as I finish swallowing, I realize that my tooth is missing!

My tongue instantly goes to the place where the tooth should be, and I feel this weird dangling flap of skin. I start panicking because I don't know where the tooth is and I've figured out that that's not ketchup but blood in my mouth and I've never lost a tooth before and all of the other kids are staring at me wondering what's going on and oh sweet baby Jesus why doesn't someone help me?!


As soon as my classmates realize what's happening, they get down on the floor, looking under the table and across the linoleum trying to locate my tooth. The teachers are flustered because probably a quarter of the students in my area are out of their seats, but after a few minutes they manage to get the kids to sit back down, despite the fact that nobody came across my tooth. I leave to rinse my mouth out with warm water, and before long I return to finish my lunch, quietly bemoaning the fact that I have no tooth to leave for the tooth fairy.

Sitting down, I pick up my half-eaten, soggy, limp, shriveled-up hot dog, and as I go to take another bite, I realize that buried in the pink, inner meat of the hot dog, is my little white tooth staring up at me.


To this day, whenever I eat a hot dog, I still find myself checking to see if I've left one of my teeth behind.