As of late I’ve come across some great material that got me thinking about why I write in the first place. The article above from The Collaborative Writer gets it exactly right. I admit it: I am my own worst enemy. I tend to over-think everything and spend too much time planning what I’d like to do when I really should be writing. I. Just. Need. To. Write. Why is that so difficult in practice?
The thing is that I truly believe everyone has a story. No one has a perfect life. Everyone is struggling with something and conflict is the heart of any great story. Not only does that simple premise – everyone has a story – get to the heart of why I write, it is also the reason why I love to read. I am drawn to biographies and autobiographies or any good plot driven by realistic conflicts dealt with by well-rounded characters.
Again, I keep going back to asking myself why it has to be so hard. I love to create. I know what I like to write. I always feel more myself when I write. Why don’t I write more? I think we all need to ditch the excuses.
The video included below I came across as part of training for my position as a clerk. I love the message of the video. It is all too easy to forget that everyone is struggling with something.
A week ago yesterday, I picked up my new car, a 2013 red Chevy Malibu. Sad to say, it just seems like an end of an era in my life. In the 16 years I’ve had my driver’s license, I’ve owned and driven two Pontiacs – a 1989 red Grand Prix and a silver 2002 Grand Prix. That’s it. I tend to hang on to cars. I don’t think I exaggerate when I say that I believe my 1989 Grand Prix saved my life.
July 24, 2002 I was in a bad car accident in Austin, Texas. I was driving on highway 290 on my way to work at Applied Materials. I was almost to work when a big white moving truck made a left-hand turn in front of me; I had the green light and was traveling 55 MPH. The other driver did not see me. I slammed on the brakes so hard I broke my big toe and fractured the metatarsal. I was lucky. Most of the front end of my car ended up under the side of the truck. I hate to think of the possible fate of any front-seat passenger I may have had. Fortunately the only other injuries I had from the crash was a bad cut behind my ear from the molding on my driver’s side door and a small cut on my knee. Despite not having airbags, I did not get bombarded with glass from the windshield. Fortunately the safety glass held. At 5 ft. 0, airbags might have made things worse prior to smart airbag technology.
Ironically I originally planned to sell that car after the end of my co-op with Applied Materials. Instead I found myself car shopping for a new Grand Prix in Austin, Texas with my Mom. There are so many memories of that 1989 Grand Prix though, I was very sad to see it go, despite its quirks. My parents purchased the red 1989 Grand Prix new in 1989; I was 8 – and excited for a new family car. Prior to that car, my Mom drove full-size vans that doubled as canoe livery vehicles throughout the summer. Suffice to say my Mom was very happy to have a car again! I was just as excited to go car shopping with my parents. It was a 2-door, red, and sexy for its time. Of course it was love at first sight.
One snowy Christmas Eve a year or so after my parents purchased the car, my parents, my sister, and I found ourselves helping a young woman who ended up in the ditch. As we drove home from festivities at my grandparents’ home in Standish, we were nearly home when my parents saw a set of headlights in the ditch. My Dad backed up the car and helped the driver, a young woman on her way to her parents’ home for Christmas. My Mom, in her gorgeous fox coat, which my Dad had trapped for her, climbed into the backseat with me and my sister. As the driver wasn’t badly hurt and didn’t want medical attention, we drove her to her parents’ home. It is one of my favorite childhood memories. When you are just newly 9 years-old, I suppose it passes for adventure.
I think the intention always was to hang onto that car until I was old enough to drive. In the 1995 model year, Pontiac came out with an entirely redesigned Grand Prix, the wide track. At the time my parents were friends with a couple who owned the local GM dealership. Mr. W knew what he was doing and drove one of the new Grand Prixes over to my parents’ house. All of us fell in love with that car. Hook, line, sinker. My Mom ended up with the car and the 1989 Grand Prix was put in the pole barn until I could drive. At the time, there weren’t many 1995 Grand Prixes on the road yet, and my Mom got plenty of looks in her new car (of course it was red too). At 14, I have to admit I was envious.
Now I had a car of my own! I had nearly a year to play around with what would become my car, drive it in the campground, and set it up exactly as I wanted it. I couldn’t wait to drive, even if it meant driving my little sister everywhere too. A few months after I got my license, I ended up in my first fender-bender in that car one icy February morning on my way to school. It was the first car crash my sister and I had ever been in. We both just absolutely burst into tears – and then drove on to school and called Mom.
In many ways, it was E’s car too. It seemed as though each school day my sister and I would fight over control of the radio and tape deck. There were certain single tapes I had in the car that she insisted on playing over and over again; it drove me crazy. I hate to admit this, but I used to make E pump my gas. It was a while before I did it myself. On cold winter nights, I picked her up from 4-H ski club, along with her skis, which we would have to put through the trunk into the backseat. She even drove my car throughout my freshman year at Michigan State and had her 5 CD changer installed in the trunk. Eventually, though, she ended up with my Dad’s old Jeep, which is an entire post on its own.
After my sophomore year at MSU I ended up with an internship at IBM out in Rochester, Minnesota. There was only one problem: I still wasn’t comfortable behind the wheel. On my first day of driver’s education, back in June 1995, my cousin A, who is only 10 months older than me, ended up being hit head on by a drunk driver. Fortunately A survived; the other driver did not. A owned a white 1988 Grand Prix, and it too probably saved her life.
As one can imagine, her crash left an impression on me as a new driver, especially since we grew up together and went to the same schools. I simply didn’t trust other drivers. Things were better by my sophomore year at MSU, but the idea of driving out to Minnesota for the summer was daunting. My Grandma ended up riding out to Rochester with me and then flew home. By the end of the summer, I looked forward to the drive home by myself.
My drive home from Minnesota is one of my favorite memories of my 1989 Grand Prix. I loaded up my sister’s 5 CD changer with my favorites and drove through Minnesota, Wisconsin, and the UP of Michigan. It happened to be a gorgeous August day, and I was anxious to start getting ready for my year of adventures in Ecuador and Spain. After all those years, I finally started to feel comfortable behind the wheel.
If I learned how to drive in my 1989 Grand Prix, I learned to love to drive in my 2002 Grand Prix. That poor car: I put it through a lot! It has a few trips from Michigan to Texas and back again on it, and almost exactly 183,000 miles when I turned it in last week.
The thing is: It was not the original car I wanted. My Mom talked me into it. Sure, I wanted another Grand Prix, but I wanted a sexy gold 2001 with leather seats and a sun roof. The cars happened to be about the same price. My Mom talked me out of the gold 2-door though. She brought up the fact that I’d probably be moving at least once after college and the 4-door gray would be infinitely more practical. She couldn’t have been more right. I moved several times with the help of that car.
The funny thing is that the 2002 I owned echoed some of the styling of the Grand Prixes of the 1970s. As a child, the Mom of one of my best friends owned a chocolate brown late 1970s Grand Prix – a boat of a car. I remember thinking how deep the backseats were back then. The same goes for the 2002. In fact, three of my little cousins, all siblings, ended up getting carsick riding in the backseat of my car. I doubt any of the three could see out the side windows at the time.
Oddly, I can’t say I have any memories of dating in either of my cars. I didn’t date in high school, and when I finally did date in college, we always ended up either not driving or taking my date’s car. I do have very fond memories of my boyfriend Brian’s old Pontiac 6000 though. It wasn’t particularly sexy or great looking, but Brian more than made up for that. It was just a great car with even better memories. Originally owned by Brian’s Grandma Menja (Marie), Brian drove the 6000 throughout high school and college. Brian totaled the car in 2001 only to have it fixed up and continue driving it until after we graduated from college in 2004.
In fact, most of our first date – the worst blind date I’ve ever been on – took place in that car. It happened to be a rainy, freezing late February night in 2000, and since we couldn’t decide what to do next on our date, we spent a good share of the evening just driving around Bay City, trying to get warm and dry after getting caught in a freezing rain walking along the riverfront. After we finally got together in 2004, we always seemed to find ourselves driving around in that car. We drove all over Lansing, East Lansing, and Michigan State. I loved that car too and was sad to see it go.
One of the best memories I have of that car is coming home to my apartment in East Lansing on graduation day to see him sitting on the trunk of his Pontiac looking like the best graduation gift ever. My family couldn’t come to the graduation ceremony for my Spanish degree from the College of Arts and Letters, they were coming the following day for my graduation from business school, so Brian decided to come. Memories of that last semester of college and that spring are some of the best of my life, thanks largely to Brian.
Yeah, you could say that I liked Pontiacs. I will never understand GM’s decision to kill the brand. If they ever bring it back, I will definitely take a look at what they have to offer. Since Pontiac’s demise in 2009, I’ve heard time and time again that the Aztec was to blame. I have to admit, it is quite possibly the ugliest car I’ve ever seen, although I don’t think it was the sole reason why GM decided to kill Pontiac. Unfortunately, Pontiac’s untimely demise left a huge hole in downtown Bay City. Dunlap Pontiac closed its doors in downtown Bay City after 85 years in business.
I love cars, and I’m not sure if I could truly call myself a Michigander if I didn’t. Last week I not only said goodbye to a car I owned for over 10 years, I said goodbye to a brand I loved. I’m just glad my Mom still owns her 2007 Pontiac Solstice. I loved my Pontiacs. I love my new Chevy Malibu too. What I really love is the freedom a car represents. I think it is time for a road trip. Feel free to share your car memories in the comments.
There are various reasons why I took an extended break from blogging. I want to share the details very shortly, but here’s the issue: There is just so much to say. While personally my life is heading in the right direction, and there is great potential for me to achieve some of the most important goals I’ve set for my life, every day I’m surrounded by a society that appears to be coming apart at the seams. I’d love to put my sense of loss – and concern for my country – into words. I’m simply not there yet.
Ok. For some reason “Sweet Child O’ Mine” has been in my head lately. It would actually make a perfect theme song for this blog. Of course, as soon as I start stalking YouTube to listen in and maybe even find the original music video, so many other great Guns ‘N’ Roses songs came up. “November Rain” and “Welcome to the Jungle” in particular, both of which will always remind me some of the best times in college.
For some reason I’ve been thinking about all of the songs I loved back in college, or more precisely, 2000-2004. Here are just a few of my favorites. I could listen to Morcheeba, Macy Gray, and Bob Schneider all day. Don’t even get me started on Nelly Furtado. “Whoa Nelly!” was practically the soundtrack to my entire semester in Ecuador. Still love Macy Gray’s and Nelly Furtado’s voices. Dido‘s “Thank You” was everywhere to the point where I hated the song. After not hearing it for over ten years, it still holds up.
I debated whether or not to write at all about 9/11. There just doesn’t seem to be anything left to say. I then decided to finally write about Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer, the plot of which hinges on the events of 9/11. Unfortunately real events made it impossible to not write about 9/11.
I woke up this morning to learn that the US Ambassador to Libya, Christopher Stevens, was murdered, along with three others. That attack, along with major protests outside the American Embassy in Egypt, makes it clear we are still at war. All sparked by a rumor. The thing is that no matter how hard we all try in the United States to pretend we aren’t still at war, that 9/11 didn’t change everything, there are still terrorist attacks.
Back in 2000 I studied abroad in London for a month during the summer. Every day I used the Russell Square tube station to get around the city. It happened to be merely blocks away from Commonwealth Hall, where we were all staying that July. It is precisely the same tube station attacked in 2005 after it was announced London would host the 2012 Olympics.
In 2002 I spent a semester studying Spanish in Caceres, Spain, once again through Michigan State University. Throughout that semester I made several trips via train to Madrid. Time and time again I’d find myself in Atocha Station. I can’t even begin to tell you how heartbroken I was when I learned it too was a target for terrorists in 2004. I can tell you precisely where I was when I heard the news.
While I haven’t experienced the day to day anxiety of say New Yorkers in the days and weeks following the September 11th attacks or the residents of Washington, D.C. a year later during the beltway sniper shootings, terrorism did color many aspects of my college days. To this day 9/11 seems surreal to me. At the time I was studying abroad in Ecuador (again, Spanish). It took weeks before some sort of normalcy returned to our routines as foreign exchange students. We all kept expecting additional attacks back home. I remember pleading with my Mom to tell me exactly what was going at home the evening of 9/11. We heard so many rumors I suppose I needed some reassurance that life at home as I knew it did go on.
In Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close, the young protagonist of the story, Oskar Schell, uses the term “heavy boots” to describe any sadness or unpleasant emotion relating to losing his father Thomas Schell on 9/11. The term just seemed so fitting for the events of that day and everything that followed. I suppose that is the precise term for what I’m feeling today: heavy boots. It saddens me deeply to think of how many people across the globe have lost their lives as a result of terrorism since 1979. Believe what you wish, but we are still very much at war.
I really didn’t want to get political, but sometimes I just can’t help myself. In a week that saw a democratic national convention that essentially sent the message that we owe our very existence to government, this song has played in my head all week. I had to share.
Since when did the Constitution and the Bill of Rights become void? I’ll be damned if I am ever forced to subscribe to the idea that Americans can’t succeed on their own, without government intrusion, or the notion that women must indeed be Democrats on the basis of reproductive rights. There is a reason why I haven’t written about my beliefs on reproductive rights: It hits way too close to home and I am too angry.
I will never be told what to think or do. Never. It is insulting to insinuate that all women must necessarily think alike. I’ve come across that assumption time and time again on the Left, shared by people who dare to call themselves “liberal” and “progressive.” I think they are in desperate need of a vocabulary lesson – and a dose of humanity.
I’m hoping to make some decisions regarding my writing soon. I need a fresh start. I have all these wonderful ideas, and then they just fall away because I don’t make the time to follow through. I can do so much better.
Sometimes fragments and germs of ideas are bounced around in several different ways before they truly come together. When they do finally come together, it can be downright magical. It all started with the simple notion that I am a writer and I love genealogy. Once those two things became known, a cousin suggested I write about the history of the family business on my Mom’s side of the family. That idea has been kicking around for a while, I am far from ready to go there for a whole host of reasons, but it was something important, an idea. By the way, if you are reading this L., I haven’t completely given up on that idea.
Fast forward a couple of years and all of a sudden my parents and siblings are aware of my blog. Not only are they aware of my writing, they actually think I am a good writer. No bias there, right? Here’s the thing: I think the biggest praise was from my Dad. He is not the type to give praise for just anything, whether or not you are his child. The fact that he is even aware of my writing is huge. But I digress.
So, as my Mom is boosting my ego by telling me my entire nuclear family is at least somewhat impressed by my writing, she completes the idea. She thinks I should write the history of our family business, the history of Russell Canoe Livery. I like to think of it as The Story of Us. The thing is that Russell Canoe Livery is such a family oriented business, and I hope it always will be, that it will be impossible to write about the livery without writing extensively about the history of my Dad’s family, as well as our own. The entire idea gets at the very heart of our family, the reason I decided to study business in the first place, and even who I am as a person. I want to make this clear: I can’t imagine my family not owning the canoe livery. I can’t imagine growing up not working for my parents. It will always be very near and dear to my heart.
Aside from all of that, it is a compelling story. It is a story of entrepreneurship. It is the story of a mother and son working together to keep a business running under less than ideal circumstances. It is the story of two baby-boomers raising a family of three kids. It is also the story of the love between grandparents and grandkids. It is also the story of an extremely small town that likes to keep to itself. It is also the story of friendly competition and a changing society.
I have to do this. If nothing else I have to do this for my nephew and any future nieces and nephews. They all deserve to know the story.
Oh, and not to get political, but: Yes, my family did build this. We did it DESPITE government actions.
By the way, if you’ve never had the pleasure of watching America The Story of Us on The History Channel, it is wonderful, even if long. It is a unique look at what makes the US what we are today.
It was unbearable. The whole thing. Every second worse than the last. I just kept thinking about calling him, wondering what would happen, if anyone would answer. In the last weeks, we’d been reduced to spending our time together in recollection, but that was not nothing. The pleasure of remembering had been taken away from me, because there was no longer anyone to remember with. It felt like losing your co-rememberer meant losing the memory itself, as if the things we’d done were less real and important than they had been hours before.
The Fault in Our Stars by John Green (Photo credit: theunquietlibrary)
Dear D.,
I’ve been meaning to write you all this past week for the obvious reason: August 15 would’ve been your 31st birthday. It pisses me off I can’t directly tease you about becoming a dirty old man despite the fact I am older than you. I still feel cheated out of years of memories of us. I suppose I had such a clear vision of us still arguing over memories in our 70s and 80s, just like your Great Aunts E. and G. and my Grandma, I still can’t quite believe it just wasn’t meant to be.
The passage above describes well what I feel nearly three years after you passed away. I’m afraid those quirky memories we made in childhood, high school, and then college will die if I happen to forget. I just don’t want that to happen. I don’t want to forget. I’m glad I read The Fault In Our Stars by John Green before I tried to write anything. Now this letter has a purpose.
That is what is so aggravating. Every time I think of you, what I want to say to you, or memories of us, it just seems to go nowhere. Without you here, who is left to really care, besides me? No one. Once I come to that conclusion for the hundredth time, I realize how futile writing a letter to you is. And yet, I can’t help it. I have to do something. There were way too many things left unsaid.
By the way, don’t get the impression that I’m the only one who remembers you. I can only imagine the hole left in your family. Just the other day I came across a post Carla posted on your Facebook wall. I know she misses you just as much as I do, as does Jelly. Some time ago I saw Jelly when I ordered something at Tony’s, and we just didn’t even know what to say to each other. It was the first time I saw her since you passed away. We talked about anything and everything else, but that doesn’t mean you weren’t first and foremost on our minds.
So here it goes. Here are a few memories of us:
High School –
Freshman Year. You ended up getting hours of detention for picking on me in Freshman English. It became so bad Miss V. quipped that you and I would probably end up married someday, we were that practiced at nagging each other. Every time I think of Friends, Romeo and Juliet, or Great Expectations, I think of Freshman English and you. I can almost feel you tapping me on the shoulder and hear you make some smartass remark about people trying to look like Courtney Cox. By the way, I know you knew you had it all wrong. The haircut was called the Rachel for a reason. You just liked to play dumb to get attention. I still find it amusing that you ended up with detention and I didn’t.
Prom. I will never forget you on Prom Night, senior year. You ended up taking my cousin K. (Rusty) as your date, and she became Prom Queen. I’d never seen you so incredibly happy. You had to tell everyone that you were the date of the Prom Queen and were genuinely happy for her. I know it is stupid, and I never admitted this, but until I saw you that happy, I was envious of K. If you’d asked me to the prom, I doubt I would’ve said yes. But that doesn’t mean I couldn’t imagine it. It could’ve made up for years of us being ostracized by our class. We could’ve spent all night making snide remarks, joking around, and just proving everyone wrong. In the end, I don’t think either one of us had the guts.
Kayaking and Guy. I’ll never forget your Aunt L. and Guy visiting from Texas one summer. Somehow I was pressured into taking Guy kayaking. I don’t think I ever paddled so fast in my entire life. The entire trip was strange. I just felt like I had to show him up, he was that cocky. You were very right about him. I can understand why you two weren’t exactly friends. I’m trying in vain to remember whether or not you went with us. Maybe you just came to the Livery and didn’t go kayaking? It doesn’t matter. We did talk about Guy and came to the conclusion that he was a little too wrapped up in Friday Night Lights.
State. I distinctly remember the day we received our housing assignments for our first year at Michigan State. My jaw dropped when I realized not only were we going to attend the same university, we were assigned to the same dorm complex, Snyder-Phillips. Quite frankly, I wasn’t happy. I just wanted to start fresh as MSU, and there you would be, a reminder of school years I would rather forget. In the end, I’m so grateful for that simple twist of fate. Quite simply, college would not have been the same without you.
A National Championship and the Flintstones. I love the fact that we somehow found each other among throngs of people in Cedar Village after MSU won the 2000 National Championship. I think about that April night a lot. How could I not? That picture of us outside Cedar Village – you smoking a cigar and your arm around me, me smiling like my life depended on it – is among my favorites.
2nd Floor, Snyder Hall. You used to love hanging out on my floor in Snyder Hall. I’ll never forget the crazy 3 AM political conversations we had, Kim included. I just can’t wait until we have the first female President of the United States. I’ll smile, think about how you just lost a bet, and carry on, thinking about how very wrong you were the entire time. Sexism doesn’t pay.
Where were you? I’ll never forget getting a call from your Mom freshman year at State. She couldn’t get a hold of you and simply wanted to know if I knew where you were. I didn’t at that moment, and the entire thing broke my heart. I wish I could’ve helped her – and you.
Capstone. We’d lost track of each other during those years I studied abroad. Nevertheless, you found your way back into my life. You just wanted me to look over your résumé and rekindle our friendship. It worked. You once again became a fixture in my life.
Crunchy’s and a Broken Heart. D, I have no idea what your true feelings for me were, but you must have truly cared for me on some level, whether you wanted to acknowledge it or not. During the spring of 2004, as my life was endlessly shifting under me before I could even regain my footing, you somehow knew how heartbroken hearted I was. You knew that I simply needed a night out with an old friend who understood just how upset I was. I wanted that job in Austin desperately, not to mention the mess that was my personal life at that point. Many things happened that evening, of course , and even the next day. I’m not going to talk about them here, but I need to say this: Thank you! You knew just what I needed, even if I didn’t.
Brian. That same spring, 2004, I began my relationship with an old friend, Brian. Your teasing still makes me laugh. Some of it was so spot on, especially those jokes about how I could never have any fun while living in Arenac County. You basically stated that any night of debauchery in Arenac County would become common knowledge before I even made my way home. So very true. I got the sense that you were happy that I finally had a man in my life, my first true romantic relationship. Those were some wonderful days for Brian and I, and I think you could sense just how happy I was at that moment. If only I could live in those moments forever.
Aftermath.
A phone call or two. It still upsets me that we weren’t closer in those first few years after I graduated from Michigan State. I thought we would have time. Unfortunately that is what we didn’t have. There were several times I wanted to call you up and just lay everything on the line. I wanted to know what your feelings for me were. That was one thing I could never figure out. I wanted to know why you had so many issues with your Mom and brother, especially your Mom. I wanted to know what was really going on with you. Unfortunately we never had those conversations. I didn’t realize just how wrong things were until you were gone. It was too late.
Great Auntie G.’s Funeral. Of all my memories of you, your Great Aunt G.’s funeral stands out. It was the last time I ever saw you. It started immediately. We just gravitated toward one another. I suppose that’s no surprise as we were the only people under 50 in the room. Then, of course, my Grandma asked us to go get her a package of hearing aid batteries. We may have been at a funeral, but it sure didn’t take us long to start laughing our butts off once we were out the door. You either laugh or cry, right? You have to admit: It was the perfect excuse for us to catch up. After picking up the hearing aid batteries, you and I just drove around and reminisced. We covered a lot of ground from Standish to Omer. I’m so glad we had that opportunity. In a way, it was almost as if you were saying goodbye. The last time I saw you, you and your Dad were leaving the funeral home and walking toward the Granton. It angered me at the time, but I suppose everyone deals with death in their own way. I just never figured out how to deal with yours.
You have no way of knowing this, of course, but I never made it to your funeral. I ended up having to work. I suppose it is just as well as I would’ve been an absolute wreck. A few weeks after your funeral, I tried to find your grave. There were things left unsaid (most of which I am writing here today) and I wanted to get it all off my chest. There is so much in our hometown and in East Lansing that will always remind me of you.
And yet, there is one thing that still bugs me. What was our relationship? Whatever it was between us was much deeper than simple friendship, and yet we never had a romantic relationship, not even close. The closest thing I can come up with is that we were family without actually being related. We knew how to get on each other’s nerves, we knew how to make each other laugh and cry, and above all, I think we both cared. Was it really as simple as that? I like to think so. I love you and miss you.
Linds
PS – Oh, and one last thing. Your Mom. I never told you this, but your Mom happened to be my Grandpa’s favorite nurse. I know that you didn’t have a good relationship with her and it never was any of my business, but I am grateful to her. She took great care of my Grandpa when he was dying. I wish I could simply tell her thank you. I wish I could talk to her about you.
Ramblings of a Misguided Blonde 