• Going back to my roots

    I’m living life with Snow Leopard and iTunes 9. Fellow Apple fan-boys (or excuse me, girls) know what I’m talking about.

    I’m giving the Genius Mixes a whirl in iTunes 9, and “Rock Mix 6” is a collection of music ripped from the CDs of my childhood. Yes, I’m one of those people: all my of CDs are ripped, roaring, and ready to go on my Mac.

    It’s been a little while. I’m hanging with Huey. I wasn’t born until ’71, but I’m reminiscing about the Summer of ’69. Sammy’s still not driving 55. Love will find a way, but I’m not sure I want to know what the Big Generator is about. The kids are eating it up.

    I’m enjoying it, in a guilty pleasure kind of way. Maybe it’s just the music from MY past, but it occurs to me the ’80s were the American Cheese of music history. We call it music. It’s popular and comes in handy, individually wrapped squares, but has little nutritional value.

    None of this is fair of course. Every generation has its fluff and filler. Picking on the Reagan era is just so easy… so satisfying… on so many levels.

  • Words I would use

    My mother-in-law called me earlier. She told me it was 63 degrees in New Hampshire, but it was raining.

    Everything before the comma was good natured taunting – it’s still seat sticking hot here. Vinyl seats are cruel and unusual punishment. I think the raining bit was supposed to cushion the blow, but I’m the odd Floridian who doesn’t like this much sun.

    I would replace the but with an and. It would be all taunt. My face would strain with the effort to contain my grin.

    There’s hope on the horizon though – storm clouds blowing in. We’ll get the rain part right tonight. It’ll be a few months until I can enjoy it properly: on the front porch in an old pair of sweats, listening to the trees absorb thousands of tiny flicks from the sky. It’s coming up quick though – my favorite time of year.

    I can’t wait.

    Ok, I can. I just don’t want to.

  • Joy sink

    “Grandma’s coming home tomorrow right? I can’t wait!”

    That was Beth Wednesday night, talking to me and our pastor on the first night of confirmation class this (school) year.

    “So when will she be coming HOME home?”

    That was when Beth realized home can be a relative term.

    “Oh,” she replied, crestfallen.

    That was when I told her the truth, unvarnished, like I usually do.

    Trust is a precious commodity. Cliche, I know – but for good reason. I don’t like being a kill-joy, but I want her to believe me when anxiety has its grip on her, and I tell her why everything will be ok. She’s old enough to remember the times I told her everything wasn’t, that I don’t shy away from inconvenient, uncomfortable, or unsettling truths. I hope she remembers those moments of candor when the truth doesn’t hurt.

    Although folks say I’m too skinny these days, there’s a big but in the room.

    I realize there’s still a need for comfort; that there’s a way to discuss disappointment in a way which doesn’t flatten wide swaths of hope. I suppose I’m like a lot of parents when I say I wish I was better at it.

    Maybe this is one of those times I should let myself off the hook. Words can’t solve every problem, sooth every ill. Many lessons are learned best through experience, and she’ll see things are much better, even if they don’t live up to her original expectations.

    The good news is she’ll get to see this weekend, along with the rest of us.