Dear Diary: For your Eyes Only

There's a lot of swirling and whirling in my brain right now. I guess that's what happens when you're preoccupied trying to buy your first house.

I tried to slip that in real subtle-like. Did anyone notice? No, phew. Good. I'm a tick overwhelmed with it, so I'll let it pass for another day. 

There's the not-so-secret aspect of blogging. You really let it all hang out. Recently I've been working on that thing... Oh, what's it called where you tell people what you're actually thinking and maybe disagree at some times, but actually you're just saying the truuuu?--Oh, Honesty! Yeah, I'm working on that honesty thing. Which, go ahead and have a laugh, but placing all of your thoughts and events on an open forum (despite what facebook might have you believe) is daunting.

You've all had diaries, right? You get the idea. You write in it to write. Just blah! Spit it all out. That's what I'm up to. This is my first thought-journalling in ages. And really I keep it pretty serene.

I kept a diary once. Hid it under my mattress because that is the ultimate hiding place for an elementary school student. When my sisters found it, they were sneaky and didn't say anything specifically about it, but after they referenced its contents to me it was obvious that they knew. Clearly facing blackmail and adolescent hell, I tore it up and threw the pieces into a pile of my childhood to be burned. (Also included some very unflattering pictures and unsavory memories that shall forever remain unnamed.)

So the trope goes. Time and again my mom will be searching for a picture of little me and seriously pose the question, "Did you burn that?"

...Maybe my family shouldn't have allowed anyone under the age of twelve access to matches and the chore to burn garbage on occasion...Just saying.

I think then you can understand why I found this movie so delightfully perfect. Adults reopen and examine their childhood diaries. On stages. In front of strangers. Can I get a resounding, "noooooooope."?

I would be absolutely mortified to have to read my old diary writing to people and maybe that thrill is why this movie was just. so. good. How could they? I would ask them. How could we not? They would reply.

Please do take a look. It's on Netflix, itunes, and pretty much accessible to anyone with a modem. Though they express it much better within the context of the film, learning that everyone had those thoughts and ideas, the burning passion to place them on paper, it's consoling. Ages and generations pass, but really we were all the same. Jog your own memory and I'm sure you'll find that it's true.

 Or if you're a high school art or psychology teacher, this might strike up a nerve for some class discussion. 

Our Story

I don't like my story. It's sad. I know it's taken me weeks to put it to writing because it's my story, and if it happened to me it's real. It's tangible. And I'm not ready for that yet. So first, I'll give you their stories. Because it happening to someone else is removing oneself at least one degree. That separation is just easier for now.

So this is their story.

I'll start with Mom's story:

She texted me right after his operation because that's what moms do. They are the family telegraph. She let me know he was fine. A few days later, she called to let me know he was less than fine. Always the vigilant messenger, she kept me up to date up until the point where there wasn't anything else to report. One of the few people to have the strength to bear the burden of the worst news, she called to tell me and then said she wished she could have let me know in person.

This my sister's story:

She kept texting me, letting me know she was thinking of me. As the two of us being the farthest away, she understood when I told the rest of the world I wanted to be alone; she let me know that was okay. That she felt the same way. That he would have understood that we didn't make it on time. Ever compassionate and understanding, she made me feel less selfish for choosing to wait a day to make my way to the hospital. And as any good sister would, she reminded me to call home. That mom worried about me.

This is my grandma's story:

All of her marriage had been devoted to him. Some unshakable love that I still don't think I quite understand. She sat by the casket and waved away the sympathies with a sad smile, letting us all know she would stay strong and move on. That she was lucky to have us there to help. I never saw her cry. She said the noise of the family around eased the quiet that would come while she sat in his old rocker.

This is their story:

At the funeral home all of the relatives seemed to find each other in a unspoken ritual. They would kindly ask how the other was doing, shuffle about, too uncomfortable to tell the truth, and move on to the next. The great solace that they took from one another was that it was a shared pain.

This is my sister's story:

She huffed to her seat at the wake, upset that she couldn't choose to sit with her husband. No, she wasn't going to get up and move again, that would cause a fuss that wasn't needed. It just seemed stupid to her to split the families into generations. She wanted to be able to sit where she wanted.
When she began to sob, she didn't seem to mind that I put my arm around her even though I thought she might.

This is my brother's story:

He hates funeral homes. Even though it seemed to pain him to move any further inside he made sure to keep a watchful eye on the rest of the family as they edged into the room housing the casket. Always the first to crack a joke, alleviate some of the dull ache, he tried his best to keep everyone around him smiling. At the funeral, he took me into a hug and with his strong arms wrapped around me whispered, "I love you."

This is my step-father's story:

He probably saw him the most often. He loved to stop by in his truck and just poke around the shop after he'd finished up at Farmer's Tavern. Keeping him entertained was just another part of the job for my step-dad. He'll be missing him come the busier seasons, as much of a pain as he was, really he just wanted to stop by and see a farm in its hay day again. After the church service was the first time I'd seen him cry.

This is my newest sister's story:

Keeping up with this new family has got to be a challenge, but she always seems more prepared than any of us. She knew we all needed time to decompress after everything. Dinner was finished, dishes were done, and suddenly it seemed like the entire family had a lot of nothing to do. She brought a movie, insisted we watch it for all of the corny musical numbers and even with the complaining in the beginning she got us all to sing those same songs at the end of the movie. Because life is going to continue, and maybe we need Disney movies and singing snowmen to help us remember.

So those are their, our, stories. Tangled and matted and ... together.

With your hands, your heart

Big events resound like a gunshot.  It isn't much of anything, honestly. Just a mili-split-second where you didn't really intend to close your eyes, but you got scared as you squeezed the trigger so you did anyway.
And then,
BLAM!

It's done. Gone. You sort of missed it in a sense but you know it happened because you might have scoped yourself from the intensity of the recoil. The dull throb in your shoulder is what lets you know that it happened.

So my sister got married and I'm not implying it was a shotgun wedding, but somehow I can't seem to shake that from the analogy I just created. My bad.

 Let me explain. It was a BIG event. I tell people back in Kalamazoo about it and mention that there were five hundred guests at the reception and they wig out. How wicked is that? Over half your town shows up???

They do. And they party.
It's just how farmers do.

As far as siblings go, I would say that Rita and I are the furthest from each other on the personality spectrum. Where she is loud and strong, I'm quiet and reserved. Where she asserts herself, I am more of a push-over. Where she demands those around her have a good time, I prefer to be alone. We argue about politics, agricultural practices, hygiene choices, the list goes on. You know, just regular sister stuff.

I wouldn't trade her for the world.

 In a way though, that's what marriages are, aren't they? Marriages are sort of like giving up someone you love into the hands of someone you know they love. In an exchange of sorts, I'm trading out a sister for a new brother.

A mother gets a new son (and vice verse whether he likes it or not)

And new families start

Where others just keep expanding

Though the best union we celebrated was a wife getting a new husband.

Going into the reception, there was a moment where I could only watch and experience the happiness that someone can feel on their wedding day. The bridal party was about to make their entrance into the reception and Rita needed to use the restroom. She grabbed my arm and announced, "You're doing your bridesmaid duties and helping me pee. Let's go!" (See what I mean about that assertive thing?)

And off we rushed into the unisex bathroom where I stood guard lest some wandering passerby catch a glimpse of her. Wedding dresses, I found, are much too large to allow a standard bathroom stall door to swing shut without suffocating the occupant in tulle and lace. As I unrolled some toilet paper for my semi-incapacitated sister, she just sort of looked at me and said, "This is the happiest day of my life."

Unprompted and in the most unusual moment, she was radiating so much joy I couldn't help but know she was speaking the Truth. Even balancing one hundred pounds of wedding dress and hairspray over a toilet bowl she was one of the happiest people in the world on that day.

So, to you Rita, I wish you many more happiest days of your life. My guess is it only gets better. And though the wedding day itself passed by in the blink of the eye, all the exceptional things from it will carry on for a long time.

Michigan has Two Seasons: Winter and Construction

A year ago, living in Ann Arbor as a student, I was directly across from a dormitory that was under construction. For 360 days, the life of my lease, I was woken up every morning by the veering of power tools and the crumblings of concrete outside my bedroom window.

I'm normally a morning person, but waking up two hours earlier than you anticipate to abrupt noises is ...irksome. I was irritated at the workers outside to say the least. The foreman that demanded that they run their tools so early. Hey! I'm sleeping here! It was inconsiderate of them. I was a student working two jobs and took my days off pretty seriously.

Almost a year later, I am that construction worker outside at six in the morning. For those of you who haven't been paying attention, this winter has been a liiiitle chilly. Ten hour days in negative temperatures without a lunch break can make you appreciate your days off more. Appreciate those few hours you have indoors. And warm showers. Oh, warm showers...

With the snow we've been getting, on my days off, instead of being woken by construction, the new noise here is snow plows and the scraping of metal on ice as the road crews go by. Instead of being annoyed by it now, I look out my window, say a little thank you to the crew workers and snuggle back down into my comforter.

Nothing can make you appreciate the people who are getting up at the crack of dawn like being one of those people who wake up at dawn.

So the next time you want to curse out the construction going on outside your window, just be glad it's not you.

Stay warm, everyone.

Belgian Waffels and Brussel Sprouts

To live within Europe is to vacation exotically.
 It is far too simple to jump a plane to Spain from Germany or a train to France and have a lovely little holiday. Being from Michigan, the best we've got is Indiana or Ohio on our borders. On my first trip to Ohio, people at a bus stop threw rocks at our passing car windows. Quaint little state, isn't it?

This might exist in the states, but I've never heard of it if it does; there's a way to buy a plane ticket in Germany very very cheaply. The catch is you don't know where you're going when you buy the ticket. Pick your days, pay something like forty dollars and you could be going to Vienna or London, or maybe Kiel or Helsinki.

I got Brussels.  Capital of the European Union, home of the waffle and praline, and monument to a statue of a little boy urinating in a fountain.

I would never lie to you, readers. 

It was an incredibly impromptu trip. Bought the tickets the night before with so little knowledge of Belgium, it's insane.
National languages? French and Flemish. ...Balls.
Currency? Euro. ..Good, good. But found out in disappointment that everything is incredibly expensive. Can't enjoy that Belgium beer when it costs the equivalent of ten dollars a glass.
Known for? Techno music. *face palm*

In Tuebingen there is currently a chocolate festival. Feels good to be back where I really belong.