Small town Southern...woman?

If you haven't heard the Alan Jackson song "Small Town Southern Man" you're really missing out. I know many of you don't like country music. Hell, I don't really like it myself. But the song is just amazing, especially if you're southern but even if you're not. It got me thinking about my own upbringing, and though I can't really say that the song reminds me of my dad, it does in many ways remind me of my grandmother. Some of you knew my grandmother. Most of you didn't. Let me start out by saying that she could be (and often was) the most harsh and demanding woman you could ever meet. But she could also be the most gentle and loving person. One thing I can say for sure is that she always picked us up after we fell and dusted us off, even if she had a few choice comments to make. Most of you know that my grandmother passed away last semester after a long and arduous tenure in the nursing home. I've been thinking a lot about her ever since she died and how she impacted my life, and I realized that I am in many respects a product of her raising moreso than I am of my parents. I was typing an email to a friend earlier today and I started getting a little carried away and eventually deleted much of what I wrote, but I think this is an appropriate venue to share some of that. So here are my thoughts on me.

My grandmother raised me on cornbread and honey and taught me to treat other people how I wanted to be treated. She never let me slide - when I deserved to be disciplined she made me cut my own switch off of the tree outside. She demanded the utmost in behavior and respect. I said yes ma'am to her even though I seldom if ever addressed my own mother in this fashion. She raised me to work. She taught me that hard work will overcome any trial or tribulation. She didn't have much use for alcohol or cigarettes, which often became a source of tension among certain members of the family. Grandmother was the last of a generation forged by the fires of necessity and want and shaped by the hands of war. She knew what it meant to be without and never wanted her family to know the same. She taught us how to can and preserve and to save everything we could for later. Now I'm not going to gush about the greatest generation and how there will never be another generation with the strength of those who endured the second World War. I am however going to gush about what they taught us and how we aren't teaching our children what we learned from our parents and grandparents. I see that I am the last of a generation who cares more about others than they ever could about themselves. People younger than me only seem to care about themselves and what they can get. It seems that the values I grew up on are just not being taught any more. And it saddens me. And it's not because we don't know them anymore. It's not that we forgot. We just simply don't care anymore. Somehow we got it in our heads that we only get hurt when we care. And so we taught our kids not to care so they wouldn't get hurt. I think we need to look back to the values of my grandmother and learn something we forgot we knew from a small town southern woman named Elizabeth.

Story book lives

You know when we were kids, and we all dreamed of what it would be like to be grown up/have a job/be married/have a house? Do you remember what it looked like? I don't remember exactly what my story-book life looked like, but I know it involved being married, having kids, having lots of animals, and living in a nice house with a nice yard and a fence around it for the dogs. Hell, forget childhood. I wanted that yesterday. But I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about what exactly I want and what I need to be happy, and I've discovered that the story-book life doesn't exist. No amount of perfection, of things falling into place for me exactly as they should will make me happy. I think that's a large part of my problem. There was always something else to fall into place, and as soon as it did I would be happy. But it never happened. All the pieces never fall into place. And even if they do it doesn't guarantee happiness. I was depending on something happening to make me happy. But I've discovered recently that happiness isn't built on fulfillment. I will never reach that point of fulfillment in my life where I feel like I've achieved everything I set out to do. And so it doesn't make sense to base my happiness on something so elusive. My life is far from story-book. I'm not even sure there's a happily ever after for me and Mark. There might be. It's too early to tell. Story-book princesses don't look like me. They don't talk like me. They don't act like me. But I'm here, and I'm learning to be happy even though my life is far from where I thought it would be.

So here's my question to you. What was your story-book life, and how does that affect your daily routine now? Are you aspiring to live that life or have you forsaken it for your reality?

GTT

I suppose the title GTT (Gone To Texas) isn't really applicable since I'm already in Texas, but in any case I'll be in Austin this weekend from Friday to Sunday. So if you're in Austin and want to see me, call me or Hung. I'll likely be with him, and even if I'm not he'll know where to find me.

Bizarre Happenings

I intended to post on this last Saturday, the day it happened, but other things got in the way. So here goes. This last Saturday I got up about 5:30 am and began a drive to Jasper to attend an ETHA symposium on the building of Toledo Dam. First off, it's amazing that I even saw 5:30 am. The drive itself wasn't too bad. I went by way of Zavalla instead of San Augustine, the way Drs. McDonald and Sosebee both told me to go. I should have known better. I shouldn't say that, I guess. Anyway, I'm 10 miles outside of Jasper and actually on time for once, when I see a flicker out of the corner of my eye. It's a truck, upside down, in the ditch, on fire. So I stop, whip out my cell phone to call 911 (not that it did any good - I had no service) and run to the scene where about five people are carrying a woman from the vehicle. I would like to report that I had some vitally important role in saving the woman's life, but alas, all I did was stand there. Luckily, there was an off-duty EMT that stopped and took care of her until the ambulance took her. I didn't even manage to locate the woman's dog, whom she was immensely worried about. But at least I stopped. I wish I could have done more.

Another bizarre happening occurred yesterday morning as I was getting dressed for work. An elderly woman called my cell phone and asked to speak to someone I assumed was her grandson, and couldn't understand why I couldn't go to his class and get him on the phone. I patiently explained to her for nearly ten minutes that she had the wrong number. Over and over again she made statements such as "but he goes to school up there!" So finally I figured out that she thought she was speaking to someone at TJR Elementary. I informed her politely that this was not TJR Elementary. Even still she couldn't believe she had the wrong number, but finally she just hung up. I sat on the edge of my bed in amazement for another few minutes, unsure of what had actually transpired.


In other news, I have a job for the summer. I will be working in "the archives" as I like to tell people in order to sound important. In actuality I will be working the desk at the East Texas Research Center. But "the archives" sounds so much cooler and...well, important. Now if I can just make it through this semester...

Beings in Time

Being a history major, it's often easy to lose concept of time. That may not make sense to some of you, who would assume that history majors have a more solid concept of time due to the fact that we deal in dates. That assumption is false. Rather than dealing in dates, we deal in concepts of time. It is not so easy as one would think to establish a timeline of events on the spot. Because we tend to think about the world in general as a series of events, one after the other, it's easy to compress thousands of years into a single thought. I am guilty of doing that in my own life. I get so caught up in the moment, what's going on right now, that I fail to think too far into the future. Simple manifestations of this problem include forgetting to pay bills because I didn't realize it was, in fact, the middle of April. However more complex problems arise out of this because I fail to notice how much people change over time. For instance, when I think of my cousin Cassidy, I think of her as a six or seven year old child. But she is now fourteen and is rapidly becoming a young lady. This is a problem when you are involved in any sort of significant relationship with any other person. I have failed to notice how much Mark has changed over the last six years. I have failed to notice how much I have changed. Change sneaks up on you when you aren't looking for it. People I once loved dearly I now pass on the street like two ships in the night. And it often never occurs to me that we haven't spoken in years. It is a sad symptom of a greater problem. The problem is that we are beings in time but we are not focused on the passage of it. We don't feel the passage of time because we are locked in it, and so we live our lives oblivious to the forces that shape us and change us. And at some point we look around and notice that the temples of our lives are in severe disrepair and we don't know where to start. I only hope that I can fix my temple before it's too late.

Who I Am

Recently I've done a lot of thinking about what it is that makes me who I am. Some of you know the circumstances surrounding my unfortunate descent into the immensely uncomfortable realm of self discovery, while others may not. Suffice it to say that if you don't, it's none of your damn business anyway. So while I was thinking I was reminded of a story from my childhood. When I was eight, my best friend and I thought it would be fun and cool to go through the Haunted House one year on Halloween. We were tough and rough and nothing could scare us, so we never once thought about freaking out. So the two of us set out on our adventure. Now, typically, my friend was the leader. She was always the strong one, the one pushing us through whatever came along. So I figured that if one of us freaked, it would be me. However upon entering the house, I quickly discovered how fun role reversal can be. My friend froze. I, being scared out of my mind, wasn't sure what to do, but I knew we had to do something. We couldn't go backward - there were people behind us. We couldn't just stay there because well, staying in the midst of adversity is just plain stupid. So I took my friend by the hand and literally drug her through the rest of the house. So that's who I am. I'm that person who, when everyone else fails, is left holding their hand and dragging them through whatever crap we might happen to find ourselves in. And I discovered something else. He isn't ready for that.

Sharing the Road

This afternoon I went out to Dad's for a little bit of relaxation in the sunshine as it was a GORGEOUS day. Mark finished work on his hoist for the hard top and we switched out to the soft top. We left about six to get ready to go out, and as we were driving down the road I came across something I had never in my life seen. At the end of the road, an entire flock of ducks sat casually situated between the ditch and the middle of the pavement as if they were having afternoon tea. Now, I have come across flocks of other birds casually chilling before, but they usually take flight when they see or hear us coming. But not these. Oh no. We had to come to a complete halt because said ducks sat in the road looking at us as if to say, "we were here first." I looked at Mark, who looked at me, and we both looked back at the array of mallards and plain females and burst into laughter. It was the hardest I've laughed in quite some time. Finally they all took flight and meandered through the sky to a nearby pond that they must be calling home for the summer. I must say, I have never had to share the road with a flock of ducks.

One Sentence Stories

I recently stumbled upon a site where people could publish what they called "one sentence stories". The purpose of course is to communicate an idea in one sentence, and I thought it was brilliant. So I stayed up most of the night coming up with some of my own. I thought I would share some with you.

My grandparents were divorced longer than they were married, but when she died, his soul died along with her.

I was surprised when my 86-year old, baptist, ultra-traditional and conservative grandfather cried when I had his ex-wife's name tattooed on my back.

I hate you for loving me, but I hate myself more for loving you.

I remember once looking into your eyes and seeing the most gorgeous woman in the world reflected in those blue orbs.

I used to be jealous of her until I realized that she is the girl men play around with before they come home to women like me.

The worst feeling I've ever felt came after the realization that I would never again wake up to your face.

It struck me as ironic that the man who once inspired terrific fear in my heart, now only inspires pity.

I always knew I was scared of heights, but I didn't realize exactly how afraid I was until I made it to the zip tower.

Jealousy is like three year old cologne: neither are relevant but they can both ruin a marriage.