I sailed a wild, wild sea
climbed up a tall, tall mountain
I met a old, old man
beneath a weeping willow tree
He said, “Now if you got some questions
go and lay them at my feet,
but my time here is brief
so you’ll have to pick just three.”
And I said,
What do you do with the pieces of a broken heart?
And how can a man like me remain in the light…
And if life is really as short as they say
Then why is the night so long?
And then the sun went down
And he sang for me this song…
WE WERE DRIVING INTO THE SUN, two days into a weekend away from work, and putting time into something more rewarding. I’d never noticed the lush blades that covered a generous span of the prairie ground and lush indeed, collectively the most beautiful grass of the summer. The wind settled and all that subsided were tan lines, a few careless hairs on my legs, a half tank of gas. Willow quivered in the backseat drooling, the expiration date on the buns said later this week. I don’t know when I’ll be back.
Then I got the message from you, and it said I could come visit any time soon. That’s just fine, I’d shake a leg in two minutes to be that far away and see a familiar face. I’ve no money, but plenty in fact; can’t spend, won’t borrow, stubborn as shit. You know how it goes.
I’m trying to make the most of it. The appreciation comes slow, like sundown, after the evening’s casting of recollection, and I try not to take myself too seriously. These days are so careless, so numbing and magnificent, that I cannot imagine a year without this kind of light. We all thrive on this — my mother in her garden, father fixing the concrete blocks, and sister with another love. And I — I drive with the roof open, throw the seat back and squint into that beautiful sun and feel that warmth, the best warmth, the best remedy. It’s getting better all the time, you know.
A rock pile in a farmer’s field reminds me of a day on the road with my grandfather, and searching for arrowheads amidst every mound under the midsummer sun. That day was just like today, save different motions and faces, but today was not taken for granted; I know better.
But where, in a summer, has time slipped?
(After sitting down to a scrumptious signature Sunday meal prepared by Momma Trace, Father, Mother, and the Christen underlings of lesser cooking skills submit to their traditional passive babble.)
Sunday: Before Monday, after Saturday, the only day of the week that God gives the us the “OK” to take a break. The day that my dad bellows church hymns through the house, and my mom makes scrambled eggs and buttery toast as we listen to Car Talk and the Thistle & Shamrock.
Sunday’s the day that my dog lay, like a furry, obese doormat, on any floor or fireplace ledge that doesn’t look hairy enough. It’s the day that I clean my closet and shuffle through my old belongings in an ongoing process of elimination. It’s the day that, no matter what month, there always seem to be 19 football games on 82 channels and everyone knows what’s going on but me.
I really dislike football. In all honesty and with all due respect, if it ceased to exist I wouldn’t be heartbroken in the least. I know that while maybe it’s not my “thing,” “I” do not account for the millions of people who actually understand the game. I’m sure there are plenty of people out there that don’t know — or care — how a camera or computer work, and that’s just fine by them. That’s how I feel about football, too. I just. Don’t. Care.
Then there’s my sister, now she’s something different. With all that she knows about sports, I am seriously questioning her gender. Maybe I am running with birds of different feathers, but I can’t say I know too many women that would rather root themselves in the couch in front of the TV on game day than, like, do ladylike things. Like. Like. Be a lady.
She paused for a moment. I stared at her. “No.”
“You want me to start painting?”
“I don’t paint,” I corrected her.
“Fine,” she said, “you want me to start wearing berets?”
It fascinates me that my parents created two things so entirely contradicting. Here’s Heidi, watching football and eating pistachios off of her belly. Here’s Jenny, wearing berets. Oh, no! I don’t have a team, I don’t know the statistics, and I wear a cloth bean on my head. Apparently I am the enfant terrible.
Things I would rather do than watch football:
• Clean my shower. And sink. And toilet.
• Gnaw on a cauliflower ear. Not an ear of cauliflower — I said a cauliflower ear.
• (I can’t believe I just said that.)
• Watch garbage decompose
• Clip my toe nails
• Shovel the roof of my house…in my swimsuit.
• Break my collarbone playing Red Rover
• Immerse myself in a steaming pool of banana juice.
Alright. You get the point.
Happy Sunday trails — !
jc
One of my best friends in the entire world wrote this for me – and it makes me so very warm on the inside.
Jenny Christen was born on February 10th, at precisely 3:56 a.m., Ms. Christen of Glacial Point Drive, Minot, North Dakota, contributes her inability to fall asleep before three in the morning to this single, important moment of her life: birth.
Jenny C. or JennaRoo as called by those closest to her has a Sheltie named Willow, and a best friend named Macbook Pro . . . Just kidding her computer’s name is Schroeder. She grew up on top of a hill among an abnormally large amount of siblings. Five Christen children: Two older and two younger. It was not until one particular episode of Oprah, that Jenny was made aware of how responsible growing up amidst two brothers and two sisters were, for her state of being. Oprah and her many, well-dressed experts refer to this as, “the middle child syndrome.”
Apparently, Jenny Marie developed the majority of her quirky personality as a result of being raised along with Ryan, Kaci, Heidi, and Tyler (in descending order). The effects of this syndrome can be as subtle as mild quirks. Such as, her fondness for ice cream, and metallic, shiny objects, the need for quiet and order, and simultaneously, sprawling clutter. Or as Outlandish traits as asking people to do crazy things just to see if they actually will, like persuading them to drink milk from a paper bowl, under the guise that she has no bottled water, nor cups to pour it into.
Oprah claims that Jenny’s affinity for thrift-store finds, especially old, green, plates, and her large shoe collection can also be attributed to the fact that she might have had to volley for her parents’ attention more than an only child would have. Also, her many, colorful scarves and the phenomenon known as “the mirror face.” Everyone has a certain expression while primping in front of a mirror – Jenny’s is especially amusing. Jenny enjoys words and photography, and just switched her major from graphic design to photo journalism.
It is unknown if the Kise breakfast incident of August 27th, 2006 was a cause or effect of her consequential, magnetic personality. But everyone who knows her, loves her, for the many details I have listed, and millions more, but most importantly for her soft-spoken compassion, eccentric sense of humor and ability to laugh at the drop of a hat. And also for her hair.
approximatelyes.com 