Small towns, I mean, Villages (part 1)

I say part one because I'm sure there will be more.  Towns under 3000 people make up 89% of Nebraska.  That's a lot.  I am from one.  But, apparently, based on that percentage, so are most other people in Nebraska.  The total population of Nebraska is under two million people.  That isn't a lot.  I currently live in a city with more people than my home state.  That is bizarre, and kind of hard to wrap my head around. 

This week is the letter D in the ABCs of your home state blogfest.  (Why do I hear the announcer-lady on Sesame Street?)

I'm going to focus on two villages in this post.  Davenport and Deshler. 

I remember being taught in elementary school about cities, towns, and villages.  Apparently, most places in Nebraska are actually villages.  A village is smaller than a town, smaller than a small town, yet bigger than a hamlet.  I have always been word girl, and though I do not remember the grade, I do remember the lesson, the feeling of gaining some secret knowledge.  I do not know what made that lesson so special to me, but it has stuck.

I do not know a lot of specifics about these towns villages.  But I have family in both.  I have memories in these places. 

My mom's sister and brother and their families live in Deshler.  When I was growing up, my Aunt had a playground in her backyard.  No lie.  The town village had two playgrounds, and one was literally in her backyard.  There were swings, a slide, and (I think) some monkey bars.  My cousins and I would swing super duper high and then they would yell jump!, and being the tomboy I was, I would jump.  We would swing so high that the swingset would start to jump a little.  It was awesome. 

My uncle had the biggest house I had ever seen.  It seemed that way at the time.  Having been there as an adult, I realize that it reality, it just has a basement that is finished where all us kids could go and play games and watch television while the adults were upstairs.  Most holidays were at his house, probably for this very reason...to keep the kids out of everyone's hair.

Another thing about Deshler: it is where the Thayer County fair is every year. SUPER FUN!  We went all the time, and my uncle's house was only a couple blocks from it!  The park where it was held (the other park in town) is where the pool is, and the twisty slide!  Talk about the best thing ever for a kid!   If I could get side-tracked...that slide was amazing.  We would slide down it on sheets of wax paper to make us go faster.  Big time.

Davenport is where dad's sister and her family live.  It is also in Thayer County.  I am trying to remember if I have ever even been in the village, you know, mainstreet, of Davenport, and I honestly don't think I have.  My aunt and uncle live pretty much on the outer corner of town.  They have goats, chickens, dogs, cats, and other animals.  They have a piano in their basement, and when I was a kid I would go down there and pretend I could play.  They also have a pool table with a topper that is a ping-pong table.  Awesome.


A memory that never fails me is the road sign.  Both destinations are on Route 136, which always facinated me.  Our post office box in the town village I lived in was 136.  As a kid sitting in the backseat, I found this to be an amazing thing.  I don't know why.  But in my world, it meant something. 

Deshler and Davenport hold many memories from my childhood.  Holidays, birthdays, family.  They also represent playtime and parks, fairs and festivals. I was struggling to find a D for this week's blogfest, thinking this was lame.  However, I am glad I gave in and gave it a shot.  It has been a nice trip back down the twisty slide.

Back in the Saddle Again!

And the rest of my ABCs...(condensed, of course...)

Picture it: Atlanta, Georgia, April 15, 2011...

I’m sitting innocently at my desk, a stack of paperwork in front of me. I long for the paperwork to be over. For the day, Friday, to be over. I am methodically going through the stack while wondering how I can write a blog on my chosen M word, excited that I have been keeping up with the ABC Challenge, and that, half-way through, my desire to write has really been rejuvenated by this blogfest.

I sneeze.

My right arm goes numb. My hand, the dominate one, is twitching and suddenly goes limp and numb as well. My neck, well, there's no numbness there. It's screeching, seething, agonizing pain. I wish for numbness, but it never comes.

And so it began. The last two months of my life have been chiropractor visits, massage sessions, bikram yoga, and finally doctors and surgeon consultations. I have a bulging disk in my C6.

This is nothing new. Two years ago, I had the same thing happen to me on my left side. That time, it was caused by running. Uber-stressed in my last semester of school (summer, no less), I took up running. I was so caffeinated, that I could not go to sleep at night. Once I was ready to sleep, I would put on my running shoes and go. Problem: I have flat feet and was running on pavement. Solution to sleep, but not my body. One week after I graduated (stopped running), I woke up in the middle of the night with this exact same pain and numbness, just on the left side.

What the sneeze did, in essence, is reactivate this injury. Apparently, a sneeze has a speed of up to 100mph. That's a lot of movement in that short period of time. One side of the nerve controls the left side of your body, the other side controls the right. When I sneezed, the side that controls the right gave in and dropped, after two years of supporting both ends.

I've been in bed. I was in bed for nearly two weeks. Then I slowly started to get up and out. Every movement was deliberate. Every action pre-planned. Living this way is a great teacher. Patience is not something I come by honestly, and I had to be patient, both with myself and my surroundings. I had to not get frustrated.

Chiropractic helped. Massages helped. Bikram Yoga helps. But nothing was fast enough. So I went to the doctor. They took an MRI and sent me for a consultation with a surgeon. I’m not excited about that. I am thinking I will not get surgery. So, my next step is an acupuncturist. I am going to get an appointment to go see one for next week.

The worst part of all of this was that I could not do my two favorite things: write or read. I could not (and still have trouble) writing because my hand was numb. My thumb and index finger are still numb, so it is difficult to hold a pen. Typing was annoying because I could not really support my laptop and my fingers were not doing what my brain told them to. More frustrating than anything, really. Reading was difficult because holding a book was a little much. It is still an interesting feat, however, I do a little everyday. 

There are lessons in everything. I am still realizing the ones I have learned in the last two months. Maybe I will write about them someday soon. I do not want this time to go unfounded, and lessons have always been a growing point for me.

I had a list written out of the subjects I wanted to write about for the ABC blogfest. I'd like to share the rest of it, beginning with the letter M, where I would have been on taxday 2011, when all hell broke loose. I am only going to write a few sentences about them, since we are covering half the alphabet in one sitting. 

Meatloaf. and Mashed potatoes. and Macaroni and cheese.

These are my favorite foods. I crave them often.

New York City.

This is my place. It is where I feel safe. I long for it when I’m not there.

October.

The month of my birth. It is a breathable month, the trees changing colors, the cool and crisp feeling of the air, the wind. It reminds me that I am alive. I was actually due in November, but I was meant to be an October baby.

Prepositions.

I love prepositions. I am obsessed with them, the way they change and interchange, or completely change the meaning of a statement.

Quiet.
Being quiet is something that I had to learn. Be quiet and listen. To myself, to others, to the god of my understanding.

Reading.
I love to read. I always have. It inspires me and takes me to a whole other place.

Shickley, Nebraska, population 376.
This is my hometown. I’m going to write an entire blog about it someday, since I didn't get the chance during the blogfest.

Tattoos.
I have them. I’m getting more. I'll post pictures soon.

Underwear. My secret girly obsession.
I am not girly. But I love girly underwear.

Virginia Woolf.
My favorite author. I have been reading Virginia since I was in middle school. There's something about her style that encourages and drives me.

Walking.
Walking is my favorite activity. I feel alive when I actually take the time to get there slowly, observing, watching, looking. It is one of the best things about New York City.

Xanthrippe Richmond. my original pseudonym.
In seventh grade, I developed this name as a way of writing from the outside. Xanthrippe even had a signature very different than my own. S/he always wrote in green ink.

Yoga – My biggest fight turned into my biggest need.
I did not want to do bikram yoga, I thought it was a little nutty.  But, it has turned into the 90 minutes of my life when I am able to shut down my head, and focus on my body, mind, and spirit. I go to solve problems, both physical and mental. And usually walk out of there with a solution.

Zealots - they scare me.
Living in the bible belt, I have seen my fair share of zealots. They are crazy and creepy. One of them told me I needed a hug a couple months ago and I screamed like I was a human rape whistle.



Zealot



That is the Reader's Digest version of the rest of my alphabet. It's good to be back writing. Even though this took longer to type than it should have, it sure is worth it.

 

D is for Spencer Bean the Wonder Beagle

Okay, that's a little much.

D is for Dog.

Way back in May of 2010, I told you about my dog, Pepsi. And that I was going to get a tattoo of her on my left side. Way back in September of 2010, I did it. A beautiful picture of my childhood dog, now with me forever. And, as I had hoped, it truly brought more healing to the pain of her death some seventeen years prior.

Somethings I have a hard time letting go of. Pepsi is one of those things. I don't know that I ever will, completely. However, it was time for me to begin the work so I could finally have another dog of my own. I have been looking on rescue sites for years, visiting the humane societies in my area, going to pet adoptions at stores in my town. I would never walk away with a dog, though, only a broken heart.

Tattoo in place, and Pepsi always with me, I began the work. I began to journal. I began to do serious research on breeds and sizes and temperaments. I began to formulate and ask questions and find answers.

Pepsi. With me forever.

I was ready to find my little male dog, the one whose name would be Emmett.

In short, I got serious.

In February, I found him. I found the perfect dog. I saw a picture of him online and knew he was mine. All I needed was that one look in his eyes on my computer screen. I don't know how I knew, I just did. I could feel something, something I hadn't felt about any of the other dogs I had looked at in pictures or in person.

The description was Beagle mix. His shelter name: Pinto (stupid).

I called the shelter he was in and asked them to please hold him until the weekend when I could come up to meet him. I would need to bring my roommate's dog along to ensure they were compatible. No matter how selfish and how much I wanted this dog, I knew the animals in my home had to get along, or it wouldn't be pretty. That was the only obstacle I could think of. Saturday morning, Chloe in tow, I drove two hours to the shelter. All the way there, begging Chloe to love this dog. Not that she cared what I was saying. The radio was on and the windows were down. She was happy.



I got to the shelter and got out Pinto (stupid). I walked him around a little on my own before going to get Chloe. He was so happy. He was peeing on everything and smelling even more. He was licking me and peeing again. SWEET FREEDOM! Once I got Chloe out of the car, it was like magic. This boxer and this beagle walked side by side, in tandem for the entire time they were together. Sure, they smelled each others' butts, but that was it.



It was decided. I got him. I had to leave him to get his shots, and fixed (because his previous owners were lame), and be microchipped.

I went shopping. Crate. Dog food. Treats. Toys. Blankets. Leash. Collar. This dog is going to have a whole new life. A life better than ever. His story is that his previous owner, the lame one, left him tied to a tree on a rope for 14 or more hours a day. Animal Control took him away. None of that crap in my house.



Spencer Bean coming home.



I kept thinking that he didn't look like an Emmett. I would have to figure out a new name. Even though I have always planned on naming my dog Emmett, I couldn't do it if it didn't fit. And it didn't fit. I thought he kind of looked like a Spencer. And, in honor of the shelter for rescuing him, I made his middle name Bean (because Pinto is stupid).

A week later, I drove another two hours to get my dog. Kelly went with me. Spencer Bean is better than I could have hoped for. Those eyes told most of the story, but not all. He is completely and totally the love of my life.

He isn't a Beagle mix.  He is a Beagle.  A Bluetick Beagle.  All that means is he has the ticks on his white fur, which you can see in the picture.  In all my life, I never thought I would have a full-breed dog, because I am an adopter. 

He is brilliant. I have had him since March 1st. In that time, he has learned sit, stay, lay down, come (though that one is still in progress, he does well), up, bed, and he sits down and waits patiently while I get his food ready and doesn't eat until I tell him to. He has gone hiking once. Him and Chloe get along like old friends. We stay at a friend's house a lot and he and her Beagle/Rottweiler mix are the best of friends. He stayed with my dad last Sunday and had a great time, my sister brought her two yorkies over and they played all day. Every person and dog he has met is his friend. He is not angry or aggressive, does not bark or anything. He has only pooped in the house once. Completely (and surprisingly) house-trained, he has not had to be in the crate at all.  He has only got in the trash once.

Spencer Bean, Chloe the Boxer, and Maggie Mae the Beagle/Rotweiller.
Two littles and a big.

When I got him, he would sleep in bed with me, but at the bottom of the bed and over. Now, as his trust is growing and he knows this is where he belongs, he sleeps right up against me or between my knees.

I know it took a long time for me to get to the point where I was ready for a dog of my own again. I think it was worth the wait. I think I could not have done any better. Spencer Bean is my personality. We are a perfect match. I am so thrilled to have him. I know, I just do, that Pepsi would agree and she would love him, too.

Running!  Oh Sweet Freedom!

A-Z Blogest. The Letter A.

It's the first day of the A-Z Blogest! Time to get serious. Write. Write everyday in April except Sundays, going down the alphabet. This is going to be a time when we all learn a little more about ourselves and each other. When we write till it hurts. Write till it hurts so much it it feels good.

Personally, I am excited. Writing, though part of me and enjoyable, hurts a lot. It hurts because I feel stuck most of the time. When I don't feel stuck, it hurts because I don't have the time to get out all that is inside of me. When it is coming out and I have the time, it hurts because I can't get it all out the way I think it should. Because I'm a perfectionist. I committed to this - to keep moving, in spite of stuck or time or perfection/imperfection. For twenty-six days of the next 30, I'm going to write in spite of the pain and wait for it to feel good.

So, without further ado, I give you my writing on the letter A.

In thinking about the letters and what words I can associate with each of them, my mind wonders.  Far.  And it is hard to get it back home.  I am the girl who read the dictionary during the summer between eighth and ninth grades. (We moved, I didn't know anyone.) I know a lot of words. I think too much. I go down a list in my head of possibilities, most of them ridiculous, but mostly to avoid writing anything real.

(the most obvious choice) Apple - the pomaceous fruit of the apple tree, species Malus domestica in the rose family Rosaceae. It is one of the most widely cultivated tree fruits.
My friend is an organic farmer. She has apple trees, eleven of them.  I, however, am not a farmer. I know how to climb trees, appreciate their beauty, and sit under them on a sunny day with a book or a notebook and pen.
Apple peel. I love apple peel. In fact, I like the peel more than I like the apple.
So, I don't think I will be writing about apples.

Appendectomy - the surgical removal of the appendix.
I still have my appendix. So, I don't have much to say about this.

Apparatus - equipment designed to serve a specific function.
I like things that serve a specific function. But that's about all I can think of to say about that.

So, what do I know about the letter A? What can I write about? Three strikes there...

One more at bat, and I'll knock it out of the park.

Adoption - To take into one's family through legal means and raise as one's own child.

There's an A that I know something about.

Adopted. I am adopted. My sister is adopted. No, not from the same birthparents. That's black-market stuff. (You may roll your eyes, but you would not believe how many times I have been asked that question! Seriously.)

What does it mean to be adopted?

When you are three, it means that two sets of parents loved you so much that they are willing to do the best for you. One set couldn't take care of you properly, so they loved you so much that they gave you to another set that could. And you were chosen by the second set.

When you are six (and get another sibling), it means you ask for a brother and get a sister. So much for the 'choosing' crap. It also means that you get in the car and go pick up the new sibling (sister, really?) with your parents, mommy doesn't have to go to the hospital. And she doesn't get 'fat' like all your friends' mommies when they get siblings.

When you are eight, you start to learn about genetics in school. You learn that you must have two parents with blue eyes if you have blue eyes. You learn that one of your parents has to have brown eyes if you have brown eyes. You start crying and ask your teacher why you have brown eyes, because both of your parents have blue eyes. You have a meltdown because you are a genetic freak. And all the while, you know the truth. It becomes a game you play every time they start talking about genetics in school, because science is boring and it is your job to spice it up a bit, and also, apparently, being an antagonist is in your genetic make-up, too.

But then you honestly and un-antagonistically start to wonder what this other set of parents look like.  Obviously, one of them has brown eyes.  Obviously, one of them has brown hair.  And one of them has to be extremely short.  Who has the uni-brow?  Who is left-handed?  Do they both have innies for belly buttons?  Which one has a smashed up little nose?  Who did I get my perfectly-aligned toes from?

And then you begin to wonder about talents and the things you do and are.  About nurture vs nature, even though you don't know that term yet.  You wonder which of your parents can write a story.  Is that genetic?  You wonder which one of them is athletic.  Is that the same as having brown hair?  Your wondering continues every time you do something, for the rest of your life.  Does my birthmother or birthfather do this?  My handwriting looks nothing like my mom's, kind-of like my dad's, but is that genetic?  Who likes to read? 

When you are between the ages of twelve and seventeen, it means you are full of angst. Like every other adolescent. And in that angst, you decide you'd be better off with your birthparents, much like children whose parents are divorced, only you don't have this option because you don't know who the hell these people are or where to find them. You fantasize that they are rich Park Avenue type people, living in high society, drinking their morning orange juice from champagne flutes, having proper tea in the afternoon in china cups, and dining in ball gowns and tuxedos at a long table. In this fantasy, they are anxiously awaiting your return, and will take you on a shopping spree once you find them, so that you can fit in their world, so you can dine with them. Their life, and yours, will be one big party, with no curfews, no grounding, no fights...a perfect, storybook life.

When you are in your twenties, you begin to wonder about medical issues. You wonder about cancer and heart disease and female issues. You start to get irritated because you cannot answer the simple questions at the doctors office. You seriously begin to wonder what is going to happen to you.

You start looking. You wonder where to start. And once you get started, you can't stop. It becomes an obsession. If you are lucky (as I was), it doesn't take long. But it is an emotional rollercoaster.

You get the first letter. It is awkward. You write one back. Even more awkward. What do you say to this woman? Where do you begin the catch-up process? It's been years...do you start at nineteen days old, when you were brought home? Do you start at high school? Do you just ask your questions and hope she doesn't ask any back?

I don't know. I don't even remember much of what was in that first letter. I know I asked if I could ask her questions, because I did ask and got a lot of answers in the ones that followed. I sent some pictures of myself. I received some in return. I guess there is closure in that.  I do know that I am more complete because I could ask.  Because I know who she is.   Because she is now a part of my life. 

Now in my mid-thirties, the need has changed. As it has continued to my whole life. My birthmother and I do not keep in constant contact. We send letters on our birthdays, Mother's Day, and Christmas. She is a person I think of often, though. I am grateful for the decision she made.

I have really good parents. They have taken care of me beyond measure. They have supported me my whole life in every whim and decision. I have a college education. I have a car. I have had a roof over my head for every minute of my life, whether it be theirs or my own. They have given me the skills to participate in the world around me. They have made decisions for the betterment of their family, and I am a part of that family. And they have loved me. Always.

I have a birthmother who has been open and honest with me. 

What does it mean to be adopted?

Nothing. I have a mom and dad like everyone else.

It means I have that two sets of parents loved me so much that they are willing to do the best for me.

two days...two days...

Ready…

Set…

GO!

Well, not yet. Not for two days. But I’m ready! Ready for what, you ask? The A-Z Blogfest, that’s what!

All through April, some very committed (or committable) bloggers have signed up to write a new blog every single day except Sundays. I am one of those committable committed ones.
I’m so excited. I have been writing a lot lately. Just not a lot for this blog. It will be amazing to get back to it. And that is exactly why I signed up. I signed up a while ago, maybe a month, maybe more. It seemed so far away, and I was certain I would have time to get back to the blogging. But, as it usually does, time found its way of sneaking up on me. And here we are, two days out, and I haven’t written anything for this blog!

So, it’s time to get a move on. I started the alphabet list of potential topics. I know what I’m starting with. In two days, I’ll be on the letter A, and then B…

In other news, I’ve been the recipient of a reward. I feel, as always, very honored and quite humbled that someone likes my work. Deidra over at A Storybook World has given me the Creative Blog Award.   Go on over and check out her blog, it is beautiful.

I’ll see all of you in two days for the letter A!