Tag: memories

Another beautiful day like this one…

It was a day this beautiful–clear and sunny in Tuscaloosa–on this date in 1986. I drove from That Other City where I’d been living, followed by Mr. Category 3 in his car. Both of our cars were full of my possessions because I was moving back to my favorite town–into the brownstone with the giant flying palmetto bugs where I was still living when I met Tom, so there were lots of good things in store for me, though it didn’t feel like it that day.

We got out of our cars behind ten Hoor Hall, where I was scheduled to teach, and Category 3 said, “Were you listening to the news?” I hadn’t been, and he told me about the Challenger breaking up after liftoff. I met with my students long enough to cancel classes that day, then he and I went to a barbecue place on the Strip–its name will come back to me in the middle of the night–because they had TVs there. That’s the day I fell in love with ABC’s Peter Jennings because he was so calming as he delivered information as it came in.

It was an awful day. I would eventually meet people who would tell me first-hand what it was like to be employed on January 28, 1986, by companies that helped build the shuttles, the SRBs, and the external fuel tank. I was working on a NASA team at Redstone Arsenal on September 29, 1988, when Discovery took the U.S. back into space. It was amazing to watch the launch with people who were so invested in its success.

Here’s my button from the Discovery launch:

A perhaps silly and random bit of happiness

You know how there are breakups, bad breakups, and then breakups that are so catastrophic to your nervous system that you wonder if you’ll actually survive?

I’ve had only one of those Category 3 breakups, and I remember a lot of being led around by other people in the aftermath. I made some dreadful decisions and choices and failed to do a lot of right things. But I did survive, and it was all so long ago that I rarely think about it anymore. I’ve had a lot of wonderful, intense life in the interim, and at some point everyone deserves to forgive herself for her stupidity and bad judgment.

Tuesday I discovered a certain TV show thanks to Netflix and while watching an episode or two of it, one of the actors kept tickling my memory banks. Then a name came to me, a name I hadn’t thought of in years and probably couldn’t have remembered if I’d tried. The actor in this show reminded me of a person I met during the post-Category 3 period.

One night friends took me to a bar–in Auburn, Alabama, of all places; boy, was I out of my territory–and I kept catching a tall, somewhat lanky guy watching me. He was cute and looked good leaning against the wall of the bar, beer in hand. Considering the breakup I’d just been through, however, my reaction was to ask my friends if we could leave. Immediately. Instead, they invited him to join us. And he was a super, super nice guy. Smart. In graduate school in one of the more mathematical/scientific fields. (I was a graduate student in English at the time–rival university, of course.) Anyway, we went out a few times, and there was no way he could avoid hearing some of my shell-shocked back story. And it was fine, because he was recently divorced. He hadn’t wanted the divorce. It was obvious he was still in love with her.

In time, he suggested that I might be getting too serious about him, and geography and where we both were in our lives made that not such a great idea. I could have laughed and told him there was no danger of that; I was still way too emotionally invested in the relationship I’d so recently lost. But sometimes it’s better just to go with grace; not all truths have to be told. So it ended gently, no hard feelings, not even a Category 1. I doubt that I’ve thought of him more than half a dozen times in the years since, and then always with gratitude that he was a gentleman who never said or did an unkind thing to me. He was a reminder that men of his caliber existed at a time when I needed to believe it.

When his name came to mind because of the TV show, on a whim, I googled him. It’s not an uncommon name, so I wasn’t too hopeful. But I found him almost instantly, including photos, because he’s part of a group of people drawn together by a somewhat adventurous, outdoorsy pastime, and one of those people blogs. And I was THRILLED when this blogger also mentioned Mr. Gentleman’s wife’s name–because hers IS an unusual name, and it lets me know that he and his ex got back together.

She must have realized he’s a keeper. I hope they’ve had years and years of happiness with each other.

And just like that, he became the rainman of puzzles

Loyal readers (you’re still here, right?) may recall when we went through a period of doing jigsaw puzzles at The Compound. Tom’s parents sent us one this past Christmas, and one Saturday morning, Tom started it, getting the entire outside of the circle and the innermost center part done before I even dragged myself out of bed. It stayed that way about a week, and each time I passed it, I’d think, Hey, I should do some of that puzzle. On one of those occasions, I walked by it about an hour later, and the thing was completely done. Tom’s like a puzzle savant!

For some reason, that rapid puzzle thing made me think of tests, and how I never do well when asked to figure out shit like this:

If + =

then

+ =

a.
b.
c.
d.

Whatever. Or word tests that say things like: refrigerator is to food as wallpaper is to
a. llama
b. tooth
c. taxi
d. astronaut

One time I had this roommate who was getting her degree in some education field and whatever class she was taking, she needed volunteers to take IQ tests. And even though I hate these kinds of tests with every fiber of my being, you do stuff for your friends even when you know you shouldn’t. At least this one wouldn’t end up with police questioning or an empty bank account. Not that I have any experience with those consequences.

I took my test and I scored about what I thought I should score and nobody was going to give me any Nobel prizes for physics but who cared because I could use physics correctly in a sentence and I was the Supreme Ruler of Apostrophes. How much glory can one person handle?

However, I made a fatal error. I also let her test my mother. What was I thinking? Because then, of course, I was consumed with the desire to know how my mother’s score compared to mine. Therefore I began a campaign of roommate torment that would only end if she would JUST TELL ME ALREADY, I CAN TAKE IT.

Moral of the story: No children, unless they are born to Marie Curie or Susan Sontag, need to hear that their mothers got a higher score than they did on an IQ test.

Christmases Past, No. 4: A brush with the past

I know Christmas is over, but this is actually a post-2010 Christmas story. I believe I’ve shared on here before this photo of Lynne’s Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus:

Back in the day, ceramics were a big activity for people who wanted to be creative, and Lynne’s sister and her mom went to a ceramics class, where Lynne’s mom fired and painted that Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus set as a gift for her. My first fall back home after I graduated from college, Lynne’s mom died. I spent a lot of time with her family during those months, especially over the holidays. That was the year I learned from them how to make cheese straws, rum balls, and brownies from their secret family recipe–all the goodies that have long since become part of my holiday traditions.

That Christmas, Lynne’s sister Liz gave me my own Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus as painted by her, which I photograph each year and share here on LJ.


2005

The set is even more special to me because Liz died in 2000, and putting up the workshop makes her a part of our holidays. Every Christmas, I add a new item to Santa’s workshop, even if it’s just a tiny toy or ornament for their little tree. But for many years, something’s been missing. At some point, my Santa’s paintbrush broke off and vanished.

In the most recent holiday season, I was in fix-it mode for many decorations that needed a bit of paint or glue. I asked Tom if he could use some craft clay to fix it. He thought it would be easy enough, and I found this Sculpey Bake Shop Clay at Jo-Ann’s. Tom shaped a paintbrush, baked it, and painted it. I went after it with the hot glue gun and touched it up. And voila!

Tom is what oilfield elves call “a good hand.”

Sometime Last Century, No. 1

Sometimes when I’m feeling a little full of myself, I like to think back to the day I took Daniel to a mall to buy a baseball. He kept playing with it and putting it down and generally being a boy. I said, “Keep your hands on that baseball or you’ll go off and forget it.” 

Then I shrieked, “AIIIIIEEEEE,” grabbed his arm, and raced back to JC Penney, where I’d left my Canon AE-1 on the shelf in the bathroom stall. Fortunately, some kind soul had turned it in to the office.

Remember the days when you didn’t know your photos were crappy/blurry until you got your film developed? Then it was Sorry, sucker, you’ll never get that Kodak moment back. Digital cameras: the Ultimate Do-Over Machine.