The Haunted Piano

There was a family in my town that everyone stayed away from. The kids were several years older than us, and they were really strange. They lived a little ways out of town, bordering the state forest, there weren't many houses near them, and spooky things happened around there. No one went trick-or-treating there; everyone knew that they would put a curse on you if you so much as put one foot on their property.

Well, one day near sunset my friend's cousin Bobby was exploring the woods on the far edge of their property when he heard music. He followed it out of the woods and from the edge of the clearing could see the half mile or so to the house. There was nothing else around, so that must have been where the music was coming from. The music was enchanting and, even though he knew better, Bobby couldn't help walking toward it. As he got closer, he could hear singing as well. About halfway to the house, though, he came upon a trench, almost built like a moat, as if to keep the house safe from wanderers from the state forest. Only it wasn't filled with water or quicksand or anything; it was dry. In the trench sat an old, wooden, upright piano, and at the bench in front of it sat Mrs. Mitchell, with her back to Bobby. Sitting in the trench, on the ground, were three of the Mitchell kids, eyes closed, singing a beautiful, beguiling tune. Bobby dropped to the ground and hid over the rise of the trench.

As he lay there on his stomach, Bobby felt the shaking ground of an animal approaching quickly and silently. He froze, too afraid to move his body, but he managed to turn his head to the left to see an enormous black panther racing to the trench. As they got closer, Mrs. Mitchell seemed to sense its approach too and she stood up and lifted the lid of the piano. The panther, who had just taken off from the edge of the trench, as though to jump over the piano, instead crashed into the lid. Mrs. Mitchell then slammed the lid shut on top of it and it was trapped inside. The kids jumped up and they all four joined hands, dancing in a circle around the piano and started chanting. The piano shook for a few seconds and then was still. The Mitchells ended their chant and their dance and stood there, still and quiet, for a moment. The oldest Mitchell kid, a girl who was in high school, touched a few keys and the most horrible yowling sound came out, where before it had been a perfectly in-tune piano. Mrs. Mitchell nodded, satisfied, and then she and the kids left the piano right where it was and went to the house.

It was now fully dark and Bobby was all alone on the Mitchells' property, about a quarter mile to the relative safety of the state forest. He lay where he was until they were back in their house, and then he hightailed it home. A few days later he noticed that the piano was on the side of the road with a For Sale sign on it. A young couple bought it, thinking the yowling was just the piano being out of tune, but no matter how many times it was tuned, it still yowled. They had it inspected for animals and found nothing. Once Bobby's story got out, no one would buy the piano, thinking it was cursed as well as haunted. They abandoned it at the dump and occasionally, when the wind blows right, you can hear the yowling clear across town.

Elections

In retrospect, high school was pretty awful. Second only, in fact, to middle school. As is true for many people, one of the things that got me through was finding my own niche, my own thing to belong to that didn't have anything to do with school. For me, that was my youth group (though a few fellow youth groupers also went to my high school and we were friends in both realms). I felt so comfortable there, so welcomed and at home, right from the start. I was also a really shy kid - my mom talked my 5th grade teacher out of making me do my state report in front of the whole class because it gave me such fits of anxiety. One of the most helpful jobs I ever had was one where I had to make phone calls to lots of strangers. Before that job, which started the summer before my senior year of high school, I wouldn't call strangers; I wouldn't even want to talk to my friends' parents on the phone if they happened to answer, and not because I was a snotty teenager who wouldn't give adults the time of day. I definitely wouldn't call my friends' parents on purpose. But after a little while at that job, one day I announced to my mother that I was calling the parents of a friend who was away at camp and horribly homesick. I called her parents to get her phone number at camp so I could call her and make her feel better. When I hung up the phone, I turned around and my mother was staring at me, agape. "You never would have done that a few months ago," she said, shaking her head. But there was a smile on her face and I knew she was proud of me.

There was a similar moment with my mother when I announced my intention to run for the regional board of my youth group and told her what it involved. Not to mention the up-front emotional costs of having to write and deliver a speech about my "platform" in front of a hundred or so of my peers; there were also the sustained dues of having to make announcements in front of the whole group at probably every event for the next year. Elections were held in the spring for the coming school year and the new board's first official duties were planning the week-long summer retreat at the end of August. Throughout the school year were 3-5 other weekend-long retreats; while each retreat, or kallah, had its own cochairs, the Board was the constant. Each board member had their own area of expertise in making a weekend retreat happen and was responsible for knowing what was happening at any one moment during these weekends. So many people who inspired me and that I looked up to were on the Regional Board in years past, and while they took it seriously, they also had a lot of fun. Being on the Reegie Board was A Big Deal, and I wanted in pretty much from the get-go. I wanted in so badly that I was willing to make a speech, and possibly a fool of myself, in front of dozens of people I loved and respected and who made high school bearable for me. With one year of high school left, I realize now that this had the potential to ruin my safe space for me. I didn't think of that at the time, though - all I thought was how much I wanted to be on the Board and make this safe space happen for my friends and all the new kids who would come in the following year. When I was a freshman, I had my heart set on being President of the region. When the time came closer, I realized that wouldn't be practical (wayyy too much extemporaneous speaking; I'd rather have more of a behind-the-scenes role, as I did, literally, with theater endeavors). I now realize a more appropriate fit would have been Treasurer or Secretary, but somehow I got my heart set on Social Action Vice President. I served my sophomore year as treasurer of my local youth group (a small sub-set of the regional group, with whom I'd never felt comfortable and was always an outsider) and junior year as its SAVP in preparation for running for the regional board counterpart. I wracked my brain to come up with a platform, a meaningful way to engage my peers in social justice work that is so important to me. I came up with a sort of trickle-down strategy where we would spend the year creating a guide for the local youth group leaders to help them plan their own events throughout the year, rather than focusing on work we could do as a region. I wrote up the speech and practiced it a little bit. I conferred with my friends, several of whom were also running for board positions. I made photocopies of fliers with my name, intentions, and qualifications on them, complete with cute little clip art, made from my dad's computer. I packed my bag in preparation for a weekend across town at one of the six other Reform synagogues, where we would have a home-stay one night and a lock-in the next. I would return home on Sunday either victorious and elated or heartbroken and humiliated. I was ready as I'd ever be, which is to say, not at all.

The weekend came. Upon arrival at the host synagogue, we discovered who was running for which positions - five out of seven positions were contested, and the last two became contested when people who lost their race dropped down to run for those spots. (Voting began with President, moved through the four VPs, and then to Secretary and Treasurer, so if someone ran and lost for President, they could run for any of the other positions.) So in addition to all of this preparation, all the other candidates and I had to decide whether we would drop down if (or when) we lost. I decided not to; it was Social Action VP or bust, for me. I looked at the list of candidates. Two or three each for most of the positions. Halfway down the list, SAVP: 6.

SIX?! That number slammed me in the face. Not to mention, of course, that a few of those were some dear friends, including Brett (who I'd known since first grade) and Hayley. My heart sank. My name was on the list, too late to take it back. I had to go through with it. The entire lead-up to the election was a blur, but I do remember some embarrassing Q&A time (mostly on the A side) on Saturday afternoon. After dinner, we all filed into the sanctuary for speeches. I barely focused on my friend Caryn's speech for Religious and Cultural VP, though I remember being impressed. Then again, she was on the Forensics team at school and did theater, so it wasn't really a surprise that she would nail it.

Finally, the six of us SAVP candidates were herded into a small room to wait out each other's speeches. (We weren't allowed in the sanctuary where the speeches and voting were taking place so that no one had the advantage of going last and showing everyone up.) Two of the adult leaders stayed in the room with us, trying to distract us. They had their work cut out for them - we were one tough bunch to distract from the present. Taran, our songleader, had brought his guitar and was making up silly songs about each of us, trying to get us to laugh. At some point I was escorted to the sanctuary and the podium, where I unfolded the two sheets of paper containing my speech and smoothed them with a shaky hand. I blinked into the lights and tried not to focus too hard on the people I knew were out there. I tried to pretend I didn't know them. I stumbled and mumbled through my speech, which took itself way too seriously. As I was reading, I started to hate it, but it was too late to change it. Somehow I made it off the bimah (stage) to mild applause without tripping all over myself back to the tiny, airless room to wait some more.

One by one, the other five left and came back, mostly wide-eyed and shaky. Only Brett seemed composed; we could hear laughter down the hall during his time away, and when he slid back into his seat, his juggling balls quietly rolled onto the table. I'd known him since we were six; did I know he could juggle? I stared at the juggling balls, knowing he'd charmed all their socks off, and feeling like an imposter, as though I could have ever thought I could compete with him or the other four people in that room. After an eternity, the votes were counted and Taran broke the news gently: Brett had won. As deeply disappointed as I was, it had become clear to me in that little room that of anyone else, myself included, he was the one who would do the best job. So, while I was heartbroken and clung to my decision not to drop down to run for another position, part of me was relieved to not have to be a leader and part of me was (later) glad to have someone so capable take it on. I waited out the rest of the elections, though I don't think I was able to re-enter the sanctuary. Then I had to compose myself and drive away.

I drove away, not because I had to get away from the loss, but because this was all happening the same weekend that my school's spring musical was going up. It was Fiddler on the Roof, starring (in my opinion) my dear friend Jeff as Motel the Tailor, and me and some other friends on crew. Jeff was also running for Treasurer and had had someone else give his speech for him while he was at call for the 7:30 curtain. Being crew, my call was much later, so I stayed at the elections until I learned the outcomes, since Treasurer was the last position to be voted on and Jeff didn't even know how many drop-downs he was running against.

As soon as I knew the election results, I hopped in my little white car and flew across town for call. I scooted into the school at 7:25 and dashed backstage, clutching a plastic bag with my black stage clothes in it. I ran into the crowded, narrow area filled will shtetl-dwellers milling about, talking, laughing, joking, shaking out last-minute jitters, finding props, getting to their places. I looked around wildly for Jeff, needing comfort, needing to tell him what had happened. I spotted him precariously climbing the stairs to the costume loft.

"JEFF!" I yelled over the din of the room and my own head, hoping he could hear me, my voice breaking a little at the end. He turned on the stairs and met my eyes. And then the world stopped.

Everyone else fell away and it was just the two of us, my eyes filling and mouth trembling as the truth sank in - Jeff, and Caryn, and Brett, and four others, would spend the next year having fun and I would feel left out in my safe space, just as I had felt in the walls of my high school. Jeff hurried down the steep, ladder-like stairs and flew to me, enveloping me. I smudged his stage makeup, crying into his black vest. Somehow I managed to sniffle out, "Congratulations." He just hugged me harder.

And then it was showtime.

Candice

So, I've been a little writer's blocked, and a little bummed in general lately, because my friend Candice passed away about two weeks ago. She was my friend Joe's wife, and I didn't know her overly well, but I knew her well enough to know how fun she was and what incredible spirit she had. I was feeling stymied by what to write about her; nothing seemed concrete enough to put into words or good enough to sum up the amazing presence she had. Maybe it's because I lost a friend a few years ago quite suddenly, or because I lost my aunt to cancer last year, or because I recently supported a friend through chemo, but I feel what must be just a fraction of Joe's pain so acutely right now. Candice and Joe lived in Seattle when my sister and I lived there for a spring and it was the first time I'd spent time with either of them since graduating college a few years before. Joe lived in my dorm and Candice went to a school near enough to allow them to visit each other occasionally (or maybe more often; I wasn't clued in to their exact schedule). Nevertheless, they were the only people I knew in Seattle and we were glad to get to spend time together again.

One day, we went to brunch in their red convertible. We must have been listening to NPR on the radio because Candice and I soon got on the topic of NPR shows we like. I like general favorites: Car Talk; Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me. I also love the way A Prairie Home Companion really hits the nail on the head with accents and down-homeyness and makes me miss my native midwest. Garrison Keillor's voice is soothing and he has such fantastic comedic timing and storytelling ability. I am generally pretty sensitive to and prejudiced about voices. Too many or too glaring differences between the way I speak and the way another person speaks could sour my first impression, or lasting impression, of them forever. To that end, though I appreciated the concept of This American Life, Ira Glass's minor speech impediment (can you call it that?) really rankled me. Perhaps it's because I had a speech impediment once upon a time (my mother was shocked recently to learn that I've really just gotten very good at hiding it, but I still have to think quite hard about pronouncing my Ls and Rs), but listening to his show made me uncomfortable. So there we are, driving along in Joe and Candice's convertible, the wind whipping our hair around (well, not Joe's, so much) - Candice's dark brown curls and my straight, light brown locks - and discussing NPR. I was enjoying getting to know her a little better, since I liked her so much already, until the following exchange, called over the noise of the road:

Candice: I just love This American Life, don't you?
Amy: Actually, I don't listen to it. Ira Glass's voice drives me crazy, and not in a good way.
Candice: Oh. Huh. The only person whose voice I can't stand is that Garrison Keillor.
Amy: What? Uh... I don't know if we can be friends!

Of course, I was joking, since we were already friends. In fact, Candice's faith in This American Life was a major reason I later tried (and succeeded in) putting aside my prejudices and listening to the content and came to really enjoy the show. I don't know if she ever listened to PHC, but it doesn't really matter. The point is that I was so worried about trying to write about that exchange clearly and make it a fitting tribute to Candice's memory. What I realized is that what was special about Candice to those who didn't get a chance to know her super well isn't easy to pinpoint or explain. But the fact that I knew her well enough to be saddened by her absence, and her death's effect on Joe's life, shows how welcoming she was to everyone. She was incredibly outgoing and disarmingly funny, making you feel like you really knew her, had known her all along, and how blessed you were to have had her in your life, in whatever capacity, and for however long.

Sanctuary

It starts slow, just one or two voices. The opening notes are high enough to hear with strong breaths and attention-getting intentions behind them. Within three or four syllables, the rest have caught on and joined in. Fifty or so voices, of all musical abilities and ranges, swell together in harmonies that seem only to appear when we're together, inspired by our love for each other as individuals and together, drawing out the exact right notes from each of us. Some of us close our eyes to fully absorb the beauty of the slow, clear sounds. These words, intended to praise God for the meal we just prepared and consumed, seem to also praise God for bringing us together and nourishing us with spirituality and community. I listen with the bittersweet presence of someone fully enjoying and yet knowing it is fleeting and we will soon be back home after our weekend away, looking forward to every other Friday when we can catch glimpses of this magic again.

Brich rachamana 
malka d'alma 
ma'arey d'hai pita
("Blessed is the merciful one, ruler of the world, creator of this bread")*

You are the source of
life for all that is
and your blessing
flows through me

Oh Lord prepare me
to be a sanctuary,
pure and holy, tried and true,
and in thanksgiving
I'll be a living
sanctuary for you

Va'asuli mikdash
v'shachanti b'tocham
V'anachnu n'varech ya
me'atah v'ad olam.
("Build for me a holy place so that I might dwell within. And we will praise you G-d from now until forever")*

*Translations provided by Velveteen Rabbi, Rabbi Shefa Gold, and Rabbi-in-training Bryan Mann.

Mickey Mouse ice cream

When I was little (somewhere between 4 and 6), my family took a trip to Disney World. It was deliciously hot down in Florida, just the way I like it. It was even still hot at night, warm enough to warrant my parents giving in to the overpriced ice cream sold at the hotel's store. I was so excited to get this novelty that out of all the things we did, this is the one I remember the most. Outside the store, the lights of the outdoor pool shone on me as I tore into the thin, shiny, plastic wrapper and beheld my treat. It was shaped like Mickey's iconic head; ears made of chocolate ice cream and face of vanilla, and then the whole thing was covered in a thin candy shell - again, ears chocolate, face vanilla - and stuck on a popsicle stick. I took a deep breath and bit off an ear. That first bite was divine: cool, creamy ice cream and rich chocolate sheets that melted on my tongue. I quickly realized, however, that the warm Florida night was working its magic on my frozen friend and the first bite had disrupted the whole shell. Jagged shards of candy shell slipped on the melting ice cream and stuck out in all directions and innards were starting to drip everywhere. It rapidly turned into a race that many are familiar with - the panicky licking of the ice cream cone until it's "under control" but then almost gone. Where's the enjoyment? I joined the race that night and I like to believe I won (though probably it was a tie since I likely had ice cream and chocolate all over my face by the end), but I've been wary of ice creams with shells ever since.

Just in case

I have my ID out and ready with my boarding pass. I have it down to a system - how many little plastic bins I need, when to take off my shoes to minimize sock-to-dirty-tile time, what order to empty my pockets and take off my belt, my watch, sunglasses. Frankly, I'm glad for the distraction. I always have a book or magazine to pass the few minutes between arrival at the gate and when I can board, because I try to cut it close. I've only missed two flights in my life. One was this morning.

But this time, I'm ready. I even had a nap and a shower to make up for the hectic morning. This trip is going to be great. When they start pre-boarding, I go to refill the water bottle that I finished off at security and use the bathroom so I don't have to go while we're in the air. I shuffle onto the plane with a few dozen other passengers. Tossing my duffel bag into the overhead bin, I slide into my row. I check out the air flow above me and turn the knob quickly, making sure I can find and adjust it without looking. Water bottle and magazine go in the seat pocket; airsick bag is located and put right in front, just in case. I fish out my ipod and make sure it's hidden from flight attendants' prying eyes but easily accessible. Maybe it's the distraction, maybe it's the way the sound waves hit my inner ear, but listening to music nearly always helps, if just a little.

I'm absorbed in my magazine for the rest of boarding so I don't notice until we take off that my row is empty. The row ahead of me is empty also. I sneak a look across the aisle to my left and see a couple about my parents' age, chatting. I can't make out what they're saying over the roar of takeoff. A small wave rolls over my head and I turn my eyes straight ahead, and close them. I breathe deeply and try to focus.

I focus on anything - usually breathing and relaxing, but if things get challenging, I'll try my tricks of doing long division or name the state capitals in alphabetical order. As soon as we tip back to go airborne, I think the same thing I think every single time, a gentle self-scolding: What am I doing here? Don't I remember all of the awful flights I've been on in the past? Don't I remember that last awful flight? My heart races and I wonder how bad this one will be. Most of this flight to Austin is very smooth, but I realize I'm used to going east and west, not north and south. Maybe the wind patterns will be really different? My palms are getting sweaty. Breathe. It's too bad there's no one to talk to. I travel with someone I know so rarely but sometimes light chit chat with a stranger is distracting in a good way.

When we level out, I stare at the seat back in front of me and eye my magazine cautiously. Do I dare try to read? Often it's tempting fate, but I'm already bored. The plane lurches and my eyes widen. We smooth out and I remember to breathe again, slumping down a bit in my chair. I put on my ipod and load up a playlist of gentle music - a plane list. I decide to try sleeping for a bit, even though I'd already had a nap that day.

The plane shakes a bit and wakes me a little while later. Then a bigger shaking makes my eyes fly wide open. I'm dizzy, the way you get when you spin around a bunch or someone pushes you on the tire swing for too long. There is such a short lead time between that and losing my lunch that I don't understand how people find that feeling pleasurable at all, why they ride tire swings and roller coasters and get drunk. My heart is racing again as the threat looms. I use the hair tie on my wrist to pull my hair into a loose ponytail at the nape of my neck, just in case. I can feel my pulse everywhere - in my temples, in my chest, in my arms. My arms are turning to jelly and I try to swallow.

The plane jerks downward, what feels like about a ten-foot drop, though at that height who knows how far it actually was. I get a second or two of lead time and fumble for the airsick bag, sticking just my mouth inside, just in time. Only the very practiced know just how to keep their nose outside the bag with scary accuracy; the acid, rotting smell only makes it worse. After a few heaves, there's nothing left in my stomach (again, carefully planned). Normally this is when it stops. I can hear the pilot over my retches explaining what wind shear is - sounds worse than your average turbulence, which also explains why I can't stop. I lean my forehead against the seat in front of me just to take some of the burden off my neck and help hold my head a bit still, keeping the bag firmly planted to my face. Eventually the plane evens out and my stomach settles.

I take a deep breath and lean back. Honestly, I feel better. A flight attendant comes by to offer me some napkins and I ask for a new bag too, just in case. I wipe my mouth and take a small mouthful of water, mostly to rinse my mouth. I have my toothbrush and toothpaste in my carryon for exactly this reason and once I get off the plane and sit still for a bit, my first stop will be the bathroom. I can't wait.

I hear the announcement for the initial descent and force myself to take a deep breath. The landing is as smooth as they get, but I've got one eye out the window, praying for a quick landing. I'm sweating, so I reach up to turn on the air. A minute later, I snap it off; I'm freezing. We bump down and my hips press against the seatbelt as the brakes are applied to calm this roaring cheetah of a machine to the speed of the average housecat, fitting in with the other grounded vehicles. I always remember that this was one of my least favorite parts when I was little, after all the trauma of takeoff, turbulence, and then the grand finale of landing, when I would cry and beg my parents to make the plane stop. I couldn't understand why, now that we were on the ground, we had to keep moving at all. I just wanted it to stop. They would just smooth my hair and murmur soothingly to me, which was all they could do. But now I'm a grownup and there's no one to cry to. The rushing of braking has dulled any other noises and the plane seems almost quiet for a moment in the white roar.

We finally come to a full stop and the flights flash on. Signs unlight with a bing, seatbelts unclick, phones chime to life. Around me, life springs forward, eager to catch a connection, meet their family, get checked into the hotel, move on. I sit. My legs are jelly.

As they leave their row, the couple seated across the aisle pauses. The woman asks if I'm all right and I nod with a weak smile. She says, "Our daughter is about your age. We had our eye on you. Just in case. Looked like you were having a rough time." I thank her and wonder vaguely if she was the one who called the flight attendant for me.

Once the rest of the passengers have left, I pack up my water bottle, magazine and ipod and drag myself out of my seat. I grab my duffel bag from the bin above me, retie my hair and make my way off the plane. I thank the staff, especially the flight attendant who helped me. I leave the new airsick bag for the next person. Just in case.

Spark Plugs

Near the end of my stay in San Lucas, Guatemala, it was my host sister, Jocelyn's, seventh birthday. My friend Jessica and I went down to the ice cream shop to buy her an ice cream cake. While we were there, I started feeling a little funny in the tummy area, and a bit lightheaded. Having already survived three bouts of amoebic dysentery in my three-month stay, I knew enough of the warning signs and decided to take it easy. I asked Jessica to take the cake home for us and I'd join them later, but the party was starting soon so we wanted them to have the cake sooner rather than later. I went outside the shop to the plaza and sat on the cement steps in the shade of a tree, watching a pickup basketball game. Not long after I sat down, a white couple emerged out of the throng of indigenous San Luquenos and approached me.

"Hablas espanol?" the woman asked.

"Si," I responded.

"Do you speak English, too?"

"Yes..." (Where is this going?)

"Oh, thank god," she said, and collapsed next to me. It turned out that she and the man with her, who were Canadian, had rented motorcycles from a place in Panajachel, which is about an hour's drive from San Lucas. Just outside the town, one of the bikes had broken down and they needed help calling the rental place and being picked up.

"Sure, no problem," I said, though inwardly my heart was racing at the thought of carrying on a conversation with someone in Spanish over the phone. I was still learning how to converse in person and the phone is even harder!

It was Sunday, but the Parish office was open, so I led them over - just a five-minute walk down the main street in town. I dialed the number they gave me and haltingly told the man who answered the situation. He was very accommodating and said he'd send a truck right away. But first, he wanted to know, did the couple have any idea what was the matter with the bikes? I relayed the message.

"We're not sure, but we think it's the spark plugs," the woman said.

After a moment's hesitation, I dragged up a word out of the depths of my memory, and I told the man on the phone that they think it was the bujias. There was a pause, and he asked me to repeat it.

"Las bujias?" I said, even more uncertainly.

"Okay, I don't know what that is, but don't worry, we'll send someone out."

I hung up the phone and told the couple to wait at the church and a truck would be along in about an hour. They thanked me profusely and I returned to the plaza, slightly shaken from the weird turn of the day and the adrenaline rush of a new experience.

I finally had a minute to compose myself and reflect on the experience and realized the hilarity of it. The reason I know the word spark plugs, despite not actually knowing what spark plugs are, is that in tenth grade Spanish class we were given lists of vocabulary to memorize, with a quiz each Monday. We resisted every list, but no list did we resist harder than the one about cars, including the word spark plugs. Our teacher insisted that we might need it someday, and he was right. Even if it didn't end up helping, I was proud I remembered it! (I looked it up when I got back to the house and I had the right word but it could be a regional difference, or else my terrible pronunciation!)

The Bike

"Mommy?"

With a sharp breath, almost a gasp, my mother's eyes flew open in the early light and she sat straight up, a swift, abrupt combination that never failed to startle me - probably more than it startled her, and I was the one who saw it coming.

"What is it?"

"Can I go outside?"

"Now? What time is it?"

I waited patiently for her to answer her own question. I couldn't tell time yet. I was only 6.

"It's 6 a.m., Lovey. Why do you want to go outside now?"

"I wanna learn to ride my bike."

"Oh, honey. Can't it wait? Just a couple of hours, then I'll come out with you."

"No, NOW!"

"Shh, shh. You'll wake your father." She sighed, not quite resigned to letting me go, not quite wanting to get up and come with me. I sensed her indecision.

"Pleeeeeeeease? I'll be really careful, I promise."

 She sighed again. "Oh, all right."

My face lit up and I jumped up and down, then turned and dashed back to my room to throw some clothes on. A few short hours later, I had conquered the bike that was missing its training wheels, and caught up to my big sister, who had accomplished the same feat the day before. Victory was mine.

Drip Drip Drop

Today, the sound of Boston is the sound of water: dripping, melting, running, rushing. We had a heavy, wet snowfall on Thursday and now it's in the 40s, with clear blue skies and lots of sunshine. Walking two blocks home from my friend Miriam's house this afternoon, all I heard everywhere was water. Streams of water rattling through metal gutter pipes. The steady drip-drip-drip of eaves spilling onto the sidewalk. The pitter-pat of gutters emptying. The whoosh of rushing riverlets racing to the sewer. Even the cracking and sighing of snow - frozen water - starting the melting process. It's not the best environment if you have to go to the bathroom, but it sounds like spring all the same!

Ten Years

The summer before my senior year of college, I went down to Guatemala for three months. I chose Guatemala for several reasons, one of which is that a family friend lives there with his wife and daughters. I flew into Guatemala City, stayed overnight in a small hotel, and was driven out to the countryside to the American mission by one of their drivers. That makes it sound fancy, doesn't it? It wasn't. The driver was a member of the church who had business in the city anyway; it was three or four hours in his (mostly quiet) company, holding on for dear life as we bumped over two-lane asphalt highways and then small dirt roads, heading due west of the capital.

I was deposited mid-day at the parish, which consisted of a good-sized church (for that town), attached to living quarters for the priests and nuns, offices, a dining room and a kitchen for feeding all the American volunteers. I lugged my bag into the dining area where one of the priests explained that everyone would be gathering for lunch soon. After lunch, I was shown to the volunteers' living quarters, where I stayed for about two weeks, until my new friend Jessica and I arranged a homestay with a church family. A few days later, Sister June introduced me to another volunteer, Steve, and asked him to show me around the town. I think we walked all the way up the hill to the clinic and also around the cemetery at the far edge of town and everywhere in between. It was quite a thorough tour.

A few weeks in, I contacted our family friend, Paul. He's always looking for new things to do, and asked me lots of details about the different projects the mission has. After his own solo visit, he made arrangements for himself and his older daughter, then about 14, to come for a few days. While they were there, Lucia got a chance to work on some of the medical projects since she dreamt of becoming a doctor (and she has almost achieved her goal now, ten years later). Lucia also got to know me and some of the other volunteers, including Steve. She invited me to her Quinceanera, which was in July. She was careful to let me know I could bring a friend, and had a ready suggestion: Bring Steve, she said.

What could I do? It was the girl of honor's request. I very awkwardly asked him if he'd ever been to a Quinceanera (he had; he'd been living in Guatemala for maybe 9 months and is very kind and easy-going, and worked with kids; it stood to reason that he'd befriend many families and be invited to at least one or two) and mentioned that Lucia (and I) would like him to go to hers with me. He accepted graciously and we made our plans. Paul would come back to the town for a few more days of volunteer work and then take us back to the city with him for the big day.

A slight problem occurred when we realized we had nothing to wear. We had come down to Guatemala expecting to work hard and live simply, not go to fancy city parties! However, Lucia's mother was about my size and so we went through her closet together, and Steve ended up with one of Paul's suits, which hung on his slight frame. It felt like we were playing dress-up in our parents' closet, but it was fun. They also made a hair appointment for me. I couldn't believe that this family, who had so many details to prepare for their older daughter's big day, would go to so much trouble to make sure we were taken care of. They even helped arrange for me to go to synagogue and Steve gamely came with me, sparking the first of many conversations about religion.

The day of the party arrived and the Mass was beautiful. Lucia dedicated herself to the church with grace and there were tears in my eyes at hearing her conviction. We headed over to the reception afterwards, where she danced with Paul and other significant men in her life in a choreographed ritual that was new to me. Then the general dancing started.

I am not a big dancer, and Steve had a big job on his hands to get me to the dance floor. But once he got me there, it was enough of a different experience from American dances, and he was so carefree and fun, that I was actually having a good time! Though we hadn't talked much before this trip, we became fast friends. As a longer-term volunteer, he was friendly enough but understandably not overly interested in making friends with the shorter-term volunteers, so we hadn't really gotten to know each other except for a bookmobile trip down to rural Totolya to read and sing with the kids. Ten years later, I know him much better, thanks mostly to Lucia.

I think it's safe to say that Steve is addicted to living overseas. To my friends who only know him from stories, he has alternately been known as Guatemala Steve, East Timor Steve, Thailand Steve, and currently, Cambodia Steve. In the past ten years, he's been back in the U.S. maybe a grand total of two years, instead mostly doing ~4 year stints with Maryknoll Lay Missioners, and we usually have epic phone conversations while he's stateside. This summer we will have been friends for a decade and tomorrow (or today, where he is) is his birthday. Happy birthday to a great inspiration to me on how to live your values, simplify your life, and concentrate on what really matters. To many more birthdays, and many more years of friendship!

Meeting Becca

"Chrissy, is that you?"

I froze. It was not me. I was just minding my own business - really, nobody's business but mine, seeing as I was in a dorm shower stall my first week of college. But my eyes widened and I wondered who would be so bold as to address someone she couldn't see, who was also in a vulnerable position.

"No," I called over the steam and water, trying to sound casual, like someone addressed me over the shower stall every day.

There was a pause. Clearly this was not the answer she expected.

"Oh... who is it, then?"

This girl wanted to carry on a conversation with me! In the shower, no less! Crazy. But it was still early enough in my freshman year that I didn't know more than three people in the entire building: my randomly-assigned roommate and two friends from high school who roomed together three floors up. If this stranger in the next stall lived on my hall, it was an opportunity to meet someone. So to speak.

"Um, Amy?" I squeaked.

"I'm Becca, nice to meet you," she said cheerfully.

I finished rinsing, keeping my ears perked in case there was more to come from this Becca person, but there wasn't. I wrapped myself up in towel and bathrobe and squished in my shower shoes back down to my dorm room.

Not long after that, maybe a day or two later, not having new friends still weighed on my mind. I sat in my room, psyching myself up to go out and make some friends. I gave myself a little pep talk and instructed myself to open my door and walk around until I heard noise - any noise - and follow it until I found people, and then force myself to knock and give it a try. I'd never had trouble making friends before, so I wasn't sure why I was so nervous now, but I took a deep breath and stepped into the hallway. I started down the hall towards the bathroom and followed the sounds of laughter and talking, all the way to the end of the hallway. The last door on the left was open and I peeked in.

The first thing I saw was a guy I'd gone to high school with, who'd graduated two years ahead of me. (These are the small-world joys of going to college an hour away from home.) His hair was now pink and he smiled at me, which encouraged me. I thought he recognized me, but he could have just been his characteristically welcoming self. I took a tentative step inside.

The room was full of maybe a dozen new faces, and they all looked over welcomingly. It was as if the whole room stopped and said, "Hey, great, another new person! How fun!" They asked my name, and then all introduced themselves. About halfway around the room, a girl simply said, "I'm Becca." and the two of us started laughing. Everyone else exchanged bewildered but bemused glances and I knew I was in the right place. I relaxed as we told the story of how we'd met, and settled in on the bottom bunk bed next to Becca to get to know my new friends.

The Great Tornado of '90

Sitting here among the piles of snow that now cover Boston, I realize that I don't remember childhood snowstorms as well as I remember tornadoes. For one thing, nothing especially untoward has ever happened to me because of snow. However, tornadoes are indicated by a siren, and a downright terrifying one at that. Also I think that the effects of a blizzard are pretty well known and finite: you could lose power or water, not be able to get out of your house, starve or freeze to death, etc., whereas with a tornado, one never really knows what will happen. You might just end up in Oz for all you know. Pretty scary stuff.

Michigan, where I grew up, is at the tip of Tornado Land (not even sure it's officially in Tornado Alley, but it is susceptible) but is sheltered by the lakes and generally doesn't get many tornadoes. Therefore, the tornadoes we did get, maybe one every few years, made enough of an impression. There was one in particular that anyone living in the Detroit area in 1990 (I think - could have been '89) remembers well, particularly if they were in school at the time. I was in third grade and remember it clearly.

The first thing to know is that my elementary school had a lot of outside walls and most of that was windows. There were two parallel hallways of classrooms, with courtyards between almost every one. At least one wall of each classroom, and most of the hallways, were big plate-glass windows. The rooms in the middle of the school were back-to-back, with the bathrooms in between (and doors from both classrooms, its own special kind of terror!). In one such arrangement, at the end of the hallway, the girls' bathroom also had big plate-glass windows. So of course, that is where the third-grade girls were shuffled into when the tornado siren went off that day.

Your whole life in Tornado Land, you are told to stay away from windows! Yes, they often say the bathroom is the best place to be, but not when the bathroom has an enormous window in it. Even at 8 or 9 years old, I remember squeezing into that smelly bathroom with 20 of my peers and looking at that sheet of glass maybe 8 feet away from my face and thinking, This is really dumb. And then my friend Melissa started in.

Don't get me wrong, Melissa was a really nice girl. She was probably my best friend in third grade, until she moved away. I don't know what possessed her to do this, but after we'd been shut in by the teacher and left to our own devices (another brilliant plan, grown-ups), as the sky got that weird green tornado-y color and things were quiet and creepy, Melissa started listing off all the ways in which every person in that bathroom was vulnerable: The people by the window are going to die first because they're going to get crushed by the glass. The people by the toilet are going to get sucked down it. (This included me, and I have to say, I did not appreciate this assessment.) The people over there by the vent are going to get sucked in. And so on. It was terrifying even for those of us who hadn't seen The Wizard of Oz (or hadn't seen past the beginning).

This went on for what felt like eternity, until the tornado had passed (leaving us all unscathed, as with pretty much every tornado I remember) and the teachers came to get us. We all walked back to class pretty subdued. I have no idea if a similar situation played out in the boys' bathroom, but for their sake, I hope not!

The Library of Amy

My friend Rachel (of middle school ice skating tomfoolery fame) was as into clothes and fashion as I was into books. I had lots of books and regularly lent them to her, and she occasionally lent me clothes (though I'll admit, I wasn't as into clothes as she was into books). And there is at least one book on my shelves that she has read and I have not. In fact, we referred to our respective collections as Rachel's Boutique and The Library of Amy.

This morning I saw there was a new post up on Lois Lowry's blog, which I follow. Since she lives in my neck of the woods, she speaks here often and even spoke on my birthday a few years ago, which I dragged my sister to. Today's blog topic was about how she is downsizing her possessions in preparation for moving. While reflecting on moving into her house many years ago, she says that she unpacked her books "in an orderly fashion, as if I were a librarian."

It made me think about my own current personal library. The Library of Amy has had about 95% turnover since I was a kid (I have kept my E.B. White box set, The Giver, Tuck Everlasting, and a few others, if you were curious) and has been repeatedly downsized with every move (last count was nearly 30 moves over the past 12 years). There was exactly one attempt to organize my shelves in some logical way that other people would understand, because they lived in a common space in a former apartment. The effort involved putting all the fiction together, alphabetically by author, then kids' books, and then nonfiction. It was tedious and didn't make me feel like I could find things any more accurately. For example, I know that Cervantes wrote Don Quijote, but that doesn't mean I associate his story with Robert Cormier or Malcolm Cowley. I do associate DQ with War and Peace and Brothers Karamazov, as Big Impressive Books I Have Read.

So in all other unpackings, I have made very little attempt to organize my books at all. The only thing that guides me in any way is my gut. I know I put The Giver next to A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and Ender's Game, because although one is a kids' book, one is fiction, and one is science fiction, they are among my top favorite books. They also live in my room, close to me, as with all other important things. On the upstairs hallway bookcases (built in!), I stuck all my books from undergrad together, fiction and non, and my grad school books are sequestered together too. But mostly they are all jumbled together on the shelves, several of which would really benefit from a bookend. But if working with books has taught me nothing else, it's that books are not built to last, even hardcovers. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the reverence that my friends have for books, and wish that all library users treated them better, but I do not expect mine to stand the test of time.

Probably there are lots of librarians and would-be librarians who get great satisfaction from organizing their books. I am not one of them. Does this mean I'll be a bad librarian? I hope not. I hope it just means that I will not be the kind with my hair in a bun, shushing kids and yelling at toddlers for pulling DVDs off the shelves willy-nilly (though don't get me wrong, that is annoying). I don't really see that as the future of librarianship anyway.

But still... don't tell my boss I don't organize my own books!

Donald

There are very few rules in my house growing up that I outright broke. One of these rules was not crossing one of the four main roads that create a boundary to my neighborhood, and I crossed it fairly regularly with a friend to go to the drug store on the other side. So we could buy candy. Which was another rule broken.

One Saturday morning, Sarah and I set out on such a mission. I remember lots of things about that day seeing as I got hit by a car and broke my wrist. There are some things I do not remember at all, like the time right after falling and before Sarah's mom arrived in her station wagon to pick us and our bikes up, or the ride to the emergency room. (Did we go to the emergency room? I have no idea.) But I do remember that our mailman was at the house when we pulled up in the station wagon.

Donald was our mailman for many years. He must have come in the late afternoons, when I was home from school. He delivered tons of letters to me from my various penpals over the years. I was penpals with our next-door neighbor's niece. I was penpals with kids I went to camp with. I was penpals with my grandmother. I even wrote away for a penpal from a magazine. I also got magazines and birthday presents and cards in the mail. I would open whatever was addressed to the whole family, even if it was junk mail. I was extremely interested in the mail being delivered, and even jealous when all the mail was for my parents, even if it was all bills (though as my mom promised, that feeling faded when I started getting my own bills). I'm sure Donald and I had conversations about my penpals and whether there was anything for me. Mostly I remember that he seemed to look forward to talking to me and the words we exchanged each time were pleasant and funny and made each of our days better.

So Donald was just crossing our lawn that May day when Sarah's mom pulled into the driveway to drop off a slightly mangled girl and bike. I don't remember what I said to him, but I'm sure I was hysterical and crying and dreading telling my mom I had broken a rule. I don't remember what Donald said to me, but he seemed genuinely concerned about me and for the following month or so we talked about my wrist. I realize now not only how long he had been part of my life, but also that I had been part of his life, intersecting it in this very specific context. Now that I'm an adult with somewhat regular interactions with some kids, I understand this better and wonder if the kids will remember me at all, or if Donald wonders if I remember him. I do.

The Tushy Song

One of the little monsters I used to spend my days with was a little guy still in diapers. We had a rocky beginning where we would spend a large part of the day distracting him from realizing he was away from his parents, sister and former nanny. As with many kids, one of the most traumatic parts of being little was having his diaper changed. Frankly, I don't blame him - you're wet and smelly, and then all of a sudden you're cold too, and all things below the belt (above too, if you're wearing the kind of overalls that just kill me with cuteness) are exposed. Not my idea of a good time, either.

So I started coming up with all sorts of ways to keep this little one from screaming his head off, especially during one of the least pleasant parts of the day for both of us: the cleaning up of the poop. One day when changing him, I started singing the first song that popped into my head, which is called Tishialuk Girls, an Irish Canadian tune. I honestly can't remember if I thought of it because Tishialuk sounds a bit like tushy, but anyway I sang it and he quieted down. I started calling it the Tushy song and we sang it whenever I changed him. Most of the lyrics aren't anything that would make sense to a 20-month-old (or to me either, if you must know), but here are the last four lines:

Aunt Rae wants me to wed her daughter
Takes me from my heart's delight
Give me a girl from down in Tishialuk
Shines in me eyes like diamonds bright

I would substitute "Benny" for "girl from" and would pause after "shines in me eyes like" and after a while he would grin and say "diamonds bright!" I heard this song on the way home tonight. I still can't hear it without putting Benny's name in there and pausing before "diamonds bright"! Gets me every time.

Signs

About 2 weeks ago, not long after I emailed my friend Anna about my new writing resolutions, a very curious thing happened. I voluntarily copyedit Anna's blog - because I'm anal, and because I love her enough to want to slay her typos ninja-style (and yes, I fancy myself a grammar ninja - far better than a grammar nazi, which I am on my crankier days), on a blog that is part of her professional life as a freelancer. I copyedit for her because I love it, and would never ask for anything in return, yet she insists on sending me something every year as a thank you. Often it's a novel, but perhaps she's caught on to the fact that, despite her picking out really interesting-sounding books, I really don't have much time to read stuff I've never heard of, when school and three book clubs and my own, ever-growing book list are clamoring for my limited attention. (The one exception was two years ago, right after Helen died and completely unaware of that fact, she sent me Let's Take the Long Way Home, which I devoured in one very sad, but ultimately cathartic, evening.) So this year, I had just sent Anna a whole email about my New Year's resolutions to write more and asking her advice as a friend who makes a living from writing. She wrote back a lengthy, thoughtful response, and concluded with an offer to treat me to, instead of a book, a subscription to Poets & Writers magazine this year. Wonderful! I responded. So it was settled.

Less than a week later, I received a little love note in the mail from Poets & Writers, offering me 75% off a one-year subscription. To my knowledge, I have never corresponded with this magazine before, so I found it very curious that, just at the time we had been talking about them, they sent me something asking me to subscribe. I asked Anna (among asking her if she wanted me to take advantage of this fantastic offer, which she declined) if she had anything to do with it. Our best guess is that they now have my information from her buying the subscription and mixed it up in their mailing department by mistake. If that wasn't the explanation... then it's just serendipitous!

Today at the library I came across another magazine I have occasionally perused, called Writer's Digest. It happened to be last February's issue, whose cover story is titled "How to Submit Anything (& Everything!): Your step-by-step guide to getting published: novels, short stories, freelance articles, nonfiction, memoirs, scripts, poems, picture books & more!" This magazine is not normally so targeted to my needs and interests, especially when I had just been wondering about how I was going to figure all this out on my own and have written things that fall into more than half of these categories. I take this to be another sign.

The third sign was reading an article from a friend's Facebook post entitled "6 Harsh Truths that Will Make You a Better Person," in which the author makes an example of, among other aspirations, writers who don't write. Wong says:

"Being in the business I'm in, I know dozens of aspiring writers. They think of themselves as writers, they introduce themselves as writers at parties, they know that deep inside, they have the heart of a writer. The only thing they're missing is that minor final step, where they actually fucking write things.

"But really, does that matter? Is 'writing things' all that important when deciding who is and who is not truly a 'writer'?

"For the love of God, yes."

My new mantra. Thanks, Universe!

Letters

When I was thirteen, my mom presented me with a packet of about ten letters, printed, three-hole-punched, and fastened into a blue Mead folder, that she had written to me, one every year on my birthday since I was a wee tyke - about four years old. In them, she describes my typical day and my relationships with the other members of our immediate family: herself, my dad, and my sister. She concludes with a bit about my personality in general and other milestones that have come up are sprinkled throughout. They are usually 3-5 pages in length. They are among my most valuable possessions.

When I graduated high school, I got another set of 5 letters, from the intervening years. When I graduated college? Yup, another four. After college, with no next obvious goal in sight, she started mailing them to me. Because I had so loved reading the others, I read them right away for a few years.

Then I started to realize that what I had loved about them was their unexpected nature, just going through my life and using the letters, my mom's observations of me, to help me reflect on how I've changed and grown. I realized that I couldn't do that if I was constantly getting a letter about such recent history. One particularly poignant example was reading, less than a year after the breakup, about how my mom thought one boyfriend would have made a good son-in-law.

So I stopped. I told her, of course; I thought her writing had changed when her perception of her audience changed - for the first set of letters, she could not imagine where I'd be five or ten years later when I read them, but the later letters had more of a sense of immediacy to them. I also didn't want to talk to her shortly after my birthday and have her expect me to comment on the most recent letter. I have five letters, largely unopened and entirely unread, burning a hole in the third blue folder. I wonder like crazy sometimes what's in them, but I'm looking forward to some milestone event in the future in which I will tear them open and gobble them up - maybe when I get my master's degree, or buy a home, or get married, or have a baby and start my own letters. Time will tell what that milestone will be.

In the meantime, I have taken to writing my own letters to a couple of youngsters I'm close to. The letters follow roughly my mom's format, describing their relationships with their family members, as far as I can see from my perch on the periphery of their family, and recently, from afar as well. When they lived closer by and I saw them more often, even spent day in and day out with them, I felt more qualified to comment on their daily activities, but now my comments are more general and any specifics are derived from their parents' reports or my infrequent visits. I tell them stories and offer them (hopefully useful) advice, and they are generally 1-3 pages long (mostly because I don't spend nearly as much time with them as a parent does). I, too, have visions of these letters being b'nai mitzvah gifts, but am realistic that such celebrations are up for debate in their family and so don't mind if they wait until another milestone - maybe graduating middle school, or even high school. If nothing else, the letters are good ways for me to hold onto these memories of them, and to practice writing in general and letter-writing-to-special-little-one-in-my-life specifically. But maybe, just maybe, these guys will find these letters as meaningful and precious as I find mine.

I'm thinking about all of these letters a lot since I'm finally making time while on semester break from school to work on the ones I'm writing, but also because I'm reading a memoir by someone I went to high school with. I remember her (and her siblings) as good-looking, smart, athletic, nice, and generally good at whatever she put her mind to, and it doesn't at all surprise me that she wrote and published a book already, but the content was unexpected. When she was 24, her husband died suddenly in an accident, leaving her alone and five months pregnant. Her memoir is wrenching and beautiful (all the more so because I can picture her and various people she mentions, and the locations). It opens with the day of the accident, beginning as abruptly as her life changed, and goes through until her son's first birthday. I'm about a third of the way in and she's about to go into labor. I can't help but think of this as a sort of letter to her son, as well - chronicling everything she was going through, and about him as a tiny baby, which he will be able to cherish once he's old enough to read it.