at various points…
.photographer.geek.mentor.audiophile.furbabymama.
iAmunderwhelmed
Jan 27th
Basically.
I’m more loyal to individual pieces of gear/gadgetry that do what I need them to do and meet my needs as a geek and consumer. Over the past year, I went from loving my Windows Mobile smartphone to swearing I’d never go back after I had my first taste of Android heaven. If a device solves a problem of mine or makes my life easier, I’m all about it. If it’s less expensive than its competitors or alternatives, I’m about it even more.
With that said, I don’t “get” the iPad hype. To clarify – I can see how *some people* might find it interesting and/or useful, but I’m not one of those people, and especially not for over $400.
Someone said today that the iPad is a middle ground between the iPhone and a netbook. If that’s true, that explains why I have absolutely no desire to have one. I am currently using an Android smartphone. There is not a single core smartphone feature an iPhone has that my Android does not. In fact, there are several features mine *does* have that an iPhone doesn’t. I also pay a lot less money per month than iPhone users do. As far as a netbook is concerned, I have never once had an occasion where I said, “Wow, I sure wish I had a much smaller, less powerful laptop on which to surf the web and type uncomfortably.” I also don’t use a Kindle or similar device, so the “it’s the Kindle-killer” draw doesn’t get me either.
To Apple fanboys, this is blasphemy. I must not have ever used an Apple product, otherwise I’d be hooked and putting in my iPad pre-order right now. They retort that I’m just an “Apple hater.” False. Let me say that I really like my husband’s Macbook, and I wouldn’t mind having one of my own. I think they have the best all-around notebooks on the market. I don’t hate Apple.
It’s just that I would rather use more affordable technology that works better (for me) than jump on their bandwagon “just because.” For example, Rhapsody is far superior to iTunes for many reasons, not the least of which is unlimited music for $14 a month. I cannot use Rhapsody with an iPod or iPhone in the way that I can with my Sansa player. I don’t want an iPod Touch or any other product that’s dependent on iTunes for music.
I mean yeah, I like to go into the Apple store and tinker around sometimes, and I’m sure I’ll try out the iPad for giggles… but to pay for it? Not for me. I guess I just haven’t found the Apple device that will make me spend more money to get what I already have.
My place
Jan 27th
Once again, it’s been a long, long time since I’ve written anything. This has been my pattern for the past couple of years. I came to the realization that, among other things, my “brand” didn’t fit anymore. The domain, the title… none of it fit. So yesterday, I changed my domain, changed my look…
Then today I realized it’s not just about cosmetics, nor is it about laziness, writers’ block, or lack of inspiration. Those are excuses. I’ve stopped writing in “my place” because I’m not happy with my place. The place I’m in. Me.
The other night, I got into a very interesting conversation with someone who has realized that their seeming lack of self confidence is really arrogance in disguise. Tonight, I’m coming to that realization too.
There’s nothing magical about the new year, or resolutions per se. But I do want to be a better person. More authentic. Happier. If I take a hard look at myself, I have to admit that I’ve become hostile, ultra-competitive, easily-angered, arrogant and impatient. It most likely has already cost me one of my best friends in the world. (If he’s reading this, I’ll be surprised, but hey – you never know.)
Today I was confronted by a coworker about some things that I have (albeit inadvertently) done to undermine her and her reputation/expertise on the job. I am just sick about it. I haven’t intended to communicate that way, but when I’m completely honest, I can see that I may have let my competitiveness and haste to be respected on my new job cause me to be prideful and carelessly unkind. I hope she can forgive me. We are supposed to talk about it on Monday, privately. I want to go into that conversation with the proper attitude, to seek to understand, and to honestly make a change.
Earlier this evening, I was tempted to call this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach “depression,” but it’s not. At least not in this particular moment and situation. It’s conscience. Holy Spirit, perhaps. It’s something telling me that the way I’ve behaved and the person I’ve become has to change. I want to be a person of kindness, gentleness, genuine humility, grace, and patience.
Maybe if I confront this issue of “me,” I will gain the clarity and courage I need to confront the other challenges that have defeated me for too long.
Honoring Matthew Horning
Sep 10th
This is the fourth year that I’ve written about Matthew Horning on 9/11. I think of him often throughout the year, and all the more as the anniversary of the attacks approaches. I encourage you to go back and read my original tribute post, to learn some of the details about him.
Matthew Horning was at work on the 95th floor of the North Tower of the World Trade Center on 9/11/01. He was a database administrator for Marsh and McLennan, beginning his morning, making a living. He was 26 years old, and was about to propose to his beautiful girlfriend, Maura. Those cowards stole his life and his future. They stole a lifetime of dreams, plans, and memories.
So much has changed in the world since Matthew was murdered, but that day is forever seared into the American memory. People have debated the events… who was responsible, who wasn’t involved, and what we should do about it. We’ve fought wars, given opinions on radio talk shows and made films. The memory of 9/11 has been the catalyst for military and firefighting careers. “Terrorism” is a part of even children’s vocabularies. September 11th has changed America forever.
As I think of the best way to honor Matthew, I think my friend Joy said it best in a blog comment four years ago:
“… As our lives go on and the tributes end, may we pick up the mantle of freedom and not impose it on others, but live it out in our daily lives. May we see the unseen, may we feed the hungry, and clothe the naked, and touch our fellow man with love and hope. Loving one another is the greatest honor we can give those we lost.”
I strive to honor Matthew in this way, by loving others and defending freedom.
Matthew, you are not forgotten.
If I could write a letter to heaven…
Jul 28th
DeVelle, I miss you so much. I only got to know you for a couple of days, but I will forever cherish the memories of the time you spent with Mike and me in Tennessee. I’ll never forget your smiling face the second I met you, chips and salsa at La Siesta, or you sweetly complimenting “you look really pretty today” after my long, tiring day at work on Thursday. I’ll always remember the cookout that night, and our trip to downtown Nashville to see the sights. You were so excited about spending time in the studio with Mike, learning about recording. We were both looking forward to watching your career blossom, and to forming a lifelong relationship with you. We think of you and smile every time we see the “Vijay” sign in our neighborhood. That can forever be our little inside joke. 
I wish we could have visited North Dakota with you while you were still here. You were right – ND mosquitos are worse. 
This isn’t goodbye… It’s “see you later.” And we will. Love you forever.
Party it up while we’re still here…
Jul 20th
This may be the only video of Develle performing one of his original songs, “Lost in a Can of Coors Light.” Thanks to Kalie Seltvedt for passing it along.
Miss you so much, Develle.
The player will show in this paragraph
Life is short, and sometimes makes no sense at all.
Jul 18th
My heart is so heavy and filled with such a raw, searing pain. Something terrible happened yesterday.
Mike’s 21 year old cousin Develle and his girlfriend Victoria were visiting Nashville from Grand Forks, ND. Develle was an aspiring country songwriter and was visiting Nashville for the first time, living his dream. He and Victoria road tripped down here, got a nice hotel room at the Sheraton Music City and were having the time of their lives.
Victoria and Develle on their way to Nashville
The four of us had spent Wednesday and Thursday evening together. We went out for Mexican food Wednesday, then Thursday we barbecued here at the house and then took them to downtown Nashville.
Develle, me and Mike
Develle had been hanging out with Mike in the studio during the days, learning about music and recording. Mike was helping him decide how to put together his home studio. Mike and Develle had met when they were little children, but this was the first time they had ever really spent time together. They were having a blast.
Friday afternoon, Develle came over to our house. Mike let him in and they went upstairs. Develle said he needed to hit the bathroom, so Mike went into the studio to wait on him. A few minutes later, Mike heard strange noises. He ran over and banged on the door. Develle said to come in, that he needed help. He went in to help, and Develle was collapsed on the floor. His speech was impaired, he was breathing very heavily, and drifting in and out. Sometimes he was responsive and sometimes not. Mike called 911, and followed instructions until paramedics took over.
Develle did not survive. We don’t know if he died at our home, or in the ambulance, but he was not alive when he arrived at the hospital.
Develle’s girlfriend Victoria was at their hotel in Nashville when everything happened. He had bought her a spa day for her birthday. I kept calling, but her cell phone was dead, so Mike and I drove over there last night and told her the news. That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. She kept asking, “Really guys? Really?” We’re all struggling to believe it.
She stayed last night with us, along with Mike’s uncle John and his son, John, Jr. who drove down from Kentucky. They went today to pack up the hotel room, get Develle’s car, and get Develle’s belongings from the medical examiner. They took Victoria to Kentucky today to stay with her family.
The autopsy results will be back Tuesday. We do know Develle had been under treatment recently for blood clots. He was taking medication for them. He had been coughing some on Thursday evening, and was really fatigued. We don’t know if there was an underlying issue, or what exactly happened. Everything is such a mystery.
Thursday night, he was so alive. He told me I looked pretty. We joked about North Dakota mosquitos. He told us about his songwriting aspirations…
Please keep Develle’s family in your prayers. Also remember his girlfriend, Victoria. She is so lost and devastated. They adored one another. Mike is having a really difficult time too. He keeps replaying the whole incident in his mind. He’s really struggling. Even though we are comforted that Develle was with family (Mike) in his last moments, we are still in shock. Develle was an amazing young man with a huge heart. I only met him on Wednesday but I miss him terribly.
A Major award!
May 16th
Three years ago, I was promoted to Captain. This evening my commander informed me that my promotion to Major was approved. Woot!
You Are Living
May 11th
A gift for my mother and grandmother… Tracing the story of three generations.
called you sunday past
hallmark said it was time
for some contrived day
invented to sell cards and FTD bouquets
and add to radio morning show trivia
give you lip service between station identification
and the phrase that pays
but I refuse to equate your status
to that of national egg month and secretaries’ week
because before it was the fashionyou took your daughters to work…
I.
all three of them in pigtails
when your young wife went away
your dreams snatched away with a shock
so in the midst of depression
economic and otherwise
you raised three little girls
who would raise little girls
who would raise little girls
who would one day hope to
raise little girls to be just like
the great grandma they never knew
who somehow held your heart despite
seventy years of loneliness
empty beds, empty wallets, empty cupboards
I met you fifty years after the storm
loved to visit your farm and trailer home
find peacock feathers and arrowheads
in fields that you plowed
building on the dreams of ancestors long since passed
now I build on yours
you slipped away with your daughters by your side–
and their daughters
who for some reason never considered it a failure
that you came eight years short of your hundred-year promise
your littlest girl
had a littlest girl
who had a little girl
… so that promise is unbrokenII.
standing in afternoon windowpane shadows
laughing melancholy memories
about how grandpa Arbra used to notice
your every six-month pictures of your five-minus-one
and say “you shore do have a lot of grandbabies”
we never bothered to correct him because
what’s the harm in overestimating your hand in creation
maybe it’s just that he could see the futureso your fingertips trace the photos
like the wings of a butterfly
“look here at Arbra and G.S.
they’re both gone now”
and you choked on a tear
“and this… is my mother…
it’s almost scary how much
your mother looks like her.
you know, Les, I feel so cheated.
I never had a mother.
I never had a grandmother.
I don’t even know what kind of person she was
or what her laugh sounded like.
all I know is my dad never loved another woman
like he loved her”
and all I can tell you is that
despite having no example to follow
you made the best mother
and the best grandmother
and I’m thankful to know the sound of your laughter
and I’m thankful to have known what makes you cry
and to see the pride
and tears in your eyesIII.
we’ve been to hell and back
on many an occasion
told me I was special from day one
tuesday’s child… full of grace
sprang from the heart of a woman-child
with but an eighteen year headstart
on the marathon of the ages
I’ve grown accustomed to hearing
about your beauty and poise and contagious joy
how bubbly your laugh and beautiful your smile
and sparkling your green eyes
but your beauty to me comes not from
how many heads you still turn
at high school football games
you were beautiful singing me to sleep
“I love you Leslie…
oh yes I do…
I don’t love anyone…
as much as you…”
at age three those words made me cry
you were beautiful while trying to hide your pain
while staring it in the face
because I had my father’s eyes
you were beautiful when your second
little girl
slipped through the fingers of your heart
and into eternity
you were beautiful when you held me
in steamy bathrooms wheezing
unable to afford hospital beds but
providing the best medicine
you are beautiful now
when you smile at your baby girl
walking across stages
chasing papers
and cry with your baby girl
picking up the pieces of her heart
you are beautiful when you pray
and beautiful when you speak
you are beautiful when you sleepand beautiful when you… live
you bear not only an uncanny physical resemblance
to your grandmother
but a spiritualemotional one as well
you have begun the next pattern
in the woven tapestry of life
and as long as words are spoken
and dreams are unbroken…you are living
If a white person wants to look for a ghost, don’t follow. Just sayin.
Mar 18th
Somehow in high school, I had a knack for doing lots of dumb stuff but not getting in trouble. My friends and I were basically “good kids” (church youth group, good students, etc.) but loved to play pranks, clown, push limits and generally get into stuff. Growing up in a small town, there wasn’t much to do, so we had to come up with our own ideas. Sometimes those ideas proved less than wise.
Another thing about small towns is that there are lots of urban legends. We had the Farrenberg Light, Blue Baby, and the Hart Cemetery GLOWING TOMBSTONE… omg111eleventyftwbbq! One late summer night in about 1995ish, several of us decided to go find this glowing tombstone and see if the legend was real.
We were an unlikely group, to say the least. I was driving my grandfather’s brown Ford pickup truck, and had a friend riding with me (I think Mary). Our friend Lorrie was driving a second car, and had April H., Mike S. and his brother Meechie with her. Mary, Lorrie and I are white girls. April is black. Mike is a black guy who grew up in our tiny country town. His brother Meechie, on the other hand, was visiting for the summer from Chicago. Bless his heart, he didn’t know any better but to follow us crazy white people into the woods.
Hart Cemetery is an old Civil War-era graveyard, a little bit north of town out in the middle of nowhere where there are no street lights. It’s one of those places where you have to know where you’re going to get there. I was in the lead as we turned down a dark dirt road and slowly crept to the end. The graves were off to our right, mixed in with gnarly limbs, tall grass and mud. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw one set of headlights. They were still behind me… cool. I kept driving. Suddenly I noticed a second set of headlights. We were being followed!
I turned around at the end of the dirt road and was facing the direction we had come from, back toward the main road, keeping my headlights on. I tried to make out the vehicle. I parked and rolled my window down, and April yelled up to me “I think it’s the Highway Patrol!” She would know. Her dad was a State Trooper. She was right — red and blue lit up the night. “$@#%! Are we in trouble? Is this illegal? Are we supposed to be here?” A little late for that now.
The female patrolman (patrolperson?) shined her flashlight in my eyes and told me to get out of the truck. I was terrified. The others started to get out and she ordered everyone (except me) back in the cars. Great. I was gonna be the one to go to jail, lose my college scholarships, embarrass my family, go to federal pound me in the ass prison… whatever nightmares I could think up. The officer told me to get in her squad car… in the FRONT seat. I thought you always got put in the back if you’re being arrested. Hmm.
She ran my plates and found out the truck wasn’t mine. She asked me who ___ ___ was (my grandfather), so I explained that I’m-borrowing-their-truck-I-swear-and-you-can-call-them-except-they’re-probably-asleep-and-have-you-ever-met-my-parents-they-work-for-the-school-system-I-swear-I’m-not-a-criminal-oh-my-god-seriously-I-didn’t-steal-it…
Finally I got the courage. “Are we in trouble for something?” By this time, the officer had rolled down her window, and our friend’s car was parked beside her about ten feet away, driver’s side to driver’s side. “Well that depends. What are y’all doin out here?” I looked over at Lorrie. “Should I just tell her?” “Sure… I guess.”
“Officer, we’re looking for a glowing tombstone.” She cracked up laughing and said, “Oh, that’s all? I thought you were gonna get drunk and tear up the graves.” She told us all we could get out of the cars. We all stood around talking and joking for a few minutes. She was asking each of us where we were from, and someone let it slip that Meechie was from the ‘hood, visiting his country brother for the summer. “Watch this,” she whispered to me.
She flipped on her siren for a split second. BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP! Meechie hit the dirt. “F%&K! What the hell? Man, I don’t like the cops!” LMAO! Then came the crazy part. After the laughter died down, she said, “Really, there’s supposed to be a glowing tombstone out here? Let’s look for it!”
I was dumbfounded, relieved, amused and curious all at the same time. I got back into her patrol car and we drove down the paths between the graves looking for the legendary tombstone. We gave up after a couple of minutes, never having found it. She told us to be careful, drove back down the road and left. A few minutes later, we were bored and headed back to town.
We got back to April’s house and told her dad what had happened, and about her making me get into the front seat of the car. He asked us the name of the officer. “You know she’s a lesbian, right? She probably thought you were cute,” he said to me. They gave me a hard time for years.
The moral of the story? White people are crazy. I guess. LOL
It’s hard to find the words
Jan 20th
I think part of why I stopped blogging for a bit was that I was tired. Tired of the primaries. Tired of arguing with “friends.” Tired of campaigning and debating and donating and registering… I didn’t even write about election night, which was one of the happiest, yet most surreal nights of my life. That night sailed so quickly by that it almost felt too easy… like we slipped into port on calm waters. The storm had come weeks and months before. We finally could breathe. We shouted. We cried. We hugged. We rejoiced.
It’s almost midnight. It’s the eve of the day I believed would come, yet still seems too good to be true. Some have asked me what I saw in Barack back in 2002 that made me say, “That man’s going to be President one day.” Of course, it’s undeniable that he’s special. Once in a generation. Exceptional. But what I saw in him was not what *he* could do, but what he could inspire *us* to do… and to be. Barack Obama, back when he was a “nobody,” inspired me. He got me interested in things like community organizing, nuclear non-proliferation, net neutrality, and sustainable energy. Then I saw what he did at the 2004 DNC and knew… *knew* his time would come.
I am unable to find the words to adequately express the magnitude of what we’re about to witness. This nation is not what any of us thought it was. One individual has helped us see what we can be.
Tomorrow, I’m taking a vacation day to relax at home and witness history. Like Michelle, I have always loved my country but have not always been proud. Once again, I am truly proud of my country. Tomorrow, when they play “Hail to the Chief” for the first time for President Barack Obama, I know I’ll cry tears of joy. This is one of those times I’m happy to truly be alive.
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