Lost and Found

Grandma.

The smell of scotch reminds me of Grandma; she'd have a glass every evening before bed. Scotch and macaroni noodles in butter and empty cottage cheese containers and the smell of mildew bring her back to life in my mind.

When I lived in Chicago, I used to call her, tell her of my job woes. The company I freelanced for would not hire me.

Give me his number, I'll give him a piece of my mind, she said of the director of the agency.

Grandma was never afraid to give anyone a piece of her mind. That's the truth.

The rest of the cousins, they talked about the will. The money that Grandma left them. I didn't get any. Or if I did, Dad invested it or something.

She was in Columbus for some reason. I can't remember why. She was complaining. My knees hurt and my back is sore and I just can't get rid of this ache in my shoulder, she said. Again and again.

At least your disposition is still the same, I said to her.

Maybe that's why I was left off the will.

And then there's the birthday card I found a few years back. She'd given me a photograph to reproduce for her, a simple request that I never fulfilled. For whatever reason, duties like that paralize me. I never returned the photograph. The script in the card read something like, "To My Great-Granddaughter." Inside, on a post it note, were hastily written words: I want my photograph back. I should have never given it to you.

Grandma always had a fire going in her fireplace. She had rooms and rooms full of papers, stacked on the floor, three feet high. It was at her house that I saw my first episode of Saturday Night Live; I didn't understand the fake news bit. I used to watch her lay on the bed to zip up her jeans. Her bathroom door was adorned with a ten-year-old fabric calendar featuring a photograph of my cousins. Her Christmas presents were always a bit off.

She played the piano, something I still wish I could do.

When she knew she was dying, she asked me to "watch" her cat for her. He was a jerk of a cat. Didn't like other cats, didn't like other people, didn't like me. It broke my heart; I knew that I wasn't "watching" Tobias. I knew that he was mine. We endured life together, both of us knowing that he preferred Grandma to me, knowing that Grandma preferred him to me.

I got an oil change and bought an ice scraper before I drove to the Ohio River for Grandma's last days. It's grey over there. I think that she probably liked it. But when it comes down to it, I never really knew her.

We were in the hospital room, surrounded by family. All I wanted was for everyone to be gone, to have a private moment the with woman who mothered my father, with the woman who trusted me with a cat, but not a photograph. Honestly, I can't remember if it happened. But I remember holding her hand, looking into her eyes. She was going to a place where her knees wouldn't hurt and her back wouldn't ache.

It's tough to know if she's happier there. For Grandma, happiness goes hand in hand with struggle. I don't think that the two of us are very different at all.

Land.



One of the reasons that I love driving (okay, riding) to Sunbury to hang with the high school kids is that I love seeing the (as for now) undeveloped land. I get to see horizons as they were originally designed, land whose value is not for what is on top of the soil, but land whose value lies within its soil. Fields. Ponds. Streams. Farms. I love it. Love it. It must be a side effect from growing up in Johnstown, or from rereading "Little House on the Prairie" once a year for a decade.

I've been reading a book of essays on land conservation for a couple of weeks, now, and I can't help but recommend it. Heartily. I am heartily recommending a book of what might, at first light, seem to be dry essays on farming ethics. But it's deeper. This book is literally moving my soul. Have you ever thought of what your connection is with the land that you live upon? How much of your life, who you are, what you desire has to do with the land in which you were reared? Do your childhood memories include giant Maples? How about Cherry Blossoms? Local honey? Honeysuckle?

I don't know. I would never give this book complete justice in a not-thought-out, hastily-written blog entry, but please, give it a shot. Sand County Almanac by Aldo Leopold. Learn something a little more about your surroundings, your self, your Creator. I am.

Shades of Grey.

The Malibu has been out of commission for a month and a half. A month and a half is as long as I can survive in Columbus without my own means of transportation without shaking violently from lack of freedom. Its current resting place is Byer's Circle, a land of on-the-cheap repair shops and strip clubs. The fate of the silver machine has yet to be decided: sold as scrap metal, perhaps donated to NPR, or, maybe, handed over for a small fee to a man who thinks he can make it run again.

A few good things happened during this round of not having a car, including my first-ever experience of public transportation in Columbus. Up until a few weeks ago, I'd utilized public transportation all over the world - from London to Zanzibar - but had never stepped foot on the number 2. It smells like piss, which brought back fond memories of my days in Soho. I also realized just how much stability NPR brings to my thought life. When you're listening to what's going on in the world, it's difficult to think about your own problems. When you're not listening to what's going on in the world, though, life can seem pretty crazy.

So. It was time. I'm now the new owner of a Honda Civic, the first car that I've owned that I've ever had a crush on. It was immediate. It was beautiful. Grey Malibu, out. Black Civic, in.

The Malibu isn't the only piece of machinery that to lose its will to live in the past few weeks. The Mac had a horrible accident involving a Tom Waits mix cd lodged within it. After a day's worth of surgery, the cd is still stuck and the Mac won't turn on. My grey little Mac is dead and although it lived a good (and exciting life), it was time for it to be put to sleep. I type this from a new (refurbished) MacBook that I don't quite have a crush on, but am willing to get to know. It's white.

And so. I traded two greys for a black and a white. I wonder at the implications. Perhaps there's room for both.