Who has a Great Lakes accent? I've been speaking lately with one and I can't figure out why! Bags comes out "begs" and aware sounds like "awear". Who did it to me?

growth

I picture to myself the woman that I want to become. She is prettier, kinder, wiser, more patient and more faithful than I. Yet I do not despair. I was once small and weak, not able to walk or talk, crying whenever things did not go my way, and I could not control the simplest bodily function. And that was only twenty-one years ago. It is encouraging to see how far I have come.

i fought the law

I looked into my rear-view mirror at the beautiful display of red and blue flashing lights. Ah, Heckle! ~as Emilie would say. I pulled to the side, still maintaining one hand on the bag of Wendy's takeout to make sure it doesn't fall over. I put the car in park and rolled down my window. Officer Ought-to-be-retired walked up to my window and politely introduced himself.

"I'm Officer Ought-to-be-retired, with the BYU police." Crap, a rent-a-cop; I couldn't drop Jason's name. "Have you been warned about stop signs before?" he asked after requesting my license and registration.

Well sure, I thought. Someone's told me before that they exist. I just never believed it. "No," I replied distractedly as I rummaged through my purse. Why haven't I cleaned this thing out! I berated myself as I searched every pocket before finding my license.

"And are you aware of the speed limit through here?" I paused in my quest through the glove compartment and stared at the street in front of me, looking for such help as a speed limit sign. I must have passed it. "It's twenty-five in residential areas."

"Oh. I thought it was thirty." But, now that you mention it, I think I have seen signs with those numbers on them during my drive through this neighborhood each day. Huh.

I handed him my undignified bent copy of the registration and an even more bedraggled insurance paper. I guess I need to clean out Dad's glove compartment as well. I mentioned inanely that this wasn't my car, just so the polite old man would know that I would have kept my papers in better order. Yeah, I thought, just look at my purse.

"I'll be right back."

"Stupid BYU." I slapped a hand to my mouth. Why can't I just not say things I think? And why when I do say them do I have absolutely no control over my volume? Luckily he had already walked away, and I was left to consider my behavior toward an officer of the law.

I used to be awed and intimidated by police officers in their pressed uniforms and shiny badges. When I was five I got an officer's signature for a book of autographs I had. The awe wore off, replaced by pure hatred. Cops were bullies, I decided, after one pushed his way through my front door and me to drag a scared little girl back to her abusive parents. I had held my ground against men with guns and watched them do the wrong thing in the name of the law. Power hungry, gun-slinging play-ground bullies.

Except Jason. He has done what I had thought since the age of sixteen to be impossible; he made me respect law enforcement again. Jason believes in honor and duty and tasers. Plus he gave me a get out of jail free card when he told me I can drop his name if I get pulled over. I never got a chance to use that privilege, so for a moment I was excited that I had California-rolled my way through a stop sign, until I remembered that I was on campus.

While Jason's contempt for the BYU cops is palpable, my own was secured independently of his opinion. I remember too clearly being pulled over by The Beat on my way to class one early morning. I was late and in a rush. The car pulled up beside me and waved me to the side. Oh yes, and I was on foot. Jay walking! the cop cried, not bothering to exit his vehicle. I merely gave him a scathing look and walked away. Let him get out and chase me, I thought, I have a paper to turn in. He didn't chase me, and I haven't respected the over-inflated security guards since.

The officer returned to my window. "I've written this down as a warning," he said. "For the stop sign and the speed. You know-" he gave me a fatherly look- "you only dropped down to eight miles an hour before you continued through the stop sign. I should write you a ticket..."

But we both know you're not going to, I finished for him in my head. I took the papers, restored them to their rightful piles, and pulled away from the curb, making sure to complete my stop before turning left. Next time, I won't take a short-cut through campus.

dashed plans and locksmiths

I had the weekend planned in detail--what I would wear, how my hair would be styled, where I would be and when--but I had absolutely no idea what the weekend would be like. My inability to predict the future is likely the cause behind my obsessive planning. I wanted as much control as possible. I think, however, that Higher Powers often laugh at my plans, taking great pains to unravel my carefully woven preparations. And He chose this weekend to do it.

The anecdote of the car is one which I can tell with great relish, but I find I lack patience for writing out the seven hours of frustration I went through. I will mention one point, however. As I waited for Grisly Old Locksmith Number 3 to gain entrance to my trunk, a kindly neighbor offered a prayer on my behalf. She then turned to where the man crouched trying to pick the lock of the Chevy Malibu (the Fort Knox of cars) and confidently assured him that now he would meet with success. I left my car in their hands as Kevin drove me to Tarythe's reception. I sat in the passenger seat without my hair done, with no makeup, no nylons and wearing borrowed shoes that happened not to match (of course everything I owned had to be in the car!) while he and I talked of faith in prayer.

I came to this conclusion: I have faith that everything will work out for the best in the end. Unfortunately, I cannot see which end is best or when it should occur. So while I had complete trust that Heavenly Father would take care of me, that gave little assurance that I would get back in my car before my flight the next day. I mean, had I had my way the miracle would have occurred when I tried to shut the trunk; maybe my purse strap would have caught blocking the lock from latching. I would have been spared hours of frustration. So would many other people, Kevin not least of which who sat with me for hours in the heat while my embarrassment prevented me from being my most poised and pleasant self.

Poise. The greatest of all casualties this weekend. Never once did I feel prepared for the situations in which I found myself. I didn't get off any pre-planned witty remarks, no clever jokes or speeches; I got bug-bitten and sunburned; I never got to see touristy Austin; none of my outfits worked, for one reason or another; my hair nearly always failed (no bobby-pin magic); and I never had a stitch of makeup.

Thank Goodness.

Given how (for lack of a better word) perfectly the weekend went, I can only be grateful that none of my plans came to fruition. I still don't understand the trunk incident, but I know it must have been for the best. I went into this trip with a million plans and absolutely no preconceived notions. How would it be to see Kevin again after a year of not seeing him, and months of not speaking to him before that? What would I say for my maid of honor toast to the bride? I didn't know. But I left Austin with sweet memories of the wedding. I am also maintaining a count-down for twenty days hence. I'll try, in good faith, to make no plans, a feat made possible by the knowledge that I don't have to pack and that a spare key to my car is just across town.

homecoming

I didn't know the reason for my anxiousness. All I knew is that I had to get home, I had to. Now I knew I needed a nap, but that wouldn't make me anxious, waiting for that. No, something bigger. Lately not having a reason for any emotion has become somewhat normal, but anticipation has not been one of those vague shadowy feelings ordinarily plaguing me.
"Who wants to go home?" my boss asked, looking at the large crew of tan bedecked employees and the scant number of customers.

"Oh, me!" I cried, "Oh me, oh me." Maybe I jumped with my hand in the air.

I ran to the time clock and didn't mind the lost two hours of pay. I galloped out the door and sprinted to the apartment. I never paused to consider that my house was in the opposite direction. I realized the reason even as I burst through the door.

Tarythe jumped off the couch and I met her as she leapt into my arms. I spun her in a hug. The ambiguous purple feeling that has been hovering somewhere before my eyes and clogging the free flow in my chest evaporated like the tiny wisp of a cloud that it was. Oh Tarythe is back!

After roughly fifty hugs we drove to my house to catch up on all the changes, locational and otherwise. We sat on my bed, as we have done innumerable times before--the only difference being the larger mattress--and asked each other questions and told stories we haven't told to anyone.

I knew I had missed Tarythe. I knew before she left that I would miss her, past experience having pointed that direction. But it wasn't until earlier this week that I wanted her and felt it distinctly. I knew I needed Tarythe. There are just these times, when I read a book, when I get back from class, when I want to talk out ideas for my book. I don't notice until afterward that all those things I have been keeping in weren't used to being shut up. She gave ear to all that superfluous communication.

Today was no different. Immediately she hit the nail on the head, asking the target question. I talked, confided, laughed, shared, and even listened a little in return. She asked what I have learned.

I have learned all the wrong lessons. I don't ask for help anymore, and I know, again, that everyone will leave. I feel absolutely worthless at times. That if I were just a little bit better...but everyone leaves.

Sometimes they come back, is what her presence declared faithfully. Just talking made me feel better.

I feel...

I feel like I can write again.

rocking horse winner

I have had two images in my head for days now, maybe weeks. One is me diving off a cliff, arms spread wide not caring when someone catches me though the air streaming past my face is growing more ferocious and the ground is racing nearer; I don't care because I know I'll get caught before I hit the bottom, even if only barely. The next image is from D. H. Lawrence, the Rocking Horse Winner. When I think of that, my eyes flinch open and I see how very close the ground really is and wonder why haven't I been caught yet. I force my breathing to calm once more and my body to relax in free-fall. Instead my tension is transferred to a little boy feverishly racing his rocking horse to the finish line. There must be more money. There must be more money.

My short-term loan was due today.

since hell froze over

I went to choir practice, proving once again how futile oaths are. Ted has finally beaten me into submission after nearly three years of trying to make me attend. I don't sing, I argued in the beginning, and at that time I didn't. Then I lived with April for two years, and then Tarythe, and now Emilie, Caitie and Cassidy. In there were friends like Bryan who thought a past time wasn't a past time unless it included singing. So I guess I sing now. That doesn't mean I sing well, or that I will sing in front of people. Jam sessions with Ted have made me less self-conscious, but I have seen how exacting he is even in casual events when it comes to music. How can I step so far out of my comfort zone as to try to sing with a group? I'm probably crazy, or maybe it's this whole self-improvement kick I've been on all my life. Probably though it's Ted. Because he asked me to go. At least I can lay any blame on him; I told him I'm no singer, and he knows my proud and vain manner which makes learning painful for me; so if he can work with that, that's his business. My job is showing up, and I did that.