Wednesday, October 31, 2007

All Hallows Eve

The Pumkins were carved last night. Costumes were finalized - Pirate Mom, Firefighter Sadie, Disco Queen Anna, Cowgirl Mary and Mechanic Frank. We will walk miles in the cold for mini Snicker bars, we will come home to cider and pumpkin bars, and we will go to bed.

And November 1st means that it's Novel Writing Time.

Ok, so this woman leaves her home in the city and moves back to the family ranch with her two kids and tries to live with her brother and his family and her mother in her childhood home.

It sounds better in my head. We'll see how it goes on paper.

Did you know that you can buy brie and hummus in the grocery store in Valentine, Nebraska now? But that men still don't ever, ever, ever wear shorts or sandals? So there will be a branding, vegetarian teenagers will live in the Nebraska Sand Hills, there will be an election, and the school will consolidate. And? Cowboys who play basketball wear shorts. It's true.

If I can't think of something to write, then the vegetarian teenager will get called to dinner. Boom. Instant conflict. Dialogue is my friend.

This year it's called One Lane Road. It's a real road. And a real town. Some of y'all might recall the town my story is set in. :-) The characters are fictional though. I write literary fiction which separates me from all the fantasy and science fiction and fan fic that makes up Nanowrimo these days. I am in the minority at write ins and such. At the pre-November gathering when we were sharing our titles and I shared that the title referred to the road that goes into the town and that it was also a metaphor for my character's personal journey, there were some raised eyebrows. So yeah. I am elitist since I write novels for a hobby and I am an elitist among novel writers since I think my writing has some greater meaning then just the words on the page.

Whatever. I remind myself that I am not so special. I come from a place that you reach by driving down a one lane road. For real. The way to get out of town is to take the exact same road you took to get there in the first place. It is physical and it is metaphorical. Hopefully it's a novel.

Saturday, October 13, 2007

The Power of Red



Somehow we lose our self identity in the identity of twenty-something year old boys who throw and (sometimes) catch and run a football. In the coming days and months and years we will re-examine ourselves in Nebraska. Some of it is very practical - a favorite cheer of "Husker! Power!" has been replaced with "Fire! Cosgrove!" (the defensive co-ordinator). Some of it is much more esoteric. Why do we need this? Why do these trophies make my heart swell? I did not earn them. But they are somehow part of how I see myself. I am not even the most devout fan.

We stayed for the whole miserable game and then toured the trophy room.

"Wow! How many National Championships is that?!" Frank exclaimed.

"None since you were born," I said.

"Nebraska used to be really good, huh, mom," he observed.

The evidence for that is overwhelming.

We walked into the "Heisman Trophy Room" and when I saw the three trophies lined up with soft lighting, I gasped. "Oh my!" I said.

The security guard smiled at me. He had seen that reaction before. Why does that happen? What is it about football?




Friday, October 12, 2007

Here's Johnny!

Johnny Carson's Senior Thesis is charming. (Click on the link and you can hear his recorded thesis.)

"One technique used by comedy writers is the running gag which can be a sound or dialogue or both..." He sounds so serious about comedy.

Johnny Carson graduated from UNL. It's Homecoming Weekend in Lincoln this weekend and I got tickets to the football game. (Please, please, please beat the Cowboys.)

"Awesome! Who are the Huskers playing?" Frank asked.

"The Oklahoma State Cowboys," I said.

"Argh! I don't want to go to a stupid football game!" Anna pouted.

"I want to wear my Oklahoma State t-shirt and I hope the Huskers lose," Mary said mischevously.

"Yeah, well, I've got two tickets and I'm leaving grumpy kids and trouble makers at home," I said to the girls.

I bet Frank and I have a good time. And I bet I post some pictures. And I bet we win. The first two are sure things. The last one used to be.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

Which Of These Kids Is Not Like The Other?

I have a little camera on the top of my computer at work now so that I can meet by video with clients in rural offices and do trainings and meet with my supervisees. It's supposed to give more humane-ness to those types of contacts.

I keep turning it on, and when I do a screen pops up in front of me and I see myself. It is strange to look at yourself. Do you look the way you think you look? What does that even mean? But a part of me is surprised when I see myself on video or pictures. It is different than a mirror.

I drove Anna to school this morning and she whined most of the way about her thick, wavy blonde hair. Wah, wah, wah. I mean, cripes, this kid has Barbie hair and all she can do is complain about it. "It's so big and yellow and I want brown hair like you and straight hair like Claire..." Blah, blah, blah. And I listen and assure her that her hair is beautiful and that many women would kill for her hair and endure lots of beauty processes to get hair like hers. She sighs and tries to pat her hair down.

I wish I could let her see herself the way I see her. I am not sure that I want to see myself the way she sees me though. I bet I look older to her then I look to myself on my video camera.

It's opening night for Hannah's play. She is a cheerleader in "The Three Musketeers." Yeah. So if you want to see her sigh and screw up her face, ask her why there is a cheerleader in the "The Three Musketeers."

I ordered her a Texas homecoming corsage for her cheerleading costume. The florist kind of recoiled when I showed her what I wanted. She scaled it down a bit. Three Nebraska-sized mums with black ribbon. I had it sent to school and I hope they let her wear it the rest of the day. Or that she wants to wear it. I'm kind of going out on a limb here, but I wanted to surprise her and cheer her up about this part in the play that she doesn't like so much. She works really hard at drama and so far has not gotten the roles that she wants. But she sticks with it and does whatever her drama teacher asks of her. I'm proud of her. I wish she could see herself the way I see her.

Monday, October 08, 2007

Cubs in Five

We went to Chicago for Bill to run a marathon. Most people who run marathons just want to finish. Bill had much bigger aspirations than that. He wanted to qualify for the Boston Marathon, which means that he needed a very specific time - 3:30. Lots of people have the goal to qualify for the Boston Marathon, but my husband trained for it. He has worked for years to get his pace faster and faster. This last spring he ran the Lincoln Marathon and finished in 3:31. That was pretty devastating. But rather than give up, he rested up, and then started planning his fall marathon. He did everything you are supposed to do - speed workouts, fast long runs, slow long runs, rest, weights. He had his VO2 tested and was assured that a 3:25 time was reasonable.

We got plane tickets, he cut back to a 1/4 cup of coffee in the morning, and I felt myself getting swept up in this for him. He should have this. He did everything that he should do in order to get what he wants. And I am a firm believer that hard work and dedication pay off - or should pay off. This was reasonable and he deserved it.

We started watching the weather two weeks ago and they predicted rain. The forecast changed as the date got closer and it became clear that it was going to be hot and not a dry hot, as they say, but a humid hot. "You've run in 100 degrees. You've run a marathon in July around a lake with no Gatorade. You're in the best shape of your life." I said every positive thing I could think of and meant them all. Bill would smile wryly.

We flew in Saturday morning, had a great breakfast at a diner with Bill's brother, and then went downtown to the running expo. We picked up his packet, got loads of free stuff, met Elvis, and more importantly, met Hal Higdon (!!!!!!!), and Bill drank Gatorade and ate salty things all day. We went to Joe's apartment (I love having a brother in law named Joe) and Joe made meatballs and spaghetti and we watched the Cubs lose. Joe and Bill are both Cubs fans and they grimly accept their position in the world of baseball fans. We went to bed early. We slept well despite the trains and the upstairs neighbors (it really was the penultimate Chicago experience for me - the El tracks were in the backyard - technically it was about a block away - but that's close). In the morning Bill and I went for a very short jog in the neighborhood to warm him up and I was coated in sweat at the end. The air felt heavy and warm. It was 5am. The train came on time and we were at an early stop so it wasn't too crowded. We found his corral (he was a seeded runner, so he got to start after the Elite athletes, the Top 100 runners, the A runners, the B runners, and then his group - it sounds like a lot of people ahead of him, but it was way better than being in the general corral) and then I left him. I felt myself shaking and nearly crying. I felt sympathy anxiety, I guess.

Joe and his girlfriend are very familiar with the trains and the neighborhoods and we used the El to get everywhere - to the race and then to various points along the race. We headed to Boys Town first, which is at about Mile 8. We got there ahead of all the runners and enjoyed the atmosphere - drag queens dancing to Disco (the picture is of them rehearsing before the runners came), synchronized rifle twirlers, men in cheerleading skirts and just general fun. The wheelchair racers came first and they were incredible - super fast and intense. I saw my first female wheelchair racer. Then I saw the helicopters overhead. And then I saw the Kenyans. They were amazing - so fast. The runners came in order at that point still. Elite, A, B, C...we saw Bill on the far side of the street although he did not see us. He looked good. I registered to get text messages from the race organizers when he crossed checkpoints and the text message updates assured us that he was on pace. We got back on the train and headed to Chinatown. We got another text update on the train and saw again that he was on pace. We stood in Chinatown at Mile 21 watching for him and when his expected time came and went, I began to get anxious. We saw the 3:30 pace guy, and then quite a few runners after him, we saw Bill. His face was exhausted. His body looked good though - strong and steady. He smiled when he saw us and later told me that it gave him a boost to see us cheering for him. (The route is packed with people the whole 26 miles. Bill said there was no point where there were no spectators. But it is nice to have someone just for you.)

We got back on the train and headed for the finish. Ambulances were all over. It was 90 degrees and finishers were walking around with ice on their heads. We heard that a runner actually died. I waited anxiously for my text that he had finished and it didn't come and didn't come and then finally it came. And it told me what I already knew. 3:41. Not fast enough. But Not Dead.

We went to our meeting place. When I saw Bill I hugged him and held him tight. "I didn't do it," he said into my hair. "I know," I said. "It's ok."

He dried off, put on clean clothes, popped blisters, and we got back on the train to go North for leftover spaghetti and meatballs before we headed for the airport.

Bill talked about the race and the disorientation that comes with running in such a large race in a strange city. He talked about the heat and the people dropping off on the sidelines with spectators force feeding them water while they waited for medical personnel. He said that he felt the drop in his pace and resisted a bit, but then saw the numbers of runners laying on the side of the road and decided that at this point he just wanted his Finisher Medal.

I was ready to start planning a December marathon so he could still qualify for Boston in 2008. "Dallas and Las Veags both have December marathons," I said.

"I think I'll just wait until the Lincoln Marathon in the Spring."

"That's not early enough for Boston," I said.

"There's always next year."

"I am glad that I am married to a Cubs fan," I said.




Tuesday, October 02, 2007

If winning isn't everything, why do they keep score?

The bench got blown over by the wind during the game. The little girls toppled backwards and their little legs flipped up in the air. As an American Kid from the Pre-Soccer Era, I still can't get used to the look of shin guards. My Bear is slightly built. Her tiny little frame sits in a big billowy jersey and big soccer shorts. Out of her shorts come long, skinny legs, and then huge shins covered in tie dyed socks which end in shiny red soccer cleats.

The spectators had a tough time with flying playground sand hitting us and wind whipping our hair. (Bill winced when he watched me comb the tangles out of my wind blown hair. I wore it in a braid and it pulled free and tangled nonetheless. I soaked it in conditioner and left in conditioner that is not intended to be left in. My face this morning looked oddly red to me and then I realized that it was a windburn.)

Throw ins against the wind were impossible and you had to keep the ball on the ground to keep any control.

It's been a tough year in recreational soccer. As one of a just a few 5th grade teams, they have lost all of their games so far. Yesterday they won 2-1 and everyone was delighted. Rec soccer is a pretty easy going crowd usually, but winning really does matter even if it doesn't matter a lot.

"It wasn't even a tie," she said.