The Northward Contrail

Interlude

These pages have been silent for longer than I imagined, or hoped. I'm not exactly sure what's responsible for the protracted caesura. Once these pages were a place for me to detail thoughts, interests, obsessions, trivia...whatever was on my younger and somewhat more playful mind.

Somewhere along the way my introspection turned quiet. It began because coming up with something new every day became a chore, and any chore will inevitably lead to fatigue. In work days already full of chores, it became one more damn thing. Yet I can't help wondering if what ensued may be related, in some way, to not taking advantage of this venue to give some release.

The last 18 months or so have been a wringer. From a domestic standpoint, things are fine; ours remains a happy household, vocationally stable, a strong marriage, and two goofy cats who continue to boss us around. We have been reasonably healthy. There is much to be glad about. There has been plenty of fun and laughter. There have been moments of happiness and good fortune. There have been adventures, big and small. (One of those adventures, which I'll detail in an upcoming post, was one of the most awesome things I'll ever do in my life, something I still can't quite believe I actually got to do.)

And yet I can think of few periods in my life when I've been left so humbled by reality. For every instance of happiness, there's been a bucket of cold water.

It started to go off the rails in late 2012, with hubby's faithful pickup becoming a victim in a fluky traffic accident just before Thanksgiving - not mortally wounded, but the insurer totaled it because it would need so much work to make right again. Much as we've loved its replacement, the loss of that beloved truck that had seen us through so much...well, it broke our hearts a little, but we carried on. Life happens that way sometimes, and it was just a material object, and what mattered most was that he was uninjured.

A month later, we'd just completed a happy Christmas visit with hubby's mother down in Florida. As we said our goodbyes at the end of the visit, something inside told me I needed to remember this moment. It wasn't a misplaced sentiment. On the drive home, we learned she had been taken to the hospital. It was a somber, subdued ride home.

Then the next week, the son of a good friend of ours was killed in a traffic accident. There are few things more saddening than a funeral home at Christmastime, seeing someone you know and care about stunned by sudden loss and overwhelmed by grief, wishing you could say something but struck completely dumb by the awfulness of it all and the pain you're witnessing.

The new year came and we hoped for better things, but the news out of Florida did not improve, and we prepared for the most likely outcome. It finally happened at the end of February; given her condition, it was no surprise, and at least she was out of agony. We went back down a couple weeks later for the memorial service. I flew back the next day so I could get back to my job, while hubby remained for a few more days to sort out some estate matters.

Death wasn't done with our circle. About a month or so later, a friend of ours we knew from our hobby club was found dead in his apartment. I always figured he wasn't in peak physical condition, but I don't think any of us knew he was as ill as he turned out to be. The loss of this guy, who always added life and joy to our club meetings (and who had a special bond with me - just about every meeting, he'd bring something, usually Formula One-related, just because he knew I liked it and wanted me to see it), was a sudden punch in the guts.

The stress and everything else of dealing with his mother's passing, not to mention piling all this on top of his very demanding day job, wore down hubby's resistance and about a week after returning from Florida, he spent a weekend sick as a dog. As happens when you live in close proximity to someone else, I came down with it a couple days later and lost two days of work. Although I was back to health by the following weekend, I didn't expect the psychological effect it would have on me. It was the first time in almost a decade I'd been that ill; most of the time I've managed to avoid these things or play through whatever I've come down with. This instance, however, rattled my confidence in my own body, and within a few weeks I began having panic attacks again. I thought I'd conquered them, but there they were. Then it went to kind of a fear of the panic attacks themselves (how meta is that, right?).

It came to a boil during a trip to Seattle right after the school year ended. Halfway through the trip, and everything had gone fine thus far. Then all of a sudden I started to get The Fear. I spent the remainder of the trip a nervous wreck, consumed by anxiety, doing my best to keep it on the rails while out and about but spending the long hours in my hotel room consumed by my fear. The real treat was five hours on a 737 flying transcontinental, crammed into a window seat, having what amounted to a five-hour panic attack, feeling utterly trapped.

A friend of mine shared with me some techniques for overcoming panic attacks (and they have worked very well, for I can count on one hand the number of them I've had in the last year), and I spent the back half of the summer working with those methods. Before I had a chance to do that, though, she invited me to fly up and spend a week with her. It was, I thought, a blissful four and a half days. I enjoyed her company, I loved the week in a new setting, and it seemed almost perfect. Halfway through the week we took a day trip to New York, and being in the great city for the first time was overwhelming in the most wonderful way imaginable.

I'd hoped our time together would cement the bond we'd long established via e-mail; she really seemed like the sister I'd never had. Within a month, though, came an e-mail that established otherwise. It's not fair or appropriate to get into any of it here, but of everything that's happened the last 18 months, that event is without question the one that's caused the deepest hurt, and probably most responsible for the heartsick, jaded feeling that's so characterized the last year.

Other things, too, left me wary, among them an epic "why you suck" session directed at me during some volunteer efforts I had been asked to lead. Even though some good folks with some influence tried their best to make things right, the damage had been done, and I said "enough."

All the things I've described above happened roughly by this time last year. It was an incredible string of unadulteratedly sucky events. And since that Saturday evening last July when that fateful e-mail suddenly and unexpectedly cast me adrift, the most accurate way to describe what I've been through since has been a journey. It's had its heights and its depths, and I've had a few chances to meet back up with my lifelong friend cyclical depression, never enough to knock me down or keep me from living a normal life, but certainly enough to suck the fun out of the quiet hours away from work, when I haven't had some task at the ready to keep me occupied.

(And, yes, I know there are people in far worse shape than I have been. I know there are personal tragedies that would make what I've been through look like a resort weekend in Daytona Beach. I know people who have been through things I don't want to imagine. And yet it isn't accurate to make these kinds of comparisons, because we all perceive and experience life's up and downs in different ways. Sometimes the big events come as matter-of-fact moments handled with cool rationality, yet the smallest things are the ones that reduce you to a quivering lump of jelly. It happens.)

Yet a year later I feel the journey taught me some things about myself, about life and the world, about the fragility of certain things and how quickly your world will turn upside down. And even if I've come out of it having personified this trope, I've also been reminded of strength I'd let myself forget I have. At no point through it all have I thought the misery would last forever. Instead, I have pressed forward. To me, there's been no alternative. I keep going. I have never stopped looking for that new dawn just ahead, if only I keep moving toward it.

And, you know, that's been borne out. For while there were depths, there were also some truly great moments. I've been to some new places, seen some amazing things, done some cool stuff, and got some things accomplished. There were moments that bring a smile every time I remember them; others leave me feeling astonished at how fortunate I've been. And slowly, steadily, I've let go of the anxiety and hurt, making room for a little more peace and forgiveness with each day. Some days are better than others, but the good days are by far outnumbering the bad, especially in the last few weeks.

Then there's the little signs of hope that stubbornly grow from the ashes. A few days ago, an especially happy and hopeful piece of news came from my family in Alaska, and that news added light to the whole week. I had lunch yesterday with a former student I'm fond of, someone creative who has good ideas, and from our discussions came some promising concepts that may resolve some vexing technical issues at work. Several projects on which I've worked are starting to bear fruit, too, and the investments of time and effort and emotion are proving to have been worth it all.

And as I've worked on this post, there have been the little signs of life that remind you what's important. The wild birds in our woods have singing. The doves that stay near our yard have been cooing. The sun's climbing over the horizon. The world is waking up. That new dawn is here. I need to make the most of it.

An office story

It all started so innocently.

About ten years ago a couple of students were in my office. They were good kids, the kind who would come to my office and shoot the breeze for a bit. They liked me and I liked them.

One of them was perched against a pair of two-drawer file cabinets, sort of leaning/sitting on them. As he sat, he was sort of idly fidgeting with his left hand. In a moment, there was this click! He'd depressed the button that functioned as the cabinet's lock.

He paused, an embarrassed look on his face. "You have a key for that, right?" Followed by several profuse apologies. He really thought he was in serious trouble.

As it turned out, there was no key on hand for it. At a small college like ours, furniture gets passed around from department to department and office to office. It's been more places than a steamer trunk. Heaven only knows where the key for that file cabinet went.

For close to a decade that file cabinet sat there, a time capsule. Our tech guy offered to drill out the lock for me, but I couldn't bring myself to waste a perfectly innocent lock. I tried picking the lock, but to no avail. I was mildly concerned - there was material in there I'd been hoarding for my tenure and promotion portfolio - but there was nothing of raging importance. (As it turned out, not having that material handy didn't impede tenure or two promotions.)

I found online stores that sold replacement keys; sure enough, they had them available for my lock, and cheap. But it became one of those "I'll get around to it" things. I never did...until three or four weeks back, when my curiosity finally got the better of me, and I ordered the damn key. It arrived a few days later. There was the heart-stopping moment of "will this key work?" Especially when the key needed a good twist, because the lock hadn't been turned in forever and I didn't have any lubricant handy. Finally, it turned, the button popped out, and the key had paid for itself.

Indeed, it was a time capsule. Everything I'd stashed in there a decade before, papers I'd long forgotten, junk I'd saved for no reason. I still fear I'm a pack rat, but I'd forgotten how bad it was back then. Part of it, of course, was because I had no idea what I'd need for my portfolio, so I saved everything. Now, of course, it was just a curiosity. I spent the next couple hours going through it all, remembering people long gone and things I'd done back when, remembering just how much of a kid I was when I started in this trade. But almost immediately, I began sorting it into "keep" and "toss" piles. I just didn't need it any longer.

Soon, it spread. I began going through my other file cabinets and cleaning them out. Some of the paperwork hadn't seen the light of day in forever. There were folders full of forms we hadn't used in ages, ancient paperwork about administrative practices that no longer applied...all manner of stuff that's not even of use to historians (and that's a hell of a thing coming from me). Then I went through the storage cabinets in the adjoining room and cleaned them out, too. The files that were left, I reorganized them too. I made several trips to the nearest "secure destruction" box in our support office; by now, I'd say the papers I've thrown out would fill most of a four-drawer file cabinet.

It's also freed up a lot of space in my office. I no longer needed so many file cabinets, so I moved two of them into storage (including the one that started the whole story); this means the next faculty member we get (which, I hope, my dream of a third faculty line soon will happen) will pretty much have a completely furnished office. Since I took most of my books home a couple years ago, I no longer needed two of the bookcases, so I moved them out too. I'm still getting used to how different the office feels now - it really hadn't changed since I moved into it in 2004 - but I am enjoying the lack of clutter. Better still, I like knowing my files are organized, that I know where stuff is, and that I won't have to hunt forever to find it.

There's one more aspect to this story. Our building will be getting much-needed repairs and a long-overdue remodel in coming years. As part of that project, I'm getting a new office on our upstairs floor. It'll be somewhat smaller than my current office (which will become a classroom/lab), so now is a good time to reduce the holdings anyway.

I imagine the poor guys who'll have to schlep the furniture up there for me will appreciate it, too.

On minor keys

A while back, I characterized my life as an upbeat melody in a minor key. There are great moments of joy and optimism, hence the "upbeat" part of that statement. But try as I may, the minor key remains.

Why, you ask? As expressed in this wonderful piece, minor keys express a sense of yearning, of wanting something better, that so many great Christmas carols are in minor keys because they express the world's longing for something better.

I've always felt my yearning on a profoundly deep personal level. It goes with introversion, I guess, and it doesn't help when you're so different from the rest of your family, whose rural, blue-collar roots often meant your desires for travel or adventure or whatever else seemed like silly daydreaming. Keeping quiet about what I really wanted may have spared me the ridicule and teasing, but it made the longing that much more intense.

Those dreams you carry so close to your heart bring great joy when they come true, but they also carry heartbreak when they go awry, or even when they're over. Several times I've come back from spending time in Alaska, for instance, and felt kind of empty. A place that means so much to you means you leave a piece of yourself there. Or other dreams, like friendships that don't take hold, and yet you're left with memories of truly wonderful moments you shared. You can't think of the joy without thinking of the melancholy, and yet you long to be back in that precious moment if you could, just to enjoy its warmth one more time.

As I've grown older I've taken a very practical approach to life. If there's something that needs to get done, I find the shortest path. Boom, done. If there's something I need to acquire, I'll find the means. I can prioritize my needs and wants, and I've learned that some wants are just fleeting; wait a little bit, see if it's more than an impulse, then act (or don't). Others are worth the desire, but need time to make happen, and that's a reality I've come to accept.

Yet so methodical an approach leaves you defenseless when you look back, with the wonderful curse that is memory, and you remember certain perfect moments and feel that certain twinge. I sometimes wonder if it's not the moment itself I want back, but the feeling I had in that moment, and if that's what sets me yearning. Maybe it's not, for instance, that I want to be back on that train platform watching the summer sun set on the distant Manhattan skyline; maybe it's the feeling I want back, that feeling I'd just had one of the most truly incredible days of my life. Or maybe it's not Alaska itself I miss so much as the feeling I have when I'm there, that it's a place that somehow I instantly understand, and the contentedness that brings.

Part of my curse as a born historian is that by nature, I'm inclined to look backward, spend my present moments thinking about those gone by. While that can lead to some intellectual epiphanies, it also means I miss an awful lot. I'll often think too much about a moment that's gone forever, or a once-in-a-lifetime circumstance, and I'll get sentimental...meanwhile, I let a moment, and potentially a new experience, slip through my fingers.

It's the time of year that goes with yearning; the days are short, the sun is low and the shadows are long, and nature is barren and the weather gets brutal, and we spend more time huddled inside. We yearn for the world to wake up again, come back to life, shower us in warmth and color and light. Eventually, the long nights get a little less long, and the world starts to wake up from its winter's nap.

I'm seeing the start of this out my back door now, as the sun struggles to break the horizon, and our back yard is a solid mat of brown pine needles and dead leaves, and the morning air has a bite to it. The world's going to sleep for a bit. 2013's day is almost done.

Personally, I'm about to bid farewell to a year that has been harsh, one of the hardest years I've lived. I will not look back on 2013 with any great fondness. It's been a year of frustrations and anxieties, of hard lessons learned, of profound disappointments. Of loss, since a beloved family member passed away, and although death gave her release from the suffering that marked her final months, we're left to deal with missing her. It's been a year of a thousand cuts, some of them deeper than usual. One or two left me reeling, and although I've mostly moved past them, there's still just enough of a distant ache that prevents me from feeling healed, or offering forgiveness, just yet.

Yes, there are moments from this year I will cherish the rest of my days. There have been achievements and moments of discovery. There were things I still can't believe I actually got to do. There were moments I experienced joy to the point of delirium, when I laughed to the point of tears. There were moments I felt truly accomplished. There were moments I realized how much I've grown. But, on the whole, I'm left with that feeling there has to be something better, so much better.

And so I hear those minor notes, and with them comes that yearning, the hope something better will come once the calendar page next turns. Perhaps in the coming year I'll do better about focusing not so much on wanting bygone moments to come back, but on looking for that next moment of fulfillment, and cherishing it when it happens.

The book that mattered most

Everyone has a book that means more to them than most others. Sometimes it's a book that means so much that you own several copies of it. Others would look at you and wonder what's wrong. But those who know...well, they know. And they've probably done the same thing.

In my case, it all began one afternoon in the autumn of 1988. Our church had been given a collection of books from the estate of one of my mother's uncles. Only these weren't books on religion. No, Uncle Ralph was a voracious reader, with a particular interest in current affairs. More than once my mother has told me it's a shame I never knew Uncle Ralph, for we were both bookworms with wide-ranging interests in the world, and we would probably have gotten along famously.

And so that's how it happened our church suddenly had to buy several bookcases for this wonderful collection of the books that made Uncle Ralph contented. There were annual volumes on science and technology. There were biographies of famous Americans and books about world events. The hymnals and back issues of The Upper Room now had to share space with volumes by Drew Pearson and Bill Buckley.

And there were two books about a murder in Dallas.

One of the two was the single-volume Associated Press edition of the Warren Commission's report. I was very familiar with it, since it seemed every school I'd attended had a copy of it in the reference section. That one, I knew well.

The other one was clad in a worn, dark blue jacket, flecked with white dots like the night sky. It was by a man named William Manchester, whose picture peered from the back cover. It was titled The Death of a President: November 1963.

At first I didn't know what to make of this book. It was so big, so wordy. And it didn't have pictures like the Warren Report volume did. Where's the good stuff? My teenage brain couldn't quite figure it out. But I figured, hey, why not borrow them both? The 25th anniversary of the event had just passed, and watching A&E's rebroadcast of the day's NBC News coverage had rekindled my interest. And so one afternoon I checked the two of them out.

I don't recall how long it took for me to finally get into reading Manchester's whole volume. If the way I read is any indication, I probably hopscotched around, reading individual scenes that interested me, and then finally decided to just start at the beginning as I should have anyway. By then, though, I'd become fascinated with the depth of detail and all the interesting people Manchester had brought to life in his narrative. There were words I'd never come across, words that built my vocabulary, woven into the story in Manchester's unique style. There were quotations from Housman and T.S. Eliot that led me to discover their works and love them, too.

But the most compelling thing about this book - indeed, what made me dive right in - is the detail. Seldom have I read a book so effective at making you feel you are right there, in that moment. Even though I wasn't there, my mind could take Manchester's words and create the scene. You're there, for instance, seeing every detail of the festive last evening in the White House, the majesty of the judicial gala, dancing in the very room that would be draped in black and bearing a sad burden only a few days later. The stunning frozen-in-amber moment nine minutes before the shots rang out, depicting in a hundred little woven-together snapshots what so many participants in the events to come were doing in those last moments of normalcy. The moment of horror itself, told with horrifying vividness, yet without the tawdriness of other accounts. Later, you feel the sweaty atmosphere as a huddled assemblage, crammed into a cabin compartment aboard Aircraft 26000, watches a federal judge administer the oath of office to a solemn Lyndon Johnson. And a hundred, if not hundreds, of other little scenes throughout those five days, all there for posterity. By the time you finish the book, surveying those two containers of clothes in an attic near Washington, you feel you've lived it all, and you're emotionally spent.

I'm well familiar with the battle behind the book, the fight that was waged with the family over publication and serialization. I'm familiar with the toll it took on Manchester and his family - and that, as his son eloquently wrote, he was just a man. And there are those who say Manchester's prose is overwrought, purple, worshipful. It's very much a product of its day. There are places that criticism's valid. You never have any doubts where his sympathies lie. And yet, even with all its flaws, it's a book that keeps bringing me back because it's so dense, so packed with detail, so evocative, so good at immersing you in a bygone moment, so effective at bringing those moments alive from half a century's passage.

I'd loved history and the historian's craft most of my life. But it was the discovery of that book that made a difference. In that first real reading I gave it, I marveled at what Manchester had done. And I decided I'd like to write books like that someday, books of such detail that they made you feel you were in that bygone moment.

And in a very real sense, it's that book and Bill Manchester - and Uncle Ralph leaving a collection of books to our church - that set me on the course that led to where I am now, as someone who gets to make a living with history.

I finally returned Uncle Ralph's copy of the church when I found a trade paper 25th-anniversary edition at a college bookstore the next year. That poor copy has been read and re-read many times since. I've lost count. Its spine is wrinkled (thanks in part to an ill-advised loan to a high school classmate); the edges of its cover are frayed. But if that's the sign that a book is beloved, then there you are.

A few years ago, I bought a set of bookends. One of the books they were supporting was a worn hardcover first edition of The Death of a President. I couldn't bear to separate them, and the book was only a few dollars, so I added it to my collection too. A couple years after that, I found a very nice hardcover with an excellent dust jacket at a used book store, and the price was right, so I bought it too.

But the copy that's most meaningful - aside from the well-worn paperback version - lives in a very secure place. A couple years back I found a near-mint edition for sale. On the title page, it's signed by William Manchester. It cost a little bit, but for me, personally, you can't put a value on it. It closed a circle: the book that changed my life's trajectory, signed by the man who made me want to be a professional historian.

So I now have four copies of this book. Maybe that's kind of weird. But for anybody who's ever had a book really mean something to them...well, they understand. For me, as somber a volume as it is, The Death of a President means something to me that few other books do; it changed my life, and I've never stopped being grateful I found it. Thanks, Mr. Manchester. And thanks, Uncle Ralph.

(Note: It's now back in print, in an anniversary edition. Well worth picking up.)

Oh, the places they'll send you!

I'm on the road tonight. My employer's sent me on a fact-finding mission, and since I have to be on site early in the morning I'm spending the night in a nearby hotel.

The older I get, the more ambiguous I become about travel. It's not travel itself that bothers me; it's other people, and the way things can go wrong. This was a driving trip, and I spent four hours battling traffic on the Interstate highways. There's no shortage of challenges: tractor-trailer trucks (which get especially fun in hilly terrain), impatient drivers, speeders, generalized rudeness. Not to mention road construction, which goes on forever. There were not only speed zones, but lane closures. Few things are more fun than when five lanes suddenly bottleneck down to two. And near afternoon rush hour, too.

Driving itself is fun. I enjoy it, even though it can be a haul sometimes. But give me a few podcasts to listen to, and my iPad to serve as my navigator, and a chance to take a few routine breaks to stretch my legs and use the facilities, and I'm happy to go for a drive. What takes the fun away, though, is the fact not everybody has that philosophy, and seems to think they're racing. They'll ride your bumper, roar around you, cut you off, flash their lights at you...you name it. Don't get me wrong, I like getting there efficiently, but I would much rather get there safely.

With all that, it was a relief to get checked in tonight. I caught my breath for a few minutes, and then went out to explore. Finding a bookstore is always a priority; I successfully did so, and scored a copy of this and a copy of this. They've provided much enjoyment so far. And this is starting on the TV right now; sure, it's stuff I already know well, but I'm interested to see how they do this one. I'm feeling right content as I write this.

Tomorrow it's off to do what they sent me here to do, and then the long drive back home. And then Wednesday morning, bright and early, it's back to the usual routine. For now, though, I'm doing my best to enjoy the diversion.

On long nights, and new dawns

There's been a longer silence on this channel than I'd hoped. To be honest, I haven't felt much like writing. For a writer, that's a dangerous feeling. It's even worse when the thoughts pile up, and you have these great topics you want to explore (and believe me, there are things I want to explore in future posts, for some neat things and neat experiences have come my way), but you just don't feel communicative. You can't work up the effort to get them out.

Some of this is due to the day job. I'm in another cycle where I'm up before dawn, in well before my first class (which starts at 8 am), and the next several hours are intense. Frequently, there are meetings, and I have to stay late for those. Sometimes the meetings come on the days I'd scheduled to have for myself. Some of those meetings, and some of the duties I have, are in regards to things that are Very Serious. I've also taken on an additional teaching duty this semester that has been a challenge, and I'll leave it at that, but at least it's resulted in a little extra pay. Not enough to fully compensate me for the additional headaches, but it's still extra pay.

But not all of it has been vocational. The last several months have been a journey. Some of it has had to do with sorting through the recurrence of my anxiety issues. Much of it has had to do with the aftermath of being let go by a friend over the summer. It's taken me a long time, many tears, and many entries in my private journal to reach some sort of peace about it.

There is a special kind of pain you can feel only when something involves a person in whom you've made a deep emotional investment. It's even worse when that emotional investment has lasted years and years, and when you've shared an intense level of emotional candor with one other, trusted each other with confidences, shared hopes and dreams, celebrated successes, commiserated over heartaches and setbacks, sought each other's counsel. You can't do that without a conscious choice to trust someone. And you can't make that choice without having thought it through. That means when it takes a bad turn, there are few things that feel so awful. You're left not only nursing a broken heart, but with your faith in others shaken.

Though we'd corresponded for most of a decade, shared so much with each other, it wasn't until June that we finally met. We spent most of a week together. I had a seriously wonderful time. We did some really cool things, everything from exploring her hometown to taking a day trip to New York City. We had some terrific food; our last dinner together was on her back porch, on a perfect summer evening, sharing homemade pizza and a great bottle of wine. So much of the whole week was just so perfect, I felt.

Better than that, I enjoyed our conversations. I loved getting to know her as an actual human being, not as a concept expressed through e-mail or Facebook postings, but hearing her in her own voice and sharing her company. I appreciated her willingness to share her world with me, to show me the places she'd told me about all these years. I had hoped this visit would be the first of many. I had looked forward to welcoming her to my world someday soon, sharing things I'd told her about and taking her to places I enjoy. I felt genuine sadness when we said goodbye at the airport. I looked forward to what the future held.

But the future had something different in mind. And since the evening late July when the notice came, I've spent so much time and effort trying to kill the ache.

Some days were better than others. I've noticed my happiness does tend to run in cycles. There are times I'm very happy, and then the wave crests (usually when something bad happens) and I feel things going downhill. It's never enough to impair my function or my judgment or my primal instinct for self-preservation, or my interactions with others. Most people can't realize there's anything going on. But in moments when I can let my guard down, or when I'm alone, the sadness can be profound.

Normally that'll last several days, and then I'll start to lift out of it. I know myself well enough, and I've lived with this long enough, to know it'll pass. But after I was let go, the ache was too much; it was a constant, gloomy companion. Sure, sometimes it would lift for a while, but it was never that far away, and would often return at the drop of a hat. I'd wonder why this was happening, and was convinced it was because I'd done something wrong. 

When something goes wrong, I get very analytical and self-critical. And this time was no different; an intense post-mortem ensued. I kept thinking back to that week we spent together, for that was the event that led to the eventual parting of ways, and there had been no sign anything was amiss. I kept asking myself, over and over: Did I do something wrong? Was it me? I must have done something terribly wrong, and I'm too much of a blockhead to figure out what I did. I'm a schmuck and I screwed something up. I know it. Over and over and over again. My self-critical nature channeled Jim Garrison replaying the Zapruder film again and again, looking for anything and everything it could find to indict me in the demise of the relationship. Investigative committees should have the fine-tooth comb I use on myself in these situations.

But one day a couple weeks back, it came to me: I should stop beating myself up. I did the best I could.

Sure, I can look back on the time we spent together and there are a few little things I'd have played differently. But in the main, I acted in good faith and did the best I knew how. I tried my best to be courteous and thoughtful and respectful. I did my best to listen and relate. I tried to be the best friend I could be, to treat her the way I'd want her to treat me. Was I perfect? No. Did I commit a faux pas or two? Yes, but everyone will. It's part of being human. You can learn from it, but it's nowhere near as awful as you think. There was no malice intended or implied. Let it go. You did the best you knew how, given the circumstances of any particular moment.

It was amazing: the moment I let myself absorb that realization, the gloom lifted. The peace came in, and I haven't felt the ache since.

Anyone who wants to truly know me has to realize I am emotionally incapable of being anyone but myself. I've never been able to fool myself into thinking I'm anyone else, or to make myself feel an emotion I don't truly believe. I'd make a lousy card player. I'd love to do some acting but I would never let myself truly get into character, and it's for that very reason. I just can't be anyone but myself. I can't put up a front. I can't, period.

With that comes a series of admissions: my goofy and obscure sense of humor, my love for arcana and inability to shut up about it sometimes, the anxieties I must keep at bay, and some other things. But I've come to accept that those things are real, and they are part of me, and I must deal with them appropriately. Some of them I've kept in decent check; others, I'm improving. But I've come to realize it's all a part of who I am, and that they're not necessarily bad things, and the people who stay in my circle know those things are all part of me, and they love me just the same, and they don't try to change me. They just know it's a part of me.

I've found some of the most rewarding and lasting relationships in my life really had nothing to do with how we met, or interests we shared (if any we did). That's all circumstantial. What keeps us together is that same kind of honesty. It means we respect each other for who we are and don't try to change each other. We trust one another, and we know our relationship will survive whatever life throws at it. It means in times good and bad, we hold together like family (again, I'm of the firm belief that true friends are family). It means not hesitating to call the other out when a line gets crossed. It means there's no tolerance for baloney, but instead you get to the point. And it means statements like "I love you" or "I'm glad you're in my life" are absolute facts with profound resonance.

It's a very mature concept of friendship. But, the older I get, the more it's the only kind of friendship I have any interest in. Those who are willing to give me that, who can understand that concept, are the ones who get my friendship, who become virtual family to me, for whom I'll do anything. The rest...well, they are at best good acquaintances. I change who I am for no one except myself, because I can't. With me, there's no front; what you get is the real thing. It's the only way I know. If I can't convince myself, then how can I convince you? It's so much easier to just be honest.

I mourn what happened to the friendship I had. I won't lie about it: sometimes I miss her, and sometimes I think about how much fun our time together was. But I've done something I thought I couldn't do, and that's let it go. It happened, and I gave it my best, but I can do nothing about what has happened. So, instead of grieving, I'm appreciating what I do have. And I'm seeing light again, a light I haven't seen in a while. There's too much that's too good about this life I have. There's too many second chances I've been given at life for me to mourn the losses; they'll happen.

Instead, look ahead at the new dawn. There's always another one.

It's old, but it's paid for

My first two cars were hand-me-downs; the first got me through high school and college, while the second got me through grad school and into the first month of my first teaching job. I'd resolved I would buy a car once I had a steady job, but when the poor Oldsmobile started to die, system by system, that forced my hand.

One afternoon in early September 2000, I stopped by a Chevy dealer in Fort Lauderdale, and what started out as a test drive ended a few hours and several signatures later with me driving home a Cavalier coupe, only 137 miles on it. I can still remember that feeling as I headed out in this new car - the excitement of having done something so grown-up, that "I can't believe I'm doing this" feeling, and that slight sinking feeling, knowing I'd pledged the next five years of my life to making payments. Still, it was a hell of a feeling.

This was my first new car and I vowed not to screw it up. From the start the little one has had regular routine service. Sometimes I've gone for the full dealership service; others, it's been at a quick-lube place. I'll dump a bottle of fuel injector cleaner in the gas tank after each oil change, and in return I've yet to have a drivetrain failure. Most of what's had to be replaced has come about the time you'd expect to have to replace those components.

In return, the little one has given me 13 years and 147,000 miles of memories. We've been to six states; we've made numerous runs to Fort Lauderdale and back, and even traversed the Everglades. We used to battle traffic in Miami every working day, fighting the Turnpike and the Golden Glades; now, most of our time together is on the back roads that take me to the town where I work. We've been through torrential rain, high winds, snow, ice and mud. That car has taken me to some really splendid events, and brought me home on a few anguished occasions. We have a lot of shared history, and know each other well.

And 13 years later, the little one is still going strong and looks good. I chose a silver Cavalier, knowing what happens to bright colors over time, and that decision has paid off. As for major modifications? Not for me. I may have daydreamed about putting disc brakes on all four corners and getting some new wheels, but never followed through. Instead, the only alterations have been to swap the stock filter cartridge with a "lifetime" unit, and a new radio six years ago. Some people like to tinker with their J-body cars, but I'm content to leave mine be.

Well, almost.

That's because she's starting to show her age a little. The dashboard has cracked in the manner common to these cars. The lining on the rear shelf is fried and coming apart in chunks. The visors are fraying. One of the front splash shields is chipped, thanks to some road debris. The plastic headlight and corner marker lenses are foggy and brittle; when I replaced the corner marker bulbs recently, the plastic developed stress fractures when I removed the units. Some of the plastic trim has had its paint deteriorate with time and elements. The windshield washer system had a massive leak in its plumbing. And I now have a permanent ABS system warning on the instrument panel.

You might think, "Those are the signs you may as well buy a new car." But not me. Not only am I cheap, but I'm loyal. And nothing's mechanically wrong with the little one; the little engine ticks along as happily as it did the first day, and gets routine care. Why mess with what works? So I did some investigating, and found I could fix or repair most all those problems for minimum investment and a little elbow grease. I'm of the mind that laying out $300 one time for a box of parts will beat five years of a $300 monthly payment.

So that's what I did. I fired off an order to an auto parts supplier for new light lenses, a dashboard cap, and new splash guards. The visors and rear deck will be a simple weekend project; all you need are the right fabric and adhesives. Touching up the stone chips will be easy, too. Likewise, redoing the plastic trim will be a simple task; I have everything I need, and a weekend when I can keep the car at home will be perfect.
 
About the only thing I'm not sure about is the anti-lock brake problem. I have a hunch the system's a casualty of our dusty dirt roads. I'll have to pull off the wheels anyway to swap out the splash shields, and while the car's up on the jackstands I'll check the sensors and wiring, and give everything a good cleaning. And if none of that will solve the problem...well, my first two cars didn't have ABS, so I know what to do. I'd like to have it working, but if it's going to be an expensive fix I'll just make do with regular brakes.

But other things are simplicity itself to fix. The washer system? Guy at one of the auto parts stores gave me a short piece of rubber hose left over from another job. Back home, I cut the frayed segments off the system's broken tube and spliced in the rubber hose. Worked perfectly. 

Other things tempt me. The radio has been acting a little funny of late, and I would like a more modern iPod interface, so why not put in a new one? Maybe with satellite radio capabilities? And why not some new speakers to go with it? Maybe it'll happen.

Maybe it's daffy to put this kind of time and effort into a 13-year-old car with close to 150,000 miles and no real book value (seriously, I've wondered if my insurer would total it if it got dented by a runaway shopping cart). I'd respond, though, that while this car may not be valuable, it does have the benefit of being paid for, and running well. As long as the little car wants to take care of me, I'll be happy to take care of it.

I owe the little beast that much.

The greatest city in the world

Twelve years ago New York City was an abstraction to me. I knew it was there, and I knew it from movies and television and books. It was just sort of there, but it wasn't personal to me. It was just an idea, a place my family had joked about going, never taking the thought seriously. New York City was always sort of "that place," that jumble of caricatures from jokes and popular culture, this combination of great city and hell on earth. It really was nothing more than an idea.

I never really had much motivation to see it otherwise, other than to acknowledge it was there. I'd never had the desire to visit. Washington was more the kind of big city that attracted me, anyway, and the city I was preparing to call home until a turn of events took me to Florida instead. New York never entered the equation; too big, too scary somehow.

So a dozen years ago today when New York was punched in the face, I could understand the horror, the massive loss of life. But I had no way to understand the ache, the sense of violation to this great and proud city. I'd never been there. It somehow wasn't personal to me; the city wasn't a part of me. It was still just this vague idea.

On a sunny day this June I emerged from a subway station in Manhattan. The great city was no longer an abstraction; instead, it was this great, living thing all around me. It was big. It was busy. Noisy. Crowded. Vivid. It was full sensory immersion. It was no longer this place on television, but something I was living.

I spent the better part of a day walking through the city, seeing various landmarks I'd long dreamt of. I couldn't believe I was actually there - that this girl from a tiny town in the country was actually there, in the big city. And although I saw plenty of hustle and bustle, I also saw so many unexpected quiet scenes amongst the tumult, and some little moments of grace.

And I couldn't help smiling when I saw this sign at the train platform. Those three words sum up so much just by still being there.

The more I walked around New York, the more I understood. The more I understood why people have the affection they do for the great city. Why it sparks such strong feelings. Why people are drawn to it. And, in spite of myself, I kind of fell a little in love with the great city, too. And I want to go back. Already planning to, in fact.

Now, having been there, I get it.

Reminders

Over the summer I spent some time with friends in a few different places. I have this tendency to romanticize the little section of my friends' lives I see; it's different, out of my routine, and if I'm not careful I come back home and think what I have is dull and boring. It used to happen on my Alaska trips, and it happened on my June trip, and I caught myself falling into that "the grass is greener" trap when I came back. I spent a good week or so afterwards thinking about where I'd been, and how dull things were now that I was back home. It's a trap, but I'm human and it happens.

One good thing about having lived with myself for so long is that I know these routines. I knew what was going on in my head, and I knew I had to do something to fight the irrationality. So over that week I went around to some places that had shaped me, made me who I was, and that held fond memories. I took pictures of them - the library where I did so much research as a grad student, the grand historic campus of the university I spent so many years - as if to remind myself, "This is you. This is what made you. This is yours. Be proud of it." And it helped. It took time, but it helped.

About a month later, when the friend from my June trip decided she wanted to go a different direction with different friends, I was devastated. Ours was a close (albeit long-distance) friendship, and it's never fun to be let go like that. I needed something to help my spirits, to remind me of those who loved me and stood by me, and to whom I meant something special.

It just so happened that on my hard drive there were no end of pictures from trips when I'd met up with people I knew: for instance, pictures from the day I hiked around Rainier with a former student and her partner. There was another picture, of another former student who's become a beloved friend (and fellow academic), standing on the front porch of the neat little house he bought last year. And there was a picture of me and hubby, taken last December, at a family get-together at a Florida restaurant.

I rounded up all those pictures and had them printed out at a local pharmacy, and got some nice frames for them, and put them on a shelf in my office. Already there were some pictures I'd been given: me with my arm around a beloved student who'd just graduated; another of a group of students from a few years ago who posed together just because they wanted me to have a picture of them. But when I brought in all the new pictures, it became a challenge to make it all fit. And that's a good thing. It overflows with happy memories and appreciation, with happy memories of people to whom I've meant something and made a difference.

And there's one more thing it does: it reminds me that I ended up right where I needed to be, with the people I needed. It makes me thankful for what I have, and the circumstances that brought me here. It reminds me that even if I could, I wouldn't want to change a thing, not if it would mean missing out on any of those people or those times.

Exercise laughs at you

I never have been that physically active. I've kept my weight under control the last two decades, sure, and I enjoy hiking, but I never really have been that physically fit for any extended period. I notice little five or ten-pound fluctuations in my weight, how my clothes fit, and so on, and I'll do something about it. But running marathons? Never for me.

It's really caught up with me as I've reached the midlife point. I found myself getting tired more easily, not having the endurance I once had, maybe slowing up a step or two. Such feelings also didn't help with my anxiety issues, because your body's feelings are so interconnected with how your mind feels.

Over the summer I wanted to do something about that. After playing around with some ideas, someone mentioned Couch-to-5K. Why not? So I investigated it, thought "I can do this!", downloaded an app for my iPhone, and jumped on it at my first opportunity in mid-summer. The first day kicked my tail, but as I stayed on the workouts, I built pace and endurance. The demands increased each week, and I'd come back in exhausted and damp, but the good feeling lasted all day.

With the hot and humid summers where we live, the best time for me to do this was in the morning. If I hadn't completed the day's stint by 10 am, I'd get dried out and take that much longer to recover. Doing it in the evening was out of the question, at least until Fall.

About four weeks in, and I was doing just fine. And that's when the gremlins hit. First, my schedule was interrupted by a three-day trip. That's no big deal; I can recover from that easily.

But the following week, a logging operation began down our road. Our little, narrow, single-lane, dirt road. Large trucks and heavy equipment, and smaller trucks carrying equipment, were up and down our road all day. Way too much risk.

And then the following week, three straight days of meetings, all day long.

On the fourth day, yesterday, I thought I could squeeze in a quick session. Then I realized there wouldn't be enough time for me to cool down and take a bath before an obligation at 11 am. So much for that.

Finally, this day dawned. "Oh, goody!" I thought. "I can get back on the program!"

Then I looked out the window.  It was pouring down rain, and kept on pouring. I waved off, took a shower, and checked my work e-mail.

As I did that, it stopped raining.