Ms. Taken, ad infinitum

It happened again. I'm in line at Starbuck's, waiting to order coffee when the woman behind the counter says, "Hi, Olive! How are you today?"

I was still half asleep and caffeine deprived, so I just looked at her and said, "I'd be much better if I was Lorraine." And then apologized. Because I knew her from seeing her at various art happenings and the farmer's market, and I felt a wee bit bad about being snarky.

But not much.

I shared this story with my friend Mary the day after it happened, and she helped me laugh away the crankiness of being "Ms. Taken" yet again. We made tentative plans to meet later at an art show that night and I left feeling better about things.

At the art show, the barrista that had mistaken me for Olive was there. She came over and said, "Hello, Lorraine." and we laughed about the earlier encounter. As I turned after our greeting, out of the corner of my eye I saw a young man, waving at me, saying, "Hi, Olive!". He realized his mistake when I had turned completely around, mumbling, "I thought you were Olive."

Standing right there behind him was Mary, who just looked at me and dissolved into laughter. As I left to go to Hasting for tea with another friend, she said, "So, you're going to go somewhere where they know your name? " and grinned. We agreed I needed a "Cheers" moment. (And I got it, too, when I got to Hastings. Yay!)

My crankiness about the whole thing has to do with getting older, feeling like you're fading into oblivion, having younger people see your graying hair and mistaking it for your brain leaking away. Inside your gray head and body gone south, you still feel 14 or 16 or 35, and your mind is whirling with a thousand wonderful ideas. But all people are seeing is old, with all the connotations "old" has in our youth orientated society, whether they're true or not.

Part of it is my fault, I'll admit. I tend to be a hermit, avoid large parties/crowds, don't join civic groups. So while I've lived up to my reputation of an older "in" (invisible and inaudible), lately I've begun to wonder, "Am I really that unremarkable?"

All of my life, I've said that it was the little things that counted to us, made a difference in our lives. A hug. An enthusiastic wave from across the street. A postcard from Spain or Rome or wherever friends got to go this year for vacation. A cup of tea with a friend.

Our names, slipping off another's tongue.

My name had the distinction of being chosen for me by my father, who in a time when every little girl was named Karen or Kathy or Debbie, gave me a distinctive moniker. (Apparently he knew I was going to need it!) He never allowed anyone to call me "Lori" or my sister Susette "Sue", something I have always been grateful for.

I've always tried to remember people's names. Granted, it's much harder now with cognitive overload (aren't we glad we have computers to blame now?) and getting older, but I try. And if I'm not 100% of someone's name, I'll ask. Rude? Maybe. But which would you rather encounter: someone who couldn't remember your name for whatever reason, and didn't bother to figure it out; or someone who cared enough to refresh their memory and their remembrance of you?

I'll take the latter, any day. Because I know that the reason for their forgetfulness is that they might not have seen me for years, or their parents are sick and take up their every thought, or any of a million other reasons.

So the next time you run into someone and you just can't remember their name, 'fess up.

I won't mind, just as long as you don't call me Olive. :)

All Ears

All Ears

(for Dulcie, and her tail of devotion, always wagging for me)

You use my legs as a runway

to join me in the moonlit hammock,

happy despite the complaints I make

as my tender shins are prodded

by the nails I left untrimmed again.

The hickory tree hides us from most

of the stars and the neighbors, so I tell

you my secrets and your long silken

ears are wee elevators of emotion,

flaring and sliding up when they hear

“go”, “ride”, “cookie”, “ love” and “read”;

flattening and going back when you catch

“bath”, “vet”, “cat” and “bedtime”.

You lie on my stomach, queen of all

you see and hear and smell and touch

with those fluffy house slipper feet,

and I watch you, knowing full well

that one day those ears will hear

a final “go” and you'll trade your leash

for wings, and I will be inconsolable.

You already wear a halo,

and have since you first tucked

your golden head into that juncture

between my love and wisdom

that the Beloved finds so enchanting.

I'll treasure every day of grace

I get to share with you, my angel.

2010 © Lorraine D. Achey

Caution: Watch Where You're Walking

Last night the dogs were restless, waking me throughout the night with dog tag jingle jazz, percussed with hocks hitting the wooden floors as they scratched. Not very restful, and I gave up about 7:30 and got up, thinking I'd have some breakfast, see how I felt, maybe just come back to bed in a few.

Breakfast eaten and dogs fed, I sat down to catch up on what my friends were doing on Facebook. There's always something that makes me laugh, and I needed a better start to the day than I was getting from my own tired spirit.

One of my friends consistently posts the best music, often with stunning videos. She's a visual artist, and I love how she finds unusual video with different subjects.

Today's choice* was exceptionally beautiful, shot in B&W, with some clever speed effects in the movement of the dancers. I was enjoying the art and flow, until at 3:10 there came an image I've spent most of the last 18 years avoiding.

A graphic scene of a gunshot wound to the head.

I was stunned to say the least, and very glad for B&W film at that moment. Though when I watched the video the second time, I could see I might have had an inkling that there would be the possibility of something like this. I mean, after all, it does start with a young man deliberately falling backwards off the roof of a camping trailer onto the roof of a car, the possible imitation of a suicide.

What my friend didn't know is that it's only a few days until the anniversary of my father's death by self inflicted gun shot wound. (And even if she had, I would not expect her to avoid putting this or any other video up for others to enjoy. I'd only hope she'd give me a wee warning.) So this reminder of the destruction of him and the house of cards that was my family was particularly disturbing for me. I've come to refer to this time of year as "flashback season", even though I was spared finding my father. But there are things about that time that I'll never be able to wipe out of my mind, but also cannot bring myself to share with my family or friends.

One of my favorite poets says that everyone has their story that no one can know. Everyone suffers. I try to remember that when the person in front of me is being unkind to the clerk, or not paying attention, or looks like the last time they smiled it was so painful they vowed never to smile again. Remembering that they may be suffering a loss, whether it be of a loved one, their health, their job, their peace of mind, helps me practice compassion for them. Maybe share a smile with them, if I can spare one that day. A kind and encouraging word.

But the part of my story that you can know is that today, for the first time, I did not let that image effect the rest of my day. I was able to let go , to start the healing wave again. Our wounds are often too immense to recover immediately; like the sea, healing rocks in ragged rhythms. Cresting in high and low tides, every seventh wave threatening to take us under in its powerful grasp, working with the abrasive sand to chip away our sorrow, barnacle by barnacle.

Let me also share the outstanding experience of the day before. One of my friends was journeying to Florida, and I asked her a favor over a month ago when she announced her plans. "While you're there, would you write my name in the sand, so Mama Ocean can kiss me?" She's a busy lady, so I figured it wouldn't happen.

But it did. She'd been back a couple of days when she posted the pictures of her writing my name in lovely script on the beach. Staying with it until the waves came in and smoothed my name out of the sand, bearing part of my spirit back out to sea with them, where peace, hope, and joy float.

I am so blessed.

*you can find the video here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BrZTNhW44-o

Quirky or Spooky?

One more thing, and I'm done for the night.

After starting the Floodgaps blog, I joined AuthorNation to showcase my poetry and fiction, which I felt needed a place of its own. This blog is for remembering and laughing, for sharing the stories of my life; the AN page is for the wild fiction and poetry that litters my mind until I get it on paper.

I needed a profile picture for the AuthorNation page, so I googled "images of floodgaps". Imagine my surprise when the first entry was :
http://www.floodgap.com/retrobits/ckb/secret/lorraine.html

Go ahead, click on it. You know you want to find out!

As you can see, not exactly the images I was looking for, but I found it a fun read!

. . .Ms. Taken. . . or Ms. Diewreckted?

My last post dealt with how I'm frequently mistaken for my friend Olive by folks here in southeast Kansas. I left everyone with the knowledge that Olive had never been mistaken by me. . .until the arrival of a letter for Olive, addressed to my house.

Now, when I first saw the return address of somewhere in Idaho, I remembered Olive's story of visiting family and llamas there. Understandably, I assumed the letter to be from her relatives, but I couldn't figure out: a) why they'd sent the letter to my address; b) how did they even know my address; c) why didn't they know Olive's address? weren't they family?

Finally got in touch with Olive, who said, "I know it's a royalty check. Open it up and tell me how much it is. I know it's not going to be much, but I can't wait!" So I opened it up, read her the letter, and put some of the pieces together.

Olive, and her father, the esteemed Dr. Victor Sullivan (retired from PSU) had both written stories to be included in the book of aviation tales: "Flights of Adventure" . (www.flightsofadventure.info) It was published earlier this year, and Olive and Victor have done a "meet the authors" book signing at the local library. They sold books. When you sell books, you get royalties. Not much sometimes, but you get enough to go out to dinner. Maybe.

Apparently, "Flights" had sold enough that it was time to divy up the proceeds. This was done, and checks mailed out. Olive and I are still trying to figure out how the two people in charge of this effort, who have never even met me, ended up with my address and thought it was Olive's.

For now, the relatives and the llamas are off the hook. But if Olive and I ever figure out how come that royalty check got addressed to come to my house, we'll let you know!

Just Call Me "Ms. Taken"

I have one of those faces. You know, the one where no matter where you go, people say, "I think I've met you before. You look so familiar."

I also have this friend, Olive. She's got long, fairly straight, medium blond hair and green eyes. I have short, generously salted and curly brunette hair and brown eyes, hidden behind glasses. She's more of a pear shape; I'm a definite pineapple. She's pretty much always in jeans and sneakers; the only denim I own is a tank dress, and I only wear sneakers to work in the yard. She's rarely seen with a handbag; I am usually leaning to the left from my tote bag. She has a nice smile, but mine comes with a side of dimples.

In other words, we don't look that much alike. The only trait we have in common is that we're short and . . .um. . . .rotund. Yeah. Plump. (Okay, I have no trouble saying I'm fat, but I'm not sure how Olive feels about the "F" word.)

So why is it that I frequently get mistaken for her, even when we are sitting at the same table, eating breakfast? There's one young man, a visual artist who knows both of us, who looks at me, nods, says, "Hello, Olive." to me and ignores Olive. He's done it at least 3 times that I know of, and each time, Olive and I dissolved into laughter. He had to know something was going on, but he never bothered to take a second look. I wonder if ever he talks about looking for detail in his classes, or if his students tend to be as oblivious as he appears to be when it comes to telling women apart.

He's not the first person to mistake me for Olive. The first time it happened, it was with a young woman who had just met me the week before. I was at an art opening when she came up to me, gave me a huge hug, and said, "It's been forever since I've seen you! I've missed you so much." I was a bit startled; after all, I generally don't make such a deep and lasting impression the first time out. But I gladly accepted the hug and chatted with her for a few minutes, until I saw the realization creeping across her face that she had the wrong person.

"Oh, my gosh, I'm so sorry, I can't believe I thought you were Olive." She blushed, then said, "I hope you didn't mind that I hugged you." When I assured her I didn't she apologized again and made her escape.

And I didn't mind, really. I've been in training for being a perpetual walking case of mistaken identity since that day in the park during Little Balkans Days, when a woman walked up to me and said, "How are you? Are you still teaching at the university?"

I looked at her and said, "I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone else. I've never taught at the university; I don't even have a college degree." What I really wanted to do was fall on the grass and roll around laughing. Me? Teach? College students? I'd barely gotten the dogs through obedience school!

"Oh, but you did. Don't you remember me? I sat on the front row in the printmaking class." She waited, looking for my remembrance of her.

"I'm sorry, I've never taught at the university, much less taken a class in the graphics art department. You must be looking for someone else."

Now, most folks who are told that you've never taught, don't have the degree to teach at university level, and that you don't know them from a text book usually realize they've got the wrong person.

Not this woman. For the next 4 years, every fall at the Little Balkans Festival, she would go through the same routine with me. And every year, except the last, I tried to convince her that I was not her printmaking professor.

The last time, I said, "Why, yes, I remember you! What are you doing these days?" and left it at that. It was the last time I ever saw her. Makes me think she might have been stalking me at the festival, determined to make me admit she was my student.

Being mistaken for Olive has happened often enough that I've decided that I need a button. A picture of a green olive in one of those red circles with cross hatch signs. "No(t) Olive." I'd get one for her of a rain drop in the red circle, but she doesn't need it.

You see, she's never been mistaken for me.

Or at least I didn't think so, until today. Today, I opened the mail box and got a letter addressed to Olive at my house. I'm still waiting to unravel this one.

Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion! I'm sure we'll get it sorted out soon. I hope. :)

Wondering. . .

. . .how things would have turned out if I'd been reading Rumi in that bathroom line at the SunCo Station. (See "Look Out Jane, I Have Boots!" post.)

Or would there have been something more appropriate to read? "Les Miserables", perhaps?

Things would have definitely been different if I'd been listening to the soundtrack of "O Brother, Where Art Thou" on my iPod.

Isn't it amazing and wonderful and fabulous how changing the tiniest detail can completely alter a whole structure? And how each of us brings a different view to the same event?

So now I'm wondering what story my Illustrated Muscle Men are telling about meeting me. I hope it's one that makes them laugh, and gives them hope on their journey.

Go create your own story, or help someone change theirs (if they want you to!). The world's full of possibilities!