wild caving

I am still working on the story that accompanies these photos, but here's a little glimpse of what I've been up to these days:

Josh, Daisha, Brandy and I after descending 95-feet into Devil's Den. I absolutely love this picture that Aaron took.

Daisha, me and Brandy before the caving actually began.

I don't know if you can tell, but Brandy and I are standing beneath a waterfall. Daisha just looks hardcore.

The Compton Pit Cave Crew: Josh, Jason, me, Brandy and Daisha. Aaron and Rhyan are in the cave too, but they were working while the rest of us were making mud men in tight little cave passages.

johnny cash was one drunk bastard

In the late 1960s my grandparents, aunt and mother lived in a second-floor walkup in Frankfurt, Germany, across the street from the Thomas District Officers Club. My grandfather managed the club, so it was a convenient walk to work, but not nearly as easy to get his family to sleep at night with the pounding music he’d contracted to play for impressive bigwigs from Washington and the free and flowing liquor he always kept completely stocked for those unexpected 5-stars who sometimes dropped in.

My grandfather finally had enough of active soldiering after two tours in Korea and three in Vietnam and, frankly, so had my grandmother. Having previously been an NCO, he was encouraged to apply for the rank of Chief Warrant Officer, a specialist in his field.

His specialty: my grandfather put on a hell of a party.

Pa is a small-town farm boy through and through. And, back in his younger days, he loved nothing more than to drink a cold beer to some country and western music. Since he ran the officers club, he had sole discretion about what musical artists were brought in to play.

I’m not exactly sure how it came about, but apparently my grandfather caught wind that Johnny Cash was in Germany. And it wasn’t too long before Pa managed to book the Man in Black at his club.

“I went out to greet Johnny Cash and his people,” Pa said. “Johnny Cash was one drunk bastard.”

My grandfather assured me he’d seen his share of drunk bastards, and Johnny Cash was the drunkest of them all.

“He asked me if it would be all right if he had something to eat, maybe a steak,” Pa said. “And I told him he could have just about anything he wanted.”

By this point, Pa said, he’s wondering just what the hell he’s gotten himself into and how he’s going to explain to his commanding officer that while, yes, he does have a legendary musician sitting in his club that the man’s drunk and incapable of even the basics of normal behaviour.

“So, I go into the kitchen and start laying out a steak when Johnny walks in. He said he wanted to see the steak for himself, not unkindly, but, you know, just to see if it was what he really wanted,” Pa said, adding he placed the raw meat on a server dish and handed it to Mr. Cash.

Johnny Cash promptly begins gnawing on the raw meat, blood running down his starched white shirt. His people and my grandfather wrestle the meat from his hands just as a lower-ranking officer tells my grandfather they’re ready for Mr. Cash on the stage.

“I just knew my career in the military was about over,” Pa said. “I had some pretty powerful people sitting in my club waiting to be entertained and what was I going to deliver but a bloody Johnny Cash.”

My grandfather laughed as he remembered his story, shaking his head.

“But that didn’t happen,” he said. “The moment Johnny Cash picked up his guitar and took that stage, why, I’d never seen a more sober person in my life.”

Pa said Johnny Cash walked up to the microphone, nodded hello and let loose with Ring of Fire, perfect in every way.

“That man brought the house down,” Pa said, “But make no mistake about it, Johnny Cash was still one drunk bastard.”

“I fell in to a burning ring of fire
I went down,down,down
and the flames went higher.
And it burns,burns,burns
the ring of fire
the ring of fire.”
- Johnny Cash

nostalgia

i stopped in at my favourite little corner store on 30th and walker this morning to pick up a spot of breakfast. as i was deciding between orange juice and water, my eyes instead found this:



squirt.

i hadn't had squirt since i was a little girl, so i purchased a bottle and a banana (a hopefully inoffensive breakfast) and set off for work.

the last time i remember having a squirt was about the age of 8, give or take a few years in either direction. and that semi-soda is forever linked with summer afternoons in southeast oklahoma, lazy days in holdenville, which is where the majority of my grandmother's family lives.

though it is probably incredibly illegal now, back in the late 80s, my grandparents would load up pa's old green chevy with a roll-away bed in the camper, an ice chest full of squirts and shasta colas, comic books and my brother and me. my grandparents would be in the front listening to t. texas tyler, some of which trickled back to us. but mostly my brother and i would be sweating in the oklahoma heat, in the bed of a truck, but not minding it a bit as we bounced around and laughed like innocents on that two-hour drive to hughes county.



when we finally made it, we'd unload to the hugs and shouts of Old PaPaw (my grandmother's father), our crazy country cousins and an entire town full of aunts, uncles and people we were merely related to by accusation.

we'd run around old papaw's farm like the wild kids we were back then, pig tails and shirt tails flying behind us. we'd pass out breathless under the cotton wood tree, taking a moment to relax in its shade, eating apples. and, of course, my brother would try and convince our cousins to stick their tongues on live batteries.

but those were some of the most glorious summer days i knew: porch sitting and telling tall tales. uncle frankie's stories about the time he killed a man, which, knowing uncle frankie, is most likely true. falling asleep on the porch to the sound of the wind and the stars and the crickets. waking up to gospel music, foot stomping and home-cooked breakfast on the ancient stove.

that was my childhood. that was my peace. and that's what i feel my heart returning to after all this time - the simplicity, at least today.

Take All the Sky You Need

He said he needed to know what I wanted, but mostly, if it was him.

We lay face to face on his bed, searching each other for what little truth remained, as our toes touched beneath the sheets. His eyes refused to let me go, though I had difficulty answering their questions.

How could I tell him that I loved him but I was afraid of him, of the way he knew me better than I knew myself. That he was nothing at all like I had envisioned, and somehow the picture we have in our minds is hard to let go of. That he opened me and taught me new things with every conversation we had. And that he got me, understood those quirks and faults that make me who I am. But, in the end, I didn’t know if it was the kind of love that would translate to wedding bells and old age.

But the hardest thing to tell him was that even though I didn’t know those answers, I wanted them all to be true - and they could be if I could just let myself feel something. How I wanted to stare across that bed at him when 40 more springs had passed us by. But all of this emotion, the depth of my feelings, took me to places I wasn’t familiar – and it was easier to dismiss him than to love him.

I said he had my heart, but …

And I didn’t need to finish; he knew what was coming. We talked about it a little longer, but my hesitation widened that chasm already growing between us.

He turned over, leaving me to stare helplessly at that earthy tattoo on his back, the very one I’d traced so many times with my fingertips. I wanted to explain, but my words betrayed me. I wanted to put my hand on that crevice of his hip where it fit perfectly, knowing I’d lost that right.

I rolled onto my stomach, feeling the hurt roll off his body. For the first time in a long time, I cried – my tears staining his pillow. But I wasn't really surprised when he moved my way, wrapping his body around me on what we both knew was our last night together.

And with his lips against my neck, he whispered Ellis: I understand. Take all the sky you need.

“We can wake up this lullaby town
Burn through every red light we found
Lift a dust cloud
Break the speed of sound
you could break free
If you want to run I'll pack my suitcase
If you want to stay I'll make a front door key
And if you need space... to fly... free
Take all the sky you need …”
- Ellis Paul

God Blessed Texas

The countdown's begun until an extended weekend in the Texas Hill Country on the river in a cabin with johnny d and Tyler while visiting with the fam bam. What more could a girl ask for?

Lullaby

Every Saturday we have family dinner and game night. I’m not always able to make it since I live about 90 miles north of my family, but still, it’s comforting to know this family tradition lives on: take-out Chinese food or pizza; Yahtzee, Pictionary, cards, Taboo, Catch Phrase. The theme has morphed over the years to become what it is now, but the spirit has remained the same – as dysfunctional as we are, we still work.

Due to my grandparents’ declining health, we’ve started having game night at my brother’s house, which is only a couple of blocks away. Last Saturday, I was driving that short distance back, and just as I was about to pull into the driveway, I heard an old song come on the radio – one that filled me with such nostalgia that I had no choice but to keep driving until it was over … and then some.

When I was a little girl, maybe three or four but old enough to still have a clear memory, my mother used to sing me songs before she went out for the evening … sometimes. I would look forward to those nights, after my grandmother had given me a bath and tucked me into my Snoopy sheets, when my mother would come into the bedroom we shared and sit on the edge of our bed. I’d be foggy with sleep, but still awake enough to feel her presence.

She’d always start out with Dylan, singing “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue” in her husky voice before creating a lullaby all her own, all mine: Dylan, Janis Joplin, Mel Tillis, Juice Newton, Neil Young, Lynn Anderson, Waylon, Willy and the Boys. And though I fought desperately against sleep, against losing these rare moments with my mother, I’d eventually drift off with images of empty-handed painters and rose gardens and Coca-Cola cowboys walking across my heart like it was Texas filling my head.

After driving my hometown streets for about half an hour, my car silent now after Mel Tillis’s Coca-Cola Cowboy had filled it with memory, I pulled back into my grandparents’ driveway, killed the engine and leaned back in my seat.

And I missed my mother.

I missed the young woman she never got to be. I missed being able to enjoy her company. I missed the relationship we never had.

But for all that was lost between us, we will always have our lullaby.

“you’re just a coca-cola cowboy
you got an eastwood smile and robert redford hair
but you walked across my heart like it was Texas
and you taught me how to say, I just don’t care …”
- Mel Tillis

Dance A Little Longer

After about two miles, I chose to listen to the sound of my feet against the pavement rather than Ryan Adams, because, let’s face it, he has the ability to break my heart into a thousand little pieces – and she’s barely hanging in there as it is.

I eventually fell into the comforting sound of my rhythm, and after another mile I had almost convinced myself that if I ran faster, ran harder, I just might be able to run from this page into the next chapter of my life. But as I rounded Mesta Park I realized the only way to get out of this particular labyrinth was straight through it.

When I finally made it home, the only thing I wanted was a bath to help clear the fog of spent emotion still clouding my head. I set it up just the way I like it: almost scalding water, book within reach, candles strategically located, lights off.

As I settled back against my bath pillow, I glanced around my tiny bathroom, looking at the postcards lining the walls --Beijing, New Zealand, Australia -- but it was that fading Polaroid picture my attention finally rested upon.

I am wrapped tightly in my grandfather’s blue paisley-clad arms, my brother sits snaggle-toothed and grinning on his shoulders – December 1980. The photograph seems to represent the simplicity I’ve been craving lately. As I rested, I thought long and hard about something my grandfather told me recently.

Two weekends ago I went back to my hometown, but to say it like that’s not quite right. More accurately, I ran home. I needed my brother’s laugh, my grandfather’s version of Amazing Grace at 7 a.m. and my grandma’s pragmatism.

You’re not the black sheep of this family, my grandma told me, you’re just the one that’s a little lost right now.

On Sunday morning, I woke up early, needing to run some errands before the day started. I walked down the familiar hallway to the living room and there sat my grandfather, reading the paper and drinking his morning coffee.

And waiting for me.

For as long as I can remember, this is what we do when I am home. So I kicked off my shoes and jacket, walked into the kitchen, poured a mug of coffee and asked him for the front page.

And then I waited for him.

You doing all right these days, Udine?

Not so much, I answered.

He nods and tells me this story: It’s in the early days of the Korean War. My grandfather is in a weapons support unit sent to provide fire cover while another company is relieved of their front line duties. The radio operator, however, gets his coordinates wrong. After hours of humping through waist deep water, dirty and running with blood, the radio crackles questioning where my grandfather’s unit is. They give their coordinates and are answered by silence.

You’re behind enemy lines, the mechanical voice says, get out of there. Get.out.of.there.now.

The men in my grandfather’s unit begin to look around. And now they see what they’d been missing – dozens and hundreds of pairs of North Korean eyes come into focus, hiding in the elephant grass. They’d been watched and stalked and now they ran.

My grandfather found himself almost face down in shallow water, looking over at a newly enlisted private – and praying. Praying for his young bride and hoping she found a man who’d treat her better than my grandfather says he ever did.

I thought then that maybe if I’d never married your Ma, she’d have had a better life, and I knew I’d welcome death to give that to her, he said.

He heard shuffling just above to his head and risked glancing up. There was a North Korean soldier walking through the grass shoving his bayonet into the ground – and my grandfather waited calmly for that spear to pierce his side.

But the soldier walked right to where he was hiding, placing one foot between my grandfather’s spread arms and one on the other side, stepping over him and never seeing him.

It took me a little bit before I truly realized the good Lord was going to let me a dance a little longer, but I promised Him then and there that’s what I’d do – I’d dance.

My Pa’s not one to show much outward sign of emotion, but he reached over and took my hand in his gnarled one, the fingers curled inward with arthritis but still retained the roughness of a man who’s put them to good use.

You do that now, Udine, you dance a little longer.

And he began to hum under his breath until he found the words he was looking for:

“Eats and drinks and smokes are gone
Ice on the steps and you cain't get home
Hang your things on the peg in the corner
Giggle and wiggle and dance a little longer

Dance around, dance a little longer
Just gotta hold you just a little longer
Bing and talk, joke a little longer
Just gotta hold you justa little longer

Rained three days and the barditch full
I cain't get home, it's a muddy old pull
I live on toppa that bad hill yonder
That's why I gotta dance a little longer …”
-- Woody Guthrie