Skill Set

Sometime last year, I watched Mudbound on Netflix. It was well-done, if uncomfortable at times, as period pieces dealing with racial and class issues should be. For some reason, while the rest of the movie has faded into a fuzzy memory, one scene, of a woman slaughtering a chicken, is still vivid and sharp in my mind. She used a technique I hadn't seen before, one that wasn't bloody, and didn't require tools.

I put that technique to use for the first time today. Shortly before I moved in, my housemate bought a bunch of chicks, five of which were supposed to be pullets (females). Four of them turned out to be cockerels (males). She slaughtered two of them about a month ago, and the other two have been living on borrowed time... and crowing at 5am.

Knowing she's about to start a full-time job and won't have as much free time, she spent a few minutes trying to catch them this morning but wasn't quick enough, so I grabbed a helper and got both of them. After one escaped her grasp and the other drew her blood, I did what needed to be done and handed them back to her for plucking.

I'm proud of myself for being able to do something I find difficult (not physically challenging, but emotionally -- taking a life is no small thing), but upset that I was in a situation where I felt I had to be the one to step in and do it. I've been in too many situations like that over the years, heard that voice in my head saying, "if I don't do this, nobody else will, and it needs to be done." It's a rough way to build experience and toughness. The scar tissue never goes away.

People who can't imagine having to step up like that will glorify it and call me courageous. I hate it. I hate that people like that are the reason why I have these scars. I do what needs to be done because they won't, and I resent their weakness. Don't praise my strength, develop your own.

Pumped

I knew my Jeep's fuel pump was dying, it was just a question of when. Today is when, turns out. It's not an expensive part, but it's a pain to replace (the gas tank needs to be "dropped," which means it has to be almost empty, and it's currently almost full), and there's no workaround that will get me on the road in the meantime -- if the fuel pump isn't getting gasoline to the engine, the engine doesn't run.

Lovely.

Gone Fishin'

When you have the opportunity to run off to Lake Champlain for a few days, you take it. Even if you don't particularly like boats or fishing, and the fella you're with is a fisherman... with a boat... and insists on taking you out on the water. And then you discover that you actually like being out there, except for the part where he makes the boat go fast.

Check out the rest of my pictures here!

Remembering A Life

I've been trying to write a eulogy for days and having very little success. A dear friend, who had been my best friend from age four 'til sometime in our 20s, passed away last week after a short but valiant battle with cancer. We had grown apart in the last decade or so, and the last time I saw her was at her wedding in 2010. Since then, we'd talked only a handful of times, and the most recent phone conversation was the one where she announced the cancer diagnosis and terminal prognosis. That news came as my move was getting down to the wire, and I didn't really have the brain space to process it fully, but I made a point of sending her an email every day (or nearly every day -- I missed a few in the whirlwind of life) so she'd know I was thinking about her.

The day came when, several hours after I'd sent my daily greeting, her friend emailed to say she'd passed. I was in the middle of doing something else when I got the message, and again, I put off processing it until later. I knew I couldn't afford to fly down for the service, so I was readying myself to deal with it in small doses over time, which was about all I could manage with the other stressors I'm faced with.

Then another friend made it possible for me to go to the service. That offer was unexpected and heartwarming, and I jumped at it... but it puts a time limit on how far I need to get in the grieving process in order to make it through the service without having a meltdown. So there's work to do.

And I feel like an ass for making it all about me, because that's not the way this is supposed to be... but I'm beyond overwhelmed, and the process of getting through it all is the only thing I can think about unless I force myself to take a little energy from all of that and put it into remembering what a marvelous person she was. And that little bit of energy turns into a massive drain as I connect with the feelings of loss and love and regret and every other complicated, messy bit of it.

Her husband called her an angel, and he's right -- she was the kind of person who exuded and attracted goodness in all its forms. She had her issues and her struggles, and she came through each challenge with a deeper sense of grace and peace than she'd had before. I was struck by the tone of her voice as she talked about her prognosis... I didn't hear sadness or regret or self-pity, I heard acceptance and calmness, and I was in awe. Having known her for so long, I had the privilege of seeing her grow from an awkward, struggling child into a capable, brilliant, joyful woman, and it's bittersweet that the world felt the warmth of that joy for such a short time.

I remember marching with her in the Memorial Day parade, representing our 4-H club. I remember the birthday sleepover she threw for me (because my mother always found reasons not to let me have a party), where we played MarioKart and baked a cake... forgetting to add the milk until the batter was already in the pan. I remember her acidentally knocking over a cup of lemonade in her dorm room and exclaiming, "THIS IS WHY I CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS!!" I remember standing in her grandmother's house, braiding her hair for her as we got ready for the renaissance faire. I remember how radiant she looked at her wedding, and how happy I was that she'd found someone who saw her for who she was and loved her for it.

I remember how she scrunched her eyes when she laughed, how she wagged her hand in front of her before she sneezed, how she never took herself too seriously... and I remember unhappier things, too... but they all made her the brave, loving soul she was. I miss her, and always will.

You Keep Using That Word...

Seen on the internet:

"Exclusive pure lenin sarees"

I bet they only come in red.

Age Is Only A Number

Him: "You don't have the face of a 41-year-old."
Me: "That's probably because I'm 37."
Him: "...You don't have the face of a 37-year-old, either."
Me: "I'll take the compliment."

Jump!

Parking out in the boonies to cuddle and listen to the radio is a lovely experience on a warm spring evening, right up to the point where you go to start the vehicle and find that you've drained the battery. Trying to flag down help in an area with little vehicular traffic and no houses is also problematic. Luckily, one of the cars that passed without stopping called the cops, so a State Trooper came to check things out a few minutes later, and he had a portable jump-starter with him, so we were on our way in short order. As adventures go, it was on the mild side, for which I'm thankful -- more fun than scary is always preferable when it comes to unexpected situations.