Friday

Carol,

Thinking of you.

Greg

Bury My Heart...

I was in 7th grade, and my sister was in her junior year of high school when she asked me to fetch a book out of her high school locker one late afternoon. I had never been given a task by her of this magnitude. She trusted me, spoke openly with me about herself, confided in me when there was a problem.

This afternoon, she had a problem: she needed a book from her locker, and for some reason she did not want to do it herself. She's never been lazy or complacent. She got straight A's, took French for four years (something I did as well because of her), and was independent, but this time she needed me to do this for her.

She handed me a slip of paper with her locker combination, the general whereabouts of her locker (to the left of the school library on the second row, about three from the end) but not the title of the book:

"...just look for the book with a picture of an Indian on the front...and look for the title of 'bury my heart' and you'll know"

I rode my bicycle to our high school with no backpack, and I remember this because I felt like a chump riding back with a book in one hand and the other on the right handlebar grip. BMX bikes are meant to be ridden with both hands. There are curbs to jump, objects to bunny-hop over, riding stances that require you to sit far back on the seat, making a "U" with your torso and both arms stretched out on the bars -- the way Harley riders do -- when you're waiting for the light to turn green. But there I was riding home with a book in my hand, awkward transitions into intersections, balance was off, and the cool factor diminished.

Her locker was hard to find. I was sweating. "I can't find it!" I tried the same combination on the whole second row of lockers, when finally the metal door popped open. There was her book. Only one with an Indian on the front, and the strange title, "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee"

Recently, a friend kidded me about an injury I had about a week ago. He called it the "Battle of Wounded Knee," and my mind shot towards this memory of the locker and my sister's book. I have not yet told her about my injury because she would tell everyone in my family, and everyone would panic for me. We still confide in each other about many things. She sent me a camera-phone photo of a cake she made for me for my birthday that she shared with her boyfriend and her daughter. She holding it, smiling at me 400 miles away.

I still don't know why she did not get the book herself. I have an idea why, but it doesn't matter anymore. It seems almost trivial now, me getting her book for her, except the memory is crisp, it invokes something in me about her love for me, how she turned to me to help solve her problem, and how I without any regard for my self I came through for her. We are still this way with each other. Each small contribution to our history has made us closer. We've been there for each other (break-ups, divorce, money) I am lucky. I am connected. I have a sister.

Today I'll tell her about my "wounded knee"

it's that time of year again

When Carol dusts off her dating skills and takes the plunge. Yes, I went on a date Thursday night. And I can actually say that this date was great. There was chemistry, flirty eyes, hefeweizen (carol's favorite), fried food, we even clinked our glasses "Here's to us getting together."

Earlier that day, I googled The Top 10 Things To Know For A First Date. Number one was don't talk about dating in a negative way. Number two was don't talk about your exes. I forgot what three through nine are now, but at number ten, be yourself. Be yourself. Okay, I did that. And I think he did too.

I have so many people pulling for me, all my friends are good soulful humans, and they want to see me with a nice guy. I almost cancelled the date at the last minute, I'm so very glad I didn't do that because this guy was nice, really nice.

hit me with your best shot

Am I the only person who thought karaoke bars had gotten married and gone to live in the hills? My good friend L took me out for a drink on a saturday night, and i got to hear a neil young song totally shredded (not in a good way) and of course, as if it never gets played, pat benatar. Hit me with your best shot. Are you kidding me? Did i listen to this crap in the eighties? Well, let's see i was 14, 15, 16, in the eighties, shit. I did. But now those words...hit me with your best shot, with everything that i have been through, the last freaking words I am going to get up and sing in front of some time warp crowd is this set of words. Is it just me? My friend went to use the ladies bathroom and missed out on this conversation.
Serious Karaoke Man #1 "When I hit that tone, my voice just reaches up."
Serious Karaoke Man #2 "I know what you mean. My range just goes from here to here."
(His hands moving from low to high.)

I looked around and saw beer bottles, mom jeans, i walked in on a woman still singing the neil young song on the toilet, too intoxicated to lock the door, and was that a full length leather coat some one was wearing?