Detention and a personal short (fndm)
I Have The Best Brother Ever
You know why? Because I mentioned a few months ago in the course of a Harry Potter discussion that I'd gladly sign up for detention with Professor Snape any day. Today, I get Yahoo image search results in my email with a note that says he knows I like old hot guys. Clearly, best. Brother. Ever. So much love.
La Computadora
Let the trumpets of victory sound, as a new laptop has been ordered. Hurrah! It should be here at the beginning of October and it will be such a relief not to have to run up to the lab every time I need to get things done (Although I would like to do a quiet victory dance in light of the fact that they haven't revoked all my doc student privileges, i.e. the ability to key into the building in the off-hours. That doesn't, however, make up for the fact that they gave my mailbox away and haven't given me a new one. Oh, university politics. Let me count the ways I loathe thee.) Anyway, much love to my dad, who was of great help in Operation Procure A New Laptop.
Fic
Even though I don’t really consider myself a practicing Catholic, I enjoy going to Mass. I find it peaceful and calming and after years of having been raised Catholic, the ritual of Mass makes me feel grounded and centered. I’ve been in search of a good church since I moved here and I think I finally found one that might do the trick on Saturday. Thinking about church got me thinking about other things and prompted me to write this. And since these short personally inspired pieces seem to be the ones that resonate with people most, I thought I’d post it.
Bendio Sea Dios
I grew up many miles and a few sunsets from where I live now. It’s different in many ways and not so different in others; I’m grateful I’m old enough to recognize and appreciate that bit of truth.
I’ve been fortunate enough to have been able to build a nice life for myself in the intervening years: a comforting home, a job I enjoy going to every morning, a strong husband, and two good-hearted children - a husband and children who, incidentally, have never been to my hometown.
The caveat about my hometown is that its magic takes time to work: if you haven’t lived there long enough for its magic to work its way into your skin and heart and soul, you’ll get only the merest hint of the history in the adobe and the faintest taste of the ristras of chile. I’d never do my family or my home the disservice of providing only a glimpse of its true joy.
There are quiet miracles everywhere there, if you only know where to look. My favorite is a man by the name of Gene, a man with a laugh that makes everyone around him smile and a seemingly endless supply of jokes dirty enough to make even a retired sailor blush. And there’s another thing about Gene, too: he can sing. He’s got a voice like an angel - an angel who got a little lost getting where was going and liked it so much he decided to stay for a while.
He doesn’t sing in any of the bars or with any of the new bands that pop up frequently to play fiestas and quinceañeras. No, Gene only sings at rosaries and funerals. It’s a small town - if you’re not related to someone, odds are good you know most everything about them anyway - and I don’t think I’ve been to a rosary or a funeral yet where Gene hasn’t sung.
He sang at my grandmother’s funeral, though I was only four and hardly recall. He also sang at my mother’s funeral twenty years late, the year she was forty-four, the year the breast cancer came down fast and hard and took her away almost before we knew had happened.
With my grandparents gone, my father in prison, and my brother only sixteen, it was up to me to make the arrangements. I didn’t have any idea what I was doing and don’t remember much of it, just a lot of forms to be signed and checks to be written. I vaguely recall being saddened by how easily death had become a business and morbidly amused by the realization that it was, perhaps, the most reliable business that ever could be.
The only thing I do remember clearly was the arrival of Gene on my doorstep late one evening, asking if I’d like him to sing for my mother. I did, of course, though that was yet another of the arrangements I hadn’t quite realized I’d have to make. He asked what I’d like him to sing and when I drew a complete blank, he just hugged me and said he’d sing her favorites though I couldn’t for the life of me recall what they were.
Somehow, though, Gene knew. He sang them all a few days later in the midst of the service’s quiet solemnity, as we sat together in the funeral home we’d all had occasion to pass through once or twice before. The tears I cried then were the only tears I cried in those long months that had any bit of joy in them. It was, in fact, the first time I thought it might truly be possible to heal.
I thought about Gene today, this many years and sunsets later, because we sang one of my mother’s favorite songs in church this evening. It didn’t sound as pretty when the choir sang it in English as it did when Gene sang it in Spanish, but it brought a smile to my face just the same.
As I drove home in the dawning dusk, I found myself wondering who would sing for Gene when the time comes. The answer was surprisingly easy: we all would. It would be my honor, and I’m sure it would be everyone else’s, to sing Gene back to the road he’d been walking, so he can get back to getting where he was going.
Perhaps I’ll tell my family about Gene tonight. I think I’ve finally come to realize that the magic of my home isn’t in the adobes or the ristras. It’s in all of us, in that place inside where we carry what’s most important. I think they’ll understand. I think they’ll feel the magic.
I think, perhaps, that if I tell the story just right, they may even want to come with me and sing for Gene when the time comes.
And that's all she wrote. Have a good week, everyone.
You know why? Because I mentioned a few months ago in the course of a Harry Potter discussion that I'd gladly sign up for detention with Professor Snape any day. Today, I get Yahoo image search results in my email with a note that says he knows I like old hot guys. Clearly, best. Brother. Ever. So much love.
La Computadora
Let the trumpets of victory sound, as a new laptop has been ordered. Hurrah! It should be here at the beginning of October and it will be such a relief not to have to run up to the lab every time I need to get things done (Although I would like to do a quiet victory dance in light of the fact that they haven't revoked all my doc student privileges, i.e. the ability to key into the building in the off-hours. That doesn't, however, make up for the fact that they gave my mailbox away and haven't given me a new one. Oh, university politics. Let me count the ways I loathe thee.) Anyway, much love to my dad, who was of great help in Operation Procure A New Laptop.
Fic
Even though I don’t really consider myself a practicing Catholic, I enjoy going to Mass. I find it peaceful and calming and after years of having been raised Catholic, the ritual of Mass makes me feel grounded and centered. I’ve been in search of a good church since I moved here and I think I finally found one that might do the trick on Saturday. Thinking about church got me thinking about other things and prompted me to write this. And since these short personally inspired pieces seem to be the ones that resonate with people most, I thought I’d post it.
Bendio Sea Dios
I grew up many miles and a few sunsets from where I live now. It’s different in many ways and not so different in others; I’m grateful I’m old enough to recognize and appreciate that bit of truth.
I’ve been fortunate enough to have been able to build a nice life for myself in the intervening years: a comforting home, a job I enjoy going to every morning, a strong husband, and two good-hearted children - a husband and children who, incidentally, have never been to my hometown.
The caveat about my hometown is that its magic takes time to work: if you haven’t lived there long enough for its magic to work its way into your skin and heart and soul, you’ll get only the merest hint of the history in the adobe and the faintest taste of the ristras of chile. I’d never do my family or my home the disservice of providing only a glimpse of its true joy.
There are quiet miracles everywhere there, if you only know where to look. My favorite is a man by the name of Gene, a man with a laugh that makes everyone around him smile and a seemingly endless supply of jokes dirty enough to make even a retired sailor blush. And there’s another thing about Gene, too: he can sing. He’s got a voice like an angel - an angel who got a little lost getting where was going and liked it so much he decided to stay for a while.
He doesn’t sing in any of the bars or with any of the new bands that pop up frequently to play fiestas and quinceañeras. No, Gene only sings at rosaries and funerals. It’s a small town - if you’re not related to someone, odds are good you know most everything about them anyway - and I don’t think I’ve been to a rosary or a funeral yet where Gene hasn’t sung.
He sang at my grandmother’s funeral, though I was only four and hardly recall. He also sang at my mother’s funeral twenty years late, the year she was forty-four, the year the breast cancer came down fast and hard and took her away almost before we knew had happened.
With my grandparents gone, my father in prison, and my brother only sixteen, it was up to me to make the arrangements. I didn’t have any idea what I was doing and don’t remember much of it, just a lot of forms to be signed and checks to be written. I vaguely recall being saddened by how easily death had become a business and morbidly amused by the realization that it was, perhaps, the most reliable business that ever could be.
The only thing I do remember clearly was the arrival of Gene on my doorstep late one evening, asking if I’d like him to sing for my mother. I did, of course, though that was yet another of the arrangements I hadn’t quite realized I’d have to make. He asked what I’d like him to sing and when I drew a complete blank, he just hugged me and said he’d sing her favorites though I couldn’t for the life of me recall what they were.
Somehow, though, Gene knew. He sang them all a few days later in the midst of the service’s quiet solemnity, as we sat together in the funeral home we’d all had occasion to pass through once or twice before. The tears I cried then were the only tears I cried in those long months that had any bit of joy in them. It was, in fact, the first time I thought it might truly be possible to heal.
I thought about Gene today, this many years and sunsets later, because we sang one of my mother’s favorite songs in church this evening. It didn’t sound as pretty when the choir sang it in English as it did when Gene sang it in Spanish, but it brought a smile to my face just the same.
As I drove home in the dawning dusk, I found myself wondering who would sing for Gene when the time comes. The answer was surprisingly easy: we all would. It would be my honor, and I’m sure it would be everyone else’s, to sing Gene back to the road he’d been walking, so he can get back to getting where he was going.
Perhaps I’ll tell my family about Gene tonight. I think I’ve finally come to realize that the magic of my home isn’t in the adobes or the ristras. It’s in all of us, in that place inside where we carry what’s most important. I think they’ll understand. I think they’ll feel the magic.
I think, perhaps, that if I tell the story just right, they may even want to come with me and sing for Gene when the time comes.
And that's all she wrote. Have a good week, everyone.