Happy Father's Day

Coming back from a jog around a field the other day, I sat down to remove the prickly stickers that inconspicuously found their way to my socks as I trecked through the weeds. As I carefully pulled the stickers off, I thought of how they seemed to hurt so much more as a child. I suddenly remembered my dad picking the same stickers from my socks for me when I was a little girl. It made me think of all those times I would venture into the fields with my dad to "help" him in his sampling process.

It was always an adventure. The trip would start out with a quick jaunt into the day old hostess store where my dad would let me pick out the Hostess treat of my choice to savor throughout the ride to the fields--a ho-ho, snowball, ding-dong, or cupcake, and sometimes I would even score a soda. Once we reached the designated field, and after much persuation that the crop circles were not going to jump to life and run me over, we trecked to a specific spot where my dad would let me do the "big kid's" job and hand me the trowel/stick thing to dig into the dirt to retrieve the needed soil for the sample. He patiently waited as my feeble attempts to dig as deep as needed slowed the process he could have done much quicker. When my little muscles and small body just couldn't quite manipulate the dirt digger (what is that tool called anyway?), he would lovingly put his hands over mine and help me shove it to the depths required.

After a while, my body would begin to tire and I would start to complain of the hot sun when my dad would caringly take the time to guide me to a spot of shade, or back to the pickup with the cool air conditioning. Once he finished the job I couldn't quite complete, he would come back to the pickup where he would find me whimpering over the uncomfotrable pokes in my shoes I couldn't get rid of. He would give me a sympathetic smile and gently remove them from my socks and clothing. He would give me a pat and ask if it felt better as we climbed back in the car for the drive home.

Throughout the whole process, my dad never got impatient with me even though I accomplished it at a painstakingly slow pace. He never got angry that I wasn't doing it right. He never got fed up that I was complaining too much. He always let me do as many samples as I wanted, and in so doing, created some of the best childhood memories I have with my dad. Although I no longer make the trips into the fields with my dad, to this day he still exercizes all of these qualities. He is gentle, kind, loving, charitable, patient, hard working, and if anything is hurting his family, he is going to take care of it. Thanks for all that you do Dad. I love you.

heart warmed

Confession Time: I have never been one for good-byes, especially long drawn out ones. I really rather despise them actually. Everytime I find myself having to say goodbye to a family member I find myself struggling to maintain composure. If I'm lucky and can get away with just a quick hug and a "see ya later" with no backward looks or lingering, I can sometimes get away with just a lump in the back of my throat. It annoys me. I don't want to be like this. I feel like a whimp everytime.

The past week and a half Lanita and her family were visiting. The 10 days they were here came and went in the blink of an eye. Before I knew it, the time for the dreaded goodbye came, and once again I felt that familiar knot in my chest threatening to work itself up. This time I was determined to conquer it and stay strong. I was doing better than ever, that is until I came to my 9-year-old nephew. After a big hug he said, "Thank you for being a part of this. It wouldn't have been as much fun without you." Whamo. Thank you, Abram, for making that tearless goodbye nonexistent--and for making me feel like a million bucks. Heart warmed for the day...check.

I'm a...country girl?

My parents moved. I live in the country now. I've never lived in the country before. The next door neighbor is a Farmer Joe's field. Accross the street, a crop circle. I can't make heads or tails of which endless country road I'm on. My initial thought at seeing Road N: They forgot the rest of the street name. My ears strain from the lack of noise. I find myself on edge outside at night in the absence of city lights--complete darkness. A dog will never be my best friend. Bugs make me uneasy. I still can't bring myself to get close enough to kill a spider. I don't know how to drive a stick shift. I'm no country girl.

I can at least find my way to and from the new house. I couldn't care less about breaking a nail. I like to drive with the windows rolled down. I at least know the crop in our backyard is wheat. I'm no country girl, but it's a start.

There's the wheat. This I know.

The result of 3 years of school

Dear Laptop,

I know you hate me. I know that you try to do everything in your power to make me miserable and frustrated. I know how you lulled me into a false sense of security in the beginning, and then slowly began to deteriorate, always waiting for the prime opportunity to leave me in the biggest lurch I've had yet. I know how you're doing it so gradually so as I might not notice, tricking me into thinking it's just become the new status quo for the way you run. I'm onto you.

I've noticed how you no longer run as fast as our first years together, that your battery seems to have decayed, that any of the external device readers only work some of the time, of the way you have gradually foced the hinges that hold the screen up loose, making the screen wobble when it's erect, and that the DVD/CD reader have progressively blown out and no longer function. I know of your devious ways as you assign new default printers without my knowledge, of how you print pictures and pages full of random alienated codes when I order you to print my research papers, of the way you play songs that I have never even downloaded on the media player that's not open. I recognize your scrambled mixed up keyboard with your many keys that have dislocated and scattered. I see your 4 typing when I touch the keys next to it, and your letter L situated crookedly. I notice your R sitting askewed and falling off with every couple of touches. I caught your semicolon attempting to relocate to a different position on your keyboard. I know how you crudely play with me as you threaten to simply not turn back on when I restart you. You're a sly one; however, I am too.

Despite what you may think, I know yelling and banging won't do anything to change your mind. I know how to accommodate for your curve balls. I know different combinations of button pushing and finger jabs to force you to do what I want. I have learned certain ways to come in through the back window you didn't even know existed to do things you wouldn't let me do before. I've gotten good at spotting all the number 4s intermixed in my school papers, and amazingly quick at jabbing keys back into place. Most of all, I know just to avoid turning you off to ensure that you will never permanently shut off on me.

In other words computer, I am well aware of our contempt for each other. I also know that you have the upper hand in this war. I can probably figure out any other fastball you decide to throw, however, there is not much I can do if you decide to pull the terrorist card and crash for good one day. You see, I still have several years left of school and I still need you. All I know to say to you is please, I will be mostly nice if you will be mostly nice. I don't care what else you come up with, just don't die on me. Just hang in there a little longer, and I won't hit quite so hard next time.

With many disgruntled pleadings,

Michelle

P.S. Is this what they call a love-hate relationship?

Thus the prologue begins.

Here I begin my running "prologue." Although I seem to have no problem spacing out and thinking about absolutely nothing (and to those of you that say that's impossible to do, I give you living proof), I also frequently find myself caught in a running dialogue in my head dealing with various musings and pointless thoughts. I don't know if this is normal. It probably isn't, but I don't really care seeing as I often find myself quite entertained by them. So why then, you might ask, the word choice of "prologue?" Despite these random ideas and sometimes shallow thoughts I encounter, this choosing of vocabulary goes slightly deeper. The choices I make today, the thoughts I think now, the actions I undertake here, are a precursor to what will come--a prologue for tomorrow. Shakespeare writes in The Tempest, "What is past is prologue." My past has helped shape me into who I am in the present I am living, and this present will shape me into who I am in the future. Everyday is an introduction to tomorrow. Everyday gives something new to stem from,--a new experience, another mistake made, a lesson learned, a celebration to be had, and many more idle thoughts created. So past, present, and future, I give you my prologue...