Thankfully the Boy Wonder’s sister and I have found a win/win situation for the times I can pick up a weekend dinner shift while both kids are here, she is willing to babysit, and I am willing to compensate.  This past weekend’s night shift I picked up provided me with the money required to buy the Boy Wonder some winter boots this week.   As a waitress, more times than not, I make the same amount of money in one weekend night shift then I earned over the past three day shifts.  My daughter and I have found a way to make the typical association of “I have to babysit my little brother” into something fun; she is allowed to have a friend over, they order pizza, and all watch a movie, on top of that, she walks away with some desperately needed scratch.  She’s saving that money for something she really wants, an iPod touch.  A lesson in itself, she’s learning that it takes hard work to buy the things we want.  Of course I learn it five days a week waiting on you, the general public, but that’s a whole other story.

Although unusual in the Family Court of Maine, it does happen as it did within my family, my children have separate custody schedules.  For my daughter and me, it provides some one on one time without her brother; something desperately needed when there is a child with special needs in a family.  The addition of this double shift will force us to both budget our Tuesday time wisely.  Like the money lesson, life is providing us with yet another opportunity for lesson learning.  If we both use our time wisely, we’ll have carved out a pretty solid time at the end of the day for just us.  I know I’ll be that much more tired at the end of the day, but until the court system can assure me that my bank account can reflect the numbers they guaranteed it would show, well, this is just how it’s going to have to be.   Tomorrow we start, go me!

Our downtown at night.

A year ago I left the sweet small town of some 4,000 souls I call home. The town where I grew up. The town where my grandparents made their home all their lives and where my father grew up. The town I left when I was 19, then returned to 25 years later in search of “small town life” after a long stint in an unremarkable, wholly unsatisfying, small-city-turned-metro-suburb saturated with convenience stores, strip centers, and chain restaurants.

My hometown, both when I grew up there and when I moved my family back, was imperfect in so many ways. Yet I idolized it, romanticized its brick streets and charming old homes, held it up on a pedestal of native allegiance that never tarnished with time.

And when I left my hometown, I said I was excited about my family’s prospects in our new place (a small community by most standards but still five times the size of my hometown). But if asked, I also would have said our new place could never match the town-ness of my hometown — the “Mayberry” of my youth that became my standard for neighborliness.

I think I was wrong.

A couple of weeks ago, I left my office in the middle of the workday to run a quick errand. (That kind of thing is possible, I might mention, in a small town where the post office, bank and dry cleaner — among other things — are all a few blocks away.) As I pulled away from a stop sign near our bank, a woman darted in front of me and I had to brake quickly. We were both startled, but in the process we recognized each other.

“Hi Joan!” the woman said as she waved wildly. Deb is married to a colleague of mine and lives a few blocks from me in a house on my running route. I don’t know what it was, exactly, about that particular moment that made me feel at home, but it surely did. It wasn’t the first time since we moved here that I’ve run into people I know on the street. It happens often, actually. But something about Deb’s wave in our small downtown on a quiet spring afternoon made me feel the town-ness of our home for the first time and made me want to drop the words “our new place” from my vocabulary.

A few days later, I came home from work to eat lunch (another luxury of a small town) and Mr. Mom was nowhere to be found even though his truck was in the garage. “Where are you?” I texted him. “Checking on Dan” he replied.

Dan is an elderly man who lives across the street. We take him an occasional plate of supper and he gives us okra from his garden. Not long ago, he came over in the middle of the day and asked Mr. Mom for a ride to the emergency room. Turns out, he has pneumonia. Dan’s daughter takes good care of him, but she lives a couple of towns away, so Mr. Mom checks on him frequently. Yesterday, Mr. Mom repaired his riding lawn mower and Dan allowed him to mow our large yard with it in return (saving Parker a few hours with our push mower).  Town-ness, I thought.

Also this week, Mr. Mom discovered water in our basement. At the root of the leak was a faulty valve, so he set out to fix the problem Thursday night after dinner so he could turn our water back on in time for bedtime showers. In the mean time, a neighbor couple stopped by. (I told you about them in this post.) The man, Tim, ended up spending a couple of hours helping Mr. Mom solve the problem, including making two trips to his garage for spare plumbing fixtures. More town-ness.

I realized town-ness has nothing to do with the town and everything to do with the people. There are good and neighborly people everywhere if you allow yourself to connect with them. A year ago, I knew we were moving to a “great community,” but I didn’t know how well we would connect, how comfortable we’d feel, whether or not homesickness would mark my entire life here.

When we moved, a friend in Tulsa told me “Give it two years. It’ll take that long to make friends and fit in.” I remember being aghast at the time, nestled as I was in the midst of people I had known and loved my entire life. But now, I know two years sounds about right.  Still, at the one-year mark, I’ve concluded we’re fitting in nicely. We have friends. And neighbors. And a social life. And I’m not sure we could ask for anything more.

With gratitude {for neighbors — in the best sense of the word — in a place filled with town-ness},

Joan, who thinks it’s a very good sign that she spent Saturday afternoon shopping for two graduation gifts and a baby gift, and has three parties to attend in the next three weeks with no-longer-new friends

Got nothing against a big town,
Still hayseed enough to say look who’s in the big town,
But my bed is in a small town,
And that’s good enough for me.

— John Mellencamp

Small. Tiny. Little. Anything that describes these things, to me, are such lonely and boring concepts. Having or living in a small town, I would be bored. I would have no place to go and not a lot of options to do things, thus leading me to have a very boring and somewhat lonely life. There are no places to explore and no new places to go if a small town stays forever small. Also, there are not a lot of options in a life of a small town life. In a small town, if small enough, I would have already explored and found all the places to eat in about a month or less and be ready to move on to other exciting places, like a new town or city.

Towns, a place not like a city and yet bigger than a village; it is an in between place of life and place. In between has never been for me. I either go big or go small with everything in life but never in between. In between for me seems so boring and normal. And although towns are developed and have a community, it is such a small portion of everything I could not live there and I would get bored with the people and places. Also, most of the time people that do live in smaller towns, they do not go far in life and they keep to what they have always have done in their families and the generation goes on but, not far in life. I want to go far in life, I want an adventure and I want to see what life has to offer; I do not want to settle for just normal.

Yet, I do not disagree or think small towns should not exist, but me personally, I do not prefer them. A lot of people like small towns though; people who still would like a community, but less hectic or busy than a city or people who just want to slow down theirs lives. Maybe when I am older I might settle down in a smaller town with less drama, craziness and excitement, but I am young and want to explore and not ready to slow down, not at all. Small towns are good, though, because it does remind people that there are trees and fields on this earth and there are small, local companies that trying very hard to make it in a big corporate world and succeeding at times. So, I am not completely bashing smaller towns or towns in general, it is just not my cup of tea.

Small towns, to me, are boring and plain. Small towns, to me, are normal and ordinary. Small towns, to me, are lonely and well, not big. But, it is a life I like, exciting and large and anyone can choose the life and place they want and live, small town or big town, but to me, I want to live somewhere where the excitement never ends and people are always around. A life where there is always something going on keeps me from being lonely and boring too. But, that is just me.

Coming from a large family and living in a small town can be advantageous but can also be repetitive. I am the third of four boys raised by their father in a town with a population of 10,000.

Often being seen in the eyes of my fellow townies as the brother of…I was always answering questions about my brothers. I was of average popularity, I had my own friends but when I was meeting new people I was always a third person.

On one occasion I was shouted at across a busy petrol station and handed four party tickets to a family who also had four children. The one who gave me the tickets when I answered his call of ‘Oi Barrington,’ was the friend and age of my oldest brother. Like I mentioned, it can have its advantages.

To the friends of my father I was always introduced as his third son. Looking back I see this was done in a very proud way, not a selfish accomplishment that he had raised four boys, but in honest self reflect of how I had grown. He was proud to introduce me as number three of his polite, hard working and decent four children.

This was something I had trouble with when I was 20. I wanted my own identity, my own voice and be recognised for that.

I have no idea where the name Bazwarey came from but it was a name that I would become known by for good and humorous reasons. It is the name I use for Facebook and primary email account, and I have lots of fond memories of using ‘Bazwarey’

As I have matured I don’t see any error in my pseudonym, I’m sure it has helped me grow and become who I am today. Nowadays I take a different look on life, I want to be my brother’s brother, I am ready to be shouted at. You will notice my WordPress name: 3arrington, proudly announcing the love I feel for my family.
And so Bazwarey Travels……..

These ragamuffins had played inside for about thirty minutes and played outside for about an hour.  Hide and Seek seemed to be the game of choice in both locations but my indoor storage cupboards appreciated the outdoor play. So do I.

I have wonderful memories of outdoor adventures with my friends when I was young. My “no school” days were filled with river crossing, knee bandaging, friend chasing, ball bouncing, park playing, puddle jumping,voice screaming challenges and I’m here to say that I survived it all. I don’t recall doing much mattress riding but I know that if I was seven years old, I would have loved the experience.

So, mattress riding it was!

I stood in the kitchen,watching these indoor Lugers get used to their modified sled.  I must say that there was some good, cooperative playing going on as the boys made their way to “foursies.” Then we heard this:

“Can we hug each other for our lives?” and down they came.

Oh yes, everybody looks so happy in the picture…but when these amateur athletes got to the bottom of the stairs, I heard a blood curdling scream. Apparently, someone had hurt himself – I believe he called it a “butt implant”  (for some unknown reason) and he was not a happy camper. It turns out that he was fine – he was just being a bit dramatic. However, as we chuckled at his performance, my daughter made a good observation.

“It seems like the more “out-of-the-big-city” living, the better kids are able to deal with pain.”

I agree. I’m not saying that all city kids are becoming “bubble-wrapped” but there is a tendency on parents’ part to over-protect and under-adventure, for fear of their children getting hurt.  A little “butt implant” won’t hurt anybody, right? Scrapes and scratches, bruises and bumps are the body’s way of saying, “ Let me do this more often so I can get used to it!”

Entrance to Yack from the Beechworth/Wodonga road end.

OK, so life got in the way of the blog a bit and I have had to think a lot about how much to reveal about myself and my experiences.

Living in a small town is a lot like working in a large organisation.  You have to be careful what you say and who you say it about, because these things have a way of finding their way back to you!  Of course there is also the rumour mill that, lets face it, we all put up with on one level or another, however in a small town the rumours can of course spread faster and affect your place in the community much more quickly.

With that in mind, I recently left my new found work place here in Yack, having found myself in a business of questionable reputation.  (Just reading back over that sentence makes it sound much worse than it was, however!)

Haha, anyway I assure you reader, that it was not all that terrible.  To be honest, I knew the reputation before I began work there but I like a challenge!  It all became became too large once I realised that the owner of the business had no desire to change their ways (or no ability perhaps).  And so I find myself with time to blog once more!

Autumn, 2011

Autumn is fast approaching after a very wet and cooler than average Summer.  The weather has in fact been not unlike that of the Queensland wet season!  Very unusual for this far South.  The kids have enjoyed the local pool almost every day of the Summer, it is easy to walk to and a great meeting place for the local children.  I am very pleased, that little pool is where I first learned how to swim and dive. Now my daughters have become quite adept in the water just because of the frequency of their visits! They have never been strong swimmers before we came to Yack, something I was a little ashamed of (me being an ex squad swimmer who trained every day), but it was always too hard to regularly get them to a pool when we had to drive them and stay on site for the duration. It helps now, of course, that my children are old enough to go on their own as well.

As Summer fades, the festival season begins here in the North East of Victoria. Last weekend was the Bright Rockabilly Festival (Bright is a beautiful town about 40 minutes drive from here, at the base of the Victorian snow fields) and in less than a month it is the most major date on the Yackandandah calendar, the Yackandandah Folk Festival.  Our town transforms from a sleepy population of 8 to 9 hundred, to a huge party of around ten thousand!

A spontaneous jam session involving local and non local musicians. Yack's Pete Denehy on fiddle.

There are about 4 official sites around the town that have musical acts from all over the world playing all weekend from the 23rd to the 25th of March.  The main street is cordoned off for the duration and a market takes over the space.  It really is a wonderful sight and after only about 9 years of running, the festival is a  huge success!  Local businesses take full advantage and most say the festival is the biggest trade of the year by far for them.

I do believe it is the best time of the year to see Yackandandah show her true colours.  The local talent is on display wherever you look, and rightly so.  Local musicians already get together and play every Wednesday night, all year round, at the ‘top pub’ and now the festival has become the day that they get to entertain with their brilliance to a larger, outside audience.

Pete leading the Street Parade made up of kids from Yack, Wooragee and Osborne's Flat schools.

Peter Denehy, our local “famous person”, who won a Golden Guitar last year in Tamworth, is also a huge part of the festival.  He usually takes the head at the street parade (a parade of all the local kids in costume, some on unicycles, held up and down the main street to kick off the weekend) and you will see him pop up all over town, including of course his official shows which leave you in tears of laughter and gob smacked with awe at his musical talent.

Here are some more photos I took at last year’s Yackandandah Folk Festival (2011);

Well, here’s to ringing in March and Festivals and Autumn

Until next time, thanks for reading!

You know, the town where everyone knows everything about everyone.

It turns out that small places really are how people say they are…tiny. And, gossipy, and just a tad suffocating.

Okay, in fairness, I will admit that it is quieter and safer, and traffic is easier. I don’t worry about a lot of things that I used to worry about when we lived in a bigger city. I guess that’s why we’re still here.

In a bigger place, though, I could take my son to the store, the mall, the doctor, or the post office and not one person would ask me a question that would remind me that I am not his biological mother, or that he looks like his biological father. And, not one person would know the bio dad’s name, or family, or anything about the fact that my daughter gave birth to him.

I would not have to hold him a little tighter when people call me grandma. Man, that pisses me off. These people KNOW that is not the relationship that I have with my SON. Why do people do things like that? I don’t understand it, and I don’t know how to handle it. It makes me hurt a little bit.

Sometimes, I wish that I was a “normal” (for lack of a better word) adopted mom. I can’t really even voice the majority of these feelings out loud because I LIVE with my son’s birth mom…and because she’s my daughter, I love her, too, and don’t want to inadvertently hurt her by expressing my feelings.

I know that all of these things will get easier as times goes by, I do. But, right now, it sucks. It’s like a daily reminder that I am somehow less…or that I don’t have the right to feel as fiercely protective and in love with my son as I do. Or, to even call him that.

It’s a knife to my heart over and over.

I don’t even know any other adoptive parents, so I have no idea if what I am feeling is somehow part of the process, or if I am being overly sensitive.

All I am really sure of is how deeply my love runs for The Prince. He IS my prince, and I will die to keep him safe and happy. He may not have come from my womb, but I loved him and nurtured him simply by loving and nurturing The Artist while she was pregnant.

I fed him his first bottle. I touched him as he was being born. I have slept with him close to my body from the very first night he entered this earth and every night since. I accepted his tiny little body from the arms of my daughter with her blessing and trust.

I AM his mother.

These are the things that I want to yell at the people that call me grandma, or ask me things that are none of their business.
I guess, I really can’t go around yelling at people, though.

Can I?

Over dinner I found myself in a conversation about, of all things, abortion which led to the other dinner friendly topic of rape, which led to the appalling comments, “Well you know, some girls are just asking for it, being poured into those skin-tight jeans.”  Are you kidding?!  My mouth practically dropped to the floor.  I’m sad to admit that I sat there stunned, not sure even what to reply.   I wonder if sequins (of which I own a suitcase full) would attract the eyeballs of rapists lurking just around every corner of the chicken houses.

I started to wonder if, despite my looming relationship woes, small town living isn’t, in fact, for me.  I sometimes feel like I’ve lived in too many places to ever fit in anywhere.  People ask where I’m from and I hem and haw not sure what to say.  “I live here,” is usually my response but not surprisingly this tends to just need more ambiguous answers.

Cities and small towns both have their perks.  But I feel like we spend a lot of time idealizing small town life.  (Maybe this is just because I can’t really glamorize big city living because I’m inside it.)  We wax on about the “joys” of small independent businesses, the “uniqueness” of stores that aren’t all just franchises and chains.  We dream of being where people know your name, and you’re “not just a number.”  This is all well and good, but what about the fact that behind the shiny windows of all those small businesses people are watching you cross the street and wondering what you’re doing here.  Their eyes bore down and seem to say, “You think you’re better than us because you’re dressed all fancy.”  Well, no, in fact, that’s not at all what I was thinking.  But thanks for your warm welcome.  I see we’re going to be able to build a trusting open relationship that will be delicious and crispy like fried chicken and sweet tea.

Not that life in the city is all peaches and cream, because it’s full of people who are callous, cold and ready to cut your legs off to get ahead of you in line.  But don’t we expect that from city life?  The thing is, I’m not sure it’s the place, I think people everywhere are disappointing.  On the flip side of that, there are people everywhere who are kind and generous both in the country and the city.  I wonder if by the single fact that there are more people in the city you run the good fortune to bump into more people who you’ll have more in common with.  And because those people are constantly bumping into new people with their “crazy” ideas, they keep from being so crusty.  My wish to wear sequins with a dress coat won’t get mothers to snatch their daughters off the street for fear of lurking rapists.  (Not that that every happened.  Just sayin’.)

Despite their misinformed views of rape, the people I’m staying with are kind and generous, but being in a small town is like being in a small box.  You don’t get out much, and new ideas don’t come floating through very often.  If that’s their view on rape I’d hate to introduce them to my two of my best friends, who happen to be gay.

Perhaps it’s time for me to go back to a city, where the pressure to conform isn’t nearly so stiff.

I remember the hilarious antics of mass bathtime. Yes, I crammed all of them into our tub at once. Mainly to keep an eye on all of them at the same time, but also just to make things easier. I have some pretty cute pictures of them all naked and soapy in a little, bubbly assembly line.

Then, the jammies, sippy cups, one last potty. A half hour of story reading and I was exhausted! It was all I could do to drag myself down the stairs to clean up the two inches of water on the bathroom floor, wash dishes, and turn out the lights.
Now, I’m almost forty (eek, really?), and evidently I have grown some patience and the ability to just be still. I actually don’t give a fig if the dishes are done every night or if the laundry has grown into a monster in my basement. Don’t get me wrong, my house is still amazingly clean, but I have finally realized that the dirt will wait for me to get to it.
Tonight I spent 45 minutes of bliss laying in my bed with fish circling around my ceiling and listening to The Prince make baby googles and eating his feet. It’s so nice to enjoy the little moments. I’m a big dork and find myself tearing up at how sweet and loving he is. Holding his chubby baby fingers (even if they are covered in drool) has become a bit like a drug that keeps me going.
I also find that it’s bringing back all the moments that I spent with my daughters at his age. They are such mini-women now. I am sure I am driving them crazy with my sentimentality. In fact, I know I am.
The Mellow One said to me last night, “Mooom, you’re petting my hair!” Oh, oops…was I doing that in real life?
From where I am sitting right now, I’m feeling like I live in my own magic bubble. I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts!

The Artist had a beautiful, amazing, adorable, baby boy on August 3rd.  He weighed 9 pounds and 6 ounces. We call him The Prince.
The Prince  is our adopted son. (We are still in the long process of legal paperwork, but he is our son, nonetheless.)
At about 6 months along in her pregnancy, The Artist came to us and asked if we would be willing to adopt her baby, or help her find a family that would, if we were unwilling. We decided, after much soul-searching, that, yes, we would absolutely be willing.
We switched from the OB that we were seeing around the same time. He was quite frankly, an ass.
We found an amazing midwife that allowed her to have the birth that she desired. She had an amazing experience and was very well-supported during her pregnancy and labor/delivery by the midwife and her staff.
She was able to return to school on time as a freshman, and is doing well. It hasn’t been easy all the time, but it is slowly getting better. I think that living in a small town with all of the small town gossip has been the hardest. I am thankful that people have moved on.

There are many, many details that brought us to where we are now, but rather than recap all in one post, I will explain as I go. And, now, let me say…

Oh, the babyness!! I cannot express to you how much I adore this little boy. He is five months old and the light of our family. The girls are in love with him. He gets so much love that it just beams right out of his beautiful blue eyes.
It has changed our household in so many ways.
Being a Mom for the fifth time is a new experience every day.
In a house filled with women, he is truly the prince around here.

So,  Little did I know as a 15-year-old living in a small town in Sweden, that I was going to move to Los Angeles & become the little stylist that I’m today. If I look back through my life, after I got some help fixing my personal style in High-School, that changed my life to the better.I have realized that I have made some small but significant changes in my friends lives. When I was 15 I remember going to one of my friend’s house & cleaning out her closet. Throwing away half of what she had & going shopping the next day. I helped her to find her personal style just like somebody had helped me. We then started partying together & she got so much more attention  & confidence that it not only made me happy, but most importantly she was happy and having fun.

Anyhow the rumor spread & soon there was other old High-School friends that wanted my styling – help & to take them out partying. Later I did another significant styling change that was so radical that her own class mates did not recognize her in the club. Also She gained more confidence & the her whole school was talking about her. After, she met a great man & this year became a lawyer! (So proud of her, Great job!)

But being a personal stylist was the last thing on my mind when I moved to LA. I started College & finished with a degree in Business Administration & received an extra diploma in Liberal Arts, just by taking some extra classes. It all actually  happened when I started working for KITSON in Santa Monica 3.5 years later. My clients kept coming back and wanted me to take them shopping privately, reorganizing their closets and fixing them up for events &what not. It was a lot of fun, & reminded me of what I was doing as a teenager to my friends & what had happened to me. Just seeing a person light up with confidence, looking & feeling great because of something that I put together was & is heart warming for me. So I decided to continue doing what I do best & now I’m here! :)

I finally figured out what I wanted to do with my life after years of wondering, doubting & believing that I was a person without a passion for something & not knowing what I was going to do in the future.

- (So my tip of the week for all of you who doesn’t have a clue of what to do with yourself, your life and with your choice of career, is

- Take it Easy Relax, Party a lot, take some Classes, just to met new people, learn something new(every day) & Study hard.

-Don’t Stress, if you just do your best at everything you do, everything is going to turn out just fine! It is going to surprise you & just like that you are going to know.

–  And if you get the chance, Travel, anywhere,  just do it, even if your scared, get over your fears & suddenly your world will change & you will have control over your life. 

Basically, in horticultural terminology, the first set of leaves that you find whenever a seedling emerges from the ground are cotyledons.  Don’t ask me what that term actually means, I forgot, all I know is that it’s the term given to the first two.  The seedling is born with these leaves, encased within the seed along with a stem and a starter pack of nutrients to help it climb upwards through the soil until it is able to photosynthesize and produce it’s own energy.

I consider this to be a major stepping stone as a vegetable grower since to me it represents that point where the growth of the plant seems to take off like there’s no tomorrow, where all of a sudden it just shoots forth into the sky with roots plunging into the earth, and before you know it it’s harvest time.  At the same time, I never actually thin out my seedlings until they reach this stage, maybe longer, for I’ve always felt that you have to wait for the seedlings to show off their strength by displaying some of their first true leaves before you’ll know which will be the strongest and which will succumb to the elements.

In much the same way, I too am just beginning to grow my first true leaves.

I had to lay down on my side to take that picture with the angle that it’s at.  Shortly after, I felt compelled to touch the raised soil the radish was growing on, to feel it.  It felt good, looked good…it was real, all of this was real.  Even now, a month later, I still have a hard time taking things fully for granted and am amazed at just where exactly I am in life.  I still have a long ways to go, and yet I have that oh so special blessing of being exactly where I need to be at the right time.  I don’t own a farm, that’s okay, that’ll come later, right now what I have is the satisfaction of knowing that these are my crops that I’m growing in this soil that I’m feeling, soil that belongs to a wonderful farm.  While Jason does pay for the seeds, and the fuel, and the tractors, and the equipment, I do plant them, grow them, send them off to their new homes to sit on a table so lovingly prepared, they are in a sense my botanical children.  Yes, these are your crops John, you are a farmer, and my what beautiful crops they will be, even after suffering under the strain of those freezes.  My roots are in the ground now, I’m where I want to be, now it’s time to grow, show your true leaves, show your strength.

I thought I might talk a little bit about Brenham, namely how hip and awesome it’s become.  Contrary to popular belief I haven’t had to wait until forever before I felt welcomed into town, I feel like I’ve already done that in about a month.  Makes sense though, I’m not just some desk jockey after all, I’m the young man you can see on Hwy 105 every day, moving around the sprinklers or some other something of a rather.  In addition to getting to know the folks at the United Methodist Church, I also met a kindred spirit at a TOFGA conference back in January who lives in Brenham, goes by the name of William, and happens to be on the bookface friend list.  He might read this, so I guess I should be nice (jerkface).

I’ve discovered, much to my delight and surprise, that Brenham is actually quite a bit more progressive than College Station is.  When I say progressive I don’t mean liberal, for Brenham is actually still a very down to earth community, yet at the same time they’re very hip to new ideas, including good food, and incidentally enough the local coffee house has a vacant lot that may be home to a community garden pretty soon from the looks of that bookface group I’ve been added to.  Honestly, I thought I was going to leave most of the “agtivism” behind me whenever I moved down here, but from the looks of it I may have found a receptive crowd.  I’m feeling pretty energetic about this, since Brenham still has so much to gain despite it doing pretty well from it’s tourism industry.  What it needs is something that the youth of Brenham and the rural parts of Central Texas can grab on to, some sense of opportunity purpose to draw them in, and to achieve that end I see a rural renaissance taking place starting with local farms laying the foundation of a strong rural economy.  I see good things happening to this little town, and I’m glad I picked it.

Well, ladies and gentlemen… I made it seven years, but I knew that that moment was going to happen… and happen when I least expected it (cause isn’t that always the way) and sure enough… it did.

I ran into HurtLocker a few weeks ago! After seven years!! Can you believe it?

If you’ll remember, the last time I saw or heard from HurtLocker was when he proposed to his other girlfriend behind my back on Christmas Eve. No big deal… not an awkward split or anything! (for the whole story, refer back to ‘Don’t tell my heart, my acky breaky heart’).

So after we split, all those years ago, it was easy to avoid each other and I was pretty sure we would be able to successfully do it forever. I lived in San Diego at the time and I only visited our home town, which is where he lived, and so I figured I could probably go about my business and never see him again. Unlike with SinkinShip (another one for the record books) It worked in my favor that HurtLocker actually wanted to run into me LESS than I wanted to run into him. That helped matters immensely. Even during those unavoidable events like the county fair, I never even caught a glimpse of him. And as you may remember, if you read that blog, Hurt’s mom and my mom happen to be best friends. And so needless to say, there have been many events in which Hurt and I SHOULD have run into each other by now, but knowing that I would very likely be there… he has stayed away. I can’t be sure it’s because of me… but he is used to having very ghetto girlfriends and I’m pretty sure that he doesn’t realize I won’t try to fight him if I do run into him. But either way, I’m grateful.

Now, HER… that’s a different story. She made it a point to run into me. If she thinks I might be there, she makes an appearance. But don’t worry, we successfully avoid each other by pretending the other doesn’t exist. It’s mature I know. I wish I could say that I’m brave enough to be the bigger person, but the last time I tried, she tried to fight me… so yea.

Either way, finally the run in happened after seven years of avoiding it. And you will NOT believe where and how!!

Like I mentioned, it was easy to avoid each other when I lived in San Diego. And then by the time that I moved back home to Northern California, he and his lovely new wife had already moved to Arizona so I figured that I was spared the inevitable awkwardness! Of course I knew that there would be times when we would both be visiting home, like the holidays, but I also knew that the chances were just so slim that I could rest easily.

Well, last October, he and his new family (two little girls) moved back to Woodland, but as you all probably know… I now live in Nevada! Or at least I try to live in Nevada! Either way, it just seemed so perfect as if God himself were trying to keep us from ever having to relive the pain of seeing each other. And I say ‘pain’ only because what else do you call it? It’s painful, I mean come on.

So since I only kind of live in Nevada and I’m at my mom’s probably at least half of the time because of work, I have been just waiting for the run in. I have just felt it coming. And I haven’t even seen this guy in so long that I was hoping maybe I wouldn’t recognize him or maybe he wouldn’t recognize me or something amazing like that. There are lots of grocery stores, not that he would ever do any shopping, and there are enough good restaurants that I thought maybe, just maybe, we could keep this avoiding up.

To be honest, even though I don’t have any idea as to what kind of car he drives, I kept imagining that we would see each other across the intersection at a stop sign. You know when you’re passing someone and you just catch their eyes for just a moment. Sometimes you know who they are (if you live in a small town), but mostly it’s just a glimpse at a stranger. Well, that’s how I thought we would have our run in.

But no. It was much more personal, and could have been INCREDIBLY awkward!!

We shared a flight!

Can you believe it? After seven years… with all the planes that are flying to and from ALL the places in this world… he and I would just so happen to be on the SAME flight together? I mean come on… what on earth are the chances of that? And why was he in Vegas?

So when I say it COULD have been much more awkward than it was, I mean that I think he saw me first and avoided me. If he hadn’t (cause I certainly didn’t see him) we could have sat down right next to each other at the airport, or even worse… ON THE PLANE without realizing it until it was too late! Can you imagine? And entire flight trapped on row over from you EX!? Blah!!

I didn’t see him until we were at the baggage claim after the flight home from Vegas last month. Lucky for me, I hadn’t been drinking in Vegas and I had actually taken the time to look cute for my husband who would be picking me up from the airport, despite how tired I was. I was also with friends, which automatically gives me extra cool points (I mean, who flys with friends?). AND Burny was there, which I was glad about as well, even though my face turned red and I had to tell him why.

We were standing at the carousel, waiting for our bags to roll by. Well, Burny was standing at the carousel for me. I was standing back talking to a group of my Arbonne ladies. And then suddenly, I happened to glance over at the group of people standing around… people from OUR flight… and I saw his profile. That’s it. His profile, and my heart literally sank. He was wearing baggy, comfy clothes and a beanie, and I had never seen him in a beanie. As I tried to examine him closer to confirm my suspicions, I realized that he had hair coming out of the bottom of his beanie. The Hurt that I knew always kept his hair really short. Could it really be him? I was 100% sure of it. My heart couldn’t possibly have reacted to a stranger in such a way. And as if I needed any more evidence, he pushed his sleeves up to reveal two completely tattooed arms. He didn’t have all these tattoos when we were dating, but I had heard that he completed two sleeves in the seven years since. It was him.

And let me just say that my heart dropped not because of heart-break… my heart dropped out of embarrassment and awkwardness! I was suddenly terrified that the moment had come and what if he talked to me, what if we made eye contact, what if, what if, what if. I was panicing!!

Even thought I was sure, I called my good friend Chon over to get a second opinion.

“Is that HurtLocker over there?”

She looked. She considered. And keep in mind it had been about seven years since she had seen him too. But she didn’t know him like I did.

“No… I don’t think so.”

“For sure it is.” I said, now more sure than ever.

“Was he on our flight?” She said, appalled.

“He’s at our carousel!” I answered. She nodded. It was just too weird. I mean really, what are the freaking chances?

So now that the awkward moment had arrived, I had to take stock. What was I wearing? How did I look?

I was wearing skinny black jeans, flats, a black tank and a red cardigan. Not too bad. My hair was done, although I wished I would have left my bangs down instead of putting them up, but I could deal with that. At least my hair was clean. I had friends with me, I had my husband with me. Could be worse!

Then I remembered how awkwardly I had been sleeping on the plane… but I figured it was unlikely that he noticed. By the looks of it, he was totally unaware of me.

And then the final nail in the coffin hit… I knew that I couldn’t have gotten in and out of this run in so cleanly…

I remembered standing in the Las Vegas airport… very clearly right by the gate where everyone was lining up. I was talking very animatedly to some of my team about the event we had just been a part of in Vegas when one of the girls across the terminal yelled at me:

“Hey MWC! You’re coat is buttoned wrong!”

Yep, I had miss buttoned my coat. It had been a long weekend in Vegas and I was tired and I was rushed and I had been walking around the airport for at least an hour with the buttons down the front of me totally off and awkward!

Blah!!

Oh well, at least I didn’t have food on my face or something!

So Hurt got his luggage and left and that was that. He never even so much as glanced over at me. He gave me no indication that he had seen me or that I had seen him. Does it even count as a run in if you don’t run in? If he didn’t see me… was it real? It’s one of those tree falls in the forrest kind of things…

When I got home, I told my mom that I had THOUGHT that I had seen Hurt at the airport coming home from Vegas. I was still pretty sure that it was him, but I had no idea (other than the obvious) as to why he would have been in Vegas… and if he was there for pleasure, why he would be flying HOME on a Friday! But still, I thought it was funny and having survived it, I figured it was worth mentioning.

Last night she came home from work and informed me that it had, in fact, been him. And yes, he had seen me. And yes, he had reported it to HIS mother as well. Gotta love small towns.

So yes, after seven years, the inevitable run in with an ex is still a very real, and very frightening possibility. So beware! Even when you think it’s over… is it? Is a break up ever really over? Or does it just keep haunting you? The bad ones seem to never end…

Good luck to all you ladies who think you have avoided your fate!

First thing I noticed about Brenham is that it’s still very much a small town, population 14,000 or so, but at the same time it mimics a city in many ways, some of them positive and some of them negative.  Wal-Mart has established a foothold in town, no surprise there, but so has Home Depot, Lowe’s, JCPennies, HEB, Palais Royal, and many other chain stores, some of which I haven’t exactly figured out what they do or what they sell.  Brenham doesn’t have a town mall of any sort, so it’s many clothing franchises are supported by strip malls, one of the most negative images of sprawl, right next to the cookie-cutter suburban house.

Washington County is farm country, or God’s country in the eyes of some rural residents, but there aren’t enough farms to support a town of 14,000 people, that’s where the area’s college comes in.  Without Blinn, Brenham would undoubtedly contract to a more reasonable size, probably more than half, and many of it’s more urban characteristics would vanish.  It’s for that reason that I came to the conclusion that the most accurate title to define Brenham’s size is not town or city, but colony.

Yes, you heard right, colony.  Blinn is a colony for college students.  College students are sent to this home-away-from-home, this colony, usually for a maximum of 2 years, with the purpose of learning a certain amount of information and then moving on, much like how a typical colony’s residents are usually there to tap into whatever resources are available and get back home before they get sentimental about the place.  Naturally, they would be bored in a small town, so the chain stores moved in and set up shop and meet the needs of the colonists.  As soon as the colonists are gone, they’ll probably be gone as well.

As you can see, I’m not entirely impressed.

Something else that’s bothered me is this sensation that fitting in might be a challenge.  It’s not a small town, with it’s community of people who know everyone and their personal story, how they got here, what they do.  It has subcultures, a uniquely urban trait.  People  know other people who resemble them to some degree in thought or appearance, typically both.  There are students, academics, blue collar workers, white collar professionals, the young, the old, the rich, the poor, and of course there’s always those racial classifications that no one likes to talk about, but we subconsciously allow to persist anyway

I haven’t quite fit in with any group of people, to be honest with you.  The closest I’ve come is that cafe on Market St. where all the hip creative people seem to congregate, but I think some of them might be just a little too “hip” for my tastes; some of the things they talk about are just downright hokey.

You can imagine how thankful I was to go to Houston on a sort of quasi-business trip.  Officially, I was there to scout out the farmers markets and see if I can build up contacts/gauge where the action is, but deep down inside I just wanted to get away and possible run into some people I could relate to.

Not only was it a blast, but I noticed something…unusual.  Community here in Houston seemed to be stronger than it was in little ol’ Brenham.  This first became apparent to me as I drove into Starbucks for a quick breakfast and to use their wi-fi, and I noticed that many of the people in there knew each other by name.  The people who worked at that Starbucks must have had the memory of an elephant, for they seemed to know every frequent customer by name, and in some cases by what their usual order was.  Later on I drove to the Bayou City Farmers Market and marveled at it’s size, only to run into a familiar face in the form of the owner of Revival Meats, who regularly buys from Yonder Way Farm.  Shortly after I was introduced to the unofficial mayor of Houston, who seemed surprised I had never visited his fair city before, and gave me directions to a nearby ATM so I could do my shopping.  Afterwards, I ran into an assortment of cool people who I got along with just perfectly and were surprisingly chill, if not supportive, with my decision to drop out in order to grow vegetables.  After making off with some raw vegan pesto, chili, grape preserves, and an assortment of other goodies, I made my way back to Brenham, satisfied with my adventure and anticipating a second visit.

Sounds kinda backwards that a farmer would find it easier to find his community, “his people” in a city rather than a town, but that’s basically what happened.  While there are farmers in Brenham, and while I do get along with them very well, probably the most out of any other group in town, there’s still the fact that I’m the odd one out in that I’m young, kinda liberal, an environmentalist, and a de facto organic grower.  That’s exactly the sort of people I found at the farmers market in Houston, and I’ll probably find more throughout the city as I make my frequent deliveries around the area.

It doesn’t quite end there though, there are still some things about Brenham and the small town life that I like, things that Houston really can’t quite offer me.  Naturally, it’s easy to get bored around here, but hard to find entertainment, leading me to conclude one evening that the best use of my time would be to help out around the farm by getting the meat ready for deliveries, something I don’t have to do but volunteered for anyway.  I was pleasantly calm and content that evening in the company of my boss and his father in law as we chatted away, drank coffee, and worked diligently at the task before us.  Sometime that evening I realized sometimes even the simplest of tasks can provide a profound sense of satisfaction, especially in the company of good people, I felt as though this was some sort of unusually simple bonding moment between us three, and I enjoyed it.

Later on I got to meet more of that small town community I was expecting to find but never found.  They were around, in the form of the older residents.  I stepped into a local barber shop staffed (and presumably owned) by two elderly gentlemen who quickly discovered what I did for a profession, and were fairly curious.  Naturally, they asked me how to improve their own gardens, mainly by asking me when was the best time to plant certain vegetables.  Later on I decided to attend a local Methodist church, one with marvelous historic architecture and perhaps an equally historic congregation which must have seemed puzzled by the fact that someone within the 18-25 age demographic had actually shown up this day.  I was greeted by a lot of people, including a retired Methodist minister who loved farming just about as much as I did.  He gave me his name, number, and address, and told me that if I ever needed anything that I could give him a call.

Welcome to your new home.

We thought it was deserving of its own post because it was a well-worded, could-be-description of this site.

“Hi, Graeme…

My name is Erik Howell and I agree w/ the bulk of your post. I did not see the HC headlining show that  PP’s review of has been such a point of contention. I’ll also qualify this by saying that I interact w/ Trey (the HC’s auteur) at Buckdancer’s regularly, and he’s a hell of a nice guy, and a hugely talented musician.

However, I don’t think that this town’s scene is so weak that it can’t stand some *eloquently phrased,* yes, *anonymous* snark from some bloggers. If you want to keep a local music scene honest, you have to submit yourself to acknowledging the shrill of the malcontents. If their ideas seem are so poorly worded, or even eloquent bullshit, no one who matters will heed them and they’ll fade away.

I think we have to admit, however, that if one doesn’t attach their name to an otherwise cogent criticism, it’s not out of cowardice, it’s out of wanting to continue to render such opinions w/out being ostracized by…let’s admit it…a fairly *insular* music scene.

To deem their opinions irrelevant because they don’t readily name themselves is to insist that  only those who dare speak up are those who can be assured that their acceptance w/in the music community will ensure against any backlash against them if they criticize it. That leads to a kind of imbreeding that squanders any growth…a bunch of “yes” people telling each other how killer each other’s set was.

Let’s believe enough in our scene to tolerate…no, *welcome* the fringe opinions…and not invalidate them because they don’t have a name attached that we can heckle on the street. I believe in the secret ballot, and as long as the Web is kept free and anyone w/ a differing opinion can make his/her opinion known, tagging their name onto it or not,  anonymous shouldn’t be bullied into revealing themselves or keeping their, yes, *relevant* opinions to themselves.”

Ed note: we like the use of **’s.  We will be sure to consider them for future posts if we deem anything worthy of being posted about.

The Local Music page always has four sections: album reviews, Music Seen, Sibilance, and of course the Bull Moose top 10.

The albums are all reviewed by Sam Pfeifle, and no matter how much you like his writing or don’t, it’s never a good idea for there to be just one staff reviewer.  It’d be like having one branch of government.  One mail man for the whole city.  One coffee shop in the center of the Old Port.  One bordering state.  So without delving into the reviews themselves, we’re off to a bad start.  We didn’t vote for Sam’s opinion (regardless of what it is) to be the one guiding voice.  But that’s the management of the Phoenix’s perogative.  So now let’s dig.  The biggest problem with Mr. Pfeifle’s reviews is there’s too much back story before you get to the actual album, and too much technical talk about mixes and effects, not enough about the music itself, like, is the music GOOD??  Look at this week’s Spark the Rescue review.  We start to hear about the album in Paragraph #6.  The first 5 discuss StR’s past, and even the fact that 9 of the 12 songs on the disc aren’t even new.  You can tell Sam is involved in Portland’s behind-the-scenes (he is Secretary of the Portland Music Foundation), because before we even hear about the music we hear about the businessy back end of the band, the stuff we the listener don’t want to know about, like the “cultivation of fans.”  Fans probably don’t like to be considered just a number to be prodded into the sty.  When do we get to read about the disc?  Ok, in Para6 we get some album creds (featuring Jon Wyman, who else?), some name dropping of who these guys have worked with in the past, oh there it is: “giant sound.”  Tucked neatly into the bottom left-hand corner of the page.  We get the bulk of the actual review in the two paragraphs that start with “If anything,…”  But Sam fails to delve into the feel, the mood, the backing emotions perhaps.  He gives a very general description of overall feel (“chock full of tunes about love”) and then delves into what we think is the most boring tool of reviewing: then the guitars come in, then the vocals, then there’s like lots of voices together, oh i can hear a keyboard!  He’s just describing the song like a sportscaster.  It’s too technical, mentioning “Auto-Tune” which we’d guess the bulk of StR’s fans – or Phoenix readers – may not even understand.  With all the references to “If you’ve grown up with the band” or “For those of you who’ve heard the first version” or “blast from the past,” we’re left wondering if the album, and its review, are meant to be for the general public, or just friends and family of those who grew up in Portland.

Then we have Music Seen (the pun is obvious but perfectly and appropriately so).  Hey, at least the Phoenix gives voice to an array of writers.  But more often than not, these articles feel like we’re witnessing the writer’s chance to brag about having seen some show, or knowing some band personally.  Usually the reviews start with lots of “I” statements, ex: “I went to the show expecting…” or “When I heard so and so was…”.  In the issue at hand, Chad Chamberlain breaks from the norm and actually paints a fairly vivid picture of what Seymour sounded and looked like.  Then shatters the dream by focusing on his own personal view for the 2nd paragraph.  Are reviews not supposed to be unbiased, we ask rhetorically?  If Chad had indeed listened to that song on MySpace 10 times (and how is that part of describing the Seymour show?), how can he be expected to give us, the non-attendee, a fair and balanced opinion? Obviously he’s a fan.  And that isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it’s misleading in the form of a review.  It’d be almost as bad as writing a review of your own band, which anyone would agree would be lacking the requisite detachment.  Chad ends the Seymour review with an awkward, rambling, cliche (“bittersweet wintertime solace”??)  Are we in high school creative writing class?  Please let that question remain rhetorical, we don’t want to know the answer.

In years of reading the Phoenix, we still can’t figure out what the point of the Sibilance section is.  It’s always a smattering of name dropping the same names that are always in that section in a transparent attempt to aggrandize said people.  That’s okay, no beef on that, it just screams: “hey!!! we live in a tiny town!!! don’t forget it!”

The Top 10 Local CDs is always fun, see if any new names are there and count the number of appearances by Dead Season and Bob Marley.  Mostly around the holidays, Marley has about half of them.  This week it’s a refreshing potpourri of a whole 8 distinct acts in the top 10.  Think about that for a second.

We’re now in that category where the “end of the month” means everything – our cheques are in!! Plus after a meeting of the minds with our investment guy, we’ve made a plan wherein the bathroom may, just may, start to get renovated. It’s in desperate need of being gutted and up-dated with everything from sink, toilet, tub, flooring and cabinetry, and we all know that those items can suck up money like a vacuum. It’s been well over twelve months since we’ve moved into this new old house and the bathroom has always been a major bone of contention.

On Saturday, after having our spirits lifted – the cheques were in! – we dusted ourselves off and decided to head into Hamilton to the new Lowes store. Having been there once and was somewhat impressed, Nat decided it was time I had a look around and we could both check out what they had via bathroom vanities and the like. The day was perfect weather-wise and the trip was nice. We made a good morning of it, got loads of ideas and had lunch on the way home. We were both impressed with the new store – neat, tidy, loaded with everything for your home, from tools and hardware to blenders and toasters, along with friendly staff.

Heading home we always like to take the “back roads” and, for us that means meandering down Highway No. 8 and catching up with No. 3 Highway via Victoria Avenue. Being Saturday the QEW gets a little hectic and we both like to avoid it at all costs, besides we enjoy the beautiful countryside that surrounds us. However, as we were approaching Port Colborne the signs started. A little sign here, a little sign there and then the larger signs as we drew closer to town. “Welcome Home to our Hero”, Cpl Tyler Crooks”, “Our Prayers are with Tyler and his family”. This brave man, who fought in a war Canada didn’t ask for, was coming home to be buried today and Nat and I soon had a sobering realization of how close  this was hitting.

We never knew the man nor his family, but suddenly as we slowly drove through that little hamlet you could feel the spirit of the townspeople all around. We love going to Port Colborne for our grandson’s baseball games and almost settled there – having only been outbid by another couple. Somehow we realized that this man’s life had an effect on everyone, including us as we were passing through and headed towards our own little hamlet. The staff at the drugstore, the librarian, the grocery clerks at our local supermarket, “Officer Bob” across the street and other neighbours have all come to know us – the newbies in town. We love it and wouldn’t trade it for all the world. The small town spirit is truly alive and well and to live it is to love it!! May you rest in peace, Tyler Crooks.

I was reading the framed Phoenix article about Hot Suppa at the restaurant and was surprised to hear that the original business plan was to first take over its predecessor and then to expand to include a dinner menu and then even… and then even… yes – to be open late or all night. The article was dated from December 2005, and needless to say, the goal has yet to be achieved. We can still hope – that would be a perfect late night spot. Of course, let me caveat by fully recognizing that with a population hovering at 65,000, we can’t possibly have a sustainable demand for a 24 hour diner. I can only imagine this fact of logic has contributed to the shoving aside of this intriguing idea.

Probably our best bet is to plan ahead and have the eggs and bacon waiting for us at home. You know, someone should open a late night breakfast sandwich place out of their kitchen, laws be damned. You’d make a killing. No, a better idea: breakfast sandwich cart. In the Old Port. I’m happy to share the idea, so that someone else does it – I will benefit appetitely, if not financially.

One last thought, the reopening of the Miss Portland among the eyesore construction on Marginal Way is a much welcomed bit of news. Let’s join in prayer that it will be all-night. Why do I know it will close at 10?