tammytoes

When I was a little kid in Casper, my parents had this huge stereo cabinet in the living room that contained a turntable, tape player, and all their records and tapes. I believe there was an 8-track player in it, too, but I hardly remember listening to that. What I do remember is stretching out in front of that cabinet with huge headphones on. Big, brown, seventies headphones. Headphones the size of Princess Leia’s hair buns. They seemed bigger than my own head. I remember sitting in front of that stereo cabinet, plugged in listening to a record, and poring over every detail of the album and liner notes. This was when I developed my early fascination with Crystal Gayle’s hair, when I first learned the words to Waylon Jennings’ songs, when I first discovered that you could create a rich, internal world with music. I remember listening to a Meatloaf album and being freaked out by the album cover. I remember hearing that “Horse with No Name” song and being really confused about it. If I try hard enough, it almost seems that I can remember what the carpet felt like and how it smelled when I layed down on it, propped on my elbows. I remember all of this as I listen to The Carpenters’ 35th anniversay album, which I recently acquired. Okay, sure, I know – it’s The Carpenters. But what the hell. I loved them then, and I love them now.

And then, a memory of socks that struck me when I walked outside in the cold today. It was the winter of my sophomore year of high school. The Gulf War was on. I was riding in a truck with a couple of guys and another girl and we were all heading to Colorado College for an anti-war discussion and organizing meeting. I remember that Jen and I were both wearing high-top Converse, shorts, and thermal long johns. But the socks are what really stick in the memory for me. I was wearing grey argyle socks, long johns tucked into them, socks peaking out over the tops of my sneakers. When I think back to that now, those damn socks just seem to epitomize what was going on for me at the time.

Mentioning 8-tracks makes me think of another winter memory, too. Sophomore year of college, freezing cold outside, hanging out in the dorm room of a guy who was obsessed with the handful of 8-tracks he owned. He was kind of annoying, actually, but he owned a bong that had been passed down for several years at Kenyon, the bong that Allen Ginsburg had shared with students when he visited the college. Or so legend had it. I remember thinking, as I got stoned, that there must be something awesome, transitive, about doing bong hits from the same implement as Ginsburg, but I was too wasted to put my finger on what it might mean. Now, of course, I realize that there was no meaning to it, really, but that seemed to epitomize that particularly difficult winter for me. So much desire for meaning, and so much of the interim up in smoke. It’s funny to me now. I’d just prefer to dance around the living room, singing The Carpenters.

As I write this, Ronald Isley and Burt Bacharach are performing “Close to You” on Soundstage on PBS. I supposed, if I’d been doing bong hits before writing this, I might look for meaning in that coincidence. Tonight, though, I think I’ll just be content.

This week marked the passing of my grandfather, James Oler. In many ways, he had passed on a long time ago due to the advancement of his Alzheimer’s. I remember him as a stern, hard, stubborn, funny man. When I was a little kid, I was scared to touch anything in his house. As he grew older, he softened. He taught me how to play lawn darts, and the importance of “wishing it in” when you’re awfully close to getting the dart in the hoop. He was an airplane mechanic in the military, and a firefighter in his civilian life. He drove to Alaska every few years. When I was a little girl in Wyoming, he had a gun shop in his garage full of wonderous looking mechanical gadgets to repair and alter guns. I remember the satisfaction of learning how to load shotgun shells with him. When I pulled trap for him, he had a peculiar way of yelling, “Hup!” when most shooters just yell “Pull.” The last time I fired a gun, I was with him. I was twelve years old and the damn shotgun kicked back on me so hard that it took the breath out of my chest. I almost gave him a heart attack when I got my nose pierced. He hiked several miles every morning until his health gave out. He ate bran every morning. He gave up drinking and smoking in his lifetime. He divorced three women and married four. In every way, he was a hard-living man. I am glad that I knew him.

Forgive me, dear readers, for indulging for a moment in a some serious thank yous for the outpouring of love and friendship I received last week. A few notes:

- For the friends who purchased Strawberry Shortcake lip gloss and a t-shirt made of garbage for me, I ask, “How do you know me so well?”

- For Ray, who surprises me with a Polaroid camera because it makes me giggle when the photo pops out and marvel at how everything – no matter how modern – looks like it’s from 1982 in the photo, I respond with the silliest grin you’ve ever seen.

- For friends who always, always, always drive up from the Springs when called – no matter how long and late they’ve been working on freaky Christian movie sets, and how many childcare arrangements they have to make – I only hope that I don’t take you for granted so much.

- For Zach, who creates ecstatic art and believes that his machines are nerdy and pointless, I say to trust your intuition – it’s a lovely and truly meaningful thing.

- For Carrie, who mobilized the above-mentioned people and many more to collect money to purchase radios for Radio Ada in Ghana, I say a heartfelt thanks for honoring me by helping so many people.

- For everyone at Armida’s restaurant, who endured our off-key rendition of “Pancho and Lefty” and our entirely innappropriate “Sweet Child ‘O Mine,” I can only say that I’m sorry. Truly sorry.

And for everyone who sent emails and voicemails and good thoughts and wishes and always brings non-perishable food items whenever I ask and who reads my blog, I can never say thank you thank you thank you enough.

A very different kind of thank you goes out to our dear friend Meg, who turned us on to a 2001 documentary called Okie Noodling. That’s right, Okie Noodling. Have you heard of noodling? It’s a type of fishing that’s been banned in all but four US states in which men swim around in lakes and rivers, stick their hands into catfish holes, wait for the catfish to bite them, and then wrestle the catfish out of the water. Fishing – no rods, no bait, no real – just hands. What kind of people would engage in such an activity? Well, I can’t recommend enough watching Okie Noodling just to find that out. It’s a really engaging, funny, slice of eccentric life. What’s more unbelievable to me than the act of noodling itself is the fact that most of the men who engage in it swim around in jeans. That’s just got to be heavy and cold, man. Also noteworthy: soundtrack by The Flaming Lips.

I think what honestly struck me most about Okie Noodling is the realization that I may never have had the chance to see a 40 pound catfish prior to viewing this film. Catfish are really ugly creatures. They’re, like, creature from the black lagoon fish. I sure hope they taste better than they look, for all these noodlers’ sakes.

Also, I have realized something. If I had to do it all over again, I most certainly would read more comic books.

Sorry I missed your call; I was busy turning 30 this week.

It’s a strange turn of phrase, that we “turn” an age. Like we turn a square, or a new leaf, or a record. As if we have anything to do with it, really. Maybe, perhaps, we can “become” an age, but that seems questionable to me too. After all, what should I be doing now that I’ve become thirty? I guarantee you that I’m not really interested in doing it. I can tell you that I do know one thing about it, though: it’s not really as bad as everyone thinks it should be.

Last weekend I attended an interfaith New Year’s ritual, mostly to hear the speaker from the Denver Zen Center and spend some quiet time reflecting on the turn of a year. (Aha, there’s that word again.) I wanted to share a piece of insight from the buddhist teacher there. He said, “Don’t allow New Year’s rituals, resolutions, or vows to be co-opted by the ego. Compassion is our natural way to live when we’re not so pre-occupied with ourselves.”

Thursday night I was paid a visit by my old friend insomnia, and I had the occasion to watch a Tony Robbins infomercial as a result. Tony Robbins’ “Personal Power” self-improvement series throws the words of that teacher into sharp relief for me. I watched for a half-hour, attuned to the way that the general “self-improvement” really has nothing to do with compassion or empathy, simplicity or naturalness. We must lose weight, attain higher-paying jobs, make the right investment decisions, become perfect lovers, and produce uber-children to be happy! And we will do it all with perfect chins!! I felt assaulted after a bit and flipped the channel until I found…

Kittens! Yes, kittens. Lots and lots of fuzzy kittens, and puppies, and ducklings. On one of the many Bible Network affiliate channels that we receive without the benefit of cable. But kittens? I believed I was hallucinating for a moment, but really, I was just watching a Creationscape.

Sad to say, those darn kittens actually rocked me to sleep.

The teacher also had this to say: “We need poetry to help us.”

It’s a new year. I hope it’s a happy one for everyone.

Let me first apologize: given the events of last week and the thoughts of the new year, I did not make additional posts about bad movies that I love. I shall endeavour to make that a weekly feature, instead of spending a week on it. Because, really, I didn’t feel like writing much about movies at the end of last week – there was too much time to spend talking about lives with friends, putting things to rest for 2004, and thinking about how to help others.

I did something curious this afternoon. I spent a whole hour listening to music. Just listening to music, despite all the compelling neuroses screaming at me to do something. I can’t remember the last time I set aside time to actively listen to music, not just listen to it while doing something else. How have I missed doing this for years? This was one of those self-indulgent adolescent pleasures that felt like a lifeline out of dysfunction and madness, and for all I know it probably was. I don’t make New Year’s resolutions; I just make changes. But perhaps I shall actually resolve to do this going forward into the new year. Just listen.

So, in the vein of self-indulgence, a small list of things that have already made me happy this new year. In no particular order.

Spontaneous living room dance parties. Good snow. Cooking soup. Spending time with friends and alone. Music. Thrifting. Tumeric. Planning for birthdays. Stretching. Change. Movies in the morning. Chutes too narrow. Amazing kids. Ray’s big hair. Blogs. Good horoscopes.

What a great list to start the year.