Infinite, infamous party of us

Pretty sure this is Brennan's, New Orleans, ca 1975. My grandparents are on the right.

I’m sorry, Mr. Heavily Tatted Server Guy.

I wanted to buy you a shot – God knows you could have used one, dealing with all us. And your colleague the Sunday prior – send a bloody mary to that poor thing.

We can be too much.

Continue reading

The Overlook

 

This is the scenic overlook atop Lynnwood Way. (Lynnwood Way is the road connecting Hillsboro to Franklin roads on the west side of Cool Springs.)

People who don’t often come to Franklin are surprised we have a spot like this here, but we do.

It is a lovely beast.

It’s 1,000 feet above sea level, and if I had retained anything from calculus I could tell you what the slope is from Franklin Road.

Something steep.

I’ve run it, twice. Once with a friend, and once alone. At the other side of the mountain are seven more miles of hills before home.

I’ve danced on the overlook too many times to count. Many with my daughter, and a few just me.

I’ve picnicked there. I’ve cried. I’ve driven there to escape. Sat there to unwind.

I hadn’t been to the overlook in awhile, but I found myself there this afternoon when I drove the pretty way home from Nashville.

Some observations:

It’s more secluded now, with the trees and vegetation recovered from the construction that cut the road.

Prettier, more private.

It’s also been marred with graffiti and beer cans.

Grown up, for good and bad.

It’s a great spot.

 

A love letter to my friends

December 2010, Oak Bar

“In times I’ve been single, I’ve grown closer to my friends.”

One of my closest girlfriends told me this after my divorce in March, when some early attempts at dating left me feeling disoriented and discouraged. When you are fragile, it is much easier to be intimate with people who already know you than with those who would like to learn more about you. We’re afraid to let new people see us damaged. Friends, though, will love you when you fall to pieces, because they’ve already loved the you that’s whole.

You’ve done the same for them, or will, and will again. Continue reading

To my fifth-grader, from my fifth-grade self

To whoever reads this notebook,

I don’t care if you laugh, cry, or even scream out loud from rage from reading this. I’ll try to write something new in it every day. This year is my first year of Junior High. I’m 12 years old and I love to argue.

So it says on the first page of a green, wide-ruled notebook I once fastened shut with a combination lock looped through two holes punched on the side. It is one of dozens of such journals I’ve saved, knowing even as I wrote them I’d one day want to remember all the small milestones of childhood.

Continue reading