We're Getting Married, Remember?

Lately, I've been inspired to write by prompts and quotes popping up in my Facebook newsfeed. It forces me to think specifically, rather than agonize over a brainstorming session, or ponderance of What should I write today? Today, when I got home from work, this is what popped up in my newsfeed from Writers Write:

After the Stephen King- inspired post about my worst fears, writing about this sort of brings down the mood of my blog lately, but when inspiration calls the writer must listen. At one time I was almost as fearful of the episode that follows as I was with a reoccurance of the Holocaust. WIth age and security this is no longer a fear, but it did wake me into actual tears and heartache about 20 years ago. To be truthful, as most writers do, I embellished for the sake of interest.

We're Getting Married, Remember?

"Please say it's not true," I pleaded with him. 

"I'm sorry." He looked at me pathetically, probably hoping I'd run away crying. But I didn't. I was stunned. A shock to my system. A love song cliche. An arrow through my heart. We had worked so hard to fight the odds, and come out ahead. We loved each other through so much, I wondered how this could be happening. 

"I didn't mean for it to happen." More cliches, one after the other. "I wasn't looking for anyone else, it just happened. You can't control what your heart feels." Was he serious? I wanted to throw up. Dare I say it, I wanted to die. I always thought I had the upper hand, that if he cheated on me or left me, that I would be angry and spiteful. But that wasn't the case. I felt like a wounded and desperate child.

Not concerned with how it would appear or my strong independent persona, I asked him what I could do to get him to stay. It was an out-of-body experience. I never expected to beg a man to love me. My mother wouldn't have it, and I wouldn't dream of it. Or would I? I fought back the tears, choking on my words, "I love you. I know that you love me too." As if I wasn't in enough pain already, the creases in his forehead deepened, and the corners of his thick dark eyebrows lowered. 

"Ill always care deeply about you, but I'm just not in love with you anymore." I fell to the floor in bellowing sobs, my heart pumped so powerfully I could feel my pulse in my ears. My inner being personified heartache and I lost my breath with the emotional blow to my gutt. I felt like I was drowning, falling without breath to the bottom of the dark ocean floor..

I woke with swollen eyes, and pain in my chest. I was coughing and crying as though the dream had seemlessly become reality, and everything was blurry. I wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't. I looked all around me and realized I had spent the night in my friend's apartment, a frequent retreat from my own because I really didn't like my roommate. I still didn't know what happened. I tried my best to swallow the tears and stop crying. I had to know if the conversation was real. I had to know if he was really leaving me. I picked up the phone and called him. He answered and I didn't say anything. "Hello?" he questioned the silence. 

"Hi," I responded tentatively, fearful of what would come next. "You still sleeping?" I asked.

"Not anymore." I sighed and began crying uncontrollably. I tried to explain why, but my words were disjointed and incoherent between the blubbering. "What in the world happened? What's wrong? Where are you?" he asked.

"I'm at Tracie's, we hung out after class and I slept here last night. I had this awful nightmare...wait."

"Wait for what? Are you ok? I'm sorry I missed your call last night. I worked late and then crashed."

"It was awful, I explained. It felt so real. Tell me you love me."

"Of course I love you. We're getting maried, remember?"        

My Worst Fear: We Must Not Forget

Today is Stephen King's birthday, and the Writer's Almanac posted a quote by him that stuck with me. I'm not sure why. I haven't read much of his work, but clearly he is an accomplished author. He said he just writes about what scares him. His mom told him when he was little that if he said his worst fears outloud that they would never come true. He said that's been at the root of his career. I've been collecting some bits and pieces for small episode posts. Some of them more serious than others, but most non-ficiton. Today, I decided to follow the inspiration of King and write about a fear I have. It's nothing I've ever listed on things I'm afraid of, but it certainly sits up there as one of the biggest. While the fear is real, the episode is clearly fictional. I'm not sure if I'm going to leave it or finish it. I'd be interested to hear some feedback.

 

I couldn't tell if I was awaking from a dream, or if the sounds around me were real. The awful cries of babies being torn from their mothers, of the men shouting the names of their wives and girlfriends as though it was the last time they would look into each other's faces. The steady clapping beat of marching combat boots, and the single-word sticcato commands shouted harshly in a foreign language. My vision was still foggy with sleep sand and my thoughts were straddled between my dreams and reality. If this dream was to reveal itself as such, it would prove to be a terrifying nightmare. If it was reality, well then what do you call a terrfying nightmare when it really happens? 

As I sat up and my head cleared, I sighed in an instant of relief that it couldn't be happening. I had heard the cliches about learning from history, and certainly the world would not, could not, be doomed to repeat such an atrocitiy. I exhaled, deflating any hope that it was all a dream because I noticed my roommates were gone, and I could hear chaos around me. People scurrying up and down the hallways, whispers, shouts, slamming doors. Outside I heard again, the sounds that awoke me just moments before. 

"Rebecca!" There was pounding at my door, and the corner of my Led Zepplin poster fell off its tiicky tac and rolled over Robert Plant's face. Five booming fist pumps knocked my favorite picture frame off the shelf and followed another plea, "Rebecca, are you in there? Get up, we have to go!" I ran to the door, still not sure what was happening and opened it feverishly. Out of breath, sweating, and screaming, Adam was on the other side looking desperately unsure he would find me. But he did. 

"What's going on?" I asked fearing the answer. 

"Thank God you're still here." No explanation, no conversation, we didn't need any, we never did. My brother just took my hand and we began running, as if our lives depended on it. In the hallways of the dorms, people were frantic. No time to stop and text, everyone was on cell phones or shouting out the names of people they were looking for. In between the electrical room and the study lounge, there was a narrow hallway that led to the back door with a window. We stopped and stood cautiously to see what was going on outside. I was paralyzed by fear when I peered out the window. It was a historical film, it had to be. No way humanity could allow this to happen again. It just couldn't be.

The beautiful green lawn at the center of campus, usually filled on Saturday mornings with friendly football games, readers under shady tress, and young lovers enjoying the warmth of the sun, was seized by soldiers in brown uniforms sinched tightly at the waist with shiny black gunbelts and pant legs tucked into equally shiny black boots. Some of them held small pistols in their hands, others had large automatic combat weapons. But all of them had the same red band around their arms. Recognizable to anyone, the red bands hosted the swastika, symbol of hatred, evil, and cruelty. The commands that had awoken me earlier were the soldiers barking at the ring of prisoners circled around the perimeter of the campus, marching under the duress of armed soldiers' threats.

There they were, like the millions of Jews, Gypsys, Handicapped, and others who were wiped out in the Holocaust. Some of them my friends, all of them my brethren. Our worst fears were coming true right here. In the 21st century. In America. Hundreds of Jewish college students rounded up and stripped clean. Virtually nondiscript and comfortably enrobed in their matching army uniforms, the Nazi's tore off the prisoners clothes, leaving them barefoot, naked, exposed. Each imperfection, each feature of insecurity, on parade for all to see. Each uneven breast, each beer belly, each dimple of cellulite, each flat buttocks or stretch mark, all momentary preoccupations to be replaced by a stripping of much more than clothes. Strong, smart, powerful young people begging for their lives and the lives of their loved ones, knowing what would come in the months ahead. Crying, screaming, begging, they were beaten and threatened and dragged. Three of the young men stepped to the center of the circle synchronously, as though to silently and intuitively make a suicide pact. They were successful.

The shots of the guns firing snapped me into consiousness. I felt as though I had been watching for hours, but it had only been a minute or two. Quite possibly the most horrififc two minutes of my life. Adam grabbed my hand and told me to look at him. With his other hand he endearingly touched my cheek and then he held my chin. "Stay with me, and whatever you do, don't stop running."

"Where are we going to go?" I asked. "There's nowhere to hide. It looks like they're everywhere."

"I don't know. But we can't stay here." He was right.  

Two Worlds Collide

I really didn't want to go. A guy that I went on a couple of dates with went back to Chicago and I was bummed. My mom, as all good moms do, pushed me out with, "Just go, it's a free movie."  My friend came to the door to get me, and we piled closely into a 4-seater. I'm not sure what kind of car it was, but it was green, and it was stick shift. I learned to drive on stick, and we all thought it was pretty cool back then. It was a bit awkward because the other couple and I worked together and the two guys were childhood buddies. It was hard to find conversation that included everyone. 

I don't remember at all what I wore or how I looked. The only definite, was the 80's poof I must have sported up top my curly locks. I likely didn't wear much in the way of make-up, as I never have and I was sportin' a kick ass tan because it was already late July. I do however, remember exactly what he was wearing. I'm not sure why. There was nothing at all wrong with it (for the time period), but nothing particularly notable about it either. All of the brands and styles were specific to the mid to late 80's and early 90's. Faded blue Edwin's jeans, a wide stripe pink and white ID# shirt, and Bean shoes (LL Bean). Of course to match my mall chick hair, he had none other than a mullet. Laughable now, but inconsequential and commonplace at the time.

We finally arrived at the theater, and though I don't remember having any say at all, I found myself walking into the latest installment of the Friday the 13th series. That year, I think it was part 6 or 7. I really didn't care because I hadn't seen any of the others and was less than interested in seeing this one. I had made up my mind the rest of the night would be a drag, and the notion was further reinforced when the guys managed to rig the seating so us girls couldn't gab through the movie. They sat in the middle next to each other flanked by the two of us to each of their outsides. Now I was nervous and a bit annoyed. But I watched the movie. I don't even remember if we shared popcorn or candy. I just remember being mortified when the opening sequence had a topless girl. I think he was a little embarrassed too.

I don't remember any of the movie or the ride out, but I do remember standing awkwardly in the driveway at my friend's house that night trying to make conversation with Paul while our friends engaged in a match of tonsil hockey. It started to get late, and Paul's parents were really strict about curfew. Sometime earlier that night (the details here are blurry) I went home to get my mom's car so I could stay out later or spend the night at my friend's house, and my mom was out with friends or left town. I can't remember exactly. Rather than attempt to pry the other couple apart, we decided it would be best for me to drive Paul home. We shouted a courtesy, "We're going to head over to Paul's," and took off.

We pulled into the driveway just in the nick of time, and saw through the curtain that his parents could see we were there. Safe! Two awkward teenagers, finding common ground in laughing about our friends wrapped up in each other, quite literally, we both started to feel more comfortable. Paul assured me that he was ok sitting in the driveway. The point was that he was home on time. We sat and talked. And talked. Apparently for hours. At about 3am, his friend in the green car tore down the street and pulled up in front of us. Everyone (he and his girlfriend and my sister) were looking everywhere for us, worried frantic (this is long before cell phones were in the hands of teenagers). It's no wonder they didn't hear our shout out. Now he knew we were safe, so he told me to call or go home, then he left.

Trouble was waiting for me at home, but at this point that was coming no matter what. I couldn't go back to my friend's house, and my sister was going to read me the riot act and threaten to tell my mom (she did both). My fate was already sealed so we talked a little while longer, he kissed me goodnight, and he went into the house. I drove home and slid into bed with a growl from my sister.

Never mind the aftermath. Paul came to see me at work the next day, and almost everyday after that. We spent a lot of time together that summer and by August we were pretty much inseparable. At the time it just felt like a high school boyfriend. Someone to hang out with, make out with, and go to school dances with. Who would have thought it was the first day of the rest of my life?

Flying High

I am not a regular flyer. I started flying at an early age though. Growing up in New York, my family traveled quite a bit on vacation to visit relatives mostly in Florida and California, but also throughout New England and elsewhere. I became accustomed to flying at an age younger than my memory permits me to recall. I rarely give much thought to flying beyond cost or convenience. In fact, as an adult most of my flying time has been spent attending to my son when he was little, or my husband who has anxiety about flying. But last week, I was on my own. My sister is getting married, and we had a shower for her in North Carolina. For the first time in several years, I got on a plane by myself and took to the air. In a way I felt like I was flying for the first time.

The evening flight from Florida to North Carolina was no big deal. About a half an hour late due to silly airline nonsense, it got dark during the flight and I listened to music and graded papers. The flight home was a different story. I flew out late morning and traveled into the afternoon. I boarded the final leg of my flight in Atlanta and much to my dismay, I was seated by the window despite my request for an aisle seat. Sitting by the window does not bother me so much as the fact that I am trapped three people in with minimal leg space, and two laps to crawl across if I need to use the lavatory. As upset as I was about the window seat, I was pleasantly surprised when the "full flight" yielded one empty seat- the one between me and the kind older gentleman who got my aisle seat.

I had been listening to my iPad on a lower-than-usual volume, awaiting the announcement to stow all electronics and prepare for departure. I always wait as long as I possibly can to turn off my music, and still do not understand how my listening to music can interfere with the operation of the airplane. But, they insisted anything with a battery or an on-and-off switch was to be turned off and put away until we reached cruising altitude, and I obliged. Last thing I need is a scandalous headline in tomorrow's newspaper reading, "Flight Delayed by Lee County Teacher with Suspect Electronics." I continued my gaze out the window, watching all of the workers involved in preparing aircraft for flight and landing. Luggage carts, catering trucks, maintenance trucks, and other vehicles zip in and around the runways like all of the pieces of a young child's Fischer Price airplane set. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and it appeared to be a good day for flight.

                         

I watched the entire departure through the window. Planes were speeding down the runways and heading off to their destinations. Others were making their way back into Atlanta, which from what I understand is the hub for Delta Airlines. I didn't catch the other planes on camera because just moments before we taxied down the runway, the stow electronics announcement interrupted me. But it really was an amazing sight. One after the other, like graduates being released to the stage at commencement, the jets took off with what seemed like fewer than 60 seconds between them. As one flew into the clouds, another came out, landing in the opposite direction. I never noticed such heavy air traffic while flying, but it probably wasn't unusual for the hub airtport on a holiday weekend.

Our turn came and I decided to watch the entire event through the window, something I probably hadn't done since I was a child fascinated enough by flight to want the window seat. The leisurely taxi to the front of the line gradually turned into a speedy running start. The crew got quiet, the engines got loud, and we darted down the runway and lifted into the air. It was quite exhilarating. The city beneath us shrunk and the clouds felt expansive and majestic. I anxiously awaited the all clear so I could take my iPad back out and snap some photos. My seat was right on the wing, so I enjoyed the view of its long angle jutting out, and the cannon-like barrel of the right jet engine. I realize some people, like my mom and my husband, might find the sight of the engine and the wing disturbing, but I was awed by the enormity of them. Then, I heard the bong accompanied by the announcement that we had reached cruising altitude and we could now use our portable electronics.

I restarted my itunes, and as if right on cue, Kid Rock and Zac Brown's Flyin High began playing. I switched over to my camera, and here are some of the shots I captured on this magnificent flight. 

       

       

                      

        

I took almost 30 photos. Every time I closed the camera and sat back to watch through the window, I couldn't help but open it back up. I don't remember enjoying the flying experience so much. Perhaps its because I'm older and more appreciative. Maybe it's because I now consider myself to be a writer and I try to observe more of what goes on around me. But look at these photos... isn't the sky amazing? Isn't it incredible that human beings have accomplished flight? Rarely do I take time in my busy life to stop and appreciate my everyday experiences, and this just caught me off guard. I wish I could come up with some profound words that eloquently describe the experience, but I think there may be a poem or two in the future. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the photos as much as I am. Here are a few more.