identity crisis

Today I have been contemplating the concept of identity–who I am, and why. As a child, I never spent much time reading comic books or role playing superheroes. While I loved watching Saturday morning cartoons, I found a clever retort from Bugs Bunny much more entertaining than a ThunderCats explosion. Science fiction as a genre held little weight in my world. I liked being creative, and still do, but I think I was trying to get my feet planted firmly in hard truths before I allowed myself the freedom to really imagine. I may have picked up this approach from an art teacher who said, "You first have to learn the rules before you can break them." I think everyone has a secret identity–a part of themselves held in reserve, masked from the masses. Spiderman, Ironman, Batman, Superman...As Danny Elfman sings, "Who do you want to be today?"

trunk or treat

On Halloween night I tricked out my trunk for a good cause. Loading up the left over decorations and prizes from our Harry Potter party, I handed out some treats with friends at the children's shelter. Although I didn't come away with any prized chocolate goodies myself, it was quite rewarding. I loved seeing the excitement on the faces of fairies, hippies and pirates. The saddest part of the sugarfest however, was realizing that the cuts, sores, black eyes and bruises usually painted on as part of a Halloween costume, were not paint at all.

The motto of The Christmas Box House is "Every child deserves a childhood." I believe that.

garden tour

Whenever I imagined the State of Oklahoma (which honestly wasn't that often) I pictured it mostly as a flat, golden prairieland– "where the wind comes sweeping down the plain." While touring Tulsa last week, my mental picture altered a bit. These pictures were taken in some amazing gardens in the Sooner State. The first image is a former amphitheater converted into a terraced garden.

The apothecary garden showcased specimens used for medicinal purposes.

Philbrook, an oil tycoon residence turned art museum, was nothing short of inspiring.

During the coming winter months I will surely be dreaming of the possibility of springtime gardens at Jefferson Square.

sign of the times

I saw this advertisement at the check out counter in a drug store museum in Guthrie, Oklahoma. (Is that where they got the term "check out"?) Anyway, I don't remember being issued any Mexican aphrodisiacs when I wore the black name tag.

parleys way

Although the Missouri/Illinois leg had to be amputated from my trip, I was able to make a quick jaunt over the Oklahoma border into Arkansas in order to locate my great-great grandfather's gravesite.

Driving in the early morning hours, for some reason the "Scooby, Scooby-Doo, where are you?" theme song was stuck in my head. And somewhere along the way, while chasing down directions on country roads, the song turned into "Parley Parker Pratt, where you at?"

"Monet," the secretary voice on the rental car's GPS system, talked me most of the way there.

For years the Pratt family organization has debated about whether or not to move Parley's body back to Utah–his dying wish. When they finally attempted it this past spring, archeologists were unable to retrieve anything.

Curious.

hello, i'm mary. are you ross?

Early Monday morning, after driving for a few hours through forested flatlands, I stopped at a Cracker Barrel Restaurant in Alma, Arkansas for blueberry pancakes and directions. Winding through the maze of candy and craft displays I found the hostess station and waited my turn to be greeted and seated. After a few minutes a middle-aged woman with gold rimmed glasses approached me, with menus in hand. "Hello, I'm Mary," she stated quite matter-of-factly. But before I could formulate a courteous reply: "Hello Mary, I'm Jed"–the impatient "Mary" with an Southern accent as thick as her short, curly hair, repeated herself; this time a little more deliberately punctuated: "Hello. How MAN-Y?" "Uh, one," I said, both of us retaining our anonymity.

This brief exchange reminded me of another mistaken introduction, also occurring on an eastern roadtrip. A few years ago, while driving cross country, I stopped at a gas station in Rhode Island. It was quite late on a Saturday night, and I was scouring the backroads for the location of an LDS Meetinghouse in order to attend church services the next morning. Pulling up to the pump, some distance from the front doors of the Fuel Mart, I took stock of my surroundings. It appeared to be a rough part of town. Stepping out of my Jeep, I could see someone walking my way.

"Ross?" the man called out from across the parking lot. "Are you Ross?" Due to the fact that I am not Ross–and even if I was, I was confident that I didn't know anyone in this state–I did not look up. "I'll just pretend that I can't hear him from this distance," I rationalized. But, in spite of my non-response, the man was not deterred, and both his questioning and proximity advanced. "Ross! Are you Ross?" he continued, with still no reply from me.

Finally, getting within a few feet of my car, where it would be more than obvious that I was ignoring him, I braced myself for his inevitably pointed question–something like, "Hey Ross, are you DEAF?!" But instead, the gentleman repeated his question, this time much more slowly, as if I were hearing impared– "Are–you–LOST?" He went on to explain that he saw me looking around when I turned in to the station and had noticed my Utah license plate, and wanted to offer some friendly Rhode Island hospitality.

I wonder if the local college offers an Interpretive Accents 101 course I can enroll myself in.

poem for jack

Jack, who illuminated our lives for much too short of a season, was laid to rest one year ago today. As a tribute, I wrote a poem for Darren and Sarah's little pumpkin, and just ran across it again this week. I am sure that Jack is tending to his older brother duties, looking after his new little sister Audrey Pay. We miss you Jack, and look forward to meeting you again someday.



Jack, A Lantern

Once and still the skilled gardener's delight
Was picked from a well tended harvest bed
Carried, and cradled, then carefully carved
Revealing a most singular light.
Illuminated, the prized plump shell
Shines a path for hesitant, hopeful steps.
While evening's journey brings its share of tricks,
Morning promises candied regale.
Tomorrow's sun will not long be held back.
The source will gather all light into one.
Til then keep aglow our brave grin bearer
Hold on, shine on, luminous little Jack.