Team Who?

"Pig Sooie!  Wooooo Pig Sooie!"  What the hell?!?  Is she talking to me?

Maybe I know this person from middle school, but I don't think so. She's being awfully rude with the pig reference. Then she pointed to my shirt with a smile. "Are you from Arkansas?"

At some point in our marriage, my husband decided it was necessary for me to wear clothing with logos that promote his sports teams. While I consider myself fairly athletic, I do not and never have followed any college or professional sports team. Mostly because I have better things to do. Like nap. But here I was, once again, caught off guard, feeling like a tropical bird in flashy feathers attracting a mate only to disappoint the suitor. My University of Arkansas t-shirt succeeded in attracting a Razorbacks fan who wooed me with the trademarked "Hog Call." I had never heard it before. "Oh, what? Me? No, my husband is. He's the Razorbacks fan. I just have a shirt." The rejection. The apologetic smile. A parting of ways. Damn, I hate that. This isn't the first time this happened. On the trail near my house, I was strolling one Sunday and a stranger walking his dog said to me, "Are you ready for tonight?" I hoped he was flirting. "Excuse me?" I questioned coyly. "Your shirt. Tonight's game. Are you ready?" I was wearing my San Francisco 49ers shirt. Not flirting. "Oh, that. Sure," I said, and gave him a fake-enthused thumbs up. Whatever. I didn't know the Niners were playing that day. Turns out it was Superbowl playoffs.

Strangers approach Marty all the time in public when he is wearing his sporty garb. They gush and bond over their beloved team of choice. They exchange words I don't understand like "Orange Bowl" and "Kaepernick." Sometimes quietly in passing, they share an intimate nod of the head or a tip of the logo'd cap - a silent acknowledgement between lovers...football lovers. It's weird. Marty doesn't speak often, but I have seen him converse with strangers in the grocery store at length about defensive strategies or argue the merits of a coach. But the opposite happens to me. Someone asks me cheerily, "How do you like Russell Wilson this year?" and I reply in earnest: "Who?" with a Seattle Seahawks logo blazing from my chest like a beacon. Inevitably they point at the logo while I stare blankly. I am the killer of friendly conversation. I have learned to say "My husband's team. Go team!" shrug, and flash the apologetic smile before they do. I really should watch more football.

Wearing my 'Niners shirt at Candlestick Park, San Francisco, 2012. Go team?

Carousel Horse

In my late teens and twenties, I wrote poetry in times of confusion. I've decided to dig some of them out of the file cabinet this weekend. Carousel Horse is about my urge to move around a lot after college. I had 5 different addresses in 4 states (two time zones) between December 1992 and August 1994. Moving around and starting over was always both exciting and sickeningly sad for me. I could never sort out in my head what I was supposed to do or where I was supposed to be. I suppose this is true for tons of people in their early twenties, but not everyone bounces around the country in the process. I used to brag that everything I owned could fit in my Oldsmobile.

Carousel Horse, 11/27/1993

A smile on a painted face,
An easy road,
A steady pace.
Predetermined destination,
No vagabond inclination.
No searching soul or shedding tear,
No goodbyes filled
With love, with fear.
Existing void of grief and pain,
No memories to retain.
A carousel horse I yearn to be -
But if I were,
I'd yearn to run free.

Also found in my file cabinet, this picture from December 1993. What you cannot see, are the stirrup pants and penny loafers. This was taken in PA, but by the time it was developed, I was living in Minnesota.

Family Reunion

Hackett family reunion, 2015.  Marty's mother's paternal kin, I think. It's been a LONG time since I went to a family reunion, and this would be the first one we would attend as a couple. I haven't been to any of my own family reunions since the 1980's unless you count dad's loud and lovable cousins having a cookout from time to time.

First we had to RSVP and pay a $50 registration fee. It was an extra $15 per person for a t-shirt emblazoned with the family name. We opted for no shirts. Marty coordinated with his brothers, and made hotel reservations in Hot Springs for several nights - black family reunions apparently go on for days, like Hanukkah without the presents.

This pre-event fanfare was foreign to me. Growing up, all my family reunions were simple afternoons in a Lancaster County public park or church. Grown-ups brought food and lawn chairs, and there were games for children usually involving getting pelted with candy or peanuts. An oldster with a notebook would make announcements and give prizes to the youngest and oldest people attending. We prayed and passed the offering plate and went home. No registration fees, no t-shirts. My favorite was the Shaubach reunion, partly because of its cake walk. Cake walks involve forming a circle and walking 'round and 'round until Someone said stop. Then Someone would ask for a characteristic, like "Birthday in May." The first person in the circle from a designated starting point who fit the criteria would win a cake of his/her choice, and leave the game. Shaubachs were Mennonite and Mennonites can bake like no one else. This means getting eliminated early was a perk, because you had the biggest selection - apple spice cakes, shoo fly pies, chocolate layer cakes, whoopie pies and angel food cakes galore.

Marty and I drove 13+ hours to Arkansas. The first night of the reunion, Friday, was a "meet and greet" at a lake house the organizing family rented. It was a small event, followed on Saturday by a larger gathering of families. We were there for 10 hours on Saturday, and another 4 hours on Sunday before leaving town.

Being bombarded by 50 never-before-seen spousal relatives in matching t-shirts is overwhelming. Even moreso when they have multiple names: Cookie, Button, Tee. Which one is Ruth - Cookie or Button?  There was generational confusion, like Uncle Jerry and Jerry Junior, who is also Uncle Jerry to some. My all-time favorites are Uncle Little Brother (Uncle Li'l Bro), who is Little Sister's (Li'l Sista) twin. They are Mama's youngest siblings. Li'l Sista is deceased and ULB (who always calls me "Li'l Missy") lives in Chicago and were both missed. And there sat Mama herself, 83 years old, half deaf and fast asleep in the chair. Marty and his naughty brothers joked about who should slide a mirror under her nose to test if she was still breathing.

The most popular question I was asked: "Who are you married to?" My answer was always, "The bald twin." The second most popular question was, "Do you have children?" While I would expect this at a family reunion, what I did not expect was the "Why not?" that often followed. I don't think I've ever been asked by strangers WHY I have no children. I find this incredibly personal. Maybe I am an ovarian cancer survivor or miscarried 10 times. Maybe Marty has no genitals or we just hate kids. At any rate, it's a question best left unasked. Otherwise, it was a raucous great time. Once the board games came out, it was ON. I was the #1 draft pick when teams were selected - I am, shall we simply say, enthusiastic and experienced. We were loud and crass and laughed until tears streamed. The Barren White Girl Married to the Bald Twin was HOME. This was FAMILY!

I think the trip was so valuable, not only to meet these wonderful relatives and get flashy with my gangsta game skilz, but to be enriched by Hackett perspectives on current events involving the Confederate flag, the 1-year anniversary of Ferguson, and police brutality in Baltimore. Black Lives Matter, especially when they are family. I miss Kim and Bobbi the most, even though proper Kim thinks her white girlfriends are uncouth for eating off each other's plates all the time. She asked Marty if I did that. He said, "Oh yes. And much worse." I smiled and kept my thoughts on food safety to myself. Secretly I was thankful she didn't see me fork-and-eat a random glob of potato salad off the kitchen countertop earlier.

Drunk Jesus

Mom, my sister and I took a short Girls Vacation that included a night at a Ramada Inn in Richmond, Virginia. We booked the Ramada in advance with no knowledge of the city, so we didn't know it was located in a seedy part of town. We huddled in our beds as we listened to a domestic disturbance through the wall. We called management and hoped Hostile Man wouldn't come after us next. After some time, a door slammed and there was silence. After nerves calmed, I fell asleep.

"Shannon! Shannon!" My sister, with whom I am sharing a queen bed, is jabbing me in the ribs. It's a flashback to 1977. I hated sharing a bed with her then, and I hated it now. "There's someone at the window!"

"No there isn't. Go to sleep."

"No, I see a shadow! Don't you see someone lurking at the window?!?"

"Shut up. Leave me alone."

Mom pipes up, from her bed, "What's going on, you two?"

My sister sits up. "I am telling you, there's someone out there!"

I open one eye, ready to punch her face, and then I saw it.  A shadow at the window. I bolted up. Two grown sisters sitting up in bed, staring at a shadow.

Mom asks, "Do you think it's the wife beater from next door?" God, I hope not.

We all fixate on the curtain in silence. Then the shadow disappears. We hear a key card in the lock. Someone quietly tries the handle. We stare at the door, hearts pounding. We hear it again. I launch out of bed and scamper to the peephole. Through it, I spy a young man, clearly drunk, staring at his key card. He steps back from the door, looks at both sides of the card, and makes one last perplexed attempt at our door.

Relieved, I report, "I don't think it's the wife beater. It seems like a drunk and harmless guy. It's clear he forgot which room is his."

Mom wants more info. "What does he look like?"

I flatten my face against the door for another look. The bearded man, in sandals, is wandering away. "I don't know. I guess he looks like Jesus in a USA t-shirt."

Mom instructs me, "Well DON'T let him in!" (As if I would.)

My sister and I tease, "WHAT? Don't let JESUS in? Blasphemy!"

Mom defends her position: "No! If it really was Jesus, he wouldn't need a key."

Rothko, Night #4

The final class. Rothko, I hardly know you and it's goodbye already! True now as it was in life, since you killed yourself in 1970 when you were 66. Bummer. Something strange is happening. I spend an increasing amount of time each week thinking about abstract art, Rothko, and wet paint. 

Teacher called today's class Rothko Remixed. We were given a slab of plywood to use for our canvas, and our assignment was to apply any of the techniques we have learned, using the texture and pattern of the wood as our inspiration. I wanted to pay homage to my 26-year old Cool Girl flannel smock, so I used the colors of the shirt as my palette.

Homage to Flannel, 2015.

I mixed my pink, adding water to make it a wash moreso than a paint. "Keep it thin so not to lose the integrity of the wood grain," Teacher instructed.

Partially slathered plywood.

Fully slathered plywood.

I really do love to slather. If I painted nothing but bare canvas after bare canvas with colors I mix to my liking, I would be totally content. I applied several layers of wash in slathering strokes with fat pink bristles. Then I mixed my other colors using Teacher's color wheel. I finally got the violet that I intended for Night #1 - closure! I added my layers of colors in strokes and squiggles, smudging areas here and there with a damp paper towel. Step back. Chat with classmates. Annette and Nick said they are making pottery next month. They are "taking a tour" of the available classes at the Center. Bob has been reading an art history book, and recommended a Rothko biography. I was excited to show Bob the photo I took of a plastic model of an ear cross-section that reminded me of his project last week. Sadly, he was not as excited about this as I was.

Bob's Art, Week #3

Plastic cross-section of the human ear 

I learned that the next class in the Mimicking the Masters series will focus on Robert Motherwell. Of course I never heard of him. Google tells me he is from the same period as Rothko - another Abstract Expressionist - and WOW, his art is UGLY. But my flannel smock and I signed up immediately. I think I am addicted. But not addicted enough to get anything tattooed on my forearms. We can't all be as committed to art as Bee.